Mort Noir, One Cursed Night Date Tuesday, April 23, 2024 - 06:06 PM PST Topic Entertainment The trees reached for me like starving children, bony arms outstretched, desperate for food. I was vaguely aware of the sharp, vicious branches cutting my face and body, snagging and slashing my clothes as I raced through the forest. I stumbled over twisted, gnarled tree roots embedded in the dirty ground, hidden by the fallen autumnal leaves in rich shades of gold, red and burnt umber. I could barely hear a thing over the sound of my own shaking, ragged breath, but I could still feel as though someone was watching me, behind me in the darkness. Once again I cursed myself, regretting ever leaving the vast fields closer to the village, where others were gathered to watch the fireworks in all their exploding glory. Now I was lost, frightened, running from someone or something that I wasn’t even sure existed. I had first seen it over the lake, which by nightfall had become a motionless pool of black, gleaming under the silver moon. Suddenly, a reflection had been cast over the water, disappearing immediately, leaving me to question whether it was conjured in my mind, a childish imagination due to my own fear and paranoia of the dark. However, at the unmistakeable sound of a twig being snapped, most likely, I presumed, underfoot, I had darted away. There was no option to run except for the woods, an intimidating army of towering trees, blocking my path like the gaping mouth of hell, calling to me. Not long after, I began to feel a familiar burning pain in my side, and my lungs felt as though they were going to burst through my chest. I knew I couldn’t run much further, and my whole body was glistening with sweat. I was about to let myself collapse behind what was hopefully the safety of one of the evergreen monsters, but it was then that the light from the moon, now dappled and split through the trees, highlighted a grey, rocky surface not too far away. Gulping mouthfuls of air, attempting to restore my normal breathing, I quickly crept towards it, trying to be light footed so as not to disturb the rustling leaves and twigs beneath me. It was as I approached that I noticed its size, previously disguised by the trees, for it was metres wide, totally constructed from this drearily toned stone. It reached higher than I, and I could find no way to penetrate the stone and enter its cold sanctuary. I began to walk around it, slowly this time, breathing deeply, as my stitch faded. I trailed my fingers along the rocks rough, textured surface to help guide me in the all - consuming blackness that my eyes had still not quite adjusted to. It was to my surprise that the grating feeling beneath my fingertips at once stopped, and my hand unexpectedly pitched further into cool air inside the lone crypt. Aware of a place out of sight from the vast plague of trees that amongst them I knew my follower was trailing, I hurried inside. For some reason, the air inside this place seemed chillier than that of the night, and a foul odour lingered in the atmosphere that I could not help but inhale. In this enclosed place, it was not so long until my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and it dawned upon me that I was in a sepulchre of some sort, and at the further end, against the wall, was a solid rock tomb. I hesitantly crossed over to it, but the thought of my stalker somewhere out in the forest, not too far from me, never ceased to plague my mind, and my nausea had not begun to fade. It only worsened as my whereabouts fully sunk in – alone, or perhaps not… though for once, being alone was what I should prefer… in a tomb, in the middle of seemingly endless woods, of which I could not navigate in daylight, let alone through the thick smog of night. As I crouched, inches from the stone coffin, I noticed there were words emblazed on the side, chipped in Roman – like lettering. Some motto or quote, in what I presumed was Latin, and I could not decipher, and then: Ophelia, 1969 – 1990. A shiver ran through my body, for in front of me I knew lay the skeletal body of this woman, Ophelia as she was named. I was just resuming my upright position when a strong, muscled arm wrapped around my chest, and I screamed. I have never screamed like that in all eighteen years and I pray that I never will again, for it was even to my own ears, the most bloodcurdling sound I have ever heard, and it froze my blood. My attacker, however, did not even pause, and slammed me against the stone mausoleum wall, pressing onto me, constricting my breathing. I could not struggle, my motion was refined to the desperate blinking of my eyelids and twitching off my fingers and toes, every other part of me was restricted from movement by this stranger. What was worse, though, was the minute from then, which seemed eternal, when he held me against the wall, and faced me, his stare burning my skin. From his own face I gathered he was in his thirties, and his skin was pale and gaunt, eyes hollowed and black, with long raven hair. He was dressed in all black also, from his military boots and his trousers, to his shirt and long overcoat. When he at last stood back, he blocked the only exit, and I fell to the floor, ignorant to the searing pain through my knees as I smashed against the ground. I found myself choking for the toxic air, clawing at the hard, dusty floor for a single breath. We both stayed still, myself because I was paralysed with fear, but I was unsure of his reasons, and I feared them all the more. Eventually, I had to ask, “Who are you?” He smiled, and it was sickening. It was more of a grimace upon the face of this unholy creature. “Knowing my name will not help you. It will not free you from here.” It seemed to me that nothing could, and I helplessly began to sob, like a child, ashamed of myself, breaking down in front of my mysterious aggressor. “Why?” I sobbed, hoping he would provide an answer to this at least. To this, I was in luck, if you could call it so, for he extended his right hand, and spoke. “You see this?” I stared at his hand, still not daring to move, had I even been able, and became conscious of a ring on his fourth finger, a thick silver band, with three black stones embedded in it. I nodded, confused. “The necromancer’s sigil, I feel I ought to explain. I get the feeling you are not knowledgeable in such areas.” His voice was dominating, with mocking tones, and I was scared to speak again. To his last comment, I merely shook my head, and to my dislike he smiled again. I hated that I had given him reason to smile. “Encircled by encoded ceremonial rites, these hemetitecabchones control the powers to arouse the dead,” he informed me, gesturing towards the black stones. “And I trust you have already met