The Macabre Collection (Box set)

by Haynes, David

  “Enough, Fettiplace; I cannot bear to see a single further atrocity. We will be lucky to escape with our lives after this.”

  Fettiplace laughed; a cold and unpleasant sound. “We’re not in biblical times any longer. Religion holds a great deal less influence than it did back then.”

  “Sacrilege is eternal. I shall remain in my office until the very last person has left.”

  “As you wish, but you will be missing a wonderful show. Why, you haven’t seen the beheading of Paul yet.”

  I held up my hand and walked slowly to the office; I would hear no more of this. The only solace I sought now was in the pungent warmth of a bottle of brandy.

  The excited chatter of an expectant audience was something The Gallery of Wax had not heard for a very long time. It was with a degree of exhilaration that, as my watch struck seven, I heard Fettiplace’s cheerful voice declare. “Ladies and gentlemen, step inside and witness a show of such wickedness you will fear for your very souls.”

  I could hear the hum of voices beyond my office, and more importantly, I could hear the pleasant ring of coin against coin.

  Almost immediately there was a scream from the corridor. ‘So it begins.’ I thought. ‘They will be upon me in a matter of seconds and I will be the one beheaded, not Paul.’ I needn’t have worried though for in the next second the scream turned to laughter and my anxiety quietened. Could I be so out of touch with society? Was blasphemy now the entertainment of the masses? The harmonium played a familiar Bach fugue to lament the demise of our Skeleton Lord, but it was accompanied by the repulsive laughter of his eternally lost followers. I hung my head in shame. ‘Three pennies a piece,’ it might as well have been thirty silver coins for the loathing I felt.

  When at last I felt able to venture from the shadow of my office, I found Fettiplace stepping in a spritely manner among the substantial gathering. None of the oil lamps had been lit; instead hundreds of candles threw a ghostly light around the walls. He was dressed as a morbid funeral mute and holding a six foot staff covered in a delicate black crape in one hand. In the other he held a small candelabrum. It was evident the solemnity of his attire in no way reflected his mood. I could see the amber caresses of the flames light one half of his cheerful face, “At last, Chesterton appears from his dreary closet!” He clapped me on the shoulder. The dismal sound of the harmonium echoed throughout the building. Not even when my father was alive had so many people been inside at one time.

  “I don’t understand how we have evaded the noose.” I uttered and looked from one face to another. They gathered round each of the stages and gazed upon the grisly downfall of one apostle after another. A shocking concoction of repugnance, horror but above all, glee was clearly etched upon their faces. I began to wonder if they were not some aged wax creation my father had made.

  Fettiplace held a purse before my nose and shook it. The sound of copper pennies dancing against each other brought me back to my senses.

  “My, you are a grim fellow. Would three hundred pennies lighten your mood?” He jangled the purse enticingly again. I looked at the prize and then back at the man holding it. Half of that amount was more than I had taken in the last year.

  “Here, hold it.” He placed the velvet bag into my waiting hand and I felt the pleasurable weight of its value. Against my strongest desire, a thin smile toyed with my lips.

  “There you go; a smile from the man at last.” Fettiplace laughed again and walked off towards a group of gentlemen gathered around the crucifixion.

  As the clock struck midnight more than one hundred and fifty visitors had come through the doors at Fettiplace’s show. As I left, still more arrived, smelling of the gin houses from whence they came.

  My spirits had lifted, of that there was no doubt, but I wanted to be gone from the place. I needed to be away from Fettiplace, his diseased sense of humour and those damned macabre disciples.

  In my bed I waited for unconsciousness to bring the deathly shadows that my haunted dreams had become. The Gallery of Wax was saved, due entirely to Fettiplace, but at what price to my soul? There had been dark, dark days after my mother had died when my father could barely rise from his bed; when he wept like a child and asked of his Lord, ‘Why have you taken her Lord, what have I done?’ Yet, even in those days, consorting with the devil had never been considered. It would break my father’s heart to see the gallery collapse; but far worse, it would destroy his soul to observe it tonight. I had settled my mind; Fettiplace and his disgraceful aberrations would be gone in the morning. His departure would signal the death knell for the gallery but remove a great weight from my drained soul.

