Grim Death and Bill the Electrocuted Criminal

by Mike Mignola

  But he couldn’t think of such things. He had to forge on, no matter the limitations of human physiology.

  No matter the limitations that were starting to affect his performance.

  Grim Death became more savage in his response as the circus workers’ numbers again seemed to increase. His mind raced to find a solution to his predicament, knowing that his time was growing short, and that if something was not done soon, the mob would drag him down off the stage and tear him limb from limb.

  As if they could somehow read his thoughts, their efforts to end him became all the more frantic.

  From the corner of his eye he caught movement, and came to the realization that the new intensity of the circus workers might be more than just an effort to take him down, but also might serve as a distraction.

  The curtain at the back had parted, and the limping form of Doctor Nocturne could be seen laboring with something, maneuvering and pulling something that seemed to be of great weight and size.

  And as he swung his hammer, breaking bone and bruising flesh, Grim Death saw what was happening. The Doctor was attempting to remove the siren’s home: the water-filled tank had finally been loaded and secured upon a wheeled dolly, and was being taken from the Chamber of the Unearthly.

  The siren was escaping.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  BEFORE:

  Roderick led him to the top floor of Hawthorne House and to the ceiling hatch that led into the sprawling attic.

  Bentley hadn’t ventured up into the cluttered storage space for years, but at the bird’s urging, found the ladder and climbed the wooden rungs up to the opening.

  “What am I to be looking for up here?” Bentley asked, reaching up with both hands to push the hatch aside.

  “You’ll know when you see it,” the raven croaked from atop a railing.

  Bentley slid the hatch across the floor and was immediately caught in a storm of dust.

  “C’mon,” the bird urged as Bentley sneezed violently and coughed. “Get up there, and let’s get this taken care of.”

  Bentley caught his breath, then clambered up into the space, the floorboards creaking noisily beneath his weight.

  “Okay, I’m up,” he said, eyes squinting as they attempted to adjust to the semidarkness, a circular window across from where he stood providing some light for him to see by.

  Roderick flew up through the opening, landing atop a dress mannequin.

  “Yes, you are,” the bird said.

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “What am I supposed to find?” Bentley asked, annoyed. He started to walk about the space. There was stuff as far as the eye could see, things that had been left there well before he was born, and probably before his father as well. The attic was the catchall for the Hawthorne family. Pym had threatened to clean it out numerous times, but nothing ever seemed to come of it.

  “Keep looking,” Roderick said. “It’ll find you.”

  Bentley stopped, suddenly unnerved.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  The bird seemed to laugh, a strange gargling sound of amusement. “Your new identity—it’s been up here waiting for you for quite some time.”

  “My new identity?” Bentley asked, carefully shuffling across the wooden floor. “I don’t understand what—”

  His feet struck something quite large and solid, and he almost fell atop it.

  “You will,” Roderick said.

  Bentley started to hear the sound almost at once. At first he thought it might be the wind, softly blowing outside the window, but the location didn’t seem right.

  The sound—the whispering—seemed to be coming from much closer by.

  Bentley’s eyes went down to the large steamer trunk he’d almost fallen upon. The whispering sound seemed to be coming from inside.

  But that couldn’t be. Could it?

  Bending down, he searched for the latches to open the trunk.

  “Is it in here?” Bentley asked, flipping the latches. “Is what I’m looking for in here, Roderick?”

  The raven was silent as Bentley threw back the heavy lid to reveal a trunk filled with costumes. The years of masquerade parties thrown by his parents rushed through his mind, as his eyes fell upon the various pieces of costuming.

  The whispering was more distinct now but muffled, almost as if …

  His hand went down toward the first layer of costumes, and he proceeded to pick it up and search beneath. The sound grew distinctly louder. Part of him was terrified by what he might find beneath an admiral’s jacket or a geisha’s robe, but a stronger part, fueled by curiosity, kept him searching as the whispering grew louder.

  “Is this it?” Bentley asked Roderick, sensing that he was close, his hands growing more frantic as they dug through the layers of costumes. “Is this what I’m supposed to find?”

  The voice from behind startled him.

  “Bentley? Is that you? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing up here?” Pym asked as he climbed up into the attic.

  “Roderick, answer me!” Bentley demanded, ignoring his manservant. “Is this it?”

  His hands landed on something cold and rigid, and an electric tingle passed through his fingers and up his arm.

  “Oh!” Bentley said, pulling back, but then plunging his hands back into the trunk.

  “What are you doing?” Pym asked, coming up behind him. “Who’s Roderick?”

  Pym was holding a flashlight and moved the beam around.

  “The bird,” Bentley said as his searching hands found what it was that he was looking for—he was sure of it—and carefully began to withdraw it from beneath layers of costumes. “The bird said that my new identity—”

  “The bird?” Pym asked. “What bird are you talking about, Bentley? Are we feeling well today, or…?”

  Bentley wished that Pym would be quiet. The whispering … the voice sounded as though it was trying to say something as he extracted the item from beneath the costumes and accessories.

