I didn’t consider myself to be a serial killer; I was a craftsman.
“Don’t struggle. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The man stared at me, his eyes wide, his lips pulled back against the gag, creating a macabre grin the Joker would covet. I covered his face with a pillow so I wouldn’t have his death mask haunting me whenever I closed my eyes. The last thing I needed was a conscience keeping me awake. The screaming baby next door already had that role.
While there were quicker ways to kill someone, suffocation didn’t damage bones or skin. Yes, they suffered for longer, but sacrifices had to be made for the perfect materials. I was an artist, not a doctor. If I cared about their suffering, I wouldn’t kill them. I’d once ruined two perfectly good ribs because I’d stabbed someone in the heart. That mistake left me short for a fruit bowl so someone else had to die to compensate. It was very inconvenient. I hated dashing out for supplies when I was in the middle of a project.
Besides, it wasn’t about killing. I didn’t get some bizarre sexual thrill from it, I wasn’t fulfilling a violent fantasy, and I wasn’t on a mission from God. It didn’t silence the demons—I didn’t have any. There would be no documentary reveling in my depravity. No psychologists pondering if my normal upbringing was responsible and whether attending a dolls’ house convention aged five planted the seeds in my mind. I needed what the body contained and, to do that, I had to take lives. Like cutting down a tree to make books.
The man fought, as desperate to cling to his life as I was to take it. I hated when they struggled. My job was tiring and caused a lot of back ache, so I disliked having to fight for my materials. A lumberjack never had to wrestle a tree into submission.
His body bucked and he landed hard on the edge of the bed. Snap.
“You’ve ruined my project! Now I’m going to have to find another supplier or it will be late. We all have to die. I don’t see why you’re fighting it. At least you’ll live on. Think of it as reincarnation. It’s better than being in a coffin or an urn in the ground. Families will pass your bones down with the inheritance. More people will see the chair than your grave.”
I used to explain it wasn’t personal, it was business, but people get irrational when you’re trying to kill them. I’d even shown one woman the beautiful baroque chairs she was contributing to, but that made her panic more. Maybe she preferred art deco.
I pressed harder on the pillow and the man eventually stopped struggling. I threw the pillow aside and examined his broken arm. I couldn’t use that. It broke right in the middle. I flung his arm down. His arms were the exact size I needed, and his athletic frame hinted at excellent bone density. God knows where I’d find another supplier on such short notice. I couldn’t exactly phone a warehouse and order more stock.
I dragged him into my workshop and set him down in the preparation corner, which resembled a wet room. I donned my work suit and laid out my tools. This wasn’t my favourite part of the job—ruptured organs have a foul stench no amount of odour neutraliser can remove—but it was like unwrapping a very messy Christmas present to see what gifts Father Christmas had brought.
I swiftly undressed the man, then carefully flayed him. Once I’d removed his skin, I took it into another part of my workshop, where I laid it on the cold floor and covered it in salt. Now for the messy part. The man’s body was a grotesque husk of blood, bone and ligaments. Barely human. His eyes stared at me in horror, stark white against his bloody face.
“Don’t look at me like that. Your death would’ve been easier if you hadn’t struggled. You only have yourself to blame.”
I carried several tubs to the body and removed the organs. Some went in a box to be disposed of later—intestines might look like sausages but they weren’t really a delicacy and I had yet to find a use for the genitals. The stomach wasn’t worth keeping either, unless I started force-feeding my suppliers to make my own foie gras. But I was a carpenter, not a chef. Edible parts went in separate Tupperware boxes. The neighbourhood barbeque was next week and my artisan burgers were firm favourites. I placed the tubs in my chest freezer and then scraped muscles, ligaments and tendons off the bones, being careful not to nick them, before I boiled the final remnants off.
I frowned at the broken arm bone. Maybe I could use it as inlay. Throwing it out seemed such a waste. I cleaned the bones, then arranged them into separate boxes in my work cabinet. I had plenty of metatarsals and phalanges, but never enough femurs. What I needed were suppliers with arms and legs but no hands or feet to balance out my stock supplies. A human octopus would be ideal.
