The Lady of Endless White

written by Universal Monk

Part 1

Dr. Henry Caldwell leaned back in his chair, the sunlight from the window streaking across his table. London hummed faintly outside, the muted cacophony of hooves on cobblestones and distant street vendors hawking their wares. For a man of his stature, life had fallen into a rhythm: polite society in the mornings, consultations in the afternoons, and evenings steeped in quiet solitude.

But that rhythm had been disrupted. A letter had arrived three days prior, delivered by an impeccably dressed servant.

Its elegant script bore the name Marquis Laurent d’Etoile, requesting Caldwell’s immediate assistance. The Marquis described a delicate matter involving his niece and insisted on Caldwell visiting in person at the Marquis’s estate just outside Kensington. Though cryptic, the letter’s urgency attended to Caldwell’s curiosity enough to accept.

Now, he found himself in a modest inn near the estate, a quiet refuge from the dust of the road. He had chosen to stop here before making his way to the enigmatic mansion, both to gather his thoughts and learn what he could about the place from the locals.

It wasn’t the house itself that lingered in his mind—it was what he couldn’t see. On his journey, Caldwell had passed the mansion, hidden behind towering white walls that gave nothing away. No chimneys. No black gates. No garden spilled over its edges. Just an unbroken expanse of white, glaring under the midday sun.

He sipped his watered wine, staring across the street at the stark white barrier that separated the mansion from the rest of the world. The innkeeper, an older man with a sour expression, had humored his earlier questions about the house with a mix of boredom and superstition.

“Been like that for a year now,” the man said, polishing a glass. “All white, inside and out. Servants, horses, carriages—every last thing painted like it’s snowing every single day.”

“And the occupants?” Caldwell pressed. “What do you know of them?”

“Foreigners,” the innkeeper grunted. “Rich ones. Their money comes from some kind of newspaper network or bulletin system they run, called ‘Lemmy’ or something like that.” He shook his head, his tone thick with disdain. “They keep to themselves, mostly. Except for that one fellow who goes to town. Always changes into black, like the devil himself, before stepping outside. Folks around here call them the white mad folk. Not that they’ve ever set foot in here.”

“I think I’ve heard of that,” Caldwell replied. “Some sort of news system, meant to be more independent. A good idea, but if you ask me, it’ll probably just end up as one of those echo chambers that all newspapers become. I once wrote a letter to a newspaper in—”

Caldwell’s words were cut short by the sudden clatter of hooves outside. He turned toward the window, setting his glass aside. Across the street, a plain white carriage came to a halt at a narrow gate in the wall.

A man emerged, tall and pale, dressed entirely in white. Even the gloves on his hands gleamed unnaturally clean. The transformation was swift and deliberate. A servant, similarly dressed in white, handed the man a black overcoat, hat, and shoes. The white garments vanished beneath the dark layers, leaving a figure that now looked somber, almost funereal.

The man stepped into the carriage, and as it rattled away, the gate closed behind him with a soft click.

Caldwell sat motionless, his mind racing. This must be the Marquis himself, he realized. What sort of household operated in such a manner? His thoughts were interrupted when the innkeeper returned with another muttered observation.

“That one—always him,” the innkeeper said, jerking his head toward the departing carriage. “The white mad folk send no one else out. Suppose they think he’s the only one who can blend in with the rest of us.”

Caldwell nodded absently, his curiosity deepening. He resolved to learn more, though he knew the answers would come soon enough.

By the time he reached the estate, the air had turned cool, and the afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the white walls. A servant greeted him at the gate, dressed entirely in white, and led him through a blindingly pristine courtyard.

The Marquis Laurent d’Etoile entered the receiving room with measured steps, his dark eyes weary yet alert. His presence commanded attention, though his face carried the heaviness of long-kept secrets.

“Dr. Caldwell,” the Marquis began, his French accent refined but faint. “Your reputation precedes you. I trust the journey was not too burdensome?”

Caldwell inclined his head. “Not at all, though your estate has certainly intrigued me. I must admit, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

The Marquis’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “It is unique, yes, but that is not the purpose of your visit. I have come to request your assistance in a matter both delicate and urgent.”

Caldwell gestured for him to sit. “How can I help, Marquis?”

The Marquis hesitated, then sighed. “It concerns my niece, Lady Colette d’Etoile. She is unwell. Her condition is unlike anything I have read about, and I require discretion as much as expertise.”

“What can you tell me of her symptoms?” Caldwell asked, leaning forward.

“She is sensitive to color,” the Marquis said, his voice low. “Particularly red. It incites a madness in her that I dare not describe here. To protect her, I have ensured her environment remains pure and untainted.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow. He leaned back. “You mean the white house?”

