Lambs' Blood E-Book

Bea Eschen

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 159

Beschreibung

Amid a plague-stricken Berlin in 2032, two teenage siblings, Hans and Ellen Andernbach, uncover a haunting family secret. Locked down in their ancestral mansion, the Andernbachs navigate a world ravaged by a mutated bubonic plague, where desperation and scientific hubris intertwine. A mysterious crack in the cellar wall leads Hans and Ellen to a hidden diary belonging to Henrietta Haller, a 19th-century nurse. The diary recounts chilling experiments involving lamb blood transfusions during her career and unveils a legacy of dark secrets, forbidden practices, and moral dilemmas. As they delve deeper into Henrietta's world, they discover ties to their own lineage, culminating in the shocking revelation of an infant buried within their home. While the siblings grapple with the weight of their discovery, the shadows of the past bleed into the present, threatening their family’s stability and forcing them to confront humanity's enduring desperation for survival. "Lambs' Blood" is a gripping tale of medical ethics, familial bonds, and the timeless consequences of playing God.

Leseprobe

LAMBS’ BLOOD

BEA ESCHEN

Copyright © 2025 Bea Eschen

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printing and distribution on behalf of the author: tredition GmbH, An der Strusbek 10, 22926 Ahrensburg, Germany

FOREWORD

This is a fictitious work. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the result of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Hans' gaze was drawn to the figure of the sick man outside, shuffling forward with fierce determination despite his obvious agony. As he approached the barred cellar window of the Andernbach mansion, he moved as if driven by some unseen force. Suddenly, he raised his head and, with a wild, defiant stare, he chopped up a lump of bloody phlegm and hurled it at the cold iron bars. The sticky, reddish mass splattered on impact, some of it trickling slowly down the narrow sill, leaving a grim stain, while the rest clung grotesquely to the bars like an eerie testament to his failing health.

Instinctively, Hans flinched, shrinking away from the dirty glass, retreating into the murky shadows of the cellar. But he couldn't quite shake the strange magnetism of the morbid scene; there was something both pitiful and unnervingly hostile about the man's appearance.

Ellen, who had been lounging nearby, climbed the two steps to the window. She leaned in for a closer look and wrinkled her nose at the sight. ‘Wow, that's absolutely disgusting!’ she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of disgust and disbelief.

Hans grinned, a wry look crossing his face. ‘Let's hope it rains soon,’ he quipped.

The man had retreated a few steps, but couldn't resist making one last disgusting gesture. With an agonised whimper, he stretched out his bony fingers in a twisted mockery of farewell. His bloodshot tongue stuck out, limp and discoloured, as if teasing the siblings from the other side of his grim reality.

Ellen shivered and looked at her brother. ‘Why does he despise us? It's not like he can even see us in here... just vague shapes in the shadows.’

Hans sighed, a glimmer of sympathy mixing with his own unease as he watched the man stagger away. ‘He's beyond saving, Ellen. Lost in his own darkness. He hates everything and everyone. It's as if he's already halfway out of this world, just waiting for his body to give out.’

As the siblings pondered the tragic remnants of humanity in the man outside, an even darker truth gnawed at them. The year was 2032, and Europe was crippled by the resurgence of a plague long thought to be vanquished. Bubonic plague, once the terror of medieval Europe, had returned with relentless ferocity, spread by the bacterium Yersinia pestis, now mutated and immune to conventional antibiotics. Laboratories raced against time to produce alternative treatments - immunotherapies, oxygenated fluids, anything to halt the disease's brutal progress. But each new attempt at relief brought only a temporary respite. Most victims endured a long and agonising decline before succumbing to the disease.

Despair gripped Europe as cities fell silent under strict quarantine, once-bustling streets emptied, and hope gave way to fear. Graveyards overflowed, and rows of urns containing the remains of plague victims piled up in remote forest sanctuaries. The few who still believed in science clung to the hope of a vaccine, but efforts were still in their infancy. For many, survival now seemed a matter of chance, an act of faith in whatever forces might still offer protection.

