A Hawk & Cleaver title:

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What do you do when all you’ve ever known is gone? 

In the Kingstown cemetery three figures carve their path through the mist. Harold, the nervous, yet loyal servant guides the two brothers through thick fog to the farthest reaches where cracked marble stones lay covered in moss and weeds. The open grave has been made to fit its recipient. But who could it be…? 

In this tale of death and love the three must execute everything according to plan. For they only have until dawn before time runs out, and the hunt begins… 

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Reviews:

- 'Another great horror short story from Mr Willcocks. The imagery is gruesome and there were a couple moments in there that made me feel a tad queasy.'

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To keep up-to-date with Daniel's work, visit him at www.willcockseditorial.com, or find him on most social media platforms @willcocksauthor

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To find similar titles, visit: www.hawkandcleaver.com

The crunch of boots on frost was muffled in the thickness of the night. Waves of midnight mist lay low over the long grass, swirling angrily at the disturbance as the three figures made their way past the rows and rows of concrete slabs, each inscribed with final messages from loved ones – a fleeting attempt to immortalise the memory of those soon forgotten to the depths of the earth. In the sky above, where the tendrils of vapour rose high, the crescent moon shone a silver glow as they walked slowly with their purpose, their dark, thick attire working as a camouflage with the darkness beneath the mist. As their chests rose and fell with each labouring step their heavy breathing mocked the dead as the chill air restricted and caressed their throats with wintery fingers.

'How much further?' the middle man demanded.

'Not much further, sir. Just over the other side of this hillock,' whimpered Harold, pointing a bony hand ahead.

'And it meets the description?'

'Aye, sir. I had it measured special, just as you asked. Spent all of yesterday sneaking in and making sure that it wouldn't be found.'

'Perfect', Charles replied on a face with no emotion.

Harold looked uneasily at Charles, trying to gleam some sense of a mood. Once again he fell disappointed, met by the stony expression that had canvassed his face since it had happened. His master never was one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Maybe that was why they had made it this far. His eyes glanced past Charles to the third of their company, barely visible through the density of the mist. Another stony expression staring into the ether with unblinking eyes. The sight of the pair that used to make him smile so much now only filled him with a lingering discomfort. A knot tied in his stomach and, once more, he had to fight the urge to heave. The acid tickled the back of his throat.

'It would please me if you would show some respect, Harold. Although he may not say so, my brother does not wish to be burned with prying eyes. Don't you think that tonight, of all nights, he has earned a little privacy?'

Harold tugged nervously on the frays of his sleeve, his eyes lowering quickly to the glistening floor. 'Of course, sir. I meant no offence, sir.'

An owl screeched overhead. Glancing skywards Harold saw the silhouette of the bird circling, training its sights on its invisible prey. He imagined that invisible strings held the great creature, the ground staff pulling at the tethers as the crowds that surrounded them whooped and cheered. Gasps of oooh, and aaah, echoed through the air as the lights flashed from the cameras and the music was drowned out by the tumultuous excitement. The wings of the owl transformed into a red and yellow cape as, watching from backstage, he could see Madame Newton defying the laws of gravity that her namesake discovered. The smile shone wide on her face as she flew low over the heads of the crowd, looming closer and closer to Harold who, when she spotted his peeping eye, blew a kiss in his direction for him to catch.

He wondered what she would say when she found out.

The owl dived with an almighty SCREE! The cemetery resumed its silence. Harold's heart sank.

'Pardon my asking, sir. But, what comes next?'

'I suppose that entirely depends on you, and what you choose to do next.' Harold mulled over the words. At another time he may have smiled at the answer. Even now his master somehow managed to maintain the enigmatic air that had pushed the pair so far through life. Once, they had been a mighty duo, Charles and Ben, with their minds working almost as one, able to light up a room by simply walking in. Now...

'I don't follow, sir.'

'Well, I suppose you'll be free to choose as you please. For, as the saying goes, after tonight, the world is your oyster. You'll be free to carry on with your life as though we never existed. As though it was all just one big dream. Or you could start afresh. Though I do seem to recall you had a fondness for the culinary arts.'

'I wouldn't exactly call it a fondness, sir.' He thought back to years before. The early days. Silverware and bubbling pots. The smell of grog and piss, the screaming of hungry mouths desperate to receive their next meal. Scuffles. Fights. Raised voices and spit. He shuddered at the thought. 'Besides, that was a long time ago. I can hardly just pick up where I left off. My position is different now. And, if you pardon my frankness, I've grown rather fond of you, sir.'

