by Sara Clancy
The soft material of the towel felt as coarse as sandpaper as he squeezed his hand into a fist. A few droplets seeped free to drip onto the bedspread, but he didn’t pay it any attention. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to sleep and putting the world right again. So he crawled under the sheets, fully dressed, and dumped his head onto the pillow.
But he could still see it. The nesting doll and its grotesque smile. Now lying down, the expression appeared more sinister, the grin seemingly flashing a hint of fangs. No longer able to look away, Mihail reached out and groped along the side of the curtain until he found the cord. One swift yank and the thick curtains swung closed with a whoosh. He could hear the ends sweeping over the stone floor, but beyond that there was nothing. No wind. No pop and hiss of the fire. Not even the faintest trace of light could seep through the cloth. There was nothing, and he could finally sleep.
***
Mihail’s eyes snapped open. His mouth gaped wide, struggling to draw in a breath as iron bars looped around his lungs and squeezed. A broken wheeze escaped his lips. His tongue felt thick. Fire sparked through his veins and burned the back of his eyes as he battled to fill his lungs, but he couldn’t shift the weight. It crushed him from the inside. In a state of panic, he tried to sit up, to move, to curl in on himself like a child. But he couldn’t. His limbs were a dead weight, heavy and cold. They kept him pinned in place. Spit splattered against him as he tried to scream. It was barely more than a whisper. Blood welled under the skin of his face, trapped as securely as if there were a rope around his neck. His eyes watered and his pulse roared in his ears. The onslaught of sensations sent him spiraling into a wild panic, clouding his mind until he barely felt the mattress dip. The touch was impossible to miss.
Only able to move his eyes, Mihail desperately flicked his gaze around, trying to spot who was crawling into bed with him. The curtains were still closed, blocking the light and leaving him blind. A voice came from the darkness. A soft, sweet coo that tried to hush his gurgled gasps. He thrashed and lurched but couldn’t even move a finger. A touch joined the gentle words. Fingertips, as cold as death, brushed across his forehead. They trailed through his curls, along his jaw, stroked his cheek. Each touch almost loving. For a moment, he could almost take comfort in it.
That thought shattered when he felt someone lay down beside him, pressing their body along his side. A shift in tone turned the voice lecherous. The phantom began to nuzzle into him, smelling his hair, and planting sporadic kisses against his neck. Breasts pressed against his shoulder as the ghost cradled him, squeezing him tight as he suffocated.
Terror kept him staring at the canopy with wide eyes. He could feel his blood freezing, his heartbeat steadily dwindling until it was a slow and sluggish thud against his ribs. And all the while, the ghost caressed him. Rancid breath washed over his face, making him gag even as he couldn’t breathe. Stomach acid lurched up to burn his throat as his eyes began to roll back into his skull. Without any light, it was impossible to tell if his vision was blurring. But he could feel it. Feel himself slowly dying.
Just as suddenly as it began, the moment snapped. Mihail’s back lurched up as he coughed and spluttered. The moment air reached his lungs again, he regained control of his body. Without thought, he threw himself to the side, desperate to get away from the unseen presence. But the dense curtains that encased the bed twisted around his limbs like a thousand hands. The more he thrashed, the greater the pull became until he was sure he was about to be dragged back to the bed and the woman upon it. Screaming, he finally found the part in the curtains and hurled himself through. Dumped onto the unforgiving floor, Mihail scurried forward, not daring to look back until he could press his back against the wall.
The bedroom curtains swayed, creating a soft scraping noise that sent his nerves on edge. It mixed with his heaving pants and the dull pops of the fire. Gulping down each breath and melding his spine against the wall, he surveyed the room, searching for the slightest hint of movement. Desire to forget wasn’t enough anymore. There was no way he could ignore or dismiss that someone had been in bed with him. Locking his eyes on the curtains, he hesitantly got to his feet. Nothing stirred in response to his movement. Slowly, he lifted a trembling hand and crept towards the bedside. The material was rough against his fingertips as he slipped his hand along it to find the cord. Heart hammering in the back of his throat, he yanked. The curtains swept open to reveal the tangled mess of sheets.
