Dave the Gravedigger

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Good story it is.

Submitted: March 02, 2017

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Submitted: March 02, 2017




Dave the Gravedigger

The pile of dirt increased each time he lifted his shovel out of the untouched earth. At the late hour it was, the darkness shielded him to any of the passers-by. He hid behind the walls of dirt that stood tall around him. Only to be seen by his shovel arising over his left shoulder to eradicate the dirt from the pit. He then climbed out onto the freshly-dewed grass that his victim lay upon, her head was severed from its perch, her eyes rolled back, lying helpless at the bottom of Dave’s sack that he trusts to hold the heads cold and forever silent. He threw the body into the trench not worrying how she landed, not worrying how her limbs waved uncontrollably in her plummet. He then left the scene after filling the grave with dirt he’d just dug with his hands in his pockets, whistling to the tune of Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones as if nothing ever happened. 

Dave’s moral fibre had survived; another day, another head to impale on a stake in the backyard. He made his way out to the cornfield of pale faces and added the newest edition to the collection. He took a couple of steps back and admired his creation as if he were an artist critiquing ones artwork. He observed the slow trickle of blood ran down the wooden pole that created a small red puddle as each drop joined its friends that already lay there, rippling with each impact.

Dave didn’t really have a reason why he beheaded the innocent. The activity just ensured him of pleasure. The sight of one’s head being disconnected from the neck made him smile and feel like he’d achieved something. He loved to predict how long it would take for the head to turn the purest pale. It never crossed his mind that what he did was extremely inhumane, it was just what he enjoyed doing best.

It was quite extraordinary that he hadn’t been caught in the act yet. The low crime rates of the small, suburban town he lived in, meant the police didn’t really suspect it was anyone from the area. His garden of heads was well sheltered from sight as his slowly-eroding, log cabin that lives on top of a hill on the outskirts of the town, obstructed the view of any a wandering eye. He loved the sculptures he had made in his backyard like a child he never had.

That was his third successful murder of the month and seeing as it was February, he had two more executions to complete in quick succession to allow his ritual of five murders a month to continue.

He exited his front door with nothing more than a sharpened, blood stained cleaver he held in his gloved, right hand. The first person he locked eyes on would be so blindsided about how the night would later end. He found his target just two minutes after departing his house. The man was clothed in long pants and a heavy duffel coat.

The steps of Dave and his target were synchronized, as if robotic, the only difference being in the twenty metres that lie between the two. Dave’s eyes did not waver from the back of the middle-aged man’s head. Dave’s concentration was so high, he only blinked twice every five minutes.

Dave’s prey suddenly stopped in his tracks, reached for his pocket and pulled out his phone to check the message he had received. Dave jumped on the opportunity, he ended the guiltless man’s life with one foul swoop, without him ever suspect that that would happen. The head bouncing on the concrete twice before halting immediately next to his phone which an opened text message read ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’.

Just like he had done with every single one of his successful murders he had dug the tomb to dispose the body in. Shovel by shovel, the pile of dirt grew larger and larger. He placed his dagger on the ground and climbed out of the bodiless grave.

As spontaneously as Dave’s obsession had started, it had just concluded just after he had pulled himself up out of the hole, picked up the body, turned around and headed for the grave. With a swipe of the blade that had already ended sixty-four innocent lives. This time to a much more deserving individual than the rest, another head had been severed from ones neck. What was once the simple fascination of Dave to see what it would be like to break the law, to be a murderer, to kill, to allow the adrenaline inside of his body rush through his veins. That curiosity quickly turned into an identical procedure each time he committed to the activity had now come to an end.

The person responsible for the demoralisation of Dave was no different from the causalities Dave had decapitated, as innocent as the rest. He was the employed and sane gravedigger of the local area that worked for the cemetery that Dave had been burying his victims along the western fence line of. All that was to do now was fill the pit Dave had left, lying in it was the lone head of Dave the Gravedigger.

© Copyright 2018 Rorzo McMacmac. All rights reserved.

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