Now came my least favourite part—washing the preparation room. I suppose everyone has parts of their job they hate. At least I wasn’t working in retail, dealing with irate customers. But where was the creativity in scrubbing a room? Nobody won awards for how well they handled a mop. But it was better to clean up before the blood had a chance to stain. Getting dried blood out of grouting was a nightmare, and I couldn’t exactly hire someone to do it for me. People took a dim view of being an accessory to murder, even if it paid well.
I laid the bones out on my workbench and studied my sketches. The chair back was a ladder design but with a spine down the centre and ribs forming the ladder. My client was building a horror house attraction and wanted furniture to look as though it was made of human bones. I think she’d like what was I was creating. It was all about aesthetics. Also on her list were a table, a skull lamp with a spine forming the stand, a wind chime with a skull on the top and arm bones hanging from it, and a bone chandelier like the one in the Sedlec Ossuary near Prague. She also wanted a throne made from skulls. I finally had a use for my surplus skulls. They were cluttering up the place and making it look like a bizarre museum.
I glued the spine together. Fortunately, my supplier didn’t show signs of osteoporosis. The last thing anyone wanted was a chair that collapsed under them because the supplier hadn’t drunk enough milk.
While the spine glue hardened, I worked on the chair frame. This was where the larger bones were used, but I never had enough. Yes, I could use animal bones as substitutes but that would make my business tagline false advertising: ‘made with humans, not machines.’ People liked buying bespoke handmade furniture. But tell them their new chair was made from something that talked instead of mooed and suddenly they got righteous about living things. The truth was, I loved animals. People could be shitty. Kill a harmless cow or some wanker who tried to sideswipe me off the motorway? I could buy bones from the butcher’s, but that didn’t make good business sense when I could get my own free materials.
I also loved creating unique furniture. Making things from animals was unoriginal. Plus, the world was running out of space to bury the dead; I was merely contributing to the solution. Turning your loved ones’ remains into something decorative was all the rage now. Was a diamond made from ashes really any better than a chair? People complained about cheap, mass-produced flat pack, bemoaning, ‘They don’t make them like they used to.’ I was keeping traditional skills alive.
As the frame glue dried, I fetched previously tanned skin and cut it to size, stretching it over the chair cushion and stapling it in place. This one I’d dyed a red wine colour. It fitted with the horror house’s period look. I covered three more cushions with the red leather then returned to making the chair frames.
When I had four frames setting, I turned my attention to another part of my business—making dolls’ house furniture. This was where the metatarsals and phalanges came in useful. Not all of the dolls’ house furniture was made from bone; however, my most popular item was tiny bone china crockery. Every detail hand painted.
Talent like mine couldn’t be bought in stores.
But now, I needed more materials.
I parked and waited. Among the other taxis, mine wouldn’t be noticed. The taxi plate looked genuine and honestly, who even checked? Some people I picked up could barely manage to open the door; they definitely weren’t investigating the legitimacy of my plate.
A man stumbled toward the taxis. Perfect. Most drivers wanted groups. More people, bigger fares. I wanted lone passengers. People who might not be reported missing immediately. Taxi driving was a means to get supplies rather than a dedicated career—I already had one of those. But it was nice to get out of my workshop every now and again. I stepped out of the taxi so the man would notice me. He staggered toward me and I opened the back door, closing it when he slid in. The child locks would ensure he couldn’t escape. Car manufacturers’ concern for child safety made kidnapping someone so much easier. He gave me his address and I put it into SatNav but it was just a ruse.
He wasn’t going home.
I reversed out of the space, a hundred witnesses oblivious to this man’s kidnap and subsequent murder. Maybe some of these people would even buy the furniture and accessories I made from his bones. Running a successful business from home was nearly impossible in today’s economy but somehow, I was succeeding. This man would further that success. To think, he probably thought his night would end with his head down a toilet.
