In a Time of Smallpox Death Arrives: A Paranormal Thriller, #1

By Joyce Freese

Dark forces lure Victoria, an ordinary woman, back in time where she is no longer herself, but Mistress Dorian, a member of upper class Victorian society defined by her famed beauty.

Feeling like I was losing my mind, I touched my face, and from what I remembered, it was quite the opposite of the one staring back at me in the mirror. All that I heard and screamed repeatedly in my head were the words, My wife, Dorian. How could I be someone's wife when last I  remembered I was single? This would be interesting.

Struggling to find her way home, Victoria assumes the identity of Mistress Dorian, the token beautiful wife of a well-known doctor, who is bored and restless with rigid aristocratic life. Craving adventures at any cost, Dorian rebels.

What Dorian doesn't count on is betrayal or the deadly ravages of the Smallpox epidemic. Death arrives. Unprepared for what fate has planned for her, she must discover her inner strength or lose all that she holds dear. If not, Death wins, and Victoria may never go home.

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Callie Shay Publishing
• Release date: Oct 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386237815

Joyce Freese

I have always been a writer. At first, it was with an old-fashioned typewriter. Then, the Internet answered my dreams with Microsoft Word. I could now write faster and with convenience, all with spell check, a blessing for one who can't spell. Through writing, be it fiction or non-fiction, I found my voice and myself. I do not have enough lifetimes to write all the books I imagine. My Paranormal Thriller Series began when I sold a home that previously had been a funeral home. Upon crossing the threshold of any home, I feel an energy surge of those who have occupied the home, past and present. This quick surge of energy leaves its mark on me. I always thought that every Realtor felt this same electrical jolt. However, when I took a quick survey of all my Realtor friends, they looked at me like I was crazy. It  never happened to them, yet, it happens to me every time. Perhaps that is why I believe that Every Home has Its Own Secrets. Have you ever walked into a home and felt a sudden cold chill as if someone unseen breathed on the back of your neck? Or perhaps felt the silence that echoed a stillness known only to death? I have. All homes store their own private memories. Sometimes loving comfort or depressed sadness lingers. Other times, a collective numbness or lethargy exists. Occasionally, red hot anger can take your breath away. Even as its inhabitants change or depart, their experiences remain. Each person and event leaves an individual mark. This energy remains within its walls. Nothing is ever forgotten. Both In a Time of Smallpox Death Arrives and Unnoticed capture the energy of its occupants within its walls.

Book preview

Prologue

It looked like the middle of the night, yet it was only mid-morning. Spongy grey filled fog slowly crept along the pavement as waves of wispy white tendrils erupted randomly into the atmosphere, tethered to the ghostly air. Heavy mist shrouded the street as buildings, people, and cars slowly became invisible. Sluggish gloom stealthily slithered like an alley cat into dark corners, soon to be covered with its murky presence. Blasts from cars and street conversations from ordinary people going about their business all ebbed into muted silence as the fog engulfed them and muffled all noise. Encased by the vapors, even the streetlamps emitted little light.

At the end of the street, the fog slightly shifted and lightened. Pushing through the thick grey mass, a long black car advanced towards them. Moving slowly as if time were of no concern, the hearse pulled in front of the church. Each of the six pallbearers remained stone silent as the double back doors of the hearse gradually opened.

AS IF WELL-REHEARSED, three hands on each side of the coffin grabbed the rails. Slowly advancing up the stairs to the church, they paused at the dark wide wooden doors, towering at least twelve feet above them. Briefly, the sun burst through the clouds, making them transparent behind the foggy veil as the doors to the church gradually opened.

Bright light blasted the interior as each mourner slowly turned around in their pew to face the back of the church. Some shielded their eyes from the intense light, soon to dissipate as the doors closed. The ancient smell of incense filtered throughout the church as the priest blessed the body with holy water and swung the smoky vial over the coffin. Somber organ music gently played as the coffin inched down the aisle.

All eyes were lowered out of respect for the dead. Soft whimpers, loud cries, and occasional wails resounded throughout the church. Red candles burned near the altar, paying tribute to the deceased.

The ritual began with the muffled intonations of the priest. Most knew the structure of the rite. Many found solace in reacting robotically to each incantation, each jingle of the bell, each point on the rosary. They didn’t have to think. They just absorbed the peacefulness of the church, feeling secure in knowing that some things never change. There were no surprises here. The death ritual was always the same, repeated over and over. For most, this was not the first time, for many, too numerous to count.

