Popular culture has us believe that prostitution is the world’s oldest profession. And it is old; ancient, in fact. But it is not the oldest. That distinction, as I was told, belongs to the Cleaner. The first person paid to bury a body. To hide evidence. To lie.
My name is Nathaniel Ward, and I am known as a Waste Management Professional to some, Disposal Engineer to others, but at the end of the day I am simply a Cleaner. My job is to take anything dirty - a crime scene, a bedroom, a meatsack - and either make it pristine or make it disappear. I’m sure most of you have seen old gangster movies, where there’s men in black suits who arrive at the behest of a Don and help him feed the local fish population?
I turn my client’s problems into something they can handle, in easy little packages. A double homicide is too much, too messy - but without any bodies? - that can be rebranded as a home invasion gone awry, my employer “winging” the intruders as they escaped with his property. That explains the blood in their home, the gunshots heard by the neighbors, and the missing television.
In reality, my client had stalked and hunted a young couple before abducting them. He did what all sick fucks do and tortured them for days before he shot one and then the other. My client then called me to dispose of the meat when he was done and help him turn his bloodied home into something explainable. Something neat and tidy with a little bow on top.
And that 72in television fit perfectly in my living room.
Now, please let me state this for the record: I don’t encourage my employers. I am as disgusted by most of their actions as I assume many of you are, but it’s not my place to judge. Especially when I am paid lucratively to help them hide the evidence of their sins. You see, I don’t have to agree or disagree with what my employers do. My life revolves around a single tenant, upon which the Rules I follow are based.
I do a job, and I do it well.
That’s it. You’d be surprised at how easily you can sift through bones, viscera, and ichor with that phrase repeating in your mind. At the end of the day, I’m just an employee. I do what I’m paid to do, and nothing else.
Cleaning is the only job I’ve really known and it’s probably the job I’ll be doing until the day I die. Which could be any day - I enjoy running my mouth and my clients are insane. There’s a betting pool around the office cooler as to who will kick it first; me or Bobbi. I have $100 on myself.
So why am I telling you all of this? Why would I talk about my very secretive and ghastly work to strangers on the internet? Why would I risk my own safety to tell you all stories?
After receiving a package yesterday morning relating to my latest case, I have to admit that I have hit a bit of a breaking point mentally, and I need an outlet that isn’t drinking or working out. Trust me, I wish they worked so I didn’t have to remember subject-verb agreements and how to stave off run-on sentences in the course of this tomfuckery I’m calling my first post. I’m hoping if I reflect on my exhausting cases here, where other people can read them, then maybe I can wrap them up nicely for my own sanity.
And misery loves company.
So, before I tell you about my case, let me tell you about the Rules. Some I was taught when I started out, others I’ve added and changed until they worked as well as anything else. The Rules are simple, because K.I.S.S. is the cosmic law of the universe and none of you will ever convince me otherwise.
So, let me tell you about the client I worked with last week. I keep meticulous notes of each case that I work, and my bulging office cabinet is proof of that. Each case gets a moniker and a snappy title. My way of having a little control over the horrors I witness each time I get in my van and drive to a new den of iniquity. Some cases are simple and easy to record details about. Some cases make you question the world and the derelicts that fill it. Some even make you question your sanity and your own reality.
I’m sure you can guess what kind of case this one was.
The Effigist
“Plastic and Paint Make Us What We Ain’t”
I met Marcus last Thursday. I drove out to his home in a state that rhymes with Schmode Schmisland. My territory is the North East and, though I do take clients outside of it, that tends to be where I stay, so a trip to his area wasn’t out of the ordinary. Neither was the mansion that I pulled up to.
It should come as a surprise to no one that the people who can afford to hire my Company are usually richer than the king of Vint.
Marcus’ home was a swanky modern palace with gaudy pillars and custom stonework around the perimeter. Really, if you’ve seen one mansion you’ve seen them all - just different colored peacock feathers to hide the useless bird warbling beneath their shade. All his home did was tell the world that he was loaded, or his family was, and that he liked to flaunt that wealth.
