Revenants

August 30, 1752

My Dearest Isabella,

  After a long uneventful journey I have finally reached the shores of Acadia. 

    I already miss you more than words can describe. I can only hope that this endeavour proves fruitful and brief.

   So it appears this small plot of land, endowed to my family on behalf of my grandfathers service to King and country, seems pittance; hardly worth my leaving Massachussets, leaving my medical practice, leaving you…

   Yet I find myself hoping someone is willing to take it off my hands for a fair price. I can’t imagine they will be easy to find; the Frenchman who lived here let it fall to sorts and since the Royal Regiment arrived here no one has cared for it, letting it run even further afoul.

   Yes, a small cabin that is falling apart will be my home for the next few weeks, yes it is on a large plot of land, but that land is encroached by forest so thick that it appears light does not penetrate it.

   At least they gave me a horse, poor things stables have a hole in the roof.

  Well, hopefully I will be home by October; I meet with a barrister in Port Royal in a few days time to sign the deeds, with some luck he will have an interested party.

   Thinking of you my love.

 Love,

Thomas

September 2, 1752

Isabella,

    Sit down my love, for what I have to tell you is so ghastly I fear you collapsing for hearing of it.

    The morning after I last wrote you I rode into Port Royal to see the barrister; a chubby man with thinning hair and small round spectacles. The deed was signed and this homestead officially passed from King George to the Moore estate.

  Now as I was leaving the barristers office I thought it be prudent for me to get my bearings in town, lay of the land if you will; so I rode to the town square and to my great shock there was a large gathering, nay mob, of townspeople.

   Angry and yelling; it wasn’t until I approached closer on foot, wading through the mob as though I was chest deep in a turbulent river, that I saw the dark silhouette of the gallows draped against the blue sky.

  It loomed over the crowd. Beneath it stood a member of the constabulary reading out charges against the guilty party.

     A young woman stood next to him, charged with the murder of a soldier! A murder Isabella! It shocked me to say the least, why she was no more than twenty! A child! Yet apparently she, a french girl, had killed a British soldier when they discovered she and her family was still living here.

     Now she had been sentenced to death.

     Justine Debois, as I had later discovered, was led to the gallows glaring at the mob of townspeople, which undulated with hatred in front of her.

    “Que la mort soit jetee, puis revienne,” she rasped as they slid the noose over her neck.

      Now my French is rusty but I have since been able to translate it:

MAY DEATH BE CAST, AND THEN RETURNED.

  I can only imagine what must have been going through that poor girls mind.

  The floor then dropped and she hung from her neck, swinging like a pendulum. Unblinking eyes locked on the crowd, locked on me, her last breath a growl of words uttered in a language I have never heard as a silence fell over the crowd.

    Her eyes never did shut.

    Dear God Bella, it was horrific. I hope to never witness such a thing again.

     I cannot be done here and back in your arms quickly enough.

 With love,

 Thomas

September 3, 1752

My Isabella,

    I’m writing this in the early morning hours; dawn has yet to break. I’m writing this as a man lay dying next to me.  

     Last night as I was preparing my supper I heard the pounding of horse hooves on the road leading from the farm to Port Royal. Since I’ve been here I have yet to see anyone on that road save for myself so this immediately grabbed my attention.

   “Doctor Moore! Doctor Moore!”

   It was Colonel Williams of the Royal British Regiment, a garrison was located just north of Port Royal.

  I had opened the door at the sound of their horses and now stood there, watching, as he and another young soldier hauled a man out from the carriage.

     I stood stunned, unaware of what I was witnessing as they slung the man toward me. The closer they got the clearer I could see with there lantern lights, the pale face and blue lips that identify a man on deaths door.

   “Doctor Moore,” said the Colonel with an urgent authority to him, “this man’s gravely ill. Can you help him?”

     To say I was in a bit of shock would be an understatement.

     Accused of being a French sympathizer, Port Royals physician had been expelled and ordered to not return; they had yet to replace him.

    “Bring him in. Put him down on the bed,” I said, pointing to a spare cot nearest my writing desk.

    I ran for blankets.

   The young soldier with Colonel Williams was near white as my sheets I tell you!

    This poor man Isabella! Gasping for air with every breath!

    I’ve done my best to settle him with a shot of opium. His breathing though still ragged.

