The touch of hemp
By Adam Patterson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Adam Patterson
Cover design by Ping Pictures
www.smashwords.com/adampatterson
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
July 6th 1897
Dear Arthur,
My dearest brother, I do feel great woe due to our long period of silence, since your business duties abroad in the United States and my tight scheduled working life had rendered it almost impossible for any meaningful contact.
Please forgive my delay in returning this letter to you, as these last few weeks have been a nightmare for me, as you may well understand.
As I write this letter now, I am waiting for an old friend who can hopefully help to end this nightmare. He is my only hope to solve this matter, and I do so long for it to be at an end.
Please do not worry about me now, my dear Arthur, as by the time you read this, my torment should be over and my new life would thus be beginning.
I feel I have a duty to explain everything to you, so I will delay no further in enlightening you of the dreadful sequence of events that befell me not three months before.
As you are now fully aware, apart from my regular job as a baker, my second – and most lucrative – profession is chief hangman in the service of Her Majesty. I have held this position for the good part of three years now, and have conducted 32 executions and, in years previous, have assisted in 43 more. In addition, I have been praised on numerous occasions by the under sheriff and governor of many prisons up and down the country for my expeditious professionalism.
All was going well until the morning I came to hang Conrad Edgar Stubbs for the murder of an ex-business partner from whom he was attempting to extort money. I had read only little about the sorrowful case in the newspapers during his trial, and had not paid any fair attention to the details of the crime.
Richard Palmer, my young assistant, accompanied me when I travelled by train the morning before his execution to arrive at Bodmin Prison before the appointed time of 4 o'clock p.m. It was a dismal day if ever I saw one, and being on the bleak moors made the weather conditions almost intolerable. However, the coach we travelled in from the station to the gaol saw us safely to our destination, and once inside we were shown our quarters and given a splendid hot meal.
That evening, while the prisoner was taking his final stroll in the exercise yard, I took the opportunity to spy upon him so I could estimate the length of the drop needed to break his neck in an instant. He looked to me a rather pitiful, insignificant man, although his composure told me that he was facing death bravely, or was hiding his fear remarkably well. After setting the gallows for the morning's event, my assistant and I retired to our quarters to play cards until deciding to get some sleep for our early rise.
Alfred Hamilton looked up from the letter on the table before him when he heard a noise outside the door. He checked the time and learnt that he had just under an hour before his friend was due to arrive. Yes, he had time to complete this letter – a letter until only a few moments ago he had only dared to think about writing. His heart dropped back to its steady rhythm and he took the opportunity of his interruption to take a sip of water. Even though it was a hot summer's day outside, Alfred felt a chill run through his body and he pulled the collar of his shirt higher around his neck. After reading the last few lines back to himself in silence, he dipped his pen into the inkwell, returned its tip to the paper and resumed writing.
We were up at six o'clock prompt. Before breakfast, my assistant aided me in the final arrangements within the execution shed, coiling the rope that had been stretching overnight and resetting the trapdoors. At a few minutes to 8 o'clock that morning, I joined the small crowd of officials and guards outside the condemned's cell, waiting for the chime of the hour to strike. When the time came, a guard opened the door and I followed him inside.
However, when I entered, Conrad Stubbs was standing calmly before me with a wan smile upon his face. As I approached, intending to turn him round so that I could pinion his arms, he held an envelope out before me. Then, to my uttermost surprise, he dropped to his knees and begged me to deliver this letter in person to his sister, whose address he had neatly written upon the envelope. It was an unusual request – one that is normally fulfilled by the condemned's solicitor – but he was determined that I should be the one to deliver his message.
Taken aback by this sudden, piteous spectacle, and feeling somewhat conscientious under the holy words spoken by the clergyman delivering the last rites, I agreed to his demand. I took the letter, put it in my pocket then hastily tied his hands and led him to the execution shed. He followed me to the gallows bravely, and I noticed that there was even a smile upon his lips as he walked to his death.
