Tag Archives: vampire

Fantasy, General Fiction, Horror & Dark Fiction

Undying Love

“Michael, can I have my pen back?” the lady politely asked, her hand outstretched. Her pointed, polished nails blood-red against her pale skin.

The room paused. The air-con was cool in here and, if you really listened, you could hear it breathing through the hidden ceiling fans like some ethereal vent from another, cooler dimension. A darker, less human dimension. Outside a car hooted and inside there was crypt-like silence.

“Sure, sure,” Michael said, sighing, “I think we are done here. Anything else I need to sign?”

The lady’s lips lifted upwards and she flashed her teeth in the poor semblance of a smile. It was more like what the prey of a vampire might see in the last moments of its life. The air-con quietly breathed more chill into the crypt-like chamber and he held his breath, knowing full well what was coming next.

“No, Michael. Nothing else. The divorce is now full and final. Congratulations.”

***

“Buddy, I think you’ve had enough,” the gruff, grizzled barman grunted at him and waved him away.

Michael shook his head. The bar’s eerie light was spinning as he tried to place himself again. It was under a bridge and damp here. Or humid? A fan was whirling above like some torture device while the sulfur from the filthy toilets lingered in his nostrils.

All he wanted was the whiskey on the back shelf but there was a troll between him and it.

He flashed another note and the barman shrugged, grabbed the bottle and poured him another drink. His stubby, grubby fingers clinging to the bottle like it was too small and otherworldly for him to understand. The sulfur in the air was overwhelming, perhaps it was coming from the troll?

“Sure, OK, buddy, but this is your last one and then I’m gonna call you a cab and you’re gonna go home to your wife.”

Michael snorted at this and then giggled at snorting.

He had forgotten to take off the ring. Her ring. In all of this nightmare, he had not looked down at his hands and taken off the damn ring.

He pulled it off, clattering against his bony finger, and offered it to the barman who shook his head. He turned away and stomped to the other side of the bar where a couple witches were cackling and loudly drinking.

“Of course,” he mumbled to himself, “Trolls don’t like silver. No silver. Not gooooo–”

And that was the last thing he remembered that night under the bridge in the troll’s dingy bar.

***

“…must’ve snuck in last night with his old keys…trying to make a statement? Or was it anger? Probably both. All I know, is…” the voice drifted in and out of Michael’s consciousness, “…you know how it was when you were young too?”

The speaker paused and Michael turned to the voice. Light immediately flooded into his skull and the world rushed in!

He sat up promptly and groaned.

“Hey, Michael, you up? About time,” said the speaker behind him and he turned to see Death; an overbearing skull towering in endless black robes and surveying his room. His mom was lurking in the back, shaking her head as mom’s do when their children are in distress.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” he mumbled, trying to rise.

Death laughed like a thousand graves moaning, “Yes, my boy, you are dead. Have you learned your lesson?”

Michael sighed and nodded his head.

Death sat down on his bed, his bones creaking like a thousand crypt door at midnight, “We are not like everyone else. They don’t always accept us amidst them. If it helps, I can tell you when she dies?”

“Dear, don’t do that! That won’t solve anything,” Michael’s mom and Death’s wife piped up, her Valkyrie accent strong as ever, “Just let the boy be. At least, he can’t feel the hangover. Probably drank the mortals out of alcohol.”

And it was true. Michael felt fine. A normal mortal would have been dead but, then again, Michael already was.

“It was all just so-so-so…” he struggled to find the word, “Disappointing. It was just disappointing, Dad.”

Death smiled but, then again, skulls only ever do that. Michael smiled back, his skulls taking after his father’s. They looked sadly at each other, unchanging immortals in an ever-changing world.

“There will be other mortals, other times and other chances at love,” Death said, patting his son’s leg, which sounded like a thousand skeletons dancing, “I waited a long time to find your mother but I did find her and we are very, very happy now. And, look, your mother gave me you, so you see, things do have a way of working out.”

Michael nodded and rose from his bed, or, at least, tried to. He topoled onto the floor quite confused. The bottom of his leg was simply not there!

