'My Hands' by Alexis Darbyshire

My Hands

A man by the name of John Ladock lived by himself in a small house by the water. He didn’t venture out into the town much, but once a week, he would go out at night to collect provisions. Meat, bread, and iron nails. One week, as he bundled his usual large pack of meat from the butchers into his bag, the clerk leaned forward and whispered to John:

“Take care returning home through the streets tonight. Something wicked has made its home out there. At night we hear it wailing and screeching. Some of the men here think it a ghost, others think it some sort of beast. Some have taken it upon themselves to patrol the streets and catch it, and they always return bruised and bloody. ‘Tis only a matter of time before it kills someone.”

John was disturbed but could not return home yet. He needed the food, and he needed the iron nails. So, he continued on his way. The winding paths seemed to grow narrower as he went, the houses towering high on both sides, pressing at him like great teeth. Then, faintly, he heard something, and he stopped. The sound was distant but unmistakable, a scream. Wild and unearthly, its faint cry floated through the streets. Then there was the crack of a gunshot, and it stopped. John shook himself and continued on his way. The sooner he finished his errands, the sooner he could return home.

At the bakery, he purchased a large amount of the leftover bread, which would undoubtedly last the coming week, and packed it into his bag. The baker leaned forward and spoke to John:

“Be careful returning home tonight, John. I was worried that the ghost out there had got you when you came late. The way it wails out there at night, ‘tis enough to stop the heart.”

“I’ll be fine,” John replied, “ghosts don’t exist.” But he continued on his way quicker than usual, nonetheless. The night was growing darker and was almost unnaturally still. No wind, no rustling of leaves, not even crickets. Then suddenly, the silence was split by a scream, much closer than last time. The voice was perhaps only a few streets away. The sound was desperate and high, barely human, and it chilled John to the bone. This time, he believed he could make out words.

“My hands!” The voice screamed, “It hurts! My poor hands!” With that, John whipped around the nearest corner and into an alley. There he crouched in the darkness between the two houses, desperately hoping the sound would move on, stop... anything, just leave him alone.

Once again, there was the crack of gunfire, and the screaming was cut off sharply.

“That’s it,” John thought, sighing with relief. “It’s dead or busy. I must be quick.” He slipped out of the alley and pulled his pack close to him. One more item, one more task and then he could go home. He stalked down the narrow streets and a winding path of steps before coming to the soot-smeared workshop of the local blacksmith. There, he bought several large, iron nails, which were about as long as a man’s hand and thick as one of his fingers. The blacksmith made to return to his forge, then stopped.

“I never asked you, John,” he said. “Every week you buys the iron nails from me, but never wood, nor thatch. What is it you do with ‘em?”

“Repairs inside my house,” John answered. “The wood is in good enough condition to be used, but the nails are rusted away. I need to replace them.”

“You comes every week for new ones.” Said the blacksmith. “And you bought twice the usual amount last week. Why not count the number you need and buy ‘em in one go?” John seemed to pause at that.

“If I did, I would not be able to afford food.” He replied. “I find that a more pressing problem than simply coming back once a week.”

“Have you heard the stories of something going about the streets, screaming?” John asked the blacksmith.

“I have heard the rumours.” the blacksmith replied. “And certainly, there are sometimes strange sounds at night, but I have yet to see anything. ‘Tis the iron what keeps ill at bay.”

With that, John left the blacksmith’s workshop and began to make his way home. The night had grown yet darker, and John could barely see as he trudged back up the steps and through the winding streets of the town. His pack was heavy now with his provisions, and he paused to catch his breath. As he stood, he felt a cool breeze coming from behind him, and he sighed with relief. But as John looked up into the trees, none of the leaves were moving in the breeze; they were as still as ever. A warm, viscous liquid dribbled onto his shoulder while the breeze continued, now above his hair, puffing, and snorting with rage.

“My hands.” A deep voice growled above his head. “It hurts my poor hands.”

When a group of townspeople searched John’s house, they found a large cellar. One woman lit a lamp and descended into the blackness.

The flickering yellow light cast a sickly glow upon the ground and walls. The cellar was littered with various chewed animal bones, bread crusts and large iron nails, which cast long, thin shadows along the walls, like great black fingers. The nails were reddened with rust and crusted with black blood. Several were still pinned into the ground; blood splattered and smeared all about the floor around them, as though something had been ripped viciously out from under them. The woman lifted the lamp higher, and the light revealed great bloody handprints the size of a man’s head. The prints lead from the nails to the walls and up the stairs. The hand of each print was split nigh in half.

words by Alexis Darbyshire, edited by FalWriting

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