The other half (standard:horror, 2434 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Mar 10 2022	Views/Reads: 711/428	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After she'd killed and buried her husband, he wasn't happy

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

his clothes, but still there hung in the air the odour of blood, and 
the tiles would never be as yellow as they used to be. They now held a 
tint of ground-in crimson. 

Out in the back garden, the air was cold, blowing the weeds slightly and
chilling her bones as though the angry ghost of her husband was 
standing beside her. She wondered whether or not to put a cross where 
he lay, some sort of final gesture to seal the fact that he had truly 
gone. When she put her hands in her pockets, she felt, then pulled out 
his reading glasses that he had been wearing when the effects of the 
poison had truly taken hold. She had taken them off in the kitchen 
before using the saw. 

Sandra placed them on the mound of soil, beneath which his corpse now
lay. The glass in the spectacles reflected the sky and the clouds, as 
though showing her where his soul had departed to. Beyond the clouds, 
into other worlds. 

She turned and walked back into the house, feeling the heavy silence
descend upon her, and surround her like morning mist in a countryside 
valley. 

Hours later, with the sky black as pitch, with no moon or stars to
pierce the dark clouds above, Sandra decided that she would make a hot 
mug of tea and take it to bed. The house felt empty, and to a certain 
degree, colder than normal. Perhaps it was because winter was drawing 
in, and the darkness crept across the land earlier each day, bringing 
with it a coldness that would cloak her and penetrate every bone. It 
meant that the bed covers at this point were an attractive proposition. 
That, and a large mug of tea. 

With the bedside lamp on, casting her and the bed in bright yellow from
a pale lampshade, Sandra read her dog-eared paperback romance novel, 
about a king's daughter obliged to marry a squire, whilst she secretly 
receives gifts and love letters from a secret admirer. 

After around half an hour, the mug empty on the bedside table, she put
the paperback down after discovering who the admirer was. It was the 
gardener. She switched off the light and settled down, her mind 
surprisingly relaxed after what she had done. Perhaps it was the huge 
weight off her mind, the part of her psyche that worried and fretted 
over her husband, dying along with him. She also noticed the silence. 
It had never been this quiet before. There was no wind, and no 
nocturnal animals to pierce the atmosphere audibly. It was as though 
time itself had stopped in this area, and was perhaps deciding whether 
or not to stop her heart beating, as she had done to her husband, but 
soon there came a bang from somewhere that sounded close, and she 
wondered if she had been in some sort of half-conscious state. Did I 
hear a bang or was it the remnants of a dream? 

The bang came again, like a door closing. It was real, and sounded like
the back door, leading into the garden. 

Had Sandra looked out of the window with a large powerful torch, and
trained it on her husband's grave, she would have saw a gaping hole. 

Moments later, she heard a soft, barely audible sliding sound that
changed to a rougher, coarser sound upon contact with carpet. Sandra 
wasn't afraid, just confused, her mind trying desperately to work out 
what it could be, and she remembered that she hadn't locked the back 
door, her mind elsewhere. Perhaps it was an intruding cat, or fox from 
the fields. What else could it be? It crawled slowly along the hallway, 
leaving behind a trail of soil and slivers of flesh. Sandra realised 
that whatever it was, was coming up the stairs. It took a few minutes 
to reach the top, and continued to draw closer, the dragging sound 
increasingly louder. 

In the pitch black of the bedroom, Sandra heard the door open, a slight
squeaking sound came from the hinges. She had always meant to put a 
drop of oil on it, but most of the time, her mind never came close to 
even thinking about it. Nervously fumbling for the bedside lamp switch, 
she turned it on, and could not comprehend what was in the doorway at 
first, something that crawled towards her, with a gaunt, white face and 
white, sunken eyes. The top half of her husband dragged itself slowly 
towards the bed, a rasping breathing issuing from its damaged lungs. 
Sandra was so frozen with fear, her vocal chords refused to work, her 
eyes wide and staring, like a rabbit caught in headlights. He 
disappeared from view at the foot of the bed, but then a hand appeared, 
grabbing at the duvet. It hauled itself up, and slowly crawled towards 
her, its white face cast even brighter under the glare of the light. 

