Fiction Demo: Bloodmoon

As I return from the depths of a tormented dream, I find myself in a strange place. It looks like a bedroom of an old Victorian mansion, but weathered out, abandoned, dark, and covered in cobwebs and dust. The only light that helps me delineate my surroundings comes from the broken windows. The sharp silvery moonlight, accompanied by a cold, nocturnal breeze, makes me feel unease and confused, wondering if I am still dreaming.

At last, I raise my head and realize that I am laying on an old iron bed. Below me is an ancient, ragged mattress, its filling long decayed.

I stand up and walk away from it, afraid that it may contain bedbugs or some other pest. I find myself in the middle of the room, touching with my bare feet a dusty, coarse old rug. Looking upwards, I notice that the ceiling, made of wooden planks, is cracked and rotten, and some white rays of moonlight pierce through them.

“What is happening…?” I mumble, confused.

The memory of last night is faint. I was in a pub after work, drinking. Things become uncertain after that. I remember a song, sang by a delicate female voice, that filled the pub and muffled even the crowded cacophony of bar noises: conversations, clacking billiard balls, clinking glasses, boastful laughter.

The voice was enchanting and hypnotizing. I remember that, for most of the night, I was thinking that the song was coming from a jukebox, or from loudspeakers in the pub. It was only later when I talked to my friend about the song, about how pretty it was, that she asked, confused: “What song?”

“The one playing in the loudspeaker, of course.” I say.

She shrugged.

There was no sound—at least, nothing that she could hear.

I did not give much importance for that strangeness at the time, because I was already inebriated, and the ordinary indifference of the drunk had already affected me. I remember thinking that my friend must have been worse than me, too distracted to notice the song.

As the night advanced, the song became louder and denser. I was engulfed by it, embraced by its words and melody like they were a blanket of silk. I felt comfort and peace, which became especially noticeable as I kept drinking.

Then, I must have fallen asleep at some point, somewhere. I had a dream with two eyes in the darkness, blazing like fire, staring at me. Female eyes, they were expressive, saying a mixture of anger, hunger, guilt, and pity.

Now, I am here. I walk towards the window, careful with the shards of glass on the floor, and look outside. I am three stores up in what looks like an old mansion. The moonlight reveals a weathered, overgrown courtyard outside, painted by long, sinister shadows, and by surface reflections of a recent rain.

My mind swirls in confused thoughts. Did someone roofie me? I wonder. I wait for the emotions that should follow inside my chest after considering this possibility—fear, anger, rage, insecurity… Nothing comes. My heart is cold and still. My breathing is slow, and my muscles relaxed. Am I still under effect of whatever drug they gave me? I think.

In an instant, I touch my own wrist, trying to estimate my heart beat. I search for my radial artery, search, and search, but I cannot find it. Frustrated, I search for my brachial artery on the inner-side of my elbow. Nothing.

I fear that my heart beat is too slow, so I check my carotid, but, after lengthy search, I cannot find it.

Again, I should be afraid. But, no feel swirls in my chest. My heart is still slow. Maybe too slow. I touch with the palm of my hand on my chest, searching, but I cannot feel it.

That is when I realize that I am no longer dressed as I was before, with simple black shirt and jeans. My body is covered by what looks like a black Victorian gown, only old and torn. A black bodice tightens up around my chest, and my shoulders are wrapped around baggy Bishop sleeves.

The confusion should have sparked a terrible feeling now: I should be afraid, with my heart pounding painfully inside my chest cavity, suffocating my breath from within. But, I feel nothing. In the absence of emotion, my mind takes charge, and reason studies my situation with a cold, almost indifferent inner monolog:

“Some freak must have roofied me, and dressed me in period pieces. I may be in the hideout of a psychopath, for all I know.”

Without fear to either paralyze me, or to prompt me to run, I look around and think:

“If he comes back, I need something to defend myself.”

I search across the room. Hidden in the shadows, I see an old wardrobe, a cupboard, a crumbling fireplace, and a bronze basin covered by a thick layer of dust. Looking closer at the fireplace, I find old, rusty irons used to tend to the fire. As I search through them, I find a sharp, pointy fire poker.

“This is it.” I whisper, glancing at the tip.

Now, I look at the heavy wooden door with iron hinges and a broad bronze lock. My heart remains calm, and my breath slow. Without the hindrance of fear to cloud my mind, I tighten my grasp on the poking iron and make myself ready to fight.

Never before have I felt so free. In any other situation, fear would have already claimed my common sense and destroyed any clarity of my mind. The painful pounding of my heart inside my chest would be unbearable. Now, whatever drug this abuser gave me is keeping me free from feeling anxiety. This freedom will be his undoing. With such clarity of mind, I will not hesitate to take his life and save my own.

