Boris Collected Dead Bodies

He kept the bodies in a mausoleum under his castle.

Every night, after dinner and before bed, Boris would open the secret door behind his desk, revealing the spiral staircase. He’d descend the staircase into the deep dark bowels of the mazelike mausoleum. Boris walked among the tombs and coffins down there, inspecting his collection by a soft lantern light.

The bodies came in untold varieties, from every nation of every lineage, and every era. There were European monarchs in ornate glass coffins. Eastern emperors slept forever dressed in fine Asian silks. And the mummies of Egyptian pharaohs, in mint condition, still in their sarcophagi.

There were poets, artists, and playwrights, of every style and language, whose words and works had enchanted and captivated the world.

There were beautiful maidens who’d died too young and old crones who’d passed in their sleep. Brave soldiers slain on the field of battle, and the generals who’d sent them there. Notorious murders, their victims, their executioners, and their mothers, who wept as they tried to defend their babies from the law’s scorn.

All were his to admire.

Purchased from black market dealers, smuggled from freezing morgues, dug up from rotting graves, and eventually placed here.

And, as he’d done every night for 30 years, Boris strolled through his collection, cataloguing his latest additions, and planning future acquisitions.

He never thought much about why he did this. He never had many friends, or any particular skills or great ambitions. He was just lonely. Living people were difficult for him.

Sometimes as he strolled through the mausoleum, he thought he could hear them. It seemed logical. Disturbing the grave has a way of upsetting the soul. Surely the cries of anguish, weeps of despair, and howls of rage that he’d occasionally detected down there were the spirits of the bodies before him, displeased at how they’d been treated. His life was a ghost story waiting to happen.

And yet nothing seemed to come of it. No apparition ever appeared. Never did he feel a presence. Nor did he witness a door open or plates move seemingly of their own volition. He didn’t even have bad dreams.

Time and time again, he was forced to conclude that the sounds were just his mind playing tricks on him. This realization never failed to depress him. He wouldn’t have minded being haunted by angry spirits. At least they’d never leave.

Part of him still held out hope that his haunting would come. Perhaps he could acquire the body of some ancient shaman or mystical fortune teller; someone whose powers and abilities would give them life beyond death. Surely that would do the trick.

Until then, he’d still spend his days ransacking tombs, breaking into morgues, and his nights wandering the cold dark halls of his mausoleum.

It kept him busy.