He thought he saw Charles' eyes flicker in his direction, though it could have been a trick of the night. The fragments of moon that penetrated the fog glittered gently off the eyes of the brothers as they burned through the mist, like two great vessels crawling the clouded oceans – one a freightliner shining brightly with purpose, the other a ghost ship with no flag to fly.

The lights went out. A silence fell across the crowd as the light shining from round yellow eyes pierced the gloom. The rattle of metal bars coupled with that almighty growl that only the working staff knew was for dramatic effect. A mellow spotlight shone revealing the beast within its cage. A small man, matted with thick, bristling hair from head to foot. Teeth as sharp as daggers gnawed angrily against the steel as saliva snaked downwards. Stepping into the light a man, taller than any the crowds had ever seen tiptoed towards the beast, his fingers to his lips to reinforce the hush that clothed the audience. Then, – and this was Harold's favourite part – with an almighty puff he blew his whistle, the noise ripping the atmosphere, sending the shaggy-haired man into a frenzied fury as he kicked at the bars, straining his arms until – much to the alarm of the crowd – Monsieur Loftus turned his key in the cage door releasing the Wolf Man.

Harold's thoughts snapped back at the sound of Charles' voice.

'You know, Harold. You needn't ask for pardon when the sentiment is mutual.' A small smile played across the servant's face – the closest he'll ever get to a compliment. 'It certainly won't seem the same without my faithful dog at my side. But, alas. Time is as cruel a force as nature to an act such as us, and once my brother is committed to the grave you know as I do that I cannot return to the life that we led. I cannot bear this burden much longer.' He stopped walking, pausing only to readjust the added weight he carried, hoisting him up around the waist and reaffirming his ever-moistening grip. 'It's too much after the years we've shared.'

Harold couldn't argue. Even though he hadn't been there with his masters since the early days, he had played a vital role in their latter. After all, when the brothers had first found him they had been as lost to themselves as he had been. On the fateful day in which they stumbled into the makeshift shelter in Kingstown with nothing but the clothes on their back, it had been Harold who had crawled out of his hole and offered them solace. Under the protection of the withered cloth the three had huddled around the coloured flier that shone with the light of hope, finally understanding the direction of their path. Finally finding a place to belong.

It had not been easy by any measure. Bound only to the shadows Ben and Charles slept through the day and travelled at night. Echoes of unmentionably cruel names reverberated through their heads as, with every passing day, they began to lose hope. Every time Harold returned with news of the ongoing negotiations their hopes sank even lower. And so they waited, biding their time until the day that Harold came back with that smile on his face that told them that they were in. They had found their home.

'Stop dragging your feet. You're going to leave tracks, Harold. Was I not clear when I told you that I did not want us so easily found?' Harold looked back where the lines of grass trailed under his heavy footing. 'The moment that they realise our absence they will be on us like hounds.'

'A thousand apologies. I'll tidy them up, sir.'

'No, don't bother,' Charles resigned with a wave of his hand. 'Just make sure to be more discreet. We already know that they're going to be searching for us by sunrise. Therefore I'd at least try to delay the search for as long as possible. For the first time in my life I wish no audience for the Burnem Brothers.'

'Not a problem, sir.'

They walked together in the quiet of dawn. Though no words were spoken, Charles' head swirled with a million thoughts, all fighting to be heard. The corpse that he dragged like a paralytic drunkard bounced with every laborious step, irritating his skin as their bodies rubbed together. A dancing marionette with his brother as the strings. Harold walked faithfully at his side, head bowed. It took extra effort for Charles to maintain his composure. To walk with his head held high and power in his strides as with every passing moment he could feel himself becoming weaker. Each time his heel made contact with the earth he could feel his energy decomposing, spraying into the soft ground like a million spiders scrambling for freedom. The smell of his own sweat rose, joining with the moistness of the mist, and invaded his nostrils. The denseness of the odour feeling like a cloth was being held to his nose. Yet still he walked.

How did it come to this? Harold silently questioned as he struggled to grip the reality of the situation. Over the years he had shown himself to be a loyal servant, taking commands without batting an eyelid, knowing that the kindness that the other performers showed him were worth a million days lived in his past life. Though he was often taken for granted by the very pair that claimed him, he would never have wished it away. His master was right. Time is a cruel thief.