In Berlin, the Andernbach family, who had once enjoyed a life of comfort and security, found themselves trapped in the isolation of their elegant 18th century mansion. What had once been a symbol of freedom, with its grand rooms and high ceilings, now closed in on them like a gilded cage, its vastness becoming a satire of freedom. Their vast garden, once the pride of the estate with its flowering shrubs and ancient trees, had become wild and untamed, an echo of the chaos that reigned beyond its walls. The tall windows of the villa, which once framed vibrant scenes of city life, now revealed only the quiet, desolate streets of a disease-ridden Berlin, where a deadly breeze whispered through empty squares and boulevards.

For Ellen and Hans, solace could only be found in the basement—a dimly lit refuge they had transformed into their own secluded world. Here, amidst old storage boxes and their makeshift comforts, they buried themselves in schoolwork on their electronic devices, listened to music and allowed themselves occasional glimpses of the outside world, checking the window for food deliveries or any sign of movement beyond the bars. This basement, once nothing more than a place for forgotten things, had become a sanctuary where they could briefly shut out the bleakness of the world above.

Upstairs, their parents struggled with the relentless demands of their jobs, confined to endless online meetings in a fragile attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Coffee cups lined their desks as they worked, but the tension in the house was palpable, a quiet desperation hanging over every interaction, every muffled sound from the rooms above. Downstairs, the siblings clung to each other, retreating into their shared world where, for a few moments, the horrors outside could be forgotten.

But the truth remained: outside, a darkness deeper than any personal misery was tightening its grip on humanity, spreading like a shadow across the globe, relentless and unstoppable.

Ellen couldn't shake the sick man's unsettling display. She took it as an omen, a dark sign that gnawed at her thoughts, as if whispering a message only she could hear. Even as a child, Ellen had been an intense thinker, always probing beneath the surface of things, questioning what others took for granted. She would spend hours lost in her own mind, analysing the smallest details, seeing patterns and implications that most people overlooked - or chose to ignore.

It was a habit that set her apart from her peers, especially in those fleeting days before schools closed their doors and learning moved online. By then she'd gained a reputation for her constant, probing questions, a tendency that made others uncomfortable. Ellen didn't shy away from difficult subjects; she almost gravitated towards them, stirring up truths and confronting realities that most people found too dark or uncomfortable. Sometimes, as she spoke, she'd catch the shifting unease on her classmates' faces, their quick glances as if she'd broken some unspoken rule. Some even whispered that she was arrogant or just too intense. But Ellen was unfazed. To her, the pursuit of truth was worth more than the shallow camaraderie of fitting in.

Hans, her younger brother by one year, was different. He didn't share her deep curiosity, nor her need to question and analyse every shadow, every whisper of meaning. Hans was spirited and quick to laugh, easily excited by things Ellen found simple, sometimes even childish. He had a way of cutting through Ellen's complex thoughts with simple answers that both amused and frustrated her. While Ellen saw the world in countless shades of grey, Hans was content with black and white, the simplicity of clear boundaries and straightforward answers.

And yet, for all their differences, Hans was the only one who really listened to her. He might not understand all her theories, or share her relentless drive to analyse the world, but he had a patience and an openness that made Ellen feel less alone. Hans sat with her, nodding along, his gaze steady even when her words flew past his comprehension. In him, Ellen found an ally—a rare soul who respected her for who she was, even if he couldn't quite keep up with her thoughts. In those instances, when he dismissed her insights with a laugh or a playful jab, Ellen felt a pang of loneliness, a sense that her inner world was too vast and too dark for anyone else to truly enter. Hans's company softened the edges of her isolation, but he couldn't always bridge the gap. Still, Ellen valued his presence; he was a grounding force, a reminder that even in a world as dark and uncertain as theirs, there were connections that mattered.

As they huddled in the cellar, the silence beyond their walls spoke of the end of days. To Ellen, the sick man's ominous display felt like a sign—a warning of worse to come. And though she tried to dismiss the dark feeling that stirred within her, she knew deep down that it was only a matter of time before the world outside would demand a reckoning.

As Ellen had half expected, two days after the incident with the mysterious ailing man, something extraordinary happened.

