deepundergroundpoetry.com
Nag
a horror short
To a low-ceilinged building just outside the settlement, a couple were transported by the elders. ‘It won’t do a thing!’ the man insisted, ‘I’ll still want my freedom from her!’
‘And I’ll be glad to give it him!’ the woman countered. They both wore simple country dress and were shackled by the wrists. They headed a procession that included a small team of jailers, the village priest, a few monks, and assorted onlookers. Their children hadn’t deigned to bear witness.
They were locked in the rough-hewn shed, which had but one single bed, one chair, one table, one dish, one knife. One small window near the roof. ‘Come the fortnight sun’ said the priest, ‘you will be released from this place, and if you still wish to break the vows that you made before Christ, you may do so with His permission.’
Their shackles were removed and as the priest turned to leave he saw the woman step forward to speak, and raising his hand to stop her, said, ‘Near to this place is the grave of a nag who died in the scold’s bridle. Think on that, woman, before you address Christ’s emissary.’ She stood still, mouth closed. Her husband smirked.
About a week later the priest and his novice were tidying the vestry when they heard a man screaming from the Marital Hold. ‘Pay it no mind’ said the priest. ‘Sometimes they break, but we owe it to their souls to close our ears.’
The priest crossed the graveyard that divided the church from the Hold with a platter of cheese and apple slices that he slid through a slot in the bottom of the door. It was a moonless night. Returning, he paused for a moment at the nag’s grave, feeling as though the earth before it had been disturbed somehow. He sighed and shook his head. The Devil is whispering in my ear, he thought.
A week later the Hold was opened. The woman sat primly on a chair, staring at the window. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where is he?’ cried the priest, trembling. His novice checked below the bed and pulled out several bands of rusted iron.
The woman slowly turned her head. She smiled more serenely than she’d had since babyhood. ‘She nagged him’ she said, ‘until there was nothing left.’
To a low-ceilinged building just outside the settlement, a couple were transported by the elders. ‘It won’t do a thing!’ the man insisted, ‘I’ll still want my freedom from her!’
‘And I’ll be glad to give it him!’ the woman countered. They both wore simple country dress and were shackled by the wrists. They headed a procession that included a small team of jailers, the village priest, a few monks, and assorted onlookers. Their children hadn’t deigned to bear witness.
They were locked in the rough-hewn shed, which had but one single bed, one chair, one table, one dish, one knife. One small window near the roof. ‘Come the fortnight sun’ said the priest, ‘you will be released from this place, and if you still wish to break the vows that you made before Christ, you may do so with His permission.’
Their shackles were removed and as the priest turned to leave he saw the woman step forward to speak, and raising his hand to stop her, said, ‘Near to this place is the grave of a nag who died in the scold’s bridle. Think on that, woman, before you address Christ’s emissary.’ She stood still, mouth closed. Her husband smirked.
About a week later the priest and his novice were tidying the vestry when they heard a man screaming from the Marital Hold. ‘Pay it no mind’ said the priest. ‘Sometimes they break, but we owe it to their souls to close our ears.’
The priest crossed the graveyard that divided the church from the Hold with a platter of cheese and apple slices that he slid through a slot in the bottom of the door. It was a moonless night. Returning, he paused for a moment at the nag’s grave, feeling as though the earth before it had been disturbed somehow. He sighed and shook his head. The Devil is whispering in my ear, he thought.
A week later the Hold was opened. The woman sat primly on a chair, staring at the window. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where is he?’ cried the priest, trembling. His novice checked below the bed and pulled out several bands of rusted iron.
The woman slowly turned her head. She smiled more serenely than she’d had since babyhood. ‘She nagged him’ she said, ‘until there was nothing left.’
Published 23rd Aug 2023
Author's Note
Inspired by a real Transylvanian practice of locking warring couples in a room, furnished only for one, for two weeks. The idea presumably being to teach them compromise. The church claimed that this practice led to only 1 in 300 couples going on to divorce.
Pictured is a scold’s bridle, an instrument in old England that was used to “teach” nagging women to hold their tongues.
Pictured is a scold’s bridle, an instrument in old England that was used to “teach” nagging women to hold their tongues.
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23rd Aug 2023 10:50pm
lol dearest Jack I could just see myself wearing one of those
this is really good tale and I enjoyed your wording 💕
this is really good tale and I enjoyed your wording 💕
24th Aug 2023 00:59am
30th Aug 2023 11:54pm
Wow awesome story 👌. I really love horror stories and poems that are gory and bloody as well as the erotic horror poems they keep me on my toes.
I look forward to reading more 😊
I look forward to reading more 😊
