Dead Man's Chest

by Michael Kelly

About the Author: Michael Kelly is the former Series Editor for the Year's Best Weird Fiction. He’s a Shirley Jackson Award and British Fantasy Award-winning editor, and a two-time World Fantasy Award nominee. His fiction has appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including Black Static, Nightmare Magazine, The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 21 & 24, Postscripts, PseudoPod, Weird Fiction Review, and has been previously collected in Scratching the Surface & Undertow & Other Laments.

Excerpt

Fog twisted around the two men, Keller and Hayes, as they walked along the dark, cobbled street.

“Blast it all, Keller,” Hayes said. “Can we hurry along a bit quicker?”

Keller, to Hayes’s immense displeasure, slowed, turned to his friend, removed his cigarillo. “Whatever for? It seems a decidedly nice evening for a stroll.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Benedict, it’s frightfully cold.”

Plumes of cold breath issued from Keller’s mouth. “Hmmm ... you’re right, John, I hadn’t noticed.”

Hayes glowered, trembled. “We should have taken a carriage, as I’d suggested.”

Keller smiled, continued his leisurely pace.

“This damp will be the death of me, Keller. Just you wait and see.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Keller muttered.

Hayes noticed, with some chagrin, that Keller hadn’t even bothered to fasten his coat properly.

Cold sheets of mist sheathed the streets. The mist hung crystalline in the yellow glow of the gaslights, coating the lampposts and streets in a greasy sheen.

Keller and Hayes were returning, unhurriedly, from an evening of conviviality at The Dragon Pub. Benedict Keller nursed his cigarillo and John Hayes nursed a growing headache, perhaps brought on by one too many snifters of brandy. The street was still but for the occasional call of a tomcat, and both men were quiet now, seemingly lost in their own thoughts, when a high, shrill scream pierced the night.

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