grip tightly against his skull and slowly absorbed themselves through his pores, into his body. Washburn sat motionless in the tub, his eyes glazing over as if in a trance. He was clearly no longer in control of his actions. Then like a mindless robot, he slowly reached his right arm down over the side of the tub, grasping the handle of the straight razor firmly.
Sitting upright in the bathtub, Washburn, or the creature that now inhabited his body, looked down at the blade of the razor, glimmering in the candlelight. Then he took special notice to the blood red candle wax dripping down the sides of the bathtub and a sly smile appeared on his lips. Â Calmly looking down at his chest, the man methodically began cutting a series of diagonal wounds into his flesh, making a number of âVâ shapes. The point of each "V" was located where the two diagonal lines met at the center of his chest. Washburn neither flinched nor cried out in pain even though he felt the burning, sizzling agony as if every nerve ending in his body was explode. Instead, he sat calmly as the blood streamed down from one "V" to the next like thick, muddy water running over a terraced hillside, before it began to turn the bathwater a hideous shade of crimson. He looked upward, seeming somewhat strangely amused at how the newly sliced furrows in his chest matched the patterns of the wood surrounding the walls of his spa.
Next, he made a series of incisions across his face, his forehead and cheeks before reaching up and slicing off his left ear, which fell into the water with a moist sickening plopping sound. He then made a number of deep incisions across his left arm and wrist allowing the arm to hang limply in the bloody water. As the spirit felt Washburn's body becoming weak with blood loss, the phantom reached down into the water where it systematically began to hack at Washburnâs testicals and penis, castrating them from his body, allowing them to float almost comically in the ruby water like some sick, perverse bath toys.
The glowing mass of glittering elements slowly left Washburn's body and within a few seconds, the specter was once again standing next to the tub looking down at the bloody carnage it had left behind. The ghost, which had once been Dwight Livingston, floated calmly toward the mirror wall and once again was quickly absorbed into whatever horrible world existed beyond the glass.
Washburnâs eyes suddenly opened, filled with shock, pain and terror upon the realization of the irreparable damage, which had been inflicted on his now dying body. Too weak to help himself, unable to move, the ravaged man moaned and cried with agony as the last of his lifeblood flowed into the tub.
Seconds before his body finally shut down, he noticed something or someone watching him from one of the other mirror walls. It appeared to be the image of two young boys, their faces hovering in the glass. Washburn could see no bodies, just floating faces. Although he had never seen the pair before, they looked familiar to Washburn. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of he and his younger brother Nathan as little boys. The one boy looked to be about six years old while the other was perhaps a year or two younger. Then, because of the extensive research he had conducted he suddenly realized who they were.
The two did not seem to have the same sort of evil countenance as the spirit of Dwight Livingston, but instead appeared to be filled with sorrow. There was an almost angelic aura about the pair as they watched with a look of grief as the last few moments of Emerson Washburn's life fade from his mutilated body. Soon the image faded from his sight as did all vision.
Washburn lie dead in the bloody cauldron his head tilted to the right against the back of the tub, his right arm dangling limply over the over side of the tub, resembling the familiar pose in the famous painting "The Death Of Marat" by Jacques-Louis David. The bloody straight razor