The Taxidermist is Hatching: 1

By Michael Mulvihill

The Taxidermist is Hatching by Michael Mulvihill

"Sheridan Le Fanu, Charles Maturin, Bram Stoker… These are probably all names of Irish horror writers I used to know. Now I know one more writer coming from the Land of Erin – Michael Mulvihill.
I've recently read his collection of short horror stories, "The Taxidermist Is Hatching". Reading it, you're about to delve into the darkness to face all morbid creatures imaginable – vampires, werewolves, ghosts. The modern Dublin is described by the author in such a creepy way that the London of Jack the Ripper springs instantly to my mind. Most of the stories are brief like flashes of a raving maniac's knife in the pale moonlight. The endings are so abrupt that you have the feeling you've been walking in your sleep and then suddenly woken up finding yourself standing on the edge of an abyss. A very uncomfortable feeling really. But this is what horror stories are for. Some images from the stories stuck to me for days. (Read "Phenom Venom Rat Vampire" and find that brilliant fragment about the micro-chip. It will really make you paranoid.) The realistic stories like "Drop" have even a bigger impact upon the reader.
Explore many dimensions of human experience with "The Taxidermist Is Hatching" Oleg Hassanov, Horror Novelist, Editor and producer of "Horror Without Borders"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Mulvihill
• Release date: Aug 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781386420408

Book preview

THE TAXIDERMIST IS HATCHING

By Michael Mulvihill

Copyright@2022

The Taxidermist is Hatching Copyright © 2022 by Michael Mulvihill All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 978-1-4937-7514-9 This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or any similarity of events depicted herein to real life incidents, are purely coincidental. Michael Mulvihill owns all publishing rights to the content contained herein. Copyright remains solely with the author. If you find this content being offered freely on the Internet somewhere other than an authorized vendor website, then this book has been pirated. In such instances, please report the theft to Michael Mulvihill at: [e-mail]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1 Rise

2 The Cleaner

3 The Taxidermist Is Hatching

4 Soul Scrubber

5 Resting without Peace

6 The Watchers

7 Killing Time

8 Vampire Horde

9 Drogol’s Institution

10 Self-Immolator

11 Drop

12 Drop Part 2 Help your Neighbour

13 Lupine Savagery

14 Homeless

15 The Toasters’ Tragedy

16 The Langsuyar

17 The Dead Returned

19 Phenom Demon, Rat Vampire

1 Rise

(A VAMPIRE FIGHTS OFF HIS DESIRE TO FEED)

He slept like a log. Every minute of sleep rejuvenated him, and his nature, never fully repressed, began to erupt within him, making him ready to rise. As his rest deepened and his unconscious mind revived, he recalled flying to Harare, passing security, and touring that entire African country. He recalled the sound of Victoria Falls and the splendid dream that blood, not water, poured down there.

Dreaming of necks helped him to rise—laid open by bites, wounded, dripping or gushing blood like oil from a well. No way would he restrain himself. He was not like everyone else.

His face was white as the snows of Siberia, his skin so deathly pale that his fingernails looked grey. His eyes black as coal, the ancient vampire rose from slumber without a human soul.

His body stretched and relaxed when Drogol realized he was no longer in the confined space of a coffin. He had improved sleeping arrangements since abandoning his old ways. Ratlike, he sprang up from the ground. His eyes burned crimson, his teeth grew razor sharp, and his bloody appetite was a raging lion. This was a magnificent rising, emerging from within eager to pounce on prey and drink them to death.

He looked toward the window in his apartment like a tiger who never thinks twice. He ran headfirst at the window, smashed through the glass, and landed on his feet, running away from his home at breakneck speed.

Rain fell in buckets, but this never deterred the ravenous vampire, for his hunger was ever before him.

His body felt an indescribable hunger. He stalked streets filled with potential victims. All those humane philosophies he so admired were not his own. He was going to rip necks apart and gouge eyes and devour!

He paused before a large puddle that held no reflection of him. He quieted, breathing deeply. He pondered who, precisely, his next prey should be. Catlike, he climbed up a wall, rested on the ceiling of a vaulted arch, and scrutinized the people going by. Drogol, immersed in a murderous trance, visualized slitting throats now and herding mesmerized people into rooms for later, where he could do as he wished with them.

