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BBC Sounds, music, radio,

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podcasts. Hello and

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welcome back to the BBC Short

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Story podcast, where this week we

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have a story written by Lottie

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Mills, who won the BBC Young

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Writers Award in 2020. Her

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debut collection Monstrum was published by One

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World in May 2024. An

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Affliction is a fantastical tale about

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a strange illness which takes hold

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of those living at the St

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Francis invalid colony. It's read

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by Hailey Atwell. The

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sickness begins on a Thursday, an

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unextraordinary lukewarm morning in

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March. The nurses

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wake Katie Craven to find that

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her eyes have turned yellow, gold

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really. Every speck of

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them Midas touched and blazing, even

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in the spaces where the whites ought to be. Her

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pupils are the most unnerving thing of

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all. They have been

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stretched vertically, two slits from

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lid to lid, inhuman.

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Later, the remaining nurses will muse

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on the strangeness of Katie being

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the first to show signs. A

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quiet, obedient child, appropriately

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unattractive, with her coarse

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orange hair, her

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jagged, rot-puckered teeth. Unfortunate,

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they had always called her, rolling

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the word across their tongues, savouring

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the guilty, irresistible cruelty

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of it. They

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remark that Katie herself seems unaware

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of the transformation. They

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suppose Katie, who is more or less

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mute, to be unaware of most

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things. They

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do not see the way her new eyes

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dart to a basin of water, a window

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pane, the cracked mirror in the corner of

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the senior dormitory. The way they

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catch sight of their own reflection pounce

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on the alive, warm, twitching image

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of it. They have

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made a fatal misjudgment. Katie

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is not unaware. What Katie

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is is unsurprised.

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When breakfast has come and gone, and

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the eyes show no sign of returning

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to their usual state, the doctor

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is called. He is quick

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to arrive, marching up the drive

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of the St. Francis Invalid Colony

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with artful efficiency. He

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glances up at the building as he approaches. This

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place has always held a peculiar

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beauty to him, all

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right angles and uniform brick. It

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bears none of the infirmity of its occupants,

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none of their unsightly

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defects. Inside

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it is the same story. He

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glances admiringly at the neat lines of

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girls as they are escorted from lesson

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to lesson, unruly

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bodies corralled into order

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by stiff uniforms and

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stiffer discipline. Any

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hint of noise, a stifled

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giggle, an involuntary shriek, is

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swiftly corrected. It's

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no cure, of course. Nothing

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could be. But here, at

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least, their infirmities

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are safely contained. To

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the doctor, there is nothing

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more beautiful. When

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did this begin? He asks the matron

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as he steps into the infirmary. He

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does not speak to Katie. He can't

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seem to hold her gaze. Early

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this morning, the matron says, is it

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jaundice, doctor? All

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the nurses admire the doctor

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tremendously. He is

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young, but upright, tidy

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and certain, neatly parted

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hair and a suit of

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dishwater tweed, a

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man of breathtaking, irresistible,

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ordinariness. He

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takes a small torch from his pocket and

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flicks it back and forth across Katie's

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eyes. They flash as

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hard and cold as mirrors. A

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warning. Before he

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can reply, there is a snort of laughter

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from the doorway. That's

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not jawn, Dis. It's

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followed by a chorus of thumps and

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shuffles as the speaker moves into the

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room. He takes

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in the imprint of the girl's afflictions. The

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tiptoed drag of the feet, the

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reckless sway of her torso from side

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to side. Her

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clothes sit strangely on her. The

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usual white pinafore pulled

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tight over bulging, uncooperative

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flesh. The incongruously

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girlish frilled collar, an

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adult body, wrangled into the

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costume of a child. Alice,

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the matron scolds, you should be

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in chapel, young lady. Alice

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pays her no attention. Even

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her unsteady body betrays not the

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slightest flinch. It's

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not jawn, Dis. She says again,

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jawn, Dis, doesn't give you

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fox eyes. Fox

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eyes. The doctor

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is struck by the description

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by its brutal accuracy. Alice

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Willoughby, the matron slaps again,

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chattel now. Alice

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keeps the doctor pinned with her gaze.

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Then her face splits open into

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a feral grin. She

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lets her tongue protrude and

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runs it along the front of her

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teeth in a defiant, ravenous gesture.

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It's brief, but it's enough

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to render the doctor uneasy all

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the same, because

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her teeth are awfully sharp. Alice

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returns to the infirmary straight after

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chapel. A great cacophony

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heralds her arrival, the

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percussive thump of her feet punching the

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floorboards. This time,

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she's not alone. A younger

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girl, perhaps twelve years old, trails

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from her hand, a pale,

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quiet shadow. They

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come to an abrupt stop before the

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doctor, and he takes in the curtain

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of white hair which hangs loose to the

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girl's elbows, her sightless

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eyes as Alice guides her

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into place. Show

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him, Sophie, she says. Her

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voice is commanding. She seems

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almost to be showboating. Sophie

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lifts one hand up towards her

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collarbone. The doctor notices

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that her fingers are webbed, translucent,

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barely their skin, as

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delicate as lace. Then,

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bashfully, she tugs her

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hair back and lifts her chin,

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exposing her neck. It

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takes the doctor a moment to understand what,

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exactly, he is seeing, to

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grapple with his reeling horror,

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his reflexive surge of disbelief,

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to make sense of the inhuman

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shape, the two sets of swollen

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ridges which flare and spasm with

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each breath. Gills.

