Skeletal Remains
A Grisly Collection
Edited by Keith Gouveia
Mr. Marrow Copyright 2012 by Lorne Dixon
Lucky Thirteen Copyright 2012 by Suzanne Robb
Rainforest of Bones Copyright 2012 by Armand Rosamilia
A Frontier Banquet Copyright 2012 by Jonah Buck
A Dirty Dozen Copyright 2012 by Matt Peters
The Bone Thief Copyright 2012 by Keith Gouveia
Anatomy Copyright 2012 by Lisamarie Lamb
Flotsam Copyright 2012 by Rebecca Snow
In the Name of Science Copyright 2012 by Giovanna Lagana
Cover Design by Matt Peters
SmashWords eBook
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, including electronic format, except for purposes of review
First Print Edition – January 2012
Mr. Marrow
Lorne Dixon
Mr. Marrow, a collection of bones drilled and threaded with connecting wire, dangled in the corner of the Biology II classroom with the same uneven grin as old Mr. Hutchinson. The main differences between the two was that the biology teacher had flesh and skin, worse posture, and a fashion sense better suited for used car sales. Mr. Hutchinson had no left arm. He never told us which war he’d fought, but word passed down from the older, wiser Senior class to us big-eyed Sophomores was that it might well have been the Civil War: the man was ancient. Mr. Marrow, the skeleton, was missing the same arm, though it was far more likely vandals, not Confederate soldiers, were to blame for his loss.
Of course, we were naive and pubescent, so it’s entirely possible that my memory has exaggerated all of this. I remember Becca Cavanagh being the most gorgeous, most amply endowed girl in all the world, but her photo in the 1988 yearbook tells a very different, barely 26B-cup, acne-infested story.
Some teachers could engage us just enough to make the day tolerable. Miss Whotten, two years out of college, always kept our interest, though I’m sure our attention focused more on her neckline than British Literature. Morgan, my best friend and band-mate, had enough of a thing for her that he worked up the courage on graduation day to ask her out on a date. I won’t bore you with the result. You can figure it out.
Mr. Hutchinson was no Miss Whotten, not by a long shot.
If anyone learned anything in his Biology class, it must have been through osmosis. He had the kind of droning, monotone voice that could have put an insomniac into a coma. Because of his missing arm, each day he’d assign a student the role of Blackboard Stenographer, the thankless job of chalking out notes at the front of the class. I was given the job three times that semester, and each time a strange haze came over my mind when I picked up the nub of chalk. I never could remember the act of writing, but by the end of the class, the board was filled.
Here’s the weird thing: it never resembled my handwriting.
It looked like Mr. Hutchinson’s.
Every time I’d finish up my stint as Blackboard Stenographer, he’d hit me with an evil, wide, horse-tooth grin. Sometimes, just for kicks I think, he’d turn on the insult machine and crank it up to full volume. Without warning, he could eviscerate you with his words. That old man had the temperament of a pre-menstrual lady crocodile.
Do crocodiles menstruate? It’s not something I remember learning in Mr. Hutchinson’s class. I did learn that if he caught you sleeping during one of his lectures, head propped up on your hand; he’d come up alongside and sweep your elbow out from under you with his remaining hand. More than once I awoke to the sensation of my head hitting the desk. Once I even chipped a tooth. In addition to the trip to the dentist, he increased the entire class’ homework for a week. It was just one of the ways he’d manipulate his students into submission.
I’d say he ruled the class with an iron fist, but it was really more of a steel hook. The prosthetic arm intimidated us all when he wore it, but it completely freaked us out when he’d take the thing off and drop it onto his desk with a thump. We knew we really had it coming when he did that.
My assigned seat was behind Jimmy “Bloomer” Blumenthal, an awkward long-faced kid with braces too large for his mouth to ever completely close. Morgan sat in front of Bloomer. To pass a note back, Morgan always had to give Bloomer a hard look that suggested he’d beat the kid’s face into an impressionistic painting if he didn’t comply. Bloomer was perpetually frightened of getting caught by Mr. Hutchinson and squirmed whenever a note came his way. Fortunately, he was terrified of Morgan—probably justifiably—and was actually pretty good at sneaking folded paper between desks without detection.
The note that Bloomer slid onto my desk that day was a perfect example of the shorthand that Morgan and I practiced. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have meant much. But we always understood. The note read:
MR. MARROW 4 BOTB
I rolled my eyes. He wanted to steal the science room skeleton for use as a stage prop for that night’s annual Verlaine High Battle of the Bands competition. Morgan and I had brought up our grades just enough to participate this year, which was something of a triumph in itself, and we intended to win. Our band, Casketlids, was nothing more impressive than a sloppy two-chord punk rock trio, but it was ‘80 and we just couldn’t fathom Nicky Schnickel’s impossibly bad attempt to channel Peter Frampton winning for a third year in a row. I mean, Baby I Love Your Way again? Really? Was it still the Stone Age? The song was five years old, for cryin’ outs.
