Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  Among the bodies lay a tall figure dressed in black. It rested face down, with it’s features obscured and long, dark hair pouring onto the ground. It seemed to be... It seemed to be Blackall. But was it? She couldn’t tell. She felt suddenly agitated; suddenly troubled and afraid. She wished to get away, to not think about any of this. It terrified her to consider what might’ve caused all of it. Whatever it was, it’d clearly won.

  She turned and ran, fleeing from her turmoil, hoping she might find a station or some shelter. She followed the tracks for a time, feet beating over uneven ground while damp air burned her lungs. Her legs itched and her shoulders grew heavy as her cloak billowed behind her. She felt that some predator followed, that it crept at her back; but she lacked the courage to look behind, in case it should really be there. So she ran until she couldn’t anymore, finally stopping beneath a thicket of trees that draped over the tracks. She leaned against the bark, gasping for a long moment before she even saw the station. The letters were bold and clear. It was her stop.

  CHAPTER 29

  Behind the Blue Light

  It was easy to avoid detection beneath the trees. The fog was thick as she passed like a ghost, hidden beneath her cloak. She listened carefully for the slightest sound, aside from her boots crunching over branches and leaves, but her vigilant ears were greeted by nothing but the wind in the boughs. The morning passed cold, wet and gray, marked by the unrest in her heart. With each step she dispelled the memory of cold, still faces staring sightlessly into dim skies, their eternal prospect. She was haunted by their images, wetted by dew and obscured by the morning’s fog, limbs no longer warmed by the clothes that covered them. Their souls pulled her back to their rest, while their invisible killer beleaguered her steps. She felt displaced, homeless and deeply afraid. She longed for warmth and protection, a few pleasant moments to feel safe again - safe within four walls, safe within an embrace, or at the very least, her thoughts lost to some temporal comfort. But she’d nowhere to seek any of these things, homeless as she was.

  By midday, she was weary of heart and body. So she took rest among the trees, perched on a great stone that felt cold through her cloak and dress. She rubbed her toes through boot leather, icy puddles having seeped through her boots and stockings all morning. After a breakfast of bread stolen from Abby’s kitchen, she set out again and soon arrived at the edge of a small village. It was a sparse, medieval village with both romanesque and tudor-style dwellings releasing smoke from slender chimneys.

  She chanced exposure and broke away from the brush, keeping a watchful eye in all directions as she crossed the clearing and entered the village. The avenue was narrow and desolate, with no one about; barely even an animal skulking. She stopped in front of a small shop located in the ground floor of one of the romanesque dwellings. Inside, humble sundries lined the walls and a young woman in a scarf and homespun dress stood behind the counter. The girl was less than engaging in manner, as if wary of Annabelle. She checked over her costume and nothing seemed amiss. So, she assumed the girl must be cautious of strangers, though it seemed an unusual attribute for a shop girl to have. She browsed the wares folded and piled on wooden shelves, glad of the shop’s warmth as she ran her fingers wistfully over fabrics, tools and the rough wood of the shelves. But she was taken aback by a strange, gravelly voice sounding behind her.

  “Ye aren’t welcome ‘ere.”

  Shocked, Annabelle turned around to see the speaker, who’d sounded like an old woman. But she only saw the shop girl standing behind the counter, a bored expression marking her face.

  “Excuse me?” Annabelle said.

  The shop girl cocked an eyebrow.

  “May I help you?” she asked innocently.

  “Ah,” Annabelle replied softly. “I suppose not.”

  She turned back to browsing, feeling embarrassed. But then, she heard it again.

  “I said, get out!”

  Annabelle shot around to see an old woman glaring hatefully at her from behind the counter. The old woman looked like the shop girl, only much older and dressed in rough, old-fashioned garb, her eyes red and puffy. And suddenly, Annabelle’s ears were ringing and her heart was beating fast. The edges of her vision were blurring, and she felt dizzy; so dizzy that her knees buckled, and she fell next to a wooden table covered with wares. She was nearly on the floor now, gripping the edge of the table top to hold herself upright. When she looked up, it was into the face of the young shop girl, worried, if not overly friendly. Standing, with help from the girl, Annabelle looked back to see the old woman was gone.

  “Who was that?” she asked the girl anxiously.

  “What?” the girl replied. “Who do you mean? ...There’s no one here but you and I.”

  “The old woman, your... your grandmother,” Annabelle answered, guessing at the old woman’s identity.

  “I’ve no grandmother, miss,” the girl answered, sounding suspicious. “Only one I ever had’s been dead these ten years. And she never stepped foot in this shop, not once in all ‘er life.”

  Annabelle stared for a moment, feeling confused. Thinking over the strange events of the past day, she realized it would be best not to pursue the subject any further or draw attention. So, she collected herself and asked about Gurza Manor. From the girl’s limited advice, she was able to surmise that it lay five miles to the northeast, was surrounded by thick woods on all sides, utterly abandoned, and no place for a decent young lady to venture. The girl seemed rather shocked when Annabelle showed interest in it.

