March prayed for something hidden, something other than what was here. And even more, he wished—he yearned—for whatever was down there to take him away from all the hurt, the pain, and his thoughts. He continued to hold his breath until he couldn’t anymore, until his body surfaced back through the top layer of the lake.
A deep agonizing exhale escaped March’s throat as the water swished back and forth, crashing against his shoulders. In that moment, he knew there was nothing. In that moment, he knew he was the only one who could save himself. But could he even do that?
March pulled himself from the water and rolled to his back, staring up at the hovering sun that would be descending soon. His cell phone rang from the porch of the cabin, causing him to jerk forward. He hurried to scoop up his clothing, briskly jogging to the porch steps. As soon as he picked up the phone, the rings ended. Then it started again, and Joseph’s name appeared—his brother.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice coming out raspy from his dry throat.
“Marcin?” Joseph said, his tone filled with eagerness and a suppressed sound that resembled something akin to fear.
March didn’t want his brother to worry—he was tired of making him and his parents concerned about him. So he put on the best act he could while his insides still felt tender. “Who else would be answering my phone?”
“What’s going on, then? You didn’t text me back.”
“I rented a cabin for the weekend, remember?” March pressed his head to the wooden pole connecting the roof to the porch. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Oh, yeah, I totally forgot. I was checking to see if you wanted to come over for video games, but maybe next weekend?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Bye, Joseph.” March ended the call, sickened with himself for having to put on a brave face for everyone. He didn’t know if he’d be alive next weekend. Hell, he didn’t know if he’d be alive tomorrow.
A pulse formed in his temples and he wanted to scream and cry in frustration like a child, as if he wasn’t a twenty-four-year-old man. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another—his life was becoming more and more affected by the migraines, by his anti-social behavior. March had never had any real relationships. He’d only had sex twice, and even that was with guys he’d met online, strangers who’d lost interest afterward.
Pushing off from the beam, March pressed himself inside the cabin. The coolness of the air hit him and sent a shiver throughout his body. It wasn’t cold enough to start a fire, but he wanted to feel the warmth anyway. After spreading out his damp clothes on a wooden bench near the entry, he set several logs in the fireplace and started the kindling.
March placed a few blankets from the couch on the floor and sat back, pulling his knees to his chest. Twenty-five years old in only a couple of weeks. He stared down at the jagged scars on both his wrists, the memories rippling through him. His family had never been a factor in why he felt the way he did, because they had always been great—perfect, even. It was something wrong with him, something he was trying to fix. Trying so damn hard.
A clink came from across the room. With tears sliding down his cheeks, March glanced over his shoulder. Out the window was an outline of someone looking in—a man—but he couldn’t see him clearly.
“Hey!” March shouted, jumping to his feet. He threw open the door but found the porch empty. In the distance, he heard a loud splash from the lake.
Without pause, March took off running, searching for the man who had jumped into the water. As the lake neared, he didn’t hesitate, and dove into the clear liquid. Once below the surface, he twisted and turned as the water swirled around him, but only the pebbled rocks of the bottom surrounded him.
Gliding his arms through the water, he surfaced and blew out unfocused breaths, when something light brushed his ankle, as if a finger had stroked him. He dove down under again, exploring every direction he could, discovering nothing.
Frantic, March shakily swam back and pushed himself from the lake to return inside. On the way back he looked all around, thinking that his mind was playing tricks with him. His head still pounded, so it was possible.
Once inside, he removed his boxers and took a couple pain pills for his migraine. He grabbed a blanket from the floor, cocooning himself inside and watched the fire, pretending nothing had happened.
Bang! March’s eyes flew open to the loud noise. He scrambled to his feet and gazed up at the roof where the sound had come from. The flames in the fireplace had already died out, and the sun was gone for the day.
March cocked his head and listened for another bang and when nothing came, he lifted his phone from the table and checked the time. It was a little after one in the morning. He was about to lie back down and chalk it up to his imagination when another bang blasted from the roof. His gaze flicked to the ceiling once again and remained locked there. He didn’t know if he was scared or annoyed, but his body stayed frozen.
Screeeeeeeech! The shingles to the roof sounded as though they were being clawed. March dropped the blanket and threw on his still-damp clothing from the bench, then flipped on the living room light. With a few quick swipes, he turned the flashlight on from his phone and ran outside, barefoot.
The light on his cell wasn’t bright enough, but the sky above was decorated with illuminating stars that he wasn’t used to. Back home they were always buried by pollution. Taking several steps backward, he craned his neck to get a clear view of the roof.
“Hello?” March rasped, automatically feeling dumb for asking that. It was probably only a raccoon—there were lots of animals here compared to his apartment back home. If it wasn’t an animal then a normal person wouldn’t have come outside empty-handed, but he wasn’t afraid of dying. Regardless, death would come for him one day. Even when he had wanted death to come, the Reaper had still left him behind.
Tilting his head, March tried to listen for any more rumblings. Only the calming breeze, a hooting owl in the distance, and the singing of insects pulsated in the darkness. He shook his head and went back up the few steps, but a crash to the ground caused him to whirl around.