    He stirs now Isabella! I must tend to him.

Love,

  Thomas

P.S. I have learned that the man’s name is Jacob White.

September 5, 1752

Isabella

  Jacob has died. I will be attending his funeral in the next few days.

Thomas

September 7, 1752

Dearest ‘bella,

    Jacob’s funeral was today. He was buried in the cemetery not far from this farmhouse, the one that lay between the town and myself.

   I wish I could tell you that were the end of the tragedy.

   Father Smyth, Port Royal’s priest, read a beautiful eulogy.

   Jacob’s brother, I thought odd, was not in attendance.

  “Father, may I have a word?” I approached Father Smyth after the service had ended.

   “I heard the deceased had a brother, yet it seems he is not in attendance. Is he well? He must be devastated.”

    “ Yes, he is in mourning and his illness is making his grief more difficult to bare. I will see him this evening and pass on your condolences,” he said placing a hand on my shoulder, “We know you did what you could Doctor. Jacob was lucky you were with him but it was in the Lords hands.”

   With that the Father and I parted ways.

   My love I couldn’t tell you if it were a sense of duty or a sense of guilt but that afternoon I rode into town to see Jacob’s brother.

    Passing by the regiment headquarters I opted to stop in and talk with Colonel Williams, I was hoping the young soldier was recovering from the shock of the other night. Alas neither of them was to be seen; apparently a young girl was missing and most the regiment was out combing the woods for her.

    I continued on to the small cottage where Jacob’s brother, Curtis, lived with his wife. 

  Faces white as their bedsheets, with blue tinged lips, they both lay in their bed, ghastly gurgling coming from their throats with each breath.

     “Doctor… Moore…?” Curtis rasped with every morsel of energy left in his body.

      “ Yes Curtis, Mrs. White,” I said, nodding to each, “lets get you two more comfortable. Shall we?”

       The constabulary allowed me access to the former physicians clinic. I had used the last of my opium on Jacob and required further supplies.

      That evening Father Smyth arrived; just in time to give last rites to Curtis and Angelica White whom both died that night.

     Isabella what I wouldn’t give to hold you right now, all this tragedy wears on me. I think tomorrow I will take a walk in the woods behind the house, clear my mind.

 With Love,

 Thomas

September 10, 1752

My love,

   I fear an epidemic of tuberculosis has gripped Port Royal.

  Fifteen people are sick! Four more have died in the last three days!

  I have become the defacto physician around town, although supplies at the clinic are dwindling. Luckily most of the sick do not appear severe.

   To make matters worse they have yet to find the little girl that went missing. Many of the townspeople, including the sick are turning to Father Smyth instead of listening to my medcial advice. Yes my dear, many people in this part of the world still believe in the occult. They have started blaming witchcraft rather than pestilence.

   I was out walking in the woods the other day and stumbled across an odd chest half buried in the dirt.

  It’s a strange looking thing. More of a square oak box than a chest. Arcane symbols appeared carved on it., a series of concentric circles on the lid.

  Inside contained nothing save two parchment scrolls.  Unfurling them I saw strange writing; in a red ink sat rows of neatly arranged symbols, runic in nature. At the top of one, scrawled in black ink, were the french words Jeter la mort; on the second: Revelier des morts.

  I made the mistake of showing these scrolls to some young soldiers in town.

  These scrawlings of a mad woman are now being taken as a sign of black magic. Am I the only rational person in this town?

   Well I best be getting some rest. I fear there will be many funerals to attend over the next few days.

Love,

Thomas

 P.S. I have translated the french phrases; Casting the Death and Raise the Dead.  A troubled woman indeed.  

September 15, 1752

Isabella,

    The sick continue to mount. I am now the towns defacto doctor, and mortician. I will be needed here for some time longer.

   The house will have to wait.

Thomas

September 19, 1752

 Isabella,

    This may be the last I write, for evil is at my doorstep; banging and clawing at the walls and door, chanting in an ancient inhuman language. 

    I haven’t long, I fear they will soon be upon me, but if this is my final testament than let me bear witness to the evil that has taken hold of this land.

   Sunrise had lalready broke as I rode into town this morning, on my way to see the growing list of sick.

  Upon entering the town I was met with faces of grief and horror. They were dead! All of them Isabella! My patients, all in differing seveirites of illness had died last night. All at the same time too!

