by Eilidh Spence
From behind the door, there is a noise—a bizarre sort of beeping.
I cannot understand what it could be. Regardless, it means I have another visitor.
I am well prepared, of course; quaint workshop, painstakingly maintained toolkit, and cases filled with the best supplies a taxidermist could buy.
I move heavy legs under heavier petticoats. Curious—one would not expect to forget how to walk. How long ago was the last one? Turn of the century, perhaps? Shame the poor man didn’t survive the procedure—it’s been terribly quiet.
The beeping grows louder. The door handle turns. I tilt my head.
This one is a young woman.
I find myself stuck on her hair; a shade of blue that, in my own time, I would have regarded as neither proper nor possible. Her clothes, too, are strikingly peculiar.
No mind—the hair I shall dye, and I am sure one of my own dresses should fit her with a little alteration.
She is backing away, screeching in a most un-ladylike manner. Ah—I think perhaps I tilted my head a little too far. I reach up a hand to my face and push it upright. Then, I reach out my other hand and I grab her wrist.
I notice the strange, beeping device, hanging limp from an arm forgotten at her side.
“Let me go! I—I’m warning you—” I can feel her trembling as she speaks, and her threat is rather weakened by her wavering voice. She’s terrified, poor thing. I prise the device from her as gently as I can manage.
“My EMF detector! Give that—” My grip tightens, and she cuts herself off with a yelp.
Hm. That was a little rash of me; I shouldn’t risk damaging the skin. I drop the device to the ground and crush it under my boot. The beeping ceases.
Then—oh.
I am distracted. Something lodges into my side. It appears I underestimated the girl.
It is rather strange, I think, to see the knife tear through my skin just under where my ribs were; it is strange to feel how the blade scrapes against the wire and the clay which hold me upright.
The girl pulls it away. I watch the steady stream of sawdust which spills over her, and when I look at her, I see her staring too. She drops the blade, horror painted across her face as it is dusted over her hands.
A little rude. Still, no need for further delay; I shall repair myself later.
I lift her gently onto the workbench. She doesn’t fight me. Her eyes are still locked on the tear in my side.
Perhaps she is in shock? It would certainly make this next part easier. Still, once I clean out the skin, the procedure should be simple. I’m sure she will thank me. After all, she will live so much longer with sawdust than with blood.
I have. It will be nice not to do it alone.
EILIDH SPENCE lives in Scotland with her parents and sister, but more importantly, with their three cats. When not writing, she might perhaps be studying for her ongoing computing science degree. She has micro-fiction being published in Ghost Orchid Press’s upcoming Beneath and Cosmos Anthologies.