The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

It’s a stark contrast to Evelyn, whose gaze could tear strips from my skin.

Her eyes are wild, like an animal caught in a trap.

I humiliated him, and he handed back an equal weight of that misery, using nothing more than patience. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a feat?

“Regardless, I threw the first stone. I can’t complain if a boulder comes back at me.”

Horses nicker, doormen opening the doors for

costumed guests who flutter out like canaries released from their cages.

grinning devils.

hobble toward the cascade of costumes shrouding my quarry. I follow glimpses—the glint of a mask, the swirl of a cloak—but he’s fog in a forest, impossible to snatch hold of.

The prayer only takes a minute, and when it’s done, he drapes his jacket across Evelyn’s face, as though her unblinking stare is of greater offense than the blood staining her dress.

push her over the edge,

As strange as it is to say about somebody I can’t remember, I now realize I’ve missed her.

do I realize how young she is; no more than nineteen I’d guess, though hard labor’s added a few years to the pile.

batman

It’s a foul morning, so I dress in the thickest clothes I can find: hunting tweeds and a heavy black coat that trails along the floor as I leave the bedroom.

Clenching my hands, I try to keep hold of my rising temper.

Whatever happens today, I need to keep tight hold of my temper or this creature is going to slip loose again, and goodness knows what he’ll do. And that’s the truly scary part. My hosts can fight back.

This would be the perfect place for him to strike.

I call out, but if anything my voice is the whip at her back, driving her forward.

It really is a dreadful day, the gray sky spitting rain, lathering itself into the fury of a storm.

“Have to do, I suppose,” she says, taking it from me and unscrewing the cap.

There’s a game in progress on a child’s chessboard, the white pieces decimated by the black.

The front door is open, a group of old men departing for a walk, taking their laughter with them.

but Derby’s an entirely different torment—a restless, malevolent imp scurrying between tragedies of his own devising. I can’t wait to be free of him.

I’m conscious of the effort of listening, the weight of my eyelids, the way the room is melting around me.

“Nobody has friends in Blackheath, Mr. Bishop, and if you haven’t learned that yet, I’m afraid there may be no hope for you.”

All that remains are the two headache pills given to me by Anna, which are still wrapped in the blue handkerchief.

Swallowing the tablets dry, I claw my way up the wall, staggering back into Stanwin’s room.

I’m a man undone, coming apart at the seams. I can feel myself unraveling.

Doctor Dickie’s gun is the very same one Evelyn will use to take her life tonight. He’s holding the murder weapon.

Evening gowns expose naked backs and pale skin adorned with glittering jewelry. The listlessness of earlier is gone, their charm extravagant. At last, as evening calls, they’ve come alive.

The lamps have been lowered to dim flames. It’s quiet and oppressive, a forgotten edge of the world. I’m halfway up the passage when I notice a splash of red emerging from the shadows.

I’m earning the “rabbit” nickname he’s given me.

Four oil lamps stand in the corners of the room, pinching the gloom between their flickering light and that of the fireplace.

curios

Wiping away a tear, he pulls the window shut, cutting off the cold breeze. The candles stand to attention, the light in the room solidifying into a warm, golden glow.

Leave it buried.

A piece of you. Now leave it alone.

She has a dreamy tone, as though describing something she once heard and now only half remembers.

covetous,

but somewhere beyond my sight an invisible hand is working, pulling levers I can’t possibly understand.

By the light of the fire, he looks like a creature dressing up as human, the mask slipping.

He’s on me in seconds, covering my mouth to stifle my scream as the blade enters my side and tears up into my ribcage, blood burbling into my throat.

liver spots.

His fear is a disease, the infection spreading through me.

They’re wary and hunted, like an animal waiting for the shot.

For all I know, we’re running in circles undoing each other’s work.

He considers this boy’s meekness infuriating, his silence an affront. He’s a failure, an unforgivable failure.

I can feel my son weighing my mood, watching my face as one watches the clouds for an approaching storm.

Even this simple request grates upon me.

In his absence my breathing eases, my hands unclench.