The Cabinet of Dr Blessing (The Dr Blessing Collection Parts 1-3): A Gothic Victorian Horror Tale

by Rollins, Jack

  This daily imagining never failed to dissolve some of my newfound strength, never failed to resurrect the sentimentality, the regrets, of Doctor George Blessing.

  Once more, as was my ritual every time I felt the intense sadness at the death of my old world, I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and raised the revolver to my temple. Was this the only way to shatter the destiny thrust upon me by the creature in the glass?

  I heard her scream for me to stop. Screaming at that part of my being that calls itself father. “Niamh?” I cried.

  No. It is not Niamh, it is her.

  “Blessing!”

  “No!” a man’s voice.

  My strength, the strength Panacea lent me, returned.

  I opened my eyes. The brute was there, holding open the entrance to my tent. He was different somehow. His bulk had increased, and he wore the same suit, ragged and filthy, from months ago in Richmond. His eyes were ringed in black, his teeth were jagged and uncared for.

  How had he managed to find me? The sideshow had moved by night every night for months! Every day we were in a different town, or attached to a different carnival, show or fair.

  She told me what to do in an instant. The revolver in my hand turned and barked at Charles. His left knee exploded and he fell, quivering, grasping at his shattered leg.

  I rose to my feet, and gathered my fur cloak about me against the chill of the autumn night.

  Raising the lamp I drew the sheets from the looming objects behind me, one by one.

  Charles gasped at the horrors he witnessed. There, the remains of a dog, frozen in time and preserved with its seeking eyes and distorted mouth craving blood, or appearing to, even months after death.

  Here a glass case teeming with slavering, clawing hairless, eyeless white rats, rolling over each other like waves.

  There a cat, hairless, eyeless, feeding on an uninfected kitten.

  Screaming in another tank, dozens of vampiric mice, the mutated progeny of a male mouse infected with the secretion of my daughter.

  All of them baying, ready to feast.

  Finally, I exposed the central tank, ten-feet tall, reaching the very top of my tent. And there, in the lamp light, amber in her murky fluids, was the mother of them all, her palms pressed against the glass, row upon row of teeth scratching and chattering silently in the gloom. An eight foot tall machine of blood-drinking vengeance.

  “We have been waiting, Charles,” I growled, reaching for the wheel with which to release the pressurised lid, keeping her secure in her home. “We thought you could never find us. But we are so glad you did.”

  “Blessing! Don’t do it!” Charles begged.

  “Oh, but she is hungry,” I said, chest heaving with satisfaction at this happy turn of events. “And she so enjoyed the taste of you. How could I deny her?”

  Charles squirmed, trying to claw his way from my tent. His increased muscle mass had failed him, overcome as he was by terror.

  I knew the nature of what Charles had become. I knew the gifts he had inherited. I knew that his knee was repairing itself even then.

  Others gathered, alarmed by the report of the revolver, Smokey himself among them, accompanied by the French girls born joined at the head, only three eyes between them.

  A dwarf played an accordion, wheezing out a cheerful little ditty to suit the occasion.

  Charles looked about the freaks and horrors.

  The wolf-man, all covered in hair, with his teeth filed down to points.

  The tree-boy, his skin so encrusted with scabs and seborrhoeic warts so as to give his flesh the appearance of tree bark.

  “My God, Blessing! What pack of demons is this, that you have summoned to carry me into Hell?”

  I levelled the revolver at Charles and smiled, ready to prepare a meal for her, the main attraction, the star of our sideshow.

  I mounted the steps at the side of her tank and reached up with my free hand. Turning the brass wheel, the vacuum was released and the rubber seals sighed as they peeled apart.

  Her hands grasped the open top of her glass tank and she hauled herself aloft, this movement no effort to her. Controlled, she doubled over the lip and scaled down the outside of the tank and padded to my side, pressing herself against my legs as I descended the steps.

  I ran my fingers down her white head and caressed her slick back.

