“Barrow, go round the tomb. Have a look at those,” Mr. Crook said, pointing at a heaped pile of what had once been ladies’ finery. Shredded gingham, ripped cotton flounces, silk and bombazine and seersucker still decorated with lace, a wardrobe fit for a duchess reduced to a mountain of rubbish.
“Will there be anything left inside?” Trimble asked Mr. Crook, pointing at the tomb as I worked me way around it.
“How in Heaven’s name am I expected to answer that? Use your head, you great lout,” Mr. Crook snapped. “Have a look and see.”
Up close, the pile of ruined frocks and ball gowns looked unfit for anything, except perhaps stuffing for soft dolls. Wet and foul-smelling, most of it seemed to have been gnawed by rats. Was it damp from rain water? I glanced at the crypt’s ceiling, expecting to find a leak.
“Mr. Crook?” Trimble sounded uncertain. “I think I see …”
I looked at the tomb at the same moment Mr. Crook did. I saw Trimble hold up a golden ring set with a winking red jewel. But before I could say, “well done,” a claw-like hand closed over me wrist.
“Famished,” a voice said as the rag-heap shuddered, falling away to reveal the creature inside. Pointed fingernails cut into me as she arose, naked and skeletal, skin like gray parchment over jutting bones.
“Christ Almighty!” The ax was stuck in me belt, but the thing that had once been Lucy Hammersly had me by the right hand, meaning me brains might as well have been in Dover, for all the use I had of them. I pitched the lantern at her just as Trimble, bless his ex-gravedigger’s soul, struck her arm with the crowbar hard enough to break her grip and spare me life.
As I stumbled back, free, the lantern crashed near that pile of chewed-up rags. Even as it broke open, snuffing itself in the dampness, I suddenly understood why they stank. Lucy had stuffed them all in her lipless, grinning mouth.
“Famished!” she shrieked, leaping to catch Trimble’s face in both hands. It were obscene, how she clung to him, bare legs wrapped around his waist, fastening her teeth on his lips and growling with every jerk of the head.
No man shall escape my kiss…
Making strangled noises, Trimble tried to shake her off, crashing backward into the tomb as she held fast. With a cry of triumph, Lucy lifted her head. The red, pulpy thing in her mouth was Trimble’s upper lip. She sucked it down like an oyster. Then both thumbs dug into Trimble’s eye sockets as those bloodstained teeth clamped down again.
You may think me daft, but until that second, I don’t think I’d cottoned on that Lucy was real. Perhaps I thought I was dreaming. Perhaps I thought I’d gone mad. But only when Lucy tore off Trimble’s nose, gnawing wildly, did I realize I was still crouched in the corner. Mr. Crook, also frozen, seemed to come to the same conclusion as Lucy spit out the gristly nose and tore open Trimble’s throat. He started for the door just as Jack appeared.
“Mr. Dross legged it when he heard—” The boy broke off, staring. Blood pumped everywhere, pooling around the open tomb from Trimble’s still body as Lucy lifted her face, looking at Mr. Crook and Jack.
“Praise God.” Seizing Jack, Mr. Crook slung the boy at Lucy. He collided with the tomb and sprawled, dazed, as Lucy leapt down, abandoning Trimble’s corpse to stare at Jack.
“Men.” Her voice seemed channeled from someplace far away; her bony frame, coated in blood from head to toe, shook with a queer vitality. Any grave robber will tell you, an old corpse is a fragile thing, but whatever fueled her limbs was a match for me own strength, easy.
“Only men.” Turning away from Jack, Lucy launched herself out of the crypt in Mr. Crook’s wake.
In me rush to Jack’s side, I slipped in Trimble’s blood and nearly brained meself on the open tomb. The crypt reeked of copper, shit and vomit. I was grateful only the latter belonged to me.
“She’s a ghoul,” Jack said. Leave it to a child to know an impossible thing’s correct name.
“Never mind that. What are you really called?”
“Mary.”
From the graveyard, a man screamed. Lucy had caught up with Mr. Crook.
