Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  “Annabelle,” he said in a low, rough voice.

  Her name came out of his mouth sounding like a novelty, his lips tripping over it strangely. She flinched fearfully as he approached, her feet staggering backwards.

  “Don’t-” he said.

  But, his words were cut off at the sight of the man in black, who’d appeared from a different alleyway. From his silhouette, he looked like a well-dressed gentleman. But she could still see nothing of his features, which were concealed in shadow. He said nothing, only reached out his gloved hand and, with his finger, formed strange, intricate symbols in the air. Then he grasped the air as if choking it.

  Suddenly, Annabelle couldn’t breathe. Her eyes bulged wide and her mouth gasped for air, but none came. She grasped at her neck, as if to free herself from an impediment, but her hands found nothing but her own skin.

  Then, as if in slow motion, she saw Blackall and his men charge forward. Panic and despair overtook her, along with the sense of being crushed - her throat, her emotions and her will - they were all being crushed by these cruel men who simply wouldn’t let her be free. They meant to tie her up, to imprison her, to take away her hope. And none of her efforts to escape had made any difference. It made her more angry than she could say. Angry in the deepest part of herself, the part that didn’t attempt civility or ask permission. A part that would no longer forgive, and was dominating her mind and body now, dismissing the calm, civilized rationality that guided her through life. She became obedient to something else - something that seemed to break out of her and explode.

  She screamed angrily, defensively; albeit silently. She screamed with her eyes, her throat, her jaw, her chest, arms and hands - with the gripping muscles of her fingers and the tightening muscles of her thighs. She screamed from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head, and in every drifting current that rushed through her body. She screamed so fiercely and so deeply that she felt that her feet attached to the ground like magnets, as if drawing something from the earth beneath her. And before her eyes, as if in a dream, a bolt of bright, hot, searing electricity ripped downward from the marbled skies. It landed on the ground directly between her, the man in black and Blackall. Off-shoots from the bolt ripped outwards, blasting her sight in light blue flashes. They collided so violently with the man in black that his body flew backwards, as if he were no more than a cinder blown from a fire.

  The grip on Annabelle’s neck released, and she coughed and gasped for air, staggering backwards. The air in the courtyard was hot and static, the puddles of water warm through her wet boot leather. Several of Blackall’s men had been knocked down, but were righting themselves, covered in mud and watching Annabelle with expressions of pure shock. Blackall stared very directly at her now, his gaze piercing. But he didn’t wear the same look of shock as his men. He looked amused, thrilled even. Horror and denial flooded her thoughts. What had just happened? What’d she just done?

  Her moment of reflection was cut short by the reappearance of the man in black. As the sound of his hollow footsteps prevailed upon the silence, Blackall turned his attention away from her again. Reaching into his deep pocket, he pulled out a small item that looked like a tiny stick or a bone. He snapped it between his fingers, and suddenly, the air shook, blasting her hair behind her shoulders, and sending the man in black flying once more. The man in black hit a stone wall so hard that it shattered behind him. It all transpired within a matter of seconds as she watched, transfixed. She was sure his back must be broken.

  When she looked up, Blackall was watching her with the same piercing look as before - ravenous. She shrunk beneath his gaze, for it seemed to penetrate deep within her, deeper than she wished to show anyone, and to gobble her up. He and his men hovered closer.

  “Come,” Blackall said in his deep voice, beckoning her with a hand.

  Something in her felt keenly drawn to obey. She didn’t know why, but it pulled from somewhere in her chest, tingling through her body. It had to be another of his tricks. So she recoiled, resisting the pull, turning away just as she noticed the man in black standing again. He was on his feet, and pulling an item from the blackened confines of his chest cavity.

  It looked like an orb, a small, reflective sphere about seven centimeters across, purplish-gray in color. He touched it, and she felt a violent shift in the air. She was being pulled toward the orb uncontrollably, as well as made weaker. She felt it diminishing her, destroying her from within, drawing something vital out of her. But she couldn’t do anything about it. The light was dimming. All was chaos. As her vision became patchy, she saw faces. Faces she knew weren’t there. Men, women and children. They wore strange clothing, rough and old fashioned like those of country farmers. They circled her angrily. They meant to harm her. She swatted weakly at them, never hitting her target.