We could have asked Mr. Hutchinson for permission to borrow Mr. Marrow, I suppose, but I always preferred failure to come as a surprise, not a foregone conclusion. Between classes, I met up with Morgan at his locker and he laid out his plan. We’d hide out in the school until all of the teachers had gone and then hustle out the science wing emergency exit with Mr. Marrow under our arms. He made it seem simple. There was no rational reason to argue. We would do this.
Remember what I told you about Becca Cavanagh? Yeah. Sometimes as a teenager I didn’t have the best judgment in the world. Most times, probably.
Doug, drummer and tech school drop-out, was recruited as our getaway car driver. His dad had gotten fired for drinking on the job the month before, so he could take off with the family’s ‘73 Pontiac Safari pretty much whenever he wanted. It was a great car for moving band equipment; it just wasn’t always as reliable for moving. More than a few times over the last few weeks, Doug had to get out and pound on the starter with one of his drum sticks to get it to start. We had a brief discussion about how that could be a problem, but decided almost at once that it was a chance we’d have to take.
I can’t say that I gave it much more thought for the remainder of the day. Morgan always had some stunt planned; I’d come to expect that we’d be doing something illegal, dangerous, and/or reckless once school let out. In fact, this wasn’t anywhere near the craziest thing he’d conceived, or that we’d done. I’m fairly positive the statues of limitations have expired on all of those acts, but just to be sure, you’ll need to use your imagination and fill in the blanks.
My final class was Phys Ed, which you’d think I would have hated, but didn’t. Asthma kept me away from any strenuous contact sports, so I spent most of the year playing volleyball with the girls. At that age, pure nirvana. My team lost every game that day, but I still felt like a winner. The bell rang and I sighed. It was the one class I wished wouldn’t end. Without showering, I dressed and met up with my band-mates in the parking lot.
Doug was perched on the Safari’s hood wearing a faded Stooges t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans held together with duct tape and safety pins. He might have been the dumbest of the three of us, but I think Morgan and I were always a bit in awe of him. Two years older, he had the clothes and boots we didn’t, not to mention a record collection that included the Pistols and the Damned. We couldn’t buy those records at the Kmart, and that was the only place in Verlaine to buy music. Doug even claimed he’d seen the Ramones play a club in Trenton called City Gardens. We didn’t believe him and gave him the business about it any time we could.
“This our ride to Spitty Gherkins?” Morgan asked as we approached, hacking up a wad of mucus to accentuate his cheeky play on words. If it was possible to harness the sheer glowing smugness of his expression into electricity, you could have powered Verlaine for a decade.
Dougie extended a finger. “Y’creep.”
“How’ya doing, man?” I asked. No one expected a reply.
Morgan laid down the specifics of his plan. Doug would pull the car around to the side parking lot and let it idle while we went around to the cafeteria service entrance and slipped back into the school. It’d be a couple of hours before the building emptied out- maybe not completely even then if there was cheerleader or jockstrap snapping practice tonight. Doug didn’t argue. He had his off-brand Walkman with him. He’d be fine waiting in the car.
We slipped into the school, our plan aided by the fact that no one cared whether we were inside the school after final bells; there still were students wandering between the library, gymnasium, and tutoring centers. We crept through the hallways like we were on some sort of secret mission, backs arched, heads low. The science wing was empty.
Empty, that is, except for Mr. Hutchinson’s classroom.
He was still there, sleeping upright in his chair, prosthetic arm detached and waiting on his desk like a sunbathing python. Mouth bobbing open and closed, his snoring could be heard from the far side of the hall. Morgan used two fingers to pantomime a pair of walking legs and then pointed to Mr. Marrow in the corner. The crazy schemer wanted to steal the skeleton right out from under the science teacher’s nose.
I lost my nerve and shook my head.
Morgan smirked. That twisted little smile was directed at me, an unmistakable expression of disappointment and disgust. I was used to getting that look from my father after his fifth can of Robin Hood Cream Ale. Seeing it on my best friend gave me a shudder, the kind I usually associated with déjà vu, except this one was the reverse: a vision of the future where Morgan and I had become old and embittered and everything I hated about my old man.
Not to spoil anything, but it turns out I was wrong. That was no vision of the future.
I could tell that he had a string of fiery obscenities ready to be hurled in my direction, but after a moment passed he must have reconsidered. Patting my shoulder, he whispered, “Just go wait in the car with Doug.”
So I did. I left him lurking outside the Biology classroom, standing on the tips of his toes, ready to launch into stealthy action the moment I was gone. That was my impression, anyway.
I should probably cut in here and give you a little back story. It didn’t come as much of a surprise when Morgan revealed his plan to steal Mr. Marrow. It wasn’t just our daily criminal mischief, no, this was personal. Mr. Hutchinson failed Morgan the year before, forcing him to retake Biology I over the summer. That meant he couldn’t go on the road trip he and his brother Lee had been planning for two years. Lee died in a pile-up on I-43 outside Howard, Wisconsin. Morgan never forgave that.
