Jim Horlock
The antique gravy boat of the Du Pont family was widely renowned and certain to be the centrepiece of any of their parties. The Byrd family had their crystal chandelier, the Pratts had their ornate goose sculpture, and the Oglethorpes insisted on a walk through their portrait gallery after every meal, but for the Du Ponts, the gravy boat was the crown jewel.
It had taken many years of hard work and harder socialising to secure myself an invite to a Du Pont dinner party. Imagine my excitement when, finally, I took my seat and found myself within reach of that majestic vessel, resplendent in silver and mother of pearl. It was a sign of respect, I told myself, a sign of acceptance.
Imagine my horror when I saw something move beneath the surface of the gravy.
Of course, first I questioned my sanity. Such a thing could not be possible. But when I caught the movement again, I knew it was real. The question became how was such a thing possible? Had some servant slipped a worm or other foul creature into the gravy boat as part of some rebellious scheme? Had Magenta Oglethorpe orchestrated this? An avaricious old dowager, she had long held a not-so-secret scorn for the Du Ponts over a marriage proposal that went unfulfilled.
I scrutinised her while nodding along with the conversation, but she seemed none the wiser, her attention focused on Reginald Byrd, three years a widower and quite eligible.
The gravy boat stirred again, and this time the action was enough to rattle it slightly on the tabletop. I looked down at it in horror, then up into the eyes of Helena Du Pont, youngest daughter of the family, who was opposite me. She looked just as horrified. The glance reaffirmed two hard truths between us: firstly, we had both seen it, and, secondly, that we would each rather die than be the one to point it out. On all of Earth and across the heavens there was no wrath known like that of Lord Montgomery Du Pont.
I shot a glance at the head of the table, to where the grizzled old patriarch sat, monocle gleaming around his eagle-eyed glare. Montgomery Du Pont had singlehandedly wrought the ruin of the Montfort family after Ermine Montfort made the fatal error of clinking a teacup with his spoon while stirring. The last I’d heard, the Montforts were begging for money on the streets of Paris.
I averted my eyes quickly, before that piercing gaze fell on me. I could not risk bringing my own family, and the meagre wealth we’d scraped together, under the hammer of Montgomery Du Pont.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Monty!” Cornelius Pratt slapped his great round belly. He was the only person who could get away with applying a nickname to Lord Du Pont. They’d served in the war together, in some dark uncivilised part of the world, though which war and where exactly were unclear. The sword from the alleged conflict still hung over the fireplace. Pratt still wore his medals at every opportunity.
Lord Du Pont merely nodded. The suggestion that one of his dinners would be anything less than spectacular was unthinkable.
“The finest foie gras I’ve ever tasted,” I added, then immediately realised my mistake as Magenta Oglethorpe shot a glare my way. She’d served foie gras at her party the previous month.
The gravy boat rattled again. Working overtime, my mind began to convince me that, as the newest invitee to this prestigious circle, I would be blamed if whatever was lurking within the rich brown liquid was discovered.
My brow began to sweat. Visions of destitution played across my mind. I caught my face in the reflection of the gravy boat, and wiped the sweat away.
“I see you’ve spotted the gravy boat, young Abernathy,” Cornelius chuckled. “What do you make of it, eh?”
My throat went dry. The question was a knife and the answer balanced on the edge. Too much of a compliment would seem fawning, but too little would seem dismissive. I felt the eye of Lord Du Pont on me.
“Resplendent.” I tried not to sound terrified. “So beautiful it’s almost a shame to use it.”
My answer hung in the air. The attention of the others turned from me to Montgomery, awaiting judgement.
“All things should have uses,” grunted Montgomery. “I cannot abide a useless thing. Taskless beauty is a parasite, that feeds and feeds and contributes nothing of value.”
Just for a moment, his gaze swept over Magenta Oglethorpe, who paled beneath her rouge. This was how it was amongst these people. Grievous wounds were inflicted just as often via unsaid words and subtle glances, than by outright slights.
“Here, here!” Reginald Byrd saw the opportunity to cleave to the sentiment, and earn himself some favour with Du Pont, unknowingly distancing himself from the dowager in the same breath. It was impossible to be ally to both.
“Bring out the next course!” Pratt boomed. “Before young Abernathy wastes away!”
