Foreword

On the twenty-fourth of February, 1582, Pope Gregory XIII issued the Inter Gravissimas, a papal bull (an official decree) written in Latin transforming the Julian calendar into the modern Gregorian calendar. This change was utilized to correctly reflect the time it takes the Earth to circle once fully around the Sun while also fixing the calculations of Easter Sunday which were getting skewed improperly by incorrectly defined leap years.

To achieve this, Pope Gregory XIII had to make three relative changes to the calendar every man and woman used across the globe. 

First, a reduction of leap years during the centennial years stopped being leap years. For example the years 1700, 1800 and 1900 were not leap years. But to make it exact, years divisible by 400 are considered leap years, like the year 2000. This change had to be made because the Earth rotation around the sun takes exactly three-hundred and sixty-five days, six hours, and nine minutes.

Second, Easter was calculated by the Paschal Full moon; which is the first full moon on or after the 21st of March. Easter will then take place on the first Sunday the moon occurs or is after the full moon. This caused Easter to, on average, occur thirteen days earlier when utilizing the modern day Gregorian Calendar compared to when using the Julian Calendar.

Third, and most importantly to this selection of true stories from those who lived during the time, in the year 1582 ten days were removed from the calendar. October 4th went directly to October 15th. During this time they said no tax would be collected, they told the world no one died nor no one was born. The Church said that Gregory changed this in order to move the vernal equinox properly to fix Easter. The Church, and Pope Gregory XIII, claimed that those days simply did not exist. They claimed they removed it in order to ‘fix’ what was wrong with our calendar. 

The truth is October fifth 1582 did exist, so did October sixth, seventh, eighth, and so on. Each of those days did exist; they were the ten worst days of humanity and to preserve the sanity of future populaces Pope Gregory XIII told every church, every King or Queen, every peasant he saw to never speak of such days. 

Everyone did so, except Pope John XIV of Alexandria, the leader of Oriental Orthodox Christians during the year 1582. He believed the future needed to know what happened during those days. He believed there was no need to shelter the world from God’s wrath. Whatever the world had done he’d believe God was right in his judgment. So, he sent ten followers across the world to find rebellious people willing to share what they saw, willing to speak against Pope Gregory XIII and the Church and speak of what they went through and what truly occurred on those days hidden to the world. 

Then Pope John XIV passed the book on to many people and through the generations it was passed and shared secretly through an organization called Crimson October. That’s how it ended up in my grandfather’s hands and then my father’s and now my own.  Here are the stories from the ten days that never existed.

__________________________________________________________________________________

October 5th, 1582: Eleanor

The sun never rose on October 5th, 1582, the cocks never cackled early in the morning in the fields. No morning birds chirped amongst the city streets. The owls lingered in the forests grew weary as they awaited the morning sun. The bats flickered from house to house stirring with energy from the night’s rat hunt. The rodents lingered in the trash finding meat on bones to nibble upon. And the sun still never rose. 

Eleanor waited for a long time for the morning sun. The sun had risen each day, each and every day. It had never not happened in her nineteen years of life. Of course, the sun rising would grow later during some seasons than others, but it had always come even if it occasionally was a tad late. She had known it had come every day for her mother’s life as well, people would have talked about the day the sun didn’t come forever. 

Not only was the sun missing but the moon itself was gone. There were no stars, no moon, and no sun. The only thing above were dark, stormy, solemn clouds Eleanor had never seen before. They seemed thick as though there was a whole other world above them. Deep gray clouds ripe to burst allowing heaven to fall upon them; yet no storm came as the clouds themselves seemed to hold their breath. 

So there she stood in the middle of a London street waiting for anything to happen. The brick path felt cool under her bare feet, feeling small jagged pebbles poking at her soles and the dust tickling at her feet. She wiggled her toes and twiddled with her old worn dress looking up at those clouds which seemed to grow larger.  

It didn’t take long for others to discover the same mystery she’d found. The creaking of wooden doors echoed down the small city street. It was followed by the murmurs of other townsfolk whispering throughout the darkness.

A light flickered across the street from an oil lamp providing the only light the world seemed to have. “Has God forgotten?” the voice holding the lamp called.

Eleanor glanced at the man. It was hard to see but she recognized the voice; he was someone who lived only three houses down from her. It wasn’t someone she particularly fancied a conversation with but when they talked he always spoke with kindness and more elegantly than most living on her street. 

“Has God forgotten to bring us the heavens this day?” he asked. Around him peasants murmured and whispered to one another. Eleanor squinted her eyes, she could hear everyone but only their faint silhouettes outlined in the dark.  

“No, he ain’t forgotten that. He did it every other day,” another voice called. This was the butcher that lived across the street. Usually he’d be opening his shop by now. He stepped from the darkness into the man’s light. Others began gathering around him like moths. Eleanor stayed behind the crowd closer to her own home.

“I know he did it on other days, but the sun hasn’t come,” Ichabod, the man she was familiar with, said. 

“There’s just a bad storm,” the butcher said.

Ichabod shook his head, the lamp swaying with his movement. “No friend. I’ve never seen clouds such as these.” He raised his lamp higher as if it would somehow illuminate the sky above.

“Perhaps we’re getting punished for something,” a woman suggested. Others in the crowd nodded in agreement. These whispers moved between the small crowd quickly, suggestions of all the terrible things which would make God turn his back upon them. 

“What have we done?” Ichabod asked.

