The Vanishment by Jonathan Aycliffe

Author:Jonathan Aycliffe [Aycliffe, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-04-08T00:26:43+00:00

27 February 1865-16 July 1887

"The sea shall give up its dead"

I switched off the flashlight and set to work. The grave was grown over with fibrous seaside grass, through which I had to cut my way before reaching the soil beneath. Fortunately, the earth itself was fairly light and sandy on top, and I made good progress. The grave was set far down on the second terrace, out of view from the road, and I was able to conceal the light well enough behind the stone. The spade went deep at every thrust. I dug like someone demented, far into the night. From time to time I thought I heard sounds around me, voices, perhaps, or something running through the thick grass. But I did not look up. It's just the wind, I told myself.

They had not buried her deep. Perhaps Agnes had wanted it that way. I hardly know. My spade struck the coffin lid in the third hour of digging. I used the flashlight to confirm that what I had reached was wood. Even with the wind, it had seemed a loud sound. I had a madness on me that night. I must have had, otherwise I could not have gone through with it.

It took me another half hour to clear the soil properly from the lid. There was a grave stench all around me. I stood to my chest now, my feet balancing on the coffin itself. Cutting the grave back on one side of the coffin, I made a space in which I could stand. When I stepped down into it at last, the edge of the grave came level with my shoulders.

The coffin had been built of hardwood. It had cracked and swollen in places, but the body of it was sound. The lid was still screwed down hard. That was the most difficult job, bending down in that dreadful place, with the light of the torch growing dimmer all the time I worked, forcing the screws back with the edge of the spade, which was my only tool. The screws gave reluctantly, as though determined to guard their trust to the very end. Two snapped clean off, the others twisted from the wood a fraction of an inch at a time.

Even then, it was only with the greatest effort that I could free the lid from the body of the coffin. I had almost no room in which to maneuver, no space to slip the spade between them in an attempt to lever them apart. But I pushed and shoved as well as I could.

The lid gave with a wrenching sound, and keeping my eyes closed, I pushed it across the coffin and up against the side of the grave. It rested there precariously, propped back by the spade. A terrible stench rose from the coffin, making me choke. I tied a handkerchief around my mouth before continuing. Like someone in a dream, I bent down and opened my eyes. In my right hand, the flashlight was shaking as I looked inside.

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