Midnight. All Hallow’s Eve. 

A mist had descended over the trees, hiding the scene that was taking place in the depths of the fallen branches and damp leaves. 

She was hammering the tip of the man’s skull into the ground with such anger that the earth shook beneath her. With every blow, she let out a breath, and it lingered in front of her before dispersing into the night. Droplets of crimson dripped from the blunt instrument that she gripped until her knuckles turned white. Blood glistened on the crux of his neck like a toffee apple. A smudge of tweed stuck out of the ground. She kicked a lump of soil onto it, and stood back, satisfied. The beetles and maggots accepted her gift, and the body returned to the arms of nature. 

Death lingered in the air like the smell of rotting meat as she climbed out of the forest. She never liked being alone there at night, and was grateful to see the headlights of her car through the tree line. His pocket watch ticked gently in her coat pocket, which she threw onto the backseat. 

Her shoes crunched on the gravel driveway of her home, shards of mud gradually peeling away from the soles. She flinched as a beetle scurried out from the depths of her sock and disappeared into the night. A chill hung in the air, and the hairs on her neck stood up, even as she bundled herself tighter in her scarf. 

The door swung closed behind her, and she felt the weight of her tools lift from her as she dropped them onto the carpet. In the distance, a candle was flickering, which was a peculiar sight because her landlord opposed open flames, and she was a good tenant. 

She stepped out of the musty shadows of the hallway, and her breath caught in her throat. A tweed jacket was strewn over the sitting room chair, and the owner of it stared up at her with betrayal in his eyes and dirt on his battered-in face. 

On the second day, as the sun shone in through the windows, it became more apparent that the man had a slight transparency to him. His skin glistened, and the back of the chair was only just visible through his unmoving chest. The only time he moved was to blink away the foliage that was caught in the space between his eyelashes. He never diverted his gaze. It landed right where she took her coffee in the morning, hunched over a newspaper and a cigarette. 

On the third day, the sour smell of guilt lingered with her wherever she went. His body was beginning to fade, and when she looked closely, his form would ripple and sway. He seemed to have brought the frost from the forest inside with him. A fire burned bright and cold in the hearth, never seeming to offer comfort or warmth to her shaking form. 

On the fourth day, the creaking of the floorboards made her quiver, and she flinched as the morning sun slithered into her bedroom. The chair was damp; the man’s skin was watery. His cheekbones were more prominent than ever, and his left eye socket was hollow. She’d lost her appetite, and spent the day curled up in the corner, watching his figure shimmer in a way that matched the puddles of dark water on the forest floor, and picking dirt out of her nails. 

By the fifth day, all that remained on the chair was a twig, a maggot, and the smell of the earth. She was a pile of shaking bones, unable to look in the mirror as the woman who stared back was frail, hair grey with regret, unrecognisable.

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The cover photo for this blog post was created by the lovely Veronika (@beholdnika on Instagram) and was inspired by Arnold Bocklin’s Self-Portrait with Death Playing the Fiddle.