#I just got a box of old specimens and I am so excited to sort through them for interesting pathology

[theoddvet]

Instead of flowers or trinkets my good friends give me formalin-soaked lumps and eyeballs

[recurring-polynya]

Request: RenRuki; Mad Scientist!Renji shocks Frankenstein Monster!Rukia with electricity to test the endurance of Mikasa's heart

I am not quite sure who you mean by Mikasa-- I am guessing either Masaki or Hisana? I really enjoy making Renji into Byakuya’s beleaguered minion in any universe, and I was extremely charmed by the idea of the latter, so that’s what I went with. I supposed this is a little less “Mad Scientist” and a little more Ticked-Off Postdoc, but a crumbling castle on a moonswept cliff? In this economy??

CW: Some detailed discussion of building a monster out of body parts. It’s not intended to be scary or gross, but just wanted to be on the safe side.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

🧪   🧠   ⚡

I should have finished my dissertation, Abarai Renji thought to himself, irritably rubbing at the nicotine patch under the collar of his shirt.

Education-in-perpetuum was a rich kid’s game, though, and when he��d had to choose between a paying entry-level gig at Kuchiki Biotech or a continued monk-like existence grading freshman papers and scrubbing out the autoclave, he’d followed the money. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, working in industry. Eating food that didn’t come with a seasoning packet, living in an apartment that had both heating and air-conditioning, the indescribable luxury of a monthly transit pass. Yeah, it stung a little when Kira and Hinamori sent selfies of themselves at that conference in Berlin, and later, in their stupid graduation get-ups, but after seven years of working his ass off, of being on time every day, of covering his ink and minding his manners, Renji had been noticed by Kuchiki Byakuya himself, the reclusive CEO of the company.

“You were a student of Dr. Aizen Sousuke?” Kuchiki had asked, his cold grey eyes skipping past Renji’s carefully knotted tie and spotless lab coat to linger on his bandana and the cover-up smudges that protruded from beneath it. “The cephalopod neurophysicist?”

“That’s correct.”

“His work on artificial chromatophores was stunning.”

Right. That.

“Er, the camouflage stuff wasn’t my area of interest, but I have a couple of friends in that area if you’re--”

“You studied nervous system regeneration. But you did not graduate.”

Renji had tried not to look surprised, because his supervisor had warned him that Byakuya liked to try and surprise people and then judge them for being surprised. Byakuya had probably just dug up his resume from HR prior to this interview. “That’s right. Well. About the nervous system thing. I did graduate, just, y’know, ABD. That’s not even true, I wrote about half a dissertation. Maybe two-thirds.” His mouth snapped shut. Kuchiki Byakuya definitely did not want to hear about his two-thirds of a dissertation.

“I read your article in the Journal of Zoological Neuroscience, the one about using a donor octopus brain to reanimate a dead specimen? I assume you wrote it. You were listed as second author, but it was not rife with Dr. Aizen’s usual bloviations. It was excellent work.”

Renji had failed in his attempts to keep from looking surprised.

“I am starting a special project that could use a man of your expertise. Dr. Shirogane spoke well of your time here, and felt that you were ready to take on the role of primary investigator.” Byakuya looked at his extremely expensive watch, as though he were already getting bored of this meeting. “It is a small project, a one-man project, and I am afraid it will not produce any sort of publishable results. In fact, I will require you to sign a number of non-disclosure agreements, should you accept. But it is a very important project to me, personally.”

Renji could still remember the excitement, the feel of his heart stuttering in his chest. He imagined telling Kira and Hinamori about the personal project he was doing for the wealthiest biotech entrepreneur in Japan. He felt smart. He felt important. He felt like industry was finally paying off for him.

Two days later, he found out that this project involved grave-robbing.

It turned out that Kuchiki was a widower. His wife had been a kind, beautiful angel who had died of complications from cystic fibrosis at the tender age of 34. Despite everything, her heart has been very strong at the time of her death. So Kuchiki kept it, y’know, like a normal person. And then he found one of his employees, a guy with big muscles and no family and a lot of student debt, and asked him to make a new body to put that heart in.

That was three years ago. Since then, Renji had acquired his own sub-basement laboratory and a used pick-up truck. He had a lot of middle-of-the-night meetings with Kuchiki, where he got used to delivering absolutely deranged progress reports in a calm and conversational tone. He’d taken up smoking again, but then he had to quit because Kuchiki didn’t like the smell. He stopped seeing most of his old friends, in favor of his fabulous new friends, like Isane, the nervous assistant mortician at the hospital, and Hisagi, who worked down at the funeral home and drove a hearse like it was a Shelby Cobra. His new best drinking buddy was a guy named Akon, who worked over at Kurosutchi Heavy Industries and was building some sort of cyborg daughter for his creepy boss.

