It was a good day for planting.

The sky was enshrouded in a somber gray overcast. A chill breeze lifted a handful of dead leaves and set them dancing around the trees that ringed the field’s perimeter. Long grass brushed against the tombstones while a handful of birds flew in ghostly silence as if the very spirits of the cemetery hushed their songs. This forlorn section of Elmwood Cemetery was a pauper’s grave, the final resting place for Memphis’s impoverished and forgotten souls. The city had set aside this section of earth before the Civil War, and it has served as a silent witness to the interment of the destitute and nameless. Isaac’s solemn duty was to prepare the ground for the next unheralded burial.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a gravedigger,” he muttered. “It’s honest work.” He tried to convince himself, but the words were a fragile comfort.

With a grunt, he cast the shovel like a spear into the soft black earth. The blade sliced into the ground with a sinister ring as the metal scraped against an unseen rock. At least, Isaac hoped it was a rock. In this muddy field, not all remains lay buried so deep. He labored with one hand—well, one and a half. A cruel twist of fate had claimed part of his right hand when he was but a youth toiling as a stable boy in the livery. His handicap had cost him the position, as he couldn’t manage the large animals. His only regular employment was here at the cemetery as a gravedigger.

Isaac drove the shovel deep into the ground, then lifted the mud from the hole, repeating the process over and over. The toil was arduous for a whole man; for Isaac, the grave would consume most of his day. Nevertheless, it was a good day. By dusk, he’d have four bits in his pocket.

“I think I’ll buy whiskey tonight,” he mused, his voice a mere whisper lost to the wind. He savored the thought, the memory of phantom whiskey burn crawling down his throat to settle in his gut. Yet deep down, he knew there would be no whiskey. His paltry earnings would just cover his dinner. But if he performed his task with due diligence and interred the old soul properly, Moses, the groundskeeper, might reward him with a glass of rye.

“Something to keep the chill away,” Moses would say, his voice a gravelly rasp as he poured a bit into two glasses. He’d set the four bits beside one of the glasses. Isaac would accept the drink, then the money, the ritual complete. With the sun just touching the horizon, he’d return to the shadows, another beggar in search of work. Isaac blinked the dream away. With a weary thrust, he plunged the shovel into the wet earth, straining against the oppressive weight.

“That’s plenty deep enough,” Moses declared, materializing with a wheelbarrow at the grave’s edge. “Toss ’em in and get ’im planted. Stop by for your pay when you’re done. You’re doing a hell of a job, Isaac.” He paused, then erupted into a jarring cackle that echoed like a ghastly specter. “That’s funny, that is. Hell of a job. Get it? You’re digging the holes for the folks on their way to Hell. It’s a hell of a job.” Another bray of laughter followed.

“Yes, sir, Moses, damn funny.” Isaac attempted a laugh, but it emerged as a ragged cough.

The undertaker turned away, leaving the digger to his somber task. Isaac tossed the shovel aside and stretched his back, the vertebrae cracking like old timber. Attempting to wipe the sweat from his brow with a mud-caked sleeve, he only succeeded in smearing more filth across his face. With a grunt, he crawled from the grave and approached the wheelbarrow. Within lay the body of a large man, naked save for a shroud. Isaac lifted a corner of the coarse canvas to glimpse the man’s face.

Lifeless eyes stared back at him, hollow and black.

A sharp spasm shot through his weakened right arm, his useless hand locked into a fist. The agony shattered the spell of the dead man’s gaze, and Isaac let the canvas fall back over the face. It was time to plant the next seed.

He moved to the rear of the wheelbarrow, again wiping his face with a muddy sleeve. He grabbed one handle and scooped the other in his elbow. The rear lifted a few inches, but the front wheel refused to move. With a fierce pull, the front broke free with a sucking sound. The dead weight overbalanced the bucket. Isaac pulled at the handle, trying to find the balance. The corpse shifted, and the whole thing rolled over.

The handle cracked Isaac across the jaw, knocking him to the ground. He blinked tears from his eyes as he landed prone in the mud. Beside him, he heard the thick echo of the thin canvas rip, and the dead man rolled into the mud beside the gravedigger. The corpse’s blank stare peeked through the tear in the shroud and once more locked onto Isaac.

“Damn it all.” The words echoed back to him as he fought to return to his hands and knees.

