The Plague

By John Del Toro

The story unfolds in the depths of a writer's struggle, where the looming specter of writer's block threatens to rob him of his last chance at creating a masterpiece. As he grapples with his own frustrations and the relentless pressure of time, a dark muse emerges, urging him to tell a tale unlike any he has written before.

Haunted by personal demons and a past filled with loss and longing, the writer embarks on a journey into the darkest corners of his soul. His narrative intertwines with his own life, revealing a story of heartbreak, family secrets, and a town plagued by inexplicable disappearances.

As he delves deeper into the darkness, the lines between reality and fiction blur, and he finds himself confronting his own mortality and the true nature of his muse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trellis Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224366859

Book preview

THE PLAGUE

JOHN DEL TORO

If Death calls you, pray it has the wrong number.—Ivan Karhoff

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE PLAGUE

DEAD AGAIN

OUR DEAD BODIES

OUR LIVING FUNERAL

DEAD EYES

CEMETERY THINGS

DEADVILLE

INFECTIOUS

THE SOUND OF ZOMBIES

THE ZOMBIE EFFECT

A blank stare.

The pen and quill lay neglected in the darkness of the study, forever teasing the former horror author as he racks his brain to tell yet another tale of horror and ever-looming doom. Stories of monsters who rend flesh, wraiths who devour souls, or vicious denizens of the deep responsible luring and dragging sailors to their deaths in the dark abyss.

Confound it all! He thinks as he kicks the poor trash bin. He knows he doesn't have enough time to debate with his internal muse.

He walks towards the window, the silken curtains blow but a little from the cracked pane. He leans against his forearm, the gold cufflink of his black tailcoat clinks against the glass.

In the streets below, the burdened hooves of horses clop against the cobblestone as they effortlessly ferry their patrons to their next destination. Their toil made difficult by the rain soaked street.

Men and women walk with bulbous packages serving as gifts for the upcoming holidays. Street lamps decorated with holly and wreaths. The smells of pies, cakes, breads and pastries wafts into the room through the windows.

Again, he paces. The fair face of his muse still eludes him. Frustration personifies in the form of head scratching, cursing under his breath and the shoving of papers to the floor.

Hopelessness begins to set in and he soon finds himself sinking to the floor. His heart pounds in his chest as the inevitable begins to ignite his mind in waves of foreboding gloom. If he waits too long, he will have nothing to leave his daughter. A last manuscript for her to publish and hopefully profit from.

Then it happens. The face of his sweet daughter becomes clear in his mind soon to be replaced by a figure darker than any nightmare he can dream up. His muse personifies herself as a fair maiden with the face of a skull and long flowing hair takes his face in her ghastly embrace. It is a face he is very familiar with.

He sits and proceeds to urgently scribble on the parchment.

The story begins....

****

Dearest friend,

For those who have followed my career know I have made my fame on fabrications of dark sorcery, monsters and creatures of the blackness. Up until this point, they have all been nothing short of fantasy. Never before have I revealed the darkness of a personal nature.

The story I have to tell is not one for the feintest of hearts. It is a tale of pain, of agony. A heart broken and a dark murder. Lost children and screaming souls. As you read, I warn you. As I have said above, the story you are about to read is not fiction, the characters within it no more a fabrication of a tormented mind than the air you breathe.

No, the story I have to share with you is the best kind of story. My own.

It begins as many gloomy tales. A heart broken, a wife departed and a beloved child separated by miles, leaving a bereft husband and father longing for their return. He is a former best-selling author of horror. He does not miss his wife for she was cumbersome to be around. His daughter however, he misses greatly. She, is a blessed angel this foul, twisted world has no right to call its own.

The town I grew up in was indeed small. My brother and I spent many miserable days wishing we could depart that place. Turn our backs to the setting sun and never return.

As far as the average New England family, we were well off as our father owned large amounts of land and sold them to wealthy owners. The house which we called home like those he sold with many acres of land and a mansion tucked into the thick brush. Rose bushes, hyacinths and hibiscus joined the jasmine and honeysuckle to bring forth truly beautiful colors. Its wood-sided paint a mix of cream and white, chipping away with age.

The woods behind it were deep enough with a creek hidden deeper still. We would spend hours there, pretending to live in the worlds of our fantasies.

As a lad I always found a fascination in the dark and shadows. This infatuation would lead to most of mine being chided by brother as they often remained on the side of the archaic and occult. I believed these worlds gave rise to a desire to not only act out these tales of woe but to begin to write them so others could enjoy them as well.