After I hooded and noosed him and my assistant strapped his ankles together, I reached for the lever. Just before the trapdoors swung open, ending the life of Conrad Edgar Stubbs, I clearly heard him mutter the words "please fulfil my wishes".
It was just before midday when Richard Palmer and I left the prison to return to the station, and I still had the letter for Stubbs' sister within my pocket. Learning that the address where I must deliver it was within only a few miles upon the moors, I decided to proceed with the man's final request, even under advice to surrender the envelope into the trust of his solicitor.
As you well know, my dear Arthur, I am a dedicated man of the church, and I solemnly believe that a promise should be fulfilled. Therefore, at the station my assistant and I said our farewells before going our separate ways.
However, if I had known beforehand the treacherous journey ahead, I would surely have placed the onus into the hands of his solicitor. The house where the coach took me was far across the moors, and by this time the weather had turned to a thick fog. I turned the letter within my hand over and over again, wondering why he had appointed me, his executioner, as his messenger. I was beginning to have second thoughts about this, and even after the coach arrived outside the gates of the rambling house of Stubbs' sister, I was considering turning back. However, I ordered the coachman to wait kindly behind whilst I completed my business at the house.
Please forgive me for saying that it felt as though the devil himself was watching me as I approached the door. It was barely past one o'clock in the afternoon, but the gloom of the day made it feel as though it was midnight. Also, it was bitterly cold, my dear brother – as ever a tomb was cold.
After looking behind me to ensure the coach was still there, I knocked upon the door and waited.
I learnt from the title upon the envelope that Conrad's sister was a spinster, so I addressed her as Miss Stubbs when she opened the door. She was a tall, slender but rather gaunt-looking woman, immaculately dressed and had an air of elegance about her. I removed my top hat in politeness and respect before telling her my name and purpose of the visit.
After looking me up and down she smiled warmly and offered me to step inside. I followed her through the vast hallway and into the parlour, where a blazing fire glowed. Adorning the walls were many artefacts and ornaments of curiosity, all appearing to be from another continent and another age. It appeared that she lived alone within this sizable house, as I saw no sign of relatives, servants or the like.
"Can I bring you a drink for your troubles, Mr. Hamilton?" she offered. "A cognac, perhaps?"
I thanked her but declined her offer. When I presented Miss Stubbs the letter from her deceased brother, she took it and held it within her hands, never taking her eyes from me. "Are you the gentleman who put my brother to death?" she asked.
I was taken aback by her sudden question, and although I had prepared for this moment, I found myself momentarily speechless. However, when she smiled warmly at me, making me feel more at ease, I confessed that I was indeed the man who put her brother to death.
"Did he die bravely?" she asked further, and I told her that he did. She continued to stare upon my person, seemingly searching me up and down with her eyes, and I must confess that I felt rather uncomfortable. Finally, she turned away towards the fireplace and, with her back towards me, opened the envelope. I waited in respectful silence while she read the letter, but I was shocked further when, only mere seconds later, she crumpled the paper within her hands and tossed it into the blazing fire.
When she withdrew from the fireplace, there was not a hint of any emotion upon her face. She approached me and yet again searched me up and down with her eyes. I was on the verge of excusing myself from her company when she suddenly said, "You are forgiven, sir."
Not knowing what to say, I simply bowed my head. Again, she offered me a drink and even reimbursement for my journey to the house, but I declined once more, informing her that my coach awaited me outside. She therefore led me back out into the hallway to the door, but as I bid her farewell she grabbed my arm and held it tight.
"In death there is no death but only the withering of a mortal shell; for the soul of God's man passes like seed into the breeze, so within fertile soil can swell."
Those, my dear Arthur, were the strange words she near whispered to me as I stood upon the doorstep of her house. I remember them well, even though I had no idea at the time of what they truly meant – only that it had reference to her dead brother. Even after my coach took me back down the long path to the adjoining road, I could see Miss Stubbs watching me with those keen eyes of hers until distance made it impossible to do so.
