August Short Story of the Month

REVELATIONS IN THE RUE MORGUE

“I told you already,” Priscilla said, pausing to take a long, much-needed puff of her cigarette, “I don’t know what happened.” She coughed.
This caught Detective Bradley’s attention. The cough looked unexpected to her as well, meaning she was out of practice. She held the cigarette like an old pro, but failed in the actual action of it. So it was safe to assume that the cigarette, though clearly an old lover, was one she had kicked out of bed a long time ago. “I’m sorry,” he apologized with mock sincerity, and she picked up on his hollow tone.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stamping out with one heavy crush of her foot.
“I just want to know what happened here,” Bradley said, “that’s all.” That too, he believed, could be a lie. The lie rode on his mind as he shambled back up the stairs, to the apartment. What had happened here was obvious.
A woman had been murdered. Such an understatement that Bradley could actually feel a laugh rising in his throat. He suppressed it. If this was a simple murder, then the holocaust was a simple dispute. The whole room had been painted red with blood. Most of it dry. Some of it not. The woman lay naked on the floor, her skin a white, marble color in stark contrast to the dark crimson splashed across the walls and floor. Her whole body was speckled with bruises, save for the right arm.
That, Bradley noticed as he scanned the room, had simply been torn from the socket and thrown across the apartment into the bathroom. She was  missing an eye as well. That had yet to be found. Bradley assumed at this point that the killer had taken it.
Or eaten it.
He didn’t know why or how he’d thought of such an answer, but given the utter savagery of the scene, he also knew that he could not rule it out. Other thoughts formed in his mind, each just as atypical, and as ghastly, as the last. While he simply wanted to think, ‘what man could do a thing such as this?’ he knew better. Instead, he wondered how much force it had taken to remove the arm. What it had felt like to feel it pull free. What an eye tasted like.
What it felt like to feel a human being die.
He stepped toward the window, drowning out the thoughts. They made him sick. They were as unprofessional as could be imagined. But his curiosity remained.
The window was smashed open. Perhaps the woman had smashed it during the struggle, to scream for help. Unlikely. If she had been given a chance to scream, she would have taken it, and he wouldn’t have to be standing where he was right now. This was his first observation as he looked through the window.
The second he kicked himself for not seeing the first time. The window had either had something massive thrown through it (though there was nothing below that he could see), or it was smashed by something of incredible force. Pieces of glass were scattered across the way for outwards of twenty feet. But, more importantly, it was not just the window that had been smashed. A chunk of the wall, larger even than Bradley’s fist, had also been broken off.
And when he looked at the wall, broken outward by a brute, the question finally came to him: “what man could do a thing such as this?”
“Huh?” O’Malley asked, turning to look up as he hoisted the body onto the stretcher.
“Nothing, O’Malley,” Bradley said, then, “don’t forget the arm.”
“Oh, shit,” O’Malley ran back into the bathroom to grab the woman’s dismembered arm, like a stick that Bradley had thrown for him. Very professional, Bradley mused.
O’Malley tried for a moment to place it in its original position but, failing, laid the arm atop the body and zipped the bag up. Signaling to the other coroner, he wheeled the stretcher into the hall.
Bradley could feel Priscilla’s cold gaze without even turning. He sighed. “What?”
“You could show a little compassion, you know. Loretta was a sweetheart. Kept to herself, but a bloody nice lady.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bradley said.
“I bet,” she snapped back. She looked him over. “You look real sorry, gawking over the gore like a little kid watching a late-night monster movie.”
“This is my job, Ms. Little,” he said, “what do you think it’d do to you to have to see shit like this every day?”
“I can only imagine what it did to you,” she muttered, then looked up to lock eyes with him, “also, I don’t have to be a detective to realize no one’s seen shit like this before.”
“I just want to catch the killer. That’s all,” Bradley said, and he hoped to God it was true. Yes, he wanted to catch the killer more than anything. He needed to see, to know the answer to his ever-burning question.
