Night’s Gift

I began running down the stairs, taking some of them two at a time. I stumbled several times in my haste, but the railing saved me from tumbling to the bottom. I prayed that wherever these steps led, it would be better than where I had just been. I could smell the moisture from the walls. I could hear dripping water up ahead. All of a sudden, I felt a rush of fresh air. I could not believe my good fortune; I had actually managed to stumble on a way out! I wanted to shout for joy but did not dare for fear they would hear me.

The stairs exited into a small courtyard. Rain poured down, drenching my body. Cool, cleansing rain it was, washing this place from my skin and my clothes. I lifted my face up to the night sky. I was free! The smell of freedom was so sensuous to my quivering nostrils that I...

Something flew past my face and landed on the wall in front of me. I imagined I could see two tiny, bright red lights emanating from whatever it was. Could it be? No...I did not want to believe my eyes. I started to shake. It could not be! How was it possible? I had to find a way out of here...

Also by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour

Poetry

Life’s Roller Coaster

Devastations of Mankind

Shattered

Memories

Short Stories

From the Heart

Biographies

A 20^th Century Portia

Novels

Night’s Vampire Trilogy:

Night’s Gift

Night’s Children

Night’s Return

NIGHT’S GIFT

Copyright © 2014 by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour

Copyright © 2011 by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author through the website:

www.marymcushniemansour.ca

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Ordering Information:

Books may be ordered directly through the author’s website: www.marymcushniemansour.ca or through booksellers. Contact:

Cavern of Dreams Publishing

43 Kerr-Shaver Terrace

Brantford, ON N3T 6H8

1-519-770-7515

Discounts are available for volume orders.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-

[Novels. Selections]

Night’s vampire / Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour.

(Night’s vampire trilogy )

Contents: bk. 1 Night’s gift -- bk. 2. Night’s children -- bk.

3. Night’s return.

Issued in print, electronic and audio formats.

ISBN 978-0-9868169-1-8 (bk. 1 : pbk.).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-2-5

(bk. 1 : bound).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-5-6 (bk. 2 : pbk.).--

ISBN 978-0-9868169-6-3 (bk. 2 : bound).--ISBN 978-0-9868169-9-4

(bk. 3 : pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927899-00-7 (bk. 3 : bound).--

ISBN 978-0-9868169-3-2 (bk. 1 : epub).-ISBN 978-0-9868169-7-0

(bk. 2 : epub).-ISBN 978-1-927899-02-1 (bk. 3 : epub).-

ISBN 978-0-9868169-4-9 (bk. 1 : audiobook).-ISBN 978-0-9868169-8-7

(bk. 2 : audiobook).-ISBN 978-1-927899-03-8 (bk. 3 : audiobook)

I. Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953- . Night’s gift. II. Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-. Night’s children. III. Cushnie-Mansour, Mary M., 1953-. Night’s return IV. Title.

TO ALL WHO BELIEVED IN MY DREAM

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks go out to my Content Editor, Bethany Jamieson, Brantford, ON Canada, for keeping me on track, and taking my red pen away from me when I overused it. Eventually, every great piece of writing just needs to get into the hands of the readers!

Cover design by Terry Davis @ Ball Media, Brantford, ON Canada––Terry you did an amazing job!

Wolf Spirit Cover Art was created and designed by Wolfhowl10 via Abdul Rahman at: downloadwallpaperhd.com. Thank you for allowing me to use this beautiful picture to help create such an awesome cover for Night’s Gift.

Thanks to my husband, Ed, for his patience over the years as I pursued my dream.

Thank you to friends who have supported me along the way: Judi Klinck and Joan Jenkins, for reading some of my first drafts and encouraging me to continue on with the story.

Brenda Ann Wright, who encouraged me to publish Night’s Gift. George Hatton, for editing my manuscript, and looking at it with the eyes of a teacher.

Lisa Mallette who offered some great editing suggestions.

The members of the Brantford Writers’ Circle, for their continued support and encouragement.

The Talos family has been wonderful throughout my journey. They have allowed me to use photos of their property, Wynarden, for my cover. Wynarden was built in 1864 by the Yates family. It has often been referred to over the years as Yates Castle. This house was the inspiration for the Night’s Vampire Trilogy.

And last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank everyone who believed in me ... there are too many names to list here, but you all know who you are!

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader:

I am relating this story to you through my eyes ... for it is only my eyes that are capable of seeing into hearts that did not exist; my eyes that can weep for that which was lost; my eyes that are capable of showing any emotion beyond nothingness. It is only my pen that would dare to tell such a story—for those I resided with for a time would not want such secrets to be known.

This is a story that must be told. It is a story that, as you read it, you might believe was written as a Hollywood movie script. It is a story that you’d never dream you would actually ever live. It is my story—a part of my life that can never be erased from my memory—which will live on for eternity. For eternity itself has sealed it within its pages.

