The Dead Man's Trousers by Newton Webb

A Contemporary Comedy Horror Short Story: When Jeremy throws away a deceased academic's ghastly trousers, he unleashes a sartorial nightmare that will stop at nothing to make him its next victim.

Contents:

1. Horror Compilations

2. The Dead Man’s Trousers

Horror Story Compilations

Summer Screams: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘The Spinster’, ‘Invasion of the Hipster Beards’, ‘Waves of Madness’, ‘The Blighted Child’ and ‘Gomorrah’

Screams for Sale: 71 horror stories, including ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 2’, ‘Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 3,’ ‘Festival of the Damned,’ ‘The Morrígan.’

Free Horror Stories: 29 FREE horror stories, including: ‘Gomorrah’

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The Dead Man’s Trousers

by Newton Webb

Jeremy Deakin stood in the damp August heat trying to dislodge a wholegrain from his teeth. He’d had a perfect journey from London. A quiet First Class carriage, a pre-packaged M&S sandwich, a Scotch egg, a bottle of ale, and a pre-booked taxi that had been waiting on his arrival. Jeremy believed that a life well ordered was a life well lived. As a freelance archivist, order was of paramount importance to him in both his profession and home life.

Jeremy had always loved Oxford. It was his spiritual home. Whether he was wandering the botanical gardens, reading in the Bodleian, or having a cup of Ceylon tea while listening to the distant chime of a college clock, it was bliss. Moving to London was important for work, but he cherished the contracts he received allowing him to return. His last contract had been in the ghastly city of Leeds, so this one had been a much welcomed treat.

As he stood outside the narrow Jericho townhouse, owned by the late Dr Terrance Brown, he could hear the rumble of a delivery lorry on Walton Street, the cheerful babble of tourists navigating with their cursed phones. A cyclist whizzed past, turning at the junction and causing a car to blast its horn.

Maybe not everything in Oxford is flawless.

A heavy-set woman with a floral pinny and a low set brow let him in. “I’m Mrs Marchmont,” she announced, handing him a set of keys. “Housekeeper. I’ve aired the place as best I can. He wasn’t one for open windows, Dr Brown.”

“Thank you, Mrs Marchmont. I’m sure it will be perfectly adequate.”

“The study’s through there. Bedroom’s the first on the left upstairs. I’ll be in Friday to do a bit of a clean, but I don’t do the study. He never liked me touching his papers.” Her eyes drifted up the narrow staircase. “He was a very particular man, Mr Brown, especially towards the end, if you don’t mind me saying. Kept to himself. You’ll be alright on your own?”

“I prefer it,” Jeremy said with a polite but dismissive smile.

“Very well, I’ve put a sandwich platter in the fridge for you from Taylor’s. The university has an account with them.”

“Oh, thank you. I was planning ‌a trip into town, but this will save me some time.”

“If that is all?”

Jeremy smiled awkwardly at her. “Ah yes, thank you again.”

Mrs Marchmont nodded politely and saw herself out. The solid clunk of the front door echoed in the hall. The house smelled of musty books, stale tobacco, and something else. Something vaguely earthy and fibrous. He wrinkled his nose.

Mould? I hope not.

Jeremy set his leather briefcase down on a dust-sheeted armchair.

His current commission was to assess Brown’s academic papers. The late doctor of anthropology had, according to the solicitor’s brief, left behind a lifetime of material, a potential treasure trove for his old college. Jeremy’s job was to catalogue them, to sort the publishable from the personal, the priceless from the worthless. He was to stay in the house until the job was done and then present the college with a valuation.

Making himself a fresh pot of tea, he started walking up the stairs when he was confronted with the most awful sight. A pair of brown corduroy trousers, lying on the landing. His mission derailed by this sartorial faux pas, he put down his pot of tea and picked up the offending garment, taking them outside and stowing them in the black bin.

Equilibrium restored, he picked up his pot and returned to work.

The study represented the very embodiment of a life of intellectual pursuit and personal neglect. Books were double stacked on the shelves, an abhorrent habit for any intellectual.

Jeremy already knew that he and Mr Brown would not have got on. He stacked his excess books in precarious towers on the floor. Boxes of notes, newspaper clippings, and journals covered every available surface.

He clapped his hands together with gleeful anticipation.

Time to bring order to this chaos.

He spent the rest of the afternoon conducting a preliminary survey, making notes on his laptop. By ten o’clock, his back ached and his eyes were gritty from the dust. He made himself a cup of Earl Grey and a ham, mayonnaise, and rocket sandwich in the small, dated avocado green kitchen, and picked out from his briefcase a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and decided to turn in.

