by Rita Vetere
As it turned out, her father did not arrive home until late that night. After watching her mother wander around the house like a wraith all day, Isabella had gone to bed early. A few hours later, she heard the latch at the front door lift, and Papa’s heavy footsteps as he entered.
Silently, she crept out of bed and cracked open the door to her bedroom so she could listen as he spoke to her mother in the kitchen.
At first, she could hear only the sound of Papa’s muffled crying. Somehow, the idea of her strapping, broad-shouldered father weeping seemed far worse than the grief she’d seen in her mother’s eyes earlier.
“Is there hope for him? Will he be taken care of?”
Papa didn’t answer, and Mamma raised her voice. “Tell me. I must know.”
“The Lazaretto—it is worse than hell,” came Papa’s strangled voice. “Thank God I thought to take his mattress with us. The sick are three and four to a bed, others lying on the bare ground. Some of them have gone insane, roaming about naked, tearing at their own flesh. The place is filled with foul odors and the cries of the dying. The dead are taken from their beds and thrown into the pit, or their bodies burned on the other side of the island.” He stopped and Isabella heard him crying. When he spoke again, he said, “After witnessing this, I knew I could not leave Roberto in such a place and tried to take him back with me, but I was not permitted to, upon threat of death. I stayed for as long as I was able, until I was told to leave at dark. Some of the dying—God help them—some were not yet dead when they were taken to—”
Here her mother let out a desperate wail. “Stop. No more... No more.”
The mental picture conjured up by her father’s words filled Isabella with unspeakable horror, even as her heart broke for Roberto. She scrambled back to bed, pulling the covers over her head, not wanting to hear or know anything more. She cried for what seemed like hours, hugging herself in the dark until her tears were spent. At some point during the night, she fell asleep.
* * * *
Isabella awoke the next day to silence. The angle of the sun entering her room from the window looked wrong, and she realized she’d slept through most of the morning. Why had Mamma not awakened her? She listened, but did not hear her parents moving around. It’s because of Roberto, she reminded herself. The thought immediately caused sadness to rush back.
She rose and moved to the basin of water in her room, washing only her face. Her family heeded the advice that bathing increased the risk of contamination. Still in her nightgown, she traveled to the kitchen. Her mother was not there, nor her father. As she was about to go wake her parents, who must be still sleeping, she heard the distinct sound of a rasping cough coming from behind the closed door of her parents’ bedroom. Isabella stopped in front of the door and listened. More coughing, followed by the sound of a low moan.
Intuitively, Isabella knew what she would find when she opened the door, and the knowledge rested heavily on her. Even so, she hesitated only a moment. Worry for her parents overrode her fear. She opened the door and entered. Her mother and father lay next to each other in bed. Both of them looked flushed with fever. Papa’s eyes appeared watery and frightened as he did his best to stifle the cough that wracked him.
Her mother spoke to her in a weak voice. “Isabella.”
She turned to her mother and saw it, the tiny lump that had begun to form on Mamma’s neck, just below her ear. Isabella’s gaze travelled up to her mother’s eyes, which no longer seemed grief-stricken, only desperate.
“Mamma...”
“Isabella, listen to me.”
“Mamma—”
“No. Do not speak, only listen, and do exactly what I say. Gather what you need, and leave. Now. You must go to Zia’s house and remain there.”
“No!” The thought of leaving her parents and asking her aunt to take her in terrified Isabella.
She could see her mother struggle with her own emotion then heard her father’s stern voice in between his fits of coughing. “Isabella! Do as your mother says. Your mother and I will take care of each other, and when we are well, we will return for you. But you must go... Now.” He sank back down in the bed, as if speaking the few words had utterly exhausted him.
Isabella ran from the room, found the aromatic herbs her mother had used when Roberto had become ill and placed them in a bowl, lighting them. She stacked logs on the fireplace grate, using kindling to get the fire going. Isabella had watched Mamma make broth many times and knew what to do. Broth would help, maybe. Hurrying to the kitchen, her mind racing as she set about her task, Isabella was sick with fear at the prospect of leaving her parents when they were ill. Having already lost Roberto, the thought of losing her parents terrified her. She prayed in earnest as she worked to prepare the broth. Surely God would hear her, if only she prayed hard enough.
While the soup simmered, she returned to her parents, carrying a washbasin of water and rags to place on their heads, as she had seen her mother do with Roberto. Her mother moaned and opened her eyes when Isabella placed the cloth on her fevered forehead.
“You…must not come near us, Isabella. Do you hear me? You must leave.”
“Shhh... I will go, Mamma, but not yet.” The heat emanating from her mother’s body alarmed her, but she continued sponging her face and fever-chapped lips. Then she moved to the other side of the bed to minister to her father. Papa did not open his eyes, even when she placed the wet cloth on his head. His skin, she noticed with growing alarm, was covered in a blistery rash, and a purplish bruise had begun to blossom on his arm.
Three hours later, Isabella carried two bowls of broth into the sweltering bedroom. She did her best to wake first her mother, and then her father, but neither of them responded.
