Untitled, Unfinished. Early (January or February?) 2026.
“It appears remarkably human.”
She tips her head back at the note. She hadn’t before, not for the brush of the door opening or the footsteps (two pairs, heavy and human). The stainless steel edge is a hard line against the ghoul’s occipital bone, body arching against it’s restraints to allow it’s chin to tilt up towards them. Her hair, a wispy grey mass, flutters with the force of an unfelt breeze.
It has bones. There had been x-rays in the file he’d been given. Bones and organs (heartlungsliverintestine) and no soul.
“She’s- It’s very corporeal.” The smaller man (the one wearing a button up and trousers, polished and clean, office badge on his lapel) answers.
“Can it speak?” The taller man (the one with a manilla file folder, and a lab coat, and a frown) asks.
“Captures team says it screams.” The other man shrugs, looking vaguely unsettled. It’s eyes trained on the shift in his posture, he continues, “We’re not sure if the extent at which it… knows what’s going on.”
She blinks. She knows what’s about to happen.
The man in the lab coat turns away, walking further into the room. “That will be all.”
She affixes her gaze on the contraption above her. The circular metallic polygons of the medical light lost their novelty long ago, but something about it draws her gaze. Above that, the fluorescent lights hum. It’s better than watching the dissectioner. Still, she hears the rustle of his lab coat and the slap of the manilla folder tossed onto the counter. He’s a quiet man, her dissectioner. Still, humans make noise when they…live. Breathe.
There’s a click, and then, “Specimen’s appearance is phenomenally human. Metrics taken reflect this composition. Metrics include approximate height of XXXcm and weight and were able to be taken because of the incredibly corporeal nature of this specimen.”
Another click, different this time, and the medical light turns on. She flinches, closes her eyes and tucks her chin as far as the binding around her neck will allow. The brightness behind her eyelids dims, the heat of the lamp on her face traveling lower.
“Specimen is reactive to light and sound.” He intones, close. She keeps her eyes closed to it.
His hands brush against her neck, gathering the wisps of hair that were sweat slick and sticky, the longer strands pinned to the table by her mass. The woes of corporeality include the pinch at her scalp as he gently tugs them free from beneath her.
His fingers thread through the silky grey stands he’d gathered. It’s hair, or what passes for hair, is softened at the edges. Slipping through his hands, it lacks solidity near the ends. Wide, wide imitation eyes stare up at him. It does not blink, just affixes its gaze on his face as he drapes the mass over the edge of the table.
Her dissectioner is handsome. Square chin, broad shouldered, sure hands. She does not hold his gaze for long.
“Specimen is reactive to touch.”
He is holding something in his hands. A click. A clack as he sets it down on the steel.
Aside from the lights, its face had remained unflinching. He runs a pen light across its pupils, watches them dilate. The imitation of autonomic reflexes is flawless. It looks almost like a real woman. At the end of the day, it’s the same as the other foul creatures he’d catalogued. He’d conquered the mystery within ghouls of all sizes. Just bones, boneless, eyeless, grey unreactive sloop, and this one… it seems nearly fully formed. The capture team had said it could vocalize.
He reaches towards her with gloved hands. The latex sticks and drags against her chin, two fingers diving into her mouth. The feel of them flat against her tongue arrests her. She should bite. Bite down, tear away, mangle and rend. The thumb on his other hand slips along her bottom molars, jaw opening further.
“Teeth, tongue, soft palette, tonsils, hard palette, uvula-“ The thing’s faux oral cavity didn’t seem to have an end. He pulls its jaw lower, a trail of drool running down his glove as his other hand reaches for the bottom. He doesn’t reach it.
“Specimen is said to be capable of vocalizing. More destructive procedures will determine whether it maintains vocal cords or some other method.“
Its throat spasms; gagging, swallowing around his fingers, jaw closing enough to feel the scrape of teeth. He removes his hands with haste. Wide eyed, the slender neck bobs with a swallow. And again.
She lets her head loll to the side. Destructive procedures, not invasive. She is not human and he does not care what it will do to her to be taken apart and known. Her dissectioner rights her with a hand on her chin, saliva wet on her face.
It glares at him. Eye contact, once again. He’d say it looks vaguely resentful, though ghouls don’t experience emotion.
He reaches for the scissors. The nightgown she’s wearing clings to her, forgiving. Her figure womanly.
[The author writes in pieces and bits. There’s a chunk missing they just didn’t care enough about.]
There’s a break in the pain. The screaming of her nerves muted, tolerable. Before her thoughts swim back into cohesion, the light does. It’s been bright overhead this whole time.
“What am I being punished for?” She gasps at her dissectioner. The threads of her voice fray. She can feel the slow drip of ectoplasm, sticky down the curve of her waist. She bled red, once. Not anymore.
“You’re not being punished.” He says, gruffly.
In a living specimen, he’d call what he’s holding intestine. In any other dead one, he’d have incised further down the abdomen. He’d have split skin and viscera, dug hands in without care. Its face is lax when he studies it. Struck by a sudden urge, he knocks his index finger along the tip of its nose. It’s not human, it’s something long dead that should have been gone.
He picks the scalpel blade back up.
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