Funeral Hunter

“We are gathered here today to remember the life of Charles Henry Winfield,” the elderly priest said, standing beside a particularly large photograph of the young man they were laying to rest. “Charles led a long life. A life of charity and well-meaning gifts to those of lesser means.”

He turned toward the photograph beside the closed coffin.

“He was a man of great means, and a greater heart.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The voice came from the doorway at the back of the hall.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to withhold your comments. This is a funeral. Please show some respect for the dead.”

“Chuck was none of those things.”

The click of expensive shoes echoed through the funeral home as the speaker strode down the aisle between the rows of seats. He wore an expensive suit, and had it not been for the coffin, one might have mistaken him for a groom waiting for his bride.

He continued speaking as though addressing a group of old friends rather than interrupting a funeral.

“If he did any sort of charity work, it was probably because he got some kind of tax break.”

A gasp rose from one part of the congregation. Elsewhere, a few people muttered snide comments or murmured their agreement.

The stranger stopped at the dais, where the coffin sat beside the old priest. He exhaled and gestured toward the dead man’s final resting place.

“I’m sure you’re all quite certain that Charles is as dead as a doornail.”

He approached the coffin and threw open the lid.

The body inside did, in fact, look quite dead. Honestly, there wasn’t much room for argument. The funeral home staff had only been able to do so much to conceal the gaping wound in the man’s neck. Whatever had killed Charles had torn open his throat with the kind of force that suggested a wild animal.

An animal none of the authorities had been able to find.

It was clear that the closed coffin had been intended for everyone’s comfort.

The stranger set down a rather large leather bag and sat on the steps leading up to the dais. In a conversational tone, he unzipped the bag and began pulling out a conspicuous assortment of weapons.

“Chuck…”

He glanced at the coffin.

“You don’t mind if I call you Chuck, do you? Of course you don’t. You’re dead.”

He chuckled to himself and withdrew a sword from the bag.

“You were certainly one to spend your money, though. I’m sure most of the prostitutes in the city could thank you for helping feed their families.”

He paused, then pulled an ankh from the bag. The ancient symbol of eternal life gleamed faintly as he carefully set it on the carpet beside his supplies.

“Well, the ones you let go home, anyway. I’m sure many a young woman never made it home during your heyday, hmm?”

The stranger reached into the bag again and produced a baton. With a flick of his wrist, it extended into an arm-length metal rod. He placed it beside the ankh and continued preparing his equipment.

“I also heard you were making donations to a local hospital. And, of course, you were getting something out of that arrangement. Don’t assume you were doing it out of the goodness of your heart.”

He glanced at the corpse.

“I happen to know that the hospital in question was running low on blood supplies. Very useful, in your case.”

Next, he pulled out a wooden stake and a large rubber mallet.

He looked up at the people staring at him as though he were a madman and smiled.

“My great-grandfather always told me that a wooden mallet made too much noise. So, once I found this, I stuck with it.”

The congregation stared back at him, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright alarm.

After arranging his supplies on the steps, he took a poncho from the bag and pulled it over his expensive suit.

“All in all, you were just a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

He delivered the words as though continuing a eulogy, though it was clear he thought very little of the man in the coffin.

He climbed to his feet and stretched his arms and legs. His back and joints popped several times as he worked the kinks out of his shoulders.

“Now, if any of you are offended by excessive blood, this would be the time to leave.”

The congregation needed no further encouragement. People scrambled for the exits, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the madman in the expensive suit.

The stranger turned on his heel, picked up the stake and mallet, and approached the coffin.

Charles’s widow screamed as the man drove the wooden stake into her husband’s chest with two hard blows of the mallet.

Her scream was swallowed by another.

Charles sat bolt upright in his coffin.

He shrieked and flailed at the stranger as blood—far more blood than a dead man should have had—poured from his desiccated body. The sudden eruption drenched the priest who, only moments earlier, had been delivering Charles’s eulogy.

The stranger remained eerily calm.

He watched the fountain of blood with mild interest, pausing now and then to check his watch as though waiting for a kettle to boil.

At last, the flow subsided.

“Well, you’ve been quite hungry, haven’t you?” he asked.

He lifted the sword and, with one clean stroke, severed Charles’s head from his body.

Then he left the head resting on the corpse, gathered his supplies, and removed the blood-soaked poncho.

As he turned to leave, he glanced at the priest.

“Sorry, Padre. Had to be done.”

He dipped into a small bow and offered the man a business card.

“Call me if you need me.”

And with that, he walked out of the funeral home, leaving a thoroughly ruined service behind him.

The priest stared down at the card. It was now the only thing on his person that wasn’t covered in blood.

“Helsing?”

He looked up, ready to demand an explanation.

But the stranger was gone.

And the priest was alone.