The November Selected Story is by Jason Norton
Please feel free to email Jason at:
jnorton1@ymail.com
GRAVE CONSEQUENCES
by Jason Norton
Seymour Nesbit rubbed his aching back, cursing his rotten luck. He was going to have to remove a hand for the second time this week. Neither hand belonged to him, of course.
He’d forgotten the owner of the one from Tuesday, but this one was attached to one Margaret Hepcorn who died May 26, 1848; only a month ago.
Margaret—Maggie to her friends, he wagered, based upon the coiffed red locks that were just beginning to wither around her surprisingly still youthful face—had begun to swell. It made the normally simple task of removing her golden bracelet much more involved.
The trinket was one continual band; it bore no latch. It snaked around her wrist: cherry blossoms ornately etched in two overlapping strands. Five weeks ago, it would have nearly fallen off of her. Considerable effort would be required to remove it now, however, thanks to the graying, bloated flesh that protruded through its serpentine weave. If he was going to go to all the trouble to take the bracelet, he’d get the rings, too. Good thing he’d brought the sugar snips.
Seymour had never been a fan of the more grizzly aspects of grave robbery—unlike that barbarous butcher, Chumley. Still, he fancied himself a professional, and occasionally that meant having to stretch oneself beyond the normal confines of the job description.
Tugging on the chain at his waist, he fished out his pocket watch. The scarred quartz made it difficult to read, but if he held it just right to the side of the lantern…2:17 a.m. He was making good time up until now, but this unforeseen dilemma would force him to quicken his pace.
He flung his gloved hand, sight unseen, over the lip of the broken ground, fumbling for his tool bag. He was careful not to spill dirt onto the corpse. Maybe he stole from the dead, but he was no fiend.
Reaching into the sack, he removed a small hand saw. He shifted his lantern, trying to better gauge where to begin his cut. Logic would dictate removing as little as possible, but if he cut too close to the hand, he would have to navigate a maze of carpal bones. By sawing higher on the forearm, he would only have to sever the radius and ulna. Still, it would take a little bit of elbow grease to overcome their girth.
Struggling, he straightened Maggie’s mortised left arm over the rim of the coffin. It would be tedious in the cramped space, but he would make do. There was no way he could get her out of the grave by himself to finish the job.
She’d been buried in a high-necked green mantel; an ivory cameo choker covering the top buttons. A white satin and lace dress—likely the garment she’d chosen for her wedding day—lay beneath. At least the necklace would be easy to remove. He would leave it till last. If he was going to get his hands dirty, he preferred to get it over with.
The dead always smelled badly. Cocking back his head, he drew in a less noxious whiff of air. The night’s chill bit into his lungs, but he hoped it would help curb the ensuing queasiness. He thought he was immune to the aroma of the dead, but the smell of a freshly dissected corpse was almost more than even he could bear.
He drew his body down tight, trying to shrink his frame. He crouched beside the head of the coffin, wedging himself between it and the soil wall.
He draped Maggie’s arm over his thigh, combining his leg and the edge of the coffin into a makeshift workbench. Taking a final look at her hollowing face and distended abdomen, he bolstered his resolve. He pressed the teeth of the saw onto the back of her arm.
Suddenly a slurred voice startled him.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
Turning, he found Chumley standing above him, ever-present flask in hand, staring down into the grave. “She must have been a real looker,” he said between swigs of whiskey.
“What brings you out?” Seymour asked, turning back to the corpse. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Figured you’d be here. I’m trying to make an honest wage, just like you,” Chumley replied, stroking his long black beard.
Seymour reached again for his tool bag, this time pulling it inside with him. Normally, he’d keep it on the surface because of the overly snug quarters. But he’d be damned if he’d leave it within Chumley’s grimy reach. Their short-lived partnership convinced Seymour that the man couldn’t be trusted. One of his best pick axes was still unaccounted for since those days.
“I hate to tell you, but Mrs. Hepcorn here is the freshest one tonight, Chumley,” Seymour said, “and I’ve already claimed her.”
The big man knelt beside the mound of shoveled dirt initially intended to be a permanent part of Maggie’s final resting place. “Wouldn’t exactly call her fresh. You missed your deadline, old boy. She must’ve been here a few weeks, judging by the looks of her. You ain’t gonna earn any pay with that one if you try to sell it to the dissectors at the University.”
Undaunted, Seymour returned to his work. “Yeah, I know, which is why I’m just after the jewelry. Once I get the hand off, I’ll use the pullers on the bracelet. The rings shouldn’t pose a problem, either.”
He reset the saw and drew back hard with the first pull, ramming his elbow into the earthen wall behind him. Loosened dirt crumbled down into his tattered collar.
Chumley cackled at the blunder. “Hellfire, Seymour! Keep that up and you won’t have to refill the grave! ‘Course you and the young missus may get a little more cozy that way, but you could do worse. In fact, I’ll bet you have done worse.”
