Necrophobia is a steampunk murder mystery novella, where in a detective, Lysander Voltaire and his
wife, Amelia Cornish-Voltaire solve a case of theatrically murdered girls connected to a
mysterious asylum doctor.
A man stands in an empty corner of space. The sky is a plate of shattered glasses, little pieces of broken mirrors dangle from the sky by translucent filaments. There is a light breeze that wafts by and the dangling pieces of glass ring like wind chimes. He gazes at the landscape
with a blank expression, as though he has no idea what to do. The wind picks up, blowing his silver hair back into his face. He walks barefoot over piles of broken glass, cutting him up and leaving a trail of blood behind him. He does not wince in pain.
Before him, is a crowd of young women, all wearing white dressing gowns and torn stockings. They are dead, in varying states of decay and mutilation. They glare at him as though he was not only their worst enemy, but the very reason of their death. Yet, he does not recognize any of their faces. He runs away from them, but their voices echo behind him. They shouted after him.
"You can't run from what is already inside you!"
"You can not kill what can not die."
"You will repay us in your blood!"
Vines reached down from the broken sky and wrapped around his arms and legs. Thorns cut into his skin and smeared blood all over his skin and shredded up his clothing. The girls are still shouting at him.
"All of us vow our revenge on you, Lysander Voltaire!"
This is the last thing he remembers as the vines clamp down and cut him into pieces. His head hits the ground with a thump.
"Lysander, Lysander!" shouts another woman.
Lysander opens his eyes and sees his wife looking down at him with concerned, bright green eyes. Above her is the red velvet fabric of their massive bed's canopy. His head is laid against a silk pillow case trimmed in fine, tatted lace.
"What is it, Amelia?" he asked her.
"You were having another one of your nightmares again," she said. Her voice seemed less concerned now, she turned over to her own side of the bed and poured herself a glass of
water from a glass pitcher that stood on her nightstand.
"Oh, right. Sorry for that," Lysander apologized.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he could still hear the sound of glass crunching beneath his torn up feet.