DEATH SHACK DISSECTION TABLE

 (Content Warning: Violence, Birth)

        As is the case with all campfire stories, this is most certainly true. 

        Once, a long time ago, there was a killer. The killer lived in the woods in a shack he’d built himself. The furniture inside was also built by him. If he wasn’t so busy being a killer in the woods, he probably could’ve been a pretty accomplished carpenter. 

        That’s not what this story is about. 

        One piece of furniture the killer made was a table. Not the usual one that you would see in someone’s home. This one looked more like the standard picnic table. Big slats of wood for the main part, and wooden benches attached to sit at. 

        It was on this table that he laid out his victims. Mostly young women. He would lay them on top and sit down to get to work. 

        The details of the work he did were too gruesome and intricate to stomach. We’ll just say the table had a lot of blood on it and leave it at that. 

        When the killer was caught, he informed the officers that the remains of the victims were all over the woods. After a long time of scouring, the officers recovered six skulls. Three were identified and returned to their living relatives. The other three were unknown. Sketches of what they might have looked like were spread all over the place in an effort to figure out who they were. To this day, their identities are a mystery. 

        The table was seized by the officers as evidence of the crimes. The killer was not only a killer and a carpenter, but also a total slob. His table had never been cleaned. The surface was stained with layers of uneven red that no one really wanted to think about. 

        The table, nor any of the other evidence, was actually used against the killer in court. He pleaded guilty immediately. This was in the heyday of electrocution, so they were quick to sentence him to that. And so, the table stayed pushed into a corner of the police’s evidence room where it sat and rotted for years and years and years. 

        Once there was a new young officer. He was new both to the force and to the town, so even though he knew the story of the killer it was just that to him—a story. He also didn’t believe in ghosts, so whatever power the table held over the other officers wasn’t felt by him. The table was just a table. 

        …and a very nicely made table, at that. 

        The new young officer and his new young wife were big fans of home renovation. The two had sunk most of their savings into a sweet little “starter home” that they were planning to fix up to make as quaint and charming as possible. Then they would sell it for even more than what they bought it for. After that, they would use the money they made from that sale to buy another house to fix up. They would do this over and over again forever. 

        Assuming all went as planned, of course. 

        One day, the new young officer and his wife were discussing their plans for the backyard. It was a little square of grass with a white picket fence. It needed something to really make the yard feel special. A “statement piece” as was always said on the home improvement channel the couple liked to binge watch. 

        The young officer told his wife there was something at the station that he thought would be just perfect for the backyard. A picnic table that he was sure no one would mind if he took. It didn’t seem like anyone liked it there, anyway. 

        And so, the young officer convinced the department to give him the table. They were happy to have it gone because it freed up space in their overpacked evidence room and also cleared the foreboding energy out of the room. The police chief, who was very superstitious, told the young officer that he should be careful what he did with the table. After all, there was that rumor that it was haunted. He didn’t want anything bad to happen to the young officer or his wife. The young officer laughed because he wasn’t superstitious but thanked the chief for his concern. The table was a table, and with a little love and care and sanding it would be a really nice addition to his backyard. 

        The young officer asked his wife not to come out to the backyard until he was all done fixing up the table. He made the table his weekend project. First, he stripped the caked on red stains from the wood with a combination of paint thinner and sanding pads. It came off much easier than he’d thought, but at the end of the day blood and paint flake the same. 

        After that came even more sanding, then sealing, then finally staining. The stain he’d chosen for the table was called Traditional Cherry, and it made the wood a rich red in color. When he was finished, the table no longer looked like dingey murder furniture, but instead like a table you would expect to see at a campground or a backyard barbecue. It looked like any other table out there. 

        Satisfied with his work, he called his wife out to come look at it. His wife frowned at the sight of it and asked why he hadn’t done anything to it yet. She could see the potential in it, sure, and there was something to be said about leaving history exposed for future generations, but this was just ghastly. 