The house was dark, the only light coming in from the streetlamp outside, filtering weakly through the grotty sash window on the landing. As Jeremy climbed the creaking stairs, he heard it.

Whish-whish.

A soft, rhythmic, rubbing sound from the room at the end of the hall.

He froze, one hand on the banister. He looked around for a curtain brushing against a wall in a draught, but the air was still.

Whish-whish. Whish-whish.

He could hear the footsteps now. A gentle padding sound of shoes on carpet. He recognised the original sound with a shudder. It was the dreadful sound of corduroy trouser legs brushing against each other.

“I say, Mrs Marchmont, is that you?”

The noises stopped. He trotted back down the stairs and found no evidence of an intruder. Dismissing the sounds as the consequences of an idle imagination, he trotted up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

He undressed, folding his linen trousers with precision over the back of a chair, and slipped into bed.

The next day, after a breakfast of granary toast, marmalade, and lashings of Earl Grey tea, Jeremy threw himself into his work, making the most of the bright morning light. He cleared the large mahogany desk, establishing it as his base of operations, and began on the first box. It was tedious but fulfilling work, mostly lecture notes and receipts for academic journals. He worked for hours, fuelled by hot tea.

Late in the afternoon, as he went to the kitchen to refill his mug, he found that someone had retrieved the pair of corduroy trousers from the bin and draped them over one of the kitchen stools.

Mrs Marchmont must have let herself in while I was working.

He picked up the trousers, holding them at a distance. They were made of a thick, wide-wale corduroy in a shade of brown reminiscent of dried mud or a particularly nasty fungal growth. They could have been brand new, or barely worn. He imagined the late academic shuffling around in them. The image was not ‌pleasant. Jeremy disliked the man even more now.

Nobody succeeds in life wearing corduroy.

This time he bagged them in a black bin bag, tying it securely before throwing them away.

He washed his hands thoroughly before returning to the study.

#

That night, the sound returned.
Whish-whish. Whish-whish.
From just outside the bedroom door. He lay rigid in the dark, his heart thumping a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
There is someone in the house with me.

He leapt out of bed, first grabbing volume two of the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary as a weapon, then, concerned he might damage it, he swapped it for the considerably more disposable Merriam-Webster. Opening the door, he peered up and down the corridor, seeing nobody.

The sound stopped.

Not trusting his ears, and with his blood up, Jeremy patrolled the house, confirming the doors and windows were secure before returning to his room.

This time, sleep was a long time coming.

In the morning, he woke exhausted. He stumbled towards the stairs in search of a stiff tea, only to stop dead in his tracks.

On the floor, directly in front of the study door, lay the cursed brown corduroy trousers. Dumped, not even folded. It was as if their owner had just stepped out of them.

Jeremy stared. Mrs Marchmont. It had to be. She was terrorising him for some unknown and malignant reason.

There was no other rational explanation for this. He had been alone in the house all night. The doors were locked. It had to be someone with a key, who let themselves in, committed an act of trouser related terrorism, and then fled before he could do them in with a dictionary.

He kicked the trousers to one side and, with great effort, ignored them. He spent the entire day in the study, only emerging for tea and to fetch himself a beef, horseradish, and rocket sandwich. He kept the door ajar, telling himself it was for air circulation, but really it was so he could keep an eye on them.

They did not move.

His work that day was more frantic and less focused as he battled lack of sleep.

Late in the afternoon, he found a small locked box, of a modern, cheap design, made of dark wood at the bottom of a crate of papers labelled ‘Personal’. Scratching around the lock showed that at one time, it had been well used. The key now, however, was predictably not with it. Jeremy took a letter opener from the desk and jimmied the cheap tin padlock. It snapped and fell off the hasp.

Inside he found Dr Brown’s daily diary. A faux leather volume that looked like it had been picked up from a stationery shop, it was this year's edition.

Jeremy skimmed through the entries. They chronicled Mr Brown’s last year as a lecturer. He was delighted to read some of Dr. Brown’s academic work on orchids, he had always enjoyed orchids. Bee Orchids in particular. However, he was dismayed to read that the professor had increasingly been distracted by a student called Emily. He flicked through the entries when she entered the scene. The early ones were passionate, filled with romantic and over the top declarations, before the tone abruptly shifted.

[3rd August. The Head of Department called me into his office. He has found out about my indiscretion with a student. I assured him that it was a regrettable lapse in professional judgement on my part. Calling Emily into my office, I told her it was over. I told her that we have nothing in common beyond a fleeting physical curiosity. She turned hysterical and wept. Wept! I offered her my hankie and ushered her out. I wish I’d never taken her to that restaurant.]