But no, how could this be all he was? Panting, he saw two choices—to be heartless, or decent and cultured.

Drogol clambered up a tree. He had resisted doing something horrible. He found himself in a mood more peaceful than he had ever been in. He chose to awaken to a new path. Perhaps the demon within him was just fast asleep. But he needed that demon to die and never return.

A voice inside him called out to God for mercy, to finally emancipate himself from misery, just as Haitian slaves had all those years ago when they became the first black Republic to wage a successful slave rebellion. He would no longer know the yoke of brutality. He would break the chains of his nature and begin to feel freedom.

He would wait for daylight, right where he was. It was as if the wolf inside him was utterly repressed, although wherever repression exists opposition remains lodged in the subconscious.

Morbidity would finally find him. Drogol was fully aware of this. The thought of this haunted him, then compelled him to action. He would walk the streets of Dublin one last time, then return to Michelle at the address she wrote down on the piece of paper now crushed in his hand. Let true love decide for him.

********************************

2 The Cleaner

(What happens when an overly conscientious cleaner is caught on the premises working after hours when he is not sanctioned to be there?)

It could be easily asserted from the standpoint of physical labour, that Charles Dunne, was the hardest working, longest serving person in the building. He felt extraordinarily underappreciated, unimportant, and, of course, underpaid. Charles had employment of an insecure, untenured nature. He was a slave to the mercy of a contract of employment that, over the years, constantly needed to be renewed. That said, he insisted on working diligently and thoroughly. Everywhere needed to be spotlessly clean. 

The filthiest part of the building that he had to clean was the ground floor public office. This was also the part of the building where he was most visible when he was working,  contributing to making him feel self-conscious. This was easily the busiest public office in the city.

Every morning he woke up at 5 o’clock to face the music. Often, he would recite this self evaluation quietly to himself: I am only a number here. They don’t value me. At the end of the day I am just a few digits. My contribution to this office is never appreciated. I am one of the most dispensable of all employees in this building. Like an insect or a bug too unclean for sacrifice, I can all too easily be squashed.

Charles despised the white linoleum floor in the public office. That floor was a magnet for dirt, germs, and dust. Every morning the ritual would begin: putting on his rubber gloves, filling a bucket with hot water, smelling the strong stench of bleach, watching the steam rise as the mop dipped into the hot water, and next, the long chore begun for himself and the poor mop. This mop would be rubbed firmly on filth and grime. Every morning and every night that he cleaned this room he left it sparkling, a thankless duty. People where Charles worked acted like he was invisible.

The people where he worked were relatively well paid and had employment of a permanent and secure nature. Ever since he’d started working there, Charles understood how ducks out of water feel.

Someday, Charles vowed, roaring at the floor he was cleaning on a mid-winter morning, surrounded by cold isolated streets in the heart of darkness—the city lights no longer working—someday, I am going to really clean the living hell out of you. I am going to use so much bleach and detergent that you will never be capable of getting dirty again. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Someday, I will make you shine. You will be so incandescent that you will be famous. Writers will use your name when they think of cleanliness, spotlessness, and sanitation. I will become a world famous cleaner. Everyone will know my name. Everyone in the city will speak about this floor that I cleaned so proficiently. I will get contracts worth six figures. People will consult me for what is the best way to clean various surfaces.

The more Charles talked like this, the more furiously he moved his mop and the more time passed, heralding the moment for him to leave the public office. When it was time to leave the building a negative mood entered his mind. Some days I feel I work so hard that I am a slave. I can see myself withering into an old-looking man from stress and annoyance. I am uncertain how I can prevent this mental image becoming a realization.

Human beings are extremely auto-suggestive. Charles went home. His desire for food, though he worked long and hard, was minimal. Charles found slumber impossible. He asked his body and mind to rest, but remained restless. His mind was following the suggestions he made that morning when he was mopping the floor.

Charles found himself getting his keys for work, which were hanging by the door of his one-bedroom apartment. He held the bunch of keys in his hand, and, still dressed for work, decided there really was only one place he could go: back there, to fulfil his ambition of creating the cleanest, most spotless floor and room imaginable.

