Fresh Harvest

The Crooked Anchor was a vile place, even for the likes of me. Its crumbling facade bore the scars of countless brawls and drunken mishaps. Still, the atmosphere clung to me like a second skin. Shadows draped themselves over every surface, the dim light of flickering candles barely penetrating the gloom. Chipped tables and mismatched chairs filled the room, all occupied by the wretched souls who called this place their home away from home.

It was in this den of filth that I first encountered Sinclair. He was an oasis of refinement amid the squalor. His tailored suit and polished shoes contrasted with the rough-hewn patrons around him. I couldn’t help but wonder what had brought such a man to a place like this.

Nursing my warm ale at a corner table, I was lost in my thoughts, watching the liquid swirl against the metal cup with each movement. It was only when the stool opposite me was disturbed that I noticed the impeccably dressed man standing before me.

“Mr. Tully,” he declared rather than questioned. “I am Sinclair.” 

I refused the gloved hand he extended and took another sip from my mug. He retracted it gracefully while seating himself. The filth and splintered wood crunched beneath his pristine black overcoat. 

“Have we met?” I asked, studying his sharp, hook-like nose.

“Not officially, Mr. Tully, but I require a man with your talents.” 

“My talents?” I feigned confusion. “Beyond horseshoes and hinge repairs, I fear there is little a man of your distinction might require of a lowly blacksmith.”

“Yes, of course,” he drew out the words as though his mouth were full. “Your secondary occupation is quite renowned, but I’m afraid I’m not interested in that.”

“It seems you have me confused with someone else,” I said, maintaining an impassive stare.

He released an insincere chuckle.

“Mr. Tully, I am a man with many interests and limited time. I do, however, have unlimited resources.” He fished a silver flask from his coat pocket and tipped it back for a long, greedy swig before going on. “Now, I have it on good authority that you are somewhat of an expert in the business of… harvesting.” 

“Have you now?” I replied with a smirk, studying his face for any hint of deceit. “And where would you have procured such information about me, stranger?”

“Surely two gentlemen can discuss an honest business transaction with the utmost transparency, don’t you think?” His grin grew menacing.

“Alright then,” I said, setting down my now-empty mug. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

He slid a thick parchment bearing a peculiar wax seal across the table. “The job I have in mind requires a... fresh subject.”

“How fresh?” I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. Such subjects were hard to come by and highly sought after.

“No more than three days departed. And delivery must occur at dawn, the day after tomorrow.”

I laughed and slid the sealed parchment back in his direction. 

“You must be mistaken. My ventures involve subjects that have already passed. Your proposition is better suited for an assassin. What business need would a man of your status have for such a specimen?”

The unnerving smile quickly melted from his face, and a threatening scowl appeared in its place. “My business is none of your concern. Games of cat and mouse do not amuse me. Furthermore, it would be in your best interest to not mock me, Mr. Tully.” 

He twisted his mustache in irritation before continuing, “As it happens, one Nathaniel Cole of Belmont expired this very morning and will be interred tomorrow afternoon in the burial yard beside the old Winchester Church. When the moon hangs high in the night sky and the grounds are vacant, your work can begin. Upon completion, the specimen must be delivered immediately.” 

“The cost for such a… delicate and time sensitive job will, of course, be substan—”

He interrupted, fluttering a gloved hand to silence me. “I will pay double your fee for the inconvenience and expected discretion. Now, do we have a deal?”

Wavering in uncertainty, I paused briefly before nodding in reluctant agreement.

“Excellent. I knew we would come to an understanding.” He tapped his finger on the sealed parchment. “The details of the delivery location are recorded here.”

Rising from his seat, he smoothed his overcoat before offering his gloved hand again. I got to my feet as well and reached out to shake it.

He gripped my hand tightly and leaned close to my ear.

“Should you locate a fresher specimen than Mr. Cole, I will triple your fee. But be warned, Mr. Tully, a handshake with me is binding. If you fail to satisfy our agreement, well, there is no fresher specimen than the vessel standing before me.”

