Axe
By David Rhodes
So it was that on that cool autumn evening in 1888, deep in the farmlands of England that John decided to murder his wife. She bore him no children, and was only a useless, aging maiden shifting about her chores day by day. He gazed upon her with hidden contempt, the sly knowledge of her eventual demise.
“Go fetch me water, woman, I fancy a drink!”
“Is it not cold enough outside for ya? You’re a strange one, ya’ are! Fancy a cold drink!” she declared. Her dirty hair hanged in stands over the shoulders of her tattered dress. Her only dress, for John never saw to it to clothe her in a manner fitting a lady.
Firelight danced on his rough features as he glared at her from his crude wooden throne.
“Go, I say! Or I’ll ‘ave your hide, I will!”
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Ya’ strange rogue of a man!”
She snatched up the rope handle of the bucket and yanked open the lopsided door. The dank cabin inhaled a deep breath of cold air that flickered the fire. John frowned. “Well, get to it!”
Though she was not of great stature, she nonetheless waddled out into the night, and behind her closed the cabin door. “Fancy a drink,” she muttered over yellowing teeth. “Ah, ya’ waste of a man! To the dogs with ya’, I say!”
Past the rough stacks of firewood against the cabin, she waddled with no significant weight to warrant it – only laziness and soreness between her unclean legs. Past the chopping stump with the axe buried in its uneven ringed top, the roughen shaft angling out as is waiting for blistered hands to grasp it once more, to shed puss and blood along its surface.
Useless piece of a man, he is, she thought. I’d like to conjure up something for you, aye!
And then: Stop it, Lillian! Ya’ want to be hanged? Burned at the stake like the rest? Patience, woman, patience!
She made her way to the well, and sat on the circle of stones next to the winch handle. She sighed, her breath a stench carried away by a stiff burst of wind. She tied the bucket to the frayed end of rope dangling over the yawning mouth of darkness, and turned the winch.
Aye, a cup o’ poison might do ya’. Bloody waste, ya’ are…
Unbeknownst to her, a figure slipped out of the cabin, the yellow light spilling onto the ground for a mere instant, a shadow gliding across it, and then…darkness.
As the bucket descended, a burst of wind ruffled her dress, and she glanced toward the cabin, the empty chopping stump. Turning her attention to the well, she leaned forward and peered down, listening for the slight splash of water. Confusion crossed her features. She ceased cranking, and looked around the property. Everything looked proper – the cabin, its windows aglow with transposing firelight, the stacked firewood against the cabin’s side, the vacant chopping stump – she turned back to the well.
A foot fall in the gravel caught her attention, and presuming it was her husband, ignored it.
“Just what in the name of God do ya’ want now, man?”
“Well, why don’t ya ‘ave a look around and see? Stupid wench!”
Lillian started to turn, saying, “Why you bloody -” She ceased speaking, the works caught in her throat. Her widening eyes had just enough time to capture the peculiar image of John standing a few feet away from her, the axe held high above his head as if he were about to split kindling for the fire. She caught the glint of the blade as it came down, striking the very top of her head. As a melon would split apart with the first strike, so it was with Lillian. A split second of ghastliness and pain, and then darkness.
John stood over her corpse, the axe still dangling from his right hand. He felt powerful, and relieved. The wench was useless; and he hardly knew anything about her. His disdain for her had bloomed quickly, and she had suddenly become a problem.
This had not been a marriage of love, nay, a marriage of necessity. She had wanted to marry quickly, saying, “I want to get right to it. Move out in the country with ya’. I cook and do anything.”
John had eyed her. “Anything?”
She had leaned over the rough wooden table, her breasts bulging out the top of her blouse. “Anything. But, I will tell ya’ something: I don’t feel like being the next slice o’ meat for the Ripper.”
“So that’s it, huh? Just trying to escape Jack the knife? Or maybe you’re one of the witches they been hangin’ and burnin’” He had eyed her suspiciously, but lucky for her he already had a few mugs worth of ale sloshing around his sagging belly.
