Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  Ackworth darted towards her, reaching out to snatch the candle. Annabelle didn't have time to think, so her hands acted instinctually for her, lighting the candle as quick as a wink, at which she disappeared from sight. As the blue light faded in, Ackworth's eyes and mouth popped open so wide she looked like she'd been jabbed with one of the fireplace pokers. She froze, grasped her concave chest in shock, it’s gray skin heaving. Then she barked into the open air, turning round and round.

  "Where are you?!" Ackworth growled, her voice half fascination, half fury. “You worthless chit!”

  Her manner, though angry, seemed to mask fear and awe. She darted around the room - behind curtains, chairs, desks and tables - but found nothing. Which only made her more angry. After she’d frustrated all her options, she cackled in a low, frightening way.

  "I always knew ye were a witch," She growled. "Come out now, and I'll not tell your uncle."

  Annabelle was hiding in a corner with her knees braced to her chest and her eyes shut tight. It wasn’t until she looked up, everything around her tinted deep blue, that she saw Ackworth by the light of the black candle for the first time. And it gave her such a fright that many of her nights thereafter were sleepless. Ackworth was in the room, but it was not Ackworth she saw. What she saw spoke when Ackworth spoke, moved when Ackworth moved, but it was not human. The eyes of the creature were completely white, and the nose extremely long. It’s oversized teeth were mashed together in a sharp, gray jumble. It’s skin was a pallid gray, hanging in wrinkled and grotesque lines. It’s limbs were long and gnarled, and it’s posture hunched, with a pronounced hump between its shoulders. Most alarming was it’s long fingernails that dangled down like sharp white blades. It called for Annabelle, issuing threats in a sinister, hissing voice. The sight became too much for her. She locked her eyes shut and covered her ears, holding back a whimper.

  “Come out NOW!” It screeched. “I know you’re in here. I shall lock you up if you don’t come out, now! If you thought your punishments harsh before, wait and see what I shall do.”

  The sight and sound of the creature calling her name paralyzed Annabelle with fright. She couldn’t stand to share the same room with it anymore. She must get away. Easing up from her hiding place, her whole body trembling, she sidled along the wall towards the door. The demon Ackworth growled by the fireplace as Annabelle crept out the doorway and escaped into the foyer.

  Just then, Mary passed by, nearly colliding with Annabelle’s invisible form, scuttling toward the angry cries with a stack of pristine linen folded in her hands. The girl had likely heard Ackworth’s angry grumblings from down the hall, and was coming to see what troubled her mistress. Strangely, Mary looked normal by the light of the black candle; it was only Ackworth who appeared monstrous and otherworldly, like a demon witch from a fairy tale.

  Annabelle tried to calm her nerves and think of what to do. But Ackworth’s voice growled from the next room, setting her on edge ever anew. She longed to flee, but fought the impulse, for she knew this was her opportunity to find the secret box before Ackworth punished her, banished her, or worse.

  With her heart pounding to a rapid beat, her hands scrambled over tabletops, feeling for items like a blind man. Then she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. At the table where the stranger had performed his trick, she saw little white lights swirling. They seemed to fizzle and shake at her touch. Then on the table top, as if disintegrating from some other world, the box appeared. Elated, she snatched it up and made off toward the semi-safety of her room, the angry spatting of Mrs. Ackworth ringing out behind her. But she stopped, realizing it may be better to avert catastrophe before it happened. Perhaps there was a way to calm the demon without giving away her secret. Ackworth did, after all, know where she slept. It simply wouldn’t do for the woman to be suspicious of her, or of what she possessed. Perhaps that was inevitable now. But she had to try. Otherwise, the woman would wheedle and berate it out of her. It would only be a matter of time.

  Sliding the box under a rarely used armoire, Annabelle blew out the flame of the black candle and stashed it as well. Grabbing a spare candle from the foyer, she approached the sitting room door and, summoning bravery, called out with hands folded neatly behind her.

  “I’m here, ma’am.”