Seymour continued, determined not to acknowledge Chumley’s taunts. Shortening his strokes, he quickly tore through the strained fabric that covered the bloated arm like a sausage casing. Within seconds, he felt the rigid density of Maggie’s flesh pushing back into the saw. The stringy tissue began to splay beneath the serrated edge.
The sickening stench assaulted Seymour’s nostrils. He could practically taste the decay. He tugged his longcoat across his face, fighting down bile.
Chumley laughed again. “Never had much of a gut, did ya?” He offered his flask. “Here, it’ll help.”
“Doubt it,” Seymour said, waving it away. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Suit yerself. Always worked for me,” Chumley said. “You know, I’d be willing to help…for a small fee, of course. Say, maybe that broach around her neck?”
“I can handle it without you,” Seymour replied. He kept his head down, refusing to let Chumley witness his vulnerability. Once composed, he resumed. Gravity was thankfully on his side. It ensured that Mrs. Hepcorn’s few remaining body fluids had settled. It would give him a few more moments to steel his stomach before things got even more putrid.
The saw jarred when it hit bone, its blade dulled more than he’d realized. Chumley, of course, noticed the slip.
“Right here if you need me,” he offered again.
“I said I’m fine,” Seymour shot back.
“It’ll take ya all night with that rusty blade,” the big man said.
Seymour hated to admit it, but Chumley was right. He was wasting too much time fighting with the saw. A quick lop would likely keep his dinner intact, as well. “Let me have that shovel,” he said.
Chumley did.
Seymour caught the flash of the shovel in his periphery, instinctively dodging just enough to avoid a flush impact.
The steel blade came crashing into the back of Seymour’s skull and he fell on top of the dead woman. Electricity radiated along his spine, burning into each vertebra, setting his neck on fire. He felt warm wetness seeping into his hair.
Before he knew it, Chumley was in the grave with him, shovel in hand. Seymour struggled to stand but his legs would have no part of it. Dizzy and in pain, he teetered backward, falling back over Maggie’s casket. He landed on top of her once again, their faces pressed together, resembling a macabre wedding portrait.
Chumley sprang with the shovel, pinning the handle across Seymour’s throat. The smaller man fought to push it away, but the casket afforded no room for leverage. Chumley grunted; his fermented breath hot on Seymour’s face.
Seymour bled heavily now, painting Maggie a crimson mask. His head slithered across her face as he squirmed. Chumley leaned forward, applying more downward pressure to keep him pinned in place.
Seymour jabbed a thumb toward Chumley’s eye but only managed to graze a cheek. With a last desperate effort, he grasped the strap of his tool bag, attempting to snatch anything from it that could be utilized as a weapon. It was no use. He couldn’t breathe. He knew he was dying.
*****
Chumley saw that Seymour was dead and he dropped the shovel, reaching into his pocket for his flask. He knelt and reached for Maggie’s ivory cameo. “If Seymour would’a been willing to share, I wouldn’t have killed him. You don’t mind sharing, do you, sweetheart?”
He reached behind Maggie’s neck and untied the choker. When he tried to remove it, however, he discovered the cameo had been pinned to the collar of her mantel. With a quick yank, it ripped easily away, tearing the vestiges of her collar along with it.
That was when he noticed the tiny holes in her neck.
Maggie’s eyes sprang open. Her lips, smeared with Seymour’s blood, parted to reveal ivory fangs that gleamed in the gaslight of the dying lantern. Before Chumley could react, Mrs. Hepcorn pounced upon him, sinking her now very animated jaws into his throat.
Within moments, she bled him dry.
She rearranged her collar and twisted her golden bracelet back into place around her significantly slimmer wrist, looking ever the blushing bride once again. Within a day, her arm would recuperate; pity about her tattered sleeve, but alterations would have to wait. Presently, she had to find new accommodations, because dawn would arrive soon.
She pried her cameo from Chumley’s grasp and glimpsed the silver flask peeking out of his pocket. Cracking the top, she breathed deeply. The sweet oaken fragrance brought back bitter memories of her once dear Steven. Perhaps she’d try to find him, she thought, as she traced a finger along her neck.
He had much to answer for.
Jason Norton is a lifelong fan of comic books, science fiction, and monster-under-your-bed stories. He hopes to one day be mistaken as an author of such. A former small-town newspaper reporter, Jason is now a personal trainer and massage therapist. When he’s not playing volleyball, he studies wilderness survival skills. Honest. Not even he could have made all that up.
Jason and his wife live in Powhatan, Virginia. He has a son, two cats and two dogs. He prefers the son.
His work has been accepted by Bewildering Stories, Fiction Vortex and Gothic City Press.
Follow his exploits at: thewritefandango.blogspot.com