By History's Hot Takes (Chuck)| Halloween Special

A Historical Fiction Story Based on Real Medieval Beliefs About Plague, Demons, and Supernatural EvilThink modern horror is scary? Try living in medieval Europe, where plague doctors looked like literal demons and people genuinely believed that disease was carried by supernatural forces. This Halloween, we're bringing you a fictional story based on real medieval fears—the kind of terror that kept our ancestors awake at night in genuine dread.This is "The Plague Doctor's Last Night," a story set in 1348 during the Black Death, when medicine looked like nightmare fuel and every shadow could hide something worse than disease. Before you read, know this: while the characters and specific events are fictional, every detail about plague doctor practices, medieval beliefs, and the supernatural terror of the era is based on historical fact.

Watch Our Documentary on Medieval Horror:Before (or after) you read this story, check out our video exploring how medieval people invented every horror trope we know—and believed all of it was real: watch on YouTube: Click here

Author's Note on Historical Accuracy

This story is fiction, but it's built on a foundation of historical truth:

• Plague doctors were real - They wore those terrifying bird masks and treated Black Death victims
• Medieval people genuinely believed in demons and shadow creatures - This wasn't folklore; it was their reality
• The symptoms and progression described are accurate - Based on historical accounts of bubonic plague
• The superstitions and fears are authentic - These are real medieval beliefs, not invented for this story
• The social dynamics are period-accurate - How plague spread, how communities responded, how doctors operated

What's fictional: The specific characters, the particular events of this night, and the supernatural elements (though medieval people would have believed they were real).Now, settle in for a tale of one night when a plague doctor discovered that some horrors might be older than disease itself...

Part I: The Summons

The bells of Saint Catherine's tolled nine times as Dr. Thomas Blackwood received the summons that would change everything. Rain hammered against the leaded windows of his study, each droplet catching the candlelight like tiny accusatory eyes. He had been expecting the message—dreading it, if he was honest with himself—ever since the first purple swellings appeared on the necks of the merchants' children three days prior."Doctor Blackwood?" The messenger was barely more than a boy, his face pale beneath the hood of his cloak. Water pooled at his feet on the stone floor. "The alderman requests your immediate presence at the Whitmore estate. The entire household has fallen ill."Thomas felt his stomach clench. The Whitmore estate. Fifteen souls lived within those walls—servants, family, children. He had dined there just last week, sharing wine and conversation with Edmund Whitmore about the new trade routes from the East. How quickly prosperity turned to pestilence."Tell the alderman I will come within the hour," Thomas said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I must prepare my equipment."The boy nodded and fled into the rain-soaked night, leaving Thomas alone with the weight of what was to come. He moved to the corner of his study where his plague doctor's costume waited on its wooden stand—a monument to medieval medicine's desperate attempts to fight an enemy it could not understand.The leather coat, black as a raven's wing and treated with wax to repel miasmic vapors. The wide-brimmed hat that marked him as a physician of the plague. The gloves, thick and protective. And finally, the mask—that terrible, beaked creation that haunted the nightmares of the healthy and dying alike.Thomas lifted the mask reverently. The long, curved beak was stuffed with crushed rose petals, mint, camphor, and dried lavender—aromatics believed to purify the corrupted air that carried the pestilence. The dark glass eyepieces reflected the candlelight, making the mask appear almost alive in his hands.He had worn it seventeen times since the plague first appeared in their corner of England six months ago. Seventeen houses of the dead and dying. Seventeen times he had walked among the suffering, administering what little comfort medicine could provide, knowing that for most, his arrival was merely a prelude to the priest's.But tonight felt different. Tonight, the autumn air itself seemed to whisper warnings.Thomas dressed methodically, each piece of his protective costume a ritual against the encroaching darkness. As he secured the mask over his face, the world transformed. His breathing became loud in his ears, hollow and rhythmic. His vision narrowed to what the glass lenses allowed. He became less man and more symbol—a harbinger of death in a physician's clothing.The streets of Ashford were deserted as Thomas made his way toward the Whitmore estate on the town's eastern edge. Those who could barricade themselves in their homes did so at night, burning protective herbs and painting crosses on their doors. Those who couldn't afford such precautions simply prayed and waited for dawn.The Whitmore manor rose before him like a wounded beast—all dark windows and silent chimneys. No smoke from the kitchen. No lamplight in the servants' quarters. Only one candle burned in an upper window, a solitary beacon in the consuming darkness.Thomas knocked on the heavy oak door with his walking stick—he had learned long ago never to touch anything directly in a plague house. The sound echoed through the interior, but no one came. He knocked again, louder this time.Finally, the door cracked open. A young maid peered out, her eyes red from crying. When she saw his beaked mask, she gasped and stumbled backward."Please, Doctor," she whispered. "Please help them.

