The Coachman

by B. Pheasant

  Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright

  By the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright © January 2018 by B. Pheasant

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof

  may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any

  retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by

  any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopy,

  recording or otherwise-without prior written

  permission of the publisher, except for the use

  of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the product of the

  author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive,

  or actual events are purely coincidental.

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  About the Author

  Bianca Pheasant is an aspiring new author

  trying to make her mark in a world full of great ones.

  She lives in South Africa with her husband of

  ten years and only daughter.

  Bianca loves writing but finds it distasteful

  to write about herself; which makes this part of

  the book the most difficult to write.

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  DARK MURMURINGS

  The Coachman

  B. PHEASANT

  “Don’t forget about the curfew!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Jane giggled; the cocktails she had at the pub already clouded her mind and compromised her balance. “You know I don’t believe in old granny fables invented to keep the young people in line.”

  “It’s not a fable, Jane! If you think it’s bullshit then how do you explain the three girls who went missing just last month? The cops wouldn't set a curfew if it was just fables. Supposedly, he only appears around this time of the year and every time he emerges it’s always a different town.”

  “Come on, Sharon. All of them are over sixteen years old. This is a crappy town and anyone with half a brain will bounce the first chance they get. They got sick and tired of stupid curfews and left town.”

  “All three of them?”

  “Yes!”

  Sharon eyed her friend and shook her head.

  Jane giggled and caressed Sharon’s hair; her demeanor much softer now. “Would you stick to the curfew if Hank asked you to go clubbing with him? You know how long I’ve wanted this.”

  “I know… but Jane…”

  She kissed her on the forehead and grinned, “You worry too much, Sharon. I’ll be just fine. I will call you tomorrow, okay.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Just don’t expect a call too early; I perceive this to be a long night so you better not wait up.”

  “How are you getting to the club?”

  “I’m walking. The club is just around the corner.”

  “Are you shitting me right now? What the hell, Jane! How can Hank expect you to walk? He knows it’s not safe!”

  “Sharon! For crying out loud! Just give it a rest already!”

  “You’ve heard the stories, Jane. How do you not take them seriously?”

  “Yes! I’ve heard them all!” The irritation on Jane’s face was unmistakable. “A coachman from the past that snatches young broads from the street at night,” she mocked with a high pitched voice. “He drives an ancient stagecoach pulled by two black horses that breathes fire through their nostrils. Can’t you hear how foolish that sounds?”

  “No need to be sarcastic. I never said they breathed fire.”

  The two friends stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Each contemplating what to say next but neither of them dared to speak. They had been friends since high school and they had always been there for each other. Living together on campus, Jane knew Sharon was only acting this way because she loved her but sometimes Jane would prefer that she kept her concerns to herself.

  “What about the witness? He saw him!”

  Jane roared with laughter. “You mean the drunk hobo? Hardly a respectable witness! The cops did not even believe him, now you expect me to. Come on, Sharon. It saddens me to see you think like the rest of them.”

  “Them?”

  “The public! Just because the papers gave the imaginary killer a name does not make him real. It’s a good marketing plan, I’ll give you that.” Jane grunted and shook her head, “The Coachman,” she mocked. “Not original, is it?”

  Sharon turned her back toward Jane and grunted. “Fine,” she said. “I hope Hank is worth it.”

  “Trust me, Sharon, he is worth it,” as she left the room.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Sharon yelled through the closed door.

  The street was dark and quieter than Jane expected it to be. It was already half an hour past the curfew so that explained the eerie silence enveloping her. Even though she felt uneasy, she liked the quiet. It gave her time to imagine her night with Hank; no doubt a passionate one.

  Jane had an obsession with Hank for as long as she and Sharon were friends. This was no normal obsession either. She was certain that if one spent more time on Facebook staring at photos of a single individual than spending it with friends or family that would be classified as stalking rather than an obsession; and not a healthy one.

  As she approached the corner she thought she heard horses galloping nearby.

  “Impossible,” she whispered; scanning the street. “He doesn’t exist.”

  There was no one in sight and the sound of galloping hooves disappeared.

  “It must be Sharon and her stupid fables that put me on edge,” she said to no one in particular.

  Feeling embarrassed she shrugged the sensation of being watched aside and continued to make her way to the club where hunky Hank waited for her. Only three more streets to cross then she could show him what he had missed all this time.

  When she reached the pedestrian crossing the light shone red but there was no car in sight so she crossed, anyway. She was about halfway across when she heard the galloping horses again. Only this time the sound was much closer.