And now he had her.

Maybe she’ll turn out to be better than a dissertation, Renji thought, contemplating the girl-thing floating in an antifreeze bath in his sub-basement lab.

She was small, in part because the original Hisana had been small, but also because regrowing the nervous system had been the hardest part, and the less he had to grow, the better.

At first, he’d put a fair amount of effort into making her look like Hisana, but Byakuya never seemed to give a shit about stuff like that, so Renji started to take a few liberties here and there. An athlete’s limbs (well, more like three different athlete’s limbs) gave her a lean and powerful build, instead of the wispy slenderness of her predecessor. He’d been very picky about the eyes, but his patience had paid off when he scored a stunning pair from Ishida, a bitter med student who had a part time job in the university’s dissection sample acquisition department. They were deep blue, nearly verging on purple, like a starless sky. Renji wasn’t very good at suturing at first, and the big, clunky stitches that held her mismatched parts together were a little jarring. Renji had come to rather like them, though. She wasn’t a perfect, flawless angel. She was a pile of lost potential, cobbled together and given a second chance, and he liked that she wore that openly on her skin. If she didn’t like it, well, he could always offer to take her down to his tattoo place.

The only thing Byakuya had objected to was the brain.

It was a criminal’s brain, or at least that’s what Byakuya said. The brain had belonged to a teen girl who’d been caught shoplifting, and in her attempt to make a break for it, darted into traffic. It was extremely fresh, though. The girl died in the hospital and Isane called him right away. By the time Byakuya even found out about it, Renji already had the brain nestled in among the little baby human-octopus hybrid nervous system he’d been growing, so there was nothing to be done. Renji had assured Byakuya it would be fine, she wasn’t going to remember anything about her old life anyway. He did not mention that he’d done a fair bit of petty theft in his youth, and he’d turned out… well. Never mind.

He’d turned out to be an insane person, actually. A person who flaunted the rules of ethics and nature. He was an actual, real-life, mad scientist (ABD). Well, assuming all this worked.

In the morning, Byakuya was expecting a demonstration. The demonstration. The part where Renji pulled a lever and sent enough voltage surging through that precious little Kuchiki heart to bring Byakuya’s new sister to life.

He’d run and re-run all the individual organ tests. Reviewed his check list three times. Read and re-read all his notes. It was either going to work, or it wasn’t. If it worked, he was a genius, a mastermind. Kuchiki would give him a pat on the back and a big bonus and he was also going to start addressing Renji as Doctor Abarai, dissertation be damned.

If it failed, Renji was going to be lugging his belongings to the curb in a cardboard box.

It was now 2:16am.

If he went home, he’d just stare at the ceiling for four hours, but at least he would be able to shower before he had to face his moment of doom.

You could just do it, he realized. Pull the lever. Pull it right now.

Byakuya would be pissed, of course, he wanted to be there for the Big Shock, but if it worked, he’d be so happy to have a living, breathing, undead sister that he’d probably overlook Renji jumping the gun. If it didn’t work, Renji would have those four hours to troubleshoot.

The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. He honestly wasn’t real sure what kind of mental capabilities, if any, his monster girl was going to have. If she woke up spitting and clawing, he was okay with that, but Byakuya might not take it so well. Yeah, it definitely made good sense to give her a boot up now, so there were no surprises in the morning.

Renji stood up, and strode over to the portable generator he’d rigged up over the weekend. His hand hovered over the switch. He was gonna do it.

No.

In a minute.

He walked back over to the cold tank and plopped down in the chair sitting next to it, where he often sat when he had Serious Thinking to do. She floated serenely an inch under the liquid, her pale skin tinted blue, her hair floating in a cloud around her face. The cold was necessary to keep her organs in stasis, and it’s not like she could feel it, but he felt a little bad about it anyway.

“Hey, there,” he said softly. “It’s me. Renji. We’ve been through a lot, you and me. I’m gonna turn you on, in a minute. I’m not sure how it’s gonna go. I’ve been kind of a screw-up my whole life, but you seem pretty perfect, so may we’ll even each other out.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Another guy is gonna come by in the morning. He’s rich and powerful and has, like 17 cars. He’s gonna be your brother, and if you can be a convincing enough person, he’s gonna treat you like his sister and you’ll be set for life. But I want you to know that even if you’re a failure, even if you try to eat my face or something, that I always liked you. Hopefully, I’ll still get to see you a lot. But if not… I just wanted to let you know that I’m only giving you up ‘cause I gotta, not ‘cause I want to.” He breathed out through his nose. “Kuchiki’s probably gonna give you some flowery princess name. He’s never told me. But a while ago, I started thinking of you as ‘Rukia.’ I don’t really know where it came from. I think it means ‘light.’ So if you don’t like whatever name he gives you, you always got that one to fall back on.” He slapped his knees and stood up. “Enough of this! It’s time for you to get up.”