What man could have done a thing such as this?
Priscilla’s eyes still traced the blood-covered walls. “Christ, detective,” a small quiver in her voice, “London hasn’t seen something this ghastly since Jack the Ripper.”
“I know,” Bradley lied. The truth was, he’d already had a similar thought. But this, in his mind, was worse. Horrific as the Ripper murders were, there was a sense of precision to them. And, he had to admit, a sense of art. Surely they were brutal, sick, but one could look at the Ripper murders even today and see that they were still… human.
There was nothing of that here. This was the first truly monstrous crime he had ever laid eyes on. The first he’d ever seen that had could truly call inhuman. The first that had truly captivated him. It was unfortunate, it made him sick to his stomach to admit, but it was nonetheless true.
He turned to leave, brushing by Priscilla as he stepped into the hall.
“Watch it.”
“Sorry,” Bradley said, just above a murmur, “I need some fresh air.”
As he walked down the hall, toward the stairs, he noticed something that had certainly not been there before.
In the corner sat a woman. She was young, but her frizzled hair and large spectacles made her look decades older.
“Uh, hi,” Bradley said, not without surprise.
The woman did not answer.
“Do you know what happened here?” he tried again.
A pause. She nodded. “She got killed,” the woman said, as if stating a well-memorized fact.
“Did you know the victim?”
Finally, she looked up. “Loretta? Not really. I keep to myself. Best that way. Sometimes she’d see me. Call me things. Weirdo. Things like that.”
“I see,” Bradley said, “and your name is?”
“Wilhelmina Burke,” she said, flashing a smile like the flip of a coin.
“Were you here the other night? When this happened?”
Wilhelmina nodded.
“Did you hear anything?”
After a moment, she nodded. “Only for a moment, though. Thought it was an earthquake at first. Even from here, I felt her room shake. Heard plates crashing. Tables overturning. A window getting smashed. A growl. Deep, and primal. For a moment, I thought she had the discovery channel on, you know?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I know. And after that?”
“After that? Nothing. Just silence.”
Bradley scoffed, not because he disbelieved her story, but because he knew she was telling the truth. “I just don’t see how that’s possible,” he said. “If what you’re saying is true, then the murder had to have taken place in a matter of moments. I don’t know what kind of man, if any, would be capable of doing all that in that amount of time.”
“A woman can lift up an entire car when her baby is trapped inside, can she not? If adrenaline can grant the ability to do that, why not this?”
He pondered her question. “I suppose you’re right. Did you see anyone that night? Or day?”
“Night, no. Can’t say that I did. But that day, yes. There was a man outside. I think. He was hanging out all day in the alley. Didn’t look much like any bum I’ve ever seen. Looked like they were waiting for something.”
“Okay,” he said, writing it down. “that’s good. What do you mean, ‘you think’? Are you saying it could have been a woman?”
“No. Well. I don’t think so.”
“Describe them to me.”
“Big,” she said, “very big. But short. Hunched over.”
“What about features?”
“Didn’t get a good look. Wore a big coat. Did see the hands.”
“What about the hands?” Bradley pressed.
“They were huge, like pads. And this person… or whatever… they walked on them.”
“What do you mean?”
She demonstrated an ape-walk just like any he had ever seen on a nature program.
“You mean, like an ape?”
She paused, thinking it over. “Yes,” she said, “quite a bit like that, actually.”
“Here’s my card,” he said, handing it to her, “call me if you can think of anything more. You’re the first helpful person I’ve seen in this place.” He could already feel Priscilla’s icy, unwelcoming stare from the end of the hall.
Bradley stepped back onto the street, feeling something different the moment he left the building. Not a shock, not disgust… just something off. It felt as though he was being watched, a feeling that came rarely to him, and one he never welcomed.
Still, he found himself turning back to look up at the window. The shattered window at which he had just stood. For a moment, perhaps a trick of the eye (though his gut said otherwise) he saw a figure. Maybe.
