Abigail Sheaffer

The Little Death

 

Schenectady, New York

December 24th, 1847

 

I stare up at the dentil molding that decorates the parlor walls and listen to the gentle scraping of the porcelain demitasse cups against the porcelain saucers. The strong fragrance of balsam fir imbues the room and the little needles from the Christmas tree have fallen errantly across the Oriental rug like verdant blades ready to pierce one’s foot. It was then that I thought of my death.  

 

*

 

Three weeks earlier, I had been invited on a sleigh ride with Jasper Price, Elizabeth Williams, and Ambrose Smith. I wore my lamb’s wool coat and fedora daintily perched atop my chignon as I sat across from Jasper, though Ambrose kept catching my eye (much to Elizabeth’s chagrin). As we rode through the city streets to the restaurant, the horse’s hooves clamping against the slicked cobblestones, I avoided Ambrose’s gaze.

 

The carriage stopped at the banquet hall and Jasper exited first and then Ambrose. To my happiness, Jasper took my gloved hand in his and led me toward the restaurant. We were promptly seated in the parlor near a crackling fire that smelt faintly of cinnamon and clove. I was unsettled by Ambrose’s gaze often throughout the evening and took to fidgeting with my opal brooch while my cheeks reddened beneath the effulgence of the gaslight.

 

I went to sleep that night in my aunt’s house deeply unsettled and dare I say aroused. Jasper was intended to be my beau, but I could not stave off Ambrose’s arctic blue eyes.

 

*

 

My own death occurred in my thoughts repeatedly throughout the course of the Christmas season. Whether it be while ice skating at the pond near the pavilion or cracking the meaty insides of a roasted chestnut. Perhaps the worst was when plates of offal were placed in front of me at dinner parties.

 

So too, did the rotted scent of carrion follow me everywhere. The temptation to give into Ambrose’s subtle seduction rattled me, as did the sensation that death was following me everywhere.

 

*

 

Christmas was growing nearer and nearer everyday and there were moments when I’d feel a delirious sense of joy. The beautiful paper to wrap parcels, the toys in the shop windows, the elegant evening gowns, and the glorious snow all filled me with a childlike wonder. It was on one such particular day while enchanted at a toy train whistling in a shop window beneath layers of gossamer intended to be snow, I felt his presence behind me.

 

I turned slowly.

 

He tipped his hat and I noted his auburn flecked beard, his startling blue eyes.

 

“Hello,” I said demurely. Again, I fidgeted with the opal brooch at my neck and tugged at my leather kid gloves. I felt a rush of blood imbue my cheeks.

 

“Hello,” he murmured.

 

My spine tingled. It was then that I saw someone across the street from us. It was considered uncivilized to stare across at someone you don’t know in that time, that sort of thing was uncouth.

 

“Cutting,” they called it.

 

And while I was enamored to be so close to Ambrose in this fashion, I found the stare of the stranger across the street all too strong to resist.

 

I lifted my eyes across Ambrose’s shoulder and shuddered.

 

A tall, lanky man in deplorable clothes stared back. His face was pockmarked and his tongue black. His eyes were bloodshot.

 

I inhaled sharply as a carriage obscured his view.

 

Lady Hillingham, whose house I was a frequent guest of, saw my cutting and clucked her tongue at me. I felt the warmth of touch at my elbow and looked again at Ambrose.

 

That was when it began to unravel.

 

*

 

I began to dream vividly of losing control of my body to a demon one week before Christmas.

 

I saw myself outside of myself, writhing on the Oriental rug. The fireplace in my bedroom, though meant to be somber and lightly lit, began to transpire into a holocaust. Wood sputtered and crackled. My flesh began to rot, my eyes blackened.

 

Though when I awoke to the soft knocking of my housemaid, Marie, she could not recall any distress through the night.

 

*

 

I became bolder. Though I was sure the demon would have diminished me, it made me into a stranger entity. I began to visit the occult shops hidden near the edge of town and quickly became obsessed with the tarot.

 

I dressed in shades of black: ebony, obsidian, and onyx.

 

Talk of Ambrose and I began to circulate around the city. It was true I’d begun meeting him in his parlor without an escort and did forbidden acts. I remember the first time he removed my glove and kissed my wrist. I remember too, closing my eyes and feeling the demon enter me.

 

I knew my time would be coming soon.

 

*

 

I liked my time alone in the parlor at night. I would sip port and close my eyes. Sleep came quickly. Dreams of black satin, roaches, and scorpions would flutter around in my eyes. Visions of my pale and rotted flesh were quite common.

 

All the same, my allure doubled and Ambrose would ride in his carriage at all hours to my house to satiate his desire.

 

He too, had the demon within him now.

 

At times in the throes of our passion, I would scream and my flesh would turn cold.

 

*

 

The parlor that Christmas Eve night was aglow with gaslight. The fireplace crackled and sparked. I noticed that balsam fir spindles beneath the soled shoes of the portly gentleman while sipping on my tea.

 

Ambrose does not remove his gaze from me. I revel in the feelings, in the chemicals he inspires in my brain.

 

In an hour, after presents and cake, I shall go and meet the darkness in the attic. I can hear my own footsteps now. Time is a funny thing, you see. It’s a straight line.

 

I stare at the dentil molding that decorates the parlor walls. I see a wash of shadow as the demon engulfs my mind.

 

So sad, you see, that they shall never realize the cause of my death.

 

The children who come to visit the estate are so rude when they scream at me. Perhaps I’ll find another soul to claim as my own to forever feed the demon.

 

 

 

Abigail Sheaffer is the editor-in-chief of Chicago Literati and The Vignette Review. Her fiction has been published in Bird’s Thumb, Bluestockings, Crab Fat, Danse Macabre, Literary Orphans, and Luna Luna Magazine. She is a teacher of gothic horror at The Republic of Letters in Geneva, Illinois.