Grim Death and Bill the Electrocuted Criminal

by Mike Mignola

  The youth charged across the basement with a feral growl. Bentley met his lunge, resisting the temptation to reach inside his coat pocket and draw one of his guns. That would have been the most efficient way of dealing with the situation, but he didn’t want to risk alerting anybody else to his presence. This needed to be handled as quickly and quietly as possible.

  The young man was strong. Hitting Bentley like a bull, the younger Hargrove drove him back against a brick column, knocking the wind from his lungs in an explosive rush. Bentley had never been the greatest physical specimen, weighing no more than 125 pounds soaking wet, but since being inducted into Death’s service, he’d found that when needed he could tap into some reserve of preternatural strength.

  A gift to him, perhaps, in case of dire situations such as this.

  Bentley felt his limbs flush with power and he lashed out, kicking the youngest Hargrove away with great force. His attacker flew backward across the basement, landing just before the elevator. He was climbing to his feet as Bentley hurled himself at his prey, coat splayed out like bat wings as he collided with the youth. The impact carried them both back into the elevator, crashing up against the bodyless casket, their furious struggles tipping it onto its side.

  Young Hargrove managed to crawl atop Bentley within the cramped space, raised fists preparing to fall. The casket’s contents had spilled out onto the elevator floor, and Bentley grabbed one of the sandbags, using it first to absorb the young man’s wild blows and then as a weapon, slapping the heavy sack across the young man’s face. Something flew from the undertaker’s mouth as he fell out of the elevator. Bentley quickly climbed to his feet, ready to continue the fight, but found that his opponent was unconscious. Catching his breath, he looked to the floor to see what appeared to be a row of teeth lying next to the young man’s head—false teeth, by the looks of them. Kneeling beside the unconscious Hargrove, Bentley reached down, pulling open his bloody lips and gasping at what was revealed. There were still teeth within the youth’s mouth, but they were unnatural. Jagged and sharp, filed to points, they called to mind the disturbing visions he’d experienced earlier in the evening. He retrieved the row of artificial teeth: they were hollow, designed to be worn over the man’s real teeth. A disguise.

  He recalled the speech impediment he’d heard in both Hargrove and his eldest, and wondered.

  After some searching, Bentley found a length of old rope and bound the man’s hands and feet. He shoved a rag into his mouth and dragged him into the elevator, closing the heavy door and accordion gate.

  Turning toward the closed door where he’d seen the middle-aged Hargrove wheel the woman’s body, Bentley experienced an icy chill down the length of his spine. He reached into his pockets, feeling for the reassurance of his guns.

  Death impatiently urged him on.

  Carefully, he opened the door and found himself looking into a long corridor that descended at a precarious slant. He guessed there was an entire other sublevel below the cellar.

  Abandon hope all ye who enter, he thought as he proceeded into the corridor. The first thing he noticed was the smell, a thick, coppery miasma of blood and decay. The Bentley he had been would have turned tail and run for the closest exit.

  But now, as Grim Death, he plunged deeper, drawn to what awaited him like metal filings to a magnet.

  Thunk.

  He stopped at the sound, reaching into his coat for one of his guns.

  Thunk.

  Bentley listened, cocking his head to discern from where the sound originated.

  Thunk.

  It was close, and he began walking again, pistol clenched in his gloved hand.

  Thunk.

  There was no mistaking the sound of chopping. His mind flashed back to his childhood, and one of the many cooks they’d had—he believed her name was Ida—busily working in the kitchen, cutting up a whole chicken for his parents’ supper.

  Thunk.

  He was close now, just about able to make out an opening at the left of the corridor.

  Thunk.

  Bentley slowly approached, eyes darting about, searching for any potential threats. He noticed that the temperature had become much warmer the closer he got to the room. His eyes fell upon an enormous metal stove that seemed to take up one side of a stone wall, its two doors hanging wide open, a roaring wood fire blazing within.

  Thunk.

