The rain thundered down on the roof of Mary’s home in Central London. She gathered the edge of her dress and paced restlessly over the wooden floor. Just as she was about to go mad with waiting, the door creaked open. She turned and took up a candle. “Oh, Frank! I was so worried. Mrs. Craft spoke of a murder near your laboratory.” “Strange you should mention that, my love. I have indeed had something of a…mishap this evening.” Frank’s laugh was as jovial as ever, but with a dry wheeze to it. “But not to worry! Victor has patched me up. I’m right as rain.” The wind from the open door carried in the odour of formaldehyde and putrid flesh. Mary pressed her lace handkerchief to her mouth. “What has happened to you?” she cried. She held the candle aloft to reveal what the darkness obscured. What she saw was not her husband, but a twisted jigsaw of a man, a patched ragdoll of human misery. “Don’t be frightened, love!” said the creature as it shuffled forward. “Let me kiss you. My lips are softer than before. Victor tells me they once belonged to a prostitute. I apologise for any indecent acts of my hands. They come from the fishmonger who killed her.” He smiled. “My parts are at odds. My heart is still my own. The eyes though, they needed to be fresh. They came from the man who murdered me. Isn’t modern surgery a wonder?”
This piece of microfiction won second prize in a Gothic fiction contest this past October. It was a lot of fun so I thought I'd share it.