shadows and stones - an original fiction series of gothic, horror, dark fantasy

Eva’s journal, entry for the date December 22, 20--,

There is a head in my brother’s basement. I know because I was there when he removed it from its body and placed it in the velvet lined box where it now resides. To be truthful, there are actually quite a few heads in his basement. At least four that I am certain of, though if all the boxes which line the walls are full, there are many, many more. Only one of them concerns me right now: only one of them can I not get out of my mind.

It seems a lifetime since Iain entered this house and became my brother’s victim. For me, at least, it was another lifetime, because in those days I had another home to return to: I could pretend I had a chance at living a normal life. Not any more. No more lying to myself. When Mama was killed the life of Eva Lockwood ended as well. I left everything behind, coming to live with my half brother, Rath, in England.

Almost two months have passed since Mama’s funeral, since my move. Christmas is nearing and I find the thought of celebrating it without her tearing me apart inside. She loved the holiday season, laughing with me as we did the snow dance, hoping for a blanket of white on Christmas day. The smell of baking would spread throughout the house like fog rolling over the English hillsides. If I don’t find something other than these memories to dwell on, I think I’m going to lose what little is left of my mind.

Rath, along with the household staff, Ursula, Brigid, and even the disapproving Melanie, all try to help. They try to distract me with sight-seeing trips and talk of the future, but it isn’t enough. It only helps while I am with them: the moment they leave me alone, all their comfort leaves with them, like a toddler on a leash. It’s within my own mind that I must find distraction, must find a new focus for energies given over wholly to sorrow. And so, a few days before Christmas, I find myself thinking once more about the head in the basement.

I remember that Iain came here in search of another head, or at least that’s what he appeared to be looking for when I stupidly led him into the basement on a tour of the house. I suppose I could ask Rath what had been going on; he had offered to tell me. I don’t want his version, though, I want to know why Iain did it. Why he seemed so desperate, so frantic to obtain a head which has been in my brother’s possession for longer than Iain can have been alive.

Logically, I shouldn’t even bother thinking the questions; after all, Iain’s head was rather forcibly removed from his body. Anyone with sense knows that decapitation equals death. But two thoughts linger at the back of my mind, though part of me tries to suppress them: Iain was a vampire and thus already “undead”, and the head had spoken.

Not Iain’s head, his had remained silent, except for the eloquent expression of pain and horror frozen on it. No, the other head, the one he was searching for, is the one who spoke. Words issuing forth from lips which had no lungs to supply them with air and the hideous rasping of its tones, these things, rather than the violence of Rath’s actions against Iain, are what pushed me over the edge. Even though I fled this house, returning to the normalcy of Colorado, I couldn’t get the sight and sound of that moment out of my mind.

Now the memory is causing me to wonder, can Iain speak as well? I’ve done a lot of reading about vampires lately. In some stories they say a vampire is never really dead until its entire body is consumed by flames and the ashes dispersed. Iain’s body was certainly burned to dust, I witnessed the flames destroying it. His head, however, was only a little singed and rests safely in a velvet lined box. I assume the other vampire’s body was destroyed as well, so if it can speak, why not Iain?

There is, of course, only one way to find out.

My hand is shaking as I reach for the knob on the door to Rath’s private cellar. Over the past month I have had several opportunities to do this, but I’ve always chickened out before opening the door. I don’t really have the courage to go through with it this time either, do I?

“No one’s going to answer you, Eva.” I mumble to myself, and of course I am right. Rath is in London, on business, while Ursula and Melanie have gone home for the night. Only Brigid remains, but she won’t leave Hannah, our autistic sister, unless there is an emergency. I know this is the perfect chance, it will be weeks before Rath goes out of town again. I can’t bear the thought of him catching me in the act.

“You haven’t come this far to be a coward, Eva.” For some reason, talking out loud is more comforting, makes me feel less alone and braver. Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob.

Nothing happens, the door is locked.

Damn him! Rath must have known I would try and locked it to keep me out. The urge to break through the door almost overwhelms me. Calming myself, I look at the situation more logically. It probably isn’t me Rath is trying to keep out, rather, the housekeepers and staff who might inadvertently find his little collection of heads. To prevent my entry he would have had to do a much more thorough job of sealing the room. A gap wide enough for a good size mouse to pass through has been sending a draft of cool air up my leg since I first stood here.