   Isabella my arrogance made me think the locals were foolish for fearing the work of black magic, for questioning my methods in favour of the church; now I cower in the cellar while the work of the devil lurks outside.

     Footsteps above me! They are in! I must be brief for my time now is limited.

     We decided it best to bury the bodies that afternoon.

      Neither cemetery had plots anymore so a meadow on the very edge of the town was chosen, there was a nice view of the chapel. Townspeolpe were rallied together to dig the graves but not many showed up.

   I sought out Colonel Williams, the strong young backs of soldiers would’ve been greatly appreciated, but he was no where to be found; so on my own I rallied what soldiers I could to our cause and they dutifully assisted us.

   By early evening we had the graves dug and were ready for the service, everyone wanted this dreadful day behind us.  

   I walked the distnce to the chapel to-

  Isabella they are at the cellar door! If I don’t finish this please know how much I love you. They are clawing at the door! Hammering it with rotting fists, chanting my name in the raspy gurgle of a decaying voicebox.

 Thomas. Thomas. Thomas.

 They know my name bella, they will be upon me soon.

 I went to find Father Smyth.

 I wet myself at the sight of what I found.

 The horror Isabella

 The Father lay at the altar; his arms and legs seperated from his body, clearly torn off as evident from the broken white bone jutting out from the torn and glistening red muscle, and arranged at four points around his body, which itself lay in the center of three concentric rings drawn in blood.

   I had never run faster in my life. Jumping on my horse I forgot the dead, the sick, this damn house which brought me to this forsaken land. Intent on packing my things and leaving at first light I rode the beast as fast as biology would let her go.

     The sun at now set and as we travelled the wooded path I slowed her down, afraid that the veil of darkness which descended would conceal hazards.

      No longer masked by the thunder of her hooves a faint sounded drifted toward us on the air. I strained my ears, horror again rising in me. Screams. The screams of many voices echoed through the dark.

   I continued on, convincing myself that the isolation of my homestead would protect me from whatever horrors haunted Port Royal.

 The cemetery rose before us out of the darkness. My horse whinnied wildly and refused to step any further. I had to dismount and lead her.

   A groan, muffled and barely audible as if from below ground, caused me to pause. I peered into the cemetery; squinting in a vain attempt to see the perpetrator. A thick mist clung to the ground, shrouding the bottoms of the gravestones in an ethereal blanket.

   My horse started bucking and whinning. Eyes were wide in terror. I tried to calm her but she ripped the reins from my hand and galloped away. The thundering hooves growing ever fainter until I was alone. Silence. Even the screams from town had ended. My breath, fast and deep, was all I could hear. The mist clinging to the cemetery was all I could see; yet I knew something was out there.

    I started for home, a quick jog, but then stopped as I noticed the mist. It had begun to swirl and eddy in a hypnotic dance.

    I stood there, staring at it, mesmerized. I was then jarred from my stupor and this terror began.

   It started with a hand; rising out of the mist and clawing at the ground. Then the rest of the horrid creature.

  It was Jacob White! What remained of him anyway. He rose from the ground with a sickening series of snaps and pops as rigid and decaying ligaments tore with movement. His face and belly bloated with the gases of decay. His mouth and eyes oozed blood. This creature resembled a squished leech more than a man.

   Whatever this thing it gurgled and spat as it turned to me, eye sockets locking with mine.

    I had been so fixated on Jacob I didn’t notice the other graves; all of them now had these creatures crawling out.

   Jacob began to move his jaws, as if he had forgotten how his mouth worked.

  “Thomas,” he rasped through a mouth full of dirt.

  The others all turned toward me in unison and began lurching toward me.

   I ran as fast as my legs could back here.

  I bolt the door and shoved my bookcase in front of it. Then I came down to my cellar to write you.

  None of it has helped. Creatures of the damned are in the house, they are at the cellar door. I can hear the do

November 20, 1752

Mrs. Isabella Moore

   Madam, it is with a heavy heart I inform you Dr. Thomas Moore has been declared dead.

   We have searched for over a month to no avail; with the state of his dwelling upon discovery we are left with only this conclusion.

Deepest Sympathy,

Colonel Theodore Bligh

52^nd Squadron

Royal British Regiment

Acadia