by william Todd
She opened her mouth, at which time a tiny rivulet of blood trickled from its corner. Her voice sounded like broken machinery when she said, “I’m still alive.” She smiled a devilish smile at him and in the blink of an eye, her arms were released from their silken bondage, and she was reaching out for him with emaciated limbs that scrabbled wildly for his neck.
The doctor fell backwards out of his chair with a thud to escape her death grip and let out a quiet yelp, as he stumbled over himself to reach the bedroom door. His terror was as palpable as the heat in the room, and he felt the blood drain from his face, as though bleeding out from an unseen wound.
Once at the door, he quickly staggered to his feet, sure that she was right behind him but unsure from where her sudden reanimation came. The room behind him hung in a sepulchral darkness, save for a sliver of late summer sun that flashed from between the heavy curtains, striking the contours on the bed.
He flung open the heavy oak, flooding the room with harsh light and noticed from the corner of his eye the body of his dead wife, still board-stiff, eyes closed, under her bedding. The light made her look like a wax figure on the verge of melting.
He engaged her once more, albeit apprehensively, from the doorway, wiping a cold sweat from his neck, trying desperately to calm his piston pounding heart. She was still dead, hadn’t moved, hadn’t opened her eyes, hadn’t said those terrible words.
His wide eyes slackened, and finally he laughed. It was a phantasm of his mind. He must have dozed off sitting in his chair, and the ghostly encounter was a revenant of his subconscious.
The doctor pulled out his pocket watch with a still shaking hand; the vicar should be arriving momentarily and a bit later, Olivia et al. He calmly smoothed out the wrinkles from his suit coat, pushed back into place his disheveled, black hair, and returned to his mourning station beside Gwen Arless’s bed—after pulling back the chair to a more suitable distance.
In Victorian society, there was a proper way to do everything. He killed her properly; now he had to mourn her properly. That is what society demanded, and he was a child of society.
3
Surprisingly, those summoned all arrived together. Olivia led them through the door, each wearing an uncomfortable mask of commiseration. Each shook Dr. Arless’s hand and offered condolences.
He, in turn, offered them Mrs. Arless’s room with a sweep of his arm. Olivia whispered to the doctor as they entered together, “Vicar was in town, sir. I hope you don’t mind them all at once.”
“Not at all, Olivia,” he lied. “I quite needed the time to myself.”
Each stood quietly for a moment looking upon the body. The vicar broke the silence. “She looks so much more at peace now than since the last time I looked in on her. She’s in a better place now.”
All the guests nodded solemnly. The doctor, however, did not ascent. He stood motionless, as if he didn’t even hear the old cleric speak.
Finally, Constable Bowers uncurled his tall frame, straightening out the revere of his uniform. “Well, doctor,” he said as he cleared his throat and started looking over the body, the bed, and the room, “all seems to be in order. Nothing suspicious jumps out at me—not that I expected anything, you see. Everyone knew of Mrs. Arless’s illness. All this is just a formality, of course.”
“Of course,” replied Arless dryly. “That is why I had Olivia summon you.” The officer pulled out a small pad and a pencil and wrote down some notes. “Olivia explained everything to us on the way here. I’ll just jot it down and be on my way. Paperwork, you know.”
After a moment of scribbling, Bowers put his pad away and turned to leave. Before walking through the door, he turned and put an uncomfortable hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Very sorry for you loss, doctor.”
He turned and left.
Mr. Timmons turned to Dr. Arless, satchel in hand, and whispered, “Are you ready?”
“I’m quite sure I know what’s in it, but let’s make it official.” The vicar gave them a reverent look and began a whispered prayer as he pulled a glass trinket filled with fragrant oil and a Bible from a black leather purse.
The doctor looked upon the old man with incredulity. He was a High Anglican, more Catholic than Protestant, but neither lie appealed to him. Gwen, on the other hand was devout and considered Vicar Pratt a friend. She had managed to gain her husband entrance to a church service on but a few occasions, which he found both dull and given to extreme melancholy. His mind always wandered to more festive destinations than those two in the afterlife always mentioned in the vicar’s sermons, both of which he was certain did not exist.