Despite all that he could not do for me, I shall be forever grateful to Max for the scraps of paper he provided me with during my sojourn at the house. I have gathered together the scattering of scribbles I was able to write, and I have managed to decipher the majority of my words. However, many of my pages were written beneath a torrent of tears, smearing a great many of the letters into unintelligible scratching. As a result, some of my story has been recreated, a little at a time, from whatever memories I have managed not to suffocate.

I believe it is all here—the love, the hate, the lies, the deceptions, the pain, and the sorrow. There was no hearty laughter where I have just come from, for there were none truly alive, save I. And even though there were moments when I laughed with him as we talked and bantered issues past and present, his laughter was never truly authentic. Mine was, but at this moment I cannot bring genuine laughter to surface after what happened to me inside that house.

Are you one who loves to take a risk? Are you willing to turn the pages and discover the truths about my life? Then read on. I will share my moments with you in the hope that I might save at least one person from becoming immersed in such evil as I was. Before becoming overly curious about what appears to be an abandoned building, you might think twice. Before you risk a look beyond any window sill, read my story!

—Virginia

Mystery House

Chapter One

The day had been solemn and drab—much like my mood. Storm clouds had threatened to disperse their anger upon the earth. Thunder had rumbled in the distance. Flashes of lightning had lit the far horizons. Yet, with all the impending warnings, not a drop of rain had fallen on Brantford. I had procrastinated long enough for my evening walk, and I was restless, even though the hour was late. I would take an umbrella with me, just in case. Such was the night I had chosen to check out the mysterious mansion at the end of Buffalo Street ...

I had only been in the city of Brantford for six months. I had yearned desperately for a small-city atmosphere in order to slow down after the fast-paced life that had devoured me in Toronto. I was tired of big-city lights, big-city noise, big-city dirt, big-city violence—and, most of all, big-city men! However, I could not possibly leave all my conveniences behind. I knew I could never survive in some backwoods town where most modern luxuries would be too inconveniently located or, worse yet, non-existent. In my opinion, those types of places were only meant for weekend getaways, not permanent residences. As a result, Brantford, with its population of 91,000 people, appeared to be the answer to my prayer.

Thanks to my former employer, I was fortunate to obtain a position with a law firm on Wellington Street. One of the partners was a friend of my boss. Maybe he owed him a favour—no matter, really; it was none of my business. I ended up with a decent job and was given the opportunity to settle into an obscure lifestyle. I appreciated Lady Luck looking out for me.

My mother must have had some sort of sixth sense into my future. She had always warned me about my looks, saying that good looks were the downfall of most girls. “Get your education the right way,” she had said. “Use your brains; don’t give something out to receive good marks.” She used to go on and on endlessly, hoping to implant some of her ideals into my head. I used to consider her old-fashioned, but the reality of it was that she had been raised quite strictly, and she had adhered to her upbringing right up to the day she died. I cannot remember a week going by in which my mother did not attend Mass at least four times.

With Mother’s words of concern echoing in the back of my mind, I always went to considerable lengths to detract from my natural beauty. I wound my long red hair into a bun every day and wore the most conservative wardrobe I could find ... greys and blacks, colours that would help me fade into the shadows. I wore straight-cut skirts and modest blouses, clothing that would not be given a second glance. I even steered clear of wearing makeup and noticeable jewellery.

Well, I guess I should be truthful here and admit there was a time in my life that I did not totally heed my mother’s advice. It was the “John time.” John was the main reason I had escaped to Brantford. My time with him had been justification enough for wanting no intrusions into the secluded little world I was trying to create for myself. He had treated me like a princess at first, and then he just left me for greener fields.

I met John the first day I began working for Mr. Carverson, who was a partner in a large law firm in Toronto. I was fresh out of secretarial college and had been sent over by an employment agency to fill in for the regular girl who was on maternity leave. For the first few weeks, I worked at the reception desk. A senior legal secretary spent a few hours with me each day, showing me the ropes on how to be Mr. Carverson’s personal assistant. It was sure a lot different from college!

When John walked into the office, my heart went pitter-patter—you know the way a heart does when you see someone intensely extraordinary! He looked as though he were lost. He had the most desperate look on his face—a perfectly formed face it was, too, with tanned skin contrasting sharply against bleach-blond hair. He was a girl’s dream just waiting to be realized!

“I need a lawyer!” he demanded. He stopped and stared at me for a second or two. His piercing blue eyes were sparkling—reading my dream! “Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful red hair and shining blue eyes?” He reached over and touched the severe bun at the top of my head. “Ever thought of letting this down, pretty lady?”

He was fulfilling my dream. You might be familiar with the vision—where the prince lets down the hair of the simple maiden, and she becomes the most beautiful princess in the world. Yes, that’s the one!

I fell instantly in love; well, that is what I thought it was at the time. I swallowed my blush. “How may I help you... uh ...?”

“John,” he assisted. “John Tanner, at your service, miss. I do hope it is miss,” he added with a mischievous smile.

“Mr. Tanner,” I needed to remember to be professional, so chose to ignore the miss reference. “What kind of lawyer do you need?”

