《The Undertaker from Mokvas》 Visitor A dull yet annoying sound sneaked its way into his dream. At first he believed it was a part of it. In this dream he had been trying to put someone to rest. After the coffin was released and touched the fresh moist earth, the deceased woke up. And hammered with his fists against the lid. But the gravedigger didn¡¯t give a damn. He shoveled the earth back into its pit as he usually did. He wasn¡¯t bothered. Once something is in a coffin, it stays there. It wasn¡¯t his job to release some poor soul which suddenly decided to wake up. His job was to keep this poor soul in its place. Certainly, several times a year it happened that the dead woke up. They battered against the coffin walls, they screamed, they begged. With his finely sharpened senses, the Undertaker could hear them all. But, as has been said, he didn¡¯t give a damn. He was paid to bury them, not pull them out. The annoying sound persisted. It was definitely not a dream. It was much louder, rhythmic, stronger and vibrating. No woken soul would ever hammer in such a calm and steady way like clockwork. Out of sleep, back to his consciousness, the Undertaker finally realized some idiot was throwing stones at the shutters of his house. Through the high razor-sharp fence where many who tried to sneak into his graveyard were cut in half. Covering the entire distance from the fence to his house. Someone really good at throwing with a nasty supply of rocks. The Undertaker swore, slithered out of bed, put on his rags and, along with his keys, grabbed his shovel. He promised himself he would cut the nocturnal intruder¡¯s head off ¨C slowly and painfully. And there he stood. Beneath a sickening foggy moonlight, beyond his kingdom of the dead, the Undertaker observed the ghastly silhouette still throwing rocks. This bastard brought a full cart of them and was not aware of his presence. The gravedigger approached almost invisibly. He was feared for his cunning skills. Soundless sneaking, for example. He had this unpleasant habit of appearing behind someone¡¯s back out of nowhere. Not seldomly, this someone suffered a stroke and dropped dead. Especially when the victim was inspecting the grave hole for some recently deceased relative. In such cases the Undertaker didn¡¯t even bother. He left them where he fell and threw the coffin at them. For these reasons, the Undertaker tended to dig his holes a little deeper. Just in case. The hooded person throwing rocks sensed his presence. It ceased and loosened the rock from its hand. Slowly it turned towards him. A woman. Tall, slim, with a solid body used to hard labor. The face quite young, more pretty than ugly. She seemed to have expected him. ¡°Are you going to use that against me?¡± She pointed her look at his shovel. Her voice sounded calm and soft. And fearless.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°Possibly,¡± he answered darkly. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Can we talk inside?¡± she insisted. ¡°No.¡± The woman bowed her head and remained silent. ¡°You can throw from here, you can talk from here. Or piss off,¡± he told her, unimpressed. ¡°I need someone excavated, now,¡± she confessed.
The Undertaker threw his shovel on his shoulder, turned away and began to walk back to his graveyard. ¡°Wait,¡± the woman shouted after him, then added shyly, ¡°I¡¯ll give you¡­ anything you want.¡± The Undertaker stopped. When he turned to her, she could see the demonic smile on his face. For a few seconds he examined her. ¡°The coat,¡± the Undertaker commanded. The woman obeyed. Slowly she removed the warm and heavy coat, rolled it carefully and put it into a cart. She had on a tight ink-black robe. Her collar bones under her pale skin reflected the moonlight as well as her onyx necklace. Her hair was beautiful. Long, dense and uneasily tamed. He let her wait in the cold and observed how she strived to resist the chilly night, how her breath would be drawn heavier, how her body would start to tremble and her lips turn blue. ¡°Follow me,¡± he said finally. The Undertaker walked, she followed several steps after him. Through the gate, through the alley, into his house. ¡°Clothes,¡± he pointed at his bed.
She stood in the middle of a large room. Dirty, simple and rustically equipped. She looked around, pretending she hadn¡¯t heard him. Then she approached the massive wooden dinner table. With her back to him, she started to undress. Her attire dropped to the cold earthen floor. In front of the Undertaker, the body of a steady healthy woman was uncovered. Sinews, muscles, bones. Round tasty breasts, straight long legs. All teeth in their place. She sat on the table and waited, her body still slightly trembling from the cold, her skin still slightly blue from the chill. The Undertaker threw his shovel into a corner. Clumsily, he undressed his enormously tall, deformed, ungainly figure. Ugly and repulsive though he appeared, he was still a man with animal desires. He took the strange woman he knew nothing about, not even her name. He had no care to know it. Now she had become his victim, or maybe he hers. He took her like he did everything ¨C harshly and savagely. At first she sensed only pain. She felt him like glowing iron, ready to melt and burn her whole body. She wished she had experienced such frenzy years ago, with someone she imagined loving, in times when she was younger and the world was a much better place in which to live. He carelessly finished within her and when he parted he noticed she still chewed on her own bloody lips. ¡°Whom do you wish to excavate?¡± the Undertaker asked, tying his trousers. ¡°My husband,¡± the woman answered. Twenty-two ¡°This one?¡± he asked, slightly surprised. ¡°Yes,¡± she replied. ¡°You promised.¡± ¡°I did,¡± he retorted reluctantly. They both stared at a relatively fresh mass grave without any headstone or marker. Just a pile of earth. He remembered this funeral in detail like he remembered them all. Twenty two bodies. The complete elite squad of hitmen belonging to a private paramilitary militia. All thrown in the hole in a pile just as they were. In their dark brown leather coats, pullovers, goggles ¨C all soaked in half-dried blood. Only their weapons, cartridges and IDs were removed. And their jack-boots of course. Silently the Undertaker shoveled back the frozen solid earth until the sharp edge of his tool hit a leather sleeve. One after another he pulled out a body and the woman in black shook her head at the sight of each. Until he found the ringleader. The lady remained silent and gazed at the corpse. So, the wench of a decorated thug, he thought to himself. Now he felt even more satisfied that he had screwed the widow of this scumbag. Similar to the satisfaction when he had buried them. Somehow he envied this mysterious force which killed these agents. Twenty-two men less to spread fear and terror in the city of Mokvas. His city.