Ophelia.” I felt physically sick as I looked from the man in the doorway to the tomb on the other side of the room. For indeed, she was the dead of which he spoke, and to arouse her, I knew could not be pleasant or forgiving. “What do I have to do with any of this?” I whispered, afraid to look in his eyes. He laughed cruelly. “Nature is not so generous as to hand me back the life of my beloved, without taking another in return. It is only fair to offer her some mortal life, do you not agree?” My humble humanity kicked in and I cried, “But why me? Please, not me!” He began to pace slowly in front of my way out, never taking his gaze from me, my body still kneeling on the floor. “It was foolish of you to leave the crowds, but I have not chosen through randomness, no, not for such a grand occasion. You, my child, are in the lineage of those wickens that once inhabited Caput Mortem, where my dearest countess was born. And though their bodies may now be dust upon the wastelands, it is still in your blood.” I feared he was psychotic, and I struggled to understand his words. Was he claiming that these witches of whom he spoke were my ancestors? “There is no witchery in my blood,” I argued. “I am innocent and untainted by the practises of evil you wish to perform!” But he was unforgiving and from dragged me, by the wrists, over in front of Ophelia’s last resting place. He produced from within his floor – length coat, a blade, and held it above my quaking wrists, which he grasped together in his free hand. I was very cynical to what he planned to do, but I had understood that whatever it was, it involved my blood, presumably extracted from this sword. “How much blood do you need?” I gasped. “Pray, prick my finger, but do not slice the translucent skin that guards my veins...” He spat, then, at my face, and I was disgusted, and knelt their in even more terror than before, for it seemed that he now despised me also. But to my surprise he leant down beside me and licked my contaminated cheek, hot saliva from his erotic tongue glazing my skin. Then he regained himself, and strode behind me roaring a hybrid of words in ancient languages and that of now, and I heard him pay great respects to his rotting Ophelia, “A jewel more radiant than the moon, great seductress, cast a spell o’er me, and I shall never leave your side, until once again your blood pulses through your veins and your eyes shall look upon me, our love renewed!” It was as he did this that I tried to create some plan of escape, but I knew I could not get past him, for he was stealthy and quick of foot, and his broad, tall figure could crush mine if he intended. In the end, I could only think to interrupt his chanting, and screamed, “It will not work!” To this his eyes blazed furiously, and he slashed my chest with the blade. It only grazed my skin, but it stung so, and blood dripped from it unto the floor, yet he seemed uninterested in this. “It is not nice to burn others fantasies, my precious. I suggest that you do not speak again until I am done.” And he continued to pronounce the resurrection rites, rubbing the stones on his ring, staring in strange lust at Ophelia’s tomb. I turned to it, and I was shocked, appalled and yet entranced to witness the coffin lid groan as it was slowly flung towards to the wall. The fiend and I could not look away. I vomited, though I barely even noticed this, as long, slender arm slid over the rim of the tomb, graceful fingers clutching the sides as this impure phantom rose, her burial gown white like snow, as was her skin. Her flesh barely shrouded her bones, and her eyes were like opals studding her noble features. Rushing to her side, my anonymous enemy supported her, cradling her as though she break, and her appearance was not to the contrary of this possibility. She spoke, and her tongue was blood red, in stark contrast to the rest of her fragile being. “The ceremony has been performed, I see her blood upon your blade. Sacred one, let me taste.” The handsome beast held the sword to her lips and she licked my blood from its length, slicing her own tongue as she did so, and our blood mingled together. I could not bear to see this and turned my head, and for the first time was aware of some mystical black light, if this phenomena even existed, glowing from his necromancer’s sigil, as it has been introduced. Pumped by sudden hope and adrenaline, now too far into this nightmare to pause and consider the consequences, I ripped it from his hand, placed it upon the edge of Ophelia’s coffin, and slammed the lid down, pushing her back inside it, forcing her from her partners hand. The noise it made was deafening, for not only did her coffin boom and shake with the weight of the stone lid, but my taunting beast, he screeched, and screamed, and thrashed upon the floor, before effortlessly knocking me backwards and re-opening the tomb. I stood, less fearful now I had witnessed his own sorrow, which must have been somehow provoked, and I saw as did he, the fine dust that was all that remained of Ophelia, her body taken to some place unknown, where I hoped her soul would be tortured as mine had been this fateful night. The ring itself was ground to a fine silver dust, and its unearthly light faded and died. Without casting even a look to me, the stranger took his sword, and drove it through his chest, a sickening sound marked the piercing of his heart, and blood poured down his trembling body. I stood, in shock, until there was no life let, and I knew he had joined Ophelia now. I blinked and the strangest feeling descended upon me, as I felt detached from the whole scene, and looked around like a naïve spectator. I saw the empty tomb, and this mans body on the floor, impaled upon a sword, soaked in blood, eyes cold and glassy. The image would be forever imprinted on my memory. I was scarred, I was infected, I was suddenly aware of my new found status as blood kin from these witches of which the man had spoken. And I no longer wanted to live, not as that creature, not with this burden, these memories. I tore the blade from his chest, and knelt down in front of Ophelia’s tomb. I could not understand what was happening to me. I could not deny the sense of betrayal, guilt, which I emanated. These two unknown beings, where they perhaps not my mortal enemies, or immortal as Ophelia had for some while been? Did I share blood with them? However it was, I was cursed, and this I knew could never be reversed, I should always live, day to day in my hell. I dreaded the thought. Only one option seemed inviting to me now. And with a sudden rush of excitement, fear, sickness, love, respect, betrayal and awe, I drew the sword across me, and sliced my own throat. 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