The woman shrugged. “Perhaps we did. That’s all I know.”

“What of the food? With no light we cannot eat,” another voice said. It was an older gentleman. He looked frail already and the oil lamp showed the glossy fear in his eyes.  

Food. Eleanor hadn’t even thought of food when she stared up at the clouded sky. What of her own home. They hadn’t made enough coin to provide for all seven of her family normally; what about when food diminished? 

Eleanor stood at the edge of the crowd, in between the growing populace and her home when a small voice spoke out to her. “Ellie?” her sister called from their home. Eleanor turned, she could only see her sister’s face by the oil lamp she held up. “What’s going on?” She was young, only a little over the age of ten. Her face had a slight chub to it and her eyes were as blue as the creeks. They seemed glossy as they reflected the lamp light.

Eleanor scurried to her sister’s side. “Nothing Alice, go back inside. Tell mother to be sparse with the food today.”

“Why is it dark?” Alice asked, her head tilted to the sky,

Eleanor smiled softly and lowered to one knee. She ran her hand across Alice’s small face, brushing the strands out of her hair. “Just a storm coming through that’s all,” Eleanor said, trying to keep her voice strong. “Go tell Mother for me. Be sparse with the food, alright Alice?”

“Mother talked of no storm,” Alice said, her small voice growing smaller.

“No. No, she hadn’t,” Eleanor admitted. 

Alice looked up at her older sister frowning. “She always knows when there’s a storm coming.”

“Hush, Alice. It’s going to be alright. Please, go tell mother to be sparse.”

Alice nodded, more to herself devoid of thought than to Eleanor before turning back inside, closing the door behind her. Eleanor went back out into the street around the growing crowd, just like a moth.

“We may have to be sparing with the light we use. The cold winds haven’t come in yet, everyone should still have a wood stock for the winter,” Ichabod said. He stood upon a wooden barrel holding his oil lamp higher, speaking to the small crowd in front of him. He looked like a lighthouse across the night’s waters. “We won’t know what we have done until we get word from the Church or Queen Elizabeth tells us. For now we must remain calm. Help one another. Save your food and your light.”

“Oh, why has God done this to us?” another woman asked in the crowd.

“He hasn’t done anything to us, he loves us,” Ichabod said, trying to quell the anxiety of the crowd. “We must stay resilient through his tests to prove our strengths. Go back to your family and keep them safe.”

The crowd looked at one another, some nodded with false confidence while others trembled with fear. Most disperse back into their homes, a few staying behind with Ichabod. Eleanor stood in the far back of the small crowd, biting her nails as she stared at the gloomy sky above. The clouds seem to drum as though they had their own heartbeat to them. She thought of her family, of her father who was out of town for business. What of her little siblings? She was the eldest of five; they had a baby in the house. All those little mouths to feed and she was only now able to apply the womanly lessons her mother had taught her growing up.

“What should I do with my fresh meat?” the butcher asked. “I won’t be able to sell it in the market being this dark.”

   “Smoke it,” Ichabod said. “We must try our best to preserve the meat. It will be robbed from you if you don’t hide it. I’ll gather others we can trust to guard it. You should feed your family with it but preserve it.”

The butcher nodded then moved towards his shop. Eleanor moved closer towards Ichabod reaching her arm out to grab him. “Ichabod, what should I do?”

He turned holding the lamp, casting it upon her. “Ah, young Eleanor. You have a lot of little siblings at home, yes?”

“Yes. There’s seven of us counting my mother and father, I’m the eldest. But father is out now.”

“Where is he?”

“He left to sell his wooden craft. He should be back tonight.”

Ichabod sighed. “I don’t think that’s happening anymore, Eleanor. Not in this darkness, it would be difficult to travel.” Then Ichabod pulled her forwards separating them from the small gathering still collected. He bent down his lips, almost brushing against her ear. “If this stays for a while things could get dire, or at least the storm these clouds will let out will be.”

Eleanor turned, looking into Ichabod’s eyes. There was a sternness she had never seen in him behind his gaze. She swallowed hard, her ears popping. Ichabod’s eyes looked to her lips and he licked his own gently, a thin layer of saliva glistening on the bottom. “Go ask the butcher for scraps. Perhaps he will be kind with his food, knowing the youth in your family. Don’t take too much though, the rest of us need it as well.”

Eleanor nodded as Ichabod handed her the lamp, then walked a few houses down towards the butcher shop. She pressed against the handle of the door but it was latched shut. She knocked gently as a cool breeze whistled down the road. Hairs upon her arm stood up and she could smell the smoked food of the butcher from inside. It smelled wonderful, the scent of slow sweltering cooking meat with hints of fresh blood with a juicy tender flesh. She felt her stomach rumble. It hadn’t even been more than ten minutes since she left home and she already began feeling famished. How would she last days of rationing out carefully? She had done it before when money was tight. Yet now her stomach felt a pain like no other. Perhaps I didn’t eat last night, she thought. She found she couldn’t remember. Or maybe I’m just hungry. She knocked again but there was no response besides the wafting smell of cooking meat teasing her senses.

The moths migrated, gathering behind her. She turned, staring at them with confusion in her eyes. She hadn’t heard them gather behind her, and now there were more than eight of them staring at her. Their tongues flickered in their mouths, some even seemed to drool.
“Is he cooking meat in there?” an elderly man asked. His lips quivered, saliva rolling down his chin and dripping down onto the street. His eyes were wide, mad with desire.