He laughed at his own joke, and I forced myself to join in. A crack at my weight was a crack at my wealth, a reminder that I might sit at the table, but I was still a small fish in this pond. I had no choice but to endure it. In any case, I was far more worried about the contents of the gravy boat than the jibes of my betters. Was the creature growing agitated? The turbulence certainly seemed to have increased. I hoped one of the servers would notice it and remove it discreetly, but they simply laid the next course out on the table and vanished again without a word.
Rain lashed the windows as the other guests raised gleaming silverware and began to eat.
I’d cut only partway into my pie when the knife struck upon something hard. I paused. There was no way to explore my way through pastry and meat without looking like a savage. While the other guests were busying themselves with their own plates, I was sure all peripheral vision was directed my way. I glanced at Helena. Did she give me an almost imperceptible shake of the head? Was it a warning? Or did I imagine it?
I jabbed at the unyielding mass once more, but it had the consistency of a pebble and would not budge. Once again, paranoia nudged at me. Had it been placed in my pie intentionally? Was this a game by Du Pont or Oglethorpe or one of the others?
I had no choice. To dissect the pie was unthinkable and to leave a morsel behind might cause grave insult. I was going to have to eat it.
I raised the fork to my mouth and was thankful the object was small at least. I thought of Emily, and her doctor who needed to be paid. I thought of Michael, who was innocent but would need a good lawyer to prove it. I thought of Father, who didn’t try hard enough and died a pauper, nearly dooming the rest of us. I wouldn’t fail them like he had.
I forbade my curious tongue from probing the mouthful and swallowed.
It was then I realised Du Pont was watching me. I’d never seen him smile before. It was an ill look.
A bang and clatter from the hallway made me jump. Someone out there screamed. My first instinct was to rise from the table and investigate, but the other guests carried on like they hadn’t heard anything. I forced myself not to fluster. One did not leave one’s seat until dinner was concluded. Whatever was happening out there was a problem for the serving staff.
“A fine pie,” Byrd mumbled, dapping at his lips with a napkin. He twitched a little and gripped his stomach, as a roiling sound came from within. I pretended not to notice, but he had taken on a grey look. Was there something in his pie too? What was the game here and who was in on it?
Another thud and more screaming from the corridors beyond the dining room, muffled by the heavy shut door. Du Pont looked around the table, as though waiting for any of us to make a comment so that he might have the pleasure of verbally skewering us. Rain battered the windows, and we sat in silence, not meeting his eyes.
I jumped again as the door opened, and serving staff came to clear our plates. They looked pale and sweaty, rigid in their movements, as though trying not to give anything away. I couldn’t resist the urge to glance into the hall. Was there a strange mark on the carpet that hadn’t been there before? It looked dark and wet.
The next course was more substantial than the last. Plates piled high with creamy potatoes, roasted vegetables and a great stuffed bird. Before the meal, I’d been worried about finding room for the infamous many-course meals of Lord Du Pont, but I found myself suddenly ravenous. Byrd certainly wasn’t holding back. He barely held on long enough for propriety before he started cramming food into his mouth.
With horror, I watched him pour from the gravy boat, any minute expecting to see some squirming creature fall onto his plate, but there was nothing.
“Good appetite, that man!” Cornelius Pratt boomed with a laugh, before tucking in himself.
I exercised all the restraint I could, determined not to make a spectacle of myself through gluttony, despite the demands of my stomach.
Byrd was only halfway done with his plate when a sudden convulsion wracked him, sending silverware clattering to the floor.
“Good lord!” Pratt exclaimed, as Byrd shoved himself up from the table, tipping his wine glass over.
“Well, I never.” Oglethorpe turned away from the scene, as Byrd’s body rocked wildly, sending him staggering left and right about the room. His belly was swollen like a balloon, buttons popping as it continued to grow. It hung from his body like a fat raindrop on the lip of a sill, fed by more water until it could hold itself no longer.
Byrd’s stomach burst with a faint pop, showering the carpet with entrails. He slumped down the wall, one leg still kicking. He hadn’t even had time to scream.
I stared numbly, feeling like all the blood had fled my brain. I turned to the rest of the table, expecting to see horror, to see serving staff rushing for a doctor. Instead, I met the cool gaze of Montgomery Du Pont.