Isaac moved around and sat beside the dead man. With a grunt, he kicked the lump into the waiting grave. The body landed with a sodden thump. The man lay in a contorted heap at the grave’s foot. The thin canvas had torn open even more, and muddy strips of cloth failed to cover the corpse. Isaac considered descending into the grave to arrange the body, but the man’s considerable bulk had already proved too much. He resolved instead to bury the entire mess. The spade lay on the other side of the grave, so Isaac leaped across to retrieve it.

As he landed, his foot slipped in the wet mud. Pin-wheeling, Isaac threw his arms out, willing himself away from the edge. His foot found purchase, and he steadied himself with the heels of his work boots dangling over the edge of the grave. With a step, the soft earth gave way and sent him into the pit. Isaac landed flat in the mud. He blinked the mud out of his eyes just in time to see the shovel follow him into the hole. With a quick roll to the side, he narrowly avoided the shovel, now blade deep in the ground beside him.

He brushed off the mud he could and reached his feet. The black sticky stuff caked his face and covered his clothes. Surrendering his fight to the mud, he reached for the handle of the shovel, and that’s when he noticed the corpse. The blade of the shovel had sliced through the dead man’s forearm.

If asked why he did it, he wouldn’t have had an answer. It was an instinct, a nudge from his subconscious, or maybe a whisper from his guardian devil. Isaac snatched the severed hand and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He spent the remainder of the day covered in slippery mud as he filled the grave. The sun was nearly on the horizon, and as he patted the soil smooth, the seed was finally planted properly.

“Moses?” Isaac called out as he approached the groundskeeper’s shack at the graveyard’s edge. “Mister Moses, I’m all finished.”

Moses met him at the door. “Hold on, you stay out there. Did you roll around in the mud? Damn, you’re covered.” He pulled some coins from his pocket and held them out. “Here is your pay. I don’t have anything for tomorrow; stop by the day after, and I’ll find you some more work.”

“How about something for the cold?” Isaac gave a hopeful smile, showing what teeth he had left.

“You ain’t coming in here. Not with your ass all covered in mud. I’m dry anyway. Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll find us another bottle at the end of the month. Go get yourself cleaned up.” Moses stepped back and shut the door with a click.

Isaac looked at the few coins in his hand. The money disappeared into his pocket, and he walked towards the city.

By the time he got back to Memphis proper, it was dark. He moved through the shadows, avoiding pathetic looks from the townspeople. He turned up the collar of his long coat and his deformed hand. His hair was thick with mud, but he could do nothing about it now. Isaac was away from Mississippi Boulevard, angled to a dark alley behind the buildings. This is where the trash, rats, and other undesirables gathered.

Further up the alley, a gas light jutted from the backside of a building, a weak effort to keep the darkness at bay. Below the gas light stood three barrels that marked the back-alley bar ‘The Horse’s Ass.’ The sign out front displayed the name ‘The Nag’s Head.’ The front door was for the respectable people of the city. For everyone else, there was ‘The Horse’s Ass.’

Isaac banged on the back door and moved to stand beside a barrel. A few minutes passed before a large man appeared, dressed in old work clothes and heavy boots. He had tied a large leather apron over his chest that hung below his knees. Water dripped from the slick black leather the dishwasher wore. There was also a short, heavy bat tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Together, the bat and the dishwasher provided the security and service at ‘The Horse’s Ass.’

The dishwasher sat a tin cup on top of the barrel and filled it with slop from a large clay pot. Slop was the leftovers from the paying customers in the restaurant. A half-drunk beer, a forgotten glass of wine, the last inch of a whiskey bottle. Mix it together, and you have slop. Isaac passed over a coin and took a sip. Sweet wine mixed with the bitter taste of beer. He swallowed and set the cup back on the table. The dishwasher refilled it and returned to the building.

The door closed with a slam, leaving Isaac alone with his drink. He took a short sip to steady his nerves and eased his new trophy out of his pocket. He’d never done anything like this before and still didn’t know what possessed him to do something so reckless.

He traced the lines of the dead man’s palm and then rolled the hand over. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. The arm ended about halfway up the forearm, with a clean, even slice where the shovel cut through. He put his left hand against the dead man’s hand, palm to palm. They could have belonged to the same person. Both hands were about the same size and the same color.

