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

by Rollins, Jack

  “Superstition? You house a vampire in our tent.”

  “And furthermore,” I continued, barely noticing that he had spoken at all, “as you insist on presenting your flanks to each barrage, Panacea will leave you, quite soon, I fear, a gibbering husk on the ground of our domicile. Or worse, leave you stone dead. And when that day arrives, I will, for the betterment of mankind, remove your destroyed brain and study it.”

  Hong sighed. “I have no idea how I have managed to work with you for all of this time.”

  “Anyway. Do take good care, Hong. I shall be with you once more before very long at all. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. I bid you a merry old Christmas,” I announced, before chuckling to myself. “Christmas. Haha! What would the yellow man know of Christ?”

  “You realise that I can hear you talking about me this way?” Hong asked.

  I shuddered and focussed on his face, realising that my gaze had drifted off at some point. I cleared my throat, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “I thank you, Hong. Take care, my good friend. I shall see you soon.”

  “When you do, we shall talk again about this pipe.”

  “Nonsense!” I declared and moved off between the tents, out onto the road to rejoin my fellow Londoners, quite disguised by my beard and heavy fur coat.

  The streets were clogged with carriages and wagons, with men offering to lead the horses through the throng for a shilling or two – and drivers willing to pay! – so that the travellers could get to their destinations a little earlier. I knew that I was as well to continue on foot rather than pay inflated fares for a journey that would take more time.

  All the same, it took only a short while of my walking along the familiar streets, amid the hustle and bustle of a capital preparing for Christmas, for memories to strike up and play out before my eyes.

  I could see Christmas morning with Margaret, and our exchange of gifts and kisses, the recollection fond, but tainted by other images – a gift of poison, of laudanum used to keep her docile after the goose was eaten, so that she spent the rest of Christmas alone while I busied myself in the study, hunched over books and journals with my sleeves rolled up. The first year, the work in the study was professional curiosity, an attempt to understand the creature more. Then I saw the second Christmas, and the third, where my time spent with the creature was obsession and in favour of spending time with my wife. Even my visits with Niamh were crammed into the mornings so that I could get back to the study, leaving Niamh alone for the rest of the day. Leaving everyone alone except her.

  By utilising opium to mute the creature’s hold over me, and by achieving some physical distance between it or she and myself, I was able to analyse my past behaviour as I walked to my former home. I could see that when I was physically close to the creature, I was compelled to protect her, to obey her at the cost of all else. The very fact that I was beginning to slip back into thoughts of Panacea as an it and a creature, was testament to the change.

  I wondered at the fits Margaret used to suffer and pondered; had I used a greater strength tincture of opium, I might have prevented Panacea from inflicting those attacks on her. I had caused my wife to become so sedated that she had been trapped in the vortex with me, her only release her untimely, horrific death. The paradox of this - the idea that I had poisoned my wife too much and at the same time not enough - was crushing.

  A trio of carol singers beckoned me to join them. I declined and moved on as they struck up another verse of ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’. A child ran before them as they moved on down the street in good voice, the child selling sheets of verse for a penny a time.

  Tendrils of fog crept through the streets, from the river, mingling with the tiny crystals of snow that swirled in the air around me. For a moment, I was transported back to the destruction of the hospital, when the currents of heat sent burning paper and ash swirling around me. I thought of Mary – that lovely, mysterious creature. She had sparked a lust in me I had thought dead – a lust that Margaret, ravaged in her addiction, had been unable to provoke in years.

  Once again, the weight of guilt pressed down on me. Panacea may have stopped Margaret’s heart from beating, but it was I who had killed her, three years earlier, by sedating her to a point that I drowned everything in her I loved and found desirable. I had damned her to a half-life, and then judged her as though I was not single-handedly responsible for her ruin.

  Before long, I had reached my destination, the grey, terraced house. Home. But it was not my home. It was not anybody’s home, it appeared. There was not a window intact on the façade. The battered front door was marked here and there with the holes of nails, where the house had spent some time boarded up. Perhaps it had been boarded up by the police. Paranoia crept over me in a flash as my palm pressed against the door.