“Don’t worry, my love,” his mother cooed, retrieving his fibula from where it lay atop a smashed, torn up framed-picture of his ex-wife, her glowing, life-filled lips contrasting to his bleached, white skull, “Let your Dad help you pop the leg back on and then come down for breakfast.”

Michael nodded and sighed, “Thanks, Dad. Mom. I really love both of you. You don’t mind if I crash here for a while? She also got the house…”

Death’s skull grinned, sadly, and he patted his boy. Eternity was plenty of time to learn the pain of loss. He knew that all too well. But, eternity was a long time, and his boy would get over it.

Fantasy, Horror & Dark Fiction

Miggi Island

The people of the island had simple lives. It was quiet and far away from civilisation. They were too remote even for the most adventurous trader, particularly since they had nothing to trade. War was foreign and the only politics were around the Raincoming Day when the men would bargain with the fathers of the potential brides for their sons.

Fish, though, were important. So were the fruit trees with their sweet harvest. And, finally, so was the Miggi Min. They all sustained the people of the island.

After the Raincoming Day, the storms would roll in. The Miggi Min always reminded them, her voice silvery as it travelled across the darkness. The waves would roar as they smashed on the white beach and the rain would pound down on the rickety huts. The Miggi Min would always hold the island together. And then the storms would pass, the waves calm down and the people would come out into the warm sun.

There had to be a sacrifice to thank the Miggi Min. She only accepted blood, but they were safe and they would gladly give it to her. Sometimes the Miggi Min visited them while they slept. No one died, but those that were visited were always weaker the next day. But, she kept them safe, and they fed her hunger.

Everything on the island worked together. The people were happy, as the people that had come before them and the people that had come before those had been too. This was how the island worked. It was the Miggi Min’s island.

One day, a few days after the Raincoming Day and its storms, a pale stranger washed up on their shores. The men were out fishing, but the women found him near death on the beach. His clothing was strange and tattered, like his hair. When the men came back and he woke up a little in the shade of the witchdoctor’s hut, his words were just a collection of strange sounds.

The men shrugged their shoulders and cut him some smoked fish and poured him some fiery fruit water. The women bathed him and he slept and slept.

Days passed, the men went fishing, the woman gathered fruit and the children played. The waves on that crystal blue ocean calmly lapped the white beach and life on the island went on.

The men came back from fishing late one afternoon. The sun was beginning to set and cast its red eye over the island. The strange man was awake. He was sitting out by the fire that the women had lit and he was talking his strange, round echoey words. The women were politely talking back, and the children were laughing and touching his pale skin and playing with his long, fine hair.

The men chuckled to themselves, gave the women the fish they had caught and poured fiery fruit water all around. They sat late that night trying to talk to the strange man while he tried to talk to them. The same thing happened each night thereafter. Each time, a little more communication happened. Slowly the strange man learnt some of the island’s language and, with a funny accent, began to communicate in broken sentences.

His name was “Barret” and he came from a place called “Europe”, but sometimes he called his island “France”. Maybe it had two names. His boat had shipwrecked somewhere in the storm and he had no idea how he had washed up on their island’s shore.

The men liked him and, when Barret asked if he could help them fish, they liked him even more. He quickly learnt how to fish. He told them that he would sometimes fish back home. He worked hard. The men all nodded in agreement.

When they got back to the village that afternoon, the youngest man carried all the fish to the women to cook while the oldest man went and poured some fiery fruit water for himself and Barret. That night they ate and drank their full. They laughed at the strange stories Barret told about his home. He spoke about things called ‘kings’ that everyone had to scrape and bow to. The ‘kings’ would rule the land and look after their people, much like the Miggi Min for this island. A man mentioned this, but Barret looked confused. The men chuckled. Barret would know the Miggi Min soon enough.

And so days, weeks and months passed, but, true to the cycle, the Raincoming Day eventually arrived upon the island. The blue sky and crystal ocean both turned steely grey, and dark clouds began to roll in. The waves grew larger and louder as they began to smash against the beach. The men did not go out to fish and the women did not go out to pick fruit because their sons needed wives for fruit and their daughters needed husbands for fish.

Barret watched all of this fascinated. He occasionally asked questions, and the men or women would politely explain what was going on. He would nod and smile. He seemed to understand until on of the men told him about the Miggi Min. Barret’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head. The man that told him chuckled, slapped his back and told him that he would find out soon enough, but Barret seemed very disturbed.