Maybe a shadow. But it looked like there was something there, in the window, looking down at him. Low to the ground, hunched over.
Bradley squinted his eyes. There was nothing there now. Safe enough for him to assume that nothing had been there to begin with.
False.
Something had been there last night. Whatever it was, the one thing that he could not deny was that – whatever had happened – it had been very real.
His mind was racing and he needed a drink. So many thoughts he knew he should think about, secretly embracing all the ones he knew he shouldn’t.
Bradley got back to the his own apartment just after midnight. Already a message on the answering machine.
It was Wilhelmina Burke. Perhaps she had known more than she was letting on. Bradley pressed play.
“Um, Mr. Bradley,” she said in her somehow quivering monotone, “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I was down in the basement this afternoon. An hour or so after you left. Maybe. And I found something you might want to see. You can call me back at anytime.”
Holding her to that, he rang her up immediately.

She was pacing back and forth at the door when he got there, as if she’d been waiting ages to let him in. Without a word, she led him toward a thin, old wooden door that led to the basement. So hidden away it was that Bradley thought, only if for a moment, that she had found a secret passageway.
“Down here,” she said simply.
Bradley followed.
She led him into a cold, dark room. Large, though lit only by a few swinging light bulbs suspended from the ceiling. There was something on the table at the back of the room, a lamp hanging over it. Whatever she wanted to show him, she’d prepared it well.
“I found this when I was cleaning,” she said, “I don’t know what it has to do with the investigation… if anything. But I found this.”
It looked like a piece of old, painted wood. He couldn’t say how old for sure, but it was a century at least.
“What is it?” Bradley asked. It was almost one, he’d be deprived of a night’s sleep for this, so they might as well get down to business and get the whole mess over with.
“It’s a piece.”
“A piece of what?”
“An old street sign,” she said, “1850’s at least. See for yourself.”
Bradley did, and the words written on the sign, so old that either age or condemnation had engraved them into the wood, were instantly recognizable. “Rue Morgue,” he said, an observatory whisper.
“Yes,” Wilhelmina’s simple, flat answer. A moment. “Well?” she asked, “what do you think?”
“One,” Bradley said, “I think it’s French.”
“And yet.”
“It’s French,” he repeated, “two, it’s fake.”
Wilhelmina smiled thinly. “So are you,” she turned to look at him, smile growing, almost baboonish, “and yet.”
Bradley stared at her, curiously. “Just what exactly are you implying, Ms. Burke?”
She shrugged. “A man walks in with a roll of caution tape, and I’m immediately supposed to believe him when he says he’s a detective?”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“You brought a coroner,” she deadpanned. “Like that’s not supposed to be suspicious, like that’s supposed to look official at all? You just wanted to play detective, and you happen to have a coroner friend, maybe? I wouldn’t doubt it. Creepy people keep creepy company.”
“I don’t,” Bradley started, but he was unaware of how to finish.
“Don’t what?” she asked, her eyes then widening as though she’d realized the answer to her own question upon opening her mouth. “Oh, I see. Don’t want to play detective. Well, Mr. Bradley you really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have to hear this from you,” Bradley said, flatly. “What do you want? I’m not harming anybody.”
“Not unless you killed her,” she said.
“I didn’t kill her,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Wilhelmina smiled. “Oh, good. Finally something I can actually believe. So, we’re here now. Revelations have been made, and you still don’t think we’re any closer to finding the killer?”
“We aren’t,” Bradley said, “all we have is an old street sign from an old story.”
“And you, Mr. Bradley. We have you.”
“I have no part in this,” he replied with a voice so weak even he couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” she said, “you do. Let’s face it ‘detective’, you don’t give a shit about justice. That’s not remotely what drew you to this murder, is it?”
Bradley was silent. “I’m going to go.”
“I’ll help you solve the case,” she said, “I’ll do whatever I can. Just answer me: is it?”
He stopped, contemplated, then turned back. “No,” he sighed, “no, it’s not.”