I stand there for a while, waiting. Nothing happens. I then step towards the door and test if it is unlocked. The door moves slowly, squeaking loudly. A ruined corridor extends in front of me, showing moldy, weathered walls, crumbling wooden floor, and decayed furniture scattered chaotically among piles of dust and cobwebs. The only light comes from the gaps of the ceiling.

“Hello?” I ask.

My voice reflects on the walls and comes back to me, creepy and distorted. Far away I hear the delicate plop of water dropping on the floor.

With the poking iron in front of me like a sword, I walk the corridor with care. Ruined doors along the way reveal other rooms as abandoned and destroyed as my own.

“Hello?” I ask again.

Silence.

The corridor leads me to an ample staircase that descends in a spiral and reaches an old circular hall below. The hall, like the rest of the house, is dark, abandoned, and ruined. Thick pounds of rain water accumulate on the floor between rotten wooden planks and dark, bug-eaten carpets. Not a soul can be found.

Did they go away? I ask myself.

I lower the poking iron and relax even more. I can sense no enemy in sight.

Then, I hear a human voice. Someone—male, by the sound of it—gasps in the distance, his voice reverberating from the lower floor and into the surrounding walls.

My heart does not race as I hear it, and I feel nothing: no fear, no anger, and no desire to either run away, hide, or even fight. Yet, my reason leads me to raise the poking iron and grasp it tightly.

I descend the staircase and search for the origin of the sound. My mind races through cold, verbal thoughts. “Someone roofied me.” I think. “Whoever that was, I must kill them. I cannot let them live and hurt someone else. I must also reclaim my honor and get my revenge. It is only logical.”

Once again, a gasp, and a cough far away. It comes from a narrow, sideways corridor to the East side of the hall. I follow in that direction carefully, feeling the cold water and rough wood of the floor under my feet. The cold and the water do not bother me, even when the water becomes entangled between my toes.

I traverse an old room that was once a library, but is now ruined, with bookshelves on top of each other, and masses of rotten matter that once were books. The noise comes again, this time louder.

I come to what was once a pantry. I keep going, cross into an old kitchen, and then I hear the noise clearly: it is coming from underneath the floor. Next to a rotten cabinet, I find a trap door with a chain around the bronze handle.

“Caught you now, you bastard.” I whisper, as I open the trapdoor.

A dark basement is revealed to me, with a narrow staircase going down. Strangely, I can see it clearly, even though the light of the moon could not possibly penetrate such a place. Still, my mind, unaffected by emotion, thinks that the light may be simply coming from a crack or an opening somewhere.

I slowly descend the stairs, until I find myself in a damp, dark basement. Piles of crates and barrels form creepy silhouettes all around me, and open a narrow corridor between them.

The gasping continues, and I hear it clearly. My aggressor is there, in a corner, behind one of the crates.

I sneak between the barrels, hold the poking iron forward, and, finally, I emerge from the darkness like a monster and pull back the iron, ready to pierce whoever is there…

What I find makes me stop. There is a man on the floor. He is ragged and dirty, with dark, entangled hair, pale skin, and big, confused, terrified eyes. His hands and feet are wrapped around in thick iron chains. His neck, and the collar of his dirty shirt, are stained by dried blood. Upon seeing me, he squeaks and curls like an animal, and covers his face, trembling.

“Please, don’t hurt me anymore! Please!”

I lower my weapon and relax my posture. This is not my aggressor. He can’t be. Is he another victim? I wonder. My reasoning tries to find logic in what I am seeing. Why did my aggressor dress me in this dress, and left this other victim in the basement?

My mind is confused with all these thoughts.

“Who are you?” I ask, coldly.

He curls even more.

“Please, you’ve taken enough of my blood. Don’t hurt me anymore!”

“What are you talking about?”

I notice that he raises his eyes and glances at me, uncertain of what he is looking. He is squinting, but cannot find my eyes. He cannot see in the darkness, even though I can see him clearly.

“You are the woman… The woman from the pub. A— Aren’t you?”

I shake my head, confused.

Duty dictates that I free him, even though I feel nothing towards that crumbling creature: nor pity, nor empathy, nothing. The drug has kept my chest as cold and still as that of a corpse, and I can sense no clues from my body of what I am feeling.

“Let me remove these chains from you.” I say.

The man stays still, but trembling, while I kneel next to him and unwrap the chains from his limbs. I notice that the chains are not held by a padlock, but are, instead, tied up in a knot, as if they are thick ropes—something that could only be done by someone with great strength.

At first, I think that I may have difficulty unwrapping him, since the chains are so tight and rusty. But, I manage to release him with ease.

Still shaking, he looks at me again, but sees nothing.

“Please, I— I won’t tell anything to anyone.” He says. “Let me live, please. I won’t tell what I saw.”

“What did you see?” I ask.

“N— Nothing. I saw nothing. I swear.”

Frustrated, I stand up and step away from him, so he can feel a little safer.

“Tell me what you saw.”

Confused, he struggles to stand up. He is still shaking and curling when he looks at me.

