First Time Dead 1

by Chantal Boudreau

  No, this cannot continue.

  March 26

  It is done, though ‘twas not an easy duty.

  I have prepared her resting place, a grave beneath the hanging branches of the trees where, as a child, she used to play. I believe her soul, such as it may be now, would like that. And it is this thought that gives me both some little pleasure and a great strength with which to perform this task. God forgive me, for I must murder her a second time.

  But oh, from what heart does murder spring? From what heart does love? Can they truly be the same? Do both hearts beat together within me in delicate, yet deathly, time?

  As she lay upon her bed did I take the consecrated waters and the stake. Having marked the pentagram in salt about that place where I stood, I blessed the stake and thrust it with all the might God gave me through the rotting carcass’ breast.

  Such was the hideous scream that vomited forth from her gaping maw that I lost hold of the stake and fell forward upon her. Her ribs crack’d like thin icicles beneath me, my hands pushed through the festering liquids held within her breast so that they spurted along my arms, burning the skin with the pain of the fires of Hell itself. Her hands, by accident or intent I know not which, came about my throat and held there with a grip I had not felt since she lived.

  I could not breathe nor utter any cry, for the strangling bones held tight about my throat and the curling yellow nails ripped deep into my flesh. The fingers dug into my neck so that my muscles tore, and with such force that the decaying flesh upon their ends was forced off, and only bone gouged deep into my flesh.

  As my vision darkened and I felt the welcoming onset of unconsciousness, I feared this would be my end. But its strength then surely waned, for I woke some time later upon the floor beside the bed.

  I had little time, for much of the day had passed and her burial must be performed before darkness.

  I carried her to her grave and did cry for her, or for this thing I held, I know not which: for the carcass was broken, limp and so very light in my arms. The jaw clacked against the skull as I carried it, and the legs swung jerkily with my movement.

  I laid her down beside her grave, beside the pure white robe and the Holy Bible I had left there in readiness.

  This then was my daughter, or was the House where dwelt her Soul while yet she lived. I held her hands together in mine, now accustomed to the movement of the tiny worms beneath her skin and the putrid flesh that fell at the slightest touch.

  I laid her robe upon her and laid her down into her final bed. The ceremony complete, the earth filled, I laid me down upon her grave and wept until I slept.

  April 2

  I thought the deed complete, but it is not. Each night it attempts return, each night the nearer it gets.

  The first night did she rise from her grave and stand in eerie silhouette against the cold moon, hands reaching out to me. Yet, I know no moon will rise for some nights, and there was no moon that night, so dream it must be. The next night she did walk towards this very house. So plain were these visions that, on the morrow, I returned to her resting place, a great fear in my heart that I would find the ground there disturbed. Thank God, ‘twas but a dream!

  The third night she came to my window and did slap her hands against it to waken me. I awoke and opened the shutters to her. She reached in to take my hands and there was life in them and warmth and love in her eyes. And I cried, for she lived. And I held her to my breast. And hugged her. And felt the bones crack, and when I looked again it was her blackened, sunken corpse I held.

  Then it was I awoke.

  Then, on the fourth night it came again, but I would not let it in, and fear of her held me so I could not move.

  And she turned her back to me and spread her arms and cried loud and long into the deathblack night, her evil wail rising to a sky streaked with luminous cloud. And from the distant trees came answering calls. Then came for me others of her kind; the long dead, the newly dead, the hideous and the pretty, ever nearer.

  And I could not wake, nor move, but lay fearful as they gathered at every window and door. Their screaming drowned the beating down of the doors and covered the sound of the splintering of wood at the windows, and in they came. Crawling like vile snakes upon their bellies, I could see no movement, but plainly I heard them as they came closer, could feel them reaching out for me. About my bed they came, scraping and touching. And still I could not move. Their wailing waxed and died and came again, the pitiful yet hideous screaming from jaws that were both open and closed, until she who I once nurtured did drag the sheets that covered me off my bed and onto the floor. And they squirmed toward me and their wailing slowly died. Then it was silent and they began to climb onto my bed. Their weight upon me was crushing so I could not breathe, and still they came, all struggling to climb one upon the other.

  They spoke then, clearly, but within my mind they spoke. I heard each of their voices fill my head, the young, the aged, the shrill and the hoarse, all spoke as one, “You are one of us now, we have come for you, immortal.”

  Their bodies crushed hard against mine, the fetid smell of decay filled my being. One head crushed close to mine, so that its unseeing socket pressed hard against mine own eye and dripped its vile containment onto my face. Their weight stopped my breathing, and I floated into the darkness. I was being carried. Out into the night where the air was ice on my face. Carried to my daughter’s grave. I struggled, for I feared these unholy ghouls would bury me with her. But, as if bidden by some unearthly power, they lifted me to the trees and strung vines about my neck.

  I hung there until my lungs burst within my chest and the blood burst out of my head and the thing that was my daughter stood beneath me. And then darkness took me, easing the pain but not the fear.