Part II: The House of Suffering

The interior of the Whitmore house assaulted Thomas's senses even through the aromatic barrier of his mask. The sweet-sick smell of fever, the acrid bite of fear-sweat, and underneath it all, the unmistakable copper scent of blood."Where is everyone?" Thomas asked, his voice muffled and strange through the mask."Upstairs," the maid said, wringing her hands. "All of them. It came so fast, Doctor. Yesterday morning they were well. By evening, the master could barely stand. By midnight..." She trailed off, unable or unwilling to continue.Thomas climbed the stairs, his medical bag heavy in his hand. The household had gathered in the master bedroom—a decision born of fear rather than wisdom. The plague was believed to spread through corrupted air, and concentrating the sick only ensured that corruption grew more potent.Edmund Whitmore lay in his canopied bed, barely recognizable as the robust merchant Thomas had known. His face was flushed with fever, sheened with sweat that soaked through his nightshirt. But it was the swellings that drew Thomas's professional gaze—the buboes that gave the plague its common name. They bulged obscenely at Edmund's neck and armpits, dark purple against his fever-red skin.Around the room, the rest of the household had arranged themselves in various states of suffering. Edmund's wife Catherine sat in a chair by the window, staring at nothing, her own neck showing the telltale swellings. Their two children—Michael, age twelve, and little Sarah, barely eight—lay together on a day bed, holding hands even in their delirium.The servants who had fallen ill occupied whatever floor space remained. Thomas counted eight people in total, all in various stages of the disease's progression."Doctor Blackwood?" Edmund's voice was a thin rasp. "Is that you behind that terrible mask?""It is, my friend," Thomas said, approaching the bed with practiced caution. "I've come to help however I can."Edmund laughed, a wet, rattling sound. "We both know there is no help for this. I've seen what the plague does. I've walked past the death carts." He tried to sit up but failed, falling back against his pillows. "My children, Thomas. Please. If there's anything—anything at all—"Thomas felt the weight of that plea like a physical thing. He had no cure. No treatment that did more than ease the dying process. The best medieval medicine could offer was bleeding and lancing the buboes—procedures that often killed as surely as the disease itself."I will do everything in my power," Thomas said, which was not quite a lie but certainly not the truth Edmund wanted to hear.He spent the next two hours examining each patient, taking mental notes of their symptoms and progression. The plague followed a predictable pattern: first came the fever and chills, then the buboes appeared, growing rapidly and painfully. In the final stages, victims often fell into delirium, speaking to people who weren't there, seeing visions that only they could perceive.Little Sarah was already in that final stage. Her eyes, glassy with fever, tracked something across the ceiling that only she could see."They're here," she whispered. "The shadow people. They want us to come with them."Her brother Michael squeezed her hand tighter, though his own face showed he was hours behind his sister on the same terrible journey.Thomas had heard such ravings before. The dying often spoke of shadows, of figures at the edges of their vision. Medieval scholars attributed these visions to demons, drawn to the corruption of plague-ridden flesh. Thomas preferred to believe they were fever dreams, the brain's misfiring in its final hours.But tonight, in this house of suffering, he found that scientific explanation less comforting than usual.