Needless to say this did not go so well with my parents.

My mother, being a staunch religious woman, forbade me from writing such tales. Anytime I would try to share one of them, she would seize it and throw it into the nearest flame.

In retaliation to such oppressive measures, I often snuck behind her back and wrote them by candlelight in the comforts of my own room before bedtime.

Little did I know it would be my writing which would introduce me to the language of love. Amelie Higgins read one of the pieces I dared submit to the school paper which was indeed published. She revealed her own love of the dark writings and shared some of her poetry with me.

It would not last. Tensions began to rise between the north and south. Her parents, being from souther descent, didn't want their daughter to see no Yankee boy. I was too young and naive to understand what he meant. We went our separate ways shortly after that.

I had barely made it into secondary school when the first bout of news reached my ears.

I guess one could say hat's when the bizarre changes began to occur.

Two classmates of mine, both of which I was well acquainted, disappeared. In spite of all of the efforts by the local constable, no bodies were found at first. It was only by the sheer luck of a fisherman pulling in a bodiless arm that the investigation took on new leads. However, nothing ever became of it.

Once the trail ran cold, the police dropped the case, chocking it up to the deep gullies and massive amounts of rainfall that year. combined with whatever water critters took a nibble.

As an author of suspense, it occurred to me to wonder why they didn't try harder to investigate since only an arm had been found. Surely they could find the body if they kept looking. When I asked the constable, he told me to mind my own business.

Little had I know, this single discovery would be the beginning of more horror than even I could've comprehended.

When I reached manhood, I was forced to be reared in the corporate world. My father did his damndest to steer me in the ways of business, trade and wooing. My desire to write once again swept aside by the desires of my parents under threat of being alienated.

Eventually I gained the funding by kissing up to my parents to move away to pursue my true love. The horrors of the world. The realms of darkness where my tormented soul surprisingly found peace.

****

After years of honing my skills, I gathered the courage to submit to the local paper. My nerves rattle as I wait their answer. Curiously, my venture did well! They accepted the story and printed it. Later, the editor contacted me and informed me his paper was selling more copies than it had in months.

He asked me to continue so in my free time, I decided to do so.

Before, I knew, my work reached the eyes of a very renowned publisher. He contacted me and requested to represent me in the new novella I endeavored to write. I wrote and published the novella in a year's time.  It was so well received I got the pleasure of being invited to a meeting of some of the most amazing literary minds.

Through this experience, I found and fell in love with the wonderful Anastasia. A blonde beauty with looks unlike I'd ever laid eyes upon. Her curls done up in a blue ribbon to match her hypnotic eyes.

Knees shaking, I made my way over to her. Evening, my lady, I said with a bow.

Once again, it would be my love for my craft responsible for drawing the eyes of one so fair.

Ah, I recognize you! The famous teller of tales of terror and weaver of words so dark, it makes his readers gasping for breath. She said with a chuckle, reaching out her hand for me to kiss.

I'm not sure about that, my lady but I'm honored at your words. I kiss the extended hand.

To my delight, our simple exchange bloomed. We saw each other as much as we could. Spoke about love of the dark, the arcane and the macabre. We married and my lover gave to me a daughter. My Elizabeth.

****

With the start of the war which shook the country in two, the love of literature was lost to the populace. Books were burned as a sign of rebellion. An appreciation of the arts lost amongst the chaos. I soon found myself sinking further and further into a deep depression.

At times it felt as though I were haunted by a specter.

A claimant of souls who howled in my ears, causing them to ring so badly I isolated myself in my study. Its claws held me fast and forced me to fight with the woman I still loved, still desired in my life. I couldn't help it. I couldn't write! Couldn't vent the sorrow into words fast enough to shed the spirit's malice. I tried desperately to drown the ghost in drunken stupors but it wouldn't leave me , wouldn't release me.

One day, it became too much, my wife divorced me and took our daughter away across the country. The devastation sent me into darkened thoughts of suicide and despair. I stared at the ink and quill, the parchment long devoid of words. My hands trembled as I scritched, the words freeing. Releasing. Liberating.

Finally, I was able to write again. Finally, I could meet the face of my inner demons.

Weeks ran by as minutes, months as hours. I wrote my daughter and read her letters which helped stave off the pain. If only briefly.

To occupy myself, I started reading the morning paper to keep up with which side was winning and found out about the havoc and pillaging the soldiers on both sides committed. Horrible crimes no human being should be allowed forgiveness for.

