by H.B. Diaz
(820 words)
FBI SEEKS INFORMATION IN SERIAL MURDER CASE
By Susan Walpole
THE BALTIMORE SUN
April 30, 1949 | Quantico, VA
Agent James Davis of the F.B.I. has received a correspondence from the serial killer known as The Skin Walker on Friday last. The murderer has terrorized greater Baltimore these past months, striking seven times in as many weeks and discarding the grotesque remains all across town. The brains of the victims, however, have not been located. It was remarked in a curious statement by city pathologist, George Perkins, that the skulls are found “clean enough to eat from.”
Under direction of the fine men at the Bureau, we are including the aforementioned letter in this issue with the hope that one of our diligent readers might offer a clue. A $100.00 reward has been set by the F.B.I. for information leading to the apprehension of the so-called Skin Walker.
With regard to the threats made therein, the Bureau is cooperating with the Baltimore Police Department to ensure the safety of patrons frequenting nightclubs in the area.
Squeamish types ought not proceed beyond this point.
My dear Jimmy,
You have wondered, I am sure, why I take their hides. It pains me to see you at such a loss after all this time, to see you sitting down to dinner with your wife each night, but always thinking of me. So, I’ve decided I shall help you. Isn’t that splendid of me?
Tell me, what use would I have for the rest of the carcass? I’ve no need of meat, no thirst for blood. No, no, it’s the skin I want. You all talk of stepping into another man’s shoes, but I step into the very soles of their feet. I slip their legs over mine like a pair of pantihose. I shrug into their shoulders.
I often wonder what it might be like to try on your wife. I’d have to hem the waistline, of course, but she would fit me nicely. Would you see me inside if I wore her skin home to you? Would you make love to me as you do her, on your back, as limp as a rotting carp? Time will tell. And I have time.
The secret, see, is to begin with the face. A small incision beneath her jaw, just big enough to slip my fingers under the skin—with a bit of wiggling, the cheekbones and eye sockets give up their flesh. The scalp peels away like pomegranate skin from the stark white skull. In the silence between her screams, you can hear the tissue crackling like newspaper.
You needn’t be concerned for your own safety, though. On the contrary, this wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying without you, though I’d be remiss to say I don’t think of it. In the early hours of morning, before the cock has crowed, I imagine curling my fingers under the soft skin behind your ear, your blood gathering beneath my fingernails and settling in the crevices of my own flesh. In the end, though, you simply aren’t my style. You’ve let sunlight and cigarettes ruin your face so it’s hardly fit for a lampshade. You ought to take better care of yourself.
The papers were wrong about the brains, you know. I have no Jungian motivation for removing the gray matter, no cryptic message to send. The human brain, churned into butter and applied like a salve, emulsifies the membranes so the hide may be properly tanned. It’s a bit of a bother to crack into the skull, but I’ve bought myself a handsaw from Hecht’s that does a fine job. A little elbow grease never hurt anyone.
I imagine it must be rather troubling to come across one of my corpses once I’ve finished with it, but if you take a moment to look more closely, you’ll see how perfectly I’ve preserved the integrity of the eyeballs. You’ll notice the skill with which I’ve peeled up the jowls and cheeks, nary a nick on the bone. I leave the bodies in conspicuous places so these details can be briefly appreciated, before the rats and the maggots come round. I am an artist, after all.
But, you’ve seen what they’re calling me. A monster. A shape-shifter, as though I have some capacity for the supernatural. I may wear different faces from time to time, as we all do, but I am only human. Fancy that. I am one of you.
But which one?
Don’t you see, Jimmy? You’ve been hunting the wrong man all along. My name is Mary. Mary, Mary quite contrary. That’s what my mother used to say. Not a man at all, see.
A monster, perhaps.
A woman, most assuredly.
Respectfully yours,
Mary, the Skin Walker
P.S. I’ll take my next skin from a nightclub in the city. I think I should like to be young and glamorous again. I’ll give you a head start.
END
H.B. Diaz is a gothic mystery and horror writer whose short stories have appeared in anthologies by Flame Tree Press, Ghost Orchid Press, Horror Tree, and others. She is a member of the HWA and lives with her husband and son in a historic (and likely haunted) Maryland town.