  Charles screamed and howled, surrounded by our new family, unable to escape.

  She tilted her head towards me, showing me her gratitude as I had shown her my loyalty and my love. She stalked across the ground to the entrance of the tent, to where Charles lay, where he clawed at the ground, clawed at his own face, trying to tear his eyes out, desperate to extricate himself from this beautiful inevitability.

  I looked forward to the dissection I would perform later; keen to learn what changes had occurred in Charles. I expected perhaps a swelling of the parietal lobe and sensory cortex, resulting in enhanced perception and greater sensory awareness. Had he been able to form an extra-sensory link with the child that enabled him to track us?

  Setting aside my plans for the evening, I watched her feast, brimming with pride, for she is my greatest discovery, she is my daughter, she is my master…

  And I am her doctor.

  End of Part 2.

  Part 3:

  A Christmas Blessing

  In which, five months after the events of Dr Blessing’s Rapture, we find London in a terrible state, and horrific events about to befall several persons of interest.

  Niamh.

  “Why not let the child away from her books, Nanny?” Giles Burton asked as he entered the parlour.

  Niamh looked up from her studies and smiled at the man she had learned to call Grandpa. His generous smile beamed across the room and he added, “We have many preparations to make before Old Christmas arrives.”

  Since becoming a resident of the Burton household, Niamh had enjoyed, or as she saw it, endured lessons from her new governess Miss Pinchstaff.

  The widow Burton, Charlotte, had invited Giles to spend the Christmas season at the Burton household and hoped that he would decide to stay. Her late husband, Henry, had left her with a fortune and a thriving shipping business, as well as an unborn child due any day. Giles Burton, Henry’s aged uncle, was the last remaining Burton relative that the baby would have; Henry had been very fond of the man and it seemed only natural that the surviving members of the Burton name should unite, even if only for Christmas.

  Giles was a round man with a mischievous look in his eyes, with red cheeks and grey sideburns. Despite his large frame, he was more than capable of keeping up with Niamh at play, and it seemed that being in close proximity to someone so young gave him a new vitality.

  “Please, Miss Pinchstaff,” Niamh pleaded, widening her eyes, not quite daring to close her book until permitted by her governess to do so.

  Miss Pinchstaff suppressed her amusement at the old man and his mischievous ways. A thirty-year old spinster, Miss Pinchstaff had learned her life lessons among other families, and knew that Giles enjoyed playful distraction as much as any child she had taught in the six years she had spent in her chosen field. “Well, Mr Burton, you certainly make a compelling case,” Miss Pinchstaff said, only just managing to keep a look of stern detachment on her face. “And Old Christmas is coming soon, as you say. There are so many preparations to be made…”

  “So many,” Giles added.

  “So, so many,” Niamh added, her eyes darting from Grandpa to governess, to Grandpa and back to governess.

  “Well then, young Niamh. It seems that we could leave our studies there. But the day after Christmas, you must promise to study twice as hard.”

  “I promise, Miss Pinchstaff, I promise!” Niamh exclaimed, leaping to her feet. She flung her arms around her tutor and thanked her profusely before running to Giles’ side.

  As Giles and Niamh left the parlour and stepped into the domed reception, they became aware of another person at the
top of the stairs to their right.

  “Mrs Burton!” Niamh called, cheerily. “Miss Pinchstaff has let me go with Grandpa to prepare for Old Christmas!”

  Charlotte, still dressed in the black of mourning, was leaning against the banister as though she had not the energy to keep herself entirely upright. “That’s nice, dear. Wrap up warm. Wrap up for the cold outside.”

  Charlotte descended the stairs as Niamh busied herself. She had been thrust into motherhood early when, in July, Dr George Blessing, Niamh’s unofficial guardian, had fled London. Blessing had made arrangements for the child – he was recorded as a legal guardian on paper, but custody of Niamh had been signed over to her.

