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Doctors & Priests
Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with fear as she looked at me. “You look awful,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, struggling to mask her horror. “You’re so pale, like all the blood has drained from your face.” Her worry was palpable, and it unnerved me more than I was willing to admit. I forced a smile, trying to reassure her, but even as I did, my own reflection in the window looked ghostly, almost translucent. I was sick—sick in a way that no simple rest or medicine would cure.
I could feel it, deep in my bones. My skin felt wrong, like it was stretched too tight over muscles that ached as if they didn’t belong to me. My joints throbbed with a dull, relentless pain, and every breath felt foreign, as if my lungs were struggling to remember how to draw in air. I swallowed hard, my voice dry and weak.
“Elizabeth,” I said, my tone strained, “I think I need to see a doctor before we set out. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but something’s wrong. If I collapse on the road or lose consciousness, what then? I don’t want to risk our journey—or my life.”
Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lip, glancing toward the door as if searching for answers in the empty hallway. “One of my friends,” she said slowly, “her husband is a doctor. I could reach out to her and see if he’s available to come here and examine you.”
“Yes,” I said quickly, almost too quickly. The thought of a doctor brought a fragile thread of hope. But as she moved to leave, the hollow ache in my chest swelled, a hunger I couldn’t describe—sharp and endless, gnawing at my insides with a terrible intensity. It was more than just hunger; it was an emptiness, a vast, consuming void.
I tried to lie down, hoping rest would ease the feeling, but my mind refused to quiet. Anxiety clawed at me, and I found myself pacing the room, unable to sit still. Finally, I gave up on sleep and went outside to inspect the horse carriage. Maybe some busywork would help distract me. I ran my hands over the wooden frame, testing for loose boards or rusty bolts.
Then, without warning, pain flared through my right hand. I looked down to see an old, jagged nail had torn a deep gash across my palm, blood welling up in dark, crimson beads. Shocked, I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. The sight of my own blood brought a wave of dizziness, and I bolted for the kitchen, pressing my injured hand to my chest.
I found a cloth and pressed it to the wound, wrapping it tightly to stem the bleeding. But as I cleaned the cut, something bizarre happened. The pain vanished. I pulled the cloth away, expecting to see a ragged, bloody mess—but my hand was whole. The skin was unbroken, not a scratch remained, as if the injury had never happened.
Yet the cloth in my hand was stained with my blood, the proof that I hadn’t imagined it. I stared, disbelieving, my pulse racing. How was this possible? My head swam with confusion, the room tilting slightly as I tried to make sense of it. The legends Elizabeth had mentioned—the stories of vampires and creatures that walked the earth in the dead of night—flashed through my mind. I had always dismissed them as superstitious nonsense. But now, doubt gnawed at me. Was I turning into one of those creatures, becoming something that defied the laws of nature?
The thought chilled me to the core.
Just then, Elizabeth returned, a look of apology on her face. “The doctor is out of town,” she said, shaking her head, “but my friend recommended someone else—a priest. Apparently, he’s well-versed in medicine and knows a great deal about healing.”
“A priest?” I asked, incredulous. My fear must have shown, because she quickly added, “He’s not just a priest. He’s studied remedies and herbal cures. They say he has a gift for understanding ailments of the body.”
I nodded, though the unease had only deepened. Why a priest? What could a holy man possibly know about the strange changes happening within me? But before I could voice my doubts, Elizabeth pressed on, a hint of a smile on her lips as she tried to lighten the mood.
“You should visit him tonight,” she said gently. “At the church, once the sun sets. We wouldn’t want you to burn to a crisp in the daylight, now would we?” She forced a laugh, but I could tell she was just as frightened as I was, masking it with a thin veneer of humor.
I tried to smile back, but the expression felt strained, unnatural. “Alright,” I said, my voice hollow, “I’ll go tonight.”
As she walked away, I watched her retreating figure, my heart heavy with a fear I could not name. There was something dark and sinister growing inside me, something I couldn’t understand. And I was no longer certain if any doctor—priest or not—would have the answers I so desperately needed.