Back inside, he dumped the body onto the massive oak desk. Although the thug was a strong strapper, he nevertheless felt like a toy in the Undertaker¡¯s robust raw hands. He stripped the body of its clothes and examined the wounds. The woman intended saying something but he ignored her. He raised his elbow in order to shut her up. Now Death herself spoke to him. And he had to listen.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. The agent¡¯s body revealed three gunshot wounds, several blunt traumas and one deep knife cut ¨C none of them lethal. Something else had killed him. Something extremely fast and strong which had left a thin carving on the back of his neck, severing his spinal cord. The Undertaker immediately saw a huge blade, enormously sharp and thin at its end, moving with inhuman speed. The gravedigger grew yet more curious. ¡°Open his head,¡± the woman said in a strangely daring and commanding tone. He obeyed. He took his sharpest kitchen knife and skinned the skull. Then he cracked it open with one single blow. The brain swelled out. Like smooth yellow wax deprived of any blood cells. The Undertaker pulled it out with his bare fingers. It felt cold but flabby and due to advanced rotting, smelled stronger than the rest of the body. Something hard appeared in his palm. His thumb rubbed the brain away and there it was ¨C a peculiar metallic object, no larger than a digit, with small carbuncles, not unfamiliar to him. The woman grabbed it immediately. Hastily, she raised it to her eyes and examined it with an eerie look. Her eyes sparkled.
Feel free to stop reading and just listen¡­
¡°An amulet,¡± she whispered agitated. ¡°Older than the world itself.¡± Though none of his business, he bothered to ask: ¡°Excitement? It is that what you feel?¡± ¡°Yes¡­,¡± she replied, nearing a hypnotic state. Then she slowly turned her eyes back to the corpse of her husband and added: ¡°And a relief too.¡± ¡°Was that all?¡± he wanted to know. ¡°No,¡± the woman shook her head. ¡°Not even close. I need you to excavate them all. And open all their heads.¡± He grinned sardonically. ¡°That means another twenty one nights. Another twenty one nights with you.¡± ¡°I know,¡± she remarked. Then she carefully hid the amulet, wiped her fingers sticky from the brain onto her clothes and started to undress again. This time she laid in his bed. He did the same. His moves were hasty, harsh and greedy. He stopped only after he felt his semen spilling into her womb, ignoring the rotting corpse stench gradually pouring into the room. Memories The following evening the woman arrived again after sunset. The Undertaker left her to throw stones for a good half hour until he finally decided to crawl out of his hut. ¡°Do I have to do this for another twenty times?¡± she complained. ¡°Begging here out in the cold for your attention?¡± ¡°Then dress warmer,¡± he replied. He took her inside and pinpointed the bed with his index finger. She stripped herself with a drop of sourness but as he screwed her, she seemed to enjoy it. Actually, he ignored her. The grave digger was taking his reward and in that way he behaved. He didn¡¯t care about details such as how this woman got excited when he was acting completely selfishly. ¡°Do you have any preference?¡± he asked her, once they were standing above the open mass grave. ¡°Did you¡­ throw him back?¡± the woman asked with mild surprise when she spotted the naked body of her late husband with an open skull. ¡°Should I have thrown him over the city wall?¡± His voice bore annoyance. ¡°Or served him for dinner?¡± After she remained quiet, he repeated his question: ¡°Any preference or should I pick someone by chance?¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± she answered silently. He grasped the first corpse and pulled it from the earth.