The Marquis nodded. “Yes. Everything she sees must be white. Even the sight of a servant’s shadowed sleeve might provoke… episodes.”

“And you want me to examine her?”

“Precisely. I believe you can help. But I must warn you—her condition requires the utmost care. Any misstep could be disastrous.”

Caldwell studied the man. There was desperation in his tone. “I’ll do what I can,” he said finally. “When shall we begin?”

The Marquis stood, his movements as precise as his words. “Tomorrow. I will send my carriage for you again. And, Doctor—bring nothing with you that is not white. Every detail matters. Even your hair must be hidden beneath a white covering to ensure not a single strand peeks out. I understand how unusual this all sounds, but it is imperative. Only white.”

Part 2

Dr. Caldwell adjusted the crisp white suit the Marquis had insisted he wear. The outfit felt unnatural, the fabric too pristine, as if any speck of dust might unravel its perfection. He stood in the mansion’s grand vestibule, surrounded by a suffocating brightness. Every surface, from the walls to the marble statues, glared back at him in stark, unbroken white. Even the air felt sterile.

“Follow me,” said the Marquis, his voice hushed but firm. He led Caldwell up a wide staircase, its steps muffled by thick white carpeting, the balustrades painted to match. Each step echoed in Caldwell’s chest, an unnatural rhythm that heightened his unease.

At the door to Colette’s chamber, the Marquis paused. “She may seem lucid,” he warned, his dark eyes locking onto Caldwell’s. “But don’t let her charm fool you. Beneath it lies a darkness neither of us can fully comprehend. A darkness like no other, I assure you.”

Without waiting for Caldwell’s response, the Marquis pushed open the door.

The room was enormous, a cathedral of cold light that pressed against the senses. White curtains, heavy and lifeless, filtered the sunlight into a ghostly glow, bathing everything in an eerie luminescence. The furniture gleamed like freshly fallen snow, pristine yet unnervingly sterile.

The air hung thick with a strange, clashing scent—like the comforting musk of old books buried under layers of sharp, medicinal soap. The contrast clawed at Caldwell’s mind, as though the room was desperately trying to scrub away its own history. Yet none of it mattered when Caldwell saw her.

Lady Colette d’Etoile sat near the window, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of pale white silk. It shimmered faintly in the muted light, so devoid of color that it seemed almost translucent, as if the life had been drained from each strand. Her features were delicate, almost fragile, like porcelain that might shatter under the weight of a single touch.

Yet her dark eyes, in stark contrast, held a quiet defiance that defied her ethereal appearance. She turned her gaze toward Caldwell, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and weariness, as if she had seen far too much of the world yet wished to see even more.

“Dr. Caldwell,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. “You’ve come to see the Marquis’s horrible prisoner, I assume?”

Caldwell hesitated, taken aback. “I’ve come to see you. Your uncle is concerned about your health. And from what he has mentioned to me, I am concerned as well.”

Colette laughed—a sad, brittle sound. “My health? Or his pride? He’d rather call me mad than admit the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” Caldwell asked, stepping closer.

“That he is the mad one,” she said simply. “Look around you. This prison of white isn’t for me. It’s for him. He cannot bear the sight of color, the world’s vibrancy. He suffocates me here to justify his own delusions.”

Her words unsettled Caldwell. There was no tremor in her voice, no hint of instability. She seemed entirely sane, even serene, despite her unnatural surroundings.

He seated himself across from her, watching as her hands rested lightly on her lap. “Your uncle says the color red affects you. That it incites uncontrollable… reactions.”

Her smile faded. “He’s been saying that for years, hasn’t he? It’s easier for him to paint me as a monster than confront his own fears. Do I seem mad to you? Do I seem so horrible? You have kind eyes, I know you’ll find the truth.”

Caldwell studied her carefully, searching for any flicker of madness in her expression. There was none, only a quiet sorrow that seemed to cling to her like a veil. He hesitated, unsure whether to believe her calm demeanor or the Marquis’s dire warnings. Rising slowly, he gave her a final glance before stepping out of the room, his mind swirling with unanswered questions.

The white corridors felt colder as he made his way to the study, where the Marquis waited. The man was already pacing when Caldwell entered, his movements sharp and restless. “You’ve been speaking with her,” the Marquis said abruptly, his voice tight with agitation. His usual composure was unraveling, the cracks beginning to show. “Did she claim I’m the one who’s mad?”

“She did,” Caldwell admitted, meeting the man’s glare. “But I must say, Marquis, there’s nothing about her demeanor that suggests madness.”

