Brothers of Brimstone Book 2: Reaper

A cool breeze stirred me from my sleep, causing my eyelids to flutter open. I’d been in the middle of a beautiful dream, and my first instinct was to roll over and drift back into it. But something felt off.

I wasn’t nestled in the comfort of my feather bed. My eyes snapped open, and instead of the familiar shadows of my bedroom, I was met with pitch black.

I jerked in surprise, my forehead colliding with something solid. My head snapped back. I reached out, my arms flailing in the darkness, only to find I was confined to a space no larger than a few inches.

A wave of fear washed over me as I began to comprehend my situation. I was trapped in a tiny box. But who could have done this?

Was it my sister Ada’s idea of a prank? My heart rate began to slow as I accepted the possibility. It had to be Ada.

But she couldn’t have done this alone. I racked my brain, trying to figure out who else could be involved. Howie, our steward? No, he wouldn’t risk his job for a prank.

But Arther, our stable hand, might. He’d do anything for Ada. Before I could figure out where Ada had stashed me, I heard voices above me.

“Are you sure we will find jewels in there?” a rough voice asked.

“Of course we will,” a second voice replied, sounding amused. “The wealthy are always buried with some type of ornament; even in death, they are afraid of being underdressed.”

I didn’t recognize either voice, and fear gripped me once again. I opened my mouth to call for help, but a creaking sound interrupted me.

“You have to put your back into it,” the second voice encouraged. “That coffin has been underground for a while; it’s probably sealed airtight.”

My blood ran cold at the mention of a coffin. I felt the edges of my prison and realized I was indeed trapped in a coffin. This was no prank.

“Hello?” I called out.

The creaking stopped.

“Did you hear something, George?” the first voice asked.

“I didn’t hear anything, Henry,” the second voice, presumably George, replied. “And for Pete’s sake, don’t start rambling about ghosts again.”

“I saw something,” Henry grumbled. I couldn’t tell if they continued their conversation because the creaking started again, and my ears popped.

“I think I’ve got it,” Henry announced.

“Let me give you a hand,” George offered.

After a moment, there was a rush of air, and slowly, the night sky came into view. Relieved to be free from the cramped space, I sat up and gulped in the fresh air.

I took in my rescuers. They were poorly dressed and missing teeth, clear signs they were from the slums. But I didn’t care.

I would introduce them to my fiancé, John Bundock. He would surely reward their bravery with employment once he heard about the cruel prank and their rescue. I opened my mouth to express my gratitude and share the good news, but their faces turned pale, and their eyes widened in fear.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked, slightly taken aback by their open stares.

Instead of the apologies I expected, they started screaming. Their screams startled me, and I screamed too, my eyes darting around the dark graveyard, trying to figure out what had scared them.

One of the men, shovel in hand, pointed at me. “Ghost!” he yelled.

“Who?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.

“That is no ghost,” George shrieked. His voice was no longer playful. “That’s a zombie! Hit it with the shovel!”

Terrified, Henry nodded and raised the shovel like a baseball bat. I was sure he was going to hit me. I covered my face and ducked, feeling the shovel just graze my hair.

I knew he would swing again once he realized he’d missed. Henry stepped back and raised the shovel again. George had retreated a few yards and was urging Henry on.

“This time, keep your eyes open and take aim!” Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed the sides of the coffin and pulled myself up to a standing position.

Henry seemed to be scared out of his wits by my little act of rebellion. He dropped his shovel and cried out, “She’s going to eat my brains!”

George, who was already backing away, called out, “You’re safe then, Henry. You don’t have any brains. Now, pick up that shovel and kill that zombie.”

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the darkness. “Who’s there?”

I noticed a light bobbing in the distance from the corner of my eye. This unexpected interruption seemed to bring Henry back to his senses.

“Let the caretaker deal with the zombie,” he spat before turning on his heel and running after George, who had already left him behind.

The ground must have been wet from recent rain, as my boots sank into the soft earth when I stepped out of the coffin. I was ready to face whoever had saved me from Henry.

As the light from the oil lamp lifted, I was relieved to see a familiar face. “Fred,” I exclaimed, overjoyed to see him.

Fred’s father was our groundskeeper, and I had known Fred since he was a child. Despite our different social statuses, Fred had always been kind to me. I was sure he wouldn’t accuse me of being a zombie and try to decapitate me with a shovel.

“Alice Devibois?” Fred looked at me, his eyes wide with disbelief.

I clasped my hands to my chest and lowered my head, hoping Fred would take pity on me and not spread rumors about finding me in a graveyard at night. Such gossip could ruin my reputation, and since I was engaged to John, I couldn’t afford any scandals.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m in a graveyard at this hour,” I started, but Fred interrupted me.

“No, I’m sure you’re in the right place,” Fred said, looking puzzled as he glanced at the empty coffin next to me. “I am, however, wondering why you’re not in your coffin.”

“You know who put me in there?” I asked, shocked. I stamped my foot and pointed at the coffin I had just escaped from.

“Tell me who put me in there,” I demanded, “or face severe consequences.”

“The Undertaker did, Ms. Alice,” Fred replied promptly. “Almost two months ago.”

“Two months ago?” I asked, incredulous. “If I had been trapped in that box for two months, I would surely be dead.”

“That was the general belief,” Fred said cautiously.

“Don’t toy with me, Fred,” I warned him. “Do you know who I’m engaged to?”

“Yes.” Fred nodded. “You were engaged to John Bundock, your sister Ada’s husband.”

“Ada’s husband?” I echoed, feeling dizzy. “Has the world gone mad? Or am I the one who’s lost her mind?”

“He mourned your death,” Fred quickly added. “And thankfully, Ada was there to comfort him.”

“Well, she can stop comforting him now!” I retorted. “You’ve found me, so I’m no longer lost.”

“You were never lost,” Fred corrected me. “You were dead.”

“Someone made a mistake,” I insisted stubbornly.

“If you’re not supposed to be dead, then why is that reaper here?” Fred asked, pointing a trembling finger over my shoulder as he backed away.

Without thinking, I turned to look.

Sure enough, a hooded figure stood at the edge of the graveyard, a gleaming scythe in hand.