13 Drops of Blood

by James Roy Daley

The cemetery, which sat less than one hundred and twenty yards from the small, empty pub, had the bodies of two men, a woman, and a child, rotting inside posh wooden coffins, deep in the basement of the yard’s pantheon-style mausoleum. With each passing day, the stench of the dead grew more fetid, more rotted and foul. Rats, disfigured and diseased, would soon gather around the caskets in distressful numbers. This was no good. Graves needed to be dug.

  Frank understood this, but was getting nothing accomplished. He couldn’t work in this weather, and the storm had lasted three weeks now. It was growing stronger, getting worse, and stopping his workday before it began.

  He swayed, and turned his head.

  William the barkeep was sitting on a stool in the corner of the pub, cleaning glasses. He looked up, smiling. Then, keeping his hands busy, he eyed Frank, wishing that he would leave.

  William didn’t want to sit inside a near-empty bar. He wanted to be home, in the company of family. Of course, he would never say anything, not to a man of Frank’s size. He valued his neck and guarded it watchfully.

  Mary opened the door and stepped inside. She was soaked. Her clothing hung from her body like an oversized wet glove. Hair dangled in long, thin strands. Water ran from her chin.

  She looks like a drowned cat, William thought, placing a glass on a table. He stepped behind the bar. And she appears to be alone. How unfortunately odd.

  “My lady,” Will said. “What brings you out on a night as dreary and as dreadful as this? Surely you can’t be alone.”

  Mary shook off the rain the best she could. She pulled her hat from her head, slapped it against her leg, and made her way across the room. Sitting on a stool not far from Frank, she glanced his way, but did not see him.

  “My only desire is to be out,” Mary said to the barkeep, shifting her meager weight inside her sopping attire, “to be away from those who have cluttered my thoughts and dampened my heart. I am alone––here for the same reason that anyone would come to an establishment such as this, on a night so sodden. To wash the pain and grief from my tired mind, and drink my sorrows away.”

  “Aye,” the barkeep said. “But to be a woman, young and alone? It is not common, nor is it considered wise. The necropolis sitting but a stone’s throw away is teeming to the gates with brave young women, fearless women, women that died by the cursed ways of the streets.”

  “I would think it less wise to travel alone on a handsome night,” Mary quickly responded, “a night in which the streets were thick with men, intoxicated men. Obtuse men. Tonight, there is none of that. There are no men. The streets are wet, I question that not. But the streets are safe enough for the likes of me. The pathway is innocent, innocent as it is apt to be. This I reckon to be true.”

  “Aye,” the barkeep said again, seeing the wisdom of Mary’s thinking. “Then, my lady of the storm, what shall it be? Perhaps an Irish tea to warm the blood?”

  Mary smiled, ran her fingers through her dripping hair. “Perhaps a dry cloth?”

  William smirked. “Of course. Let me check the back room. I’ll find something for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.”

  As William walked away, Mary’s eyes fell upon Frank. For the first time, she looked at him, really looked at him. His large, bulky stature sent a shock of anxiety through her body; he seemed more monster than man.

  “My name is Mary Shelly. I live down the way.”

  The words fell from Mary’s mouth before she knew she would say them. It was an act of nervousness, not bravery or desire for companionship.

  Frank turned towards Mary. He rubbed his giant hand against his chin and grinned. “Are you not fearful of me, woman?”

  Mary sat straight, wondering if she had initiated an unwise conversation. A moment passed. “Should I be?”

  “Most are.”

  William re-entered the room and handed Mary a towel.

  She thanked him, crushing the fabric against her body, hair, and face. She ordered a glass of scotch. William fetched the drink and Mary paid for it. A moment later, William returned to his stool, and lost himself in his work.

  “You failed to answer the question.” Mary said, after taking a pair of sips from her glass. The alcohol burned, and soothed, as she spoke.

  “Aye.”

  “Well? Will you answer it?”