“I think so,” Eleanor said, fear hiccupping in her throat. She stepped back, her backside pressed against the wooden door. 

Another man held his stomach. His hand rubbed it softly as he breathed in the savory sizzle scents of the butcher’s meat smoking out from his home. The breeze carried the scent further reaching to the back of the small crowd who began swaying with the wind. 

“I’m famished. I’d love a bite,” a woman said. She was older than Eleanor by a few years. She had two children both very young. Where are they? Eleanor thought. But as she stepped closer, raising the lamp, Eleanor could see a wet, fresh red painted around her lips. The scarlet stain ran down the front of her corset top. Eleanor reached out, touching the woman on the shoulder and before she could say anything she pulled back. Her hand brushing a sticky sap like liquid between her fingers. 

“I—I—” Eleanor tried to speak but the words couldn’t formulate.

“Move!” the woman shouted, arms thrusting Eleanor to the ground.. Stones dug into the young girl’s side as she landed hard. The crowd rushed forward pounding on the butcher’s door pleading to get in. Eleanor pulled away crawling backwards from the herd as they stepped on her. She felt arms grab underneath her, yanking her out from underneath the stampede. 

Eleanor was pulled into the lamp light as Ichabod fell backwards, yanking her onto him, knocking the oil lamp over shattering it. They both leaped to the side avoiding the splashing burning oils leaping at them. Eleanor nodded in thanks, breathless, as they stared at the crowd banging upon the butcher’s door. The herd howled like the wolves did to the moon, except on this day there was no moon. Instead they howled at the scents the storm brought them. The scents of meat. 

The door toppled crashing hard as the crowd poured in. The aroma of fresh meat flowed openly throughout the street and Eleanor could feel her stomach rumble again. It howled as the crowd did in desire for such food. Eleanor knew her hunger was something she must resist. A moment inside the butcher’s shop could mean she never steps out again. She scurried to her feet, Ichabod standing so close behind her she felt his breath tickle her neck. They moved over trying to peer inside. 

Inside, the butcher’s stomach was already full before the door crashed down. He hadn’t wasted a single moment of time in cooking. He had lit a flame and thrown a pork shoulder upon it, but his hunger began to ravage him. He carved himself slices of poultry of the dangling turkeys which swung above him in the kitchen. Each slice was moist with blood and fat. The turkey breast was wonderful as he chewed upon it. He could barely breathe with how fast he ate it. His ears drowned out everything around him, the only thing he felt was his endless desire for food. So he ate: the turkey leg, turkey breast, slices of the turkey. He ate the turkey’s intestines as well, the small kidneys which were small dark brown bean-like shapes. He reached inside the carcass pulled at the ureter which strung towards the cloaca. He dug through the carcass ripping out the small lungs of the turkey and chewed on them. He never thought they’d be so chewy. It was hard to swallow them, feeling tacky against his teeth. He then pulled upon the heart of the bird. The heart felt strange in his hand and for a moment he paused, staring at it. It barely covered the palm of the butcher’s hand and it stained his palm’s crevices with a light coating of pinkish blood. For a moment, he thought the heart pounded in his hand. He squeezed it slightly, it pressed back against his palm. DumDumDumDumDumDum. It beat faster than a human heart had. It beat faster than his own heart in his chest ever could. It beat faster than when he was a youngin’ running through the fields on the outskirts of London. It beat faster than when his father’s fist slammed against him. It beat faster than the butcher could comprehend. He squeezed the heart once more then threw it in his mouth. He chomped hard upon the muscle organ. It was tougher than the rest of the turkey was, with a real juicy tenderness to the heart pleasing his tongue. The pounding continued faster, he could feel beat throughout his whole body as it ran down his gullet. DumDumDumDumDumDumDumDum. It rang through his head and his soul. But something grew stronger in him as his stomach roared louder than the pounding. He grabbed the pork shoulder roasting above the flame. His hands sizzled yet his brain never understood the pain as he teeth tore into the top of the shoulder crunching into bone. 

The door flew open as the crowd poured inside his home. The pounding of his own heart and the turkey’s echoed against his skull. The stampede rushed forward crawling over the corpse of the turkey and yearning for the fresh meat of the butcher; Eleanor and Ichabod watched through the door as the butcher pulled out his cleaver and began digging it into the backs of those trying to take the pork shoulder from him; the stampede pulled at the hanging cow meat ignoring the butcher until his cleaver hammered down upon the elderly man, his last breaths pleading for just one scrap, one little taste of the juicy sweltering pork shoulder cooking in the corner; the butcher struck again, blood spurting on his face; the elderly man laid limp; The butcher dropped to his knees and began to carve the flesh of elderly man, pulling at his leathery old skin from the bone slicing into his joints; thumbs digging into the opening, ripping across the frail tendons and pulled upon the meat. 

Eleanor’s mouth began to water as blood spewed across the butcher’s already stained white apron. Her stomach roared at her for just a small little taste as the butcher’s teeth sunk deep into the tender yet slim meat. She yearned for just a nibble. Ichabod’s hands squeezed tighter on her shoulders. “Eleanor; you must check your family. See if they’re safe,” Ichabod said. His eyes never looked upon Eleanor, only staring forward watching a young woman coated in blood chew at the dangling cow hanging in the back of the butcher’s shop. Its skin had already been carved off leaving a yellowish red skin underneath. Ichabod could have counted the individual ribs of the cow. Could have delicately danced his fingers upon its arching exposed spine. His lips smacked together leaving a dryness in his mouth. “Eleanor.”

