by Michael West
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September 20, 1869,
Mont St. Michel Abbey,
North Coast, France.
Commander Duncan Fenton’s journey to the abbey has been rather uneventful. Long and tedious, but as with any trip across the English Channel, arriving in one piece is as good as can be expected. Mont St. Michel Abbey is built on a small rocky island off the North coast of France. The most difficult part of the whole trip is the three-quarters of a mile that separates the island from the mainland. At night, a boat can get there quickly, but navigating the rough coastal waters in the dark is near suicidal. By day, the tide goes out and drops the water level in the narrows to mere inches, making sailing impossible.
Fortunately, there is a naturally forming sandbar providing the only viable option for getting to and from the island. When the tide goes out, a person can walk from shore to shore without ever getting their feet wet, just as long as they are safely onto the island before sunset and the tide returns.
Fenton successfully bridges the sandbar and is soon greeted by Father Pierre Aldonna, the senior cleric of the ten catholic clergymen that live and study here at the abbey. Father Aldonna is a wrinkled old man with thinning white hair and a short scruffy beard. He is thrilled to finally meet Commander Fenton after years of corresponding solely through letters and shows him to his room so Duncan can get some much-needed rest.
Several hours later, after Commander Fenton rests, washes up, and is fed a grand meal thrown in honor of his visit, he finally feels comfortable broaching the subject of meeting De Muur. He’s wanted to see Arthur since the moment of his arrival, but didn’t want to seem too anxious or in any way not grateful for the clerics hospitality. Father Aldonna understands and is happy to oblige.
“You’ll be pleased to know, Duncan, your friend has been feeling wonderful as of late. So much better than when he first arrived here.”
“That’s great news, Father. I’ve prayed for him everyday and it does my heart good to know he’s feeling himself again. I can’t wait to see him!”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you too. He’s always studying in the library at this time of the day. Shall we?”
Together, they head out of the banquet hall and make their way along a long stone walled corridor that eventually opens out into a massive room filled with thousands of leather bound books. Ordinarily, Duncan would have rejoiced spending time in this magnificent library, with it’s breathtaking high-domed ceiling and row after row of solid oak bookcases filled to capacity with the world’s finest literary and academic treasures. Today, though, his attention is riveted on the dark-haired, clean-shaven man seated at a roll top desk on the far side of the room – the only other man present. The man looks up from his studies, sees who has entered the room and gives a brief, tentative wave of his hand in greeting.
Duncan Fenton stops dead in his tracks, unable to move another step closer.
“What’s the matter, commander? I thought you wanted to talk with your friend?”
“I do, father. Very much so… only this man isn’t Arthur De Muur.”
“What? You must be mistaken. This is the man who showed up at our door three years ago with your letter of introduction. The gentleman with him assured me that…”
“Gentleman? What Gentleman?”
“Tall man, with thick wavy salt and pepper hair. European accent. Nice fellow, now that I think of it. We had tea together before he set off for home. He was accompanying De Muur on your orders, was he not?”
Fenton pieces it all together in an instant, naturally, too heartbroken at the moment to be angry with the man De Muur has hired to live in exile here in his place. Father Aldonna is catching on quickly, but still confused.
“If this man’s an imposter… then where in blazes is the real Arthur De Muur?”
“Hunting, I’d imagine.”
“Hunting? Hunting what?”
“Trust me, father… you don’t want to know.”
-----
June 18, 1870,
Wittem Castle,
Maastricht, Netherlands.
Dawn approaches, an orange glow creeping steadily westward, an avenging angel to drive the cowardly darkness into hiding for yet another day. It’s still dark in the garden, but won’t be for long.
De Muur climbs the ladder to visit Baron Larouche again. He has let the demon hang for four and a half hours, alone, save for his thoughts. Time enough for the vampire to have made up his mind to talk or not. Either way, De Muur doesn’t care.
Larouche’s body is already starting to repair itself, shedding the black destroyed outer flesh on his face, arms, and legs and in the process of growing new sticky pink skin. Remarkably, half of the Baron’s severed left eyelid has grown back, but De Muur makes no comment on his captive’s appearance. He has more important things to talk about.
“My wife was the picture of health until about five years ago. She was a kind, beautiful woman… much better than a man like me deserved. She waited here while I was running all over Europe, caught up in the futile business of trying to bring the Knights Templar back into prominence. I was such a fool.
“I came as fast as I could once I heard she’d taken ill but there was nothing I could find that was wrong with her. She was anemic and ranting about creatures attacking her in the night. I thought she’d taken leave of her senses and consulted a local doctor I knew in Maastricht named Johan Zubrus. He couldn’t find a reason for her poor health either, but he convinced me she needed to stay with him at an asylum he helped run. I hated the idea, but she was obviously delusional and was getting violent whenever I tried to take her outside during the day for a walk or for a breath of fresh air.
“At the asylum, she kept getting worse. I was shattered at the thought I might lose her. One night, when I couldn’t stand to be away from her any longer, I rode into the city determined to bring her back home where she belonged. When I walked into her room, I found my good friend Dr. Zubrus bent over my wife with his fangs buried in her neck. She looked up at me from the bed and smiled, and as soon as I saw her pointed teeth I knew she was no longer the woman I loved. My wife was dead to me and all that bastard Zubrus had left me was a monster.
