by Daniel Mills
“For how long has it been like this?” I inquired of him, thinking, perhaps, that the stone’s position on the outskirts of the churchyard had left it vulnerable to the influence of weather; but Crabb’s answer made this impossible:
“Since yesterday morning.”
I waved the Verger away and placed my satchel on the ground beside the headstone. Extracting a scalpel from my bag, I moved the sharp edge along the top of the slate and observed, once more, the curious manner in which it yielded to the faintest contact; first, in brittle shavings like a hardened cheese, and again, as a black powder. The latter form clung to the blade, but was wiped away with ease, leaving behind a stain. In this, I was reminded of nothing so much as the dust from a dark flower.
Next, I applied myself to an inspection of the marker’s face, which I found to be in a similarly delicate condition. My scalpel stripped away the stone with ease, exposing a layer of black, ash-like sediment below the surface. Of this I collected a sample and secreted it away in my bag for further study. My initial observations had already led me to suspect that the substance was organic in nature; I hoped subsequent tests might lend further credence to this theory.
Afterward, Crabb and I descended the hill together and rode back into the village, where he left me off with a solemn promise to inform me of any further developments. Then he turned round the cart and clomped back toward the meetinghouse.
IV
Though I am not a man of science, my years at Philadelphia College bestowed on me a robust appreciation for, and passable knowledge of, Descartes’ Method. Upon returning home, I set about preparing an appropriate framework by which to analyse the chemical properties of the black powder.
Having first divided my sample into three parts, I sifted the first third into a pewter bowl, which I left exposed to the air, while adding the second third into a glass dish containing water, retaining the final third for additional tests, as necessary.
On the following morning, the first sample appeared no different. However, the second sample, which had steeped in water, had undergone a singular transformation. By some obscure agency, the powder had congealed overnight and extruded itself into a series of black hairs, fibrous and delicate, all of which were fastened by unknown means to the bottom of the dish, as though seeking for purchase there.
The stench was indescribable; I can only say that it reminded me of the fluid from a lanced boil. Dark specks leapt into my vision and I turned swiftly away, lest I succumb to a spell of fainting.
That evening, I lighted a tallow candle and subjected the substance to one final test. With the aid of my steel forceps, often employed by me during so-called “breach” birthings, I gathered a small quantity of the remaining powder and held it to the flame. To my surprise, the sample ignited with startling swiftness and burned down to the forceps in the span of a heartbeat, releasing a plume of acrid smoke that caught like bile in my throat.
Afterward, when I went to wipe the instrument clean, I was surprised to find it devoid of char or ash. Whatever its nature, the substance in question had evidently burned through completely, leaving no trace of itself behind.
V
The following day, a Wednesday, I received a second visit from Crabb. He sought me out at the White farm four miles from the village, whereunto I had been called to perform an amputation on the eldest White child, Ethan, whose right leg had begun to exhibit signs of gangrene.
The procedure was performed with assistance from the boy’s mother, who provided rum and a leather strap while the younger boys, Martin and John, watched from the doorway. The dressings in place, I made my farewells and exited the house.
Crabb waited for me outside with the ox and cart. As before, the Verger appeared sickly, his eyes hooded as if he had not slept in days. “The matter has become serious,” intoned he with his typical solemnity. “I came for you at once.”
We arrived at Meetinghouse Hill early in the afternoon and scaled the steep hillside. Our steps brought us to within ten paces of the parsonage windows, behind which the Reverend Stone was just visible to us, his sharp edges softened by the distortive effects of Crown Glass.
I inquired of the Verger whether Stone knew of these new developments, but Crabb shook his head. “It seemed of little use,” he said. “His pain has been worse, of late, and he does not wish for me to disturb him.”
The northwest corner of the burying ground had, it seemed, been subject to some queer manner of flooding or subsidence. The infant Mead’s stone was now completely black and featureless, with shards of broken slate littering the ground before it.
Each of the stones around it, including that of the child’s mother, was likewise speckled with the same black dust, which loosed in whirling clouds whenever the wind swept down from the meetinghouse and shook the arbor vitae. A faint odour hung over that dreary scene, not dissimilar to the pus-smell produced by my earlier experiments.
A cursory inspection of the child’s stone confirmed that it was no longer slate at all; instead, it seemed wholly composed of a porous organic material. I turned my attention to the base of the stone and cleared away the wet earth with one hand, only to learn that the growth reached deep into the ground, rooted somewhere below our feet.
The conclusion to which I came was, admittedly, fanciful, but also undeniable, for surely this black thing had come out of the ground and then, penetrating upward, proceeded to replace the slate from inside. Eventually, the outermost layer of stone cracked open like an acorn, leaving a faceless duplicate in its place.
Our course of action seemed clear. If this were some manner of sickness particular to the earth—a “gangrene of the soil,” as I described it to Crabb—then we had no choice but to seek out the source of the infection and cut it away.
“But first, we must put the matter to the Reverend,” said I, “and let him be the judge. Though I am not desirous of disturbing this consecrated ground, it may yet prove necessary.”