It happened two weeks ago. The Undertaker remembered it in colorful detail as he did with every funeral. A carriage towed by two horses and accompanied by ten militiamen, known as skincoats, had stopped in front of the open gate. Instead of entering the cemetery they had waited. For an hour or two they remained on the other side of the fence, standing motionless, staring into the graveyard. The Undertaker had seen and lived through many things but this gave him the creeps. He retreated into his house and decided to stretch out on the bed and ponder as to why people are afraid of the dead when they should be afraid of the living. Until someone knocked on his door and stepped inside. One of the high ranking militia officers appeared. Without a greeting he put a coin purse on the desk and parted after the following words: ¡°A mass grave for about twenty will do.¡± The Undertaker unwillingly abandoned his bed, grabbed his shovel and headed to a distant edge of the yard, in the shadow of the massive city walls which surrounded most of his domain. Unseen by the ghoulishly frozen militiamen he started to dig. The carriage finally appeared. The Undertaker rested, leaning on his shovel, watching the pale men in leather coats, caps and curious goggled glasses move hypnotically about like animated toy soldiers. He heard the countless stories of golems of clay and stone, controlled by some ancient magic, fighting in chairman Ociph¡äs armies in ravaging wars against the Northern Realm. But these were living creatures, still of flesh and blood. The agents opened the carriage and mechanically, without any sign of emotion, dumped the corpses of former comrades into the fresh pit. ¡°Are they even human?¡± a broken mother had once asked when she had brought coffins with her two young sons. Both of them belonged to alleged sympathizers of an illegal movement opposing Ociph¡äs usurpation of the city. The skincoats stormed their apartment and shot the boys in cold blood while they were sat at the dinner table. In front of their mother. The terror unleashed by the militia officials and conducted by their leather coated minions quickly spread throughout the entire city and the former east province, torn out of the Northern Realm. It reached nearly every household, nearly every corner. First it was invisible, discreet, silent. People vanished from the streets or were found murdered in their beds. Later, the fear needed to be tangible and omnipresent, so public mass executions began. The crowds were regularly dragged into the embracement of the large stadium of Metallurg Mokvas and forced to witness ceremonial hangings, beheadings or impalings of random accused persons. The football field turned into a death orgy. ¡°Rejoice, citizens of Mokvas!¡± the voice of the new rulers constantly preached from amplifiers. ¡°We brought you freedom from oppression of the Northern Realm! We brought you equality, prosperity and progress. Rejoice!¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
As has been said, the apostles of the new order and their leather-coated minions with ultra-modern revolving guns swiftly swept through the land. Few domains remained untouched. One of them was the ancient graveyard of Mokvas, obscured by the municipal walls, which had begun to swell dramatically since the new rulers had taken over the city. The Undertaker felt challenged by the emotional numbness of the skincoats. Once they had dumped the bodies into the pit, he opened his pants and relieved himself. Upon the pile of jumbled corpses. But there was no reaction. The attending militiamen simply stood nearby watching him from behind their opaque goggles. They remained in that pose until he covered the bodies with earth. He asked himself why they never harassed him. Well, actually, they did. It was more like a street incident. A group of these thugs attempted to burn down his favorite bakery. On most occasions he avoided conflicts ¨C or rather the conflicts avoided him. But on this occasion he decided to cross their path. ¡°Step aside, citizen,¡± a formal warning resounded, ¡°don¡¯t interfere with order enforcement.¡± With one hand he grasped his shovel, with another he pulled out his long belt with heavy iron buckle. Six of the skincoats got a bloody bashing before any one of them could touch their gun. After several seconds they ran in disoriented panic. In fact, the skincoats had at least one significant reason to hunt him down. And this reason was their boss and creator himself ¨C Ludo The Shovelface. Shovelface. It meant more a defamation than a nickname and for mentioning it in public there was an immediate death penalty. Ludo had to thank the Undertaker for this flattering epithet.
This erratic bald guy with small stature and vulpine eyes close to each other had tried a long time before to make his living as a football commentator. During the matches of Metallurg Mokvas he shouted through an amplifier from the ranks at the field, taunting players, referees, visitors. Once he got dangerously close to the Undertaker , dangerously oblivious to his presence and carelessly yelling into his ear. The gravedigger turned around and with one swift move banged the annoying football ultra with his shovel against his face. Ludo fell into a coma from which he awoke after a few weeks disfigured. Mentally and physically. The ambush of the iron tool forever changed the shape of his visage to a shovel form. ¡°Welcome back,¡± the attending doctor greeted him. ¡°You¡¯ve got a pretty shovel face, but you have survived.¡± Shovelface¡­ After hearing this Ludo climbed out of bed and strangled the physician with his own linen bandages. From then on killing people became his new mission. And the revolution of Trevor Ociph offered such perfect opportunities he could never previously had imagined. Ludo sought revenge in blood. On everyone but the guy who disfigured him. For the Undertaker he prepared something special. He convinced his new leader Trevor Ociph to ban football from Mokvas for good. Thus he robbed the grave digger of one of his last pleasures and inflicted upon him a more severe blow than any beating or torture. ¡°Hey¡­,¡± the voice of the widow echoed somewhere from beyond. ¡°Are you all right? You seem¡­ distracted.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not distracted,¡± the Undertaker grunted. He returned from his memories and realized that he had been staring at the naked skull of the selected skincoat and holding the handsaw for an uncertain amount of time. ¡°Can you please remove his goggles?¡± the woman asked. ¡°I always wondered how they look like beneath.¡± The gravedigger tore the gear off the man¡¯s face. It was accompanied by a disgusting smacking sound. ¡°Fascinating,¡± the woman mumbled as the eyes of the militiaman were revealed, completely swollen out of their sockets, having merged with the goggles. The Undertaker reached back for the handsaw while the woman investigated the gear and turned it around in her slim feminine fingers. ¡°Here¡¯s your trinket.¡± He handed over the amulet with parts of the brain still dripping from it. ¡°And there¡¯s the bed.¡± She snatched the valuable and dried her hands in the already dirtied clothes of the dead skincoat. Then she undressed. ¡°Are you not curious why I¡¯m doing this?¡± she asked the grave digger after the coitus as she sat naked on his bed , adjusting her thick long hair. ¡°Or even what my name may be?¡± ¡°No,¡± he replied. She sighed barely noticeably and attired herself. ¡°Tomorrow then,¡± she whispered. In vain, because the Undertaker was already snoring. The Raid The following evening the woman only managed to throw one single stone. He already stood behind her back. This time she shrieked with both palms on her chest. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect¡­,¡± she stuttered trying to catch her breath. ¡°No excavation today,¡± the Undertaker announced briefly. ¡°You may leave.¡± ¡°What¡­? Why¡­?¡± the woman was unable to hide her annoyed surprise. ¡°Like I said, leave,¡± the grave digger insisted. ¡°Piss off.¡± She wanted to say something but kept it to herself and turned her back. Satisfied, the Undertaker dropped his shovel on his shoulder and headed towards the city walls. He marched along for a while, through dark alleys and shady neighborhoods, where petty thieves, aging courtesans and occasional assaulting thugs tended to lurk for victims or just hang around. However, when some of them spotted the lofty figure of the Undertaker with his massive shovel, they decided they had better hide or dart out of sight. Except for the rusty old hookers who bestowed him with lascivious smiles and hailed him with familiar greetings. Some of them actually knew him from their significantly younger days. The man walked past with hardly a glance, crossed one of the city parks where in spring and summer flowers of all colors bloom, with basins with green water around scrubby fountains, and moldy wooden banks where during warm nights and evenings all the lovers meet and kiss.