Although this was the first time I met Miss Stubbs, it was not to be the last, as you must be fully aware by now.
Alfred stopped writing. At this point he considered tearing the letter into a hundred pieces and ending this cursed nightmare for good. But instead, he eventually picked his pen up from the desk and, learning he had just over half an hour before his friend was due, continued to write his confession.
A few days passed without anything out of the ordinary happening. I continued with my work at the baker's shop as normal, and I had no execution booked at the time. Thinking back, I assume that it was the night of Barry and Evelyn's wedding when I first realised something was wrong, or rather, that others knew that something was wrong.
As you may remember, I am not a drinking man, and alcohol had not passed my lips for as far as I can remember until that night at the wedding reception. Nobody gave it a second thought on a special occasion such as that, but I was astounded to find I had a definite yearning for liquor, as though I was a regular drinker. At first, my fiancée, Marilyn, turned a blind eye to this, but as the night continued, thus my drinking continued.
I began to become abusive to the guests, and on one occasion, I became violent towards one of Barry's relatives. After returning home somewhat worse for wear, I am ashamed to admit that I stalked the night for female company while my fiancée was sleeping soundly at her parents' house.
My sudden, shameful spell did not end there, my dear brother. In fact, I progressively got worse. I began to gamble, which I had never done before in my entire life. Although I play cards to pass the time during my overnight stays at the various prisons before an execution, I was rarely any good. Far from being a successful cardsharp, the savings put aside for my own marriage to Marilyn dwindled rapidly away.
I was also drinking more heavily and spending more time in the company of prostitutes than that of my fiancée. My punctuality and performance at the bakery was poor, and I was threatened with dismissal on numerous occasions. The church was just a memory to me by then, and even when I had a request to hang a murderer in the coming week, I turned it down so I could spend more time playing cards or in the company of strange women.
Then one night, fearful for my sanity, Marilyn paid me an unexpected visit to my home. I was already drunk, unwashed and unkempt. I laughed in her face when she begged me to stop my drinking, but when she continued to protest I hit her. Far from being sorry for my actions, I tell you my dear brother with a heavy heart, I raped her as she lay bleeding upon the floor.
At the time I was lucky, for my fiancée, feeling shame for us both, told nobody about what happened that night. As you may well understand, Marilyn never came to see me again, and I never called upon her, interested only in women of the night.
I had enough sanity remaining to be aware that I was completely out of control, but it was not until one night, after spending my company with a strange woman, when I realised it was the devil's work that had turned me into the fiend I had become.
That night, when I looked into the mirror, I saw not my reflection but the face of Conrad Stubbs grinning devilishly back. Although I had a drink or two, I knew that what I saw before me was no illusion. Do not assume this was the only occasion I witnessed his vision before me, as even now I see his reflection staring back at me instead of my own.
Then came the time when I decided to learn more about this man, Conrad Edgar Stubbs. Firstly, I managed to find old newspaper articles about the court case, but the more I learnt about him, the more horrified I became. It was not until I obtained police reports about him when I realised the true nature of this beast. I was deeply shocked to discover that his lifestyle mirrored very much my own, new pathetic existence. He was a heavy drinker, gambler and womaniser, and on numerous occasions had spent time in jail for theft or assault. However, it was not until I read that he and his sister were dabblers in the occult that I decided to return to the house upon the moors.
In desperation, and before the influential spirit of the man I hanged could stop me, I took a train and travelled west towards the area where he formerly lived, visions of voodoo and devil worship filling my mind. Again, I travelled from the station by coach and arrived outside the house just before dusk. This time I paid the coachman and told him I no longer required his services that night, as I was positive that my conversation with Stubbs' sister was to be at a great length. After walking hesitantly up the pathway, I rapped upon the door and waited.
To my surprise, when Miss Stubbs opened the door, she simply smiled and beckoned me inside as though she was already expecting me. After leading me into the parlour, she poured a large glass of cognac and offered it to me. "I know you now want this, Mr. Hamilton," she said to me. "I gather you are still Mr. Hamilton?"
