Her distinguished husband

Viktor lay on the bed, his skin greying. Marie placed her hand over his, her eyes dry, the tears run out. His black suit that had fit 3 nights ago he had looked distinguished, now his flesh was retreating from the material. He was slowly sinking into the crimson bedding. His grey hair seemed to become thinner and more brittle. She shook as she fought against her emotions, her husband was dead, lying in their bed. She wanted to run, to fetch the priest, perhaps the rites could still be said to save his soul. Her last promise to her husband the only thing stopping her going for help.

She had been 18 when her father walked her down the isle of the small church. Viktor had stood in a grey morning suit waiting for her, he hadn't looked back, it was said to be bad luck. He had turned to face her as she reached the front, the grey in his close cut beard making him look distinguished, that was how she thought of him, her distinguished husband. She had trembled, standing before the priest, the veil masking her face waiting for her father's hand to lift lace.

Viktor had smiled at her throughout the ceremony, not a forced smile, one of contentment. She had loved him for that smile, a smile full of kindness. When he had taken her hands during the vows hers had shook until they were within his grasp, a stillness spread from him, calming her. She was just a girl, he was 40 years older than her, a friend of her Father's Father.

She had spoken to Viktor only a couple of times before the wedding, he never said why he had accepted her Father's proposal, her hand in exchange for patronage. After the wedding, her Father monopolised Viktor's time, introducing him to customers and potential customers, explaining how the business would expand.

Alone in his bedroom, now their bedroom, was when she broached the subject, he had laughed and told her that turning down the hand of the prettiest girl in the town would have been inconceivable. His fingers had shaken as he unlaced her gown, the first sign of nerves she had seen from him. Even with the bodice undone removal of the gown had not been easy with layers of silk chiffon. She stood shaking in her cream slip.

The bristles on his chin scratched at her as he kissed her, not a peck before a priest, but a kiss of a man to his wife. The straps slid from her shoulder and she was naked before a man for the first time since she had learnt to walk. His hands felt rough against her soft skin, cool against her heat.

In their bed, she whimpered as he entered her. His breath smelt of summer wine above her, the smell mingling with sweat and the last trace of his cologne. Before he had finished, she was praising God for their union.

During the weeks he had spent his time with great tombs in his study, the candles burning late into the night with him hunched over the arcane script. Every Saturday night he would be upon her, she relished those nights, pleasing her husband by giving her body to him, they would forgo the night clothes and sleep naked. If she awakened to find him hard beneath the sheet, she would mount him before church.

Alone at church, she could not bring herself to confess to the priest, even older than her husband, but her sins were many: she enjoyed the duties of a wife too much; she rode atop a man naked and exposed to the morning air; and in her enjoyment she called out in blasphemy.

Over the two years of marriage, less often she found him hard before church and often the night before he could not start, or when he did a fit of coughing would leave him unable to finish. As their unions became less frequent, she enjoyed them more and when he was unable to perform she pressed herself against him in sleep. He became more frail with each new moon, but she refused to think of him as anything other than her distinguished husband.

One day a man, a rough man with scars covering his face and a barrel of a chest always on display beneath an open shirt, delivered a crate of artefacts. He made jests that Marie were wedded to a man on the verge of death, that she would enjoy the company of a younger man, he offered himself at her service. She had no interest in a younger man, preferring the distinguished over the brash.

His jests turned sour and before she knew it she was knocked to the ground, his immense size towering over her. He spoke of how she would enjoy it, of how she would enjoy him as he unfastened his trousers.

Viktor eager for the artefacts, unable to await them in his study, found the brute with his trousers undone. By then Viktor walked with a stick and he brought it in a swift arc to strike the man's scarred face. The man stumbled in his clothing, falling to the floor landing on the tails of his shirt. The tip of Viktor's stick pressed above his heart as the man pled for forgiveness.

Viktor offered no forgiveness, a catch on the head of the stick released, a crack sounded and the man screamed. He fell back, a blood coated, 6 inch blade protruding from the wood. Blood pooled quickly beneath the dying man as his heart beat furiously to no end.

Marie sobbed, a mix of fear she had choked down and relief of being saved welling into tears and cries. Her husband, no longer frail, no longer weak and dying, let the stick fall upon the dead man. He carried his wife to the parlor with no stumbling or complaint of pain. She slept dappled by the afternoon sun an uneasy sleep of dreams in which her husband had not arrived in time.

The sun had set when she was awoken, Viktor gently helpt her to her feet. He kissed her tenderly and led her up to their bed. The gas lamp stayed dark, the room lit by the full moon. That was when he made her promise. He was clear, when he died she was to leave him on the bed. She had to keep his passing secret for 7 days.