The following evening, I stood at an unmarked grave, the mound of freshly turned earth the only indication of Nathaniel Cole’s resting place. My shovel sliced cleanly through the loose topsoil as I heaved it aside. Swift with my movements, a hill of dirt formed next to the steadily deepening hole. But three feet down, the shovel struck something firmer - undisturbed ground, packed hard as stone. Confused, I drove the blade deeper, muscles screaming as I felt pressed by the fleeting time. My excavation continued until my arms gave out against the stiff ground. I dropped breathless to my knees, clawing the solid earth with bleeding fingers, finding nothing but unbroken turf below. As confusion washed over me, a subtle crunch of gravel made me lift my gaze. Over the lip of the hole, I glimpsed a luminous silhouette drifting out from behind a nearby mausoleum.

From a distance, its features were indistinct and pale. Only as it drew closer did I see that it was not the ghostly apparition I assumed, but a man. His clothing hung off his frame in tatters as if he had clawed his way up from one of the graves himself. I heaved myself out of the hole to level ground.

“Oi! What have we here?” His voice cut through the stillness. 

“I could ask you the same,” I said, brushing dirt from my soiled clothing in vain.

“It is told that those who disturb the slumber of the deceased suffer an eternity of torment,” he warned, closing the distance between us.

He was a wretched-looking man, his clothes filthy and torn, his face gaunt and pale. But in his eyes, I saw a glimmer of something familiar — a desperate hunger that mirrored my own.

“I’ve yet to encounter any vengeful spirits burying those that have gone before me.”

“Aye. You’re here to bury the dead, you say? At this hour?” He released a humorless chuckle and gestured toward the mound of dirt. “This is no burial.”

“Look, mate. This doesn’t concern you,” I said, lifting my shovel. “Move along.”

We studied each other wordlessly as the rapidly fading moonlight wove perplexing shadows across his face. His tanned skin appeared smooth and vigorous, hinting at youth. Yet a closer look revealed thin lips set in sober determination, faint lines tracing across his cheeks, and strands of silver glinting subtly through his black wind-tousled hair. These contradictions left me unsettled, and I struggled to make sense of the man who stood before me. As he squinted back at me, I could tell he was just as bewildered by me. We were equals then, two unkempt souls searching for meaning in flickering shadows and shards of impenetrable light.

“Perhaps I should fetch the groundskeeper to inform him of a robbery?” His voice softened with uncertainty.

He turned his back, and in that instant, my body seized control. With a grip tightened by fear, I swung with brute instinct. As the edge of my shovel connected with the man’s skull, a sickening crack rang out. The echoing sound was interrupted by a heavy thump as the ground claimed him. In his final moments, his limbs convulsed, the muscles firing rapidly, as if somehow trying to pump life back into his leaden body. They danced an erratic jig, every fiber still stubbornly grasping for survival, though his spirit was slipping away. But the frantic twitching soon slowed. Each spasm became weaker than the last, dwindling to a few subtle tremors before those too stilled.

I stared in stunned silence, searching for the rise and fall of his chest, but it lay undisturbed. An unexpected flash of crisp ivory caught my eye as my gaze shifted across the grim scene—a clean, untarnished parchment corner peeking from the man’s dingy pocket. I quickly tugged it loose and noticed the familiar wax seal. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I unfolded the letter, dreading yet already knowing the contents I would find within. There, in elegant script, were the same instructions I had received from the peculiar nobleman. 

The letter crumpled between my fingers as revelation exploded in my mind. This was not a chance encounter but a carefully orchestrated confrontation. Like hounds, we were set loose upon the same phantom fox with clear intent that only one pursuer would return. 

Rage simmered in my gut as I reached for my shovel. But when my attention shifted back to the lifeless man at my feet, I watched, unmoved, as the crimson halo of blood around his head twinkled beneath the moon. I realized that no pity stirred inside me, no hint of remorse or dread. A cold but welcome detachment occupied the space where my conscience once dwelled. This was not wrath but the emergence of some feral force long-caged within. It hungered for refinement like a restrained beast now unleashed, salivating at the promise of power if I honed its potential. 

Still radiating warmth, I heaved the fresh corpse into my carriage. My breath fogged in the autumn air as my horse clopped rhythmically down the road. The gravestones shrunk behind me with each echoing hoofbeat. 

As the first glimmers of dawn crested, I imagined Sinclair waiting with arrogant confidence for his delivery, unaware of the seed he had sown. I entered the burial yard as a harvester and emerged as a reaper, ready to yield my next crop.