by A. L. Mengel
The mansion managed to stay out of the news for some time, until the fire.
The fire, which caused significant damage, was determined to be arson from the resulting investigation. Then, the estate sat, empty, surrounded by yellow crime scene tape, windows broken, black soot staining the white stucco. The grass started to grow high and the trees and shrubs concealed the massive wraparound porch. At one point, only the four columns, which reached up towards the roof, could be seen beyond the cement wall that bordered the sidewalk.
After the fire, the house still remained a center of activity, despite the apparent absence of residents. The neighbors were waiting for an appearance of the mysterious Antoine, who had been rumored to own the property, but all the while observing the occasional news van and various parked cars that appeared from time to time.
Until the neighbors saw one particular parked car, that sat on the side of the road, just outside the gates. A small Mercedes.
And the residents of Andelusia suspected that it might be Antoine’s car. For they doubted that the researchers and news folk who would drop by on occasion might not be driving so luxurious a vehicle.
And so the rumors would start again.
And when the stories intermingled with that of the celestial, there were those who chose to follow, to act on intuition alone; they learned to guide themselves through the land of spiritual warfare…
*****
…Hector leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes as Geraldine pulled the car away from the library parking lot. Several palm trees that lined the edge of the entrance started to sway as thunder clapped overhead.
Hector opened his eyes and looked over at Geraldine. She was focused on the road, but he knew where they were headed. Hector looked down and examined his notes.
There still seemed to be the celestial mystery regarding the presence of angels.
And of the supernatural.
For those who experienced the phenomenon, the idea of celestial beings (and evil beings) became second nature: there was a large group of the population, both immortals and mortals alike, that chose to believe.
“I don’t think Antoine is an angel,” Hector finally said, in the otherwise silent car. Geraldine shot a glance over at him. “Rereading your notes?”
Hector nodded and sighed. “I just don’t think that these immortals are as evil as some believe.”
Geraldine nodded, still looking ahead, but said nothing.
“And this whole thing about angels,” Hector said. “What is it about? Do you think the angels are real?”
Geraldine scoffed as they continued on the darkened streets. The golden streetlamps reflected against the pavement, now wet from a light falling rain. She looked over at Hector for a moment, shaking her head. “Do you believe in angels, Hector? Do you believe?”
He sighed.
“None of this can be verified,” he said. “Nothing. Not one bit of it.”
Geraldine laughed and shook her head as she pulled the car towards the quieter residential side streets. “It’s not about that, Hector! It’s about believing. About faith, right?” She alternated between looking over at him and looking at the road. “So whether it can be verified or not is really insignificant. It’s whether you believe or not. So…do you believe?”
Hector paused for a moment.
He leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes.
He sighed.
After a few minutes, as Geraldine was on Andelusia, preparing to park in front of Antoine’s estate, Hector finally spoke. “No, I don’t believe in angels.”
After they parked and exited the car, Hector slammed his door with a thud against the night, which had grown quiet. “Where did the storm go?” he asked, looking up towards the sky. The clouds raced past as the moonlight tried to fight through. And then lightning illuminated the clouds. He gathered Geraldine and their bags and approached the front door. As they climbed the steps Hector looked over at the line of shrubs across from the front porch.
“They say there are Hell Hounds in those bushes guarding the entrance,” he said.
“But there is nothing,” Geraldine said. “That would explain the mystery. For we are simply mortal.”
“And we do not believe,” Hector added. “Good…and evil…rely on the belief. If there is no faith in goodness then evil can’t exist, can it?”
Geraldine sighed as Hector looked towards the bushes. “Oh, it still exists, Hector. Even if one doesn’t believe.”
The bushes rustled.
*****
Antoine walked further into the darkness, and then turned around. He saw light filter in from above, from atop the set of rickety wooden stairs, the same stairs that led down to his basement from his kitchen. Delia was walking down the stairs, and then she stopped.
“They won’t come after us down here,” she said. “This is what they are protecting. They won’t go beyond that area up there.”
Antoine sighed. “What about Tramos?”
Delia looked downwards. “He’s gone.” And then she looked up at him. A tear streamed down her cheek. “He died protecting us, Antoine.”
Antoine gasped and looked up the stairs. He saw pale light filter from the kitchen, and thought of Tramos. Of the blonde warrior. He could still see him throwing his head back in laughter, during one of the many occasions he had visited Antoine in the kitchen above.
Antoine looked forwards, deeper into the darkness. After a few minutes, he turned back to Delia. “I’ve taken others through here,” he said. “A long time ago, there was a man – a Sheldon Wilkes – who came with me down this very same dark passage, and was never seen again.”
Delia moved past Antoine, further into the darkness. She turned back. “Do I need to show you what I am? Or who I am? Or how I protect you?”
Antoine shook his head.
“Then let’s proceed.”
Delia nodded.