The heavens began to open up with soft, large raindrops falling. The fiery fruit water poured thick and strong, flowing fast as the drumbeats, distant thunder and flashes of lighting all mixed up together. Barret was jumping around to the beat, the women and children laughing. The men kept on pouring him more and more fiery fruit water. He was laughing hysterically and trying to dance like the other men and the women who moved with a primal grace around the flickering fire in the stormy night. The old ones took shelter in the doorways in huts and the newly coupled husbands and wives were sneaking embarrassed, lustful glances at each other. And the drums beat, the men and Barret howled at the night, the women swirled seductively, the fiery fruit water flowed and the primal energy of the celebration rolled on and on…

This went late into the night. Long after the pale face of the moon had peaked, the island was still full of sound, light and laughter. The men kept topping up Barret’s drink and eventually he could barely stand and they could barely understand the slurring words coming out of his mouth.

And then he collapsed, fast asleep.

The drums stopped playing and the whole Raincoming Day celebration fell silent. As with every Raincoming Day, to keep the fish plentiful, the fruit sweet, the babies strong and the island safe, the Miggi Min must be kept happy too.

In silence, the men stripped Barret naked. They then strapped his snoring, passed out form onto a stretcher slashed together of palm leaves, branches and vines. The women were softly beating their drums and humming a haunting, wordless melody. Then the whole procession began slowly walking towards the island’s Western shore where a dark, deep cave was hidden. And, right at the back of that dark, deep cave there was a pair of cold eyes and a pair of pure white fangs with an immortal appetite that needed to be fed.

The Miggi Min only accepted blood, but she kept the island and the people safe and they would gladly give it to her.

Fantasy, Horror & Dark Fiction

The Mysterious Death of Hope

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woman-dragging-cross

The old man who lived in the woods outside of the village had said that she was born with a curious fate. Her mother had said that is must be something good, and so she had called her “Hope”. The village folk had celebrated her birth briefly before returning to the fields because the harvest waited for neither king nor peasant.

As a young girl growing up, she had been fascinated with the simple folk surrounding her. Something about her had felt different. Something in her had felt apart–more unique–that the simple villagers around her going methodically about their daily lives. They would wake up early and work hard before coming home, eat and drink and then fall fast asleep.

Then they would do it all again.

In the winter, they would huddle together in the small Town Hall, drinking around the great fireplace there and telling tales both tall and true. After the winter food had run out in the spring with empty bellies, they would plow the land till it was raw and cast seed into the wind with prayers of food. In the summer, they would wade back into these now lush fields with sickles and scythes to harvest what they had sown. And, in the autumn, they would eat and drink, pretend the cold winter was not coming and forget about the great labour that would shortly be coming.

And then they would do it all again.

One cold winter’s night, a stranger walked into these mundane seasons of village life.

He appeared on the step of the Town Hall late one icy night. The cold air blasted in from the door and the fire flickered wildly before someone invited him in out of the cold. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. Knocking snow off his black, leather boots he cast his gaze around the dimly lit interior with no tangible expression upon his face.

Hope felt his gaze linger on her, but before she could smile or react the villagers had flocked around the man. Here was something more interesting that tales of earth and grumblings of taxes and age. Here was something more interesting than their neighbors and what happens in the nearby woods.

When the strange man began to speak, Hope crept nearer to listen. She was ashamed to admit that she as was intrigued as her fellow villager. She hated to admit any similarity between her and the simple folk.

Now that she was nearer, she saw how pale and thin–almost gaunt–the stranger looked. He had black, straight hair that cut his near snow-white features as his dark, brooding eyes flickered up to hers for a second.

She was now a young woman, so she could stay in the Town Hall as long as she wanted, but the elders got to speak. And speak the elders did, throwing questions after questions at the stranger. They asked about news of the other villages and how the king was doing. Would he raise their taxes next harvest? They asked how the neighboring lands were doing. How was their harvest? They asked about the rest of the world. They asked and the stranger told them.

