In the grounds of the abbey, directly beneath the great silent windows, stood a man, his face turned away from the setting sun and his dark eyes seeming to reflect the fiery light that permeated the sky. From head to foot he was swathed in black, all apart from his hands which held the cloak close about him. His fingers were long and white and decorated by many finely jewelled rings, a dazzling array of wealth and artistry. The skin of his hands was of an unhealthy pallor, pasty and bloodless like boiled poultry, and his nails were long and colourless and carved into scimitar-like claws. The grip with which he held the cloak was light, yet his knuckles were livid with a hidden tension as he gazed upon the town beneath his feet.
His face, half hidden by the cowl of his cloak, was of the same unearthly pallor as his hands, the skin stretched taut and thin across his prominent bones. His forehead was broad and deep, and at his temples the faint tracery of blood vessels could be seen clearly, standing out like tiny ropes of blue and black. Beneath his startling eyes his cheekbones rose like dunes out of an ivory desert, dramatically sculpted yet giving an air of famished elegance to the face. The quality of his skin was such that it seemed not only too pale but also too smooth to be real, as though he were a statue carved from alabaster. Indeed, the studied pose he adopted and the absolute rigidity of his form would certainly predispose a casual observer to believe this to be the case.
It was only in his eyes and in his wide, fleshy mouth that he betrayed any signs of being a living, sentient being. His lips were pale, though not as bloodless as his skin, and the line in which they were set was vaguely suggestive of a faint, sardonic smile. At each corner of his mouth a faint dimple broke the smooth expanse of his cheeks, tiny wavelets in the ocean of his face. His eyes were afire with the setting sun, glowing with an intensity that was both terrifying and beguiling to observe. The pupils were large and fiery, searching eagerly into the encroaching darkness, and the irises were iridescent explosions of light and shadow. The white surface around those electrifying cores was flecked and lined with blood, and the pallid skin of his eyelids was a map of dark veins and tiny, puckered scars. The effect of his gaze would have been profoundly startling and undeniably seductive, but he looked at no one person, simply at the vast expanse of land which splayed out before him: at the town with its narrow streets and many lights; at the harbour with its boats and nets; at the hills which rose beyond the town onto the distant moorland.
The skyline of this town was impressive at any time of day, but at this moment it was breathtakingly beautiful, the huge desolated abbey standing forlorn yet proud against the setting sun, casting its elongated shadow across the town beneath its foundations. At the edge of the abbey grounds, beyond the array of crooked and broken gravestones, two massive whalebone ribs arched into the silent evening air, piercing the approaching darkness with the stark light of luminescent ivory. Passing by this bizarre archway, a cold wreath of stone steps poured away into the distance, yearning for the edge of the town, hewn into the earth and worn by centuries of pilgrims' feet.
And on that daunting staircase walked a young girl, her gown caught by the gentle breeze and her hair tumbling loose about her shoulders. By the fading light of the sun she trudged up the hundreds of shallow steps, her posture one of weariness and hungry exhaustion. The pilgrimage she made was a necessary one, but she would fain have forgotten it for this one night. Ten years of making this journey had wearied her beyond endurance, and it was only her sense of duty which kept her performing it. Her reward would come in Heaven one day, and her dead mother would thank her for the flowers she had nightly placed upon the gravestone which marked her final earthly resting place.
Tonight she carried lilies, her mother's favourite and the most beautiful for this season that were to be found. The bouquet was small – it was all she could afford – but the delicate grace of the tiny white flowers and the delicious scent which arose from their bloom would be sure to please her mother. She always laid the flowers at sunset, as that was the time her mother had died, and sometimes she felt as though her mother was still watching over her from Heaven, making certain that her little girl was alright still, that she was doing well in her life.
At the top of the staircase she paused for a moment, catching her breath and allowing her aching legs a moment's rest. The gentle breeze was stronger here, and her long cinnamon-gold hair whipped across her face and temporarily blinded her. The rich and sumptuous light of the setting sun lit her hair into a dazzling halo of smouldering fire, an ecstatic beacon in the velveteen hush of a summer evening. She made her confident way to the bank of gravestones at the summit of the hill and stepped across them until she reached the one she knew so well. She knelt down on the soft, warm earth and touched the worn inscription with her fingers.
'Margaret Debriggen, born February 22, 1794, departed this life October 31, 1816. May her youthful soul dance forever with the angels of Heaven.'
