The Madness Was A Man

Mr. William Holmes

The ground was hard, and the plant roots had grown very thickly through the soil. Each shovelful was a struggle, and he had many more to go. In the end it took him a little under an hour to finally hit wood. Thankfully they hadn't bothered to dig the man very deep, and as soon as his shovel hit something solid he knew that he was home free. They didn't need the whole body, merely a portion that would do enough to summon the man himself, that or convince the ghosts of his demise. The head would do just fine.
"Mrs. Hudson, would you pass me the lamp?" John asked, waving his hand up through the rather deep hole he had dug. Mrs. Hudson, who had been sitting on the edge and watching him work, passed the light rather apprehensively down to where he could reach. He knew that she didn't like sitting up in the graveyard alone, much less in the dark. Yet John would prefer that he had it, being as though he was the one who would have to root around in this man's old coffin. The light illuminated the old wood, once having been painted white yet subjected too long to the elements. The paint was all peeled away in shreds, and the wood was splintered from having to support John's weight. John only prayed that he had dug down at an angle convenient for stealing the head, for he had merely tunneled a very small section of earth, and was not anxious to have to dig his way farther up towards the rest of the corpse.
"You found him?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her voice wavering as she shuttered up top.
"Ya, I think so. Hold tight." John warned, and with that he sent the shovel down hard on the wooden casket, breaking the wood in two and splintering the rest. It was enough to see the scraps of clothing, dirty threads of fabric having been eaten by bugs and maggots, covering up a foul smelling pile of bones.
"Oh dear...oh I smell it!" Mrs. Hudson whined, getting to her feet miserably and cowering away from the immediate vicinity of the stench. Thankfully what John had unearthed was the man's lapel, and so with some maneuvering and tugging he was sure he could wrench the head right off of the body. It was desecration at its finest, yet that was sort of the goal. Anger the man enough to bring his spirt back from the dead, and their mission will have been accomplished.
"I see the chin! It's under the dirt but..." John sighed, pulling away some more wood and poking at the dirt hesitantly. To take one chunk may cause an avalanche, and he had no intentions of dying right over top of this man's body. No, he would have to pull.
"Can you get his head? I'm sure a rib bone would work, or a shoulder blade? Really John just be careful!" Mrs. Hudson warned, though her voice was far off, as if she was now standing on the outskirts of the fence.
"Ya, I'm being careful." John grumbled, setting the oil lamp between his legs and leaning the shovel up against the earthen wall. He had no choice, really. So he very hesitantly stuck his hands into the coffin, wincing as his fingers wrapped around the shoulder blade and ribs, the bones not yet eaten clean by the maggots and beetles. The fabric fell apart at the touch, and as he began to yank the skeleton down towards the hole he had hacked the smaller bones began to break and snap with the pressure. They were very fragile now, after having been left to decay for a long while. John winced, though he kept pulling, finding now that the chin was coming closer and giving way to a horrible gaping mouth. The teeth came into sight, and so he repositioned his hands and pulled from the spine, where the man's neck should have been if it was not completely eaten by the creepy crawlies. A couple of bugs crawled around on John's hands, though most seemed to have lost interest in the long dead man. There wasn't anything more to eat, and so they had to wait in the dirt until another Holmes joined the plot. Though John didn't intend on letting that happen for a long time, if he could help it. It would not be Sherlock's body these impatient creatures feasted on next. Finally the eye sockets became visible, and suddenly John found himself staring at the skull of Sherlock's long dead ancestor, he could see right into the cavity that once held that diseased brain. However he didn't hesitate, he didn't allow himself to feel fear, not yet at least. He grabbed that skull by its sides and ripped it straight off of the spine, feeling the withering bones snap with the pressure, and at last he unearthed his prize.
"Mrs. Hudson, take the lamp!" John cried, waving his arms as high as he could so that his fingers could just barely make it to the top.
"Oh dear...oh have you got it then?" Mrs. Hudson whimpered, coming into view once more and staring down with a very frightened look to her.
"Ya, I've got him." John agreed, cradling the skull in his arms almost like a baby, carrying it so as not to disrupt it any longer.
"Well then, let's hope it's worth it." Mrs. Hudson muttered, grabbing the lamp from John's hands and holding it between both hands nervously.
"You're going to have to hold the head, too." John admitted, passing the skull up to Mrs. Hudson. She gave a great many squeals, though in the end she set it on the ground next to her feet and shivered from head to foot. John finally grabbed hold of the shovel and carved himself some handholds enough to get him out of this hole, and in no time he had crawled out onto the pile of disrupted dirt, stumbling for a while before pulling himself to his feet and grabbing hold of the skull himself.