“You…” He says. “You took me after the pub, and brought me here.”

“You are mistaken.” I say. “I was brought here too.”

“Y—Yes…” He mumbles. “You were brought by her… But, then, she turned you. And, she commanded you to bring me. You both have been feeding on my blood ever since. But, please… Let me go. I swear I won’t say anything, ever…”

Still confused, and, this time, a little annoyed, I simply step aside and point towards the stairs of the basement:

“Leave.” I say.

Hesitantly, he walks away from his corner, careful with me. He is confused, and staring at me with great terror. I cross my arms and wait until he fully emerges into the darkness of the basement, climbs the crumbling stair, and disappears through the trapdoor above.

“Strange…” I mumble.

As I think about what could all that mean, I leave the basement and return to the kitchen above. No one is there anymore. The man is long gone.

I observe my surroundings more clearly this time, and notice that the sink is terribly stained by a dark, dry goo. Still with my arms crossed, I lean forward and sniff at it. It smells like fresh blood. My mouth salivates instinctively, and I feel my stomach growl.

“Blood…?” I whisper.

Blood, indeed. Everywhere I look, I find things stained by it: bone saws, knives, cups, plates, bowls, old brass syringes, an ax… Some seem to have been used recently, while others are dried and long forgotten.

Then, I hear that voice again. It is the voice of the woman who was singing at the pub. It is coming from the hall of the mansion, and it sounds as beautiful and silky as before.

“Could it be?” I mumbled. “Was I roofied by a woman?”

My mind enters a brief internal dialog.

“Why not?” I ask myself. “Women are also capable of evil. Maybe, she is lunatic. I should probably do something about it…”

I grasp the poking iron tightly and raise its tip, and make myself ready to kill the woman who harmed both me and that poor creature down the basement. For some reason, that man thought that I did that to him… Why?

As I think, I sneak through the corridor towards the great hall. The song becomes more vivid and clear, like the song of a mermaid. At last, I find a delicate female creature dancing and singing at the center of the hall. The moonlight that comes through the open door, and through the broken windows, illuminates her like a spotlight on a theater stage.

The woman is dressed in a Victorian red dress, and is, like me, barefoot. Her long silver hair is falling around her shoulders in long cascades, throwing flares as it reflects the moonlight.

I attempt to sneak from behind, but, when I am a third of the way towards her, she looks at me, smiling:

“Hey, you’re up early!” She says.

Her spoken voice is as sweet as her singing.

“What did you do to me?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You roofied me. You brought me to this place. You trapped that guy on the basement. I want answers.”

She seems confused and clueless. Her sharp, fiery eyes glance quickly at the poking iron that I am holding.

“You don’t remember?” She says. “Of course… You must be starting to forget… It is about time…”

“Forget what?” I ask, annoyed.

“Who you are, silly!” She chuckles. “Do you remember your name?”

I open my mouth to speak up my name, but a great fog covers my mind. I feel mental angst, as I am unable to remember it.

“Do you remember your parents names?” She asks, amused.

Angry, I open my mouth again, but nothing comes out. I realize that not only their names, but their faces are shrouded by darkness inside my mind. I cannot even remember their voices.

“What did you do to me?” I ask.

“I set you free!” She says, opening her arms.

She steps towards me delicately, glancing deep into my eyes. Her beauty keeps me hypnotized for a while. I notice her pale features, her bright red eyes, and her thick lips painted in a sanguine lipstick. As she gets closer to me, I sense the smell of blood in it.

“You begged me to turn you…” She says.

As she does, I notice that her beautiful lips hide two sharp, silvery white canine teeth.

“You said that you wanted to live forever.” She continues.

I raise my eyebrows, as my mind finally understands. That flowery creature in front of me, glowing under the moonlight, is a vampire. My logic dictates that such a creature should not exist. Yet, I can sense that she is that.

While I am standing there, in doubt, wondering, I observe as she quickly goes to a corner of the hall among a pile of clutter. She digs through it until she finds what looks like an old, broad, wooden-framed mirror. She returns to me and turns its opaque, dust-covered glass in my direction.

I blink three times, trying to adjust my eyesight. My mind does not adjust easily to the strangeness that I am seeing. I can distinguish the walls of the hall, and the shattered windows behind me. The dress that I am wearing is standing there, floating, with nothing inside. As I move the poking iron, I see its reflection in the mirror. It floats like magic, without any hand to grab it.

I finally understand. But, no fear, no insecurity, and not even joy affects me. My breathing remains calm and paced. My chest continues tranquil, with no sense of a heart beat.

I think that I should be horrified for all that is happening. She turned me into a monster, and killed me. Yet, I feel no horror. Logically, I would have wanted to live forever. Who would not? If I begged her to turn me, I do not remember. I cannot even remember if, before, I was the kind of woman who would beg for such a thing.

But, what I have is now, and, now is enough for me.

Smiling, she glances at me and asks:

“So… Are you hungry?”