Part III: The Scratching Begins

As Thomas prepared a tincture of poppy for pain relief, he became aware of a sound beneath the moaning of the sick—a rhythmic scratching, like branches against a window. Except there were no trees close enough to the house to reach the upper windows."Do you hear that?" Catherine Whitmore asked suddenly, her fever-bright eyes fixing on Thomas. "They've been scratching since sunset. Trying to get in.""It's just the wind, madam," Thomas said, though he wasn't certain."No." Her voice was flat, certain. "It's them. The ones who bring the sickness. The shadow people Sarah sees. They're waiting."Before Thomas could respond, Edmund spoke from his bed, his voice stronger than it had been all night: "There's something you should know, Doctor. Something I didn't tell you before."Thomas turned to face his dying friend."The merchant ship that arrived last week, the one from Constantinople—I was the one who authorized its cargo to be unloaded. Even though..." Edmund's voice broke. "Even though I'd heard rumors. Whispers that the plague had reached the East. But the profits, Thomas. The profits were too good to pass up."The confession hung in the air between them. How many deaths? How many families destroyed? All because one man couldn't resist the lure of gold."I brought this pestilence to Ashford," Edmund continued. "And now it's taken my children. My wife. Everyone I love. Tell me, Doctor—is this divine punishment? Is God's justice truly so perfect?"Thomas had no answer. He had stopped trying to understand God's will six months ago, around the time the plague carts began their nightly rounds.Around two in the morning, the scratching sound grew louder. It seemed to come from every window now, an insistent, deliberate scraping that set Thomas's teeth on edge. He told himself it was rats—the city was full of them, grown fat on grain stores and garbage. But rats didn't scratch with such purpose, such rhythm.Young Michael sat up suddenly in his bed, his eyes wide despite the fever. "They're not outside anymore," he said. "They're in the walls."And Thomas heard it—the sound had changed, moving from the windows to somewhere inside the house itself. A skittering, scratching presence that seemed to flow through the very bones of the building.The maid who had let Thomas in earlier began to sob. "It's true what the priests say. The plague is God's punishment, and demons carry it from house to house. We're all damned. All of us.""Quiet!" Thomas snapped, more harshly than he intended. "Fear spreads faster than any disease. We must keep our heads."But even as he spoke, he felt his own certainty wavering. He was a man of science, trained in the medical traditions passed down from ancient Greece and Rome. He believed in humoral theory, in the four elements, in miasmas and corrupted air. He did not believe in demons.Yet.At three in the morning, Sarah died. Her last breath was so quiet that Thomas almost missed it. One moment she was there, her small chest rising and falling in labored rhythm. The next, she was simply gone, her hand still clasped in her brother's.Michael's scream of anguish pierced the night. He pulled his sister's body close, sobbing into her hair, and no amount of gentle persuasion could make him let go.Catherine Whitmore didn't react at all to her daughter's death. She sat in her chair by the window, staring out at the darkness, her lips moving in what might have been prayer or might have been delirium.Edmund wept silently, tears tracking down his fever-flushed face.And the scratching in the walls grew louder.

