The Book of Kindly Deaths

by Eldritch Black

  It took a huge amount of persuasion for me to convince Katherine I had her best interests at heart. Eventually, through her despair, she agreed to cross over.

  When I had finished writing her story, Katherine handed me the key to the door between our world and theirs and turned to her family. For a moment, I thought she’d rush to embrace them, but instead she looked away, her eyes filled with tears. She faded then, until she was little more than a ghost. And then she was gone, but for a solitary tear upon the page of my book.

  I walked from the cave, leaving Sarah to console Katherine’s mother. I had no wish to do so myself. I stormed down the hill, filled with fury, malicious thoughts writhing in my mind. I found the door beneath the bridge, covered over with all manner of junk. I threw it aside, pulling a hammer from my satchel, smashing great holes in the wood. Then I pried what was left of the door from the wall. Without the Eiderstaark key to open it, there was nothing behind but discolored brickwork and rotten black fungus.

  I turned to face the villagers who had gathered, silently watching my act of destruction. “You will burn what’s left of the door,” I shouted. I must have looked like a wild man, for they shrank away. “And you will never speak of this matter again. Do you understand?”

  They looked blankly from one to another, and so I repeated myself. “Do you understand me? Or do I need to return and raze this despicable place of gabble and judgment to the ground?”

  They nodded and set to work, gathering what was left of the door.

  As I walked from Tattleton, glancing at the now-empty cave upon the hill, I could not recall a time when my heart had felt heavier.

  12

  Visitings

  Eliza set the book down and gazed at the back of her hands, focusing on her skin with its map of freckles and blemishes. Anything to bring herself out of the story, to fix herself back in her room. In the real world.

  She stared at the curtains as something scratched at the window, and held her breath when it came again.

  A tiny chink in the curtain revealed darkness. It was still night, or early morning.

  Another scratch. Eliza thought about calling for her parents, but knew she wouldn’t. Not if she wanted to know what was really going on. No, whatever was happening between her and the book was her secret to keep, her mystery to solve.

  “I’m not afraid,” Eliza said, climbing from the bed and crossing the room, trying her best to ignore her rising dread as the scratch came once more. She snatched back the curtains and sighed with relief to find the branches of the birch tree scratching against the glass. In the east, a dim blue light grew. Dawn.

  The window in the house across the way was still dark and empty. Thankfully, there was no sign of the emaciated figure she’d seen earlier that night. Eliza was about to return to bed when something shifted in the gloom.

  She stared down, aghast, as four faces peered up at her.

  Four perfectly still ovals.

  “Garden statues,” she whispered. “Not the Wrong People. The Wrong People don’t exist.” She glared down, angry at her cowardice. “You’re not real. None of it’s real!”

  But as she drew the curtains, one of the ovals twitched. Eliza pulled the fabric tighter, ignoring the panic tugging at the edge of her mind. “It’s just illusion,” she said. “And imagination.”

  How many other storybooks were like this? Her dim memory of the Grimm’s fairytales didn’t help. They’d been frightening, just as frightening as The Book of Kindly Deaths. And yet, as much as they’d haunted her young dreams, they hadn’t felt as if they were real or had actually happened. Unlike these stories, which now seemed more like historical documentations, as ridiculous as that idea was.

  She picked up The Book of Kindly Deaths, eager now to finish it, to close its covers. For she hoped that, once she did, her world would get back to normal.

  13

  Grim Shivers

  Augustus Pinch sneered as he perched upon a barrel and watched the people floundering about the market. His vivid blue eyes glowed like lamps in the dark winter afternoon as he scoured this way and that for a prospect. He tapped a grimy hand against his coat pocket, taking comfort in the feel of the swell beneath, the wallets and purses he’d already managed to liberate today.

  Despite only having had a cursory glance through his takings, it seemed there should be enough money to keep him in gin and tobacco for the next few weeks. And yet the money he received was only a mere reward, for the real pleasure he took in thieving was the idea of his victims’ anguish.