"What do you mean by that?" I asked her, but she turned away and became silent. Without a further word, I greedily emptied the glass in one gulp.
"Do you see these wonderful artefacts upon my walls?" she then asked. I looked again at the exotic display of masks, spears, wooden figurines and symbols that glimmered ghostly within the light of the blazing fire. "My brother and I travelled many times to Haiti and Africa. That is where these wonderful items come from."
I watched as she began to circle the large room, gazing up at the artefacts with deep affection.
"What has happened to me?" I blurted out in desperation, no longer able to sustain my grief. "I see your brother's face every day tormenting me… mocking me. Why does he haunt me so?"
When she turned back to me, she took the glass from my fingers and refilled it with more cognac.
"Why don't you sit down and be comfortable, Mr. Hamilton?" she said before pressing her hand upon my shoulder, forcing me to sit. "I wish for you to spend some time with me, as we are soon to become good friends."
As if under her spell, I obediently sat upon her divan and drank more of the liquor she offered. She produced a small, silver case of French cigarettes and offered me one. I took it without hesitation, even though I have never before smoked.
"These were Conrad's favourites," she told me after lighting both of our cigarettes. "He always loved to indulge in the finest things in life."
"So much, he became a wicked man!" I exclaimed, but she only laughed at my comment – a sardonic, wicked laugh.
"Do not speak ill of the dead, Mr. Hamilton," she calmly said to me. "My brother was no angel, but he was also no fool."
"He was a hedonistic, swindling murderer!" I could no longer control my anger, but Miss Stubbs simply smiled back at me as though I was saying words of admiration rather than the opposite. "Why does he torment me so?" I ask again. "If you know why he does, you must tell me now. For the love of God, you must!"
With those words, she walked to a large bookcase and brought forth a small, metal chest. From a chain around her neck, she produced a key that fits the lock and she opened it for me. Inside there was a large, antiquated book, as rare and old as the curiosities adorning the walls.
"You see this here, Mr. Hamilton?" she asked me. "This is called the 'Book of the dead'. My brother and I 'acquired' it on one of our many travels to Haiti. It is a book of spells, incantations and curses."
"Are you quite insane?" I bellow. "Surely you do not believe in this voodoo nonsense!"
"You mock the powers of voodoo, Mr. Hamilton, but if you believe in it not, then why are you now here?"
"Yes indeed," I continued defiantly, "why am I now here? You have not yet answered my question – an answer I surely believe you have!"
She laughed that wicked laugh again before leafing through the book. After finding the desired page, she presented it for me to study.
"You see here?" she said. "Here are the enchanted words that bring a soul back from death."
I looked upon the strange incantations, written in a dialect of old. I begin to read through the passages, but the words bear no meaning for me.
"I still do not understand," I declared, although, my dear brother, I realised with growing dread that I had been cursed from that very book I held within my hands – a curse upon my mortal soul!
Alfred lifted his head from the page and learnt he now had only fifteen minutes remaining before his friend arrives at the door. He needed to finish this letter to his brother soon, or else his story could never be told. Wasting no more of his valuable time, Alfred Hamilton quickly dipped his pen into the ink and continued writing.
"What you have before you is an ancient spell to inflict upon the one who brings death!" Miss Stubbs continued. I could see in her eyes that she was becoming excited – even euphoric. "The murderer was promised clemency if he or she confessed their crime to the kin of the deceased, unknowing that by doing so would activate a curse. That curse would enable their mortal flesh to be possessed by whose life they took away!"
"That is preposterous!" I exclaimed, although the memory of Conrad Stubbs' face leering back at me from the mirror told me I was gravely wrong.
"No, Mr. Hamilton. Once the spell has been uttered and you have confessed your crime to a blood relative of the one you slain, then it is only a matter of time before the curse takes hold of your soul."
"But I am innocent," I argue. "It was a judicial hanging, I tell you. He was found guilty by a jury of his peers!"