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It is catching, he thinks. It

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must be. He knows a contagion

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when he sees one, knows a

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house set alight by sickness, even

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such a strange sickness as this. The

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quarantine is first. The

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infected girls, Katie, Sophie and

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Alice, of course, are

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shut into the infirmary. Only

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the doctor is allowed in and out, and

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even he keeps the distance, tries

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not to breathe their air. Sophie

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looks awfully small, in

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that hushed white room, drowning in

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her too-big borrowed nightgown. Katie

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is harder to make out, perched

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on a windowsill in the farthest

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corner, her alien, scar-shaped

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pubes. temples, fixed on the

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distant woods beyond the window.

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Alice is the strangest of

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all. She lays flat on her

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back on the floor, a luxurious

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sprawl, arms flung

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out, sharp teeth bared

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at the ceiling. Every

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so often she'll laugh. It's

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a grotesque, consuming sound. It

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ricochets around the infirmary and racks

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Alice's body in hysterical spasms. The

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Doctor looks down at her. He

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says nothing, but his lips shift as

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he runs his tongue along his own

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blunt, uniform teeth. The

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other girls he can pissy at a distance,

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but there is something about Alice he

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dislikes. He feels a

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wild, irrepressible kind of disgust as

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he studies the chaos of her

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body. If he was a

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bolder man, he might even

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call it hatred. Outside,

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the nurses begin the examinations. Every

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inhabitant of the colony is lined up along

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the corridor as they would be for

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a knit check or a spoonful of cod liver

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oil. The nurses

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pick through their hair, feeling along

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their scalp for budding, velvety horns,

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measuring claw-sharp nails, startling

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at the slithering emergence of a

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long, forked tongue. The

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sickness is torn through the senior girl's

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dormitory and the older women's villas. Some

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of the youngest children seem unaffected, but

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only a few. Soon

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the infirmary is seething with it,

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a yelping, scratching, howling mass

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of uncontrollably mutating

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bodies, barely enough

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floor space to hold them all, a

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carnival of chaos. Many

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tear their uniforms apart, white

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pinnifles shredded to ribbons. Some

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clamber atop the bed frames with

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new and terrifying strength. Others

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leap and swing from the light fittings,

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shatter the gas lights into

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lethal confetti as they screech

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with laughter. Katie

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Craven, her eyes still yellow as

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plague, has begun to dance,

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weaving her arms through the chaos in

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a silent ballet. The

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Doctor finds his eyes drawn to

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a spot of stillness, a

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focal point of solidity amongst the

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blur. Alice. She

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is not joining with the others, not

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as such. She stands right

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in the thick of it all, eyes

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fluttering to a close, nose

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twitching as she catches the delectable

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scent of the Doctor's panic. She

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takes it all in, an artist

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absorbing her great masterwork. She

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is flush with absolute delicious

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satisfaction. Not

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quite meaning to, the

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Doctor seizes her shoulders, shaking

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hard. What is this?

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he cries. How do we stop it? She

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regards him with a kind of disinterest, as

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if he is barely there at all. It

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maddens him, so he locks

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his hand around her arm and drags her

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towards the door of the infirmary. It's

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a struggle, and she claws at

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him with unrestrained rage, but

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for the moment he has the upper hand.

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As he passes the matron, he spits

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his orders, and she,

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with pale-faced terrible resolve, obeys.

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It has been a long time since he performed

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an extraction. The tools sit

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uneasily in his hands. Alice

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is before him, chin high and

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proud. She is

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held down by the nurses, three

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of them in fact. She

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can hear a strange sound, a

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distant keening. Another

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girl, another procedure, scales

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being scraped and prized from

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skin, or a declawing,

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perhaps. He looks at Alice

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again, at her locked shut jaw, the

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muscles of her face rise and kick

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with the force of it. Open

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white, he says, even

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to his own ears, the words are

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jarring, too cloying,

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too childlike. Alice's

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eyes flash with amusement, horrible,

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hungry glint. Her

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mouth does open, terrifyingly, unnaturally

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vast, a wolf's

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moor. It engulfs

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his hand completely. Her

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teeth rest around his wrist, teasingly

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light. Please, he

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whimpers. Another muffled

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wail echoes from next door. Alice's

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eyes are locked on his own. Then

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her teeth clamp down, and his

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world turns white. The

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house is empty now. The doctor

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can feel it before he even opens his

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eyes. The

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eerie vacancy of a building drained

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of occupants, an

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architectural corpse. He

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isn't aware of much else, just

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the shocking wetness of his own

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blood, and a

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startling absence somewhere around his

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right wrist. He

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has been left on a bed. Someone

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has pulled the bedsheets to cover

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him, tucking him in

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tightly a mockery of

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comfort. In

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a bleary corner of his vision, he

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can see the dormitory door. He

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knows without checking that it will

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be locked. All

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is silent. No

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more stumbling feet drag across the

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floorboards. outside.

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If he listens

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carefully he can hear

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the distant stampede, the

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woods alive and wild with

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brand new creatures. Far

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away a wolf howls

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to the open sky. Hayley

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Atwell was reading An Affliction

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by Lottie Mills. The producer

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was Justine Willett.