She turned gazing up at Ichabod. He squeezed tighter upon her shoulders. “Yes—yes you’re right. I must go. I’ll be back.”

Ichabod shook his head, his eyes still locked forward on the butchery ahead of him. “Don’t come back.”

Eleanor ran back home. Her feet felt cold against the brick of the London street as the darkness overcame her. The breeze blew stronger. It carried the scents of the butcher. She shook her head, ignoring the temptation and slammed into the front door of her house. It shot open and the breeze seemed to follow with her.

“Mother? Mother? Alice?” Eleanor yelled as she stormed in. She ran towards the lit fireplace where her little brother usually sat in the mornings reading a book. “Nicholas?” There was no Nicholas sitting by the fire reading a book. Perhaps her youngest brother was upstairs in his room playing with his toys. Eleanor’s legs stretched up the steps, leaping one after another. The wind swung up with her, lifting her higher as she ran. “Edmund?” Her feet scraped against the wood flooring ripping at her skin. “Edmund? Have you seen Mother? Edmund?” Eleanor slammed his bedroom door open. It was too dark to see anything. “Edmund? Are you in here? Edmund? Have you seen Alice or Mother? What about the baby? Have you seen Catherine?” A small rummage could be heard in the room as Eleanor walked inside. The floor felt warm and sticky as the storm blew in behind her, tickling her ears. It pained her stomach even more. Her hands rubbed around her arms trying to stay warm against the cold winds. “Edmund, I heard you! Come out!” A scurry of nails scratched against the wood boards darting towards her. Eleanor screamed and flailed backwards out the door. “Edmund?” The creature in the dark hissed dashing towards Eleanor. She kicked randomly as the noise approached. Her foot slammed into something heavy and it squealed as it flew back into the room. It moaned, whispering something, pleading for something but Eleanor turned and ran down the steps. “Mother? Mother! There’s something in the house! Mother!” She turned the corner at the bottom of the staircase towards the kitchen.

There her mother sat with a flicker of flame spinning a large pot around. The steam carried through the room and the breeze swirled it up bringing the aroma right up to Eleanor’s nose. Savory scents of fresh meat, vegetables, and an array of spices filled her nose. Her stomach yearned for it. It pained her for it. The hunger felt like a rock inside of her, corroding, disorienting, burning, engulfing. 

“I saw a fair maiden, sitten and singe, 

She lulled a little child, a sweet lording,” 

Her mother sang as she cooked. Her long brown hair reached down to her back, and for a mother of five her stomach was thin, far too thin. Eleanor knew of many times their mother skipped meals to feed them, to feed her. Now she cooked slowly, stirring the pot slowly to never let it splash. 

“That Eche lord is that that made alle things; 

Of alle lordes he is Lord, of alle Kinges king.” 

“Mother. What are you doing?” Eleanor asked, her voice shaking.

Her mother turned, a small smile forming at her lips illuminated in the flicker of flame. Scarlet liquid lingered upon her lip, streaked across her cheek. “Why I’m feeding the baby dearie, don’t be rude now and interrupt me as you do.”

Eleanor crept into the kitchen, wary of her step. The light was dull and she was unable to see much besides the figure of her mother.

“There was mekel melody at that child births; 

All though warn in heavenly bliss, they made mekel merth,” 

Eleanor’s feet stepped into a sticky sap-like substance on the ground. It was as if she was walking on top of a thin mud as she pulled her leg up. She stared at the ground, it shimmered up at her.

“Aungele bright they song that night, and seiden to that child,”

Her mother spun, scooping out a ladle worth of stew into a small porcelain bowl. It spilled slightly as it trickled from her ladle upon the bowl. Splashes of brownish meat chunks dropped it along with bits of radish and carrot. “Mom, where is everyone?”

Her mother tilted her head at her in confusion. “Right in front of you, silly.” Eleanor looked around the room towards the darkest corner. Her mother placed down the stew on the table and reached down towards the oil lamp resting upon the table. She removed the small chimney exposing the wick of the lamp. Then she used the flame of the stove to light a small thin wooden stick. She carried the flame towards the table and Eleanor began to see the little faces that sat round the table. Young Alice was right in front. Her hair frazzled as always glistening in the light. Nicholas sat with his head forward staring down towards the ground. Edmund was tilted, almost falling out of his chair. His small eyes were closed. 

“Mother what did you–”

The oil lit up brightening the room around them as the flame expanded. Eleanor stared at the hole in Edmund’s chest. Eleanor could see the backing of the chair through him. Bits of bone stuck out from his exposed flesh. Thick blood was smeared around him and brushed upon his soft chubby cheeks. His once almost platinum blonde hair was damp with sweat with trickles of red caught in between the strands. Edmund’s hands fell to his side, ichor trickling down his wrist dripping onto the floor. 

Nicholas’ neck was a curtain of red that leaked into his clothing. His eyes were open and his mouth was agape. His arms were tied tightly to the table and his hands were missing fingers. Bruises formed around his wrists from struggling to break free. His hair was damp and dried trails of tears lingered on his face. Eleanor moved around the table slowly, her feet soaking in the blood of her siblings as she gazed towards Alice.

