The Obituary Journal

They continue on down the hall and have come to the conclusion that they are about to meet head on with the stench that has hovered over them and gradually encompassed them since entering the house. Whatever it is, it is emanating from the room. “I can’t take it anymore. It is the worst thing I have ever smelled in my entire life,” Rebecca exclaims as she covers her mouth and nose even tighter. “Ooh ooh, that smell… can’t you smell that smell… duh, duh, duh, duh…” Roach sings while playing air guitar to the tune of Lynyrd Skynyrd and managing a better job of blocking things out than the other two. “Man that is wicked,” Trevor offers. “It is unlike anything I’ve ever come across. I couldn’t even tell you it reminds me of because quite honestly it doesn’t remind me of anything.” “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to shake this. It’s like the smell is now a part of me, like some parasite. Please, let’s get this over with,” she begs. As they reach the room and push the door open, their jaws drops to the floor and Rebecca gasps in complete shock. Light from the moon was shining through a broken and window and in the middle of the room, there is a dead body. At least from first impression it would appear to be a singular dead body though their calculations could be off. It was extremely difficult at first glance to ascertain that distinction because the body was several parts of a body. It was dismembered. And pieces were strewn about on the floor. There was a bloodied hacksaw next to what appeared to be a leg. Next to that the torso, another leg, the head. In reality, it was difficult to tell. The smell distorted their wits. That smell was at its most intense. The putrid aroma permeated their senses. Even Roach was devoid of a witty response. There was so much blood. Blood was everywhere. It was more than you would think for one body. The smell, they couldn’t get past that atrocious smell. And the sight was unlike anything they had seen in even the most frightening of scary movies. It’s the kind of scene that sticks with you… that really sticks with you. You hear about people that come face to face with a moment they will never shake. But you never knew if those people really existed. Well they exist and these are three of those people. “Oh my God,” Rebecca whispers in fear that whoever did this might still be around as tears start to well up. She turns and throws up a little in her mouth. She tries to hold back in covering her mouth, but cannot. A little comes out and onto her hand. This makes her more sick inside. She then throws up even more and doesn’t try to stop it this time. “Dude, this can’t be real. Shit like this doesn’t happen here. I mean, what the fuck?” Roach states, frozen in complete disbelief. “It does now,” Trevor says. He turns off the flashlight and puts it in his back pocket. He feels his palms getting very sweaty, but he can taste the fear filling the room and is trying to be strong for everyone. He realizes that there are some dark forces controlling the situation and just turning around and walking out isn’t going to make everything alright. He needs a better understanding of what they’re dealing with here so he makes his way over past the hacksaw… around more body parts and next to the head. He reaches down. “What the fuck are you doing man? Don’t fucking touch him, or her, or them… or fuck dude, I don‘t know,” Roach says as reality starts to settle in. “This is a crime scene bro.” Rebecca can’t say anything. She just begins to whimper as the tears are now flowing. She begins to pay more attention to her peripheral vision as a touch of paranoia starts to settle in with the thought of a killer might still be near. She’s also feeling very lightheaded. “Look. There’s some book or something here.” Trevor gingerly opens the cover. “It looks like a journal of something.” Trevor closes it and then picks it up. It is amazingly devoid of the blood that has managed to attach itself to everything else in the room. It’s in an almost pristine condition considering its surroundings. The journal was hardback, bound by twine with an unfastened buckle that held it together. It was about eight or nine inches wide and probably a little over a foot long. An odd place to find a journal. It seemed out of place. “Don’t pick that fucking thing up,” Roach pleads as he cringes. “We are so fucked man. We are so fucked. Wha’, why would you want to pick that thing up?” Rebecca still can’t say a word. The tears are hindering her ability to keep watch around her. Her breathing is deep and her heart rate is accelerated. The whole room is starting to spin. She feels faint. It’s almost as if she’s in a dream state. “He’s the one who’s fucked,” Trevor explains while pointing to the various body parts. He opens the book. There are obituaries. Pages upon pages of obituaries. They had been clipped from the newspaper. Two on one page. Four on the back. Three on another. Each with a date on it. Some have drawings around them. A couple of the pages are devoid of obituaries. They are replaced by outlines where an obituary would be and the places, the dates… a name as well. “It’s full of obituaries. Nothing but obituaries. This is way sick.” He closes the book. “I don’t get it. This is sick. Someone’s sick souvenirs. Is this guy’s obituary supposed to go in next?” He says, nodding to the body on the floor.