The Burial of Lillian Bell Read online

  the burial

  of lillian bell

  _______________________

  david helms

  An Archer Publishing Book

  Washington, D.C.

  THE BURIAL OF LILLIAN BELL

  Published by Archer Publishing

  815 Thayer Avenue, Silver Spring, MD 20910

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2023 by David Helms

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any printed or electronic form. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Click here to find this and other publications at www.ArcherPublish.com.

  ARCHER PUBLISHING is a registered trademark of Archer Media Networks LLC.

  The ARCHER PUBLISHING logo is a registered trademark of Archer Media Networks LLC.

  Archer Publishing ISBN

  978-1-959838-08-1

  the burial

  of lillian bell

  LILLIAN BELL’S BODY WAS found on a deserted, picturesque lane early one Sunday morning in 1886. The vivacious young lady was the third victim in a sudden onslaught of murders which recently occurred over a period of weeks. Each victim, notably all young women of discerning taste, displayed a clean straight cut across their throat. The sight of the first two women was horrific, for the open gash left on their slender necks discolored their cheeks and stained blood red what once were stylish gowns of pale blue and pink, leaving their lifeless bodies in a bloody pond.

  Although the discovery of Ms. Bell was just as unseemly, her still and cold figure exhibited a sense of artistic temperament. She was draped elegantly over a small set of stairs next to a tiny, well-kept garden. The soft morning light glowed upon the alabaster skin of her oval face, which was enveloped in eddies of long raven curls. Despite there being no glimmer of life, her piercing blue eyes, which stared into the distance, appeared iridescent under long dark lashes. Her full and tender lips were parted ever so slightly over a dainty chin. Her graceful neck flaunted the same deep cut that accompanied the other lovely casualties. Dark red blood had cascaded from the open wound like a waterfall into thick rivulets that nearly disappeared into the lush maroon dye of her silk gown. The blood had veered off into tiny streams along the ornately designed frock before dripping onto the steps. Her gloveless hands lay open palm up beside her head. The overall effect was haunting, mysterious, and almost enchanting. The juxtaposition of light to dark was like a grim type of chiaroscuro. The death of Lillian Bell could be compared to Gentileschi’s famous painting Judith Slaying Holofernes.

  The deaths of the three maidens left the police and public shocked and baffled. No discernible evidence could be found or linked between them, except for the manner in which all three were slain. The case was made more frustrating because there were either no witnesses, and all three murders occurred in random locations throughout the city. Background information on the women revealed very little, except that all three were of good-standing, fashionable, and single. Some remarked that Lillian displayed more spirit and candor than the other two, but no explanation could be supplied as to the reason for why she was killed. The one conclusion that was firmly believed by all was that the killer must be male, despite there being no evidence to support it.

  Just as the image of Lillian Bell’s death could be described as enchanting, yet grim, so too was the depiction of the young woman at her burial. No longer was she the subject of a virtually Renaissance style rendering, but the charming innocent figure of an 18th century portrait. Her glossy black curls were piled neatly on her head, while loose, ribbon-like strands twisted down to her supple shoulders. Her raven hair accentuated the fine features of her lovely face. A delicate smirk was faintly etched upon her lips. She was shrouded in a simple gauzy white dress with a blue sash, making her appear tall and willowy. Her slender hands rested gently on her still breast. The gruesome mark that once was slashed across her throat was now covered by a choker of black ribbon. A little gold bell, a family heirloom, was attached in the center and tinkled faintly when moved. This striking figure in no way resembled the harshness of Holofernes in Gentileschi’s piece, but the radiant figure of Faith in John Singleton Copley’s The Red Cross Knight.

  Ms. Bell’s funeral was an understandably solemn affair, attended by various friends, distant relatives, and few acquaintances. She was interred in the local cemetery inside the family mausoleum alongside her parents. The white stone structure resided in a far remote corner of the cemetery, quietly resting beneath the branches of a large willow tree. A small gravel path veered away from the sparsely scattered headstones nearby and led to a short set of stairs, which were cut off at the mausoleum’s intricately designed black wrought iron gate. The interior space, which echoed faintly, was large enough to house the three stone tombs of Lillian and her parents, who flanked her on either side. The inscription on her tomb simply read:

  Lillian Marie Bell

  Beloved Daughter

  1859-1886

  The month that followed Lillian’s burial was strange because it was quiet. The murders ceased abruptly after her death, as if no such tragic events ever occurred. The efforts of the police to uncover a motive or a killer were unsuccessful, so it was decided to mark the case as unsolved, file it away for the time being, and to continue on with other, more pressing matters. However, what truly made the month so strange were its last three days, which were filled with unfathomable incidents.