        The young officer was confused. The table looked like any other table now, so he had no idea what she was talking about. Maybe he’d missed a crucial spot? He turned to look at it. 

        The table looked just like when he took it from the station. 

        That’s impossible, the young officer said, I worked so hard on it all weekend. How could it look like this again? 

        He considered starting over, but that would be a waste of time and money. He told his wife that he would take the table back to the station and find something else to put in the backyard. 

        The wife stopped him. She said forget about the backyard. I have an idea. 

        The wife had another interest besides home renovation. She, like many other middle class white women, was also very fond of true crime. 

        The wife suggested they bring the table into the house, and instead of trying to renovate the house into a flippable property, they instead convert their home into a recreation of the killer’s shack. With Halloween coming up, wouldn’t people be interested in going through a tour of a killer’s home? Even if it was just an imitation of the real thing? 

        The young officer agreed that the idea seemed good. The couple dragged the table inside and set to work finding out everything they could about the killer and what his shack looked like before it was demolished. They also hung portraits of the victims (including the sketches of the three unidentified ones) and any articles they could find related to the crimes along the walls. 

        By Halloween, the couple knew everything about the killer and had recreated his shack perfectly on the ground floor of their home. The town was both disgusted and intrigued by their antics, a sentiment that stuck for as long as the killer’s Death Shack remained open as a tourist attraction. 

        And it did, in fact, attract tourists. While it didn’t make enough money for the young officer to quit his job on the force, it was still a lucrative business. His wife gave tours daily, and on the days the officer had off they did reenactments of the murders. The wife didn’t bear much resemblance to any of the victims, but that didn’t matter. They both had a lot of fun acting like a killer and victim. The days when the officer dragged her across the floor and pretended to slash her to pieces on the table were when they made the most in gift shop profits and tips. The first few years they were open were the happiest the couple had ever been. 

        But, on the fourth anniversary of the Death Shack’s opening, everything changed. 

        The officer and his wife were expecting a baby, but the pregnancy wasn’t going to deter them from giving tours or even playing killer and victim. On their final Halloween tour of the day, the officer hauled his wife across the floor and pushed her onto the table. This was all usual. He was about to start pretending to cut her up with his plastic knife, at which point she would pretend to scream while she popped fake blood packs that she had hidden under her clothes. 

        This time, though, the bleeding started earlier. And this time, the screaming was real. 

        While no one knows for sure how it happened, the officer’s wife went into a violent labor the moment she was thrust onto the table. She wasn’t due for another few weeks, so neither was prepared for this. The officer, startled by the appearance of actual blood and his wife’s screams of pain, shouted for someone to call a doctor. The confused tourists didn’t know what was going on. Most of them thought that it was part of the show and stayed to watch, while others simply left. If anyone did call a doctor, the doctor didn’t come. 

        The officer tried his best to coax his wife through the birth. The entire ordeal was grueling and stressful, but in the end, he was able to help safely deliver the baby. His relief didn’t last long, though, because as it turned out they weren’t just having one baby that night. 

        They had three. 

        Things would have ended differently if there had been a doctor present, or if they’d managed to get to a hospital. As it was, there was only the officer, his wife, and whatever ghoulish tourists had chosen to stick around to watch til the end. The wife lost a lot more blood than she should have, all greedily absorbed by the table she lay on. The officer had no way to help her or to stop it. He was already at his limit trying to make sure the babies were okay. By the time he was able to focus on his wife, she, like many before her, had bled out on the table. 

        The unexpected tragedy would have brought the community to the widowed officer’s side under different circumstances. Instead of gaining their sympathy, he was shunned. They’d turned their home into a nasty shrine and even played at killing each other for people’s entertainment. It was because of this that the town believed he and his wife must have been cursed. Now one of them was dead. 

         And, worst of all, the Death Shack was still open. 

