Thick banks of fog were rolling in as I walked toward Chappy’s place on Queen Street. They stank, like everything else that came from the Thames. I didn’t mind. I was used to the stink, and fog just made my life easier. Night was coming on, another old friend, and lamplighters would be at work in Mayfair. Not here, though. This part of town, nobody ever bothered. The streets were darkening as I strolled the grimy streets of Seven Dials, kicking aside rubbish and the occasional stray cat. A fine London evening, it was.

A greasy yellow light filtered through the windows, glinting off the faded gold letters above the door. “Chapman’s Inn and Publick House.” A lame attempt to make the place sound like more than what it was- a hole you could crawl into to drink and fuck your pain away. Sure, there were rooms to rent- the beds were full of fleas, and the girls full of crabs, but since most of the guests were crawling with both it hardly mattered. I liked Chappy’s. It was a good place to catch a line on new business. Someone was always dead or dying in Seven Dials. I didn’t bother knocking the clods of God-knows-what off my boots before I stepped inside. The place was already filthy. 

 “Good evenin’, Rosie!” I called to the girl behind the bar. “Gimme something to whet my whistle, sweetheart.”

 Rosie scowled, disgust in her green eyes. Cat’s eyes. “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’’ me, Nick,” she snapped, pushing a glass across the bar. It sloshed. “I’d sooner lie down with the Devil himself.”

 I chuckled. “Ah, you wound me, lass. Heartless, you are.” I clutched my chest  and backed away, winking. Rosie muttered something Irish under her breath and turned to the next customer. She didn’t approve of my profession. Rosie was superstitious even for a Pope-lover, but she had no right to get so holy. Everyone knew she took men up to her room when business was slow. I wondered what her precious Virgin Mary thought of that.

I found a table in the back and sipped my gin, glancing around at the regulars. Ollie Baker was playing cards with Jake the dustman. Black Alice was getting cozy with some mark in the corner. He had his hands down her dress. I snorted. He’d be lucky if she didn’t pinch his wallet while he was playing with her tits. Old Tom  was drinking himself to death at the bar, as usual. Quiet night. I was beginning to wonder if this was going to be worth my while when I caught a snatch of the conversation taking place behind me. I looked over my shoulder.

“Aye, it were a right shame, the poor sweet lass,” said Joe Harper. He sighed. “Buried this afternoon. Her mother’s taking it hard.”

 “What else d’you expect of a cripple?” grunted Alex Nichols. “Surprised she lived as long as she did. Least she’s not sufferin’ no more.” He took a swig of beer.

“She’s smilin’ with the angels now,” Old Willie quavered. “They wanted me to dig her grave,” he added, rolling a cigarette with shaky fingers. “No sir,” I told ‘em. I don’t work St. Giles no more. That boneyard’s cursed.”

Alex groaned. “Cripes, Willie. Not this garbage again. How many times do I have to tell you there ain’t no such thing as ghosts?” 

“You keep tellin’ crazy stories, you’ll wind up in Bedlam,” Joe said. “Likely imagined the whole thing. Drinkin’ on the job, I’ll wager.”

“I weren’t drinkin,’ and it weren’t no ghost!” Willie retorted. Rosie looked up, eyes narrowing.  “It was  a demon or…somethin.’ A shadow, black an’ misty with glowin’ eyes…stank worse’n anything I’ve ever smelled. Worse’n a ten day body, worse’n…”

“Worse than Black Alice’s cunt?” Joe chuckled.

“You can joke, you weren’t there!” snapped Willie. “I know what I saw! Grabbed Artie by the throat, throttled ‘im til his tongue turned black! Never was so scared in me life….where’s Artie then, if I’m a liar?”

Alex waved his hand. “Way he drank, I’m surprised he didn’t croak years ago. Ain’t healthy besides, breathin’ that stink all the time. He was bound to snuff it sooner or later.”

“And I’d have joined ‘im, if I hadn’t got the hell out of there!” Willie banged his glass on the table.. “I’m tellin’ you….those eyes…thought I’d never stop runnin’….”

I turned back to my drink with a chuckle. It seemed Lady Luck was with me, after all. I’d heard all I needed to make my next score. And what a score it would be! The anatomists always paid more for freak bodies- and this would be a gem. I’d seen little Mary begging on the streets many a time. I’d often wondered how she managed to walk with her body twisted like that- the hump on her back prevented her standing upright, and her right leg was shorter than her left. She was a waste of food, smile or no smile. I never understood why her parents didn’t smother her at birth. She’d be worth ten quid, at least. All I had to do was get her before anyone else did. I drained my glass and headed for the door. If I was going to be in Giles’ churchyard by full dark, I needed to get my gear together. 

