This is a work of fiction.  The people, events, circumstances, and institutions depicted are fictitious and the product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance of any character to any actual person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

**Contains Mature Subject Matter…you’ve been warned ;)

Part 1 posted on 4/15/2012, Part 2 posted on 4/22/2012

Entombments Incorporated Part 3 by Shannon O’Brien (Copyright 2012)

Three weeks had passed. Gone were the camouflaged tents encasing our detached kitchen. Gone were the green tarps hanging from the trees. Gone were the gangly workmen. But most importantly, gone were our decaying guests. Due to the quantity (apparently the well was very deep) Entombments, Inc. did the entire job with their portable crematorium. They even built a vacuum sealed lid for the well. With hinges!

My party was starting in just three hours.

Life was good.

Our property was abuzz with caterers, event coordinators, and men toting ladders, hanging up exquisite ghosts, zombies and vampires from trees, roofs and gazebos. Luminous eyes the size of turkey platters dotted our roof and peeked out from half naked tree branches. At twilight our house and property would come alive with the supernatural. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!

Satisfied everything was running smoothly, I went to my bedroom to get ready. Taking my sharp shears, I sliced through the abdomen of my 1880’s-era dress, careful not to cut myself. We had taken a sabbatical from our “activities” and I was forced to use fake blood. I squeezed the theatrical stuff on my dress along the new opening. Next, I applied two artificial gashes to my throat, dribbling on the red goo until it streamed between the swells of my breasts.

Stephen’s costume, a late nineteenth century tweed suit and top hat, were laid carefully across our bed. He was Jack the Ripper and I was his prostitute victim Mary Jane Kelly.

The door opened and Stephen stepped in. “Can you come down to the car?” he whispered.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. “Fine.  But make it quick.”

I followed him down the back stairs to the garage. The door closed behind me with a low thud and we were left standing in the dark. Stephen handed me a flashlight and opened the back of his BMW. The floor of the trunk was lined with clear painters plastic. On it was a middle age white man, unconscious but still breathing.

“This bastard gets off molesting little black boys,” Stephen spat through gritted teeth.  “He had a hung jury. I caught him today talking to a five year old at a park. Thank God I still had my ether.”

My heart thudded with excitement. But then tears flooded my eyes and the bound man became blurred. “Stephen,” I rasped, “we can’t have him here. My party!”

“Shh, Baby, it’s okay. No one will come in here. But I haven’t given you my real surprise yet.”

He reached for a hunting knife and a jar off the workbench. Removing his tie, Stephen bent over the man. I held the flashlight, wondering what he was going to do. 

As he ripped open the man’s t-shirt, exposing his chest, I hardened my heart. This was a monster who preyed on those who could not defend themselves. Sometimes the law was not just. Sometimes the bad guys walked free. Stephen and I knew this fact well. This man was out because of a technicality, but he was going to pay for his brutality our way. Just like the others.

The first cut of the blade in to flesh caused the man to jump, but the ether was strong and he remained unconscious. Part of me wished he were awake, watching us, screaming. Stephen cut and sawed, pried and pulled, until at last he found what it was he wanted: the organ this man didn’t know how to use. 

I staunched the blood with a rag while he plopped the heart in to the Mason jar. Stephen wiped his hands clean on the bodice of my dress. The effect of the new smears was perfect.

“I’m a far superior Ripper. Carry your prop with pride, my love.”