Jeff Strand - The Sinister Mr. Corpse

"No, I guess you covered it pretty well," said Stanley. "It's good to be in the know."

Brant set the briefcase on the floor and stood up. "You're probably going to scream," he said. "That's fine. But don't struggle or you'll only hurt yourself."

He pulled off the fluffy pink blanket.

Seeing his body without the mental cushion of blurred vision and disorientation, Stanley realized that it was even worse than he'd thought. Sickly grey. Shriveled. Almost skeletal in places. And covered with small splotches of black rot. "Oh shit…" he whimpered.

"You should feel fortunate," said Brant. "Because of the treatment we gave you in the morgue, your body didn't decompose the way a normal body would. It looks bad on the outside, but we believe that your internal organs are in more or less perfect working order. Normally they would have liquefied."

Stanley felt absolutely sick to his non-liquefied stomach. "Is it going to get worse?"

Brant shook his head. "You'll be given an injection every twenty-four hours. They will halt the process of decomposition. If you should miss one of them, it will be unattractive. I suggest that you don't miss any of them."

"But this is all going to heal up, right?"

"Sadly, no. We're able to stop it from spreading, but there's no way to reverse it. My apologies."

Stanley sat up as much as he could. "I need a mirror."

"I don't think you're ready for that."

"Goddamn it, get me a mirror!"

"Are you going to make me leave you in the dark again?"

Stanley sunk down into his pillow. "No."

"Good. Now, you will continue to eat, sleep, and handle necessary bodily functions like a normal living human being," Brant explained. "However, you will not bleed. Shall I demonstrate?"

"No, no, that's okay, I trust you. I'll wait until I accidentally cut myself on something."

"That sounds reasonable. I realize you're upset, Stanley, and I don't blame you at all. However, keep in mind that this is a blessing. You should still be dead. Your body looks bad now, but think how it would look six feet underground, covered with maggots and spiders."

"You're right. Every day's a sunshiny day when you don't have maggots and spiders eating your guts."

Brant smiled. "I'm glad to see you've maintained a sense of humor. I must admit, I was worried that you'd wind up catatonic or completely insane. You certainly wouldn't be a good spokesman for Project Second Chance if you could do nothing but babble and shriek, right? By the way, if you're feeling up to it, we'd like you to do a brief press conference tomorrow. The world wants to see The Amazing Mr. Corpse."

"Say the hell what?"

"That's what the press has dubbed you. I think it's rather catchy."

"I don't want to be known as Mr. Corpse."

"The Amazing Mr. Corpse."

"I'm gonna be The Amazingly Pissed-Off Mr. Corpse if you don't untie these straps. C'mon, how am I gonna run away if my legs are rotting off?"

"Actually, your motor functions will hold up remarkably well. You'll be a bit stiff, but…" Brant trailed off and grinned. "Stiff. That was kind of funny."

"I'm laughing my ass off."

"You'll be doing that literally if you miss an injection. Anyway, Mr. Corpse, I do hope that you'll be as charming as possible at the press conference. You're a celebrity, Stanley. This could be a huge opportunity for you."

"Sure. Pay a quarter to see Stanley Dabernath, the disease-ravaged freak."

"You still don't believe that you were dead, do you?"

"Oh, I'm sure you would never fib to me. This whole strapped-to-the-bed thing proves that you're a trustworthy chap."

Brant knelt down. Stanley heard him open the briefcase, and then Brant stood up again, holding a small stack of photographs. He held the stack in front of Stanley's face.

"Recognize this handsome gentleman?" Brant asked.

The top picture was of Stanley, lying on a gurney, dried milk on his face, his eyes open, his expression lifeless.

"So? That's me in a coma," said Stanley, even though it didn't look anything like a coma.

Brant flipped to the next picture. "How about this?"

In the photo, Stanley lay on a metal table, his body the appalling gray color, his eyes still open. Stanley turned away.

"What's the matter, Stanley? Is it disturbing to see yourself dead and refrigerated?"

"They're fake."

"Right," said Brant. "While you were unconscious we put some makeup on you and took some photographs just for an elaborate practical joke to convince you that you'd been deceased."

"And that's supposed to be a less plausible explanation than that I'm a re-animated zombie?"

"Here, watch yourself rot." Brant flipped through the next few pictures, which showed Stanley on the same table, his body decomposing more and more with each photo.

"Having fun, you sick fuck?" asked Stanley, feeling like he was about to vomit.

Could he still vomit?

"This isn't about having fun. I'm proving a point."

"This isn't proving a damn thing. And how come you won't give me a mirror, but you'll shove these nasty pictures in my face?"

"Fair enough," said Brant, straightening the stack of photographs. He knelt back down, dug through the briefcase, and stood up with a small mirror in his hand. "Just to warn you, though you'll be on every magazine cover in the country, it won't be as the Sexiest Person Alive."

Brant held the mirror in front of Stanley's face.

Stanley stared at his reflection in stunned silence.

"Oh, Christ…"

This wasn't him. It couldn't be.

His face wasn't a face at all. It was a skull with grey skin tightly stretched over the surface. He barely even had a nose, just a pair of nostrils.

He tried to touch his face, momentarily forgetting that his hands were still bound.

What disease could possibly have done this to him?

He knew he couldn't be dead, because he could see a tear trickling down his cheek, and dead people didn't cry.

"It's upsetting now, but you'll get used to it," said Brant.

"I'm a freak."

"Oh, no, you're a scientific phenomenon. Freaks stay locked in basements, or are gaped at in carnivals, or are hidden away in padded cells. You, my friend, are destined for much better things."

Stanley kept staring into the mirror and said nothing.

"I think you've seen enough for now," said Brant, lowering the mirror. "And I think it's safe to undo the straps. How does that sound?"

Stanley didn't respond.

Brant stepped over to the foot of the bed and began to unfasten the straps that bound Stanley's feet. "I don't know if this will make you feel better or not, but if you look at the pink blanket, you'll notice that there's no residue from your body on it. We really did stop the decomposition. I'm just pointing that out in case you were worried about it."

"Thanks," Stanley said without enthusiasm.

Brant finished undoing the foot straps and then moved over to unfasten the ones binding Stanley's hands. "I think we've made a connection, Stanley, and I'm confident that you won't try to do anything foolish. So please don't take offense when I mention that your parents and your friend Martin Vines are here, and I would hate to see you do anything that might force me to restrict visiting hours. Do you understand?"

Stanley nodded.

"Out loud, please."

"Yes, I understand."

"Good." Brant finished undoing the straps. "You're free now. This room is yours, and before too long we'll give you a chance to redecorate it to your personal taste."

Stanley sat up, but a wave of dizziness struck him and he nearly fell back onto the bed. He braced himself upright and rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his rotted palms.

"You shouldn't have any problems walking on that cast," Brant assured him. "Your foot was completely crushed, but you'll be surprised how much it has healed since your death."