No one was there.
Laughter made him spin. It was feminine and childish and sent shivers coursing down his spine. His empty hand opened and closed restlessly. Shadows rushed forward to lap at his feet before the firelight battered them away. It gave the illusion of movement even as his eyes promised that he was alone. A scream ripped from his throat as a hand reached out from under the bed and latched onto his ankle. Dirt and rotten flesh dripped from the slender limb even as the grip became a crushing force.
It tripped him as he tried to wrench himself free. Tumbling hard onto the floor, Mihail kicked and stomped at the tiny fingers. The hand held on, as unrelenting as iron. Shadows created a bottomless abyss under the bed. A pair of unblinking yellow eyes blazed within the darkness. He screamed, the sound ripping his throat raw as he threw himself back, desperately trying to stand up and run. Pain sparked in his hip as his joint threatened to pop. Suddenly, the hand let go and he was sent crashing back to the floor.
His body was moving before his mind registered that he was free. The icy wall smacked against his back, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to flee. The hand remained, hovering in the air as if pleading for him to come closer. A small whisper echoed in his ears, so quiet and fragile that he didn’t realize at first that it was speaking his name.
Something unseen latched onto the decaying wrist and yanked it down to the stone floor. Instead of pressing against it, the limb fell through it and disappeared. The eyes followed, fast enough to be transformed into a streak of light. Still, Mihail saw the pure fear that filled the distorted eyes. To know that the creature tormenting him wasn’t at the top of the food chain brought him to a new level of fear. He scrambled to the side, crawling on hands and knees until he was in the protective glow of the fireplace. Iron clattered against iron as he pulled one of the fire pokers from the stack. With the wall once again protecting him, he brandished the poker, holding it out like a sword. Voices whispered to him, each one speaking his name, beckoning him to get up and follow. Mihail planted his feet and readjusted his grip on the fire poker. He had no idea how long it would be for the sun to break over the horizon, but dawn seemed like his salvation, and he wasn’t going to move until it came.
Chapter 5
A gilded edge blossomed across the mountain range as the approaching sunrise painted the sky a bruised purple. A new sound came with it, rising up like a surging tide, playing against Mihail’s fractured nerves. Bats flooded across his balcony window like a living stream. While he couldn’t see where in the castle they were set to roost, they flew just inches from his window, allowing him to watch the display from his position by the floor.
His legs had gone numb hours ago and his arms ached from the strain of holding the poker up. Still, he couldn’t help but smile. Dawn had come at last. And with it, all the things that had terrified him throughout the night began to shrink away with the shadows. Hours had passed without any new strange happenings, but his conviction hadn’t faded. He knew what he saw. The questions now was, What did they want?
Only when the sun broke the horizon did he get to his feet. He had to pry his fingers off the poker. After so many hours of clenching the handle, his muscles protested to any change. It almost felt defiant to put the poker back into the rack. Like he was throwing a challenge down at the feet of any ghosts that might still be hanging around. When there was no swift retaliation, he felt safe enough to groggily shuffle to the bathroom.
The layers of dried blood set the material against his skin like glue. After a fe
w moments of painfully picking at it, he shoved his hand under the faucet to soak the cloth. Peeling it off made him cringe, and he spent a few minutes just washing his hand. Once this was done, he couldn’t ignore just how gross the rest of him was. Rumpled, disheveled, and covered with a mixture of dried blood and sweat. Mihail had never been able to tolerate being anything but put together, and the memories of last night weren't enough to break that habit. His disgust for being grimy outweighed his fear. So he made sure that the curtains were pushed as far away from the windows as they could be. And, while ensuring that he didn’t look down, he opened each window and door of the balcony, welcoming every trace of sunlight possible. Once this was done, he went to take a shower, only to learn that he couldn’t have one. There was only the cauldron bathtub. It filled quickly and he was soon soaking in the steaming water. Lathering himself with soap, he found he quite preferred the bath. With no shower curtains to obscure his vision, he was able to see every inch of the room from where he sat.
