Grim Death and Bill the Electrocuted Criminal

by Mike Mignola

  Even though he thinks me mad.

  It was then and there that he decided Pym could not be involved. No matter how much he trusted the man, he couldn’t drag him in any further. And besides, it wasn’t Pym who owed a debt to Death—it was Bentley.

  Slouching in the chair, barely having the strength to sit upright, Bentley wondered, Do I even have what it takes to perform this function? To serve the needs of this powerful, demanding cosmic force?

  Pym placed a steaming cup of coffee down in front of him.

  “Drink up, sir,” the butler said. “And while you’re doing that, I’ll draw you a nice hot bath.”

  And can I do it alone?

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “Am I … am I dead?” William Tuttle asked from his place atop the stretcher.

  “I believe you were,” Bentley answered, still attempting to understand what was happening. “But you don’t appear to be now.”

  “But aren’t you … Death?”

  “Me?” Bentley asked, remembering then that he was still wearing the mask. He pulled it from his face, sticking it inside the pocket of his trench coat. “No, I just work for him.”

  William looked at him closely.

  “Don’t I know you?” William asked.

  “Yes, we’ve met.”

  “You’re the priest.”

  Bentley shook his head. “Not really. I was just pretending to be.”

  William continued to stare, brow furrowed—confused.

  “I came to see you, to determine whether or not you murdered—”

  “Tianna,” William finished, lowering his gaze sadly.

  “You didn’t, William,” Bentley told him. “You didn’t harm her.”

  The big man threw his legs over the side of the stretcher.

  “Yeah, the bird explained it all to me.”

  “The bird?” Bentley asked him.

  William nodded. “Yeah, a big black raven. He explained it all to me in that place.”

  Bentley didn’t understand. “That place?”

  “The place where I was after…” He brought one of his large hands up to the burn mark on top of his head. “Ow, that still smarts.”

  “I’m sure it does.” Bentley moved closer to where the big man sat. “So the bird told you—everything?”

  William nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. Also said that since they brought me back, I owe them.”

  Bentley felt a chill of familiarity run up and down his spine.

  “You owe them,” Bentley repeated as the big man slowly nodded.

  “And to pay back the debt, I’ve got to help you out,” William said as he hopped off the table and almost collapsed to the floor.

  Bentley rushed forward, attempting to catch the man, but he weighed nearly a ton.

  “Maybe you should rest a little more before—” Bentley began.

  “No,” the big man said. “No, I think I’d like to leave this place now.”

  Bentley could hear the desperation in the man’s voice and completely understood. “Okay, I’ll help you.”

  He got beneath one of the big man’s arms, and the two of them left the cold room, passing through the infirmary where the physician still stood, though the ash from his cigarette had finally fallen to the floor.

  They slowly climbed the stairs up from the prison’s lower depths and into the prison itself.

  The mist still rolled about the floor, and all within the prison confines were still held in the grip of some strange, dreamlike state.

  “Did you do this?” William asked Bentley, who still supported him as they walked.

  “No,” Bentley said.

  “Was it the bird?” William asked.

  “Most likely,” Bentley answered as they made their way from the prison to the administration area. “Him, and his boss.”

  “His boss?” William questioned.

  Bentley pulled the skull mask from his pocket and held it up. “The boss.”

  “Oh,” William said.

  They were passing the warden’s office, and they peered in as they went. William pulled away from Bentley to stand in the doorway.

  “William?”

  The big man went inside.

  Not knowing what he was going to do, Bentley followed and found him standing in front of the man’s desk, staring.

  “We should go,” Bentley said.

  “This was a very bad man,” William said, and Bentley could not argue, having spent some time with the loathsome example of a human being.

  “He was,” Bentley agreed. “But you’ll never have to see him again.”

  Bentley felt a sliver of fear as the large man walked around the desk to stand alongside the warden. He had no idea what William was going to do, and began to wonder if somehow this place had transformed him into something other than the good man he’d been when he arrived.

  “William,” Bentley said to him again. “We should go.”

  William ignored him, bending down to see what it was the warden had been working on.

  “These papers are about me,” William said. “They’re my execution forms. And he signed them.”

  Bentley stood in the doorway, waiting.

  “According to them, I’m officially dead,” he said, bringing the fingertips of one large hand down upon the paperwork.

  “So it must be true,” Bentley said.

  William thought about this a little more before coming around the desk again.

  “Must be,” he said, joining Bentley, as the two of them continued on through the administration building, and then out into the dark, early morning.

  Bentley watched the writhing fog, and believed that it had started to recede.

  “We should hurry,” he told the large man, walking down the path, past the guardhouse and outside the high, barbed-wire fence. “We don’t want to be seen.”

  “Where are we going?” William asked.

  “The car is parked out here,” Bentley said, leading the man to their means of escape. He opened the back passenger door, allowing the big man to crawl inside. Bentley went around to the other side to get in.

  “Bentley?” Pym said from the driver’s seat.

