I’m very much back in the writing game - my first non-Substack short story is going to be posted as part of a competition this weekend, and I’ll share the link with you once it’s up! - and I thought I’d bring down the mood by writing this slightly sad little story. Don’t worry, it’s still Gothic, and yes, bodies still mingle in it, too.

Theirs was a toxic love, but their lips sucked at the poison cocktail they were creating as a newborn sucks on the nipple of its mother.

Would it be that we could only blame Gothic literature for how this ends.

Oh, to betray.
To cause agony to each other.
To search in each other for a love that will most certainly end in doom.
The marks of a great story.
One for the ages.
That is what they both longed for.
Now, today, the survivor regrets having ever had that thought.

Set the scene of their first fateful encounter.
A cum-stained darkroom in a shabby gay bar in the alley of an ancient city forcefully turned modern.
Gently, they caress each other’s bodies.
Lips brush across skin, nipples.
They are merely following the directions of the musical theatre song traveling across the corner where the bar is, together with the sliver of light that gives the faintest luminance to their eyes.
It is in that moment that those bodies writhing around them, progressing much faster in their act of love, can see that the couple is doomed.
As the clock strikes four, and dawn approaches, the lights of the darkroom turn on.

As their craving for each other becomes too intense, only heightened by a few quick glances at each other’s bare bodies, they leave the bar together.

Not even the rising sun could break the curse that lies upon their romance as they travel towards it in a shabby cab, whose driver tells them that his card reader is broken and he’d only accept cash.
No other payment method possible.

Down in the basement of the house owned by the grandparents of the fair-haired man they sneak.

“Don’t worry, they’re deaf.”

Whether the fact that both of them are men and this, today, is still very much taboo in some parts of the world, fuels the fire of their romance must be decided by the reader alone, but as the narrator of this tragic love story, I need to gently remind them that, in Gothic stories, even misunderstood characters are ones that many people gladly root for.

The scent of green tea of the first flush and cigarettes draws our focus back onto the narrative, where we find a dark-haired man bound to a St. Andrew’s cross, his buttocks to our side.

Smack.

Only gentle are the whacks the faux-leathered whip deals out.

It was the wish of the submissive one to try this out when he saw the apparature as the lights went on in this forsaken basement.
Neither of them ever realized that, from the very beginning, they both were master and slave.

A Wartenberg wheel traces the spine of the one bound to the cross.
As it pierces skin, the other one approaches, his tongue lapping up the few drops of blood escaping from it.
He leans in for a kiss to share blood and saliva with his lover.
The whip rises for a few inches, as if lifted by the wind.
And falls.

As more of their bodily fluids mix when they kiss goodbye, they both know that, no, this is not destined to be a one-time thing.
They’ll blindly let fate lead them to their doom.

The darkness in each other’s eyes as they take one last look at each other before they’ll meet again tonight should’ve been a warning.

Silently, in their mind only, they both thank Emily Brontë for subliminally convincing them both that danger can be attractive.

Mere weeks later, their relationship has progressed into something much more stable, for they only let their pain roam free when they are playing in the basement.

They fall for each other so quickly that, at the annual Pride Parade, they do not even glance at the hairy chests of the group of bears walking next to them, but only focus on each other’s hands.

Hold on tight to each other, dear lovers, for soon, all must fall apart.

They do not mind the fleeting glances of the man dressed in a sweaty, too-tight t-shirt, nor do they notice how, while screaming his obscenities, he runs his hands through his oily hair and then proceeds to scratch his balls.

Their attention is caught by the speech given by a drag queen, the fringes of her dress hanging down her side loosely, about the past trials of queer people still not over today, at the height of the parade.

However, as proud as they are to have marched together, something inside of them has been roused, and they need their release.
Sweet oblivion.

As all Gothic stories must do, our narrative now comes full circle.
If, to you, it seems as if someone had tugged at the corner of our circle and slightly altered its shape - chapeau.

The bass dictates the rhythm of the thrusts as they try out the swing in the run-down bar in which they’d met.

They had gotten there early, for there are things in that bar they’d been wanting to try for a long time, but had been too shy for when they first laid their eyes upon each other.

The whip they are using ignores the dominant man’s movements.
Yet another sign which they should’ve taken more seriously.
A sign that something bad was about to happen, and things will go awry.

Someone knocks at the door of their cubicle.
A whip hits the wooden barrier, and a shivering voice unfolds.

“RUN”, is all they can make out.

They look for confirmation in each other’s eyes, but when the shots begin, they pay no heed anymore to their clothes, and, stark naked, adhere to the command.

Over writhing bodies on the floor they run, desperately trying to find out where the shots are coming from.

With merely a handful of other men, they make it outside, struggling for breath as they stand on the pavement.

“We need to split”, they decide in unison, as the bass dies down with one more shot.

After a quick embrace and a peck on the lips, one turns left and one turns right.
They glance at each other once more as the door to the bar swings open and the greasy-haired man from the parade emerges with a gun in his hand.

The voice from before again.
“Run!”
Where is it coming from?

Their final look into each other’s eyes still has not broken as, teary-eyed, they both make a start, in hopes of raising their chances that at least one of them will make it out alive.

As the first shot rings to the right, they both halt, slowly turning around.

Would that they had been given the gift of seeing each other’s face once more, but the bullet’s path is blocked by the drag queen they’d seen at the parade.
The Voice.

She opens her mouth, and in it, catches the bullet.

Doom is upon as, for now, as the figure fades, only the fringes of her outfit remaining, a second bullet travels through the night air, to the left, with no drag queen left to save the fallen one, crashing to the ground as an angel does from heaven.

Thus concludes our tragic story already, which, had it taken place in a Gothic castle, with a bit of luck, might have seen the return of the lovers’ spectre at a window as the wind whips a tree’s branches against it.

Instead, his spirit rises from the pool of blood and brains in which his body lies, melts into the pavement, and this accursed love affair has ended.

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Let the spectre inhale the last breath you’ll ever take as his lips gently brush across yours. He doesn’t shrink from the rancid smell that emanates from your rotting teeth.

The vapour arising from them gets caught in the hair swaying in his nostrils, plucks at them, but he doesn’t mind.

He’s used to it.

You’ve been drinking again.
Fragments of a night gone wrong.
Shards of onyx spread through your memory.

Do not worry, my beloved. Move closer to him, grasp his back. You are not alone in this.

He shall carry you over to that other side that you’ve been longing for.

Never alone.

But first, he must… Yes. I can tell that you’re already aware of the process. You’ve done your research.
You’ve been thinking about going through with this for many months before you finally committed.

Snap.
Too much for your mind to handle.

The demon can taste those sins on your sweet lips; the acid they carry with them has left its trace.

Remnants of days gone by.
Beauty that once was, but now has faded.

Oh, your body is still admirable, but no, you don’t shine as bright anymore as once you did.

Tainted.

A moan of pleasure radiates from that part of the creature where his vocal chords would be, were he to be more successful in his attempts to pass for human.

Delicious, that embarrassment.
Cheeks that blush.
Crimson carpets laid out on your face.
Like freshly ground herbs.
Bringing out the deepest layers of what his taste buds truly long for.

His calloused fingers brush across your neck.

Arousing.
Tickling.

The skin so soft, but loose.

A turkey’s neck.

They travel down, quickly move over your chest.

Strident.

Until his claw catches in your navel.

Scratch.
Should’ve cleaned that more often.
Center of the body.
Filled with filth and shame.

Feel the barbs attached to him start cutting into your body.

Zig-zag motion.

Droplets of an unknown substance fall from his forehead and land on yours. Mingle with the sweat there.

Sawing away the upper layers of your skin.
Beta-keratin that digs beneath your hypo-dermis.
Flesh laid bare as he starts ripping.
Tearing.

His body thrusts forward.
A heavy weight leans on you as he peels away those layers that make you what others know of you.

