Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

“The infamous fyre of Portugal Street, that did take place on 17th October, 1785, consumed an entire block of family homes in the borough of London. Five residences were consumed in total, claiming the souls of family and servants alike, numbering six and thirty.

  List of Those Deceased:

  Hon. Lord Frederick R. Foley

  Lady Margaret Anne Foley

  Sons, John, Richard, Hugo, Altman

  Daughter, Katherine

  Sir Roderick Edward Burtram

  Wife, Eleanor Page Burtram

  Daughters, Penelope, Mary

  Captain James Burtram, Brother of Sir Roderick Burtram

  Mrs. Catherine McDonnell, Widow

  Sons, Archibald, Charles

  Mr. Rodney Somers-Cocks

  Daughter, Ellie

  Abby Smith

  Ronnie Smith

  Robert Smith

  Mary Ashcooke

  Richard Lawton

  Elliot Lawton

  Sarah Lawton

  Rebecka Locke

  Trenton Whiting

  Ruth Tryon

  Meg Richardson

  Molly Devol

  Lucy Smith

  Charles Bosworth

  Bessie Brown

  Phoebe Lewis

  Mary Sutherland

  Jonathan Clark

  Reuben Parks

  The fyre was infamous, and did cause much disquiet amongst common folk, and was largely considered a massacre, for the number of lives lost compared to the size of the blaze, which was relatively small, gave cause for suspicion. The blaze burned faster and claimed more lives than was typical of house fires at the time. Within three hours, the fire desiccated a block entire and the families therein. The cause of its ignition is unknown. Public sentiments, combined with the superstitious sensibilities of the time, cried out for a scapegoat, as religious leaders claimed divine vengeance over corruption, vice and avarice as the cause of the tragedy, painting the event in a supernatural light. These claims paved the way for conspiracy, which developed shortly after the matter, incriminating one of the block’s former residents, a woman of some infamous repute, one Mme. Maryone Gurza...”

  The text directed the reader to the large portrait she’d already studied, the one that claimed an entire page. Maryone Gurza was a very beautiful woman with long, dark hair and light eyes that looked profoundly sad. Annabelle thought she looked familiar, but she couldn’t place why. As she studied the illustration, she noticed her hands were shaking. Her whole body, in fact.

  “Mme. Gurza, in the eyes of the superstitious common folk, and even some of the gentry, was blamed for the murderous blaze. Many found it suspicious, although they lacked evidence, that she had escaped the fyre while no other residents did. It is unknown whether Mme. Gurza resided predominantly in London or in her ancestral home. After the blaze, Mme. Gurza was commonly branded as a murderess, mainly due to the reputation she’d gained previously as a witch and an occultist.

  Adding to the suspicions surrounding her activities, her ancestral home was a place of ill repute among crofters and common folk in the region. Local tales surrounding the ancient manor house went back generations, and tied the house, as well as the lands, to occultism and ancient practices involving sacrifice and the disappearances of local children. The house was greatly feared by locals, which is believed to have fueled the public’s incrimination of Mme. Gurza, it’s heiress and sole inhabitant.

  Mme. Gurza’s involvement in the occultic arts is a topic that is still up for debate among historians, for no real evidence exists to condemn her as a witch. She was never tried for witchcraft, nor are the conditions or date of her death known. She has no known relations or heir.”

  After Annabelle read this, she could do little but stare at the wall. An entranced feeling had come over her, one so strange, so transfixing that she couldn’t move. She couldn’t name what she felt about the story, for she’d never felt this way before. After she’d read all the relevant information on the fire, her fingers casually flipped through the next few pages. To her surprise, she found a small pack of papers that’d been folded inside the book. They were so thin and flat from being pressed between the pages that she hadn’t noticed them before. Unfolding them, they appeared to have been taken from some sort of publication.