  Now standing just inside the room, Bentley saw where he was, and for a moment believed he had somehow found his way into one of the lower levels of Hell.

  It was a kitchen of a sort, but one that could have belonged to some kind of demonic chef. It was dark, the stone walls sweating with moisture. Huge hooks at the ends of chains hung from a large portion of the wood-planked ceiling.

  And from the ends of the hooks dangled …

  Thunk.

  He found the source of the sound in the corner of the room. A lone figure, his back to Bentley, dressed in a heavy apron, stood before a huge butcher’s table, his heavy cleaver coming down upon the pieces of meat that he was cutting.

  Thunk.

  Pieces of meat that had until very recently been parts of Constance Dyer.

  The sound of scuffling feet from behind alerted him, and Bentley spun around, gun raised in defense. The eldest of the Hargrove sons swung a meat hook, knocking the pistol from Bentley’s hand. Bentley jumped back, going for his other weapon, but he slipped on an overly saturated pile of sawdust and lost his balance. The eldest Hargrove son came at him hard, lashing out with the hook, its tip easily piercing Bentley’s clothing and burying itself in the meat of his shoulder. The young man behind the mask cried out as he did all he could to dislodge the foreign object, but it was already too late—he was set upon by his foe and beaten to the floor, the son’s powerful blows nearly sending him into unconsciousness.

  “So, what do we have here?” asked a familiar voice, hissing speech impediment and all.

  Bentley looked up blearily through the eyeholes of the mask into the blood-spattered face of the butcher—and owner of the funeral home.

  “Caught him watching you prepare the meat,” the eldest son said to his father. He squatted down, then reached out with filthy hands, taking hold of the mask and ripping it from Bentley’s face. “Look familiar, Da?”

  “In fact he does,” Hargrove said. “It’s the little fella that took a spell while viewing Mrs. Dyer. Thought we were going to need to fetch a doctor for him.”

  The older man dropped down on his haunches beside his son.

  “So, what brings you down here dressed like that, my boy?” the undertaker asked. “And don’t you wish now that you’d minded your business?”

  Bentley said nothing as he glared up at the man, his silence inspiring the son to yank and twist the meat hook that was still embedded in his shoulder.

  “My father asked you a question,” the eldest said as Bentley hissed in pain.

  Pushing past the burning agony, he answered.

  “The act of murder has brought me here,” Bentley said.

  Hargrove shook his head. “Harsh words,” the older man said. “But what else can we expect from one who does not understand. Ancestry has shaped us into something rare upon this world, but murderers we are not.”

  Hargrove rose, his knees cracking noisily as he stood erect.

  Bentley glanced over at the cutting board, and the chains hanging down, and the remnants of those who had once been whole, reduced now to little more than butchered meat.

  “I’m having a difficult time seeing anything but.”

  The eldest son reached for the hook again, to punish him for his flippancy, but the older man stopped him.

  “We are hunters, sir,” Hargrove said indignantly. “I want you to know that.”

  He then glanced off to where Bentley had been looking, toward the dangling body parts, toward the meat. By the serene expression upon Hargrove’s face, Bentley could tell he was seeing something other than a monstrous act of savagery.


  “My grandfather wanted what was best for his family when he emigrated from eastern Europe. He and others continued to chase that dream, embarking on a journey to California.”

  The older man grew misty-eyed, reverence obvious in the tone of his voice.

  “The wagon train set out in the late spring of 1846, but a series of mishaps caused their progress to suffer, eventually stranding the pioneers in the Sierra Nevada, where the harsh winter took its toll and their food resources grew low.”

  Mr. Hargrove paused, looking down at the bloodstained meat cleaver that he still held in hand.

  “They began to die, to grow sicker and sicker with the brutal cold. It was my grandfather who determined how they could survive, but it was a decision he knew would change them forever.”

  “They became cannibals,” Bentley said with obvious disdain.

