The Doom of Embry

Mrs. Chathamford’s salon was filled with laughter and mirth, the bright rays of sunshine warming Embry’s ladies as they discussed the events of the past week. Daphne Harris, and her sister Araminta had wanted to be invited to this exclusive event ever since they turned fourteen. Now, that they were on the cusp of sixteen and to be introduced at the town’s masque tonight, Mrs. Chathamford invited them so her circle could inspect them.

She nodded at Daphne, but spoke little. To her twin, the ladies hemmed and hawed, as Ara had always been more frail, her skin glowing in the light. “You will draw the eye of many a man tonight, my dear.”

Ara blushed, “You have such kind words, but I am just accompanying my sister tonight.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Field stated, “Oh, did you hear? It seems that the Reikian farm has been hit by a touch of cholera. So sad, even the young child has been stricken.”

“Oh dear, that is horrible,” Daphne held her hand to her breasts, “has anyone fetched a doctor to tend to them?”

Mrs. Chathamford chirped, “John Porter has gone to the city. Now ladies, lets not concern ourselves with that unpleasentness. Daphne, did you know that Peter Doocy has returned from his voyage to the East Indies? You would do well to engage with him as soon as possible.”

It was good advice. Daphne nodded in affirmation.

***

By the time of the masque, word had reached Daphne that the Reikian child had died. She didn’t know them well, but the death saddened her. Ara wore a light green dress, and twirled and twirled before Daphne as they walked to the barn. Mr. Field had built a new barn last spring, and his old one was a gathering place for Embry’s social scene, so close to the church.

Most of the townsfolk were there already, and the fiddlers were providing a lively tune. Daphne breathed in as much as she could, her corset as tight as she could make it. Her mother remained at home, with a touch of the fever, while her father had joined General Washington in this campaign.

Already, a half a dozen young men had approached Ara, requesting the honor of escorting her. She neither rejected nor accepted these offers, but floated from man to man collecting pledges as a bee collects pollen. Daphne watched, and was startled when a deep voice spoke behind her. “Good evening Daphne Harris.”

Peter. “I see that your time away hasn’t taught you to not startle young women.”

Peter laughed, “It seems that your sister has enchanted everyone but myself. Including yours truly. Otherwise I couldn’t have snuck up on you.”

Daphne turned around. The years away had been good to Peter, but he still was somewhat ordinary, with the exception of a small scar on his cheek that added a bit of dash. “My sister is something special. Why aren’t you enspelled by her?”

Peter rubbed his chin. “I seek finer things Daphne. Have you tried this punch?”

Daphne hadn’t. “I hope there is no alcohol in it. You know how I feel about it.” He shook his head, and held out a cup, the red liquid inside it swirling and frothing. Daphne held it up to her lips, about to take a drink when the gross sound of someone retching pulled her out of the moment. She set down the drink, and swiftly walked out of the barn, Peter following.

Against the side of the barn, a figure hunched over, one hand on the hand pump and the other against the wall. A wet splat graced their ears, their back crook shaped in the fading light. “Are you alright?” called Peter to the wretch.

They turned, and Daphne screamed. Their bloody maw lay open, surrounded by pale flesh greased with a sheen of sweat that soaked their clothing. Their eyes burned with pain, and the veins on their arms exposed by their shirtsleeves rolled up pulsed with an unholy rhythm. George Reikian stood there, swaying for but a moment, before lunging towards Peter and Daphne.

Peter intercepted him, grabbing both his upper arms, to halt his progress. The shouts of the other men and squeals of the women summoned by Daphne’s scream buffeted her, quieting her shock. Then out of George came a violent torrent of black, coating Peter in its foulness. The men wrestled him to the ground, an unearthly howl emanating from his twisted body.

“My God, what vile sin has this man done?” Parson Jameson scoffed at the scene, the town elders all nodding in agreement as though the answer was obvious.

“That is no cholera, what manner of deviltry is this?” Barnaby Jones, the general store man, exclaimed. Others agreed, but no answer was given.

“Let us through, let us through,” John Porter led a bespectacled man through the assembly, who carried a small bag. “I've brought the doctor.”

Daphne sat on the nearest bench, trying to catch her breath. Ara glided over to her, sipping her punch. “What happened dear sister?”

“George Reikian has collapsed. Deathly ill. Cholera.”

“Oh dear. Should we pray for him and his family?”

“Yes, yes we should.”

***

Peter came to fetch Daphne four days later. The Reikian family was being buried, and he came to ask to escort her. Ara was not feeling well, so it was just Peter and Daphne. The church wasn’t full when they arrived, the wind rattling on the clapboards punctuated by coughs inside.

“Lot fewer people here that you would expect,” whispered Peter in Daphne’s ear. “I didn’t think that the Reikian's were disliked.”

The truth is that while George and his family lived some distance out of town, they produced some very fine beer out there and shared freely with their neighbors. Daphne could not see any of those neighbors sitting here inside the church.