A gasp.
Trying to mutate into one more breath as pain overrides your thoughts.

Like that adder you almost sawed apart with the blade of your lawn mower when you were a child you must shed your skin.

The beneath shall be all that remains of you.
Glistening in the moonlight, bare flesh.
Beauty that has faded.
Beauty that wants to return.
Futile.

The creature devours it all, both the stinging pain that is as gas washed ashore a blazing coast, and that pride in your mortal shell that almost drowned you.

Beautiful.
His for the taking.
Become what once you were.
Return to that primal cell that grew into a fully fledged human so many decades ago.

Ignore the talons of the revenant that grasp at those gentle hairs beneath your armpits.

Lovers that cherished them.
Blades that shave them.
Cut deeper.

Your visitor lays them on his lips to taste the memories they carry.

Nigh strong enough to make his black encrusted heart beat once more.

Give in to the pain, my beloved, and let go now of those memories.

Freedom is approaching.
Reach out your arms.
Welcome it in.
As free as you were when those now fading memories were imprinted into your DNA.
Wiped away.

The haunt adores you, loves you in that special way that you’ve always wanted to be loved.

For who you are deep within, in that deep well behind those walls you’ve built.
The castle is crumbling.

He begins to dig deeper.

Stroking your bone.

It is brittle under the pressure he applies, but let him caress it. Let him take in its wonder for just a little bit longer.

He can feel the youth that still lies there inside of you, but that too must be vapourized.

You know that, darling, don’t you?

Let him peel away those shreds of skin that are void of any pigmentation, and those that are too heavily pigmented for your liking.

A canvas.
Paint strokes made by an amateur.
You recoil from it.
Not of this world.
Too different.
Your skin is rotten with disease.
Peel the apple.

Hush. This is not the time for confessions.

Absolution.
Indulgence.

He is already at work, ridding you of those strips. Putting them into his maw. Watch as he swallows them whole. Not a single retch escapes from him.

Next up, those lines written there on your belly by too much weight.
And those scars from when they had to cut into you.
Like a child clumsily attempting to get to the sweet part of a citrus fruit.

Only the epidermis on face and scalp left now.

My beloved, you are brave.

The amount of suffering in your life has only enhanced the glimmer inside of your body.

And those wrinkles, I find them to be the most beautiful part of you.

Pain of the body to cleanse your soul.
Make you what they’ve always wanted you to be.
A deal, sealed along with your destiny when you called upon the haunt.

Unbreakable.
Too strong.

Stronger even than you are.

The price you’re paying is your whole self, for the being has no need for either goods or money. But isn’t it a small price to pay? For there is not much left of you.
You have given away most of who you are already.
Back when you were still alive.

A void approaches.
Empty vessel.

Lower your gaze, look down at your sinews. Those faint muscles that have grown weak from too little exercise.

The wraith is plucking at them.

He’s playing a melody. Listen as his ballad tells of your life. It merges swiftly with the lullaby that follows.

Raw.
Unblemished memories.
Turned to dust.

He will take all that you have given to him.

He will fertilize the herbs in his garden with what he steals from you, for to serve to the next person that calls upon him.

The end is nigh, he cannot bear your screams much longer.

His body slides upwards again.

Slimy as a snail.
Oozing in between your muscles.
Filling the membranes in between your bones.

See two of his three eyes stare at yours, the third one looking at your throat, as his incisors gnaw at your vocal chords.

No more words from you.
No more sounds.
Except for those leaking gases.

Not even the thump of your heart.
It shall cease to beat on its own.

You astound me. I can tell that the being is beginning to feel for you.

Let him hold your heart.

Lungs that are pushed aside.
Dangling there, outside of the cavity of your chest.
The rats can nibble at them later.
When all of this is over.

You are mistaken, my beloved. They did not take up too much room in your small chest.

Merely an illusion.
Caused by the hardship you have been choking on for all your life.
But that hardship.
It was meant for you.

He breaks apart the two walls of the chambers that embrace your cardiovascular system.

Pushes them together. Must merge. Must become one.
A beautiful gem.
A ruby.
A diamond, threaded with crimson veins.
Just one squeeze.
He knows how dear humans hold this useless organ that merely pumps.
Pumps.
Pumps.

Rip it out!

There, the juices are flowing freely now. Your body is shriveling.

More leaking.
Empty bowels.
Empty bladder.
A dry carcass, lying in a pool of all that you consumed.

One more step left in this process.
Then all of this shall be over.
Further up he must travel still.

The end is nigh.

Be brave now, for this is where the revenant shall learn all that he needs to know about you.

He is already beginning to shift.

Flimmering.
Changing.
Wearing your skin.
Your heart shining brightly from his chest.

The saliva that slithers down from his mouth, let him use that to wash away those sins.

Repent.

It leaks into the pores of your temples.

His hands.
So cold.
Resting there.
Beginning to push.
A crack.

A tongue that laps, bathes itself in the flood streaming from your cranium.

There.
You have satisfied him.
See the smile plastered on his true face as he digs with what might once have been fingers beneath the bone, white as chalk, that guards your brain.

A sound.
Gulping.
Swallowing it all.

You were brave, my beloved.

It is the most delectable meal the creature has ever had.

So much innocence.
Nothing to be ashamed of.
Not a sin.
You merely wished to be free.
Now you are.

Was it worth the pain?

There are some amazingly kind people and loving people in all religions out there.

However, some people, throughout history, have used their religion to justify their hate. Conversion therapy still exists, and hate crimes are on the rise. False narratives of love can fuel those.

Hate can never become love. Not even in horror fiction.

But hate can be conquered by love.

This was a fun story to write, but I noticed that certain themes appear more often than others in my fiction. In style, this is a bit of a detour for me, even though it’s still infused with Gothic elements. I love how the prose in this is a bit more “raw”.

Writing can heal, and so can reading, for words have power.

If you’d like to talk to me about how horror in particular can be healing, reach out to me!

Until then, read my stories, subscribe to my Substack, like and share my stories, keep writing, love each other, and don’t judge.

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Passion

Dedicated to Those We Lost to False Christian Love

Antique bedframe.
Made from wood sacrificed by an oak that has witnessed the deterioration of sin.
Black leather pillows on sheets of purple velvet.
An aria sung by decay and dust.

On the sheets, between pillows of stolen leather, lies a man.
His hair is only beginning to turn that undefinable shade caught between grey and white.
Neither one, nor the other.

Eyes focused on the only source of light.
The fire of a candle tries to break through the darkness.

A pull that tugs at them like a moth that is drawn to the flames of a torch recently ignited in the dark of night.
Not daring to burn at its brightest just yet.

Gentle lines on the man’s face that have been left by alcohol.
Traces like that of a coal dancing through the ashes.
The promise of muscles beneath a tiny pouch on his stomach.
A growl.
A plea for satisfaction of his basic needs.

Imagination paints a vague picture.
An art style arriving from decades yet to come.
Time collides with place.

Futile to attempt to tell whether it is the middle of the night, or somewhere chthonic.

Fog creeps through the door like a blanket following a child dragging its broken china doll across the floor.

Layers multiply. Attempt and almost succeed in hiding a mantle.

Eyes opening. Focus on the growing void in the heart of the man who is fighting through the final veneers of his dream.

A shriek breaks the illusion of calm.
Akin to a finger dipping frantically into holy water.
Leaving ripples that blur into yesterday.

The putrid smell of death coils up Percival’s nostrils like a worm digging into earth when he awakes in the bed of last night’s lover.

A screeching clock shows that it is the early hours of this cold September morning on which the story unfolds.

There were too many drinks last night.

Percival had stayed at the tavern again until his feet were politely placed on the street, his coat following him mere seconds later.

On his way back home, he meets the stranger.

Beautiful. Enticing.
A sculpture, really.
Yes. At first, he thinks they had erected another one of those statues dedicated to some holy man.