She moved from behind Alice’s chair looking at her from the side. Tears ran down towards her jaw which had been sawed off leaving tangled bits of flesh and her tongue hanging out turning in the open air. Fresh blood still oozed from it dripping onto her dress. Her eyes looked up towards Eleanor, pleading for help. She moved her fingers up by her arms too bound by rope. She tried to speak yet her tongue just flopped in the open space slapping against her neck which was stained red. 

“What did you do?”

Her mother smiled at Eleanor then stepped back grabbing a small spoon from the drawer.  Behind the oil lamp warped in its glassy distortion sat baby Catherine. Eleanor shot her head down, unable to look after seeing the paleness of Catherine’s cheeks. Her eyes turned back to Alice whose fingers brushed against Eleanor’s leg, pleading. 

“Mother– what? Look! Look at this! Look around you! These are your–”

“I had to feed the baby Ellie! Relax. Everything is all better now.”

Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears and her throat began to squeeze. “What– what– I–” she croaked.

Her mother smiled at her, emotionless in her gaze. “I had to feed the baby Ellie. What’s wrong?”

Eleanor’s hand trembled as she looked down at Alice once more. Alice gurgled. Her eyes widened with fear. With pain. Yet they were weak pleads for help. Eleanor had already seen the color begin to drain from the baby blue eyes her sister had, turning into a stormy gray in the flickering oil lamp light. The breeze tickled her, infiltrated her, sending the stew scents up her nose and she craved it. Amongst the death of her siblings all she felt was anger and hunger. 

Eleanor rushed to the countertop where her mother’s bloody knife sat. Her mother jolted up but it was over quickly as Eleanor dug the blade into the side of her mother’s neck. The cold steel sunk deep, slicing to the bone as Eleanor ripped it out. Her body went limp collapsing on top of Eleanor. She fell slowly with it, gently sitting on the ground crying. She held her mother close as the blood trickled from her neck like water from stone. She squeezed tight, sobs erupting for her chest as her mother’s head rested on her shoulder. She thought of the storm. Of the butcher. Of Nicholas. Of Alice. Of Edmund. Of Catherine. Of poor baby Catherine who sat lifeless mere feet from where she cried. Eleanor didn’t dare look up towards her dead family. Towards Alice who slowly died strapped to the same chair she once ate supper at. She instead buried her head into her mother’s neck, blood rubbing against her chin as she cried. Her shoulders shook violently. She thought of God and why he would ever do such things to her. To the world. What had she done in life that deserved this?

And as she cried and thought about God and his punishments, she began to chew. Her teeth nibbled into her mother’s neck, the breeze echoing her hunger louder as her teeth ripped scraped off flesh. It was tough and gamey, slowly knacking against her teeth as her mother’s veins popped like bubbles in her mouth. She swallowed, her stomach urging her for more. She opened wider, this time taking a greedy bite. It didn’t rip easily, instead she shook her head around like a dog as her canine teeth sunk deep. She could feel the individual fibers of the muscles shred as she grinded her jaw. With each yank it loosened up more and more allowing her to taste the sweet savory flesh. She groaned as she chewed, lifting her head up from her mother with a grin on her face. Her fingers rushed to pluck out more meat covering her fingers in delicate coatings of her mother’s blood. Her nails pulled off her spine tearing off bits of meat for her to snack on. Eleanor’s grin grew as she felt the blood smeared on her face like that of the juice of a steak. She had never tasted anything so wonderful in her life before as she swung her head down sinking into more. She moaned in delight as she moved her way down her mother’s carcass. She carved at the joints, remembering how the butcher fileted the old man. Carving into her mother’s arms, pulling at the tendons of her arms. She struggled pulling hard at the small piece of meat her fingers could grip upon. It began to tear off the bone lifting a strip. Her blade sliced the layering flesh of connective tissue allowing larger chunks of her mother to be pulled off. Eleanor chewed on it, feeling her stomach grow full in delight with each swallow. 

A foot stood in front of Eleanor. Her eyes darted; she hadn’t heard the door open. The boot crashed into the side of Eleanor’s head. She flew into the cabinet and she landed hard on her back. Before she could react the boot was hard upon her neck. It pressed hard breaking the windpipe and crushing her gateways for air as her bloody hands scraped against the pant legs. Her vision began to fade to black as she saw the smiling face of Ichabod glaring down upon her, stomping her harder into the ground. Within moments, Eleanor lay dead next to her mother. Ichabod smiled, then turned back through the house and locked the door. He placed furniture in front of the door and made sure all the windows were closed. He knew that the wind would betray him if it could, like it did with the butcher, like it did with Eleanor. 

Ichabod picked up the knife and began sawing away at the mother’s head. It was already free from bone quite easily after the missing flesh. Ichabod held it up and smiled. Then he placed it on the countertop and began carving, eating little snack bits of pink matter from her head. The grin grew as he did it, each bit of brain melting in his mouth filled with savory delight. 

__________________________________________________________________________________

October 6th, 1582: Lochem

The siege had ended. It ended twenty-one days ago. We had won. The Spanish had been thrust out from Lochem. We had won; it took us fifty-five days but we had finally won.

Why did they come back?

I stand on the stone wall of Lochem. The wind howls against my back, urging me to step forth. Clouds of deep gray inhibit any chance of sun breaking through. The moat was barely seen through fog, yet the footsteps across the bridge were echoing. Each one crashes loudly, heavy boots pounding with each step. A soldier’s march. The footsteps don’t grow in volume or get softer; they have kept the same beat since the soldiers had woken me in the middle of the night.