VI
Sometime later, we rapped upon the door of the parsonage and were received into the parlour by the Reverend Stone, who invited us to sit by the hearth. The minister was attired in his usual austere robes, with a high collar that reached to the throat, and the scent of rose-water was, as ever, evident. He offered us ale, which we refused, and settled himself in a chair opposite us, wincing as he did so for the pain of his ailment. “‘Tis a distinct pleasure,” said he, with a forced smile, “but I sense you have not come merely to visit.”
We admitted this was so and Crabb proceeded to summarise the strange happenings of the last three days. He made rather a neat account of it, pausing, from time to time, only to cough into his kerchief. When he had finished, I offered my own conclusions and advised in favour of delving beneath the graveyard so as to find the source of the infestation. At this suggestion, Stone raised his hand, and addressed us in tones of tired admonishment.
“We must not be overly hasty,” said he. “Your findings are strange and, undoubtedly, they are suggestive. However, they are, as yet, little more than that.”
He stood and shewed us out of the parlour. “And now I fear you must excuse me, for young Martin White will be here shortly. Please be assured that I shall pray upon the matter, as you have described it, and that you shall soon have my decision.”
Outside the parsonage, the Verger and I bade each other farewell, but the other man lingered purposefully beside his cart, so that I knew he had more to tell me.
“There is something else,” said he, after a moment’s consideration. “I did not like to say, at first, for I know the esteem in which you hold his memory, but the rot has spread to the new section of the burying ground, southeast of the meetinghouse, where the Reverend Cooper lies.”
“Show me,” said I, attempting an air of authority, though my words came out strangled and faint. And so it was that we climbed the hill to the churchyard once more and made our way to the Reverend Cooper’s stone. Dread beset me as we entered the new section, followed in turn
by a surge of terror at my first glimpse of the Reverend’s monument. Although every grave-marker bore a dusting of black powder, Reverend Cooper’s stone appeared most sorely affected.
The rot had pushed out from behind his carved likeness and rendered him faceless: as grim and terrible as the specter of Death. My words of tribute had been erased entirely, blotted out by the spreading stain, so that only the final words of his epitaph were visible:
Out of heaven from God.
‘Twas a dire omen, suggesting, as it did, that this strange infestation was visited upon us as a judgment from the Almighty; yet, I knew this could not be the case, for there was no man alive or dead more saintly than the departed minister. Our town deserved no such punishment, I was sure, but I was likewise certain this was no deed of man or nature. That left only Lucifer, the Father of Lies. But is it not true that even the work of the Devil glorifies His Holy Name?
Much shaken, I returned to my horse, mounted, and kicked the beast toward home. After forty paces, I encountered Martin White, a boy of twelve, who was evidently en route to his appointment with the new minister. He walked with slate and hornbook beneath one arm, and with face downcast, as though immersed in a reverie. He did not lift his head, nor display recognition of any kind, but merely passed by me without speaking and, thusly, into the shadow of Meetinghouse Hill.
VII
For the next two days, I strove to push the matter from my mind and see to my duties about the village. But when Friday came with yet no word from the Verger, I decided, myself, to call on him at once. I readied my bag, and the instruments of my profession, and rode to the meetinghouse, where I found the man at work on the edge of the churchyard.
His illness had worsened and he was plainly quite weak—too weak, I thought, to manage the ox and cart on his own, thereby explaining his prolonged absence. Nonetheless, he refused an examination. “It is not yet so bad as that,” said he, “nor is it physick I require.”
I did not understand his meaning, for the man’s illness was clearly of a deteriorative nature: His collar was soaked through with sweat, while his breast was flecked with bits of black spittle. Crabb shook his head. “You must not think me a fool, Doctor. I am unwell, aye, but such sickness as I may have lies not only here” (He pointed to his breast with his thumb) “but all round us. In the graveyard. In the earth itself.”
He coughed noisily into one cupped hand, then turned over the palm to shew me. There was spittle there, and blood, but also present in suspension were fine strands of a black material identical to those produced by my experiment.
Crabb smiled horribly, baring his teeth. “The rot is far-progressed,” said he. “The Mead girl’s stone is crumbling, shedding itself like the skin of a leper, while the Reverend Cooper’s grave is blackening more each day. To-morrow, ‘twill be naught but dust and ashes.”
“We must tell the Reverend Stone. Has he rendered his decision?”
“He has not. Nor will he welcome the interruption.”
“Perhaps not, but I see no other recourse.”
“Aye,” the Verger agreed. “I have kept the folk of the village away, but they shall learn of it in time—by the Sabbath morn, if not before. What then?”
He was right, of course; I could well imagine the ensuing panic, the fear that takes hold in small towns like Falmouth and soon breeds itself into hysteria, as in Salem Village or in the days of the last war. We needed to act, and quickly.
The door to the parsonage was opened by the Reverend Stone, who wore his customary robes and perfume. By the grimness of his bearing, ‘twas plain that he was ill-pleased by our presence there, while his features were pale and contorted as in pain.
He did not invite us inside, but heard us out from the doorway, careful to maintain a courteous manner throughout our relation, despite his clear displeasure. After we had finished, he remained silent for a long time before addressing us with a voice like spring’s last ice.