  Annabelle left the shop and cleared out of the village, hoping she hadn’t raised any alarms with her inquiries. She travelled through wooded areas for cover, close enough to follow the road, shuffling across wet grass while breathing deep gusts of fresh, damp air. It felt cool on her dewy skin, sticking hair to her forehead in wet clumps. The tops of the tall trees swayed in the wind as she listening to their creaking. Soon, she could no longer travel through the forest, for it opened up onto a vast moorland. It’s fields and hills were beautiful in lush, wet shades, breaking upon a dark, open sky.

  Though her heart was heavy as she stood on the edge of the moor, she felt a sense of liberty unlike any she’d known before. She realized the affect it’d had on her mind, living her whole life by to the whims of another, cowering before the threat of their displeasure. It’d infected her every waking moment with a sense of anxiety. But here, on the edge of this wilderness, with no masters about her, she was free not to care for anyone’s wishes but her own. Cold and perilous as her situation was, she was strangely free for the first time in her life. She could feel a new confidence swelling from deep within her - the knowledge that she needn’t worry over Ackworth’s wrath anymore. And she felt the keenest, most determined desire to never submit to a yoke again.

  It seemed foolhardy to rest any longer when she was so near her destination. As she trudged on, she found herself imagining Mr. Daveye waiting for her at the end of her travels, reclining in a comfortable chair, with a glass of something fine in his hand. She realized that some part of her had hoped for this all along, though she knew it was foolish. She was jarred quite violently from this daydream when a strange sound echoed through the forest - a low, guttural growl. Not the growl of an animal, but of a very old, monstrous woman. It sounded unearthly, totally unlike the voice she’d heard in the shop. Trembling despite her warm cloak, she moved on quickly, scuttling away across the grassy field towards the road. The directions she’d gotten from the shop girl required her to follow the road at some point, and this seemed as good a time as any.

  She rubbed her arms for warmth, trying to shake off her fears as she stepped hesitantly onto the byway. She walked for a good while before meeting a local farm boy, who generously allowed her a ride in his cart. They rolled bumpily down the road behind his Suffolk, saying little to each other, she staying beneath her cloak and he caring for the reigns. For several miles, they listened to the heavy thumps of the horse’s hooves hitting ground as the wind wh
istled in their ears.

  When she told him where she was going, she received a shocked look and an oath from the boy. It was clear he’d heard of the infamy of Gurza Manor, and when he realized her designs on the place were serious, his eyes turned grave and distant. He drove on silently after that, speaking only once before dropping her off at the foot of a winding road.

  “That be the way,” he said, his rounded finger pointing ominously up the path.

  She thanked the boy, jumped down and found her feet. With a whip of the horse’s reigns, the boy disappeared off down the road. The drive that led to Gurza Manor was surrounded by overhanging trees, twisting its way up a wooded hill. Finding courage, she started forward, remembering that the candle could protect her if all else failed. It quickly became evident that the road hadn’t been used for at least a generation. Great, tall trees leaned over the drive, obscuring the sky with their drapery; while tall grass and plants grew up in patches, and vines snaked across, making the ground invisible in places. Great tree roots sprung up from below, warping the surface and providing clear obstructions to any cart or carriage. At least anyone in pursuit of her would have to travel by foot as well.

  She walked on as the road dipped down into valleys and twisted in different directions, listening to birds call and gentle rainfall on leaves. As she went, a heavy, encroaching silence seemed to fall; one that absorbed all sound, even the tiny calls of the forest. Before long, it was as if she was walking through a thick fog - one of sound rather than sight.

  It was nearing four o’clock before she finally saw them - the battlements of a great house, pointed and black, rising above distant trees. A strange shock ran through her at the sight, one so poignant that she felt breathless. She felt a strange, unearthly draw to the place, causing her to fear she’d come under a spell. The thought halted her steps for a moment. But after standing dumbly in the middle of the road, looking about and considering her options, she realized there was nothing to be done but continue. What else was she to do? Turn back to Orenn and the horrors awaiting her in London? She knew that no matter where she went, the monsters would eventually break down the door. Mr. Daveye, her only ally, had led her here. She must be brave and follow the path he laid out, for he’d done so at the expense of his own life.

  The closer she got to the house, the stronger the draw was. Soon, the trees broke and she could see pieces of the facade. It was grand and overrun, with ivy covering much of the gray and black stone. Some of the windows were broken, with plants creeping inside. Several of the smaller structures surrounding the house had collapsed and been consumed by plant life. A stone gate bordered the front courtyard, where a fountain and other decorative structures were scattered about, all in various states of ruin. A rusted iron gate, which had fallen off it’s hinges, lay mangled on the ground. She stepped beneath the threshold, noticing a slight ring in her ears.

  A large fountain in the courtyard was buried in ivy and moss. A sculptured woman holding a basin rose out of it like a spike, burdened by plants that were overtaking her. It’d long since stopped giving water, it’s was base filled with a thick, swampy brown substance. But the figure was beautiful, it’s white form glowing amidst the surrounding darkness.