  “Oh,” Bentley said as he looked upon it.

  “What is it?” Pym asked, shining a beam of light from his flashlight on the thing now being held in Bentley’s hands.

  It was the face of Death … the Red Death, to be precise.

  Bentley held the mask before him in the beam of Pym’s flashlight. He remembered how his father had worn the mask as part of his costume at one of his masquerades. It grinned at him, empty eye sockets filled with sucking blackness. The mask had been painted a deep bloodred, but over the years the paint had started to crack and fleck.

  Bentley rubbed his thumb over the bumpy surface, breaking away the paint to reveal the more natural color of a skull beneath.

  “What do you intend to do with that?” Pym asked, horrified, but Bentley wasn’t listening to his manservant, was instead devoting his full attention to the skull mask in his hand and what it was saying to him.

  Put me on, and assume your new identity as my avatar, it softly whispered.

  “Bentley?” Pym asked again. “What do you…?”

  He did what the mask told him to do, sliding it over his face. “Putting it on,” Bentley said, turning to look at Pym in his new guise. “Assuming my new identity.”

  Assume your identity as Grim Death.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Doctor Nocturne, the toes on one foot shot away and bleeding profusely, doggedly maneuvered the incredibly heavy, awkward, water-filled tank as the sea siren swam excitedly in circles within her brackish habitat.

  She continued to sing, controlling each and every person inside the Chamber.

  Except for Bentley—except for Grim Death.

  He kept an eye on the escaping siren, wanting to do everything in his power to prevent her escape, but the mob that wanted him dead required his full attention as well.

  A muscular man in a striped shirt that reeked of tobacco took hold of the hammer’s handle, using all of his might to try to pull it from Grim Death’s
grasp and allow the others to fall upon him.

  Kicking out, he struck the kneecap of his muscular attacker, driving the man down to the floor where he was at once covered by five more vying for possession of Grim Death’s weapon. He chanced a quick look and saw that Doctor Nocturne had managed to maneuver the cart holding the tank out of the smaller room and was now attempting to pull and roll it toward a nearly hidden side door.

  No, Grim Death thought as his attackers tore at his clothes, ripping at his mask to pull it away. His true visage revealed, he felt a momentary lapse in strength, truly experiencing the weight of those who were trying to drag him down and tear him apart.

  But he couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Bentley cried out, a burst of strength allowing him to wrench his hammer from those who would take it away. He did not know how much longer he could continue—he had to do something to stop the mindless horde that swarmed upon him.

  But what?

  He listened to the song again, feeling the slight tingle of the alien sounds as they attempted to permeate his brain, and knew that something like that—with such rage, hate, and power—could not be allowed to escape out into the world.

  It had to be stopped. She had to be stopped.

  He allowed her song into his head—allowed her into his head—and told her that this was the end for her. That she must pay the price for her affront to life.

  The siren swam about crazily in her tank, her movement—as well as the movement of Doctor Nocturne as he dragged her habitat across the floor—causing the water splash over the side and spatter upon the floor, forming great puddles.

  He could feel her inside his mind, flexing her claws and digging into the soft gray matter there. She told him that he wasn’t strong enough, that her hate was a greater force than anything in the surface world above, and that she would make all who came in contact with her pay.

  The world would know her hurt.

  Bentley could not allow this, but he continued to struggle against the hordes that were trying to take him down. He did not know how much more he had left in him, but suspected it was not much. Through the slack faces of his attackers, he could see her smugness, the idea that she had won against him and the force he represented reflected in their glassy eyes.

  Bentley felt himself falter, one knee crashing down painfully to the floor. Their hands were on his weapon, preventing him from swinging. This is it, he thought as he felt their burgeoning weight upon him. This was when he failed his employer.

  And then he saw her, through the writhing, clawing, struggling bodies: Tianna Hoops, the spirit of the murdered trapeze artist, standing just inside the door as Doctor Nocturne continued to haul the tank and the evil it contained.

  Bentley’s eyes met hers, and he felt her anger, her disappointment. He tried to show her that he was sorry, that he had tried, but …

  You promised, her intense, ghostly stare said to him. You promised to avenge me, and save my love.

  And he had.

  Bentley felt himself being forced to the floor, Tianna’s ghostly stare of disappointment burned into his psyche. He had a job to do … and a promise to uphold. He then saw William Tuttle, alone in his jail cell awaiting his fate, and knew that he couldn’t allow it to end this way.

  Legs straining against the weight of combined bodies, he braced his feet and let the hammer’s shaft slip through his fingers until the head was almost touching the floor. Summoning all his strength, he twisted his body in such a way as to send the hammer and shaft smashing into the legs and lower bodies of those attacking him, knocking a good many to the floor and allowing him a moment.

  A moment.

  It was all he would need.

  “I promised,” he said to the ghost of Tianna as he raised the hammer above his head and fixed Doctor Nocturne and the water-filled tank in his gaze as they were just about at the door.

  Bentley aimed and let the hammer fly, its heavy wooden head spinning crazily through the air on a direct course to it target. The horde groped at him crazily, still under the control of the siren’s song, and as he was dragged to the floor he saw that his aim was true.

