God May Pity All Weak Hearts
By Daniel I. Russell
Copyright 2013 by Crystal Lake Publishing
Cover Design:
Artwork by Greg Chapman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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God May Pity All Weak Hearts is a selected story from the collection Tricks, Mischief and Mayhem from Crystal Lake Publishing.
About this author:
Australian Shadows Award finalist Daniel I. Russell has been featured publications such as The Zombie Feed from Apex, Pseudopod and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #43. Daniel is also the former vice-president of the Australian Horror Writers' Association and was a special guest editor of Midnight Echo.
Novels by this author:
Samhane
The Collector Book 1: Mana Leak
Come Into Darkness
Critique
Mother’s Boys
God May Pity All Weak Hearts
July 15th 1905.
It was in the carriage that my doubts consumed me, and as the recently lit streetlamps passed by, I could not shake the horrifying images that filled my thoughts. It is said that the husband is the master of the house, and in our modern society this holds true; yet there must always be an exception to the rule, no matter how sagacious the order. Your typical man, and certainly the educated men of science I have spent my career working alongside, would label me foolish for allowing my dear Cora the power to secure our newest lodgings. However, my wife has much more the creative eye, and I raised not a single protest as she began preparations. Rather I spend many an evening in a house of character than the clerical and functional abode I surely would have orchestrated. Yet what terrors could a woman born of the music hall stage inflict on a home? I feared I would be spending my days in an abode fashioned in the style of a lady’s boudoir!
I disembarked a little ways before my destination, choosing to enjoy the balmy summer dusk. The smog of London has lessened since our arrival eight years ago, allowing for pleasurable evening strolls. The street in this quiet suburb still held its activity against the deepening shadow: late workers hurried home for their suppers, and children busied themselves with one last game before heading home to irate mothers.
I approached our newest place of residence, thirty-nine Hilldrop Crescent, just off Camden Road. I stood for a moment, taking in the charm of the house, of which there was very little - much to my approval. My wife had dumbfounded me, as this was no residence set within a community of artists and musicians of which I expected, nor did the walls and windows reflect her grandiose, her larger-than-life disposition. Rather, thirty-nine Hilldrop Crescent appeared a working man’s house that had neither the shine nor sparkle of a diamond, but the modesty and function of a piece of coal.
Carrying my few personal belongings in my case (Cora had used an expensive firm to move the rest of our possessions previously) I stepped through the open wooden gate and up the neat paving stones to the front door, where I gently tapped for fear of disturbing our new neighbours. Cora is not the most attentive of minds. Without a reply I tried to rouse her again, for surely my wife would be enamoured with the idea of showing her husband the fruits of her labours from the threshold.
Without a sound from inside, I ventured to the dark window, but even shielding my eyes from the streetlamps and pushing my face to the glass revealed nothing within the murk. Deflated and unsure that I had, indeed, arrived at the right address, I tried the door a third time to disturb Cora, whom I thought was asleep within.
Startling me, the door swung inwards to reveal a bare hallway that contained the deepest shadows and a staircase, rickety and narrow. I am not one for fanciful stories and the silliness surrounding ghosts and devils and the like, but I will admit my trepidation. Calling for Cora, I stepped inside the house and hastily lit the first of the lamps along the wall. Secured by the golden circle that held the darkness at bay, I dared my feet to carry me to the next lamp and so forth, until the hallway was filled with a cheerful glow. It was from this haven against the shadows that I explored my new home, and sought to discover the whereabouts of my darling wife.
July 16th, 1905.
Regarding relationships, I believe that the mind records events like this diary holds these very words. Of course, any relationship has a beginning: the moment you set eyes on the young woman who is to be your wife, or the first time you set about your duties for a new employer. Even now, I recall with clarity my initial days at Dr. Munyon’s Pharmaceuticals, meeting with the good doctor and enduring his analysis of my character. Munyon sympathised with my annoyance and disappointment that my own qualifications, acquired with highest honours back in the United States, were not to be recognised by the College of Medicine here in England. Yet he offered me employment in the vending and distribution of patent medications. Alas, as previous entries in this diary have stated, my lasting employment with Munyon was not to be, due to the ever-increasing demands put upon my time and finances by my wife’s stage career. Yet I do not hold any ill will towards the good doctor. Some relationships prosper, others wither and die.
My relationship with this house began on a sour note. Last night, having explored the ground floor of this exceedingly mundane abode, and determining that Cora was not to be found in the kitchen, pantry or lounge, I ascended the creaking stairs, warding off the darkness before me with a lamp.
On the second floor, it transpired that my wife was absent, yet her touch on the house was not. While the exterior and ground floor were to my taste, basic and practical, the upper level had succumbed to Cora’s eye and hand. Thick carpet covered the hallway boards, and the walls sported a few framed news clippings of my wife’s performances, regardless of their words (mem. Truth be told to this journal alone, Cora’s vocal talents leave a lot to be desired, and this has been remarked upon in the local press). As I entered the master bedroom, my mouth fell open at the spectacle that met me. In its entirety, the room had been decorated pink!
Shaking my head at this latest absurdity, (for a man of medicine sees not the colour of a delicate rose nor the gentle hue of a sunset, but the glow of a fever or a mix of blood and saliva) I placed my lamp on the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed, which was also adorned with pink sheets, pillows and valance.
It was from there that I noticed the imperfection in the wall opposite. Had Cora sought the advice of a surveyor or architect before signing our names on the lease?
I approached the wall and ran a finger along the crack that ran across the plaster like a Caesarean scar. Adding to my dismay, I saw how the flaw had been recently painted over in the ludicrous pink, only to become opened once more. Even as I continued my examination, more flakes and clumps of plaster fell away beneath my skin and drifted to the floor.
And so with this latest disappointment, I made my toilet and readied for bed, anticipating the late arrival of my wife while I update these pages. It had become apparent that a change of homestead had not changed habit, for Cora must be about town with those of the Music Hall Ladies Guild, and she shall return in the early hours full of merriment and the stench of gin.
I
shall remember the damaged state of the wall for another day, upon which Cora may be of a more sober disposition to discuss such matters.
September 2nd 1905.
It has been just under two months since we relocated to Hilldrop Crescent, and I feel my good spirits are waning. While the faces that pass by the windows are different, as too are the street names and walls and shingles, I know that nothing has changed in the day to day business of my affairs. Gracious! How my words are steeped with indigence.
My work at Drouef’s Institute for the Deaf remains challenging, helping those less fortunate than myself, and I return home on an evening tired yet satisfied, for the aid of others is good for the soul. I also appreciate my time with dear Ethel Le Neve, a young girl who has recently been appointed the post of my assistant. Ethel is quite the English rose among her more brazen species, and attends her duties with efficiency and a silent determination. The young lady has become a dear, dear friend.
Of my wife, I record a diminishing relationship, as I spend less time with Cora and more so that of her stage persona, Belle. Her laughter and joking fills these rooms, and her voluptuous frame dances and sings through the halls and the