Posted on by Lydia Ink

Vilmos

Love? No, not love. That idea left me centuries ago. Laugh in disbelief if that buoys your courage. But I do not love her, though I admire and respect her. And yes, I want her with me.

I’ve watched her for some time now. At first my curiosity was simply piqued; nothing more. Her survival impressed me, her resistance incensed me (still does) and her tenacity in seeking truth impresses me. The reason I want her is to save her.

She has no feeble-minded idea that truth is indescribable or a sense or a feeling. She understands words, ideas and striving to know revealed truth. But she is naïve, she believes truth will strengthen her. She believes because that old man whom she calls teacher and friend teaches her to believe truth, though painful, is better than constant distraction. 

Ha! Those who crave distraction in work or pleasure are calling out to be servants or prey. I accommodate their cravings. I seek truth and find it daily. Does God exist? Yes, of course He does, and He dogs us, He demands and He commands and He thwarts freedom. So I thwart Him.

And yes, I’ve thwarted Him for some time.

Someday soon she will understand the old man lied to her, her father lied to her and Quincey lied to her. They are like the men who stand at altars and pray. They are like the men who stand behind their crosses rather than face me. They are subtle, but their desire is the same as mine – power.

The difference? I want her on equal standing with me. I want to ride the airwaves with her, eddy the currents like the great eagle who sores above mountain tops. I want her to see the night as it really is; endless, vast, and free. She has too strong a mind to feel gratitude. She will join with me in watching from above those who breathe, suffer and die. We will watch for eternity the continual wave and break of humanity against the rocks of destruction and the slime of rebirth.

Yes, she will watch with me and understand that humanity needs no religion or God but our own.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Insidious

Not much longer now. The fight comes when the sun is setting, of this I’m certain. I’ve longed for this fight and if I die trying, well, that’s good enough for me.

I know people think I’m mad. I was actually afraid that I’d see myself committed to the county home before I faced him. Face him.

I consider him a scourge, a self-deceived creature of man’s manipulation, of his own manipulation. If that sounds almost charitable, I hope so; he is my father.  I’ve learned there is no stronger force for evil than self-will. No stronger force for good than… self-will. God help me, please God help me.

I’m leaving this journal where someone may find it. My only prayer is that if I fail tonight, I die. What does a condemn man do but reflect on his life? The word insidious comes to mind. Don’t think me a mad scientist or a bum who stumbled upon a nest of vipers. Thank God I never married, but Charlotte comes to mind during times of fear. Thank God she thinks me crazy and well shed of me.

I have no resentments toward my father. He was a man of reason, a reader who shunned fiction as man’s weakness; plays, poetry, novels, all folly. To raise the crucifix against evil was laughable to him, superstition. I can still hear my mother weeping during his funeral. It was his funeral that gave me a clue to his scheme.

“Michael, I’ve seen him. Your father. He was right, dear, he has returned. I’ve seen him, and I know tomorrow he will come and speak to me.” She was right. He came, and I was waiting. My father was always a hard man, pushing me toward greater things, pushing me to leave my mark on the world.

“Son, you’ve a great mind. Evolution has culminated in you. You have a great capacity for understanding, use it, damn you!”

It’s laughable that he could curse me as a second thought. I doubt he thought of the hypocrisy of it. The night my mother invited him into our home, he walked in dead.  I could see it in his eyes. Triumph, power, superiority and death all reflected in the green-red glow of his eyes. She saw it right away and fainted dead away. He came for me, but unlike him, I read fiction. Trembling, I raised my rosary toward him.

He became a whirlwind of destruction, raising my mother’s lifeless body before me and snapping her neck.

I’ve dogged his every step. Yes, my life has been an insidious chess match. The sun has almost set, I’m sure he will be here. Twenty-three years is a long time to hunt a man that should have meant the world to me.

