The Duskshire Incident

by Jason Spitz

  When I found him, he was sitting on a couch in his office. I had remembered him as a fresh-faced young man who had overindulged on fine food and developed a bit of a gut. An energetic youth who was always eager to put in time in the lab or clinic, or to help his friends with their studies: this is the man I knew. So when I saw him on that couch, I was shocked to see a thin, pale man with an unshaven, care-worn face. He was cordial and friendly as always, but stood to greet me with a labor not befitting his age. I poured him a glass of his own brandy and asked what was weighing on him. He muttered something about being overworked, but did not share any details. I sent him home under the promise of overseeing the hospital until the night nurse arrived.

  I then walked around the small hospital. The ward had only two patients, both suffering from wounds caused by animal bites. This hardly seemed like a heavy workload, but when I went into the lab, I saw that almost all of his glassware was on the counters having been used in a variety of experiments and left uncleaned. Clearly, he was trying to unravel his mystery.

  I spent some time cleaning up the best I could without disturbing his work, by which time the nurse had arrived and I was ready to depart for the comfort of my bed. It was not be, however. As soon as I’d put on my hat and coat, a young boy burst through the door. He was in the grips of a profound panic, and it took some time for the nurse and me to get any sense out of him. He said something of the McClure’s: a family that the nurse said resided just outside of town. The boy, said she, was the youngest McClure.

  Assuming some emergency had befallen the family, I didn’t want to waste any time in getting there. I told the nurse to put the boy to bed in the ward, and I set off with my small carpet bag. The path the nurse set me on took me through the town’s one plaza. Two constables, a man and a woman, were patrolling the area together. I hurried up to them and told them of the McClure boy and my intention to go to their house. They quickly agreed to accompany me and conducted me to their carriage house. The place was deserted so we saddled our own horses and set out.

  The small town fell away quickly, and, as we proceeded down a well-trodden dirt road, a sense of great unease fell over me. Even the horses seemed to walk slower as we drew nearer. We came into an orchard. The apples had been harvested, and the leaves had begun to fall away. Apples, considered unsuitable for consumption, had been tossed on the ground amongst the leaves. As the house came into view, it grew noticeably colder and our breaths, and those of our horses, became visible.

  I drew my coat tighter around me. The house was perfectly silent and still. There were no lights visible and not a sound except the cold wind in the trees. I made to suggest that no one was home but withdrew my words before I’d uttered them. The silence seemed unbreakable, and, besides, I knew that wasn’t the case, for the door was open and the quiet that rested upon the place was not that of a warm, sleeping house, but rather one of foreboding and danger.

  Unnerved and intimidated by the house as I was, I was also determined to fulfill my duties as a physician, so I dismounted bag in hand. The constables proceeded me into the house, which I was all too glad to let them do. The man, Connor was his name, shined his lantern around the narrow entry hall.

  “Hello,” he called. “Police officers.”

  There was no answer. The house remained dark and still.

  “Wait here, Doctor,” he said.

  With that, he and the other constable went off into the house. In doing so, they absentmindedly left me with nothing but the moonlight coming through the open doorway. I was in no mood to protest. I drew my coat around me and shuffled closer to the door. However, the absence of light caused me to see that a dim glow was coming from the far end of the hall. I should have followed the constable’s instruction - I know that now - but I could not have possibly predicted what resided in that room at the end of the hall.

  It was my resolve as a medical man to render aid. A young boy had sent me here, and I had a duty to perform. These things I told myself, and, so bolstered, I proceeded down the hall to an open doorway. A single candle burned dimly on a round table. Sitting at the table was an old woman, gray hair barely clinging to her head, facing away from me.

  “Madam,” I called to her.

  She made no movement. I tried for her attention again, but was again ignored. Possibly dead, I thought, or fainted. I moved around her and placed my bag on the table. It took a moment for me to realize by the low light of the failing candle that, not only was this woman dead, she had been dead for quite a long time, for she had already begun to decay slightly. Her skin was pale as chalk, her skin sunken, and her eyes slightly open and rolled back. I heard the constables’ boots approaching, and I greeted them at the door to the room.

  “This woman’s been dead for quite a long time,” I reported. “We should arrange a post-mortem…”

  “Doctor,” the female constable, Mary, interrupted with a start of panic.

  She was staring beyond me into the room, so I turned. When I did, I was face to face with the old woman, the dead and decayed old woman, whom I’d just pronounced dead. I’ve never struck another soul in my life, but the sudden appearance of this horrible creature, along with the fact that it was moving toward me, caused an instinct in me to lash out. I threw my fist toward the rotting visage and caught the chin at an upward angle. I will swear for all time that her head doubled back on itself so that she could have looked behind her while facing forward. But just as soon as it went back, it came forward again, and she continued to shuffle toward me, an arm outstretched to claw at me.

