...Ooops. Forgot this bit was in here. Darling Sammy carefully wheels a rented SUV through a lonely stretch of track deep within the thick forest surrounding Erie, Pennsylvania. He keys off the engine, glances warily around the apparently deserted woods surrounding the car, and flips down the driver's-side visor to retrieve that map of likely Frankendoc locations he and Dean had been consulting when Bobby called. He steps out of the SUV with the map and a flashlight, and then carefully and conscientiously activates the locks, all the way out there in the middle of nowhere. Heh. Dork.
Vermont. And long story short, Rufus sent a photo of Bela's ear -- as captured on his security camera, natch -- to a friend of a friend of a friend at Scotland Yard, or someplace, and received in return ten pages of her confidential criminal file. 'Cause, you know, them Yurrpeens loves their hifalutin' fancy-pants technology so much. Also because Posh Bela apparently burned her fingerprints off years ago, and ear patterns are the next best thing, but who cares? The point is, the file is now Dean's, and he can find "that skinny, stuck-up English girl" in Room 39 at The Hotel Canaan. Got all that? "I do!" Excellent.
Dreary Erie. The Ginormotron switches on his bitty flashlight and tiptoes through a decrepit hunting cabin that shows signs of recent human-ish activity, so he knows he's in the right place. He quietly rummages around until he stumbles across Frankendoc's private journal, lying right there on the desk, and he quickly shoves it into his jacket pocket before continuing his search. Soon enough, he's found the trap door to the cellar, and he bends down, and down, and down, and down, and down, and down and down and down and down and down, and down one more time to poke his freakish Cro-Magnon skull into the musty blackness before carefully planting his remarkably large feet on the creaky planks and picking his way downstairs. The Samalike, most thoroughly dead, remains upon the operating table of his doom, though Frankendoc's been kind enough to wrap most of the corpse in a modestly concealing sheet. Sam, cautiously freaking, abandons his near-doppelganger's body to scope out the rest of the basement and presently, his flashlight's beam lands upon a petite twentysomething's delicate forearm that is simply crawling with wriggling, scrawny maggots. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Yep, Frankendoc's flayed open the lady's arm either to stitch the skin onto his own or -- as one particularly sick twist on the forum boards suggested -- because "he was doing a little veinwork," and the festering wound is now indeed a most grisly sight to behold. "Yum!" You're scaring me again, Raoul. "I meant the maggots, not the arm! Honestly! What sort of creature do you think I am?" Uh, a...oh, never mind. Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: Just as Darling Sammy stretches out a concerned hand to check the flayed lady's neck for a pulse, The Flayed Lady's eyes snap open in instant terror, and Sam tries frantically to calm her down so he might make with their escape. Unfortunately for him, Frankendoc's just arrived home upstairs and is now creak-creak-creaking across the floorboards above on his way to the cellar's trap door. Thinking both fast and very much off-screen, Action Sammy frees The Flayed Lady from the leather straps binding her to the table and flees with her through one of the hastily and shoddily boarded basement windows, so that by the time Frankendoc swings his lantern around the space they'd occupied, the only thing he finds is the METAL TEETH CHOMP!