“Lawyer? Oh that was just pretence to get in here and meet you.” John had the cutest smile. “Your red hair was shining so brightly through the window that I had to come in and see who it was that had such a crown of gloriousness.” John perched himself on my desk, crossed his legs, and stared straight into my eyes.

The dream was overcoming my common sense. “Mr. Tanner, please, I have work to do. This is my first day on the job. In fact, this is my first job since graduating from college, and I would like to keep it.”

John jumped off my desk. “Oh, excuse me, miss ... I didn’t catch your name.”

“Miss Manser,” I answered politely.

“Is there a first name to go with that?” The eyebrows rose seductively.

“Virginia.”

“Well, Virginia, what time is lunch?”

“Twelve.”

“Good! I will pick you up at twelve.”

Before I had a chance to protest, John was out the door. He returned sharply at 12:00, and our whirlwind romance began. I saw John regularly; in fact, after only a month of romancing, John moved in with me. My mother would have been horrified at such behaviour from her daughter!

“Hey, Virginia, baby,” he had said one day after a long session of making love, “you know how I’m in between jobs at the moment? Well, I can’t really afford my apartment right now, and since I am over at your place most of the time, do you think maybe I could ...” John threw me his puppy look.

I smiled naively. “Of course,” I answered, for I still tingled when he touched me, and I was still living in my dream world.

Everything in my life appeared to be falling into place. I had done so well at the firm that Mr. Carverson had kept me on after his regular girl had decided to stay home with her baby. I had enrolled in some night courses in order to expand my knowledge of the law, with the hope of one day becoming a paralegal.

John, as you might have guessed by now, never did find another job. In fact, there were many moments when I wanted to ask him if he’d even tried, but for some reason I never opened my mouth. I just continued to support both of us. I figured it was okay because every night when I came home from work the apartment was spotless, the laundry was done, and the greatest meals were laid out on the table. Life was good. I was in love. The dream continued.

The months turned into a year and a half. John never mentioned marriage, and I was too scared, or maybe I was just too busy to bother bringing up the subject. My job was going well, and I had been given several raises. Overall, at the time, I would have said life could not get much better, despite the fact that John was not working. Of course, there were moments when I thought to myself that if he’d had a job we could have afforded to buy a house.

Then came the bomb! I had been naturally blessed with robust health, never taking time off work, but on one particular day, I felt extremely ill. I asked Mr. Carverson if I could leave early, and he said it was no problem. There have been fleeting moments when I have wished he had told me I couldn’t, that he needed some document finished, or needed me to file some paper at the courthouse, but that was not the card life dealt me. I headed home to my apartment, to the love of my life, to my dream world.

Crash! There was John, cosily tucked into bed with a blond bimbo! I did not bother to ask her name—Dream Shatterer is how I think of her. I ordered John to pack his bags and get out, and then I sat down and cried. I tried to piece my life back together, but I just could not seem to manage. Finally, I asked Mr. Carverson for a temporary leave of absence.

“I think I know what you need,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. “A change of landscape.”

I thought, at first, he was going to send me to some little out-of-the-way cottage on a deserted island to heal for awhile; that would have been ideal. But I guess what he offered me was something much better.

“A lawyer friend of mine, in Brantford, is in need of a skilled legal secretary. In fact, he just called the other day and asked me if I knew of anyone. I can give him a call right now if you like, and see if the position has been filled.” Mr. Carverson waited patiently for my answer.

“You can always come back here if you don’t like it,” he prodded. “I will keep your position open for six months. How does that sound? Brantford is a small city, and it might do you good to get out of Toronto. You really are not a big-city gal,” Mr. Carverson stated, a fatherly tone to his voice.

I sat for a few more moments, contemplating the offer. It was one I knew I should not refuse because the reality of my life was that I could not afford to be without a paycheque. I knew I had to close the book on this dream-turned-nightmare before I could get on with my life.

~

I located a small, secluded, one-bedroom apartment in the upper back part of an old house on Broad Street. Since it was summer, and I did not reside too far from the downtown core where I was employed, I decided to walk to work every day. There was no sense wasting money on a car. I had planned to save money to continue furthering my education, but it was something I had neglected after John had cheated on me. Even though my aspirations were leading me in the direction of becoming a paralegal, I was also toying with the possibility of studying criminal psychology and profiling. People interested me, especially their behaviours.

Every day on the way to and from work, my footsteps took me past a certain house—a house I had finally nicknamed Mystery House. I called it this because never once in passing had I noticed a living soul on the premises. The house just stood there, seemingly isolated from the world, aloof behind an army of formidable trees.

It did, however, flaunt a stately demeanour that appeared to be cultivated by the most experienced of horticulturalists, and it looked as if, in its loneliness, it was daring someone, anyone, to step past those trees and behold its wonder. I guess I was that someone. Several times I had stood by the trees at the perimeter of the property and gazed at the scene before me. Everything in the yard was in perfect order, and I was constantly baffled as to when such tedious work was performed.