“A mouse it is then.“

Taking a moment to concentrate, envisioning a small grey rodent, I then experience a moment of disorientation and gut wrenching which tells me I’m changing. Seconds later I’m climbing off of my left sandal and racing through the gap. Technically the sandal should have changed with me, but despite my success with other clothing I constantly leave my shoes behind.

Darkness is total on the other side. From my previous visit I can remember the stairs begin right away, so I pause to consider my strategy. Stairs will be safer to descend in a larger form, but darkness is hard on human eyes – even if I had brought a flashlight I couldn’t have passed it under the door. A cat should do perfectly. I love the sensation of slinking down the cold stone steps, my pads barely touching one surface before springing forward to the next. Flying as a bird is the ultimate experience, but for sheer sensuality of form and movement, a cat is best.

At the base of the stairs I pause, scenting the air carefully. Pollens, dust, the sharp urine-like smell of rats all assail me. Closer, more faintly, the unique, musky scent of Rath, then fainter still my own signature, and Iain’s. No one has been down here in a long time. No one living but we three.

Swiftly, I move to the room where Rath stores the heads. I know it’s irrational: my nose tells me there is no one here but myself, yet I have a creeping feeling on my spine which makes my fur stand on end. Somehow, the feeling tells me I’m not alone, another being is here with me. Perhaps it’s only guilt, though I’m not doing anything wrong: Rath never forbade me to return here.

In the head room there is a multitude of new scents. A patch of blackened stone exudes the redolence of fire and ashes, though it has been swept clean of all remains. I suppose Rath would not have wanted to leave vampire ashes lying about: he probably scattered them in the fields outside. As I pause in remembrance beside the stones, another scent tickles my nose. Just as I’m about to identify its source the scent vanishes, leaving me with a feeling of deja vu. Caught in the moment, I chase after the lost scent as though it were a fleeing rodent, finally catching a wisp of it along the edge of the sarcophagus in the room’s center. Still, I can’t quite tell where I have smelled it before.

A surprised squeak nearby and a tangy scent alert me to a rat. He was not expecting to find a cat in his territory, the smell of his fear replaces everything else. My ears swivel to locate him, my whiskers twitch and my feline body tenses, ready to chase its instincts and the rat. Then I spot him cowering in a corner. Abruptly I am myself again, leaning against the sarcophagus and gagging. The one thing I cannot stomach about taking animal shape is the thought of killing in that form. Once was enough: I never want to do it again. Besides, I am here for Iain.

Leaving my eyes as those of a feline so I can see in the dark, I return to the doorway. Last time I was in this room I was crouched here, so my memories are all from this perspective. Closing my eyes, I replay the events of that night. Rath, half-human half-feline, reaches onto the third shelf from the bottom and removes the fourth box from the end. That is where I should find Iain. Opening my eyes I go to the wall of shelves. Hopefully Rath put the container back in the same place. If not, well, I don’t think I have the courage to search through the dozens of boxes and view their grisly contents.

Despite the slight shaking of my hands, I take a firm grip on the box, carrying it carefully to the sarcophagus: it will make as good a table as any. As there is no visible latch on the box I search on its seams for quite some time before finding a small thread protruding on one side. I give it a cautious tug. Good thing I am not standing too closely, the top pops open like a jack-in-the-box, flapping backwards ‘til it hits the stone. Set loose, the four sides collapse like a Chinese puzzle box.

“SHIT!” Jumping back, I smack right into the full shelves. The boxes rattle horribly; fortunately, none of them fall. Slowly, I move forward, but not all the way to the sarcophagus. I had forgotten a rather important detail when I decided to come down here: Rath put both vampire heads in the same box.

Side-by-side, they rest on the plush velvet base. Though facing my direction, both mercifully have their eyes closed. Not even an eyelid flickers on either: maybe I was wrong, maybe they really are dead. Both heads have long brown hair, but one has more reddish, more luxuriant hair than the other. I remember that one, it is the head which spoke, the one Rath called Simon. The other must be Iain. How does one start a conversation with a head? Before I can wonder any longer, one of them starts it for me.

“Well, what are you? His bastard daughter? Another one of those delicious vermin?” It’s a sensual voice, thick, deep and oozing rich as melted butter. Chills run down my spine as I hear it again. Part of me had always hoped the memory was false, but I can’t deny it anymore. His eyes slip open, glaring amber flames at me in the darkness.

“Leave her be, you bloody arse. The girl has done nothing to you.” Iain opens his hazel eyes, looking at me with surprise. He tries to give me that goofy grin, but I can tell it is difficult. “Hello, lass, been a bit, hasn’t it?”