Finally he reached the main western gate and ordered an evidently shocked guard to open it. ¡°But, but¡­ but¡­ it is night,¡± the young lad stammered and peered at the visitor, obviously never having seen such a tall and strange fellow before. ¡°That is the Undertaker, you idiot,¡± someone whispered behind him. The young man quickly realized the voice belonged to his superior. ¡°Open the gate, immediately, I don¡¯t want any troubles during my shift!¡± The recruit did as commanded, all the time fixing the strange tall man with his gaze as if he would bring the whole graveyard with him. Finally, he left the city with all its filth, shadows and vibrations behind. And the great wide open full of dense forests, bogs and penumbral retreats with lurkers behind every stone or tree waited ahead. And its hidden lanes and paths leading safely through deadly sinks and marshes inhabited by spirits, will-o-wisps, apparitions and bloated corpses which refuse to rot. Just another cemetery. Similar to his own, but much larger. He lit a torch and, grasping his shovel, entered the labyrinth of morass. The torch burned brighter and its light turned green from the peculiar and noxious smelling gasses leaking from hollow spheres undoubtedly protecting unholy secrets. At last the earth was firm thanks to the cold season and it would become much harder with oncoming frosts and blizzards. Snow already impregnated the air and was eager to cover, to entomb, the country.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. The Undertaker arrived in a narrow swampy glade and looked around. ¡°Come out, I know you¡¯re stalking me,¡± he shouted. At first it seemed nothing happened. Then his well trained eyes caught slight movements on the periphery. Suddenly, what appeared to be stone, shrub, tree or muddy pool turned to further, bizarre, silhouettes. Creatures unknown to common human mind and eye began to rise and surround the intruder. He had already choked the torch in order his sight could adapt to the fluorescent darkness. His aim was not to see better but to be seen and the light helped. Now he had both hands free for his tools. ¡°Why are you here?¡± A hissing voice out of nowhere and everywhere at the same time enveloped his mind. ¡°You know why I am here,¡± the Undertaker answered unimpressed, using his vocal chords. ¡°Every time you ask me the same stupid question.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t want to fight you,¡± the voice in his head urged. ¡°Then leave these lands,¡± he replied, and turned the shovel daringly in his hand. ¡°You don¡¯t deserve it when you don¡¯t protect it.¡± He knew what this would trigger. The silhouettes around him attacked. Hesitantly. One after another. The Undertaker used this tiny moment of their timidity and struck. With shovel in the right and with his belt in the left.
The speed of their movements were like lightning, the intensity of their impacts deadly. For every single commoner who would dare to disturb their territory. But not for the Undertaker. He dodged them easily and served one punch after another. His shovel always found its target and mercilessly polished the face of a floater or the back of a spirit. The heavy iron buckle of his belt swiftly jumped from body to body, every time leaving a scream of pain behind. The gravedigger even managed to occasionally hold his loose trousers with free fingers, as he had forgotten to fix them with a rope after pulling the leather belt free. To his disappointment, the battle was over before it had barely begun. The spirits and elementals moaned, the devas and yakshas sobbed, the floaters gurgled. They rubbed their wounds, retreated, even ran in panic when the Undertaker turned back towards them. Until all disappeared into their sinister hideouts, temporarily calmed. Soon their memories would disperse, they would recover and once again attack anyone on the spot. Even him. That was the reason why he favored them in such a manner. Already on his way back home, the earth behind him began to tremble. Cautiously, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. A pillar of amassed green light rose up from the swampy soil and formed into a huge presence. A shape of limbs, tentacles and thorns waved hypnotically towards him. ¡°Cursed one,¡± the same voice that greeted him upon arrival resounded now. ¡°Every time you enter, you conquer and leave. Why?¡± The gravedigger knew it was a projection of thousands of wisps who had formed into the shape of an arch spirit, the genius loci of this place. ¡°Why¡­?¡± the man mumbled. ¡°Because I can.¡± ¡°You mock us, you taunt us, you harass us with your sheer arrogance!¡± The Undertaker sighed and yawned. With the shovel on his shoulder, he showed the master apparition his back and continued walking. ¡°I reveal it, if you don¡¯t,¡± the genius loci said. ¡°Bound to your cursed fate you¡¯ll never find peace. Because you¡¯re similar to us with your ill mortality.¡± ¡°Horseshite,¡± the gravedigger grinned once out of the bogs and marching towards the nightly contours of the walls of Mokvas. ¡°I need practice.