Cornelius Pratt tutted and helped himself to more potatoes. Magenta Oglethorpe shook her head in disapproval and muttered, “For shame.” Helena Du Pont merely looked sad.
I opened my mouth to insist that, surely, someone must do something.
“Please do accept my apologies,” Lord Du Pont said, catching me off guard. “Mr. Byrd’s behaviour is quite unacceptable for such fine company. Rest assured, he will not be invited again. There’s no room at my table for those without manners.”
I thought of Emily. I thought of Michael. I thought of Father.
I closed my mouth.
“Madness,” I told myself, internally. “This is madness.”
I ignored the voice, and the smell of Byrd’s ruptured intestines, and continued to eat. That ravenous feeling lingered, despite all odds, but still I held my restraint.
“I hope it hasn’t ruined your appetite.” Lord Du Pont’s smile was like a gangrenous wound. “Here, fill Mr. Abernathy’s plate for him.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you,” I said. “But not necessary. I don’t want to appear the glutton.”
“Nonsense.” Du Pont’s words were cold iron. “If you don’t accept my hospitality, I’m afraid I’ll be quite insulted. Eat.”
There was no choice. Whatever macabre game this was, I was stuck in it. I had to keep playing to the end, for my family’s sake. One set of rules, at least, was clear: breach Du Pont’s protocols, and die.
“Most gracious.” I bowed my head to the maniac at the head of the table and prayed he wouldn’t kill me.
I lifted a fork to my mouth, but a noise cut terror through my tendons and stopped me dead. In slow horror, I turned to where Byrd lay.
He was still eating, blood-soaked hands picking through his own viscera for pre-digested morsels. He smacked his lips and moaned as he chewed and swallowed.
I should have been revolted to the point of vomiting or terrified beyond reason. Instead, I felt only hunger. It gripped my guts like an iron hand and turned me back to my plate. Resisting the urge to eat was a Herculean feat. What was happening to me?
“Gravy for Mr. Abernathy.” Du Pont’s eyes were intense. I could feel them in my periphery but didn’t dare turn to look. A servant reached out to pour gravy onto my plate. There was blood spattered on his sleeve. I realised the other servants had taken positions, one behind each of us. Their faces were set and grim.
Helena caught my eye, moving her lips just enough for me to glean the words she couldn’t say out loud.
“It’s not gravy.”
There was a thump as Du Pont’s fist slammed down onto the tabletop, rattling cutlery.
“Since you seem so determined to spoil the evening, daughter,” he seethed at Helena, “we shall have to skip to the next phase.”
While we stared in shock at this outburst, he began to unbutton his shirt. Only Pratt continued to eat, as though nothing were amiss. I glanced at Byrd but it seemed he’d finally expired. His hunger beyond death had only lasted so long. He lay there, mouth hanging open and full of his own guts.
“A shame,” Du Pont continued. “I was looking forward to seeing what became of Abernathy as the hunger gripped him. Cornelius lasted several days but you appear of weaker constitution to me.”
Pratt chuckled and patted his belly. “Never underestimate a man of appetite, I say.”
“What is this?” I broke, finally. “Why is this happening?”
“We found it overseas during the war,” Du Pont explained. “No idea the provenance of the thing but I became transfixed by it. The locals seemed to worship it. I couldn’t bear to leave it behind.”
“Had to kill the lot of them to get it,” Pratt put in. “Nasty little blighters wouldn’t give it up, you see? Can hardly blame them, I suppose. There’s a fascination that grows in you when you’re around it.”
“It bonded to me quite quickly but, I suppose, I’ve always been an attractor of parasites.” Du Pont looked about the table with hateful eyes. His shirt fell open and I couldn’t help but gasp. The flesh of his chest and ribs was blackened, as though he’d been trampled by a horse.
And it was moving.
“Don’t worry.” Du Pont smiled. “You’ll be useful too. As food, or as new hosts.”
Pratt leant back and patted his swollen belly. “The latter for me. Of course, unlike Byrd there, my belly is made of sterner stuff. How do you suppose yours will hold, Abernathy?”
“Mine is just fine,” Magenta Oglethorpe offered.
“Evidently not,” Du Pont snarled. “You’ve eaten plenty this evening, but the worms haven’t taken to you at all. They never have. Time and again, you prove less useful than I imagined. You’re out of chances. This will be your last dinner on my dime, Magenta.”