  Keeping his eyes on his drink, the grave keeper said, “A woman should be afraid of what gives her fear, be it wise or be it not.”

  “Yes, of course. But should I fear you?”

  Frank’s eyes rolled in their hollows, like pool balls into a pocket. “Not of me. I know what I am. And what I’m not. I am a man of peace, not anger and violence. Fear me none.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye.”

  Mary took another drink. This time, the alcohol burned less.

  “Then why, might I ask, do you have the look of a man that has seen a great deal of violence? Perhaps you were born with that scar around your neck. Is that so?”

  “I was born with no scar,” Frank said, his voice becoming quiet. He was not amused.

  “So you do know violence.”

  Mary didn’t know why she challenged the giant man. It seemed unwise, and yet for some reason, she enjoyed playing with danger.

  Frank could see what Mary was doing, the way she was manipulating the conversation. He didn’t like it, and he began to ignore her.

  He drank from his cup. In time, they drank together in silence.

  Frank ordered another drink, as did Mary. William filled both glasses and returned to his work. Then Mary eyed Frank one last time, baiting him with her stare.

  And still, Frank didn’t budge.

  Mary thought her little game with the giant was over, and after she had given up all hope of conversation, Frank surprised her, saying:

  “I have something that would fill your heart black with dread, woman. You need not fear me, foolish girl who walks the streets of a thousand murders – alone. But I do hold a key, be it physical, and metaphorical. It is the key to the greatest fear I have ever known. It is the face of the serpent, the true hand of shadow.”

  In mid sip, Mary froze. She lowered her glass, turned her head and swallowed. Her eyes were round and wide. Her lips briefly quivered. “What did you say?”

  “You know what I said, woman. You heard my words, and know their meaning.”

  “The hand of shadow?”

  “Aye.”

  “The face of the serpent?”

  Frank nodded, grinned. “Aye.”

  Mary expelled a great breath. Putting an arm on the bar rail, she whispered, “Lucifer? Lucifer of the fallen angels?”

  Frank pulled himself away from his drink, seeing Mary with the only eye with which he could see.

  He shrugged.

  “Where?” Mary snapped.

  If Frank had consumed less alcohol, he would have said nothing. Instead, he spoke without considering the consequence. “Not here, woman. In the mausoleum.”

  “You lie.” Mary quickly spat, with anger growing inside.

  “I do not lie.”

  “You do! You wish to lure me there––to bury me, after having raped and killed me! I am a scholar, and not easily fooled. I know the likes of you and your kind. You are not a man. You are a beast!”

  Frank had had enough of Mary’s insults. He slammed his hand on the bar, spilling his drink. “You’ve asked me if I’d seen battle, and I did not answer. But I shall answer you now. Yes! I have seen battle. I see battle every week of my life. A man my size can know not peace. I am a target, a marked man. I am the man others wish to knock down, to prove themselves men. They come at me often, drunk and brainless––like you woman, like you. They come alone at first, then in packs. The violence… it’s always the same. I find bloodshed and carnage waiting at every corner around which I turn. I long for peace. I swear it, I do. But I shall never find peace. Not with the likes of you, and not until someone strikes me down. I shall not find harmony an
d serenity until I am dead, though my heart longs for its calm and tranquil shores. I pray for a life of peace, though I shall never get it.”

  Seething with anger, Frank turned away, wanting to smash something.

  Mary gasped. She was speechless; she was touched. The giant man was no ogre. He was intelligent, educated and passionate. He spoke like a scholar, a teacher, a poet. Seconds passed, and Mary felt the overwhelmingly bitter sense of shame. “A book should not be judged by its cover,” she said. “Nor should man. I am sorry, and ashamed. You have done nothing to make me believe that you are a creature of violence, yet it was the conclusion in which I arrived. I feel a fool.”

  Frank groaned like an animal. He said, “Don’t bother. This cross is mine to bear, not yours. Just leave me be.”

