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Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Bill Fuller had always hated Margaret’s cold touch. Every night she would slip into bed, fingers icy against his skin. He would flinch, muttering in irritation, while she only giggled and whispered, “Cold hands, warm heart.”

He and his younger lover, Clara, had plotted for years. When they finally acted, Margaret’s death was staged as natural. The inheritance was his, and Clara moved in without delay. Her hands were warm, her embrace soothing. For a while, Bill slept peacefully.

But one night, he woke with a start. Cold fingers brushed his chest. He turned, Clara lay still beside him in the bed seemingly sound asleep.

The chill deepened. A voice whispered from the darkness, the same words Margaret had once teased him with: “Cold hands…”

Bill sat up, trembling. At the foot of the bed stood Margaret, pallid and smiling, her hands pale and stiff. She raised them slowly, opening her fists to reveal what looked like a lump of meat… dripping.

“…warm heart.”

He froze, mind numb with terror, Margaret’s revenant tossed the warm organ at him, unthinkingly he caught it.

Bill’s gaze snapped to Clara. She lay lifeless, her chest torn open, her warmth stolen. He screamed, but the apparition was gone, leaving him alone with the corpse. He suddenly became aware of what he was holding and flung it to the floor, weeping and heaving.

The authorities came. They found Clara’s body, Bill raving about Margaret’s ghost. His protests were dismissed as madness. The evidence — he was the only person in the house, her blood was on his hands — all pointed to him.

The court judged him guilty of murdering Clara. His cries of “It was Margaret! She came back!” echoed in vain.

Bill was judged insane and left to rot in an asylum, branded a killer, haunted by the memory of Clara’s heart in his hands. Sometimes he wonders if he was mad, if he did do it but Margaret’s regular visits to run her fingers down his spine always confirms that he didn’t imagine it.