  Was it a trap? Would the police be waiting for me inside?

  The door offered no resistance. I entered my former abode.

  No description I give can conjure for you the smell, as it was the smell that hit me first. Strong, stale urine and evidence of faeces smeared there on the floor, here on the wall. Such a terrible sight it was, to see one’s former happy home so defiled.

  I recalled warm red and green Christmases in the parlour, but the memory flickered into view only for a moment, as the present state of the room, as I saw it, extinguished the vision. The furniture was long gone. No pictures, no rugs, no gas fittings remained, only filth and decay.

  On the chimney breast was written in blood: MONSTER.

  I walked onward, upward, heading for the study. The room in which I had whiled away so many hours. The room in which I had caused the death of two of my friends.

  The house seemed to me to be colder than the city outside. All of the windows had been shattered and boarded over, but the boards had been broken, partially pried away, or removed completely.

  I turned from the study, looking up the stairs towards the bedrooms. I could see my old bedroom door, smashed apart, only fragments of wood clinging to the hinges. Nausea pumped my stomach, and I managed, but only just, to hold down the beef broth I had consumed in my tent.

  I saw Margaret’s cold body in the bed, drained of all life…

  “You are returned, old friend,” Edward called from the reception.

  “Edward! Edward!” I cried. “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Edward! This house… Why did you summon me here?”

  Edward was already striding up the stairs towards me. He could see my panic. Perhaps he knew what I felt – creeping fuzz, a moss, colonising my brain, turning my limbs to jelly. His arms wrapped around me, but he was urging me to find my feet.

  “I can not hold you, George! I can not hold you up!” he cried.

  “It is all right, Edward! I will be all right.”

  I lowered my body and crouched, steadying myself on the floorboards with only my fingertips. “Niamh. Tell me of Niamh. Please, tell me it was a ruse to bring me out of my stupor. Tell me she is safe and well!”

  Edward cleared his throat. “She is safe. That is all I can say.”

  I had to admit, Edward was nothing if not honest with me. He would not dress truth in a lie to spare my feelings.

  “She lies in the sickroom at the Burton house, and Charlotte and her household attend her well,” Edward said, raising both of his gloved hands in a gesture of reassurance.

  “Thank God!” I exclaimed.

  “As per the instructions you left with Charlotte and Francis, arrangements have been made for Niamh and your money has been used well. But things have… well… things have changed here in London, George. It is better that you see for yourself. But the real concern is Niamh, of course. She left the house the other night, for God only knows what purpose. She was attacked and lies in a state that I can only describe as… well, I am sorry to say it, but she would appear very close to death. You are asked to come to her, to heal her, or to say goodbye.”

  The words stung me, burned in me. I could not decide whether I was happy to ha
ve returned or not. It is strange, is it not, that my first instinct was not that I would without doubt make the child well again? I feared that by returning to her, I would only cause further harm and had I not returned, I would have been unaware and she may not have been safe entirely, but safe from me and the chaos I bring.

  Even to this day, the fact that my feelings varied so, that I did not recognise a chance for redemption, is a mark of shame on my conscience, rivalling any other of my many shames acquired before or since.

  I noticed something in Edward’s gloves then. Four fingers on each hand seemed not to move. I asked Edward about it. It was then that he removed the gloves and I saw the work of that brute Charles.

  “He tortured me, George. I stayed my tongue for as long as I could, but he made me talk eventually. That bastard, George, he kept licking my blood, sucking it from my fingers.”

  I pressed my hands into my eyes and wept a few hot tears. “Edward! Edward I am sorry! My friendship has brought you ruin!”

  Edward quickly replaced his gloves, conscious as he was of the horrific scars and disfigurement of his hands. He smiled a sad smile and said, “My hands certainly have more character than they did before. Besides, you did not do this to me. He did. And your letters said that you saw him, and you are still alive, from which I may deduce that you, by default, avenged me. Am I correct?”