The man in question was actually quite plain looking, something I immediately noted as I got out of my van to shake his hand. He was the type of guy that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd unless you were keen enough to spot the Rolex and thousand-dollar shoes. Marcus was his money - it was the only notable feature about him. He looked like any other mid-thirties man, already balding and wearing grey, wire-rim glasses. More of a Wal-Mart greeter aesthetic than a wealthy entrepreneur. But even normal people tend to be batshit underneath the routine tedium.
After the introductions were done, Marcus led me into his kitchen, chatting away about how he was going to redo the driveway - had I seen the potholes on my way up? I sure had, and I was sure to commiserate with him about the heavy rain this area of the country had been having. He offered me an imported beer before we got started and I, of course, accepted.
Unofficial rule 7: never turn down a free drink
Not just because it’s helpful towards dulling sensitivity before doing abhorrent tasks in the name of a paycheck. Only mostly. It was also a long-time ritual for Cleaners and their clients to share a meal or a drink - old hospitality and guest-right rules from the old world, my boss once told me.
She had explained that it was more symbolic than anything else, a tradition that we carried on as a sign of respect between two scoundrels working together in the shadowed undertow of the world. I once had a client share a lobster dinner with me before I helped her Clean the meat left behind by her late-husband. She’d even given me a doggy-bag to take home.
Of the lobster, you freaks. I’m sure if I didn’t specify you’d all be running wild.
Marcus got a drink for himself as well and we pretended, for a few moments, that I wasn’t there to dispose of meat for him. I was just a friend, enjoying a drink and swapping stories about current events and anecdotes about our work lives.
Marcus is an accountant, by the way. So keep this story in mind when you need your taxes done next year and you find yourself in a small office with him. You might want to run.
Eventually I was able to steer the small talk to the heart of the matter - why was I there?
“You were recommended to me by Gideon,” He said, taking the tiniest sip from the glass he had poured his drink into. Maybe I was an uncultured animal for drinking mine out of the bottle? Social graces were never my strong suit.
“He made it abundantly clear that if I was to call and ask for service and he was unavailable then I should ask for you by name.”
I nodded as he spoke, not much surprised. Cleaners often covered for each other as needed, though usually I got at least a courtesy call. Usually a switch was due to scheduling conflict or, less often, needing to drop a client due to the work involved. I had yet to find a case I couldn’t see all the way through, but I had taken over some of Gideon’s messier clients in the past. He had a thing about working cases with kids. Reminded him too much of his daughters. I never thought twice about taking one of those cases for him. It was the least I could do.
“When was the last time Gid was out here for you?” I asked, draining the last of my beer. It was a foreign brand, but it tasted mildly citrus. I’d have to keep it in mind for future shopping trips.
“It was before the pandemic, before we were all stuck at home,” Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know the exact date. I could comb through the payment records if you need it?”
“That’s fine,” I waved my hand dismissively. “Just idle curiosity. I do have to do the usual check, though. You are aware of the Company’s terms and have agreed to them?”
“Of course, and the money has already been transferred to the correct accounts. I’ve always had wonderful success with you all - I don’t mind paying up front for excellent service.” Marcus responded with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He had a smile that pulled his lips a little too tight, flared his nostrils too much, and didn’t raise his cheeks nearly enough. Plaster, cracking above his jawline into the facsimile of a smile.
“Fantastic,” I returned his hollow grin and passed him my emptied bottle. “I’m afraid I wasn’t briefed on your case before arriving, though. Would you kindly show me where I’m needed and tell me what it is you specifically want done?”
Marcus took me through his home, and I alternated between watching him and looking at the rooms we passed through. The accountant walked in the same way that he dressed - without style or swagger, very methodical. Most people have some kind of particularity to their gait, a limp or a jitter or even placing more weight on the balls of their feet versus the front. Not Marcus. He simply walked, mechanically moving one leg and then the other without breaking or changing stride. It was a little unnerving, so I focused more on the house.
It was sparser than most rich homes I’d been in. Not much decoration past paintings on the walls and the occasional vase or table sculpture. Lots of books on tables or on shelves, soft-looking carpets, and dark shades to block sunlight and likely nosy neighbors with binoculars. As I was inspecting and judging the value of the home like the fourth Property Brother, Marcus, of course, led me to the basement.