  This time she did hear it. But how could it be? There were no free-roaming horses in the area so it had to be her imagination. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through her system combined with the silent, dark night coupled with Sharon’s fable about the Coachman. Jane froze mid-stride and scanned the streets like before. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a dark figure at the end of the block. Was her mind playing tricks on her or was there someone there hiding under the cover of darkness?

  Not willing to take a chance, she bolted left; avoiding the corner where she imagined the figure was standing. As she hurried up the narrow street, she heard the galloping once again. Without giving it a second chance she ran the rest of the way to the club. When she turned the corner she ran into a man and fell back onto her backside; leaving her dazed.

  Seconds flew by while she sat on the cold pavement; trying to make sense of what just happened.

  “Are you all right?”

  The voice pulled her from a state of confusion to clarity. The man had his gloved hand extended toward her.

  “Please forgive me,” he said.

  Jane looked up at him and for a moment she forgot about her embarrassing situation. She could not tear her eyes from his. They were unlike any she had ever seen
before. Maybe it was the full moon or the reflecting street lights but his eyes seem to change from hazel to charcoal. Then she noticed his dress code and if she wasn’t so captivated by his presence she would have mocked him and laughed. One could almost believe he was a time traveler from the 1800’s. Dressed in a black tailcoat, white shirt with a bowtie, black pants and - most amusing - a top hat. She had never seen one except on television.

  “I am sorry, Madam.” He offered her his hand, “Please accept my sincere apology..”

  His voice was like silk and she felt hypnotized by it. She could feel the fibers in her body being drawn to the sound, and she became a dancing cobra to the melody of his voice. Like an obedient child, she placed her hand in his and gasped when he hauled her up with no effort at all.

  They were only inches apart. “Are you all right, Madam?” he asked again; his eyes exploring her body like a hungry beast.

  “Yes… um… I’m fine. I’m sorry… I did not see you,” she mumbled as if in a trance.

  “There is no need to apologize. I count myself privileged to make your acquaintance; even in a manner such as this.”

  Jane giggled. Even though he reminded her of Jack, the Ripper she could not deny the strong attraction she felt for him. His mysterious eyes and strong physique wiped Hank from her mind.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  A crooked smile spread across his lips as he winked at her. “I go by many names but a name holds no importance. Tell me yours instead.”

  “Jane…” she blurted without thinking.

  “Well, Jane, would you be generous enough to grace me with your company? I’m dying for some companionship.”

  Still only inches apart she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. Her skin tingled with anticipation; desperate for his touch. Then Sharon’s words echoed in her ears. Be careful of the Coachman, she warned. Within seconds fear paralyzed her and the grip he had on her hand felt too tight.

  “You have nothing to fear, Jane. You are safe. I give you my word and a gentleman’s word is his honor.”

  His words seem to have a stronghold on her; like his words took possession of her body like a demon took control of an unfortunate host. He might sound polite and kind but the evil glint in his eyes preached a different sermon. Even though she wanted to run away, her feet felt like blocks of concrete. She wanted to protest but instead of screaming for help, she was beaming; ready to sacrifice her body to the drooling dragon before her.

  “So what will it be, Jane? An uneventful night with young Hank - an immature boy yet to leave his mother’s bosom - or are you interested in being courted by a man of stature?”

  A million questions ran through her mind. How did he know about Hank? How was she going to escape him? What did he want? But the most troubling question of all was why her body danced to his tune?

  “Jane,” he whispered seductively. “Say the words. My morals will never allow me to go against a lady’s wishes.”

  This was her chance. All she had to do was say no. He said his word was his honor and that he will not go against her wishes, so if she said no, then that will be it. She parted her lips and voiced her answer. But to her horror, ‘no’ was not the reply she heard. At first, she thought her ears betrayed her but the smile of approval on his lips confirmed her suspicion.

  She said ‘yes’.

  “Very well, my lady. My chariot awaits.”

  With no delay, he grabbed the back of her neck and covered her mouth and nose with a chloroform rag. At first, she struggled, but it took less than a minute before her body went limp. As the world went dark, and her mind spinning into oblivion, Jane did not see the victorious smile on her captor’s face as he swept her up and carried her into his stagecoach.

  The next thing she knew she was lying flat on her back in a graveyard she didn't know existed. She shivered; not only from the cold but from pure terror. She tried to move but someone was pinning her down to the ground. Her mind was still fuzzy from the chloroform and when she saw the hands pinning her to the ground, she became hysterical.

  She expected to find men laughing at her unfortunate dilemma as they held onto her hands and feet but what she saw was horrific. The hands that anchored her to the soil did not belong to any living man; these were the hands of the dead.