Charles had no extraordinary deep current of thought in his head. When he got to his place of work that night the familiar sound of boiling hot water and the smell of bleach with the rising steam gave him comfort.

The familiar monotony of brushing the dirty floor, picking up the newspapers and chocolate wrappers began. Not now, he told the mop. I’ll deal with you later. Charles got a scraper from the black press in the cleaners’ storeroom because he saw green gum on the floor.

I said this is going to be the cleanest floor in the entire city. Throughout this city people will speak about how this floor really sparkles. Not a speck of dirt must be found on this floor. It must represent the ideals that Mr. Hobbs aims for when he explains to his assistant why he is such an important person in this building. I can see him speaking to his assistant right now, for he will neither speak to me, nor does he know my first or second name.

Who is the most important person in this building?

Mr. Hobbs, his assistant says back in this soft voice.

And who is the second most important person in this building?

You are, Mr. Hobbs.

And why am I so wonderful and so powerful?

Because you are the perfect person for your job and that is why nobody can be above you, only you. But soon, Mr. Hobbs, you will be even more powerful, very soon.

Charles’ cleaning continued. The more he cleaned, the more he saw things that were unclean. He did not reach the part where he would put a flood of water on the floor and mop the floor with such protracted intensity. His progress was impeded by an unbelievable amount of dust on certain desks and in corners of the room. Dust is never the mark of cleaning perfection. Whatever would his supervisor think if she saw it?

Dust was not the only thing that Charles had to clear up. He heard, but could never concur, that fights would erupt in this public office at least once a month and would often result in blood being spilt on the floor. The never overly curious Charles just cleaned it up and got along with it. Naturally, Charles had to deal with any kind of mess to make sure the place was immaculate.

He had the most wonderful picture in his head of how exquisite this floor would look once it was covered in a lake of soapy suds. But this mental image was upset by the sight in the right hand corner of blood.

How did I miss this? he asked himself in an annoyed voice. Charles was peculiar about blood; he felt that with blood, for some reason unknown to him, it was better, more hygienic, and more spotless to clean blood up with toilet tissues, which could be flushed away. He did not feel the same about spilt milk.

As Charles knelt down, he heard an angry Mr. Hobbes roar at him. What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?

Mr. Hobbes wore a very fashionable black suit, white shirt, and black shoes. His black hair was neatly gelled and combed back. His ever-present middle management assistant, Mr. Crosby, was perched beside him on a desk. Oddly, Charles saw a speck of what he at first thought was blood on his face. It had to be ketchup because Charles knew that Mr. Crosby was addicted to chips and loved to pour ketchup on them.

I mean, said Mr. Crosby, who was looking very intensely at the blood that was now soaked into the toilet tissues, that was very fresh. I cannot eat my warm meal without that sauce. Mr. Crosby, Charles knew, was disturbed from his meal by Charles being on the premises.

Mr. Crosby, Mr. Hobbs said in a voice that sounded as if he would soon ask another question, who is the most powerful and important person in this building?

You are, Mr. Hobbs, Crosby replied, or at least Charles thought this was what was said. Charles felt ice cold with fear. His body temperature plummeted downward and his heart was pumping like it was ready to explode.

You know, said Mr. Hobbs, you are off duty. I could destroy your employment in one second.

When Mr. Hobbs said this the levels of distress zoomed. Charles had to pay rent. Penniless, he had very little savings from a lifetime of work. Work is only meaningful and worthwhile if it compensates you adequately. Charles knew that he was only a few pay cheques away from being homeless. It was why he worked a job that he hated and worked it as diligently and as well as he possibly could.

Oh, my God, Charles exclaimed. Soon he would be begging Mr. Hobbs not to destroy his only source of earnings. Mr. Hobbs described the majority of people in board room humour who work a job as working at break-even. Never did this make more sense and to no one would this make more sense than to people in the same boat as Charles.

There is one thing that you can do.

I will do anything for you.

This is Tuesday night. I have a special contractor that comes to collect bins in one hour. I need you to take four bags from the fifth floor to the basement floor.

