The Gravedigger & The Ghoul's Gold Part 1

An Inspector Davren penny dreadful story

It was the kind of night best spent indoors at the hearth of a roaring fire. Some men, though, had to work through the worst of the elements to afford coal for such luxuries. Geroge and Albert were two such men, digging holes for the dead, the number of which were rising due to the current cursed plague settling upon the city.

The men worked quietly, their shovels cutting through the sodden earth with ease. A torrent of rain pounded them, bringing gooseflesh when stray drops found a way under their collars. The real work came in disposing of the soil, much of which slid back into the slowly growing hole.

“This is the Devil’s work,” George huffed, as a clod of dirt fell beside his clabbered boots.

“Enough with yer winging. It gives you a roof over yer damn head and a hot meal every night, does it not?” Albert shot back.

George had little time for his work partner, a man he saw as below him in social standing despite them doing the same work. While George was careful with his money, Albert seemed intent on pissing his away on cheap gin, whores, and gambling. The man never had a pot to piss in, and that rankled George. Still, he was right about their work, so George let it pass with little more than a grunt and a spit of coughed up phlegm.

They continued to dig as the rain continued to fall, only stopping to listen to the bells of Big Ben tolling out the late hour. Albert eyed his partner, quietly urging him on to get the job done before the ale houses closed for the night. Understanding the look, George dug faster and faster, until a loud crack filled the gloomy night air.

“What were that?” Albert asked, eyes wide.

George scraped away a layer of mud and gasped as a coffin lid came into view. The wood was split open and something bright shine from below. “That’s a coffin. This is supposed to be untouched land.”

Dropping to one knee, Albert pushed reached inside the break in the wood and pulled out a gold coin that was warm to the touch. Even in the meager glow from their gas lanterns, he could tell it was a coin like no other. One side of the coin bore a strange sigil, while the other showed nothing other than a number that Albert took to be a year, although it was one in the future.

“Put it back,” George grunted. “We need to report this.”

“Are ye mad? Finders keepers, I say,” Albert said, not once removing his eyes from the coin.

“I want nothing to do with it,” George said, more to whatever was in the coffin than to his partner. “You hear me, Albert?”

Leaping to his feet, Albert pulled his friend in close, close enough for the smell of boiled cabbage and tobacco to find their way from his mouth to George’s nostrils. “Ye can report the damnable coffin, but if ye make any mention of this here coin, I’ll slice yer throat open while ye sleep.”

Shaking free, George clambered out of the hole. “I’ll say nothing, but this will end badly for you, Albert. I can feel it in my bones.”

As the men bickered, neither noticed the skeletal hand inside the coffin begin to twitch.

The rain had turned into little more than a drizzle, allowing the ever-present fog to return to its regular thickness across the city. Albert pushed through the throng, gripping the coin tightly as he kept an eye out for the familiar red and white pole of the barber shop. The coin represented an opportunity to begin a new life, but debts had to be paid first.

Before long, the pole came into view. Albert rushed into the shop, almost going down in a heap as he slid on the perfectly polished tile floor.

The barber turned quickly, a scowl crossing his face when he saw who was causing the disturbance. ‘You have some nerve showing your face in here. You’d best be here to pay what’s owed.” He crossed the space between himself and albert quickly, his already ruddy cheeks now flaming red. “If you don’t have what’s owed, I’ll smash your head to a pulp with one of my tonic bottles.”

Raising his hand, Albert flashed the coin, a lecherous grin on his face. “Calm yerself. I have what’s owed and more. I think I’ll take a shave and a haircut first.”

Eyes wide as a cat spying a plump street rat, the barber eyes the coin. A trail of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, dropping into his perfectly manicured beard. “Have a seat,” he said, motioning toward a leather chair, complete with straps, that looked to have come directly from Harrowgate Asylum.

Albert dropped into the seat, lazily rolling the coin between his fingers as though to tease the barber, who continued to eye it as he sharpened his straight razor on a strip of old leather. “Make me look pretty, me good man,” Albert said, feigning an air of aristocracy.

The barber gripped the razor, his hand trembling, eyes never moving from the coin. He had to have it, and now realized that he also wanted a drink, to feel the burn of good gin burning the back of his throat and warming his belly. How long had it been since he’d savored such a drop? How long since he’d felt the soft touch of a bad woman? Without thinking, the barber slid the razor across Albert’s throat, continuing to slice back and forth, ignoring the gurgling noises emanating from the wretch, slicing until the blade felt the resistance of bone, but continuing to saw, regardless.

Snapping out of his haze, the barber snatched up the coin and bolted for the door, his white jacket now covered in a spray of blood. People parted in his wake, either from the sight of blood or the manic look in his eyes.

He burst through the doors of The Gilded Goose pub and header directly for the bar, ignoring, for now, the whores vying for his attention. The barkeep, a hulking brute of a man, made from muscle and coarse black hair, gritted his teeth and pointed at the barber. “Yer barred. Yer money’s no good here.”

Ignoring the man, eyes on the bottles behind the bar, the barber raised the coin. “I think it is. Is your black heart so ruined that it would explode at the thought of serving an honest customer? GIN!! NOW!!”

The raucous sounds of the pub stilled at the sound of the yell. The look of rage on the barkeeps face disappeared, replaced by one of awe. He snatched the coin from the barber, grabbed a bottle of gin, and started swinging.