The Coffin's Occupant - High Noon
And here is the end of the story. Finalment, I am done. Please point out any mistakes that you see!
Awakening
Daybreak
High Noon
Evening
The Coffin's Occupant - High Noon
“My true name is Hanatis,” Alex began. He was lying in a guest bed while everyone crowded around the bed posts to listen. “I have something that these men want - a piece of a God.” He massaged his chest.
They all gaped at him, unsure what to make of this extraordinary announcement.
“The generous doctor said that I have weak heart, but in truth, the pain I feel is this piece trying to take me over. I must fight it, or an angry God would be among you.”
“Wait,” said Philip, his face blanched. “You say this as though there are more than one God.”
Hanatis nodded. “This God’s name is Bakhira. The men who tortured me, they want Bakhira.”
“You’re sure it’s not a demon?” the butler interjected.
Smiling weakly, Hanatis answered, “Bakhira is a shepherd. She watched over my clan.” He struggled to undo the buttons on his large nightshirt and finally yanked the collar down in frustration. The horrid scar was clearly visible, a white, lumpy line down his chest, and a variety of ugly bruises where he struck himself during the heart attacks. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, lying back in the pillows. He looked straight at Marianne. “I said to you many times, that I should be dead. It’s true. The letters can’t be stopped, and you must kill me.”
The floor met Marianne’s face as she fainted dead away. She was no longer in the bedroom. She was dreaming. She stood in a room with a low ceiling. In the center of it, on an altar, lay Hanatis. He looked different. His skin was darker, as though he knew the sun’s face well. His hair was unbraided, flowing freely to the ground. He was wearing red silk that glistened like blood in the flickering light of dozens of candles and burning incense, choking the oxygen from the air. The bitter scents of the candles couldn’t hide the stench of illness in the room. She could now see a bright rash on Hanatis’ skin from a disease she had only heard about. She advanced, raising her hand, which clutched a dagger. Delirious, he turned his head to her and screamed her name, “Defikha! Defikha!”
The name still ringing in her ears, she woke up.
Chaos surrounded her. Half the people in the room were staring at Hanatis ashen faced, and the other half was red faced and yelling. No one seemed to notice her as she slowly pulled herself up again.
“What’s happening?” she shouted over the din.
Lord Clarford was one of the white-faced onlookers, and he broke his gaze to look at Marianne. “He wants you to kill him to make those men who put him in the coffin stop searching. Not anyone else, you.”
“It must be Defikha!” Hanatis screamed, the similarity to the way he shrieked on the altar made her skin come alive with goose bumps. “Bakhira protects me from anyone else’s blows. Only Defikha can kill me! Only Defikha…” His voice was cut off at though he the wind had been knocked out of him. He convulsed violently, his back arching, pushing his torso in the air, and the room fell silent again, uncertain if they should run away.
His body began to change. His bright green eyes bulged in eye sockets too small for them; Hanatis’ thick braid vanished and thick black fur sprouted all over his skin. Involuntary moans and cries started coming from his expanding throat and widening mouth. Huge canines sprouted in his exposed gums, and his fingers shortened into huge paws.
At this point, the room was emptied as quickly as people could fit through the little doorway. Marianne stayed.
“Who is Defikha?” she shouted at the huge black cat curled up in Hanatis’ place.
Bakhira’s tail twitched. The cat stood up and stretched lazily.
“Who is Defikha?” Marianne yelled so loud her throat hurt.
Purring loudly, the cat strode toward her and rested one of its huge paws on her chest.
Her body froze up. “What do you mean? Do I have to kill you?”
The cat lowered its head in an unmistakable nod, then plucked the meat knife from the patter of food with its mouth and placed it on the covers before her.
“What if I don’t?”
Bakhira’s growl shook the entire room.
She had to reason with this beast, but Alex was the one she could reason with. “Wait,” she said, picking up the knife. “May I talk to Alex, I mean, Hanatis, first?”
Bakhira yowled in pain as the limbs shrunk and poor disheveled Hanatis was left crouching in the cat’s place. “What do you want?” His voice was slow and painful.
She looked at him, trying to find a question. “Alex, before you go, I wanted to know,” Marianne fidgeted with her sleeve, thinking fast. “if you were married before?”