She awoke on the 4th morning, the chaise lounge adding discomfort to her sorrow. He lay unmoved on the bed, if it weren't for the ill-fitting suit he could be asleep. Through the window she could see the town, the streets were still empty. It seemed as though the town were empty, that the world were empty, only her alive to mourn her husband in solitude.

The church steeple stood out amongst the houses, reminding her that it was Sunday as the early morning sun highlighted the crucifix atop the peaked roof. The idea of attending church while Viktor lay on the bed sickened her, but she had promised to keep his death a secret.

She sat on the pew, solemnly listening to the priest's service. From the window to her left she could see the top of their house against a pale blue sky, she fought to keep her eyes from turning to it, if she craned her neck she would have been able to see the bedroom window. At the call for communion she almost couldn't get to her feet, her knees trembled, her palms were sweaty, her mouth dry. She feared the body of Christ would choke her, or turn to ash in her mouth forcing her to spit it out and acknowledge her guilt.

The walk back up the hill was long and tiring. Her guilt dragging her back towards the church. She almost walked into the trap, if the horse hadn't snorted she might have. The placid horse was a chestnut mare waiting for whoever had left her outside the house. The front door was open, fear gript her heart, someone had found him.

She raced up the steps, not worrying about who she might find, her mind focused on only getting to her husband.

The lobby was empty, nothing out of place. She continued up the stairs, her heart beating too loud to hear anyone. As she gript the handle to the bedroom door, she took a deep breath and twisted the brass.

At first she thought the croak was the stiff hinges, hinges that had never made a sound before straining from the gravity of the situation. The door was half open before she recognised his voice. She froze, her mind replayed it, his voice calling her name, she couldn't move, stuck in place.

It wasn't till he called her name for a second time, his voice clearer, that she realised he wasn't beyond the door. His voice came from his study, the door was open, he sat in the tall wing-back chair. The wings hid his face amongst shadows, she feared he was a ghost, his lack of faith leaving him abandoned on earth, unable to cross.

He rose from the chair, his skin had lost it's pallor, pink and vibrant, full of life. His cheeks weren't hollow as they had been in death, they had filled as the rest of him had, the suit hugged his flesh. His coarse, dry hair was blacker than on his wedding day, peppered only lightly with grey.

If he were a ghost, she cared not, she ran to him, the dress billowing behind her as she leapt into his arms. He caught her in strong arms, as if she were the weightless spirit. Her lips found his before her feet softly landed on the ground. His whiskers didn't scratch her, they felt soft against her skin. Her fingers pushed into his hair, it felt thicker than she had ever known it.

Her tongue played with his as her heart sang with joy, he had been returned to her, stronger and healthier than she had ever known him. He pulled apart, trying to explain but as soon as their lips parted all she desired was to kiss him again, she could listen to the explanation of the miracle later.

The more he tried to pull away the fiercer her kisses were. Then she felt him, through the layers of her dress, his growth pushing against her. It had been months since she had felt his hardness. She reached between their bodies, her fingers yanking at the button to his fly. She freed him from his drawers, her fingers grasping his shaft.

She staggered as he pushed her backwards, steering her towards the bookshelves. Her back pressed against the wooden shelves as he hoisted her upward. She grabbed the shelves as she wrapt her legs around him. With one arm holding her, his other delved beneath her dress. He pushed aside the wool dress, the layers of cotton petticoats and the silk chemise.

His urgency matched her own as he thrust into her. Books toppled as she was slammed hard against the wooden shelves. She cried out as he pushed deep into her, the full length of him within her, like a burning pole.

He ript the bodice of her dress open, the chemise beneath tore like tissue between his hands and the whalebone of her corset snapt as he uncovered her breasts. His hand gript her, thumb rubbing the engorged teat. He moaned against her neck, his hot breath enveloping her.

His hands moved to her rear, gripping her beneath the many layers of clothing. His grip was strong enough that she felt she would be branded and unable to take a seat again. Strength that he had lost before she met him, held her against the shelves.

He pulled back from her, as he began to thrust repeatedly into her. Each thrust was met with a cry of pleasure, her back was raked up the shelves. The bodice of her dress hung down in tatters, the corset fallen on the floor, chemise hung from one shoulder alone. Her breasts bounced, the thrusts of an almost violent power causing the flesh to try to leap from her chest. She released the shelves, throwing her arms around him as he repeatedly drove up into her.