Once again, Renji stood, gripping the on switch in one sweaty hand. “Here goes nothing,” he declared, and flipped it.

First, there was a hum, which gradually raised in pitch until his ears rang. The needle on the voltage gauge climbed steadily. A few wisps of Renji’s hair began to stand on end. Rukia’s body bucked.

And then, with a loud crack, all the lights went out. Fuck.

Of all the things he had double and triple checked, the power supply to the generator had not been one of them. Renji groaned, and scrolled through his phone, trying to find the damn flashlight app. He only had 6% battery, which meant it was going to last about sixteen seconds. Fortunately, his lab was on an isolated circuit, so hopefully, he hadn’t knocked out power anywhere else in the building.

He had his phone pointed the wrong way when he turned the app on, and it immediately blinded him. “Ah, shit!” he exclaimed.

As he was blinking the stars out of his eyes, he heard a splash and he realized that he might have actually managed to bring Rukia to life before the generator died. He dashed over to the bath frantically. If she tried to get her own oxygen mask off, she might drown. Renji scanned liquid with his flashlight, but it was murky with bubbles. He couldn’t see anything. Had she sunk down to the bottom? He was practically leaning over the tank when he felt a hand on his arm that was so frigid that it burned, even through his lab coat and the shirt beneath it.

Slowly, Renji panned his already-dimming flashlight around, keeping it pointed at the floor, in part, so he didn’t blind her as he had himself, and in part because… well, because…

“Hi,” he said, as a pale face swam into view.

“Hi,” she repeated in the exact same inflection.

She could talk. She had speech, or at least repetition abilities. Renji wanted desperately to take notes, but he was frozen. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Those big, dark blue eyes blinked at him. “Cold,” Rukia replied.

[believerindaydreams]

crude, lewd, and gentlemanly

in which Lister pines for a roadside assistance lady. yes I am writing slash for an advert. crack played straight

well, sort of straight. not actually that porny, tragically, but I had a lot of fun anyway 

"Sir. Sir, I don't know that you want to hear this..."

"Feel free to leave off then," Lister says, not looking up. The keen and eager gaze currently being devoted to a copy of Big Easy Read Ganymede is one, Kryten can't help noting with alarm, one usually reserved for only the most pungent vindaloos and the music video of "Five Hundred and One Fun Things to Do In Liverpool When It's Raining (Which is None)" by the Spice Anti-Assigned-Sex-But-With-Female-Presenting-Nipples (ASSBUT).

In short, it is one doozy of a gaze.

"Well, it's a very small matter, sir. Possibly none of my concern, but.... well, we all can't help noticing that in the last week, you've managed to involve yourself in no less than fourteen major crashes."

"Uh huh?"

"To say nothing of the minor ones."

"Uh-huh."

"Ah. Well. Glad to see you've noticed," Kryten says, with a highly characteristic combination of hasty relief and mildly hesitant irritation.

Lister sighs, puts down the atlas. "You know what rule one is of picking up girls, Krytes? Don't do it when they're on the clock."

"As I recall, the last time you told me rule one, it was to never confuse the whipped cream bottle with the lubricant-"

"Forget all that," Lister says. "You've got eyes- okay, you have sensory diodes or whatever they are, I've got eyes. And what my eyes see is the most beautiful woman since- since- well since that time I fucked myself from a parallel universe, okay? Heh. I am such a good lay."

"What about Kochanski?"

"Maybe it's different for robots, Krytes, but humans tend to go off a woman when it turns out she's your mother."

"Or Holly?"

"...sorry? You think Holly, hello-I've-got-computer-senility, oops-that-black-hole-is-actually-a-carbon-smear, is more attractive than that dazzling star who can strip a photon drive inside of four minutes flat?"

"It depends on your point of view, sir. One of the snack machines on Level Nine confided in me once, that the right set of electro-fibres could just get them just so gnarly in the morning-"

"...Kryten, love to hear about the coffee dispenser's unrequited love some other time, not now. But you get the problem, yeah? She's got an AA time-hopper that locks on to the scene of an accident, as soon as she gets us fixed up it yanks her back three million years again, what's the point even asking for her phone number? All I can do is keep getting into accidents while playing the smoothest jazz in my collection, and just- hope for the best."