“Davos, you said you needed a messenger?” a soldier hollered at me over the wind.

I turn to the young man. His face illuminated by flickering torch light, it was young. It had seen battle because otherwise it wouldn’t be in front of me but I imagine this siege was the only battle he had ever seen. He was now one of many who suffered, a child grown up forced to know war as if it was second nature. “Yes. Tell Sir Norreys that we need to send scouts out onto the ground. The weather is making it impossible to know what awaits us across the moats.”

The soldier nods and scurries down the steps. I turn back to the horizon to the thumping of soldiers. Hundreds of footsteps in unison for hours. Perhaps longer. Awaiting. I pull my arm back, holding onto the hilt of my blade. I feel more comfortable with my hand on it as if it would save me from an army.

“Sir Davos?” the same soldier yells, the wind ripping the words from his mouth turning them into faint whispers. I frown at him.“It’s Sir Norreys,” he says.

My eyebrows press together. “What’s wrong?”

“He won’t leave his tent, sir. He threatened another soldier.”

My hand runs through my hair; the little I have left. “Alright.” The soldier nods and I follow him down the steps. There’s a group of soldiers circling his tent. Each one has a musket resting at the side or a hand on their swords. Each one murmurs that he’s gone mad. Each one just as young as the other. I stand amongst children wielding weapons. 

These are your men Davos, you can’t think such things. 

“Coming through, men, coming through,” I say, nudging soldiers out of my way. They part like the red seas at the sound of my voice and I push through into the tent.

Sir Norreys, the man who led us all into this siege. The man whose strategic planning changed the course of the war. He got us Lochem; he’s the man who won us the battle and now he sits with a bottle of wine shattered on the floor next to him. His arms are cut from the glass and it mixes with the red wine making it hard to see how much he bleeds. 

“Norreys, what are you doing, man?”

“Did you see them Davos!” Norreys yells. He drunkenly sways in his seat. His hands curl around the top of the glass bottle, blood dripping from his fingers the deeper he presses into the shards. “Did you see what awaits us?”

“I hear them.”

He shakes his head. “No, Davos. You may have heard them but you haven’t listened. Listen to their footsteps. Go out and stand upon the bridge and look upon their faces.”

“When did you go out there, Norreys? The men need you-”

“The men are dead! We made a mistake coming to Lochem these days. God is punishing us for what we had done to them.”

I move forward, my boot crunching a shard of glass. “Give me the bottle, Norreys.”

He shakes his head. “Davos you don’t understand— go out there and see if you don’t come back like me. Go–Go see Davos. Go gaze upon the faces of the men we slaughtered before our time has run dry.” He lifts the head of the bottle up, trying to drink from the glass. A drop of his own blood drips down landing on his dry lips. They smack together, his tongue gliding across as if it was the sweet wine the bottle once held.

I sigh. Even if I disagree with him, Norreys ranks higher than me. “Very well Norreys, I’ll be back.”

I turn pushing the tent flaps out of my face as I step forward. “Watch him, men. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going, Davos?” A soldier asks. 

“To listen.”

I push myself past the gathering of soldiers again and place myself up upon the wall. I listen to the drumming. 

Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum.

It’s unison. Perfect unison. There’s no falter in the sounds. Even an expertly trained army wouldn’t be that in sync. One step would be out of place at the bare minimum. But that’s not what the sound upon the wind tells me; It’s perfect. I pull out my pocket watch and look at the needle as it shimmy forwards. Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum. Each foodstep is a perfect second. The sounds don’t pull closer nor pull further. A simple march pace, sixty steps in sixty seconds. They’re not moving. They are simply marching in place, a step a second. I hadn’t even noticed how slow the pace was but now it sounds odd. 

It’s been like this for how long? Hours? Each step in perfect unison at each second. Perhap it isn’t footsteps— but I’ve been in the army for years. I know what the beating sound of moving men sounds like.

Except they aren’t moving.

I walk over to another soldier standing at a tower. He holds his musket close, his eyes staring out into the horizon. He’s a few years younger than me, which makes him older than most of the army. His posture lacks proper training, I’d imagine he hasn’t been a part of the army for more than a few months.

“Excuse me, soldier. When did this start?”

“Sir Davos.” He turns to face me. It’s hard to make out his expressions in the dim light. “It started at midnight, sir.”

I glance down at my watch again. It’s been eight hours, thirty two minutes, and forty five seconds. “Have they faltered?”

“Not once.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, it feels tense. “Have you gotten a break?”

“No, sir.”

“Go, get food. Tell a man by Norreys’ tent to come and replace you.”

The man nods, scurrying off down the guard steps. I follow; my hands gripping with white knuckles against my pocket watch. The cold chain blows in the wind smacking against my leg. I flick it closed. I stuff it in my pocket and turn down the steps. 

I stand at the metal gates. The bridge we had built to get across the moats surrounding Lochem is covered in a thick layer of fog. And through the fog lays the drumming of footsteps; pounding exactly as the needle of my clock ticks down. 

The scouts I asked to be sent have already left the safety of the walls, I’d imagine they’ve only been out for a few minutes. It may take hours to get their words back.

If they come back.

I swallow the thought, nodding to the guard who opens the gate. It grinds as it moves up, damaged from our own siege. How’d we get here? We had already won. I sigh, swinging underneath it as creeps open.

