Building 8 “Kept on Ice”

I dreamt last night about a bridge. An old, broken thing. Boards missing and cracked. The ropes that suspended it frayed and broken. I never crossed.

I couldn't see the other side.

Just watched it swaying back and forth in the wind. Impossibly tall trees framed it on either side. And from their branches, strange somethings were trying to coax me across.

Fog kept me from seeing the other side properly, but I could see things. Large things, waiting for me to reach the other side. They kept pacing, the way a caged animal does. Animals in zoos do that all the time.

They do it because they are anxious.

They want to hurt us, the ones that caged them.

Margaret and I are preparing for Thanksgiving. It will just be the two of us and a few friends. The kids are going to be with my sister. Noah probably won't be out of the hospital before then. He hasn't shown any signs of improvement. He keeps insisting that Loyd is still alive.

They haven't allowed the therapy dogs to visit his room.

That is all I know about how he is doing.

I went to the police and asked them if they could give me anything on how the investigation into The Surgeon was going. With the most recent crime I figured they would know something. Figured I had a right to know, but even my friends in the precinct claimed they didn't have anything.

I don't think that's true.

They are covering it up. Just like they cover everything else.

It made me angry.

Bastard killed me first wife. Mutilated my second. I could blame myself, but really it’s his fault my boy is in the hospital now.

His crimes are a long series of traumas.

Doesn't even matter if it happens to you personally. Every time he hurts someone, the people around here get weird. Almost like they are in a daze. Always hoping this is the last time. That he will run out of ways to hurt people.

Man is an artist, and an artist doesn't quit willingly.

I don't care if he is willing.

I've had enough. I have lost too much to that freak. I was a journalist dammit. Before all this. I know how to investigate.

I am not going to let him get away with it.

I played the record he sent me. Canon in D. To focus.

To think.

Have you ever experienced something that became an obsession? Not just a focus. but a thing that consumes your life, and the lives of those around you. Most people never experience that. They just live their lives in dull persistent repetition.

I hope he reads this. I hope he fucking reads this and gets scared. He has hurt everything I care about. Every aspect of my life is tainted by him. I can't escape this anymore.

So, I am starting at the beginning.

The first crime. The one with stitches. A man in a bathroom sewn together so completely he feels it even after the stitches have been removed. It’s been years since that incident. I didn't think a man in that condition would stay in the area.

I was right.

No forwarding address. No sign of him. As if he be-came a ghost.

So, I did the next best thing. I went to the factory where it took place; where he sewed a man together in a bathroom and where he butchered four other kids. At least they had the good sense to put a fence up around it. Suppose I should thank them for not tearing it down.

It gave me a chance to look inside.

The place smelled of cold concrete and dirt, except in the rooms where The Surgeon did his work. Even after all these years, the rooms still smelled like cleaner.

The main factory floor was different. It was recently used.

No dust. Cleaned floors.

And a cooler.

There was a note on top.

It said “Don't hold onto the past.”

Before I opened it, I knew exactly what I would find.

It was my wife's face. Her original face.

The one before he replaced it with another.

They still haven't figured out who he got the skin from; the one she currently wears.

I brought it to the hospital, but there was nothing they could do. The flesh was preserved as well as could have been expected. It has been a year since it was removed. The flesh wasn't viable anymore. It was dead.

It had been dead a long time...

Margaret took the news well. She seemed uncomfortable, but almost seemed happy when I said it couldn't be placed back on. It was as if she didn't want to talk about it. Considering how traumatic the experience had been...I understand.

I invited the neighbors over for Thanksgiving. They turned it down. They said they had their own plans. Seems the neighborhood used to be more friendly, but not now I guess.

Visited Loyd's grave. He is still dead.

Had our first snow of the year the other week.

It didn't keep.

Last leaf on our tree dropped.

Found something outside my front door.

Think it used to be a dog.