  Both her feelings on the responsibility, and the circumstances in which she had taken it on, had been complicated. She had met Niamh the same night as did Dr Blessing. They had met the girl when she was eight, three years earlier. She had summoned Charlotte and the doctor to a doss where a prostitute was struggling in childbirth. That night had changed everything.

  What Charlotte had not known at the time was that the child born that night was not human, and among its mysterious ways, the creature drank blood and could control minds. For three years Dr Blessing had hidden the creature, sharing the secret only with her husband, Henry.

  The subject had been the ruin of Henry’s close friendship with Blessing – they had grown ever more distant. Then one night, Henry disappeared. He was fished out of the Thames, drained of blood.

  At Henry’s funeral, she was approached by a man who introduced himself as Charles. He had been a police constable, who had become a private investigator. He had claimed to have information on Henry’s death and Charlotte had believed him.

  Charles had suspected Dr Blessing. Charles said that Henry and the doctor had removed something from the prostitute’s body that fateful night. Charles revealed he had been one of the constables at the scene and that he had witnessed them stealing something away.

  Charlotte had had her doubts about Charles, but time proved that he was right. Unfortunately, Charles had been a brutal, violent man, who had lost control before he was able to conclude his investigation. Dr Blessing had left London in July, and Charles disappeared in his wake.

  Another tragedy had struck at that time. Mrs Margaret Blessing had been found drained of blood, like Henry. Charlotte had not seen the body, but she was told that Margaret had been found in her marital bed.

  Charlotte had been approached by a remarkable woman named Mary Brigham, who helped to make arrangements for Margaret, and the whole matter of the poor woman’s death was put to rest quietly, almost secretly. It was Mary who had helped Charlotte to make sense of the doctor’s murderous insanity, and the power of the creature that had enslaved him.

  And as terrible a tale as that had all been, worse than the death of Henry, worse than the death of Margaret, London had suffered terribly since Dr Blessing left the city. Not only had he harboured the creature, but he had been experimenting with it. The cost of his secrecy and his curiosity had been immeasurable.

  As it was, taking Niamh in had been no trouble at all, but the child’s grief at the loss of her second makeshift family had been turbulent. That was where Miss Pinchstaff had come in handy and, unexpectedly, Giles had become indispensible.

  Charlotte’s mind returned from her review of the past, to note that Niamh was dressed in her favourite coat and scarf and waiting at the door, with Giles hot on her heels.

  Charlotte reached the bottom of the stairs and was struck suddenly with a great swell of sadness that Henry was not there with her to enjoy the scene. The tears came and she tried to conceal them. Niamh turned to face her, beaming. She saw the tears; her smile faded. Charlotte did her best to smile and wave her on. “Go ahead, child! Have your fun! Have some for me!”

  Niamh hated to see Mrs Burton like this. “Grandpa,” she said, as Giles stepped out of the front door.

  “Yes, my flower.”

  “Grandpa, do people only cry when they are terribly sad?”

  “Not always, my flower. People can cry when they are happy, I suppose. Some people cry when they are feeling poorly.” Giles closed the door and locked it, then turned to look out past the gates of the mansion. Two men bowed their heads slightly and touched the peaks of their caps in greeting. Giles gave a short wave and the two men returned their attention to the world beyond the gates, small puffs of steam rising from their mouths in the chilly air. Giles knew the men to be armed, and knew that more men were stationed around the mansion and worked shifts to secure the property all day and all night.

  Giles pulled a brown bottle from inside his coat, popped off the stopper and took a quick sip of the golden, syrupy liquid within.

  “Grandpa, what is that you are drinking? It is like wine?”

  “This is no wine, my dear, it is… my medicine!”

  “I tasted wine once, and it was awful, it made me want to be sick.”

  Giles laughed at the bitter face Niamh pulled at the recollection of the taste. “Wine is an acquired taste, my dear.”

  “What does that mean, Grandpa?”

