An Unforeseen Inheritance
by Livia E. De Souza
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
It was two days later, when the sickness struck. I arose from bed in the early hours of the morning, my chest and stomach in the grip of pure agony. I could taste blood in my mouth, and I clutched at my ribs, digging my fingertips into the skin as though I could reach through and physically remove the source of my torment.
In desperation, I called out for Abigail. My voice quaked through the hall, too quickly distorting and fading.
She did not come.
I made my way to her in half steps, crawling by pulling myself along with a single arm. Abigail slept in a chamber on the other end of the hallway, but it may as well have been on the opposite side of the village.
By the time I reached her room, my elbow was scraped and bleeding. I curled up outside her door in pain.
“Sir?” I heard the voice through the door.
“I feel I am dying,” I said, unaware of the sentiment until it had left my lips.
“Shall I get help?” she asked. The door was still closed.
“The doctor,” I said. “Call for a doctor.”
I pulled myself up by degrees, so that my back was against the wall, my legs splayed before me. At the very least, I was no longer lying on the floor.
The door opened slowly. In the darkness, I could see nothing but Abigail's silhouette. The figure stood for a moment, before collapsing to the ground just behind the door.
“Sir, I think my mouth is bleeding,” she said.
I could not see her, and I strained to press the back of my head against the wall behind me. A wave of agony came over me again, this time leaving my clothes soaked with sweat. The early morning air soon cooled the damp fabric, and left me shivering.
I could hear Abigail's ragged breathing behind the door, somewhere on the ground. I wanted to speak to her, but could no longer find the strength to form words. In time, I passed into sleep. It was the sleep of one heavily drugged, and I awoke to a bright sun overhead.
Given the shadows, it was well past noon. My chest ached, and I could still taste the metallic essence of blood. I tried to grasp the windowsill, to pull myself up from the floor, but I slipped back to the ground.
I could no longer hear Abigail's tortured breathing.
Instead of trying to rise, I inched toward the door, catching the corner with my fingertip and pushing it back.
The door shifted only a little, before stilling beside Abigail's body.
I could now see her hand, and I reached out, weakly grasping her wrist.
Though I could not be sure, I imagined I felt a heartbeat, faint as it was. I let go of her, and released what little strength I had summoned. I collapsed against the other side of the floor, my hand resting numbly on hers, as I entered another slumber.
The next time I awoke, I could feel a strong grip beneath my arms. A woman was lifting me roughly, and a man had laid hold of my feet. They carried me back to my chamber.
I had regained myself in some small part, and I struggled against them. The woman lost hold of me, and my upper body was dropped to the floor, my head cracking against the stone. The man let go of my legs and looked on me with a flash of unconcealed annoyance.
“Mr. Platt?”
I grasped for the wall and tried to pull myself to my feet. The woman's hands were on me again, and she steadied me as I stood.
I felt another wave of faintness, and I clasped this unknown woman's shoulder as I tried to regain my tattered bearings.
By now it was evening, and the little light coming in from the windows blended with that of the small lantern this intruding pair had set down in the hallway.
“Who are you?” I asked. My voice was hoarse, and my lips desperately parched.
“My name is Doctor Morton. Please, let the nurse help you to your bed.”
The nurse attempted to physically steer me toward my chambers, but I shrugged her off with considerable effort.
“Abigail...”
“The housekeeper?” Doctor Morton interrupted. “I promise, we will tend to her as well.”
“Is she alive?” I asked.
“She is, though a little worse off than you are. We have already seen to her.”
I stumbled past Doctor Morton, dragging my shoulder against the wall for support. My aching brain hammered its complaint, but I stayed upright until I had made my way into Abigail's room. They had placed her in bed, and her eyes were closed. I dropped into an armchair in the corner of the room.
“You should return to your own bed and rest,” the nurse said.
The doctor watched me, disapprovingly.
“Not yet,” I said.
Doctor Morton let out a sigh, before leaving the room accompanied by the nurse.