The fog peeks under me, licking at my ankles as I cleave through the clouds. It’s wet, cold, and seems to carry a scent I hadn’t picked up on before. I crinkle my nose and hold myself low to the ground. As I take a few more steps forward I hear the metal gate close behind me; fucked now if anything happens.

I stay low, keeping my step quite even in the heavy boots. I feel my hand gripping at the hilt of my blade— something often used more for decoration but an arquebus seemed useless in this fog. I haven’t had to use the blade all siege long; more because I often advise Norreys rather than battle myself. 

The drumming grows louder the further I push across the bridge. But there’s something else— something one could only hear if they were this close. Whispers. I pause, gripping my hilt tighter, my knuckles growing white under the pressure. Is it the scout team? I don’t even know which men of mine they sent or how many. How could I be so naive to not give more instruction?

Why did I come out here alone?

Why would you sentence more men to their deaths?

“For its man that hath failed.” The words are icy on my neck, tickling with the wind as it nips at me. The voice is distorted as if it was hundreds of people mumbling rather than one man clearly speaking. 

“For upon his seat that the wicked shown themselves.”

I sent my men out here. How far did they go?

How far were they willing to go? If I was just starting out, young and fresh to war, it would have only taken me a moment to turn around in this fog. 

The footsteps grow closer the further I go, I can feel the vibration of the footsteps rattle the wooden bridge. How far have I gone? It couldn’t have been more than fifty meters but it sounds as if the footsteps tripled in volume. Perhaps it’s because I’m on the same level as them now, not holding myself higher upon the wall.  

“For the wicked hath shown their true colors.”

I pause for a moment when I see a metallic flicker through the clouds. What was that? I can’t—

I drop to the ground as a gun fires. 

My elbows scrape against the wood as I press my hands over my head; a futile attempt to protect myself from a bullet. The beating of my heart pangs against my chest, echoing with the ringing in my ears. I roll over, lying on my back against the wooden rail of the bridge.

The smell of iron reaches my nose; a scent I’ve grown far too familiar with. It’s the scent one smells most on the battlefield. You’d think it’s the smoke or the gunpowder on your fingers. It’s the smell of iron. It’s always the smell of iron; never because of all the swords and weaponry on the field, but the pools of blood that litter each field of grass, that stains each flower that once grew underneath our heavy footsteps. 

And it’s the smell that puddles in front of me. The scent grows stronger, carried with the wind. The corpse wears a red uniform— the uniform of one of my men. His face is gone, chips of his skull laid across the stone bits of pink flesh meddled in. I will never know who this was. It could have been a man I was close with or maybe one of the new kids. It didn’t matter now; he was unrecognizable. Dead in the aftermath of an already won battle. I shake my head. It’s been weeks. Why did they come back? 

Was the fog that much of a benefit? They must have been camping out nearby, although our scouts would have seen them. It makes no sense, they already lost Lochem. It’s an important city to claim and now they send more men to their deaths after already failing.

“We commend into thy mercy all other thy servants,” I whisper, closing my eyes while I  hold the silver cross around my neck. My other hand rests upon the man’s chest. “Which departed hence from us with the sign of faith and now do rest in the sleep of peace; grant unto them, we beseech thee, thy mercy and everlasting peace.”

It’s a prayer my father said when my grandfather passed. The same prayer he said when my mother passed. The same prayer he said when my baby brother died at the age of six and the same prayer I said when he passed. The same prayer I say at the end of every battle, to every dead man I find– friend or foe. For a man can never rest until those words are spoken. 

“For the wicked is all.”

The words whisper behind me, they carry with the wind. Maybe it was the clarity of prayer that made me realize this is no army we fought before— this is no Spaniard that has done this to us. This is something far worse– something God has condemned us with. 

How do I save my men from God?

“That is what the man had shown on that day.”

I twist on my heels, staying low in the fog as I move ahead. The bullet must have been a stray, no one can see clearly through this fog. A hit of chance that pursued through like a knife against paper. I move with my sword low and out, careful not to reflect the small light of the night. The tip of it hovers only centimeters above the ground. 

Tick-BUM. Tick-BUM. Tick-BUM. The footsteps grow louder. I’m only meters away as I approach. Through the fog I can see nothing though. I twist rushing forward, my blade swinging at my side using the noise to judge distance. It slides— only briefly— as it slashes the flesh of a marching soldier in front of me.

The soldier continues to march. Blood oozing from his chest, dripping down onto his light brown uniform. The man makes no reaction; blankly staring forward with his gray eyes. 

“To save himself, look what he has done.”

The man’s mouth moves in sync to the words but it sounds like no voice I’ve ever heard before. It seems unholy, twisting and pulling from somewhere else. His lips are blue and his skin is colorless, small bits of it peeling off revealing a vivid red underneath. 

The man has been dead for quite some time, yet here he is marching in front of me. His skin is cold to the touch.

“What has he done to you?” I whisper.

The man continues marching, nothing changing as the blood continues to drip from him– slower than it would a living man. I walk around the man, moving forward towards the next soldier who marches behind him.

This man wears the colors of my men, not Spaniard colors. 

“To save himself he’d broken the world”

“What are you saying!” I yell. The man makes no reaction. No distinction he remembers me or my voice. He could be a man who worked directly underneath me now getting puppeteered by the devil himself or maybe God. And I don’t even know his name, nor do I know his face. I do know there’s seven different bullet holes littering his torso, blood dried around the wound entrances. “I’m sorry.”