Isaac set it on the barrel top. He placed his deformed hand beside it. The dead man’s hand looked so much stronger and healthier. He shook his head, grimacing at how his hand looked more like a scrawny chicken’s foot than a grown man’s hand. Without warning, his eyes filled with tears as the memories rolled over him.

As a youngster, he worked in the livery. One day, a horse stepped on his hand and crushed part of it. The doctor finished the rest of the damage by cutting off the last two fingers and much of the palm, leaving Isaac with a sickly claw for a hand.

Disgusted with himself, he wiped away the tears and the memories. He picked up the severed hand again and, holding it by the wrist, rolled his sleeve down to hide his claw. He placed both hands side by side on the barrel top. The illusion was staggering.

He was whole.

Distracted, Isaac jumped at the sudden scuff of a boot against the cobblestones. At the edge of the gaslight, a shadowed figure emerged from the gloom. Isaac squinted to see through the shadows, trying to make out the emerging derelict that stepped from the darkness.

“What ch’a got there?” the stranger asked, his voice a gravelly whisper that cut through the still night.

Startled, Isaac straightened, his tongue thick with unease. He couldn’t summon a single word.

“Sorry if I scared you,” the stranger continued, extending a hand. “I was told I could find a drink back here. Name’s Robert.”

Instinctively, Isaac reached out, but instead of his mangled hand, he proffered the severed hand of the corpse. Robert grasped it firmly and shook, oblivious to the cold, lifeless flesh.

Isaac stood dumbfounded. This stranger did not recoil in horror as the townsfolk usually did. He was shaking hands, treating him as an equal. “My name is Isaac,” he managed to stammer. “If you knock on the door, they’ll bring you some slop. It’s just leftovers, but it ain’t too bad tonight.”

Robert released the dead hand and stepped to the door, knocking with a confident rap.

For the remainder of the night, the two strangers drank and conversed. The talk was small and inconsequential, but it was Isaac’s longest conversation for years. When the time came for the men to part ways, Isaac again extended the corpse’s hand. Robert took hold and shook without hesitation.

As the deformed gravedigger made his way home that night, there was a spring in his step that had been lost for years. The simple act of shaking hands and being treated with a modicum of respect lifted his spirits in a way he had not thought possible.

* * * * *

Isaac lived south of Memphis, in a forlorn shack fashioned around the sturdy trunk of a towering pine tree. This humble abode, pieced together from the detritus of various dumps, was a testament to his resourcefulness. The walls, a motley assemblage of planks, leaned against the tree’s base, forming a meager shelter. Inside, there was barely enough space for a small table and a solitary chair. Beside these sat a bed Isaac had woven from pine needles. His possessions were few—a handful of blankets bestowed by the church during Christmas, symbols of fleeting charity. Fearful of igniting a fire and razing the tree to the ground, he relied on its low-hanging branches to shield him from the biting wind.

Upon entering his modest home, Isaac gently placed the corpse’s hand on the table. Exhausted and slightly inebriated, he made his way to the pine needle bed. A rare smile graced his lips as he stretched out to sleep, a smile that had eluded him for years.

Morning dawned, and with a start, Isaac sat up, a knot of fear coiling in his stomach. On the table lay a small scrap of blanket. He tore it away to reveal the severed hand, resting precisely where he had left it the night before. Relief washed over him.

He turned the hand over and over in his grasp. It appeared unnervingly fresh, almost normal. Then, he raised his own traitorous hand. How could something so small and weak have wrought such havoc on his life? The only work he could secure was that of a gravedigger. People recoiled from him, fearing he harbored some contagion. No one could bear to touch his deformed claw. Now, he possessed a new hand, a good hand. Yet, he knew it was only a matter of time before its true nature would be revealed. Eventually, someone would discover the truth. He recalled the gloves worn by the stranger the previous night. If he could procure a pair of work gloves, it might buy him some time. Still, it would only be a temporary solution. There had to be a better way to keep his newfound hand. Someone must possess the knowledge he sought. By the time he had dressed and set out for town, he had just the person in mind.

The horse had stepped on him, and Doctor Joseph Allen had been the one to patch him up in his youth. Doc Allen, who now taught at the new University of Memphis, was also the primary supplier for his grave-digging job. Not because he was an incompetent doctor, but because people seldom sought help until it was too late. Luckily, everyone knew where to find him when they needed the Doc. That was precisely where Isaac found him, at the Nag’s Head Tavern.

