Herbert Mullin - Part 4

The blade sliced her open, her flesh separating with a cold precision, skin and fat sliding apart as if they’d been primed to rupture all along. Blood saturated everything—her dress, the grass, his hands, the knife—a predictable mess, though far worse was still to come. He set the knife aside and forced his fingers into the incision, pushing past the spasming muscle that gripped his wrist with the tautness of a worn elastic sheet. Inside, he grasped something solid yet rubbery, with a slight yield to it. He tugged hard, extracting the organ from the abdominal breach he’d carved, its odd, irregular shape further distorted by his clamping hold. It remained connected at both ends to the obscured tangle of organs still housed within her, serving as an initial point for further exploration. Two crude cuts with the knife detached it completely, and it began leaking at once—not blood, but a bitter, foul-smelling substance

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