The Shrunken Head

It was the fuzzy morning after a bibulous night; half the chessmen were on the floor and the bottle of port was tipped on its side and empty. From the throb in my head I must have drunk most of it myself. There was no sign of Willy, however, other than the letter and the dried, shrunken trinket he’d left lying there on the board.

I picked it up, marvelling at the Victorian taste for repugnant things: they’d killed noble beasts and hung their heads on walls,  shot breathtakingly beautiful birds and preserved their feathers under glass domes, for example. The leathery, wizened head now resting on my chess board was just such an object. 

Willy Jacobs had an insatiable curiosity for things that were out of the ordinary, so I wasn’t surprised he’d picked it up. But the letter that came with it told a story too horrible to be true, but too unforgettable to be easily dismissed. 

I wondered why he'd chosen to leave it here, with me, instead of holding on to it. If only I had guessed what terror lay in store.


-- 30 --

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