  “This is William, Pym,” Bentley said. “I believe he is going to be assisting me in my mission.” He looked over to the large man sitting there, waiting for a comment.

  “Bill,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Bentley asked.

  “It’s Bill,” he said. “I’ve always hated being called William.”

  “Ah,” Bentley said. “I completely understand. Pym, this is Bill, and he will be helping me on my mission.”

  “Hello, Bill,” Pym said.

  “Hello,” Bill grunted, his hand slowly going up to touch the burnt and blackened area upon his head.

  “We should go, Pym,” Bentley said. “Before anybody notices us.”

  “Very good, sir,” Pym said, pulling out onto the road and pointing them away from the prison.

  * * *

  The sound of the car’s tires passing over the road filled the silence within the vehicle.

  “Where are we going?” Bill finally asked.

  “We’re going home,” Bentley said, roused from near sleep. “Back to Hawthorne House, where you will stay with me … with us, and—”

  “No,” Bill said forcefully. “I think I’ll get out here.” He pointed to an exit sign for a town off the highway.

  “You can’t do that,” Bentley informed him.

  “Yeah, I can,” Bill said. “And I will. I need some time alone. I need some time to think about the way things are now.”

  “But where will you go?” Bentley asked.

  “Used to live around here before the circus,” Bill answered. “I’ve got some friends close by.”

  Pym did as he was told, taking the next exit and driving into the dingy town.

  “Here is good,” Bill told them as they drove through the center of the town in the predawn hour.

  Bentley took his wallet from
his pocket and emptied it of money. “Here, take this,” he told the man, shoving the cash into his large hand. “Pym, give him what money you have.”

  Pym brought the car to a stop and searched his pockets.

  “Take this also,” Bentley said, removing his trench coat. “It’s got some blood on it, and it’ll be a little small on you, but it should tide you over until you can get another.”

  “Thanks,” Bill said, taking the coat. “I’ll get it back to you soon.”

  The large man climbed from the car, slipping into the trench coat to hide his prisonwear.

  Bentley leaned over the seat, tossing him his slouch hat.

  “You might want to wear this as well,” he said to the man. “To cover up…” Bentley touched the top of his head.

  “Good point,” Bill said, placing the hat over the burnt circle on his scalp.

  Bill stood there, looking around.

  “Will you be all right?” Bentley asked, still leaning over to address the large man through the open car door.

  A cold wind started to blow, and Bill pulled up the collar on his borrowed trench coat. “I’ll be fine,” he said, slowly starting to turn away from them. “And thanks.”

  “Until we meet again, William Tuttle,” Bentley called out.

  Bill stopped, and turned for a moment.

  “Yeah, until then.”

  He started to walk again, losing himself in the dwindling shadows of the quickly approaching dawn.

  * * *

  Bentley’s eyes had begun to slowly close as the tug of sleep drew him into her lovely embrace.

  “I thought he was to be executed?” Pym asked, his voice like a shot of gunfire.

  Bentley’s eyes flicked open.

  “What was that?”

  “That man … William—Bill,” Pym said as he drove the car.

  “What about him?”

  “I thought he was going to be executed.”

  “He was.”

  “But he wasn’t?” Pym questioned, looking at Bentley in the rearview mirror.

  “But he was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And it’s probably best that it stays that way,” Bentley said. He glanced out the side window, guessing that there was at least another hour of driving before they returned home.

  “Let’s get home, Pym,” he said, nestling into the corner of the backseat. “I’m going to need to rest before I’m needed again.”

  He closed his eyes, but knew that he was being watched. He opened his eyes to see the reflection of Pym’s gaze in the rearview mirror, staring into the backseat.

  “Until Grim Death is needed again,” he corrected himself, closing his eyes and quickly falling deeply asleep.

  Escorted into the arms of sweet unconsciousness by the beating of ebony wings.

  Epilogue

  It was not long until he was needed again.

  Grim Death.

  Bentley had been sleeping when the visitation occurred: two little boys—twins—their sad, cherubic faces stained with streaks of gore.

  Someone had taken their eyes.

  They sat upon his bed, watching him awaken, and though he feared what it was they would show him, Bentley beckoned for them to come.

  The twins eagerly did what was asked of them, crawling down the bedclothes toward where he lay.

  Bentley watched them with an unwavering stare, his gaze focused upon their empty sockets and the blackness they contained.

  Becoming lost in the stygian darkness, which once held the windows to their souls.

  * * *

  Bill Tuttle sat in the far darkness of Snookey’s Tavern, nursing his second beer of the night.

  Nobody bothered him there, almost as if they knew there was something not quite right about the man, even though there wouldn’t be any way to tell by looking at the large figure, sitting alone at the back table with his drink. He’d taken to wearing a watch cap pulled down tight around his head, to hide the circular burn mark the electric chair head piece had made on his scalp.

  He’d been lying low, calling in a few favors from the early days before the circus. No questions were asked. Clothes, spending money, and a roof over his head were given freely, and he appreciated it.