“Oh, right, you twit.” Lillian had said. John gave out a hearty laugh, looked around the pub (most were watching, always hungry for a tidbit of news with their toothless smiles and weather-worn faces), waiting for a similar response from his friends. The other patrons merely chuckled and tilted their mugs to their mouths.
He had known her for a while, to be true, but no one really knew anything about her; she was a mystery when it came to her private life. She was plain looking, which was good enough for any man in the Whitechapel area – to just have a wife could be a blessing in disguise.
He studied the corpse a while longer, and then looked down and realized that the pool of blood was coming dangerously close to his boots. “Damned wench! You’ll not bother me anymore!” He snatched up her feet and dragged her behind the cabin. John fetched the blood-stained axe with his intention already in mind – he had never performed such an act before, except perhaps on an animal while hunting, but this…he raised and swung the axe.
John Claybourne stood back to look at his work. The cool air ruffled his hair, cooled the sweat that ran down his face. Never before had he ever seen a human being in this condition. Regardless, he felt a sense of freedom he had not felt in a long time. He had known exactly how to take care of his problem for quite a while, but had not known exactly when to execute the solution.
He went to the small barn near the house – it was where he kept his horses and cattle during the cold weather. Hay was scattered on the earthen floor as he searched along the inside walls of the shed for what he need; and as soon as he found the burlap bag, a horse whinnied as if to signal the find.
Behind the makeshift cabin lay the pieces of Lillian. A doll with its limbs removed by a child. John went to his knees and opened the bag – though he had committed this heinous act, he still found it difficult to gingerly pick up the pieces and shove them into the bag.
The head. Split apart down to the bottom of her neck. He could hardly gaze upon the atrocity.
He saved the torso for last. A bizarre piece, it was, the main part of the physical body that everything relied on, now reduced to something akin to the occasional pig he would slaughter. Yeah, a pig. The ugly wench was a pig! What am I thinking!
John already knew where he was headed, and he smiled. No one traversed these woods, especially the cemetery. His was the only cabin for miles. He was free. Finally free.
They had had an argument, and Lillian had gone to live with mother. That was all anyone had to know, and it would not be difficult to believe.
So, with a shovel and lantern in one hand (he would come back later and cover up all the blood on the ground – piece of cake), and a heavy burlap bag over his shoulder, John made his way through the nearly barren trees to the one place that had filled his thoughts for weeks. It was a wretched place, yet he longed to pay it a friendly visit.
The cemetery was small, and very old, planted in a clearing that was near to no one except John. No one frequented the place as far as he had seen, but perhaps the people who had once lived on his very property years before would have some stories to tell, indeed.
Many of the headstones and markers were gone, while others were inadequately planted into the ground, tilting over against the insurmountable pressures of time. Near the center, a few had plainly been installed with great care, names carefully carved into the stone. Perhaps they had been the original residents of the area, choosing this place for their dead, and others simply followed suit.
Nothing demarcated the boundaries of this forgotten place, so John chose a spot he considered to be at the very verges; and it was there where he set the lantern down and dug a shallow grave in its dim light, in the cold, hardened soil. The light stretched shadows off in chaotic directions.
He dropped the bag into the hole, and found that part of it was lumpy, nearly ground level. John grumbled in anger and yanked it out of the hole. With the shovel, he attacked the hole, stabbing, scooping – there would be more room this time. The problem would be gone.
He again dropped the bag into the hole, and it looked settled in the bottom, quiet, resigned to the fact that it was indeed dead. John was dirty and tired, yet he smiled as he covered the hole. Each shovel load of soil took a little more weight from his shoulders.
In the burlap bag, Lillian’s head sat on top facing upwards, her eyes closed against the darkness.
He stamped the top down to ensure it didn’t look like a fresh grave, and even took several shovel loads and threw them into the woods. After he had flattened the top, he gather leaves and twigs and spread them across the top. It was now an old grave, no marker, just another of the homeless transients that had no family, buried by the hand of volunteers.
That’s what he thought, anyway…
He hurried back to the cabin, for he had plans. A personal celebration. He had to be careful about it, however, so as to not draw too much attention from the nasty rogues that frequented the Goat’s Head.