The latch on the door to the sarcophagus is moving outward toward the night. Surprise is on my side. God help me.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Waiting for 3:15

Described as a level-headed girl by her parents, she prided herself to be just that – levelheaded. She whispered the words, more to herself than to the listening universe, “I’m a level head woman.” She shuddered and re griped the doorknob and turned it.

Where did this all start? She fell in love. Yes, possibly, but she walked away and was content to do so. She found men her own age distasteful. So, when he took notice of her, she took notice of him. Tall, large brown eyes, powerful hands, and a gentleness she had only read about in 19th century novels.

She needed the vacation. She worked 60 hours a week for several weeks in a row and her temper wore thin.

“Go on, get out of here, you’ve done enough. We have the client, and you need a break. We have you booked at the Old Inn; on the lakeside.” So, there she sat, looking at the stars come out over Lake Huron and sipping wine; the weeks of stress and overwork ebbing away. The Old Inn on Lake Huron was an exclusive place that her company bought into. Employers work their employees to near distraction and then send them to the Old Inn for a week or two.

“Good Evening.” His voice mellow and his manners nonintrusive, she nodded only in good manners to his greeting, feeling he wanted no more interruption than she.

On the third night, a Tuesday, they found themselves alone in the old restaurant. The walls filled with pictures of Great Lakes shipwrecks, old and recent. They nodded to each other in greeting, took their seats at separate tables and became engrossed in the menu. A young waiter came bounding out from the kitchen, looked at them both and laughed, “at least sit closer, can’t you see I’m run off my feet?”

She laughed and so did he, and his lined face framed by his graying hair looked beautiful; like a captain of a ship laughing at the breeze. They did not eat together, but after their meal he stood and asked if he could recommend a wine and send it to her. “I notice that you sit out upon the veranda after your dinner.”

“Only if you join me.” She surprised herself by her reply.

“I’m honored and look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

And that was it. They spent seven days together. Glorious days. He spoke of poetry and poets, shipwrecks, and the history of the great lakes. She felt an attraction that went beyond love making or hesitation. She touched his hand when silence was nothing more than what they both wanted. He never assumed, and she felt freedom with him because there was rest in their relationship. She could not call it friendship; the attraction was too apparent.

They mutually parted at 3:15 on a Tuesday afternoon. He did not ask her for anything she did not volunteer. No telephone numbers, emails, or social media connections. She wanted to return to her job, to her life. Driving back to Lancing she wondered where he went, what he did and if he thought of her but was content with wondering.

Then the clock on her office wall stopped at 3:15 PM every day. She replaced it and that clock stopped every day at 3:15… every day. She took the clock down and didn’t put up another. Every day she noticed the clock at 3:15 PM. No matter where she was or what she was doing. There were days when she didn’t think of him at all until 3:15 PM.

Three months and fifteen days later, she thought she spotted him across the street from her office building. His back was to her, straight and tall, with silver hair. He was talking to a woman; he turned slightly toward her and appeared to be laughing.

“Hey, did you get a call from Joe, he’s waiting for your report. You okay?”

“Yes, I heard from Joe, I just sent it to him.” Annoyed with the interruption, she turned back to her window and looked down he disappeared.

Her boss called her into his office a few days later. “Listen, I’m just saying you’ve been a little preoccupied. I’m not complaining, your work has been exceptional,”

“Then why the lecture?”

“Because everyone is coming into my office complaining that you’ve been sharp, impatient and downright rude. That’s just not you. You’ve never been nice like a teddy bear, but I had no complaints. Go back to the Old Inn, get some rest and see if you don’t come back in a better mood. I don’t want to lose you; you are important to this company.”

She rose without a word. Threatening her job was not the best way to get through to her. She walked into her office, grabbed her purse, shut out the lights and walked out. That night she sent out her resume to a headhunter, told him she was out of town for a few weeks and to get back to her if anyone was interested. His reply made her relax:  “You’ve got an excellent reputation, I’m sure we can find what you are looking for. Do you want to stay local?

