Willie brushed his fingers over the paint. He could see the jewels but he just couldn't get to them. Couldn't have them in his hands, like most things. The things you want are always just out of reach. Just out of-
He heard footsteps, somewhere, in that great old house. With all the echoes, it was near impossible to tell where it was coming from. Rhythmic like footsteps, like a heartbeat.
Willie retracted his hand and stuffed it in his pocket, feeling the lighter there. Yeah, he could use a smoke. The front door was just there so he slipped outside and into the chilly November air. His first breath condensed in the air, white, like he had already taken a drag on his crumpled second to last cigarette.
Frowning, he eyed it. The last one.
It was damn difficult to find this brand anywhere around here. And after these two, who knew when he'd get more.
The light flicked into life and the warmth of the flame embraced the cigarette. Oh well. Now he just had the one left.
He took the first couple puffs and sighed, jaw still aching from the other night. He must be a picture of pain right now, bruises marching across his face like storm-clouds. Painted black and blue. Heh, painting of pain. He tried to smother a grin. Smiling hurt like hell. Both he and the portrait of that guy in the house were paintings right now. Though Willie wasn't sure which one was uglier.
"It's probably me." He murmured. "It's usually me."
He hated waiting. He eyed the grounds, stretching out before him, dry and gray and ready for winter. He could hear the rumble of the ocean in the distance. He really hated waiting. Waiting on the damn money. Especially waiting on Jason. Both of them knew that Jason constantly bullshitted every single excuse he'd ever given. That was just what he did. It's who he was. But Willie wasn't going to put up with that. Everyone else may be patient or dumb, but he wasn't. Well, he wasn't patient anyway.
And Jason owed him. For everything.
The money was just the least Jason could do for him.
He finished his cigarette and allowed himself a moment to mourn. He now had one cigarette left.
Yeah, he wasn't waiting around again for Jason to find a way to use him or screw him over. The guy thought he meant well but Willie was always the one who was hurting in the end. And he felt that he had done well for himself during their first separation. He hadn't gotten himself killed anyway. Or killed anyone else. Willie felt that counted as a success.
So he had done well before and he'll do so again. And he would do it on his terms. Not Jason's. Not again. Not anymore.
The sun was beginning to go down behind the trees. It was time.
Willie shuffled into the house again to pack his things. It didn't take long. It never took long. It all fit into a single duffel bag and, even then, it wasn't full. Willie stood and looked at the single bag on the bed and felt something. He wasn't sure what. He'd had this feeling before, knowing his entire life fit easily into a small bag. But he didn't have a name for it. Oh well. He slunk downstairs and set off in search of tools.
The house always seemed empty, so he didn't end up running into anyone. And by the time he'd gathered what he needed, the sun had fully set. Darkness lay over the grounds like a blanket, the sky above still fading colors listing into gray. As he walked away, Willie looked back at the house of Collinwood over his shoulder. The lights inside were warm and made the whole place look almost sweet. It was deceptive. Places like that just don't exist.
He'd be back. Willie knew he'd be back with jewels to count and treasures to hold when he was alone.
He disappeared into the trees.
Willie found himself panting once he got through the gates. It really was a hill. The metalwork spelled out Eagle Hill Cemetery.
Willie threaded his way in between the gravestones, each in its own unique state of decay. The flashlight he'd brought along glanced off the stones. The harsh beam threw the worn engraved words, that would have otherwise been unreadable in sunlight due to their age, into clarity.
Beloved Son.
Wife and Mother.
Gone too Soon.
Willie found himself reading each one and tore his eyes from the epitaphs. He focused ahead, on the mausoleum. He'd be lucky if he got so much as a rock over his grave. More than likely people would be pissing or spitting on it if he did get a headstone. Wasn't worth it.
He'd always kind of hoped he'd die at sea. Who would want to be buried? He felt a shudder ripple through his limbs as he arrived in front of the mausoleum.
Who would want to be trapped underground forever?
He'd kept the bolt cutters near the top of his tool bag. He knew he'd need them first. After walking in the cold November dusk the metal handles are icy enough to hurt when he gripped them. With a swift snap, the lock was cut and Willie was gingerly unspooling the clanking chain from the doors. With the chain pooled at his feet, Willie opened the doors to the mausoleum.
It was grave-robbing, plain and simple, he reminded himself. His feet became glued to the spot, just at the threshold.
He couldn't move.
Willie cursed his fear. And whatever goodness was left in him.
But he couldn't rely on Jason to take care of him anymore. Jason had asked too much. One too many times. All the time. That was why he'd left him the first time. Willie needed to be independent now. And to be independent, Willie needed money. And if Willie needed money, he would have to do things to get money, things he didn't like to do.
What else could a person do with just a body?
Willie thought back to his little bag of belongings on the bed in Collinwood. He didn't own much. Just himself.
What else did he have?
No one would hire him. No one trusted him. And it was hard to be nice.
He could use his body to rob dead people and not hurt anyone living. The dead don't feel things.
Or.
He'd have to use it for other things, just to eat, just to sleep in a bed, just to live.
And Willie had said no for the last time.
This time he was in control. He crossed the threshold and entered the mausoleum.
It was much, much colder in the tomb. Cold like he'd just stepped underground. Willie set his tool bag on a sarcophagus, thought a moment, then changed his mind and set it on the ground by his feet.
