MicroHorror

I.

William Crouchley stood outside the crumbling wall marking the entrance to St. Sepulchre-Without-Newgate, watching the last of the workmen pack their tools for the evening. Crouchley was clutching his own set of tools: wooden ones, not metal, so the sound wouldn’t alert the night guard. The sun had almost set over London. The church and the workmen were only shadows, their long, black figures set off by the gaslights which had been set around to light the renovation.

Crouchley listened as the voices got farther away, their heavy footsteps fading into the night. Without the lamps, it was almost completely black now. The only light was a dim glow from the nearby prison. He took a look around one more time and then ventured into the graveyard. It took him most of the night, but his spade finally hit something hard, making a soft thud as wood hit wood. He pried open the lid of the coffin. The stench was strong, and he tied a kerchief around his mouth and nose to keep from fainting. The woman’s body was soft in his hands, and she oozed thick liquid, which he wiped on his black trousers.

Crouchley stuffed the swollen corpse into his long bag, quickly tying up the end. Not a bad night’s work, he thought. This body should fetch good money for the surgeons needing a dissecting dummy. He heard footsteps in the distance. Peering over the edge of the grave, he saw a policeman walking with another man, presumably on their way to Newgate. Crouchley held his breath for a moment. The two men did not even pause at the cemetery gate. He let out his breath and began the walk to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

II.

Mr. Booth had not been happy.

“Wha’ is this coopered old thin’?” he demanded, after opening the sack. He pulled out the woman’s hand and waved it around. It flopped back and forth, making a sickly slapping noise. “I can’t ’ave this, take ’er back,” Mr. Booth said, shoving the lump to Crouchley.

Two burly men came through the door, smelling of strong liquor. One of them snarled at Crouchley.

“Got a new one fer you,” he said, thrusting out a dirty sack, remarkably smaller than Crouchley’s load.

The other man smiled. “It’s a baby, fresh too,” he said, in a deep, lazy voice.

Mr. Booth took the sack and looked inside. He smiled briefly, before closing the sack. “Al’ight,” he said. “Sack-’em-up, gentlemen.” He took some coins from his pocket and tossed them to the first man. “That’s two pounds each.” The men nodded and left the room.

Crouchley stood, sheepishly holding out his hand.

“Well, you ol’ codger, ge’ out of ‘ere,” Mr. Booth said, dropping four shillings onto the floor.

“Four bob?” he asked, looking at the small coins. “’S that all? I brought ye a missus, just buried today, like ye wanted.”

“Ye brought me un that’s good ’n rottin’,” he said, turning his back to Crouchley. “Bring me a fresh un, and I’ll give ye more.”

III.

Crouchley stood close to the window, just beneath the open latch. Thank the stars it had been a warm night. The young woman inside blew out her candle. Crouchley put one hand in the window and then the other, pulling himself up quietly.

She barely even made a sound as he crept past her bed, his spade raised above his head.

He peered over the edges of the whitewashed cradle. The sleeping angel had the same red curls that framed her mother’s face. She opened her eyes and cooed at him, stopping Crouchley in his tracks, but only momentarily. A fresher one, he thought. He shook off his terror and brought the spade down quickly and aggressively.

It made a sick crack against the infant’s skull.

The mother stirred in the bed beside him, but did not wake up.

Crouchley clutched the warm bag against his body. Mr. Booth will be happy tonight, he thought.