Page 88 of Stay Buried

“Foolish questions,” Benjamin said, rubbing his wrists hard.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Uncle Thomas asked.

Benjamin gritted his teeth. His lips and gums were purple. “I’d like a cigarette,” he said.

Luther handed him one and lit it for him. Benjamin sucked hard on it, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. Again and again, he took hard draws from the cigarette. “Doesn’t taste right,” he said.

“Tobacco’s a bit stale,” Luther apologized.

“Can you tell me,” Uncle Thomas asked, “your full name?”

Benjamin looked at him, yellow eyes glimmering. He breathed out a cloud of smoke, lips working to form a word, but nothing came.

Uncle Thomas met my eyes, and I registered deep concern on his face.

Henry returned with a plate of bread, cheese, and sausage, a glass of brandy.

Benjamin snatched the glass, drained it in one great slurp.

“Go easy,” Uncle Thomas said.

“Man’s thirsty,” said Luther, grinning like it was a good sign, like this proved Benjamin was going to make a full recovery. I understood it, the need to cling to hope. I felt it myself, tugging at me. But everything inside me, all of my uncle’s teachings, my own instincts, warned me that something was wrong.

“Henry, can you please go get Mr. Stoddard a glass of water?” Uncle Thomas said.

“Milk,” Benjamin barked. “I want milk. And wine. Bring wine.”

Henry nodded and left to go back downstairs.

Benjamin, still sitting on the edge of the bed, grabbed the bread off the plate, shoved a huge chunk into his mouth, and chewed messily, noisily, crumbs falling down his unshaven chin onto the bed. He ate quickly, like an animal, in huge gulps.

My heart pounded, and despite myself, I took a step back away from the bed.

He started to choke, his already blue-tinged face turning purple, eyes bulging as Uncle Thomas moved toward him.

The choking turned into retching. Benjamin leaned forward and vomited up the brandy and bread in a great fetid pile on the floor. Mixed into it was dark, viscous fluid. It smelled of rotten fruit and blood. He moaned, grabbed his stomach, fell onto his knees on the floor and continued to vomit, more of the black liquid coming up.

“Jesus!” yelped Luther.

Uncle Thomas was crouched beside Benjamin now, watching, eyes wide, his normally calm face registering panic.

At last Benjamin stopped retching. I had never seen so much vomit come from one person. And never anything so dark and viscous, like tar.

Was it blood? I wondered. Was he bleeding internally? Hemorrhaging?

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Uncle Thomas said, voice shaky, as he put an arm around Benjamin’s back, draped Benjamin’s right arm over his own shoulder.

“You want to know my name?” Benjamin said, his voice thick and phlegmy, his eyes glowing yellow. “I’m. The.Knackerman.” He turned to face Uncle Thomas, lifted his left hand, poked a finger hard into my uncle’s chest as Thomas struggled to lift him. “You’re the knackerman.” His blue lips came up into a rictus.

Benjamin gripped Thomas’s shoulder with his other hand, as he lurched forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Thomas’s neck.

Uncle Thomas let out a howl of pain and the men struggled, Thomas twisting, trying to get away, blood flowing as they wrestled, both of them down on the floor in the black vomit now. I rushed across the room, meaning to pull Benjamin off my uncle, now pinned beneath him. Benjamin arched his neck horribly, face thrust toward the ceiling, Thomas’s blood smeared on his mouth and chin.

“We’reallthe knackerman!” he cried.

A gunshot rang out, so loud and close to me that I felt sure my eardrum had burst.

Benjamin went down, a bullet hole in his forehead.