Chapter Text
Give me a lever and a place to stand, Archimedes of Syracuse had once said, and I shall move the world.
The boast of being able to move the world may be a slight exaggeration, of course, but Enoch Drebber understood the principle perfectly. As long as the distance from the fulcrum to the object in need of moving - in this case, a stone slab - is shorter than the distance between the fulcrum and the input force - in this case, him - the lever - in his case, a spade - amplifies the input force, and makes heavy objects relatively easy to move.
Relatively being the key word there, because it couldn’t be argued that lifting the stone slab covering the freshly-dug grave was precisely easy. Enoch knew where his strengths lay, and his muscles was not it; he’d have better luck counting on his own meager weight to prove Archimedes right and move, if not the world, at least that damned slab. Possibly before the guardian of the cemetery happened to walk by, spot what little light emanated from Enoch’s oil lantern, and caught him in the act. It would force him to flee empty-handed and maybe even abandon his spade there, and Hell knew he didn’t even have money to buy another one.
Things would be a lot easier if he had money to bribe the man, clearly, but lack of money was precisely the reason why he was there in the first place. Graverobbing was unpleasant work but always worth it in the end, with coin to last him a good month or even two as long as he was wise in his spending. Some of his fellow students did not see it that way, saying that all the money in the world was not worth the nightmares, or eternal damnation, or whatever it was they feared most.
As luck would have it, Enoch Drebber held no more belief in divine retribution than he did in ghost stories; if not for the risk of being caught, he’d fear those nocturnal walks across cemeteries in the faint light of a lantern no more than walking down the halls at university. Whether it had belonged to a murderer or a saint, a body was a body: a husk of flesh that no longer served a purpose, valuable to no one but the surgeon under whose scalpel it would fall and the students who’d learn from it. And to him, as a decent source of income.
It wouldn’t be long, either way. He was so close to graduation and soon all would be very different, with so much to look forward to. He could change the country, change the world. Within the next ten years, he imagined he’d--
A scraping sound of stone on stone interrupted his musings and brought him back to the present - on an uncharacteristically non-foggy night in the Lowgate cemetery, straining to push down onto the handle of his spade, the other end wedged in a crack beneath the slab that was finally widening.
Ah, Enoch thought, not a moment too soon.
A few more heaves, more scraping sounds, and Enoch was finally able to move it halfway to the side and reveal the coffin within. There was no layer of earth on it to dig out; unusual but, still panting a little for the exertion, he was only glad for it. He shoved the head of the spade in the crack beneath the lid, and pushed it down again. This time, it didn’t take much force.
Crack.
The sound of nails and cheap wood giving in was louder than Enoch would have liked and he stilled to look around, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, making sure he hadn’t been heard. The air was still, the night clear, and to his relief he could see no one: he was alone amongst the tombstones, no sign of the night guardian. Just him, and the faint flickering shadows cast by his oil lantern.
… Maybe it would be best to move it closer, though, to better see inside the coffin and make sure its light would attract no unwarranted attention. Enoch Drebber stood, spade still in hand, and went to pick up the lantern. His left hand had just closed around the handle when noises reached his ears, faint but unmistakable.
The squeal of a hinge being pushed open, a groan, someone moving around and wood splintering further...
… and again the scrape of stone on stone, as though the slab was being pushed further aside to… to...
No. It’s not true. It’s not happening.
Enoch Drebber was, at heart, a man of science. He believed only what he could see and touch to be real, and only what precise calculations and proven theories told him was possible to be possible. Corpses did not, could not, sit up and leave their graves. It was a scientific impossibility. The dead did not return to life, and the temperature in London on a warm Spring night could not drop by a dozen degrees within seconds.
And yet something was moving behind him, and the sheen of sweat on his skin seemed to have turned into frost. Suddenly, the hand holding the lantern shook so hard the tiny flame was almost extinguished. If that happened and he was left in darkness, Enoch was sure, no amount of logic and good judgment in the world could keep him from screaming.
Above him, dark clouds hid the moon. Behind him strone scraped against stone once more, followed by a noise that chilled him to the bone, carried by a faint wind.
“Uugh…”
Run.
No. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s someone trying to scare me off-- the guardian, another grave robber, some urchins from the slums--
He should have ran, dropped the lantern and spade and just left the cemetery as fast as his legs could carry him, but he did not and he would live to regret it. As his rational mind desperately fought to cling to a logical explanation and keep the growing panic at bay, Enoch Drebber gathered his courage and turned, mouth dry, to lift the lantern with a shaky hand.
“Who--” he began, but his voice died in his throat. There in the flickering light, face covered by an iron mask and halfway out of his grave, was the corpse. Enoch strained to open his mouth, to cry out, but no sound left him as he watched a dead man climb out of his coffin. The thing’s eyes seemed to shine from the dark abysses of the mask’s eyes, and Enoch knew they were fixed on him. It may have made him tremble, if he wasn’t frozen on the spot.
Divine retribution, he thought. They'll find me in the morning. I will make the papers sooner than I thought I would.
No!
A faint sigh of wind hit his face, chilling him through. A scream tried to claw its way through Enoch’s throat, but something held it back. He stared, eyes wide and terror paralyzing every limb, now certain he would die unless he could force his voice out; the silence and darkness all around him suddenly felt unbearable, suffocating, pushing down on him like gravity. He struggled to draw breath through the obstruction in his throat, and tried to scream.
He never got the chance: another sound cut through the silence of the night before he could.
BANG.
