Tom heard his old black greyhound yelp. He turned on the backyard light and surveyed the dry, mud-caked ground. A steel ladder leaning against the little shed had fallen on top of Jack, his dog. He was dead.

“Oh God! No, no no no! Jack. Damn it. You had to go near that ladder, didn’t you?” He squatted, scratched the back of the animals long, pointed ears. Tears welled up in Tom’s beady eyes.

“I think it’s time to take you to my friend up in Mountville.” He paused and looked around. A murder of crows hovered above.

“Who do I have now? It was just you and me…”

The car ride was unsteady; like a raging bull violently being tamed by a cowboy.

“Bloody pot-holes.”

The exhaust pipe rattled as he put on the brakes and stopped the rusted station wagon. He gently lifted the deceased dog into his arms and walked into a small shop with TAXIDERMY written in large, block letters, in red paint, on the façade. The bell attached to the front door jangled as he went in. An aged man with wiry-grey hair, a dirty apron tied round his waist and abnormally big hands was standing at the counter. What was very peculiar was his fixed, glass eye. His other eye was covered in a white film. When he spoke he made a strange whistling noise as if he was speaking another language simultaneously with English. His voice was raspy and raw –

“So what can I do for you today, sir?”

“How have you been Hector? It’s me, Tom.”

“Tom…your voice is very familiar to someone I know. What brings you here? Is your greyhound finally ready for mounting?”

“Unfortunately, he is.”

“Just place him here on the counter. I’ll get my assistant to come and get him. Ed! Edgar! Get your ass over here. We’ve got another dog to stuff!”

Tom was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense pain surging through his body. His head throbbed. Visions flashed before him like they had shortly before Jack died. A sharp sound pierced his ears, it was ringing incessantly. He cupped his hands to his head and screamed in pain –

“Oh Jesus, help me! Not again.”

All went black.

Tom slowly regained consciousness. The taxidermist was sitting in a rocking chair near him. He whispered hoarsely.

“Are you all right, Tom? You seem to have fainted.” Dazed and confused Tom stirred and sat up on the bed. He observed his unfamiliar surroundings.

“I must go. I apologise for this. It happens sometimes-”

Hector interjected.

“You ought to take it easy my friend. Your dog will be ready in a months time. It is a lengthy process making these animals life-like. I’ll accept a fifty dollar deposit and you can pay the full amount when you pick him up.” Tom heaved himself from the sagging mattress and lumbered downstairs to the counter to deal with the payment.

***

It was the 31st of October. Tom put a cross with a red pen on the date on his calendar. He had nothing else to look forward to.

All he experienced were these psychological disturbances where he was in the mind of a killer; he had surgeon utensils and was in a studio with clay sculptures. He was stabbing a person and blood bespattered him.

He drove to Mountville. No one was at the counter as Tom entered the store. The bell rang and he called out,

“Hector. Hector! Are you here?” He stopped and warily searched the front where there were stuffed domestic animals positioned in the shop windows. Hallucinations swamped his mind. Again he could see the man with the surgeon’s knife.

The mysterious visions of murder replayed in his conscience more clearly at this particular spot. He steadied himself and walked on. He crept into the warehouse behind the shop. Huge industrial-halogen lights flicked on as he stepped past crates full of glass eyes and polyurethane foam. Wooden boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling. Ahead of him, near the massive metal roller door, was Hector.

Tom yelled –

“Hector! It’s me, Tom! I’m back to pick up Jack!”

Hector didn’t move. As Tom drew closer towards him he realised that both of the man’s eyes were made of glass.

He turned to see a man who looked exactly like himself standing with a surgeon knife. The fleshy, naked form of Hector was intact on the floor nearby, cemented with clay. Tom shook with fright and asked with a quavering voice,

“Who are you?”

He callously replied,

“I’m you.”

The knife was now clasped in his own hands- he was drenched in blood. The murderer cackled and vanished as police sirens wailed.