“Olivia, could you get some tea on for us please?” he asked.
Olivia nodded, curtsied slightly then left the room to attend her task.
“Let’s go into the parlor,” he said to Timmons. As they exited the room, Timmons turned his head and mentioned over his shoulder, “Vicar, this involves you, as well. Do what you need to do here. We will wait for you to join us then begin.”
. . . . Mr. Timmons settled his rotund fixtures into a green velvet settee with his well-worn satchel on his lap. He released its leather straps and meticulously placed the papers from within it onto a small, oval rosewood table straddled between himself and a leather wing-back chair, which Dr. Arless occupied. The lawyer’s eyes gleamed behind his pince-nez glasses at his perfectly aligned paperwork the way a man might pour over the sparsely clad contents of a brothel.
Although the doctor saw no such blemish, Timmons must have seen a corner slightly askew, for he suddenly reached over his ample lap and began to rearrange them yet again.
He was about this task when Olivia entered with a tray of tea. So much did it tremble in her hands that she threatened to rain the fragrant contents onto the paperwork, table, and plush carpet underneath, which would have been tantamount to murder in the eyes of the barrister.
Dr. Arless quickly grabbed the silver from her and gently placed it on the table, pouring then handing a cup of tea to Timmons and taking one himself. “Thank you, Olivia. That will be all. I’ll ring if I need anything else.”
Forgetting her curtsy, the young woman just turned and walked quickly from the room, wiping a flood of tears from her cheeks.
The vicar entered shortly after and grabbed a small, armless chair from the corner and took his seat between the two men around the table.
The vicar eyed the tea momentarily, but when none was immediately offered, he fixed his gaze between the doctor and the lawyer, and his was a queer expression.
Dr. Arless noticed. “Is everything alright?” “Yes, yes,” he said, his voice trailing off. After a moment, “It’s just that when I was anointing her with oil, she seemed…she was still very warm.”
Understanding what the statement implied, the doctor replied, “I assure you vicar, she is dead. No pulse, no breath. That means dead.”
“Yes, yes, far be it from me to question you—”
“Then don’t,” Dr. Arless rejoined with a controlled exasperation.
“It’s just…she is still very warm, considering she’s been passed some two or more hours. Very unusual.” “It’s the end of August, on what seems to be turning out to be one of the warmest days of the summer. The curtains are drawn and the door to her room is closed. Just what would you expect?”
Mr. Timmons interjected himself between the two. “This is precisely why we need to have this conversation. May we put our anger in check and begin.”
“Of course,” replied the vicar. “I apologize for my remarks. They weren’t meant to offend. They were just the ramblings of an old man holding onto the hope of a dear friend.” Eyeing them both he then said, “I must say, though, I am curious as to why I must be part of this.”
Regaining composure himself, Dr. Arless ignored the vicar’s apology and nodded for Mr. Timmons to begin. “Well, as you may know, John,” nodding to Dr. Arless, “and may not know,” nodding in turn to Vicar Pratt, “Mrs. Arless was given to certain—peculiar
proclivities.”
At this, the doctor nodded agreeably, and the vicar turned a twisted brow at the lawyer. “So we all understand and are not at cross purposes I will explain.” He repositioned his pince-nez farther up his nose and began, “Just over six years ago, Mrs. Arless, Gwen, lost her brother William to Typhoid. All thought he had expired, indeed, all indications were that he had. However, just as he was being preserved for burial with arsenic, he miraculously revived, only to die genuinely from the preserving fluid already injected into his veins.”
At this, the vicar let out a mew of astonishment, and Dr. Arless sighed in quiet exasperation at the vicar. Continuing, Mr. Timmons said, “From that point on Gwen has had a great fear of death—or more precisely stated, a fear of not actually being dead.”
“Seems she and the vicar are of one mind on this,” the doctor replied phlegmatically, as he sipped his tea. Both the vicar and the lawyer ignored the retort. “I believe we all know that Gwen’s family is one of some means. Knowing her fear, rational or not, they procured for her a special casket. This casket is fitted with tubing to allow fresh air into the casket and a rope that leads from within the casket to a bell affixed above ground, which she can pull should she revive after burial.”