The windows were shaded with thick, white lace curtains, which I presumed were meant to filter out the direct rays of the sun. My mother had always drawn her curtains during the day to keep the sun from fading our furniture. I wondered if whoever was living behind those curtains was similarly inclined.

Large white lounge chairs with rose-coloured cushions were scattered on the imposing wooden veranda that surrounded the house, but I never noticed anybody sitting in them, at least not in the daytime when I passed by. What a waste because they looked invitingly comfortable. I thought it might be nice to stretch out on one of them, on a sunny afternoon, with a good book in hand and an ice tea by my side, or maybe a glass of bubbly wine. I was beginning to dream again.

The flowerbeds were manicured to perfection, displaying an exquisite spectrum of colours. Bright red roses crowded the lily-white trellises that were attached to the side veranda. On each corner of the veranda were monumental stone flowerpots filled with pink, red, and white petunias. It was difficult to tell, from a distance, exactly what the pots looked like, although they appeared to be shaped like some sort of animals. What animals, I could not quite tell, but I assumed they were probably the cute kind that most people would purchase ... squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, and so on

The lawn was mowed in exact, even rows, which created a checkerboard effect. The ancient trees that surrounded the entire area were gnarled by time, and when the breezes blew, they whispered a century of secrets to passers-by. I had yet to hear one of those secrets, but my imagination was ready to conjure up what they might be.

The large, rambling house actually looked like a miniature castle. It appeared to be a replica of the larger monstrosities that dotted the countryside in Europe. The bricks sparkled with a strange shimmering lustre under the rays of the daytime sun. I had wondered many times if it were a sleeping castle waiting for its ... and then I would shake my head, discarding such juvenile fairytale thoughts. Silly me ... waiting for what? I could not allow the dream to go that far, not yet.

My deep-seated curiosity continued nagging at my better sense—the sense my mother had always told me to keep at the forefront of my priorities. Why I chose such a potentially stormy evening for a late-night walk, to discover who lived in the house, is still beyond my comprehension. I have rationalized that the night had been unusually hot for the month of October and my apartment terribly stuffy. My landlord did not believe in wasting electricity on an air conditioner, especially in the fall. Instead of taking that stroll, especially at such a late hour, I should have been content to stay home, where I would have been safe. I could have had some popcorn, watched a good movie, put my feet up, and relaxed. How different my life would have been had I done that!

However, as I reflect back on the events now, I often wonder if it was the night that had chosen me.

~

I found myself creeping stealthily up to the main door. Should I knock? Don’t be silly, I thought to myself. What would I say? Hi, I was just passing by. I’m new in the area and just want to meet my neighbours. For God’s sake, by the time I arrived at the house it was after 11:00—almost midnight, actually! What could I have been thinking? Who would want to be bothered at this ungodly hour?

I let my hand drop back down to my side. Curiosity still pestered me, though, so I proceeded to move slowly along the wall toward the large bay window that jutted out of the front part of the house, to the right of the main door. I noticed a small nightlight flickering through the curtains. Maybe there was someone still up reading or watching television. After all, the hour was not late for those who liked to catch the evening news. Maybe just a glimpse of a human entity would satisfy my inquisitiveness.

I inched slowly over to the window and peered into the shadowy room. The flickering light, to my surprise, was a candle, and its light glowed on a massive figure that appeared to be dressed in black. Not that being dressed in black was strange—lots of people wear black. But there was something strange about the figure sitting in the armchair. Whoever it was, was wearing something with a high, stiff collar that covered half its face, making it extremely difficult for me to distinguish any features. And there was no late-night news on the television. There was no television. The figure was just sitting there, with not even a book in hand to pass the time.

Once again, I found myself conjuring up foolish thoughts of what might be sitting in the chair. Of course, it was a human—what else could it be? People were entitled to eccentric tastes, especially in their own homes. After living in Toronto for so long, I had seen things that would make my great-grandmother’s poker-straight hair curl, and I had a tendency to over sensationalize things. My mother had mentioned, on many occasions, my imagination would probably land me in trouble one day!

I continued my vigil, nervously waiting for more clues of who resided in the mysterious house. Another shadow entered the room and walked over to the figure in the chair. The two images appeared to be having a quarrel, but from where I crouched against the thick brick wall, I was unable to hear a word. The house seemed quite soundproof. Besides, the noisy night melodies of the crickets kept any other sounds from my ears.

The standing figure waved its arms and turned to leave the room. I observed long black hair sweeping around the body as it moved, but she, as I now presumed by the hair, did not get far. The figure in the chair stood up. He, as I presumed by the height, was wearing a cape! He grabbed the woman by the wrist and spun her around to face him. By the looks of what was happening, I had landed myself in a family squabble, and I felt a twinge of guilt for being a peeping Tomasina.