Some just stared at the pew in front of them or fixated their eyes on the priest. Others, prayed on their knees, head lowered, hoping to escape. Many held their rosaries tightly, mumbling to themselves. Most cushioned themselves in the recesses of their memories as they watched the priest go through the sacrament of honoring the dead. Periodic silences allowed the mourners to bathe in the serenity of the church.

Each mourned the passing. This particular death affected the entire community. Everyone had been touched by the death of Dr. Smythe who was a well-known doctor. He had earned the designation of Chief of Staff and was highly respected and loved. His hospital served as a model of care for other hospitals to emulate. Always on top of the latest medical breakthroughs, his staff had saved many lives because of their research.

Yet, the doctor died suddenly. Without much warning, he passed on the second day after experiencing mild flu like symptoms. Unlike others where death is certain and probable, no one expected him to die. It only appeared to be the flu.

The onset of his illness came suddenly. Coursing through his system without interruption, the unknown virus ravaged his body quickly, making him delirious within a day. Red welts covered his skin by the end of the second day, and before the sun set, his major organs had shut down, foreboding his demise.

His friends and family searched for an explanation from the medical community, but none came. Recently, everyone was nervous about conflicting reports of a virus that had hit the west coast. Some newscasters described it as an unusually potent strain, while others reported it as a mild infection, having the typical symptoms of a seasonal illness.

They heard rumors of fatalities, but these were in the warmer states, hundreds of miles away. Broadcasters reported an unusual tally of deaths in certain regions, but no red alert had been issued. The death count, for now, hadn’t yet reached mass proportions. Yet, in the last week, the media had more coverage about the mysterious flu that seemed to be spreading at a fast rate.

Fearing a panic based more on initial statistics rather than future data, the government issued orders to all health advisors to submit all diagnostic information to the appropriate governmental authority. No one was permitted to speak to the media.

It didn’t take long for the truth to come out. As analysts studied the data from the past thirty days, they concluded beyond a doubt that an epidemic had begun on the west coast. The public just didn’t know it yet. Two days prior to the doctor’s death, an announcement was made.

The government issued a health statement, stating that a previous strain of smallpox, once thought extinct, had surfaced. The health department still didn’t have a specific name for it, just that it was a deadly virus, similar to smallpox that came out of nowhere and was spreading at an alarming rate.

Once the news broke, every hour, bulletins blasted giving an update of the disease. Health officials determined that it had many of the characteristics of the smallpox epidemic that had devastated Europe in the late eighteen hundreds. Still, it wasn’t quite the same. This particular virus had more deadly toxins associated with it. Researchers concluded that the original smallpox virus that had been dormant for over a century was now awakened and morphing into a deadlier threat. What caused it to emerge again was unknown.

More and more people panicked, especially in the states that confirmed the first deaths. Many were afraid of any type of physical contact. Several wore medical masks, afraid of any airborne bacteria. Concerts were cancelled. Church attendance diminished to a few parishioners. Schools closed, afraid of spreading the disease. Towns set curfews.

Grocery shopping was limited. Shoppers could only buy food at certain hours based on the letter of their last name. Only a few people at a time were allowed in the stores to prevent contagion. Several of the larger chains had already run out of food due to the rush of people prior to the restricted ordinance.

Beginning in the states that had high deaths, a new vaccine was offered, but few accepted it, afraid of the serious side effects. This particular vaccine didn’t have the test of time as others in the past had. Concerned with an epidemic, medical researchers quickly developed a vaccine in record time without customary clinical trials.

For some, one of the side effects was death, an ironic conclusion to a serious health threat. Others became violently ill and managed to barely survive. Multitudes just ignored the vaccine and hoped for the best.

Still the people of Middleburgh prayed it wouldn’t reach them. They were alarmed but not panicked, trusting that a solution would be found before it spread to their town. Since their village was surrounded by mountains and hills, they felt some comfort of protection. The virus had hit in the western states where warm weather fueled the bacteria. Theirs was a cold state. They hoped for an effective and safe vaccine before it eventually hit them, but many wondered if the doctor’s death was just the beginning of their nightmare.

FRIENDS AND FAMILY reserved the entire day to pay their last respects to the doctor. They would all attend the memorial service. Most looked forward to this event since many were Irish and they knew a good party would follow, especially since it was at the doctor’s house. It would be a more intimate gathering. Everyone considered it an ideal time to reconnect with old friends while honoring him.

The family decided to pay tribute to his life at his home, the place where he lived and died, instead of the modern funeral home. It was unusual. Most people in the community used funeral homes instead of their private residences for memorial services. Yet, for many generations, this ritual had been held in the private homes of the deceased. Their life and death were celebrated equally in the place that had defined their life, their home. An imprint had been made. Their spirit remained, so it was appropriate that a celebration of the deceased’s life would be in the home.