"We are running out of operable Starbugs, sir."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Lister says, fondling a set of jumper cables with something approaching rapture. "I can always crash Red Dwarf instead. Considering everything she's survived, the ship can handle a few knocks."

Something, Kryten decides, is really going to have to be done about this.

*******

"...his wingman?" the AA lady says.

"That's me!"

He is, the Cat reflects, looking smooth. More than smooth. These grandiose, sequined shoulder pads stretch out miles.

"Literally, I take it." She hits a computer module with a rubber mallet. "So if he wants to take me out for a little zero-gravity exploration while this sat-nav patch finishes downloading, why doesn't he just ask? The way he pilots, he hasn't exactly been short of opportunities."

The Cat screws up his face, thoughtfully. "Oh. Old Box Head said something about waking up to be told your whole species is dead causes psychodrama, blah blah blah, - now I’ve been there, and I can say, I wouldn't be like that! If I wanted you, I'd be all, hey gorgeous, aren't you one wozie hum-dinger of a flyer, what say we go and have ourselves a little fun...."

"But you're not doing that?" the AA lady asks after a moment.

"Lady," the Cat says, almost sentimentally, "you wear overalls. You think a fine looking specimen of a Cat like me is going to be caught dead waltzing the two step with you? All I can say is, keep on dreaming baby, cause dreaming is all you're going to get."

"...while Lister, I take it, has no objection to my fashion sense." Her mouth's twitching.

"Nope! What can you expect of a guy who thinks curry stains are a fashion accessory- so hey, you two are pretty well matched. That's one good reason for you to pair off. And another one is that it'll annoy Rimmer-"

"Will it?"

"Oh, sure," the Cat says breezily. "It'll get right up those hologrammed nostrils."

The AA lady whips the door open.

Somewhere, not terribly far distant, somebody is playing "Penny Lane" on a guitar.  

"Hey, Listy! Interested in a good fuck?"

The guitar music stops. "Thought you'd never ask!"

******

"You know, I really didn't think that approach would work. So much for plans B through W," Kryten says, stuffing down twenty feet of computer ribbon down a recycling chute. 

"Are you kidding? You just have to look at old HoloHead and pow! Hatred of him is a force stronger than gravity or those little packets of Martian sriracha," the Cat says, fiddling with the volume control. The sound of heavy breathing and a Liverpudian lilt whispering sweet nothings intensifies.

"I'm still not sure it's polite for you to be doing that," Kryten fusses. "Just because they're enjoying the ship's Exhibitionist, Squash And Frilly Umbrellas spa facilities, doesn't mean they necessarily expected anyone to watch-"

"Then be of good cheer, Kryten, because nothing untoward is going to happen." Rimmer's stride is firm, his holo-uniform freshly reprogrammed with gold braid and the E-Spacebay Blue Peter badge. "At least, not with her."

"Now Mr Rimmer, I really think-"

"It's time that Lister gave way to the inevitable," Rimmer says. "The man he's quite literally spent half his life with."

"...you mean me?" the Cat says, his tone veering somewhere between polite interest and general disgust.

"I mean me! The one who Holly decided was his perfect life's companion, out of all the possibilities on this ship. The Morecambe to his Wise, the automatic sprocket attachment to his...whatever it is sprockets attach to, I suppose. My god, we were roommates."

"Just saying? Between you and Mr Vacuum Groin over here, I'd pick the vacuum first," the Cat says.

Rimmer ignores him. "It's time I faced up to my destiny, too. Reached out and grasped the man right in front of my nose, this fried egg and chutney sandwich out of which I must take my first, mellow, unstinting bite-"

"Guys, you do realise you left the intercom on both ways," Lister calls.

Rimmer jumps. 

Falters. 

Looks at the microphone with nervous determination. 

"Lister? I think you should know. That faced with the prospect of- actually, genuinely, losing you, I've decided it's time to be brave. To say out loud, no takebacks, that I love you."

There's a pause. "Rimmer, that is just about the nicest thing you've ever said in your life."

"Wasn't it?"

"But if you think I'm gonna stop halfway through the windup for the best fuck I've had in years, just because you've finally wised up and decided that you're queer now, you need a reboot and a lie down in a quiet room somewhere."

"...does that mean, you're telling me no?"

"Course not! I'll get to you, I'll get to you- but first come first served. So we’re starting with- uh- what was your name again, sweetheart?"

