The Sick Stuff (10 page)

In an atrocious act of self-vampirism, poor
Isabella had to drink her own blood in order to survive.

His sister sobbed as he entered. "Please,
brother... cast your eyes from my shame."

Quentin did as she said, focusing on the
earthen floor of the shed instead. It angered him to see his sister
a victim of such an abominable infirmity. "Isabella, you have
nothing to be ashamed of. Like Trevor and I, you are
guiltless."

He listened to her dip a china cup into the
sanguine pool around her and, with great thirst, swallow her own
bodily fluids. The noise nearly made him retch. "My only crime is
possessing the filthy name of Deveroux. It is our dear, departed
patriarch who has brought this awful curse upon us all. I hope his
heathen soul burns in Hell for all eternity!"

Her brother was shocked to hear her speak of
their father in such a cruel manner. Isabella had once been Everett
Deveroux's pride and joy; a "daddy's girl" in every way imaginable.
But her current state of despair and indisposition had changed her
opinion of him considerably.

"But what did our late father do to raise the
witch's ire and bring such a heinous curse upon this family?" he
asked. He lifted his eyes from the floor and looked at his sister.
She sat there, blood dripping and dribbling from her nose, mouth,
and ears. A steady stream coursed from both eyes, running down her
alabaster cheeks like crimson tears.

"Did Trevor's letter not reveal to you the
shame and depravity that our dear parents cast upon this house?"
she asked. As she looked at him, her eyes widened. "Good God
Almighty... Quentin!"

Isabella had glimpsed his own personal angst
before he himself had felt the burning sting in his nasal passages.
A long, black centipede exited from his left nostril, its multitude
of legs clawing for release. It dropped to the floor, covered with
blood and mucus. Quentin attempted to crush the offending insect
beneath the heel of his boot, but it escaped, skittering across the
dirt of the floor and vanishing into the dank shadows.

Quentin wiped the bloody snot from his
nostrils... a gesture that was more habit now than from conscious
intention. "No, he said only that father was dead and that Mojo
Mama had placed a curse upon our family. He did not go into
details."

Small, thin streams of blood squirted from
Isabella's nipples. Humiliated, she folded her slender arms across
her breasts and wept. "Then go and demand that he tell you all. I
cannot bare to speak of the awful business myself!"

Quentin regarded his sister's pitiful form,
sitting in a bath of congealing gore. "Isabella... if I could only
reverse this horrid curse..."

"Perhaps you can, brother," she said. "But
speak to Trevor first." She lowered her head. Blood pooled from the
openings around the follicles of her ebony hair, turning her lovely
mane into a nasty, purulent mess. "Now go. Abandon me to my own
wretchedness."

Not knowing what to say to relieve her
distress, Quentin quietly closed the door to and turned toward the
house. Anger flared within him. He must confront Trevor and demand
to know the extent of the purgatory in which they had been
unwilling cast into.

As he entered the rear door and made his way
toward the main hall, he thought of how he had found the Deveroux
mansion upon his return from war; rundown, deserted of their
trusted servants, and in a state of perpetual decay. His mother,
Rosealynda, had been alive then, but only in a physical sense. Her
mind -- once so sharp and full of good humor -- had retreated unto
itself. Quentin had found her in a stupor born of madness and
intoxicated with liquor and morphine. She had scarcely recognized
who he actually was. But, as far as he could tell, she had not been
touched by the Deveroux curse... not with the horrible aliments that
Quentin and his siblings suffered. No, her torment had come later...
several nights after his unexpected return.

Quentin pushed the awful fate of his mother
from his thoughts. He had more urgent questions on his mind at the
moment. The young man pushed through the double doors of the grande
parlor. "Trevor!" he called. "Trevor, I must speak to you at
once!"

When he stepped through the doorway of the
parlor, it felt as though he was entering the white-hot belly of a
blast furnace. Despite the humidity and heat of the summer
afternoon, Trevor kept the great marble fireplace stoked and
blazing. But, then, his older brother had reason to keep the fire
going from morning until night.

Cloaked in a dark, woolen blanket, Trevor
turned and regarded him. "Then speak, brother. I am here... as I
always shall be."