  She stumbled desperately, falling to her knees, mud softening the collision. Blackall watched her struggles, his expression strained and keenly focussed upon her, but otherwise unreadable. Through blurred, patchy vision she watched as he pulled something out of his own cloak. It was an old, stained skull, as of a small woodland fox, with long incisors pointing down. Blackall lifted the back of it to his lips and blew. It was then that the deafness came. She could hear nothing. The whole world went mute and flat, but everything around her shook and fell into chaos. The ground beneath her rumbled and quaked. Dust and rubble filled the air. Blackall’s men were all in a panic, grasping their heads as their faces distorted in agony. Blood trickled down their cheeks, running from their ears. But she could hear nothing.

  Amidst her disorientation, she realized the pressure from the orb was gone. So, she ran deafly down damp alleyways, around corners, crates and people. She dashed desperately while the battle vibrated in her head. Something in her had awakened since the descent of that great bolt from the skies, a new sense, one she wished to forget. Her deepest instincts to survive had been awakened, and there was no silencing them now. She made her way desperately, eyes wide and teeth clenched as she grasped at walls to pull herself away faster. Thoughts broke through the frenzy, questions about what she’d just witnessed, and participated in. She knew everything she saw was impossible. Her mind tripped over it, wondering if perhaps it’d all been an illusion. Was she mad? Delirious? But who, indeed, could execute such an elaborate ruse, and why? There simply wasn’t a reason good enough to attempt it in the first place. Truly, it must have been real. It’d all happened, as sure as the sun rose this morning. Or she’d lost her mind.

  She ran desperately as thoughts circled her head, a murder of angry crows pecking at her. She felt detached from herself, like a spectator to what was happening rather than a willing participant. She didn’t like to admit it, but it had felt good to do... whatever it was she’d done back there. The memory of it was warm and cathartic. It’d felt satisfying, though she anxiously wondered why. Continuing down the wet and blustery streets, her destination came into sight, affording her some measure of relief.

  She shuffled weakly up the platform and into the ticket room. Two rude youths nearly pushed her over in an effort to get out the door, sniggering at her as they passed. The collision startled her, for she was already on high guard. But she calmed herself as she entered, not wanting to attract attention. A smug-looking ticket clerk stood behind the counter, glancing at her beneath lowered eyelids, and overtop a thick, waxed mustache. As she approached the counter, her words came out in a gasping manner.

  “One way ticket please,” she said.

  The man took her money, ripped off a ticket and handed it to her.

  “You’re a bit young to be travellin’ on your own,” he commented saucily. “Wouldn’t ya say, Miss?”

  “My parents are on the platform,” she lied. “They forgot my ticket.”

  Lying was becoming easier for her, she noted darkly. A train pulled into the station, slowing to a stop with a series of loud huffing noises. The clerk gave her a civil nod, dismissing her and acknowledging the next customer wi
th bored eyes. She stepped out onto the platform, keeping vigilant watch in every direction. It was populated mostly by men in top hats, holding newspapers and rushing about their business amidst the smoky gush of the engines. None seemed to notice her, the wide-eyed, cloaked young woman who waited for the conductor’s call, then disappeared like a ghost onto the train.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Black Tumor

  The day was dark as the train pulled out of the station. Annabelle stroked the cushioned velvet seat beneath her and listened as the door rattled against it’s latch. They were moving fast now, bumping and shaking over the tracks. Lights burned warmly in the city, passing her compartment like rushing specters. The lives represented by each window imprinted briefly on her mind like cries released and lost, souls reaching out as she barreled into the unknown. She was frightened, her hands trembled as she sat pressed against the cold window, watching her breath fog the glass. Panic twinged in her heart. She was leaving London for the first time, and she’d never moved this fast in her life.

