🩸Wicked Things

A Small & Scary Short Story

For the SMALL & SCARY ANTHOLOGY Much thanks to Garen Marie and Erica Drayton for putting this event together. Read other entries here.

Cold was the night and starless. The Imperatore’s garden’s had always been a trap of sweet scent and soft evergreen’s. But the man in black knew it all to be an illusion to mask the years of secrets and blood.

He crossed under the bones of wooden pergolas; until the path led him to a proud structure of stone. The torchlight revealed the love of the people. Offerings of ivory lillies and roses littered the ground.

His gift would never wilt away.

He stroked the handle of the leather case, before pulling a butterfly brass key from his tunic. Although the key had been used hours earlier, he winced at the lock's sharp click. With gloved hands he pried open the door. The tomb was an open maw.

His world had changed with The fifth Imperatrice’s death. Everything had changed. He remembered seeing her for the first time— the night had been filled with stars. He looked at the engraving of the key, the memory souring. Her love had been as fragile as a butterfly’s wings.

For a moment he thought about sliding the door shut, just in case the wine was not enough to placate the guards. A small piece of himself whispered that perhaps being sealed away was best. He pushed the grim thought away.

Francesco, Imperatore of Idonza lifted the torch to reveal eight coffins. Marble effigies served as the perfect sentries over the six sleeping corpses. The sixth corpse, a result of her wickedness with his own brother.

The masks of marble reflected in perfect detail each of his deceased wives, as they had been. However he knew that their true faces were peeling away into rot and bone. He passed over the five to reach the one. Anna Cecilia.

He unwrapped the neck of the violin first. The wood was smooth, and freshly oiled, patterns of vines crept along the edges and came together in a symphony of spiraled designs. It had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, Francesco glanced once more at the marble face of blank eyes and stiff curls, put the violin underneath his chin, and straightened his back. The bow did not touch the strings; the music was composed by him and him alone.

For it was he their husband who had killed them all.

The sound echoed empty against the walls. It wasn’t enough. Music holds a piece of the soul. He would never play again. He lovingly tucked the violin at the foot of the coffin and snapped the bowstring in half.

He was to be married again in the morning.

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