“Iain, I’m sorry.” It is all I can think of to say.

“Not your fault, lass, you didn’t do it. I shouldn’t have given that brother of yours a reason.” He gestures sideways with his eyes. “If I’d known what he was like, I wouldn’t have bothered. He’s not worth the price I’ve paid.”

“I would have made your existence, had you saved me. I will see you destroyed for having failed.”

“Maybe if that sorry bitch had told me the truth, I’d not have gotten into this mess!”

“Stop it!” I don’t care to listen to them fight, and I don’t want to hear the voice of Simon anymore. “Iain, I need to talk with you.”

“Whatever you want, lass.”

“Go to hell, bitch.”

No more. Without thinking of what I am touching, I gently lift Iain’s head from the velvet pedestal, carrying him away into the darkness. The cellar is extensive, and soon I find a room sufficiently distant so we can talk in peace, although bits of laughter seem to echo occasionally from where we came. There is no table here, nor any surface to set Iain on while we talk. I can’t bring myself to set him on the dusty floor.

Sitting down, I place him in my lap, freeing my hands. I pull off my sweater and lay it on the gritty floor. Since I’m wearing a bra, I’m not worried about what Iain may see. Besides, what can someone who is only a head do to me? Carefully I set his head on the sweater, propping him so he can see me clearly. I feel like giggling when I notice Iain has closed his eyes.

“You don’t have to worry, I’m decent enough.” I reassure him.

He laughs a little too. “I wasn’t sure if you knew, lass, vampires can see in the dark.” Of course, he must not realize that I am not blind in this pitch black.

“So can shapeshifters: I don’t mind.”

For a few minutes we are both silent. I realize I am not certain why I am here, what I thought I would learn. Now that I know Iain can talk, what difference does it make? I should have thought out the possibilities further before taking this step. Meanwhile, Iain waits patiently for me, forcing me to start talking.

“Why did you come here for Simon’s head?” I ask finally.

Iain sighs. “Oh, lass, I thought I had to. I gather, from what your brother says, the bitch who made me does it often to many. She picks a fool like me, and tells him he’ll not be a real man again unless he brings her the head of her lover, who sits in this house.

“She didn’t tell me your brother wasn’t human. She didn’t tell me there was no way to go back to being human, after a man is a vampire.”

So much sadness in his voice, so much hatred. This woman vampire tricked him, used him, yet never prepared him to succeed at his task. Why do something so cruel? What good could come from it? And so many deaths.

“Iain, when you told me your story, you said she had taken one of your friends. She put him before you as a victim and gave you the choice of killing him, or letting him become a vampire. What did you do?” I believe I know the answer, but I want him to tell me.

“What do you think, lass? He was like my own brother. I could no more leave him become like this than you would let a dog lie dying after an auto hits it.” His voice is raspy: I think if Iain could, he would cry. “God help me I drained him dry as a bone, and left his body lyin’ on the street side for the bobbies to find.

“She told me if I came with her, and brought them the head, they’d turn me back to a human again.” Despair fills his eyes, which turn up to me. “I had to believe her. What else could I do?”

I have no answer for him: I can’t say what I would have done had I been in his place. Perhaps he can’t cry, either because he is a vampire, or because he has no body to bring him tears, but I can. Tears slide down to my chin, where they drip to the dust on the floor.

“And so you’ve lost everything.”

“I suppose. Even if I had a body, I couldn’t go home. Would be my mother’s death, to see what I’ve become.”

“Are you sure then, that the woman vampire was lying?”

“Simon called it a lie. And me worse. He told me I deserved to be the way I am, since I was such a gullible fool. I could hardly ask your brother if he knew different. I don’t think he’d tell.”

Probably not. I can’t see Rath helping a vampire, he hates them so much.

“Don’t cry for me, lass. No doubt the good Lord meant this for me, though I can’t think why.”

I can’t stop my crying though. Silently, I let the tears fall without attempting to blot them away. They aren’t just for Iain, but for myself as well. Both of us have lost everything we ever knew. Both of us have been thrust into a world we don’t really understand. We are both living nightmares. Iain looks so confused, so concerned, I force myself to stop, to explain.

Slowly I tell him of how I came here an innocent, how Rath pushed me into fear so that my hidden powers would finally surface: how I lost all that remained of my family, and my home. I tell him how, in spite of knowing that Rath cares for me, as do all the others here, I somehow feel completely alone. It’s good to finally unburden myself to someone who will understand.