But, as times changed, the modern funeral home emerged, offering convenience to the family but at a cost of a less intimate remembrance. For most people, it was far easier to recognize the deceased at a local funeral parlor, letting the mortician setup the service. Everything was already there from candles to organ music to ample seating. People just had to show up.

Yet, when it came to death, the doctor’s family believed in tradition, especially Irish practices. Most of his family followed the custom, particularly the Irish rite. They all knew that he would want it this way.

Preparations began early. After the body arrived from the church, the coffin was placed in the parlor. Since his home was an older Victorian home, its architecture was well suited for such an event. The parlor was intimate, yet big enough for members of the family to be by his side continually throughout the day. Out of respect for the deceased, the family would never leave his side until he reached his final resting place. Turns were taken as the home was readied.

Before anyone arrived, close relatives checked all the rooms for any clocks. All clocks were stilled as a mark of respect for the dead. Time would cease. Honoring the dead would be the present focus. The passage of time was of no relevance now to the deceased.

Other relatives would check the mirrors, turning them toward the wall. Some mirrors would be covered with a black veil. It was the Irish belief that the soul of a dead person could be trapped in a mirror, preventing them from going onto the next life.

For generations, mirrors were believed to be the gateway to another realm. Legends often told of the living disappearing by staring into a mirror for too long and being absorbed by its power.

The deceased’s spirit was also as vulnerable as the living. Prior to being interred, a new spirit could also be sucked into the mirror if a barrier didn’t cover its reflection, forever wandering aimlessly, searching for the entrance to the afterlife. Placing a cover over the mirror helped the newly deceased easily find its rightful path to heaven instead of being trapped in limbo.

Before the service, the closest family members engaged in their own unique mourning as they tended the body. First, muffled sobs softly passed from one to the other. Then, intermittent deep, heartfelt cries turned into soulful wails that filled the room. After a while, their collective keening measured the depths of their despair and could be heard throughout the home as arrangements were made for the anticipated memorial.

Friendly neighbors helped prepare the home. Plates of food from various relatives and friends arrived one after another and were placed on tables in the kitchen and dining room. Portable bars were set up to accommodate any kind of drink imaginable. Whiskey was the preferred choice. Bowls of snuff as well as pipes filled with tobacco graced the tables. Stacked clay pipes rested on the foyer entrance table to be given to all as they arrived.

Mourners arrived as evening fell. The celebration began. Everyone knew this was a joyous event, a salute to the doctor’s life. As practiced by the Irish, they enthusiastically believed that this was an opportunity to remember the life of the deceased with smiles instead of tears. A good sendoff was expected, the better the party, the bigger the tribute to the dead. Anything less would be disrespectful.

Bountiful food was consumed voraciously as well as alcohol. Smoking was allowed and even encouraged. Tobacco was placed throughout the house and offered to everyone. In all rooms, except the parlor where the decreased rested, mourners partied. Laughter spiked into boisterous hilarity and could be heard above loud animated conversations throughout the home. Children ran from room to room, yelling at each other, amusing themselves. It was noisy. The more everyone celebrated, the louder it got. The festivity continued until midnight at which time, the celebration abruptly ended. Tribute had been paid as the final rosary was cited. Afterwards, silence remained.

AS I ENTERED THE REAL estate office, the cheery voice of Lilly, our receptionist, bounced off of every nerve inside my head. My head throbbed and each beat of my heart generated pulsating explosions behind both eyes. Even my sunglasses didn’t do an adequate job of disarming the artificial light in the reception area.

I was miserable, too much wine at the service. Normally, I never drank more than two drinks. Last night was an exception. I had never been to an Irish service. It was different from any I had ever attended. Participation was expected, and I certainly didn’t disappoint anyone. It was a new experience for me, but I vowed that when I die, this is how I want to be sent off.

I glanced over at Mary, my office mate and best friend. She looked as miserable as I did. Her usual vibrant telephone voice was just one notch above a stone as she attempted to persuade one of her sellers to accept a lower priced offer on their home. She slowly looked up at me, held the phone away from her ear, and rolled her eyes as she silently mimicked the voice at the other end of the phone. Usually, she was more patient, but just looking at her, I could tell her tolerance level was at an all-time low. Hanging up the phone, she gently rested her head in her hands as she massaged her forehead, wincing from the pain.

Looking up at me, she asked, Looks like you had as much fun as I did last night.

Can’t deny that, I said as I took off my sunglasses. My eyes immediately squinted to slits as they reacted to the overhead florescent lights.

