He came across another one. ‘Dumb kids,’ he said, ‘what’s gotten into ‘em?’ Staring at the festering corpse before him with bulging eyes and drained of every drop of blood, he tried to piece together the manifold mystery of his town. This was what? The twentieth? Thirtieth? The pile of bodies behind the morgue had gotten so bad now that the entire town was engulfed in a putrid stench. It was so hard to bear that people scarcely left their homes. Those with no choice but to venture outside would always carry something to cover their mouths. Everyone walked around with their hands over their nose or covered with shawls, shirts, and collars.
	He got used to the smell, bad as it was. And he couldn’t take his eyes off the kid lying dead in the field. It was little Arnold. His family lived right next door to him, and he knew them well. They were a family of teachers, and Arnold always talked about how he could not wait to grow up and teach someday. Well, that dream is dead, isn’t it? He thought. The mortician walked in with his band of goons, that seemed rejoiced that another corpse had cropped up. They had these strange smiles on their faces. Though hidden behind their wretched masks, the lines on the ends of their mouths extended widely and protruded, and no veil could conceal them. Clinics around these parts stood to make good money on the dead. Whether it was overtime payments, generous donations from the families of the deceased, or just plain body part selling, they loved the smell of death. Superstitious people believed in the goodness of their deeds and the nature of the job, foul though it may be. A necessary evil, people thought. Who else would care for those who passed without these brave morgue workers? Damn them all, he thought. Damn them and send them to hell. Or anywhere away from these kids.
	He watched as they piled around the body and touched it indiscriminately, almost fighting over who gets to do it first. Filthy, gloved hands went over each part of the bloated corpse, pinching, caressing, and touching inappropriately. They grabbed everything they could get a glove on. It almost made him vomit right then and there. But he withheld somehow, turned around, and left with eyes closed. He could still hear them scouring for any loose tooth or eyeball or perhaps a tongue still blood-red. But nothing remained of what was once Arnold. At least not ‘blood-’ anything. Death was the solitary God of this extinguished microcosm, and drought had dried his valleys of life. Congealed here and there were a few clots, all on the outside, and nothing much could be salvaged there–not even a single vial. That slightly annoyed the unruly medical bunch, and the last sound of them he heard were arguments over what each of them got to keep. And he thanked God that he didn’t remain to hear the rest.
	On the way back home, he passed little Arnold’s. He stared at the cracked white walls, the vines ascending them to the roof, and the rundown foggy windows. The house was decaying rapidly. Arnold’s disappearance was the cause, no doubt. To enter, or not to enter. He stood there, wondering. After a long while of staring, Arnold’s mother came to the window and could barely look out. She stormed out when she saw him standing there, motionless, looking more like a corpse than what he had discovered moments before. Though erected upright, no life emanated from his countenance, and a pervasive gloom sat on his shoulders. She was mortified to see him in such a state. He turned his head toward her, slowly and mechanically, and gazed at her with dead eyes whose soul had long abandoned the vessel. She knew. He knew. And none said a word.
	Gesturing with her old, graying head, she signaled him to enter the house. Tears withheld, she watched the man she knew as stalwart and robust become grounded and frozen like a statue. Moments passed like hours, and the two stood opposite each other–him in the gutter and her on the porch, listening to the wheezing wind and the infrequent tramping of feet in the mud. The sky grew gray and grayer still, and the clouds were convoluted and thick and darkened as if the night had decided to pay a sudden visit to the town. Though it was midday, all light had escaped or had been trapped behind the Nimbus prison. He moved lightly and took a faint step, and her eyes finally opened the dam holding her tempestuous river of tears. And she cried and cried out, her shrieking voice echoing through the decrepit town as he walked past her and went in. She immediately followed, leaving the doors open with that final, crumbling bit of hope that soon, her little Arnold would cross the threshold. Perhaps he would–but never whole.

	An eerie silence fell on the room. The remaining children sat on the ground or the sofa and spectated the man with the long trenchcoat sitting at the kitchen table. The teapot screamed, and she took it off the flames and set it on the table in front of him, along with two cups and small coasters. She sat and poured the tea and asked: ‘Sugar?’
	‘One, thanks.’ he said.
	‘Don’t want two? It helps with the bitterness.’
	‘I’m fine with just one.’
	‘Suit yourself.’
	She put one cube of sugar in his cup and two in her own, and both stirred slowly, the copperware teaspoons clinking on the walls. Not one child spoke or otherwise made a sound. They were intensely focused on the man, scanning him and gazing and exploring every part of him–the disheveled black hair, the muddy coat, the ragged hole on his shirt. He was a man of the law, an investigator, yet he could not afford expensive clothes. Not that he cared to, even if he had the means. He always wore whatever came to his hand first and didn’t pay any attention to potential holes or dirt, attributing it often to the nature of his work. He knew that was an excuse, a mere smokescreen his mind conjured up to blot out any unwanted thoughts. All that mattered was the job, and that was it. It’s why he entered the house. It’s why he was today out in the field surveying the corpse of a child.