“Mamma, wake up.” When Isabella tried to prop her mother up in bed to feed her the broth, her mother moaned and began to cough. Isabella could see Mamma was burning up with fever, and the same rash she had seen on her father earlier had begun to blister her mother’s skin. The boil on Mamma’s neck had gotten bigger as well, and another lump had already begun to form under her arm. The air in the room was saturated with the same foul odor as when Roberto had become sick.
“Papa?” She moved to the other side of the bed to try rousing her father. He cried out loudly in his sleep, words that made no sense to Isabella. The tips of his fingers, she noticed, had turned black in the past few hours. She did not detect any boils on his neck, but when she gently lifted his arm, she could not help but see the huge lump that had formed there. Pus oozed freely from it, giving off an overpowering stench of infection.
Isabella knew she had to get help—she would not be able to do what needed to be done alone. She had to get to her aunt’s house, and plead with her to return here to help. Papa was her only brother. Surely Zia would come once Isabella explained how things were.
She dressed quickly, made sure the fire had enough wood to keep going for the next little while, and left the broth where her parents could reach it if they awakened. Then she hurried from the house and, for the second time in as many days, raced through the treacherous streets to her aunt’s home on the other side of the city.
* * * *
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Zia, Isabella. Please. Open the door.” Isabella panted, exhausted from having run non-stop halfway across the city.
She heard the bolt being unlatched. The large wooden door swung open.
“Isabella, what are you doing here? Why—”
“Zia, you must help me, you must return home with me.”
“What’s happened?”
“Mamma and Papa... They’re sick, they don’t answer when I try to wake them. I need you to come. I don’t know what to do.”
Her aunt took a step back at the words. “Sick?”
“Yes, Zia, please. You must return home with me. I cannot take care of them alone.”
Her aunt’s eyes took on a frightened look. “What of Roberto? Can he not help you?”
Tears spilled onto Isabella’s cheeks. “Roberto is not with us. He became sick two days ago—”
“Two days ago! You did not tell me this when you came yesterday.”
“No.” Isabella averted her eyes, not wanting to meet her aunt’s gaze. “Papa said not to mention it until we were sure... Then yesterday, when Roberto worsened, Papa took him to the Lazaretto. This morning, Mamma and Papa took ill. Please Zia, will you come?”
Her aunt looked at her in horror for a moment. Then, without speaking another word, she slammed the heavy door shut.
Isabella stared at the closed door in disbelief. From the other side, she heard her aunt’s voice. “You must leave. I cannot permit you to enter. Nor can I return home with you. You must go, Isabella. Now. There is nothing I can do for you.”
“No. Please.” Isabella pounded frantically on the door. “I need help. Zia. Please.”
She stopped and listened, but no sound came from beyond the door.
“At least...at least ask Zio to take them to the Lazaretto,” she pleaded. “Just that much, no more.”
Only silence answered.
Isabella begged her aunt through the closed door to be merciful. She pounded and pounded on the heavy wooden door until her fists began to bleed and her cries became hysterical. All her entreaties were met with the same maddening silence.
When she no longer had enough strength to yell, she collapsed on the stoop, tears streaming down her face. She had been so certain her aunt would come to their aid. How could she not? But the heartless woman had turned her back on them. She would have to return home. Alone.
She got up from the doorstep and wiped her tear-streaked face with her sleeve. As she ran back the way she had come, she did not bother to pray. Why God had chosen to abandon her, she did not know, but abandon her he had.
* * * *
The minute Isabella reached home she locked the door behind her and rushed to her parents’ room. It was hot in there and the stench that hit her made her stomach lurch. The bulbous lump on her mother’s neck had broken, emitting more of the foul odor she had detected earlier. The broth she had prepared remained untouched on the night table.
The sickness was progressing rapidly. Seized with fresh panic, she raced to her mother and tried to shake her awake, being careful not to come into contact with the pus running down her neck from the broken boil. Isabella could feel the heat of fever rolling off Mamma through the thin cotton nightgown she wore. Her mother moaned, muttering something as Isabella attempted to sit her up. Then Mamma opened her eyes and looked directly at her, but Isabella could see her mother did not recognize her.
“It’s me, Mamma, Isabella.” Desperate, she grabbed the bowl of soup and tried to spoon feed it to her mother. Mamma just choked on it, and began to cough violently. Isabella quickly recoiled from the thick strands of phlegm that spewed from her mother’s mouth.
She ran to the other side of the bed, but had no better luck with her father, whose skin was now covered in purplish-black bruises. Unable to lift him, she did her best to spoon some broth into his open mouth as well, but it only dribbled back out. Not knowing what else to do, she got fresh water and rags, and tried once again to cool their fevered bodies.
After some time had passed, she left her parents and rekindled the fire in the next room, which had almost burned out. Exhausted, she lay on the floor next to the hearth to rest for a while. Every few minutes, she got up to check on her parents, rinsed out the cloths and replaced them on their fevered brows. Each time she failed to rouse them, her fear deepened.