Sandra did not know that he could not die. That he was immortal. His
trysts and rendezvous that Sandra knew of, but not about, had resulted 
in a certain pact, that he, and several of his colleagues had achieved. 
Quincy, a name he had given himself, because he never liked Colin, had 
been part of a group, or secret society congregation. 

There were several such societies of varying sizes, each with their own
regulations and rules, but this one he was a part of there was only 
eight members, so they could hardly call themselves a society, more a 
club, or group. 

Yet, unlike the others, they were so secret that they didn't even give
themselves a name. Most secret societies are not really secret at all, 
because by even giving themselves a name, they announce their 
existence. 

This was a group only eight people knew about, and for a new member to
come into the fray they would be secretly investigated and vetted that 
they could then be given morsels of information, and if they seemed 
keen to know more, if their interest was piqued, then they were asked 
to join, and so far, all had said yes. 

Most societies have some sort of common interest, or aim. Or simply
escaping from the real world to indulge in riches, wine and crackers 
and to discuss affluence and how to make more of it. This society was 
certainly in that bracket, but with the inclusion that their main aim 
was immortality. All members would research throughout history with 
however means, and perform the different methods and techniques that 
have been used to try and attain it, be it voodoo rituals, alchemic 
mixtures of all sorts of ingredients, or simply trying out their own 
spells and methods. They would philosophise, debate, and gave serious 
thought to cryonics, preserving themselves to be woken up in the 
future. 

All of them took it seriously, and none of them could ever really answer
the question as to whether or not they really were immortal. They 
believed they were, and yet by the same token had their doubts. Maybe, 
just maybe, I'm not immortal. 

So the experiments continued, the spells, the rituals, until their
founder and the one who owned the golf club whose meetings rooms they 
met in each week, eighty-four year-old George Laurence, decided enough 
was enough. He needed to know, and because he was the eldest member, 
and took several tablets every day, and always had in his diary a 
doctors or hospital appointment, he thought he would find out whether 
or not he was immortal. 

So, at one meeting, with all members present, George persuaded somebody
to shoot him in the chest. 

They were very reluctant at first, but George thought that if he shot
himself in the head, and he was immortal, he would have to live for 
eternity with half a head. At least if he shot himself in the heart, 
and he came back, that would guarantee it had worked. 

So with much debate and musings, the time came. He said his goodbyes to
them all in case he didn't come back, and all raised a glass to him. 

They sat in a circle with George in the middle having taken off his
blazer and opening his white shirt. A housing and policy development 
officer pressed the barrel of a Colt .38 to his chest where he guessed 
the heart was located, right against his sternum, and pulled the 
trigger, sending him crashing back from the wooden chair he was sat on. 


He had lain, sprawled on his back, unmoving, a bloody hole in his chest,
an even bigger one on the exit wound, his heart practically having 
disintegrated, lying in increasing wet crimson. 

For a while, there was silence. They all secretly guessed that he had
gone, and wasn't coming back. 

Until he slowly raised his head and smiled. 

Of all the experiments and rituals they had performed over the years,
none of them knew which one had worked, which one had given them the 
opportunity to be immortal, and they all knew there was one task left 
to do before they embraced immortality. 

They had to die. 

In order to come back as normal as possible, without any blemishes they
needed to commit suicide without leaving any marks, so decided on 
strangulation. At least those marks were not immediately obvious, and 
they didn't know if they would remain or heal. 

So they fashioned a noose, and took it in turns to hang themselves, and
the nameless secret society continued to meet. 

For three years, Quincy had been immortal, and had not aged a second, so
now Sandra had thought she had killed and buried him, but here he was, 
white, gaunt, dishevelled, smeared with soil, bits of which, as well as 
blood, had trailed behind him, and his upper-half crawled across the 
bed to a wide-eyed Sandra who was about to scream. He reached out his 
hand towards her and said in a rasping whisper: “Help me”.


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