"Thought you'd never ask," the AA lady says, rather coyly. "It's-"

Rimmer reaches out and switches off the feed. "Well, damn. How inconsiderate can you get? How? I ask you-"

"It's just possible, sir, that your sense of timing's off," Kryten says. Almost humming with contentment.

With two humans, a hologram, and possibly-or-not a sequin-shedding cat to get in on the action, it’s just occurred to him there’s bound to be all sorts of exciting new messes to clean up soon...

[sadiesdolls]

So there’s all these new dolls coming out lately and I feel like I haven’t talked about any of them!

I’m in a weird place with collecting right now, I’ve been downsizing pretty much everything from fabric stash to stock box dolls, because my new workspace is a little smaller than my old one—and the old one was already overcrowded. It’s still an upgrade because it’s a nicer space with more light and NO CARPET. (Listen you haven’t known true hell until you’ve had a carpeted sewing room,,,,,)

But anyway, I’ve been thinning out my doll collection to just my favorites of each brand so I can add more variety in brands while having fewer dolls overall, and I’ve been adding a few specimens of new-to-me brands as I go. But there haven’t been any new doll lines coming out that I’ve been really interested in for ages.

Monster High was what got me into collecting modern fashion dolls in the first place. (I used to sew for AG dolls but that wasn’t about collecting the dolls as much as it was about learning to sew in scale, so I don’t really count that as the beginning of my collection.) So when MH rebooted I stopped actively collecting for a while and downsized my monster collection. When MTMs came out I was pretty impressed and I got myself a couple of new playline Barbies just to see if I enjoyed them—right around then is when I started my doll blog & Insta. I like MTM bodies and I like the Barbie format, but I prefer older and collector line heads, so I’ve been accumulating Barbies that I like but a bunch of them I don’t love. The HP dolls are fun and I’ve been collecting those because I’m kin with Sirius Black and therefore I’m ride or die for Potter (only half joking! 🙃) but there’s nothing really unexpected about them and they don’t feel new, ya know? And I picked up one each of the main Descendants gals because I’m a Disney goblin punk and I love their aesthetic but I don’t feel the need to collect any more or get into customizing them.

So you’d think I’d be excited about all these new doll lines coming out, and I am, absolutely. I’m so happy to see variety and edginess and quality again!! Wild Hearts Crew could only be more My Aesthetic if they were still werewolves and monsters! LOL OMG is like if somebody rebooted Bratz only good and with actual modern concept fashion instead of lazily printing the word selfie on a ripped t shirt!! She-ra? Absolutely rad, character dolls of characters I love, executed pretty well! Capsule Chicks? They look super neat for what they are, too small scale for me but obviously high quality and it’s great to have articulated dolls in fantasy colors in that scale for the people who want them! I’m even a fan of the bobblehead thing so it’s nice to see so many lines still using it.

But I don’t feel much like actually getting any of them? And I’m not sure why. WHC Cori is amazing and probably the one I’m most likely to get, and I am GAGGING for those punky fashion packs, and OMG Neonlicious is pretty cool, she’s like a chibi Leeloo. But eh. I thought maybe I was just stuck on the whole downsizing make sure it sparks joy thing, and maybe I should pick up the ones I was on the fence about so I don’t miss them, but seeing the X-Men Barbies and realizing I’m SO EXCITED for a couple of them (idgaf about Dark Phoenix—idegaf about Jean Grey when she’s not evil tbh) has made me realize I’m just not that excited about playline dolls right now. I hope all these new lines do well and continue to have high quality releases, and I can see myself getting excited about some of them in the future, especially WHC. But I think I’ll probably focus more on adding a few collector line Barbies or higher quality older dolls of various brands to my collection and making customs with old stock instead of acquiring more new playline dolls, at least for a while. I guess I feel like, even though MH ended a while ago and I’ve been collecting since then, being a MH collector for so long sort of burned me out on the thrill of acquisition, so now I want to focus more on adding things because I want to keep them and less on buying a new thing because it’s new.

[autolovecraft]

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience.

There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Davis, who died years ago. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. He could not walk, it appeared, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you got what you deserved. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not care to imagine. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Why did you do it, Birch? As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Davis.

The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood.

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. Birch? I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

[all-alone-he-turns-to-stone]

Family Don’t End with Blood

Summary: Stiles discovered his mom’s family side might not be just normal hunters. They’re actually Campbell, but the only remaining family are his cousin, two Winchester, Sam and Y/N. Stiles decided to go look for them but not just to meet them. He wishes to make them understand not all monster do monstrous things.