Did she? Maybe if she left the area, the haunting would stop. The word haunting stopped her. Was she being haunted? She grabbed her smart phone to make a phone call: 3:15. Something had changed in the setting to Fiji time.

“Yes, same room, your boss called ahead. Room 315, do you have any luggage?”

“I didn’t have room 315.”

“Let me double check. Yes, a little over three months ago. Yes, room 315, but if you’d like another room, we can see if we can accommodate. I’m afraid it will not be on the lakeside.”

“No. I’ll take it and I can handle my luggage.” The man behind the counter frowned slightly but handed her the old fashion key to her room. She walked the old staircase, broad and ornate on the ground level, but by the third floor the old risers narrowed and creaked. Room 315 was at the end of the hall. She unlocked the door and turned the nob.

Walking in, she breathed a sigh of relief. The room looked the same, deep blue curtains, a large comfortable bed. The room looked underwater and relaxing. She pushed the door shut and felt at home, waiting for 3:15.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

I Could Have Been Teaching Fiction Not Living It

It’s important for me to remain invisible. Impossible? Well, you’re right, it is impossible. So I do my best.

As a young wallflower, I was exceptional.  When I grew older, I’ll admit I didn’t want to be so invisible. Until I met him and then I met them. It’s complicated, as they used to say. I’ll try to be brief. Why? Well, there’s a trick to being nearly invisible. Keep moving. I learned that almost too late. I’ll forget it someday, out of exhaustion.

I mentioned I was a wallflower. Yeah, it was painful through my teen years and the surrounding girls in my high school weren’t too kind. Sure, I had core friends, one especially, Jennifer. She’ll picture in later.

So, during my wallflower years I read lots of novels and decided I liked to read. I went to a higher end but smaller college back east and something happened. My skin cleared up, I lost weight, and even my parents were hesitant when I came home for Christmas. After four years at said college I decided I wanted to teach literature on a higher level and by golly I started in for my PhD. What a ride, except for a major interruption.

Now this may sound petty, but a highlight for me was my 10-year high school reunion. Yup, I dressed it up and walked in on demure and smiling. No one knew me, but I made sure that I met all the thick-waisted moms who tormented me in the hallways. I didn’t speak to them, just their balding husbands. I stayed maybe an hour when who should walk in but my old friend Jennifer.

Jennifer had changed from thick glasses, long straight hair, and dowdy dresses to a sleek, slender, gorgeous woman in high heels and tight jeans. What changed the most was the tall, dark stranger who escorted her in. We hugged, cried, and laughed at our own petty drama. Her boyfriend stood and smiled at us like a benevolent older uncle. We left the school gym and met at a local bar. Her boyfriend wasn’t with her?

“Was he a prop?” I asked.

“No. Well, sort of. We… travel together.”

“Where did you meet?”

“College. He’s a professor. You know my attraction for older men.”

“No, I didn’t realize that, but you were always sort of secretive.”

“Are you staying with your parents?” Jennifer asked. The question gave me a chill.

“No,” I lied, “they moved to Florida.”  My parents would no more think of moving to Florida than they would move to Alaska, but I felt a quiver of distrust. Suddenly Jennifer looked like a wax figure; beautiful and unchangeable. We seemed to realize at once a chill; she was my enemy and I hers.

“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” Jennifer’s voice was suddenly a hiss and snake like. “It’s the good and evil thing you understand.” She left the table and walked away. Her friend was waiting outside.

I sat in that bar all night. I panicked when I had to leave, so hustled to the nearest church. Closed. Dark. I saw shadows everywhere. They met me outside Saint Monica’s. What choice did I have but to join them?

“Is she a vampire?” I asked.

“A demon. Her choice. We work to eliminate them.”

“Eliminate?”

“Yes.” The man in black stared at me without blinking. It was a test, I know.

“I’m in,” I said.