March brought up the phone flashlight in a hurry, only catching a glimpse of pale skin and jet-black hair as something dashed at an intense speed toward the lake. It was too dark to see anything farther out as the smack of water echoed.
His pulse raced with a feeling March could only identify as longing. For what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d wanted whatever had been on that roof to take him somewhere in that lake, too. Maybe his headaches were causing him to not only feel things, but to see them. March didn’t care. He strode toward the lake, knowing there could be a huge possibility that he would end up dead.
The lake stood in front of him—the reflection of silvery stars and the thin sliver of the crescent moon glittered across its surface. His heart gave a delicious pound of fear of the unknown, the intrigue, the want, the hope, and possibly the appetite.
Despite his earlier trembling, March now had a steady hand when he set his phone on the edge of the lake and toed his way in, water kissing knees, waist, chest, and then neck. With gentle movements, he treaded farther out into the lake. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Closing his eyelids, March let himself sink down, down, down. He opened his eyes, but at night all he could see was darkness shrouding him in a thick cloud of liquid. His heart sped up as he kept his eyes open, staring straight ahead into the murkiness. It felt as if maybe something was in front of him, or maybe he only wished it.
March reached a hand, prepared for something, but only the bend and stretch of water brushed his fingertips. He needed oxygen and couldn’t hold his breath any longer. Out of his control, March moved toward the surface. But just as he felt the night air on his head, something cold latched tightly around his foot and pulled him back under, preventing his escape.
As the air left his lungs, he couldn’t bring himself to scream. Not even as he was being dragged downward, farther and farther than he believed the lake coul
d ever go. His heart beat wildly, lungs burning, and still he smiled as he waited for death to take him, the world turning blacker than it already was.
March opened his eyes and saw an angel. Large silvery eyes looked into his, staring down at him with an unreadable emotion. His skin was pale white, like the color of the moon. Long dark hair flowed past his shoulders. But March couldn't stop staring at his face, the broad nose, the sharp canine teeth. Two separate necklaces with arrowheads hung from the stranger's neck against his well-sculpted, naked chest. All he wore was a pair of cotton pants and no shoes.
While still dazed, March thought he’d woken in Heaven with a man who could fulfill every single one of his desires. But then he remembered the lake and everything that came before that. March opened his mouth to shout, but the man’s hand slammed around his lips. “Do not shout. If you do, he will come, and trust me, you will not like what he does to you.”
With a robotic nod, March took a deep swallow. He had asked for death, wanted death, but instead, he’d woken up somewhere else.
“Where am I?” March mumbled, looking around the small room. Dirt covered the rounded ceiling and uneven walls. It was all empty—no photographs, no memorabilia, nothing.
“You are nowhere,” the man answered, fully withdrawing his hand from March’s lips.
“I need to leave.” If he had to be awake—alive—he couldn’t stay in this unfamiliar place. He nudged the panic back down that attempted to rise.
The man shook his head and shrugged. “Once you’re here, you’re always here.” It wasn’t a threat, more of a resolved matter.
March sat up and got a good look at the man. The pale skin, the dark hair—he recognized him. “You’re the one I saw in the window, who leapt from the cabin. Who are you?”
“My name is Ira.” He paused, clenching his jaw yet his tone dripped with melancholy from his next words. “And I came back here, did I not?”
A loud scream echoed from outside the room, startling them both. March jolted forward and Ira placed a hand against March’s chest.
“What is that?” March whispered.
Ira pressed a finger to his own lips and spoke softly. “One of his victims.”
Victims? March stood from the ground and backed up until he hit the dirt wall. To his left, small drops of water leaked from the ceiling in the corner.
“You wanted to die...” Ira said.
“I did.” What he wanted was to fade out and never awaken again. This seemed more like Hell. Maybe that’s where he was.
“Do you no longer wish this?”
“I-I…” In that moment, March didn’t know what he wanted. He knew he wanted to go home, though.
The screaming from outside of the room started again, louder than before, and not stopping. March had to do something. He couldn't just sit here listening to someone scream in unimaginable pain. Holding his breath, he hurried past Ira.
Ira attempted to grab him, his face full of concern. “You can’t.”
March didn't stop as he ran out into the hall. People stood against a long dirt corridor lit with metal torches, burning warm blue fire. The people’s arms remained neatly at their sides, as if in a trance.
Ira came up behind him and spoke softly, “Stay quiet.”
March nodded and waved his hand back and forth in front of a man covered in tattoos with a shaved head. The man didn’t even blink. March shifted to the next person, a woman with long brown curls and mahogany skin—she didn’t respond either. Neither did the next, or the next.
As though it were a sense of duty, he moved down the line toward the screams. Ira remained close behind him every step of the way. He wished he was brave enough to swoop in there and stop whatever was going on, but there were those who were courageous like in the comic books, then there were people like him. Ones who were frightened to be noticed.
