#14
The Severed Hand (of Glory)
By Talbot Pratt
"I heard you can help
me."
Peter Henderson glanced
up sharply from the inventory, mildly startled by the high, nervous voice
from across the counter. The shop, Not Just Newts, was only
dimly lit, sounds muted by rich, exotic drapes, and he hadn't noticed the
customer until that moment. Once again, he made a mental note to
buy a bell for the door.
"Yes?" he replied,
quietly closing the inventory and folding his hands over the generous curve
of his belly. "What is it you're looking for? We have the finest
collection of Occult and New Age paraphernalia in Montreal." He waved
one ringed hand, taking in the clutter of fortuneteller's globes, scryer's
crystals, planchettes and the like that jostled for space amongst the shadows.
"We have a special on tarot cards until Sunday. You won't find a
better deal anywhere."
The customer was a
young man, hair dyed green, with thick-rimmed glasses. He wore a
black tee-shirt with a picture of H.P. Lovecraft and the logo: "Necronomi-Con
'99". He had been in once before, as Henderson recalled, when he
had put in an order for some Joss sticks. Jack something.
Nervously dropping
his eyes, Jack Something fidgeted with a crystal strung around his turkey
neck. He swallowed. "Actually, I was looking for something
a little more... intense."
"Oh?" Henderson's
brow arched archly. "Intense, you say? And what would that
be?"
But he had a pretty
good idea. The customer didn't disappoint him.
The boy -- and that
was all he was; he couldn't have been old enough to shave -- shot a furtive
glance over his shoulder, then turned back. "I was told you could
get me a... a hand-of-glory."
Henderson gave a good
long space before he responded. He kept his features inscrutable.
Then, quietly, he said: "You know that it's illegal to sell human body
parts without a licence?"
The boy wilted as if
caught masturbating in the school john. For a moment, Henderson wondered
if he'd layed it on a little too thick. But then the kid rallied,
straightening and looking him square in the eye.
"Sure, I know that.
Sure. But I was told you could help me. I was told you were
the man to see."
Again, Henderson allowed
the silence to play, studying the kid with a tight, appraising eye.
The kid squirmed under that look, and that gave Henderson a certain pleasure.
But that wasn't why he did it. He did it because he had been in this
business all his life and, if there was one thing he knew, it was how to
haggle.
"And what if I could
help you?" he said. "What would that be worth to you?"
"What would you want?"
Good answer.
Henderson chewed thoughtfully on his lip, then quietly ventured, "Assuming
I could get ahold of a hand-of-glory, assuming I could do that, I couldn't
let it go for anything less than...say, fifty."
The kid hardly batted
an eye. "I can pay. No problem. When can you get it in?"
Henderson sniffed and
shot a glance toward the front door. Without a word, he lifted the
flip-part of the counter, slipped through and past the boy. He went
to the door and turned the CLOSED sign around. A man in a trenchcoat
had just been about to enter, but stopped as Henderson locked the door.
The boy watched all
this, thoroughly impressed. As Henderson returned and slipped back
around to the other side of the counter, the kid's eyes followed as if
mesmerized by a slithering snake.
"Wait here."
Henderson ducked through
dark purple curtains into the back store room. The store room was
lined with metal shelves lit by a single hanging lightbulb.
The shelves were heaped
with hands. There were a couple hundred of them, all brown and wrinkled,
severed at the wrists, hands piled on hands in grisly, nightmarish mounds.
For a moment, Henderson
stood there, looking over his vast stock, a deep sense of satisfaction
welling up inside. Those hands-of-glory were making him rich.
It seemed every kid in town had to have one, had to have several, and they
didn't care how much they had to shell out to get them. The very
fact that the sale of human body parts was illegal allowed him to drive
up the price. The kids thought they were into something dark and
sinister, tapping into some unholy black market. As long as they
didn't figure out the truth, he was cruising up easy street.
The truth was, the
hands were fake. Every last one of them, fake. Henderson ordered
them from Sanjanta, a small banana republic down in South America.
His kind of people.
They were quite remarkable
imitations, considering that they were really made of seaweed and animal
bones. The effect was impressive -- so long as you didn't check too
closely. They certainly had the kids fooled. And from Henderson's
point of view, it was the perfect set up. The kids paid through the
nose believing they were getting the real pickled hands of hanged criminals,
"hands-of-glory" which, according to occult lore, could be used to weave
powerful spells. Meanwhile, because the hands weren't real, Henderson
wasn't doing anything illegal. If he was caught, the most they could
do was charge him with tricking customers into thinking they were buying
illegal merchandise. And he'd like to see them argue that
one in court.