I waited in the car. I listened to Doug listen to a mix tape on his Walkman, kind of like inhaling second hand smoke except tinnier and less cancerous. I can’t say I was bored; as hoped, the cheerleaders were practicing out on the track field.
Four three-minute songs and five cheer routines later, Morgan burst out through the service entrance, half carrying and half dragging Mr. Marrow and his wooden stand behind him. I flung open the door and slid across the bench seat, getting out of the way only a second before Morgan leaped inside and tossed the skeleton into the back seat.
Then he dropped Mr. Hutchinson’s prosthetic arm into my lap and slammed the door shut behind him. Doug fired up the Safari’s engine. It started with a sound like a shotgun blast in an echo chamber and coughed a plume of gray smoke out of its exhaust. He cut the wheel hard and stomped on the accelerator. Spinning, tires smoking and shrieking, we rocketed off school property.
I stared at Mr. Hutchinson’s arm. There was a generous splash of blood on the blunt end. I waved it in Morgan’s face. “What’s this? What happened in there?”
The grin, now as annoying as a fast food advertising campaign, returned in all its glory. He pushed the hook out of his face with one blood-speckled hand. “Nothing happened. You understand? Nothing.”
“What do you mean no-”
“Nothing.” There was something in his eyes that stopped me cold. A glimmer of something cruel and dark. He no longer reminded me of my dad after five beers. Morgan beamed three six-packs full of evil.
We didn’t talk as Doug drove. Morgan rocked in his seat with nervous energy, drumming the side of his leg with his thumbs as if playing along with a song I couldn’t hear. When the Safari pulled up to his house, he burst out of the car and danced with Mr. Marrow, one arm outstretched. We watched in confusion. Settling down, he came up to the passenger’s side window and held the skeleton up like a puppet. Moving its jaw with his hand, he spoke out of the side of his mouth as if performing a ventriloquist act. “Just gonna dress him up a little for the show. Y’know, fake blood and whatnot. Gonna freak out ol’ Mrs. Hightower something good.”
Mrs. Hightower was the school’s receptionist. We’d got to know her pretty well over the last few years while waiting in the office for the principal to call us inside “for a talk”. She was snooty.
Morgan trotted away. Doug drove me home. The lanky boy rarely said much more than a spare word here or there, but on that drive he managed three, possibly a record. “He’s spooky today.”
I agreed, then got out, thanked him, and went inside my house to fight with my father. He wasn’t drunk that afternoon, not anymore. Sometimes the hangovers were worse.
At quarter to six, the Safari returned to pick me up. Morgan was already in the back seat with Mr. Marrow. He pretended to make out with the skeleton for a moment before pushing its skull into my face. I pushed it back a few inches so I could actually see what he’d done. All sorts of weird symbols covered the bones in smeared dark brown, the color of dried blood. Some of them looked like they could have been based on Egyptian hieroglyphs or Asian characters, but I think his intent was more likely Satanic. “What’ya think?”
“Cool,” I said in a bored, offhand tone that conveyed how lame I thought it was. It was heavy metal crap and I wished I could tell him as much, but I was in no mood for an argument. Instead, I bobbed my head in a weak nod and stared back at my best friend. His skin was pale and porous, probably leftover Halloween makeup, and he wore a second-hand suit that didn’t come even close to fitting. A ragged purple necktie hung around his neck. Strangest of all, he’d drawn red lines down the backsides of his wrist to the center of his palm.
He noticed me staring, pulled the skeleton back, and crossed his arms. His eyes flickered down to my shirt. “You’re wearing the same clothes as you did for school?”
“Guess so,” I said, shrugging.
He settled back into the bench seat. “Guess so,” he imitated. “Maybe you should put a little effort into this? Into something. Act like you care?”
“Whatever.” I turned away.
Doug’s finger whirled around his ear. He’s crazy, dude.
The Battle of the Bands event was not really a school-sponsored event, though almost everyone mistook it as such. No, it was actually put on by the Drama Club, mostly out of annual desperation when their holiday musicals failed to sell enough tickets to cover production costs. As a result, it couldn’t take place on school property. We pulled up to the dilapidated Gray Army Shrine hall and noted that they’d run out of letters for the illuminated sign above the entrance. It read:
TONITE V3RLAIN3 B4TTL3 B4NDS
We parked and headed inside. Morgan stumbled as he walked with Mr. Marrow under one arm, knees bending at perilous angles, and I noticed that his shoulders were asymmetric— one straight, the other hunched. I offered to carry the skeleton, but he pulled away and told me he was fine, he’d just knocked his back out of alignment that afternoon moving some firewood.
“Firewood?” I asked. His house had no chimney.
His neck cracked as he nodded. “Yeah, firewood.”
Doug snickered. “...firewood.”