  I was dead. But for my deeds I had not entry to Heaven, where my daughter watched in sorrow, but my corpse was torn down by the grasping hands of these undead and they cast me down. Down I fell into the grave where my daughter lay, and she did put her arms about me, and others of her kind did throw down earth upon me and filled the grave. Such were these dreams or visions.

  I have taken this as prophecy. I pledge that before this day’s end I will commit myself into the hands of Our Lord.

  I write my last here and will leave this life trusting in the charity of My Creator, that He will not condemn my soul for my deeds. Thus it is I will take my life when my words here are finished. Thus it is, I will go to the place where my daughter lies, and from the trees above will end my earthly existence. My suicide will be my final payment. I have the rope before me, and I feel in my heart this to be the right path to follow. For though I fear death, and fear for my immortal soul, I fear this coming night the more.

  My affairs now are in order, and I will place my papers with the Holy Bible so that they may be kept safe until they are found. My hands shake now so that my writing is hard to read, yet I am determined and must complete this record.

  The ground wherein my daughter now does lie I have graced with a charm: let each man who stands there have but one wish, and that wish be granted whether it be for good or evil yet

  * * *

  And there the manuscript ended.

  I knew there was no way Henri de Mascaal could convey the full intensity of his emotion at that time, nor was there any way in which I could hope to understand what he was going through. To a certain extent, this was all so remote, a manuscript written hundreds of years ago by someone I had never met; a fascinating historic document, certainly, but nothing more than that.

  Then why were my eyes filled with tears? Why was my stomach knotted so tight and my fists clenched so hard on the table I could hardly move? The room felt hot, overly oppressive, and I was sure I was beginning to sense the smell of decay. The words on the manuscript moved in and out of focus, the shapes of the letters seemed to squirm in front of my eyes as I began to feel lightheaded. I knew I should get up and get out of that room, with its enveloping sense of death and decay, bu
t my legs would not respond and I could not move. The weight on my shoulders spread up into my head, and the roar of pounding blood filled my ears. Sweat dripped down my face onto my chin, and I was faintly aware of the taste of salt in my mouth.

  I tried to squeeze my eyes shut, but the swirling words were still there, shapeless and meaningless. The growing stench of rotten flesh filled my nostrils, and I could feel myself beginning to retch. Nausea swept up from the pit of my stomach, and though I tried to breathe deeply and slowly, though I tried to regain some composure and self-control, all I was aware of was my whole body enveloped in sweat; a shroud for the nausea that filled me as completely as the stench of rotting flesh filled the room. Blackness crept, shimmering around the edges of my vision. My whole body vibrated as if I was about to pass out. All I was conscious of was the smell and taste of putrefaction as if the whole room had become a coffin, my coffin, and there was only that and the blackness. And the footsteps.

  Through the sickness, the decay, the sweat, the pounding in my ears, through all of this I was aware of light footsteps behind me. I knew that trying to turn around would be useless, but I was afraid of that rhythmic, hushed slap of bare flesh on the floor. I was faintly aware of the taste of blood in my mouth, and the slow dribble of it down my chin, but all that filled my being now was fear. Fear, stench, and the footsteps.

  I knew it was her. I knew that she walked through the thickening air of the swirling room toward me. All the descriptions of decay weaved in front of me as I began to slip, sliding on the thin ice of my own sanity. Losing my footing on the cliff edge, beginning the fall off the highest ledge, slipping, tripping, from dream to nightmare, falling and plummeting. And through it all, the footsteps came closer and closer.

  Her bloodless hands reached out, their scant flesh black and loose, stretched out to touch me.

  A brief, flickering image of some insubstantial, decomposing corpse reaching out toward me slashed across my mind, but it was the hands placed firmly on my shoulders that made me cry out. The pressure of the grip on my shoulders increased and I was aware of being lifted. The light in my eyes was blinding, but the smell of smoke, log-fire smoke, dispelling the stench of decay, was something wonderful and pure, almost holy, and I breathed it in deeply and quickly. The salt liquid in my mouth caught the back of my throat and I coughed. As my eyes focused I saw Marcos’ face staring down in concern.

  “Let’s get you outside,” he said, though the words meant nothing to me then. They were as unreal as everything else my vision took in.

  He lifted me back onto my feet and my shaking legs barely took my weight. The world around me shimmered and swayed, but at least it was the real world, the world I knew.

  “Fresh air will do you good.”

  A few tentative steps in the cool breeze and my strength came flooding back; to be honest I was surprised how soon I felt normal—and rather foolish—again. We walked outside for a while, each in our own silent thoughts; Marco’s face, more often than not, watching me with concern.

  “I’m sorry, Marco, I—”

  “Forget it. The room was decidedly hot. And with the excitement and everything…guess you were pretty close to fainting.”

  I couldn’t muster much more than I weak “Yeah” and Marco seemed content to let it pass. I couldn’t really tell him what I’d experienced: how in the name of God could I tell him that she was in the room with me? He’d probably put it down to imagination. I probably would, too, in a couple of weeks…or months. Probably.

  * * *

  That evening was the evening before I had to travel back to London. We discussed aspects of the manuscript at some length. I read through it several times, each time with no obvious ill effect. I offered to buy it several times, but was refused with a consolation promise of first refusal on it if ever he decided he’d sell.