"Alright William, do you hear me? Are you mad enough to give me a listen?" John growled, poking at the skull in his urgency as he started back to the wooded path, leaving the tools behind. Mrs. Hudson grabbed the lamp and followed closely behind, obviously much too afraid to linger very far. The skull said nothing, though John was rather disappointed in the fact. He had almost imagined that lopsided jaw to begin to move, and for it to declare its statement of hostility. Though it was still, and silent.
"Your grandson is going to die; he's going to die at the hands of your own victims. Victor Trevor is going to kill him, and the servants. You're a monster, but this is your redemption. Come to his aid, and you might still be a hero. Save Sherlock and we'll put your name in a different light." John begged, now breaking into a run as he sped through the darkened woods, jumping and dodging trees as best he could. It seemed as though they tried their best to stop him, with roots sticking out from the dirt and branches hanging low over the path. Mrs. Hudson and the lamp had faded farther behind, until finally John was running in near total darkness, clutching this skull in his hand and basically yelling vulgarities at it, in an attempt to get him angry enough to retaliate. Yet nothing was happening, no ghost appeared from the shadows, no figure smacked him upside the head and demanded his skull back. It was still, and for a moment John worried that his plan would not work. He worried for about as long as he ran through the woods, for as soon as he made his way around the house he saw that there was something new, something different to add to the house. A new set of screams, though coming from a much deeper and struggled voice. The light of the lamp outside illuminated a figure, a figure that seemed to be swinging this way and that from the lowest branch of the oak tree, a noose tied around his neck and supporting him just high enough so that his toes just couldn't brush against the ground...
"William!" John exclaimed, racing to the tree and staring at the man who swung. He was strikingly familiar, almost uncanny to the boy who was tethered to his bed. His eyes were just as sharp, his face just as long and defined, his hair just as black. Yet he was obviously older, dressed in an out of style suit with blood stained down the front. He was wilder, too, for his screams were ear splitting and urgent, as if he had just materialized in the noose once more, unsure of what he was doing and why he was not yet dead. The figure scared him; it scared him more than any of the other creatures that roamed the house. For this was the madman, the one who had taken the lives of so many, the man who had been hanged without a trial for his ghastly crimes. He was responsible for it all...and here he swung, wriggling like a fish on a line with his hands bound and his neck broken. John had no choice but to approach him, if this part of the plan had worked then he had to ensure that the rest fell easily into place. And the only way to ensure that everything was smooth sailing from here was to ensure this man's cooperation, and summon the last bit of humanity he had left.
"William, calm down! I'll get you down, just hold still." John insisted, grabbing his pocket knife from his belt and standing up on his tiptoes so as to reach the very end of the rope. The man kept wiggling and shrieking, obviously more confused than he was on the day of his death. John would be screaming like that too, if he had just been woken up from a sleep that was destined to last forever. At last the rope gave way, and the man fell to the ground in a heap, all of his long limbs sprawling towards the tree roots as he struggled to get to his feet. He breathed for a moment, finding himself on all fours and clutching to his neck in horror, finding that his head was put on at the wrong angle, and that his spine was still broken. Perhaps he thought it a miracle that he was still alive, perhaps he didn't realize that he was anything but...
"William, I called you back from the dead. You're a ghost." John explained quickly.
"A ghost?" he asked in a raspy voice, a voice so broken and unused that it sounded more like someone dragging a wooden board over gravel.
"Yes, you died about fifty years back. You were hanged." John clarified, grabbing the man by the back of his collar and yanking him up to his feet. "I have your skull; I summoned you here to save your grandson."
"No no, wait! NO! I am innocent, I never killed a soul! Please sir, please!" the man exclaimed at last, wrenching himself away from John's grasp and falling to his knees, attempting to scramble away from the tree as if with the intention of reliving his last moments. Well he didn't look so innocent, at least not with the blood stained down his front.
"William get a hold of yourself! I'm not here to hang you, they've already done that!" John insisted, catching up rather easily to the stumbling man, who was trying to crawl back towards the house on all fours, moving quite awkwardly as he had not had use of his limbs in a long while. He looked very creepy as he crawled, for his head was stuck the wrong way on his neck and it twisted out to the side, making the silhouette as it shuffled all the more terrifying. John tried to get him onto his feet once more, wrapping his arms around the man's chest and pulling him at least onto his knees.