Sure, my immediate family knows. It’s not so bad. The old buildings, the ancient writings, all appeal to me. I’ve been around the world and I’m on my third workable language. You wouldn’t believe how evil gets around. If I make it to 55, I’m automatically retired to a basement somewhere in Paris or Rome, they won’t tell me. I don’t blame them. It won’t be bad, the daylight still means freedom in this fight.

Yeah, I’m looking forward to meeting Jennifer again. Life could have been a little different; I could have been teaching fiction, not living it.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Her New Ancestral Home

“I say we go, right.”

“I say we don’t, we should go left.”

“Arthur, left is down, we should go right and up.”

Arthur fought the urge to be glib. It was her fault they were in the mess they were in. She was the explorer, the woman who wanted to know every inch of Ring, her soon-to-be ancestral home. He would have said so too if he didn’t sound like a schoolboy. “Well, this is your soon-to-be ancestral home I suppose you know best.”  It was a juvenile and sarcastic remark, but he didn’t care.

“Shut up, Arthur, this is serious, we are lost!  Something is down here, and we need to find a way out!”

“Will you try to stay calm, Julie, your panic is not helping in this situation.”

“Shut. Up.  Can’t you say anything original?”

“Pardon me dear, but I seem at a loss on how to please you.”

“I don’t want to be pleased; I want some serious insight during a serious time!”

Arthur remained silent and stared at her.  He wondered why he found her attractive; especially now.  She had been crying. Her hair looked like she had showered under raw sewage and her clothes smelled.  In her defense, she had just been through a harrowing experience.  Perhaps when this was all done, he would reconsider their engagement.  She could keep the ring.

“You can keep your damned ring, Arthur.”

Arthur started; had she read his mind?

“I know you had to buy the brand-new shiny thing that cost more than I can hawk it for because your family wasn’t about to relinquish a tiny morsel of the family jewels to bedeck a woman like me.”

“Like you, dear?”

“Yes, like me.  The girl who must work, the girl you met in the shop.  The only shining modicum of thankfulness they have about me is that I worked in a leather goods shop and not a pub.  Well, I’ll tell you what Sir Arthur what’s-your-name, I will apply at the first pub I come across if I get out of this mess.  The. First.  And I will live well, and I will save my money for the books I want to read, and I will buy a little cottage and I will join the CATHOLIC church, you bastard!”

She blubbered again and faced the two tunnels; the decision was one or the other.  Arthur felt an unreasonable disgust.  The situation was sobering, but not necessarily hopeless.  Either tunnel would lead back to Ring; one to the cliff side and the other to the cemetery; the family crypt.  But the crypt was the less inviting, and with the recent panic attack that Julie had, he wanted to avoid the moldering old place.   If he had been with Margaret, she wouldn’t have melted into hysterics.  Her rather long straight nose would have lifted as if she could sniff the correct direction and she would have made her recommendation.  If he had been with Margaret, he would have had proper lighting, good sturdy shoes and a methodical map laid out upon the note pad she always had with her.  She was a romantic woman, but a practical one.

“Yes, yes, you pathetic little man. If Margaret were here, no doubt she would have made everything right, but she’s not here.  I suggest you decide.”

“All right, Julie, but only if you stop that infernal sobbing and tell me right now that you will not blame me if the decision is wrong.  I do not want to spend the next hour or two of my life listening to hack and sob all over the old bricks.  There’s enough water down here and dangers of slipping and sliding, I don’t want you adding to; I can’t stomach that.”

Julie stood gaping at him. 

“Well?”

“All right, I promise,” she said, sniffing hard and wiping her eyes as best she could while squaring her shoulders.  Arthur felt no pang of passion but a softening of his heart.  Julie turned from being a besmirched raving woman to a young vulnerable girl despite the muck and the smell. 

“We go left.  You stay behind me and close.  Here, grab onto my belt.  Don’t let go.  If this is wrong, if there is a dead end, we turn about and try the other tunnels.  No more of your running mad.”

