The Hollow Church

by Amy Cross

  Hearing a distant bubbling sound, I walk over to the nearest wall and place a hand on the stone. Sure enough, there's a faint vibration. I look back at the door, to make sure that no-one has followed me down here, and then I make my way to the nearest window. Wide and tall, extending all the way up to the stone ceiling, the window is filled with a dark red color. I grab a candle from the nearby rack, and when I hold the flickering light up to the glass of the window, I see that the dark red color on the other side of the glass is moving and swirling. After a moment, as a cold chill passes through my body, I realize what I'm looking at. Blood: on the other side of this glass, there's a vast sea of blood. Even now, with only the light of the candle, I can see small particles of organic matter drifting through the blood. I guess it's pretty clear who was harvesting all that blood across the city, although why they'd want to submerge an entire church in the stuff is another question.

  Hearing a noise nearby, like someone bumping into one of the pews, I turn and look back across the church. There's no sign of anyone, but I figure this would be a good time to get the hell out of here and get some back-up. Placing the candle back on the nearby rack, I start walking back toward the door. I take out my phone, but there's no signal down here, which I guess isn't much of a surprise since the entire place is made of stone and encased in a sea of blood. I just -

  "Did you find anything interesting?" asks a voice nearby.

  Stopping, I see that the man from earlier is standing in the doorway, watching me.

  "You've got an interesting place down here," I say, starting to realize that getting out of here might not be as easy as I'd hoped. Still, he's just one guy, and he looks pretty weak and frail.

  "Yes," Rasmussen says, stepping aside as the sound of invisible footsteps starts passing through the door, heading straight toward me. "We do."

  Abby Hart

  "He was here," I say, placing my hand on the surface of the vast granite sphere that has been waiting behind the altar for so long. I turn to the Strix priest, an old man whose frail presence continually flickers in and out of view. "He was here, wasn't here? Right here, in this exact spot. My father was here!"

  He shakes his head. "Not here," he says gravely. "Never here. But Patrick did touch the bridge of light at the heart of the sphere, at least as far as we can tell, so you're probably picking up an impression of his presence all those years ago. He was there when the plan was presented to Gothos. I'm not sure whether you're aware of the fact or not, but your father was an integral figure in those days. His opinion was courted by those on both sides of the war." He pauses. "Have you made your decision, Abigail?"

  I nod. The truth is, when I came to the church a couple of days ago, I was convinced that I needed to stop the Strix and prevent them from doing whatever they were planning. I was also lost and confused, full of chaos. Now, however, I see things as they truly are: I see that I can't continue to straddle the human and vampire worlds. I needed to choose, and after so much conflict, the decision has suddenly become easy. I'm a vampire, so I should be with other vampires. I should help other vampires. This is my new home.

  I run my hand across the sphere's rough surface. It's hard to believe that once, my father was in the presence of the same object. Since his death, I've tried so hard to forget about him, to move past the point at which I was 'just' his daughter. The truth, though, is that I still feel as if I'm in his shadow. I constantly try to imagine how he'd react to my choices, and whether or not he'd approve of my actions. Sometimes, I'm touched by a light sensation of guilt when I realize that I barely give my mother any thought at all. She was just a human, whereas my father was strong and powerful, part of a rich heritage. His life meant something.

  "What's it for?" I ask, taking a step back. The sphere, several meters in diameter and colored a kind of coal black, has a strong presence of its own, almost as if it has a mind. "Who made this?" I continue, turning to the priest. "It must have a purpose."

  "It was made by the Hecates," the priest replies. "Long ago, on the final day of the vampire war, they were tasked with creating a bridge that would span the realm of death itself. The plan was that one vampire would survive to live another day."

  "But my father survived," I point out. "He lived, and he didn't need a bridge."

  "There was a... disagreement," the priest says cautiously. "Your father and Gothos were allies for a long time, but when Patrick finally understood what Gothos was doing, he disagreed." He pauses. "It was a very violent disagreement, as I'm sure you can imagine."

  "But my father wasn't..." I take a deep breath, trying to gather together the thoughts that are spinning through my mind. "You make it sound as if my father betrayed people."

  "Gothos and Patrick came to view one another as traitors," the priest continues. "At the end, anyway. In some ways, I think that's why Patrick was able to do what he did. He felt he had nothing left to lose, and he was disgusted by what he saw as the degradation of the vampire race."

  "But he did the right thing," I reply, feeling as if my whole body is trembling with fear. "My father did the right thing in the end, didn't he?"

  The priest smiles. "Patrick was always a rather blunt instrument. Gothos understood this, and used him as a powerful weapon. Patrick preferred force where others used subtlety. The plan was for one vampire, and only one, to escape the war by entering the bridge and emerging, one day, when it would be safe to live and breathe again. At the time, there was a fear that the entire species would burn up and be destroyed. Gothos wasn't willing to countenance the final end of the vampires, so he told the Hecates to create the bridge. They insisted it wasn't possible, that it was beyond even their abilities, but Gothos wouldn't accept this answer. He killed them all except one, and then at last the final Hecate agreed to try."

