Rafferty continued reading.
One Hundred
They were buried together, as had been specified in their wills.
In the same grave, dug twelve feet into the ground, beneath a huge oak tree in the grounds of the estate.
David and Laura Callahan were lowered into their final resting place watched by only a handful of onlookers. Two or three of their staff and the priest attended as they were placed in the hole that would house them for the rest of eternity.
After the ceremony the onlookers drifted away. They went home. The priest stood by the graveside for a moment composing himself, then he too went. The gravedigger was left alone to fill in the hole, something he did quite happily and with no haste. He had no fear of the dead. He had been in the job too long for that. Besides, what was there to fear from a dead man? He whistled happily as he refilled the hole, finally patting down the top soil before replacing the carefully cut sods. It would take a few weeks for the grass to grow back fully. By the end of the month the only evidence of the grave would be the small marble headstone that bore the names of David and Laura Callahan.
When the man had patted the sods down he stood by the grave and lit a cigarette, leaning against the tree and looking up into the sky. The sun was shining brightly, spreading its warmth over the land. Only beneath the leaves of the oak tree was it still a little cool. Eventually he moved away from the green canopy, glad to feel the sunshine on his skin. He carried his spade over to his van, put the tool in the back and slid behind the steering wheel. He swung the car out onto the long driveway.
Behind him the grave was silent.
A blackbird settled on the freshly-turned earth, snatching up a worm that had been disturbed by the gravedigger. The bird took off with its prize, soaring high into the blue sky.
The grave remained in shadow, untouched by the sun.
EPILOGUE
The Beginning
Darkness.
Darkness and pain.
He was aware of them both at the same time. He tried to sit up but his head connected with the lid of the coffin and he slumped back down again.
David Callahan sucked in a deep breath and tasted stale air.
He tried to reach up, to touch his eyes, to feel the stitches which had sewn them shut, but he could not move in the confines of the casket. He tried to open his mouth but his jaws had been wired together with the same care and attention to detail with which his eyelids had been stitched shut.
And there was the pain.
Excruciating, mind-numbing pain that filled every pore of his body. His now living body.
The secret had been his, still was his. The treasure was his, would always be his.
But he had the pain to go with it.
A pain he could not endure but knew he must endure. A pain he would know forever.
Had he been able to smile he might have done so, smiled at the supreme irony of the situation. He was immortal. He could not die. It didn’t matter if the stale air inside the coffin ran out. He would not die. He could not die.
The realization grew on him gradually The understanding that he was twelve feet below earth packed so tightly he could never claw his way through, even if he managed to free himself from the coffin.
The knowledge that no matter how long or hard he screamed no one would ever hear him.
The remembrance that whoever had worked on his body in the funeral parlour had sewn his eyes and mouth shut, had filled in the bullet holes in his body with morticians’ wax.
Had sucked out every drop of blood and replaced it with embalming fluid.
That was what caused the excruciating pain.
A pain he must learn to live with because live was exactly what he would continue to do.
The agony seemed to grow upon that realization.
He was immortal.
He had the secret forever.
And he had the rest of eternity to enjoy his agony.
About the Author
Born and brought up in Hertfordshire, Shaun Hutson now lives and writes in Buckinghamshire where he has lived since 1986. After being expelled from school, he worked at many jobs, including a cinema doorman, a barman, and a shop assistant - all of which he was sacked from - before becoming a professional author in 1983.
He has since written over 30 bestselling novels as well as writing for radio, magazines and television. Shaun has also written exclusively for the Internet, a short story entitled RED STUFF and an interactive story, SAVAGES.
Having made his name as a horror author with bestsellers such as SPAWN, EREBUS, RELICS and DEATHDAY (acquiring the nicknames 'The Godfather of Gore' and 'The Shakespeare of Gore' in the process) he has since produced a number of very dark urban thrillers such as LUCY'S CHILD, STOLEN ANGELS, WHITE GHOST and PURITY. At one time, Shaun Hutson was published under no fewer than six pseudonyms , writing everything from Westerns to non-fiction.
Hobbies include cinema (he has seen over 10,000 films in the last 20 years and cites director Sam Peckinpah as his biggest influence), rock music and slumping in front of the TV.
Reformed alcoholic, Shaun was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as having mildly psychotic tendencies. He is extremely unsociable and used to shoot pistols for a hobby (four perfect qualifications for being a novelist, really.)
Shaun has appeared on and presented a number of TV shows over the years. He has lectured to the Oxford Students Union. He has appeared on stage with heavy-metal rock band Iron Maiden 13 times and received death threats on a number of occasions due to his work.
His work is particularly popular in prison libraries.
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