  I nodded and rose to my feet once more.

  Edward wrapped an arm around me. “Come! I have much to show you. It is not safe for you here, anyway. I feel sure that someone must enquire with the neighbours to see if you return.”

  The next thing I knew I was bundled into a coach bearing the Burton Company seal and we were off. The driver was expert, aggressive and a man who took advantage of every inch afforded on the dirty streets. I heard him yell and roar at other drivers nearby.

  Edward pointed out the huddled militia men, standing over their fires in the midst of makeshift fortifications. Whatever horror had struck the city, it seemed Kensington was prepared, but I could see from the fearful faces and the sheer number of weapons on display, that they had not been spared tragedy altogether, despite those preparations.

  “What the hell has happened here, Edward?”

  “London may still be standing, George, in that bricks and timber still cling together, but let me assure you, old friend: this city has been destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? What on earth do you mean?”

  “The London you left is gone forever. The people scurry around like terrified cattle. The Queen resides in Scotland - they say she may never return.”

  I told Edward, “When we were in the North, on the East coast, I heard rumours of Catholic riots in Edinburgh.”

  “Indeed. They are more than rumour. Apparently there were plans to declare Edinburgh the new capital city of the Empire.”

  I frowned in disbelief and gasped, “Surely not.”

  “I swear to it. What with the new Parliament building set back due to nightly riots here in London, the government and Her Majesty have all but abandoned us.”

  “The Queen would never… I do not dare to believe it!”

  “Believe it! The city is plagued each night by creatures not dissimilar to your discovery, George! Blood-drinking animals carry Londoners off to nests in the rookeries and parks all across the city. The East End is at war. They say there are even vigilante squads outside London policing the roads, summarily executing any person whom they suspect to be carrying this vampire plague. I am surprised that Smokey and the sideshow managed to enter the city at all.”

  The driver slowed at some sort of makeshift checkpoint and we were allowed to pass. I could see some sort of celebration in Hyde Park and men were firing rifles into the air. “What is that all about, Edward?”

  “They must have reclaimed the park.”

  “Reclaimed it. Jesus, Edward. Are you aware that what you are saying is quite insane?”

  “I am aware of how it must sound to you. But I can not for a moment imagine that when you ended that monster Charles, that you did not… inspect him.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “I suspected as much. And your discoveries?”

  “Some transformation had occurred.”

  “I had no way of knowing where you would go with Smokey, did I? I only knew where you would meet him.”

  “Yet still he tracked me. It took him three months, but I suspect he would only have been able to move by night. The transformation I noted in him corresponded to my previous findings… it would appear that Charles had become almost entirely vampire.”

  “Almost?”

  “From what I understand, Edward, these things like to nest together, at least in the early stages of transformation. Normally an experienced vampire will lead his converts until they have grown in strength and confidence. Without that guiding hand, perhaps he was unable to hunt effectively and to a sufficient level to make the final leap into the animal kingdom.”

  “Animals?”

  “Yes, animals, what of it?”

  “The way you held that mysterious creature of yours, George… she was no animal to you. She was your child.”

  “Is my child,” I corrected. It seemed my connection was not quite entirely severed by my safeguards.

  Edward nodded and stared at the floor of the coach, which slowed as we approached the gates of the Burton house. The nausea returned. I squeezed the handle of my bag until my fingers felt as though they would burst.

  I shifted in my seat. The temptation to leap from the coach was almost overwhelming. “They destroyed my house, Edward. If the people of London blame me for all of this, then they shall surely tear me apart.”

  “They will never find out that you are here, George.”

  “Why did you take me there? Why lure me there, eh?”

  “Calm, George. Please. I had to show you your house, or else you might not have come to help.”

  “I would always have helped that girl! I love her as though she was my own child!”

  “That is not what I meant.”