Hope began to realize how big the world was and how small their village was. She began to realize that she had seen enough of simple folk. She wanted to see all the fancy folk that this stranger spoke of. She wanted to see the lands that reach out further than the eye can see. She wanted to see the ocean that stretches out further than the mind can fathom. She wanted to see the great river in the East and the rugged, snow-capped mountains in the West. She wanted to dance with the royals, sip from the crystal glasses of the court and whisper intrigue to the king. She wanted to see the foreign kingdoms, dance in the starlit lakes of yonder and walk the bustling streets of the great cities…

Suddenly she realized that everything was quiet. The stranger was standing before her. The elders and the simple folk in the hall were all just sitting and blankly staring at where the stranger used to be sitting. But he was standing in front of her now, holding her head in his cold hands.

“Do you really want to see the world?” he asked looking down at her with an expressionless face, “Do you really want to see everything there is to see?”

Why was everyone just sitting there staring? Why was the hall so quiet? Why did she feel terrified? Why were his hands so cold?

Hope’s mind was screaming. Her fear was rising like a pit in her stomach, but all that came out was a soft whimper and her head nodded slightly.

The stranger smiled. It was not a happy smile nor a cruel one. It was more mechanically with all the right muscular movements, but no real emotion behind it. And it revealed the fangs in his mouth. Hope wondered if they had always been there or just suddenly appeared?

“This pain will release you from your mortal coil, but deliver the world to you,” the stranger whispered as he leaned down to gently bite Hope’s now exposed neck. The sharp pain made her cry out, but another part of her registered that he smelt of roses and ash.

And then Hope grew tired. The cold began to spread across her now-heavy limbs. Her eyes closed and her head slumped forward into the stranger’s arms.

He would carry her from that village. She would awaken six days later in a great, hidden castle many leagues from her old village. She would begin to live a great tale of her own, sometimes wonderful and sometimes dark. Sometimes with kings and courts in it, but sometimes with midnights and winters too. She would swim in the midnight lakes of twilight and dine on the snow-capped mountains while wolves howled in the distance.

She would do all of these things and more, but far away in her old village, two small droplets of blood in the town hall were the only signs that she had ever been there. Her mother would cry herself to sleep, but soon enough the tears ran out. And then the years passed and so did her mother. Her father had already passed with many harvests ago. The elders that were there that night would also soon be buried in the woods with the rest. All of them would be replaced by some of the younger generation, now old with their children’s children around them. Children were being born and the harvest sowed and reaped, as summer would turn to autumn and the cold winter would give way to crisp spring.

And then they would all do it again.

And, after many lifetimes of harvests had passed, no one would remember the girl or the stranger. The village would grow while new generations filled the old cobbled streets that all led back to the old Town Hall. The only fragment of the mysterious death of Hope echoing through the folk songs would be the two dark stains in the old Town Hall where her blood dripped on that cold, winters night.

Dark in the winter when the drinks had flowed and the fire was low, the elders of that generation would point at those two blood stains and talk of the mysterious death of hope. They would talk of how the harvest had died and the cold winter had come early and left late. They would whisper of the devil and the demons that knock at doors late at night. And so the tale would grow, from generation to generation.

Until late one winter’s night a strange, beautiful lady appeared at door of the Town Hall. The cold air blasted in from the door and the fire flickered wildly before someone invited her in out of the cold. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. Knocking snow off her black, leather boots she cast her gaze around the dimly lit interior with no tangible expression upon her strikingly beautiful face.

One of the villagers piped up, asking about the king and the other villages. How had the harvest been in the southern part of the kingdom? The mysterious lady walked to a chair, pausing briefly as she passed the two, faded blood stains on the floor. Was there snow on the mountains yet? She sat down. And then she spoke, her voice strangely familiar to all who listened.

“Why don’t you all tell me about the harvest? Tell me about waking up early and toiling in the earth under the warm Sun? Tell me about a long, honest day’s work and a quiet night’s sleep surrounded by your loved ones? Tell me about your beautiful lives?” The strange lady smiled. It was not a happy smile nor a cruel one. It was more mechanically with all the right muscular movements, but no real emotion behind it. The smile revealed the two, small fangs in her mouth, but no one noticed as all the folks began talking at once about their simple lives in the small village nearby the dark woods.