“I had no idea she had such an extreme anxiety over such a thing,” replied the vicar.
“It wasn’t a detail she wished to share with many people for understandable reasons,” said Dr. Arless.
“So now we come to the particulars,” Mr. Timmons expounded. “Gwen did not wish to be preserved.” The vicar’s face reddened. “What? No preservation? We need at least three days to plan the funeral and service, send out invitations. In this weather, she’ll be…well, unfit for viewing within a day.”
“Precisely,” said Timmons. “That is why she is going to be buried this evening.”
“This is most unusual. Are you in accordance with this, Dr. Arless?” He only shrugged his shoulders as he poured himself another cup of tea. After tasting it and gently placing a second sugar cube in the hot liquid, he finally said, feigning sadness, “It is too bad that it has come to this, however these are my dear Gwen’s wishes, and I was nothing if not a slave to her happiness.” Inwardly, however, his only sadness was that the opportunity for a grand celebration to send Gwen off to her reward would be wasted.
“We are to prepare her for burial here. I have already sent for the casket, which should arrive late this afternoon from Wellerby’s in Oxford. We will have a small service here with a small contingent of friends, which she has already laid out. She will be buried in the church yard, and someone will stand guard overnight in case she should revive and ring the bell. In that case, a hasty un-burial will ensue. Now, if there is no revival by mid-day tomorrow, per her request, we may disconnect the tubing and bell from Mrs. Arless’s casket and begin our mourning properly.”
Mr. Timmons engaged Dr. Arless directly. “Do you think Olivia would be willing to dress her for burial?”
“No. She is a mess. She was barely able to bring tea. It will have to be someone else.” “The missus has done this many a time,” interjected Vicar Pratt. “If you have a dress picked out I’m sure she and our Molly would be honored to do it for you.”
“Is that agreeable to you, John?”
“It isn’t the scenario I envisioned.”
“I doubt any of this is.” He turned to the reverend. “That will be fine. Thank you.” It was a hard sentence to say. It felt coming out like food stuck in his windpipe. But it had to be done. He didn’t wish for her body to linger in the house and above ground any longer than it had to.
“It’s settled then,” Timmons said. “With some signatures, we can get this somber endeavor underway.”
And the vicar replied, “May she rest in peace.” Dr. Arless said nothing as he finished his tea.
4
Within an hour, Mrs. Pratt and her servant Molly arrived. They cordially dispensed with the usual solemnities then set about their task of transforming the dead to look alive once more. Dr. Arless gave them the burial dress, and Olivia provided accompanying accoutrements she and Mrs. Arless had, with much reluctance and crying, picked out in the early stages of her illness.
As the vicar’s wife closed the door to Gwen’s room, the doctor suddenly found himself with nothing to do. He decided to take in a walk; after all it was a fine summer day without rain, and it was well past noon without, as yet, so much as a step outside.
Being without the confines of that dreadful room, and having his soul lifted from the release of a burden that nearly suffocated his happiness, beauty somehow found its way back to him. The sky was bathed in blue, a sea in the heavens that matched any on earth. Clouds, like mighty galleons marched along the horizon, off to lands distant. Throngs of golden wheat swayed in hypnotic unison to a song more whispered than sung on the late summer breezes, and the serried tops of beech, oak, and elm trees swooned like sozzled sentries between all the properties.
All this he took in with great pleasure, as he ambled along. The physician followed one of the wooded delineations that separated the wheat field from the parsonage down a gentle slope and inside of a ten minute walk, he was at the River Dees. Wide swatches of green grass were patched together by majestic weeping willows along its banks.
Under one of these trees was a lone fisherman, his pole propped on a stick, his line swallowed by the skymirrored currents. He stood, his back to the doctor, pike stiff, as if any sudden movement would scare any potential fish—and probably his supper—away.
