Hunchback Horseman - 1859
A wild ride of a tale this one. This story dates us back to them olden days of Millpond - 1859 if I ain’t mistaken.
If you ever find yourself down on Cemetary Drive, on Halloween night, you’re sure to see the ghost of the Hunchback Horseman riding his stagecoach, whalin’ and bellowin’ as he’s torn apart by a haze of bullets.
There was this fella goes by the name of Henry Hellridge, who led a straightforward life as a stagecoach horseman. A quiet fella. Kept himself to himself usually. Trotting ‘round the town, ferritin’ folks to and fro. Made an honest dime that way, he did. It was the only way he could, given his posture ‘n all. Certainly wasn’t one for the stage lights.
His right shoulder, swollen and twisted like an old tree root. Some chalked it up to bad luck in the genetics department. Others say he was cursed as a child. Folk felt sorry for him. Either way, he got real nervous around the ladies. Got it in his head they’d point at him in disgust when he turned his back, or make faces of disdain when they encountered him in the street.
He slept in a disused shed on the cemetery grounds. No one bothered him there ‘cause no one wanted to. It smelled of something awful. A stench that’d make even the dirtiest of rodents pass out.
But he had his trusty steeds, Mephistopheles and Beelzebub. Fastest critters on the road, no doubt about it. He treated ‘em like family. His two four-legged brothers. He was more proud of them than he was himself. Best groomed horses in town.
Just like any savvy businessman, he put his coin where it counted - in his stagecoach. Enhancing it with superior suspension and aerodynamics for speed and efficiency, along with a touch of luxury to entice his clientele. He understood he had to offer something of worth, ‘cause back then, who’d wanna take a ride with a hunchback?
Back in them days, when it came to travelin’, folks weren’t keen on dawdlin’. Highwayman preyed on the rich and unwary, and folks took heed, you can bet your boots on that. So when you offer a service of being fast, secure and efficient you get yourself a customer.
Then, late one Halloween night, when he was headin’ out of Millpond, the two well-to-do ladies seated in the back of the coach caught his ear. They were yabberin’ and hootin’, clearly havin’ a good time in the back when he thought he overheard them mockin’ him - jesting at his expense, laughin’ at his appearance, wonderin’ how any woman could fancy a creature like him.
Or was it just his mind unravelin’ like a ball of yarn?
After a mile or so outside Millpond, his ears were burnin’ like coal fire. He hated it when pretty ladies mocked him. It wasn’t his fault he was born this way. He stopped the stagecoach, much to the dismay of his two new customers in the back. Then he withdrew his repeating rifle and hopped off the driver's box like a man on a mission.
With gritted teeth, he made his way around to the cabin, a sense of tension hangin’ heavy in the air. When one of the ladies dared to peek out of the side curtain to see what the commotion was about, fear spread across her dainty little features like a bolt of lightnin’.
With a firm hand, he swung the door open and demanded they disembark. And without a word of protest, they obliged.
He placed a small wooden box on the floor in front of them and then told them to remove all their jewelry, trinkets, and any valuables they may have in their possession and place it in the box. He picked up the box and tucked it under his arm for safe keepin’.
Once he was satisfied, he told them to strip naked.
“Take all them clothes off” he demanded, so he could gawp at their porcelain-skinned bodies.
“Do you know who I am?” the taller lady replied.
“You know what this is?” he snapped back, shoving the rifle in her face.
“I’m Elizabeth Mayweather, daughter to the Mayor of Millpond and if you so much…”
THUMP.
The Hunchback hit her so hard with that gun she cracked her skull on the stagecoach behind her, fallin’ to the floor like a ragdoll.
The other lady, Mary Ceats, let out a shriek that could wake the dead, slapping at the rifle barrel in a wild panic before takin’ off runnin’. A deafenin’ shot rang out, tearin’ through Beelzebub’s leg and leavin’ it maimed.