  Among the numerous gray slabs, carved figures, winding paths, and lush landscaping of the local cemetery were two graves of curious nature. Suspended above the resting place of each of the deceased were little brass bells. The smooth contours of the shaped metal glinted in the shifting light and attached to each of the clappers was a piece of string, which disappeared into a tiny hole in the stone surface of the headstones. A confused caller would have been informed that the bells were not intended to be rung by visitors, but by the deceased. Beneath the suffocating pressure of six feet of dirt lay safety coffins. The bells could be rung by the person within the coffin, via a string tied to the hand, alerting anyone nearby that death had not yet come.

  The graves were unsettling and ridiculous to Mr. Crawford, the middle-aged caretaker of the cemetery. While overseeing the installations and burials, he found his focus drawn to the shining bells. He knew that a premature burial, though a dreaded fear, was an extremely rare occurrence and that if such a thing should ever happen, the likelihood of saving the poor soul within the cramped space was slim. The amount of time it would take to remove six feet of dirt would do little to keep death at bay. However, despite his scoffs and common sense, he found himself wishing that those bells stay lifeless, just like the bodies beneath should be. The gravesites belonged not to persons of important note, only to families with wealth. The mere fact of their presence in this local cemetery two days before the strange happenings began was noteworthy and enough to set poor Mr. Crawford on edge. The distance between the two burial sites was also a factor. They resided on opposite sides of the grounds, as if placing them far away from one another would keep them from being operated.

  However, one evening, the sound of a bell rang for five minutes before midnight as the cemetery was to be closed and locked to the public. The first night it happened, Mr. Crawford was so jolted that he nearly joined the silent forms that lay beneath his feet. He grabbed the nearest shovel and lamp, and darted off in the direction of one of the safety coffins. Upon arriving, he was amazed to discover that its bell was not ringing. It hung rigid under the flickering light of his oil lamp. The ringing, however, continued its distressing sound, increasing in rhythm and volume. Mr. Crawford fled toward the site of the second grave, nearly tripping over his shovel in his haste. The bell was as still as the first. The shining mass didn’t swing an inch. And then the alarming noise stopped abruptly, giving way to an eerie tranquility. The ringing echoed in the ears of Mr. Crawford and he quickly locked up the cemetery and sought refuge in a large nightcap before bed.

  Again, the next evening, a bell rang loudly and unexpectedly, sending a bitter chill down the spine of caretaker Crawford. As before, the clamor began at five minutes to midnight. The bell rang manic and desperate. Filled with dread, the quivering caretaker rushed to one of the burial spots. The clapper of the bell hung limp in the shadow of its cavity, but still the relentless and frantic clanging pounded over the motionless wide sweep of the cemetery. Charging in the direction of the only other possible source of the commotion, Mr. Crawford passed row after row of slabs and memorials. He noticed the air was still, even the surrounding grass and tree branches. The caretaker stood transfixed before the structure of the gray headstone. Crawford was dumbfounded. He could not comprehend what could be the source of the ringing bell, if not these two. As with the previous evening, the hysterical dinging from the frenzied bell halted with no resounding echo. One moment there was noise, then dead silence.

  The next morning was saluted early with a pink pastel sky and a woman’s piercing scream. A crowd gathered outside a stately townhouse belonging to a Jonathan Black, esquire. At the top of the stairs, in an open doorway, stood a peti
te young maid, who was found clinging desperately to the doorframe. Her pretty face was red and covered in tears. Her dainty hands gripped the frame intensely, her knuckles white from pressure. Her shrieks and cries were relentless. A nearby officer’s whistle was heard, followed by the tapping of his hurried footsteps. He stopped short alongside the gawking crowd, stunned by the image that came into view. On the floor of the doorway, underneath the maid’s tiny feet, was a puddle of blood. The deep red fluid dripped downward in a wide track, tumbling over each stone step like a gruesome fountain. Scattered within the liquid’s thick consistency were the white wriggling forms of maggots. The revolting concoction ran like a river over the last step, across the sidewalk, over the width of the street, and trailed off into the distance.