Crossover of: Teen Wolf and Supernatural

Paring: Stiles x Lydia, Scott x Kira

Requested by: @horsiegirl998

Word count: 2254

A/N: I took too long to post this, I’m so sorry I’m a very bad person. But I never got satisfied with it. It stayed finished and untouched for a couple of days or weeks and I don’t want to touch it more. I think it’s the best I could do with this story. I still hope y’all like it! The reader is the female version of Dean Winchester, as requested and none of the gifs are mine.

“ Who is it?” A curious boy wearing a red hoodie and black jeans asked his father by pointing at an old yellowed photograph he had found in a dusty photo album shortly before. It was the spring cleaning.

“Ah,” his father answered by dropping the boxes he held in his hands to get closer to his son. Noah’s eyes settled at the spot where Stiles’ forefinger pointed and nostalgia invaded his sweet gaze. “It’s your mother’s family,” he finally answered, sitting down beside him. He pointed at each of the people in the picture. “Claudia’s mother, Deanna, her father, Samuel, and here’s her sister, Mary,” Noah continued sighing, a little sad smile on his lips.

“They look happy …” Stiles commented, having the same nostalgic look as his father. “Were they all Campbell?” The curious boy asked.

“Yes,” the sheriff continued. “Claudia was a Campbell before we married, as you know. Mary was her older sister. If I remember correctly, she married a man named … John … John something. His family name is quite special, a gun name… ”

“Winchester?” Stiles offered and his father slapped his fingers as he recognized the name.

“ Yes! And they had two kids, a girl and a boy, Y / N and Sam. ”

“I hope they’re happy,” Stiles commented, imagining the whole family gathered at a Christmas party.

“Unfortunately a tragedy hit them…” Noah continued and Stiles raised his head, his eyes now sad. “Mary died when Sam was six months, it made the newspapers. John raised his kids alone until his death in 2006 or 2007. ”

“But … my cousins, are they alive? ”

“At the last news, yes. But since John died, I haven’t get any news from them. And now that I think about it …” The sheriff mumbled for himself as he got up, massaging his few days beard. Greedy of his words, Stiles stood up as well to follow his father’s footsteps who circled in the room, lost in his thoughts.

“ Yes?” Stiles tried, licking his lips with impatience to know what would happen next.

“Claudia told me she came from a hunter family. At the time I thought they were hunting deer… but now that I know for the supernatural, I wonder… ”

“You wonder …” Stiles began, knowing what was coming.

“The things they were hunting were perhaps not only deer.”

“Okay, so you say: not only do you have cousins ​​you didn’t even know before, but maybe they’re hunters too? ”

“No, I said surely hunters, there’s a difference, Lydia,” Stiles corrected his girlfriend by raising a finger in front of him to defend his point.

“Whatever,” the strawberry blonde muttered, rolling her eyes.

“If they’re really hunters … they may want to … well, you know, hunt us?” Kira asked in a small, uncertain voice behind them.

“That’s exactly why we should go,” Stiles continued. “Knowing I am their cousins, they should listen to me, right? And they’ll see we’re not dangerous. ”

“So, if I summarize,” Scott spoke for the first time since the start of the meeting. “You want to find your cousins ​​who don’t even know you exist and who are maybe …” Scott stopped when he saw Stiles’ expression, his hands raised, outraged, “surely, hunters hoping they don’t kill us, to kindly ask them not to kill all the nice wolves and other creatures who live in Beacon Hills and to help us if we ever need help? ”

“Exactly,” Stiles replied, an immense smile stamped on his face.

Wanting to find the Winchester was one thing, finding them was quite another. The hunters were known to be discreet and never leave a trace. Fortunately, the pack had a very useful element for research: Stiles’ cousins ​​were driving a showy car. A black 1967 Chevy impala. Hearing the name of the car, Stiles had jumped, excited. He loved cars and was eager to see the vintage model.

Finally, with somewhat reliable information, the pack got to San Fransisco, where the hunters were last seen. The jeep traveled the city’s roads for most of the day and the passengers on board were getting hungry, so it was decided to stop in a small restaurant on the roadside. Everyone ordered something, Stiles hesitated between bad food and health, and opted for both, commanding a salad and French fries in accompaniment. Scott took a cheeseburger and Kira picked the same thing. After rolling her eyes, Lydia decided on a club sandwich.

While they were eating, very quiet, the brilliant body of an unusual car attracted the attention of Stiles. It was his mouth full of French fries that he exclaimed incomprehensible words before rushing out of the restaurant, running toward the vintage car.

