Beatrice Never Leaves

This story has been percolating in the back of my mind for years. It’s based on a bizarre, real-life event I came across about 25 years ago—about a taxidermist who fell in love with a badger he was preserving. I wanted to explore why he did it, and while I tapped into his obsession, I never really thought of how ‘Beatrice’ (that’s the name he gave to the badger) might play a bigger role in the story.

Earlier today, I was wrapping up a post on my other Brittle Views website where I explore storytelling, creativity, and the intersection of imagination and technology, and offer personal reflections and insights into the creative process. My latest post is all about how AI can act as a creative partner in flash fiction, helping writers generate ideas, refine structure, and trim word counts, all while keeping their unique voice intact.

After I published the post, I had the idea to revisit this old story idea, and see if I could get it over the finishing line. While I no longer had the original draft (it was lost years ago, in one of those all-too frequent Windows crashes of the time), nor could I find any reference to the incident online, I remembered the general outline pretty well. Once you’ve read about something like this happening in real life, you tend not to forget it.

I have to say that with AI, writer’s block tends to be a thing of the past for me. Hmm… I will modify that slightly. What tends to happen is that I will often go down some other rabbit hole and write something else, but I tend to find that often gives me the energy to come back and get beyond the original block.

So without further ado, here is “Beatrice Never Leaves”—a haunting little tale about love, obsession, and the things we can’t let go of. It’s dark and strange, and finally, it’s finished.

Beatrice Never Leaves

Beatrice. That’s what he’d named her.

It started as a joke. The badger lay on the table, her fur still glossy, her eyes vacant. “You look like a Beatrice,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the quiet workshop.

At first, there was nothing in return. But as the hours stretched on, Beatrice spoke—or, at least, he imagined she did.

“Beatrice, huh? Not what I’d have picked.”

He chuckled at the absurdity. A talking badger. Years of working alone, surrounded by silence and lifeless creatures, had warped something in him. He knew the voice wasn’t real, but somehow, it made the work easier.

Conversations with Beatrice became routine. He’d ask about her life in the wild, her adventures before ending up on his table. And she always answered, her tone playful and teasing.

“You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen,” she’d say. It was comforting, in a way. She kept him company when no one else would.

But things shifted the day she asked him a question.

“Why do you spend your time with the dead?”

His hands stilled; needle poised above her fur. For a moment, he didn’t answer. The silence felt thicker than usual, suffocating.

“Because they don’t leave,” he whispered. “They stay.”

After that, Beatrice’s voice faded. Not gone, but quieter. Still, the taxidermist couldn’t admit to himself how much he missed her constant chatter.

When the client called, asking about Beatrice, panic surged in his chest. She wasn’t just another project. She was his. The idea of giving her back felt like tearing something out of himself.

“She’s been stolen,” he blurted out. “I’m terribly sorry.”

The client—a gruff, no-nonsense man—was silent for a beat too long. “Stolen? From your workshop?”

“Yes,” he lied, his throat tightening. “I’ve contacted the police. They’re investigating.”

The client paused, and the taxidermist’s breath caught. He could feel it—just a second too long, just enough suspicion. His heart pounded as he gripped the phone, waiting for the next word, wondering if the man knew.

The silence stretched, and for a moment, he heard Beatrice’s voice again. “They won’t find out.” But it was quieter this time, a whisper he wasn’t sure he’d heard at all.

“I’m sure they’ll find out soon enough,” the client said finally, his voice thick with doubt.

Days passed, but each phone call sent the taxidermist’s stomach into knots. He could feel the client pressing, digging. Each lie stacked on the one before it, until the weight of it all was crushing him. Every time the phone rang, he braced for the client’s final push, the moment the lie would unravel.

When the police knocked on his door, he knew it was over.

But it wasn’t just Beatrice they found.

Rabbits, foxes, birds—animals he’d taken over the years, all arranged around a table in his home. A birthday cake sat in the middle of the scene, as if they were frozen mid-celebration. A grotesque parody of life.

Now, he sits in his cell, waiting for sentencing.

The courtroom had been packed, his former clients staring at him in disgust as the photos were shown. The police described the scene in excruciating detail, and he’d heard the gasps, felt their eyes burn into him.

“Why?” the judge had asked, eyes cold and hard.

The question still echoes in his head now, bouncing off the cold concrete walls. Why?

How could he explain it? It wasn’t just about the animals. It was about the silence they filled, the companionship they gave when there was nothing else.

Maybe it had started with the divorce. He hadn’t let himself think about that in years—not until now. Not until he realized how much emptiness had been left behind. The animals had filled that space, stayed with him when no one else did.

In his mind, Beatrice’s voice is faint but still there.

“You kept me,” she whispers again, stronger this time, clear. “I’ll never leave.”

He closes his eyes, leaning his head against the cold wall. “I did,” he murmurs.

The world outside waits for his sentencing, but in here, with Beatrice’s imagined voice still lingering, he wonders if it was all worth it. He doesn’t feel guilt—not in the way they want him to. He feels relief. Beatrice will never leave him.

And in his silence, so does she.

© 2024 Robert M. Ford. All rights reserved.