“I ran from the room shaking with anger, fear, and disbelief. I ran away and hid from the world for a whole month, trying to get my mind around what I’d seen that night and what, if anything, I could do about it. Eventually I went back and killed Zubrus but it wasn’t easy. I didn’t know any of the things I know now. I just got lucky and found him during the day. I chopped his head off with the fire axe hanging on his office wall.”
Baron Larouche is somewhat confused as to why De Muur wants to tell him this story but something in his tormentor’s eyes has him tasting real fear for the first time in nearly eighty years, since he was turned. Swallowing hard under De Muur’s intense gaze, Larouche feels he should say something.
“And your wife?”
“No. She was gone. I’m in the habit of telling people I meet that she’s still ill and institutionalized for her own good, but the truth is I have no idea where she is or what horrible things she is doing.”
“You can’t possibly blame me for this!”
“Yes I can. You… and the rest of the demons like you. You’ve made me what I am and there’s no going back. Now tell me who turned you and where I can find the bastard. Do it now or I promise you’ll regret it!”
Baron Larouche is silent, weighing his limited options. The sun is rising higher in the sky, the mountain range to the east fully illuminated now, and the wall of light creeping steadily towards them at the far end of the valley.
De Muur can wait no longer.
“Hand me the axe, Hendrik. We’ll take off his arms and legs… make it easier to carry him inside that way.”
“No! I’ll… I’ll tell you.”
“Speak then, demon. My patience is gone.”
Baron Larouche whispers the name of a man and a city. De Muur nods once, contented,
then climbs back down the ladder. He is barely to the ground when the first rays of sunlight reach the garden and find their way to the man chained to the cross. For the second time this day, Larouche bursts into flames. His face registers agony, but he is determined not to give De Muur the satisfaction of hearing him scream again. Instead he summons his last strength to shout down to his executioner below.
“May my master rip your lungs out and feast on your heart. I promise there will be no mercy for you.”
“Just as there will be none for you… from my God!”
-----
March 09, 1870,
Letter, Simon Hesler to Arthur De Muur,
London, England.
I’m afraid I have grave news, my friend. Commander Fenton made a surprise appearance at the abbey last September and our little ruse has been exposed. He was furious with you and angered enough with me that I was thrown into a London prison for impersonating a member of the Templar Order. Former member, I tried to reason, but he was having none of it. Seeing as I hadn’t really committed a crime, he eventually had me released and I thought it best to contact you straight away. I have no idea of the commander’s plans, or what he may or may not decide to do with regards to you, but I felt I owed you this letter of warning. Bad days may be ahead, Arthur. Hope I’m not already too late.
Be well,
Simon
-----
June 18, 1870,
Wittem Castle,
Maastricht, Netherlands.
The sun is directly overhead, and without any breeze the heat is nearly unbearable. De Muur puts his back into the tedious shovel work and is soon soaked with sweat. Twenty minutes later the hole beneath the cross is large enough and deep enough to suit his purposes. Time to take what remains of the husk that had recently been Baron Larouche down. He’s nothing but bleached white bones, some holding together on the cross, others already heaped on the ground below.
De Muur is half way up the ladder when Hendrik comes running from the castle at top speed. He’s out of breath and clearly upset about something by the time he arrives at the foot of the cross.
“Sir… a messenger just delivered this letter for you.”
“You read it, Hendrik. I’ve got to get this demon buried and out of sight.”
“I have read it, sir, and you need to read it right now. It’s from your friend that used to be at the Abbey.”
“What do you mean, used to be?”
Hendrik hands him the wrinkled letter.
De Muur quickly reads Simon Hesler’s letter and then tosses it into the hole he’s dug in the ground. He remains silent for several minutes, thinking. It’s young Hendrik who speaks first.
“Sir? Does Commander Fenton know about Wittem Castle?”
“By that, do you mean will the Templar Knights be showing up at our doorstep?”
Hendrik can only nod.
“Yes, I think they might. Duncan Fenton and I were very close once, and he knows how much I love this castle. He may not show up personally, but I’m sure someone will.”
“What do we do then? Obviously we have to leave.”
“Not we, Hendrik, me. If they dig up some of the bodies in this garden, I’ll be swinging from the gallows soon enough, but no one will blame you. You’re just an employee and that’s all they need know. You’ll stay here and tend to the castle, as always. If I do not return, consider it yours.”
“But, you’ll need me…”
“Don’t argue with me. My soul is already lost but there is hope yet for yours. Whether I like it or not, this is a journey I must take alone.”
“But there are Templar Knights throughout Europe aren’t there? You can’t hide forever. Eventually someone will hear your name and know who you are.”
“Not necessarily. Not if Arthur De Muur is waiting here to greet whoever Commander Fenton sends.”
Hendrik is more confused than ever, but De muur simply points to the hole in the ground at their feet.