“Well lass, I won’t be going anywhere soon. You can always come to me and talk. It’s nice to get away from my roommate there.” Somehow Iain still manages to laugh.

“Thanks, Iain. I think I will.” Sighing, I raise myself from the ground. “Time to go back now. We’ve been here for hours. For all I know the sun has risen already: Rath will be home soon.” Carefully I lift him, still cradled in the sweater.

“Might be, lass. I feel a wee sleepy, and we vampires can always tell.” As we near the head room he asks, “I don’t suppose lass you could put me in my own box? That other one is a cruel neighbor.”

“I would if I could, Iain, but I don’t know which boxes are empty, and Rath would be bound to notice. I gather he visits with Simon often.”

“Aye, they hate each other for certain. Your brother always pushes him to cursing and loves to torment him.”

“I wonder why?“

“I don’t know. Simon won’t tell me, and I’ll not ask your brother.”

Arriving by the sarcophagus we fall silent. No need though. Simon appears to be sleeping. Gently, I set Iain down on the velvet and, after a few false tries, I manage to close the box again. Careful not to shake the contents, I set it back on the shelf. Wearily, I climb the stairs and shift back into a mouse at the top to leave the dark cellar. Only after I reach my room and curl up by the fire do I realize I left my sweater on the sarcophagus and my sandals by the door.

Oh well, I couldn’t have hidden what I did from Rath anyway, having left my scent all over the place. Why even pretend? If it angers him, he can shout at me later.

Eva’s journal, entry for the date December 25, 20--

Rath doesn’t try to make a big Christmas for me, I think he knows I am hurting too much to appreciate one. Still, there is a small tree, beautifully decorated with the ornaments I brought with me from home. Ursula must have brought them out of the attic to surprise me. Here in this foreign setting, the touch of familiarity doesn’t hurt nearly so much as it would have had I been at home in Denver.

I’m more surprised at the gifts Rath has placed for me beneath the tree – two new computers: a state of the art PC system with everything you could dream of owning, and a high power laptop, each sporting a large red bow.

When I argue with him that it’s too much, he tells me I can only blame myself, since he had asked what I wanted and I never replied. That’s because even Rath can’t bring me my mother back, and he is well aware it would have been all I wanted. I have no gift for him. What does one give a man who can buy anything he really wants? He waves away my apologies, reminding me that he is, after all, supposed to be a pagan. As such, Christmas is hardly a holiday for him to celebrate.

Just before we are to have our dinner, a banquet fit for royalty which we will share with all of the staff and their families, I decide to ask Rath for one more gift: a key to the cellar.

I expect an argument, questioning, maybe a fight. Instead, he pauses for a moment, an inscrutable look in his eyes. Then he pulls from his pocket a group of keys from which he withdraws one. Without a word he places it in my hand.

Taking the one wrapped package I had placed beneath the tree, I go to the cellar door, unlocking it. I remember to bring a flashlight, clicking it on as I begin my descent. When I reach the head room I place the gift beside my nicely folded sweater on the sarcophagus. Carefully I remove a box from the third shelf up, fourth over.

Popping it open I see two sleeping heads; it is, after all, morning. As gently as possible I lift Iain out, setting him on my sweater once more. Then I seal up the old box placing it carelessly back on the shelf. Let Simon, the vampire, wonder where his roommate has gone to. When I turn back, Iain is awake.

Smiling, I proceed to open his present, a beautiful box which Ursula’s husband made for me. Inside, it is lined with velvet again, but a soft cream color, not the violent red of the other. Iain smiles as I set him inside, wishing him a Merry Christmas as I close the lid for his daytime nap. Then I leave his box next to my sweater, resting on the sarcophagus.

When I exit the cellar Rath is there: I challenge him with my eyes, daring him to chastise me. Instead, he just nods, looking a little sad as he walks away. Maybe he realizes that Iain is a gift he could not give me: a friend who understands.

�

episode i: journey into darkness - episode ii: tea party - episode iii: awakening
episode iv: the book of grief - episode v: paterfamilias - episode vi: breaking points
episode vii: the dark of the mind - episode viii: decisions
episode ix: momentary distractions - episode x: exorcising demons i
episode xi: porcelain visions - episode xii: the nature of jackals
episode xiii: exorcising demons ii - episode xiv: the invitation
episode xv: body & soul - episode xvi: mothering sunday
episode xvii: imbalance of power - episode xviii: interlude
episode xix: between life and death

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