When they returned, the nurse was carrying the blanket and pillow from my bed, while the doctor carried a black leather bag.
Soon, I was beneath the blanket, my head propped forward uncomfortably by the pillow. The nurse brought me some water, and I drank as though to douse a great flame.
“Rest now,” she said. “You will feel better in the morning.”
Mesmerized by her words, I found myself slipping into unconsciousness: a new, bitter taste having replaced the trace of blood in my mouth.
It did not occur to me that I had been sedated until the morning, when I awoke with a pounding head and a tiredness that would not shift from me.
Abigail was still in bed, her eyes closed as though sewn shut. Were it not for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, I would never have known her to endure.
“He's awake,” I heard.
Doctor Morton approached and took my face in his hands. He tilted my head back and forth, satisfying some professional curiosity. Finally, he released me.
“Shall we bring you something to eat?” he asked.
I nodded, suddenly aware of my own emptiness.
A few minutes later, the nurse returned with tea and porridge. Though I had to force the food and drink into my throat, I felt the reviving effects almost immediately.
* * *
By that afternoon, I was feeling far better. Yet, Abigail was still in her bed, unmoving and unwaking.
The doctor and nurse separately assured me that this was normal, that fevers often linger in those of a more fragile composition.
I stayed by her room most of the day, to the clear exasperation of her caretakers. I suppose I felt some responsibility for her condition, though I still did not know the nature of the mysterious illness which had struck us both so violently.
That evening, Doctor Morton informed me that he and the nurse were needed in the village. He offered his assurance that they would return the following day to care for Abigail and that her condition was stable.
I felt a little exercise would do me good as I shook the remaining symptoms of the fever. I walked back and forth through the upper hallways, afraid to risk even the slight breeze which encroached upon the night air outside the manor's hold.
I carried a small lantern with me, enjoying the rhythmic casting of shadows as I walked, the swing of the lamp bringing the stone passageway to life around me. The sense of surrounding movement eased the claustrophobia of my confinement, and my fingers played upon the lantern's handle.
It was on my eighth round that I noticed some of the cast shadows remained fixed, their integrity far greater than that of the light beneath my hand.
The shape of these shadows was distinctly human, and I felt my breath catch in my throat, my body recoiling to a place of immobility. I stood as still as possible, staring at a place of darkness which bore striking resemblance to a human head.
Though I did not move a muscle, and though the flickering of the flames was only slight, the shadow moved past me, disappearing from my view. I pressed my back to the wall and tried to regain my ability to breathe freely.
I would have liked to cry out, to rouse an entire household from their slumber. I prayed to see the light of the lantern in my hand doubled, tripled, by those of others.
But I had only Abigail, and she had yet to move from her bed.
When I regained control of my senses, I walked to my chamber as quickly as I could. I did not run, as it seemed the mere act of flight would amount to an admission that what I had witnessed possessed no simple, mortal explanation.
I closed the door tight behind me, and set the lantern down on the floor.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, my fingers tightly interwoven on my lap. I stared hard at the closed door, starting at every flicker of the light, at every sound which came from the peaceful night beyond these walls.
The light of the lantern grew greater than its construction could hold. The flames spread beyond the confines, seizing the walls as though the manor was constructed from paper. Fire consumed the door, blanketing the structure in pure, blazing light.
The flames crawled across the floor and the walls. I could hear the glass of the window heating, though I do not know how. It seemed to be a singular sound, distinct from the crackling of the flames surrounding me.
I searched for a way out, yet could find none. The flames surrounded me on all sides, rising to consume the bedposts. Smoke billowed and saturated my lungs; my eyes stung and watered. I left the tears on my cheeks, craving the caress of moisture which was far too quickly evaporated by the blistering heat.
The sight of the flames blurred before me. My nostrils filled with the scent of burning human flesh, and soon I knew nothing more. I collapsed onto the bed, which I expected would soon become my funeral pyre.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Livia E. De Souza