“All right, Mary,” I said, wondering how I’d ever failed to ken my undersized apprentice was a girl. “When we go out that door, you’re to fetch help. If the gate is blocked, climb the fence and run till your lungs are bursting.”
“What about you?”
“Never mind.”
Getting to me feet, I hauled the girl up, looking hard into her eyes. “Remember. Through the gate or over the fence. Run.”
I stuck my head out first, in case Lucy were lying in wait. Didn’t I say the dead have no dignity? Mr. Crook were proof of that. He was splayed on his back, shirt and waistcoat torn open, Lucy rooting inside his belly like a pig in the garden. Catching something in her teeth, she tugged and tugged, unspooling his bowels in long pale lengths before starting to chew.
“Mr. Barrow,” Mary whispered. She still sounded like Jack to me, full of put-on swagger so habitual, it were almost real. “Your ax is stuck in your belt.”
“Oh, aye.”
“You could cut off her head.”
I stared at Mr. Crook. His mouth gaped wide open, false teeth a few feet away. Lucy still feasted, pulling out more lengths of bowel and biting them in two. “You reckon she’ll stand still for that?”
“Oi!” Mary cried. “Oi! Ghoul!”
Spitting out something foul, Lucy turned our way. Her grinning face was smeared with more than blood.
“Here’s a man!” Mary pointed at me.
Lucy rose, still emaciated except for her distended belly. I had the notion she would gobble flesh till she exploded and perhaps still not stop, even then. Lifting those claw-like hands, she started to run for me, but Mary was quicker. Down the crypt steps the girl ran, flinging her arms around Lucy and propelling them both to the ground. To this day I can’t swear how the ax got in me hand, or how me feet found the courage to carry me to Lucy. Probably it were Mary, truth be told. It’s hard to be a coward with a little girl watching. Even as Lucy seized Mary by the throat, I swung the ax hard and true. Lucy’s head popped off like a snake’s, eyes blinking and teeth snapping. It still took all me strength to pry her fingers off Mary’s neck.
“I knew there’d be evil things in graveyards,” Mary muttered when she could spare the breath.
“I don’t know if she meant to be evil.” Now that Lucy’s corpse had fallen quiet, I could hardly tear me gaze away. Her body curled up like a salted slug while the eyes of her severed head rolled up and her tongue peeked out. “Starvation brings madness.”
“I nearly starved last April, when me mam passed.” Mary lifted her chin. “Put on me brother’s spare suit and worked for me bread, I did.”
“Ah, well,” I said. “The rich are different.”
Before we left Lichgate, I took custody of Mr. Crook’s gold pocket watch and set of false teeth. The sale of them set me up in business, don’t you know. And I never lost a hour’s sleep over it. But after seeing Lucy Hale Hammersly arise by night, I never stole from the dead again. How could I pry open a crypt or dig up a coffin, knowing what might await me? Besides, I had Mary to consider. We couldn’t abide under one roof, even with her sleeping on the rug before my fire, knowing what I knew. So I made her Mrs. Barrow, bought us a little house in Clerkenwell and devised a new trade—a form of blacksmithing special to the funerary trade. Have you seen the mort-safe? Often imitated, my friend, but invented by me, Benjamin Barrow. An iron cage locked around a grave or tomb or crypt door, sold to the masses to keep grave robbers at bay. But only a few know the device’s true purpose. Not to keep corpses preserved beneath ground, but to keep the living safe from the horrors hidden below.
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Emma Jameson, author of the Lord & Lady Hetheridge mystery series, doesn’t really dig up corpses, but that’s only because she lost her shovel!
Find her at her blog stephanieabbottbooks.com or follow her on Facebook and Twitter
Cupcake Goddess: Soulfully Sweet
Shéa MacLeod
“What idiot invented this stupid holiday anyway?” Branwen snarled as the doorbell rang for the third time in as many minutes. She yanked open the door, a half eaten cupcake in one hand. “Whaddya want?”
“Trick or treat!” A chorus of tiny voices called out as little hands held up bags to receive their goodies. Half a dozen pairs of eyes locked onto her cupcake.