  He glanced at a middle-aged couple as they passed by. They reminded him a little of his parents. As he thought of his parents, he spat upon the ground.

  Augustus wondered where they were now. Hopefully in the poorhouse, for he hadn’t left them a single penny when he’d run away all those months ago. It was their own fault, anyway, he mused. He’d warned them he was leaving. Told them he’d had enough of the dry, dusty tutor they employed. And as for their expectations… Augustus sneered. They’d worked all their lives, setting aside enough money to be considered respectable. And now they had nothing. No money and no respect.

  “Look at you,” Augustus muttered, glancing at the shoppers in the market. “Spend those pennies while you can, for all the good it will do you.” As the shoppers passed him, they glanced away. It didn’t bother Augustus one jot, for he knew well enough his face was disquieting. Despite being only thirteen years of age, he had the drawn, lined face of a man many decades his senior.

  Occasionally, he wondered if his appearance was punishment for the distress he’d caused others, their anguish reflected on the face of its creator. If it was, he was quite happy to live with it.

  He turned to watch an old man stride towards him, his well-tailored clothes and coat hanging from his tall frame. The old man offered a smile, dug into his pocket, and flipped a coin.

  Augustus let it fall to the ground.

  “Merry Christmas,” the old man said as he passed. Augustus ignored him, his eyes on the bundle of gaily wrapped boxes that seemed about to burst from the old man’s satchel.

  Presents, thought Augustus. Maybe for grandchildren not much older than me.

  There would be sorrow aplenty when the recipients of those presents discovered their gifts were gone, their grandfather robbed.

  “Merry Christmas,” Augustus replied, spitting once more upon the icy street before leaping from the barrel and following the old man. He was careful to keep a fair distance as they passed through the marketplace and into a dark, narrow street.

  A familiar surge of anger grew as Augustus followed the elderly man and studied his slow pace, the way he used his walking cane to check for ice. He often thought the elderly walked exaggeratedly slow on purpose. That they did it for attention and sympathy. Sometimes, he gave them a good shove to help them on their way.

  “You can walk as slow as you like,” Augustus whispered, “but it won’t delay the Reaper. You were born into this desolate place, and you’ll die in this desolate place, and that’s all there is to it.”

  He looked back.

  The street was empty. Augustus ran, and as he reached the old man, he grabbed his satchel strap and pulled it over the man’s head before pushing him aside.

  The old man slid on a patch of ice. Augustus heard a loud crack, which might have been the man’s walking cane or his bones snapping upon the street.

  He glanced back to see his victim sprawled upon the icy ground, fighting to get to his feet. “Bring my satchel back, boy,” the old man shouted. “You don’t realize what it carries!”

  “Oh, yes I do! Presents, and plenty of ’em. Merry Christmas, you old rotter!” Augustus ran on, leaving the man’s protests far behind. He ducked down a series of alleys, staying off the main thoroughfares, and was so elated with the weight of his haul that even the cloying stench of the sewerage couldn’t dampen his mood.

  Nine people robbed today. Nine lives touched by the hand of Augustus Pinch. He passed an
other alleyway, skirting through figures slumped on the ground.

  He wondered if they were dead or drunk. Not that it mattered.

  Ahead, a group of men huddled around a body, blocking the alleyway. Augustus seized a drainpipe and began to climb, pulling himself up the side of an old building. He emerged on the roof and lay still for a moment, his breath forming heavy white clouds. Above, the moon was full and glowed softly through the early evening fog. Augustus climbed to his feet and peered down at the alley.

  It was empty now, the figures gone, the body left slumped in the mire. The rats will eat well tonight, Augustus thought as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop and raced across the city. Eventually he found his way to the wharf, stopping at the dilapidated warehouse that served as his occasional home. The river stretched out below, black and pitiless. Tiny lamps from boats and ferries twinkled upon its waters as shouts and calls echoed across the wharf.