She had been young when she died, and the circumstances, unrelated here, had also been tragic. Poverty following the birth of her final child had led her into prostitution in the disreputable part of the town and she had died a few years later of a contracted disease. The orphanage which took in her youngest child had erected a headstone to her memory, some said cynically because the master of that institution had been her most regular and devoted client. Whatever the circumstances of its erection, here stood the stone to this day, and now that surviving daughter came nightly to lay flowers at its foot and offer up a simple prayer to her dead parent.
She did so now, placing the lilies beside the remains of the previous evening's offering and then bowing her head to pray to whatever god might be listening. "Our Father, which art in Heaven, protect my mother. Though her sins were great, yet was she a good woman and a devoted mother. Her death left young ones hungry and alone, and she is mourned constantly. I offer you my devotion, in the hope that my mother is safe and well and in Your care now and for ever more. Heavenly Father, Almighty Lord, watch over us here on Earth, and forgive me my sins in the name of my mother, and in the name of Your greatness and Your infinite wisdom and mercy. Beloved Father, Your daughter offers up her prayers to You. Amen."
She remained a moment in silence, looking intently at the inscription until it swam before her eyes in a storm of mangled black. Then she rose to her feet and turned to leave the grounds. As she made her way across the grass, she looked uneasily behind her. For some nights now she had gained the impression that she was being followed or watched, and it unsettled her, even though she had never discovered anybody or even any footprints which might have suggested a pursuer. This time, as always, she saw nothing, just the dark abbey ruins glowering behind her in the orange-violet twilight sky.
She knew better than to call out, as her voice would announce her fear for anyone who might be lingering close by. Better just to leave this place and seek refuge in the warm comfort of the familiar town streets. She would return to the orphanage and listen to the wild tales of the older girls about things worse than demons to be found in the darkness and the solitude. That thought made her shiver and she stole one final, gentle glance at the distant headstone and departed.
The steps were easier on the way down, and she had completed almost half the journey when she realised that her pursuer was real: she could hear his footsteps echoing hers on the stone stairway, heavier and yet softer than hers. It was an unmistakeably masculine tread, and her heart thumped to recall the tales of her friends. Not I, please, not I. I'm too young for you, old man. She moved more swiftly down the stairs, but he compensated for this. He was definitely following her, there was no longer any doubt as to that. She knew him for what he was, and he must have realised by now that she knew this.
The race was on: the little girl's bare feet whispering on the stone stairs in time to the pounding of her tiny heart; the heavy, swift tread of her pursuer crunching above her, filling her ears. Dragging up her skirts the girl began to leap frantically, stepping only on alternate steps in an effort to reach the town in time. Her pursuer effortlessly copied her movement, gaining all the time with his larger stride. With barely enough breath to sustain her, the girl reached the final few steps and cried out for help, but scarcely had the words left her lips than he was upon her, holding her arms behind her back and crushing her against his black-draped body. He pushed her head to one side, flicking at the golden hair which clung to her face in a sweaty embrace, and staring deep into her wide, terrified eyes.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, defend me from evil," she gasped, unable to move because of his terrible grip and unable to look away from the face of he who had caught her. The cowl of his cloak had fallen away completely now, and his pallid face was livid with hectic lines of red which streaked his face and neck. "Sweet, Merciful Lord, protect Your innocent child from harm."
The immortal smiled, his pale lips parting to reveal cruel and venomous fangs in the aching chasm of his red mouth. He gently caressed her warm skin, feeling the moisture of fear and exhaustion rising beneath his fingertips, tracing the frozen lines of her face. "Hello Rebecca," he whispered, his voice sonorous and hypnotic, deep and consumed in fire. "I've come to take you home, my love. Do not fear me."
At the sound of her name the girl started and began to wriggle in his strong arms. How could he know her, this thing, how could he know who she was? "Who sent you here?" she sobbed, her eyes blank with horror.
"Margaret sent me," he replied, placing one long, cold finger on her trembling lips. "Your mother, my lover. Margaret."
"What do you say?"
The immortal's smile broadened, and a light of devilish passion flared in his dark eyes. He looked at her with undisguised emotion and desire, licking his cold lips salaciously. "I am your father, you my daughter. It is time I took you home."
All hope died in the girl's eyes as she listened in silent awe to these words. The horror of his face still paralysed her, but it was as nothing to the unbearable pain this pronouncement produced within her. "My father?" was all she could utter before falling down into a swoon.
"Yes my darling," replied the immortal, angling his head to kiss her soft flesh. "For ever more. You can join Margaret and I in Hell." He picked her up and carried her unconscious body back up the steps to her mother's gravestone. He kicked the lilies aside and tapped on the stone. "This is your home now – I'm sure you'll like it."
[28th February 1995]
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