Now kids, remember; unless you are a serial killer, Cleaner, or a victim, you should never follow someone creepy into their basement. That is rule number 2 of any good horror movie, preceded by the rule to not hide behind the wall of chainsaws and followed by the rule of double-tapping a downed killer before trying to flee.
The basement was furnished in an old style, Victorian possibly, but as much as I judge people’s tastes in fashion and decor I have no sense of it myself. The carpet was thick material with spiraling, symmetrical patterns and covered the entire floor. Red drapes hung from the ceiling over the walls, and space that wasn’t obscured by red was plastered with portraits and paintings in gilded frames of varying size. They were the kind of self portraits that waspy, rich, plantation-owning mother fuckers commissioned to hang over the mantles of their fireplaces to intimidate family, friends, and foes. Instead of an aging aristocratic asshat taking up the space in the pictures, though, there were young girls in blooming dresses.
You get the picture. The basement had rolled off the set of Home Makeover: Ye Olde Gothic Conservative Edition, with all of the furnishings and splendor you imagine go along with that.
Marcus led me through a handful of doors before entering the room I knew had to be the one he needed me to work in. I knew because of one totally inconspicuous detail when he flicked on the lights. It took a keen eye and a Cleaner’s perception to really nail down the aura of the room and understand, intrinsically, why this was the room that needed to be Cleaned.
There were dolls everywhere.
Everywhere.
Some were on stands, others were sitting in chairs at tables, and a few were even laying in the bed and on the couch. They matched the portraits in the other rooms; young girls in flowy, billowing dresses of assorted colors. The dolls were the ones that are sometimes brought into the Gold & Silver Pawnshop after Grandma has died and her Grandson is trying to get enough cash for a new Porsche and some lucky Scratchies.
If you’re tired of show references, I refuse to apologize. I use TV to decompress after long days. Which means most nights I fall asleep to it. I will take no judgment from any of you about this.
“Some people collect stamps or coins or Beanie Babies, but these are mine,” Marcus said, smiling widely in what I assume was meant to be a genuine emotion but it missed the mark by a mile. Maybe the plaster cracked a bit wider this time? It was hard to tell.
“They’re…great,” I tried to be as diplomatic as possible. “Are they part of what I’m here for?”
“Not these ones, no.” Marcus replied, motioning for me to follow him again. He walked to a door by the bed, stepping around the scattered dolls on the floor with ease. I trailed after, hating the feeling of all of the dolls watching us. Not to sound cliche, but it really did feel like they were watching as we moved around and over them. I’d hated walking through my little sister’s stuffed-animal filled room for the same reason. Well, that, and her constant crying.
The room Marcus led me into looked like Dr. Frankenstein had set up a chop shop with Dr. Horrible in some crazy homeschool mad scientist collaboration effort. The room stretched farther back than I expected, housing a number of tables filled to near-spilling with tools and chemically colored bottles. There were vats at the back of the room that were bubbling and gurgling, modern witch’s cauldrons, opaque substances inside each being churned by mechanical arms rotating counterclockwise. The room was lit by harsh fluorescent lights, illuminating everything in the sterile light of a morgue. This made sense, given the roughly humanoid shapes laying on three tables in the very center.
Marcus strutted into the room as if nothing was amiss and, looking back, it’s safe to say there wasn’t. The room was exactly as he had left it, everything there included.
I inched my way in taking in the details. Looking at the three tables, I had to take a moment, focus inward on my own breathing. Chest rise, chest fall. Flex left hand, flex right hand. Focus on my own lungs expanding and contracting. Quell the anxiety. Focus on the details, not the scene. I looked at the desk covered in beauty supplies in the back corner. I looked at the wardrobe selection racks next to the vat of weird bubbling shit. I looked back at the three children displayed for anyone entering to see on the gurneys.
Things were only given meaning if I chose to give it to them - otherwise they were just cold, unfeeling objects. Things only have meaning if I wanted them to.
I was here to do a job, and I would do it well.