His open mouth pressed against the plastic bag, his wide bloodshot eyes pleading with me to stop. I regretted using a clear bag, but it was the only one I had. I didn’t want to go to the newsagents for a white one. Muffled cries escaped him, his hands flailing uselessly, occasionally slapping me but never getting a grip. I pulled harder on the bag, twisting it around his neck so he couldn’t fight his way free. He didn’t think to puncture a hole near his mouth. They never do. They fight hard, not smart. Humans like to think they’re the hunters but really, they’re each other’s prey.
Finally, he slumped, defeated. I kept the bag on until I was sure he was dead. I’d fallen for that trick before. When I was satisfied he wasn’t faking death, I removed the bag and carried him down to my workshop. At least this one hadn’t broken any bones. I laid him out and removed his clothes. I’d donate them to charity after a few months had passed. I was in desperate need of good karma.
Music played while I worked. It relaxed me and stopped neighbours complaining about any noise. The last thing I wanted was to be the subject of a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, or, heaven forbid, its newsletter.
I picked up my razor and shaved him. Hairy men were the worst. Nobody wanted furry furniture, so they just made extra work for me. Women’s smoother skin took less preparation time and resulted in lovely soft leather, but for this commission, I needed bigger bones. Plus I didn’t want to be dubbed ‘the next Ed Gein’. I didn’t have mother issues. I’d considered using the salvaged breast implants as padding in my furniture, but the serial numbers would trace back to the victims, so I had a drawer full of silicone boobs, like a weird stress ball collection. It surprised me how many women had fake breasts. I thought it was exclusive to models and strippers, but even your average Mandy who worked at the local supermarket was sporting them. The nice thing about women was I could cut off their hair and donate it to a ‘wigs for kids’ charity. I liked giving back to the community.
When I reached the hand, I stopped.
“Six fingers? I don’t need more phalanges and you have to go all Anne Boleyn on me. Couldn’t you have had an extra leg?”
I sighed and continued shaving him. First he was hairy, now this. Luckily he didn’t break a bone or I might have made him suffer for his selfishness. Who was I kidding? I was no Jack the Ripper. I skinned him, then stripped him to his skeleton. At least his bones were in good condition. I measured his humerus against the chair. Too long. I’d have to cut it. That would add time to the project. My client could afford it.
The music ended, so I put the news on while I fetched leather for the dolls’ house. I wanted updates to see if anyone had reported my suppliers missing. A press conference came on. I didn’t pay attention until the words ‘missing man’ were spoken. I looked up and saw an earlier victim’s photo on screen. His mother sobbed about how she and his father wanted him home safely. I glanced at the leather I held. It was too late for a safe return. I rarely remember which part belonged to which victim, but he’d had numerous tattoos, so I’d had to discard most of his skin.
I used his skin to cover the dolls’ house armchairs. They were wingback chairs that were fiddly to make but turned out perfectly. I’d dyed the leather a beautiful burnt umber. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a buyer but I would be exhibiting them in a dolls’ house convention in two weeks. I stabbed my finger with the sewing needle more than I stabbed the leather, but it was more precise than a sewing machine. I covered a settee with the skin from his feet. I hated to waste any part. It was a shame I could never do anything with eyes, but they weren’t exactly decorative and had a nasty habit of decomposing. Eyeball juice ruined a good design.
I turned my attention to a bedside cabinet while the cramp in my fingers eased. It was a simple three-drawer mahogany one in a French style, but the client wanted ivory inlay. I don’t believe elephants and rhinos should die for bedroom furniture. Plus, the ban on ivory products made it illegal. I persuaded him that bone was equally as beautiful and wouldn’t endanger a species. After all, humans weren’t at risk of going extinct. They were what environmentalists call a ‘renewable resource’.
I fetched a bag of bone chips from the drawer and shaved bits off until they were the correct shape. The client wanted an irregular pattern, which made life easier. Indian-style inlay was extremely fiddly. When I had all the pieces, I laid them out on the top of the cabinet and drew around them. I spent hours carving out niches for the bone to sit in. This was the trickiest part of the job. Too large and the bone piece wouldn’t fit. I sanded the wood I’d carved out to make dust and mixed it with epoxy so it would be the same colour as the cabinet. I poured generous amounts of glue into the holes, then carefully put the bone pieces in. I’d have to wait for it to dry before sanding the inlay flat.