* * * * *

“Isaac, I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here.” Doc Allen sat just inside the tavern’s entrance, having breakfast. He looked regretfully at the remnants on his plate—an egg and a last bite of sausage. He pulled a dainty handkerchief from the sleeve of his long black jacket and held it to his face. The sweet smell of perfume could not cover the gravedigger’s pungent odor. The stink obliterated the doctor’s remaining appetite. Joseph shook off some imaginary crumbs from his chest and stood, “Let’s go outside, and you can tell me what’s so important that you had to pull me from my meal.”

On the restaurant’s front porch, the doctor sat on an available chair and pulled out his pipe. Though it was early for smoking, he hoped the pipe’s aroma might counteract Isaac’s stench.

Isaac waited for the doctor to light his pipe, aware of the man’s reputation for having a short temper. He remained silent.

Finally, ringed in a cloud of gray smoke, the doctor spoke. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”

“I was wondering about my hand.” Isaac extended his claw, though he already considered the severed hand in his pocket his true hand. “Is it possible to attach a hand cut-off?”

Doc Allen grunted. This was not the first time they had this conversation. “Yes, it is possible to reattach fingers. But for it to be successful, the cut has to be from a clean slice. When you were a child, and they brought you to me, your hand was crushed. The bones were destroyed. There was nothing that could be done.”

“If it was a clean cut, could you have put it back on?”

The doctor took a few puffs of the pipe and dismissed the question with a wave of his hand.  “It’s a simple procedure. With all the parts lined up properly, it’s just a matter of sewing.” The truth was the doctor had read about such a procedure but had never seen it performed. He could never have managed such a feat himself. Joseph was merely a small-town doctor. Anything beyond helping a woman give birth or performing the simplest operations was well beyond his skills.

“What about all the blood?”

“I would use a tourniquet.” The look on Isaac’s face revealed the word meant nothing to him. “A strong leather belt cinched tight above the amputation,” The doctor explained, pointing to a spot on his arm. “Cinch it down tight, stopping the blood while I work. When it’s over, I wrap it and put it in a cast until the wound heals. Easy as pie.” Joseph sat back in the chair and puffed on his pipe. “It doesn’t matter to you, though. As I told you, your hand was crushed. The bones would never have healed properly, so I had to cut them away. Had gangrene set in, you would have lost much more than a few fingers.”

“Thank you, sir; I’m sorry to have disturbed you this morning,” Isaac murmured, turning away from the doctor. He wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. “It was just a matter of sewing.” Dr. Allen’s words echoed in his mind. Isaac ran his fingers along a tear he had mended in his coat. He didn’t have the needle or thread, but he could procure them. “It was just a matter of sewing.” With each step, the plan became clear.

At the general store, the shopkeeper insisted he wait outside while someone fetched his purchases. The needle and thread cost only a penny, but the large meat cleaver demanded a bit more. A heavy square of steel with a keen edge promised the clean cut he needed. He tucked everything into the pockets of his old coat. Finally, He needed a secluded spot where no one would stumble upon his grim endeavor.

There was a clearing deep in the woods. It would be the perfect place, with an old tree stump in the middle. It would serve as his workbench.

He laid out his tools: the heavy meat cleaver, a sturdy rope for a tourniquet, needle, and thread. He threaded the needle and pulled a generous length of thread through the eye. He stripped off his coat and shirt and placed his trophy—the severed hand—beside the rest of his tools on the stump. Finally, he laid his mangled claw next to the dead hand.

He reached for the cleaver and placed the blade against his forearm. A thick layer of dirt and grime coated his arm. This wouldn’t do. He had seen Doctor Joseph work before. The man always insisted on clean hands before he started a job. The Doctor said it had something to do with germs. Isaac didn’t know what germs were, but he knew they were bad.

He grabbed the dead hand and started walking east.

The sound of running water guided him to a nearby creek. He dipped the dead hand into the water, and the mud disappeared as he rubbed. Scrubbing the filth off his own arms was more difficult. He scrubbed furiously and ground his teeth in frustration. Years of dirt slowly peeled away.

Behind him, a black dog crept closer. With its tail tucked low, the dog inched closer. Isaac focused on his dirt hands, was oblivious to his visitor.