  Silence fell in the sitting room, telling her she’d been heard. Ackworth’s familiar, harried face turned and locked on her, its expression hungry. The look chilled Annabelle in a new way, for she felt the gray-skinned creature watching her through Ackworth’s eyes. Ackworth made tracks toward her, stomping across the floor. Her whole body looked stiff and angry, looming monstrously, her limbs angular, knobbed and heavy. The look in her eyes told tales of murder not yet committed. Annabelle’s hands flew up before her face defensively, the spare candle still in her hand. But when Mary came up behind, her face a picture of dewy concern, Ackworth’s manner changed to mask her malevolence. Her posture changed to an attitude of civilized censure, though the fire burned just as bright in her eyes. Other maids dashed into the foyer too, a delayed reaction to Ackworth’s upset cries. Faced with so many witnesses, Ackworth limited her reprisal to an icy reproof.

  “Ah,” she said, her honeyed voice cracking, “There you are. You may run along. For now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Annabelle replied meekly before dashing away.

  She turned and scurried from the scene, up the grand staircase and around finely polished furniture, looking back to see Ackworth’s icy eyes following her. Scuttling around the corner, she dug beneath the armoire and retrieved the box and candle, making a bee-line for the privacy of her room.

  CHAPTER 20

  A Message

  Christmas at Orenn House had never been a joyous affair. To tell the truth, it’d never been celebrated at all. Never had garlands been hung, ornaments put up, nor a tree erected with candles to light it. No feast, no glad tidings, no well-wishing. To be sure, the staff had their own form of muted celebration down in the kitchens. But it’d been the stifled, hidden kind of expression limited to softly spoken tidings round the kitchen table, over a nip of celebratory sherry when Ackworth wasn’t looking. The closest Annabelle had ever come to a Christmas dinner had been watching these proceedings from a shadowy step off the kitchens. She’d wanted to join in, but was fearful that any disruption might halt these modest celebrations altogether, spooking the staff back to their rooms.

  In her own room, Annabelle studied the box left by the stranger. Sitting before it, she felt the elated excitement she’d always imagined one would feel at the bottom of a beautifully decked Christmas tree. She imagined it was the shiniest and most beautiful package in the whole of England. True, she would feel less dread about a package given to her by loving parents, their faces aglow as they watched her tear it open. For all she knew, this box might contain a poisonous powder or a cluster of angry scorpions. But as she recollected the man who’d left it, and the floating, strange feeling she’d experienced beyond the ringing blue light, something in her bore up against fear.

  Touching the small box, Annabelle felt static electricity run through her hand. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the lid. Placing it down carefully on the vanity, she peered inside the box to see... a card. It simply read:

  F.V. Valefar

  The name Valefar struck her as she rolled it over her tongue, resounding strangely in her thoughts like the ringing of a bell. She turned the card over. On the other side was scrawled in a quick hand:

  Find her

  The phrase chilled her, striking with a sense of foreboding urgency. Otherwise, the card gave no information - not an address, an institution, nor a personal title. Nothing to indicate a mode of contact or any clue to the man’s position in life. She sighed deeply, feeling frustrated. She’d been hoping for a clearer message. Something containing an introduction, for example. Or an explanation of his presence and frightening abilities. She slumped in her seat, hopeful that the box might contain more informative objects.

/>   Beneath the card, a small remnant of an old letter was nestled inside the box. It was stained a deep yellow color, with dark-brown spots where damp had compromised the paper. The writing was terribly faint. She couldn’t make it out. She picked it up to inspect more closely. As she did, an electric current ran from her head to her toes, and all went to black.

  She soared over trees as night came on. Moisture in the air caressed her face and clung to her body in a thick chill. Over an endless sea of green she flew, meadows, trees, and thick woods passing. They grew thicker, darker. Thunder rumbled as the landscape became rugged. Wet, jagged rocks protruded from the earth. Great hills like mountains rose up around her. She hovered over a glassy gray lake. It’s dark waters rippled with disruptive rain drops, turning it’s mirror surface into a chaotic muddle.