Part IV: The Cellar's Secret

Thomas felt the situation slipping away from him. This wasn't medicine anymore—this was something else, something that his training had never prepared him for. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive, as though some invisible presence was pressing down on them all."Doctor?" The maid's voice was barely audible. "Look at the window."Thomas turned. At first, he saw only his own reflection in the dark glass—the terrible bird-like mask staring back at him. But then he noticed the frost.It was late autumn, yes, but not cold enough for frost. Yet delicate patterns of ice were spreading across the window pane, forming shapes that looked almost deliberate. Almost like reaching hands."Impossible," Thomas muttered. But the word felt hollow even as he spoke it.A new sound joined the scratching—a low, resonant humming that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It vibrated in Thomas's chest, in his bones, a frequency that felt wrong on some fundamental level.The candles flickered though there was no breeze.Michael stopped crying and looked up, his face slack with shock. "Do you see them now?" he asked. "The shadow people? They're standing right there."He pointed to the far corner of the room—the darkest corner, where the candlelight didn't quite reach.Thomas looked. Saw nothing. But he felt something watching from that darkness, something patient and hungry and ancient."Everyone who can walk, we're leaving this room," Thomas announced, his voice cutting through the terror. "Now."But before anyone could move, Catherine Whitmore stood up from her chair. She moved with a strange, jerky quality, like a marionette controlled by an uncertain hand. Her eyes were wide and unseeing."They want to come in," she said in a voice that didn't sound quite like hers. "They've been waiting so long. They're so hungry. If we just open the door..."She began walking toward the bedroom door, her movements becoming smoother, more purposeful.Thomas moved to intercept her, grabbing her arm. Her skin was ice-cold despite the fever burning through her. She turned to look at him, and for just a moment, Thomas saw something looking back that wasn't Catherine Whitmore. Something that wore her face like a mask.Then she collapsed, her body going limp in his arms.Edmund called out from his bed: "Thomas, you must listen to me. There's something in the cellar. Something we found in the cargo from the ship.""Edmund, you're delirious—""No!" The force in Edmund's voice stopped Thomas cold. "Listen to me. In the cellar. A sealed container from Constantinople. The merchants there warned us not to open it, said it was cursed. But my men, they thought it might contain valuables..."A cold certainty settled over Thomas. "What was in the container?""Bones," Edmund whispered. "Ancient bones wrapped in silk. And symbols carved into the silk, symbols I didn't recognize. We thought it was just superstition, but that night—the night we opened it—that's when the first cases appeared."The scratching in the walls intensified, becoming frantic."The priests were right," Edmund continued, tears streaming down his face. "This isn't just plague. It's something older. Something we invited in when we broke the seal. Thomas, you have to—"His words were cut off by a violent coughing fit. Blood speckled his lips when the fit finally subsided.Thomas's mind raced. He was a rational man, a man of science. But science had no explanation for frost forming in a warm room, for the synchronized scratching in the walls, for the feeling of presence that grew stronger with each passing moment."Where in the cellar?" Thomas demanded."The wine storage," Edmund gasped. "Behind the racks. For God's sake, Thomas, burn it. Burn everything."Michael spoke up, his voice surprisingly steady despite his grief and fear. "Doctor Blackwood, I'll show you. I helped Father store it.""You're ill," Thomas protested. "You should rest—""I'm dying," Michael said simply. "We're all dying. But maybe if you destroy whatever that thing is, it won't spread to others. Maybe Sarah's death won't be meaningless."The boy's courage shamed Thomas's hesitation. He nodded."Stay here," he told the others. "Bar the door after we leave. Don't open it for anyone."The maid, tears streaming down her face, whispered: "What if it's already too late?"Thomas had no answer for that.

