The basement, although huge, seems no larger than that of a small closet due to the ridiculous amount of clutter bordering the brick walls. Among the junk are several cardboard boxes tearing at their corners, yard equipment in desperate need of repair, and a weathered armoire. In the center of the room is a long wooden table that has seen better days. Two of its legs are propped up on top of folded cardboard and, just by looking at the tabletop itself, the thin wooden planks are starting to separate from one another. The room is nearly pitch black, the only light coming from a long stretch of glass hanging just below the ceiling on the left wall. Light glistens through, barely able to slip inside the window from the overgrown grass on the other side.

There's an eerie comfort in the silence, soon interrupted as Shane Edwards opens the door from the top of the staircase and flips the light switch. A single light in the room flickers on, the loose bulb hanging low directly above the table. The middle-aged man is slightly overweight, deep wrinkles weighing in around his cheeks. Although he is in his own home, he always wears the same distressed baseball cap to cover up his baldness as he does just about every day. He slowly descends the stairs, his hand scaling the wooden railing as it trembles with each step he takes.

A family of old mannequins, three female adults and two seemingly agender children, watch as he reaches the bottom of the staircase. He remembers the day, several years ago, when his wife had brought them home throughout the short amount of time she wanted to become a fashion designer. They are the first thing he notices every time he goes down here and always looks upon them as if, one day, they will go missing. Each of their pale skin is cracked, slowly deteriorating with time. It saddens him, perhaps more than it should, as he can't help but somewhat relate to the feeling.

He passes the tables edge as he approaches the armoire. The long doors creak dramatically as he pulls them open, knowing that any day now they are bound to rip from their hinges. Taking in a heavy sigh, he adds it to his mental list of seemingly endless things that need to be fixed around the house. Instead of clothes, the inside of the wardrobe had been gutted to make room for about a dozen or so shelves. Each one is a disarray of mason jars and plastic containers filled with various chemicals, some a faint blue or daffodil yellow and others clear as water. Nothing has a label but, not needing one, he reaches in to snag one of the jars on the top shelf that sits next to a thick roll of plastic wrap. He turns to set it on the table behind him, the clear liquid sloshing around inside of the glass container.

A chest freezer, its aluminum coating once a bright white, sits tucked in the right hand corner of the room between a tall stack of old newspapers and a rusted metal locker. As Shane lifts the door to the freezer, it drapes the brick wall across from him in an illuminating sheet of a deep cerulean hue. Ignoring the foul smell that reeks from inside, or perhaps just used to the stench, he leans into it—almost to the point of falling inside—until his fingers graze across the plastic lining of a bag. He leans further to make sure he is grabbing the right one, as many of them are poorly stacked in an unorganized pile. Smiling, his clench tightens as he slowly lifts the large bag out and turns around to gently set it on the table with both hands. He brushes his hands together, even though he has yet to get them dirty, and slams the freezer door back shut.

The contents of the bag are distorted through the thin layer of frost covering the plastic, however it is as stiff as a rock. He looks down at it, using his right fist to wipe at the frozen condensation—revealing the extended jaw of some type of animal, its expression snarling at him.

"Hello there." He whispers, his smile widening as he tilts his head to study the creature.

Moments later, after further preparation and allowing the bag to defrost, Shane manages to pull the folded fur carefully out from the bag. He stretches the pelt out across the table as if he were fixing the sheets on a bed, humming softly to a song he had created in his own mind. The skinned wolf is sprawled out, each of its legs stretched to a corner of the table as its head lies flat on its chin.

Its glossy eyes stare blankly forward into Shane's as he leans down to get a better look at the animal, or what's left of it really. As he peers back at it, he now has the jar open as he dips a soft sponge into it, releasing his grip on the swab to allow it to soak up a good amount of the clear chemical. Next to the animal's right front paw lies a rather large sewing needle and a roll of black thread. A cast in the wolf's original form, a plaster mold he had made days prior, now sits on the table in front of him.

With his free hand, he softly pets at the frigid fur sticking up on its head. He fixes the disheveled coat and his hand reaches behind the left ear to scratch it with his fingernails, as if offering the wolf a moment of brief pleasure.

"It's okay." He says softly. "I'll make you better."

He gets to work.