To these reprehensible monsters, I wrote poems of death and destruction. To those they hurt, I prayed the words would bring a sense of peace. Every day the same. At least until the letter came.

A letter from my brother in the post struck my curiosity. He wrote saying our family home had been decimated by the war, our parents killed, the house looted except for very few personal belongings. He stated I must come to get whatever I want before it is taken from beneath me.

With great haste, I take a carriage to our small home town. The air around it seemed strange. Something sinister whispered on the wind, daring me to come and find it. I return to the carriage and beckon the driver to hurry so I can get to the house.

****

The iron gate creaked open, the brick walls I remembered blooming with purple hyacinth were covered in tangling, snaking vines. The white fading paint chipped away further, the once elegant wooded door scuffed and marred by the boots of  the common demon. My brother waited at the base of the steps of the front porch.

Oh thank God, you're here. He embraced me. We need to finish things up so the house can be sold.

The house stared back at me. Its upper windows like eyes. A cursed object full of memories of oppression and bashing of the Bible over my head. Condemnation and overall - evil.

The landowner says we can get it sold for a decent price once we get everything out. My brother began, one of the landowners stood beside him with his arms folded behind his back, a closed grin on his face.

To me, he looked like one of the characters I'd written in the horror stories involving carnivals and circuses. A black top hat sat upon his head. His tailcoat buttoned over a white shirt and white gloves. I began wondering why my brother did business with him and when he became the owner of the land around the house.

I looked at the building. A soft voice whispered in my ear Don't leave me. I'm so alone.

I'll buy it. I commented.

The landowner standing next to my brother's grin became toothy as it widened. He prevented my brother from responding with a harsh shove.

Appalled, my brother walked away to his carriage, waved goodbye and left me to handle the deal.

Consider the deed yours, for a truly remarkable price. He laughed, his eyes closed in delight so tight, the crow's feet became well-defined. We'll come by later with the paperwork. There is one small stipulation.

I tilted my head in a mix of confusion and disdain. How dare this man command me to do something to get my old house out from his greedy hands.

What stipulation? I snapped.

The landowner leaned in. You have to spend three nights in the house. I remind you, it's been years since you've lived here. Things have gotten a bit strange.

Again, I tilt my head.

Feel free to bring your belongings in. What remained of your estate will be taken care of shortly. The landowner offered a bow as I walked by.

When I turned to thank him, it shocked me to my core to find him gone.

****

A fire crackled in the hearth. I decided to sit in the chair surrounded by memories. My mind wandered to times of play and times of sadness. Times of joy and times of pain. Times where I watched my brother shine while I wallowed in his shadow.

Despite the fire, a chill filled the room. I shivered as frost formed in the windows and a cold steam escaped my lips. The sensation frightened me so I decided to go into the kitchen to prepare something to warm my bones.

Who are you? A voice called out.

I turned around to see nothing. Hello?

Nothing.

When I don't hear anything else, I shrugged it off as a fever dream, ate my soup and went to the bedroom to endure the first night.

Get out... The voice of a child startled me awake. She'll kill you, get out now,

The voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Hello? I asked the darkness only to receive nothing in return. Grabbing the lantern beside my bed, I made my way to hallway, down the stairs and onto the porch.

Nothing. Just the whispering of trees and howling of the wind.

****

The morning sun shined through the window, waking me from a disturbed sleep. I couldn't help but wonder if what I'd experienced a dream or something more.

I headed into the kitchen to find the pantries empty, in need to being refilled. Oh well, I guess I needed to go into town anyway.

A carriage was waiting for me so I donned my day clothes and went down to get into it for the ride into town.

Shame for the loss of those little ones. The caddy said through the small window.

What do you mean? I inquired.

You hadn't heard? Little girl disappeared last night, The caddy began. You didn't hear this from me but if I were you, I'd get the hell out of this place forthwith.

Again, what do you mean? My agitation began flaring.

Kids have been disappearing for years now. Same time, almost the same age.

The horror writer in me jumped with intrigue. I'd remembered the two boys who disappeared in my school days and that things felt more sinister when I arrived back in the town. It all proved to me that what I experienced was no fever dream. Something lived in the house.

My first stop was the market. I needed salted meats and some fresh legumes for dinner. A rattling followed by the shouting of an angry butcher announced the arrival of the stranger. He ran so fast he nearly collided with me.

Pardon me, sir. I'm a bit frazzled at the moment, The vagabond's voice heaved from his winded lungs. Hey, I know you. You're the man what bought the old Thorne Mansion.