Inside, we found the stage already set. All four bands would use the same equipment to reduce the amount of time between performances. No sound checks. We would be allowed to play only two songs, not to exceed ten minutes, and one had to be a cover. I’d petitioned Morgan all week for I Want You To Want Me, not punk of course, but cool enough and it wouldn’t get us kicked out of the competition, but he fought back hard, insisting on Ian Matthews’ Shake It. I thought it was a horrible choice, but after a few practice sessions, it became clear that sped up and played with power chords, it could work. Still, y’know, awful song.
The second track, the original, was one I wrote and we all knew was the best thing we had in our arsenal. You might know it. It Ends Well? I eventually recorded last year with my band Grapefruit. It’s gotten some play.
We were early, but that gave Doug and I time to slip behind the building and sip whiskey from his flask. Morgan didn’t come along, which was out of character, but it wasn’t like we minded. It was clear he was in a weird mood and we needed to be a little drunk just to deal with him. When the flask was empty we came back inside and saw Mr. Marrow set up on the edge of the stage. Morgan told us the event co-coordinator had informed him that we were first up. Bad news. Opening band was not a stigma we took lightly.
The doors opened at 8 and the place hall filled up quickly. Verlaine was a proper residential town back then, a sort of Mayberry-on-the-Hudson, not the over-populated NYC-spillover cesspool it is today, and there wasn’t much else to do. Goes a long way toward explaining how bad the Drama Club’s musicals really were, doesn’t it? Anyway, the place was near capacity when the house lights dimmed and we were told to take the stage.
I jacked in the bass, headed for the right side of the stage, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Mr. Marrow. Doug plopped down behind us at the drums, twirled his sticks, and tested the span between hi-hat and crash cymbal. Morgan took center stage, stepping right up to the closed curtain. I saw that he’d painted another of those red lines up the back of his neck to his hairline. Must have been an awkward thing to do, I thought.
The event coordinator’s flashlight pulsed three times. Thirty second warning. I ran my fingertips across the strings. The bass hummed in response. I was ready. I turned to Morgan and gave him a thumbs up. As I did, the sleeve of my shirt caught on a metal bristle protruding from Mr. Marrow’s shoulder. Twisting my shirt free, I flicked the wire-work that bound the separate bones together and tried to remember if I’d ever been close enough to notice how haphazard he was constructed. It was terrible, more amateur than I would have imagined from a professional teaching tool. Then my eyes caught something excessively strange, something I was shocked that I hadn’t noticed earlier: Mr. Marrow had both his arms.
Where in the world had Morgan found a replacement?
The curtain shot up and I stared out at the darkened hall.
Doug pounded on the drums. I fingered the thick E string repeatedly, complimenting his beat. Six measures into our frenzied take on Shake It, Morgan’s guitar should have joined in. But no. He stood there holding his guitar with one hand, his other arm dangling at his side, a quizzical smirk on his face.
Frustrated, I wanted to scream.
Nine measures. Nothing from Morgan.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I rushed over and nudged him with my shoulder. It didn’t feel like I struck something completely solid. He turned. His face had shifted. His open lips were no longer centered over his mouth. Between them I saw bright red tendons and ribbed muscle. His eyelids, too, were now hovering where his forehead should have been. Below that, his eyeballs bulged and rotated under a sheet of skin.
I leaped away. And I did scream.
The guitar dropped from his hand and hit the stage floor. The sound of its impact filled the hall with a loud explosion of feedback. He continued to turn. As he did, his skin continued to shift. The lines on his arms and the back of his head peeled open as if the thread had been pulled out of a long stitch.
Morgan’s outer skin fell first, dropping to the stage like a pile of old clothes. His flesh and muscle followed, unfurling and cascading in a shower of red blood and purple internal organs.
Doug fell off the drum stool and scrambled away, overturning the set in the process. The amplified crescendo that blasted out of the house speakers threatened to blow out the front windows.
Morgan was gone. In his place stood a blood-soaked skeleton with a prosthetic arm. At its end, Morgan’s hand dangled from the tip of its hook.
The noise died down. The audience was silent.
I glanced back at the prop skeleton at the edge of the stage and realized it wasn’t Mr. Marrow at all. Hanging from the display stand, covered in markings, was Morgan’s assembled bones. The grinning, malevolent thing that stood center stage was Mr. Marrow.
Out in the audience, someone clapped.
Backpedaling, I stared out at the crowd. Even in the darkened room, I was able to make out faces: beautiful Becca Cavanagh, skittish Bloomer, sexy Mrs. Wooten. But none of them were the source of the applause. They sat, still as statues, transfixed by the gruesome display on stage. My eyes studied the room, searching for a pair of clapping hands.
No, not a pair of hands. Just one, slapping against a chest.
Standing up, Mr. Hutchinson saluted us. He wore a bloody bandage on the crown of his head and a nasty pink and red bruise discolored his face, but he didn’t seem to be in any pain.
