Of Monsters and Madness

Preface

M
y breath is quick. It abandons me, then rushes back so fiercely I fear I’m going to faint. The horrors—such horrors!—lie before me.

Blood is everywhere. Splashed on the walls and spilled across the floor. The scent, heavy upon the air, is like a fog that rises up early in the morning. Loops of glistening flesh are strung out upon a table, and in the middle of it all is a single lock of hair. Dark. Curled. Obscene in its loveliness amongst such carnage. I cannot comprehend that such a horrible act has been
committed upon someone, and I close my eyes to say a silent prayer for their soul.

I’ve been witness to grim scenes as Mother’s assistant, but nothing could prepare me for this. Only moments ago, this poor person was alive. And now …

A sound comes from behind me. I whirl around, and Edgar steps out of the shadows. “Do you like it?” he purrs. “The small intestine stretches quite far. It is remarkable.”

“You did this?”

At his nod, I put one hand up to cover my mouth. Bile rises in the back of my throat and nausea threatens to overcome me. “Why …?”

“To show you that I keep my word. If you deny my request, this will be Cook next. Carved upon my table like a Christmas ham. Or perhaps Johanna.”

I take a step back and stumble. “I tried to find Father … to speak with him.… But he’s gone out of town and has not yet returned.”

Voices come from outside the room, and Edgar springs into action, pushing the door shut behind me, and shoving me backward. Curling his fingers into the collar of my cloak, he holds me up against the wall. My feet barely brush the floor.

“It’s my best work yet,” Edgar says. “Although rather messy.” His voice, low in my ear, is taunting. “Don’t you think?”

My heart thumps, and I silently beg him to let me go. To erase this horror from my mad, feverish brain. To let this torment finally come to an end.

His leg is pressed against mine and I feel the heat of his body singeing me through my dress. He pulls back to study me, cocking his head to one side, and I do what I should have done from the moment he first laid his hands upon me—I struggle.

But Edgar holds me tight. He dips his head, and his mouth is dangerously close to my throat. He pushes aside my scarf and I cry out.

And then, suddenly, he lets me go.

Blindly, I stumble away from him. With one hand against the wall, I feel my way toward the door. If I can only be free of this room, away from this house, I know I will be safe.

“Annabel,” he calls out, and something in his voice gives me pause. “Do not forget your promise.”

One

P
HİLADELPHİA
, 1826

T
he carriage is late. My dress is torn. And the rumbling clouds overhead threaten a storm at any moment. Glancing anxiously at the gathering darkness, I pull the edges of my linen scarf closer around my neck. Although the dress I’m wearing is new, the scarf is old. A family heirloom passed down from Mother. I never take it off.