I am a huge fan of strange fiction, and as a result all things H.P. Lovecraft. This is a short story that I attempted to write in the voice of a Lovecraft tale some time ago. There are several instances where I have intentionally used pretentious language to make the story more "Lovecraftian". Despite the fact he is one of my favorite storytellers, I do understand that his style is an acquired taste. As is my take on his fiction in this story.
It is very common among those who practice in the medical field to grow emotionally callous to the morbid afflictions that plague our clients. Often times I reason that if I cannot become physically immune to the contagious diseases I encounter upon a regular basis, I may at least guard my sanity from becoming an anxiety ridden hypochondriac. When I first began my career approximately six months after graduating from Massachusetts Medical College of Harvard University in the year of 1834, I opened up a small practice within my home in Bay Village; a small neighborhood located two blocks from Boston Commons. Although most of my cases that year consisted of benign illnesses and were easily treatable, there still remains one disturbing and isolated incident that; remaining undocumented by any of my colleagues in the medical field, haunts my dreams to this very day.
It had started out as a calm August morning as I smoked a pipe and skimmed over my copy of the Boston Gazette. It was only last week that the Ursuline Convent Riots had shaken the city to the core. Being a pacifist, I found the conflict rather pestilential. Business had been slow for the past few days, and I did not expect many visitors. I took a long draw and began to doze as a cool breeze blew in through my open window. As I reclined at my desk, a strident knock startled me from my impending dance with slumber. The frantic beating continued to resound from my door. Slowly I arose and went to see who was in need of assistance. The malignant sight that stood on the other side of my small wooden barrier from the world caused me to wrench back with fear.
The man, if he could be described as one, frailly leaned on a crutch and looked as if at any moment he would collapse at my doorstep. He appeared similar to that of a leper, with green reptilian bumps covering his entire body. The protrusions festered with a yellow pus that gave off a putrid odor one could compare to a rotting corpse. It was not ethical for a doctor to turn away those who were afflicted with disease, however, instinctual caution for my own health made me consider shutting and barricading the door from the monstrosity before me. After a drawn out moment of silence I partially recovered my composure enough to speak.
“Would you like to come inside?” I managed to ask while trying not to choke due to his aroma. In a low and raspy tone the lizard-man muttered something unintelligible. His yellow tinged eyes met mine and I could see a look of defeated frustration upon the man’s horribly disfigured face. He extended to me a note scribbled down on a crumpled piece of paper. Observing his hand, I noticed he had several missing fingers. The remaining thumb and index had swollen to the width of elm tree limbs and appeared they would soon fall to a similar lesion. Cautiously I removed the message from his grip for fear of touching him. The hastily written manuscript read as follows:
“I have tried every unguent available to me, and followed every salubrious regimen suggested to me. I have visited every doctor that would not turn me away, and none have been able to diagnose my condition. At first they believed I had leprosy, but as this virulent disease progressed the verdict was proven to be inaccurate. My tongue has rotted to where I cannot speak, and my throat has dried to the point that I can hardly stomach food. My vision is fading, and I know that I am nearing death. My entire body rebels against me in agonizing pain. The limbs that were once so able are now deteriorating, leaving me crippled. I fear that I have contracted something not known to civilized society. For you see, I am a businessman of much success and renown. My wealth allows me to travel in search of adventure and excitement. Three months ago my hobby sent me to the rain forests of Uruguay, where my colleagues and I set up an encampment to observe the remote wildlife of the wondrous country. One afternoon I sat out to explore the wilds on my own, and after venturing deep into the forest I grew hungry. Realizing I had forgotten my rations at the camp, I foolishly ate a strange fruit from a nearby tree. There is no doubt in my mind that this toxic pome was the cause of my strange illness. A week after returning from my expedition the symptoms began. I have spent a fortune attempting to find a cure with no avail. I have accepted my fate, but I beg of you to give me an antidote for my pain so that I may die in peace.”
My repulsion turned to pity as I looked upon the shadow of a man so desperately in need of it. Despite the callous attitude I often portray in regards to my practice as a medical doctor, I must admit that I felt a panging amount of sympathy for patients who suffered from physical disfiguration. Despite his revolting appearance, the man showed no symptoms of being contagious. I motioned him inside as I walked to my medicine cabinet to retrieve laudanum for my terminally ill patient. He limped behind me, and I noticed that the man was very well dressed. His hair was all but gone, and in its place were sebaceous cysts covering the entire scalp. If my service to this poor soul cannot be that which helps him convalesce, I will at least make him comfortable, I thought to myself. I extended out my arm to hand him the bottle, and as I did the dying patient began to shake in a chaotically trenchant manner. With epileptic convulsions he foamed at the mouth and suddenly dropped to the ground. The spasms he experienced shook the house like an earthquake.
A faint buzzing sound became audible over his agonizing and gurgled shrieking. Unsure of what to do I repeated to myself that none of this was real, that I was still in deep slumber at my desk. But no amount of denial could prepare me for what I was about to experience. The buzzing sound grew louder and louder. I witnessed each and every one of the bumps on his body explode, gushing puss and making a sound akin to kettle corn popping over the fire. And from the open wounds flew a legion of flies….