In fact, he was grinning.
Lucky Thirteen
Suzanne Robb
“A belief in hell and the knowledge that every ambition
is doomed to frustration at the hands of a
skeleton have never prevented the majority of human beings from behaving
as though death were
no
more than an unfounded rumor.”
1348 - Germany
Mary Buehler wrung out the now clean shirt and hung it up to dry. The pile next to her almost finished, then she needed to sweep out the house, empty the chamber pots, pick some vegetables from the garden, visit the smokehouse, and then make dinner. A typical day she smiled to herself as she watched her son and daughter run around and play.
Guilt weighed heavy on her shoulders. Though she no longer felt the urge to explore, she still could remember the pull on an imaginative young mind. But with everything going on in the village, they were safer under her watchful eye. Behind her, a rustle in the bushes distracted her. She turned, eyes narrowed to pinpoint its cause. Hopefully, it’s just a stray cat. With a shake of her head she rid herself of the strangeness and continued with her chores.
“Hannah, I need you to sweep out the house. With this illness going around I want to keep it clean.”
“Yes, mother,” her daughter replied as she entered the rear of the house with slumped shoulders.
“Stop smiling, Erich, I want you to go and get some meat from the back for dinner.”
Mary smiled as her son stomped away, stubborn like his father. The clouds swirled up above and she felt the coming storm in her bones. A chill ran up and down her spine and for a moment she was positive she’d just felt death’s finger. She turned around, but nothing was there.
Grabbing the now empty basket she went back into the house, the gooseflesh not quite settled. The feeling of being watched one she was unable to reason away.
“Hannah?” she called out. “Hannah, answer me.” The panic in Mary’s voice was palpable.
“What is it, mother? I’m almost done, do you need something else?” her daughter asked in a tone which indicated she really hoped the answer was no.
Mary breathed in a lungful of air before she responded. “No, go out and play, child.”
The fireplace smoldered so Mary walked over and stoked it a bit to fight the cold which had gripped her bones. For a moment she stared at the flames as they danced, a sense of foreboding pressed down on her. The sound of the broom lulled her into a stupor, eyes heavy, she swayed.
Broom? Hannah finished already. Unsteady legs caused Mary to remain stuck to the floor, but her eyes scanned the room. On the back wall a shadow swept the floor. Sweat poured down her forehead, but it didn’t have anything to do with the heat.
“You there, what are you doing?” she rasped out.
The figure stopped its movement and the broom fell to the floor. With a closer look, Mary realized the figure was skeletal, she could make out the rib cage, and rounded skull. What made her blood run cold were the red eyes that she felt pull on something inside of her.
The backdoor opened and she assumed it was Erich returning with the meat. Mary turned to warn him, tell him to run and get his father. But screamed instead as she came face to face with death itself. A crack of thunder and flash of lighting drowned out her plea for help.
The thing in front of her was a skeleton, that much she knew, something straight out of a demon’s nightmare. How it moved, and why its eyes burned with hatred so bright it stabbed her eyes to look at its face, was beyond her imagination. She reached back for the iron poker and raised it. Mary knew it was impossible; it couldn’t have smiled at her. Bleached white bones and rotted teeth couldn’t make an expression.
As she brought the weapon down, it bounced off the creature and fell out of her hand with the force of the impact. She opened her mouth to scream again, but movement so fast she hadn’t known it happened until she stared down at her beating heart. A second later, her lifeless body tumbled to the ground.
The skeleton stepped backwards, then turned into a wisp of smoke as Hannah and Erich ran inside.
* * *
The stench of decay wafted up the street. Hans Buehler gave up his attempt to hold his breath as he ran home. While at the local pub, he’d heard his wife had taken ill.
For the last few weeks their once thriving city turned into a ghost town for the sick and dying. No one thought about the trader who’d come through a month prior, or how wretched he appeared. They were more interested in the money he brought in with his traded goods.
Now bodies were piled on top of one another, the ditches had filled within the first two weeks. After which people lacked the strength to dig, or perhaps they lost their will. Either way, it didn’t matter, the stench of burning flesh was horrid and the fluids leaking from the bodies tainted the water and streets. Animals gnawed on the bodies, then fell sick themselves.
No one knew what to do. The bodies swollen in the torso area with black spots that covered them liberally. Hans dealt the only way he knew how, he went to the pub and thanked God his family was safe. As he raised a mug in prayer, his son burst through the door, the tears on his face all Hans needed to see to put his body into motion.
He arrived at their modest house seconds later, not caring about the rancid fluids collected on his feet now being spread across his home. In the corner, his daughter Hannah sat, the head of her mother resting in her lap. A large pool of blood blossomed on his sweet wife’s chest, and a look of pure terror kept her eyes open in shock.
With leaden feet Hans made his way over and knelt. With a grace belying his size, he stroked the face of his love. “I’m so sorry, Mary, I’m so sorry,” he cried as he picked her up with ease.