  The officer surveyed the scene with a look of disgust and then extricated himself from the growing crowd to attend to the terrified maid. A throaty yell from across the street stole his attention. Approaching at a brisk pace was Mr. Crawford, struggling with breath. He pointed behind him with a limp arm.

  “The woman…” he said.

  The officer grabbed Crawford by his thin shoulders, “What woman? Speak up!”

  “The Bell woman…” was all Mr. Crawford could offer before he motioned emphatically for the officer to follow him.

  Their path was directed by the stream of blood and maggots that began at Mr. Black’s door. It ran over grass and gravel alike, before arriving at the open gates to the local cemetery. The officer stopped in his tracks and glared at Mr. Crawford, who only motioned again for the young man to follow him. The bloody trail led onward, snaking through granite and marble headstones, around neatly trimmed bushes, and past open plots of land. The path led the pair to a secluded corner of the cemetery. Beneath the sinewy branches of a wide willow tree stood a white mausoleum. Mr. Crawford halted, not daring to continue. He pointed a shaky finger at the mausoleum. The young officer hesitated, his gaze fixed on the shadowed structure.

  The officer was slow and cautious as he proceeded, his feet crunching on the short gravel path. His anxiety grew when he saw that the mausoleum’s black wrought iron gate stood wide open. He ascended its short set of stairs, which were coated in blood and maggots. The stench that seeped from within its silent walls was rank with its wretched odor. Lying across the lid of the tomb in the center was the corpse of Lillian Bell. No longer did she have the haunting quality of a Gentileschi painting, nor the radiating feature of Faith from John Singleton Copley’s work.

  Her figure was grotesque, as her once alabaster skin now appeared shriveled in shades of black and brown. The tumbling curls of her raven hair, which looked thin and flattened, were sprawled about her skeletal head in disarray. The black choker that once wrapped snugly around her slender neck now loosely encircled it revealing the ghastly wound on her throat. The tiny bell gleamed faintly. Her rotting skin was split and receding, uncovering white rigid bone beneath. No longer was she shrouded in a clean gauzy white dress and blue sash. The garb was soaked in a murky red over its entire front, fresh blood oozing down in heavy wet pleats. Her visage was an image of abhorrence, for her eyes were two craters of black. Her now deteriorated lips exposed two rows of teeth, that smiled with threatening glee. From the empty eye sockets and grinning mouth wriggled the tiny white shapes of maggots, which occasionally fell to the stone floor below. Clutched within her withered and bony left hand was a small knife, which rested on her breast. Its blade tarnished and thick with blood.

  The gruesome figure of Lilliam Bell froze the officer in place. His breath became labored, heavy gasps and his heart pounded in his chest. His eyes drifted down to the blood-soaked slippers on Lillian’s feet. It took him a moment before he realized that the lid to Bell’s tomb lay slightly ajar. Taking a moment to gather his strength, the officer approached the tomb and pushed at the lid, trying not to disturb the corpse that lay on top. The officer peered inside. He recoiled suddenly and emitted a startled shriek, nearly tumbling over the other tomb behind him. Laid within the center tomb was the body of Jonathan Black. His face was contorted in horror, his eyes wide and mouth agape. A clean straight line of red on his thick neck gushed blood, which flowed down his once neat shirt front and pooled around his corpse. Clenched tightly in one of his hands was a small piece of paper. The officer extracted the sheet delicately. Written in bloody ink was:

  DAMNED TO ROT IN ETERNITY

  The tolling of distant church bells for morning service roused the officer from his petrified state. The ringing grew louder and resonated over the cemetery’s open grounds. The resounding bells were immediately joined by a woman’s laugh, which began to crescendo and echo within the mausoleum.

  About the author

  DAVID HELMS is an actor, artist, and writer. He is a graduate of the University of North Texas. His short horror story “The Townhouse” was published by Archer Publishing in the Darker Than Night anthology. He has written other short horror stories and fairy tales. In his spare time, Mr. Helms performs theatre throughout the North Texas area and creates illustrations and paintings for future projects. He lives in Dallas, Texas with his family.

 

 

  David Helms, The Burial of Lillian Bell

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