¡± In fact his skills have become quite rusty. During the past year he has visited the swamps only two, possibly three times. Now with this strange force which easily sliced twenty-two skincoats he had to improve. He¡¯d have to visit the swamps perhaps once or twice a month and beat the crap out of the spirits more often. The Name On the fourth night the woman arrived as usual, as if nothing happened on the previous evening. No sign of sourness or umbrage. As she undressed in front of him and exposed her firm but sweet body, he was sure that he could spit in her face or choose random humiliation ¨C she would return with the same determination. The Undertaker knew this kind of determination from men obsessed with an idea or power. They all struggled, ruled and shaped the world. He buried many of them. Poisoned, strangled, stabbed, beheaded or shot. Now they all lie here. The more determination, the more corpses. The widow enjoyed the act once again, depersonalized. And again he pulled another skincoat out of the mass grave, opened his skull, scooped out his brain and retrieved another amulet with small crimson carbuncles. And after they made love again. Days passed. Casually. Relentlessly. Soon he realized it became increasingly hard to find a body not yet opened. With each victim he also carefully studied the wounds. Finally he came to the conclusion that the party of skincoats had dealt with a group of four. Although there were several types of wound, there were only four distinct styles. And each of them had mastered his or her art of fighting beyond anything he had seen for a very long time. The first two used firearms. One of them had to be a true gunslinger with a revolver in each hand, firing simultaneously at a high rate. The second appeared to be a marksman. With precise, heavier and devastating shots. The fourth one was a knife thrower and adept of short blades. Actually two of those knives were still stuck in the corpses ¨C delicately crafted and carefully balanced weapons. And the fourth one¡­? Bit of a mystery. However, the deadliest of them. His blows cut through the flesh like a razor through butter. With such force and velocity they had left burns behind, or the bodies decapitated or even sliced in two ¨C vertically or horizontally. And his (or her¡­?) weapon was some sort of gargantuan sword, immensely sharp.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The Undertaker kept these discoveries to himself. He was not asked, so he didn¡¯t talk.
But what really surprised him was something else. After little more than two weeks he found out that he had suddenly started to enjoy the company of this enigmatic widow. Subconsciously, he tried to prolong her stay with new activities. He cooked her tea, even offered her some fresh porridge. He engaged with her in smalltalk. In bed, at the table, during a walk through the ghastly graveyard that he even perceived as romantic. He considerably prolonged their coitus and since an uncertain date they had begun to kiss. Something in him wished she would continue to return and that scared him. His well preserved solitude was shaken and it felt like sacrilege and redemption at the same time. ¡°So¡­ this is it,¡± the woman noted while sitting naked on his bed. They spent a mere half hour in complete silence and listened only to the soft whisper of the Undertaker¡¯s fingers caressing her back and playing with her long dense hair. Then the moment arrived when she stood up and started to dress. ¡°Could we¡­,¡± he decided to break the quietness and realized the gravity of each delivered word. Usually he avoided talking, now he was unable to. ¡°No, we couldn¡¯t.¡± Her answer was plain and implicit. ¡°It is done. You¡¯ll not see me anymore.¡± The widow put her fancy black coat on, slipped her slim hands into her gloves and adjusted her hair. ¡°Farewell,¡± she parted, when approaching the entrance door. ¡°Wait,¡± he shouted out of his bed. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Does it even matter?¡± the woman laughed amused. She was about to leave, then hesitated for a second. ¡°My name is Claudia. Believe it or not.¡± Then she disappeared into the darkness. ¡°Farewell, Claudia,¡± the gravedigger sighed after she was long gone. She told him he would never see her again. She didn¡¯t knew how wrong she was. The Gift Days passed. They turned into weeks and weeks to months. Of a sudden, the solitude the Undertaker welcomed and was used to for so many years became too restrictive, too disturbing. The missing presence of the woman whom had grown on him during such a short time harassed him in his dreams. He recalled the phrase of a hermit he once met: The most cruel loss is the one of something never gained. The widow lived in this city. And he could find her if he tried. But instead he decided not to. No one should disturb his serenity anymore. Ever. New waves of purges and mass executions hit the city. Rumors were spreading about some serious defeats of the revolutionary armies in their fights against the seemingly rotting and decadent Northern Realm. Of course, the propaganda of the domain controlled by the great chairman Trevor Ociph (officially proclaimed as Ociphate) would not tolerate any negative news. Anyone who allowed himself to admit setbacks, to claim that the revolution wasn¡¯t winning or to question its goals, was with eagerness publicly prosecuted. The luckiest ones were hanged. The less fortunate ones were first tortured. It routinely occured that bodies were delivered without tongues, eyeballs, teeth, nails, digits or entrails. Usually one out of ten were allowed to be buried at the cemetery. The rest were recycled ¨C or industrialized. According to rumors, the skincoats had set up their own manufacturing plants for the processing of skin, hair, bones, fat, brains or flesh.