  I felt my face burning as the coach rolled through the gates. “Then what do you mean, Edward?”

  I saw armed guards. A trap!

  “I mean, George… if you could help Niamh… or even, God forbid, if it is too late for Niamh… then perhaps it is not too late for you to help this city.”

  “Impossible!” I wiped beads of sweat across my forehead and clawed at my beard. “Impossible. How can I help a whole city? The city, by your own admission, was destroyed over the course of months! If even the Queen and government are powerless, then what more could I do?”

  Edward pressed the side of one of his hands down on my knee and whispered into my ear, “You had the power to destroy the city! Now save it!”

  I said nothing more. I kept my thoughts to myself: that Edward was beyond insane; that London was dead; that Niamh would be my sole mission and in the morning, I would be gone.

  To stay in the house of Charlotte Burton was suicide – she knew perfectly well that her husband’s death was my fault. She would allow me to tend to Niamh, or commend her spirit to God if that was to be the case, but she would not hesitate for one moment, once Niamh’s condition found a resolution, to plant the kiss on my cheek and mark me out to the mob.

  I would never even make it to the gallows, never! They would behead me in this very courtyard, I knew it, and Edward had to know it too!

  But despite my fear, my apprehension, my sense of self-preservation, the armed guards I had noticed at the gates were soon at the side of the coach and they were smiling, wishing me well. They opened the coach door for me and assisted me with my bag.

  “We hope you can help her, Doctor. She is a lovely child,” one of them offered.

  A barrel of a man, who introduced himself as Giles Burton, Henry’s uncle, raced from the door, embraced me and ushered me toward the house.

  I looked over my shoulder and Edward raised his eyebrows, I imagined in hope. And the fact tha
t he remained my friend, even with his hands so mangled as a result of our friendship, gave me hope. And what transpired in that house transformed my life, and may have changed the fate of London.

  The late afternoon’s wintry light cast a stark white glow over everything it fell upon; the clean linen tucked in neatly around Niamh’s little frame took on an otherworldly aspect.

  To complete the whiteness of the scene, Niamh’s face was as marble – she was like a Greek statue in Athens. I challenge any man alive to keep a dry eye at seeing his child in such a state.

  And if that vision had pulled my heart apart, leaving only a thread to bind the two pieces together, then surely the sight of the governess, introduced to me as Miss Pinchstaff, at the bedside was enough to sever the connection and shatter both parts of my heart into fragments. Miss Pinchstaff’s fingers were wrapped around Niamh’s right hand.

  My shoulders juddered, wracked as I was, with sobs. I moved to a spot just behind the governess with such a slow and deliberate movement, it was as if I was afraid to wake Niamh from some long-needed slumber.

  I had no idea how to assist, or where I would work, it being better to work away from the afflicted person’s bedside.

  I turned to leave the sickroom, and found at the door, Charlotte Burton, her midriff swollen in pregnancy. Her cheeks seemed to radiate warmth and life, but her eyes observed me with icy suspicion.

  “Charlotte. My dear Charlotte, you are the very cure for sore eyes,” I exclaimed, suppressing my apprehension.

  She smiled faintly, with a blend of fear, distrust, and relief that I had arrived. “It is good that you are here, George,” she said at last.

  “I must look to Niamh and commence my work. We shall talk, but later, yes?”

  “That would be… satisfactory.”

  I nodded in agreement and stepped aside as Charlotte and Miss Pinchstaff took up positions beside Niamh’s bed. They stroked her hands, her cheeks, her forehead and spoke in soft, soothing tones. I could hear my own thoughts, “Women! It was remarkable to think that despite my involvement in some matters of a dark nature… that Charlotte had kindness enough in her to grant sanctuary to my child, that she and the governess and Henry’s uncle had formed a family of their own in this mansion, with a fatherless child on the way to complete the picture of bizarre domestic arrangements.” I then turned and cast my eyes on Giles, who stood overlooking the ladies, a concerned patriarch. A guardian. A stronger man than I.