She could hear the gears of the elevator turning. The elevator came to a sudden halt and then the doors squeakily slid open. She stepped out, first making sure to have a look around, so that any monsters roaming about wouldn't catch her by surprise. The room was a crematorium. It smelled heavily of ashes, smoke, and rotting flesh. She slowly walked into the old, gloomy room, her boots tapping on the solid cold floor. She stopped.

There were metal gurneys with stained white sheets thrown over them. There appeared to be human bodies beneath the sheets, and some gurneys had nothing on them at all. The gurneys were numbered. Everything was very quiet until she heard a faint gasping noise. The noise began to sound something like stuttering grunts of pain. The voice also seemed as though it was trying to hold back its sounds, as though trying not to show its pain. Suddenly, it stopped.

Heather thought the sound came from #7. Was that Stanley? It had to be. She gulped and approached it, her heart throbbing. Her shivering hand reached forward to grasp at the white cloth. She stayed like this for a moment, trying to conjure up courage. Then she ripped the sheet off.

She quickly backed away, covering her nose from the power of this fowl stench. She fell backwards onto the ground, gasping, and she scrambled back onto her feet immediately.

She looked at him from afar. His head was covered by a brown cloth bag, string tied around the neck to secure the bag in place. He seemed to be wearing a straight jacket, except that it was so torn and rotted away that it could no longer do its job, were Stanley actually alive. It was stained heavily by old brown blood. Stanley held something in his hand.

Heather wondered if the item could be of some use to her. She couldn't exactly see what it was, however. As much as she didn't want to come towards the corpse anymore, she had to. She walked over and pried his cold, clammy fingers loose using one of her hand—she used her other hand to pin her nostrils shut. She picked up a small doll with black hair and a crumpled piece of paper.

The note read:

Finally.
You're mine.

The last word was smudged up. The note was scratchy and hard to read, thus seeming rushed. Heather dropped the note and doll onto the ground, seeing no use in them after all. She tried not to worry about what it said, and she headed back towards the elevator. Before she reached the doors, she heard someone softly call her name. She quickly hit the button to go up, but the elevator didn't respond. She tapped it a few times desperately and then turned around, her heart once again pounding.

Stanley slowly stood up. He walked towards her unsteadily. He was wheezing and coughing roughly, calling her name again. Heather walked around him, staying close to the wall; she never took her eyes off of him. She reached into a pocket on her white vest and pulled out her small gun.

Stanley grabbed at the bag on his head with both hands and tore a hole to use one eye to look out of. "Heather? My dear?" he choked. "What did you do to your beautiful hair?"

Heather aimed the gun at him. Where should she aim? The head? The heart?

He lunged at her, tightening his hands around her neck. Heather's eyes watered from his stench. "What's the matter? Don't you like me? I love you." She kicked him off of her, grunting as she did so, and she aimed at the hole he made for himself. She fired but missed, and once again he attacked, this time grabbing at her face. He sunk his thumb into her eye, chuckling as he savored the wet, squishy feeling. It was like jelly. Heather screamed, firing random shots. She hit him enough in the torso that he fell down.

He wrapped his arms around her legs. "I can feel power… coming from your womb… I want to—" he was cut off by more gunshots. Heather hit him several times in the head. He dropped onto the ground with a thud, his raspy breath gradually slowing until it stopped completely. Still, she kicked him in the side with all of her strength.

She held a hand over the bloody eye, crying a little from the pain. She downed a health drink and then boarded the elevator, ascending to the next floor.

Although hidden by the cloth bag, Stanley was grinning from ear to ear. He died happily.

C&C welcome, no flaming please.

Sorry for it being so short, and sorry if I've ruined the mystery. I just thought I'd jot down what it would be like if Stanley was a "mini-boss".