	‘Tell me.’ she said after a long silence. ‘How did it happen?’
	‘I don’t know.’ he said.
	‘You don’t know?’
	‘No.’
	‘Well, what do you know, God damn it?’
	He watched her with clouded eyes. ‘Not much.’
	There was again a silence. It didn’t last too long as her impatience grew with each short and cold reply, and the pauses made her irritated, irrational. ‘Spit it out, man. Or leave.’ she said with a raised tone.
	‘I found him out in the field by the windmill. Barely recognized the kid. Pale, dry, gone. Don’t think your kids would want to hear all this.’
	She gestured the children to leave the room, and the eldest understood their mother immediately, scurrying the little ones out.
	‘And?’ she said.
	‘And he was butchered.’
	Her hand trembled. The teacup tremored harshly, and drops of scorching-hot tea spilled on her arm, but she did not react. ‘Tell me. Tell me everything.’
	‘The kid… Arnold was attacked, if you could call it that. He trespassed onto a beast’s territory and suffered the consequence. Doctor Blackwell, the mortician, is already on the scene with that grueling band of his. Nasty sons of bitches. I don’t know the means of recovery. I’d expect a visit from them soon. You know how they get. I’d also advise that….’
	‘So, you’re saying Arnold is to blame?’ she said, trembling even more than before.
	‘No, I meant….’
	‘Meant what? That somehow this beast, as you call it, killed my son for a reason? Is that what you want to tell me, Samuel?’
	‘No.’
	‘Then stop speaking in riddles. My son is dead. I don’t care about your understanding of things. Hell, no one does. And yet you keep doing it. Not everything is about you. Tell me what happened and what is to happen, and spare me the philosophy.’
	He took a sip of the tea and said: ‘As I was saying. No, I don’t think your son died for a reason. Beasts have no reason. They kill for sport or instinctively. There’s nothing reasonable to it. Thing is, this beast is a particular kind. Of a particular form. I’m sorry for the philosophy, but it’s integral to our situation. What’s happening is we are under siege, and your son a casualty. That pile behind Blackwell’s morgue is evidence enough. What’s going to happen is that Blackwell will pick your son’s body clean of every tooth, every drop of blood left, though there’s not much of it, and every strand of hair that he could put into some arcane brazier. And what’s left will be delivered to you at your expense. Now, I’m not a death broker; that would be the morgue, but what I can help you with is to cover the expenses. I knew the kid. I liked him and feel your pain. That’s why I offer you my help, financially. It’s the best I can do.’
	‘No.’ she said sternly.
	‘No?’
	‘No. Giving me your pity and your money is not the best you can do.’ She paused momentarily and put down the cup with her tremoring hand. ‘You ought to save me from your pity. You ought to find out what happened to my son. That’s your job. Not a death broker? Not far from it either. They sell death; you follow it. You both make money from death. What does that make you, if not a broker? A profiteer, at the least. I’ve got the money to cover my expenses. My husband is to return soon from his work in Sommarfall. We should be fine. Now, be a good broker, and go out and do your God damned job. Find who or what killed my son. Beasts come in many forms, most often human. I don’t know who put us under this so-called siege, but I know damn well it won’t end with you giving everyone pity compensation. Do your job, Samuel. For God’s sake, just do your job.’
	He already knew all the answers she sought. However, he wasn’t too sure of them. The mounting evidence all pointed to a particular beast people have a scarce conception of. Even he could not comprehend the reality of such a thing existing. But it did. And it existed from time immemorial. And it has finally emerged from its epochal slumber to terrorize and reclaim what it once had–total domination. Evidence of it has been hidden in the minds of humans for millennia. Humans have an innate fear of the uncanny. There are things in this world that may appear human. Every physical characteristic of theirs perfectly resembles the average person. Yet a single glance, a scanning gaze, reveals in their perfect reflection of God and of man the peculiarity of their disposition. Each spectator then comes to the same conclusion: something is wrong. And from that speculation emerges a strong sense of dread, for what stands before us if not a human? A beast? An angel? Or perhaps a servant with a darker allegiance? Our fears had finally come to manifest physically. That’s what he thought, at least. He could not prove it with what he gathered but firmly believed in it. All the cases, that entire flesh heap, shared a common characteristic–bodies drained of blood. Everything else was circumstantial.
	‘Leave now. Don’t come back without an answer.’ she said.
	He sipped on the last bit of tea left, stood up, and went out. She was motionless at the table as he crossed the threshold and grabbed the handle, and only said: ‘Leave the door open.’