  The constables pulled me behind them. I staggered into the hall only to see another ghoulish creature. An old man, dead by every look of him if I have any credibility as a medical man, was standing framed by the front doorway. I gripped Mary’s shoulder, but her attention was dominated by the old woman. As the man approached, shambling on his lame legs, I braced myself for a fight. But one of the constables suddenly knocked into me with a force that sent me sprawling onto an old chair that sat in the hall. The chair collapsed as I violently came down on it. I looked up to see the constables being approached at one side by the woman and another by the man. I had no time to lick my wounds. I grabbed a leg of the wrecked chair and threw myself and the man. The broken wood came down on his shoulder breaking his clavicle and burying dozens of splinters in his skin.

  I didn’t matter, though. The man kept walking as if this injury meant nothing. Then the constables were on him, savagely clubbing him until he went down to the floor and didn’t get back up.

  We escaped the ghoul-ridden house, and rode away at a gallop until we found the main road. The constables went to their office to coordinate whatever response they could come up with, and I now sit here having witnessed something beyond my imagination. I will prepare myself a mild sedative. It is the only way I could hope to get any rest tonight.

  Oct. 29, 18__

  Duskshire

  It is not normal to write autopsy notes in a private journal, let alone a rarely used travel journal such as this, but I must take note of certain things I could not, on fear of damaging my professional reputation, include in the official report.

  Richard and I received the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. McClure into his small morgue. We were to conduct autopsies on the very ghouls I had barely escaped from last night. If I am any sort of doctor – if I have even an ounce of medical knowledge – these people have been dead for at least a week. Yet if any of my faculties are intact – if I am still clear of mind and capable of observing the world around me in even the slightest way – then I saw these very two people up and walking less than twelve hours ago.

  I am left with one disturbing conclusion. This must be the start of some terrible wasting disease that causes the body to rot while still living. My only other solution, and a solution that many in the town have already adopted, is a supernatural one. But chasing fairy-tales will only prevent us from finding a real solution. In spite of the shock I received last nig
ht, I must not let myself be taken away by fear or fantasy.

  Letter from Caspar Hennings to Samuel Hennings

  Oct. 18, 18__

  Dear Sam,

  It occurred to me yesterday that we haven't seen or spoken to each other in over a month. Though my job pays well, and I've seen half the country in my travels, I must admit that the work is wearing on me. As I write this, I'm on a river boat traveling to a farming town. Their soil has “gone bad”, whatever that means, and I'm to look into it. As I said, our government is paying me well to test and catalog the nation's soil composition, but this isn't exactly what I became a chemist to do. I haven't seen a proper lab in weeks, and the food of these boats and roadside pubs hardly has your professional touch. …

  Cable from Inspector Reginald Penn to Samuel Hennings

  Oct. 24, 18__

  Dear Mr. Hennings,

  I regret to inform you that your brother, Caspar Hennings, was found dead early this morning. We are currently investigating this death as suspicious. We request that you come here to Duskshire in order to identify and retrieve your brother's remains. I am very sorry for your loss and will provide you with further details upon your arrival.

  Yours,

  Reginald Penn

  Inspector, Duskshire Constabulary

  The Diary of Samuel Hennings

  Oct. 27, 18__

  I don't know what to do with myself. My head is still whirring. There are so many questions and I'm so overcome with emotion: not just sorrow, but also confusion, anger, and most every other negative emotion a man can feel. I've decided to write a journal in order to distract myself and give voice to my feeling, though now that I'm writing this, I'm not sure that any words could ever make sense of my current mind or situation.

  Oct. 29, 18__

  I am in a carraige which is moving (slowly) down the road toward Duskshire. I was resting my eyes earlier; feeling the warm sun streaming through the window and being gently rocked as the wheels struggle over the bumpy road. My eyes were finally not puffy and red, but they were tired. Eventually, I gave up on a nap, for as tired as I was my head was still (and is still) buzzing with questions. I had filled a canteen with tea before I left the ship. Warmth was still radiating from the metal. As I brought it to my lips, something crashed hard against the window. The glass cracked in a spider web pattern. As tea dibbled down my front, I looked just in time to see a mass of black feathers fall out of sight.

  The carraige stopped suddenly, and I hopped out.

  "What in the world?" bellowed the driver as he hopped down from his seat.

  "A bird," I said swallowing what tea I had managed to get into my mouth and shaking drops off of my hand. "It flew into the window."

  The driver went around to the other side of the carraige. I followed him and, sure enough, there was a small, black bird lying on the ground with it's head at an odd angle. The driver cursed at it and climbed back up into his seat.

  When I was going back around to the door, I realized that we had stopped near a small house. It was little more than an abandoned shack overgrown with weeds and with no glass left in the windows. All along the fence and on the ridge of the gabled roof, there sat black birds. Not small ones, but large crows or ravens. They cawed down at us as we pulled away, the driver still cursing about his broken window.

  Later

  I am now in Duskshire. The inn was full, packed to the brim actually, so I've rented a room in a townhouse near the city center. The owner is an old woman, though there is no sign of age in her mood or demeanor. She seems one of the sharpest people I've met. She cuts her hair short, and even wears men's trousers. I suppose there are certain things that her age allows her to get away with, because no one seems to even notice when she goes out like that.

  I am thankful, though. I don't need someone to fawn over me or comfort me. I don't want to be sad right now. I want to find out what happened to my brother.

