Sinister Scribblings - Volume 1

by Matt Hickman

  "What did you do to me?" Willy demanded as vomit rose in his throat. "Poison me?"

  "In a way." Her smile was black with tooth decay; he could smell it across the odd table as he bumped his knees against it to run into the storm. He emptied his stomach in the mud just beyond the entrance, liquid fire that tasted of soured stomach and bush whiskey.

  Willy returned, trembling at the knees to find that Jeremiah had the hag by the throat.

  "What did you do?" He was hollering while he shook her. When he saw the look in Willy's eyes he knew better than to interfere with what happened next. Jeremiah's hands had never extinguished a life, yet he had witnessed his partner's rage turn to murder on a few occasions, and only once was he foolish enough to question it.

  Willy yanked her from his companion's grip, held her out by her neck. Though she knew that she was going to die, he could feel her pulse was still steady and slow. It enraged him to think that she was not afraid of the end he had planned for her. With his opposite hand, he pummeled her face, blow after blow that decimated the frail bones of her wrinkled visage. Her blood ran freely as he lifted her above his head before bringing her down face first into the table. When he picked her up once more, her head lulled limp upon her crooked neck. When he was satisfied with the amount of abuse he afflicted upon her lifeless body, he turned to see Thomas cowering like a malnourished rat in a trap, the old man couldn't get by to the only door, and his cowardice held him from intervening in the granny woman's murder. Willy brandished a knife from his belt, held it out to the firelight. Thomas shrank into the darkened corner of the one-room shack, waiting to die. The criminal crossed the floor in three long strides to grab Thomas by his frail shoulder. Willy plunged the blade into the withered man's gut in numerous quick thrusts. He watched as Thomas's eyes continued to stare until they no longer seemed to see into the living world, before dropping him to bleed out upon the wooden floor of the shack.

  The two stayed on for a spell, lying beside the fire while Willy nursed his aching stomach. Jeremiah had drifted off to restless sleep, snoring so loudly it nearly drowned out the storm that still gripped the mountainside.

  A whispering caught Willy's ear, a faint yet distinctly feminine voice. He sat forward knowing that it was not possible, for what rambled through his ear like a song to be originating from out there in the wind and rain. He could not make out a word, yet it was there.

  "Do you hear that?" Willy asked only to be answered by his partners snorting inhalations. It grew louder as he concentrated on it until he could decipher a single line…a question within a song.

  "Did you keep my teeth in your front pocket?"

  Willy shot to his feet, looking about the dark corners of the cabin. His eyes fell upon the corpse of the granny woman as the voice filled his ears once again.

  "Did you make a ring from a lock of my hair?"

  "Get up, goddammit!" he kicked Jeremiah in the side, jarring his partner awake.

  "What, what, what is it?"

  "Do you hear it? The girl's voice?" Willy asked.

  "I don't hear shit!"

  "Listen!!"

  Jeremiah got to his feet, then cocked his head, focusing his attention on his surroundings. Willy stomped over to where the woman lay on her face. "What did you say?" he asked. Her face was an unrecognizable mess, her mouth hung open and her head swung loose on her broken neck as he picked her up…she was quite dead and silent like any corpse should be. He shook her then threw her head first into that odd shaped table only to have her skid across the top of it, the quilted tablecloth wrapped around her like a cocoon as she slid out of sight. Jeremiah jumped when he realized that it was no table at all but a long box…a coffin sitting on short wooden blocks.

  The voice filled Willy's ears again, his gut knotted as it seemed to grow in intensity.

  "Did you pry my breastbone open to see what was hidden there?"

  He spun to search Jeremiah's face, his partner had not heard the morbid question posed in a sing-song voice. "You don't hear it?" he asked, though he knew the answer.

  "That's a damn coffin!" Jeremiah said, ignoring the question that had already been answered by Willy's nervous pacing. The drifter turned to face the truth that Jeremiah had brought to his attention, his breath caught in his lungs. "You don't think the voice is coming from there, do you?" Jeremiah asked.

  Willy searched beside the hearth until he located a long iron poker used in the fireplace, only he intended to pry the lid from that casket and silence whatever laid inside.