Our horseman whaled in anguish at the thought that one of his own was so grievously hurt, and not by the hands of someone else, but by his own. He sank to his knees, his heart heavy as he watched his steed writhe in agony.
Mary Ceats ran as fast as she could down the dirt track. A distant shot echoed out behind her. But she didn’t care. She kept runnin’. It was only a mile or so down the road did another horseman come trottin’ along and rescue her.
A few hours later, Mayor Mayweather, a real non-nonsense, God fearin’ hardcase, heard his daughter had been harmed. He went into a complete frenzy, roundin’ up every two-bit no-good in the vicinity, promising wealthy coin to hunt this hunchback down and bring him to the town square for a well-deserved dose of punishment.
When they rode out from Millpond, all that remained was the bloodied carcass of a horse, shot clean in the head and the leg. No Elizabeth Mayweather, just her clothes, torn and ripped, strewn about the mud and dirt of the road. The tracks gave them clues - the stagecoach had turned tail and headed back towards town.
“Boy, was this creature as stupid as he was ugly”, did the Mayor utter out loud.
Furiously they rode back to Millpond.
Upon their return, cries and screams echoed through the streets, setting the town ablaze with fear and hysteria. Torches were lit along Main Street and the residents poured out of their homes. Rumours of sightings up by the cemetery spread like wildfire, where glimpses of the deranged hunchback figure had been seen.
Mayor Mayweather and his gang thundered into town, weapons at the ready, determined to finally put an end to this unsightly creature who had tainted these streets for long enough. But as they followed the cries of the towns-folk toward the Cemetary, they received an unwelcome dose of gunfire.
Two of Mayweather’s thugs had their tickets punched out for the last time as the Hunchback rode toward them, firing, chucking lead at them with fury and anger. With Mephistopheles in the lead there was no slowing him down, but Mayor Mayweather gave the order and an artillery of bullets flooded the streets, obliteratin’ the Hunchback Horseman as he screamed an’ yelled a last cry of tarnation.
Mephistopheles folded into to the cobbled streets like a gypsy rollin’ a rug, and the stagecoach trampled over him like thunder, sending the hunchback flying through the air until he landed in a heap on the floor, just in front of the boots of Mayor Mayweather.
They stood over him like dark clouds on a stormy night, watching his breath fade away. The Hunchback managed to move his lips just one last time-
“Don’t laugh at me…” he whispered, before his only workin’ eye rolled up into the whites and his chest ceased to beat.
A day or so later the Mayor ordered the body of the hunchback to be dismembered and spread out over the Western plains of Millpond as punishment for the afterlife. Although today that part of Millpond is now the suburb of Anchorvale. They think they found his femur bone in the garden of Mrs. Lenninpopes just a few years ago.
Elizabeth was still missing. They searched Millpond high and low. Even his stinking shed. They couldn’t find any sign of her. After nearly givin’ up all hope of ever seein’ her again, Mayor Mayweather demanded that the shed in the cemetery be torn down and used as fire wood.
But when they tore it down, what they found shocked and terrified the whole town of Millpond. The smell that rose from that place had to be linked to something.
They found Elizabeth alright, her body naked and bound underneath the floorboards in a deep grave below. They also found five other bodies, all females, buried there too in that soft soil. Most of ‘em were residents of Millpond that had died of disease or dystentry or whatnot. That Hunchback thought he didn’t wanna waste them leftovers and kept them for himself.
But in there, lay poor old Elizabeth. She must’ve been kept down there in dark, never to see the light of day again. Wood chippings were seen under her fingernails. She’d obviously attempted to escape but down there in the dark and the wet of the soil, she hadn’t the strength. Her head wound probably quickened her sufferin’ but either way, not a pleasant way to go.
So those folk that may have felt sorry for Henry Hellridge quickly repositioned their demanour, now realising he was indeed the worst of the worst. A different kind of beast. But one that would never, ever be forgot in our strange little town of Millpond.
