Horace smiled. "Doing anything tonight?"

Horace awoke in a drug-induced haze. Thoughts flitted across his drowsy mind, including his last instructions to the doctor.

"Leave the arms, leave the eyes. Everything else goes."

Like a fire sale on body parts.

He squinted at the table next to him, saw the mason jars lined up with bits and pieces that used to be his. Pounds and pounds of flesh and organs.

Several large loops of intestines, floating in formaldehyde.

A kidney.

A chunk of liver.

So far, so good.

An appendix and a gall bladder, though Horace didn't know which was which.

A jar of fat, suctioned from his b.u.t.tocks.

Part of his stomach.

His p.e.n.i.s and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

When Horace saw that, he gasped. No sound came out - in the next jar were his tongue, his tonsils, his vocal chords, and a b.l.o.o.d.y half moon that he realized was his lower jaw.

Doctor Ricardo had gone too far. The drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d had turned Horace into a monster, a hideous freak.

But...Horace still had his arms. And even as maimed and mutilated as he'd become, he could still do pull-ups, still break the...

Horace's eyes focused on the last mason jar. Horace filled his remaining lung with air and screamed, and he was absolutely sure he made some noise, even though he had no ears to hear it.

The last jar contained ten fingers.

Just about every horror mag in the world rejected this story. I'm not sure why. Sure, it's a standard EC Comics supernatural comeuppance, but I think it's fun. It eventually sold to Surreal Magazine.

"That's gotta be where the money is."

Rory took one last hit off the Kool and flicked the b.u.t.t into a copse of barren trees. The orange firefly trail arced, then died.

Phil shook his head. "Why the h.e.l.l would he keep his money locked up in a backyard shed?"

"Because he's a crazy old s.h.i.t. Hasn't left the house in thirty years."

The night was cold and smelled like rotting leaves. They stood at the southern side of Old Man Loki's property, just beyond a tall hedge with thorns like spikes. The estate b.u.t.ted up against the forest preserve on the east and Lake Fenris on the west. Due north was Fenris Road, a winding, private driveway that eventually connected with Interstate 10 about six miles up.

Phil peered through the bramble at the mansion. It rested, dark and quiet, a mountain of jutting dormers and odd angles. To Phil it looked like something that had been asleep for a long time.

"Even crazy people know about banks."

Rory clamped a hand behind Phil's head and tugged the smaller teen closer. "If it's not money, then why the h.e.l.l does he got that big lock and chain on it? To protect his lawnmower?"

Phil pulled away and glanced at the shed. It stood only a few dozen yards away, the size of a small garage. The roof was tar shingles, rain-worn to gray, and dead vines partially obscured the oversized padlock and chain hanging on the door.

"Doesn't look like it's been opened in a while."

Rory grinned, his teeth blue in the moonlight. "All the more reason to open it now."

It felt all wrong, but Phil followed Rory onto the estate grounds. A breeze cooled the sweat that had broken out on his neck. Rory pulled the crowbar from his belt and swung it at a particularly tall p.r.i.c.kle-weed.

"Yard looks like s.h.i.t. Can't he pay someone to cut his G.o.dd.a.m.ned gra.s.s?"

"Maybe he's dead." Phil chanced another look at the mansion. "No lights on."

"We woulda heard about it."

"Could be recent. Could be he just died, and no one found the body yet."

Phil's words bounced small and tinny in the open air. He felt a rush of exposure, as if Old Man Loki was sitting at one of the dark windows of his house and watching their every move.

"You turning chicken s.h.i.t on me? Baby need his wittle bottle?"

"Shut up, Rory. What if he is dead?"

"Then he won't mind us stealing his s.h.i.t. d.a.m.n - will you check out the size of that lock!"

The padlock was almost as big as Phil's head. An old-fashioned type with a key-shaped opening on its face, securing three lengths of thick, rusty chain which wrapped around the entire shed like packing tape.

"You gonna try to bust that with just a crowbar?"