  For a moment, Augustus was transfixed by the sight, until he came to his senses, muttering, “It’s just a river, that’s all.”

  He climbed over the edge of the roof and hung for a moment, swinging his legs back and forth through the empty window below. Once he’d built enough momentum, he swung through to land upon a blanket of broken glass.

  Augustus crouched in the darkness, listening keenly, but all he could hear was his own ragged breathing. Sometimes he’d hear others moving in the warehouse below, desperate souls looking for a place to sleep and shelter from the harsh bite of winter. Thankfully, the staircase leading to the top of the building was rotten and broken, which left the snaking corridors above for Augustus and Augustus alone. He stole through the gloom until he reached the room at the end of the hall and closed the door softly behind. He delved into his coat and produced a book of matches, striking one and lighting the stump of candle he kept by the door.

  The light threw his shadow against the wall. He nodded to it before stooping over the fireplace and lighting the twigs and coals he’d prepared on his previous visit.

  Augustus reached for a book from the stack he’d left by the fireplace and tore a few pages loose, tossing them upon the flames until the kindling caught. Soon a lively blaze lit the room as he pulled his rickety old chair nearer to the fire, emptying his coat pockets and placing their contents upon a table.

  Augustus took great care and patience as he stacked the coins from the wallets and purses into their various denominations and created a short pile of notes.

  One of the purses had nothing but a bundle of letters, neatly folded and scented with perfume, their writing in a looped, curved hand.

  “Love letters,” Augustus said. He tossed them upon the fire, wondering if the love confessed within their pages would similarly burn out and turn to ash.

  Finally, Augustus snatched up the satchel he’d liberated from the old man and pulled out the first of the boxes within, tearing off the wrapping. It was a small box filled with tin soldiers. Augustus threw them upon the fire and unwrapped the next package to discover a packet of chocolates. By the design on the box, they were expensive.

  Augustus crammed the chocolates into his mouth, the delicate flavors of orange, cherry, and peppermint soon merging into one great sludge. He swallowed it and opened the next box, which contained soaps and lotions. He poured the lotions upon the floor and took a deep sniff, wrinkling his nose. “Disgusting!”

  The satchel was now empty but for an old book. “Useless things,” he sighed, but as he pulled it from the bag, he flinched as a charge of energy ran through his fingertips.

  He dropped the book upon the table. Its cover was black with a large gold symbol, a slim rectangle within two circles. Carefully, he picked up the book once more, ignoring the tingling sensation as he read the title upon the timeworn black cover. The Book of Kindly Deaths, Volume 23.

  As Augustus reached to open the book, he felt the merest flutter of trepidation. He ignored it and turned to the first page.

  February 12, 1724

  Herein lie the tales of Flora Chambers, Michael Notwhich, Sally Cottle, Nancy Edmonton, & Simon Milton, all of whose lives have been blighted by the residents of Grimwytch. In their telling, these stories set them free from their fates, each tale a kindly death.

  Ambrose Drabe

  Augustus shook his head. “I hate fairy tales,” he complained. “The only pot of gold is the one you steal, and who needs dragons when people are so horrible and vile? No one has a kindly death in this squalid old city.”

  He turned to the next page, gazing at the neat blue writing. Nothing interesting, just some stupid story, but as he tried to leaf through to the next page, it wouldn’t turn.

  Baffled, Augustus shook his head and turned the book on its side, expecting it to fall open.

  The pages stayed firm.

  Augustus dug his fingernails between them and pulled with all his might, but still they would not budge. “Damn you!” he growled, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it across the room. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” He pulled a knife from his pocket, picked the book up, and set it on the table.

  As he tried to force the knife between the pages, they stayed closed, as if sealed with glue.

  “To hell with your stupid stories!” Augustus said, bringing his knife down upon the book. But before the blade could touch it, the book skipped to one side and his knife slammed into the table instead.