  “Maryone Gurza was a woman of infamy in her time. Many common folk from the county of her birth told tales of strange events involving her, including phenomena like transfiguration, levitation and other accounts that fit the common conceptions of a sorceress at the time. One very outlandish tale regaled by county locals claimed that she’d been discovered wandering the moors surrounding her estate, covered in the blood of a missing local child. Other selected accounts claimed she’d been seen levitating over the moors. She was thereafter known by the nickname ‘Ghoula’ in her home county.

  “Little is known of Mme. Gurza’s real life, other than a few obscure details of her birth and the tragedy that is said to have claimed it, a story that is itself unconfirmed. The family was extremely private, and greatly diminished in Gurza’s time to less than a dozen individuals scattered among fading ancestral lands. Gurza was rumored to have been involved in a love affair with a foreign man, a prince of an Eastern European state. His name is unknown, but he is believed to have been shrouded in occultic infamy as well. An infamous character in his homeland and abroad, doubtless, his association with Mme. Gurza did little to help his reputation in England.

  “The two were to be married. Some tales claim that another woman was involved before the nuptials, others that there was a disagreement between them. For whatever reason, Mme. Gurza was said to have been so distraught that she took her own life by use of a priceless dagger. However, the condition and date of her true death remains a mystery.”

  Annabelle slid the book and clipped pages back onto the shelf. But she kept the illustration of the woman. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed unlikely that any of the books in this library would be touched for a hundred years or more anyway. No one would miss it, and strangely, she desired to have it. There was something about it, something painted in it’s lines that struck her. She still had no idea what pursuit of this strange woman’s past would show her, but after all she’d seen in recent weeks, anything seemed possible.

  It’d been a long, frightening night and she was beginning to feel it. She was exhausted, desperate for rest. Shuffling down the steps, her mind abuzz with new information, she saw the other book laying on the ground where she’d left it. Twisting her body around the iron spiral staircase, she reached the second tier of the library, picked up the book and dusted the cover off. Nefaria Draugr Lamia. She decided to bring it with her to look through later.

  After moving the adjoining books closer to each other to mask the absence of their shelf fellow, she spiraled down the last of the steps and walked through the study. She made an effort not to look at her uncle’s desk, where the strange lump of matter lay, or to think about the creatures who had loomed over it so recently. Once again, the candle was both a comfort and an anxiety to her, for with it she found great solace and protection, but also saw things that shocked and terrified her. Shaking off bad memories, she tip-toed out the study door and through the sleeping house, up to her attic.

  CHAPTER 26

  Shackled to the Light

  Since her kidnap, Annabelle had adopted the compulsive habit of making sure her door and window were locked each night before bed. So, when she woke several hours later, some time before dawn, it didn’t take long for her to feel something was wrong. She’d woken in a lovely way, as when one wakes and all the cares of life are not yet remembered; when all that exists is the beauty of the blue morning light pouring through one’s window, or the singing of a bird calling the day on. But as she lay half asleep in her bed, somewhere between dreams and wakefulness, she heard the creak of her door twitching on its hinges. Shifting her head on the pillow, she saw that the door to her chamber was open, and could hear the angry whisperings of a clandesti
ne argument just outside in the corridor.

  “She’s not here!” Mrs. Ackworth hissed angrily. “It was your job to watch her!”

  Annabelle froze. But, she was here. Why had they not seen her? Were they just about to step in?

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ackworth,” a maid’s voice cried weakly. “I never saw her leave at all!”

  Annabelle listened as Ackworth slapped the maid up side the face, and the girl squealed. The girl sounded shocked, as if she’d never expected such treatment.

  “The second you find her,” Ackworth said calmly, masking her rage. “You keep her in this room until she can be locked in. We can’t risk her disappearing again. Her uncle would be just... devastated.”

