Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

"Why don't you have a seat?"

Stanley sat down in front of Brant's desk.

"I know how enamored you are with the 'scientific marvel' idea, Stanley, so what I have to tell you may be painful to hear. But I'm okay with that." He leaned forward. "You're not a miracle of science."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm saying that you're a fraud."

"Oh, right, so I was never dead, huh?"

Brant smiled. "When we first spoke, you insisted that that was the case. What changed your mind?"

"How about getting shot twice and healing right up?"

"That's certainly a convincing argument. And no, I'm not saying that you were never dead. What I am saying is that science had nothing to do with it."

"Say what?"

"Science didn't have anything to do with it. You, Stanley, are a product of black magic."

"Say what?"

"Your injections? Virgin blood. The chemicals that the machine put into your system? Virgin blood. The science was all for show. You were brought back to life with an unholy ritual."

"Uh-huh. Give me a freakin' break."

"Do you think I'm kidding?" Brant's voice was chilling.

Stanley stared into his eyes, searching for any sign that the son of a bitch was joking. He couldn't find one.

"I…I came from witchcraft?"

"Not witchcraft, technically, but something very similar, yes. Still feel like copping an attitude, Stanley? You might as well be a voodoo zombie."

Stanley felt like tumbling out of his chair onto the floor. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. This couldn't be true. He was supposed to be a revolution in science, not a supernatural monster.

"So…why me?"

"You met the criteria of the ritual. You were born in the right year, had the right color of hair, and most importantly, you died in the right way."

"But I drowned in milk."

"Yes. Mother's milk. Something we need at the start of life."

Stanley braced himself against the desk, suddenly feeling as if he might pass out. "This isn't fair."

"What's the matter? Didn't like that revelation?"

"Why'd you bring me back?"

"Why do you think? We received enormous contributions from private financers that we didn't have to spend on any actual research. And you've proven to be even more lucrative than we'd anticipated. You're one profitable zombie, Stanley."

"You bastard."

"Oh, surely you can call me something more inventive than a bastard."

Stanley couldn't.

"What makes you think I won't tell everyone?"

"First of all, they won't believe you. Second, if they do believe you, you'll become an outcast. You have quite an enviable lifestyle. It seems foolish to put it at risk. And don't let your inflated sense of self-importance make you think that I won't withhold your precious virgin blood if you try to rock the boat."

"Where do you get the blood?"

"Donations."

"Willing donations?"

"Yes, Stanley, willing donations. It's taken from Red Cross supplies. Don't worry, we aren't out murdering virgins on your behalf. We perform a quick ritual on the blood, and presto, you get to live for another day."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you're not the one in charge, and you'll do well to remember that."

"Does Veronica know?"

"No. Now please leave. Unlike you, apparently, I have important work to do."

Stanley walked out of his office. He didn't say a word to Brett and Thomas as they escorted him back to his limousine and back to his apartment.

He climbed into his hammock and stared at the ceiling for a long, long time.

Black magic?

That made him a creature of evil.

A monster.

He cried.

"He's gone." Veronica's voice on the other end of the line sounded uncharacteristically panicked.

"Who?"

"Who do you think? Stanley!"

Brant sat up straight. "How long has he been missing?"

"I don't know. He's supposed to be on the morning show in an hour, but when I got here to pick him up, he was gone. His bodyguards don't know where he went. I called Martin but he didn't answer his home phone or his cell. I'm scared that something happened to him."

"I'm sure he's fine," said Brant, wiping some perspiration from his forehead. He could see Stanley pulling a vanishing act just to make him sweat.

"How do you know that? He never goes anywhere without his bodyguards!"

"Have you called the police?"

"Not yet. I wanted to call you first."

"Stanley wouldn't miss a public appearance. He's probably on his way to the studio right now. Let the producers know that there may be a problem so that they can find an emergency replacement, but don't call the police yet."

"Okay."

"Keep me informed."

"I will."

Brant hung up. It was just a prank. It had to be. Or else Stanley was going on his own little journey of self-exploration, which would come to a halt when he ran out of injections. Brant had been against the idea of providing him with a week's supply in the first place, but he'd caved in to pressure from Veronica and Dr. Arnzin. He should have known better. Should have kept Stanley on that tighter leash.

Of course, he also shouldn't have told him the truth about his origin. Well, most of the truth. But he couldn't stand for that rampaging ego-maniac zombie to think that he was the one in charge. And if Brant had put the whole cash cow at risk because of his own power trip…well, everybody had their own little quirks.

"Our Savior did not appear."

Charlie looked up from his laptop, where he was busy typing some last minute revisions to today's sermon. "I beg your pardon?"

"He was scheduled to appear on Channel 8, but he didn't show up at the studio and he was replaced by a comedian whose jokes were stale and poorly delivered." William, Charlie's sixteen-year-old volunteer assistant, fidgeted nervously.

Charlie stood up. "Did they say what the problem was?"

"No."

"Does the rest of the congregation know?"

"Not yet."

"Then we'll hold off until we have more information. Our Savior may just have been caught in traffic. Start passing around the collection plates."

"Yes, Reverend."

Charlie sat back down, made a few more minor corrections, and then printed out his sermon. It wasn't very good, but he always ended up departing from the script anyway. It was as if something deep inside of him took over, making the words flow easily, spreading the gospel of The Corpse as if The Corpse himself were controlling Charlie's body.

Who was to say that The Corpse didn't have the power to possess Charlie's body and tongue?

Charlie gathered his pages and walked out into the main hall of the church. It was a small, wooden, abandoned Catholic church that had been falling apart when Charlie found it. But with the help of a group of volunteers, he'd cleaned it up, replaced Jesus with Stanley Dabernath where appropriate, and now held weekly services. The benches seated about sixty people, but he was pleased to see that several others stood against the back wall.

He walked up behind the podium as William began to play haunting chords on his electronic keyboard. Charlie gazed lovingly at his flock, adoring each of them, wishing only that his wife was there to see him in action. Sadly, she'd left him shortly after he formed the church, taking his son with her.

The music stopped. Charlie cleared his throat.

"Friends, sons and daughters, we are here to give worship to our Savior, Stanley Dabernath, The Corpse. For He returned to life to spread His gospel, to share His message of love and understanding! What is that message?"

"Life is precious!" chanted the attendees.

"And life is indeed precious! I did not always know this. No, I thought life was worthless! In fact, I thought my own life held such little value that I was ready to end it!"