Something hit Enoch Drebber’s back with stunning force, sending him sprawling on the ground with scarcely a sound. He dimly heard his lantern shattering, but he didn’t get to see its light being snuffed out: his face was pressed in the dirt, and he didn’t have the strength to lift his head. The smell of earth filled his nostrils, along with another smell his mind refused to identify as blood. His back burned, but it was a distant burn with little pain as he tethered on the edge of unconsciousness. His fingers dug into the earth, but he was unable to move.
He’ll take me to Hell, he thought. Someone help me, he tried to call out, and again he could make no noise. He faintly heard something over the ringing in his ears - steps, someone’s voice - but he couldn’t make out any words. Enoch’s eyes fell shut and he let the dark claim him, utterly certain he would never awaken again.
He was wrong.
He’d wish he hadn't been.
Earth. He smelled earth and blood, something was
d r a g g i n g him
away from where he’d fallen
where had he fallen
why had he fallen
and whatever it was
the corpse
he was powerless to stop it. He was cold
so so cold
and couldn’t move, his tongue remained a dead weight in his mouth, his eyes remained shut as he
f
e
l
l
and hit something hard, a clang of metal on wood
why metal and why was his head so heavy
covering his faint groan. It had felt like such a long fall, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was not. A hole in the ground large enough for a coffin was not a long way to fall.
“Wrong place. Wrong time .”
A voice so. far. away. So far. So close.
Enoch’s eyes cracked open only a few moments to see the waning moon high above, a dark shadow blotting out most of it. A sigh.
“... Wrong target. Damned fool.”
Enoch Drebber tried to call out
help me
what happened
God
mother
someone
but his tongue did not move, his head was much too heavy, and his eyes slipped shut again. The creak of hinges, a lid slamming shut, and all was dark. Above him, the scrape of stone on stone
give me a lever
sealed him in, but Enoch did not hear it. For a time, he heard and felt nothing.
Air. A clack like a metal latch right by his ear and then cool night air blowing on his face brought Enoch back to a state of faint awareness. He breathed in, or tried to, because suddenly something
pressed
on his face, something soft and yielding, and he couldn’t breathe. He tried to push it off, but he couldn’t move, fingers barely twitching.
No no no stop please I’m sorry I’m so sorry someone help--
Then, as his lungs began to burn, the pressure was gone and air hit his face again. He drew breath in a shuddering gasp; above him, someone else gasped much louder.
“Mon Dieu!”
The clang of tools being dropped, a silence and stillness that seemed to stretch on forever. Beneath close eyelids, he realized a light was being shone on him. The voice came again, this time a whisper.
“This… how… blood…? What happened here?”
A soft touch on his forehead, so so cold
or maybe he was feverish
and another whisper. “Monsieur, what happened…?”
“Who goes there!”
Another voice, loud as thunder, and the touch on Enoch’s forehead was gone. He groaned again, and strained to open his eyes. In the faint glow of the lantern he saw there were two figures standing above him. Neither was trying to keep their voice down, but all sound still seemed to be coming from so far away, words barely intelligible and blurring together.
“... doing here…”
“... still alive, call the wardens…”
“... botched the hanging, clearly…”
“... buried him alive…?”
“... will answer for the mistake…”
“... how…?”
“... none of your concern… national interest…”
Enoch groaned again, and tried to move. His body was too heavy, and something behind his shoulder hurt, a burning pain that seemed to flare all the brighter the more he regained consciousness. “H-- help--”
He managed to force out the word in a husky whisper, causing the two dark figures to fall quiet and look at him. The larger one, a man, heaved a sigh. “... Go fetch the guardian and tell him to warn the prison wardens at once. We will discuss your trespassing later.”
“I… oui. Right away.”
The woman seemed to pause a moment before she ran off, picking something up from the ground, but Enoch didn’t see what it was and neither did the man. Suddenly he was kneeling over him, blocking out the moonlight, staring down at him with piercing eyes. The oil lantern's light flickered across his features as he grimaced, pulling his lips in a tight line.
“Yes, Professor,” he said, very quietly. “It is clear that the execution was botched.”
The… the Professor, the infamous mass murderer? A botched execution? Then maybe… maybe he hadn’t seen a corpse return to life. The man-- the murderer -- was never dead. It happened rarely, but neither botched hangings nor men buried alive were unheard of. There were stories among grave robbers of such instances, bodies found with bloodied fingers from trying to scratch their way out, but Enoch regarded them as nothing more than legends.
After that night, he never would again. He had let a murderer out in the streets, the monster had tried to kill him and left him for dead. And now he was out there, he was… he was...
“A-- alive…” Enoch managed, his usually nimble mind struggling to put the pieces together. The man nodded gravely.
“Yes, unfortunately. You should not be alive. This is going to be a dreadful headache.” A shake of his head, and the man reached to pick something up from the ground - the iron mask that had been on the murderer’s face when he’d emerged from the grave, now open like a beast’s maw. The mere sight of it made Enoch shudder.
“T-the Professor, I saw… I…!” he choked out, trembling.
A long sigh, and the man nodded again. “Oh, yes. I know,” he said. Suddenly the mask was over Enoch’s head, and closed with a clack. He made a noise of surprise, looking at the man’s face; his expression remained unreadable. What… what was going on? Was he listening to him?
“The Professor--” Enoch tried again, struggling and failing to hold up his head. A large hand on his chest kept him from trying to rise, his head spun, and he knew he wouldn’t be conscious for long.
“No need to repeat your title, Professor,” the man said, and reached for the mask again. Another sound, like a key being turned into a lock, and those blue eyes once again bore into his. There was no joy nor sorrow in that unwavering gaze: only a steely resolve more terrifying than anything else he'd seen that night.
Enoch's own vision swam and everything went dark again, the next words barely reaching him as he felt himself sink into nothingness.
“We know exactly who you are.”