As they walked into the darkness, Delia watched Antoine. He walked ahead, like a child, but also someone who had been there before. As he walked through the darkness, fingers of light appeared around them, and she got a better idea of her surroundings.
They were walking on stones. A path made of large stones, surrounded by shallow water. But the walls surrounding them – walls which might have been earthen – which might have lent to the feel of a cave – were not there.
It was Delia who first noticed the darkness.
As she looked forward, she watched Antoine, who walked several feet ahead of her. The air was musty; their feet splashed in a layer of water. And they navigated stones.
And then Antoine disappeared.
“Antoine!” she called ahead.
There was no answer.
She stopped, one foot on each stone, and stood, facing the darkness. The silence permeated, until she felt a presence. She knew that she was surrounded by walls, but she could not see them. She reached out and felt dirt.
Earth.
Like an endless cave.
Murky water below, a damp smell.
But darkness.
Complete blackness. Devoid of light.
“Antoine! Where did you go?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. I have failed again. Another assignment that I have failed to do.
She raised her head and opened her eyes, squinting. There was no opening to this tunnel. Her skin erupted in goosebumps as she felt a chill pass through her. A voice called for her.
Delia.
It was a voice she could not place. A voice…that perhaps…had no distinct origin? But she knew where she was. And how she had gotten here. And then she tensed herself.
“It is I.”
She saw a light in the distance. Like a sphere, or a star. And it crept closer to her, but did nothing to alleviate the darkness.
And then the voice.
“Did you not know that I would come calling? It was your despair that called me.”
She looked ahead and strained to see. But a sense of drea
d washed through her. Her voice croaked when she spoke. “You…you are not the light I seek.”
There was laughter. “Do you think He would come? Your God? Do you think that you – a fallen angel – is even on His mind?”
She remembered the voice. It was deep and demonic. “We can all be redeemed,” she said. “But you…I have no homage to you. I am here to protect. Nothing more. It does not involve you.”
“Would you not think that I would be here? As my hounds have alerted me of your arrival?”
She tensed. “Where is Antoine?” She took a deep breath and exhaled. And waited.
“Where…is…Antoine?”
“Antoine is where Antoine is,” he said. “You two chose to come here. To enter through the portal which I have protected. This was your choice!”
Light flowed around her until she was in a veil of white. He laughed as she felt the ground fall from beneath her, as she fell, further and further. She looked down as the ground, of some new, unseen world, appeared below her, traveling faster towards her –
– until she was yanked upwards as her wings shot out of her back and soared across the sky. She instantly flew across the sky, looking at an unknown sea, with calm waters, and a desolate beach surrounded by a forest of tropical trees.
The laughing stopped.
“You do not leave me! You chose to follow me!”
She hovered in the air and looked at the darkness ahead of her. The sky was bright, but the light felt cold. Dank.
And the darkness hovered ahead of her as she flapped her wings, across the sky, and then she was ready. She drew her sword, held it upwards, in front of her face. She saw the darkness ahead swirling.
The same deep, demonic laughter. “You think you can tease me with a trinket like that? How are you going to pierce me? I am darkness. Swirling. Penetrating!”
She took a breath as the sword ignited in flames. She swung it across the sky. “I will make you light! The light always destroys the darkness!” She flapped her wings and soared towards the darkness, swinging her flaming sword across the sky. “Good will triumph over you!” She swung again. “You will retreat!”
“I am light too! Look into my light, little Delia!”
She swung her sword back around her head and thrust it forward, piercing directly into the center of the darkness.
Wails of torment chorused as the darkness retreated.
And she paused, examining the sword, as the flames extinguished themselves.
And the light became blinding. She dropped her sword with a clank as she felt her wings retreat into her back. She started falling. Faster and faster, until she opened her eyes with a start.
She gasped.
Her head still fuzzy, and her vision still hazy, she raised her head. Had she landed on the beach? By the calm, mysterious sea?
Her head pounded and she brought her open palm to her forehead and winced.
But as her eyes slowly focused, she saw light. Squares of light, and then she recognized her surroundings. Two windows. On the opposite side of the room. She recognized the drapes. The cranberry shears concealing the light.
And then she saw Antoine.
Sitting on the chair in her front living room. It was her cottage in Miami.
His leg was draped over the arm, his hands twirling his locks as he paged through the manuscript. She scoffed. “How…how did we get back here?”
Antoine looked up from his reading. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
She stood and walked over to Antoine. She sat in the overstuffed chair next to him, her hands on her knees, as she stared straight ahead. Her face was shifted as she bit her lower lip. Antoine had returned to his reading as she sat in silence. She turned to face him. “So how did we get here?”
Antoine set the manuscript down. “We got the manuscript, as you can see. And then we left. Pretty plain and simple. We got in the car, we came back to your cottage. And that was it.”
Delia sighed and projected a calm demeanor. “It couldn’t have been that simple…”
Her mind was racing.