I was unable to pull my eyes away from the scene. I stared more closely at the figures, and my heart leapt into my mouth. “It can’t be,” I stammered. “It just can’t be!” I pinched my arm. I was real. I ran my hand along the window ledge. It was real. I peered through the window again. I watched as the man snarled at the woman, and when his mouth opened I saw the two grotesque fangs protruding from within! They looked so real. But how—how could this be? He threw his head back and let out a hideous laugh. At least that is what it looked like to me!

I started to shake. Halloween around the corner or not, that man in there was too real for comfort! I had to get away. I panicked, spun around, and began to run. I did not get far, though. I half-turned to get another glimpse of the house I was fleeing from. Whatever I ran into, well let’s just say that it was a lot harder than my body. All I remembered later was that I felt myself spinning down a tunnel of darkness, into a deathly blackness, deeper than the deepest of sleeps.

Her

Chapter Two

Upon awakening, I found myself enclosed in a beautiful canopy bed. Heavy red curtains hung from the overhead wooden bar that extended around the perimeter of the bed. I reached out to touch the material, and my fingertips sank into the lush velvet. The dark wood on the headboard and bedposts was distinctive. I was sure the bed dated back at least to the 1700s. I was slightly startled when I noticed the wood was grooved with intricate carvings of creatures.

The creatures were diabolical. They could be considered human if one were to stretch one’s imagination, yet there was an even greater animal-like form to them. If I looked at them from a certain angle, the creatures could be a pack of wild wolves. I also detected the strangest thing—each one had two enormous incisors protruding from its snarling snout, much like the incisors I had noticed on the man in the room. I was aware that wolves had fangs, but not like these!

I dared to peer through a crack in the curtain. Sitting in a chair, not far from the door, was a lady. She had long, black hair, like the woman I had seen through the window. I assumed it was the same one. She turned her head toward the bed as she sensed my stirring. I tried not to breathe. I did not feel ready yet to encounter anyone. Too late.

“Finally, you are awake.” She rose from her chair, walked over to the bed, and drew the curtain back. “You have slept long. It was a nasty blow you took when you ran into the statue in our garden.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

I tried to catch my breath. Earlier, I had only observed the lady from a distance. Now, up close, I could see that she was beautiful, more so than I thought possible for any woman to be. Never, and I mean never, had I ever witnessed such perfection of body and face.

Her hair was of the deepest ebony. It lay in ripples down her back, falling far below her waist, tickling at her calves. Her eyes were deep pools of darkness, and I could not help wondering what secrets they concealed. Her cheeks and lips possessed a natural rosiness that was not created by human touch; it could only have been produced by the mistress of all beauticians, Mother Nature. The ivory smoothness of her skin only emphasized the colour more strongly.

Her body curved in all the fitting places. The sash enclosing the petite waist was slightly loose, as though there were no belt made that was diminutive enough to fit her snugly. Finishing the picture were the hips, which curved out softly from the waist and added a bountiful perfection to the lower extremities.

Then why, I wondered, was this apparently perfect woman dressed in black? With her colouring, she could have worn a deep shade of red, or sapphire. Black was such a sombre colour, usually reserved for funerals and evil creatures, or for women who tried to hide their extra pounds. At least that is what some women believed, but I knew it was actually a fallacy, having read an article on the subject. Black could be very becoming on a woman with the right skin tone for it. This woman did not appear evil, nor was she overweight. Possibly she was in mourning, then.

“Where am I?” I finally managed to stutter.

“I cannot say,” her voice was a bare whisper. “Only he can tell you this—if he wants to.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he wants to’? Who is he?” I began to tremble, and it was not just from petty nerves, but from well-grounded, home-grown terror—especially if the he she spoke of was the one I had seen in the room—the one with the fangs!

“He is the owner of this house, the ruler within these walls. His word is the ultimate authority in this, his domain. Only he decides who comes and goes from here, most especially so for those who come without an invitation!” The strange lady’s voice had risen to a more audible level.

“What are you talking about? Ultimate authority? His domain? We are living in the twentieth century, are we not? Is this some kind of sick Halloween joke? Time travel is something that only happens in the movies!” My voice trembled with frustration ... or was it fear?

“Yes, your world is in the twentieth century,” she confirmed. “But ours is not.” She paused. “As for this being a sick joke, my dear, I think you will find joking is one thing the count never does!” There was no mistaking the meaning of that final statement.

I decided to ignore the word count, for the moment. Instead of pursuing the suggestion of aristocracy, I dared myself to ask another question. “How long have you been here?”

“Here?”

“Yes, here, in this place.”

“I have been here, and there—a bit of everywhere—for what seems to be an eternity.” Her lips curled into a peculiar smile as she answered me.

“Well, that is a long time, eternity,” I retorted with an edge of sarcasm in my words. “Maybe you could translate that into years for me?”

“Years, such as you know them, have no meaning in our world. I have seen thousands of moons ...”

“What about suns?” I choked on the question. I had no idea why I dared such an enquiry; maybe it was because I still held a vivid picture of the man in my short-term memory. The last time I had laid eyes on a creature like him had been in the Dracula movie I had recently watched.

“I don’t care for the sun,” she whispered huskily.