  Ackworth added the last to satisfy the maid’s sensibilities, who was clearly in the dark about several things. A quick, panicked scan of Annabelle’s surroundings revealed what’d happened. She remembered that upon arrival in her room late last night, exhausted and frightened, she’d dropped into bed without blowing the black candle out. She saw it still lit, sitting on her dresser, and breathed a sigh of relief. But she shuddered at the thought that Ackworth could walk in at any second and reveal her white-eyed, monstrous form. Such a sight while lying in bed would probably send her into a panic. Thankfully, she hadn’t woken to such an image looming over her. But she also realized it was likely that Ackworth had been inside the room as she slept, breathing over her unconscious body.

  She couldn’t allow the candle to go out again while she remained here, not even once. If she did, she would become a prisoner, possibly forever. She knew her uncle and Ackworth were capable of it. But, not only did she never wish to live that way, she had to find answers; to learn what her uncle and Ackworth were, who she was and if she even belonged here in the first place. No matter the cost, she must learn the truth. She had little to lose now anyway.

  She packed all she could by the eerie blue light, her new constant companion. Armed with the memory of her parents, Mr. Elkstein, Joe, Mr. Daveye, and determined to find answers; she made her way bravely into the night, hoping that what little she had would be enough to get her through.

  Creeping silently out her door, she saw, to her relief, that Ackworth was gone, and the maid had dozed off from boredom. She crept as silently as she could through the house, and into her uncle’s study. Inside, she went to his desk and stole a few ten pound notes and some odd coins. She would need them, and he had plenty to spare. She encountered a few maids and footmen on her way toward the front door, passing by them silent as a ghost, unseen in the blue haze of the candle’s light.

  But what frightened her, as she stepped out onto the street, was the collection of strange creatures she saw there. They were greatly outnumbered by regular people. But they were so grotesque, it took her breath away. One man who passed her walked like a man but looked like a rotting corpse. Others looked like rabid animals in human clothing, with drool dripping down their furred cheeks. She observed this in utter shock, fearful to look at them, lest they should look back. She tripped on a cobblestone on the drive and lunged into the wall that led to the gate. No one looked up, which boosted her confidence in her invisibility. She turned onto the sidewalk then, sidling in and out between creatures and humans alike, cowering fearfully away from the creatures.

  Soon, it became apparent just how treacherous travel was when one was invisible to those around them. Bearded gentlemen in tall top hats and fur capes bumped into her, along with ladies in fine, silken dresses. Even when she moved along a clear path she wasn’t safe, for the pedestrians often changed their course to inhabit what they perceived as open space, only to run into her. And their shock at the collision made her feel terribly conspicuous. Her fear of the grotesque creatures made it hard to travel as well, for each was unique and seemed to startle her afresh.

  She realized she would get nowhere this way, invisible to all and terrified by what the candle’s light revealed. It seemed unlikely she would even be able to reach the end of the street without becoming overwhelmed unless she blew the candle out. She would use it to hide in whatever place she decided to rest her head, but here on the streets, it just didn’t make sense to use it.

  Finding a corner to hide in, she surveyed her surroundings to make sure all was clear. The street was a blur of fog, thick scarves and pink noses. The sound of shoes clacking against pavement echoed through the damp air. She looked up, down and across the street, as much as it frightened her to. And it was then that she saw the strangest creature of all - the silhouette of a man with no form. It’s shape contained no face, clothing or features of any kind. It was made of nothing, blackness, and seemed vacuous somehow, seeming to pull you in. The figure gave her a sinking feeling in her heart. But much to her relief, this figure moved up the street in the opposite direction she meant to travel in. She watched as it disappeared, the black within it shifting in a strange liquidity.

  Summoning courage, she blew out the candle, tucked it away and came out from behind the wall. Keeping her hood up, she turned and continued down the street. Her pale fingers painted a stark contrast to the black of her cape as she held it forward over her face. Head down and avoiding eye contact, she sidled through the crowd, hoping to make it to her destination safely and without incident.

  The air was refreshing and helped lighten her spirits slightly. She breathed deeply, grateful for independence and freedom, without the burden of the candle’s second sight. It made her walk a little straighter and with more spring in her step. But she hadn’t walked six blocks before a creeping feeling came over her. She could hear the drop of steps mirroring hers, and feel a tinge on the back of her neck as if someone watched her. She was being followed.