During a period of only twenty days, some hundred bodies of the publicly executed were brought to the gravedigger¡¯s hands. Most of them had been hanged, several crucified, a few beheaded, two impaled, one burned. The Undertaker routinely arranged the carts near the house so the corpses were accessible to relatives or carpenters. After he parked one of the wagons, something caught his eye. From beneath a sheet covering the corpses a tangle overhung the wooden planks. A tangle of sturdy dense hair. Now knotty, greasy and thick with dirt. He picked up the linen and drew it aside. The same black robe, same pale collar bones. Cherry lips. Cut noose still around her neck. Noodles of dried blood sprouting from her nose covered her mouth. The hangman hadn¡¯t even bothered to close her eyes. The Undertaker took the body of the widow into his arms and carried it carefully into his house. He locked himself away inside. Then he approached the bed and pulled it aside. The nearly invisible outlines of a trapdoor appeared. The gravedigger opened the hideout and with the body back in his hands, began his descent. In the familiar dark, he placed the widow onto a large smooth marbled table. The underground space was deep, vast and rimmed with massive walls of polished granite stone. He lit several torches. The light revealed a sort of crypt which at the same time resembled some ancient reverence chamber. On the table the Undertaker stripped the body off its clothes. He immediately recognized the changes. Swollen leaking breasts and loose belly skin. The woman had given birth recently. He recalled their time when excavating the skincoats ¨C it might have been ten or probably even eleven months ago. For an uncertain moment he remained petrified, just staring at her. Then he concluded that the child would be dead or, in better case, in somebody¡¯s care already. He submerged the corpse into a basin of cold water. There he washed it carefully. From dried blood, sweat, dirt and urine. Especially the hair so it would become soft and gentle again. Back on the table he opened her veins so all the cadaverous dark blood could be drained ¨C it ran into thin marbled gutters leading to a duct disappearing beneath the ground. Then he pumped brine enriched with a silky glowing substance into her veins. To preserve the body further, the gravedigger rubbed it liberally with an embalming ointment. His fingers caressed and massaged her for the last time to release the rigor mortis and restore the youthful elasticity even after death. Now she was pretty again, her color returned. She seemed to sleep, just indefinitely.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. He wrapped the body in cotton strips. Finished, the Undertaker moved a heavy monolith revealing another trap door leading further into the deep and dark. With the mummy in his hands he stepped through, walking down a long robust staircase. In a vault he could barely see, he approached an empty sarcophagus. There he put the widow to her final rest and closed the massive lid. Back in the yellow sunlight of a prematurely departing autumn he took care of other examples of the delivered deceased. Some were mourned, credited with a coffin, flowers and epitaphs, others were left to their anonymous fate in another mass grave.
With sun already set behind the narrow endless horizon the gravedigger returned from his daily duty with his shovel on his shoulder. He was about to lock the gates when he recognized a silhouette erratically rushing towards the cemetery. A gasping corpulent woman with a basket, shouting something from a distance. Usually he would turn his back on her and leave her to return in the morning. Unless she was carrying rocks with her. But now he remained motionless and waited. The arriving woman halted at the gate and panted for breath. They both stared at each other without saying a word. Finally, the visitor started: ¡°Are you the Undertaker from Mokvas?¡± ¡°No, I¡¯m the Gardener from Dumbass,¡± he answered. He enjoyed her brief confusion and before she could react, he added: ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°I have here something belonging to you, sir.¡± The woman thrust out the basket. She pulled aside the rags and the Undertaker spotted a face. Tiny, fragile, with closed eyes and long eyelashes. ¡°Her mother was hanged this morning. She left the kid with your address.¡± The gravedigger glared at the sleeping child, unable to get a sound past his teeth. ¡°By the way, you owe me fifteen silver denarii.¡± ¡°What?¡± the Undertaker woke from his lethargy. ¡°Fifteen denarii, sir,¡± the woman repeated irritably. ¡°Do you think walking across the whole city with this load is a pleasant deed?¡± ¡°Then you shouldn¡¯t walk,¡± he noted dry. ¡°Maybe I had to fly!¡± the woman sputtered. ¡°Rolling would better fit your stature,¡± the gravedigger snapped back. ¡°Fifteen denarii, sir,¡± she insisted. ¡°Or¡­¡± ¡°Or what?¡± ¡°Or I¡¯ll take the child and dump it into the moat behind the walls.¡± ¡°Suit yourself,¡± the Undertaker answered unimpressed and was about to lock the gate. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the anger seizing the woman. She literally began trembling with fury. ¡°Then do it yourself!¡± she screeched with a high pitched voice and tossed the basket at the foot of the fence. ¡°You cursed ugly bastard!¡± The child yawned, squirmed and mumped slightly but kept sleeping. At the same time the woman trampled snottering away and at first sight it appeared she¡¯d indeed roll off. However the basket remained at the foot of the fence even after he had closed the gate. Somehow it refused to vanish from the gravedigger¡¯s reality. Despite this, he turned and walked slowly back to his shack. A thin layer of foggy evening¡¯s chill was already setting upon the city. A cold night was about to come. Something made him stop. The cry of a newborn behind the bars. He heard it well. The liability. A burden. A disturbance. Exactly what he disallowed himself in his life. He knew the cry would grow stronger. It would become pleading and desperate until it would fade away back into silence. Within an hour or two the newborn would freeze to death. The Undertaker could turn back and carry it to his house. Without any idea what to do beyond that. Or he could simply leave it there and withstand the weeping. And in the morning he¡¯d bury it. Now it¡¯s up to you, dear reader, to decide. The Madame As he walked back to his shack, he tried to ignore the newborn¡¯s cries. Without success. All of a sudden it seemed every cell of his body could hear and perceive it despite the increasing distance. Then something strange happened. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he saw the dark sky with a blurry sickle moon. The edges of the fence touching veiled stars, there was a top of a knobbly withering chest-nut tree and there was an abandoned guardtower with a lapsed roof. At the same time his stomach contracted. Weighted down by fear and loneliness, he became reduced to little more than a shred desperately yearning for warmth and clinging to life. Out in the cold beyond the bars it was his own soul and blood crying in the dark. He returned for the basket. It was the only choice. Anything else would bring his world to its end. Back in the house his ragged hands carefully took the tiny fragile creature out of its makeshift cradle and cautiously nursed it against his chest. His fingers slowly caressed the soft little head with velvety hair. Soon the girl started to sob and within another few minutes she cozily snuffled and fell back into her dreams. The Undertaker felt her relief, the joy of safety she was experiencing. His knees began to tremble, his eyes were swelling out. He sensed a snuffling in his nose and cramp in his guts. Soul and blood. My soul and blood.