“Give me a break, kids. You’re not getting my cupcake. And if you think I’m going to give you a treat for spending the last year annoying me, you’ve got another thing coming.” And with that she unceremoniously slammed the door in their faces.
Okay, so maybe she’d been a little mean, but she was the freaking goddess of love and beauty, for crying out loud. It was bad enough she was stuck in some Podunk town with less power than a pixie, thanks to humanity’s extremely short memory. She was not about to pander to the whims of the locals.
She’d just settled back on the couch to watch an episode of Storage Wars when yet another knock sounded. Muttering a few choice curses under her breath, Branwen stormed to the door and threw it open. “Listen, you brats, I told you…”
There was no one there.
“What the…Are you brats playing pranks again? I swear I will turn you into toads.”
“Oh, don’t do that.” The voice that came out of the darkness was breathy with a Southern edge.
“Who’s there? Answer me,” Branwen demanded.
“Have you forgotten me so soon?” The hollowness of the voice almost sounded like…like it had no body.
A memory flashed through Branwen’s mind. A trip to Kentucky nearly a century ago. A woman in a blue summer dress. A terrible accident. A ghost begging to return to the living.
Branwen very nearly dropped her cupcake. Instead she smeared frosting across half her face.
“Viola, is that you?”
A face shimmered into view, like a dim reflection on rippling water, followed by the rest of her body. “Yes. You remember.”
Branwen sighed. “Of course, I remember.” She remembered everyone who came to her for help.
“I’ve been searching for you for ages. I was trapped in the dark for so long and I couldn’t find you.” The ghost wrung her pale hands together, her slender body shaking. Branwen wasn’t sure if it was fear, nerves, or excitement. She supposed all of the above if the poor thing had been stuck in between for so long.
“Yeah, I moved to Washington,” Branwen said, swiping a glob of frosting off her cheek. “I thought I told you to move on. You know, go into the light and all that crap.”
“It’s not fair. I didn’t get a chance to live.” Viola’s voice held sorrow and anger. Branwen could understand both. The girl had died so very young.
“I’m sorry, Viola, but the whole life and death business is way above my pay grade. There’s nothing I can do but tell you to get going. You don’t belong on this side anymore.”
“Please, Branwen. You must be able to do something.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m not leaving until you do.” Viola stomped her foot which promptly sank through the floor. With a snort of disgust, the ghost yanked her foot out, making a slight sucking sound.
Great. She had a stubborn ghost on her hands. The last thing she needed was some Southern belle haunting her for the rest of eternity.
Branwen sighed. “All right. Let me send a letter to Headquarters. Maybe I can convince them to do something.”
Viola smiled. “Excellent. I’ll wait.” Her image shimmered and disappeared, but Branwen had no doubt the ghost of the dead girl would stick nice and close.
As she powered up her laptop, she ran through her options. Normally she’d just send a text, but this was a more complicated and delicate situation. She needed to make sure HQ understood what was at stake. Mainly, her ass being haunted.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. What to say? Inspiration struck and with a smile, Branwen pounded out a quick email explaining the situation and her suggestion for action.
Within minutes she had her answer:
You have 24 hours.
Branwen smiled. That was all she needed.
* * *
Branwen sat in the dark, surrounded by candles while Viola’s specter hung in the corner. The candles were completely superfluous, of course, but they created atmosphere. And Branwen was a goddess, for crying out loud. Atmosphere was practically a requirement.
Granted she hadn’t had the power to pull off this kind of caper in at least a thousand years. But fortunately HQ had granted her just enough just this once. She practically giggled with glee, but managed to keep a solemn expression for the sake of her non-corporeal guest. Standards must be maintained, after all.
“Viola, draw near.” Branwen let the power of a true goddess seep into her voice.
With a shiver, Viola’s ghost drew closer into the circle of candle light. Her passing stirred the candle flame.
“Take my hand.”
Viola gave her a look that spoke volumes. “I’m a ghost.”
“And I’m a goddess. Take my hand.”
With a shrug the ghost placed her slender hand into Branwen’s pudgy one. The minute they touched, Viola turned solid.
“Oh my.” Viola glanced down at herself and practically squealed in excitement. “I’m alive!”