  “Come here!” Augustus grabbed the book with one hand, holding it firmly as he stabbed his blade into its cover. As it struck, the book jolted with such force that Augustus was sent flying across the room.

  He climbed to his feet and froze as from somewhere came the sound of tapping.

  Like a gnarled old knuckle upon a door.

  And as he looked around for its source, it seemed to be coming from within the book itself. “It can’t be,” he muttered.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Augustus stepped away. “Who…who’s there?”

  He glanced to the door, but the tapping grew louder and he realized with terrible certainty that, as impossible as it was, the sound was indeed coming from within the book.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  And then the book opened, its cover slamming into the table as, one by one, its pages turned, flipping faster and faster. Augustus watched in hypnotic dread as finally the pages stopped turning and a thin column of black smoke wafted from the middle of the book. The smoke grew in size and filled the room with an abundance of scents—spices, blood, damp, rot, and the reek of something dredged from a river.

  Augustus strained to hear the distant voices whispering from the pages, snatches of conversations in a strange, foreign language. He watched silently as the column of smoke gathered and hovered over the book. It formed a shape—a tall, thin man hanging in the air.

  His heart began to pulse as the man continued to grow and the light of the fire dimmed. The shadows in the corners of the room swelled, snaking through the air, feeding the man, adding to his form.

  Flesh began to wrap across the smoke, a cadaverous face turning towards Augustus with a thin mouth like a slit, the holes that formed his nostrils flaring as he sniffed. Finally, two embers flew from the fire, lending the man a pair of vivid red eyes, which narrowed as they bored into Augustus.

  Clothes weaved across the figure as invisible tailors stitched together a dark, woolen suit that covered his vestigial form. The man reached up into the darkness above his head and pulled down a top hat, fixing it atop his long, wiry white hair.

  Augustus was rooted to the spot as the man stepped from the air and held out a long, bony finger, saying, “You defiled the book, boy.” Augustus stepped back, the fire behind him lending no heat as the room descended into an unholy chill. Icy wind swept from the middle of the book, and with it came a terrible sense of desolation. Augustus yearned to close the book but cringed away as the man stalked towards him. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice breaking.

  “Grim Shivers, guardian of the book. I take the hearts and l
ights of thieves and defilers. You are both of those things, boy.” He snatched a hand towards Augustus, who ducked away.

  As Augustus’s eyes glanced from the ghoul to the book behind him, an idea began to form. Maybe, if he could somehow find a way to destroy the book, it might take the guardian with it. Augustus walked towards the ghoul, waiting for him to reach for him before feigning a dash to his left and instead dodging right. He grabbed the satchel and book from the table and ran, flying through the door as he stuffed the book inside the bag.

  The ghoul growled as he crashed after him. He bore down on Augustus, top hat brushing against the ceiling, his eyes shining in the gloom.

  Augustus found the broken window, hoisted himself onto its ledge, and reached for the roof, pulling himself up.

  As he clambered across the roof, he glanced at the web of lights twinkling in the city’s thoroughfares. Where there were lights there would be people, and where there were people, there would be police.

  For once in his life Augustus Pinch couldn’t think of a more welcome sight.

  And then two sets of bony, white fingers appeared on the edge of the roof, scuttling like a crab as they sought purchase. Augustus rushed forward to stamp on them, but the ghoul raised himself up to his shoulder and fixed him with his fiery eyes. As he spoke, his face broke with a look of sadistic hatred. “I’m going to enjoy taking your lights, little thief.”

  Augustus backed away as, with an insect-like leap, the ghoul landed on the roof, laughing without humor as he took in the terror on Augustus’s face. Augustus ran. The edge of the roof loomed ahead and far below, a second roof.

  There was no choice.

  He threw himself over, soaring through the air, the tips of his fingers barely finding the edge of the roof below, his arms wrenching his shoulders as he held on with all his might.