His through himself down in the pillows. “My wife died, many thousands of years ago,” he said through the cloth. “Defikha meant to save me, but she made me immortal instead.”
“If Defikha is dead, then I can’t be Defikha.”
“No, you are not her, exactly. Souls are reborn. You have her soul, and only she can undo this. You saw, when you dreamt, the altar?”
She nodded.
“That’s the proof. Kill me.” He lay back in the bed and beckoned her to him. “Cut along the scar, and pull my heart out.”
Clutching the knife, she advanced, and plunged it downward robotically, though she blinded with tears.
The Coffin's Occupant - Evening
A short while later, Marianne came out of the room drenched in blood and unable to speak. When Philip peered cautiously around the door, he saw that Hanatis’ chest was a mangled, bloody mess, but his face was peaceful, as though he was asleep.
Soon after Alex’s burial, Marianne was found dead in the wine cellar. An empty bottle of rat poison lay on the ground near her lax hands. A few weeks later, a well-dressed man arrived at the estate and introduced himself as Marcus Branbury. After some pleasant chatter with Philip Clarford, he nonchalantly asked if he could meet the odd little man whom they had named Alexander Coffer. Philip Clarford showed Marcus the two new graves on his property, side by side.
Hanatis opened his eyes. He could hear voices and picks a short distance above. New accents. How much time had passed? He lifted his hand to touch the ceiling of his wooden box. The resistance in his muscles meant more than a year. Many years. He had never been asleep this long before. He tried his voice. “Marianne.” It was harsh, but clear. Damn her! Would she still be alive? How could she have failed? The rotting lid suddenly split open, a pick lodged in it.
“Hey, hey! I found sommut!”
A hail of feet drummed above him. Then scratching and wrenching at the lid to open it. The smell of sweat and a summer afternoon greeted Alex as the crowd of curious workmen peered down at his face. “What is the date?” he asked, his voice cracking.
The workmen gasped. Finally one found his scattered brain long enough to say, “June 3rd, 1967.”
“Blast. I was hoping to rot here forever for unrequited love.”
They stared at him, their eyes open so wide they forgot to blink.
He smiled. “Water, if you don’t mind?”
Sleep
The End! So, tell me all of your thoughts on this story!
Awakening
Daybreak
High Noon
Evening
The Coffin's Occupant - High Noon
“My true name is Hanatis,” Alex began. He was lying in a guest bed while everyone crowded around the bed posts to listen. “I have something that these men want - a piece of a God.” He massaged his chest.
They all gaped at him, unsure what to make of this extraordinary announcement.
“The generous doctor said that I have weak heart, but in truth, the pain I feel is this piece trying to take me over. I must fight it, or an angry God would be among you.”
“Wait,” said Philip, his face blanched. “You say this as though there are more than one God.”
Hanatis nodded. “This God’s name is Bakhira. The men who tortured me, they want Bakhira.”
“You’re sure it’s not a demon?” the butler interjected.
Smiling weakly, Hanatis answered, “Bakhira is a shepherd. She watched over my clan.” He struggled to undo the buttons on his large nightshirt and finally yanked the collar down in frustration. The horrid scar was clearly visible, a white, lumpy line down his chest, and a variety of ugly bruises where he struck himself during the heart attacks. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he said, lying back in the pillows. He looked straight at Marianne. “I said to you many times, that I should be dead. It’s true. The letters can’t be stopped, and you must kill me.”
The floor met Marianne’s face as she fainted dead away. She was no longer in the bedroom. She was dreaming. She stood in a room with a low ceiling. In the center of it, on an altar, lay Hanatis. He looked different. His skin was darker, as though he knew the sun’s face well. His hair was unbraided, flowing freely to the ground. He was wearing red silk that glistened like blood in the flickering light of dozens of candles and burning incense, choking the oxygen from the air. The bitter scents of the candles couldn’t hide the stench of illness in the room. She could now see a bright rash on Hanatis’ skin from a disease she had only heard about. She advanced, raising her hand, which clutched a dagger. Delirious, he turned his head to her and screamed her name, “Defikha! Defikha!”
The name still ringing in her ears, she woke up.
Chaos surrounded her. Half the people in the room were staring at Hanatis ashen faced, and the other half was red faced and yelling. No one seemed to notice her as she slowly pulled herself up again.