Quentin intended to approach his brother
boldly and with no hesitation.

But the hideous stench of decay that filled
the room caused him to gag and consider retreat. He stood his
ground, however, and covered his nose with a handkerchief from his
vest pocket. As he crossed the fire-lit chamber, he found thick
mats of green flies and black gnats seething upon the velvet drapes
and the cushions of the furnishings... waiting, hungering, but
hesitant to approach the heat of the fire.

When he came within six feet of the form
hunkered before the fire, Quentin stopped. He could draw no closer.
Even where he stood, the bile threatened to roll from his belly and
into his mouth. But he dared not vomit. To do so would bring a new
nest of horrors from within him, and he was afraid such an
expulsion would dampen the indignation he now directed toward his
elder brother.

"I demand that you tell me all concerning
this sordid business between the house of Deveroux and that witch
in the swamp," he said. "What sin did our parents commit to bring
such sorrow upon us?"

"What would the telling of the story
resolve?" Trevor said sadly. "Best leave it in the darkness where
it belongs."

"No!" snapped Quentin. "Tell me... if only for
my own peace of mind."

Trevor laughed. "Peace of mind? That is
hilarious, little brother. Never again shall our namesake enjoy
such a luxury."

Quentin watched in disgust as Trevor's right
hand emerged from beneath his cloak. The flesh of the appendage was
raw and decayed. Plump white maggots teamed within the bloody meat,
feeding, crawling along the jointless nubs of what had once been
his fingers. Trevor stuck his hand into the crackling flames of the
fireplace. Instantly, the larva sizzled and popped, and the exposed
meat of his failing flesh turned black with cauterization... but only
temporarily.

That was the elder Deveroux's personal curse;
the constant decay of his outer skin and the muscle underneath.
Beneath the woolen blanket, Quentin sat naked, his fingers and
toes, even his manhood, rotted away, leaving gaping wounds. It was
the same with his head and torso. Within the dark, bloody cavity of
his chest and abdomen, his internal organs continued to function,
though turning gelatinous from gangrene and infested with parasites
and the eggs that would produce a thousand more.

Quentin tightened the cloth upon his
nostrils. He felt the contents of his stomach threaten to rise,
with the assistance of the creatures that grew and generated within
the dark recesses of his own body. With much effort, he quelled the
sickness that threatened to overcome him.

"Brother, I beg of you, tell me the truth,"
he said, his anger smoldering into despair. "Perhaps I can do
something. Perhaps I can reverse this damnation that we have been
subjected to."

Haughtily, Trevor cast back the hood of his
cover. His face was a glistening red skull, devoid of hair or ears.
His lips had rotted away, revealing strong white teeth that had
once charmed the belles of the sugar district. It was true... Trevor
had once been a dashing and handsome gentleman. But that was no
longer evident, given his deteriorating condition.

"All right! If you must know, then I shall
tell you!" His bloodshot eyes glared from the lidless pits of their
sockets. Several blue-bottle flies had grown bold and lit atop the
membrane-thin flesh of his skull. "It was all begat by adultery,
dear brother. Debauchery and unbridled lust."

Quentin baulked. "But our father had no such
tendencies!"

A look of disgust crossed Trevor's disfigured
face. "Oh, it wasn't
he
who performed the offending act.
Rather it was our dear, sweet mother."

Quentin's rage resurfaced. "Liar!"

"No, I speak the truth. It is a hard potion
to swallow to be sure, but genuine none the less." Trevor stretched
out his leg and laid it upon the blazing logs of the fireplace.
Soon, the stench of gangrene was replaced by the odor of rancid
meat, cooked to the bone.

Heavily and with dread, Quentin sat on an
ottoman. "Then tell me all that you know."

Trevor looked into the fire, as though seeing
all that had transpired within the ebb and tide of the flames.
"Unbeknownst to you, lovely and genteel Rosealynda Deveroux had a
dark passion... a carnal desire for pleasure other than what was
consummated in her marriage bed. She particularly hungered for the
attention of the male slaves that Father worked from daybreak to
dawn in the canebrake. One in particular held her fancy... a strong,
young buck named Jonathan. You remember him, don't you? Nearly
seven feet tall, strong as an oak and as black as pitch. And,
crudely put, rather well-endowed. That was how our mother liked her
taboo lovers... as strong and jolting as a cup of Mammy Sophia's
fresh-brewed coffee."