The stranger’s body reflects the moonlight from its alabaster skin.
A craving to dip his toes into the lake of seduction washes ashore before Percival.

Everything about the other man’s physique is bathed in waters of perfection. Slightly too perfect, for Percival’s liking.

Usually, mostly out of force of habit, Percival prefers his men to be a bit rugged - traditionally ugly, even, to a certain degree.
Something to anchor the yearning to reality.
Perfection is too surreal.
Flaws of honesty are what make a masterpiece.

The only thing that shatters the illusion of a statue is what awaits him below that velvet frock coat swaying to the rhythm of the night wind’s gusts pulsating like an inexperienced lover’s thrusts.

It gently pushes Percival, trying to steer him in the other direction.

Away from darkness.
Towards home.
Percival should’ve listened, but too clouded is his mind from the ale.

Vulnerability.
Moments like such a one are when predators attack.

Movement once more.
Eyes searching for a sign of whether this was real or illusion.
Realisation is fed to him in small pieces.

It is only a frock coat.
And the creature wears nothing beneath it.
A whispered promise of passion.

Time covers the being’s legs in icy crystals. Freezes them to cobbled street.

A thud.
A button that lies on the ground.
Another revelation.
A gasp from what is revealed.
Bare flesh lies dormant beneath the frock coat.

A slow awakening of senses in both men.

Hunger in Percival’s eyes. Starvation in the other’s.
Movement in the statue.
No, not a statue, Percival reminds himself.
The phallus on statues is never this prominent.

Two gazes meet in their frantic search for fulfilment.
Connecting. Destinies entwine.
The first stitch of the pattern is made.

Something beyond the realms of sanity gives the stranger his cue.

Move.

A longing that is sweetened by desperation kisses the lips of a desire that has won its war against fear when Percival realises that the man is gone.

Fragments of sound from behind Percival.
A hiss.
A sharp pain on Percival’s wrist.
A gentleman’s kiss. And something protruding from the lips.
Two sharp teeth cut the darkness with their reflection of the moonlight.

The hunter has chosen his prey, and he possesses a tongue that sags too much with drool for a human being.
Pink flesh wraps itself around Percival’s wrist. A snake choking its prey.

A dullness strokes the skin with brushes soft as desert sand as venom enters the circulation of Percival’s blood.

Pressure applied. The toxic juice stops at the command of force.
“Are you lost, beautiful?”
A voice, deep enough for the echo’s hue to become a shadow in the night.
It drags Percival’s mind back into the here and now.

The stranger must be one of those theatre people you frequently encounter in London. They, too, pretend to be a statue. Approach them, and they’ll want your money.
Demand it, aggressively.
Playing with your fear.
But the stranger had approached him.
Jumped him, even.

Seduction.
“I….” A bare stammer.
Percival merely manages to breathe that one word, for icy crystals dive into his throat and slash at his lungs.
The night is too cold for an autumn month, Percival realises.

Even in this part of England.
More surreality.
“I’ll show you the way.”

Senses heighten.
Climb the mountain of conscious thought until they meet with clouds that pull to them the blood of sinners past.

Fight instinct there is none, for Percival knows he would lose this battle.
The instinct for flight, meanwhile, threatens to overwhelm him.

“But I’m not…”
“Hush, beautiful. It won’t take too long.”
A burning sensation on his ring finger.
The stranger’s gaze singes three single hairs.

“Unmarried. Nothing to worry about. Tell your family you went to a brothel in the city. They’ll appreciate being given the illusion that you’ve had a whore.”

“But I’m not...”

Percival is still unmarried at the age of 32. The talk about him in the village suffices already.
Without anyone knowing he truly was what they said he was.
Never has he shown any interest in visiting the brothels his friends frequented.

“We’re alone. Come, now.”
A warning.
A raven’s screech.

Percival glances at the mysterious stranger again, taking in the sight of his body. Not daring to admit to himself the feelings this stirs in him.

Hope. Arousal.
That kind of danger.
The one that is just dangerous enough to be worth the risk.

A nod.
Prayers to no one that melt into the fear that they ignite.
The potential of exile.
If anyone sees him with this stranger, he’ll be dragged to the border of the village.

Tension becomes tangible.
Like the string of a guitar being pulled tighter.
Bodies close – close enough to touch..
But Percival does not dare to reach out.
Not just yet.

Intrusive thoughts.
A tomato splashes on the wooden pillory he finds his head in.
The soft flesh of the second and third bursts when they meet with his face.

No. Ignore the warnings. Ignore that feeling in your stomach.
Keep walking.
You might find love.
Or lust, at least.

Percival desperately searches for a sign that he might still be able to awaken his interest in trying to flee from that demon wreaking havoc inside of him. Her name is Temptation, and she is the strongest of them all.
A losing battle.
The preacher’s words from last week’s Sunday sermon fade into nothingness.

A shimmer of hope.
As long as he finally agreed to the arranged marriage to his cousin once removed, it’d be okay.
Even if someone did catch him and the stranger.
For people have always been willing to accept any meagre excuse as long as it fits as the missing puzzle piece of their perfectly accurate biblical world.

No harm to the patriarchy if you can hint at the possibility of there being another reason.
Like a priest hearing confession.
Don’t ask.
Don’t push.
Don’t tell.

Fog rising.
The mist that serves as the second layer of this veil seemingly breaks through the bottom of the cobbled street.

An illusion caused by the drink?
It must be the drink, Percival tells himself.

Thoughts of escape.
Percival considers knocking at a nearby door.
To find shelter.
To flee the stranger.
No, that might put someone else at risk.
And when people are at risk, they throw any victim in their vicinity to the wolves.

“I should head home. I need to rest.”

“You’ll be able to rest at my place. Come, now, beautiful.”

The hand intensifies its hold on the wrist where the serpentine tongue had been.
Refusing to let go.

“You’ll come with me.
You’ll have the night of your life.
Trust me.”

Conviction.
Percival dares to look deeper into the stranger’s eyes.
Iridescent. Purple.
A dark lake without a bottom.
Without a bed.

What meets his gaze pierces a needle into his eyeballs.

“I need to get home to my wife.”

A smirk.

“You don’t have a wife. I’ve seen you look at me.
Come now. It’s getting cold.
You can have one more drink at my place.
I know you want it.
And you’ll get it.
And more to follow tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? No, he’d have to leave early. Before sunrise.
A wish for time to tread more slowly. A lure is spun around him, woven by spiders sent by the God of Lies.

The stranger’s promises wipe the doubts from what is left of Percival’s mind.
Resistance leaves no trace.
His judgement is clouded by the desire to finally be able to just feel.
And he wants that drink, too.
The craving for poisoned juices becomes too strong.

He had gone to the village tavern because he had run out of ale already, and thanks to his reputation, not even the greediest of people would sell him more.

Not until the end of the month at least, when they were desperate for money. Or even just the chance of getting more.

“Okay. One drink.”

A grimace is thrust upon the vampire’s facade of perfection.
Something seems wrong, but it is futile to attempt a description.

That glint of white again.
A stone on the beach of a crimson sea.

“Yes. You’ll get your drink.
And I’ll feed your curiosity until you’re full.”

Fear calls to the perspiration laying just beneath Percival’s skin.
Sweat that heeds the call.
Droplets that break through it, and pores that are filled.

A timid question.

“What’s your name, kind sir?
And could you kindly let go of me?”

The throbbing and pulsating pain on Percival’s wrist heightens his senses.
Fear.
Arousal.
A delectable couplet.

“Your shepherd will let you go once your face stops telling him otherwise.”

The composer of this symphony of death opens his frock coat once more.
This close, the sight is even more impressive.
Percival knows very well that there’ll be pleasure, but also pain.
Like the last blossoms of spring brushing across the ashen face of someone sailing down the river Styx.