Julie’s eyes watered, but she held onto her emotions and nodded. Arthur knew she wanted to defend herself again, to insist that she saw a woman, a woman in white garb just behind him while they wandered the tunnels he knew.  Julie had screamed, turned in terror and fled.  He had no recourse but to follow, and they had lost their way.  His entire family and staff were no doubt out shouting his name; they had been in the tunnels for at least three hours.  The thought of his mother in any distress caused him to grind his teeth in frustration. 

The tunnel was dripping with water, the old stones were soft with mildew, and the squelching noise beneath their feet would probably haunt Arthur’s dreams if he lived to see another night’s rest. 

“I’m… I’m very sorry I panicked.”

“It happens.”

“But I lead you away from that awful woman.”

Arthur turned around, his ire was rising, “Julie, there was no woman.”

Julie gave a violent hiccup, and her eyes were wide with fear. She nodded at Arthur. He stared at her a moment, hesitated, looked at her once more and then continued in silence. After several minutes, he felt the ground beneath him inclined upward.

He knew that below his home was a deep aqua flow.  The flow was the life-giving force of the place and throughout the history of his family, especially during the broad middle ages, the aqua flow gave the inhabitants of the old keep a source of water during sieges of armies and weather.  Tunnels made by hundreds of hands over hundreds of years intersect below the old keep.  What he wanted to avoid more than anything was a dead end, or a collapsed wall. Back tracking in these labyrinths of darkness would only melt Julie into more hysterics.

Yes, the tunnel was taking a definite slant upward.  He had been correct.  This tunnel was one of the oldest, and they used it in the early middle ages to fetch water from a deep well.  His grandfather had made repairs to the old tunnel when he himself was a young man, when Victoria was early on the throne.  He made a silent prayer of thanks for his family’s bizarre bend toward the macabre. His hand then found something hard and sharp-edged.  Jumping despite he hung on to what he found. With trembling fingertip he traced the lines of a cross, then brushing off the years of dust and mud, he traced the lines of a crucifix.  Success, he had been right; it was the old tunnel, and it would soon open to the night air if memory served right.

“We are close, Julie.”  But he was aware, with his words, that she wasn’t behind him.  Not noticing that the grip on his belt had loosened, so consumed with their forward progress, he turned with a jerk and surprise to no one there.  All he saw was blackness.  No, no, this could not be.  He could not allow her the terror of eternal darkness, afraid and alone, but he struggled to turn back and retrace his steps.  Why?  The answer was obvious; it terrified him.

How could he not notice she was no longer behind him?  How could she have tripped or let loose without a sound?  He pulled at the crucifix upon the wall until it inched upon the brick wall and then pulled away.  Without thought Arthur walked back down, tripped, and fell.  Getting up quickly among a tangle of arms and legs, he pushed himself back.  It was Julie and her body was repulsive to him, as if he had stumbled upon the remains of a stranger in the dark.

Taking a deep breath and keeping a firm grip on the old crucifix, he pulled her by her arms with little ceremony back toward the opening of the tunnel.  She was completely dead weight, her head lulled between her arms and her hair caught on the rough floor, causing her face, pale, open-eyed and ghastly, to look up at him in a blank expression.  Finally, out of desperation, he stooped down and wrapped his arms around her waist, allowing her head to rest upon his left shoulder, her forehead wedged upon his jaw.  It was here he sobbed because he could see that her eyes were glassy and that something had savaged her neck. 

“Arthur!”

His sister Estella’s voice.

“Arthur, where are you?”

He said nothing but kept pulling Julie forward, upward toward the door he knew would lead to the outside, to fresh air, to her cottage, her new job at the pub and all the romance novels she cared to read.

“Arthur!  Oh God, Arthur.  Father!  Father, he’s here.  Help us.”

But it was John Seward who first reached them.  He took the young woman from Arthur’s arms, Estella bent over her too. Silence only answered their entreaties.