Just as I reached for the knob, a hand clutched my arm, pulling me into the gloom of the entranceway. Emerald eyes glared out of the dimness.

“Don’t you DARE be disturbin’ that poor girl’s eternal rest, Nick!” Rosie hissed, digging her nails  into my arm. The lamp picked out  highlights in her red hair. “Have ye no shame? Has she not suffered enough without some bastard like you comin’ along to torture her? Sellin’ her to those godless butchers to be mangled…” She sputtered with rage. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Rosie-girl,” I flashed her a charming grin and tried to disengage my arm. “I’m an honest chap, I am, just tryin’ to make a living.”

“Like hell you are!” she yanked me away from the door. Her nails were sharp, and I could feel blood welling from the scratches on my arm. “You stay away from that churchyard, or I swear I’ll ‘ave the law on you!”

 I laughed. Rosie was a spitfire when she got riled. I laughed, and grabbed her by that pretty neck, slamming her against the wall. “Best not interfere with my business now, lass,” I growled, close against her ear, “or you might wind up on the slab yourself. After I’m done  with you, of course.” I slid my other hand between her thighs. “The docs won’t mind my sloppy seconds.” 

She slapped it away, fear and loathing mingled in her eyes. “Get your filthy mitts off me!” I tightened my grip, cutting off her air. “Why, love? Isn’t that how you earned that pretty necklace? Spreadin’ your legs for the rich old men?” The pendant was huge, emeralds in a swirling golden frame. It looked ridiculous on a common barmaid. I couldn’t believe nobody had ever stolen it.

“I….don’t….” Rosie fought to remain conscious. Close as I was, I could watch the pulse beat  frantically in her neck. 

“You mind what I’ve said, now,” I squeezed hard and released her. She collapsed,  gasping and massaging her throat. “Pretty as you are, lass, start messin’ with what’s mine and you become meat. And meat sells.” I tipped her my cap and turned to the door. 

“Bastard….” Rosie whispered behind me. I didn’t turn. “Sticks and stones, sweetheart,” I said, and stepped into the gathering dark. 

It was nearly midnight by the time I made my way down the alley along the east side of the churchyard. I’d had to stop home for my gear, and body snatching needs darkness. This was the perfect night for it, too- black and foggy, but enough moon that I didn’t need a lantern. The light ran wet along the iron fence as I looked for a gap big enough to shove my bag through. Finding one, I looked around. The bobbies didn’t bother much with law and in order in the Dials, but you never knew. All I saw was a pair of huge black rats, scrabbling in the filth. Rats didn’t bother me, which was good, because there would be swarms of them feasting in the churchyard. I began to climb the fence.

Only idiots and amateurs tried to get in through the gate, which was usually locked. No, better to find a place where the ground rose and made for a shorter drop. You’d be fine as long as you didn’t rip your bollocks open on the spikes. I managed to avoid it, landing with a marshy thud on the other side. I stood, and the familiar stench of St. Giles rose around me. 

I’d been able to smell it for a while. Nobody who passed through the neighborhood could avoid it. There’d been a church here for centuries, and burials for just as long. That was all right for a while, but the ground didn’t magically get bigger just because London did. It was overflowing now, and they just kept cramming in more corpses. You couldn’t dig a new grave without cutting into an old one, one reason the gravediggers were usually drunk off their arses. The ground squelched beneath my boots as I headed for Pauper’s Corner. The soil was saturated on the driest nights, and on wet ones fluid welled out of the ground with every step. It stank of rot and would make you gag if you weren’t used to it. I was, just like I was used to the rats and the flies buzzing around the headstones. This little corner of Hell was a goldmine, and all I smelled was money.

As I reached the corner farthest from the church, the headstones thinned out. Not that there weren’t as many bodies buried here as in the rest of the ground. More, if anything, but the folks buried here couldn’t afford anything as luxurious as a tombstone. There were quite a few homemade markers, though- wooden crosses with names scratched on them. There were no guarantees the stiffs under ’em matched the names, though. The sextons didn’t have any problems shuffling them around, trying to fit in just one more body. One cross near the fence drew my eye. It was off to the side, and the ground in front of it looked freshly dug. Bingo.

Kneeling down, I was just able to make out the inscription. “Mary Dowe 1823-1830 Our Little Angel,” I chuckled. I’d expected to do more poking around before I found what I was looking for. At this rate, I could be out of here with the corpse by two bells. I dropped my bundle beside the mound and laid out my kit. There wasn’t much of it. A rope, a burlap sack, and a wooden spade- quieter than metal, and better for discreet operations. The less you carried with you, the better. Bodies are dead weight, and even a little thing like sweet Mary would get heavy on the way out.