A frantic attempt to cover the signs of his fervor with his free hand.
He licks his lips and finds there precious salt.
Emotions are caught in a hurricane.
Not even the cold night air can calm Percival now.

But what is that scent that walks with them?
Percival sniffs.
A tiger verifying whether a carcass will upset his bowels.
It reminds Percival of the smell his skin had emitted this morning after the alcohol of last night had left his body through the pores of his skin.
Sweet.
Sour.
Wrong.

Moonlight waning.

Their shadows follow them on their path, like a hound whose nose has just found the trail of blood he has been searching for all day.
Two shadows, one man, and the otherworldly stranger are headed for the church.

A chime.
The bells are ringing, for midnight has come.

A vision permeates Percival’s thoughts. A drop of blood in crystal water.
The stranger’s bare feet kicking at his intestines until his guts bleed.
Images of his blood being infused with fractions of possible horrors yet to come.
Then the priest appears before Percival’s inner eye, forcing him to kneel with the whips he dispenses.
Increased force.
Need of a confession of the sin he is about to commit.

He requires reassurance, but does not know where to find it.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my place.”
The stranger’s voice again.
The vision is soaked up by the ground. Leaves behind only fear.

“Where is that?”

“You’ll see. You’ll be comfortable. Don’t you worry.
You’ll get your rest.
After I’m done with you.”

A smile that might mean either eternal torment or a soaring to the peak of satisfaction.

A building appears.
Arabesque, like the bodies of demons mingling in an orgy.
They are too close to the church now for Percival’s liking.

Why is the stranger stopping there?
Where is he going?

A thundering command.
“Wait here.”

Lightning bugs powered by guilt offer a deeper glimpse into the darkness.
When the man returns, Percival is able to see his face more closely.
Every detail.
Almost like it was chiseled from a marble stone.

If he were to attempt to slap the stranger’s face, would it hurt him more than it hurt the statue?

But no, the slapping would be done by the stranger.
Playfully.
Hopefully.

A sneer.
“The priest always hides his wine here.
Doesn’t want all of it in his church so that he’s got more for himself.”

Raindrops falling.

Failing in their mission to rip Percival from the clutches of his desire.

On a wooden bench, in front of the house of God, the stranger opens the bottle and drinks from it.
Gentle fingers on skin with the texture of old leather.
A jolting movement, too forceful to be loving.
But powerful enough to make Percival’s pulse quicken.

A staccato.
The motion is meant to guide the victim’s face towards the stranger.
Fingers brushing across lips.
The cold glass of the bottle meeting those lips.
Forcing them apart.
Like a stitched wound that is being torn open for the third time.

“Your turn. Drink.”

A retch escapes from Percival’s esophagus.
Had this wine gone bad already?
The priest doesn’t seem like someone who’d let wine go bad.

Fornication of doubts.
Generations of suspicion are birthed.

A putrid taste lingers on Percival’s tongue.
Putrescent, yes, even better.
That is how he plans on describing it in his diary come morning, safety, and the shelter of his own abode.

Darkness overtakes the scene, and the memory of the night ends for Percival.

Flames flare up once more before their pulse ceases, and Percival awakens.
Body trembling.
Sweat becomes a river of salt.
Purple velvet turns into lace.
Leather becomes wood.
The aria is grasping at her coda.

The lines on Percival’s face have grown deeper.
Chiseled in his flesh by an Italian master.
Futile still to attempt a guess at where Percival is.

The scent has lost all gentleness.
Become a serpent.

Memory of his grandma’s potato cellar.
Percival is comfortable, however.

He is unused to the quality of these sheets.

The lace has a hold on him, refusing to let him go, like a young mother nursing her dying infant.

The same single candle still illuminates the room.
Revived by passion.
Shadows of unknown origin waltz across the wall.
Disconnected images flash across his mind.
Clash with each other.

A pain on Percival’s wrist.
He has not suffered enough just yet.
The stranger’s hold on him is too strong.
Too tight for pleasure.
Approaching the threshold of pain. Leaving a hole in the web of comfort.
The border has been crossed.

But it cannot be the stranger, no.
For the mysterious man stands beside him.

Pulse heightened.
Still erect.
Pain and pleasure.
Percival is yanked back onto the bed when he tries to jump.
The endeavour is made before he even considers trying to locate an exit.
Some form of escape.
A thud.
A strip of crimson is wrapped tight around the wounded skin he thought the stranger had been clutching.
A second one tightens as his back collides with the wood behind him.
The oaken bed vibrates.

White.
The other man smiles.

Even with the stranger’s mouth shut, Percival can see the teeth dancing across crimson lips.
A tongue, lapping.
Looking for something to devour.
Expectation of a hiss.

Silence instead.
Silence that is as difficult to bear as the metaphorical cross the priest kept mentioning in his sermons.
Quietude.

Percival can hear his breaths echoing.
Miniscule soundwaves ricocheting off the walls.

“Sleep some more. One more sip.”

Seductive thoughts.
A cup is held against his mouth.
Percival tries to resist, but he thirsts for it.
Overpowering instincts that win.
As instincts for survival always do.

His throat hurts as he swallows, but delirium is near.
Comfort.
Awakening of the mind again.
A slumber that is about to end.
Fog that hasn’t lifted just yet.

A door bursts open.
Enter the priest.

Duty that has been fulfilled.
“Thank you, Charles. You’ve served your purpose.”

The priest’s gaze turns towards Percival.
A smile.
More teeth.

That tongue again.
Peeking out at Percival from between lips that are so dry, they break like the earth below grass that is walked on after a drought.

A sob.
Something attached to Percival’s neck.
Like a leech sucking desperately at the blood of a rat whose corpse has already dried in the sun.

Begun to crumble.

Disintegration.

A void.

“The Lord always finds His sinners.“

A smack.

“This is His body.”

A slurp.

“This is His blood.”

A tug on Percival’s heartstrings to play the aria’s final chord.

Every full moon night, I gaze into the waterfall breaking through the mountain outside of my hidden cave and select one lost soul.

Tonight, the hands of destiny choose to fall on you.

Feel them grab you and let yourself be dragged into my realm of darkness.

You are a bright spark, too visible to avoid my gaze.

You have been selected for who you are. Now you must walk with me.

This will be a journey unlike any other you’ve ever taken.

You must be brave now. Take my hand. I’ll guide you on your way.

Inhale, exhale. Deep breaths. That’s it.
You are ready now.

The heavy iron doors screech as the wind pushes them open. Your heart skips a beat.

Notice how the petals on the other side all descend to the ground and lay themselves down there in a lake of ivory in front of you as the nightwind blows them to their final resting place.

The screech of the arabesque doors rattling in the wind shatters the silence that desperately tears at your whole being.

What you tried to leave behind follows us here.

The voice in your head dares you to question your sanity. Ask yourself, “how can beauty and the grotesque coexist in such union?” while you glance at the marble gargoyles standing guard.

Separate this moment from the small town you are used to and hear your own reality fade away with the last of the three chimes of the clock.

One.

Two.

Three.

My calloused hands chafe away the outer layers of your brain.

Feel the pain, it’s not much different from how you remember the gravel-embedded skin on your knees after you fell from your bicycle when you were five.

That way, it is easier for me to enter your mind.

Hear the nightingales that surround you begin their lullaby. Their song shall be with us for this journey.

Would that there were anyone else to listen to this beautiful hymn, but no one is with us. Those aren’t footsteps you hear, it’s just the rustling of withered leaves scattered on the cobbled walk guiding you on your way.

Everyone else has disappeared. Glance at their faces one last time while they slip from your memory.

Wave goodbye to those nights filled with pleasure beneath the streets of the city. A last whiff of the stranger’s kiss before he enters you from behind.

My hooded figure appears and brings you back to me, right where you belong now.

Droplets of sweat escape from your skin, for darkness is falling as even the moon herself hides from the destiny laid out before you.

