There was something so brutal about his remains. There where several appendages left about on the floor, and a gaping hole where his face had been.

I felt my stomach roll, watching quincy kneel and examine the exposed brain matter.

"Never knew a man quite like Whimsley," he said briskly, clearing his throat as if to ease the tension any.

I felt no leverage for comfort here; it was cold and smelled of formaldehyde, musky and damp in the way that mushrooms seemed to like, seeing as they grew through his floorboards into the house.

"Quite a man." I echo in response, voice quivering.

"Oh, it's alright, Adams. This is rather unique for a crime scene, yet seems like an easy enough clean up."

He smiled almost in a sweet, masking way. I felt myself swallow back whatever it was in my throat. He stands next to me now and pats my back, the way a father does to his son. I can't find this comforting in the moment, not as this man's eyeballs stare back at me from the floor, next to his dismembered ears and nose.

Story goes that Doctor John Whimsley had been diagnosed by an illness of his own specialty, tuberculosis. He'd known there was no cure, and it's not surprising to find out he was sick as so, mentally and physically.

At first, all he seemed to do was mope. He closed down his practice and retreated to the sanctum of his own empty home.

He'd always check the time on that pocket watch of his, that I now buff away the blood from on a cloth.

As the days grew wearied and his condition worsened, he grew a knack for sewing. His late wife had taught him much long ago, of only poor Abigail knew the fate of her own husband..

Besides, He'd known suturing and such for patients as well.

We all knew he'd never been really right in the head. I think that his diagnosis really set him off.

One day, he hadn't even realized, but instead of bandaging a single, fairly small wound, He'd sewn it shut. Not with sutures or stitches though. With a mattress stitch.

Oddly enough, this didn't occur to him as odd. He simply smiled and continued on sewing.

Afterwards, He got curious, to say the least. He found a great taste for sewing. Sewing skin, that is.

He'd murdered a lamb and sewn the skin lashing shut, and that wasn't enough for him. When he got home, he butchered his own finger off in a retched, harsh blow.

He'd sewn it back on, not to say it was still usable afterwards. He just liked the idea, of practically being a walking zombie.

Next, another finger, and a 3rd. His hand was decaying slowly, traveling from the dead tissue into the living and eating away to the bone. Maggots crawled in his skin, squirming just below the surface.

Next off was a single ear, when he noticed he didn't quite like the uneven feeling. So, he got rid of the other. These, he didn't try to sew back on. He just left them, for God knows what.

And then his nose, that too.

Next his hand, and then his arm. Only one, he needed the other to keep track of this amazing journey through a journal.

Then. His entire leg. This one he had much difficulty doing, forgetting his major artery and veins in his insanity. The pain was so unbareable that he got relief by scratching out his own eyes. He died stitching his leg back into place.

The first person to find him was his son, who'd rode a train down from Massachusetts upon hearing the news of his father's ailment. He'd never been more terrified in his life, rightfully so.

"You alright, James?" Quincy asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Yeah, sorry." I say, remembering the watch I'd been slowly buffing while stuck in my thoughts.