Perfect Gift for a Necrophile

Nevaeh Rose

I’ve been searching morning and night, here and there, in the dirt and even deeper in the dirt for the perfect gift. Any old body won’t do. I could sever a head, carve out a pelvis, pickle a pair of testicals. But no…no…none of those will do. My friend could dig those things up any night at Paul Revere Cemetery down the street. You see, it is nearly their birthday and I must find something before the time runs thin. This item will need to be absolutely unique, clandestine and unattainable.

A Tibeten Necromancer’s mask is one of a kind, but probably won’t be much fun to play with.

A bouquet of lady fingers is always a delight, but will grow boring quickly.

An Ogilvie Syndrome colon is creative, but a bit too gross, even for my friend.

As I brainstorm, I wander up and down the black and foggy streets of our little town. I’m a bit of a nyctophile myself. I always come up with my best ideas when the sky is dark. I sip on a small porcelain cup of black espresso, hoping to invigorate my brain.

Conjoined twins? Not as interesting as one would think.

A hypertrichosis intersexual? Too garish.

A witch who had been burned at the stake? No one likes a charred flavor.

The incorruptible corpse of a catholic saint? Not offensive enough.

What preposterous ideas. These just won’t do.

The next night I venture out once again to ponder. This time I see a small lump in the fog. I approach and find the freshly gutted body of a field mouse. Most certainly the doing of a feral cat. Its tangle of intestines spill onto the concrete of where a writhing rabble of maggots gather. Its maw is frozen wide- touched with the ghost of its final squeak of terror. I hope to see inspiration in this sad little carcass, but nothing comes to me. Maybe what I need is not a collection of details, but a spectacle. A massacre of sorts that will be bursting with macabre joys. Yes, I will find a massacre in the morning.

It was just my luck that the Sugarwell Inc. manufacturing plant exploded later that very night. It was the talk of the town by dawn: a gas leak, unregulated oil storage, an emergency exit map that had not been updated in a decade. A complete wholesale slaughter from our town's beloved confectionery. I jogged to the scene to catch a glimpse of any leftover grume. From what I can see from behind the caution tape and through the residual smoke: scattered rubble, sticky trails of blood, some blackened butterscotch candies, beautifully iridescent puddles of melted sugar, and dozens of candy-floss colored body bags lined up in rows. Shouting at the factory’s entrance catches my attention and I watch as three first-responders in hazmat suits carry out a mangled corpse adorning white work overalls. I see more responders following behind the three, also appearing to be lugging along poor bodies dug out from the wreckage. Only a moment later I am harshly ushered away by a fireman. Something about the area being dangerous to breathe in and that I am intruding upon an active crime scene.

That evening an impromptu vigil is held in the Paul Revere Cemetery to honor the lost roustabouts. The entire town gathers with taper candles in hand and the local priest utters a sermon at the head of the crowd. Spouses and children of the fallen weep heavily in their grief. In one hand I hold a dimly lit candle and in the other I sip my small porcelain cup of black espresso. As the moon rises, at last an idea creeps upon me.

Yes, this will certainly do.

It is a dreary Friday in autumn and my dear friend’s birthday. I have brought them to my property at the edges of town. A nice little shack overlooking the westland douglas firs. We have a stupendous home cooked lunch: marinated pig’s heart with sauteed carrots and white onion, reindeer bone broth with skunk tail and Wood Ear mushrooms, black rum to sip on, and cocoa coated lady finger sponge cake for dessert. We feast until we are mighty full. We laugh and drink until our faces are pink and our lungs are breathless. Once we have chortled off the hearty meal, I lead them outside.

“What have you gotten for me my friend?” they ask eagerly as we trek into the backwoods.

“I have not gotten something, you necrophilic fool. I have made something!” the stench of decay wafts into the air briefly, telling us we are close. In tandem we skip with obstreperous excitement.

“I am utterly beguiled by this shadowed gift you have so bragged about! I think: what could this possibly be? I believe I have seen, touched, tasted, and encroached in it all! The mummies of Guanajuato, exquisitely patterned mokomokai, embalmed Italian saints- there couldn’t possibly be a cadaver more provocative and exceptional than what I have already tried,” I grin toothily, knowing without a doubt they have never borne witness to a butchery as artful as mine.

We approach a clearing where the douglas firs are darker and the grass is moist and the township is but a distant memory.

Here it is. The perfect gift.

Here it sits

In the grass

In the heart of the dark wood.

A structure built with loving hands for one so dear.

A structure built from viscera, bone, and painted in vibrant ichor.

Indescribable is the shape of the mass

Made from the venereal flesh of dozens.

Sewn and sawed into a surfaceless, fractal penrose.

There is something dreadful waiting in the core

For the necrophile who reaches it.

So many pockets, crevices, holes, gashes, and chasms to sink into.

A euphoria conceived only for the most heinous.

Intimate is the fingerprint stretched over the malevolent construct.

Devout is the ribcage for gentle grasping.

Bury your whole being within

And be enveloped in the warmth of tissue buzzing with rot.

This is the corpse of the universe

That is so enormous

And eldritch

It cannot be seen

Nor escaped.

The damned are spun into a spiderweb

The spider feasts

The universe’s corpse decays.