The voice of the wind takes on a crimson colour. See the notes waltz before you. We must follow them as a wishing star tumbles through the night sky and writes out your name.

My tongue laps at your sweat.
Shiver from the barbs on the flesh caressing your skin, for the tell-tale signs of the excitement caused by both horror and arousal must be caressed.

Open your hand. The ice on my fingers that traces the lines of your future melts into your palm and infuses you with fear.

My mouth is close to yours, inhale my rotten breath. The juice of my last meal still lingers there. Soon, we shall kiss. But not just now, no. You must have patience.

Dare to sigh. It will help you ground yourself again after your thoughts have wandered off to one more allowance I’ll make for you.

I know. You swore to yourself that you’d never spend another minute turning into hours thinking of that moment in your life.
But you can’t hide it from me.
I open the curtain to that scene.

Bathe your naked body in the memory. It is the last glimpse of who you were that I’ll allow.

In my time, you’d have burned for this.

Let those stares dig holes into your back as you walk past your neighbors.

Even decades after your way of love was legalized, people punish you with their hate.

Come with me and I shall set you free.

You’ve lived your life. Now you must let go of your pain and embrace mine.

Push those thoughts to the corner of your mind and we’ll bury them together. Look closely in front of you. Not only bodies are buried here, no. Those just belong to the memories I tore them from.

The gates open before us.

This is where we shall lay them to rest.

No one can find us here, those gazes don’t exist where you’re going.

Feel the temperature drop and let the night wind turn the moisture under your arms to ice.

You must not dwell on previous chapters. They have been written.

I pierce your skin with the feather of a crow and draw blood.

We’ll write your story once more, together.

The moon breaks through the clouds. She watches you like a mother watches over her newborn child.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been on this journey. That’s why this is beginning to feel familiar to you.

It wasn’t just that you wanted to escape those gazes, mostly of men, no.

It is because you’ve felt this pull before. A needle sews a thread into your heartstrings. It tugs at them when it connects you to your final stop.

Follow that thread. I’ll walk by your side.

You need not take those steps alone. Even at the end, you shall not be without a guardian.

Death is always with you, and it is just.

It’s not far now. Come along. Walk through the open gates with me.

The hands of the clock move slowly. We have time to read some of the names and dates on here.

You can’t even trace your family back to this date here, see? Let me show you a glimpse into my past now. See an ivory body clad in a crimson gown that does not match the gender of my facial structure cutting two ropes. This was in 1835.
“James and John.” No last names.

Look into their eyes as they are raised towards heaven and plead with the God who seems to have forsaken them.

Weeds grow out of the earth and reach for their names. I will cut them back once I have brought you to your destination. See the stones themselves almost seem to crumble.

I force you on your knees. Kneel before the grave and kiss it. Do not fear.

Feel the pulse of time slowing down and reversing. Understand why I have so little time to care for my graveyard.

Walk past the mausoleum with me.

That is where we will gather when we rise again.

It is built from the bones of those laid to rest here. Look at yourself once more as your face reflects in it and breathe in the dust that covers it. One day you will be a part of this too..

Electricity makes the hair on your arms come alive. You feel the tug of that string that connects you to where we’ll arrive soon as the mausoleum draws your hair to it.

The song of the nightingales reaches its peak as old earth travels up your nostrils.

The moon is wrapping herself in her bed of clouds.

You must keep breathing until the clock strikes the next hour. Let me pin your eyelids into the bone surrounding them. I am here with you, but you, too, must face this.

Follow with me the scent of rotting roses.

I already prepared a wreath for you decades ago when I first thought I’d have to take you. But you persevered. Your thread was thin, but you wrapped it in a layer of hope.

Give in and let your feet move on their own. My hand is on your shoulders. The pain will fade. I promise.

Take a turn to the left with me. Behind this hedge is where you’ll find your final rest.

The roses shred your skin and lay bare your flesh as we walk through them. This will prepare you for what is to follow.

My claws trace your nipples. Feel my lips on them now.

Like a rampant creature I bite at the left one.

Hush, now. Let me inhale your scream as my lips meet yours.

You’ve almost made it.

I just have to dig deeper inside of that cavity and lay bare your heart.

Feel my embrace as I wrap my cloak around you.

My hands travel to your cheeks and pull you from me. Your face turns to the left, guided by Death. Don’t try to close your eyes, it is futile. You need to accept this pain in order for you to heal.

Let me wipe away the tears that blur your vision so that you can see your name on the marble stone.

The clock chimes as you glance at the words written beneath your name and the date of death.

The nightingales end their song.

Your last breath leaves your lungs as you fall forward into your earthen bed.

Forgiveness. Love. Worth.

I cover you with a blanket of the earth from which you came.

Do not worry, for I will be back when your flesh melts into it. This sleep is not eternal.

I will return for your bones.

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Once upon a time, night fell, and with it, the stars descended, shattering like glass when they hit the mountains, lands, and the sea, leaving the Queendom in a darkness so thick that not even the vampires could see.

In the graveyard, whispers of confusion mingled with muffled gasps, broken only by the brave sound of a harp’s strings being plucked far down in the deepest of all the crypts. Out of that very crypt emerged the dashing Prince, carrying the harp in his left arm and the tune on his lips.

In his right hand flickered a candle, struggling bravely against the wind that tried to snuff it out. As all good things must, the candle persevered.

The Prince bravely strode on, his boots thumping up the stairs of the ancient mausoleum the Queendom used as a kind of market square whenever someone wanted to make a speech or get married, both of which happened on alternating Fridays, usually.

“I have chosen,” Prince Jacques announced. “Raise your eyes towards the horizon and see that the night is with us. The ancient prophecy that only the oldest of us witnessed when it left the Seer’s lips with her final breath has arrived. The ceremony must begin, for the world is ours for the taking.”

Darkness must fall for loving light to rise, as for a better future we all strive. Many times the light shall come and go,
and in the end, crimson rivers shall overtake the final foe.

All those with shadows in their hearts must die,
for the stars to return to their place up high.

A weapon that can hurt and bless shall be the key, seal it with a kiss.
The Queendom shall once more be free, when lovers find eternal bliss.

Whispers of agreement escaped out of scarlet-rimmed mouths, and the elated creatures of the night not in possession of a human mouth took up their own song in accordance.

Of course, every hero in a fairy tale needs an animal to accompany him on his quest of honour, that is a truth established eons before the words “once upon a time” were first written on parchment.

Out of the blanket of mist and fog emerged two flapping wings, fueled by a black heart beating to the rhythm of the cicadas. It carried with it the dampness of the swamps, that special scent that once it travels up your nostrils can never be erased from your memory, for it digs its claws into it. The bat quickly brushed the Prince’s shoulder, and just as quickly disappeared in the garden of capes that were standing guard. If you pay attention, you’ll notice that it will reappear soon enough.

The Prince’s hand was balled into a fist holding on tight to the candle. He raised it high, and hissed when the wax slowly dripped down his arms as if it wanted to melt into him, stopped only by the dark hairs that caught it like a parasol catching the rays of the sun.

The graveyard and all its surroundings were now dunked into a silence that was so hollow that only the sound of the shattered stars being blown on the cobbled pathways between the graves could be heard; they were crystals singing a lullaby to those hard times.

Amidst the near silence, all eyes were on Jacques.

Thump.

His raised fist crashed against his chest, knocking on the chambers of his rarely beating heart.

“Freedom!”, he announced, and dropped the candle. The dew on the grass gathered into an aquatic ball so that, in unison, stronger than on their own, the droplets could fulfill their mission in this story, which was to murder the flame, so that the last source of light faded away. As it should be. One must adhere to even the smallest details in prophecies.

Of course, that is not to say that there wasn’t a tiny flicker waiting to be ignited in the hearts of every vampire present. But no visible light outside, no.

“Alix, come with me.”