  "Wait! Don't you think if they were going to bury her, they had a good reason?" Jeremiah asked, stepping into his companion's path.

  "Get out of my way," Willy said through gritted teeth, maddening rage burned in his eyes.

  Jeremiah had never seen him in such a state, he was usually unnervingly calm even while committing the vilest of crimes. He stepped aside to allow Willy to have at the poorly constructed burial container. He beat the thin wood, sending splinters flying with each powerful stroke of the iron rod. Willy managed to knock a hole into the coffin lid so he jammed the end of the poker inside to pry free the large slats of wood. It was impossible to see inside so he grabbed a candle from the mantle, thrust it into the fire below to light its wick then turned back to illuminate the black void beyond the broken coffin lid. He gasped then fell backwards, dropping the burning candle to the floor.

  "What is it? Is she in there?" Jeremiah asked.

  "It's not a woman, but a man," Willy answered, tears gathered in his eyes. "She won't stop singing! Let's get out of here!" He screamed gripping the sides of his head then took off out the door of the shack into the storm.

  Jeremiah scooped up the candle before it was snuffed out upon the wooden floor by the winds that came sweeping into the shack. He crept close to the stinking box, he could see the opening that Willy had made. His arm shook as he stretched the light out over the dark hole. He had never seen such an abused corpse in all of his brutal life. The man had the hair at the crown of his head torn out, not a tooth could be seen in his gaping violet mouth. The candle's glow revealed that the chest of the poor bastard had been wrenched apart. Jeremiah could hear Willy screaming as he ran for the forest; he too had seen enough and fled the house of death.

  Willy had a head start on Jeremiah who tracked his companion by his cries alone, until he found him writhing on a moonlit river bank in the mud left behind from the passing storm.

  "Willy!" he hollered. "Get yourself together!"

  "I can't she's here, she won't stop singing… her voice hurts so bad!"

  A line of pale yellow orbs shone through the tree line on the far shore of the river causing Jeremiah to fall upon Willy. He clamped his partner's jaws shut as an approaching procession of people drew near. He dragged Willy over to take cover in the thick reeds on the bed of the river to wait until the group had passed over a small bridge not far from them. Jeremiah could feel the brawny man's body quivering as he wept, snot poured from Willy's nostrils down onto the hand that held him silent. The lanterns revealed a group of men, solemn faced and intent on whatever journey they were making. As they slipped into the forest that Jeremiah had just exited, they began to sing, a low hymn deep in sorrow. He released Willy, leaving him weeping in the cattails to observe the train that had just passed…a funeral procession. His intuition told him to follow the group for he knew their destination, it could not be a coincidence that the shack held a corpse in a casket, and that these earnest men set out through the storm adorned in funeral garb. Jeremiah ran through the wood in their trail, hoping to find a clue as to what plagued his partner with phantom voices. Their lantern light eluded him a few times, yet he meant to cut across the country anyway, to beat them to the door of that hovel. Jeremiah took off as the crow flies through the wood, and although it was not the country of his birth, he had spent months there with Willy playing highwaymen, robbing and pillaging as they saw fit to survive. He, at last, came to the tiny house surrounded by pine and oak trees, and t
here beside it, he found a thick patch of bushes to conceal him. He was panting when the procession came down a rutted dirt road; he held his breath in an effort to calm himself. They halted before the door, and a man that had been leading them spoke.

  "The sin eater has been paid to be certain that his spirit will not roam. I know that was a concern after all that he did to that poor girl, Rose. Rest assured that this nightmare is now over."

  "What of Thomas? How do we know that he ain't just like his brother?" a grey-bearded man questioned.

  "Thomas is a good Christian man. He didn't harm anyone. Do not take out the sins of his blood upon him," the leader answered, as Jeremiah watched from his thorny hiding spot. He could see that the man wore the collar of a preacher. He cringed as the men pushed the door open; the sight of the murders became evident as the pallbearers stepped inside.

  "Preacher! The sin eater is dead!"

  "She couldn't withstand the burden?" the pastor questioned.

  "No, sir. It appears she's been murdered along with Thomas. There was a struggle for sure, and we recovered two men's coats."