Part V: Into the Darkness

The journey to the cellar felt like descending into hell itself. The house seemed to resist their passage—doors stuck, floorboards creaked ominously, and the scratching followed them through the walls like an escort.Michael led the way with a candle, his fever-weakened body moving with determination born of desperation. Thomas followed, his plague doctor's mask making his breathing loud in the narrow stairway.The cellar was vast and dark, filled with wine racks and storage crates from Edmund's merchant ventures. The smell of earth and mold mixed with the sweet-sick odor that Thomas had come to associate with the plague."There," Michael said, pointing to the far wall.Behind the wine racks, barely visible in the candlelight, was a wooden crate. It had been opened roughly, the lid pried off and discarded. Inside, wrapped in silk that had once been white but was now stained with something dark and oily, were bones.Human bones, Thomas realized. Ancient, yellowed with age, but unmistakably human.The silk was indeed covered in symbols—not any language Thomas recognized. They seemed to writhe in the candlelight, though that had to be a trick of the flickering flame."We shouldn't have touched it," Michael said quietly. "Father knew. As soon as we opened it, he knew we'd made a mistake. But by then..."By then it was too late. Whatever had been sealed away—whether disease or demon or something in between—had been released.Thomas set down his medical bag and pulled out his flint and steel. "Stand back," he instructed Michael.But before he could strike a spark, the scratching that had followed them through the house suddenly stopped.The silence was worse.Then, from the darkness beyond their small circle of candlelight, came a sound—a wet, raspy breathing that was not Michael's and not Thomas's. Something else was in the cellar with them."Run," Thomas whispered. "Michael, run."But Michael stood frozen, staring past Thomas into the darkness. His face had gone white, his eyes wide with a terror beyond words.Thomas turned slowly, dreading what he would see.At first, it appeared to be a shadow—a darker darkness within the cellar's gloom. But as his eyes adjusted, Thomas saw it had shape, form. It was roughly human-sized but wrong in its proportions, too thin, too angular, with limbs that bent in ways that violated natural law.And there were more of them. Emerging from the darkness, moving with that same jerky, uncertain quality that Catherine Whitmore had displayed upstairs. They were the source of the scratching—their fingers, if they could be called fingers, dragged against the stone walls as they moved.The shadow people. Real. Impossible. Real.Thomas's scientific mind tried to rationalize what he was seeing. Mass hallucination. Fever dreams. Ergot poisoning. But none of those explanations could account for the way the shadows moved, the way the temperature dropped, the way his breath misted in the suddenly freezing air."You opened the door," a voice said—not spoken aloud but somehow present in Thomas's mind. "You broke the seal. After so many centuries, you finally let us out."Thomas realized the voice was coming from the bones, or rather, from whatever was bound to the bones."What are you?" Thomas managed to ask, his voice shaking despite himself."We are the price of ambition," the voice responded. "The cost of greed. We have many names in many tongues. Pestilence. Death. The Shadow. We were sealed away by those who understood the danger we posed. But seals can be broken. Greed opens all locks."The shadow figures drew closer. Thomas could see now that they wore faces—human faces, but hollow-eyed and slack, like masks made of dead flesh. Some of the faces he recognized. The baker who had died three weeks ago. The blacksmith's daughter. The priest who had administered last rites until the plague claimed him too.The shadows wore the faces of the dead."The plague," Thomas whispered, understanding dawning like a terrible sunrise. "You are the plague.""We are the vessel," the voice corrected. "We are the carriers. We are the inevitable consequence of mankind's endless hunger for more."Michael suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the flint from Thomas's hand. Before Thomas could stop him, the boy struck a spark into the silk wrapping.The ancient fabric caught fire instantly, burning with an unnatural blue-green flame. The bones within began to smoke, and the smell was horrific—not the smell of burning bone but something fouler, something wrong.The shadow figures shrieked—a sound that was both heard and felt, vibrating through Thomas's skull. They surged forward, but the flames created a barrier they couldn't cross."Michael, get back!" Thomas grabbed the boy, pulling him away from the burning crate.The flames spread with impossible speed, racing up the walls, across the ceiling. But they burned cold rather than hot, and they cast no light—only deepening the darkness around them.The shadow figures writhed and twisted, their forms becoming less solid, more ephemeral. The faces they wore melted away like wax."This changes nothing," the voice spoke one final time. "We are released now. The seal is broken. We will spread, and spread, and spread, until..."The voice faded into the roar of the cold flames.Thomas and Michael ran.

Part VI: Dawn and Aftermath

They fled up the stairs, through the house, bursting into the plague room where the others waited. Behind them, the cold fire followed, consuming everything it touched but leaving no ash, no heat, only an absolute absence."Everyone out!" Thomas shouted. "Out of the house now!"Those who could walk did so. Thomas and the maid carried Catherine between them. Edmund, too weak to stand, was dragged from his bed by a servant who had somehow retained enough strength to help.They stumbled into the night, into the rain that had started again, and turned to watch as the Whitmore manor burned with flames that gave no warmth.The shadow figures poured from the windows and doors, dissipating into the night air like smoke. For a moment, Thomas thought he could see them spreading across the city, flowing into other houses, other lives.Then the cold flames reached their peak, and the bones in the cellar cracked with a sound like thunder. The shadow figures shrieked one last time and were gone, pulled back into whatever darkness had spawned them.The flames vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving the manor intact but somehow changed. It looked smaller, diminished, as though something essential had been burned away along with the ancient bones.Edmund Whitmore died as the first light of dawn touched the horizon. He passed peacefully, holding his wife's hand, and his last words were an apology to his son.Catherine followed him an hour later, never having regained consciousness after her collapse.Michael survived, though the plague had ravaged him. He would bear the scars—both physical and mental—for the rest of his life. But he lived.Of the fifteen people in the Whitmore household that terrible night, five survived to see the morning. Thomas counted himself among the lucky, though he would never forget what he had seen in that cellar.