Henderson went to a
shelf and selected a hand off the top, a nice fat one, not too wrinkled.
Then he went back out front where the kid was still waiting with wide nervous
eyes.
"I thought so," Henderson
told him, placing the hand-of-glory on the counter. The fingers crabbed
like the legs of a spider. The boy flinched with a grimace.
"I ordered this for another customer but he never showed up." Henderson
said this with a significant arching of the brows. "It happens sometimes,
you know. Something as... intense as this, they get cold feet."
He studied the boy doubtfully. "Are you sure you want to go through
with this? The hand-of-glory -- a kid like you, it's not something
you want to fool around with...if you don't know what you're doing."
"I know what I'm doing."
The boy's offended
tone was everything Henderson could have asked for. He slapped fifty
dollars on the counter and Henderson moved it into the cash register with
practiced ease. "Just wanted to be sure."
He slipped the hand
into a brown paper bag and handed it across. The boy, to his credit,
accepted the gory package with only a mild pallour to his face. Henderson
had known one or two to actually faint. One had even tossed her cookies.
Now that had been one sale he could have done without.
"Have a nice day."
The kid laughed in
a high giggle. "Yeah, you too."
As the kid vanished
down the street, Henderson went to the door and turned the sign around
again. Then he noticed the time, and decided he might as well close
up a few minutes early. As he returned to the counter, the phone
rang.
"Not Just Newts.
Can I help you?"
"You have a collect
call from...Sanjanta. Will you accept the charges?"
"Er...I guess."
The voice that came
on the line had a thick Spanish accent. "Hello, may I please speak
with...Peter Henderson?"
"You've got him."
"Oh, Senor Henderson,
I'm calling from the republic of Sanjanta. I believe you have done
business with my employer. You have purchased several consignments
of, ah, hands-of-glory. That is, artificial hands made of sea weed
and animal bones. Is this correct?"
Henderson frowned.
He'd done all his business by mail. This was the first time he'd
ever talked to anyone from Sanjanta. He wondered why they'd call
him now.
"That's right," he
said carefully. "I bought some fake hands from your country.
What about it?"
There was a long pause
on the other end, and Henderson's unease continued to grow. "Well,
you see, Senor Henderson," the voice continued hesitantly, "there was a
small, uh, mix-up in your last purchase."
Henderson's features
darkened. "What sort of mix-up?"
"Oh, nothing to worry
about, I assure you. It is merely that...well... it seems a real
hand found its way into your purchase."
"A real hand!"
Henderson exploded. He could get in a lot of trouble if the police
found out. He could lose his shop.
"You see, Senor, Sanjanta
sells real hands-of-glory as well as the fake ones which you purchased.
We are a poor country and it is a very lucrative trade. The real
hands are, of course, remarkably similar to the false ones, and you can
see how the mistake might happen. This hand, it belonged to a vicious
killer, a madman who had killed thirteen people in my country before he
was caught. To a real collector of occult talismans it would be very
powerful indeed. It would have fetched a high price on the market."
Henderson was barely
listening. His thoughts were on the store room in back, thinking
of all those shelves heaped with hands. Somewhere in that ghastly
mass of fingers and knuckles and severed wrists...a real hand. The
hand of a madman.
Ah, crumb.
"All right," Henderson
snarled. "Can you give me something to look for? Is there any
way I'll know this madman's hand when I see it?"
"Thankfully there is,"
the man replied. "There was a small gold ring on the middle finger."
"Great. So I'll
find your stupid hand and mail it back to you. But this had better
not happen again!"
He slammed down the
receiver. For a moment, he stood there in the darkness of the shop.
Outside, rain began to sprinkle and lightning flickered silently in the
distance. Why couldn't anything be easy? he asked himself.
Why did there always have to be a catch?
With another snarl,
he turned and shrugged through the purple drapes into the store room.
He paused and scanned the cluttered shelves with their grisly burden.
God, there must be at least two hundred of the things. How was he
supposed to find it in all that mess?
Still, there was no
point in putting it off. If anyone found out he had a real hand in
here, he could kiss his shop goodbye. He had to find it fast and
get rid of it.
Quickly, he set to
work. An hour later he was still looking. He had worked his
way through about three quarters of the things, checking each one for the
gold ring. But so far, no luck. All the while, the storm outside
had gotten worse. Now, suddenly, there was a crash of thunder.
Henderson jumped.
On the heels of the
crash -- the single lightbulb went out.