“Oh, i...i...is it bad for your skin?” I dared to dig further into what might be dangerous ground.

Once again, the peculiar smile. “Something like that.” She turned to a long rope that was hanging by the bed and gave it a pull. “Perhaps you would like some refreshments?”

I wondered how long I had been unconscious. My hand moved to my stomach as my innards acknowledged their hunger by growling loudly. I glanced toward the window. It was dark outside. “How long was I sleeping?”

“For a day. As I said, you took quite a nasty blow. Actually, I am surprised you are up this soon,” she declared.

There was a knock at the door. The lady stood up. It appeared to me that she slithered across the floor to unlock the large wooden door. The hinges squeaked as the door swung open. A withered old man stood there, apparently awaiting further orders.

His hair was unkempt, reminding me of the style used to depict mad scientists in the movies. His bones bubbled under his skin, giving him the appearance of a gnarled tree trunk that had witnessed too many years of sun and terrible weather.

His body was bent in an awkward position. My first glance of him had suggested irrefutable frailty, but the deeper I gazed beyond the outward appearance, the more I sensed an indefinable strength that might possibly last forever. Elderly people were like that sometimes, I guessed, even though my experience with seniors was quite limited. I had never known my own grandparents, both having passed on before I was born. My only memory of them was their wedding picture, which my mother had kept, well dusted, on the fireplace mantel. My mother had always said that I had inherited my grandmother’s long, thick red hair and my grandfather’s slim physique.

“Would you please bring us some refreshments,” the lady ordered him, a little coolly, I thought.

“The usual, madam?” he droned.

She smiled. “Yes, that will be fine, Max.”

I pondered what the usual was, and also, who would be desperate enough to work in what might be a godforsaken place. The lady was a tad weird, and the man she had been arguing with had seemed sinister, to say the least. At that point, I had no idea just how sinister, or how godforsaken, this place truly was!

Max returned a few minutes later pushing a dinner cart. If I were a betting person, I would have said the cart had been sitting just down the hallway, already fully prepared. “Will that be all, madam?”

“Yes, Max, thank you. You may return for the trays in half an hour.” She paused. “Please inform the master that our guest has awakened, and I will be supping with her tonight.”

“As you wish, madam.” The door squeaked shut as the old man took his leave.

The beautiful lady motioned to the table. “Please, join me.”

I stared at the china soup bowls and mugs sitting on a silver tray. Pictures of ancient castles, overgrown with wild vegetation, were painted all around their exteriors. I leaned closer in order to get a better view of the images. Were those wolves hiding in the thickets? Wolves with fangs? They closely resembled the creatures carved on the wooden bed. How interesting, I thought to myself, wondering if the castles were actually replicas of real things.

She lifted the lid from the soup bowl. My stomach churned, just about heaving up what dregs might have still been taking refuge there. It was the most ghastly looking food I had ever seen, if one could even imagine it was food.

“W...w...what is that?” I stammered.

“Pudding—blood pudding,” she smiled provocatively. “May I serve you a bowl?” The spoon hovered over the pot.

“Ah, no ... no thanks. I believe I’ll pass, and wait for dessert,” I said staring at the liquid in the bowl. It absolutely was no ordinary blood pudding, or at least, not like the one I had tried while living in Toronto.

A friend had taken me to an Irish pub, and we’d had a breakfast of sliced blood pudding, eggs, and potatoes. When I had asked what the black sausage was on my plate, my friend had laughed and said, “Oh, that is just blood pudding.” When she had noticed the startled look on my face, she’d explained the pudding was made of animal blood, grains, raisins, and spices. To my surprise, I had found it quite pleasing.

However, such was not the case here; what was in that bowl I could have sworn was honest-to-goodness real blood, the kind that flows through the veins of every red-blooded mammal! I shook my head in an attempt to cast out such thoughts.

“Oh dear, I am so, so sorry! How absolutely thoughtless of me; I should have known better. I will get Max to bring you something else ... something more palatable to your taste buds.” The lady in black moved toward the bell. Again I noticed that peculiar curl at the corner of her lips.

“No ... please ... its okay; don’t bother yourself, or Max. I should just be getting on my way. I’m not actually that hungry. I’ll be able to grab a bite to eat when I get home.”

“Oh no, I insist you stay! Maybe you just need a bit more rest to regain your appetite. You do look a little pale still. Max can bring something up before he retires for the night.” Once again, the peculiar smile.

“If you don’t mind, and I don’t mean to insult your hospitality, I would really rather just be going on my way. If I don’t arrive home soon, my family will miss me. My mother expects a call from me at least every three days, and I never leave for any great length of time without giving her some kind of word.” There was no need for this lady to know my mother had already passed away. “If you would be kind enough to show me the door—front, back, any one will do; I’ll find my way from there.”

I noticed her eyebrows elevate sharply.

“Well,” I stood, not having received the answer I was looking for. “Would you mind just telling me the way out, then?” I said firmly.