They weren’t children. They were sacks of diseased meat. That was how I was trained to think of them, and that’s all they would be. Inanimate objects that could be thrown out, like a used tampon or a coupon that was three weeks past expiration date. Waste made to be taken out to the trash. If I thought of them as anything *other* than these things, as other than meat, then I would not be able to do what needed to be done.
I was here to do a job, and I would do it well.
That mantra will guide me through Hell one day, I’m sure of it.
“These are why I brought you here, Mr. Ward,” Marcus walked in between the tables, spreading his hands over the meatsacks in grand fashion. “My girls are usually lovely, so loyal and well-behaved. But I’m afraid these three were not good enough.”
Marcus, idly pushed the hair away from one’s face as he spoke, almost crooning.
“I always hate when a child has to leave the nest but, I guess it happens for everyone eventually, right?” He chuckled, and I’ve heard a vacuum cough up dust with more feeling. Marcus stepped away from them to stand in front of me, hands in his pockets.
“I need you to remove my darlings from here and dispose of them as you see fit - I have no particulars, save that they are never to be found. They may not have loved me, but I loved them, and I cannot bear the thought of sharing them with any random stranger who finds them.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, setting it to record. I held it out for Marcus who, without raising a brow, leaned forward and spoke precisely.
“Our contract will be simple, Mr. Ward. You will dispose of my darlings when I no longer require them, and in a manner where they will never be found. I will also require you to clean my lab. In return, I am paying double your usual price and…” He looked up from the phone to me, cocking his head slightly to the left. “You follow the same Rules that Gideon does, I assume?”
I nodded, maintaining eye contact.
“Excellent, then beyond this recording of our agreement, I am also willing to provide physical evidence to really dot our i’s and cross our t’s for this. The refrigerator in the last room we walked through is where you may select from. Please just don’t take anything from the freezer.”
As Marcus spoke, completing his end of our transaction, I finally worked out what had bothered me about him. The weird way he walked, the strange mannerisms, and the lack of normal emotive reactions.
Marcus didn’t breathe.
If Marcus wasn’t walking or moving his hands, he was absolutely still. Standing there, looking at me expectantly, I wasn’t even sure if he had a heart that was beating. I don’t know how he trained himself to be so perfectly still. Maybe he meditated or was on medication. Maybe he could hold his breath for an insanely long time. I wasn’t going to ask him. All I knew was that this man who didn’t appear to breathe had three meatsacks that needed to be Cleaned, and I was here to do that job, and do it well.
A sane man would have turned and walked out the door and called the police. Unfortunately, to do my job, you can’t be wholly sane. It’s just not possible. I was no exception to this.
I took the job. Not because I needed the money. Not because I didn’t want to make waves with the Company. Not even because I wanted to prove to Gideon that I could handle any job that he couldn’t. I took the job because I refused to be afraid. To be weak. I would be stronger. I would Clean this mess, just like I had Cleaned every other mess in my long career. Just like I will continue to. This was my life, and it was my choice. I would live it unafraid and unblinking as I looked at the harsh reality in front of me.
So I shook Marcus’ hand and told him, over the recording, that I would take care of everything. I gave him my business card and said that, to hire our Company again, he could contact me personally at that number. I gave him the usual corporate spiel I give all clients the first time.
Marcus agreed to the terms and told me where to find cleaning supplies in the lab, and left me to task. I watched him leave and suppressed a shudder - I noted his movement as mechanical before, and that was still the only word I could find to appropriately describe it. When he was fully gone, I let the fear out of its cage a little bit, taking deep breaths. It was natural to be fearful of the unknown, health even. But soon I would categorize everything, label it all away in a file, and I would not be scared because it would be known.
But it was time to do what I did best. I pulled my gear out of my pack - sliding into a disposable white suit and gloves, the works - and examined what it was I needed to dispose of.
I went to the first sack of naked meat and poked and prodded, feeling along its arms and chest for noticeable injuries. I didn’t need guts and blood spilling out onto me (and, more importantly, the floor) from an open wound when I moved it. The meat was interesting, in the grotesquely macabre kind of way. I didn’t dwell on them at the moment, I was hyper-focused on my task, but I’ve had enough sleepless nights since to remember them vividly.