  Bill had enough questions of his own, without the questions of others to muddy up the works. Sitting, staring into his drink, he remembered the day—

  The day he died.

  He’d spent the last day of his life thinking, as he usually did. Thinking about the circus, and of her—Tianna—and how he hoped he’d see her again so that he might apologize for what he’d done.

  For what he could not remember.

  They’d let him have whatever he wanted to eat, and he’d decided on a nice steak, a rib-eye—medium-rare—with a baked potato. It had been one of Tianna’s favorites.

  Bill drank some more of his beer; it had gone warm as he sat.

  As he waited.

  A priest had come to read him last rites, and to hear his confession. He’d decided to just keep his mouth closed to hurry things along. The quicker they got things done, the quicker he’d get to see her again.

  They’d walked him down from the special cell they’d had him in, the priest reading from his old bible as they walked to the room where the chair was kept.

  Once they reached the room, they’d begun the preparations for what was to follow, shaving the top of his head and his chest, and strapping him into the heavy wooden chair.

  Bill squeezed his mug in a powerful grip, remembering the terror he had felt, as well as the anticipation. It would be over soon, he’d told himself. The only fear he carried was that he wouldn’t see her after he was gone, that there would be some punishment in the afterlife that would deny him his only wish.

  He’d prayed he was wrong as they wet a sponge in salt water and placed it upon the spot they’d shaved, then lowered the metal cap onto his head.

  Despite its warmth, Bill finished his beer, slamming the empty mug down onto the tabletop loud enough for Mickey, working the bar, to hear. He’d known the barkeep since they were kids, when he’d helped Mickey deal with some bullies who had been taking away the money he’d earned selling papers on the corner.

  Mickey asked with a gesture if he wanted another. Bill nodded yes.

  Dying had only hurt for a little bit. There was this sudden, intense jolt of pure agony that shot through his body, and then a comforting, floating warmth as his body shut down. They’d shocked him at least one more time for good measure, but by then he was already gone.

  His spirit had flown the coop to someplace else. And that was where it got a little bit strange.

  Bill felt his mouth go dry, and he wondered where his new beer was. Mickey was serving some customers, so he would have to wait. And remember.

  After he’d died, he’d gone to someplace special. He was suddenly back at the circus commissary, having a late-night snack with the woman who had stolen his heart. It was exactly as he remembered it, down to the last detail of Tianna getting a little bit of mustard on the corner of her beautiful mouth as she’d bitten into the wiener that they’d shared.

  He did as he remembered doing, reaching out to gently wipe away the smear of yellow.

  And that was when everything had stopped—frozen—except for him.

  “She’s a looker, I’ll give you that,” a strange voice had said from somewhere in the commissary tent.

  Bill remembered turning around, but all he could see was a bird.

  A crow … or was it a raven?

  “Was that you?” he’d asked the bird.

  With the question the bird had spread its wings, flying over to perch upon Tianna’s shoulder, so that they could talk.

  So that they could have a discussion about what had happened, and what was going to happen.

  That was when he’d learned that it was the mermaid that had been responsible for Tianna’s murder, that he’d been taken over and controlled by her strange song, his body manipulat
ed like some kind of puppet.

  Mickey came over with Bill’s new drink and set it down, grabbing the empty mug.

  “Everything all right, Bill?” he asked.

  Bill nodded, even though he was lying. He wasn’t sure if things would be all right ever again, now that he’d been brought back from the dead.

  For a purpose.

  The raven had told him he was being sent back to help with a mission. The guy who had helped avenge him, and avenge the woman he loved, needed some help with the job he’d been given.

  Bill remembered how he’d looked at the bird, and then at the form of his beloved Tianna, frozen in the moment, and had asked:

  “What if I don’t want to go back?”

  The bird had looked at him then, tilting his head oddly to fix him in one of his dark beady eyes. And the bird had said:

  “If you ever wanna see this cute little thing again, you’ll do what we’re asking you to do.”

  What choice did he have? He went back to the pain of living, of remembering a woman gone from this world but waiting for him in the next.

  So he would just have to wait and do what was asked of him. Do his job until they didn’t need him anymore, and then he could finally rest.

  He could finally be with her again.

  Bill drank deeply from his mug. The bird had come to him when he slept, telling him to be ready. That he would be called on to do what was expected of him.

  Bill was ready. He had been ready for the last three nights, coming to the bar and waiting.

  Waiting to be called.

  He was drinking more of his beer when he noticed how quiet the bar had become, nervous murmurings passing through the crowd of desperate drinkers. He lowered his mug to see that he was being watched.

  The tall, fedora-wearing figure stepped from the shadow and briefly into the light as he approached. It was the skull-faced man. The one he had been ordered to help.

  The one he had been waiting for.

  “Come, William,” the deathly visage called to him in a compelling tenor.

  “Bill,” he said as he stood, finishing his beer and setting the mug down on the table.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bill,” he corrected. “Remember? Not William.”