Upon arriving, he immediately rushed to the well. It was still unbelievable how much blood had escaped the head. John did not consider this an issue by no means; he pushed the shovel into the soil and turned it over several times until it looked as soil should look. He raised the bucket of water, which Lillian had dropped into the well when…well, she had merely dropped it.
He splashed water over the bricks of the well, for blood and brain matter had been painted onto its side. John was clearly surprised how little there was, and he could have patted himself on the back for a job well done.
Behind the cabin was even less. The body had already been dead, and there were only a few spots to conceal. John suddenly grinned. It was all too easy – the useless bitch was gone, and he could get on with things. Maybe he would even invite one of the whores from the Goat’s Head back to his cabin for some real satisfaction.
The partial moon had risen higher in the black sky, and constellations were evident everywhere. He opened the stable door and entered, greeted by several whinnies. There were only two horses here, along with sheep being kept in another stall. He heard a distinct baaaaahhhh!, followed by his horse whinnying. Apparently, horses and sheep did not get along well, except out in the grazing field.
John saddled his horse, and led it to the front of the cabin, where he flipped the reign around the post. John went back inside and slowly examined the place. John thought: the best place for her to be hiding stuff would be her bedroom. They did indeed, have separate rooms at times, but most of the time John did not want to share the same bed with the wench. And so, he lit a lantern and entered the bedroom. The light stretched shadows across the small room, and John pondered the space for a moment. This was where she had slept most of the time.
He poked his head into a tiny closet and saw a few ragged bits of clothing hanging from a wooden bar, and on the floor was a small stack of books. He picked up one and opened it to examine just what this useless excuse for a woman would be reading.
John was taken aback – this surely had to be some kind of mistake or whim. There were sketches of demon-like figures, words he couldn’t understand. He closed it and looked at the cover: The Necronomicon.
What is this? What kind of strange writings had this sad excuse for a woman been reading?
However, this did not pique his curiosity, since the source was gone. This, too, would be gone – his ignorance would prevent him from studying the book anymore. He would burn everything and be gone with it. Just like they had been burning and hanging witches in town, he would have his own pyre. Only just the belongings of the wretched woman – to burn the body would draw attention. Conversely, her leaving like she did would justify his burning the rest of her belongings. He lived quite a ways from town, yet if any one soul happened by, he would merely say, “Be gone with it! Woman made her choice!”
Gone with it…
He grabbed her belongings into a large bundle, and carried it into the main room of the cabin. Piece by piece, including the strange book, he tossed into the fire, followed by two thick logs to raise the flames and burn all to ashes. He watched the flames grow and then returned outside to his awaiting horse. “It’s off to town, Sadie, let’s go and get an ale or two, shall we?”
He mounted the horse and urged it down the dirt road toward town, passing the barren trees and cold landscape, the place on which no one ventured. It was a bit of a ride, the frigid wind biting his face and hands, but it would be worth it. The pub waited…like a friend waiting for a long-waited visit.
After a while, John reached the White Chapel area on the east end of London. The narrow streets were lined with cobblestones, and the clip clop! of his horse was the only sound, echoing through the dark and fading out to nothing. The mist swirled around him as he slowed, passing dark, narrow alleys, looking for the Goat’s Head.
Soon, the wooden sign appeared, held aloft by a wooden pole, with crude painted letters: Goats Head, along with a small rendition for the name’s sake. John knew not who had painted the sign, nor did it matter – this was his pub of choice (most of the small pubs along this way were the same – the White Chapel area was not what one would call a fashionable part of town). He dismounted and tied Sadie’s reins to the post.
All seemed quiet along the cobblestone street, and in fact he saw no whores hanging out under the gas lamps, or leaning against the walls of the aged buildings, struggling or begging for a trick. Jack had all the dirty women spooked – regardless, the ones that only wanted a place to sleep for the night or a bit of food for their children would surely make an appearance.
They’ll be out soon enough, he thought.
John could hear the laughter from the Goat’s Head, and he hurried inside to join in with his friends.