The doctor was not much in the mood for conversation. However, he saw no way out of the inevitability, considering they were the only two at the river, and he refused to try a stealthy retreat and possibly embarrass himself if caught. Just a quick hello and any luck yet?, and he would be on his way down the well-worn path, contemplating life without his Gwen.
Dr. Arless leadened his steps so as not to startle the man, as he came up from behind and called out, “Hullo. How’s the endeavor panning out so far?”
The man never moved, gave no indication that he had even heard the salutation. As the doctor came shoulder to shoulder with the man, he surveyed the water and said again, “I say, have you had any luck yet?”
The man finally engaged him directly, but the shock of what he saw sent the doctor stumbling backwards in terror; it was the face of his dead wife engaging him, hair a tangle of worms and matted mud, nostrils infested with wriggling masses of maggots, cheeks pocked with curdled divots, more bone than flesh. Gwen Arless looked as though she had been the main course at a carrion feast. The doctor was saved from having to engage her with direct eye contact for she had none. Where her beautiful sapphires had been in life (they were by far her most pronounced attribute) were now but hollow sockets with wasting cerebral contents faintly seen in the shadows beneath. That face of death smiled, and it was a smile that was sour with rot.
“I’m still alive,” her flaking lips uttered in a vomitous clatter. As he stumbled back, the doctor’s foot slipped off the path, and his spill backwards turned into a waste deep bath in a cold river.
The fisherman from hell jumped from the bank into the murky water with Dr. Arless, closing the distance between the two in the blink of an eye. The doctor pushed himself backwards in the cool currents, trying to keep distance between himself and the man who wore his wife’s decayed face. Water splashed in high arcs and digested in slobbery coughs as two hands reached out for his throat. Death’s grasp was steel-strong, rough, cold.
“Dr.! Dr. Arless, you alright?” Suddenly, Mrs. Arless’s face was replaced with one more deserving of a living body. It was Sean Caudill, one of the local farm hands. “Didn’t mean t’scare ya like’at,” he said in his slow, Cornish burr. “Didn’t hear ye come up behind me. Guess I was just lost’n me own thoughts, I was.”
He reached out a hand to Dr. Arless.
The doctor hesitated momentarily, making sure the hand being offered did not show bone and sinew before being
helped up.
A moment later, they had made their way up the bank and back onto the path. Both men looked like soggy loaves of bread laying on the sun-dappled path, each trying to catch their breath and wringing river water from their clothes.
“I’m s’sorry, Dr. Arless,” Sean pleaded once again, wiping his wet, sandy hair from his eyes. “I ne’er meant fer that t’happen.”
Panting through a heavy, matted mess of saturated clothing, the doctor waved off the comment and looked over his pathetic, dripping visage. However, his sodden attire was not foremost on mind. The picture of his dead wife was still emblazoned before him, and her words still felt like hat pins thrust into his ears. Her spirit was taunting him. But he didn’t believe in the afterlife, did he? Her dead body had somehow become manifest in the countenance of others. But how? Why?
A shiver coursed his body, not entirely due to his cold, wet clothes. After only a moment, the young farm hand noticed the black band on Dr. Arless’s coat sleeve. “I’m sorry f’yer loss, sir,” he said nodding at the band. “Lot a us bin prayin’ hard fer the missus (at this he made a sign of the cross, to which Dr. Arless did his best not to roll his eyes). Help’t us when she could, she did. When d’it happen?”
“Just this morning. The vicar’s wife was so kind as to prepare her for burial, just now, and I decided to go for a walk—”
“An’ here I’m sceerin’ the b’jeesus outta ye!” Sean interjected.
“No, no. Just a bit jumpy, that is all. Not your fault.” He decided to change the subject, for both talking about and, more precisely, seeing, his dead wife had taken its toll on his nervous system. “How’s your brother’s ankle doing? I have been meaning to come over and check in on him. Things have just gotten a bit…” His voice trailed off.
Sean got to his feet and offered a hand to Dr. Arless, which he accepted. “Timmy’s just fine, sir. Ye fixed’im up good, you did. Should be completely fit fer the harvest.”