  The sight of the lake was overpowering, flooding her mind with... Something. A sense of deja-vu. The sensation was so powerful that body and soul convulsed at it’s reception. Her specter floated down, down until she hovered just over the water. She was far from shore on a damp, mossy rock. Rain soaked her as she crouched, squinting through the wet haze. On the shore, blurred forms stood. Something was wrong. They signaled with their arms. They were signaling to her. But she couldn’t tell what they were trying to say. She couldn’t quite make it out. The rain was too thick. But she knew they were not her friends. She’d come to this wet perch to escape them.

  A flash. Blade against skin. One of the men on the shore was their captive. The others were holding him against his will, injuring him. She felt frenzied. Dizzy. Afraid. All was bending, converging. Rain came from every direction. But suddenly, the heavy rains stopped and skies grew dark. A shadow lingered overhead. Stillness fell over the water. In it she saw a strange reflection. She turned, looked up to the skies. Above her head, reflected in the lake, the same lake is reflected upside down. Her own form as well, blurred and mirrored in the air above her. Another world floats there, parallel, reflected. A monstrous gasp escapes her as she looks upon herself. Body and mind twitch. The light overtakes her. Stealing her breath. Pulling it from her throat.

  She awoke on the vanity, her cheek smashed against its hard surface. Her breath came in deep gasps, and her head ached. She tried to calm herself. But the dream remained so vivid in her mind, every detail fresh and clear as if she’d experienced it while awake. The sensations were so intense. She’d felt overcome by them. She still did. Her heart felt broken, infuriated at the men on the shore. She’d been desperate to save the one they held captive. But more than anything, she couldn’t shake the sense that she’d done more than just dream, that she’d actually travelled somehow.

  The day around had turned dark. Thunder rumbled overhead in unseen skies. Shaking off disorientation, she looked over the letter fragment again. None of the handwriting could be made out. It was completely faded. Why would he give her such a thing? Dumbfounded, she reread the card. Find her. Who? Whom was she meant to find? It seemed dubious to allow herself to be led down this path anyway. For it was drawn out by a stranger. True, from what she’d seen of his power, he could’ve easily kidnapped her last night. And he didn’t lay a finger on her. But she was young, perhaps too young to fathom such a man’s motives. She puzzled over it all while rain beat against the window. She still felt so dizzy and strange. Disoriented and anxious. How could she unravel the mysteries of all that was going on around her? Everyone seemed to be hunting her, wanting things she didn’t know how to give. Men waited at the gate. Strangers penetrated the walls and watched her from the shadows. Her own uncle plotted against her. It was all becoming too much.

  Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door; passing slowly, they continued down the hall. She froze, holding her breath as they faded away and all was silent again. It’d likely been Mary or one of the maids, she told herself. But a feeling of disquiet remained in her heart. The image of Ackworth by the light of the black candle haunted her still. From here on in, she would hesitate to use it in her uncle’s home. For she wasn’t sure she could stomach the sight again, or what other horrors it might reveal. The memory of the creature made her shiver, even now in the light of day. For she knew it was only a matter of time. However and whenever it was accomplished, Ackworth would be coming for her and her candle.

  From the disorganized jumble of her thoughts, she was reminded suddenly of Mr. Daveye. The kind, civilized man who’d advised her when she lay trapped in Blackall’s cell. She longed to speak with him, to ask his advice. For he was the only man who both knew what was going on and seemed to have her interests at heart. Then she recalled the note he’d slipped to her just before disappearing.

  Rushing to the dresser, she found the dress she’d been wearing at the time of her escape. The feel of the fabric sent her back beneath the streets. She ran her fingers over the deep-blue folds and recalled the smell of the underground city - damp, smoke and decrepitude. Folded inside a pocket, she found the note from Daveye, rumpled nearly into a ball. It’s outer layer was smeared with soot. Opening it, she examined the words that Daveye had scribbled down in desperate haste.