Jacques’ voice echoed through the graveyard, so that the vampires’ hearts lit up, and on the flames of their heart, they each lit a candle, so that a sea of lights illuminated the pathway for the young vampire with flaming locks traveling down from head to cape, and eyes of a colour that humans cannot see - it usually appears purple to those of us without any preternatural gifts.

“Are you certain, Prince?” Alix’s voice did not falter, and in it lay a burning desire for this to be true.

“Yes, Alix. Remember the prophecy. We shall no longer hide.”

An intermission is needed here before this part of the story ends and our heroes proceed. Take a few breaths with me while their lips touch and their tongues search for each other in order to seal their first promise in front of the vampires and us as a witness. They must embark on their mission for the Goddess of Equal Rights soon enough.

“Everyone, blow out your candles,” Jacques advised his followers.

When darkness had once more taken over, the two vampires traveled with the night wind, the certainty in their hearts of what must be done guiding them to their destination. Wings gently brushed against each other, and the tiny hairs of fur on them sent sharp shocks through the vampires’ whole beings. Something in them was stirring. Ready to come alive again.

On ultrasonic soundwaves, promises were exchanged. Promises of a night filled with passion when all of this was over - their feat would be accomplished soon.

Now, neither fairy tales nor prophecies are merely solarly – I always allow myself a weak attempt at lightening the mood – what I meant is, solely – about the heroes.

There is someone with a heart enwrapped in shadows, just like it was prophesied. No story can be woven out of bright fabrics only. Thus it was that in the corners of the quilt I created, there appeared the image of our villain.

He was the archetype of the evils in our midst, and had so much hatred in his heart that it has already spilled over into our world.

He had laid unjust claim on the vampire’s graveyard when he rose to power, a power he possessed because he was so blatantly, boringly normal, and pretentiously pious, all the men in town had been in favor of electing him to this position.

Lick from my cheek the tear that is running down there, for it pains me to note that this archetype is still common in our time – remember, we have merely traveled to the past and will return safely to our time, after this story is over.

Thank you. Now, let’s take a closer look at our villain.

Portly waves of flesh entangled themselves in the arms of his throne, and parts of him quivered over them in waves. If the same thing had happened to his wife – mind you, he would never have allowed a woman to sit where he sat – he would have criticized this. Very likely, he would even have sent her to one of those places that hopelessly tried to heal women’s minds through physical treatment. What he did not know is that it is impossible to heal something that needs no healing, something that is merely different, but naturally healthy.

However, that was the way of men back then, and even the mists of time have been unable to change this so far. I will be there for the next generation of readers and for them, I shall rewrite this story, in the hopes of things having progressed.

Many generations back, Mayor Etienne, or Count Etienne, which is what he liked to call himself, was signing the death warrants of yet another pair of men who had been found out to be sodomizing.

If you don’t know what sodomy means, all you need to know about it is that for many men who are in love with another man, it is part of their private lives, and that private act unjustly used to be a crime. Nothing else, nothing to worry about for anyone else.

However, the mayor, who very likely secretly lusted for this secret passion too, enjoyed abusing his power. That was his way as a villain.

He did not respect women, and he did not like men who were with other men for he found that to be too effeminate. Generally, he did not like people who didn’t look and behave like him.

Why that is, I don’t know, for there was so much darkness in his heart that not even I can look past it, although once, when he thought I wasn’t watching, I caught him squeezing the fat deposits on his chest into his wife’s brassiere.

While the mayor was proudly devouring a steak, the juices flowing out of it whenever his rotten teeth bit into it, our vampires kept traveling onwards, for they needed to make one more stop before they arrived at the mayor’s residence. They needed their rings, and an item that was only hinted at in the prophecy as the union of love and pain.

In the midst of nighttime, the calls of songbirds looking for a mate brought the snowflakes dancing in the air to a halt for a moment, for even they wanted to take in the beauty of it before they became one with the others on the ground, those awaiting them to merge into something stronger together.

Their beauty, whether alone or as part of the blanket of snow covering the cobbled streets now, was matched only by those of the rubies sitting on the top of a pair of silver rings in the jeweler’s window, in a small box laid out with velvet of such a crimson color, I need not describe what it compares to.

Now gently touch the velvet yourself, dear reader. It will warm your cold fingers. It shall grow into a blanket for you to protect your shivering body. We are not there yet, at the end, the story isn’t over, and you are as much a part of it as the vampires, the bat, and the mayor.

“Happily ever after” is a long way to go for some, especially those deviating from the narratives that greedy men have stolen from nurturing mothers and grandmothers in order to make them forcefully fit their own worldview.

Stand close to me, and with me, look into that empty corner, see the two velvet capes appear and unfold. It is our vampires Jacques and Alix, they have arrived at their first destination.

But there is someone else nearby too, merely a side character. Just like every other side character, he has an important role, however.

Stay still – the jeweler is shy – and watch him emerge from the chamber attached to the store, still in his nightgown that he has wrapped around his body tightly.

“Are they ready?” Jacques’ eyes met the jeweler’s gaze that was scanning the fingertips of the two vampires who, for most men’s liking, were too close to touching, very much like needles drawn to a lodestone.

Upwards those eyes traveled, zoning in on the androgynous face of Alix before setting on Jacques.

“Swear your oath.”

Jacques did, and out of the pocket of his cape, he took the vial of crimson he had promised to the jeweler in return for those unsacred rings.

He crossed the few yards between them assuredly, and the jeweler shrunk back just in time before the skin on their faces met.

Dewdrops as those blooming on the morning glory filled the space between them, a common result when heat and coldness meet, such as that of the vampire’s skin of ice and the jeweler’s epidermis cleansing itself with sweat from what he thought might be a fever dream.

A quick gesture of gratitude broke the spell between them. Just a peck on the cheek. Stirring feelings in the jeweler he didn’t know were in him and making him aware that he was indeed wide awake.

Among gloved hands, the rings exchanged owners. They were handed to the vampire along with the most symmetrical rose he had seen in his long life. A gift, a symbol, and a token of hope at once.

Those other oaths the vampires had waited so long to swear will not have to wait much longer.

The prophecy was already being repeated around the world, glints of the belief in a better world to come soon turned into lightning bugs that showed Jacques and Alix the way to the final destination of their quest.

They took flight with kindled hearts.

With their path now laid out before them clear as a crystal, they quickly covered those few more miles before they arrived at the mayor’s residence and made true the promise they had both sworn to the vampire clan before they left.

In the meantime, the mayor had dozed off from the overconsumption of that liquid he liked to consider to be the blood of Christ. How could it be wrong to drink a bottle or two every night, if it meant you become more like Jesus Christ, he asked himself.

However, his slumber was not meant to last until the morning light, for he was woken by three sharp knocks on his door that punctured the illusion of power he indulged in in his dreams.

Before he could lift himself from between the chair’s arms to angrily stride to the door to scold his wife for bothering him while he was attending to business, as he liked to pretend, the door was broken down.

He did not even have time to unglue his lips that had stuck together from the drool caused by one dream he’d never confess to anyone.

Thump.

Two figures emerged from the shadows. A man and… another man? Or was it a woman? Or both at once?

The mayor’s thoughts raced back and forth, unable to come to a conclusion. The only thing our villain despised more than what he perceived to be weakness, such as the display of emotions, was encountering something he couldn’t explain.

He did not even notice the way the beings seemed to float gently above the ground like clouds traveling across the night sky. He subconsciously explained that to himself as a trick of the light – or absence of it – but that other issue… No, that bothered him to his deepest core.

“What in…?”

The words caught in his throat, too many hateful thoughts had entangled themselves in each other in his airways. They had rendered him unable to exclaim what he wanted. That does not matter to us, however. Nothing he had ever said in his pitiful life was worth hearing.

The shadows were drawing closer now, and one of the vampires raised his hand in the air while holding that of the second vampire with his other.

Quickly, the second vampire mirrored the movements of the first.

Did this foreshadow what was about to happen to the mayor?