  Giles thought of a simple explanation and offered, “It means that when you are older, you will learn to like the taste.”

  “Grandpa?”

  “Yes, my flower?”

  “I thought only sick people had to take medicine. That is what Father used to say. And he is a doctor.”

  “Well yes, I suppose that he is right. He is after all, a doctor.”

  “Well then Grandpa, if only sick people have to take medicine, how do you take medicine?”

  “Why do I take medicine?” Giles corrected her.

  “Why do you take medicine?” Niamh asked. “You do not look sick.”

  “I am well because of my medicine, my child. I am an old man and my medicine staves off my aches and pains; it keeps me young.”

  “Then how does Mrs Burton not take medicine?” Niamh asked.

  “Why does Mrs Burton not take medicine,” Giles corrected her.

  “Why does Mrs Burton not take medicine?” Niamh asked. “I think she might be poorly. I see her crying sometimes.”

  The pair walked the pavement across the front of the house, making a leisurely pace. Giles made long-reaching stabs at the path with his cane, letting it clack loudly as he went. “There are lots of ways in which a person can be poorly, my flower petal. Sometimes it can last a moment and then go. And we must remember that Mrs Burton is with child.”

  “If Father was here, he would fix her,” Niamh said slipping an arm around Giles’.

  “Yes, child. Perhaps he would,” Giles agreed.

  “He would know what to do. I think that Mrs Burton is very sad because she misses Mr Burton… perhaps she needs a special medicine that nobody knows about.”

  “You are very wise, little one. This is a time of year for family to be together.”

  “We are family now,” Niamh said, squeezing up close to Giles.

  “We are, my darling.”

  “I should very much like Father to be here. But since he can not be here, I am glad that we are all here. Perhaps if I could get Mrs Burton a gift, the likes of which only a daughter would get for her Mama, she would forget about Mr Burton for a while and feel better.”

  “Now listen to me, little flower,” Giles said, his tone deepening to one of caution. He knew that Niamh had been raised on the streets of London at night and that there was a fearless streak in her. “There are bad goings-on out there in London these days.”

  “You mean the monsters. Miss Pinchstaff said that it was all nonsense.”

  Giles cleared his throat.

  Niamh tugged at Giles’ sleeve. “It is not, is it? The monsters are real. I always knew it.”

  Giles nodded his head. “Well, perhaps your Miss Pinchstaff did not want to frighten you.”

  “I am not afraid, anyway. I saw horrible things when I was just little.”

  Giles smiled at his young companion and said, “I know,
flower. You are a very worldly little thing. But you must stay here at the mansion where it is nice and safe.”

  They rounded the corner of the house and continued down the path, which began to slope slightly. The side of the garden was cold in the long shadows of the afternoon, as the hollow sun stole away.

  “Grandpa, if the monsters are real, then there is something else that is real.”

  “What would that be, child?”

  “I heard people, when they said there were monsters… they said my Father made the monsters.”

  Giles stopped in his tracks and peered down at the child. His normally jovial face strained, contorted into a look of concern. “Oh, you poor thing. What a terrible thing it is to be a child. Let people talk, little Niamh. Let them say their spiteful things. And let me ask you this, if your Father did make the monsters, would he have made arrangements for you to live in this wonderful house?”

  Niamh considered this for a moment. It made sense. Father loves me because he is a good man. “I knew they were lying!”

  “Now then!” Giles struck up into his good cheer once more. “Back to the task at hand! We must search the grounds! First, a good, stout yuletide log!”

  Niamh ran ahead, shrouded in the shadow of the day’s decline, running for the light of the terraced gardens to the rear of the property. Giles watched her, picking up his pace so that he could mind the girl on the terraces. The joy of a child such as Niamh was her enquiring mind. He suspected that same enquiring mind would bring her much pain when one day she learned the truth.

  In the evening, Niamh was sat in the parlour, inspecting the flowers she had collected, positioning them one by one around the Yule log she had selected from the grounds.