“Well, if it isn’t John Claybourne!” Ian Masters called out, and all eyes settled on John, and they raised their mugs. “Evening, John!” They called out, intoxicated and happy to see him.
“Good evening all! And isn’t it nice to see ya’!”
“And it’s a pleasure to see you, John,” Barry Maynard cried out from a table in the corner of the room. His white beard and moustache covered most of his face, and he was probably the most recognizable regular at the Goat’s Head. After all, he looked as if he had just crawled out of a cave after thirty years or so, and had made the pub his new home.
“Nice to see ya, John,” Jean said from behind the bar. “Where’s the other half?
A nice warm fire was burning and licking up in the huge fireplace in the far wall, and John chose a seat there at a round roughen table among some friends he knew would surely accept him and they raised their drinks to him in welcome.
“How ‘bout an ale to warm up me bones?”
“Comin’ right up. Ya’ still didn’t answer my question.” The waitress said.
“Well, why don’t you come a little closer, and I’ll tell ya!”
The two other men at the table laughed heartedly – Ian Masters and Cory Tabor. “You must be a free man tonight, John!” Cory said. His fetid breath blew straight into John’s face, but it bothered John not – not this night, to be true!
John smiled widely. “I am a free man tonight!”
Jean came over with a full mug of ale for John, and he put an arm around her waist, nearly reaching around to her breast, which was nearly hanging out of her sheer white top.
She set the beer down on the table, and then sat on John’s lap. “Well, aren’t you the spry one tonight?” She pushed her breast against him, and he tried to pull her closer, only to have her jump up. “Got work to do, honey. Where’s Lillian?”
John took a long pull from his mug, and wiped the foam from his mouth. “Well, I’ll tell ya’. We had one hell of a spat, we did!”
“Did ya’ pound her, John?” Ian asked, a doubtful shadow crossing his features.
“No, I didn’t pound her, ya’ buffoon!” John called out, and scattered laughter from the pub ensued. “Aw, hush it all, would ya?”
Jean stood and put her hands on her hips. “Well, then where is that woman?”
He took another few swallows. “She left. She up and gathered her things and left! Ya’ believe it? Said she was goin’ back to her mother’s!”
“Her mother’s” Cory blurted out. “Ain’t that just like a woman?”
“You watch your tongue, man,” Jean said and hurried off toward the other tables and waiting patrons.
John leaned forward. “Yep, she left me free and clear. I told her not to come back. Enough was enough, and she said ‘agreed!’”
“Well, here’s to freedom!” Ian said, and lifted his mug. The three tapped their mugs together and then swallowed to complete the toast. Cory burped loudly, most obviously followed by a rancid taste. John smiled widely.
“I still can’t believe ya’ moved out to that piece of cursed property, anyway, John.” A gravelly voice said from behind him. John turned and saw Barry Maynard standing there, one eye cocked up with serious consideration.
“What are ya’ talkin’ about, ya’ silly old fool?” Cory and Ian chuckled and swigged beer.
“What I’m talkin’ ‘bout is that cemetery ya’ moved by, ya’ fool!
John leaned back and studied the old bearded mug; and thoughts of Lillian crossed his mind. “I think you’re talkin’ crazy, Barry. Maybe you should be driftin’ on home now.”
Instead, the old man snagged the edge of a chair and scraped it back across the wooded floor, and plopped his formidable figure down in it.
“Just what are ya’doin’, Barry? I told you to scat!”
“Just listen a moment, John, and I’ll be goin’.”
Cory and Ian suddenly had worried looks; they glanced at each other briefly, and then back to the old man.
“Back before you came to these parts, they, well, they had some trouble over in the next district. Not here, in White Chapel, but over a ways, in Morington. It was a witch hunt it was, and it turned ugly, I tell ya’”
“I heard about, ya’ old geezer – why in God’s name are ya’ tellin’ me?”
Cory and Ian remained silent – they already knew the truth that the bearded old man was about to reveal to John.