And what choice did he have now? At the end of it all he could not break such a bond, taking Charles' commands without question, ignoring that small voice in his head that doubted that he'd be able to perform the task. Charles had been specific. Charles had been clear. Each point served its purpose and, he supposed, it was the only way that the act could play out. The closing stages of the story of the duo, though laced with an unshifting finality, shone faintly with a glimmer of hope beyond reason. 

That was what pulled Harold through.

'Just over there, sir,' he whispered through gritted teeth, steeling himself.

There was nothing out of the ordinary amongst the stones. Only the persistent foliage and the cracked marble. 'Well, either you've failed at your final task and the plot is not where I wished it to be, or you've exceeded my expectations and hidden it masterfully. I'll hold my breath until we're closer.'

Take every breath you can, Harold wanted to say. But he knew better than to tell his master what to do. Returning his gaze to the grassy slope a flicker of silver flashed from the lining of his boot. The hidden blade whispering in the moonlight.

It wasn't until he almost stepped into the pit that Charles saw it for what it was. Harold, seeing his master's danger, threw his arm across their path, instantly stopping the puppeteer and his dummy. On the floor the grass, though masterfully disguised, had been previously disturbed. With closer inspection the blades of grass were carefully scattered over a covering of loose dirt, which balanced lightly atop a thin sheet supported by four strategically placed rocks. One for each corner. Any passers-by – not that any ventured this far any more – would walk none-the-wiser past the hole. Even Charles had to bow a silent nod of approval to Harold.

'Marvellous,' his words said, unmatched by the expressionless face behind. The sight of the grave stood as the final reality of what was before them.

The trinity stood long in silence. The two who were capable of taking the next step forward hesitated, each privately hoping that the other would take the lead. It wasn't until Harold saw the empty look in his master's eyes and saw the body of Ben twisting and flopping towards the floor that he realised that it was really the dead making the decisions here. Charles automatically readjusted his grip once more, for the first time allowing his struggle to write across his face.

'It's the perfect size, sir. I assure you. You won't have to worry about fitting.' Harold hobbled low around the perimeter, removing the rocks that anchored the disguise and, with one swift movement, whipped away the cover exposing the drop and dirt below. 'Cosy, yet not too claustrophobic, yes?' Along the grave walls all manner of insects could be seen crawling and scuttling the edges, excited to finally be receiving their guest in the darkness.

The brothers stared into the pit. In the thickness of the fog the bottom could not be seen, only mist swirled in the depths below. Harold watched as they stood, wondering what thoughts could be running through Charles' head. Wondering, if the roles had been reversed and it was Ben with them now, if they would still be here, teetering on the edge of the final resting place. The silver of the dagger winked once more as images flickered rapidly through his head. Flesh tearing. Blood congealing. Saliva snaking. Owls winking. Screaming. Endless screaming.

He shook his head and banished the thought. One step at a time. That's what Charles had told him after outlining the plan, after seeing Harold's face turn white at the unfaltering commands. Follow the plan, one step at a time.

'Is everything alright, sir? You've grown awful quiet...' Harold paused, unsure how to approach the subject. 'You do still mean to proceed?'

'Of course I do,' Charles snapped. 'What choice do I really have, Harold?' For the first time since it happened he became animated, emotion laced his words as his fingers dug tightly into Ben's flesh, puncturing the skin through the thin shirt he wore. Blood lazily rose to the surface – the consistency of jam – until a small bubble smeared across Charles' angry fingers. 'There's nothing to do. Without him I have nothing. Nothing! Let's imagine for the slightest of moments that I try. That I try beyond all reason to go on, to carry on without him. What will I do? We're a double-act, Harold. I'm not built to entertain alone. Who would have me? People will know my face and expect the other half of me and there'd be nothing to give. Without Ben all I have is a frail, thin body and a collection of lines and tricks built for two. The crowds expect to be shocked, amazed – disgusted even. Where's the shock value of one man, crippled and alone? Me, alone? Without him, I'm as dead as he is now.'

'We could do it together?' Even before the words left his lips Harold knew it was hopeless. A last attempt to cling to better days before the floor vanished and the rope grew taught. He had not the skills or the charisma to carry the mantle.