The meatsacks were not female in origin as I had thought, but male. They had been young boys at some point, given hair extensions and wigs and made up to look like young girls using the beauty supplies in the room. Marcus had removed their genitals and sewn the gaping holes left behind rather nicely. It wasn’t perfect - not to a doctor’s exacting specifications - and it was a miracle the meatsacks hadn’t died from blood loss or infection. The meat’s skin was hardened, almost wax-like but not as soft. It reminded me of polyurethane or shellac, the kind of shit lathered onto wood to give it that lovely sheen. The coating fully covered the meat, from top to bottom. It was the cause of death, too.
The meatsacks had drowned in it. Their throats were filled with it, and glancing from the meat to the racks of clothing and undergarments to the vats of churning liquid, I had a pretty good idea of how that had happened. The pieces began to slide into place, painting a heinous picture as I Cleaned. Marcus’ darlings were his own original creations, made in-house and for his pleasure.
I won’t bore you with the details of the cleaning process - it’s about as straightforward as it gets and holds little impact on this tale. Scrubbing, bleaching, scraping, and tools ranging from steel wool and mops to good old elbow grease. Simple and easy, the most sensical part of my job.
As I cleaned, I made two phone calls. The first was to the Company for a Crew to meet me at a safehouse. My Crew was too far out, and I knew the Operators would contact a local group to help. Cleaners can usually handle the Cleaning of a scene just fine, but they always have their Crews to help with extra manpower and disposal. It’s stupid to think a lone person could do everything themselves.
The second call I made was to Gideon.
“City Morgue, you kill ‘em we chill ‘em,” he drawled with his usual brevity, answering on the fourth ring. It was a habit of his, everything in fours.
“It’s Ward,” I said, grunting as I flipped a meatsack over and hosed it down. “Tell me everything you know about Marcus and his fucking dolls.”
“Have you agreed to the job?”
I told him that I had, and I thought the line went dead as Gideon said nothing. The old man eventually sighed, deeper than I had ever heard from him.
“How long you been doin’ this shit, Nate?” He finally asked. “Know it’s been a minute.”
“Fifteen and change?” I held the phone between my head and shoulder as I used both hands to mop the puss and blood stained floor.
“Fifteen already?” Gideon whistled low. “Shit, I am gettin’ old. I still ‘member you as that scrawny kid with a shit-eatin’ grin.” I heard him take a long drag from a cigarette, and I wished dearly I had one myself.
“Probably think you seen everythin’ now, right? All the evil our world has on tap?” Gideon chuckled ruefully. “You’re barely below surface level of this shit. Y’know why Cleaners never retire, Nate?”
“Because we’re too stubborn to stop for our own good?” I offered between labored breaths, switching to steel wool, scraping on my hands and knees. Whatever this residue was, it was strong - it was taking double the usual effort to scrape it away from the floor.
“Not entirely wrong,” Gideon conceded. “There’re only a few ways out of this life. You drink or smoke or fuck yourself to death to cope with it all. Or a client kills us because they, stupid as shit, don’t fear the Company enough. Or…”
He trailed off, and I still don’t know if he was choosing his words carefully or if images of a past life were flashing before his eyes. I tried to prompt him into continuing.
“Come on, Gid. You’re the last of the old guard. There can’t be anything that scares you anymore. I’ll bite - I haven’t seen it all, but you must have by now.”
“That’s the thing ‘bout it, kid, the damn hole just keeps getting deeper ‘n deeper…” Gideon sighed, and I could hear the sound of something being poured into a glass on his end.
“Cleaners don’t retire ‘cause we’re always killed by the job. Sometimes it’s the killers and predators you’re used to. But other times…other times it’s some Thing like Marcus.”
“Yeah, because a balding accountant with a fetish for killing boys and playing dress up with their meat when he’s done fucking them or whatever else he does is really so much worse than our usual murdering, sadist, and pedophile clients.” I shot back, a little more testily than I meant to. I stopped scrubbing to massage my arm. Damn gunk was not easy to break apart, and I was frustrated with it and Gideon both.
That man was the last living mentor I had - he showed me all of the tricks and the Rules and everything else about being a Cleaner. Why was he talking like he hadn’t been the one to train me? Like I hadn’t walked into the darkness with him time and time again, carrying trash bags filled with meat?