As Hans entered the cosy basement room, he stopped abruptly at the sight of an unusual crack in one of the walls. This wall looked very different from the other rough stone surfaces of the cellar. Unlike the uneven stonework that defined the place, this wall was smoother, almost modern, and made of a strange, unfamiliar material that didn't seem to belong. The crack itself stretched across a small area like a jagged wound, hinting at something hidden beneath the surface.

Unable to resist, Hans moved closer and ran his fingers along the crack. As he did so, small patches of plaster began to crumble away. He looked up at Ellen, his curiosity piqued. ‘Did we have an earthquake or something?’ he asked, his expression questioning as he examined the crack.

Ellen frowned, momentarily distracted from her phone. ‘Not that I've heard of. Why?’

Hans ran his fingers along the crack again, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. ‘This must be new. It wasn't here yesterday.’

As he poked and tapped, more of the plaster came away, revealing patches of the wall beneath. With a sudden burst of excitement he said, ‘I'll get some tools.’ Before Ellen could object, he disappeared down the basement steps.

For weeks, a heavy boredom had weighed on the siblings, stifling their spirits. But now the thrill of discovery was unmistakable. Ellen called after him, ‘Are you really going to open it?’

A few moments later, Hans returned, a torch in one hand and a large screwdriver in the other. ‘Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do,’ he replied, his eyes bright with excitement. ’Something's back there - I can sense it.’

His enthusiasm was infectious. Ellen put the phone down, her own eyes bright with intrigue. ‘All right,’ she said, stepping beside him, ‘let's get to the bottom of this.’

Hans positioned the screwdriver against the wall and tapped hard, each blow loosening chunks of plaster that fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. Slowly they inched closer to whatever was hidden behind the wall, the anticipation building. Then he stopped abruptly.

‘What is it?’ Ellen asked, unable to take her eyes off the crumbling wall.

Hans tapped the tip of the screwdriver gently against the wall. ‘Listen - there's an empty space behind here,’ he whispered, his voice full of awe. For a moment they stood in silence, a shared ecstasy hanging in the air. Then Ellen urged him on. ‘Keep going! We need to see what's in there!’

With renewed vigour, Hans pounded at the wall again, his blows more powerful as he chipped away at the barrier. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he created a small opening large enough to peer through. Leaning forward, he aimed the torch through the hole, his eyes widening as he gasped. ‘Ellen... you need to see this. It's a... a book!’

Ellen's heart skipped a beat. She quickly shoved her brother aside, her own eagerness taking over as she pressed her face to the opening and peered into the hidden hollow. There, covered in decades of dust and untouched by light, lay a book - its faded cover weathered by time, but unmistakably intact.

She turned to Hans, barely able to find words in her astonishment. ‘You are right. There really is a book in there!’

The siblings stood still, their hearts pounding as they absorbed the significance of their discovery. In that silent cellar, the dust and dim light mingled, enveloping the moment in a sense of the profound. Their boredom vanished completely, replaced by a tingling anticipation. The air around them felt charged, thick with the promise of a secret long hidden, just waiting for them to uncover it.

Hans reached for the old book. Its spine resisted, as if reluctant to let go of the past. He gave it a few strong tugs and finally it came loose with a muffled crack. A thick layer of dust covered the cover, as if it had been preserved under a shroud. Hans brushed his fingers carefully over the dirt, and as he did so, elegant writing began to appear in delicate, flowing strokes.

Henrietta Haller

The name glimmered faintly under his fingers. Beneath it, just barely visible, was another word, scrawled in a small, unassuming hand:

Private

The single word carried a certain weight, a silent warning to those who dared to look further. Ellen's pulse quickened, an inexplicable unease stirring within her. The dim cellar seemed to grow quieter, as if holding its breath.

‘Do you think... we should respect it?’ she whispered, barely loud enough to break the silence, afraid to disturb whatever secrets the past might hold.

Hans didn't take his eyes off the name. After a brief pause, he gave his sister a mischievous look. ‘I don't think we should,’ he said with a grin that hid his own nerves. And with that, he pried open the lid, the brittle leather cracking faintly as it hadn't been touched in decades.