  Oct. 30, 18__

  I went to see Inspector Penn today. Unfortunately, he was in a neighboring town; a small hamlet called Baron's Hollow. All of the rent-able carts were taken. There seems to be a lot of movement and commotion in the city. Everyone is spending their non-working hours in the small plaza that makes up the city center, or else they are packing themselves into the inn. There is a constant excited chatter that hangs over the crowd. Could they be discussing Caspar? It seems reasonable that they would be. How many murders take place in a small town like this? I hope they don't find out I'm his brother. That's the last thing I need right now.

  Later

  It was a long walk, but I made it to Baron's Hollow. Inspector Penn was clearing a whole battalion of police officers from the small village. Apparently, the entire town vanished into thin air. I got it from one of the constables from Duskshire that one of their men had seen two of the resident's bodies, but they were now nowhere to be found. Inspector Penn told me that this had nothing to do with Caspar; that he had come to town after this incident occurred. This disturbed me even more, though. What is happening here?

  The inspector told me that Caspar's body was found at a farm nearby. I had to, again, go to one of his subordinates for details. The Pickens' Farm is where I need to go. But what am I thinking? Why should I go there? All I can say is that I feel like I must. Perhaps it's because of the lack of attention the inspector has seemed to give to Caspar's death. Is that selfish? I know that an entire town has vanished, but my brother was important, too. Maybe that means I have to figure it out for myself.

  Oct. 31, 18__

  I went to Pickens' Farm this morning. Before I left, I took Ms. B's revolver, which she keeps in a wooden box on her mantle piece. I spent some time turning it over in my hand trying to talk myself out of taking it. Why did I want to take it in the first place? I still can't answer that, no matter how glad I am that I did. Perhaps it was because the town has such an anxiety hanging over it. Ms. B told me that everyone was always in the center of town because they felt safer in a crowd. I think it's also to calm their fears by speaking them aloud. I've heard talk not only of disappearances and murder, but also of monsters and the living dead. With all this fear buzzing around, it's perhaps no wonder I wanted to be armed.

  When I arrived at the farm, it was still morning. It was quite a beautiful walk. The trees were in their Autumn colors, and a cool breeze blew through them. It had rained slightly during the night, so a sweet smell hung in the air.

  The farm was a one-room house next to a clearing that had been cut into the woods. What they grew there, it was impossible to tell, for all that was left was an open area of dirt. The soil where the crops would have grown had a strange black tint to it, as if someone had spilled a barrel-full ink on it. In the center of the clearing, someone had dug a hole. Leading to the hole from several directions were lengths of bailing twine that was secured to stakes on the outer perimeter of the black soil. It seemed someone, perhaps Caspar, had plotted the center of the blackened area and dug there.

  I went over to the hole. Down at the bottom, there was another, small hole; this one cylindrical, as through a pipe or canister had been there. My attention was called to a rustling noise coming from the surrounding forest. I hesitate to write down a description of what I saw. I don't want someone to find this journal and think I'm insane. Coming toward me was a wolf. Not just a wolf; an impossibly large wolf; as big as a bear. It was as black as coal and had fixed its eyes on me.

  I moved quickly toward the house. The creature leapt over the fence and started bounding after me. I had just enough time to run into the farmhouse and slam the door behind me. Once through, I drew the gun from my pocket and aimed at the door. The wolf did not try to burst through, though.

  I turned toward the room. It offered me little hope, as there was nothing except for some dusty odds and ends that someone had left behind. There was one thing that drew my attention; one horrible thing. A pool of dried blood. I'd almost forgotten why I went to that farm.

  I didn't h
ave long to reflect on this. One of the windows facing the field shattered as the wolf threw himself against it. It barked furiously, as if driven to insanity with the desire to rip me to shreds. I leveled the revolver at it and fired. I'm not sure where the bullet went, but the beast only recoiled from the sound. Then it reared again, this time breaking through the wooden frame, and it started climbing through the hole. A shot rang out, not my own gun but from outside. Then came another. The wolf pulled itself back so it stood on the porch outside, and it reared at its attacker. Two more shots in quick succession. The beast staggered, then fell.

  I stared at the body of the wolf through the broken window for some time. Then the door burst open. I instinctively pointed my gun, but instantly lowered it when I recognized Inspector Penn. He holstered his revolver and I pocketed mine, glad to have it out of my shaking hand.

  One of the constables the inspector had brought with him drove me back to town in their cart. I've been shut up inside ever since. My hand has only now become steady enough to write, and I knew I must put this down. If I don't record these happenings, I might convince myself years from now that this was all an elaborate dream, or madness, or fever.

  If this is what killed my brother, I will go happily into it; into any madness or fantasy.

  The Diary of Inspector Reginald Penn

  Nov. 1, 18__

  I have just come back from seeing my cousin, John, who has taken up temporary residence with Dr. Fleetwood, who, as it turns out, is an old friend of his. John is staying on in order to help us unravel the web of mysteries that has fallen over our city. He, himself, is a doctor, a well known and respected one, in fact, who works at Northton Hospital. Though he has become a man of wealth and renown, it is hard for me to see him that way, even as I rely on his scientific expertise.