The Duskshire Incident

  The Duskshire Incident

  Jason Spitz

  Self-Published by the Author

  December 14, 2017

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Page 3

  Chapter Two

  Page 33

  Chapter Three

  Page 47

  Chapter Four

  Page 57

  Chapter One

  Narrative from The Strangest Tales, Vol. 16

  Oct. 16, 18__

  Steven Hartford had just finished a long day of mixing tonics and elixirs in the back of his shop, and selling same in the front, in his small but well-to-do pharmacy in Duskshire. His eyes were tired and his spirit drained. He extinguished the last burning lamp and the room went dark, now lit only by the new gas streetlamps that shone through the window. The bell above the door rang for one last time that day as Hartford exited. Once the door was secure, he set off home.

  Hartford did well for himself: well enough to have a shop on the town square, and well enough to know that a warm fire, a hot meal, and a glass of brandy were waiting at home. This was one night when he was not reluctant or ashamed to bask in the knowledge that he had servants to pamper him after a long day.

  In the middle of the square there was a stone platform which once supported a statue, but was now a place for people sit and eat their lunches. Hartford had to circumvent it as he crossed the square to the middle-class section of town. He went along paying little mind to anything except his aching back, until he heard the sound of heavy footsteps. A woman constable was sprinting toward him, her heavy boots pounding the stones, helmet bobbing on her head, as she drew her club.

  Hartford took a couple steps back in shock as she charged at him from across the square, and as he did, a movement registered in his peripheral vision. He snapped his head to the stone platform and saw that, on it, there was a large, black creature. An impossibly large wolf, black as coal, with its fur bristled. In the instant that Hartford was paralyzed with shock, the beast bounded onto him slamming him to the ground. It bit into his arm and he screamed. His arm was then released and he became aware of a horrible thudding sound. He opened his eyes and saw above him the constable savagely clubbing the beast as though she’d gone mad.

  Once the thing was well and truly dead, she staggered backward. Police whistles sounded as the square filled with people who had come to investigate the screams; some wielding makeshift weapons including heavy skillets, umbrellas, and walking sticks. Hartford was carried to the hospital, and the constable threw back a shot of brandy. The rest of the town, coming out of their homes one after the other, gathered to marvel at the beast; its head bashed in and bleeding onto their quiet town square. It was surely a wolf, they all remarked, but of what breed and origin? From what distant corner of the world had it come?

  Letter from E. Bayberry to C. Smith

  Oct. 18, 18__

  Dear Carol,

  I have to impose on you and Jerry. Susan, the boys, and I are coming to stay. By the time you read this, we'll already be on the way. You know I'm not one to take advantage of my relatives, but I have no choice. My farm is in ruins, my crop is gone. I want to explain everything that happened so you'll know why we have to come.

  It started earlier this month. I saw the boys standing at the edge of our field looking at one of the pumpkins. Instead of being full and orange and almost ready to harvest like the others, it had rotted on the vine. One of the boys had tried to pick it up, and it had split. The innards had turned to a putrid liquid. The smell – well, I won't even describe it to you in case you're eating as you read this. We had to get well away from it before we uncovered our noses.

  I wasn't sure what to do. I'd never seen anything like it. I used a shovel to heave it into the woods. After inspecting the field, I noticed that there were several more pumpkins that had rotted in the same way: all still on the vine. Keep in mind that I thought all of them were days away from harvest.

  This went on for the next two weeks. One after the other I shoveled my produce into the woods. I brought in all of the neighboring farmers, only to find out they were having the same problems. We were all equally cluless as to the cause or solution to our problem. I even called in Dr. Fleetwood. He's not a farmer, but he's a man of science. He was no use. Finally, the mayor, Daniels, came.

  After looking over the pumkin patch, which by that point was mostly empty vines, he said, "Bad business."

  That's all he could do; was play with the button on his vest and say, "Bad business."

  "Old Finney is losing all his squash, you know. Bad business."

  He looked around us to make sure no one was watching. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.

  He whispered, "Here. From the Farmers' Emergency Fund."

  I've always prided myself on being someone who donated to, not took from, the Fund. But when he pressed the coins into my hand, I took them. I had to. Almost my entire crop was in a rotting pile in the woods. I thanked the Mayor and pocketed the coins. Just then, Susan called out and said dinner was ready.

  I was relieved for awhile, with the money in my pocket. Daniels stayed for dinner, and we got a good, hearty meal inside us. As we sat around the table having our coffee, there came a crowing from outside. We ignored at first: crows are very common here. Soon, though, they were making such a riot that we all stood and looked out the front window. The ground was black with crows. The entire fence around the pumpkin patch was covered in them.

  Then Riley said, "What's that dark spot?"

  We all went out on the porch for a better look. Part of the ground, in the middle of the patch, had turned almost black. As we watched, the blackness grew. It wasn't a shadow. It was the soil itself turning black, and the blackness kept growing.

