A Parish Darker: A Victorian Suspense Novella by Rhys Ermire
Authors: Rhys Ermire
Tags: Thriller & Suspense, gothic horror, Action Suspense, gothic fiction, horror action adventure, horror novella, psychological dark, dark gothic, victorian 19th century, dark fiction suspense
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confusion as he attempted to put it back together. He shrilled in agony upon realizing the futility of such an endeavor, instead opting for further self-preservation.
His remaining good hand rummaged in the considerable amount of blood that had covered his clothing and the ground beneath him, pooling over the knife and making it slippery to the touch. In his condition, he was in no state to actually take it up in arms, but he was still not given the chance. When it appeared his hand had managed to scrounge the hilt, that familiar gnashing sound came once again, this time meeting the cold stone surface beneath us. The clanging sound resonated in the chamber, leaving only silence in its immediate wake.
What remained was an even more ghastly sight than before. This time, there was no clothing with which to conceal the damage done. The man’s hand had become two distinct halves, chopped between the middle and ring fingers.
His hand swung upward, the smaller half consisting of the two outer fingers flopping against the outside of his wrist, no longer tethered to the rest. The open flesh made contact with his face as he observed the horror firsthand, gargling in his own blood and muttering increasingly stifled cries of pain and petulance.
The damaged man slacked to one side on his knees, his right shoulder no longer operable and his left hand now in separate portions. The bone beneath had been shattered in both instances, leaving skin detaching in all directions.
The misery of his new existence, it seemed, had dawned on him quickly. He looked at me for the first time, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He had been younger than I expected, an assessment made despite smears of his own blood occupying much of his face.
To this day, I still do not know what he wanted from me as he looked into my eyes for those brief few seconds. We did not share a language or a single point of relation between us. Yet, I still felt empathy for what life he had left.
The feeling was short-lived and faded with haste as I watched my host raise his favored axe above his head once more. The stillness in his expression and his composure remained unchanged throughout.
Baron Lechner von Savanberg brandished his weapon against the impaired man for the third time. He met my eyes as I watched him, unlike my earlier assailant. There was no sense of regret, only purpose, in that look we exchanged.
The blade came down with resolution. No pretense was made of sparing the man’s life. The axe came down overhead, splitting a portion of his skull in front of me and spilling some portion of his remaining fluids onto my shoes and the floor beneath us both.
Such a sight is one that carries with it a life sentence. There is no divorcing your mind from such a memory, try as you might. Taking to a drink will serve as a temporary solution that magnifies the regret in your darkest moments. I know better than anyone, all this time later.
I had watched the Baron save me from a man wielding a knife, one so intent on ending my life that he would have succeeded without my host’s intervention. The subsequent mutilation of the man’s hand prevented him from taking up a knife to finish the task. Yet, it was the Baron’s calm demeanor in resting the axe in his head and ending his life that I found most disturbing of all.
As grotesque an event as I had just witnessed, it served as only the precipice of my nightmare at the Castle Savanberg.
CHAPTER VIII
There are few incidents that could rival those I experienced in the company of Baron Lechner von Savanberg twenty years ago in 1891. After recounting for the first time in full the incident with the man who was struck down and nearly dismembered by my host, I took some time to collect my nerves over several drinks. I feel compelled to share with you the extent of my journey and can only hope I will be able to complete this record with the time I have left.
His remaining good hand rummaged in the considerable amount of blood that had covered his clothing and the ground beneath him, pooling over the knife and making it slippery to the touch. In his condition, he was in no state to actually take it up in arms, but he was still not given the chance. When it appeared his hand had managed to scrounge the hilt, that familiar gnashing sound came once again, this time meeting the cold stone surface beneath us. The clanging sound resonated in the chamber, leaving only silence in its immediate wake.
What remained was an even more ghastly sight than before. This time, there was no clothing with which to conceal the damage done. The man’s hand had become two distinct halves, chopped between the middle and ring fingers.
His hand swung upward, the smaller half consisting of the two outer fingers flopping against the outside of his wrist, no longer tethered to the rest. The open flesh made contact with his face as he observed the horror firsthand, gargling in his own blood and muttering increasingly stifled cries of pain and petulance.
The damaged man slacked to one side on his knees, his right shoulder no longer operable and his left hand now in separate portions. The bone beneath had been shattered in both instances, leaving skin detaching in all directions.
The misery of his new existence, it seemed, had dawned on him quickly. He looked at me for the first time, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He had been younger than I expected, an assessment made despite smears of his own blood occupying much of his face.
To this day, I still do not know what he wanted from me as he looked into my eyes for those brief few seconds. We did not share a language or a single point of relation between us. Yet, I still felt empathy for what life he had left.
The feeling was short-lived and faded with haste as I watched my host raise his favored axe above his head once more. The stillness in his expression and his composure remained unchanged throughout.
Baron Lechner von Savanberg brandished his weapon against the impaired man for the third time. He met my eyes as I watched him, unlike my earlier assailant. There was no sense of regret, only purpose, in that look we exchanged.
The blade came down with resolution. No pretense was made of sparing the man’s life. The axe came down overhead, splitting a portion of his skull in front of me and spilling some portion of his remaining fluids onto my shoes and the floor beneath us both.
Such a sight is one that carries with it a life sentence. There is no divorcing your mind from such a memory, try as you might. Taking to a drink will serve as a temporary solution that magnifies the regret in your darkest moments. I know better than anyone, all this time later.
I had watched the Baron save me from a man wielding a knife, one so intent on ending my life that he would have succeeded without my host’s intervention. The subsequent mutilation of the man’s hand prevented him from taking up a knife to finish the task. Yet, it was the Baron’s calm demeanor in resting the axe in his head and ending his life that I found most disturbing of all.
As grotesque an event as I had just witnessed, it served as only the precipice of my nightmare at the Castle Savanberg.
CHAPTER VIII
There are few incidents that could rival those I experienced in the company of Baron Lechner von Savanberg twenty years ago in 1891. After recounting for the first time in full the incident with the man who was struck down and nearly dismembered by my host, I took some time to collect my nerves over several drinks. I feel compelled to share with you the extent of my journey and can only hope I will be able to complete this record with the time I have left.
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