"Won't know until we try." Rory raised the iron over his head, and Phil set his jaw and cringed at the oncoming sound.

The clang reverberated over the grounds like a ghost looking for someone to haunt.

"Sonuvab.i.t.c.h! First try!"

The lock hung open on a rusty hinge. Rory pulled it off and the chains fell to the ground in a tangle. Phil eyed the door. It was some kind of heavy wood, black as death. Next to the doork.n.o.b was a grimy bra.s.s plaque.

"Welcome," Phil read.

"How about that s.h.i.t? We're invited."

Rory laughed, but Phil felt a chill stronger than the night air. He'd heard stories about Old Man Loki. Stories of how he used to live in Europe, and how he hung around with that creepy Mr. Crowley guy Ozzy sang about.

Reflexively, Phil looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

There was a light on in the house.

"s.h.i.t! Rory, there's..."

The light winked twice, then went off.

"There's what, Phil?"

"A light. On the second floor."

Rory pulled a face and made a show of squinting at the mansion. His mouth stretched open in horror, lips snicking back over years of dental neglect.

"Run, Phil! Jesus Christ! Run!"

Phil took off in a dead sprint, fighting to keep his bladder closed. He was forty yards away when he noticed Rory wasn't next to him.

That's when he heard his friend's laughter.

Phil looked back over his shoulder and saw Rory holding his stomach, guffawing so loud that it sounded like a barking dog.

Phil felt his ears burn. He took his time walking back to the shed.

"You should have seen your face!" Rory had tears in his eyes.

"Shut up, Rory. That wasn't funny."

"I swear, you ran like that during football tryouts you woulda made the team."

Phil turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I wasn't scared. You told me to run, so I did."

"Okay, tough guy - prove you aren't scared." Rory pointed at the black door. "You go in first."

Phil chewed his lower lip. If he didn't go in, Rory would never let him forget it. The teasing would last for eternity.

Why the h.e.l.l did he hang out with Rory anyway?

"I knew you were chicken."

"Kiss my a.s.s, Rory."

Phil grasped the k.n.o.b and pulled.

The ma.s.sive door opened with a whisper, moving smoothly despite its weight. Warm, stale air enveloped Phil, and the sound of his own breathing echoed back at him.

So quiet.

Rory switched on the flashlight. The small beam played over four bare walls.

"It's empty."

"Shine the light on the floor."

The cone of light jerked to the center of the room, bending over the edge of a large, round pit and disappearing into the darkness.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?"

Rory crept up to the edge, holding his flashlight out in front of him like a sword. He peered down into the pit.

"Do you smell that?"

"Yeah. Rotten eggs. I think it's coming from the hole."

Phil glanced over his shoulder again, taking a quick peek at the house.

The light was back on.

"Rory -"

"There's a rusty ladder going down."

"The light is -"

"Shh! Do you hear that?"

Both boys held their breath. There was a quick, rhythmic thumping, coming from deep within the pit.

b.u.mp...b.u.mp...b.u.mp...b.u.mp...b.u.mp...

"What is that? Footsteps?"

...b.u.mp...b.u.mp...b.u.mp...b.u.mp...

"It's getting louder."

The sound quickened, like a Harley accelerating.

"I think something's coming up the ladder."

Phil decided he'd had enough. This was the part in the movie where the stupid kids got their guts ripped out, and he didn't want to stick around for it. He spun on his heels and hauled a.s.s for the entrance, just in time to see a very old man with a pulpy, misshapen face slam the door closed.

Phil grabbed for the k.n.o.b and pushed, but the door held firm.

"He locked us in! Old Man Loki locked us in!"

Rory kept his focus on the pit. "I think I can see some..."

A black hairy thing sprang out of the hole and yanked Rory downward. The flashlight spun in the empty air for the briefest of seconds, and then fell into the pit after Rory, the light dimming until the room was drenched in pitch black.

Phil stood stock-still in the darkness.

A minute pa.s.sed.