Jeremy felt a pang of sympathy for Emily. Though how either of them could see it ending any other way was beyond him. He picked up the diary again and flipped to the last few entries.

[4th August. Emily publicly confronted me during a lecture. I of course denied it, pointed out the sheer ludicrousness of implying I would ever date someone who wore corduroy. The class erupted into laughter. She stormed out and I’m certain that’ll be the end of it. Sometimes you just have to rip off the band-aid.]

The final entry was dated 6th August, just two weeks ago.

[The police came round. Emily is dead. Suspected suicide.]

Jeremy closed the diary with a snap. He walked to the study door and looked once more at the brown corduroy trousers. He shivered.

Two weeks ago… Mr Brown must have died soon after.

The doorbell rang.

Jeremy marched down to see Mrs Marchmont outside.

"Hello, Mr Deakin, I thought I’d drop by to see if you needed anything."

He glared at her.

"Everything is absolutely not alright, Mrs Marchmont. Somebody has been coming in here while I rest and dumping trousers, and I suspect you know something about it."

She started. "Dumping trousers?"

"Yes, yes. At night I heard someone walking about and then these." He turned, raced up the stairs, and grabbed the trousers. His flesh crawled as he touched the horrible fabric. "These trousers are deposited around the house. I don’t know what your game is, but I won’t have it."

Her face blanched.

"I’ve washed Mr Brown’s clothes for over ten years, but I only saw those trousers once."

Jeremy had the sudden feeling that his week, which he was fairly certain had already hit its nadir, was about to get worse.

"He was wearing them when I found his body." Mrs Marchmont crossed herself.

"I beg your pardon." Jeremy’s face was pale.

"Mr Brown was found dead, strangled in his study."

"This is a crime scene?" Jeremy leant against the doorway, feeling faint.

Mrs Marchmont reached out towards him, causing him to flinch back. "Not anymore. Forensics have finished."

"Well, that is a relief." Jeremy crossed his arms. "So if it isn’t you, who else has a key?"

"Nobody else has a key, Mr Deakin. Perhaps you would be safer staying in a hotel?"

"I am an Englishman, Mrs Marchmont. I will not be deterred by some ghoulish prankster."

"Well, I can recommend some places," she began.

Jeremy shook his head. "No. Thank you very much, Mrs Marchmont. If I hear anything I will immediately call the police." He gave her a stern look, a few lingering suspicions warranting the additional warning.

She sniffed. "Right you are, Mr Deakin." Reaching into her handbag, she took out a Tesco receipt and wrote her number on the back. "Call me if you need anything."

As night fell, Jeremy barricaded the study door with a heavy leather armchair. He left the desk lamp on, a small pool of light as he worked through the remaining documents. The gentle glow from the street lamps outside filtered through the open curtains.

If I work through the night I can leave this godforsaken place in the morning.

Once more, it began just after midnight.

Whish-whish. Whish-whish.

It came from the hall.

Right.

He pulled out his phone. His earlier determination collapsed as he looked at the screen. No signal.

Whish-whish. Whish-whish.

He screwed his eyes shut.

Go away. Leave me alone.

It was right outside the door this time, even louder than before. Picking up a large black iron candlestick, he poised himself, taking up his best interpretation of a defensive stance.

The doorknob began to rattle. Slowly at first, then violently. The heavy oak door shook in its frame.

Jeremy backed away, his heart hammering.

This isn’t my imagination. Someone is here.

He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the door as he regained control.

Enough’s enough.

He kicked aside the chair and pulled the door open. Holding his candlestick high, he shouted a savage war cry that died in his throat.

Nobody.

Behind him, the desk lamp flickered, stabilised, and then the bulb gave out with a ping. He jumped, nearly dropping his improvised weapon. The room was plunged into near darkness.

The whish-whish sound came from behind. He spun around, swinging his candlestick. Nothing in the dim light of the street lamps outside.

His eyes widened as he saw in the corner of the study the corduroy trousers lying on his chair. He looked at the windows. Locked. The door. Closed.

Jeremy scrambled backwards, tripping over a stack of books and landing hard on the floor. He scuttled away until his back pressed against the bookshelves.
"Where are you? What do you want?" He clutched the candlestick close to his chest.

He felt the soft pop of a button. Then another. Glancing down, he recoiled at the sight of the corduroy trousers. They were moving as if alive, sliding up across his chest, slithering over his white cotton shirt like twin snakes.

He screamed, throwing aside the candlestick.

He tried to rip them off, but one leg coiled tight around his wrist. The pressure was ferocious. He tried to pull his wrist free with his other hand, but the spare leg whipped up and wrapped around his neck. It constricted with every exhale. His flesh burned a deep red as he fought for air, blood pounding in his head. His vision blurred. His beautifully tailored charcoal wool trousers began to loosen.