Inside, the date 1864 was written in exquisite calligraphy, each letter an elaborate, practised stroke that spoke of a time when writing was as much an art as a skill. Ellen ran her eyes over the curves, the way the ink met the page with delicate purpose. No doubt the writer, Henrietta herself, had intended this discovery to be a momentous occasion, even a hundred and sixty eight years later.

Hans slowly turned the page, revealing the first line. In bold, assertive ink, it read:

Where in the world should all the lambs be from?

The siblings stared at the words, confusion mixing with curiosity. What could that mean?

‘Lambs?’ Ellen repeated, her eyebrows furrowing, almost expecting the book to answer.

Hans adjusted the angle of the book to catch more light as he lowered himself onto the first step of the stone staircase. Silently, Ellen joined him and together they leaned over the open pages. Hans carefully laid the book across their knees so that they could read the fine script together.

The world around them faded; the faint murmur of their parents upstairs became a distant hum as they lost themselves in Henrietta's words, an unbroken time capsule of thoughts, memories and secrets from another century.

They turned the page again, their eyes scanning the elegantly written lines in perfect unison. With each sentence, they were drawn deeper into Henrietta's story - a story that hinted at hidden meanings, strange occurrences and the cryptic significance of lambs.

* * *

January, 1864

Dr Eckbert is getting more and more restless every day. His patients are increasing, but we're only getting the lambs in a circuitous way, and they're getting very expensive! The secret we have both so carefully guarded is spreading like wildfire. I can already sense the whispers and sceptical looks in the hospital. What will the management say when they find out the truth? I feel terrible. I am scared all the time, and I can't sleep. How much longer can I keep silent before the unspeakable comes to light? I was there, I even helped to keep the trembling lamb still while Dr Eckbert carried out his macabre method. And yet I gave him my word that I would keep this dark secret to myself. But what if it all came out?

The blood transfusion, the method - everything is so questionable. There are speculations in the local newspaper and the week news. The voices are getting louder: 'The poor animals,' they say, 'where is all this going to lead? There are people who say that humans will be degraded to the status of animals if they take their blood into their bloodstream. Those in favour, however, claim that lambs‘ blood is pure and innocent and therefore has healing powers. Most of them are intellectuals, budding doctors or simply know-it-alls who are enthusiastic about progress and not affected by an illness. Their theories are a mixture of scientific half-knowledge and romantic notions of innocence and purity. Lambs made into saints! From a medical point of view, they also claim that a lamb’s blood flows more slowly than that of a full-grown sheep, which puts less pressure on the recipient's heart and is therefore gentler on the patient's weakened organism. In addition, lambs feed exclusively on milk and therefore have fewer volatile fatty acids in their blood. This means that their blood has a less intense odour and may be less repulsive to the patient.

It is with this combination of physiological and aesthetic arguments that advocates of lambs’ blood treatments believe it to be a miracle cure. However, their enthusiasm for the method is viewed with scepticism by many. Critics accuse them of ignoring the suffering of those affected and resorting to unproven theories based more on wishful thinking than scientific fact. It is in times of great despair that people look for hope - whether lambs’ blood can provide it remains questionable.

Are we going too far? Are we playing God, presuming to decide over life and death?

Our last patient, a woman with massive blood loss, seemed hopeless to survive. She was as blood-thirsty as a vampire, and encouraged Dr Eckbert to give her as much blood as possible! But when the lamb's blood was finally transfused into her body, worrying symptoms began to appear. As soon as the transfusion began, she suddenly felt very cold and complained of severe back pain. Shortly afterwards, she broke out in a sweat and screamed with an unbearable headache. The scene was almost unbearable and when I saw her writhing in agony, I couldn't bear to watch any longer and left the room.

After the treatment, Dr Eckbert was visibly puzzled. He couldn't explain his patient's severe symptoms, especially as most of his other patients had survived the transfusion with far fewer intolerance reactions.

Despite the worrying reaction, the woman fortunately survived, but there can be no talk of a cure. Instead, she is weaker than before, a shadow of her former self. Her family, who had agreed to the transfusion out of desperation, are deeply disappointed and hostile. Their faith in the healing power of lambs’ blood is shaken, and their anger at the lack of a miracle is now directed at Dr Eckbert.