I believe so, dear reader. Acts of resistance have power, and now, Jacques and Alix were bracing themselves for the greatest act of defiance they could think of.

Bravely, they faced the prying eyes of other readers I have taken on this journey, those who judged them and agreed with the mayor.

Still, they stood tall, and their embrace became a shield on which those gazes bounced off like bees falling after their sting.

Unapologetically true to themselves they were indeed, like all those heroes and heroines in fairy tales that fight against the oppression of others.

Thus it came to be that Jacques and Alix gazed into the stars they saw in each other’s eyes while the gasps of the mayor faded into the background, slowly, until they entered oblivion.

Yes, the time was now.

It was not merely the wish to fulfill their destiny and hold true to the oath they had sworn already. Neither was it the blaze in their hearts when they thought about the one they were about to swear to each other after they completed their quest.

Their manoeuvre was fueled by something stronger than destiny.

It was a feeling that is unknown to the hearts of many men – one erupting like a volcano that had lain dormant for too long, with pure love, as pure and simple as a butterfly being carried by the morning breeze.

There was no hatred for the mayor anymore now, for he did not matter. His story would be over soon, concluded before theirs even truly began.

Reflecting each other like dark waters following the movements of the moon, Jacques and Alix licked their luscious lips to ensure that their fangs were out.

They drew closer to each other, and inhaled each other’s breaths.

Their kiss lingered into eternity.

The taste of each other’s tongues drove them onwards on their mission, and the mayor’s heart ceased to beat.

No physical interference was needed.

From long, slow beats, very much like that of a harp, his heartbeat adapted the rhythm of a staccato. Ultimately, the shadows surrounding it could not restrain it anymore.

It shattered through his chest.

Left behind was a hole that filled with the mayor’s flesh, blood, and sinew, gaping like the hungry maw of a wolf never to be filled.

The heart simply lay there, next to the mayor, like a stone washed ashore by a river of hope.

The entwined hands of Jacques and Alix reached into the hole and tore at its ends, widening it, and emptying it like a child greedily gutting a pumpkin for Samhain.

What they saw was an onyx gulf so dark, it threatened to consume even the light of their love.

But they persevered, and the embers burning inside of them turned into a roaring inferno. They were close enough to the end of their mission to glimpse the final page of this chapter.

Alix held the tenebrous piece the mayor’s body had yielded with the hand that was not holding that of Jacques, and Jacques drew on the power of all those believing in the two vampires. Charged with this power, he pierced the cold, stone-like object with the thorns of the rose.

The heart broke into a gazillion shards that tried to assemble, but merely managed to weaken each other when they clashed against in each other in a struggle for dominion.

Hands melted into each other and took up the rose once more. Jacques and Alix dipped it into the mayor’s cavity and in Stygian ink, they signed the verdict on his ashen skin.

Their smiles widened, for dinner had been served.

When their lips found each other once more, shreds of skin still hung from their teeth, but they refused to let what little remained of the patriarchy stop them. They would get to that later.

Some say that their kiss never ended, and that the stars never ceased to rise.

That their fragments still adjust and convene, even today, long after the vampires arrived back at the graveyard.

There, the other vampires had lit up every candle that had ever been put on their graves, and the lightning bugs pulled at the strings of the harp to play the Moonlight Sonata.

To this, Jacques and Alix committed their eternal lives to each other.

Their oath was sealed not only by the teeth breaking through the layers of the skin on their necks. No, it was also sealed by the knowledge that they were blessed.

And thus concludes this fairy tale. Thank you for traveling with me.

Be safe in the knowledge that forevermore, our vampires will fight for equality, and spend their eternal lives together, happily, immortally, ever after, in the Queendom of Equality.

Pale fingers laced with dust danced over the keys of the typewriter, a staccato of aiming, and punched deeply those keys they wanted to hit, doing so with the precision of a sniper. A grandfather - no, rather a grandmother, for that’s whom she’d inherited it from - clock struck that eerie hour before ghosts were said to rise. Time was of the essence, Luella knew that she could just as well have used an hourglass and watched the crystals being drawn down like her life force was being drawn out of her.

Behind her stood the Shadow, urging her on. “Confess.”

Even at Luella’s age, which I shall not define here for we all age at different speeds, you don’t expect to be taken out of this life anytime soon. Thus it was that last night, when the Shadow had first crept up on her, she had let out one of those gasps of surprise that had so rarely escaped her mouth in her life.

She knew the legend, and she had been aware of other signs for months, but Luella had talked herself into believing that the death rattle was just a beetle, that it was just nature taking back civilisation again at the turn of the century, now that they had invented so many things her ancestors had only dared to dream of.

She knew, however, that once the Shadow arrives, it is over. And she needed to confess, the Shadow was right, for she didn’t want to become what the Shadow was, haunting those who had sinned deeply, but never repented. No, this was not a Christian spirit, it had nothing to do with the Devil that priests liked to hold over their flock.

Luella reread the first few lines, clutching at her necklace - a chain of silver, and the blue rock that had always given her comfort that was attached to it.

She realized that she had merely written down the beginning of her story. Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end, she knew that. Not necessarily in that order, but this was supposed to be her complete confession. She needn’t worry about going back to those typos, or even about whether the story was “flowing”, as they said. All she needed to worry about was whether she managed to confess in time. “Confess,” the Shadow repeated, gently brushing its hands across the closure of her necklace and pulling at it so roughly, it almost made her choke.

The air cut her lungs as Luella drew in a deep breath.

“Let me put on my record, please. One more time.”

The Shadow didn’t reply, it merely stroked her back, letting the necklace fall back onto her skin, electricity sending a shiver down her spine when she felt that familiar spark she hadn’t felt since she had kissed her husband’s lips for the final time.

A familiar tune began to travel through the room Luella liked to refer to as her library, a haunting voice singing about a mountain woman, the voice as enchanting as the woman in the story was supposed to be, traces of her spirit still there in the mountains after what had been done to her.

That was Luella’s cue. “Confess,” the Shadow whispered once more.

Self-doubt made Luella’s stiff bones freeze, for Luella was unsure who she was even writing this confession for. Her husband had drawn his final breath decades ago, she’d been an only child, and memories of her own child were hidden so far back in her mind, beyond layers of dust and sta

cks of memories, Luella would have struggled to get through those cobwebs even with a more agile body, but she inhaled and began her journey back once more to that fateful December night on which she had had to cut Victoria’s body down. Yes, there it was, that rhythm of her daughter’s body swaying back and forth like a pendulum.

“Dear Victoria, I need to confess,” the fingers were typing, the pain in her joints bringing her back to the here and now, to her library, once more.

Of course, Victoria knew the story, for she was its protagonist. And the story was the reason Victoria had taken her own life. But even though she was the main character in it, she didn’t know all of it. In the final chapter, Victoria only appeared as a spectre in Luella’s mind.

If Luella wanted to see her again, and to wrap her arms around Victoria’s body once more when they’d meet again soon after all these decades, in a land where there was supposed to be no pain, she needed to rewrite that final chapter for Victoria.

“Confess. Time is running out.” She dared to glance behind her, even though she knew what she’d be facing would shatter her mind like a chandelier crashing to the ground after an earthquake. Drawing another deep breath, inhaling the stale air of the room, Luella’s fingers continued to write out her and Victoria’s story. It is a story not worth repeating in its entirety, the reader will have to fill in the gaps for themselves, for else, I would give too much attention to the antagonist, so I’ve edited out those parts that include more than those few details that are crucial to this story.

The first line that matters is this:
“I heard your screams, and I found the blood on your bedsheets when you were eight.”

Luella could feel the temperature in the room drop, the cold metal of her necklace cutting into her skin. The blue rock was becoming heavy as she heard another strike of a quarter hour gone.

It was almost over.

She looked out the window into the obsidian night, not expecting to see anything but the moon, but even she was hiding from Luella’s sin behind the clouds.

