The Severed Hand

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

"Stop !" There was an urgency in his voice so his walking companion did, most certainly, stop in an instant.

"What? What?"

"Look... over there... in the old Maxwell Cabin window..."

"That place is nothing but broken boards, windows and the door doesn't even close"

"Yes, but still, look... a candle in the window. Let's go investigate."

It was early March 1770 and they had been discussing the murderous British in Boston, it is being called a Massacre and now, Sam Adams is getting involved and will there eventually be a war or not.... but all that was lost now as they crept closer to the Cabin.

The sun was setting over Moss Hill and dusk was upon them, but still enough light to see the grave of Old Man Cyrus Maxwell and the rusty iron fence and gate... but here, too, something was not right...the boys diverted to look into this.

Cyrus Maxwell was certainly an old timer. He arrived with the early Puritans 70 years ago and he was already in his twenties by then. Young and strong and vibrant and made his way to his homestead near Concord and built his cabin on his stretch of woods by the road. He never married or had any family. To begin with, Cyrus was industrious and became a handsome young man who others looked at with admiration.

As the story goes, he did fall deeply in love with a sweet lady in Boston. The journey from Concord to Boston was arduous, certainly in the winter, but a young man in love would not be denied--- and yet he was---denied. She turned him away. She came from a prominent family and he only lived in a small cabin. Naturally, she had several desirable suiters until one rose to the top of her list. Cyrus became angry and resentful and began to plan his revenge.

The boys looked carefully at the grave... it was not proper... it was not settled... it was empty! But, more than that-- the dirt was not piled up. Not in the sense that a grave robber would steal a body, but, this was more of... more of... from the inside. The grave looked as if the body itself had dug out from the hole.

The dirt was disturbed no doubt, and the grave was empty... there was not a body in the hole. They looked again at the cabin and the candle in the window. Footprints? but, so faint hardly distinguishable. Their nerve was shaking, but their curiosity was stronger. By now the sun had set and darkness was upon them as they stepped toward the Cabin.

When Cyrus grew into a revengeful monster, there was nothing to stop him. It was that one evening in the late winter... when spring was soon to blossom, the two lovers were ready to announce the engagement and betrothal and certainly their most joyous love for one another.... when Cyrus found the young man alone. Completely alone. It was raining, hard, a vicious rain... a Nor-Easter bringing torrents of weather, and Cyrus was alone with the young lover.

The young lover was attacked, beaten, savagely attacked and murdered... dying there alone, in the rain, on the street, his blood running into the gutter, being washed away to the ocean by the rain, life draining away, the heart slowly-slowly-slowly... stopping. Life at an end. His life is at an end. Her life is at an end and certainly-- Cyrus... the murderer.

But, wait... no one is a witness. No one saw the attack, no one heard the attack, the weather-- the storm covered everything. Cyrus was just another soaking wet traveler caught in the storm. Any evidence of blood is also washed away.

And so, Cyrus made his way back to his cabin in the woods, by the side of the road.

The Boys, by now, were consumed with curiosity. Striking a match, they crept to the door, hanging by a broken rusty hinge; and looked inside.

The Cabin, by now, after all these years was nothing but shambles. Broken shelves, chairs barely a table, and nothing of a home. The stove stood cold, rusty, and empty along the wall and opposite was the candle burning on the window ledge, flame flickering and the light holding on against the evening March breeze.

Cyrus, made it home and by then, the guilt had taken root. The change in him became obvious. He was sullen, morose, bitter, angry, and alone. The years rolled along and he grew into the old tyrant shell of who he once was. As the legend goes... it was a logging accident when Cyrus was chopping down trees in his woods and he slipped, or the ax slipped and his right hand was chopped off. But that is the legend. Only Cyrus knew the truth.

The strong right arm of Cyrus Maxwell was also the hand that brought the hard red brick down on the head of the handsome young man. This murderous ruinous hand. The hand he used every day of his life reminded him of his heinous act.

Cyrus, then, after the "accident" kept the severed hand in his cabin. Every night the severed hand crept across the room and climbed upon his bed and crept to his throat... and every night, Cyrus woke in such sheer terror, soaking wet of sweat and fear. Thus, Cyrus took the hand and the wrist and shackled the damned thing to an iron cuff with a chain and bolted it to the post in the corner. But even this...brought more terror. The Hand still crawled, the chain creaked and strained to reach the bed, strained to reach the throat of the murderous killer. Cyrus awakened b the clatter would light a candle to watch the hand struggle and strain in the night darkness.

So, thus, the boys, too... with the light from the candle discovered the final scene of Cyrus Maxwell... clawed from his own grave to the corner of his cabin, in the woods by the road... to finally surrender to the severed hand firmly clutching his throat. So tightly choaking it--the hand was now frozen in the death grip.