He stood in the middle of the room, held his child and gently rocked , humming an uncertain melody so it could complement the protective might of his arms. At the same time his brain was boiling. He knew he had to act immediately. He had to feed his girl and take care of her. Gently he laid her back in the basket. Silently but deftly he moved through the room. Pulled the bed aside without a creak and through the trapdoor he disappeared into the cellar. Swiftly he returned with a full purse and a small wooden case. He placed the case on the table and opened it. The Undertaker peered at a pair of peculiar dry looking plums coated with shining silver. Beholding them, he rubbed his chin and his tense face loosened into a slack grin. Then he stored the purse and the small casket in the leather bag hanging over his shoulder. Gently, he picked up the basket with his daughter, extinguished the lights and left for the city. His way led him again along the walls, again into the shady quarter where both thieves and harlots lay in wait for their prey. There he knocked on a metal tipped oak door of a shabby residence. A slider moved and a rough uninviting voice asked: ¡°Yeah, what?¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. The Undertaker had to bow considerably to meet the bouncer¡¯s eyes. ¡°The man with the shovel is here. And wants to see the Madame. The sooner you open the door, the better for you.¡±
The locks cracked indeed quickly and the stature of a muscular hulk with a scarred flattened head and bare shoulders and arms bearing primitive distasteful tattoos appeared. One would say he could strangle a dragon with his giant palms, but recognizing the gravedigger he took several steps back and lowered his gaze as the tall man passed him. The Madame stood in the middle of a living room decorated to create the illusion of a fine establishment, holding a glass of some cheap liquor in one hand and an unlit filtered cigarette in the other, she kept up a conversation with one of her girls. In her mid fifties, she still looked pretty. Yesterday she was pimped and today she was pimping others. She turned to the Undertaker and her eyes widened. ¡°Excuse us,¡± she commanded her lassie and continued to swallow her guest with her look. ¡°Whom do we have here? The handsome. Well¡­ The last time you visited me, it was fifteen or twenty years ago?¡± ¡°I need something from you,¡± the Undertaker spoke with a lowered voice. ¡°You all need,¡± the aging courtesan twittered with a charming smile. ¡°Shhh.¡± The gravedigger put his index finger to his lips. Then he showed her the basket. The baby was still sleeping, apparently feeling safe in the big man¡¯s presence. ¡°Oh, what a little beauty,¡± the Madame whispered. He laid the basket on the floor and took out the coin purse out of his leather bag. He offered it to the courtesan. ¡°This is a hundred silver denarii. When I return, you¡¯ll get five times more. Until then, I need you to take care of this girl as if she was your own. No¡­,¡± he hesitated for a moment and then went on. ¡°No, not your own. She is my girl. Find her a wet-nurse immediately. A healthy ordinary woman, not some whore¡­¡± The Madame raised an eyebrow but let him speak. ¡°Keep her fed and safe until I return.¡± She bestowed him with a strict look. ¡°Is she in some danger?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Well¡­,¡± the courtesan replied. ¡°It seems I have no choice.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t.¡± He noted resolutely. She glared at him for a few seconds and he glared back. Then she finally smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll be happy to take care of your little beauty.¡± In response, she quickly snatched the purse. ¡°Even if it should be for free. However, I happily accept your generous offer. Knowing you¡¯re a man of your word.¡± He nodded and handed over the basket. He realized he was parting with his fresh gained daughter with burdensome reluctance. But he had to. After the Madame took the child, he quickly disappeared. Into the twilit city. He marched to the gate, passed the constantly nervous guards and headed to the marshes. His head felt enormous and heavy. He set up something in his mind close to a loose plan. Now he was ferociously pondering how to achieve it. His feet touched the wet soft soil. The Undertaker finally emerged from his thoughts. Something disturbed him. Everything around fell into an awkward silence. He stood in the middle of the morass. Nothing around him seemed to breathe, nothing seemed to move, to exist. Suddenly his right hand felt too light. Angrily, he realized his empty palm. He had left his shovel at home. A shrill scream severed the numb air. Immediately followed by a deafening manic laughter. It was the sign of a mighty horned demon waiting for him. The gravedigger realized he had screwed up. He had walked right into its trap and now it was too late to get out. Loktibrada The vast northern and southern marshes had been, for ages, the territory of the dead and not of the demons. Perhaps this fooled the gravedigger, he hasn¡¯t been expecting any of them. Also the yelling was a trick. While it echoed ahead of him, the strike followed from behind. A biting whip wrapped around his feet. Brute force pulled it and soon the Undertaker¡¯s face ploughed the rough earth. His hands attempted to grasp hold of bushes, canes or roots. In vain. Soon he was lifted into the air, his head swung upside down. The demon tied his whip to a strong branch and watched with delight as his victim