  I told everyone to pack their things. Susan and the boys scrambled to get all of our belongings into the wagon, while the Mayor and I hitched up the mule. By the time we were pulling away, the dark spot was almost touching the wheels.

  The farm is gone. I'll never be able to reclaim it. The land is dead. I'll figure out a more permanent plan when we get there.

  Love,

  Emit

  Article from Northton News

  Oct. 21, 18__

  Food Prices to Rise after Low Harvest

  The blight that has swept farms in the vicinity of Duskshire has led to a record-breaking low harvest this season, with only approximately three quarters of the expected harvest having been reaped. A further ten tons of food was ordered destroyed by the county agricultural board after having been found to be below safety standards. Three farmers have been fined for trying to sell this below standard produce.

  The area south-east of the city was the most heavily effected, with fruit rotting on the vine and orchards losing entire trees to the blight. However, farms as far north as Muddy River have reported unexpectedly low crop yields this season.

  Consequently, food prices are expected to rise. For some products, an increase of as much as twenty percent is expected, and some products, including pumpkins and squash, might be impossible to buy in the Duskshire area at any price.

  As for the farmers, for whom lower yields mean lower income, the Duskshire mayor, Elijah Daniels, has stated that the city government will do what it can to see the town’s farming families through the winter, but that the Duskshire Farmers’ Emergency Fund will most likely be depleted by the end of the week.

  Letter from Dr. R. Fleetwood to Dr. J. Penn

  Oct. 20, 18__

  Dear James,

  I am settling well here in Duskshire, and doing a good trade, though I miss the cosmopolitan life of Northton. I’m a gentleman in a place wher
e there are few gentlemen. As much as I lamented the prices of Umber Square, I now find I lack a place to spend my earnings on the comforts I had in my bachelor’s flat. I know it is uncouth to complain about such things, especially now when the town is suffering from a bad harvest, but I must convey how I feel, and I think you will understand the wanting of a fine meal and palatable wine. You will, I hope, let me know if a position at Northton Hospital ever presents itself.

  Unfortunately, this is not a letter of pleasantry or ‘keeping in touch’. I have a bit of a medical curiosity that I cannot resolve. You’ll understand that it embarrasses me to ask my former professor for tutelage so long after being a student, but I could think of no one in the county who is so well practiced or knowledgeable in trauma.

  I have a patient in my infirmary who has suffered an animal bite to his arm. The beast, being quite larger than most, has laid its bite across the whole of his forearm and halfway up his upper arm. The trauma was extensive, but amputation is, fortunately, unnecessary. However, the wound has been very slow at closing. I’ve sutured even the smallest punctures, but still they are healing very slowly.

  I must admit I’m completely confounded. No chemicals have been applied to the wound, aside from my cleaning solution which I have used many times before, and I can see no factor that would contribute to a severe retardation of the healing process. I would very much appreciate any notes or advice on this situation. The patient is the only apothecary in town, and his apprentice, just come back from visiting his family in your neck of the woods, is a poor substitute for his master.

  Yours Truly,

  Richard

  P.S. If it helps, the animal was a very large wolf, black in color. The locals have been referring to it as a ‘Dire Wolf’, though I think this is something from a childrens' story.

  Report by Constable Luke Kerry

  Oct. 22, 18__

  My assignment is, as it has been for several years, to ride out to Baron’s Hollow in order to keep a nightly watch in the hamlet’s small square. I saddled a horse from the constabulary’s stable and rode out there without incident and without meeting anyone on the road. Though Baron’s Hollow is deep within the forest, it was unusual to see no one at all. However, because the orchards that are nestled into the woods have been overrun by blight, I saw nothing but dark windows and heard nothing but the wind and birds.

  As I rode into Baron’s Hollow, it had just gotten dark. I tied my horse in the stable and went to stand in the small square, which was my duty. There was one oil lamp that formed the centerpiece of the plaza, but it wasn’t lit as usual. In fact, nothing was lit. All the windows were dark and all the buildings silent. It was, of course, none of my business what people did with their lights, or if they were visiting relatives in some other city. I lit my own lantern and sat on a bench overlooking the square. I tried to settle into my nightly routine, which was mostly to sit in the dark occasionally patrolling among the handful of buildings, but there was such a peculiar feeling about the place that I couldn’t sit still. I asked myself: Was everyone in this hamlet away? Was no one cooking their dinner, or rustling around in their house?

  A quick walk around my patrol route did not satisfy my curiosity. Indeed, it only intensified, as it confirmed that every building was dark and quiet. I took the gravel road around the back of the Baron's Rest, the hamlet's pub and only business, to find that the back door was open. I stepped up on the threshold and poked my lantern in. Other than the fact that it was dark and empty when the pub should still have been open, it seemed normal. I stepped in. I moved quietly out of instinct and because the still, and somewhat unnerving, setting seemed to call for it. The stove was unlit. There was no movement of staff or guests.