Quentin felt an agonizing pain seize the
center of his brain. He gasped aloud and felt the discomfort
gravitate toward the side of his head, through the narrow channel
of his left ear. He reached up as the invader emerged. With a
curse, he pried an earwig free from the confines of his ear. It's
long, jagged pinchers gnashed, coated with blood and brain matter,
as Quentin flung it into the flames of the hearth.

Trevor chuckled softly, then continued. "Her
clandestine affair with

young Jonathan went on for several months. I
was aware of it, for I had come across them in the forest east of
the sorghum mill. They lay in a bed of Spanish moss, rutting like
wild animals, our saintly mother on top, taking all that he had to
offer. She saw me standing there in the shadows, watching, but it
did not alarm her. Rather, it seemed to heighten her excitement.
Afterward, I promised to keep her secret, knowing how our father
would react to such an unseemly liaison."

"But he did find out?"

"Yes, several weeks later." An expression
akin to lunacy shone from Trevor's eyes as he spoke. "He found
them, naked and writhing, drenched with the sweat of their passion,
on the floor of the smokehouse. Father went mad with rage. He flung
mother toward the house, then prying an axe from a stump near the
woodpile, decapitated his wife's dark lover. He gathered up some of
the other slaves, threatened them into secrecy, and had them carry
the body off into the swamp to be disposed of. He took Jonathan's
head, impaled it on a fence post, and set it aflame to serve as an
example for any others who might have provided Rosealynda with her
shameful pleasure.

"Afterward, everything fell apart for the
Deveroux family. Jonathan's elderly mother grieved for days. You
could hear her wailing along the dark banks of the swamp, searching
for a trace of her son's remains, intending to bury him in a
respectful manner. But she never found him. His headless body had
been concealed well, undoubtedly weighted down with stones and
dropped into the quicksand pit at the far side of the bayou. A week
later, she appeared on the front lawn of our house and did her
dirty deed in retaliation for the murder of her only son."

"The curse," said Quentin, lifting his face
from his hands.

Trevor nodded. "She was known among the
darkies as Mojo Mama. A swamp witch well-versed in the ways of
voodoo and black magic. They were all afraid of her, as our father
should have been. But he merely laughed and ridiculed her from the
upstairs balcony as she opened a brightly-beaded bag and began to
lay a number of objects in the dust at the foot of the front steps;
a chicken foot, possum bones, a black candle, and a fine white
powder that she spread about in a circle. Then she uttered a series
of incantations that would dissolve the reserve of the most
stout-hearted man. Our father was foolish. He cursed at her from
the balcony and threatened to kill her the same as he had Jonathan.
Mojo Mama jabbed a bony, black finger at him and cursed him and all
who had lived and been sired beneath the roof of the Deveroux house
to an agonizing Hell on earth. Then she went to the fence post,
pried her son's blackened skull from its pinnacle, and disappeared
into the swamp."

"What happened then?" Quentin asked, although
he could only imagine the worse.

"For several days, nothing at all," said
Trevor. "Father strutted about the house, making light of the
witch's curse and even laughing about the beheading of our mother's
Negro lover. Then it began to happen." His brother paused and
stared at him. "You remember how our father was... strong and robust,
beefy and as wide as the gate to mother's flower garden. Well, he
began to waste away. Day after day, he lost pound upon pound of
muscle, until he grew gangly and frail. He had Mammy prepare a
bounty of food, but no matter how much he ate, he continued to
dwindle down to nothing. Then his horror grew even more mortifying.
His flesh decreased while his bones grew sharper and more
pronounced. They began to break through his skin, exposed nakedly
to the elements. One morning he did not come down for breakfast and
we went up to find him lying in his bed, no more than a skeleton
without flesh or innards. The only thing that remained were his
eyes lying within the dry sockets of his skull, full of terror and
remorse."