As he looked down on her, he noticed the gaping hole, the edges ragged and he’d have sworn on a stack of bibles it looked as if something had been ripped out of her body. The lack of red spots, or other complaints common before those inflicted fell, didn’t come to mind. His only thought was of protecting his children, chances were they were all infected now. He’d failed as a father.
He stepped outside into the storm and headed to the back of their home. No way would he toss his wife’s body in with the others, he didn’t care what the elders said. He’d seen the hill of gnarled flesh eaten away by bugs, animals, and rot. People’s faces slipped off to reveal haunted eyes. The pile was meant for others, not someone as special as his wife. Mary would have a proper burial and not become another twisted face in a mountain of dead. Hefting a pickaxe he began to break up the rocky ground.
After an hour of swinging, the tool felt too heavy to lift and perspiration poured down his brow, but rain obscured and rinsed it away. He went for the shovel and dug a hole an arm’s length wide, and two deep. With the utmost care he placed his beautiful wife in the muddy grave and whispered a prayer. From inside the house, his children watched. The fear of what was to come evident in their eyes.
Hans swore with every shovel full of rock and debris he tossed on top of his wife’s body. He couldn’t keep a job, let his wife die, and now Hannah and Erich were at risk. With a howl of rage he stared into the sky and cursed.
* * *
Elizabeth walked along the terrace that overlooked the hillside all the way down to the village below. She looked up at the full moon for a few seconds then returned to her incessant pacing. Almost an hour later a wisp of smoke appeared, the rattling of glass was heard, then silence.
She relaxed and entered the manor heading straight for the main room. A wooden shelf along the back held twelve jars. Eight of them contained bright red, beating hearts, the last jar slick with fresh blood. She picked up one of the empty ones and caressed it. “Only five more,” she said to the empty room, though she knew her friend heard her.
A knock on the front door roused her from her thoughts. She replaced the jar with careful hands, and as she went to answer the door, she smoothed the front of her dress.
She swung open the door, unafraid of whom or what might be on the other side. “What do you want?” she asked, tone angry.
“Ma’am, I’m from the village below. The elder sent me to see if you were alright, a terrible sickness has taken many lives,” the boy wheezed out.
Elizabeth laughed. “A sickness you say? Well, tell your elder thanks for the concern, but I’m healthy as an ox. You might also want to let him know it’s the plague, you’re village is doomed.”
She shut the door and left the young boy in the downpour, savoring the look of fear on his face when he heard the dreaded word plague.
* * *
Hans wrapped the cloth tighter around his face in an effort to minimize some of the stench. He grabbed the wheel barrel and moved on to the next house. “Bring out your dead,” he bellowed.
A few doors opened and bodies were tossed haphazardly before they were slammed shut again. With a weary sigh he took the brush and can of paint and assigned a large red ‘X’ to the newly stricken homes. Then he kicked the bodies onto a tarp and lifted them up and into the barrel, making sure he felt nothing leak through the thick gloves he wore. He attempted to limit his contact with the corpses, Hannah and Erich were still healthy and he planned to keep it that way.
For the time being he needed a job and this was the only one available. He rolled his way over to the fire pit and heaved up the end of the wooden box, dumping the discolored and bloated things.
* * *
Lars Hausman sloshed around in the small basin the family used to wash in. The water was cool, which was fine, his blood turned to ice with the death of his sons. His wife tended to the sick at the church. The only way she could deal with their losses. Their only remaining child, Henrietta, lay in a sick bed being read last rites.
Lars knew he was being a coward, but who cared? His wife would soon enough get sick and die. Hopefully, he would follow behind. Though no matter how hard he tried to get infected, he stayed healthy.
He held his son, Jacob, when the fever set in, rubbed the red welts with salve, and continued to do the same when they turned black and oozed pus. Nothing made a difference, once infected there was no comforting the sick. And apparently, he was immune to the disease.
With an angry swat, he caused a spray of water to hit the wall. He stood and stared down at his hands as they shook with anger. A noise in the outer room froze him in place. Greta, his wife, would not be back so soon.
Who would be crazy enough to try and rob a house marked with death? Lars lifted his other foot out of the basin and waited. When he heard nothing else, he moved into the main room. The smell of something rancid hung in the air and he glanced around. The fire burned bright, the living area a mess of dirty cloths, rotten food, and cobwebs.
After they took their daughter to the church, Greta never left her side, and Lars never visited. How could a father watch the life empty out of every one of his children and keep his sanity? The chilled water on his body caused a shiver to dance down his spine. He stood naked, and didn’t care.
Something was in the room with him. Instead of being afraid, he welcomed it. He ran around and searched closets, under beds, and behind doors. Perhaps the thief had a weapon and would kill him, or at the least, provide him with a mortal injury.
A few moments later, he finished having found nothing. He grabbed a pair of pants and pulled them on. A shiver of a different kind seized his body as he saw a dark shadow dance along the wall in front of him.