Did I pray for this man? 

Or did I fail to save him? He makes no reaction from me, wounding them doesn’t make them react. What do they want from us? What torture do these creatures bring upon us.

“What has God done to you?” I ask. 

The man’s head twists towards me. His eyes glow faintly, as if a candle burned in his skull. He lurches forwards, I step back but not quick enough. His hands press hard onto my throat as we fall onto the wooden bridge. I feel my neck crushing underneath his grasp. I swing my blade poorly into his side, it cuts deep but his strength doesn’t waiver. My legs kick for freedom as my hands try to peel back his fingers. He shows no emotion as he squeezes, only drool drips from his mouth landing on my face. I gasp for air trying to find a way out of it. I slam my fists into his forearms but its strength doesn’t waiver.

A gunshot fires into the creature’s head. It doesn’t stop squeezing, but it does send enough momentum for me to flip him over and off of me. The other marching soldiers rush to the sound of gunfire like a dog finding a fresh kill and screams of a man are drowned out as I watch him fall to the ground under their weight. I’d imagine it only took seconds for them to tear my scout apart bit by bit. I fix my grip on my sword, severing his head from his neck, but the squeezing around my neck doesn’t stop and my vision begins to fade. I step on the corpse, yanking myself upwards and his fingers slip from the grasp. Before I can fully recover, he tries to stand up. I kick hard with my boot knocking the corpse back down on the ground. Another soldier turns towards me, his eyes glowing with a flickered flame. It doesn’t make a sound as its arm swings wildly into me. Instead its arm grabs at me, trying to pull me back down to the ground. 

It doesn’t take long for the rest to swarm me.

I can feel them pull at my legs, the flesh ripping underneath their nails. I can’t help but scream which only attracts more. They pull me in different ways, contorting my body as my bones pull out of my sockets. Their nails dig into my face, pressing hard into my eyes. My left eye pops under the pressure. Their fingers press into the flesh of my brain, gripping on my skull. Goop and blood slides down my face from my eyes socket; I can taste it as I scream the blood wets my lips. My voice grows raw, beginning to gurgle on the bile and blood coming up my esophagus as they continue to carve into me. There’s nothing I could have done— I’m held at their mercy. At the mercy of God and his soldiers. Why? Was what we did so wrong? Fighting for our country— killing for our country. How many men have I killed myself? I lost count years ago; I used to count; I used to see their faces through my nights; remember the way their deaths smell— that was before I prayed for them. Was that wrong of me? Killing a man and praying for him all the same. Maybe he found that disgusting; I’m sorry if that’s the truth God, I thought I was doing good in the world. Now I see— I see I deserve this death. I accept it God; thank you for everything you have given me.

In only a matter of seconds I’m torn limb from limb, parts of my body torn off, broken, mangled, shredded. My brain prodded and pulled at, my eyes popped like cherries, my voice losing the ability to scream, my heart losing the ability to beat– yet I don’t die.

Or maybe this is death.

It can’t be.

Where’s the gateway? The light? The angels’ grace?

Or the devil’s wrath?

Either one.

Something, something must happen. No memories of my life flash before my eyes, no sounds of my wifes voice telling me it’ll be okay. Perhaps this is what God’s judgment truly is, leaving me alone. Maybe there’s no such thing as Heaven or Hell.

It feels cold. I can’t feel them press against my body anymore, I can’t feel them pull against me. I don’t know where I am anymore. I don’t know what I am anymore. A traitor in God’s eyes? Have I done so wrong where even Hell refuses to take me. 

Let it end— Let it all end.

I can feel the fog enter my wounds, expanding throughout my body. 

“Who was he, you ask?”

The voices say around me. I’d forgotten all about their voices. All about their march. I can hear each second tick down, trickling against the stepping of the stones. Each second passes and I’d imagine that it’ll all go blank. That I won’t be able to feel the blood dripping down my corpse. That I won’t be able to feel the tears on my cheeks anymore. 

Let me not feel these things anymore. It’s not worth it— life isn’t worth this.

Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum.

The marches rise into the thousands as I lay, unable to see anything, unable to do anything. I’ve failed in this life— I see now. I see now. Let me end. Let my story end.

Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum.

I try to count but the pain blurs my thoughts. Has the day ended? 

“The better question would remain.”

They repeat the same nine lines over and over again, one every sixty marches. Is this what God is telling us— what’s this better question? Does it matter to me now? I’m already gone, yet still remain. My brain even though pulled apart still remains— no, not my brain. My soul.

My weight shifts around me, even in pain my legs bend, pulling my corpse upwards. I can’t control anything, I can’t do anything. I can only feel. Feel what he’s making me feel. Feel the agony of his soldier’s ripping me apart with their bare hands. 

Not his soldiers. My own. My own men. 

I failed them. I let them die at the hands of men not worthy of their blood. And I couldn’t even save them now.

My body falls in line and my legs begin pounding against the stone.

Tick-Bum. Tick-Bum. Ti-Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum.

I fall into sync with the dead around me. I can see nothing, I can only feel the wind whistling into the scrapes upon my skin. For hours we march; repeating the same words that they spoke to me before, over and over again. I feel myself simply become one of the many, marching while chanting the words of the heavens.

On the 86,340th march, the last words were spoken.

“Who was she?”

On the 86,400th march, we all rushed forward.