  M. V. N. Gurza

  354 Street Street

  London, England

  Perhaps it was the address of his patroness or employer? Surely, it must be a place to find him. Her heart leapt as she felt real hope for the first time in weeks. She decided to write him a letter right away. Pulling a dusty, water-damaged sheet of plain stationery from her scarce inventory, she realized she’d no idea what to say. So many thoughts ran through her mind in a chaotic jumble, she didn’t know where to start. After a few moment’s hesitation, she decided to scrawl down exactly what was in her mind, no matter how ungraceful it may sound. In addition to her escape and Joe’s disappearance, she described the stranger who’d lately visited Orenn Manor and the phenomena that’d occurred in his presence. She finished with a plea for Mr. Daveye’s help, calling on him to write back immediately. Satisfied, she folded the paper, copied the address from the note, and sealed it. Then she tromped down to the servant’s floor and located John, her uncle’s most amiable footman. Once asked, he gripped the note with a spotless white glove, flashed her a crooked smile and disappeared off in to the fog to deliver it.

  Retiring to her favorite sitting room on the second floor, she dropped down onto a worn velvet cushion by the window. As she waited, the grandfather clock struck ten o’clock. Surely, she shouldn’t expect a reply until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Barathrum

  Those who lived in the light feared their world more than hell. It didn’t exist to them. It couldn’t. It was, to them, the blackness just beyond their sight, the certainty of death and old age creeping at the edge of their consciousness. The bright, clean flowers, pressed shirts and neat, tidy sundries surrounding them were a testament that such ugliness did not exist in this world - especially not so close to the safety and warmth of modernity - to the quick swish of the machines they’d built and the prosperity that incubated their minds.

  Most of those who trod the lit streets in a state of oblivion wrote it off as a pre-industrial waste; one that served the desirable purpose of hiding the city’s vagrants and poor out of sight from their exacting view. This was enough explanation to satisfy the momentary disquiet that twinged at the back of their minds regarding what breathed just beneath their feet. And the inhabitants of that dark city lived quietly enough, appeasing these assumptions with their silence.

  But others knew the truth - that the Barathrum’s history stretched back ages, beyond memory, longer than anyone knew. That it was London’s dark secret, it’s unexamined ruin, rotting beneath their feet; and a source of terrible power. But even those who took refuge in it’s shadows were too frightened to believe what’d been whispered at the edge of their hearing. It’s true history and geography were unknown. None had contended with it’s lords or traversed it’s depths and lived to tell the tale. None even knew how deep it reached. There were whispers that it held passages that le
d all the way to the depths Hell.

  History told of the poor and destitute originally taking shelter beneath the streets there. Families and workers down on their luck were increasingly outsourced to those dark regions for living quarters. This resulted in the underground city coming to be known as the Asylum - a place where the unfortunate escaped for shelter. Progressively, the condemned poured into it’s shadowy realms, digging deeper and deeper into the dark to hide their faces and from the sun, and their deeds from the law of the land. It didn’t take long for corruption to overwhelm it’s darkened streets. Soon, the innocent were driven out from rampant depravity and crime. And as the virtuous escaped, the city became a pit of iniquity and despair, a dwelling of criminals and monsters.

  Tales of the Barathrum’s corruption spread. It’s moniker evolved among the common folk from Asylum to Abyssum - the Pit of Corruption. It was seen by some as a humorous title. But as tales of dark deeds reached the light, it turned ominous. Hundreds of years passed, and tales emerged like gushing breaths from it’s depths. Folk heard of the unthinkable - of dark, sinister, ancient places in it’s depths. Places that would swallow men up. Few believed these tales, of places so obscure and black they weren’t fit for the strongest mind, and of creatures that made the bravest knight shiver. Even the most courageous had only traveled a few levels down before they were faced with a darkness and silence so deep, it simply couldn’t be borne. For at that depth, all light and hope extinguished, and something else took over. At that depth, even the hardest warrior was lucky to see the sun again.

  In the year 1659, a notable monk and occultic scholar named Alban Beaulac, after hearing of the Abyssum’s reputation, took on the mighty task of “ridding the Christian city of it’s unholy foundation.” He made the arduous journey to England across continent and channel, and soon after his arrival, departed on a mission into it’s depths. His company came armed with crucifixes, holy water and several manuscripts on the exorcising of dark spirits. Beaulac descended cocky as a god into the streets of the Abyssum, tall and pious in his spotless holy garments, accompanied by several monks and servants. Their party marched through the dark streets, parading showmen mumbling and chanting as they carved their descent with the boldest of confidence.