Warning! This story is not suitable for children. Please use discretion.
Steve despised his wife and killing her was the high point of his life. But as he happily put her in the ground, it never occurred to him that killing her wouldn’t stick.
Her murder was difficult, gruesome and bloody. Steve hated the way the hacksaw got blood everywhere.
Steve didn’t like blood.
Despite the fact that it was a messy killing, he had gotten away with it. Steve had carefully studied The Norwich Mangler, a notorious killer whose grisly crimes monopolized recent headlines. When Steve dismembered the body, he emulated The Mangler with such expert skill, that he had even impressed himself. He knew the authorities would be more likely to tie the murder to a high profile killer than trace it to such a “loving and devoted” husband.
When the insurance company paid out quickly, Steve knew he was free and clear. Careful not to move too soon, he had made his way to a beachside town on the South end of Wagulus Bay. That was a year later.
Today marked the second anniversary of his wife’s death and Steve celebrated the occasion with a glass of wine on his deck overlooking the sea. As he smugly admired his newly acquired million-dollar ocean view, gulls soared overhead while waves of foam broke upon the shore. He took a sip of the velvety Merlot and savored the glowing sun slipping gradually towards the horizon.
His moment of triumph shattered when a moan emerged from beneath the deck. The sound was concerning, so Steve left his chair to investigate.
Making his way down the steps that led below the deck, he noticed a dark red stain in the sand and reached down to touch it. It was wet and sticky between his fingers.
He knelt down and dug in with his hands for the source of the bleed. A few inches down, his fingers caught on a stringy mass. He gave the mass a good tug.
What he retrieved was a blackened, rotting head. Its eyeballs bulged grotesquely while its blistered tongue lolled loosely from a half-mouth that had been wacked off at the chin. Steve recognized the thing because even in its filthy, slimy state the grimace was unmistakable.
It was his wife, his betrothed, the one he had killed and previously buried. He certainly hadn’t imagined her funeral. The burial was performed before dozens of witnesses! How did her nasty head get below the sand underneath his deck?
Steve glanced around in disgust, then approached the utility closet below the deck and unlocked it. There he pulled out a shovel and dropped the head in the sand after finding a reasonably good location for its new grave. Determined to rid himself of the horrid reminder of his unwanted spouse, he hefted the shovel wildly, causing sand to fly behind him. “The faster, the better,” he puffed between shovel strokes. “That bitch is not going to ruin my day.” As he dug furiously, blood sprang forth from the ground. Quickly he found another place to dig. Again, about 4 inches down, blood began to bubble up from the sand.
Steve hated blood.
He ran from spot to spot, trying to find an advantageous locale to bury the head, but could not get away from the sickening clotted gore that pumped thickly like crude oil from the ground.
Finally exhausted and spent, he collapsed onto the ground. He tossed the head onto the sand, then kicked it away with the heel of his shoe. As he sat in the sand, he heard the raw slurping of the head as it tried to speak. Steve shrank in revulsion as the head began to roll in his direction.
He stood up quickly attempting to avoid being touched by the foul, blackened body part, but tripped over the shovel as he tried to run. He lost his balance and flew headlong into a beam that upheld the deck.
He lay in the sand, unconscious until the tide came in. That’s when Steve drowned in the blood stained water. As the tide rose higher, a rip tide swept his corpse away.
Steve’s body was never found.
The head rotted on the beach and the unmistakable grin of satisfaction was the last bit of flesh the gulls pecked off its bones.