  As she studied the bones exposed through putrid flesh — covered with hundreds of maggots crawling onto her arms and legs - she gagged as her stomach reflexed. This gave her new found strength but the harder she yanked and kicked, the firmer the hold on her limbs grew.

  “Your efforts are admirable, Madam, but it is futile.” A wicked grin spread across his face as he stood over her.

  “Let me go, you freak!” she screamed.

  “I am afraid that is no longer possible.”

  Jane stared at him in horror. Her body stiff with fear. “Please… please let me go.”

  He took a few steps closer and smiled at the hands clutching her ankles. He nodded and as if things could not get any worse, the hand restraining her right leg, grew tighter until it was no longer just a hand but a vice.

  She screamed out in pain when the pressure grew more intense and when she heard the snapping of bones, she almost fainted.

  “Earlier, you inquired about my identity. Well, Jane, I believe you are ready to learn who I am.”

  She cried hysterically while begging him to stop.

  “Do you not wish to know who I am?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “That is unfortunate. But no matter; I am convinced that a little persuasion would change your mind.” He nodded to the corpse-like hand holding her left wrist. The hand crunched her wrist with supernatural strength.

  Jane writhed with pain and her vision went blurry. It was difficult to focus on anything other than the excruciating pain pulsing through her limbs.

  “How about now?”

  “Yes! Tell me… your name!” she cried through convulsions.

  “That’s the spirit. Well, Jane, among your peers I am known as the Coachman. But that is not what I am. Sure enough, I have a stagecoach pulled by horses but that is not who I am.” The crooked smile on his face was enough to send any child bawling for their mother.

  Jane stared in horror when an arm shot out of the ground and wrapped around her waist. The state of the arm replicated the hands. Pieces of flesh peeled off the bone; covered with maggots and flesh-eating beetles. The odor that filled her nostrils broke every shred of self-control she had left down.

  She vomited.

  “Jane, I do not have a name anymore, but I fancy the one you and your fellow young gave me. One has to be alive to own a name and I am, well… I’m more like a phantom living on revenge.”

  “I… I don’t… understand. I never… did anything… to you.”

  “Maybe not you as an individual but the female species. Let me explain something to you.” He chuckled at the confusion in her eyes. “Decades ago, I was foolishly misled by a fair maiden. This maiden was not so fair. She and her friends tricked me.” His gaze dropped to the floor and for a second he appeared almost human. “You see, Jane, they took advantage of me. This young maiden asked for a ride in my stagecoach and before I knew it, we were both undressed and all over each other like two lovers reunited after the war.”

  When he looked at her next, the humanity in his eyes were replaced with hatred.

  “Little did I know that she was not alone. Two of her gentlemen friends followed us and while I occupied myself with… well… her, they ambushed me and murdered me. They knew I could not resist a beautiful woman - even though I loved my wife - and they did not approve I suppose.”

  Her eyes were wide with terror.

  “I made it my mission to take revenge on every single female I can find. I do to them what that harlot did. I seduce them and then I murder them."

  “No... it wasn’t me! I didn’t kill you. Let me go.”

  “That is true, but after I disposed of the three who concocted my d
eath, it wasn’t enough. I realized that women are just plain evil. It has been that way since the Garden of Eden. They cannot help it, Jane.” The coachman’s eyes seemed sad. “The seed of evil had been planted into you the moment Eve ate of that apple.”

  “Please… I beg you. Just let me go. I won’t say… a word to… anyone,” she begged through sobs.

  “I already told you it was too late. They have claimed you.”

  “They?” her eyes were desperate and pleading.

  He chuckled; pleased with himself. “Yes, Jane, my kin.”

  She looked at the hands and an arm around her waist with revolt and shook her head. She had to be dreaming. This was not real. There had to be an explanation. She shut her eyes for a few seconds but when she opened them again, he was still standing over her.

  Amused, he nodded at the arm wrapped around her waist. It released its grip and rose into the air.

  Relief enveloped her when the pressure lifted from her body but was soon replaced with terror when the fingers of the hand - still in the air - pointed right at her stomach. That was when she noticed the long, thick fingernails.

  “It is time,” he said.

  “Time for what?” Her voice was thick with panic. “Time for what?”

  “Time for dinner.”

  Just like Cinderella, the well-dressed coachman transformed before her eyes. His black suit was no longer immaculate and well pressed but full of holes and dirt. His top hat looked ancient and dented. But the worst of all was his face. The once mysterious eyes that peered into her soul on the street were… missing; and so was his nose. Chunks of his face were rotting off with maggots having the party of their lives.

  More arms appeared out of the ground but none grabbed hold of her; as if waiting for the dinner bell to ring.