by B. Pheasant
“No,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”
“Why don’t you look to your left?” he said.
Jane turned her head but all she could see was a planted headstone. She looked back at the coachman and pleaded with him with her eyes.
He leaned down until he was but a few inches from her face. “Inspect, Madam.”
Horrified by his empty eye sockets, her lip quivered. She turned her head to look at the gravestone once again. This time she saw what he wanted her to see. When her eyes settled on the words engraved on the marble headstone she froze. No… How could this be? It’s impossible. Her head jerked back to the rotting decomposing face and found it smiling at her. She tried to scream for help but her sobs muted her every effort.
“You see?”
She looked back at the gravestone and knew it was no use; he was right. It was written in stone. She did not know if it was some kind of voodoo magic or if her imagination played tricks on her, but there it was.
In loving memory,
Jane Louise Watson
Born: 11 January 1999
Died: In a few minutes
The wretched cries that escaped her were uncontrollable and unrecognizable. The eyeless man roared with laughter at her despair. He took a step back and became serious.
As if it was even possible, her fear intensified.
The corpse standing at her feet clapped his hands only once; because one clap was enough. The fingers with the thick long nails pointed at her stomach plunged into her flesh as if it was nothing more than a sponge cake. While the nails penetrated her skin, the rest of the hands clawed and pulled at her body in rhythm with her bone-chilling screams. Bony fingers ripping chunks of meat of her thighs like the jaws of a great white shark.
Her desperate screams echoed in the air as her body writhed with excruciating pain but no one would ever hear them and rush to her aid.
Every time a hand tore a piece of flesh off her it would disappear into the ground only to reappear a few seconds later; ready for its next handful. With every piece of her body taken from her, the state of the corpse seemed to improve. First, his nose magically grew until it looked like that of a healthy man’s and then his eyes emerged from deep inside the skull back into their rightful places. The pieces of rotting flesh on his cheeks grew into healthy tissue again and his lips once again returned to its original state. Her healthy tissue was replenishing his decaying flesh.
The hand boring into her stomach reached her liver and when it squeezed it, she must have passed out because everything went dark.
If Jane was still alive, she would be thankful for losing consciousness because no one would want to witness the next stage of the feast. While her body was being dissected by hungry, rotten hands, the coachman sunk his teeth into her warm heart. That was the most vital part of his diet; he needed it to sustain him during the hunt for the next victim.
When there was nothing but bones and bits and pieces of Jane left, the hands dragged them down into the ground until there was no evidence of her existence left. Her name and details disappeared from the gravestone and were replaced by its original description:
Here lies Michael Wellington.
Beloved father and husband
who was violently taken from us
while on duty as a coachman
Born: 3 June 1822
Died: 14 February 1857
When Sharon woke the next morning and found Jane’s bed undisturbed, she grinned. She was more than likely snug in Hank’s bed; more than likely still intoxicated. When Jane failed to show late that afternoon, she grew concerned. Sharon tried to convince herself that she had nothing to be worried about but her gut said otherwise.
By the time the sun had set, Sharon could not take it any longer. She grabbed her purse and took to the streets in search of Jane. It was already past curfew, but she decided that she would have to take her chances with the Coachman.
Terrified to be alone on the street, she could not wait until tomorrow before the police would investigate. She could never understand why a person could only be listed as missing after twenty-four hours of… being missing. A lot could happen in twenty-four hours.
Her first stop was the club Jane always spoke about. She had never been but all the young people swore by it. When she was about to enter the club, someone touched her shoulder.
“Forgive me, Madam. Could you assist me?”
She turned around and was hypnotized by the black eyes that stared at her. “I…” she tried to speak but just like Jane, she turned into a puppet.
“Don’t be frightened, my lady. You are safe with me.” His voice was calming and seductive.
“Coachman…” she whispered.
“Aye,” he chuckled. “They call me the Coachman. Would you like to see my coach?”
Sharon knew she was about to go missing like the other girls but she could not contain the words that escaped her. “Yes… I would.”
“Most excellent,” he blurted. He offered her his hand, “Shall we?”
“Yes,” she answered in a daze; ready to be led to the slaughterhouse like a defenseless lamb.
The End...
Also by the Author
Dark Murmurings - Painkillers for Heartache
Dark Murmurings - Harvest
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