“Yesterday, you sought my counsel and today, you tell me what must be done? In all likelihood, this ‘rot’ you speak of is merely another natural phenomenon that Men of Science,” (and here, he looked directly at me) “for of all their claims to erudition, are helpless to explain. Under no circumstances will the Lord permit us delvings in this graveyard. I would implore you both, as your pastor and as shepherd to this community, to trouble yourselves no more. Good day.”
With that, he shut the door on us. The sound echoed from the hill with the finality of a musket’s shot. Crabb turned to look at me. His canines appeared startlingly white against the black depths of his throat and his breath, too, was foetid.
By instinct or intuition, I knew he would not live to see another Sabbath, but we were not, as yet, helpless to save him. What is more, I could not countenance his death, any more than I could allow for the final profanation of the Reverend Cooper, a man unblemished in all things, who had gone to his grave with humble dignity to await the Day of Resurrection.
The time was short. I detailed my plan to the Verger, who gave his assent, and arranged for me to meet him in the dark of the midnight. Then I mounted and returned home.
VIII
Four hours after twilight, I readied my saddlebags with spade and mattock, set a fresh candle within my lanthorn, and stole behind the house to the stable, where the horse stood sleeping. I woke him with a gentle pat and laid my saddlebags across him. Then I climbed into the saddle and nudged him to a walk.
Soon, we were outside the village and amidst the woods, where the trees were budding, though not yet in blossom. Black and cancerous, their branches rattled with the wind, bending themselves to the cries of the owls and the calls of wolves from the north, so that they formed a kind of music, an eerie cacophony that followed me from the village and trailed me like the moonlight to the base of Meetinghouse Hill.
Fifty paces from the parsonage, I dismounted and ascended the hill on foot, with the saddlebags over my arm. There were no lights visible inside, not even the faint glow of a fire, but I waited until summiting the drumlin before lighting my lanthorn.
Crabb lingered near the gate of the churchyard. He was attired in heavy furs and woollens, with cold sweat shining on his face. With both hands, he held an unlit torch, the end of which trembled visibly, though with fright or fever I could not tell.
We did not speak, nor had we need of it. Crabb ignited his torch and, lifting high the light, shuffled toward the northwest corner of the burying ground. He was unsteady on his feet, dangerously so, and I made certain to walk beside him, so that I might catch him if he fell.
As Crabb had indicated, a profound change had taken place in the days since my last visit to the graveyard. All of the stones in the northwest corner had succumbed to the rot, including that of the Mead girl’s mother. Around her marker lay strewn innumerable shards of slate, which had cracked and fallen away, leaving behind a stone-shaped duplicate composed of that queer material: dark and spongy, not unlike the inside of a bone.
I handed to Crabb the mattock and took the spade in hand. Together, we began our diggings, confining our efforts to the vicinity of the infant’s grave. We soon learned that what had formerly been her stone—and was now a monstrous outgrowth—reached all the way down to the small coffin. Indeed, upon closer inspection, this black column seemed to grow from the box itself, narrowing to a rough circle, no wider than a man’s closed fist, where it breached the lid.
“More light,” I urged Crabb, who leant forward to direct his torch’s glow into the grave itself. In that flickering illumination, I observed clearly that the black thing had, in fact, grown up from inside the coffin. In appearance, it resembled a kind of hideous, ropy cord that had been braided and twisted several times over. As I watched, it quivered faintly along its muscled length, pulsing rhythmically, as with the beating of a heart.
My stomach turned; the fever-stench was overwhelming.
With a prayer for courage, I raised the spade and brought its edge down hard upon the unnatural growth
. I directed the blow toward the narrowest point of the rope, only to find that its essential substance was as dense as granite: The spade cut no deeper than half-an-inch before being repulsed. I employed my bone-saw but to no better result, for the teeth, despite their sharpness, failed to find their grip. Crabb offered his assistance, but was likewise unable to sever the ropy fibers with the mattock. We had little choice, then, but to prise open the already-ruptured coffin, though we were both affrighted of what might lie within.
Crabb removed the nails with the blade of the mattock, but could not lift the lid on account of the obtruding growth. We dared not risk breaking open the box, as the resulting din would surely lead to our being discovered in our ghastly work, but I contrived a solution with the use of the bone-saw and successfully removed the bottom two-thirds of the lid, thus allowing us to shine a light inside.
After three years in the ground, the child’s flesh had been eaten away, leaving a rough jumble of bones and joints. I glimpsed her feet first of all, then discerned the shape of the ribs and pelvis. What I saw next chilled the very breath in my lungs.
The babe’s skull was shattered, burst open like a bird’s egg. The black growth sprouted up from the remnants of her jaw, eruptive, in the manner of a seed that has nourished itself on the earth before exploding into flower. Reeling, I staggered back and dropped to my knees, as in weary supplication to whatever dread power had loosed itself upon the village.
The child was dead these three years. Naught remained save bones; on what, then, had the black rot fed itself? I thought of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians: There is a natural body and there is a spiritual body. In the absence of the former, had this creature, whether of God or the Devil, found sustenance on the latter; and then, finding it to its taste, proceeded to feast?