“Marcus IS worse,” Gideon spat, ignoring my ire. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now how he don’t breathe. Don’t eat or drink. You’re not stupid - you wouldn’t still be kickin’ if you were. I wouldn’ta trained you if you were stupid. But you are too rational for your own good. You don’t trust your gut like you should.”
“What the fuck are you on about!?” I shouted, getting angry. I was already thinking back to Marcus’ beer - had I seen him swallow any of it? Had he only pretended to sip at it?
“Marcus ain’t human,” Gideon sounded tired as he spoke, like every word was pulling sand from his emptying hourglass. “Sure looks like it better than most Things, but they always have tells. You just have to know what you’re looking for. You’ll be seein’ more of them, now that you’ve seen one. It’s like they know, when you’ve been exposed to them. Marcus wasn’t my first but he was one of the ones I hated the most.”
“Exposed to what?” I would have thrown my phone if I wasn’t gripping it so tightly. “Monsters, Gid? Monsters are just people. People in masks and costumes with weapons and money. They’re just fucking people.”
“Not always,” Gideon said quietly. “And the pandemic? It brought so many Things out of the woodwork where they had been skulkin’. Humans are effective in mobs - but alone, in our homes - separated and scared? It was a god damned *field day* for those fuckin’ Things. And they’re not gonna return quietly after such a feast. They’re gettin’ comfy.”
“So why then, Gid? If you truly believe that, then why would you send Marcus my way? Why tell him to call me?”
“I didn’t send him, Nate. I killed the bastard.”
It was suddenly very quiet in the lab, save for the sound of the vats being stirred.
“Right before the pandemic. It was the only time he used the Company to my knowin’, and he hasn’t used us again until now because I fuckin’ killed him. I walked into his house for a job, saw what he did to those kids, saw how he wasn’t fuckin’ breathin’, and I knew in the pit of my stomach that he was evil. I’ve seen dead kids before but those ones? It broke the dam and all I saw was red, imaginin’ what else he’d done to ‘em.”
“I caught him by the throat and drowned him in his own vat of toxic shit. I used his own saw to chop him up into bitty pieces. He didn’t even fight me through any of it, he just kept smilin’ the entire time, watchin’ me even after he was dead.”
“I dumped what was left of him somewhere no one would find him. And I took the little ones and buried them as respectfully as I could. They deserved that much. I thought it was over with. I thought it was done, until you called.”
Gideon went quiet, letting his words hang in the air. I think he was trying to give me a moment to catch up. For my part, my brain was kicked into high gear and I felt like I was trying to pull my thoughts from the thick molasses of my grey matter.
I believed him. Call me crazy, but at that moment I believed him. You pick up and destroy meat and sinew with a man, you work knee-deep in blood and bone and sewage with someone, you get to know them. You learn how they like their coffee, what they’re afraid of, what they dream of. I knew Gideon, I trusted him. That didn’t change now.
“What do I do now?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“I wouldn’t recommend killin’ him. Felt good, but I guess it didn’t help.” Gideon yawned, still calm as ever. “Besides, you’ve signed a contract with him. These Things live by their Rules, even if we don’t know ‘em. I suggest you start learnin’ about ‘em, quick.”
“In the mean-time, nothin’ to do but what you do best, Nate. Get Cleanin’.”
And the motherfucker hung up on me.
I don’t know how long I sat there with the disconnected sound ringing in my ear, but it was long enough for my legs to hurt from the position I was sitting in. I got up, feeling more than a little numb, and tried to compartmentalize. I couldn’t let my emotions get the best of me, couldn’t give into the rising hysteria in my throat that wanted to be released in a scream.
I had a job to do, and I would do it well.
I finished Cleaning. I got the bodies prepped for transport and brought them outside in trash bags and I pretended that everything was fine as I dropped them off in my van. Everything was normal in my dark little corner of the world. I did one final sweep of the lab and got my supplies. I went to the fridge that Marcus had told me about in the main room and I was almost glad for Gideon’s phone call when I opened it. Compared to what he had told me, the contents of the fridge were tame.