“We erect a marker here, beneath this cross, with my name on it in big letters so it can’t be missed. If you’re here and Fenton is told I’m dead, there will be no reason to continue looking for me. I’ll change my name and carry on as before, only this time I’ll kill the vampires where I find them. I’ve learned more than enough about them now. The time to hunt with a vengeance has arrived.”
“What if they dig up the grave, you know… just to be sure?”
“We put Baron Larouche’s bones inside. Those teeth will give Fenton something to think about, I’ll bet.”
Together, they bury Larouche beneath the blackened cross, and begin to make the headstone with De Muur’s name on it.
“Go prepare my things, Hendrik. I’ll need the stakes, crosses, holy water, garlic, and the silver chains… clothes and toiletries of course, but nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary. I must travel as light as possible and making haste is of the utmost importance. I’ll finish up here.”
“Yes sir, I’ll handle it. Just out of curiosity, what will your new name be?”
De Muur considers the question carefully.
“I honestly don’t know yet, Hendrik. Larouche told me his master can be found in Amsterdam, so something Dutch, I’d imagine. Van Dyck? Van Buren? Van… who knows? Don’t worry… I’ll come up with something.”
THE WEAPON OF MEMORY
Kyle S. Johnson
Kyle S. Johnson is from Dayton, Ohio and lives wherever he is at the moment. His work has appeared in anthologies such as Dark Faith, Dark Faith: Invocations, and The World is Dead.
His favorite vampire film is Near Dark; his scent is seldom ever likened to that of a dead polecat.
–––––––––––
The ash is hanging perilously from the end of a man once called Gerwyn Bedbow’s cigarette. The smell doesn’t break his concentration, nor does the slow creep of heat bearing down on his fingers. He is locked on to the hulking wall of rust and decay on the other side of the river. The trees on the opposite bank, dying slow deaths from autumn’s touch, do their best to conceal it from him, but they are overmatched. That place has been there for nearly a century, and it will probably always be there. This morning, cold and desolate, it waits for him. And somewhere within that place, something else waits. He can almost feel it anticipating him. Something that is no more alive than this derelict colossus before him, a surviving relic of simpler times known as Concrete-Central. Burt is rustling around in the back of the Jeep, getting things in order. Gerwyn flings the cigarette and the ash flakes and disperses like fat snow.
“Not quite Castle Dracula, but it will do by a sight.” Burt is trying, for once, to ease Gerwyn into this. But Gerwyn never needed the prodding. He’s wanted this for days, every last one blended together, oranges and blues and so much red, all eventually becomes the deepest black. The Buffalo River is rolling lazily along in front of him, calm and steady like an untapped nerve. The sun is dragging up over the horizon, spilling light across the cold earth.
“Are we sure this time? You’re absolutely positive he’s here?” Gerwin says without ever looking away.
Burt comes up from the boot and leans in the driver’s side. “He’s here. It’s too perfect. Even when this place gets visitors, it’s far too big for anyone to find him. It’d take a good full day to touch every corner of this place.”
“If that’s the case, how do you expect we’re going to find him just like that?”
Burt claps Gerwin on the back and chuckles, maybe for the first time since the two had met. “Boy, I never said just like that. I said we will find him. Because we will. We’re not just anybody, no, not anymore. And we’ve got a good full day in front of us. He likes to play it safe. He wouldn’t risk being out too close to sunrise. He’s tucking himself in right now. We just have to bring him the bedtime story.”
Burt goes back to the rear and Gerwyn’s gaze is broken, something revelatory on his face. He fetches the small notebook and a pen from his backpack and under so many lines f
illed with so many words, some crossed through, some totally effaced and blotted out, he writes: bedtime story.
Loss is a cruel old bastard. He’s a salesman who won’t take no for an answer, and if you don’t want what he’s hocking, he’ll leave it on your porch because he knows you have to go out for milk and eggs sometime. Gerwyn knows this, and he was given little choice in his leaving. He knows that loss leaves the widest expanse, a treacherous valley, between normalcy and the now. The only thing a person has to bridge that gap is memory. Memory is Gerwyn’s weapon, and like a sidearm or a rapier, it stands to reason that it’s as much a danger to him as it is to the idea of loss. But loss is a product of law; he’s an enforcer of rules. What he gives and what he takes, it’s never anything personal. Memories are sharp, even in absence of ill-intent. They cut the quickest and the deepest.
So he started writing, though he never was much of a writer. When he does, he keeps it brief, because he trusts his senses to guide him to the purpose hidden within every curve of the letters. And they do, if a little too well. He’s filled up four pages front and back, no more than a few words to a line. Because he needs to remember. Maybe not now, but someday. He knows he will need to remember how he came to be what he has become, and what he will become.
So he turns back to the first page where there is nothing. And on the other side of that particular page, nothing still. He cautiously turns three pages of paper, left clear and white, dividing the list of the now and a messy page with several words chosen and all but one struck through for proving insufficient.
All of this space provides an adequate enough buffer for him to separate his Gospel of The New Gerwyn from The Word of The Old World, a simple word that takes him to a place where he never wants to go, but where, in times like this moment, on a plateau high above the world looking down and seeing nothing but madness, he must. One word to remind him of why he is here and why he is going to do what he is on the verge of doing.