The Screaming Skull

Jeremiah Masters, a man as weathered as the ancient oak trees that surrounded his isolated cottage, had lived a life of quiet solitude for over sixty years. His days had been a predictable rhythm of tending his meager garden, reading worn books by the fire, and listening to the wind whisper secrets through the eaves. He had no wife, no children, no family nearby to disturb the tranquil monotony of his existence. His relatives, scattered across distant lands, had long ago ceased to check in, leaving him adrift in the sea of his own company. But time, that relentless sculptor, had begun to chip away at his strength, leaving him frail and vulnerable, a silent plea for help etched onto his careworn face. The once sturdy hands that had tilled the earth now trembled, and the twinkle in his eye was dimmed by the encroaching shadow of old age. He was a solitary beacon in the wilderness, a target for anyone with malice in their heart.

One bleak afternoon, the relentless monotony of Jeremiah's life was shattered. The rumble of an engine echoed across the desolate landscape, growing louder until a battered black sedan, its paint chipped and faded like a forgotten tombstone, pulled into his gravel driveway. The silence that had always enveloped the cottage was broken by the grating sound of the car's engine as it sputtered to a stop. Two figures emerged, their silhouettes ominous against the setting sun. They were men, their faces hard and their eyes glinting with a predatory light. Their clothes were dark, their presence a stark contrast to the quiet serenity of the place. They were not lost travelers seeking directions; they had come with a purpose as dark as the shadows that clung to the edge of the forest.

They approached the cottage with a measured stride that was both confident and menacing. Each step on the gravel crunched like bone underfoot. A heavy fist pounded against the old wooden door, the sound echoing through the quiet house like a death knell. Jeremiah, startled from his armchair by the fireplace, rose with a groan, his old joints protesting with every move. He shuffled to the door, his brow furrowed with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. He had not had a visitor, not a single one, in what felt like an age. His hand trembled as he reached for the latch, the wood worn smooth from countless years of use and etched with the passage of time.

Jeremiah opened the door, his gentle smile a stark contrast to the menacing figures before him. "Well now," he said, his voice thin with age, "You must be lost? The nearest town... it's a fair ways from here."

The two men remained silent. They did not smile back. They did not acknowledge his words. Instead, their hands moved with chilling precision, and two sharp, wicked blades flashed in the dim light of the porch. The smile instantly faded from Jeremiah's face, replaced by a look of sheer terror as one of the men shoved him roughly, sending the old man crashing to the floor with a dull thud. The other man, whose face was etched with a cruel sneer, jumped on top of Jeremiah, pinning him down with his knee. He pressed the cold steel of his knife to Jeremiah's throat, the sharp edge just grazing his skin.

"Old man," he hissed, his voice like gravel, "Where's your money? Don't play dumb with me."

Jeremiah’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the impending doom. "I... I don’t have any money," he stammered, his voice a mere whisper, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. He had never imagined such cruelty in his simple, solitary life.

The man laughed, a short, sharp snort that sent shivers down Jeremiah's spine. "Don't lie to me, you old fool. I know you've got something hidden away. Now, where is it?" He pressed the knife a little harder, a small bead of blood welling up on Jeremiah's throat.

"I swear... I have nothing… nothing but this old cottage and a few dusty books... Please," Jeremiah begged, his voice cracking with emotion. His eyes pleaded for mercy, but there was none to be found in the cold, dark depths of the robber’s glare.

The man sneered again, the shadow of his malicious intent darkening the already grim expression on his face. "Well, old timer, it seems you're useless. I guess I'll just cut your head off then. Maybe you’ll spit out some gold coins when I do."

Jeremiah’s breath hitched. He could feel the cold, hard steel against his throat. This was the end. He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of sorrow washing over him. He had lived a quiet life, a life of quiet solitude, and now that life was about to end with unimaginable cruelty.

But then, a sense of resignation settled upon him. Perhaps this was the purpose of his long existence – to be a victim so these two men will feel something... He opened his eyes and looked the robber directly in his eyes.

"If you do," Jeremiah said, his voice surprisingly calm, "Could you please grant me one request?"

There was a strange stillness in his voice, a hint of something beyond fear. The tone was so at odds with his current situation it caused the robber to hesitate, a flicker of something that wasn't just cruelty to appear in his eyes.

The man holding the knife narrowed his eyes. "What is it, old man? Make it quick."

"Please... please bury my body in my backyard. That's all I ask. Don’t just leave it here to rot," Jeremiah replied, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. He thought about the pond, the stillness of the water, and the quiet darkness he would soon be a part of. It was a peaceful end, one he finally accepted. Maybe this was the end of his solitude.

The first man released a harsh laugh, his face twisting into a grotesque mask of mockery. The other one chuckled, a hollow, joyless sound.

"You got it, old man," he said, the edge to his voice making his words a mockery of any promise. "Anything to make your death that more pleasant!"

Without a further word, the man holding the knife pressed down, the blade slicing through Jeremiah's flesh with sickening ease. A gurgling sound, a spattering of blood, and Jeremiah's head was severed from his shoulders. The body slumped lifelessly to the floor, a still and stark testament to the men's brutality. A few drops of blood splattered on the wooden floor, staining the old and worn boards.

The men stared at each other for one moment, a strange stillness engulfing them as they processed what they had committed. The air was thick with the smell of blood and death, a stench that lingered in the small room.