I smiled as I ran my hand along the top of the cabinet. This really was a dying art.
Rows of dolls’ houses filled the convention centre. They ranged from simple bungalows to Victorian townhouses. Some were replicas of famous horror houses from movies or TV: The Addams Family, Amityville Horror, Bates Motel, American Horror Story: Murder House. One was an exact replica of the Winchester Mystery House. I was secretly in awe of that one and wished I’d done it, but it would have taken months to make and I didn’t have the time. Some traders only sold empty houses, some only sold furniture, some only sold dolls. There was even one selling flat pack houses. I found the dolls creepy. Miniature people with stiff limbs and dead eyes. It was like they were selling corpses masquerading as the living.
I’d made a tiny bone inlay cabinet which took me longer than the life-sized version had, and I placed it at the front of the table. I scrutinised the other tables. Whilst it was clear lots of hard work went into each piece, they weren’t made with the blood, sweat and tears that mine were.
A little girl ran up to my table. “Mummy, I want this.” She picked up a four-poster bed.
Some bone pieces were worked into intricate designs, with a random scattering of jewels that I’d taken from some suppliers’ jewellery. I’d cut lace off my supplier’s skirt to make the curtains and satin from her underwear to make the bedding.
“It’s too expensive to be played with,” her mum replied. “We’ll find cheaper furniture for your dolls’ house.”
“It’s all handmade.” I smiled at them. “And built to last. Her grandchildren will be playing with it.”
The mum examined the furniture, nostalgia making her smile. “My nan had a stool like this.” She picked up a small footstool with bowed legs and an orange leather cushion, finished with studs.
“So did mine, that’s why I made it. I don’t just make furniture, I make memories.” If that was any cheesier, a lactose intolerant person would be sick. But it always worked.
She bought the stool. I wrapped it and put it in a box with my business card. A couple of hours passed with a few small sales. A woman bought my set of tiny bone china plates with the fern leaf pattern. People were admiring my wares but not buying. Price was usually the deciding factor. I worked all hours to make these; I couldn’t afford to give them away. I had to eat and pay bills. Plus, it would do my suppliers a disservice. Their lives were worth more than a fifty per cent discount.
During a lull in the convention, I took the opportunity to make more pieces. If people saw me working, it might convince them to buy. I made bone walking sticks from phalanges, carefully carving the heads to a perfect curved finish. I also made miniature wind chimes, hanging them on an earring stand while they dried.
A man stopped by my table. “Your work is the best I’ve seen.” I couldn’t argue with that. “I’m in the process of commissioning a dolls’ house—an exact replica of my house that I can display. I was wondering if you would be interested in making the furniture.”
“Absolutely. If you send me photos of everything you want, I can give you a price per item or an overall estimate.” I handed him a business card. “I specialise in period or unusual pieces.”
“I live in Borwood House. You are welcome to come and take your own photos.”
I’d driven past it once. It was a huge Georgian mansion that occasionally had open days to help pay towards restoration and maintenance. I started picturing the style of furniture and the number of rooms. This would be a big project.
“Let me know when is convenient for you.”
The man handed me his business card and left. Borwood House. No doubt the dolls’ house would be displayed at an open day. Thousands of people would see my work. I was going to need a lot more supplies. The convention dragged now that I was excited about a new project. I watched people walking past, calculating how many pieces of furniture I could make from them.
An hour passed without a sale. As I started to despair, a middle-aged couple came over. They looked familiar. They quietly admired my furniture, then the man picked up one of the wingback armchairs.
“These would finish off the dolls’ mansion perfectly.” He turned it over, examining it closely. “Your work is exquisite.”
“I carefully source my materials. A single piece can take me hours, but it’s worth it.”
“We’ll take the two armchairs and the settee. And also the side table.”
I wrapped them up. As I was handing over the furniture, I realised where I recognised the couple from: the press conference about the missing man. Well, they partly got their wish. Their son would be going home with them. They’d bought the furniture covered in his skin.