  “But a man does not choose the size to which he grows. He grows until the Lord commands it not.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It is true. I’ve known it, and yet I was blind. Blind like a bat in the night. Again, I am sorry, truly sorry.”

  “Forget it woman. It’s nothing.”

  Mary finished her drink, and William poured them another. Time passed. Then changing her tone, she said, “The face of the serpent?”

  “Aye.”

  “Will you show me?”

  Frank closed his eyes. If Mary had been nicer no him, he would have said no. Instead, spite encouraged a nod of his head. “Aye.”

  Mary shifted her weight, moved closer. “How can I be sure that your intentions are pure? I am a young woman, of nineteen years. I have been called beautiful. Most men considered noble would find themselves swimming with impure thoughts.”

  “I am not most men.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But how do I know?”

  Frank swallowed half his ale. “William!” he said. “Come.”

  William slipped off his stood, and approached the couple. “Another ale to warm the gullet?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Will seemed puzzled. “Then what is it?”

  “You know me?”

  “Aye, that I do.”

  “Be truthful now. Do men, women, and children, fear me?”

  William leaned back; stroked his chin lightly. “You are a man of great stature, of great physical strength. I believe they fear you.”

  “You’ve seen me fight?”

  William nodded. “Aye.”

  “Have I ever picked a fight, picked one with a man that did not ask?”

  “No. Not one. Men seem drawn.”

  Frank glanced at Mary. “Have you seen me harm a woman, or a child?”

  “I have not.”

  “Am I known to be a man that harms women, children?

  “No.” William said. “You are not.”

  “Thank you William.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Stein. Would you like another ale?”

  “No thank you. I believe we are finished here. Isn’t that right, woman?”

  Mary bobbed her head. “Aye.”

  As William returned to his stool, Frank said with a doubtful tone, “I am to show you then?”

  “The hand of shadow?”

  Frank tapped a dirty finger against his dead eye. “The face of the serpent.”

  * * *

  They walked through the burial ground as rain bounced off the tombstones, created lakes, drowned the grass, and drilled holes in the mud. Frank led the way, finding the highest ground, where the ponds were shallow beneath his feet. They approached the mausoleum, which sat near the center of the cemetery. Made of sandstone, the building was a considerable size, larger than most fair-sized houses. Trees and shrubbery were plentiful around both sides of the structure. Headstones were also abundant, separated only by Christian statues and stone pathways. Smooth, slippery steps led to a six-pillar entry, centered by a tall black door with a long brass handle. Some thought the handle looked like gold.

  Frank approached the door and produced a ring of keys, also made of brass. As he shuffled through them, Mary waited patiently. Frank found the appropriate key and slid it into the keyhole.

  They stepped inside.

  The crypt was a great hall with several rooms on each side. The air was musty, stale, and polluted with the stench of death. On the floor, mice scattered. Against the wall, unlit torches sat bundled together on a shelf, next to a dozen long, hand carved matchsticks.

  Frank lifted a match from the shelf. He dipped it into a small asbestos bottle, which had been filled with sulfuric acid. The match ignited. Using the tiny flame, he lit a torch, and handed it to Mary. Then he lit another torch, which he kept for himself. The burning torches revealed an elaborate portrait on the ceiling. The stones became an ever-changing flicker of cherry red faces and beautiful landscapes, the toils of an unknown artist.

  Frank walked past the empty rooms, and approached a staircase.

  Mary followed.

  “To the basement,” Frank said, running fingers through his sopping wet hair. He briefly pulled his shirt away from his body, hating the way it felt.

  “Is it here?” Mary asked, with a growing sense of fear.

  “Aye, that it is. The face of the serpent is in the cellar, near the base of the stairs. As you may or may not know, this crypt was a jail in secret for many years. Or so it has been said.”

  “Not a secret. I’ve heard those rumors since I was small. This is true of a great many mausoleums.”

  “But things are different now. I’ve worked the grave a long while, and known not a single man kept in the dungeons of this place. That time has come and gone, it seems. Until…”

  “Until now.”

  “Aye.”