Parson Jameson's voice boomed throughout the church, proclaiming the evils of drink and vice, and that God should forgive the Reikian's souls. When he finished, the men stood and in a row carried out the five coffins to the churchyard.

The holes had been dug before, the gravediggers skin a light bluish color as he leaned against his shovel. Daphne averted her eyes, and Jameson called for the unfortunates to be lowered into the ground. A fat raindrop hit Daphne on her face as Mrs. Reikian reached her final resting place. It was a full downpour when the last small coffin reached the bottom.

Peter walked her home in silence. The streets were nearly deserted in the rain, with faces peering out from behind windows marking their passage. When they reached the general store, Daphne could have sworn that she spotted Barnaby Jones bent over a barrel in the interstice. When she turned to ask Peter to investigate, Barnaby was gone.

They reached her door as the rain began to let up. “What a dreadful day Daphne. He made such fine beer.”

Daphne wrinkled her nose. “I am going to change out of these wet clothes. I would suggest you do the same Peter Doocy. Don’t want you to catch your death out there.”

“I shall. How is Araminta? Does she have a fever? Perhaps I should fetch the doctor from Mr. Porters?”

A wracking cough answered him from upstairs. “That would be good. I’ll tend to her in the meantime.”

Daphne turned and closed the door. She quickly went to her room, changed her dress, and went to her mother’s room. She lay under the covers, clearly shivering. Daphne pressed her hand against her forehead, the skin clammy and cold. She picked up a cup that lay on her nightstand, faintly smelling of beer.

She brought the cup with her to Ara’s room. She sprawled in her rocking chair, a beaming grin on her face and a used goblet laying on the ground next to her. “My dear sister, you returned! How were the festivities?”

Daphne scowled, “I would not call laying a family of five into the cold earth to be a joyous moment.”

Ara narrowed one eye, and tilted the other towards her, “Depends on what you mean as joyful. Sometimes the laughter is joy, others the silence.”

“Its time for bed with you. You have obvious drunk too much.” Daphne grabbed her sisters hands, to guide her to bed, when she recoiled in horror, dropping Ara. Something wriggled under the skin of her hand, throbbing to its own beat between her veins, and then disappearing into her wrist. “What was that?”

“What was what? Daphne, are you seeing things? I’ve had a bit to drink yes, but to dull the ill feeling. I am wonderful now,” and she twirled for effect, her alcohol and sweat soaked clothing clinging to her body and she turned. Her smile grew wider, and she pulled her lips back, showing gleaming white teeth that highlighted against her cerulean flesh.

“I’ll, I’ll make sure that Peter is fetching the doctor...Ara, please lay down in bed. You are quite sick.”

Daphne rushed from the room, feeling the bile rise within her. The cholera had spread to her sister, there was no time to lose. She ran downstairs, and opened the door. Hopefully she would see Peter soon, with the doctor in tow.

Mists crept in as Daphne watched, the light fading as her worry grew. Hacking drifted down the stair and scraped the last bits of calm she had left. It felt like hours since Peter escorted her home, and it wasn’t like him to be late. Where could he be?

“Daphne, please help me!” Her mother weakly called from her room. Daphne rushed up the stair to get to her mother’s bed. Her shriveled face was framed by blankets. “Mother, I am here!”

“Go fetch a healer. Your sister is very sick. I could use their ministrations as well.”

“Yes, mother.”

Daphne grabbed her shawl, and ran into the dusk after grabbing a lantern. She knew the way to John Porter’s, even in the dark. She came across no one, and the lamp posts had not been lit.

Breathlessly, Daphne reached John Porter’s door, and she knocked rapidly on it. No voice called out to her. “They must be out.” Daphne said out loud to no one. Could she have passed them in the mists as Peter was taking them back to her house? She decided to check Shalley’s tavern, as someone there might know if they went somewhere else.

The candle still burned in the window of the tavern, giving Daphne some hope that assistance was inside. She opened the door, and that light was dashed. The tavern was completely empty. She walked to the back room, to find Cassandra, but to no avail.

Where could everyone be? There was no way she or her father would abandon their business, and there was always someone desirous of their services in the evenings. The knot in Daphne’s stomach grew. Maybe everyone was at the church. She would head there next.

She exited the tavern, and turned down the road towards the church.

After she passed several buildings, she spied someone in the street before her, shrouded by mist. “Parson Jameson? Is that you?” She peered through the lantern at the lanky form.

The parson turned, and Daphne almost dropped the lantern. His face twisted and stretched, his skin crawled with unnatural worms under it, and his mouth dripped with black fluid. He vomited out a fountain of inky darkness, and Daphne jumped aside to avoid it.

Her scream echoed between the buildings, and others emerged from them, orifices dripping with sickness. One of the wriggling creatures pushed its way out from behind the parson’s eye, a pink horror whose flesh glistened in the lantern light. It perched itself on his forehead, and opened its circular jaw, filled with needle sharp teeth.