  Chancing a glance backward, she saw a pack of rough-looking men walking several paces behind. At the sight of them, her stomach dropped to the floor. She’d learned to recognize Blackall’s men at a glance. They had a special quality to them: the posture of their steps, the way they carried themselves and the particular expression of deviance in their faces; it was rare to the men of the underground world. She also saw a man across the street mirroring them, a tall man in dark dress whose face she couldn’t make out. The fog distorted his features, all she saw was the silhouette of a top hat, suit and short cape. She had trouble looking behind her without running into walkers by, or without giving away her knowledge of their presence. So she moved on and pretended she’d seen nothing. She quickened her pace as subtly as she could, but her boots knocked on the ground faster and faster, and she heard theirs follow suit. She turned corners and crossed streets, her heart beating like a drum as their pursuit became increasingly blatant. As she went, other men appeared out of nowhere to join the pursuit, while the man in black stalked from a distance.

  She turned a corner and began to jog, her mind spiraling into panic. She could light the candle again, but where? Likely these men would be on top of her before she could find a fire and stop long enough to do the job. She dodged gentlemen, ladies, children; many of whom protested at her rude haste. She was beginning to feel desperate and slow, her limbs heavy as if some strange force was pulling her back, making progress impossible. Perhaps it was just in her mind, the result of her knowledge that the men could easily overtake her. But a weight seemed to pull her back, and running felt more like pulling a cart. She pushed past buggies and servants on errands, their faces indignant as she jostled around them. The morning was dark and seemed to grow darker as she progressed. The skies looked marbled, with highlights marking the dark clouds. Large rain drops fell on stone sidewalk, her boots slipping over them. She alternated between jogging and walking, and soon found herself on the edge of a wide avenue, one densely populated with several lanes of carts and carriages passing. She crossed without thinking, desperate to get away, dodging carriages and horses, their drivers yelling after her in protest.

  When she looked back, the men were still behind, following across the avenue though it brimmed with traffic. She even saw the man in black, following
in a calm but determined manner. He stalked with an emotionless precision that left her chilled. Quickly, she turned down an alley to avoid the impossibly full sidewalks and broke into a run. Her feet slipped over mucky cobblestones as she ducked around corners, her breath sounding loudly in her ears. She must find a fire to light the candle or somewhere to hide. She could hear the men coming, their telltale footsteps falling quickly now, thumping the ground in a large pack. She panicked, knowing that if she couldn’t find a way out of this, there would be no more light for her.

  Her running was frantic now, her cape flying behind her in the fading light. Air burned her lungs, but panic pressed her on. Her mind registered the darkness confusedly, remembering that it was morning and the day should be brightening. But the troubles at hand pulled her quickly out of such thoughts. She scanned the alleyways left and right, desperate for a hiding place or a fire. But all she found was bare stone.

  She arrived in a courtyard with alleys forking off in several directions. She wasn’t sure which way to go and stood hesitating for a moment. The wind was blowing now, pushing her dark locks over her eyes. What should she do? The wrong choice or too much time spent hesitating could trap her. But it was already too late. The men had caught her up and were filling up the far side of the courtyard. Their rag-tag posse slowed to a stop and watched her, standing in a cocky line, their numbers forming a crescent-shaped wall as they took slow, ambling steps in her direction. She saw no light of pity or compassion in their eyes, only the greed of triumph.

  A disturbance broke their ranks. The men parted, revealing the tall, dark form of Blackall, his face sharp as ever. A black hood hung over his head, it’s darkness a stark contrast to the pale skin and piercing blue eyes beneath that stood out from the muddied grays and browns of the group. The men around him, though strong and cock-sure, wilted as he passed by, impotent before him. Their postures cowered involuntarily, acting out the fear in their hearts. Annabelle’s own heart thumped as Blackall stepped forward slowly.