“Well, John, they discovered that some women were practicing the dark arts – the evil things, ya’ know. They went after every woman in Morington. Some they suspected. But, they weren’t given trials. They forced ‘em in front of the Magistrate, and some pleaded for their lives, and yet, they found books, and other odd things among their belongings. No trial, John. They hanged ‘em.”
“Well, maybe they were witches. What of it?”
“Others came before the Magistrate, and cursed the very ground he walked on. ‘Tis true. They burned ‘em alive while everyone watched. They cursed everyone as they burned, till their last breath! I saw with my own eyes, John!”
John tilted his head, irritated at this white haired man’s horrid stories. He lifted a hairy fist. “Ya’ better tell me why you’re tellin’ me these ungodly tales, old man, before I put you down right now!”
“I’m tellin ya’, before you came to these parts, your farm was empty. They needed a place to put all these cursed bodies, so they put ‘em out in those woods. Those woods near your farm, John. I’m only tellin’ ya’ for your own good. Some of the families went and put markers, others snuck out at night and put small markers there – probably other witches. I’ve seen it! They’re just buried straight into the ground – no casket, nothing’. They say some fled, and others carried on normal lives, so as not to draw attention. But I s’pose they decided they had done their work, and things went on, ya’ know”
John’s face went blank. He thought Lillian, buried in pieces in that very place. The book. Her ragged clothes and her growing, hateful attitude – the face split in two…
John’s countenance was already ugly, with his large, gnarled nose and pocked features, but an even uglier shadow of anger crossed his features as he stared at his friends. Cory and Ian could not make eye contact with the man. The obvious made it clear.
“And you two bums knew this?”
“We’re your friends, John,” Ian said. “We didn’t want to fill your head with idiot stories.”
“That’s right, John. Ya’ came here, got a nice little farm, and a wife even. We didn’t want to put a bad air to the place. You’re our mate!” Cory exclaimed.
John’s face calmed. “All right, so you’re my friends. Ya’ coulda’ told me.”
“We’re sorry, old mate. Really, we are,” Ian said, Cory nodding in agreement.
“All right, ya’ bunch a’ bloody rogues! I forgive ya’. A sorry lot you are!”
Friendly laughter filled the table, and John noticed Barry was even laughing.
“You, you get outta my site! You and your stories. Get on with ya’!”
The old man scooted his chair back, and stood. “I’ll get, John, but ya’ stay away from that place.”
Again, John raised a thick, hairy fist, and the old bearded man shambled away to his old haunt in the corner.
“Aye, I’ll even share more ale with ya’, scoundrels!” he said. “Jean, sweetheart, ‘ow about another round over here?”
“Comin’ right up,” she answered from behind the bar, over the scattered, indiscernible discourse occupying the pub.
“So,” Ian said, “the woman up and left ya’, huh?”
“Aye, Ian, but please, no more talk about Lillian right now. I came to maybe relax a little after the bloody spat we ‘ad. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed!” Ian proclaimed.
“Aye, agreed,” said Cory.
Jean appeared from behind John, and set three more mugs of beer on the scarred table. “’ere ya’ are, gentlemen. And just who’ll be payin’ up for this round?”
John dug into a pocket, and pulled out some coins. “Well, seein’ as how it’s a celebration of sorts, I’ll be springin’ for this one.”
“A free man, eh?” Jean said, shaking her head. She then winked at John and vanished into the din.
John shot the other two an evil eye: “And do you two heathens think you’re getting’ away with free drinks all night, so get ready to break out some coin!”
Again, his thoughts secretly drifted back to his farm and the only other horse he owned, still standing in the old stable; and untouched by Lillian.
At that moment, in a dark, forsaken burial ground in a small clearing in the woods near a farm own by a man name John Claybourne, others were just starting to have a celebration of their own.
The small, decrepit cemetery lay silent in the small clearing, a fine ground mist circling around the markers and outlying trees. No autumn leaves stirred, no breeze broke the stillness. A large crow landed on a marker near the center and announced its presence. Caw! Caw!
Voices whispered, barely audible.
In a makeshift grave near the edge of this place, in a bloody burlap bag, one of Lillian’s eyes opened; it saw only darkness as the eye on the other half of her head struggled to open.