  My dreams came and went throughout the night. Some were fleeting whilst others lingered, leaving a poisonous scar. My sleep had become a place where a tuneless piano played melancholy chords and the shadows danced a dismal waltz.

  In the dreary gloom of my room I was cheered to see the first of the morning light. It brought an end to my tormented night. I dressed quickly, for I had one visit to make before I returned to the gallery and to Fettiplace.

  I walked the short distance to St Mary Le Strand at pace. I would give no opportunity for doubt to creep once more into my tired mind. I would tell my father what I had done and how completely I had failed and that was all I could do.

  The Strand was not yet the raucous cacophony of hoof and bellow which it soon would be and I was thankful. It allowed me to walk directly into the churchyard without reason to pause. On either side of the path, more graves had been taken in the night; removed by The London Necropolis Company and taken away. There, probably in the company of a murderer or other profane denizen of the city, they would rest for eternity.

  I walked quickly on. None of them could fight their cause to remain and had been taken I was sure, against their will. It was maddening. With a feeling of anger I arrived at the giant old yew, and to my father’s grave. For a moment I believed I was in the wrong spot, confused in my weary condition; but it was not the case. Where once had lain my father’s bones, was now nothing more than a mound of fresh earth. I collapsed to my knees and pushed my hands into the dirt. It was done, I was too late.

  I do not recall the exact detail of my journey back to the gallery, for I was a lost man. I could not see past the grim solitude which my life had become. Was this all I had now? Nothing more than a blasphemous ballet with a lunatic lead?

  I reached the gallery and found it calm. There was no trace of what had passed the night before and, most importantly, no sign of Fettiplace. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was cool and dark, as it always was first thing in the morning. I had grown used to the bustle and chatter of his men and their absence was all the more noticeable in the gloom.

  “Hello?” I called out. No reply was given. I took up the gas lamp and began the walk to my office. I did not want to look away from the lamp, nor did I wish to see the appalling spectacle of the crucifixion or the other abominations. Inevitably, like so many others, I was drawn into the miserable world he had created.

  It was, firstly, with a sense of relief I noticed the first stage was empty. The scene of Christ’s downfall had been taken away. ‘Had London finally come to its lost senses?’ I dismissed the thought. Had that been the case, the gallery would have been subjected to wrath, the like of which was last witnessed in Sodom and Gomorrah.

  By the time I reached the final gallery it was clear that Fettiplace had taken his grisly enterprise with him. I was thankful for this, for it would negate the need for any disagreeable confrontations with the man. For all his charm, there was something disturbing in his cold eyes; something which told me he was a man well versed in conflict.

  The last gallery remained covered by its scarlet curtain. It looked strangely out of place, as if Fettiplace had neglected it in his haste to leave.

  I drew back the curtain and was confronted by the awful truth of his show. The last of the apostles was waiting just for me. Several pieces of wood had been crudely nailed together
to form a makeshift tree. Hung by the neck from this tree was a rotting skeleton. The bones were raised then lowered by some clever mechanical device and here and there ragged threads of a morning suit still clung to the fragile frame in helpless decay. Here and there, I could see the last fetid pieces of flesh falling away from the bone; and above the skeleton it read – ‘The Death of Judas Iscariot.’

  I stepped over the threshold and into the terrible display. Why had he left only this? Was it another one of his humourless jokes? In the gloom I stepped upon something and almost lost my footing. I knew, without looking, exactly what it was; Fettiplace’s purse of ill-gotten gains. I kicked it away for I wanted no part of that money or where it had come from. It struck the base of the arboreal gallows sending the corpse into a frantic and ghoulish jig. As the skeleton danced, the last of the threads of the suit dropped silently to the floor and revealed a golden key around its neck. My father’s key. My father’s bones.