I started digging just in front of the cross, where I reckoned the head should be. Amateur ghouls would try to dig up the whole grave, which was both stupid and unnecessary. It took too long, for one thing, and was too conspicuous. No, all you really needed to do was dig a hole near one end, big enough to pull a body through. When you got to the coffin, you broke it open, and hauled out the corpse with your rope. You stripped off any clothes or jewelry, tossed them back in the hole, filled it in, and you were done. That last part was important. Clothes and jewelry were valuable, and if you took them you were liable to wind up on the wrong end of a noose. Bodies were just meat, and the law didn’t care as much what you did with them. 

The work was harder tonight, the soil so much fetid mud. It was heavy, and it reeked. No wonder, with all the rain we’d had lately. These graves were so shallow that a good storm could wash the coffins right out of ’em. I wasn’t making as much progress as I’d like. For every shovelful of earth I tossed out of the hole, it seemed two slid back in. The air got damper, and the stench worse, the longer I dug. Normally it didn’t bother me, but tonight the reek of decay got stronger and stronger until it permeated my skin. It crawled into my nostrils, oozed down my throat, it coated my tongue until all I could taste was death. I lit a cigarette, but it didn’t help. I leaned over my shovel, panting.

Visibility was down to a few meters. The fog had thickened, blotting out the churchyard. The tombstones stood out like ships on a flat, grey sea. The moon I had counted on for light was now invisible. Cursing myself for not bringing a lantern, I took a drag of my cigarette and gagged as the corpse smell got sucked down with the smoke. I felt like I’d been wrapped in a thick, wet blanket, but I fought off the claustrophobia and kept digging.

Each scrape of the shovel echoed in my ears, unnaturally loud. I was afraid that any moment someone would hear and bring the cops down on me, but it never happened. I felt like the only living soul in London. The fog deadened all sound. You’d expect a graveyard to be quiet, but it isn’t. There are always sounds- branches clattering in the wind, rats fighting over morsels of flesh, the distant hoot of an owl. The noise of passersby could be heard a long way off, especially  at night. St. Giles’ was never silent- but it was now. All I could hear was the earth on my shovel and the blood pounding in my ears. It was giving me the creeps, and I never got the creeps. I thrust my shovel hard into the mud. The sooner this job was over, the better.

After what seemed like hours, I finally reached my goal. A hollow thud told me only a thin layer of soil lay between me and Mary’s coffin. I brushed away the rest of dirt and there it was- a cheap wooden box, poorly built. Honestly, I was surprised there was a coffin at all. The poor were usually carried to the grave in a rented box and buried in only a shroud. The Dowes had gone all out for this one. It seemed a shame to break it, but sentimentality is the first thing to go in this business. I straddled the hole and raised the shovel above my head. With the soil acting as a counterweight, the lid would snap like a twig and I’d be in. I was just about to bring the blade down when I heard a sound. A wet, wriggling sound. I looked down and nearly dropped the shovel.

Maggots. There had to be hundreds of them. The fat, slimy things surged out of the disturbed earth, squirming out of the walls of the hole and landing on the coffin with little plops. There were more than I’d ever seen in one place, even on the most putrid corpse. And the stench….it grew thicker, coalescing around me.. It oozed down my throat until I was gagging on it. I felt my gorge try to rise and forced it back down. Holding my sleeve to my mouth, I looked down at Mary’s coffin in its maggoty shroud. She’d only been buried this afternoon. She couldn’t possibly be rotten yet- but God, did she stink. I’d half a mind to bag the whole thing and go home. Nobody would buy a body this foul, it would be no good to them. I’d actually backed up a few steps before I came to my senses. “You’re a bloody fool,” I growled, the words sounding flat and dead in  the closeness of the air. “She’s fresh, it’s just the festerin’ ground you’re smellin’.  Finish the damn job.” I took a firmer grip on my shovel, stepped forward, and drove the blade down hard into the lid.

With a sound like dry bones breaking, the lid gave way. I tossed aside the splintered pieces and peered into the coffin. There she was, a little figure wrapped in a cheap cotton shroud. There weren’t any maggots on her, nor in the coffin.  It was odd, considering the little bastards were everywhere else. God, but I wanted to get out of here. I reached for my rope, tied it around the bundle, and yanked. Nothing happened. I pulled again, harder. She barely moved. What in blazes- she couldn’t weigh more than two stone! I could have lifted her with one hand! I hauled on the rope again, and again. I was starting to panic. I swore I could feel eyes upon me, but when I looked around there was no one. I  braced my feet, pulled as hard as I could, and-

RRRIIIIP. I fell backward, Mary’s corpse along for the ride. I landed hard with her on top of me, knocking out my wind. I shoved her off and  lay there for a moment, gasping. It’s all right, I thought. It’s fine. The shroud was caught on a nail or something. Calm down. Finish the job. I looked over at the little corpse. She’d been pulled half out of the shroud and lay there in the dirt, pale and crooked. I could see her bones jutting underneath thin, papery skin. She was so small. Her mouth was open, and so were her eyes, staring blankly at a world she’d never see again. Looking into those clouded baby blues, I could almost pity her. Then I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her over to the sack. The smell was making it hard to breathe. I had to get out of here.

