Dead Man Twitching

I rested my eyes on the cut on the sweater to determine best as possible what he was attacked with. Suddenly he shook. I was shocked.

Some time before midnight I left for Petrusevac where a man was killed. A lot of snow had fallen that day. At nightfall, it began to freeze. I entered the yard and a five-year-old boy ran to meet me. He could hardly stutter:

-- Daddy is dead. He is lying on the kitchen sofa. He came from the inn stabbed in the chest.

I proceeded and as I drew closer to the house where there was more light, I noticed a dozen drops of blood on the crystal clear snow. They were a couple of centimetres deep in the snow. I entered the hallway and then the kitchen.

There I met Josip Begovic, head of the crime scene unit night shift and several policemen. Evidently anxious, the boy’s mother said:

-- My husband went to the inn nearby tonight. An hour ago somebody rang the doorbell. When I opened the door, I saw my husband with his head forward, holding one hand to his chest and the other on the wall to steady himself. I helped him enter the kitchen and laid him on the sofa. I ran next door and called an ambulance. When I returned, he was already dead.

I thought about this. The story made sense. It could have happened like that. I saw tracks in the snow. He could have bled walking towards the house.

I went into the kitchen and my eyes looked left. Along the wall near a three-pane window, on the sofa, was a dead man completely outstretched on his back on the sofa. There was a large cushion under his head. There was a big wound on his chest. His sweater, shirt and vest cut. Obviously, he was stabbed with a knife.

He moved 

I gathered the policemen and gave them a task:

-- Go to the inn and collect information. I will stay here alone and check the body and write down what we need until you return.

As soon as they left, I regretted doing this. I recalled it was not easy being alone with a dead man. It is then that I felt the cold. It was so cold that frost on the window, along which the sofa with the dead man was, drew small, icy figures. I looked at the dead man and while I was moving the sides of his jacket, I noticed the man move slightly, as if he shook. I was shocked, but was not at first sure whether the body had moved. Still, I wondered why the whole of his body moved and recalled that that was what it was supposed to do because rigour mortis had already set in. But, I consoled myself:

-- I imagined that. It is not true. Why would a dead man be moving? How come this never happened to me before?

I continued to do my job and looked at the gash on the sweater to determine as best as possible what he was attacked with. It was obvious the wound was from a knife. I had forgotten that he had moved, when suddenly, he shook again. I froze from fear now. I made a few steps backwards and looked at him wide-eyed. He shook again and again, as if he was trying to tell me this was all true. I began talking to myself, almost out loud:

-- Impossible! He is not alive! He is dead, he can’t do anything to me!

Films from the past started unwinding before my eyes, films from my childhood. I lived near a cemetery. While I watched the column of people at funerals of their loved ones, I often wondered “What if the dead man comes to life, if he climbs out of the grave and starts moving? My house is close, maybe he comes to me”.

Medical examiners better than roosters 

My mother told me that a long time ago, werewolves used to walk around the village after midnight, while everybody was asleep. They would return to their graves before morning, just as the first rooster crowed. I looked at my watch, it was half past midnight. I would have loved for a rooster to crow in Petrusevac, but morning was far off.

For a moment I thought about leaving the house, join my colleagues at the inn and not tell them what happened. But, I did not because I concluded I would be ashamed on myself later. I convinced myself that a policeman should not fear anything, dangers are a part of this profession.

It lasted a long time, perhaps half an hour, and then I remembered hallucinations and convinced myself this was merely a hallucination caused by tiredness, cold and what not. I convinced myself that the dead man was not moving and, although he shook many times later, I did not take heed. I believed it was not true.

When I made sure the dead man was not moving, that it was not true, there arrived body carriers clothed in blue overalls with gloves that were to take him to the Forensics Institute. I thought “These guys are better than roosters”.

-- Hi Lazo, we always meet in these circumstances, next to a dead man, when will we meet optionally, at beer?

-- Yes, yes – he barely stuttered and thought that, after all this, a beer would be welcome.

The wife and cat did it 

They raised the dead man and a moment later a cat peeked out beneath the pillow, jumped onto the floor and wiggled between our legs into the hallway and disappeared into the night. Nobody but me paid attention to the cat. I was relieved, everything was clear to me now. It was warm for the cat underneath the pillow in this room. It moved occasionally and as the dead man was stiff, he shook lightly.

A little later, police officer Begovic arrived from the Inn. He said the deceased had never been at the inn and was not attacked there. His wife made it up. She was brought in for questioning and she admitted to killing her husband. She threw the bloody knife into the trash in the street. She made her son tell us that “daddy came from the inn” and I recalled: “That is where the blood drops came from. They dripped off the knife”.

After this, it became clearer where werewolf stories came from. They are only partially true, from where something unknown remained, somebody added something. I held on ‘my case’ until the end, I have added nothing, which is why my story is like this.