  The Bone House

  My elevation from an existence destined to wallow in the festering immorality of a perishing city was, some say, a matter of good fortune. I disagree with this notion, preferring to regard it as an act of a cruel, pitiless and nihilistic sovereign.

  The court of King Cholera was not filled with golden goblets of spiced wine, or of sweet scented lilies. No, instead it was filled with the putrefying flesh of a thousand diseased souls. It was place where even Saint Peter feared to tread. Yet, for the fortunate ones who returned, the loathsome monarch bestowed upon them something more important than just the restoration of their health. He made them see what had gone before and vow not to return.

  My family grovelled at the King’s rotten feet for many days before he finally granted them passage. My father, mother and two sisters, were taken and thrust deep into the silent abyss where they waited in shadow for my demise. For reasons I do not pretend to comprehend I was allowed to walk free of the King’s embrace and resume my worthless life.

  I scavenged in the gutters and filth; eating any decayed scraps of food I could find and wishing I had been taken too. I slept in the street under the watchful stare of the dossers who thought me better off in a workhouse. Or, I rested on the embankment, where I was routinely beaten by those even less worthy of life than I. I was utterly destitute and asked of my God why I had been kept alive, if only to perish in such a tormented and execrable way.

  It was with little comfort that I took to sleeping within the grey and silent confines of St Mary Le Strand graveyard. Many regard graveyards as desolate places filled with the stench of death, but not I. To me, it was a place of safety and of peace. My parents and sisters had been thrown into a giant pit, a pit they called a grave. Were it not for the hurried incoherent muttering of the clergymen, they would have been treated no better than animal carcasses.

  Each week the pit was re-opened and a fresh collection of cadavers was thrown carelessly atop the current residents. It may seem a grim and forlorn place to spend the night and indeed it was; sleeping amongst the stinking miasma of a hundred rotting corpses. Though, each night, as I placed my weary head on the earth, I felt the warmth of my dead family seep through the worm-ridden soil. Their distant heartbeats crept through the soil and decaying flesh and beat in terrible unison with mine. How could this be of comfort? Comfort was not all I sought; I slept with the dead and dreamt their poison would make me one of them.

  It was after a cold and desperate night on the grave that I was woken by the sharp jab in the ribs.

  “Hook it, you miserable rogue!”

  I looked up and saw the toothless snarl of the perpetrator.

  “I’ve got work to do and I don’t need some vagabond getting in the way.” He raised a staff and brought it down on my legs.

  I covered my head. “Please, sir. No more. I was only trying to take some kip.”

  “Well take it somewhere else.” He kicked me in the stomach with his filthy boot.

  I rose to my feet and felt the cold ache of a night without shelter writhe through my bones. The morning was bitter and as drab as my beaten spirit. I had nowhere else to go and no hope for relief from my anguish. It was with a jaded interest that I watched the man set to work.

  With a great sigh he plunged a rod into the earth beside the communal pit. His efforts met with a small amount of resistance, but he continued and pushed deeper into the earth until the rod was almost sunk entirely. Immediately a vile stench pervaded the air and caused me to retch. The man glanced with little concern at my empty heave and continued with his hideous toil.

  When at last he was satisfied with the results of his survey, he took up his shovel. Each strike of the blade sent a fresh cloud of rancid air into my lungs; and yet he seemed entirely oblivious to it and whistled like a lark as he worked.

  The ground was soft, and after the passage of only a few minutes, he dropped into the pit of his labour. He may as well have been dressed in a black cloak, carrying a scythe for his next act was one of death. Bone, after splintered bone, he pulled from the earth. Slack jawed skulls with their gossamer hair, and eye sockets packed full of mud; he cared not for their state and piled them beside the pit with his naked hands. Was he robbing the graves? I considered it quickly for I had heard of such matters in the North; yet what was the purpose? There was nothing of value, for the trinkets, if there were any, had been taken long before now.