“Son of a bitch!” Echoed on the table behind them. Someone was obviously unhappy that a hyperactive boy seemed to be interested in this car and soon the pack left their meal to join their friend.

“Wow!” Stiles kept repeating by turning around the car, totally impressed.

"Get yourself away from my baby!” A harsh, female voice rang out behind Stiles, who stepped back with his hands in the air.

“I’m sorry I only wanted to watch, uhhh, admire the beauty of this rare and quite magnificent specimen!” Stiles stammered without taking his breath and those words seemed to calm the girl because her face relaxed.

"Yes I agree, it’s a beautiful model,” she commented, giving Stiles a boost of energy.

“Chevy Impala 1967, the most beautiful model was made that year.”

“I totally agree,” the girl mumbled with a smirk. “This beauty is called Baby. ”

“ Oh! Me, my car … it’s not as luxurious as yours, of course, but it has tremendous sentimental value,” Stiles continued as he pointed his jeep. “Roscoe was given to me by my mother before she …” He didn’t finish his sentence, his eyes sad.

“My father gave me this car. He had entrusted it to me before he left and was never able to recover it because he died too,” the girl confessed to him. “The important thing is not the cash value of the car, but the sentimental one."

“I totally agree,” Stiles smiled.

Stiles was so focused on talking about his passion that he didn’t notice the man who had arrived near the girl shortly before, nor his friends behind them. He only noticed that something was wrong when Scott began to gesticulate in all directions by pointing at the two people and then the car.

“Oh Lord,” he jumped, staring at the two people in front of him, the girl wearing a leather jacket and another green jacket underneath and the man wearing a plaid shirt. “You are my cousins!"

“What?” The man finally spoke.

"Sam and Y / N Winchester!” You are the children of my mom’s sister! “

"Mom had a sister?” Y / N asked his brother by raising an eyebrow under Sam’s confused look.

Stiles rushed and showed the famous picture.

“Well! Nice to meet you, cousin …? ”

“Stiles!” He exclaimed, shaking Y / N’s hand, then Sam’s. "It’s super important I need to talk to you about something!” “

"Did you go all the way to talk to us?” Sam asked.

“Well to meet you too, you are my family and I don’t have much left …”

“I see …” Y / N mumbled. “At the moment we don’t have much time but …”

“ It’s urgent!” Stiles jumped up and down. "I must know what sort of hunter you are!”

“What my hyperactive boyfriend tries to say,” Lydia stepped forward to try to calm Stiles by placing her hands on his shoulders. “It’s if you’re a simple deer hunter or something else.” The redhead accentuated the pronunciation of the words.

"Ah,” Y / N sighed. “That’s the something else,” she replied, imitating Lydia.

“So we really need to talk,” Scott insisted, also taking a step forward, followed by Kira.

Y / N pointed in turn to the friends of Stiles.

“Have you brought all your friends?”

“That’s what we should talk about …”

“Y / N,” Sam started looking at his cell phone. “We have to go before there’s another kill.”

“Kill…?” Stiles blinked.

“Let’s go hunting a psychopathic ghost,” Y / N smiled as she walked toward the impala. “We’ll talk after. Hey, what about you all come with us! ”

“Y / N …” Sam groaned, discontented by her proposal.

“ What. Stiles is a Campbell. He has to learn one way or another. You come, you look and you stay away. Everything’s gonna be fine, Sam."

“We follow you!” Stiles hastened to answer as he got into the jeep, ready to follow them.

It was probably a very bad idea to follow them in order to find themselves deprived in front of an empty old house and probably full of new species of insects that no one wanted to discover. And above all ghosts. Since when did ghosts exist? Y / N had clearly specified not to enter the house. Stay ahead, wait, that’s it. Sam had convinced her it was too dangerous. But the pack of Beacon Hills doesn’t know the word danger and Stiles is known for his unhealthy curiosity. That’s why, when bored to wait, the hyperactive young person suddenly decided to go inside without saying anything. Lydia called, but in vain and Scott sighed, giving instructions to follow him before the poor man managed to hurt himself alone.

It was so dark in the house despite the light filtering through the holes and broken windows. Stiles felt the need to be reassured and grabbed his phone to get some light. Each of his steps made the floor squish under his feet, making him grimace as he passed.

