A Mystery Story: Prologue

Early 1890. – Night had come down outside, as a mist danced around the window. A man paced around inside the front room, glancing upon the bedroom door. The heavy plodding of his boots upon the creaky floorboards the only sounds he heard. Every now and again he would pause at the door, and look up to the little boy sat on the stairwell. There would only be silence, until he resumed his pace.

    At last, the door clicked. The man instantly spun around, his face widened. The door creaked fully open, as a gentleman emerged with a leather bag.

    “Me wife,” the man said approaching, “Is she alright Doctor?”

    The Doctor shied away sighing, before placing his hand upon the man’s shoulder. “I did everything I could.” He held onto him firm as tears built in the widower’s eyes. “I’ll make the arrangements for you.” As the Doctor collected his top hat and cloak, the man dashed into the bedroom.

    What had been his wife lay on the bed. She laid the same way she always slept. Death somehow had been kind to her. Rosy redness had returned to her cheeks and lips. The throat was covered with a rash, and still plump, with a tiny pink lump.  Her face was as white and as finely sculpted as a marble statue. Maybe it was the husband’s reaction, but she looked the most beautiful now then she’d ever been. How her hand felt cold.

    The Doctor looked up to the boy in the stairwell. “Your father needs you more then ever son.” The boy wiped a tear before running to his father. With his top hat on, the Doctor stepped out into the empty and misty cobbled courtyard. The cries of a child spilled out with him. After a few slow steps, he rested in a dark passageway between buildings. The smell of salt water hung heavy on the air. The Doctor gagged faintly, then fished out a handkerchief, and wiped his mouth.

    “She’s dead isn’t she?” came a whisper.

    The Doctor peered up. The outline of a figure in a brimmed-hat and a long coat stood in the archway. “You again?” the Doctor said.

    “She’s dead ain’t she?” the figure repeated.

    The Doctor looked away and sighed. “Yes,” he answered calmly.

    “An’ she died from somethin’ ye can nay identify?”

    “Yes,” the Doctor blinked.

    “Just like me wife, and then ya bride.”

    “We can’t know it’s the exact same thing,” the Doctor said placing his handkerchief away.

    “Ye be a man of learnin’. Surely ye can nay dismiss all this as coincidence?”

    “You talk as though cholera has returned. This has only happened three times in the last five years. Winter has only just left us. As for the previous cases - it’s not contagious.”

    “An’ ye be such a pillar t’ community - anyone will take ya word over mine.” The figure hunched forward, and lifted up his bucket hat, revealing a haggard bearded face. “Ye must believe me,” he said shivering. “Tis no will o’ nature. The one responsible walks these very streets!”

    The Doctor groaned. “And what do you base that on?”

    The old sailor looked around and then looked back. “While ‘er husband was away, somethin’ made visits ta this house - I could tell from way she spoke in ‘is absence. It was same for me wife, and ya bride.”

    The Doctor stared at him, gritting his teeth. “How dare you insinuate that? What kind of woman would do things like that?”

    “I’m just tellin’ ye o’ what I saw in me…”

    “Silence!” the Doctor barked. He towered over the hunched man. “I’m sorry about the loss of your wife, but your yarn-spinning won’t even draw a sightseer in! That man and his son are distraught enough as it is! Harass them no further! If you do, I’ll commit you to the nearest insane asylum!” He barged past him, calling back, “I’ll hear no more of it!”

    The hunched man now stood alone in the misty passageway. A chill left him skittish as he recoiled into the shadows. He then retreated through the archway, his voice all mutter. 

    From all around were the howls of a bereaved child, heard only by a black dog walking past the passage, and into the mist of the night…