  Hargrove’s son lashed out, pulling savagely on the meat hook stuck in his shoulder. Bentley cried out, falling over onto his side. He could feel the blood flowing from the wound, soaking through his shirt and into the sleeve of his coat. It looked as though yet another suit would find its way to the rag pile.

  Mr. Hargrove went on with his story as Bentley lay there bleeding.

  “The others refused to partake, even though it meant their imminent demise. Some even attempted to prevent my grandfather from doing what had to be done to survive … but he wouldn’t let them stop him.”

  Bentley listened, trying to keep the metal point of the hook from grinding against the bone in his shoulder. As Hargrove continued to speak, Bentley focused his eyes on the mask—the face that he wore in service to a higher power—its empty eyes telling him that he had wasted too much time, that it was time for him to act.

  Now.

  Bentley made a show of going for the hook, to pull it from his flesh. As he’d hoped would happen, the son reacted.

  “There’ll be none of that,” the elder son said as he swatted Bentley’s hand away, taking hold of the hook once more. Bentley used the distraction to dig down into his coat pocket with his other hand for the second gun.

  As the undertaker’s son gleefully tugged on the hook, Bentley rolled onto his back, revealing the pistol in his hand. The son’s eyes went wide as he saw what was about to happen.

  “Death has a message,” Bentley said.

  The gun roared within the subbasement enclosure, the .45-caliber bullet punching the man in the stomach and throwing him backward into his father.

  “Elijah!” Mr. Hargrove cried out, as he caught his son and lowered him to the ground, cradling him on the blood- and sawdust-covered floor.

  Gun clutched tightly in hand, Bentley climbed painfully to his feet. He switched his weapon to the other hand so he could remove the hook from his flesh, and tossed it to the floor with a resounding clatter.

  The undertaker glared at Bentley as he held his dying boy.

  “Grandfather could never understand their unwillingness to accept how he provided his family with a means to survive the harshest of winters, so he silenced those who opposed him.”

  “He murdered them,” Bentley said as he looked for his mask. “He murdered them, and then he and his family ate them.”

  “He saw it as a form of sacrifice in order for them all to live.”

  Bentley slipped the mask over his face, covering his scowl as he once again assumed the guise of Grim Death.

  “How long?” Bentley demanded, his voice changed with the mask. “How long has your bloodline fed upon the innocents of this city?”

  He watched the old man’s expression gradually change with the realization that he was now in the presence of something more than human.

  Bentley could feel Death struggle at his core to be set loose, but he held it at bay, curious to know the rest of the story.

  “We had no choice,” the old man went on. “The act of consumption changed us … Normal sustenance could no longer sustain us. The forbidden meat was the only way. After all my grandfather and his children had been through, they had to find yet another way to survive…”

  “A funeral home,” Bentley said, impressed with yet disgusted by the concept.

  “We would do no harm … We became carrion eaters,” Mr. Hargrove explained as he continued to hold his son close. “It was an acceptable life, until…”

  Bentley gripped the pistol tightly, and kept his hold upon an impatient Death even as the pain in his shoulder throbbed unmercifully. Hargrove looked at his son and saw that he was no longer moving, and his tear-filled eyes grew dark as he recognized that his boy was gone.

  “Before he died, Grandfather always cautioned his sons and their wives and their own children about the temptation of the fresh kill.”

  Hargrove let his son’s still body slide from his arms as he got to his feet, picking up his cleaver.

  “‘Feed upon the naturally dead,’ he’d always say, ‘keep our ways secret—or be damned for all eternity.’”

  The old man sighed as he hefted the heavy metal tool. “I’d suspected that they might be partaking … hunting the living. I warned them that it wasn’t smart to hunt so close to home.” He shook his head sadly.

  “But they didn’t listen,” Bentley said, aiming his gun.

  “No,” Hargrove said. “They didn’t, and neither did I. It was just too damn tempting.”

  The old man looked at him, and then removed his false teeth, flashing a smile that showcased razor-sharp teeth. “I’ve always feared someone like you,” he said, no longer emphasizing the S. “Someone who would come and take away everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve. Someone who would mete out punishment for what we have done.”

