The Delivering

A short psychological horror piece I wrote for a client.

The lighted houses against the bend of Rook St were one by one snuffed out. Darkness threw back the hours on the old homes " the shadows accentuated every crack and missing shingle as if rot had settled in. Hoarse winds galloped through the front lawns, fitting into spaces between white picket fences and flaking bright colors from sidings. Streetlamps sputtered to life and sent washed yellow glows onto the pavement, and on occasion, would spit and choke and fizzle. Moonlight dimmed behind industrial clouds before fading all too suddenly from sight. Night overbore, looming dreamlike and hazy. 

Down the sloping blacktop, figures swam through the mist in shimmering silhouettes that grew and stretched to swallow the light. They scurried behind gnarled trees and crawled from sidewalk to sidewalk, though one progressed in strides. The roadside leading to the cemetery gates had fallen beneath the great shadow, now taller than any mortal man and continuing to reach. It paced on and passed underneath a particularly taut beam of streetlight, stitched to the heels of an unrefined cultivator of sorts. A stone-cast jaw set a foundation for cheekbones that held his deep-sunken eyes like black lakes. With an unkempt shovel slung square between his neck and shoulder, his shade danced with the cemetery bars that lined the sidewalk beside him. 

Nights like these were cold and arduous. The gravedigger for the local clergy, he was only permitted to labor during the later hours, when the pallid bodies slumped into pinewood coffins could fall nothing short of clandestine. He never paid it much mind, nor did it pay him fair, in turn; his only oppression came from the dead that were beginning their procession into decay " some just a little too far for his liking. This spell had been no different than the rest, and his walk home was becoming more or less of the same.

Beyond the graves, he closed in on the rows of decrepit homes. The starless sky knew no comfort, and he could do nothing to tell his house from the others but to count the cones of light. All was at silence: no occasional rumble of passing vehicles, or the mutters of gossip on the wind. His eyes peeked above the hill and was met by the sight of several more shadowy buildings, though he could see in the distance what made itself out to be a small boy. He stood in the entryway of an eggshell home " now sullen and gray " right where the fences split apart. 

“G’night,” he tipped his head towards the boy as he approached. The child’s eyes were fixed forward and showed no notice of the stranger. He shuffled on passed him without another thought of it.

“Help,” he heard from a feeble voice. It came not from behind him but within his ears, as if the boy had spoken inside his head. He turned, but the child was now standing at the corner of the home. 

“S’cuse me?” he raised his voice to be heard over the breeze. The boy spun slowly and walked along the fence towards the back yard. He hasted through the pickets and after the boy, who had vanished now behind the house. 

The yard around the back was dismal in the lacklight. There was a twisted oak writhing in the corner and almost no verdancy to speak of. The small child now stood at the far end, and his heart rose into his throat. He was at the side of a rough-cut tombstone perched before a weathered mound of soil. The boy glared at him with empty eyes, and he heard the voice again.

“Help,” the child’s lips did not open, though the darkness made it impossible to see the characteristics of his face. The man strode over to the grave, shovel well in hand. The boy lifted a finger at the Earth, and he lost his breath.

To the left of the stone was a small bell on a pulley leading into the ground; the string was withered and fraying, and now laid limp. He swung his tool down and hurriedly loosened the dirt. As more and more Earth piled to his side, the child’s eyes grew wider. Slowly, a coffin emerged and his gaze shifted to the boy. He had a foul grin across his face that iced his veins, pointing once more to the grave. He stepped into the hole at began prying at the lid with his bare hands as quickly as possible. The wood splintered his grasp, yet he tore it clean from the hinges. He wiped the dust from his eyes and stared down into the coffin.

Fitted in a corduroy suit was the boy. His body had been shifted on its side. The fingernails were mangled and snapped, dripping with blood that stained the wood marred by long, thin scratches every which way. The slender pulley string was clutched firmly in his hand, and his mouth gaped in an eternal scream. This was no death.

He gathered himself and craned his neck in a panic, but the boy who had just been beside him moments before was gone. He turned back to the corpse, and his heart nearly shattered through his ribs. The boy’s flesh began to disintegrate and melt away before him, leaving only bones behind that crumbled into ash. His skull kept the same grotesque position, and the string laid across his chest, broken.

He frantically climbed out of the grave. Stumbling, he crawled over to the headstone and smeared it clean.

Louis McCormick

Born October 12th, 1951

Tuberculosis

Died April 7th, 1957

His vision crossed and blurred over. He tried to reach his feet to no avail, blacking out and falling sideways into the grave. The lid shut over him, and he could hear the nails and the dirt pounding down on top of his home. It all came back to him: he had strung that bell " he had buried that boy - exactly one year ago.

Reviews

[N. Tripper]

Pretty neat short story! It's a quick read and it has a satisfying ending. When I read your promo I was thinking - exactly what sort of 'clients' do you have? This story has a dark, funeral tone to it and stays true to that tone until the very end. Thanks for the story and keep writing good horror fiction!

[R. M. Adams]

Thank you very much :)
Haha, I was given an old, decrepit photo and paid to write a story on it, and this was the result xD

[Lone Wolf]

Whoa...
This was pretty cool...
I loved the twist in the end! And there was definitely a hint of suspension and the 'oh my gosh' feeling. wonderful job, and keep up the great work!

[R. M. Adams]

That's exactly what I was going for when I wrote this, so thank you very much :D