Getting closer to my face, Mary stared at my eyes. Do you think they’ll ever see the light of day through all that red?

Taking a mirror out of my purse, I studied the red blood vessels in my eyes that usually were white.

Mumbling to myself, Not a pretty sight.

Looking amused, Mary leaned a little closer to access the damage. I’ve seen eyes like those many times. She pointed to herself and broke out into an uninhibited laugh, Especially on this face. Her laughter escalated and began to annoy me as I struggled with another wave of nausea.

Shush. Quiet, I said as I begged for silence.

Don’t worry Victoria. Tomorrow, those big brown eyes will look like new.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I promised myself to never go beyond my two-glass limit again.

Curious, I asked Mary, Have you ever been to an Irish service before?

Only when I was a little girl. I remember going with my mother to a memorial that was held at my great grandmother’s home. The body was placed in the parlor. Since I’d never been to any other wakes, it seemed natural to me, like we were visiting, and she just happened to be taking a nap during the party, except that she was dead.

Mary chuckled with that throaty signature laugh of hers that would soon turn into a snort whenever she expressed a private joke. I patiently waited for her personal amusement to pass.

Don’t you think it weird? I asked.

Weird? Are you kidding? It was a great party, said Mary.

My point. All that partying when someone lay dead in the next room?

Hell no. I’m always grateful for a good bash. Besides, it was a celebration of Dr. Smythe’s life. No better way. Better than tears, sad faces, and depressing conversations. That’ll come sooner than later.

Perhaps she was right.

Looking at me like a teacher would look at a student, How else is the family supposed to mourn the dead unless they get a break before reality sets in? Death happens, catching the family off guard. They need time to adjust.

For the moment, she looked lost in thought.

The way I see it, the family can’t know their grief until they let their hair down, talk about the dead person, remember them, joke around, get drunk, and let it all hang out. Then, afterwards, they can get in touch with their deeper emotions. Besides, this helps them with the ride.

The ride? I asked.

You know the emotional roller coaster when someone dies. The way I see it, the wilder the party, the easier to let go. Big release of tension.

She had a point there.

Mary looked at me with that mischievous look in her eyes. I’m not an expert at death or anything, but I know a few things about funeral homes from a long time ago, said Mary confidently.

How so, I asked.

When my mother’s grandmother died, her husband decided on a new line of business while at the wake.

At the wake? I asked. Looking at Mary skeptically, Most people don’t initiate a new business venture while someone lie dead, especially a loved one.

I know, but her husband was an entrepreneur. During the wake, he had an epiphany.

Shocked, I asked, An epiphany?

He saw the wave of the future as his wife lay dead. Her death opened a new door for him. He decided to venture out into a new line of business by going into the funeral business.

The funeral business? I asked.

Yeah. He felt the future was in the dead. Kind of ironic isn’t it, the dead being the future.

And with that remark, Mary went into another one of her gut snorting laughs. Seeing my irritation, she quickly corrected herself.

He decided to open up his own funeral home. In fact, his funeral home was one of the first in the town. His family also lived in the home. Imagine living in a funeral home. Too creepy for me. You’d never know who was coming to dinner, said Mary, quickly quelling another snort.

Getting more serious, she explained, This was also at about the time people were getting embalmed. Families of the deceased couldn’t do that in their own homes, so he offered them a solution. He saw the future and jumped on it by starting his own embalming business right in his private home.

Poking me on the arm, Get it. Home business. Probably one of the first home businesses, said Mary as her eyes laughed. It was like one stop dying, everything taken care of at the funeral home. No need to go elsewhere.

I had never thought about the embalming process. Why would I? Yet, I was interested.

I asked, What did people do before the dead were embalmed?

Buried their dead quickly. That’s what they did. That’s why they had the body laid out in their home. No time to waste. No time to cart them off someplace else. Bodies decomposed rapidly. Raising her eyebrows, Mary asked, Did you ever wonder why they placed lit candles around the body?

Shrugging my shoulders, No idea.

To cover the rancid smell of the decaying body, she replied.

Who would’ve thought? I said, knowing I would’ve never given it the slightest attention.

When wakes were held everything happened quickly. There wasn’t much time since the body was becoming smellier minute by minute. There weren’t funeral homes, so the body was placed in the dead person’s home or the church. It was the only way to care for and honor the body quickly and with respect.

So, when your great grandmother’s husband started up his business, why did he use his own home as his first funeral home? I asked.

He was a businessman who wanted low overhead. Pretty smart, said Mary.

"I still think it’s creepy having your home