Dressed in a fresh sweater and a pair of slacks, he felt both warm and in control. You’re not a child, he reminded himself as he straightened the cuffs of his undershirt. It’s time you handled things on your own. He could almost hear his parents' voices in his head, each insisting in turn that he was too young, too inexperienced, and too sheltered to handle the struggles that taking care of his grandmother would entail. Admittedly, this isn’t something you counted on, Mihail told himself as he smoothed down his hair, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is now your problem. And you will handle it.
With a new sense of determination, he searched through the pockets of his dirty pants. The map wasn’t there. A deep groan left his throat as he remembered where it was. It was one of the many things that he had left down in the foyer.
It unnerved him how quickly this singular discovery made his new calm crumble. Holding onto the tattered remains of his conviction, he flung the door open and slipped out before he could think better of it. Pale morning light filtered through the windows at the end of the hall. It was still enough to play across the steel gargoyles, creating a steady ethereal glow that filled the space. It wasn’t much, but made the space far more welcoming than it had been only a few hours ago. Relying on memory, he made his way through the twists and turns of the hallway. He counted it as a victory when he opened a door and found himself in the kitchen. While it wasn’t where he had intended to go, it was somewhere he knew. And it also presented him with a task to keep his mind occupied.
He set about cleaning every inch of the kitchen, always cautious of the cut on his hand. As much as the repetitive motion helped him feel stable, it didn’t give him the slightest hint of what to do next. What am I supposed to tell Draciana? No matter how long he thought about it, he couldn’t decide upon anything, so he just cleaned. When his grandmother walked in, she looked surprised to see him up so early. And her confusion only grew as he drew her into a tight hug. It was when they pulled apart and Draciana began to speak that he realized he had no memory of where his phone was. Unable to think up any Romanian words, his attempts to start a conversation deteriorated until it consisted of nothing more than a few useless arm gestures. It was one of these failing movements that drew his grandmother’s attention to the gash on his palm.
Despite the morning chill that ravaged his skin, her touch was fiery as she gently poked around the wound. They didn’t need much discussion for him to understand to follow when she tugged. She retrieved a large first aid kit from under the sink and began to tend to the wound. As subtly as he could, Mihail tried not to look, but a sharp spike of pain made him whip around. The wound had grown angry over the last few hours. The edges had turned a sickly white, while the thin layer of puss had settled in depths of the cut. His stomach heaved and he quickly looked away. Every flinch earned him a slight pat on his cheek that he assumed was supposed to be comforting. The hardest part to sit through was when she spread a thick ointment across his hand. It reeked of honey, garlic, and lavender. The odd combination made his weak stomach roll.
After his hand was snuggly wrapped in a clean bandage and the items were carefully packed away, Draciana reached into a nearby cabinet and produced a small jar of hard candies. Mihail chuckled to himself but took his reward. As a sign of approval, she cupped his head with both hands and kissed his forehead. He could really get used to the idea of such easy displays of affection. As she pulled back, a look of surprise crossed Draciana’s face and she began to dig into the deep pockets of her massive bear coat. His smile grew until his cheeks hurt when she pulled his mobile phone and charger out of her coat.
But his relief was short lived. With the mobile nestled in his palm, reestablishing their means of communication, it occurred to him that he didn’t have any reason to put off his questions any longer. You have proof, his mind whispered to him. Last night’s photographs will still be on the phone. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he hesitated. Bunica Draciana waited, watching him with a look of concern. She’s so little, he thought. Slight and frail. What if she can’t handle hearing this type of thing? What if I’m just traumatizing her? The questions didn’t have time to settle before another took dominance over his mind. What if they’ve been attacking her, too? And all this time, she’s just been too afraid to say anything? Is that why she asked me here?