Daphne fled, dropping the lantern behind her. Her heart pounded, pumping against her chest with each step. As she ran, more figures came out of the mist, putridness leaking from their bodies. They pursued her, their fingertips on the hem on her dress as she ran back for her home.

One by one they fell back into the shroud, and then Daphne saw her house, and with every last ounce of strength she ran up her steps, and burst through the door. She ran into him, collapsing into his arms. “Peter, oh thank God you are here! It is so horrible!”

“Horrible, what do you mean?”

“Peter, where is the doctor? Ara needs a doctor.”

Peter smiled, and shook his head. “There is no doctor. And Ara is fine. No need for a doctor now.”

Daphne looked up at him, and pulled away. How could she have gotten better? She ran up the stairs, and headed for Araminta’s room.

Her sister lay in bed, her blankets a bloody mess. Worms crawled over her skin, bathing in her remains. Her flesh held a bluish color, her sweet lips black, her lifeless blue eyes staring up at the ceiling. Daphne retreated, and closed the door to her sister’s room, and slowly walked to her mother’s

Her mother had fought against it, but in the end she had succumbed. Every inch of her bed lay soaked in that evil black liquid. Daphne wanted to throw up, but nothing came. She backed up from the grisly scene, and bumped into something.

“You see, no need for a doctor, Daphne. No need at all.”

Daphne slowly turned, and Peter stood there. “What have you done?”

Peter took her by her hand, “Come, lets be away from here.” He led her back down stairs, to her families study. “Sit down Daphne, I have a proposition for you.”

She tried not to cry up to this point, but the tears started to flow now. “Don’t cry, you will find my offer most fair. A better offer than I was given.”

Through tears, Daphne blubbered, “Offer? What are you talking about Peter?”

Peter chose the chair opposite her, and settled in. “We came across this native tribe, on an uncharted island in the East Indies. Violent savages, practices steeped in cannibalism and the occult. Just vile. We found out that the Portuguese had come not but last year, in search of vanilla, same as us.”

Daphne gulped, and a squelching sound started down the stairs. “What happened?”

Peter crossed his legs, “The Portuguese had slaughtered them, but didn’t get them all. This angered their gods. They couldn’t make them pay, so they made us. Most of my men were killed, cast into a pit filled with the offspring of the gods. You see, most people can’t handle hosting one of them. Kills them in a manner of days. They also can’t survive long outside of a body, unless in a solution of alcohol.”

Daphne looked up, “You tainted the Reikians beer?”

“Why yes, and the spirits at Shalley’s. For my life, I needed to make an offering. A harvest to their gods. And for the glorious capstone, I would choose their queen. And I have chosen you.”

“Me?”

“Oh yes. You are strong, and I know you can sustain her. I have brought her to you, all you have to do is accept her. She will make it painless, I know. You will live beyond what man was capable of. You will never sicken, never fall ill. You will have me.”

Daphne turned a little green, but forced the reflex down, “What horror is this? Peter, you are a monster. My mother, my sister, everyone we know and grew up with. You have done this...and if I refuse?”

Peter leaned forward. “I offered all of you up. If you won’t be the queen, then I’ll have to find someone else. And I’ll turn you over to them. I don’t want to do it, but I have to. Price of my life.”

Daphne wiped away the tears. She didn’t want to die, but she didn’t want someone else to suffer. “Could I write a letter first, to my father? Let him know what happened to us?”

Peter blinked, and nodded. “Of course. I’ll bring her in while you are writing.”

Daphne got up, wiped her face and walked over to the letter desk. She sat, and pulled out all of the letter writing tools to send and receive a letter. As she wrote, she could hear Peter roll in a barrel. “Its time, are you finished?”

Daphne nodded, and stood, clasping her hands behind her back. Peter pried off the lid, and Daphne could hear sloshing in the barrel. Then it emerged.

Slimy, grayish pink, and the size of her forearm. It slithered out of the barrel, and wriggled along the floor. It opened a single eye, black and soulless, and bared its teeth. It found purchase on her dress, and crept up, coming to rest on her breast.

“Open your mouth. It won’t hurt.”

Daphne opened, and it crouched to lunge in. Before it could, she drove the letter opener in her hand held behind her back into its eye. A howl emanated from Peter, dropping him to his knees. The worm wordlessly fell to the floor, blood spilling from its eye.

***

Major-General Alexander Leslie, dispatch to his Royal Majesty King George III, October 28, 1782.

Words cannot truly describe the horror found here in the Americas. A town of corpses, ripped to pieces save one man, who praised us for saving him but offering no explanation to the events that led to such butchery. I ordered him hung as a spy, and under my orders my men set fire to the town. We observed a moment of silence for the poor souls. Inquiries should be made among the Indians to see which tribe could have committed such savagery.

Ever your servant,

Alexander Leslie