Bristol, England. December 1815, a full moon. He finds her corpse surprisingly hard to carry. A younger man would have found it

easy, of course, but even with her small frame, his aging limbs are struggling. As he staggers from his

house, he pauses, looks around, nobody.

The night watchman has just been round on patrol and won't be back for hours.

He decides to drag the body.

Thankfully, it's just a few steps to the churchyard.

And he's had an idea.

He pulls the corpse to the plot where a funeral was held this afternoon.

A freshly filled in grave.

He'll dig up the top few feet of soil and bury her in there.

He hadn't intended to kill her, of course.

Hadn't intended any of it, but here we are.

She was his servant, a young woman.

After his wife had died, he'd become obsessed, infatuated.

Of course, this man is no stranger to corpses.

He's a surgeon after all, so, yes, he's seen plenty of corpses in his time.

Eventually, he can't dig anymore.

He's exhausted.

He drags the body into the shallow grave and pauses.

Gets his breath back, her eyes staring up at him, wide open, lifeless, grotesque.

He looks away.

Then he starts to shovel the earth back in, burying her. And little by

...