Then suddenly and without warning, a shrill sound made him jump. Stiles turned just in time to see a rather large and imposing piece of furniture rushing at him at full speed, probably killing him on the spot. His breathing cut in his lungs and he held out his hands in front of him for the unnecessary purpose of protecting himself, but he didn’t need it. A scream tore the silence in front of him, scream he recognized and when he opened his eyes he saw Lydia not far away, her hands placed in front of her, her hair falling around her face. The furniture, as for it, was in a thousand pieces against the wall. She had just saved him again.

“Lydia …” Stiles muttered, still trembling at what had just happened.

“The next time you are told not to come in, do not go in!” The redhead sermon him before taking him in her arms, relieving to have intervened in time.

“What was that?” A female voice rang behind them. Y / N had seen everything.

And she didn’t seem happy at all.

The ghost had been defeated. Sam had burnt the object attaching him to earth and everyone was now in the restaurant, the same one where they had met to pass to the confession.

“So that’s what we wanted to talk to you about …” Scott started, as a leader. Ashamed, Stiles kept his head down and was holding Lydia’s hand under the table.

“It’s a banshee,” Y / N grunted as she stared at Lydia, who swung her head to the side before answering.

“Yes. I predict death. Something against?”

“We’ve already faced a banshee,” Sam spoke. “Let’s say she didn’t give us a very good first impression.” He finished by glancing at his sister who rolled her eyes as she took a bite out of her hamburger.

“Lydia never hurt anyone,” Stiles defended the girl he loved. “And that’s not everything.” He took a deep breath before continuing. "Scott is a werewolf. And Kira a kitsune. A lot of supernatural creatures live in Beacon Hills without ever caused any problems. Most live in fear of hunters and spend their lives hiding. That’s why I’ve been looking for you everywhere. To ask you not to hunt the people of Beacon Hills and… ”

“On many occasions we let creatures go. The one I think most about was this girl, Kate, a werewolf.” Sam began by laying down his fork. "I understand your point, Stiles. But if a job involves this city, it will be our duty to come and see what happens… ”

“But …” Stiles tried but got interrupted.

“…In order to protect the innocents of other hunters,” Sam finished with a smile. They were going to protect the town from other hunters. Everyone at the table sighed in relief, then Sam turned to Y / N who was quiet and staring at her hamburger. Her eyes squinted as if she was trying to find the secret of the universe.

“Y / N?”

“What the hell is a kitsune?”

The rest of the evening was spent with laughs and jokes. Stiles and his cousins ​​exchanged phone numbers and they promised to drop everything to come and help Beacon Hills if the need arose. After enjoying a good cherry pie under the wide-eyed Y / N, it was the farewells. A few hugs, goodbyes and the pack returned to Beacon Hills, satisfied and relieved. The impala grumbled, heading to their next destination: Illinois, Chicago, with a background music that good old Warrant was and the scraper voice of Y / N singing over the singer as a bonus.

[autolovecraft]

I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. It may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. That he was not an evil man. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Sawyer died of a malignant fever. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not care to imagine. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. It may have been mocking.

God, what a rage! He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. Sawyer died of a malignant fever. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience.

Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.

Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales.

He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. It may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. An eye for an eye! He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man.

[autolovecraft]

I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales.

But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

It may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. God, what a rage! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Perhaps he screamed. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Birch, but you got what you deserved.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. I thought! I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.

Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

[autolovecraft]

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Clutching the edges of the aperture. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was wise in so doing. That he was not an evil man. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Clutching the edges of the aperture. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. God, what a rage! He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

[autolovecraft]

Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

He could not walk, it appeared, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible.

In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Birch decided he could get through the transom.

Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. Clutching the edges of the aperture. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far!

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

Why did you do it, Birch?

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? Perhaps he screamed. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. He could not walk, it appeared, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved.

[autolovecraft]

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. Why did you do it, Birch? In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy.

Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. It may have been just fear, and it may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside.

Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. I am no practiced teller of tales. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare.

[autolovecraft]

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside.

The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door.

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

Birch? His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try.

The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Why did you do it, Birch? That he was not an evil man. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine.

Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop.

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities.

Clutching the edges of the aperture. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it.

This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Birch. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. It may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside.

[autolovecraft]

An eye for an eye!

It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

He could not walk, it appeared, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought!

The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. That he was not an evil man.

He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass.

To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. That he was not an evil man. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Perhaps he screamed.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare.

Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he vaguely wished it would stop. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought! The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.

Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? Birch.

[autolovecraft]

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. That he was not an evil man. He could not walk, it appeared, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Birch? There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. Davis. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. Birch, but you got what you deserved. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare.

He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. The skull turned my stomach, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. An eye for an eye!

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Perhaps he screamed. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far! Perhaps he screamed. Birch. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. An eye for an eye! He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.