  "Were you there?" I ask.

  "No," the priest replies. "Certain records were kept, and passed down from generation to generation. The Book of Gothos was intended to be the only repository of vampire knowledge, but even Gothos himself was unable to prevent information from being entered in the great library. He certainly tried, but the Librarian placed himself beyond the reach of even the greatest of all vampires."

  "What library?"

  "A whole world. You'll go there one day, I'm sure. For now, it's enough for you to know that the bridge is finally ready to be reactivated. There are those who believe it will never work, but those people forget that the Hecates were masterful technologists and, with enough blood, the transmission is certain to be completed."

  "Why?" I ask, turning back to face the sphere. "What's inside this thing?"

  "The survivor," he replies.

  "My father was the only survivor," I reply, feeling a slow sense of dread starting to rise through my body.

  "For many years," the priest continues, "that was true. But the bridge allowed one other survivor to span that period, to reach out across the chasm of death. He hung from the roots of the Tree of Life, and he waited in the bridge. It was left to the Strix to keep watch, and they were charged with eventually finding a way to reactivate the bridge by drawing together the blood required to open the door. That moment is finally here."

  I take a deep breath, trying to comprehend the enormity of the moment. As I run my hand across the surface of the sphere, I realize that something very old is about to return to the world. "Who's in here?" I ask eventually, even though I'm not sure I want to know the answer. "Who entered this thing?"

  "Who do you think? When a whole civilization is on the brink, who else would they choose to save? Who else would wait an eternity to be resurrected in a new world?"

  With my hand still resting on the side of the sphere, I finally understand. "Gothos," I whisper.

  Mark Gregory

  "There's no point running," Rasmussen says. "You can't see them, but the Strix are all around you. Hundreds of them. If you try to leave, they'll tear you apart. Believe me, after working so slowly and methodically to farm all that blood, they're desperate for
the chance to really stretch their legs."

  "I don't think -" I start to say, before I feel something brush against my shoulder. I turn, and although there's nothing there, I can't shake the feeling that this Rasmussen guy is telling the truth. Moments later I feel something bump against my arm, but of course there's nothing there when I turn around. Although I can't see them, I can tell that there are creatures standing close to me. I can hear them breathing, and I can feel the floor tremble a little as these things continue to encircle me. They must be the same creatures I heard upstairs. Damn it, I should have got out of here as fast as possible. Instead, I kept telling myself that none of this could really be happening, that it simply wasn't possible. My inability to believe in these creatures has led me right into their clutches.

  "It must be hard," Rasmussen continues, "being a human and suddenly coming face to face with our species. I've often wondered how a small human mind is able to cope with having the veil of ignorance pulled back. My theory is that if you were to fully understand the vampire world, your brain would simply shrivel and die. Is that right, Mr. Gregory? Do you feel your brain struggling to comprehend the enormity of everything you're seeing? Do you worry that your sanity might be about to shatter?"

  I open my mouth to reply, but I have no idea what to say. Right now, it's as if everything I know about the world is being torn away. Vampires don't exist, they can't exist, but over the past few days I've seen more and more evidence start to pile up, until the point where I'm not sure I can deny what's right in front of my eyes. I can't help thinking back to that day in Afghanistan, the day that I've long tried to forget, when I saw something kill Hoskins. I was pilloried for my insistence that a vampire was responsible, and eventually I persuaded myself that I was wrong. Right now, however, I'm starting to wonder if I was right all along.

  "I can see it in your face," Rasmussen says. "You're struggling, aren't you? You don't know what to make of it all. Perhaps I should assist you in some way." He walks over to a nearby alcove and picks up a small cup; after dipping his finger inside, he sets the cup aside and makes his way back over to me, at which point he shows me that there's blood smeared on his fingertip. "The Strix are a particularly fragile strain of vampire," he continues with a half-smile. "Very indistinct and tender. They only become visible when they feed, and even then, not for long."

  I watch as he holds his hand out, and after a moment some of the blood seems to disappear from his finger., as if it has been consumed by some kind of unseen creature. Seconds later, a figure starts to appear next to him, like some kind of phantom materializing from the gloom, and I recognize it immediately as being similar to the creature I saw in the cave all those years ago. Dressed in rags, with strips of skin hanging from a thin, haunted face, the creature stares straight at me for a few seconds before slowly opening its mouth to reveal a set of sharp, yellowed fangs. As it takes a step toward me, however, it slowly fades from view.

  "Perhaps it's better this way," Rasmussen continues. "They're rather ugly individuals, don't you think? In fact, they have very few uses, although they're very good at moving unseen through the human world. That's why they were so good at farming the blood that we needed. The Strix have been walking the streets of New York for some time now, Mr. Gregory, but of course no humans were ever aware of their presence, and no-one missed the dispossessed vagrants whose lives were taken. It's a shame that you found two of their farms, since all the others were kept so well hidden. The Strix have really done a remarkable job, and they'll be rewarded by Gothos when he returns. They seem very eager for their work to be acknowledged."