  Jeremiah crawled from the bushes, around the house into the dark woods, only to hear a scream cut through the cool night air. He came to stop as he recognized it instantly as being from his longtime partner, Willy. He peered around the edge of a hickory tree to see the tormented man come running down the dirt road, tripping over his own feet, rolling in the muddy puddles left behind from the storm.

  "She won't stop singing to me. She's here!"

  Willy began rending handfuls of hair from his own scalp, leaving bald bleeding patches behind. A few of the gravediggers met him, brandishing their shovels as weapons. He scooped up a jagged rock from the road then began bashing himself in the mouth, he spat a handful of blood and teeth into his palm.

  "Will you keep my teeth in your front pocket, make a ring from a lock of my hair?" Willy sung in a soft voice that mimicked a young woman's.

  "I believe we have found who is responsible for the granny woman's death," the preacher said.

  "How are you certain?" the man with a grey beard asked.

  "He exhibits the same mannerisms as Thomas's brother did before he killed himself."

  "The preacher tells the truth. I just witnessed the fiend's corpse," a pallbearer spoke. "This fool must've eaten the corpse bread. He swallowed the sins and is not strong enough to hold them at bay."

  "Not with the tainted soul of a man with hands eager to murder," the preacher agreed. "His fate is a dreaded one indeed."

  "He did not act alone," the pallbearer said.

  "We shall wait the other out," the preacher answered softly.

  Willy brought the sharp stone into his own chest, its impact was a moist thud. He screamed in torment, though his actions were no longer his own, they were those of Rose.

  "Did you pry my breastbone open to see what was hidden there?" Willy sung.

  He repeated the same vicious abuse to himself until he had gouged a deep pit into his flesh. Jeremiah watched him bleed, could hear the rock as he bashed it into his sternum full well knowing that the bone could not withstand such cruelty. Willy lodged it within the hole, twisting it, rending the meat away. The entire time he cried out, heaving as he wept. He yanked the bloodied stone from his flesh, readied himself to jab it in farther. Jeremiah could see Willy's eyes pleading while the group only watched his self-torture. With sickening determination, his partner drove the gory stone into his chest, this time a snapping echoed through the eaves of the trees. Many in the procession now turned their backs, refusing to witness his madness any further. Jeremiah ran from his hiding spot to fall upon his knees before the preacher.

  "Please. Make it stop. We are not good men, but you cannot allow him to open his own rib cage up!"

  The holy man looked down at Jeremiah shaking his head. "Two coats. Two men. Two murderers? I knew that you wouldn't stay in the shadows while he cuts out his own heart."

  The crowd of men dressed in black came to claim Jeremiah who fought in vain to break free.

  "I didn't kill anyone. Willy did, but don't let him suffer. I beg you," Jeremiah said,. His ears were filled with the sounds of Willy's misery, for he had dropped the stone to tear chunks of his flesh away with his bare hands; his screams were now nauseating… inhuman.

  "You seek absolution for your sins and mercy for him?" the preacher asked.

  "Yes, sir," Jeremiah answered.

  "He's a liar and a murderer too!" the grey bearded man accused.

  "No, he isn't. If he was a killer, then he would have left his companion to die and never looked back. He would never have sought mercy for this other one here," the preacher spoke, motioning to Willy who clawed at the cavity in his chest, revealing a portion of his broken rib cage.

  "Mercy granted," he said, drawing a pistol from his coat, the preacher fixed his sights on Willy who feverishly worked his bloodied fingers between pieces of shattered rib bones with only inches to go before he could pull his own heart from his chest. He squeezed the trigger removing half of the criminal's head. His free hand moved through the gun smoke in the sign of the cross.

  "Absolution is something you will have to earn."

  Jeremiah was made to dig four graves, two of which were filled anew once the old woman and the man dubbed the fiend were laid down in them. Thomas, along with Willy, were stretched out upon the dark soil beside their designated holes to wait. The sky burned red with dawn's awakening when at last, the shovel was pried from his blistered palms.

  "Sit down." The preacher pointed to the damp earth beside Thomas's white, bloodless corpse.

