Vicotria

My condition had drastically improved since the previous night, the agony and feverish delusions slowly ebbing away. With my newfound energy, I arose to go for an ambling walk to inquire after Elizabeth’s wellbeing. Yet, as I navigated the vast hospital hallways, I found myself at the doorway of my sister’s ward. Upon entry, my eyes homed in on the sight of a tall figure, standing over my sister’s now lifeless corpse, his hands stained with the dark crimson of her blood, seeping out of her chest. Her final moments of peaceful slumber still etched on her face like a mask.

I screamed.

The figure snapped towards me, and the blood drained out of my face as I made out the face of the killer…

Henry

I was sifting through dusty old chests and boxes in the attic looking for my mother’s old necklace as per her request, when a frayed sketch caught my attention. The cursive handwriting on the bottom right corner, now barely legible, read the words “Alistair Holstekov”, dated October 1847. The ominous moonlight seeped in and filled the wooden plank floor around me, piercing through the gatherings of dust that were pasted to the windows. The rustic frame around the windowpanes were starting to corrode, and the brownish-orange hue of the steel was illuminated by the gentle glow of the oil lamp, which itself, peacefully illuminated the small attic with a soft warm light.

I reached for the photo and then promptly turned and ran to get mother, curiosity overtaking me as I clutched the picture in my left hand. I found mother in her rocking chair in the corner of the sitting room, her eyes glossed over as if she was lost in thought.

I followed her gaze and I too found myself looking at the abandoned hospital that sat idle on the border of our land, surrounded by a rusting mesh fence and overgrown shrubbery. The decrepit and veiny looking branches and vines were shooting off the trees around the old building, as nature was claiming back its territory once again. I turned to mama and brought her back to the present. She looked back to meet my eyes with a weary look of dread plastered along her face.

“I found this in the attic while I was looking for your old necklace, I saw he had our last name. Who is he…”

My voice trailed off as I saw her expression. Her mouth was frozen with a subtle gasp and her eyes wide with shock. She outstretched her slightly wrinkled hand and pulled the photo closer to her. She was in disbelief, I could tell.

“Mama, who is he?”

Silence. The air fell still in the room as time seemed to stop for a moment.

“Dad…”

Despite the silence in the room, her whisper was barely audible. Her expression was unchanged as she muttered out the words.

“Is that… is that my grandfather?”

My eyes grazed over the drawing, looking at it from a whole new perspective.

“Yes… I haven’t seen that photo in years…” She gestured towards the seat beside her. “He was murdered, you know.”

My brow furrowed as I sat down, silently gesturing her to keep going with a slight tilt of my head. A wave of pain washed over her eyes as she opened her mouth and began to speak.

“It was a homicide, a terrible murder, that has haunted this country for years. It was a violent act of inhumanity. Your grandfather was the private doctor of President Lincoln at the time, and he was at the hospital working when it happened. It was one particularly quiet Sunday morning, and he minded President Lincoln’s daughters, Victoria and Elizabeth, as he had diagnosed them with a terrible illness. I was too young at the time to recall what sickness it was.”

She shook her head and narrowed her eyes, almost as if trying to remember a distant memory, one that had been long forgotten.

 “I don’t know much, nobody really does, but the detective’s best guess was that an opposing candidate to President Lincoln sent in a hired assassin to take out his daughters in order to keep him distracted. A triple homicide. It was an extraordinarily unlucky circumstance as your grandfather was found dead in the room alongside the girls. Unfortunately, for him, he was in their room when the killing unfolded and consequently got murdered. It’s rumoured that the spirits of the deceased still lurk in the hallways and grounds, long after its dilapidation. That is, if you believe such tales.”

She abruptly left the sitting room, leaving me staring at the hospital, drowning in a pool of my own thoughts.