She sat, replayed the events in her mind, and tried to remember. What was the last thing that happened to them? She remembered Antoine disappearing into the darkness. And falling to the beach.
She opened her eyes.
The side of her face was in the cool, wet sand. She heard the dull roar of the surf in the background. Her head pounded. And her back. She reached around and winced. It felt warm and wet. She brought her hand in front of her face and gasped.
Bright red blood.
She shot up and sat, her hands propped in the sand, and looked up towards the sky. The greenish tint reflected against the clouds, which meandered by. “Why have you abandoned me!” She cried, then jumped to her feet, shaking her fists to the sky. “Why have you abandoned me?!”
And then she fell back in the sand.
She lay on her side, her eyes open, concentrating on each breath. The air was salty. The sun was warming. And then she saw a dark figure, well down the beach, standing in the sun, walking towards her. The image seemed like a mirage…
*****
Hector returned his attention to the door. He turned the handle.
Locked, naturally.
Geraldine looked outwards, towards the bushes. She reached around and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hector,” she whispered.
He was focused on getting the front door open, which appeared to be jammed.
She was more insistent the second time. “Hector!”
He snapped around. “What is it mami!?”
“Look over there.”
She pointed out towards the bushes. Hector looked, adjusted his glasses, and craned his neck forward. “It’s nothing. Just some wind blowing the branches.”
She shook her head. “Are you sure?”
Branches snapped and there was a deep growl.
Geraldine’s eyes widened. “Go! Get us inside! It’s the hounds!”
“They…don’t…exist!” Hector fumbled with the door handle as Geraldine dropped their bag to the floor. She reached on her side pocket and drew a long machete from her sheath, waiting, watching.
The bushes thrashed, but no supernatural hounds appeared.
“Get the door open!”
Hector took a step back.
He charged the door and crashed into it with his foot.
It didn’t budge.
“Do it again!” she cried. “They’re coming!”
Hector felt his breath quickening as he lunged for the door again. It splintered open as Geraldine bent down, grabbed their bag and followed him into the darkness inside.
Hector slammed the door behind him as they heard the dogs running towards them, racing and howling, barking and growling. They catapulted themselves across the door.
It shook in the frame.
But the assault from the hounds was short lived.
For once they were inside the foyer, the dogs retreated and quieted.
Geraldine gasped as they both froze in their footsteps.
The saw bloodied wings.
White, feathered wings, extended, and which were large; they reached upwards towards the ceiling of the second floor. Huge, feathered, broken wings. What the wings were attached to was down towards the shadows, still a mystery, but the wings were what they were fascinated with. Slender feathers. White, greyish hue.
But then, when they looked closer, they gasped at the bloodstains. Tiny, red droplets dotted the upper portions of the wings, and the bottoms were completely drenched in blood.
They looked down at the floor and saw they were standing in a lake of fresh blood.
Geraldine gasped and raised her foot. Viscous, bright red blood dripped from the sole. She looked at Hector with wide eyes.
Hector crouched down. He reached his arm out, and saw a torso. There was a large gash on the one arm, which seemed to be where a great deal of the blood loss had occurred. But this body was completely torn up.
M
acerated.
The body was still almost completely shrouded in darkness, as Geraldine reached out and touched one of the wings. She looked down at Hector. “Now do you believe?”
*****
After Delia retired, Antoine sat on the sofa in Delia’s cottage and fished the manuscript from his bag. It was a large, white binder. He placed it on the coffee table and opened the cover. Darius had prepped it for publication. What was he intending to do with this story?
Antoine poured himself a glass of wine and settled in to the sofa, the manuscript in his lap, and started reading. When he approached “the letter”, he paused for a moment, and set the manuscript back on the coffee table. He didn’t bother to refill his wine glass. He leaned forward, close, and read the letter.
If you are reading this, I am dead.
I don’t exactly know in what way I will have died, but I can be certain that it won’t have been under the most pleasant of circumstances. Over the past few years, I have become consumed with a coven of immortals, immortals who are much more than your typical vampire. And I have been researching their ways and lifestyle as part of my work at The Astral, which I joined in 1985.
Several years ago, I came across the subject of my inquiry, a young Antoine Nagevesh, of Sri Lanka. He grew up working the coffee fields outside of Badulla, but that was well over two hundred years ago. He was transformed into an immortal shortly before his nineteenth birthday, and has remained in that physical state since. Some might think of him as a vampire, but in actuality, he is much more than that. I have experienced this first hand.
Antoine and I met at his estate over the course of many months, and I gathered notes, tapes and everything that I could about his story. My intentions were to write a book integrating immortals into everyday society; but those intentions were never realized. Too often and too soon, I became consumed with his story and his way of life, and I wound up becoming swallowed up in the madness.
When I listened to my tapes, I went mad. I drank feverishly, I ate everything in sight, I slept at the office night after night, and I smoked a steady stream of cigarettes. Because his story was addictive.