Then Luella could see the wind picking up in the dim light that now escaped through the clouds, and she knew that it had picked up her story, repeated it out there, over and over, whispering it to the night air. The story wasn’t finished just yet though, there was one more page yet unturned, a page on which the ink had faded to nigh invisibility in Luella’s mind. She was afraid of touching it, for it might fall apart along with her mind, but Luella inhaled, listening to the advice given in the song on the record. It was Luella’s favourite song, for it was the one about not falling for the empty promises of men, and it was the last one on the ancient record. Luella put the sheet into her typewriter.

“The judge and the jurors all thought it was the impact of your death that made his heart stop,” Luella continued.

“Confess it all!” The Shadow’s lips touched the back of her neck, the words almost like a mantra.

She had always considered herself to be ahead of her time, stronger than most men think a woman could be, and in many ways, she was, but the Shadow was right, she needed to confess. That in itself was the strongest act she’d ever commit. Luella’s strongest, and last, act.

Not just to escape the Shadow’s claws that were now tearing at the back of her dress, ripping it apart, drawing blood already, but for Victoria. She watched her grandmother clock, and noticed that its hands were close to meeting at the very top, as if they were about to shake and make a pact.

The impact of the Shadow’s talons approaching the next layer in Luella’s body and piercing so deep into her that they’d soon immobilize her when they made her cerebrospinal fluid flow, elicited a gasp from between Luella’s lips once more. She felt time fading fast now, for the gasp had taken another of those precious seconds left to her.

“Confess.”
“Yes.”

Only a few more words now, seconds away from the end, Luella.

“... wolfsbane in his tea,” Luella finished typing.

She felt the Shadow retract, taking with him the necklace with the blue rock at the same moment that Luella proudly closed her sapphire eyes, tears of hope glittering there, hope for the forgiveness of her Victoria.

Take a deep breath, feel free to stare. I know that my body amazes you. I know that the nude form of my flesh reminds you of a statue of times gone by; as if all the deities of love had breathed life into their favorite sculpture of the male gender. Touch my muscles, let your fingers travel down south. Feel how hard my body is. I am stone come alive.

Now feel my hand grasp yours tightly. Feel the slight tingling of passions you never knew. Traces of arousal intermingle with pain as excitement sends shivers down your spine. The words I whisper make hairs stand on edge all over your body, even in places you never even knew were endowed with nerves.

We are about to go on a journey. I will be your guide through hidden realms of sin tonight. Only remember that those secrets you will learn tonight are not meant for everyone’s eyes just yet. You shall see, hear, and feel things you never dared to dream of, neither in your most shameful dream nor in your most unhinged nightmare. Come on. Hush now, little darling. It’s time to go.

Follow me. Close your eyes. Inhale deeply. Yes, that’s it. Now breathe out slowly. Let the rotten night air travel through your lungs and nostrils as you feel your surroundings change.

There’s a tingling on your skin. You shiver. Icy hands brush across your skin, and what’s that scent? Can you identify it? Sweetly sour – something in your guts tells you that whatever it is, this is not meant for human consumption.

Open your eyes, take a good look around you. Before you, standing tall, is an ancient gate. Arabesque metal dances next to marble stone, crimson roses lick at it as if they were guarding its lock. Take another deep breath, prepare for battle, for what comes next might hurt.

First, however, feel my soft fingers caress your naked bosom. They tickle your nipples, they encircle that special area you never let anyone touch. There it is, I found what I’m looking for.

My nails are sharper than you expected. Feel those claws tear away the skin. I cut away pieces as of a jigsaw and let them drift to the ground, swaying in tonight’s soft breeze, until they reassemble on accursed earth. Do not blush, I have seen it all before, so let me trace those few lines that age has left even on that part of your body.

Hear the rustle in the trees. The night wind is moving faster. It looks for you. Let it gently kiss those muscles and the flesh shimmering through the final layers remaining of your skin. Where before, only droplets of blood escaped, now a scarlet river runs down towards your navel, accumulating in a pool of blood. The wind is under my control and I do not let it stop. I dig deeper, send a sharp pain through your body when the sinews break. Now your flesh is laid bare. Yes, there it is, do you see?
The moon lavishly feasts on what she finds there, dancing a waltz that becomes a swirling gateway into the depths of your chest.

Fog crawls towards you, caressing your bare thighs like the fingers of secret lovers do. Upwards they find their way, entering through that cavity where your darkest fears are laid open for everyone to see. Exhale, let it soften your lips.

Open your mouth. Inhale again. Once more, the fog travels through your body. It fills you up. Your heart beats faster. Sweat breaks from the confines of your skin. You shiver, but you are addicted to the taste of the night air. You inhale even deeper to keep riding on that high. Just like that, carry on. Suck in the fog until I seal your lips with mine. Tongues fight for control, but you give in. Let my flesh lie on yours as clouds of ecstasy obscure your mind like those hiding the moon from the sins that we commit.

Somewhere, metal scrapes on stone. The gates are open. Follow me, I’ll take the lead. When I whisper desires you dare not confess to anyone in your ear, my breath turns into a storm that wipes away your shame.

The hairs all over your body waltz to the rhythm of my heart. Feel it, I am behind you now. My arms entangle you. I press you close to me until you feel the fur erupting from my chest pierce your skin. I am Grendel, but do not fear. This is merely part of the process. I tear at your flesh and carve a poem into your bones. Later, I shall give birth to you again like my mother did to me. Feel time eternally spinning, until the scream of a banshee shatters these eternal clocks. Glass pierces what remains of your body. It cuts apart the strings of your heart that send the echo of their fading rhythm into the night.

Can you feel your heartbeat slow down as you listen to my tale? It’s okay, do not worry. Let your fears be erased by those haunts and sprites that rise from below and lull you to your sleep with their ballads of mourning.

The moon burns iron chains into your skin
Tonight, the dark shall rise and thou abide
I tear at wounds and pain you hide within
We’re joined by sprites as next to death we ride

Your past unfolds as claws tear at your skin
Hear Grendel choke on flakes of airborne strips
In crimson lakes thou must confess your sin
As creatures howl, I seal your scarlet lips.

Our journey ends as we watch castles burn
Like witches pierced by prying eyes of men
Like them, you too feel lust, but us, we yearn
For blood, as broken souls return again

Three times the sun shall rise and set once more
By truth you’re bound, as in the oath you swore

Awaken, my sinful darling. Feel your limbs twist in pain. Their movement is beyond your control as I force apart your lips. The eternal warmth of the wine that burns my story into your body excites you, I feel it, so let me dig deeper and write it on your very soul.

What I told you is a part of you now. You and I become one as flickers of memory reenact a play of all those lives I’ve lived, everyone I ever knew is now a character in your mind. Watch closely. Even if eons pass, I will still be here. I’ll wait for you.

The smoke of bodies burnt in centuries past still lingers in the air as the wounds of pain felt by everyone I ever was overtake your thoughts. Your emotions become a storm that lashes at your mind and waves of knowledge beat against the shores of your enlightened soul.

You do not even feel your muscles, sinews and layers of skin rearrange until you, like every story ever told, take your first timid steps towards immortality.

Join me now, my lover, in telling the stories of those whose vocal chords were cut and whose imprints they tried to erase. Repeat with me the brave deeds of those who stood up when others dared to enslave everyone they themselves saw as other. Kneel with me in prayer to all the deities they fear, and lay your lips on mine in honor of all lovers torn apart.

Together, we’ll create earthquakes that will make the castles of those in power fall, until every soul is free. Await with me the time when unsung heroes can hear the echo of their name’s call, when blood is blood and everyone’s who they’re supposed to be, when those they called rotten are allowed to stand tall and dance with glee.

In gardens of eternal youth, we’ll raise our drinks to love borne out of every story that we share, and to the rhapsodies sung by every heart laid bare.