  The front door was massive and solid, seemingly sufficient to keep out invaders. Annabelle approached it and issued a hesitant knock. The sound echoed through the interior, but received no reply, even after more tries and several moments of silence. So she decided to let herself in. Gargoyles glared down at her as she pushed against it with all her weight. It was extremely heavy and seemed to be stuck; but finally inched forward beneath her weight, scraping the gravelly floor.

  Inside, the hall was grand, with intricate molding and gold details all about. At the back, a large staircase rose up toward tall windows. A chandelier hung just over her head with generations of dust covering it’s crystal pieces. Everything from floors to furniture were caked with dust so thick that every item appeared to be a different shade of the same color. But most noticeable was the dead quiet. The air hung silent and thick, the kind of silence accumulated from long years of stillness; profound and tomb-like, chilling her to the bone.

  She wandered from room to room on the main floor, learning quickly just how vast the house was, finding dozens to occupy her. Ceilings were high and vaulted as she tripped lightly, noticing that everything looked centuries old, and appeared to have gone untouched since it’s initial use. She found several sitting rooms, all with furniture that looked to have been highly fashionable at one time. She also happened upon a library, one with shelves overflowing with old volumes. In the middle was a grand, ornate desk with writing implements still upon it, as if they’d been abandoned suddenly.

  She got lost for a long time, creeping through rooms that weren’t too dark to frighten her off, exploring the vast reserve of strange, beautiful and mysterious items scattered among the dust. She wondered how a place could be so feared that finery such as this would remain untouched for so long. Local legends, even of the darkest ilk, must be but a poor deterrent to wealth of this magnitude. Why hadn’t it been raided years ago, and it’s spoils claimed by thieves? The chandelier alone must be worth a fortune.

  She made her way back to the main entryway, crossing door after door and halls that intersected with each other. She crossed one that appeared to lead off toward the service entrance, and saw something flicker in the corner of her eye; a dark spot where there should be light. Stopping suddenly, she turned; nearly frozen for fear of what she might see. Finding courage, she saw a small figure standing at the hallway’s end, silhouetted by the doorway that led out into the evening light. She blinked to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. It was there alright, the figure of a young girl in boots, dress and short cape, thin and rather ragged.

  “Hello?” Annabelle’s voice echoed sheepishly down the hallway.

  The figure shifted slightly. She still couldn’t see it’s face.

  “Are you a ghost?” the figure said in a small voice.

  Annabelle let out a deep sigh of relief.

  “Am I?” Annabelle replied. “No, of course not.”

  “You look like a ghost,” the figure said.

  Annabelle realized she was still wearing her hood, and drew it down.

  “Where is the master of this house?” She asked the silhouette.

  “Ain’t none.” It replied in a rough accent. “Never ‘as been.”

  “Ah,” Annabelle replied, pausing. “And, what do you do here?”

  The figure looked down at it’s feet and fidgeted.

  “No one cares if I come.”

  “I-” Annabelle tried to say more, but the figure turned and dashed into the light before she could utter more than a syllable. She followed to the door’s threshold, which opened onto a great yard, vast and green. I was a considerable stretch of land, several fields really. And it was beautiful, though overgrown, it’s edges bordered with woods. The figure had disappeared, likely gone into the forest by some secret way.

  She was still determined to search for whatever the poor departed Mr. Daveye had wished for her to find, so she turned back to the dark house, it’s tomb-like stillness contrasting with the flickering life outside. She found her way through silent halls and back to the main entryway, there ascending the grand staircase to explore the second floor. Her feet sank into the carpeted stairs, cushioned by a thick layer of dust. Failing light poured through the clouded windows above. Her fingers brushed the railing lightly, it’s smooth contour sending a thrill of affinity through her. Many hands must’ve done the same before, she thought.

  She tried to remain calm, but her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s. Something about this place made her quake with a strange sort of excitement, as if her body was full of electricity. Everything here was so fine. She felt a strange but undeniable affection forming in her heart, and didn’t care if it was dark magic that made it so. The large portraits on the walls watched her as she made her way up to the second fl
oor landing. Once there, she turned right without thinking. The corridor beyond was dark and the ceilings vaulted. Suits of armor and other relics lined the walls, all caked with the same dust as the floor below.

  After a long walk past several doors, some opened and some closed, and several shifts in direction, she came upon a place where a stone staircase rose up against the wall, climbing to a single doorway high above her head. The doorway was arched, pointed at the lintel, and covered by a thick velvet curtain. Without thinking, she ascended the steps. As she did, she noticed a ringing in her ears. Rather, she noticed that they’d been ringing all along, without her noticing. The sound had simply been growing ever gradually until now.

  She noticed suddenly that a strong and fearful sensation had fallen over her; with each step it seemed to grip her tighter by the throat. She could describe it no better than resistance speaking in a voice of fear. To go beyond the door above felt so dangerous, so wrong, it seemed an act of treasonous disobedience somehow. She didn’t know why, but she felt she was being drawn toward a precipice, one fraught with knowledge so forbidden it bordered on sacrilege. It screamed from somewhere deep inside of her, rattled and shook through her body, ringing in her ears, shaking through her fingers, calling to her and repelling her all at once. Do not pass through the door, it said; lest you burn.