        The widowed officer claimed that he couldn’t bear to shut down the shack because it had been his wife’s idea. If he shut it down, he said, it would be like killing off that last little piece of her for good. 

        The fact that his wife died on the table was also made an addition of the tour. A new piece in the table’s legacy of death was just the thing to keep the tour fresh and interesting. He also noticed that he made more money when he brought up the tragedy than when he’d reenacted the murders. The town found these actions to be incredibly distasteful and exploitative. Sadly, this was not the last of his actions they found distasteful and exploitative.

        When the widowed officer’s three daughters were old enough, they helped work at the Death Shack. It was during one of these child led tours that one of the tourists made the connection—

        The girls looked just like the sketches of the three unidentified victims.

        This gave the widowed officer an idea. When his wife was alive, they’d made the most money on the days he dressed as the killer and made her his pretend victim. After her death, he made the most money playing in to the cursed nature of the table and how it had claimed his wife. Now he was presented with three young girls who were born on the table and held an uncanny resemblance to the unidentified victims. The widowed officer couldn’t think of a more perfect situation than this. 

        The officer’s three daughters didn’t argue against his plan. The only question they had was which of them would go first. After much debate, it was decided that they should start with the oldest, then the second, then the youngest, then cycle back around after. The officer suggested they begin this new venture on Halloween. The Death Shack would be celebrating its twentieth anniversary, and it seemed like a good way to commemorate it. 

        So, on Halloween, the eldest daughter gave the first tour. She guided the little crowd through her house and showed them the portraits of the victims, giving a dry description of their brutal ends. For dramatic effect, she talked about the one she resembled last and made sure that she was standing just under the sketch while she did. 

        As she was talking about the dead girl she looked just like, the officer burst into the room dressed in his old killer’s getup. He was brandishing a big knife in one hand. If it was fake, it was hard to tell. The tour group was surprised, some of them even shrieking in fear. The girl was unphased by the dramatic entrance, and it was her lifeless demeanor that calmed the rest of the group down. 

        The officer stomped over to her and grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragging her over to the table. It was possible that since it had been over a dozen years since his last performance, he was trying to cover his poor acting with real harshness. Still, his daughter played along without complaint. 

        When he threw her onto the table, she arranged herself so she was covering the bloodstain on top of it. She was the perfect silhouette. The officer stood over her. He was breathing heavily. His hands were so sweaty that he feared he would drop the knife. The officer braced himself onto the table for support and, brandishing the knife, aimed to plunge it into the fake blood pack at his daughter’s stomach. 

        But then the hand on the table slipped. 

       The officer, unable to catch himself, fell. His head met the table with a sickening crack. He was dead before he even hit the ground. None of the tourists made a move to help, but they murmured to themselves in confusion about what was going on. The dead officer’s daughter continued to lie on top of the table, just as unmoving as her father. 

        Then, still lying on the table, the girl said: everything is over now. 

        And so, the tour group left. The triplets called an ambulance for their father, but they knew he was already dead. No one in the town seemed to mourn the loss, but they did wonder what would happen to the girls now that they were orphans. 

        After the officer’s funeral, the triplets invited everyone in town to a bonfire in their backyard for a celebration of life. Of the few people who attended the bonfire was the superstitious police chief. It was a dark and cold November evening, so the fire raging bright in the middle of the backyard was a pleasant welcome to the police chief. When he approached the fire to warm himself, though, the police chief was startled by what he saw. 

        In the middle of the fire was the killer’s table. 

         The police chief tried to find the triplets to ask them what was going on. He spent the whole night looking around the house and the yard for the girls, but he wasn’t able to find them. He stayed until the blazing fire burned itself out and the table was nothing but smoldering ash. Then dawn came, and he noticed that there was more than just the table in the fire. In it, he could see bits of that somehow hadn’t burned fully away. From the remains, he could piece together the familiar sketches of the killer’s three unidentified victims. 

 

        The girls were never seen again.