“Not yet. You’re only solid because I’m touching you. Close your eyes.”
Viola did as she was told and Branwen mumbled a few words in ancient Welsh. It was all for show, of course, but humans, even dead ones, liked a bit of ceremony with their magic. The actual words were lyrics to a raunchy drinking song.
“Okay, done. You can open your eyes.”
Viola’s eyelids flew open. “I’m real? Alive? Not a ghost anymore?”
“Yep.”
“Is it permanent?”
Clever minx. “Depends.”
“On what?”
A little smile curved Branwen’s lips. “On whether you want it to be.”
“Oh, I do,” Viola insisted.
“We’ll see,” Branwen said. “Meet me back here this time tomorrow and I will make this permanent. If you want it to be.”
* * *
Viola stepped outside and sucked in a deep lungful of fresh air. That was promptly followed by a coughing fit as a large metal monster roared by spewing black smoke and giving her heart palpations.
Car, she reminded herself. It was a car, not a monster, and the smoke was…well, okay that was smoke, more or less. Why people insisted on driving such things was beyond her. What was wrong with a perfectly good horse and carriage she wanted to know?
She gave another very unladylike hack to clear her lungs and continued down the sidewalk, taking in the wonders of the night. It was such a relief to be able to take a stroll without someone walking through her or a random body part getting stuck in the pavement. Granted in her day a young lady would never walk alone, especially at night. But times had changed and she’d have to change with them if she was going to live in this era.
Viola almost gasped aloud as a pair of women about her age crossed the street in front of her. Their incredibly short skirts showed off legs covered in holey stockings all the way up to…well, their unmentionables… and their tops showed off so much of their décolletage it was a wonder anything was left to the imagination. She had no idea how they managed to walk with spikes on their shoes, either. These must be ladies of the night!
She held back a quiver of excitement. She’d never met any ladies of the night before.
One of the women called out, “Nice costume. Where’d you get it?”
Costume? Viola glanced down at her full skirts and bodice. “My maid sewed them for me.”
The two ladies of the night glance at each other with raised eyebrows. “Way to stay in character, girl.” They giggled. “You must really love Halloween.”
Viola had spent the last hundred years thinking of this night as simply the night when t
he veil between worlds was thinnest. She usually ran around trying to find someone with the power to bring her back. She’d forgotten it was a human holiday. They must think she was headed to a ball or some such.
“Thank you. I like your costumes, as well,” she said politely.
One of the women snorted. “These ain’t costumes, chicky. These are our uniforms. We’re waitresses down at the diner.” She pointed down the street to a perfectly ordinary eating establishment. “We’re off to get into our costumes now. We’re going as hookers and our boyfriends are going as pimps. Won’t that be awesome?”
They laughed and waved as they made their way down the street leaving Viola staring at them. If their current outfits were their work clothes, she couldn’t imagine what true ladies of the night wore in this day and age. Did this mean she had to dress in such hideous clothing, too? Exposing her flesh like some…some…
“Don’t be judgmental, Viola,” she whispered to herself. “If you want to live in this world you better learn to fit in.” Still, the very thought of wearing such skimpy clothes, or looking at other people in them, made her shudder.
Another metal monster careened by, a heavy thumping sound coming from the interior. The noise made her head throb and she nearly jumped out of her skin as the driver blasted his horn.
“Hey, bitch, get outta the road!” someone yelled out the window. The yell was followed by an empty beer bottle which narrowly avoided hitting her in the head. Instead it hit the pavement and smashed into tiny shards.
One of the bits of glass bounced back, slicing open a tiny cut on her hand. The sharp sting was a shock. She hadn’t felt pain in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like. It was only a small cut, but it frightened her. So many horrible things could happen to a person. So much pain. How could she forget the pain of being human?
She realized suddenly she had nowhere to go. No friends. No family. No home. Everyone she knew was long dead. She didn’t even have any money and she had no idea how to get any.
Another pain hit, this time in her stomach. For a moment she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Was she dying? Again?
Then she realized she was hungry. Starving, in fact.
The Eclective: The Haunted Collection Page 5