“And if it’s not the justice,” she said, “it’s the murder itself. Or perhaps, more accurately, the murderer. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re fascinated by the murderer. How he did it, is that what you want to know. No. I believe you’re a deeper man than that. Why he did it, then?”
Bradley’s eyes narrowed.
“No? Not that either? Ok, what about how it felt?”
Bradley slapped her. “You shut up!”
Wilhelmina recoiled. “And that?” she asked, voice finally weakening, “how did that feel?”
Bradley’s whole body was quivering, shaking with anger. “I’m the detective,” he said at last, as though he was a child playing a game of cops and robbers, choosing his side, “I’m the detective. Not you.”
Blood began to trickle, thinly, out of her nose. “Felt that good, huh?”
“What do you want from me?” Bradley asked, a simple plea.
“Answers.”
“I don’t have any,” he said, and it was the truth, more truthful than anything he’d ever said before. “I don’t know what’s going on. But I didn’t kill her. And I don’t think an old sign for a fictional street is going to give me any clues.”
“Don’t you get it?” she asked, begging him to say yes, “it explains everything. It explains that the world simply isn’t what we want it to be. We’ve got our own story to tell, Mr. Bradley. You and me. A detective story. But which one of us is the real detective?” as she said this, she made sure to wipe the blood from her nose.
“What are you suggesting?” Bradley pushed. “That the killer’s an ape? Is that what you’re getting at? Did Poe’s woman-slaying ape find its way off the page and into modern London? Because, there are better places. And for that matter, there are better stories.”
“Oh, come on. I think you’d appreciate a great fictional detective. You know, the man in that story wasn’t a detective either. He was just investigating out of personal interest. But at least he didn’t pretend, and at least he knew his intentions.”
“I just want to solve the murder,” Bradley persisted, “same as you.”
“Wrong,” she said, “I don’t give a shit about solving the murder. I’ve just taken a sudden interest in seeing you squirm.”
“I didn’t kill her,” Bradley said again. “No man could do that.”
“I know,” she said, “and therein lies the mystery.” She paused. “But you have killed other women, haven’t you?”
He’d given up on debating with her. “Yes.”
Wilhelmina was clearly taken aback by his cold honesty. “I thought so.”
There were tears in his eyes when he turned back to her, “did… did I kill her?”
“Yes,” she said, “in a way, I suppose. We all did. Not you specifically, nor me. But both of us, all of us. Everyone in this fucking place. Maybe the story’s been lingering, haunting this place. Waiting, passing the hours and the decades, to be retold. Who knows? The Rue Morgue does not exist and yet we have a piece of it, right here. Right in front of us. Maybe it did exist, though, maybe it has been dreaming of the day it gets to be retold, to be relived. No story should have to die alone. Or maybe we made this happen. Maybe a very universal fear brought a very classic story to life.
“Either way,” she said, “the story is happening again. It has happened. This place provided a setting, a cast of characters. That poor woman provided a first victim, an opener to the story. You provided the detective, yes, but also the ape.”
“What?”
“Come on now, Bradley,” she said, “what first went through your mind when you saw the body? A detective’s insight, or a brute’s primal glee? Fascination at the very least. Something animal, either way.”
She turned back to look at the sign again. “The final fact is obvious,” she said, “whatever the story was before, it’s real now. Here it is.” She sighed. “The only question left is: what does that make me?”
“An ending,” Bradley grunted, his voice now a low, simian growl. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in thick, dark red hair. His hands had fattened, blackened, forming rough pads. So the story found completion, and Bradley found himself crossing from protagonist to antagonist. He was the hero, he was the beast.
He was fine with that.
The Bradley ape dropped down to his knuckles. Wilhelmina, now unable to speak, turned to run from the room. Screeching, in a single leap, he overtook her and knocked her down to the floor.
An ending, he repeated in his head, humanity flowing from his mind. As his leathery hands tightened around her neck, a final human thought jolted through his system.
What man could have done a thing such as this?