The store room was
plunged into darkness. For a moment, Henderson just stood there,
waiting for the lights to come back on. No light came through the
curtains, so he knew the power was out. Usually, you could expect
Ontario Hydro to have things up and running within a few minutes.
But not this time. Five minutes passed and still the darkness remained.
All right, Henderson
decided. I'm nearly done and it'd be crazy to quit now.
There was only one
shelf left. He could do this. He could find the ring without
having to see it.
He would know it when
he felt it.
In the darkness, he
slowly reached into the pile of hands and selected one at random.
He was surprised how realistic it felt. The skin felt cold and clammy,
like real tissue over dead bone. In fact, it felt a little too
realistic. With a purely involuntary reaction, he tossed it back
into the heap. He even gave a weak gasp of revulsion.
Immediately he felt
like a fool.
What was he doing?
Even if that had been the hand, it couldn't hurt him. It was just
a severed hand from a hanged murderer. Though Henderson sold occult
talismans, he didn't believe in the things. He didn't buy into that
paranormal baloney.
And yet?
And yet, just the same,
he found himself recalling what the man had said on the phone. To
a real collector of occult talismans it would be very powerful indeed.
Suddenly, Henderson
found himself wondering -- how did he kill those people? With his
hands? With his bare hands? In the darkness, he had
an image, a horrible image of a hand dripping with blood. He swallowed
tightly.
Very powerful indeed...
Get a grip, Henderson,
he told himself. You're almost done. Don't lose it now.
He selected another
hand. It felt just like the one before, just as real, but there was
no ring on the fingers. It was fake. Breathing tightly, he
began to work his way through the hands, picking them up in the darkness,
one after the other, feeling the cool spidery fingers, then quickly tossing
them back. They would land amongst the others with a sickly dead-fish
flopping. He found his heart was racing, getting faster with the
passing seconds. Crazy as it seemed, he found he was scared, really
scared. He didn't know why, but that didn't calm his heart.
All those hands were
getting to him. He would never have believed it, but they were...
And then he froze.
He had just reached
into the darkness, into the pile of hands. His left hand had just
closed on yet another limp, flaccid hand-of-glory -- when he felt that
hand move.
It gave a sudden sharp,
spastic lurch, nearly slipping eel-like from his grip. At the same
moment, he felt fingers curl tight around his other wrist, also deep in
the pile, cool, clammy fingers like thick damp worms. Instantly,
he knew what he was feeling. The hand he had grabbed had grabbed
his other hand in turn. For a moment, he stood there, unable to move,
telling himself he must be imagining things. It was just one of the
many fake hands, the fingers accidentally curling around his wrist.
That was all it was.
But then he felt the
fingers move again.
There could be no mistaking
that sudden spasming motion this time. Fingers had just tightened
against his skin, ghastly frigid fingers -- dead fingers. It wasn't
possible. He knew it wasn't. But he could feel it just the
same. In an instant, his skin seemed supersensitized, all his concentration
centred on that area of wrist beneath the pressing fingers. Beads
of sweat ran into his eyes. He felt ice water flooding his limbs.
The hair rose on his scalp. He had a sudden image -- they would find
him in the morning, his hair gone white, and the marks of fingers on this
throat. The fingers from a severed hand. The hand of a madman.
A little whine rose
to his lips. Like a puppy dog. He couldn't move. He could
barely breathe.
The hand continued
to hold his wrist. His other hand continued to hold that hand.
He wanted to pry it off, but he couldn't find the strength. Every
time he tried again to tell himself that it must be his imagination, the
fingers would twitch again, as if just to let him know it wasn't.
It wasn't his imagination.
Finally, slowly, he
began to draw his hands out of the grisly mound. The hand, the severed
hand, came with them. His whimpering grew louder.
Then, sharply, he pulled
his hands clear of the shelf. The dead hand was fixed around his
wrist, still hanging there with a hideous tenacity. He could take
it no longer.
With a horrified scream,
he began to shake his arm. He flung it left and right, desperately
banging it against the side of the shelves -- but the hand continued to
grip, impossibly clinging, refusing to be dislodged. He tore at the
clinging hand with his free hand, but it just tightened its grip, fighting,
literally fighting to hold on.
And that just added
to his horror. He began to blunder about in the dark of the store
room. He crashed into a shelf, toppling it. Hands rained down
on his head, floppy hands, landing on his shoulders and staying there.
He kept screaming, careening blindingly against the walls, searching for
the curtains, searching for a way out --
And then suddenly he
found it. He staggered through the curtains and out into the shop.
At that same moment, the lights came back on...
He found himself
holding his own wrist.