Her eyes went wide as she realised the danger she was in. She rose from her seat, preparing to make a dash for the exit. I expected the servants to stop her but it was Du Pont himself that moved. His body jerked upright, spine going rigid, and several long worm-like tendrils erupted bloodlessly from his chest. In my horror, I caught a glimpse of the wounds they made and the flesh beyond it. The inside of Lord Du Pont was a husk, a dried-out cave of squirming dark things.
Those that extended themselves from him whipped across the room and buried themselves in the body of Magenta Oglethorpe with such force that she was lifted from the ground and pinned against the wall. Before she could scream, one of them tore its way up her throat and out through her mouth.
“Guests shouldn’t rise from the table until the meal is done,” chided Du Pont.
“Bad manners,” grunted Pratt.
“First Mr. Byrd and now Magenta Oglethorpe.” Du Pont shook his head. “I cannot abide bad manners nor a useless thing.” He turned his attention to his butler. “How many of the new staff did we lose, Wilson?”
“All of them, sir,” the sallow-faced man responded. “It seems none could resist the gravy. We’ll have the mess cleaned up immediately, and the bodies taken below.”
“Excellent. I think that concludes this meal. Abernathy still hasn’t had any gravy but I’ve run out of patience. Take him below as well.”
Before I could ask what that meant, or make any plan of escape, something heavy hit the back of my head and sent me toppling into unconsciousness.
* * *
The hunger was what woke me. A terrible gripping, twisting sensation, deep in the gut. A fierce need, a desperate emptiness. I lunged into waking, flailing about as my senses bombarded me. Hungry. Cold. Wet. Hungry. Dark. Hungry. Hungry.
I was in a cave, some waterlogged coal-black cavern. I had to guess it was beneath Du Pont’s manor. The space was huge, bigger than the house itself. At its centre, gleaming in the light of hundreds of candles, was an enormous jagged obelisk of black stone. Surrounding that structure were piles of bodies, placed in the shallow water. Their bellies, like Byrd’s, were ruptured open from within. By their clothes I guessed they were Du Pont’s staff. As my eyes grew more used to the gloom, I realised there were older bodies there too, decaying in the water. Ermine Montfort and his wife. The Arnauts. Others were too destroyed to recognise but I imagined every family that had ever displeased Montgomery Du Pont had been brought here.
Worse than the cave or the dread obelisk or the corpses, however, was the hunger. It was so intense that I caught myself moving towards those poor lost souls without thinking. Disgust filled me at the idea of what I might do if I got close enough.
I flinched at a sound behind me, and wheeled around, expecting danger. A line of Du Pont’s still-living staff approached, but they ignored me in favour of the obelisk. Their movements were slow, reverent almost, as they neared it. Behind them, I saw a set of stone steps leading to a door. An escape. I could still get out.
Helena stood there, looking sad and broken. I caught her eye and thought to call for help, but she turned away immediately. She knew all along what my fate was to be. She’d tried to warn me. It was too late.
I took one step before the hunger turned me right back towards the bodies.
“No,” I whimpered, tears of effort streaming down my face as I knelt down in the water.
“It’s no good, lad.” Pratt was hunched nearby. I hadn’t noticed him behind the piled-up bodies. His mouth was smeared with blood. “You didn’t have the gravy, but the eggs are still inside you. The hunger has you now. It’ll never let you go.”
“What is this? What’s happening to me?”
“You’ve always been a parasite,” Du Pont called out. He emerged from behind the obelisk. “I’ve always been a host. Might as well embrace the truth of it. Let the milking begin.”
The servants surrounded the obelisk, pressing their bodies against it, feeling it with their hands. In no time at all, dark brown beads of liquid formed on the surface, and I knew at once it was what had been served in the gravy boat.
“Better to drink it, lad,” Pratt said. “You might be lucky and end up like Monty, or me. They live in some of us, so long as we keep them fed. They eat the rest.”
The cold water lapping at my thighs warmed as the dark liquid began to run in rivulets down the pillar. In those last moments, I should have been thinking of Emily or Michael, or even my father. I should have forgiven him in my heart for trying to keep me away from all this. Instead, all I could think about was the crippling pain in my gut, the terrible endless hunger. It was Hell, and there was only one salvation.
I cupped my hands into the liquid, then raised them to my lips.