“Oh no, I cannot tell, or show, you the way out. You may not leave yet. I thought I had already made that quite clear to you. He must see you first. Only he decides who leaves here.” The words flowed smoothly off her tongue ... soft ... yet, at the same time, their tone left a weird, creepy feeling in my bones.

“Yes, I know you said that before, but I really must insist that I leave now.” I was desperately trying to get my point across. “When do you think he will see me?” I inquired.

“When he is ready.” There was an annoyed look on the lady’s face.

I stood up and started to pace. What kind of a nightmare was this? The worst, I told myself. Why couldn’t I simply be like normal people? I could have continued to admire the old house from a distance, from the sidewalk by the street. But oh no, not me! I’d had to walk across the yard and up onto the porch. I’d had to look in the window! And for what reason—just to satisfy my insatiable curiosity? What had I landed myself in? Only God knew at that moment, but I wished He had been kind enough to send me a heavenly vision that would have steered my feet away from their path-wandering tendencies that night!

The situation I found myself in was too ridiculous to even resemble reality. In the room with me was an intriguing black-robed beauty! She was true enough to life. Then there was the blood pudding, made with what appeared to be real blood! Finally, there was the tall mysterious man in a high-collared black cape—a man with fangs! Was he the him the lady constantly referred to, the man who claimed to be the ruler of this domain? I had yet to find out if this elusive man, who was referred to as the count, was real—or if the bump on my head had been so severe that my overactive imagination had finally taken total possession of my mind.

I shuffled cautiously over to the window and tried to grasp my bearings. I turned and glanced back at the lady. She was eating, or should I say slurping, from her mug, and from the looks of it she was relishing every drop of her drink. A bead of blood escaped the side of the cup and dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Her tongue flicked quickly through her open lips, rescuing the stray droplet. My stomach churned, and I felt as though I was going to vomit for the second time that evening. I turned back to my window, placed my hands on the handles, and attempted to open it. It would not budge.

“There is no use trying to leave.” Her voice startled me. “As I told you, only he will decide if and when you may go.”

Goosebumps ran up and down my flesh. Who was he? What did the lady mean by “if and when”? What power did he wield over this beautiful woman; for that matter, what power did he think he held over me? This was a free country. People came and went as they pleased, yet she had said this was his domain. Did that mean he was above the law of the land? This is Canada, I mused to myself. Canadians are protected by the Charter of Rights and Freedoms! Was he so powerful that he could reach beyond even its protections?

My imagination began spinning again. Maybe I had just landed myself in the home of some big Mafia kingpin who thought I was spying for one of his rivals! Oh Lord, if he thought that, then what would my fate be? Didn’t he realize I was not a person of any great importance? I would not dare say a word about anything. Besides, I knew nothing to say anything about!

And who was this mysterious woman? Wife? Lover? Employee? I deduced, from the looks of her, that she fell into the category of a wife or a lover. No man in his right mind would hire such a beauty if he were in marriage and wanted to preserve its sanctity! She appeared amiable, on the surface, but one could never quite tell what might be buried deep under all that serene beauty. I had observed women similar to her at some of the office parties I had attended in Toronto. They were all glamour on the surface, but inside, they were rotten to the core.

What motive could there be for holding me here? Who was he? What was he? The same questions kept churning over and over in my mind, creating my own internal horror film. I could feel the tears creeping upward, toward my throat as I considered my possible predicament. All the recent events continued to race through my mind. Halloween character? Mafia kingpin? Would my fate differ in either case? There was a knock at the door. I held my tears in check; maybe it would be him, coming to say that I could go home. The lady opened the door. Max entered.

“Are you finished, madam?”

“Yes, thank you, Max.”

“Was everything to your taste?”

“Perfectly—to mine, that is. I don’t believe our guest was particularly pleased, though; perhaps you could fix something more to her preference for later?” she suggested.

“Yes, madam,” Max mumbled.

I shuddered again as an eerie sensation gripped me. I watched as Max gathered everything together and ambled out of the room. The lady closed the door behind him and then turned to me, with that smile. I was wondering by now why she smiled like this. It was certainly not a friendly smile, and yet it was not hostile, either. It was just as I have been saying, peculiar.

“You look as though you would like to rest awhile longer; you are still so pale.” She glanced toward the window where I was standing. I followed her gaze and noticed the sun was beginning to peek up over the horizon.

She certainly was right about the tired part. I could not shake the fatigue that seemed to have overtaken my body, even though I had been asleep for twenty-four hours. It must be the stress. My mother had always said that stress caused turmoil in the system. My mother had never seemed stressed about anything; I had always wondered how she could remain so calm in the most critical situations. Maybe it had been her simple lifestyle.

“I must retire now,” she informed me. “As I mentioned earlier, if you need anything, just ring the bell. Max will see to your needs. He will bring something more edible for you if you wish.”

I could not let her depart without one last-ditch effort to get out of there. “I just want to go home,” I choked the words out, tears welling in my eyes.

The lady walked over to the door before she returned an answer. “I will inform him that you wish to see him.”