  "This is..." I pause, trying to stay calm even though I can feel myself starting to panic. "Where's Abby?" I ask eventually.

  "Who?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, the young woman from the photo. I'm afraid I had to be a little deceitful earlier, Mr. Gregory. Abigail Hart is perfectly safe. In fact, I believe she's with one of our priests right now. I was worried that she wouldn't understand the role she has to play, but it seems that finally she has come around to our way of thinking. She was lost and vulnerable, but we offered her a home and she accepted it. I must say, there's a pleasing sense of symmetry now that the daughter of Patrick has chosen to be present for the opening of the bridge." He pauses. "You, on the other hand, have wandered into a situation for which you are woefully under-prepared. I don't have a very high opinion of humans, Mr. Gregory, but I have to admit that you have an admirable capacity for self-belief. In my experience, humans constantly over-estimate their own abilities. It's a wonderful quality at times, but it also has a tendency to get you killed in great number."

  "I'm a New York police officer," I tell him, my voice trembling as I struggle to get the image of Hoskins out of my mind, "and -"

  "I know who and what you are," he replies, clearly unimpressed. "I also see that you have a gun at your waist. I expect you'll try to use it to defend yourself, but the Strix are unlikely to be slowed by your bullets." With that, he turns and walks to the door, before glancing back at me. "We already have more than enough blood for our purposes," he continues with a smile, "but I suppose it won't hurt to have a little more."

  "No!" I shout, hurrying over to him just as he steps out into the corridor and pushes the door shut. I bang on the wood, before turning to look across the empty church. I still can't see these damn things, but I can hear them getting closer. Pulling my gun from its holster, I aim straight ahead and fire every round I have. Dropping the gun, I realize that it was no help at all, and finally I feel the breath of one of the creatures on my neck, as a bony hand takes hold of my shoulder and tilts my head to one side.

  Abby Hart

  "When does it begin?" I ask, still staring at the sphere. Although I'm managing to keep my voice from trembling, the truth is that I'm terrified. I've heard the name Gothos so many times, but only as a relic from the past. Sure, I visited the house he built, but that didn't exactly go too well. The idea of something being resurrected from those days, and returning to life in the modern world, fills me with fear.

  "As soon as the Strix have moved the sphere to the altar," the priest replies, "the ceremony will start. Rasmussen was planning to greet Lord Gothos upon his return, but now that you are among us, the task will fall to you. It will undoubtedly please our Lord to see that the daughter of Patrick now understands her place in the world." He pauses. "You will, of course, have to kneel before him."

  I turn to face the priest. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

  He stares at me, as if he doesn't understand what I could possibly mean.

  "Maybe Gothos..." I look back at the sphere. "Maybe Gothos belongs in the past," I continue eventually. "Maybe there's a reason the vampires went to war, and maybe that reason..." I pause again, and I can't shake the feeling that we're all standing on the verge of a huge mistake. When I came back to the church a few days ago, I was planning to stop these plans, but I allowed Rasmussen and the priest to persuade me that the rituals of the vampires should be allowed to proceed. Now, however, I can't help wondering whether this attempt to resurrect the past is simply going to be a continuation of all the mistakes that were committed in the past. Maybe my father was right when he tried to bury the past and start a whole new lineage.

  "This is how it must be," the priest says calmly. "This is how it has always been promised. Gothos cannot die. Not then, not now, and not ever."

  "Everyone dies eventually," I point out. "It's natural. Vampires aren't excluded from the laws of nature. Even vampires have to die eventually."

  "Not Gothos," the priest says. "Never Gothos."

  "Why not?" I ask, taking a step back. "How can anything truly live if it won't die one day? Even my father, who could have lived for many more years, eventually chose to bring his life to an end. He knew his time had come. Why should Gothos be any different?"

  "He is the master of us all," the priest continues.

  "But why?" I ask, turning to him. "What's so special about this guy? Sure, he's ol
d, and I get that he was around in the early days, but if he just keeps living and living, maybe the vampire race will never have a chance to evolve and change."

  "There is no need for change," the priest replies, as a hint of uncertainty flickers across his face. "Gothos chose to use the bridge in order to maintain his existence. He knew that without his steadying hand, the vampire race would fall into chaos. Surely you must see that we're in need of a ruler, of someone to guide our destiny? Just as you have lived a chaotic life so far, Abigail, so too has the vampire race. The Book of Gothos has reached its final page, and now our great Lord must return to write a whole new book, one that guides us for generations to come. We cannot survive without him."

  "And will there be more war?" I ask.

  The priest opens his mouth to reply, but at the last moment he seems a little unsure of himself.

  "Maybe I'm wrong," I continue, "but it seems to me that all Gothos really achieved, in the end, was to lead the vampires into the most destructive war of all time. By bringing him back, aren't we just prolonging that war? Aren't we stirring the embers and bring back all the pain?"

  "Gothos is our master," the priest says eventually, as if he's finally remembered the lines that have been drummed into his head. "We cannot question him. He decided that he must survive, because -"