  With a grunt he pulled himself clear and kicked the bones carelessly into a sack. He heaved it onto his broad, strong back and walked away from the stench. It struck me that I should call for a constable, or maybe even take up the rod and strike him down. Instead, in my bewildered interest I followed him across the graveyard to a small, yet sinister looking building. It had a crude and functional appearance and was in contrast to the elegant scrolls and majestic angels which adorned the tops of the headstones. For this reason, it was hidden from view, away from the quiet beauty of the dead and their solemn visitors. He opened the door to the building with a kick from his boot allowing the weak morning light to penetrate within. I could see it was no larger than the pathetic room my family and I had shared before we fell ill. I peered from my vantage and watched him stoke a fire in the grate until it roared and hissed. As cold as I was I would not venture into that place for a second for it filled me with dread.

  Without further ceremony he tipped the sack onto the fire and in a hissing cacophony the bones were ablaze. The flames whipped around the bones and sent tongues of burning rapture through the voids where once eyes had lived. A poisonous black fume was sent up through the chimney and out into grey sky. It was carried away in an instant by the cool winter wind and into the lungs of the ignorant inhabitants of the city. In a sickening final insult to those he had destroyed, he rubbed his hands, warmed them against the pyre and pushed his coffee pot into the coals.

  I shrank back from the view; I could not stand to look at it further. What right had he to dispose of them in that manner?

  I retched, a dry and desperate sound for I had not eaten a morsel for two days.

  “I told you to get out of here.” I felt the familiar boot in my ribs and fell to the floor.

  “A bit sour for you is it?” I heard his sick cackle as he walked away.

  Was this the ruthless fate awaiting my family?

  “Wait, sir!” I called after him as he whistled his way back across the graveyard. “Please don’t.”

  “We gotta make room for the new ‘uns, there’s always lots of new ‘uns, now The King is in town.”

  He pushed his rod into the spot where not an hour since I lay in a fitful slumber. “Stop!” I called, yet he refused to acknowledge my presence.

  “Stop!” I called again. My family were below him and I would not allow them to be disturbed by this filthy animal. I knew what I must do.

  His shovel, discarded in haste to rifle through the bones with his bare hands, lay in the mud. I took it in my hands and felt the strength of its uncouth purpose flow through my arms. “Stop!” I called for the la
st time, and as he turned with a vile sneer, I brought it down on his head. The sickening shudder of shovel on bone rang through the handle with a jarring force and sent us both flailing into the freshly dug pit. As our bodies came together in a jumble of mud, I screamed at the agony of my fate; I roared at him because there was no other. Then, when my voice gave out, I beat his face with my fists until the blood made gloves of my hands.

  I do not know if he was dead at that moment, but as I clambered out from his pit and piled earth over his face, I knew he soon would be.

  “Bravo!” A voice called from beyond my view but I continued with my gory task; I had no wish to hang. “Boy?” The voice came again. It was an enquiring voice, not the brusque tone I was used to. I piled one last shovel of earth over his face and turned to see who was calling. A well-dressed man smiled as he approached. His cloak flew out from his back like the wings of a crow and he tapped his cane on the headstones as he passed by.

  “You must be the new grave digger then, boy?”

  I stared at my feet for this was clearly a gentleman and I had felt the biting sting of a cane before.

  “Come, let us get acquainted in the warmth of the bone house.” I felt the weight of his gloved hand on my shoulder. “What a marvellously brutal performance you just produced, although it lacked the true flair of a showman.” He peered into the pit and smiled. “I can see we have matters to discuss, you and I. What is your name?”

  I remained silent.

  “Well, allow me introduce myself first then? William Fettiplace is my name, and some say devilment is my game.” His bright and cheery laugh was sufficient to tempt me to his side and into the bone house.