I was shoving her in the bag when I heard a rustling to my left. I whirled around, heart pounding. There was nothing there but trees and headstones, stark against the fog. I listened and heard nothing but eerie silence. Even the rats were gone. “Get your shit together,” I muttered, trying to slow my breathing. I couldn’t. St. Giles was a weight on my chest, and I could not draw a deep breath. I grabbed the sack and slung it over my shoulder. I left the shroud lying in the dirt. I didn’t bother filling in the grave. I didn’t even grab my shovel. I didn’t care anymore. I had to get out. Nothing else mattered. I took two steps and then I was running for the fence. 

Something wrapped around my neck and yanked me off my feet. I flew backward and struck my head on something hard. I saw stars. The unknown grip grew tighter. I clawed at my throat but felt nothing there. I got to my feet and tried to run, but it was like pulling against an iron chain! The invisible force wrenched me sideways into a headstone. I felt something crack and tasted blood. My throat was held in a vice and someone was turning the screw. My chest  was on fire. I couldn’t breathe! It squeezed tighter, and tighter….

A shadow loomed over me. I tried to focus but my head was swimming and black spots danced before my eyes. One of the spots started to grow, bigger and bigger and…no! No, it was impossible! The spot became a cloud of swirling mist. It was black as night, black as death…the stench was indescribable. The thing was shapeless but for the tendrils of mist wrapped around my throat- and a pair of blazing green eyes, floating in the depths. They stared into mine as the mist enveloped me. I felt them burrow into my soul, tearing it to bloody shreds. It was agony. I wanted  to scream but couldn’t find the air! My lungs ached. My sight blurred. All I could see, all I would ever see was those damned….EYES…

Behind Nick, a  cloaked figure watched impassively as he writhed. He tried to run but the mist held him fast. He fell to his knees, eyes bulging, and tried to crawl. His fingers dug into the mud. The minutes ticked by as he gasped for air. His struggles grew weaker, and  weaker still. Finally, they ceased altogether. The figure reached for something around her neck and held it out to the black cloud hovering over the bodysnatcher’s corpse. A pendant set with three emeralds. “Come.”

The mist slowly unraveled, drawn towards the pendant as if caught in a vortex. The cloud dissolved into the gem, becoming smaller and smaller until nothing was left but the green eyes, so like those of its mistress. Then they, too, disappeared. 

Rosie tucked the pendant back under her cloak and turned, nodding at the fresh corpse on the ground. “There you are, Albert. Just as I promised. I’ll be taking that ten quid now.”

A young man stepped out of the fog behind her. He was well dressed, with uncalloused hands and a thin face, which at present was pale as milk. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, staring at Rosie with eyes like saucers. He looked down at Nick, then back at the barmaid. Finally, he reached a hand into his pocket, and pulled out a few bills. His hand shook as he held them out without stepping closer, stretching his arm as far as it would go. 

“Thank you kindly,” Rosie said, tucking the money into her bodice. “He’ll be a fine piece of meat for the slab at King’s College, won’t he?”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Albert stammered. “Tha-thank you, ma’am.” He bent and loaded Nick  into the burlap sack he’d brought, heaving it to his shoulder with a grunt. As he did, he cast a covetous glance at little Mary, still lying on the ground where she’d been dropped. “Rosie, ma’am…”

“She is NOT for sale!” Green fire crackled in Rosie’s eyes. Her hair swirled around her face as if caught in the wind, but there was no wind. Albert flinched like he’d been struck by a whip. “N-no, ma’am! Of c-course not! W-wouldn’t dream of it!” He backed away and almost fell.

“Take him, and go.” Rosie’s voice was calm, but edged with steel. “And if you ever speak of this, to anyone….I will know. Do you understand?”

Albert nodded once, then turned and fled. When he had gone, Rosie removed Mary from the sack. She re-wrapped the tiny corpse in its shroud, cradling it like an infant and humming an Irish lullaby. She replaced it in the grave, knelt, and waved her hand. The grave filled itself in, and a fine stone monument appeared where the wooden cross had been. It read,

   Mary Dowe

1832-1839

She is With the Angels

“Rest in peace, sweet child,” Rosie murmured. After a long moment, she rose, and left the churchyard to its dead. Her cloak stirred the fog as she disappeared into the London night.

The End