Charles' anger fizzled in a moment, turning from steam to water. He gestured for Harold to come closer. When he was close enough to touch he released his hold on the corpse and wrapped the defeated Harold in a two-armed embrace, silently letting the tears fall. The two wordlessly said their goodbyes in that moment as Harold sobbed into the musty shoulder of his master. It seemed all the more poignant that the first form of physical contact ever received came before the end.

When Charles signalled the end of the interaction by loosing his grip Harold rubbed the tears from his eyes, all his willpower concentrated on ignoring the empty stares of Ben as he remained standing beside them. Now that he was much closer than he wished to be he could smell the scent of decay that seeped beneath the cloak the brothers shared. A small bubble of vomit rose as the smell hit his nostrils forcing him to step away into cleaner air.

This did not go unnoticed.

'It's awful isn't it?' Charles' nostrils wrinkled. 'I didn't start to notice it until you'd left to dig. Then it was the only company I had. To think that this is what we become.'

'You know I meant it, sir?'

'What's that, Harold?'

'If I could, I'd be the second half of your act.'

'I know you would.' Charles smiled as he lowered Ben's body and his own so that they both sat on the edge of the grave built for two, looking like the silhouetted painting of the brothers as kids that now hung God-only-knows-where. 'Yet, even if we could, I wouldn't. He's my brother, and I could never betray his memory by replacing him.' He carefully lowered their bodies until their feet touched the floor, stumbling slightly at the awkward load.

'I understand, sir,' Harold bit his lip, steeling his nerves for the final phase of the plan. It was all happening much faster than he'd like.

'After all, we shared everything', the voice echoed in the hole.

'I know, sir,' the trembling servant said, following after.

'A womb...'

Charles supported the limp head of Ben as he sat on the damp, soft earth. A small creak emitted from Ben's neck as it strained against gravity, lowering them both to the floor. Harold bent to his knees, exposing the blade that caught no light in the depths of the pit.

'A childhood...'

The knife was sharp. Charles tore at the cloth that hid the conjoined flesh that bound his body with his brother's. Smooth, thick muscle and tissue that held the twins as one.

'A career...'

The four eyes stared expectantly at Harold as he crawled into position between them.

'Two wives...'

He placed the coldness of the blade on the binding flesh.

'One body,' Charles muttered through gritted teeth, turning once more to stare into the eyes of his brother.

'Now, Harold!'

He didn't need telling twice. Harold's scream pierced the night as he brought the knife high above his head and crashed it down, penetrating the flesh, trying to ignore Charles as he writhed in agony. Ben lay still, mocking his brother. A silent mirror. The dagger jarred as it hit the stringy tendons and sinew of the twins. He reared back again and haphazardly darted the dagger in and out, paying no attention to the blood that sprayed into the air. The fresh red of Charles' life juice mixed with the congealing force of Ben's causing the red rain to fall with clots and lumps that thumped as they hit the ground.

And still Charles screamed. Harold looked to Charles, hoping to see a survivor's attitude.  That his master may, beyond reason, be able to survive alone, independent of the corpse that weighed him down. A fool's hopes. With every centimetre gained Harold saw his life drain. First it came in his screams as they weakened and faded into mere hollows of breath. Then, after the thrashing had ceased, and the final cut had been made, there they lie. The Burnem Twins.

Harold stared long at the two, the knife long slipped from between his sticky palms, wishing that he could bind himself to both and give them life once more. Charles' face reflected the horror of his death. Ben merely stared, though, whether through the thrashing of his brother, or another trick of the night, Harold could swear that a small smile played at the corner of his lips.

Knowing that he only had a limited window to complete his master's work he pulled himself out of the grave, resting briefly on its edge, unable now to see the pair below. Through the fog around all else lay quiet. Even the crawlers that inhabited the pit waited with silent reverence. They will claim their victims later.

In the trees nearby he grabbed the shovel that he had placed in secret.

It was long work for the exhausted Harold. His energy all but spent. And when the moon disappeared beyond the lining of the trees and the sky transformed to the splattered, bruised colours of dawn Harold tapped once more, scattering the grass to camouflage the night's events.

Somewhere soon he knew that Monsieur Loftus, the Ringmaster of the travelling freak show, would notice the absence of his greatest attraction.

And the hunt would begin... 

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