Inside were all of the amputated testicles of Marcus’ dolls. Some were in jars, seemingly pickled, others were sealed in tupperware with mixed vegetables, and I even saw a few flattened in plastic baggies with egg yolks. There was a little note on the door of the fridge that had a spreadsheet with names, dates, and check-marks. Below that were different dishes, some of them crossed out.
Sauteed. Fricassee. Poached. Roasted. Deep-fried. So many others I didn’t recognize.
I felt the bile rise in the back of my throat but I forced myself to swallow it back down. I was a professional. I would not lose my lunch over a few pieces of meat. I reached into the fridge, grabbed one of the pickled jar samples, and tried not to look too closely at it as I closed the door.
I backed up and felt something touch my leg. I looked down and found one of Marcus’ dolls had fallen over, an outstretched hand had fallen into my path. I knelt down and slowly moved it out of my way, carefully placing it back against the couch. The doll’s skin was perfectly white, like the others, almost identical to porcelain thanks to Marcus’ fucking goop.
As I started to get up, the doll’s eyes followed me.
I watched its eyes flick left and right and then back up to me. Pleading. Silently begging for help. To do something. Anything. I looked around and saw dozens and dozens of eyes looking directly at me. I turned wildly in a circle, looking at each doll, wearing the same helpless expression as their glazed eyes stared into my barren soul.
Looking at them all, I felt a weightlessness in my stomach, like I was falling. On the precipice of something, looking over the edge and waiting to jump. Like I was supposed to do something. And I made my choice, then and there, that I *would* do something.
I turned and walked to the exit. I could feel their eyes watching me, and I quickened my steps. They were dolls, they were already dead. There was nothing I could do for them. I wasn’t a hero; I was just the guy that cleaned up after the devils. I had accepted that hand that life had dealt me long ago. There was no sense in changing that now.
I tried to open the door, and found it locked. And that was when the dolls began rattling. Some started moving, wobbling on legs that were twisted the wrong way. Some began clawing their way across the ground, one small inch at a time as their arms hardly worked. One on a shelf began climbing backwards onto the ceiling, head cracking to the side as they reverse-spidered their way towards me. I didn’t even notice that I dropped the picked testicles out of shock.
They said nothing as they moved towards me, and I don’t know if they could have even if they wanted to with their vocal cords stripped away. There was just the rustle of flowing dresses, the gentle wheezing of air, and the scraping of porcelain on sheetrock as they got closer and closer.
The door behind me opened and Marcus pulled me through by the back of my pack, practically ripping me out of the room before slamming the door shut on his darlings.
“Are you all right?” He asked politely, letting go of me. He did not look bothered at all, just as unrumpled as earlier. If that was something I shouldn’t have seen, he didn’t show it. ”How was your talk with Gideon?”
I had too much adrenaline coursing through my system to be surprised that Marcus knew I called Gideon. I wasn’t sure I could ever be surprised again.
“He filled me in,” I said quietly, but I met Marcus’ eyes, feeling braver than I actually was. “Am I here because of what he did to you?”
Marcus thought about it for a moment, not even pretending to blink anymore. Just staring. His smile fully still plastered onto his face. It didn’t stretch as he spoke, staying perfectly in place.
“Yes.”
I tensed, ready to run, but Marcus held up a hand, his other resting on the door knob of the room with the dolls. An unspoken threat.
“You have shown respect and have behaved well for someone so young, and I would ask that you please continue to act so, Mr. Ward. If you break hospitality, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop my darlings from coming after you.”
Hospitality. Guest-Right. Rules. These were things I could cling to, lost as I was.
“And leaving without concluding business would be…rude,” I said slowly, the logic clicking into place for me. “I’m your guest until then.”
“Indeed you are,” Marcus continued to smile, nodding at my words. “You have done a service for me, and I would do no harm to you while you are under my roof and are respectful.” His hand had not moved from the doorknob.
“But Gideon broke the rules.” I whispered, realization slowly breaking over my marble head.