“What’s happening?” she shouted over the din.
Lord Clarford was one of the white-faced onlookers, and he broke his gaze to look at Marianne. “He wants you to kill him to make those men who put him in the coffin stop searching. Not anyone else, you.”
“It must be Defikha!” Hanatis screamed, the similarity to the way he shrieked on the altar made her skin come alive with goose bumps. “Bakhira protects me from anyone else’s blows. Only Defikha can kill me! Only Defikha…” His voice was cut off at though he the wind had been knocked out of him. He convulsed violently, his back arching, pushing his torso in the air, and the room fell silent again, uncertain if they should run away.
His body began to change. His bright green eyes bulged in eye sockets too small for them; Hanatis’ thick braid vanished and thick black fur sprouted all over his skin. Involuntary moans and cries started coming from his expanding throat and widening mouth. Huge canines sprouted in his exposed gums, and his fingers shortened into huge paws.
At this point, the room was emptied as quickly as people could fit through the little doorway. Marianne stayed.
“Who is Defikha?” she shouted at the huge black cat curled up in Hanatis’ place.
Bakhira’s tail twitched. The cat stood up and stretched lazily.
“Who is Defikha?” Marianne yelled so loud her throat hurt.
Purring loudly, the cat strode toward her and rested one of its huge paws on her chest.
Her body froze up. “What do you mean? Do I have to kill you?”
The cat lowered its head in an unmistakable nod, then plucked the meat knife from the patter of food with its mouth and placed it on the covers before her.
“What if I don’t?”
Bakhira’s growl shook the entire room.
She had to reason with this beast, but Alex was the one she could reason with. “Wait,” she said, picking up the knife. “May I talk to Alex, I mean, Hanatis, first?”
Bakhira yowled in pain as the limbs shrunk and poor disheveled Hanatis was left crouching in the cat’s place. “What do you want?” His voice was slow and painful.
She looked at him, trying to find a question. “Alex, before you go, I wanted to know,” Marianne fidgeted with her sleeve, thinking fast. “if you were married before?”
His through himself down in the pillows. “My wife died, many thousands of years ago,” he said through the cloth. “Defikha meant to save me, but she made me immortal instead.”
“If Defikha is dead, then I can’t be Defikha.”
“No, you are not her, exactly. Souls are reborn. You have her soul, and only she can undo this. You saw, when you dreamt, the altar?”
She nodded.
“That’s the proof. Kill me.” He lay back in the bed and beckoned her to him. “Cut along the scar, and pull my heart out.”
Clutching the knife, she advanced, and plunged it downward robotically, though she blinded with tears.
The Coffin's Occupant - Evening
A short while later, Marianne came out of the room drenched in blood and unable to speak. When Philip peered cautiously around the door, he saw that Hanatis’ chest was a mangled, bloody mess, but his face was peaceful, as though he was asleep.
Soon after Alex’s burial, Marianne was found dead in the wine cellar. An empty bottle of rat poison lay on the ground near her lax hands. A few weeks later, a well-dressed man arrived at the estate and introduced himself as Marcus Branbury. After some pleasant chatter with Philip Clarford, he nonchalantly asked if he could meet the odd little man whom they had named Alexander Coffer. Philip Clarford showed Marcus the two new graves on his property, side by side.
Hanatis opened his eyes. He could hear voices and picks a short distance above. New accents. How much time had passed? He lifted his hand to touch the ceiling of his wooden box. The resistance in his muscles meant more than a year. Many years. He had never been asleep this long before. He tried his voice. “Marianne.” It was harsh, but clear. Damn her! Would she still be alive? How could she have failed? The rotting lid suddenly split open, a pick lodged in it.
“Hey, hey! I found sommut!”
A hail of feet drummed above him. Then scratching and wrenching at the lid to open it. The smell of sweat and a summer afternoon greeted Alex as the crowd of curious workmen peered down at his face. “What is the date?” he asked, his voice cracking.
The workmen gasped. Finally one found his scattered brain long enough to say, “June 3rd, 1967.”
“Blast. I was hoping to rot here forever for unrequited love.”
They stared at him, their eyes open so wide they forgot to blink.
He smiled. “Water, if you don’t mind?”
Sleep
The End! So, tell me all of your thoughts on this story!