The whispering…
She knew this whispering, and it grew louder in her ears. The voices were calling to her, awakening her, and she became aware.
John!
Her fury grew, and her sisters began to chant in her mind. They heard her mind screaming with the familiar vengeful scream of the murdered. The concentrated all of their powers unto her, their chanting never ceasing, and her cold, dismembered corpse felt a faint glow.
The two halves of her head trembled, and suddenly pressed into each other – the skin came alive with a tingling as flesh, muscle, sinew slowly melded together, her skull pressing in on itself, crunching and twitching….
Her heart began to beat.
The earthen graves were disturbed as soil was pushed aside, clawed at, and the flesh of the dead rose from unholy ground. Lillian felt her limbs inching into place, and connecting where they had once been chopped as a butcher would chop meat.
The dead gathered on the verges of their hallowed ground, the stench of death mingling with the mist that swirled around their sullen faces and rotting, blackened limbs. To the shallow grave of Lillian they made their way, until they all stood around the defiled ground.
Finally, she arose, a distorted version of herself, and she lurched toward the rest.
They stumbled and staggered through the woods, those blackened, charred by the fires of the hateful, and those with their necks snapped sideways, their heads dangling to one side or the other – they made their way through the woods, toward the one object they all craved with the same common retribution.
As it grew late, the pub quieted as many left, to wander home to their angry wives or to merely fall asleep next to a warm fire. John stood and burped loudly, and his companions humphed! and shook their heads. The mood had grown mellow, serious – most of the patrons left sat quietly contemplating whatever vague thoughts were drifting through their inebriated minds.
“I guess I’ll be going now. I could use a nice quiet sleep, maybe some bit ‘o food.”
“Well, you be careful, John,” Ian said.
“Aye, and watch out for the Ripper!” Cory said. “He’s probably out there right now, prowlin’ around in the alleys lookin’ to kill!”
Ian slapped him on the back of his head. “You quiet your trap! Our friend is about to ride off alone, and you bring up the Ripper. What are ya’ thinkin’?”
“Aw, ‘tis fine, Ian. Jack likes the dirty whores hangin’ around out there. They’re the ones that have to worry.”
“I’m sorry, John,” Cory said. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“You’re fine, friend. You two be safe, now. With how ugly ya’ both are, Jack might just mistake ya both for woman!” He laughed deeply, and uttered another nasty burp. He waved at them. “I’ll be seein’ ya’.”
They grunted acknowledgment as John headed for the door. “We’ll be seein’ ya’, Jean.”
“We’ll see ya’, John,” she said, winking.
He left the pub for the dimness of the narrow street, glancing around at the pools of weak light from the scattering of gas lamps. He unraveled Sadie’s reigns and mounted the beast, urged it around and trotted away toward the edge of town.
A fine mist hanged in the air, and dampened the darkened buildings and cobblestones under hoof. He slowed as he passed several women in tattered dresses talking under a street lamp.
“Ya’ lookin’ for a little company?” One of them asked. She posed with one hand on her hip, and John chuckled.
“Thank ya’, miss, but I think I’ll pass. Besides, I’ve seen better lookin’ sows out at the farm, I have.”
“You just keep your sorry ass moving along – you’re stinkin’ up the place,” the other croaked.
“I’ll do just that,” he said over his shoulder. “Say hello to Jack for me.”
The two prostitutes replied in a nasty tone, but the distance had grown between them, and the words fell short. John shook his head and smiled; and glanced to his right as he trotted past an alley. His smiled suddenly vanished, and his heart quickened – he saw what looked like the form of a woman lying on the ground, with a figure wrapped in a cloak kneeling next to her.
It was a man, John was sure, and he sure as hell was making stabbing motions at the body! Yes, surreal, surrounded by shadow, an unspeakable act, to be true!
He abruptly whipped the reins and galloped away without looking back, and did not slow until he reached the verges of town, where the buildings had grown scarce. The road changed from cobblestone to the packed earthen road channeled with the sunken wheel tracks from years of travel. He slowed Sadie to a walk, and considered what he had seen. He could not erase the image from his thoughts.