His belt was being unbuckled.

His zip slid down with a horrifying rasp.

He kicked out in desperation, his shoes connecting with nothing but air.

He felt himself being raised in the air. The last thing he saw was his wrist being released and curling round the light fitting, hoisting him up.

Jeremy scrabbled with the last of his energy at the hateful cloth around his neck.

Blackness enveloped him.

30^th August 2025. Oxford, John Radcliffe Hospital Mortuary

At the centre of the room, on a gleaming steel table illuminated by the harsh blue white of fluorescent lights, lay the body of Jeremy Deakin. The air, scrubbed clean by industrial ventilators, reeked with the strong scent of disinfectant.

Aaron rubbed his sizable paunch, standing over the body. His hands were deceptively nimble for their large size.

"Right then," Aaron glanced at his assistant, turning to the room’s microphone. "Saturday, 30th August, 2025. Forensic pathologist Aaron Wilson and Anatomical Pathology Technologist Sebastion Banks present at John Radcliffe Hospital. Subject is Jeremy Deakin. Age forty-two. Found in Oxford this morning by the housekeeper. Police report suggests a struggle, but no sign of forced entry."

Sebastian, a slight man, nodded as he stood ready with his implements.

Let us see what Mr Deakin has to tell us.

He began his external examination, his large fingers probing gently, his eyes missing nothing. "No obvious signs of trauma to the head or torso. Fingernails are intact, clean. Some minor abrasions to the wrists and shins, consistent with a struggle or a fall." His gaze travelled down the body, stopping at the man’s legs. Jeremy was still dressed in the clothes he had died in. A fine charcoal suit jacket, a crisp white shirt, along with a pair of hideous brown corduroy trousers.

"Sebastian," Aaron moved around the table. "Have you ever, in your life, seen a more hideous pair of trousers?"

Sebastian glanced over. "They don’t look that bad, my uncle has a similar pair."

"I’m fairly certain that’s a form of child abuse. You know you can sue for that." Aaron pointed at the instrument tray. "PM scissors, please. Let us put these things out of their misery."

Sebastian passed him the large shears.

With a grunt, Aaron set to work, cutting through the thick fabric. "You’d think a man with such a wonderful jacket and shirt would have better taste. Let’s get these documented and bagged." He snipped the final threads and pulled the severed piece away, dropping it into a clear evidence bag which Sebastian held open.

He peered at Jeremy’s neck through a small hand lens. "Ligature mark visible." He glanced at the trousers in their evidence bag. "Looks rather like corduroy to me. Sebastian, take a close-up, please. Subject presents deep bruising with significant petechial haemorrhages present in the conjunctivae." He pointed to the tiny red spots in the victim’s eyes. "Classic signs of strangulation. Our man did not go peacefully."

The whir of the oscillating saw, the soft click of instruments on a metal tray, and the steady drone of Aaron’s voice dictating his findings dominated the room. He worked with a surprising grace, his large hands moving with precision and economy. He examined each organ, weighing it, slicing it, searching for any abnormality, any clue that might speak for the dead man on the table.

“Moderate coronary atherosclerosis, mild hepatic steatosis.” Otherwise Jeremy Deakin had been in perfect health. He was a man who, by all accounts, had kept reasonable care of himself.

"Cause of death, asphyxiation due to ligature strangulation," Aaron concluded, stripping off his gloves. "Death occurred approximately eight to twelve hours prior to discovery." He stretched, his broad back cracking in protest. "That is all for Mr Deakin. Write it up, Sebastian, close him up. I am going for a pint."

Sebastian nodded, already beginning to collate his notes. "Will you need me to finish the cleanup?"

"No, you’ve done enough. Go home. See your girlfriend."

Aaron walked over to the deep ceramic sink and scrubbed his hands and forearms. The pink-tinged water swirled down the drain.

He dried his hands on a rough paper towel and walked towards the small locker room adjoining the morgue. He pulled off his scrubs, tossing them into the laundry hamper, and stood for a moment in the cool air before reaching for his own clothes.

His worn leather satchel was on the bench where he had left it that morning. He unzipped it, pulling out his shirt, jeans and...

Sebastian, you scoundrel.

A pair of trousers. A pair of hideous brown, wide-waled corduroy trousers. They were neatly folded, clean, and looked brand new. Almost identical to the awful ones he had just cut up and put into evidence. The texture was the same ghastly corrugated pile. He held them up against his own considerable frame. They were his size.

A slow smile spread across his face, followed by a short, sharp snort of laughter at the practical joke. He dumped the offending garment in the bin.

Now, how did he do that?

THE END

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Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.