“While he was not under contract fully yet, he did break Xenia rather aggressively while he was here. That reflects poorly upon your Company. As the representative of your group, you are responsible for his transgressions” Marcus cocked his head again, this time at an angle that should not have been possible on a human neck. His eyes practically glowed in the dim hallway light. I thought I heard the knob turning.
“Now, you have been a model employee so far. But I’m afraid the debt has to be settled.”
I could feel the bile coming back up my throat with every passing second. I wanted to run, but that would be rude. What could I do?
“As you have been so helpful and polite, I will give you a chance. If you can make it to your vehicle, you will be safe. And I will not come for you myself - that wouldn’t be sporting.” Marcus continued, head slowly swiveling until it rested at the other extreme. “My darlings, on the other hand?” He licked his lips slowly.
“Well, they’ve always wanted such a well-mannered big brother.”
I was already running when I heard the door open and the scuttling of porcelain on wood.
I wish I could describe to you an epic chase sequence spanning multiple well choreographed shots and heroic behavior on my part. I wish I could paint that flattering picture of myself. But it was a lot of screaming, terror, and sheer panic as I sprinted through Marcus’ home. Exit, pursued by dolls.
I don’t believe I have ever run so fast in my life. I ran through hallways and up stairs, all the while dolls chased me. I only risked one glance behind me as I ran, and that was a mistake. All I saw was a torrent of dolls cascading after me, like a swarm of rats all crawling over each other in order to reach me. Some ran on their backwards feet, others dragged along by their hair by other dolls who were crawling frantically. Their eyes were all wide, bloodshot, and they were all wheezing in unison; a silent scream that they would never be able to release.
I rounded a corner into the kitchen, and came face-to-face with a doll waiting for me there.
I don’t remember there being one in the kitchen when I arrived. But I had also just assumed all of them were contained in the basement. I really needed to stop assuming things. The doll wasted no time, leaping off the counter and towards me, clawing hands reaching for my face. And, while it was not the first time I had punched a child, it was the first time I didn’t feel bad about it.
Instincts screamed and I listened. I did not halt my forward momentum as I wildly swung with my fist, meeting the doll with a solid right hook. Its head bounced off of my fist and into the counter, fracturing its face into spiderweb cracks. A piece fell off, and I saw for just an instant a glowing black void behind the white skin. Just stygian darkness, tendrils of smoke pouring out of it and towards me. I’m not ashamed to say I also stomped on its leg as I went screaming by.
I made it to the van and I took off, almost crashing through Marcus’ slowly opening gate. Mercifully, the universe wasn’t totally heartless and the Thing was true to its word; no dolls pursued me once I was in the van. I watched as they all fell lifeless in his driveway, all losing whatever motivating force had been thrusting them forward.
I dropped off the remains in my van at the safehouse a few towns over, and the local Crew - after seeing my face white as a sheet - were kind enough to dispose of them for me at my designated location. I can’t tell you where that is, but I can tell you that Marcus’ rejects will never be found. Samples would be taken to the Librarian for our records, and that would be the end of it.
It’s been a week, and I still don’t know what to make of everything. I’ve tried calling Gideon, but he isn’t returning my calls. In the meantime I have a backlog of requests and emails to respond to, different clients requesting my services. I can’t help wondering which of them will turn out to be like Marcus. Gideon said these Things had become more active in the last couple of years thanks to the state of the world. That I would be seeing more of them, now that I was aware of them. I hope he’s wrong. My job is complicated enough without including monsters and evils other than humans.
Hell, I would have gone on ignoring everything about my time with Marcus and burying it deep in my compartmentalized psyche if that package had not arrived at my doorstep this morning. I swear I could hear a scuttling noise, scurrying away as I opened the door.
Outside my apartment was a pickling jar, two fleshy mounds floating inside. A little ribbon was wrapped around the cap, and attached was a red notecard. It was addressed to me.
Nathaniel,
I felt obligated to return this to you as it was a part of our agreement made in good faith. Thank you for your service, we hope to retain it for many years to come. No hard feelings.
– Marcus
I need to start learning about these Things. I need to find Gideon, or someone else in the Company who knows just what is waking up out there. But I’ll need to be careful, learn to listen to my gut feelings.
And I’ll definitely have to add new Rules to my list as I go.