  Blossoms of color had started to expand in front of Bentley’s eyes as the blood continued to flow down his arm. It was taking all that he had not to swoon.

  “The innocents you and your family have murdered and defiled cannot truly rest until you are punished,” he declared.

  Hargrove stepped back, nodding slowly as if accepting his fate.

  “Grandfather warned that the road of the fresh kill would lead to all sorts of trouble,” the old man explained. “He never got too specific … but there was something in his eyes when he talked about it, like something really bad would happen.”

  Hargrove lifted the cleaver, and Bentley reacted, his finger tightening on the pistol’s trigger. The gun spat fire as the undertaker cried out, falling back against the doorframe.

  Bentley experienced a wave of vertigo that threatened to bring him to his knees; he swayed drunkenly, grabbing one of the dangling chains to keep himself upright.

  The old man had not been brought down with the shot. Through unfocused eyes Bentley watched as Hargrove proceeded to whack the side of the metal cleaver repeatedly against the damp stone wall, the noise resounding throughout the subbasement.

  “He should have told us what the fresh kill would do to our bloodline,” Hargrove said. “He should have told us the price the mothers would pay … what it would do to the children.”

  Children?

  And then Bentley remembered the toys in the basement.

  He heard them before he saw them—skittering, scratching sounds from all around him.

  They came out of hiding, crawling from shadows and squeezing out from behind spaces that appeared too small for anything with a skeleton to fit.

  At first glance they seemed as though they might have some human ancestry, but the more he studied their pale, malformed bodies, the less he was sure. They watched him with eyes like black marbles. Twin vertical slits in their flat, pasty faces, which he guessed served the function of noses, twitched nervously as they leaked milky liquid into open mouths where mottled pink-and-black gums were lined with rows of saw-blade teeth.

  The creatures kept their distance, looking nervously from him to Hargrove, chattering in some strange, guttural tongue.

  Chattering to their grandfather.

  “You’re right,” the old man said to the children in a soft, grandfatherly ton
e. “He doesn’t belong here … He’s a bad man.”

  The things immediately responded to the man’s words, turning in Bentley’s direction, their malformed faces twisting into guises of animalistic savagery.

  “And what do we do to bad men?” Hargrove asked them.

  The monstrous children reacted with bloodcurdling screams, giving Bentley their full attention.

  Hargrove made a move for the doorway, and Bentley fired his pistol once more, but the shot went wild, missing the man as he escaped into the corridor.

  “Damn it,” Bentley hissed, wanting to give pursuit. But he had other matters to attend to now as the children, transformed by the sin of cannibalism, stalked toward him. Some had picked up implements, mostly knives of various sizes, from around the room. Some even brandished jagged pieces of dried bone. He backed up as they came closer. Noticing the pistol he had dropped earlier, Bentley snatched it from the ground. Now fully armed, he aimed with both weapons but found that he could not bring himself to fire.

  Even though they were hideous, twisted things, created from murder and the consumption of human meat, they were still children, and he could not squeeze the triggers.

  Sensing his hesitation, one of the misshapen youths charged forward ahead of his brethren, thrusting the tines of a filthy, gore-encrusted fork into Bentley’s calf with an inhuman wail.

  Bentley cried out, gazing down into the malicious grin of something seemingly void of humanity, and as the Death that resided within him took control, he suddenly found he no longer had any qualms about firing a bullet into the distorted face.

  In fact, it was the proper thing to do.

  The Colt.45 boomed its retort. Grim Death’s diminutive foe flipped backward to the cellar floor with a pathetic squawk, to lie there perfectly still. The others stopped their advance, gathering around their newly deceased brother, staring in wide-eyed awe at his fate. Grim Death wondered if they were capable of understanding that he meant business, that they could share their brethren’s fate or choose to live, returning to their hiding places in the shadows of the nightmarish slaughterhouse.

  One by one they looked up from their fallen brother to stare at Bentley with eyes glistening black.