The Case of the Dead Grandson
I am again in the hospital, having been stabbed by a dead man.
Bertha White contacted me by letter, telling me that her son Oliver died in her living room, only to rise again and leave. Detroit police had listed Oliver as “missing”, and though Bertha was getting on in age, she was far from senile.
I’m sorry, but I can’t report in much detail the events that followed. My colleagues and I (Thrash Curwen and Bonnie Beats substituting for my longtime partner Wendy) tracked Oliver to a warehouse, where he had imprisoned several homeless men and constructed a complex system of tunnels for himself. He attacked us, and the stab wound he inflicted on me through my protective vest knocked me completely out and nearly killed me.
Oliver tragically did not survive the encounter, but his imprisoned victims did. They told stories of him drinking their blood and disappearing into his subterranean constructs for hours at a time, seeming to fear the sunlight.