For a moment, even
then, he didn't realize that was what it was. He screamed again and
bashed his own wrist against the counter, crushing his hand. Even
as the pain surged up his arm in a fiery burst, he finally awoke to the
realization that he had been gripping his own hand all along. His
own goddamned hand!
"Ah, crumb!" he swore,
finally releasing his grip and shaking his battered limb.
And then he saw the
ring.
It was a small gold
ring, little more than a wire circle. It lay on the counter beside
the cash register. He stared at it dumbly, barely even aware now
of the throbbing in his hand. Slowly, his scattered thoughts came
together -- and he understood.
The kid. He had
sold the kid the real hand-of-glory!
After all that, the
hand wasn't even in the back store room. For a moment, he felt a
strange mix of relief and despair. He was relieved to know that he
didn't have to go back there and finish the search. But the kid already
had it! What was he going to do? Tell the kid there'd been
a mistake? The hand was defective? Sure, the kid would really
buy that one.
Then he realized --
he had no way of finding the kid again. Unless, the boy came back,
there was no way to track down that...
No, wait. The
kid had been in once before. He'd put in an order for Joss sticks.
It would still be on file. If only he could remember the kid's name.
Jack... Jack...Weins, that was it, Jack Weins --
Brriiiing!
Henderson just about
went through the roof. He clutched his chest, catching his breath,
while the phone rang again, then again. Finally, he picked up the
receiver.
Before he could speak,
a familiar high kid's voice shrilled out. "Help me! You've
got to help me! Oh, Jesus, help -- eeugh!"
That was what he said.
Eeugh! And then there was only silence. A long ominous
pause that just seemed to pull everything else into it. The line
was still open. For a full minute, Henderson stood there, unable
to believe it. His mouth was dry. He didn't know what to do.
Finally, weakly, he asked, "Hello? Hey, kid -- Jack, are you all
right?"
The silence went on
and on. Then:
Click
Someone hung up.
Numbly, Henderson replaced
his own receiver. His eyes were staring like a shell-shocked grunt.
He tried to swallow but found there wasn't enough spittle for the job.
What should he do? Phone the police? But what if the police
found the hand? The paper bag had the shop logo on it. They
would know where the kid had bought the thing.
Quickly, he flipped
through his files until he found the order slip Jack Weins had filled out.
It had his home address. Thank God. It also had the kid's phone
number. He tried that first. After twenty rings, he gave up.
Ten minutes later,
Henderson pulled up in front of a quaint, brick bungalow set in a friendly
suburban neighbourhood. When he rang the door, nobody answered.
Feeling a sudden queasy premontion, he pressed his palm against the door.
It swung silently open.
"Hello?"
There was only hushed
stillness from the dark interior. Swallowing, he entered and tried
the light switch. Klick. It didn't work. A flash
of lightning filled the hallway throwing his shadow into the darkness.
Thunder boomed a moment later.
"Hello, is anybody
home?"
So far, he hadn't given
himself time to think too clearly about what he might find. The kid
had hung up, right? So, the kid couldn't be that badly hurt.
Maybe he was an epileptic or something. Maybe he had been doing drugs.
A lot of kids who came by the shop did drugs. Sure, that was probably
all it was. Drugs...
But then he found the
body. And he knew it wasn't drugs.
The kid lay in the
living room face-down on the rug. He was surrounded by black unlit
candles, obviously having been in the middle of some sort of magic ritual.
There was no denying -- he was dead. The body was covered with blood,
soaked with it, still wet and glistening with the lightning flashes playing
through the windows. Henderson just stared, all the colour draining
from his face.
And then he heard a
board creak behind him.
He turned with a startled
cry. The lightning flashed again, obligingly silhouetting a figure
standing in the doorway. It was a moment before he recognized the
figure. It was the man in a trenchcoat, the man who had been going
to enter the shop when Henderson turned the CLOSED sign around. Now
he saw that beneath the trenchcoat the man was wearing black and white
striped prison garb.
The man's features
were hidden in the darkness, his eyes two glittering stones. He stepped
forward and held out his left hand. In that hand, was another hand.
The hand-of-glory.
Then, he held out the
right hand -- only it wasn't a hand.
It was a bloody hook.
Quite suddenly, Henderson
found himself recalling something he had read in the newspaper a few months
back -- back before he started ordering fake hands-of-glory by mail.
A little fact which, apparently, had not prevented the good citizens of
Sanjanta from carrying on a most lucrative trade. Something that
he really, really wished he had remembered before this moment.
The republic of Sanjanta
doesn't have the death penalty...
The hand of a madman.
A man who killed thirteen people before he was caught.
The End.