helplessly wiggled in the moonlight. The gravedigger knew this creature. Once, many years lost in his past, he had stood eye to eye with him. That time he had barely survived. Together with other young peasant fools he was hunting a monster which terrorized lone settlements and farms bordered with deep and dense forests. They knew whom they were after. A fiend, well known for centuries from tales and legends, every time returning for fresh meat in the form of a virgin left home alone. That time it was a farmer¡¯s daughter, a blossoming teenage beauty. Parents and kinsfolk went to the fields when she had to stay her own watch with the body of the deceased grandmother which had to be mourned for seven days. And the demon had patiently waited for her. He was feared under the name Loktibrada ¨C the Torturer. Loktibrada first knocked and hammered against the locked door to give his victim the illusion of a relative safety behind the house walls. Then he easily crashed in, pulling the frightened girl from behind the stove. At first he played with her. Ripped her clothes, thumbing her naked skin. Finally he grasped her solid breasts and with a move known only to his kind he skinned her alive in seconds. He chewed the flesh from her bones and after the feast he displayed her severed flayed head in the window for the family returning from the fields. He stuffed the skin with straw and hung it from the ceiling. All Loktibrada¡¯s victims ended like this. Dozens. Hundreds. On the same day the young peasants hunted the demon with their scythes and hayforks. Loktibrada was cornered within an abandoned brick bakery. He could shred them all into pieces. Sated and in a good mood he instead chose to disappear beneath the earth leaving behind a frightening echo of his diabolic laughter. The Undertaker realized only much later that it was the flame of some already lit torches that saved them. Because there are only two things in the whole world which demons and the dead utterly fear and which can protect the living: and fire is one of them.
Now Loktibrada was facing him again, hardly remembering the young stupid lad he had met ages before. And again it was the demon who was supposed to have fun. The horned creature with long beard manifested itself in all its distastefulness. Bare as it was it started to jump swiftly around the trapped gravedigger, exhibiting its huge erect penis. The demon punched him with his phallus several times in the head while the angry Undertaker¡¯s hands futilely tried to get hold of the beast. This game drove the yelling Loktibrada into further rapture and he began to masturbate.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. When the gravedigger thought it couldn¡¯t become more disgusting, the fiend released a seemingly endless pollution of semen and urine onto his face, humiliating his victim to the bone. Attempting to cover himself with his palms, the Undertaker knew this was just the beginning. The torture demons loved to toy with their prey and this could take days or even weeks. Therefore he twitched and swayed, offering his captor a satisfying impression of his despair. In fact he tried to get nearer to the tree stem so he could rip off one of the smaller branches. He needed it to reach his leather bag lying on the ground just under his head. At one moment Loktibrada seized the Undertaker from behind. One of his hands clenched the captive¡¯s throat and the other started to hug his face. The gravedigger was aware that his strength couldn¡¯t compete with that of the demon. Despite this, he fiercely struggled with the satyr¡¯s little finger, mercilessly entering one of his nose holes. ¡°I can¡¯t kill you, ill mortal,¡± the demon whispered with impatient joy in his ear, ¡°but I can hurt you. I will drive you insane.¡±
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The fingernail began to grope. It perforated its way through mucous and gristle, painfully scratching on the inside of the skull, until it eventually drilled into the gravedigger¡¯s brain. The Undertaker now sensed Loktibrada¡¯s presence in his head, he felt how the demon trampled over his memories, searching for a spot of weakness. It didn¡¯t take him long to find one. ¡°There¡¯s a room of musical tunes¡­ Some rhyme, some clang, most of them are clockwork. Let¡¯s go into the other room and make them work.¡± Loktibrada sang with his twisted voice and the words bounced inside the Undertaker¡¯s head with tenacious animosity. ¡°Now I¡¯ve found your secret room. Now I¡¯ll drive you insane.¡± The demon pulled his finger out of the gravedigger¡¯s nose and licked the remains of brain and mucus luxuriantly from the long grown nail. Then he sat in dry faded grass in front of his victim and poked around in his pouches attached to the rope around his hips. Until he conjured forth a harmonica. ¡°No¡­,¡± the Undertaker growled angrily, ¡°Not this. No¡­!¡± Loktibrada laughed in deep satisfaction and began to play. Play¡­ The escaping noise resembled a staccato of the most derailed tunes ever imaginable. The gravedigger first sensed blood leaking out of his nose. Followed by a dire pain as if something was chopping the teeth in his mouth into thousands of carefully crafted shreds. The agony gradually intensified. Pesky absurd masquerades started to roam around in his head setting every single cell on fire. Until his whole body burned, roasted and sizzled from inside and bloated from outside as well. The Undertaker, helplessly hanging upside down, felt as if he should count his last seconds while he still could.