"It matters not. On the day you ended my brother's life, you confessed to me in this very room. Conrad purposely sent you here to give me a letter that had no meaning so that I could ask you the question, knowing that I had already spoken the sacred words."
"No, it cannot be true," I tell her, although deep down in my heart I knew that it was.
"In death there is no death but only the withering of a mortal shell," she recited again as she stood boldly before me. "For the soul of God's man passes like seed into the breeze, so within fertile soil can swell."
"You are crazy," I told her.
"Conrad's soul is the seed and your mortal body is the fertile soil," she continued as she sat calmly down beside me.
"But he was a murderous, drunken scoundrel," I protested. "He does not deserve to live again!"
"He gambled far too much, I agree," she said. "He needed the money, but he did not truly mean to murder. I should have taken more care of him; it was my fault." She then put her hand gently to my face. "I will not make that mistake again the next time."
I stood up in a rage and threw the empty brandy glass to shatter against the wall. "There will be no next time, I assure you, for I will resist him – fight him!"
"You cannot stop it from happening," she told me and then stood and walked to the blazing fireplace. "There is no going back once the curse has been passed. With only a matter of days he will possess you completely, so take care of that body, Mr. Hamilton, for it no longer belongs to you!"
I could not restrain my anger any more. While she stood with her back turned towards me, I charged at her, knocking her to the floor.
"Stop this at once," she pleaded, but I plucked the fire poker from the hearth and proceeded to beat at her as she lay upon the floor. "Stop him, Conrad," she screamed. "Stop him. You must stop him, or else you will hang again!"
I beat her to death, my dear Arthur, the hatred inside me very much my own. I could feel the spirit of Conrad Stubbs fighting against me from within, but his will was far too weak against my rage.
After she was lying dead and bleeding upon the floor, I set the room alight with the flames from the fireplace. Before I ran from the house, I cast the devilish book into the fire, but not before tearing out the page containing the cursed words.
After that moment, I do not remember any more until I awoke in a police cell under arrest for the murder of Miss Stubbs. I was swiftly found guilty by a jury of my peers and sentenced to hang for my crime. During my short wait within the condemned cell, I was hoping that the spirit of Conrad Stubbs would fully possess my body and would thus hang again instead of me. However, even though I still see his face and not mine in my reflection, his influence is now weak as though his wretched curse has failed, knowing his spirit will die with me.
Do not feel pity or sadness, my dear Arthur, for by the time you read this I will be in a better place. I have a thousand more things I wish to tell you, but I must now end the letter I feared to write.
I therefore bid you a happy, long life.
All my love,
Alfred
Just before the strike of eight o'clock, Alfred Hamilton unfolded a single piece of paper hidden within his pocket and read the words written upon it under his breath. Once he had finished, he held the remaining page of the Book of the dead above the flame of the single candle while the clergyman began to read his last rites.
When the sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the tiny cell, Alfred stood patiently until the hangman entered.
"Hello Richard," Alfred softly said as his former work colleague approached with the pinion strap held ready in his hand.
The hangman gave a sorrowful smile. "Hello, my friend."
"I see you have been promoted."
Richard Palmer nodded once in affirmation. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to ask you to turn around so I can bind your wrists."
Mirroring Conrad Stubbs' actions, Alfred then dropped to his knees and held the envelope containing his letter up high. "Please, Richard, take this to my brother in person as my last wish on earth. Promise me truly you will tell him who you are, and that I died with courage in my heart!"
The hangman plucked the envelope from his fingers and gently placed it in his pocket. "I will do just that, my dear friend. Have no fear."
A short time later, Alfred Hamilton stood upon the trap doors beneath the gallows, and just before the hangman placed the hood over his head, plunging his final moments into darkness, he gazed upon the young man whose body he would soon possess. Seconds later, he felt the rough touch of the hemp upon his skin as he tightened the noose around his neck.
And he smiled.
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By Adam Patterson 2012