Flesh that Binds [An original horror story] FINAL PART! 3 of 3

What do you do when all you’ve ever known is gone? A career, a life, your family...

Prepare yourself for a 5-star story of twisted woe...

Flesh that Binds

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 longest-standing attraction.

And the hunt would begin.

END

There it is folks! The tale of the falling of the Burnem twins. If you liked that story, why not check out 'Hunger'? It's Zombies, but through the other end of the telescope.

Part one here: https://steemit.com/fiction/@kobur/hunger-a-original-horror-story-part-1