  Mary coughed twice, and stroked her fingers along her dress. “The hand of shadow, this is a man in a cage?”

  Frank grinned. “It is no man. But there is something locked in that cage. In fact, there are four of them.”

  “Four?”

  “Aye. Four demons. Spawned from hell, the dark abyss, with skin rotting and eyes washed in the depths of fire. They don’t breathe. They don’t eat. They don’t talk. They just wait, observing the living as the skin rots from their bones. And oh, how they moan, it sounds appalling, abysmal.”

  Mary looked shocked. Her mouth hung wide, like her jaw had been broken. Finally she snapped her lips shut, and said, “How did they come to be here, these creatures of anguish?”

  “They came on the day the storm began, all of them. Loved ones brought three. The other came from the hospital. They were just people then, dead people. Nothing new for a place like this. I put each body in a coffin when it arrived, as I always do. A service was given in the rooms upstairs. We do that sometimes, if the weather is bad, or if it is requested. We charge more for an indoor service so it is not called for often, and when the storm breaks, which usually takes no more than a day or two, we bury the deceased in the yard with the others. But in that time between the service and the burial, we keep the bodies downstairs, locked in a cell.”

  “Locked? Why locked? They’re dead, are they not?”

  “Yes, of course. But from time-to-time there have been thieves. They break the door, come for jewelry, or the gold in their teeth. At some point I stopped leaving the corpses upstairs. I bring them to the cellar now, and lock them away.” Frank giggled without happiness. “This time, something peculiar happened. Perhaps the storm brought it on. I do not know. Strange time this is. No dead since the storm arrived. None that I know of, anyway.”

  An odd droning hum came from the basement.

  “What is that?” Mary asked.

  “It is the dead. They have opened their eyes, woman. They have risen.” Frank sighed. “I know not why you’ve come this far. You must be mad. But it is not too late to turn away. Satan has not seen your face yet.”

  Mary huffed. She wanted to leave, but needed to see. “Can I leave whenever I decide to?”

  “You can leave now. I shall not stop you.”

  “No. Not yet. I long to see. I need to know.”

 
; “I know why I come here.” Frank said. “I come to see that all remains well, but you? Why? Why place yourself within the grasp of a demon? Do you not fear your soul to blacken, your heart to wither?”

  “You would not understand.”

  “But I would.”

  “No!” Mary said, louder than intended. Immediately she wished she had remained silent.

  “Have I instilled no trust in that mind of yours? Am I so obtuse?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would I not understand? Is it because I am a man?”

  Mary wondered what to say, what to do. And she was afraid. If Frank wanted to hurt her, it would be easy now. No one would see, or hear. Help would not come. She was alone with the giant, and at his mercy. He could tear her head from her neck with his bare hands. He could snap her arm like a dry stick.

  Mary shuffled her conflicting thoughts.

  Frank seemed trustworthy. She sensed no hostility from him. He was another tortured soul, like she was. He was an innocent, and locked inside the prison of his own body. She hoped.

  “If you must know,” Mary whispered, as if the demons in the basement were listening, “I am a writer on a quest, in pursuit of inspiration. I’ve been asked to write a horror story, but find that I am without insight. My mind works in tragedy, for mine is a life of misfortune. My sister died three weeks ago, and still I cannot summon a tale of horror. If you were to show me the face of the serpent, the hand of shadow…”

  “You will write it.”

  Mary winced. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Seeing the hand of shadow is not a tale in itself. There is no love interest, no conflict. I need inspiration, not obscure news banter.”

  Frank nodded, turned, and walked down the stairs. “Then my dear, you shall see the true face of horror.”

  * * *

  Mary followed along, entering the basement upon heavy legs. She heard growling, and moaning. A putrid smell made her stomach turn. Reaching the bottom step, she realized that the rainwater had made its way inside somehow: The floor was littered with puddles.

  Frank lifted his torch. He nodded, and turned away.

  “Are you to leave me?” Mary asked.