That's me, I replied. How did you?

Don't matter. You're in danger, sir. That house, no, that object is cursed.

The man found himself heaved by the collar by the butcher. Stop spouting such nonsense. This is God's town. Curses are the devil's work.

Release him, please. I'll pay for what he's stolen.

Both men looked in my direction. The butcher released the man so I could pay him.

Thank you, sir. Thank you. The man took my hand and eagerly shook it.

I yanked it away. Enough! I didn't save you for you. I want to know more about what you said.

The man's head tilted. His eyebrows raised and fell as he scratched his head. Don't know what you mean. What'd I say?

My eyes widened with shock. The man forgot?

To find out more, I decided to go do some research at the local library. What I dug up sent terror through my spine. The house my brother and I grew up in once belonged to a woman with four children. Her husband killed by some kind of plague.

One night a stranger ventured near the house, beat the woman near death and  left her to be eaten alive by rats. I got more confused. We never knew the history, nor had anything strange happened the whole time they lived there.

****

Night two became no easier than night one. I attempted to write in the study, the ideas flowing as a result of the stories the caddy told mee, the rumors the townsfolk mentioned and my own research.

I sat at my desk working on my latest tale of terror when I heard it for the first time. A scritching and scratching beyond the walls. I thought nothing of it at first, simply shrugging it away as noises from an older structure. It never occurred to me to try and find out what was happening.

Then I saw them. In the mirror staring back at me with skin so pale, a sheet would blush with envy. Two small girls wearing white dresses and bonnets stood holding hands in the open doorway. 

Heart racing as a horse in the Derby, I turned in my seat. The quill trembling, breath hastened. Who? Who are you?

You must get out, The girls spoke together in ghastly, pain filled voices. We're trying to save you. She'll kill you. She thinks you murdered her.

Who? Who is it you speak of? I've murdered no one.

You look like him. The one who took her from this world and bound her to this place. The poltergeists responded.

The scritching worsened behind the walls.  I gripped my head between my hands, teeth clenched against the madness attempting to get a hold of me. My eyes closed tight only to open finding me once again alone.

Sweat dripped from my brow while I looked around the room. I tripped over my own feet in my haste to get to the door and the hallway. Another apparition stood at the end of the elongated hall. Not the girls but a boy.

For this specter, true terror gripped my breast. The boy's clothes dripped with water like he'd been standing out in the rain, only pieces of his flesh slipped and slid over a thin frame. One of his eyes popped bubbles while the other held the blue of sapphires.

I can hear them. Behind the walls. It means she'll be here soon.

Who? Please tell me what's going on. I begged the spirit.

The mistress of this place. She's the one who keeps us here. We're her children and she'll kill anyone who tries to take us away.

I don't understand. I grew up in these halls. Hid in these very closets. Why did none of you reveal yourselves during those days?

The spirit shrugged his shoulders. I don't know. Maybe she waited. Maybe she slept, He raised a pale finger, pointing it at me. Maybe it's the darkness you carry with you that attracts her.

His last words confused me. I admitted I didn't have the most decent of pasts but it didn't mean I carried around such darkness as to awaken a dormant malice. I knew I needed to get to the bottom of the mystery or I myself would succumb to madness.

****

The following day, I found myself in the office of the man set to give me the deed. The building seemed off the moment I stepped inside. There was no secretary. As a matter of fact, it hardly seemed like anyone recognized the place even existed.

Ah, welcome. I've been expecting you. The landowner appeared out of nowhere. His voice as unsettling as the first day I met him.

What's going on in this town? The missing girl? Children disappearing? I began rambling despite my best efforts to stop myself.

The landowner sat behind his desk, leaning forward on his elbows and clasping his hands. Why whatever do you mean? Children go missing all over the country, especially now during the war.

Do you take me for a fool? Do you pretend not to know what's going on in the house?

Hmm, The landowner scratched his chin. Are you not pleased? If my memory serves me, sir, you still have one more night to get the home of your childhood for a decent price.

That place, no. That thing is not the house I grew up in. It's a place of madness, sorrow and malevolent intent. No wonder you're trying to sell it.

The landowner bellowed a laugh. Oh come now. What's all this nonsense? Do you truly believe in cursed objects and ghosts? I expected more from such a reasonable fellow such as you.

Before I could utter another word, the same homeless man I rescued from the butcher stumbled through the door. The two men appeared to be staring one another down.

There he is! The vagabond boomed, grabbing my arm.