Epilogue: The Aftermath

The plague continued its spread through Ashford for another two months, claiming hundreds of lives before finally burning itself out. But Thomas noticed a change after that night—the disease no longer had the supernatural terror that had accompanied it before. It was still deadly, still horrific, but it was just a disease. The shadows were gone.Thomas Blackwood continued his work as a plague doctor for another year before the pestilence finally left their corner of England. He saved few and watched many die, but he never again encountered anything like the shadow people.Sometimes, in his darker moments, he wondered if he had truly seen what he thought he saw in the Whitmore cellar. Had it been real, or had fear and exhaustion created monsters where there were none?But then he would remember Michael's courage, Edmund's confession, and the cold flames that burned away not just bones but something older and more terrible than mere disease.The plague doctor's mask now hung on his study wall, retired. Thomas had commissioned a new one, identical in every way except one—on the inside of the beak, where no one but the wearer could see, he had carved a simple prayer: "Let the sealed remain sealed."It was a warning. A reminder. A hope that whatever door Edmund Whitmore's greed had opened could be closed again.And on certain nights, when the wind scratched at his windows and the shadows seemed to move with purpose beyond what candlelight should allow, Thomas would touch that prayer and remember:Some doors, once opened, can never be fully closed again.

The end

Historical Context: Separating Fact from Fiction

For those who read to the end, here's what was real and what was invented:

What Was Real:Plague Doctors: These medical practitioners actually existed and wore those iconic beaked masks stuffed with aromatics. They genuinely believed "bad air" caused disease and that the mask would protect them.

Medieval Beliefs: People truly believed that plague could be caused by demonic influence, divine punishment, or supernatural forces. The psychological terror of not understanding what was killing entire communities was as devastating as the disease itself.

The Black Death's Impact: The bubonic plague killed an estimated 30-60% of Europe's population in the 14th century. The symptoms described in this story—buboes, fever, delirium—are historically accurate.

Supernatural Interpretations: Medieval people genuinely saw demons, shadows, and supernatural entities in their plague-induced delirium. These visions were real to them and shaped how they understood disease.

Merchant Ships: The plague did arrive in Europe via trade routes, particularly through merchant ships from the East. The connection between trade and disease spread was observed even if not fully understood.

What Was Fiction:The Specific Characters: Dr. Thomas Blackwood, the Whitmore family, and the specific events of this night are entirely fictional.

The Shadow People: While medieval people believed in such entities, the specific manifestations in this story are creative fiction based on period beliefs.

The Sealed Container: The cursed bones and the burning ceremony are fictional, though they're based on real medieval beliefs about cursed objects and demonic possession.

The Cold Flames: Pure fiction, though medieval people did believe certain supernatural fires behaved unnaturally.

Why This Story Matters:This tale illustrates the genuine terror of living in an era when disease wasn't understood scientifically. Every death seemed inexplicable, every illness potentially supernatural. The psychological horror of the medieval plague experience was as real as the physical suffering.Modern medicine has freed us from most of these fears, but understanding how our ancestors experienced disease helps us appreciate both how far we've come and how much courage it took to face the unknown with nothing but hope and primitive medicine.

Want More Historical Horror?

If you enjoyed this story and want to learn about the real history behind medieval horror:Watch Our Documentary: "How Medieval People Invented Horror Movies (And They Were Way More Disturbing Than Netflix)" Click here 

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Final Thoughts"The Plague Doctor's Last Night" is a work of fiction, but it's grounded in the historical reality of medieval terror. Our ancestors faced diseases they couldn't understand, saw death all around them, and tried to make sense of it through the only framework they had: supernatural belief.The plague doctors who walked into houses of the dying, knowing they might not come out alive, showed incredible courage. The communities that endured wave after wave of disease without understanding how to stop it demonstrated remarkable resilience. And the fear—the bone-deep, existential terror of invisible threats—was as real as the disease itself.This Halloween, as we enjoy our safe, fictional scares, it's worth remembering that our ancestors lived in a world where horror wasn't entertainment—it was everyday life.Sleep well, and remember: not all the monsters in history were imaginary.About History's Hot Takes: We tell the stories history books left out—through both documentary and fiction. Subscribe for weekly content that makes the past come alive in ways you'll actually remember.