He cried with relief, the sickness decided to take him. Mesmerized with the hallucination, he watched the back wall of the main room as a skeleton-like creature made its way toward him. Is this the torture his sons went through? Did they fear the things they saw?
So relieved he would finally die, he didn’t see the basin and tripped over it, falling halfway into it. He raised himself up and spit out the cold, dirty water. He swiveled his head in every direction and cried out in despair. The shadow was gone, no enemy to kill him, no imminent death.
As these thoughts raced through his mind he felt something move between his legs. He peered down into the murky water and saw two, bright-red orbs staring back at him. He tried to move back, but the basin was small. He put his hands on the edge in an attempt to lift himself out as he watched the red spots enlarge, and a white skull form around them.
Sharp things moved by his thighs as a skeletal head appeared near his stomach. The sound of blood rushing through his ears drowned everything else out. A fear so intense slithered into him and as he opened his mouth to scream, a searing pain in his chest blazed his senses. His arms gave out, but something kept him from sinking into the tub. He looked down; a bloody mess of flesh hovered in front of him, then just as quickly, disappeared.
* * *
Hans looked up at the moon, tonight it was heavy and full. A small aura around it meant it would rain tomorrow. He made a face at the thought, the fires would create more smoke and the streets would run with things he’d rather not think about.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since morning. He decided to take a break and eat when a scream pierced the silence. He took off toward where he thought it came from. Moments later he came across an open door. One he had marked earlier with an ‘X’.
He slowed his steps and called out. “Greta, is that you in there?”
“He’s dead, something killed him, my Lars is gone,” a voice laden with tears answered.
Hans fought with himself as he heard the desperate woman. He walked a bit closer and peered in the open door. On the floor, the body of Lars lay in a pile of blood and water, a tipped basin next to him and a gaping hole in his chest.
The lack of black spots and swollen midriff did not go unnoticed. A flash of Mary when he found her came uninvited. She didn’t have the tell-tale signs of illness either. Hans looked around as if he would find the eyes he felt watching him. Anger took hold of him and he searched for the source of his unease.
Someone killed Lars and Mary in the most horrific of ways. They were not struck down by the sickness. They’d been taken by mortal hands. He stood still as a statue and let the sounds of the village come to him. Running footsteps, heavy breathing, a triumphant laugh, but all he heard was the mournful sound of the wind as it blew through decay laden alleyways.
“Stay put, I’m off to get the elder. There’s something more sinister at work here.”
“Don’t bother, the elder died a week ago,” Greta replied in a hollow voice.
“Then we need a meeting of all able bodied people.”
Hans left as he heard the woman sob in earnest. To clear his ears of her pain, he yelled for those who were healthy to meet in the ale house.
* * *
Elizabeth waited in a comfortable chair for her prize to be brought. Ten jars now stood filled, only three left until the ritual was over.
A series of clicks on the floor inside alerted her to the arrival of her skeletal…friend. The thing moved toward the back shelf all but ignoring her. The heart dripped blood as it was placed in the container. The skeleton placed the lid on top and a slight suction noise could be heard as it sealed. When it raised its bony arms to replace the item, she spoke to it.
“There are only three more needed, will this village last long enough? Three more phases of the moon is a long time.”
Flame red eyes turned toward her. No longer did they frighten her. She’d seen them so many times before. She waited for a response, and smiled when the skull nodded. A second later, it disappeared in a grey wisp of sulphur-tainted smoke.
* * *
Hans slammed his mug down on the table to get the attention of those gathered. “Enough already, listen. We’ve all been affected by this illness in some way, but the death of Lars, husband of Greta, was not from the plague. I saw the body. He’d been gutted by something.” Hans took a swig of the warm mead wincing as it went down. “My own wife, Mary, died in a similar way. At first, I was too overcome with grief to take in the details, but now I remember.”
“Just what in the heck are you talking about, Hans?” An angry patron threw a mug at the wall.
“Yeah, why don’t you have another drink and let us live out what time we got left without telling us scary stories,” another one yelled.
“Who put you in charge anyways? Why don’t you get back to painting our doors so we know who to avoid,” a stout man cried. “And while you’re at it, paint yours as well, you never told us Mary was struck down by this.”
“It’s not a story you fools, there’s black magic going on here and we need to stop it.”
A melodic voice laughed. “There’s something black going on for sure, it’s called the plague you big fool. Let us alone, and go back to collecting the dead,” a woman ordered, her face hidden behind the hood of a large cloak.
“Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before,” Hans asked the mysterious woman.
“I live up the hill a ways, don’t spend much time here. I heard about this meeting and couldn’t miss it. Your stories will only scare people and cause them to do things out of fear. Can’t you see they’re terrified enough as it is?” she replied and raised her voice toward the end.
Hans opened his mouth to answer, but realized the draft in the room was from the now open door she’d used to leave. The other customers went back to drowning their sorrows, some left, and a few stared at the space in front of them. Hans knew most of them had nothing to go back to, but he did.