Opening his phone, he brought up the translator app, his fingers flying over the touchpad as he quickly typed out a message. While she held an expression of patient interest, Bunica Draciana began to subtly crane her neck in an attempt to sneak a peek at the screen. Mihail typed and deleted a dozen messages. No matter how reasonable the questions seemed in his mind, they all looked insane when he saw them in text. Is there a normal way to ask a paranormal question? Biting the inside of his cheek, he typed out, ‘I saw a ghost last night’ and hit the button to translate it. Bunica Draciana instantly held her hand out in a silent request for the phone.
Anxiety squirmed like a mass of worms in the pit of his stomach as he watched her read the message. He hadn’t prepared for her to smile. Chuckling, she typed out a message of her own and passed it back. ‘Just a nightmare.’ He shook his head quickly.
“No, I mean, nu.” Lacking the proper vocabulary to elaborate, he let his voice stammer off into a frustrated sigh and hit the buttons sharply, typing out, ‘I took pictures’.
It was the amused arch of her eyebrow that made him realize how stupid it was to suggest this when he could just as easily show her. He could hear her stifling her laughter as he flicked through the programs on his phone to open the photo gallery. She thinks you’re joking. That it was a bad dream. It made him both nervous and a little annoyed. All of this vanished the moment he brought up the most recent photograph. A landscape shot he had taken from the taxicab window yesterday. A small shiver ran through his fingers as he searched through the photographs. Hundreds of images filled the screen. Images of him and his friends, many shots of his botany collection, and the standard pictures that every traveler took to make their friends jealous. Every single one of them had been taken before his arrival at Castle Vaduva. The ghosts were gone. His proof was gone.
“No,” he stammered. “I saw them. I’m sure I did.”
Draciana cocked her head to the side, the little motion enough to make him feel like an idiot. They were real, his brain insisted even as he failed to find it. Did they delete them? They were real, weren’t they? Eventually, he gave up and typed out a response to Draciana’s questioning gaze, admitting that the pictures were gone.
She read the message and sighed. With a look of utter sympathy, she shook her head and repeated her messaged. ‘Just a nightmare. Ghosts aren’t real’. Suddenly exhausted, Mihail didn’t have it in him to argue the point. Not until he either had evidence or the skill to hold a proper conversation. And, more importantly, not when she was so easily dismissing it. He studied her carefully, searching for the slightest sign that she was too scared to talk about it. She only seemed amused.
Sensi
ng his defeat, Bunica Draciana patted his arm and offered him a little smile. Even as dread stirred in his chest, he found himself returning the smile. She patted him again and he lowered his gaze to her hand. Heat radiated from the touch, but her skin was as fragile as parchment paper. A delicate wrapping for the bones they draped across. She’s so small. I can’t let them hurt her. The thought came with an epiphany. All the ghosts within these walls had known Bunica Draciana for almost her entire life. He was new. A stranger of unknown character. Are they trying to scare me off to protect her?
It was the only thing that made sense to him. After all, it seemed impossible that Bunica Draciana could live here for decades and never encounter anything undeniably strange. The idea made him smile until his cheeks ached. If this was just a matter of making a good impression, the whole thing could be resolved in a few days. Between his good looks, polished manners, and well-taught charm, he had never had a problem with winning people over. And he couldn’t imagine it being a harder task just because of someone’s a disembodied spirit. Resolved to be the best grandson possible and put all of the ghosts’ fears to rest, he suggested that Bunica Draciana head to the dining room. He’d take care of breakfast. Before she left, she pulled his map out of her pocket and pointed out another place a bit farther away. Of course, this place has a specific room for breakfast. I wonder if there’s one earmarked for lunch.
Left alone in the kitchen once again, he set some music to play on his phone and headed into the pantry. He liked the space and its fresh, earthy scent. It wasn’t going to smell as nice when the staggering amount of produce started to rot. He made a mental note to move things into the fridge. Piling all the fixings for pomegranate crêpes, croissants, and a mixture of sauces into his arms, he headed back into the kitchen. As he dumped the array of items down on the counter, he decided that he should probably charge his phone. It had been on all night. His brow furrowed as he checked the screen. The battery was fully charged.