  Tianna Hoops smiled.

  The wooden hammer struck the center of the tank in an explosion of glass and gushing water. The siren, forced out in the torrent of water escaping through the jagged hole, psychically shrieked as she landed upon the floor.

  Everyone in the Chamber stopped what they were doing, their hands shooting up to their heads in obvious agony. Bentley winced, feeling the siren squirming around inside his brain. A tickling sensation beneath his nose caused him to reach up to wipe away the trickle; his gloved hand came away stained with blood.

  The siren flopped upon the wooden floor, gasping through her gills for the water she needed to breathe. Bentley started toward the fallen abomination, splashing through the inches of water that now covered the floor. He needed to finish what he’d started.

  The circus workers went suddenly rigid as he passed, a weakened version of the siren’s wail beginning to resonate through the air once again. He didn’t have the strength to fight them anymore, and tensed as they came at him, splashing through the water upon the floor.

  Bentley could still feel the siren inside his head, enraged beyond description as she suffocated. The mob blocked his path, preventing him from going any farther as they converged upon him. From the corner of his eye he saw something attempting to get his attention. Bentley turned his head to see the ghost of Tianna Hoops standing upon the stage beside the still functioning electrical device used by the Human Dynamo.

  The ghost stood beside it, staring intensely. He didn’t understand until he started toward her, toward the stage and the device.

  Water splashed at his feet.

  He looked from the humming machine to the ghost of Tianna. She nodded ever so slightly, as if agreeing with the idea that was suddenly inside his head.

  An idea that he needed to act on immediately, before the siren could be saved. Doctor Nocturne had gone to her, lifting her pale, serpentine body from the floor to take her somewhere to be immersed in life-giving water again.

  Bentley could not allow this to happen. He charged the stage and leapt upon it. The mind-controlled horde followed, and even though the siren’s song was weak, they still obeyed her commands.

  But that was about to end now, he thought as he stood behind the humming device. He pushed it with all his might, sending the heavy piece of machinery tumbling from the stage, dragging sparking cables and wires behind it as it crashed down, sending thousands of volts of electricity coursing through the water pooled upon the Chamber floor.

  The possessed mob went suddenly rigid, dancing crazily as electricity coursed through their bodies. Bentley saw that Doctor Nocturne had gone completely stiff, the siren in his arms rigid as well. Not wanting to harm the innocent, he darted across the stage to the electrical panel, which sparked and smoked, and carefully pulled the shut off lever, cutting the current from the damaged machine.

  The circus mob dropped to the flooded floor, unconscious. Bentley looked across the room to where the ghost of Tianna Hoops now stood over the twitching form of the siren.

  Bentley jumped down from the stage and started toward the creature. Stopping briefly, he picked up the skull mask from the floor and slipped it over his face before continuing to the siren.

  Before finishing the job he had come there to do.

  Chapter Thirty

  BEFORE:

  Bentley slowly placed the slouch hat on top of his head.

  “Well? What do you think?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled by the mask that he wore, as he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror of his bedroom.

  He was actually startled by what he saw, not seeing himself reflected there, but somebody else.

  Grim Death.

  After he’d worn the mask for a bit, getting used to the feeling of it upon his face, the image of the guise he would take slowly manifested before his mind’s ey
e: black trench coat, leather gloves, black slacks and shoes, topped off with a slouch hat.

  And then, of course, there were the guns.

  Still staring at his reflection, he slipped his hands into the pockets of the trench coat and removed the twin Colts. He pointed them at the deathly visage staring back from the mirror.

  “Bentley, I…” Pym began.

  He could hear the concern in the manservant’s voice. Bentley knew how insane this all sounded when spelled out—hell, he even found it to be so—but there was no changing the reality of the situation.

  No matter how bizarre.

  Death had drafted him into its service, and he had no choice but to answer the call.

  Bentley sighed, lowering the guns as he turned from the mirror.

  “What?” he asked, doing all he could to keep the annoyance from his tone, but doing a very poor job.

  Pym seemed speechless, mouth moving as he searched for the words.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” Bentley said as he removed the fedora and skull mask. “That this is insane … that I’ve lost my mind.”

  “Well … have you considered the possibility?” Pym asked.

  “Seriously, Pym?” Bentley said, crossing the room to plop into an overstuffed chair in the room’s corner. “There isn’t a moment of every day that I don’t question it,” he said. “Wonder what it would be like to totally ignore it and go about my day.”

  Pym listened, his expression disturbed.

  “But then they catch my eye,” he said. “And I see their pain … I feel their pain.”

  Bentley stared across the room to the ghostly shape of the older woman with the seeping head wound who had been there since the realization of his purpose. She was still patiently waiting for him.

  She would be his first.

  “And I realize that something has to be done.”

  Bentley looked away from the ghost and back to Pym.

  “That somebody needs to act for them … somebody must avenge them.”

  “But why you?” the butler pleaded. “Why can’t it be left to law enforcement and…”