  But someone had definitely been there that day. There were balls of dough on the counter, a bushel of green apples, one of which had several bites out of it, and a portion of meat that was sticking out of the top of a meat grinder having been partially ground as if someone had just given up the task half way through.

  I didn't have long to think on this, though, as just then a woman's scream came from outside. I rushed to the door and hopped down the stairs. In front of me, the gravel road curved and went off into the forest where Percy's Orchard was located. I stood and listened for a while, but heard nothing but the wind in the trees. I could only assume the scream came from some place down the road, so I set off. As the unease of the empty town settled over me, I began to walk faster and faster. The lantern was swinging so that it's beam of light bobbed wildly. I was almost on top of Mr. Oliver when I saw him lying face down in the road.

  I set my lantern on the ground next to him and rolled him over. He had several stab wounds to the chest. He was wearing his undershirt, which was stained with blood, his pants, and only socks with no shoes. I could only stare at the horrible scene. Though the blood was still wet, he was well and truly dead.

  Just then, I heard a shuffling on the road behind me. I grabbed my lantern and whipped it around. A middle-aged woman, someone I could not recognize, staggered into the middle of the road. She turned her head toward me with a mixture of fatigue and shock on her face. Then she fell. She, too, had sustained several stab wounds.

  There was nothing to be done. No sense in wandering into the woods. I went back to my horse and rode it to the point of exhaustion. Almost the entire constabulary rode out that night. It was dawn by the time we all got there. The town was empty. The bodies were gone.

  Memo: If we find the owner of the inn, we must reimburse him for taking it over and staying there during our investigation.

  The Diary of Inspector Reginald Penn

  Oct. 23, 18__

  With every man in the constabulary, and many from those of neighboring towns, at my disposal, and with half the day already gone, I am no closer to finding an answer for the sudden disappearance of the people here in Baron’s Hollow. I spent a good part of the morning walking around the village with Constable Kerry. He has been distant since he arrived panic stricken at the station this morning. After he had blurted out all he had to say, he became quiet and sullen. As we toured people's houses, all of which were unlocked, we found them exactly as he described the inn: as if the people there suddenly stopped what they were doing and walked out of their homes. There were burnt pots on stoves, laundry half-hung on the line, and shirts half-ironed. In one house, there were playing cards on a table where a foursome had been playing gin rummy. I put out the oil lamp that had been lighting their game and looked through the kitchen doorway into the living room. It was as empty as every room in town.

  A loud crash from behind me made me spin around. Kerry had a look of terror on his face, which quickly faded and was replaced with embarrassment. He stooped down and picked up the cat that had startled him. I took my hand from the handle of my revolver and breathed a sigh of relief. He had knocked the teapot into the sink, but no harm was done. As the tan cat purred, Kerry buried his face in its fur and breathed heavily as though he might burst into tears. I thought it would be best if he had a quiet moment to himself, which he'd not been able to do as we all had many questions for him throughout the morning. I told him to find that cat's food and make sure it had water and left him in the abandoned kitchen with his new companion.

  Every report I received was the same: all buildings empty, and not a person or body was found. What was I to think? What was I to say to the public; all those people who were back in Duskshire waiting for me to deliver answers to them? All I knew is that Kerry had witnessed two deaths, the bodies for which were never found and that an entire town-full of people had vanished.

  The Diary of Dr. J. Penn

  Oct. 26, 18__

  Northton

  It has been a long time since I’ve written in this diary. It’s been a long time since I’ve traveled, but it’s time to shake off the cobwebs. In my youth, I traveled to the darkest corners of the world. Duskshire is hardly a dark corner of the world, but it does get me beyond Umber Square
for the first time in at least a year. When you are too focused on your work and daily routine, a single neighborhood can seem like the entire world.

  The carriage is pulling out of the bounds of Northton as a write this. We are not going down the long, tiresome highway, though. Instead we will drive through Millstone and on toward the river where a steam-powered ship is waiting to take me up the Muddy.

  Hopefully, Richard won’t be too surprised by my visit, but this was just the excuse I needed for a short getaway. His medical mystery, the slowly healing patient, will probably have been resolved by the time I arrive. If not, I’ll get to work side-by-side with my old pupil again.

  Oct. 27, 18__

  Muddy River

  The exhilaration of flying through the water has enthralled me. I had heard of the power of these steamers, but to be on one is far more exciting. The engine chugs rhythmically as it pushes us upstream without effort…

  I’ve heard some of the men talking about Duskshire. It seems Richard hardly did their troubles justice: three farmers driven from their lands, a blight on the crops, wild beasts attacking the townspeople. It seems that this one patient he wrote me about is the least of his worries.

  Oct. 28, 18__

  Duskshire

  I am recovering from a dreadful day, but I must write about it for lack of a comforting friend. I arrived around noon at a dock north of Duskshire and hired a mule cart to bring me down to the city. After taking a room at the inn, I proceeded to the hospital. It was late in the day, but with the reports I had heard on the steamer having been confirmed at the inn, I was sure Richard would be working late.