He then went from sarcophagus to sarcophagus with the flashlight, searching for the right name on the wall opposite. Finally, the name "Naomi Collins" called out to him. Finally.
He paused and listened. Nothing. Good.
The stone lid was too heavy for him to just shove it off. He realized this pretty soon since he tried. And then he tried with a crowbar. And tried again. He felt sweat break out along his spine, cooling quickly in the cold air of dusk. It didn't budge.
Willie shivered. He needed the money to live. Willie threw down the crowbar, breathing hard and tears starting in his eyes. It loudly clanged on the stone floor. He immediately regretted it and went to the door of the mausoleum and listened. Nothing. Good. Nothing.
He wiped his eyes then ran a hand through his hair. He needed to stay calm. He needed to relax. Willie sighed and took his last cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with one of his last three matches. The tip of the cigarette glowed. He threw the lit match on the stone floor. Breathe in, smoke out. A thought occurred to him so he set the lit cigarette down on one of the tombs.
Willie grabbed his tools again and began setting everything up to pull the lid off. He attached a rope with a pulley to the lid and the ring there. Then he threaded the rope to a ring in a stone lion's mouth affixed to the wall nearby with another pulley. It was almost ready when… That sound again. He dropped the rope and the pulleys clattered to the ground.
A cold thrill ran through him. It wasn't footsteps and it wasn't the blood rushing in his ears. It was an honest to god heartbeat.
Willie put a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh that was twitching in his throat. It was an uncontrollable peal of laughter that frightened him. Where was that sound coming from? And why? He swallowed down the laugh. Was he going insane? Willie backed away putting his hands to his ears. But still, he could hear the heartbeat throbbing. It was in his head. Oh god. It was in his head.
He searched the small mausoleum, eyes straining in the darkness, still looking for the source. Nothing. Nothing at all. He went to the door to look out. And it stopped.
And somehow that scared him more.
Willie looked back to the sarcophagus, the rope and pulleys lying there on the ground. Get it together, he berated himself. Get it together, you rat bastard.
Willie took a drag from his cigarette and laid it back down on the sarcophagus.
Get it together and get back to work. This is how you eat. This is how you live.
Willie picked up the rope and pulley again and, ignoring the tremor in his hands, hooked it into the ring in the stone lion's mouth. He grabbed the other end of the rope. He took a moment, listened again, and began to pull.
At first, nothing gave. So he dug in and pulled harder. There was a sudden grating sound. The smell of gravedirt and decay. A gust of frigid air. But the lid of the sarcophagus hadn't moved. Willie dropped the rope again and clutched his hands to his ears as the sound of that heartbeat flooded through his head. It pounded behind his eyes, he could taste every beat in the back of his throat.
The wall had opened up, a deeper darkness yawning before him. A mouth. A gaping maw. And it opened for him.
Slowly, he picked up his flashlight and walked to the dark entrance.
Willie jumped down and into the darkness. It became even colder. His breath swirled around his head, frozen in the air. His flashlight began to flicker as it arced over a solitary coffin, covered in chains.
And of course, he could still hear the heartbeat. Was it getting louder? When did it start again? Why hadn't he noticed?
Willie swallowed hard and brushed his hand over the coffin. It was unmarked. No name. He looked back into the mausoleum. He was still alone. Good.
Willie eyed the chains. There must be something pretty good in there. He hoped so anyway. Why else would there be so many chains?
He looked over each padlock, they were thick and very old. He didn't think the bolt cutters would be much use here. He went back for a chisel and hammer and got to work. Despite the pounding in his head, the work was quick and soon the coffin was freed from the chains and padlocks. He wiped his forehead, eyed the lid to the coffin, then went for his crowbar. As soon as he wedged the crowbar in the groove, the heartbeat stopped.
Almost in response, Willie's heart stopped too.
He stopped what he was doing and noticed how quiet it really was in the tomb.
Willie began to leverage his weight against the weight of the coffin. This is how I eat, he told himself. This is how I live. He leaned harder and threw his whole body into it. This is how I live.
And finally, something gave. A creak. A moan. A swirl of dust and the taste of decay. It was done. Willie hefted the lid upwards and opened the coffin.
And all of Hell broke loose.
In the darkness that flowed from inside the coffin, two pinpricks of light shone out, cold and unwavering.
And try as he might, Willie could not look away. All the fear that had been vibrating within his limbs, telling him to run, began to fade away into the background. He could not move. He could not scream.
Willie could feel his thoughts being pushed away and drowned in nothingness. Where was he? Every emotion fled him. What day was it? Nothing. Everything was leached from his mind until he almost felt his name slipping away. He clung to that as best as he could. It was the last thing he had of his mother, for she had named him. It was all he had.
The void around him grew deeper and all sound faded away. There were only the eyes. The eyes and the hand. The hand which extended from the darkness, pale in the lowlight, found its mark.
And as its fingers wrapped around his throat and a series of memories flowed across Willie's consciousness and disappeared into darkness, he dully understood something. From the disappearing memories he saw a pattern. He saw his pattern. He barely had enough of himself left to realize every single decision he had made in his miserable little life had led him directly here and now. Every decision he made had led him here, to be prey.
This is how I eat.
This is how I live.
This is how I die.
And he felt his name slip away