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.
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