Yet he pushed himself farther and farther until he came to an open archway. The screaming intensified. March took a step forward and peered around the opening. Inside, people sat against the walls. Except the walls weren’t dirt-colored, they were stained with bright red blood. Fresh blood. A head lay on the floor, ripped clean from a body, its terrified eyes staring at nothing, its hair soaked in blood. The screaming had stopped, but March couldn’t get a clear view of the rest of the victim’s body. In front of the slain man stood a creature with skin so pale it was translucent, its skeleton visible beneath blue-black wings that nearly dragged the blood-covered floor. Hair like ragged darkness hung past gore-splattered shoulders, while its muscular legs ended at clawed feet. Its head turned to glance over its shoulder—
Two large hands pulled March back and covered his mouth again. “Don’t,” warm breath whispered against his ear, tickling it.
Ira slowly led March back to the room, passing the line of zombie-like people.
“What is that?” March asked, more in shock than anything, when they came back into the original room. His body didn’t give the slightest tremble, as if it was all a dream.
“An underground demon—some of you people whisper vampire before going into your trance,” Ira murmured. “This is a demon who will rip your head straight from your neck and lap all the blood he can savor—one who will hypnotize you when he so chooses and then have his way with you.”
“How do you know this?” March asked, trying to block out all the ways the demon would have his way with him if he got his hands on him. His hands automatically went to the back of his head as if that would keep it attached.
“My mother was his sister...” Ira bit his lip, displaying one of his long canines. “She got pregnant with me from a human.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead. He consumed her,” Ira said flatly, but there was hurt that flickered behind those silver irises.
March’s eyes widened. “What’s going on with those people out there?” He didn’t know anything about Ira, but he hadn’t killed March yet.
“It will be you in a few days when he comes searching and locks his eyes with yours...”
“Well, why the fuck did you drag me down here?” March asked, trying to keep his voice as low as possible, even though he felt anger blooming.
“Because you kept going into the lake, asking for death!” Ira whisper-shouted, stepping too close to March. “I let you go numerous times.”
March pressed his hands to his forehead and slid them down his face. It was his own damn fault he was in this position. “What about you? Do you like being here? Do you want to leave?”
“It’s the only thing I’ve wanted, but the underground demon has all the control. I venture out through different bodies of water to scavenge for him. I hate it.” Ira’s silvery gaze met March’s, and there was something there, a longing for a different sort of life. “He hasn’t seen you yet, so there’s a chance I can take you back. If not, then… Well, you saw what happens.”
An image of his own head being ripped off and a tongue circling inside the open wound appeared. March pushed it away. “What about you?”
“I’ll continue doing what I do.” A solemn expression crossed Ira’s angelic face as his eyebrows furrowed.
March stared around the empty room. It didn’t seem like much of a life for Ira—it seemed more horrible than his. He had always thought at times that his life was far worse than anyone else’s, even though he knew it wasn’t true. It was just something inside himself that needed to be mended.
“You can come back home with me?” He didn’t know why he was asking this person—half underground demon—to come back with him.
“My blood is bound to his,” Ira said.
“Can you bind it to someone else instead?”
“I can, but I would still be bound to someone else.”
March thought about the choices of being bound to that demon in the other room or to a human. It seemed like a pretty obvious choice to him, but perhaps Ira didn’t know better.
“Look, Ira,” March started. “I’m not much, but you could bind yo
urself to me and then we can get the hell out of here. I promise I won’t force you to do shit, all right?”
A new scream radiated throughout the underground corridor, a woman this time.
Ira peered down at March. “I don’t know—”
“What do we need to do?” With the screams going on, March was getting desperate, and Ira needed to answer faster.
“Drink each other’s blood.”
“Fucked up enough, but let’s do it.” March wasn’t scared about swapping a little blood—he was more worried about getting his head ripped off.
A hint of amusement spread across Ira’s face. He grabbed March’s wrist and his gaze softened as it locked onto the scars. “What happened here?”
“Self-inflicted.” March’s eyes didn’t shy away from Ira’s. When people asked about his scars, March always told them the truth, whether he felt ashamed or not.
Ira pulled one of the arrowhead necklaces from around his neck. “Do you want it here”—he ran a fingertip gently at the scars on March’s wrists and then ever so slowly at March’s neck—“or do you want it here?”
“A scar is a scar.” Another one to add to his old collection. But he couldn’t help but like the way Ira’s fingertip felt against his skin.
Ira’s eyes lingered a beat too long on March’s neck and swiftly drew a line across March’s scars at his left wrist. Closing his eyes, March bit his lip at the stinging sensation.
Compared to the calluses of March’s fingertips from his years with the violin, Ira’s hands were soft. When Ira’s warm lips wrapped around his scarred wrist, he opened his eyes. March felt no pleasure from the suction as he’d seen in movies with vampires. But when Ira lifted his head and ran the tip of his tongue across the wound where blood was dripping, something about that movement made his heart pound a little harder and his pants grow a little tighter. His other hand brushed Ira’s chest and he felt him shiver.
Ira handed the arrowhead to March with a small smile.
“Where do you want it?” March asked.
Dearest Clementine: Dark and Romantic Monstrous Tales (Letters Book 1) Page 5