The dog shot forward and barked right behind Isaac.

Startled by the sound, Isaac fell forward and landed face-first in the icy water. He shot forward, scrambling across moss-covered stones. He slipped again and dipped back underwater. He stood up with a roar, water streaming from his greasy hair into his eyes, making everything blurry. Bitter cold water-sodden clothes hung on him. He worked his way back to the creek’s edge, with a long string of curses following in his wake.

His feet stung as the cold water filled his boots. With a wave of his tail on the bank, the dog vanished into the trees. He felt a cold, skeletal claw clutch his heart. The hand—his hand—the dog had his hand in its jaws. Isac leaped from the stream, with a wave of water following him. He grabbed a fallen branch and set off, lumbering through cold water, marking his path as he trailed after the four-legged thief.

The path wove in and out among clearings, brambles, and solid walls of bushes. The sky was growing dim when he finally surrendered the search. He went to the stump that he had prepped as his operating room and reclaimed his tools: needle, thread, shirt, coat, rope, and cleaver.

The damn dog had ruined his plans and stolen his trophy. It was late in the evening when he made his way back to The Horse’s Ass and hammered on the door. The dishwasher appeared, repeating the business from the night before, handing him a tin cup of slop in exchange for the last of Isaac’s money. There was no reason to expect he might meet the stranger again, but desperation drove Isaac. He leaned against a barrel table and cursed his losses. It was less than an hour before his new friend arrived. Gulping down the last drop of his slop, Isaac approached with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” Isaac said. “The undertaker gave me a bottle of rye. I was wondering if you’d like to share it.”

“My friend,” Robert staggered against the table. The air was thick with the smell of cheap whiskey. Robert wrapped an arm around Isaac’s neck and pulled him into a tight embrace. “It would be an honor. Let’s go crack it open.”

Isaac spun Robert around, and they staggered into the darkness. “Come with me. We’re going to my place.” Keeping to the back streets away from the judgmental eyes of the Memphis population, it didn’t take very long until Isaac turned his friend towards the back gate of Elmwood Cemetery.

“What the hell? Why are we here?” Robert whispered.

“I told you my boss, Moses, the groundskeeper, has a bottle for me.” Isaac turned away and reached into his pocket to find the handle of the thick-bladed meat cleaver.

With a swift, brutal motion, he brought the cleaver down to bury it deep into his friend’s skull. Robert’s eyes rolled up to stare at the thick-handled blade protruding from the front of his forehead. Without a word, he fell to his knees. His jaw fell open, but there was no sound. His eyes seemed to plead with Isac for some understanding. In answer, Isac ripped the cleaver free and returned with another brutal swing.

Robert crumpled to the dew-slick grass, his head nearly split in two. His legs twitched a few times, and he went still. Blood leaked from the gas, briefly pooling and finally seeping into the dirt.

Isac rolled the man onto his back and stretched Robert’s arm. The cleaver easily cut through muscle and bone and nearly buried itself in the soft earth after separating hand from arm. 

Claiming his new trophy. The gravedigger fled, cleaver in one coat pocket, the severed hand in the other. He didn’t stop running until he was safely back in his shack. It was too dark to appreciate his prize, and he knew he couldn’t finish the job until morning. He placed the hand and the knife on the table, delicately covering them with a torn bit of blanket. Exhausted, he lay down on his pine needle bed. As adrenaline ebbed from his veins, his mind drifted into a restless sleep only haunted by hopeful and horrid dreams.

*****

Isac breathed in a deep lungful of air filled with the aroma of wildflowers. Sunbeams danced between the mostly overcast sky. A smile stretched across his face till it made his cheeks hurt. The operation had succeeded. His new hand miraculously healed before his eyes. Scars vanished as if by sorcery, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin. He watched in awe as the new hand turned and flexed effortlessly, with no trace of pain. Each finger moved with perfect precision.

Dressed in a suit and long coat, Isaac danced through the town, moving from person to person, shaking hands with a fervor that bordered on manic. The last man winced under Isaac’s strong grip. He waved to the children, who responded with peals of laughter that rang like Christmas bells. His path came across a beautiful young lady. He gave a deep bow and took her hand in his own, lifting it to his face. No sooner had her hand touched his lips than a maggot burst through the skin of his palm. His flesh writhed and bubbled. More maggots exploded through the skin. They rolled across his hand in waves, growing fat as he watched. Swollen and bloody, they fell to the ground; they burrowed through the flesh, bursting forth from the skin and tumbling to the ground, disappearing onto the grass. In a heartbeat, his hand was reduced to nothing but a raw, gaping stump.