  "Now you will get to see why that old woman was so vital to our community," he spoke, placing a small loaf of bread upon the dead man's chest before marking it with the initials T.T.

  "Read this aloud, young man. Prepare to show me that you deserve absolution… the forgiveness you seek."

  Jeremiah unfolded a stained scrap of yellowed paper, looking at it in embarrassment. "I can't read, sir."

  "Very well, then. I shall whisper it into your ear while you say it in a loud, clear voice. These words shall never leave you until your task has been fulfilled."

  Jeremiah nodded weakly, eyeing the men circled about him with their pistols drawn. He knew that if he did not do as he was bidden, he would soon be digging a fifth hole… his own.

  The reverend came close beside him, bringing his lips to the dirtied lobe of Jeremiah's ear. As the preacher spoke, so did the criminal, sealing himself to a wretched fate.

  "Thomas Trudeaux, I give easement to thee. Go down and rest. Come not to walk these woods and valleys. For your peace, I pawn my own. For your sins, I claim responsibility."

  "Now, eat the bread," the preacher instructed. "Slowly, though, you are no stranger to sin it can be quite painful," he cautioned.

  Jeremiah tore a small portion from the stale loaf then brought it to his lips, it rested on his tongue tasting like mold. As he swallowed it, his throat tightened as if it could force the tainted repast back out onto the ground.

  "Accept it," the preacher said. "Or accept your grave beside your partner."

  He forced the bread down, it felt heavy in his stomach, though it was hardly a mouthful.

  "Take another bite."

  Jeremiah repeated his actions, each time he swallowed a bit of bread it felt as if something had dug down into the lining of his stomach, writhing and burning until at last, the entire loaf was consumed. It filled him up inside to the point that it gripped his lungs in a tight fist. He fell back onto the grass, moaning in agony.

  "I knew what he did… to that girl, Rose. That poor young thing only wanted to go to the city to sing for folks. I followed him down to the creek bed. He was yanking out her teeth. My god he pulled out her hair…he tore her open! All he kept saying was that he wanted her heart, that he NEEDED HER HEART! I've always been yellow-bellied, nothing more than a coward! He never saw me watching him while he ate it. He ate her heart raw!"

&nbs
p; Jeremiah writhed while the fire inside of him was fanned by memories of only echoes, things he had never heard… they were Thomas's recollections. The sound of river rocks being pounded into flesh, lungs expelling the last of their air though the body, was long dead. Somehow, Jeremiah knew these things first hand, even though his eyes had never beheld them. The old man's regret liked to devour the young man from the inside out. A voice broke through the beating, a winded, haunting voice… the fiend had sung her a song while he dismantled her. It was the very same tune that Rose had repeated and drove Willy to insanity.

  "I'm gonna keep your teeth in my front pocket, make a ring from a lock of your hair. Gonna pry your breastbone open to see what is hidden there."

  Jeremiah cried out as the fires, like those of the depths of hell, ravaged him. A sudden wave of cold swept over him, it ran down his throat strangling his shrieks. He sat forward, coughing, to see the preacher holding an empty bucket; evening was now upon them.

  "Ready for supper?"

  Jeremiah knew the reverend did not refer to any ordinary afternoon meal, but the dining upon the sins of his comrade, Willy.

  He swallowed bits of bread from Willy's cratered chest well into the night, felt the trespasses of his former friend growing within him like some insidious parasite. Jeremiah lost control of his own extremities as they clawed at the earth, then at his very own skin. The visions of past deeds committed by the cold-hearted drifter stained Jeremiah's psyche and marred his soul with wounds that would never heal. He opened his eyes to utter darkness, a canopy above him blocked out all the starlight. He hadn't the strength to rise, yet he was aware that he was no longer lying beside the fresh dug graves. There was a trickling of water nearby, a terrible thirst prompted him to crawl on his belly until he reached the stagnant trickles gathering between the rocks of the river's edge. He lapped at the green pools that crawled with larvae before falling out again, exhaustion began to darken the edge of his vision as a pair of boots came into view followed by a familiar voice.

  "You lived. Seems absolution is in your future," the preacher said.