The Marquis stopped abruptly, his face pale. “You didn’t see her that night, Doctor. The blood. The screams. It was not the girl you spoke to—it was something else entirely. Something driven by an unnatural hunger.”

“What precisely happened?” Caldwell pressed. “I will need more information before I can help.”

“She was only a child,” the Marquis murmured, staring at his hands as though they still bore the stains of some terrible memory. “A servant cut himself in her presence—a small wound. But when she saw the blood… she changed. Her eyes, her strength. It was as though she became a beast. Red seems to drive her insane.”

He shuddered, his voice faltering. His eyes grew slightly watery, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back the weight of the memory. “A most horrible thing. Horrible.”

Caldwell frowned. “But you’ve kept her isolated ever since. How do you know such an event would occur again? You might be prolonging her suffering for no reason. I must protest that I’ve never heard of anyone having such an allergy to the color red before.”

The Marquis’s eyes flashed with anger. “Do you think I would subject her to that again, Doctor? I swore to protect her from herself—and protect others from her.”

Caldwell nodded, but doubt crept into his mind. The Marquis’s conviction bordered on fanaticism. Was he exaggerating, or had his fear become a delusion? Only one way remained to uncover the truth.

Part 3

The bouquet of red flowers lay hidden in Caldwell’s bag as he prepared for his next visit.

The Marquis’s warnings echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside. He couldn’t let superstition cloud his judgment. If Colette’s so-called madness was real, it would manifest. If not, it would confirm his suspicions about the Marquis.

When he entered the white mansion once more, his heart pounded against his ribs.

The bouquet trembled slightly in Caldwell’s hand as he stood outside Colette’s room. Beneath the white paper wrapping, the vibrant red petals burned like embers in the sterile light of the mansion.

He opened the door.

Colette sat by the window, her pale hair glowing faintly in the muted daylight. She turned to him, her face softening when she saw him. “Dr. Caldwell,” she greeted, her voice as calm as ever. “Back to tend to the Marquis’s ‘madwoman’? How lovely that I haven’t scared you off.”

Caldwell managed a thin smile and closed the door behind him. He took a few measured steps toward her, the weight of the bouquet growing heavier with each step.

“Not at all,” he said, unwrapping the flowers. “I’ve even brought you something.”

As the crinkled paper unfurled, the flowers emerged in a burst of crimson, their fiery petals a shocking contrast to the sterile white that dominated the room. The vibrant color seemed to bleed into the space, defying the oppressive monotony of its surroundings.

Colette’s gaze locked onto the bouquet, her dark eyes widening, the faint glimmer of surprise flickering across her delicate features. She didn’t move, her stillness unnerving, as though she were a marble statue suddenly confronted by something alive and untamed. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, the vivid red casting a surreal, almost forbidden energy into the air.

Her breath quickened, shallow and uneven, like the first gusts of an oncoming storm. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair with such ferocity that her knuckles blanched, the delicate skin stretched tight over bone. “What… is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling, barely more than a hiss.

Her tongue flicked out, wetting her lips again and again in a strange, compulsive rhythm, and then she smiled—an unnerving, brittle curve of her mouth that didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze darted between the flowers and Caldwell’s face, sharp and rapid, her pupils dilating like an animal scenting prey. There was something wild in her movements now, her head tilting slightly as if she were sizing him up, her smile growing as the tension in the room thickened like a palpable fog.

“It’s just a bouquet,” Caldwell said softly, though his heartbeat thundered in his ears. “No need to get yourself too worked up. I wanted to prove—”

The rest of his words evaporated as Colette’s entire demeanor shifted into something grotesque and primal. Her face contorted unnaturally, her delicate features twisting into a mask of rage and hunger. Her pupils dilated until her eyes were nearly black, and a guttural growl, low and feral, reverberated from deep within her chest.

Her body jerked violently, and her movements grew erratic—sharp, animalistic.

Then she screamed, a piercing, guttural cry that shattered the silence. The words were incomprehensible, some ancient language that clawed at the air like curses ripped from the pages of forbidden texts.

Her head snapped toward Caldwell, her lips curling back to reveal gleaming teeth as she shrieked in a voice both chilling and otherworldly, “I’ll consume all of you and send you right to hell!”

Before he could react, she lunged at him, her movements faster than anything human. Her hands struck his chest with the force of a predator taking down prey, slamming him hard to the cold, white floor

Her fingers clawed at his face, sharp and unrelenting, leaving trails of fire where her nails raked his skin. Her head jerked back, and her mouth opened unnaturally wide before she sank her teeth into her own tongue, biting down so hard that a torrent of red spilled from her mouth. The blood dripped down her chin, staining the whiteness of her dress in vivid, horrifying streaks.