  But despite all of it - despite not knowing where she would lay her head, despite the monsters and men following her, despite her struggle and all the fear - she noticed a feeling of invigoration in her soul. She was alive and she knew, somehow, that she was on the right path. The one her heart wished to be on. The world around her was dark, unfathomable and out of control. But it was also alight with... Something. Something she sensed had been missing her whole life. Something just at the tip of her memory. She couldn’t name it, but it burned within her, opening the horizon to great expanses and beautiful colors.

  But still, her mind cried out for answers. Who was Uncle Morton, really? Who was Valefar? And why was all of this happening? Grasping for the only source of enlightenment within reach, she pulled out her uncle’s book: Nefaria Draugr Lamia. The ancient volume glared at her from where it sat on her knees. She lifted the cover. Beneath, the paper was thick and silky to her fingertips. The text looked painstakingly handwritten. There were woodcarving illustrations that depicted various scenes and symbols. Some of the scenes were frightening, illustrating actions so vile that she feared to touch the page, or even look at them. There were seals and symbols throughout that looked very arcane, like nothing she’d ever seen before. Several pages showed strange collections of these symbols, as if illustrating an equation. Seeing the dearness of the volume, she felt somewhat ashamed to have towed it along on this dangerous journey, protected only by the fabric of her cloak.

  Despite her earlier experiences, the text remained in Latin. Owing to the fact, she guessed, that she hadn’t lit the black candle this time. But she’d learned enough Latin in her studies with Mr. Elkstein to struggle through the text a bit. Turning to the first page, she read the inscription:

  “In honor and affectionate gratitude of Dr. Thorolf Mardh

  a contributor most essential to our labors,

  without whose insights and good works

  our toils would have been in vain”

  She skipped ahead, stopping at the first page with a substantial amount of text, and read.

  “The Draugr Vampire is an archaic creature of which little is known absolutely. They are an elusive, transformative and extremely dangerous beast. Though they are called by the name Draugr - a mythical Norse creature, a revenant corpse reanimated by the undead will, having the power to drive victims mad with their presence - they are not actual Draugr. They share characteristics with the Norse Draugr, that of grotesque appearance, the devouring of human flesh and blood, the casting of spells, transfiguration and a tendency to grayish skin color. They were mistaken for Draugr in earliest record by a Finnish historian who mistook them for the creatures depicted in the medieval Eyrbyggia saga.

  However, the Draugr Vampire is of unknown origin. Ancient tales tell of a concentrated colony existing in the mountainous region of Sakar, that was scattered by an offensive in the year 962 A.D., when residents of surrounding villages attacked the colony. Except in the case of this mythic group, Draugr Vampires are best known for living in deep isolation, and are often found in mated pairs. Though they do not share the affection typically found in mated pairs, they pair instinctually to gain a tactical advantage over their prey. They are rarely found in greater numbers than two, being an extremely fierce, territorial creature that reviles even it’s own kind.

  The Draugr Vampire feeds upon it’s prey in various stages. First, the Draugr pair identifies it’s victim. Once a victim is found, the Draugr Vampire is most ruthless in it’s offensive, and chances of escape are nearly non-existent. After the victim is isolated and subjugated, it is kept, for as long as the Draugr may peaceably feed upon it’s vital energies. This process is referred to as the Vitalis Furtum, the “vital draw.” Most souls are safe from the Draugr Vampire in it’s peaceable feeding state, for in this state, the creatures are said to feast only upon the most exceptional of beings - those fabled to possess uncommon powers of a magical nature. For it is these powerful types who will sustain the longest and most rewarding feeding cycle. But in times when such a victim is unavailable, Draugr Vampires will sustain themselves on the blood and flesh of any creature.