His renewed vitality allowed him to drive her body to unscaled pleasures. Her body shook as pleasure upon pleasure assaulted her. When she felt she would be unable to bear anymore he lifted her high, she thought he meant to lift her free from him. But, then he pulled her down, impaling her once more. New pleasures held her body in rapture at the impalement. Before the pleasure could fade, he repeated the action.

Her screams filled the house, a pleasure unlike any she felt before flooded her body. The quakes she had felt in their bed, nothing more than trembles compared to the spasms that tore at her body.

The third impalement was his last. She felt his finish, a burst within her, his essence filling her. She whispered a prayer of thanks, “Thank you Lord.”

He lowered her to the floor. Her shaky legs unable to support herself, she pressed her cheek to his chest. His hand stroked her hair and she remembered lying in bed on their wedding night after they had lain together the first time, he had stroked her hair until she fell asleep.

“Come, let us lie in our bed.” Her thighs were slick with their lusts but if he were willing and able, she would have spent the whole day in bed together.

He backed away from her, the colour from his face drained, “No you must not enter there, we must leave.”

The panicked look of him scared her, “Why, what happened? How did you come back?”

His hands gript her bare shoulders, she became overly aware of her exposed chest and felt ashamed before him. “For many years I have carried out research of occult rituals, A man pays me well for the information I find. The delivery man...” He released her shoulders, suddenly the years that had been reversed seemed to weigh upon him again. He lurched to the chair she had found him in, “The man who would have been upon you if I hadn't been so eager to receive the cargo, he brought me an artefact that unlocked the secret to a ritual that grants someone control over their soul in death.”

His eyes focused on the floor and not her, but she kept her arms across her breasts. “When I died, death tried to claim me, but he couldn't. I resisted, but his hold upon me stopped me from rejoining my body. He would not release me without a soul to take to the beyond.”

Marie's mind turned to the abandoned trap outside the house that had sent her running into the house, “Who came here?”

His fingers plucked at the arm of the chair, her distinguished husband turned to a nervous man who barely resembled the man she had married. “She came each Sunday whilst you were at church, she was my contact with the man who I work for. I would give her a report, she would pass it on.”

She could not look upon his face anymore. Despite his complaints, she walked to the bedroom, the door still half open. Her hand shook as she pushed the door open. The room was dark, the heavy curtains blocking the sun. The body of a girl lay on the bed, the body was a mass of red and pink, strips of material that must have been her clothing scattered the floor.

Marie's legs gave way, she fell onto the floor. The girl was sprawled on her back, her body torn open from throat to groin. Her rib cage had been pried open, white spikes sticking up out of chunks of flesh. The crimson bedding was black with the pool of blood that had spread from her body. From the floor, she couldn't see the girl's face, for that she was thankful.

His hands stroked her shoulders, whispering apologies. She crawled across the floor away from him as fast as she could. In the corner of the room she turned, her back pressed against the wooden panels. Tears soaked her cheeks. Her distinguished husband was dead, he had died 4 days ago, before her knelt a monster inhabiting his body.

He told her that they could leave, across the ocean they could have a new life. He talked as if he hadn't torn open a girl and left her dead body on the bed. With her legs pulled tight against her chest, she pressed her face into her knees, no longer wanting to look at him.

The metallic odour of blood made her head swim. With her eyes closed she could see the bed, the body and the blood. The smell intensified, she felt it clawing at her throat. She pushed herself up the wall to get to her feet. The thing wearing her husband's body was gone. She pushed herself along the wall needing to get away.

Her focus already blurred by tears tore in two, the wall wavered and the door doubled. She stumbled, her feet tangled and she was falling, her arms grasped at air to try to stop her descent.

She landed on the bed, Viktor above her, his body against hers, naked skin pressed together. She felt nervous, her body unaccustomed to a man's touch. He stroked her, his fingers exploring her youth, supple breasts, hard nipples, smooth stomach. His hand pushed down to her wisp covered mound, his finger split her petals.

He pressed himself to her opening and then with a gentle thrust he slipt his tip inside. She whimpered as her body accepted him, a sting of pain. She turned her head aside, not wanting her face to betray her.

Her eyes were faced by her own, but no spark of life resided within. She pushed herself upwards onto her elbows to gaze upon herself beside her. The flesh was torn open, the ribs snapped back, her flesh, her bones. She screamed as she stared down at her hollowed, lifeless body.

The nurses fussed around her, looking with pity upon her. Her husband was gone, the distinguished, and the imposter. The police had questioned her. The doctors had given her drugs. She couldn't tell them what had happened. She couldn't bring herself to say anything. The only sound she made was the scream that awakened her each night.

Word Count 3124