[ WP ] Ghosts have made a habit of visiting you with unfinished business , so you decide to build them some new bodies out of whatever parts you can steal from the morgue in an attempt to turn a profit .

My body was failing me. Years hunched over tables and fingers cramping around stainless steel tools had reduced me to some twisted being. Where taught flesh once snapped in satisfying vitality was now drooping folds, a sorrowful mockery of origami. Glistening teeth became a mirage of weak yellows and drab greys. One by one, strands of hair fell in tandem with the grains of time. 
 
 The dead had sought my aid when I progressed from puberty to full adulthood. The time was tumultuous. I had but five dollars to my name, no family to speak of, and a derisive world which sneered at my misfortune. They labeled me crazy. Nuts. `` A rabid beast whom spouts morbid anecdotes to get the crumbs of his betters' attention.'' That was a direct quote from my psychiatrist. 
 
 Before we progress though, you ca n't fault me for what I did. I had a'unique' ability and a customer base of desperate souls. This era was considered a boom of entrepreneurship. And back then security measures were considerably more lax. You could argue I was merely a product of the hand Fate dealt me and societal conventions. 
 
 Helpless souls still in the throws of eternal torment sought me for a mode to finish their `` unfinished business.'' I was n't about to play messenger boy for a bunch of bleeding hearts though. It was merely a matter of equivalent exchange: I gave them the means and they gave me the money. 
 
 It's ironic. This gift society scorned as insanity would become my saving grace. No longer would I be bound to the same playing field as the rest of the mortal scum. They believed themselves creatures above me, but they were pitiful souls, constrained for the moment in carnal suits. And when the time came, they were the ones pawing at my heels, voices like dead branches scraping against window panes and eyes bleeding ichor of despair as they gazed upon their new God. It was I with the power to craft them virgin flesh, all shiny and new, cleansed of past sins, ready to be soiled once again. 
 
 The construction of a body became my pride and joy. The amalgamation portrayed in Frankenstein held no candle to the true artwork my own flesh could wield. Truly, those who gazed upon these creations could n't help but be in awe. 
 
 This newest project, the culmination of my skills over the years, was to be my greatest and my last. The shell contained the most succulent stock I could find, wholly unblemished. Creams a shade darker than skim milk contrasted nicely against the honey hair. But it was the eyes; the eyes were my crowning jewels. Hand plucked from the best specimen, they shone a stringent blue, only found in that elusive vapor of one's ethereal dream-scape. So innocent, their glassy sheen awaited the twinkle of my conscience to peek through their windows. 
 
 I was ready to cast aside my current bindings and be renewed. So, without much hesitation, gleaming steel slid across tender meat. 
 
 ___ 
 
 The warden looked to the detective and shrugged. `` He was an odd fellow. Typical schizo, claiming ghosts talked to him.'' 
 
 William Gallahan was sent out here at the last minute, an hour before he was off the clock and three hours after he already wanted to head home. His daughter, Elizabeth, just had her first day of school, and Gallahan was impatient to hear about how it went. 
 
 He was hoping to finish this up in thirty minutes and be on his way soon after. 
 
 The case seemed like a cut-and-dry suicide, but protocol was protocol and murder had to be ruled out. Just in case. So, already tired of this farce of a case, Gallahan grumbled, `` Does n't sound that odd, considering some of the nut-jobs you have locked up in here.'' 
 
 The warden sighed a `` Follow me'' and pushed off the wall. His right hand reached into his pocket for a set of keys as he continued to talked, `` He had an interesting hobby. Made a pretty buck from it too. Personally, I would n't pay a cent for anything he made, but to each their own.'' 
 
 They stopped in front of a closed door, one of many along the white hallway. The warden shoved a key into the door, uttered a silent cuss, stepped back and proceeded to toy again with the numerous keys on his ring. 
 
 `` Mind telling the class what he made?'' Gallahan's dry voice reflected his annoyed disposition. 
 
 Finally locating the right key, the warden was able to unlock the door with a satisfying'click'. 
 
 `` Well, mind as well see for yourself.'' The words held an ominous tone and before the detective could ponder it, the door swung open. 
 
 The room was dim. On the far side across from the door was a window, but thick cloth blocked the sunlight. Ignoring the warden Gallahan stepped across the threshold. He did a quick scan, taking mental note of the various shelves lining the walls. The objects were soaked in shadows and hard to make out beyond vague forms. What really drew his attention though was the wide metal table against the left wall. What looked to be tiny legs peeked at the edge of a thin cloth. 
 
 Gallahan's breath caught as images from past cases surfaced. Mutilated bodies of small children, a leg or an arm or, in gut-churning instances, a head, were missing. Fearing the worse, Gallahan quickly grasped the edge of the sheet, and ignoring the slight tremor of his hand ( and secretly hoping if he did n't acknowledge it, it would go away ), he swiftly revealed what was underneath. 
 
 ``... It's a doll...'' his voice was faint but he paid it no mind. Rather, too occupied with staring down at the porcelain figure below him. 
 
 Behind him the warden snorted. `` Ya, what d'ya think it was gon na be, a dead body?'' 
 
 The warden entered the room fully and strolled over to the window. Without preamble he threw the blinds open. 
 
 Gallahan hissed at the blinding light, but the warden ignored him as he continued, `` Morbid fucker. He spent hours and hours holed up in this little room crafting these creepy-ass dolls. Would n't touch them with a ten-foot pole, even if you paid me.'' 
 
 With proper lighting, Gallahan was finally able to get a clear view of what he was looking at. The doll was of great craftsmanship, that could not br disputed. It was a boy, his porclain skin unblemished and small tufts of golden hair peeked out from under a small hat. His outfit consisted of a white button up shirt and formal dress pants with suspenders strapped to the waist. 
 
 Dolls were creepy in general, but the vibrant blue eyes staring back at him with something akin to intelligence and awareness made the hairs on his whole body stand on end. He could n't stop the shiver that progressed up his spine. 
 
 Gallahan quickly resettled the sheet and stepped back to take in the full scope of the room, hoping to shake off whatever it was that turned his veins to ice and caused a cold sweat to break out across the nape of his neck. The previously vague forms lining the shelves came into full view: porclain chests and pevlises, bald heads, some missing eyes and others not, stared eerily back at him, their glassy pupils tracking his movements. 
 
 Feeling unsettled and an oncoming headache, Gallahan frowned at his companion. `` Look, you and I both know this guy committed suicide. Let's just leave it for today, and if I have anymore questions I'll come back later.'' 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, he quickly exited the room, noticing a palpable change. He shook his head and brought a hand up to massage his eyes, already headed down the hall and hopefully that much closer to Elizabeth. 
 
 Behind him the warden closed the door and played around with his key ring, the jiggling clinking of the metal echoing against the concrete walls. 
 
 Twenty minutes later after he finalized the paperwork, buckled his seatbelt, and put his car in reverse, William Gallahan could n't shake the feeling of brilliant, blue eyes staring out at him from the tiny workshop window a hundred yards away. His tires gave a high-pitched squeal and he peeled out of the driveway, never bothering to look back.
