[ WP ] You can erase a memory if you get a tattoo of the memory on your body . A man discovered deep in the woods is found murdered and covered in tattoos . Tell his tale until death through his tattoos .

“ A stone, a leaf, an unfound door, write that down, ” the Investigator notes to the young detective, “ any idea what that means? ” 
 
 “ I think I ’ ve read it before. Somewhere, ” she replies. 
 
 “ It ’ s here, here, and here. ” The Investigator points to the areas where the tattoo is clearly seen: on the torso below the navel, the left side of the neck at the edge of a deep rough gashing, and near the underside of his right bicep. 
 
 “ It ’ s here as well. And here. ” The young detective points to lines below the rib, and on the thigh. 
 
 Under the tree in the woods, on the wet moss, under the fingers of moonlight at the edge of the worklights, the body they found is covered with scrawl. The man ’ s body was a canvas of text. Hand drawn and careless, these weren ’ t cosmetic; they were ritual. A three dimensional history of a life scrubbed and cleaned of memories. 
 
 “ Ebbers. They do this. ” The Investigator says, rising slowly, a creak in the knees. 
 
 “ Right. Do you know any? ” 
 
 “ I ’ ve known a few. Wife ’ s brother. Not like this though. Him and the wife had a baby die and they needed a fix. Ebber… Ebberhausinists… ” 
 
 “ Ebberhausianists. He was a scientist and they took some random text to find justification for erasing memories... ” 
 
 He cut her off mid-sentence, pointing randomly. 
 
 
 “ See how these are darker than the others? And some of these are lighter, worn out. ” She says pointing to some cases of the mantra “ an unfound door ”, some older and lighter, some newer. 
 
 “ I have a hunch, ” the Detective says tightening the ponytail at the back, her hair smooth on her scalp, “ he ’ s got this… memory… all over him. Like he ’ s not able to kick it no matter how hard he tries. ” 
 
 “ Looks like this is getting interesting. Where the hell is Jones? ” the Inspector calls out. 
 
 “ Right behind you, Inspector. Got some stuff off the couch in the den upstairs. This was not a quick death. Real drawn out. We should get him to the lab and get a full body scan. ” 
 
 -- - 
 
 The scans were projected across the wall in the small office, a pile of images with the scrawl transcribed, strewn across the desk. The pile on the right read like a life in short sentences, childhood, early loves, baseball games, marriage and childbirth. 
 
 “ We got a story here, if we take all of this… ” the Inspector says pointing to the left side of the pile, “ and assume it ’ s earlier, and this… ” pointing to the right, “ as done to the victim, by his captors. ” 
 
 She runs her hand over the dead man ’ s flesh. Looking for his voice, a message from the grave. 
 
 “ Here, ” she points. 
 
 “ The begging man, ” she says, “ and this here: the man who fell on his knife. ” 
 
 “ Revenge? ” 
 
 “ On his back: Grace born at Wellington Memorial Hospital. And this: everythi… it ’ s unfinished. ” 
 
 The Inspector gets a message and takes a moment to place a call. He nods with a few affirmations before returning to speak with the detective. Her brow wrinkled over her eyes, the phrase, “ the night she disappeared ”. 
 
 “ They found another body. Young girl. Body ’ s been there for years. They knocked out a wall and found a small room in the basement. ” 
 
 “ An unfound door. ”