Yet, John Claybourne cared no more about a murdered whore (if that was, indeed what he had seen), than he had for Lillian. Oh, bloody hell, he thought. ‘Twas only a stinkin’ whore. They know better.
He galloped toward the farm, tossing his worries to the wind. It was only shortly that he reached his property, and he sat atop Sadie as he went past one of his fields and passed the house, and the well and vacant chopping stump outside the cabin, until he reached the stable.
He dismounted and led his favorite horse inside the darkness. He fumbled for some matches that he always kept in his pocket, and found a few sticks. He could see the glint off the glass of the lantern, and he made his way to it, struck a match and lifted the glass to light the wick.
A breeze shot through the stable, stinking and foul like carrion in the field; the match went out. John heard shuffling in the hay and dirt, and the stench grew stronger. He hurriedly lit another match and touched it to the lantern’s wick. He shook it out and lowered the glass over the flame, lifting the lantern up to illuminate the stables.
The faces, the ruined and burned faces of the dead surrounded him! They glared with dull eyes planted in putrid flesh, and John’s heart jumped, the scream caught in his throat. He tried to bolt, but the hands of the dead clutched his clothing and his hair, and his head was pulled back; he glanced down and saw scorched flesh, half torn from the bone, bluing flesh grasping, clutching.
John screamed, and tried to fight his way loose, but they over powered him, dragged him out of the stable and into the dim light of the half moon. He was still clutching the lamp in one hand. The arms, the hands, pushed him forward toward a figure standing by the chopping stump.
“Stop this madness!” John screamed, but he only felt more hands snatch up hair, and in the light of the lantern he could now see the dead, with their rotting, skeletal faces, and madness nearly ensued. A blackened hand latched onto the lantern and forced it higher, and John saw Lillian’s face, a scabrous wound splitting it in half.. The flesh had somehow molded itself together on her grotesque countenance and around her neck; and she wore the same dirty dress that she had worn every day.
Though her mouth and jaw had been split, she managed to speak, her voice quavering in liquid motion: “John…to Hell, with us!” The dead cackled around him, and forced him down, snatching the lamp from his grasp.
“No! You’re dead! YOU’RE DEAD!” He screamed, and his lunatic’s mind laughed at the madness of it all, and then he sobbed. The forced him down onto the stump, facing up into Lillian’s face. She produced the axe and held it out for his inspection. “No, Lillian! No, please!”
Lillian raised the axe high into the night air, and John’s pleading was abruptly cut short. With the axe still buried in the stump, John’s mouth was agape, still trying to speak words of desperation, his eyes saucers. They bulged and saw the axe lifting up high again, but conscious understanding faded, and all was darkness.
John’s eyes opened, and all was a blur. He blinked, and memory returned second by second. He saw a figure standing near the trees, a figure in a black cloak, skin of a green hue. It was a woman with long, dark hair, and she merely stood and stared at John.
He tried to stand, but nothing cooperated; and he could not look down to see exactly why this was so, and then he recalled the axe.
Lillian! The dead! He wanted to scream, but could not. Tendrils of flesh and arteries and ligaments dangled from his neck, quivering around the stick upon which his head post been impaled.
His eyes switched desperately around, and he realized he was in the cemetery. The other graves were covered, and all was silent. He could almost feel his limbs that were buried in the burlap bags in different parts of the cemetery. They twitched and struggled, his hands clenched; and yet, all he could do was stare from atop his crude stick.
His mind went mad, and inside, he screamed and laughed and cried…
The figure turned and drifted away through the mist….
The following evening, Ian and Cory sat in the Goat’s Head with a copy of the London Times. “Well, the Ripper struck again last eve, Cory.”
“Aye, and we were sitting right ‘ere with John. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“Aye – ‘ave ya’ seen that brute?”
“No, but I’d say he’ll be headin’ this way soon.”
Ian said, “Yup. After that witch of a wife left him, he seems happier. He’ll show his ugly mug, ‘e will.”