Isaac awoke with a scream, his heart pounding in his chest. His chest was slick with sweat.  Pulling his arm from beneath the blankets, his mind expected the ghastly stump from his nightmare. What he found was worse. His deformed, twisted claw of a hand emerged. His teeth clinched as waves of grief, loss, and growing hatred grew.

It was only a dream, but the taste of the fleeting joy of having two strong hands was too much to contain. He tossed away the blankets and lept from his bed. The horrific image of his new hand being devoured stole away any other thoughts. A shiver of dread crept over him. He ripped the rag off the table to reveal his trophy lay exactly where he had left it, still clothed in the same black leather glove from their first meeting.

Isaac peeled the glove away, and his voice caught in his throat.  “No!” his lips moved, but the sound was barely a whisper. Black and red Scars crisscrossed the flesh, remnants of burns or some disfiguring disease. Robert, the betrayer, had hidden the deformity with the gloves. With a scream of rage, Isac hurled the dead hand against the wall. It hit with a dull thud and fell to the floor.

He had been deceived once again.

“No, I’m not going to be robbed again. I need to do this,” he muttered, his resolve hardening. He grabbed the cleaver and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He rolled the rest of his tools and shoved them into an inner pocket. “I’m going to get my hand back.” his voice was loud and strong in the tiny, humble shack.

Isaac ran back to the city, drifting along the northern edge of Memphis. He navigated the back streets, searching for easy prey. The streets were mostly deserted this morning. He carefully made his way to Mississippi Boulevard and slipped into the shadows of a tall pine tree near the corner of The Nag’s Head. There, he could observe both sides of the street while being hidden from judgmental eyes.

Across the intersection, he spotted a young mother and daughter walking hand in hand. Their long, plain dresses brushed at their ankles. Aprons and their bonnets suggested simplicity and innocence. Isac grinned as he imagined long, dainty fingers replacing his claw. He tried to step forward, but his feet refused to move, as a quiet part of his mind suggested temperance. The woman would be in trouble as soon as he seized the mother, and the child would scream. Isaac wasn’t prepared for a fight. He needed to surprise his target.

“Keep looking,” he reprimanded himself.

Approaching from the other direction was the old Catholic Priest. A friend to the dregs of society, this man collected blankets and warm clothes for the needy. Isac had profited from the man’s generosity more than once, but that’s not what saved the old man. The Priest’s gnarled fingers were twisted by arthritis, resembling flippers more than hands.

“Keep looking.”

A familiar scent wafted through the air. Though he couldn’t see the front of the tavern from his position, he recognized the smell of pipe tobacco drifting on the breeze.

“Dr. Joseph Allen,” he murmured to himself. He looked at his clawed hand and imagined the skilled hand of a doctor in its place. “Yes, he will do perfectly.”

Isaac stepped from the shadows and ran to the restaurant’s porch. Dr. Allen sat in the same chair as the previous day. A cloud of pipe smoke circled his head like a halo.

“Doctor!” Isaac called out, desperation lending urgency to his voice. “There’s been an accident at the graveyard. A man was hit in the head and got knocked out. There’s so much blood. We need your help.” Dr. Allen may not have been the finest physician, but he always responded when called upon.

“I’ll get my bag. Stay right here.” The doctor’s home was only two doors down from the tavern.

Isaac slipped his hand into his coat pocket. His fingers danced along the heavy cleaver’s blade.

Seconds later, the Doctor was racing down the street with a large black leather bag. “Let’s go, Isaac. You said he was at Elmwood?”

“Yes, sir, follow me.”

They raced along the alleys shoulder to shoulder to the cemetery, where Isaac did his best work. The Doctor ran through the rear gate first. Robert’s body lay in the field beyond exactly where Isaac had left it the night before. The arm with the missing hand stretched out to the side.

Dr. Allen fell to the man’s side. “Isaac, we’re too late.” He gasped between breaths and turned, looking up at Isaac, confusion and suspicion mingled in his eyes. “Isaac, do you know what happened to him?”