Of course, I will be happy to do this, replied the compliant and obedient Charles.

Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Crosby escorted Charles to the fifth floor. On the fifth floor he found near the lift four very heavy black bags. Unassisted, and with both Mr. Crosby and Mr. Hobbs looking at Charles with their hands in their pockets, the four bags were placed into the lift. The waste was heavy but he refused to complain.

He quietly brought the bags to the red plastic garbage bin he had never noticed before in the building. Opening the lid of the garbage, he put the bags into the red bin.

Mr. Crosby?

Yes, Mr. Hobbs.

Who is the most important person in this building?

Mr. Hobbs is the most important person in this building.

Especially after today?

Yes, sir, especially after today.

And who is under me in this building, especially after today?

Every person is under you, sir.

This made no sense to Charles. He was used to having the lowest position in the building. Mr. Crosby smiled for what seemed like a long time at Charles.

What a cheeky fellow. Can I suck him dry?

No, he said, you have a lot to learn before you are over everyone in this building. Don’t you know that you are prohibited from sucking the blood of such low caste, unimportant people, and, if you do, it will infect your entire body with disease?

The two men started laughing uncontrollably. It was weird board room corporate humour, Charles concluded, for college-educated folks who read books common folk would never understand.

But we can kill him! When Mr. Hobbs said this they laughed even more hysterically. Yes, and then we can chop him up into little tiny pieces, fry him, and eat him with ketchup.

Please, Mr. Hobbs, I just want to keep my job. I need my job. It is very important to me.

Important. Who is the most important person in this building?

You are, Mr. Hobbs.

And who is under me in this building?

Everyone is under you, Mr. Hobbs, because no one is more important than you in this building. You are perfect, wonderful, and no one can be like you. You are the most important individual in this building.

Look Charles I want to show you something delightful that I polish every day just to see it sparkle. Everyone who is a most important person in their profession should have one of these. It is very good for stress relief. I feel great catharsis when I polish this at night while I am planning the company’s future.

Where is it? It seems really interesting and it probably causes you to make very important decisions.

O Mr Crosby and I find it most useful for resolving corporate affairs. So you see it?

Yes, I do. It is not real sure it’s not?

No it is just a toy, open your mouth, I will show you how we play with toys here.

Charles did so. Mr. Hobbs placed the handgun into Charles’ mouth and shot him dead.

Clean up this mess, Mr. Crosby.

Certainly, Mr. Hobbs.

And be certain not to consume any of the spilt blood. This is impure blood.

The ever-dutiful Mr. Crosby put the dead body into the garbage bin. He knew the collectors of this garbage would not care if it was bagged. They were special contractors.

That night Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Crosby celebrated their respective promotions. The various self-help books Mr. Hobbs read and in turn gave to Mr. Crosby were like scripture authored with the approval of mammon.

The two men prospered. The god the two worshipped, Mammon, was very pleased with them. They thought and acted like winners. Self-help books like Napoleon Hill’s Think and Grow Rich and Joseph Murphy’s The Power of The Subconscious Mind were most positive. The two went about their business of getting rich by wearing magnetic coats and using mind power with positive affirmations like: I am a winner. I am the most important person here. Everything I do turns to gold. I am the most accomplished and most valued person in my organisation. These types of thoughts coloured the mind and the vision of Mr. (No one is above me!) Hobbs and, therefore, his highly auto-suggestive co-worker.

A year passed, and, again on a Tuesday night in the middle of winter, the two men could be seen drinking champagne and reciting all the positive things happening and about to happen in their lives.

Visualisation is a very key thing. It is like Napoleon Hill would frequently say, Everything the mind perceives it will achieve. In other words, the unconscious mind only understood positivity. ‘Negativity,’ or the everyday practicalities of reality, was something that self-helpers and their  followers asserted was like a germ or a bacteria for the mind and, therefore, the body because of the mind/body connection. Hence, positivity was the cure, the medicine of the mind and body.

It translated that our mind is too delicate for the onslaughts of the reality principle and we ought to avoid it like the plague. This was the reason Mr Hobbs and Mr Crosby were winners and why the late Mr Charles spent his whole life being a loser. He talked and thought small. He was what he set out to be in