They might be frightened of the plague, but he was terrified of whatever seemed to be collecting organs out of the healthy. He made his way to the exit and headed home. Hannah and Erich needed him.
* * *
“Skeleton!” Elizabeth bellowed as soon as she returned to her home. “Skeleton, appear before me. I command you.”
The smell of rot, a puff of smoke, and then it stood in front of her. Eye sockets blazing red hatred.
“Get that look off your face. I’m your Master, and you’d be best not to forget it.”
The stark-white figure backed up a bit, but the eyes remained to glow in fury.
“Better, now there is a man in the village. His name is Hans, he gets to be number thirteen, is that clear?”
The response, as usual, was a nod.
“Good, as for the other two needed, perhaps you can teach this man a lesson. I know how you love it when the hearts are full of conflicted emotions.”
A slight change in the color of the eyes could be seen, a happy skeleton made for a happy Elizabeth.
* * *
Hans waited in the main room, unable to tell how much time passed, only that the harvest was uncollected in the fields, and a brutal winter had set in. He no longer worked, his only job now to watch over his children. The number of sick decreased since the first snow. A sigh of relief could be heard. Perhaps they’d been spared the total decimation they’d heard other villages suffer.
He stood and went to the room Hannah and Erich shared. With a gentle push he opened the door and peered in. Their skin was slack and pale, faces contorted in pain and shock. Erich’s skin was in the process of turning a greenish color and a few maggots ate their way through his midsection. Hans walked over and shoved the insects away, cleaning the area with care.
He’d tried his best to stop this from happening, but whatever darkness was at work, he could not fight it.
Erich was the first to die, when Hans had taken Hannah out back to get some meat and fruits. He thought his son would have been safe in the house with him only a few feet away. The scream hit Hans with such force, he needed to suck in several lungfuls of air before he could move, Hannah behind him.
As he burst through the door, he caught sight of a skeleton with blood-red fire where its eyes should have been. Hans blinked and the abomination was gone. He found Erich slumped in a chair near the fire. Hans sighed in relief; his son had just had a nightmare. He went over to rouse him and let out the howl of a wounded animal as his son’s body fell like a limp rag to the floor.
Hannah screamed and Hans knew he needed to stay strong for his daughter. He picked up his son and laid him in his bed, the ground too hard to dig in. Erich didn’t deserve the fires reserved for the ill.
The scream of his son as his heart was wrenched from his chest haunted him for weeks. The sight of the skeleton with fire for eyes insured he would never sleep again in order to keep his daughter safe.
Hannah stayed with him in the main room. She tried many times to get him to move her brother, or get some sleep himself. She accused him of being on the edge of madness. He shook his head at her, told her to be silent, and stay within sight.
No matter how close she sat, not once did she see the skeleton when he did. At the most unusual times it would appear, when he turned to allow Hannah to use the chamber pot he would see its shadow scamper across the wall.
At those rare times his daughter slept, he would watch the skeleton itself draw nearer to him, one time it came so close he could smell the death and decay it embodied. He tried to tell himself the red-eyed demon wasn’t real, but when a bony finger struck out and scratched his face, he screamed.
“Father, what is it? What happened?” Hanna asked in a sleepy voice.
“Nothing, child, go back to bed.”
Hans waited for his heart to stop pounding before he raised his hand to his face. When he brought it back down, blood covered it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was suddenly full of sawdust. He stood making as little noise as possible as he made his way over to the water jug. He took several swallows and wet a nearby rag to wash himself.
When he turned, he fell to his knees at the sight in front of him and cried. He pounded the floor with his fists. Hanna lay in a pool of her own blood; a look of shock contorted her beautiful features.
Since that night, Hans sat with an axe and waited. The skeleton tormented him with shadows, other times he would appear and his eyes sparked at Hans. With every visit he felt his grip on sanity slipping away. He spoke to himself to fill the hours, stuck his hand in the flames of the fire when he felt sleep taking him.
His guest appeared once again, this time accompanied with smoke and a nasty smell. Hans watched it approach him, the eyes seemed to get bigger and brighter the closer it came. His heart beat against his ribcage painfully, he tried to relax, it was only a dream after all.
Something snapped him of his stupor; maybe it was the smoke or the smell. He didn’t know or care. But when he hefted the axe into the air and blocked the bony fist that reached for his chest, he was grateful. The heavy weapon, which he swung with ease from years of use, didn’t even faze his adversary.
Hans continued to swing and parry when necessary, but he tired quickly from lack of sleep and food. As he fought his otherworldly attacker, he asked himself, why bother? The skeleton had left several slashes across his forearms and chest. A rather deep wound gushed blood down his neck.
The room spun and Hans dropped his weapon, it was time. He let himself get down on his knees and looked up into the fiery eyes of his tormentor. He sent up a message to his family apologizing for not avenging their murders, then turned to look at the thing in front of him.