Colette’s eyes burned with a terrifying intensity as she lowered her face to Caldwell’s neck. Her teeth found flesh, tearing with a brutal ferocity. Pain exploded through Caldwell’s body, a searing agony that sent him thrashing beneath her.

Her growls deepened, mingling with his muffled cries as she pinned him with a strength that defied her slender frame. It was as though she had become something not of this world, a creature of pure instinct and hunger.

He struggled, but she was relentless. Her once-delicate features were contorted into something grotesque and feral, her mouth smeared with his blood. The white room seemed to blur around him as darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

Through the haze of pain, Caldwell heard the door burst open. Voices shouted, hands pulled Colette away, and the Marquis’s anguished cries filled the air. Then everything faded.

Caldwell woke to the faint scent of antiseptic and the soft murmur of voices. He was in a bed, his body weak and aching. A sharp pain throbbed at his neck, and his fingers brushed against a bandage.

The Marquis sat beside him, his face pale and drawn. “You’re awake,” he said quietly.

“What… happened?” Caldwell’s voice was hoarse.

The Marquis sighed, his hands trembling as they rested on his lap. “You saw it for yourself. The curse she bears.”

Caldwell’s mind raced with fragments of memory—the flowers, the attack, the blood. “I have no explanation.” he said. “Nothing I’ve encountered comes close to this.”

“I’m not sure exactly how it happened,” the Marquis began, his voice laden with weariness and regret. “But she was reading some cursed book—the one based on the so-called ‘Golden Bible’ those Mormons are passing around these days. Damn these new religions. I miss the old days, when faith didn’t dabble in such dark absurdities.”

He paused, shaking his head. “She met with them in secret. They gave her some strange vial to drink, said it would unlock hidden knowledge in the text. After that, she claimed she could read the ‘passages between the passages’ in the book—words she said were meant only for the chosen. Nonsense, of course. But soon after, she changed. The sight of red now… it stirs something deep and uncontrollable in her. Something primal. It’s as if she becomes… less than human.”

Caldwell leaned forward, his expression hardening. “This has happened before?”

The Marquis nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Her younger sister,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of the memory. “Colette was just eighteen when we found her. Her sister’s throat had been torn open, blood everywhere. Colette was on the floor… feeding.” He drew in a shaky breath, his eyes distant. “We’ve kept her confined ever since. I had hoped you might provide answers, Doctor. Something—anything—that could bring her back to normality.”

“I’ll need to do some research,” Caldwell said. “I have colleagues at the university—experts in unusual cases. I could contact them, with your permission, of course.”

“There’s no need for that,” the Marquis replied, his face darkening further. His voice was heavy, each word dropping like a stone. “She’s dead. The servants… they had no choice. If they hadn’t acted, she would have killed you.”

————————

The days blurred into one another as Caldwell recuperated in the quiet solitude of his own home. The soft creak of floorboards and the faint ticking of the clock were his only companions. Yet, no matter how calm his surroundings, the memory of Colette lingered, vivid and unrelenting.

Her feral rage burned in his mind, the echo of her guttural growl, the feel of her teeth tearing into his throat. Just as haunting, though, was the image of her sorrowful smile, the gentle cadence of her voice as she spoke of her confinement.

Caldwell paced the length of his parlor, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the night. His hand unconsciously brushed the bandages at his neck, tracing the faint outlines of scars beneath. He still couldn’t reconcile the two sides of Colette—the ethereal, tragic woman and the bloodthirsty creature that had nearly ended him. Which was the real Colette? Or had both been true all along?

The Marquis’s parting words echoed in his thoughts, solemn and final: “Some truths, Doctor, are better left buried. Remember that.”

He turned toward the mirror over the mantle, staring at his reflection. The faint scars caught the dim light, ghostly lines that would remain long after his wounds had healed. He whispered to himself, almost in defiance, “I will.” But even as he said it, he knew the memory of her dark, ravenous eyes and crimson-streaked mouth would haunt him forever.

His steps faltered, and he turned toward the bookshelf on the far wall, a sudden compulsion pulling him forward. His personal library was small but curated with care, each volume a testament to his lifelong thirst for knowledge. His fingers drifted across the spines, pausing on a single, unassuming book—a Book of Mormon, its plain cover unremarkable.

He hesitated, the Marquis’s warning flickering at the edge of his mind. Then, with a deliberate motion, he pulled the book from the shelf and carried it to the desk. The lamp flickered as he sat down, the room’s shadows seeming to shift and gather around him.

Slowly, Caldwell opened the book, its spine creaking faintly, and began to leaf through the pages.

END