When night fell, hunger gnawed at her. She broke some bread into the broth she’d made earlier and devoured it. All that night, she remained awake, terrible thoughts rolling around in her head. Even if her parents survived, how would she be able to obtain the food they needed on her own? The neighboring families had long ago stopped opening their doors, even to the people who, mere months ago, they had broken bread and shared laughter with. They had, in fact, reported any friends whom they suspected of being ill so the authorities boarded up the doors and bricked up the windows of the infected households. No, there was no recourse there, and if her parents did not survive? What would become of her? Her aunt had already turned her away. There was no one else. How long could she remain alive on her own? Thinking of such things made her weary, wearier than she’d ever felt in her young life. At some point just before dawn, sleep overtook her tired mind.
* * * *
Isabella opened her eyes to the sound of heavy banging and sat up with a start. For a moment she wondered what she was doing on the floor then everything rushed back like a waking nightmare. She hurried to her parents’ bedroom and stopped in the doorway. The room was in utter darkness. Isabella travelled to the window to unlatch and open the shutters. She stood at the window, uncomprehending. The louvers were open. She had not closed them the night before. Beyond the glass she saw the bricks and mortar that prevented light from entering. Her mind registered the fact that the banging had not ceased and it was coming from the front door. As it dawned on her what was happening, she raced from the room.
“No!” she screamed, rushing to the door. But she was too late to stop what was happening. By the time she arrived, the hammers had ceased pounding.
“Help me! We are alive in here. Stop!”
She heard the low-pitched voices of the men as they moved away from the house, their job completed.
“Stop! Come back! Come back!” Frantically, she unlocked the door and tried to push it open as the voices receded. The heavy oak door did not budge, and she knew from having seen other houses that the workers had securely fastened it from outside, imprisoning her and her parents in their home. The house where she had lived for all nine years of her life had become their coffin. She leaned heavily against the door and slid to the ground, trying to wrap her mind around what had happened. Someone had reported the Moretti house to the authorities. Someone, a neighbor, or...Zia? The awful thought rang true and filled her with such cold malice she found herself unable to think, unable to form a single thought except: Dead. We’re all dead now. She repeated the words out loud, as if speaking them would somehow make it comprehensible. “All dead now.”
She sat, unmoving, while chaotic thoughts flapped all around and panic she couldn’t control raced through her. The darkened house made it impossible to tell how long she remained sitting there, but eventually a miserable, retching sound reached her and she got weakly to her feet. Mamma. Her mother needed help. Isabella fumbled her way around the dark kitchen, lit a candle and carried it with her to her parents’ room. Both her mother and father lay unmoving on the bed. Isabella placed the candle on the night table and checked for breathing. Her mother was still alive but, oh, the way she looked. Her once-beautiful face was now a grotesque mask of sores. Her head had tilted to one side as a result of the large lump on her puffy and swollen neck. Isabella’s gaze traveled downward and took in the blood stains covering the front of her mother’s nightgown and the bedding.
She cursed herself for having fallen asleep earlier. Had she remained awake, they might have been spared. Perhaps the men who had sealed off the house could have been persuaded to take her parents to the Lazaretto, where they might at least have a chance of recovery.
Isabella moved to the other side of the bed. Unlike Mamma, her father did not appear to be breathing. Heeding some instinct that rose in her, Isabella did not touch him. Papa was dead. She just knew.
She stood at the end of the bed, inhaling the foul stench of disease, mesmerized by the dim light of the candle glinting off fresh blood at her mother’s mouth. She listened to the low death rattle coming from her mother’s throat.
A strange numbness penetrated Isabella. When finally she left her parents’ room, she moved like a phantom, instinctively heading to her own bedroom, where she crawled into bed. Isabella curled into a tight ball, consumed by the horrific images of her lifeless father and sick mother, knowing that within hours her mother would also be d
ead. The understanding reached deep into the marrow of her young bones—she was alone. Alone in this house of death.
Chapter 7
Venice, Italy
Present Day
Anna floated up from sleep toward awareness. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment as she took in the red digits of the travel clock she had placed on the nightstand before turning in last night. At just after three in the morning, she shifted to the other side of the bed. In the dark hotel room, she found herself staring at...
What the fuck!
Her heart leapt into her throat. She tried to scream, but her paralyzed brain seemed unable to send the proper command to her vocal cords. She gasped, taking air into her lungs and releasing it, but all that came out was an “eee” sound, like a door opening on a rusty hinge.
At the foot of her bed stood a... Oh God, what is that? ...A child?
No. Whatever the thing with matted hair and rotting flesh standing next to her was, it couldn’t possibly be human.
The apparition stared at her with its terrible waxen eyes. The decomposing flesh of its face hung in tatters on one side so that Anna could see teeth where its cheek should have been. The thing opened its black maw as if trying to speak and took a step toward her, pushing her over the edge of fear into the realm of terror. As the creature advanced, Anna noticed the frayed and threadbare remnants of a dress hanging from its rail-thin body. It lifted an arm in her direction and a dangling section of putrid flesh slid off, revealing glistening white bone beneath. The slimy tissue made a wet, plopping sound as it hit the floor.
Anna opened her mouth and screamed—loud this time—an earsplitting cry that cut through the silent room like a siren. She scrabbled backward and crouched against the wooden headboard. Her head snapped toward the door. Escape. She had to escape from this hellish thing. But when she looked back...
Nothing. There was nothing there.