  The most fearful of all creatures is a desperate Draugr Vampire. When the creature’s source of energy is used up (when their victim’s pranic spectrum is spent, either by death or exhaustion) the Draugr Vampire descends to the basest level of it’s nature, the blood feed. In this state, devoid of their preferred source of sustenance, they transform hideously and stoop to feeding upon blood and flesh to sustain themselves. The blood feed is crazed, manic and unfathomably perilous. Unlike the beast in it’s peaceable state, who will chose a special target and feed upon it continuously, during the desperation of blood feed they show no preference over who or what they target.

  Little is known of these creatures’ true feeding nature. Firstly, because the blood feed leaves bedlam in it’s wake, while a peaceable feeding Draugr Vampire lives quietly, feeding off of one or few victims. Secondly, those who legend tells us Draugr Vampires desire to feed upon are a rare species themselves, rarer than the highest kings of the realm. They are said to barely exist in the span of several generations, and are a luxury that the Draugr Vampire savors...”

  The train jerked hard against the tracks, pulling her thoughts momentarily away from the book. But the words swirled inside her conscience, forming into an inescapable conclusion. The implication was clear, though it horrified and disillusioned her to face it. Was her caretaker really one of these beasts? Ackworth too? Had they been drawing something from her, living off of her all her life? Who were her parents, then? And what really happened to them? She read on to avoid facing her own thoughts.

  Draugr Vampires use witchcraft and magical items to keep such a victim under their control. One such tactic, often the first stage of attack, is the creation of a Fel Panus, or “black tumor;” a festering mound of filth to which the Draugr Vampire adds materials essential to the spell, as well as some part of the flesh, blood or leavings of the victim. The black tumor weakens the victim, embodying their insecurities and drawing them back into the hive of the Draugr pair...

  Annabelle tore her eyes away from the text, slamming the book shut in horror, as she recalled the disgusting lump she’d found on her uncle’s desk only yesterday. There was now no doubt in her mind. She swallowed bile, choking on the conclusion. She felt so horrified, so disappointed in life. What was she? Was she just a tool, a source of fuel for monsters?

  The train rushed on and on. The contorting lights of the city were gone. All that remained was the moon as it shone upon dark fields, turning water to glass and fields to patches of black wool. She kept hidden beneath her cloak, avoiding eye contact with the sparse few who ambled up the passage. She could not allow herself to sleep, though her eyelids continually drooped and she had to forcibly flinch to keep from sleep.

  Her thoughts turned back to the courtyard and all that’d happened there. She shuddered at the memory of the man in black,
feeling every muscle in her body contract with distaste. Recalling the item he carried, she was sure she’d be devoured in moments if he ever came upon her alone, with none to war with or distract him.

  “Mind if I sit down, do you?”

  A gentleman farmer sidled into the compartment and spoke to her in an overtly friendly tone. She was embarrassed not to reply, but was greatly distrustful of any strangers at the moment, and so chose to say nothing. She truly just wished to be alone. With so much to think about and so much weighing on her heart, the presence of anyone felt oppressive. But the man seemed innocent enough. He had the looks of a country gentleman, nothing like a rag-tag London thief. And he seemed an amiable, social type of person in possession of a very honest-looking face. He attempted conversation with her several times, putting her constantly on edge, as necessity demanded she be rude by saying nothing to him.

  “Traveling far?” “Coming from London?” and “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Were among the many cordial questions sent her way, all of which received no reply. She sat silently, thinking of the dark night that lay all around her. Where would she stay when the train stopped? Would she have to sleep outdoors in the rain, or in a barn? Would she be safe from wolves and other predators? The darkness of the compartment and the rhythmic rocking of the train lulled her senses. When she looked up, she was standing on the edge of a cliff, heavy rain pouring down upon her, running down her head and chest in cold streaks. She was on a towering structure made of earth and rock. There was no one around her, only the rough, rain-soaked elements reflecting dim moonlight. She needed to get down but didn’t know how. She cried out for help, but her voice was muffled in the damp, howling wind. No one answered. But then a man appeared. A man she knew. He reached out and took her hand. Suddenly, she was no longer on the rocky peak, but standing in a dark garden holding his hand.