  Too much Irish again that evening saw me sleep past breakfast the next day. I’m not sure whether or not I dreamed of Henri de Mascaal and his tragic daughter, I think perhaps I did. But it was of no consequence.

  Having missed breakfast, Diana had packed me a huge hamper for the drive back. Marco was very concerned that I had recovered from my fainting experience and if I was fit to drive, but I could assure him quite easily on that score.

  I thanked them both for a wonderful visit and Marco for his special generosity. We made arrangements not to leave it so long again and I climbed into the car.

  “Have a safe journey back, Anthony,” Marco said. He shook my hand for the last time as Diana put the hamper in the back and closed the boot. Then he smiled “Oh, and remember your wish. Let us all hope it comes true!”

  I laughed, “Yeah, let’s hope so. Okay, take care, Marco, and see you soon.”

  That end-of-a-holiday feeling came over me strongly as I drove away, and I had to admit, I was quite sad to leave. But the place still had one more surprise for me.

  I drove slowly at first, window down; cool air, fresh and pleasant, blowing through the car. I’d been waving out of the window and watching them grow smaller in the mirror. One last wave, I closed the windows and was about to give it a bit more throttle. I looked in the mirror to see them both one last time, and saw them, small and distant, yet surprisingly clear, watching me and waving as I drove away.

  But it wasn’t them. I knew who they were, of course, or felt sure I did. The man seemed older, much older, more frail; the woman younger, but broken, twisted, almost, almost–

  The car bumped off the drive onto the grass at the side. I focused again quickly and saw only Marco and Diana turning back into the house. I maneuvered quickly back onto the road and settled back for the long drive home, the hair on my neck risen, my palms sweating and a feeling of disquiet and unease upon me that took a good few hundred miles to fade.

  2

  The ground wherein my daughter now does lie I have graced with a charm: let each man who stands there have but one wish, and that wish be granted whether it be for good or evil yet

  I’ve had good reason to remember those words. In the two years since my visit, I have become a very wealthy man. I am a little puzzled by this, because I do not normally believe in good luck charms, or wishes coming true, but in this case I am being forced to make an exception.

  Business has flourished. So much so that I have opened another shop in Oxford, one in London, and two more on the South Coast. I seem to have developed a knack of being in the right place at the right time; every so often, a rare or valuable work drops into my hands. For example, the last few days have seen a first edition Edward Coke and a copy of Vocabularus Utriusque Juris pass through, leaving behind a healthy profit. I have had several wins on the Lottery—not overly massive, but under normal circumstances they’d be considered lifestyle changing wins—and have even started staking a little here and there on the horses or at the Casino. I must admit that I thought this would be chancing my luck too much, but my fingers did not get burned, and each time I’ve come away with more than I expected. I’ve even—and this is the hardest fact to accept—discovered that relatives hitherto unknown to me had died and left small fortunes!

  I’ve gone into property now, too. That’s definitely a lucrative area. Yeah, it’s definitely been a very lucky two years.

  I keep in touch with Marco of course, though I haven’t seen him personally. I have been far too busy with one thing and another, and he’s been out of the country for most of the last year. We must arrange to meet again soon, but…well, there never seems to be enough time does there? Life’s busy, sure, but not too busy. And I’m enjoying the benefits of wealth. I sometimes sit and wonder just how much wealth “massive wealth” is. Not very often, though. I’m too busy making it and spending it to worry too much about that.

  * * *

  I’m not usually at home to receive the post.

  My secretary generally reads it and emails anything I need to me wherever I am: my apartments or offices in Rome or Manhattan or any of my stores across Europe or the States. For some ti
me, however, I’d felt in need of a break. My empire had grown phenomenally over the past five years and I’d spearheaded the whole show myself. Kerslakes was now one of the finest, most respected names in the collectables market and dealt in old books, memorabilia, antiques, anything that was over a specific value and which could be bought or sold. Kollectibles was a chain of more downmarket stores that traded in anything antique regardless of price. Kerslakes and Kollectibles had very separate identities, that way we had most areas of the market covered, and business was booming.

  And so, today, and for the last few weeks, I had been at home. And to be quite honest, I was enjoying the break from routine. I kept in touch with the business of course, but this was a well-earned break. For the last two years or so I’d been making wealth but not really spending it; which, after all, is what it’s all about, isn’t it? I was recharging my batteries, and damn well enjoying it.

  When the post came this morning, it was the usual pile. Business correspondence I could pass on to my secretary, junk mail went straight in the shredder along with offers of business partnership and potential investments for my fortunes. But there was one small parcel that stood out.

  The handwriting was vaguely familiar, the postmark was illegible.

  There was a small letter and a parcel. From Marco. Christ, I hadn’t seen him in years, and to be honest, I felt a bit guilty. I was always thinking I should arrange to visit again, or invite him to London, but there never seemed the time.

  I read through his letter and my excitement grew by the word! He hoped I was well and had enjoyed watching my career flourish with relish! He wished me continuing success. Planning on leaving soon, he would be away for some time, and because of this, there was a document of special interest he wanted me to have.