“I don’t want to see him!” I screamed. “I want to go home!”

“I will speak to him.” Her lips shut in a firm line that declared the conversation was over. The door squeaked shut behind her. There was a clicking sound as the lock fell into place. I was left alone to whatever misery I could conjure up in my mind.

I paced around the room. I had to get out! But to where? And how? Everything seemed to be locked. Wait! I ran to the door. Maybe I had only imagined the click. I tried to open it. My shoulders sagged in desperation. How dare she do that to me! I walked, with faltering steps, back to the bed and lay down. I stared up at the ceiling. Painted creatures, evil and unfamiliar, stared back at me.

The tears began to pour, finally breaking free from their restraining barriers. I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow. Sleep would ease my pain and break me out of this horrid dream I had landed in. When I awoke, I would be in my own cosy little apartment, asleep on the couch with a TV remote in my hand. The alarm would wake me in the morning. I would get up, get dressed, and go to work—that was reality! That was what I hoped for. That is what I prayed for. Blessed sleep would make the nightmare go away.

~

I awoke with a start. I was still in the locked room. There was no TV, no remote control in my hand, no comfortable familiarity—not even my cursed alarm clock buzzing me into wakefulness. The sun was shining brightly into my room. My stomach rumbled hungrily, reminding me once again of just how famished I was. I could not remember when my last meal had been; I presumed it had been supper on the night of my little walk. I would have to chance eating something, even if it was not totally to my liking. A sixth sense told me I was going to need a plan to escape from this place, and in order to do that, I would require all of my strength!

I pulled the rope, and within seconds there was a knock on the door. I was not given time to offer a verbal invitation to enter. A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open.

“You called, miss?” Max asked.

“Yes. Would it be possible to have something to eat now, please? The lady told me you could prepare something to my taste.”

“What would you like, miss?” He said the magic words, confirming that there just might be some food fit for human consumption in this place.

“Do you have eggs, toast, coffee, and juice?” I asked hopefully.

“How would you like your eggs done, miss?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Over easy, please.”

“As you wish, miss,” Max said as he turned and left. I heard the key click in the lock.

Max certainly was not a man to mince words. I wondered what his role was, besides that of a butler. Were there a cook and a housekeeper, as well? Would he be passing my request on to some overweight, jolly chef who wore large, grease-stained aprons and worked cheerily away in a bright, spotless kitchen? No matter, I reasoned; at least I was going to have some decent food. It was of no consequence to me who cooked it or what they looked like.

A vision of the lady in black, sipping at the blood pudding, passed before my eyes. I shuddered. I walked over to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and surveyed the gardens, searching for another form of human life. Nothing—only flowers and grass and trees. I turned around as I heard the key in the door. Max re-entered, carrying a tray laden with my food. The aroma teased my nostrils.

“I’ll set it here, miss?” Max asked as he put the tray down on a small table by the window.

“Yes, thank you, Max.” I paused. “Where is the lady?” I asked.

“Resting, miss.”

“But it is daytime,” I remarked curiously.

“Yes, miss. That it is,” Max replied matter-of-factly, not offering further information.

“How long will she be resting? When will I see her again? She promised to talk to him, whoever he is, about allowing me to leave.”

“When the sun goes down, they will both be up. You will see her then. As for him, I cannot say. He will see you when he is ready to see you, not at your desired time,” Max articulated.

“Do they work nights?”

“Work nights?” Max appeared puzzled.

“Yes, you know—a job—the night shift?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry. Yes, something like that,” was the evasive reply.

Everything was beginning to add up—add up to an incredibly unbelievable story! I thought these kinds of things only happened in the movies or on the pages of a book, thanks to some writer’s overactive imagination. I was not ready yet to accept how my suspicions were adding up. I had a pretty solid hunch that I had encountered a real live vampire, and I presumed that the lady in black was not the only vampire in this house. I was willing to bet my bottom dollar that he was the head honcho, maybe even the king of vampires himself—Dracula!

It was him I was truly terrified to meet! My hand reached up to my throat, brushing against my necklace, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness! I had worn the crucifix that had been my grandmother’s and been passed, first to my mother, and then to me, when I had gone off to college. I wore it a lot because it always gave me a feeling of closeness to my mother. I had an eerie feeling I was going to require its assistance somewhere down the line; I prayed it would carry the power I was going need if that moment arrived.

Max lit the candles that were scattered around the room. “It will be dark soon,” he noted. “You will need this light.”

“Why the candles?” I inquired. “Do the light switches not work?”

Max smirked. “The switches do not work. The master had them disconnected. He doesn’t cater to a lot of modern conveniences; he prefers to lead a simple life.”

Max backed out of the room. I heard the door lock click into place. Once again, I found myself alone. I had to think fast. It would be dark soon. There had to be a way of getting it through to the lady in black that I wished to leave right away. I had no desire whatsoever to meet with him, whoever or whatever he was! Could she be my hope of escape, or was she too connected to and too controlled by him to be able to assist me?