"You need to save your grandson." He explained finally. "All those people that you killed, they are punishing him for your crimes. They think that he's you."
"I don't have a grandson, my son...my son is just five years old." The man explained anxiously.
"You're DEAD! It's eighteen forty five; you've been dead for fifty years! Your son is dead, killed by the same madness that consumed you! Get up, you useless man, and save the one heir you have left!" John demanded, now beginning to be quite frustrated. This man wasn't fearful, no he was merely helpless! Confused and senseless, unable to tell the difference between the timelines. He didn't know he had died, he didn't know about anything which had happened in those fifty years that he laid under the ground!
"I'm dead..." the man breathed, falling back onto the grass into a useless heap, sounding almost as if he was going to start to cry.
"They hung you, after you slaughtered your serving staff." John reminded him, reminding himself again not to pity this creature who lay before him. He was a murderer, a monster. He deserved no sympathy, especially if he was not going to drag his sorry behind up and rescue the one person John had left in life.
"Slaughtered, no I didn't slaughter anyone!" the man whimpered. "I merely...I merely tapped them. I tapped them, and they all fell down in great piles."
"They're upstairs; they can give you their own version of events. Please William, please. All you have to do is go inside." John begged. The man rolled over onto his back with some difficulty, his head cracking underneath him as he readjusted himself and stared up at the stars. The screaming from the house had ceased, as if Sherlock was passed out once again. John worried of course, knowing that the silence could mean a great deal of things, and none of them remotely good.
"I've seen the stars." The man whispered. "I've seen them once before."
"I'm sure you have." John grumbled, not yet sure how to make the man realize the urgency of the matter. Surely he had no comprehension, why would he want to save a boy he knew nothing about?
"He told me that we might live among the stars, one day." William whispered, a smile coming upon his rather blue face, his eyes growing bigger as they filled with emotions, filled with tears. John looked up at the house for a moment, realizing now who it was William was talking about. Romantic promises, made by a man from his time period...
"Victor is inside too." John shot out immediately, staring at the man's face to try to gauge his reaction. Well that certainly got his attention, for just as soon as he processed the name William sat up, staring at John with quite some contortion, owing to the state of his mangled neck.
"Victor?" he clarified.
"He's inside, he's waiting for you." John muttered, not really finding it within himself to admit to Victor's crimes. He didn't want to mention that it was Victor doing the torturing; for fear that William would suddenly be deterred from seeing his old lover again. Certainly he wouldn't want to know that Victor had turned into a monster as well?
"He's just...he's a very old friend." William managed, as if suddenly realizing he needed to protect their relationship, as if he felt there was something he needed to hide. John nodded, holding out a hand to help the man stumble to his feet. Thankfully William took his hand, allowing John to drag him up to his feet where he stood wobbling, turning his eyes to the house which was darkened from all of its windows, owing of course to the time of night. Yet John would get inside, after all of this trouble a locked door would not be the thing to keep him out.
"I know he is, come on then, let's go and see him." John insisted, trying to pull his hand away from William's yet finding himself unsuccessful. The man's hand grasped about his even tighter now, his fingers holding very impressive strength for a man who had been dead for so long.
"Sir, do you think he will like to see me?" William asked apprehensively, though he was allowing himself to walk very slowly up towards the door.
"Victor has been waiting for you for centuries, Mr. Holmes." John assured. The man nodded, his neck giving a very sickening crack as it fell even more out of place. He poked at it, trying to fix it back up onto his spine where it belonged, almost like a girl touching up her makeup before a big date. He had suddenly become very docile, nervous almost. In many ways he reminded John of Sherlock, the way he poked around apprehensively and modestly, unsure whether people would be receptive to him or not. He struggled with the same self-esteem issues, presumably. Though he hadn't let his heart wander soon enough, and his own mistakes had led to his death and the deaths of countless more.
"Surely I haven't been gone that long?" the man managed. John shook his head, trying the door to find that it was locked. He had expected as much, though thankfully he was feeling strong enough to break down any barrier. This door proved to be no exception. He backed up and kicked upon it with all of his might, though it merely budged in the effort. He kicked it again, this time the wood gave something of a crack, yet it wasn't promising enough.
"We're going to have to go through a window." John decided, leading William over to grab hold of a rock that was sitting just under the window sill. This would be big enough to break through the glass; it had to be at this point. Yet just as soon as John heaved the thing over his head a new light appeared from the end of the house, and Mrs. Hudson's silhouette began to make her way exhaustedly through the yard.