Isaac drew the cleaver from his pocket.

“Oh God, Isaac, what have you done?”

Isaac’s claw of a hand shot out, and with the strength it’s never shown before, locked like a vice around the Doctor’s wrist. With a primal scream, he brought the cleaver down.

Dr. Allan fell backward and sprawled on the body of the dead man. He cradled the stump of his right arm against his chest. Blood ran from the severed arm and coated the front of his suit coat.

Isaac held the severed arm high overhead. Blood ran from the stump and dripped onto his face. His eyes were wide as he celebrated acquiring his new trophy, this one perfect in every way.

“It’s only fair, Doc. You took my hand; you should be the one who replaces it.”

A deadly smile crossed his face as he imagined finishing the job on the Doctor, but time was short. Someone might have spotted him running with the Doctor. With a nod, he turned and ran for the woods surrounding the cemetery. Deep in the middle was the operating room clearing, with the tree stump.

Covered in dirt and sweat, he staggered with exhaustion as he approached the stump. He retrieved the instruments, laying them side by side. He used a dirty rag to brush away what dirt and sweat he could, not wanting to risk another trip to the creek. He removed his coat and shirt and wrapped the rope tight around his arm.

He centered the Doctor’s hand, his trophy, in the middle of the stump. Beside it he placed his deformed claw. The fingers had turned blue, with the flow of blood was cut off. 

He grit his teeth and sucked in a deep breath. The cleaver went high overhead, and the blade was embedded deep into the tree stump in the blink of an eye.

Isaac’s legs buckled beneath him, sending him sprawling to the cold earth. Though sharp and immediate, the pain seemed to emanate from a distant realm, as if he were merely an observer in this agony. He swayed precariously as he struggled to rise, grasping for stability on the stump, only to collapse against it in a desperate embrace.

“It’s all just a matter of sewing,” he whispered, a mantra to anchor what was left of his sanity amid chaos.

With trembling resolve, Isaac aligned his mutilated arm with the doctor’s severed hand, beginning the grisly task. Stitch by painstaking stitch, he sewed flesh to flesh, his concentration unwavering even as the light waned and shadows crept around him. The sun sank below the horizon, and still, he labored, driven by a fevered determination that outpaced his physical limitations. As darkness enveloped him, he tore his shirt in half to fashion makeshift bandages and a sling.

With a trembling sigh, he loosened the knot of the tourniquet. Blood seeped slowly from the wound, not the torrential gush he had feared, but a steady, insidious flow. As he watched the crimson trickle, a hammer blow of pain struck him, radiating through his body with relentless ferocity. He screamed, a primal sound torn from the depths of his suffering. Clutching his coat, he staggered to his feet, his vision blurring with the effort.

He stumbled aimlessly further through the oppressive darkness of the woods, moving like a man pursued by demons, each step a testament to his desperate will to survive. The trees closed in around him, their skeletal branches clawing at the night sky as if to snatch him away from his tenuous grasp on life. The pain was a relentless tormentor, but it was also a reminder of his defiance, a sign that he was still, against all odds, alive.

*****

Isaac walked throughout the night, his steps heavy with exhaustion and pain. As the horizon blushed with the first light of dawn, he stumbled upon a desolate field where a lone cabin stood in stark relief against the emerging day. With his strength failing, he collapsed onto the front porch and succumbed to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness.

A day and a half later, Isaac awoke to unfamiliar surroundings. He surmised no longer on the porch, someone had brought him inside. He lay in a modest bed, and beside him, a young boy dozed in a chair.

“Help,” Isaac croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

The boy startled awake, his eyes wide with surprise, and quickly darted out of the room. Moments later, an older woman entered. She wore a plain grey dress, and her apron was smeared with blood.

“Easy now,” she murmured soothingly. “You are safe.” She poured a small cup of water and held it to Isaac’s parched lips. “Small sips.”

Isaac drank greedily but managed only half the cup before collapsing onto the bed. “I’m Kamella,” the woman said, gently tucking the blankets around his frail body. “What is your name?”

“Aaron,” he lied, the name slipping out effortlessly.

“You came in pretty beat up; I’ve never seen anything like your arm. I stopped the bleeding, but it looked bad. I’m not sure you’ll be able to keep it.”

Isaac—now Aaron—let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “I can always get another,” he whispered.

The End