2
1475 Words
She and Victoria were sent to a boarding school in London. Victoria, three years older, always stood up for her when she was bullied. Once, an older girl threw Eileen's notebook into a puddle, and Victoria rushed over and pushed the girl into the same puddle.
"No one can bully my sister," Victoria said. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight—golden.
Eileen thought she was seeing things at the time. How could human eyes be golden?
Now she wasn't sure.
The train stopped at a small station in Yorkshire. The sign read "Thornton Station"—a tiny place almost invisible on a map. Eileen stepped off the platform with her suitcase, immediately hit by a gust of damp, cold wind. The wind carried the scents of earth, hay, and something she couldn't quite place—a mixture of animal stench and the sweetness of rust.
The platform was deserted.
No—not entirely. At the far end of the platform, someone stood. A woman. She wore a long black dress and a wide-brimmed hat, a few strands of red hair peeking out from beneath the brim. Her figure appeared frail in the fog, as if a gust of wind could topple her.
Eileen recognized her.
"Victoria?" The woman didn't move. She simply stood there, like a statue.
Eileen hurried over. Her boots clattered rapidly on the wooden platform. When she was just a few steps from her sister, she noticed something was wrong. Victoria's face was too pale—not a healthy pallor, but a…deathly pallor. As if all the blood had been drained from her.
"Vicky? Are you alright?" Victoria finally moved. She slowly turned her head and looked at Eileen. Her eyes were red. No—not red. It was pink. A very pale pink, like blood diluted countless times. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if someone had embroidered a flower on them with a needle.
"You've come." Victoria's voice was soft, as if it came from a great distance. "You shouldn't have come, Eileen."
"Your letter said—"
"My letter lied." Victoria interrupted her. A bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "No, not entirely a lie. I did see something. But not a monster. It was…it was myself."
"What do you mean?" Victoria didn't answer. She turned and walked towards the platform exit. Her steps were steady—but an unsteady steadiness—as if each step was a deliberate attempt to avoid falling. A black carriage was parked there, the driver an expressionless old man—he sat motionless in the driver's seat, like a wax figure. His eyes stared blankly ahead, unblinking, unmoving. His face—in the twilight—looked like it was sculpted from gray wax.
"Get in," Victoria said. She had already opened the carriage door—it creaked—as if it hadn't been opened in a long time. "We have to get to the manor before dark." Eileen hesitated. She glanced at the coachman—he was motionless—as if dead. She glanced again at Victoria—her sister—her most trusted person—waiting for her in the dark carriage.
She got in.
The carriage bumped along the muddy country road for nearly two hours. The scenery outside the window grew increasingly desolate—first farmland—golden wheat undulating in the wind like golden waves. Then the wasteland—gray rocks and withered grass rustling in the wind. Finally, a dark, dense forest. The trees were strangely shaped—their branches twisted like arms contorted in agony—or perhaps silently screaming to the sky. Some trees had huge, warped growths on their trunks, resembling distorted human faces. The bark was black—not the normal dark brown—it was charcoal black.
"These trees—" Eileen said. She pressed her face against the car window—the glass was cold—her breath created a white mist on it.
"They're sick," Victoria said. Her voice was soft—as if stating a fact she had long accepted. "They started becoming like this after that fire ten years ago. Mom said—it's the land crying."
"The land—cries?"
"Yes," Victoria said. "When it bears too much that it shouldn't bear—it cries." Victoria sat opposite her, her hands clasped tightly in her knees. Her nails dug into her flesh, leaving white marks—but she seemed to feel no pain. Her knuckles were white from the force, as if she were crushing her bones. Her eyes—stared out the window—but her pupils—were unfocused on anything.
"Vicky, what's wrong with you?" Eileen finally couldn't help but ask.
Victoria remained silent for a long time. The carriage jolted, a wheel rolling over a stone, sending the entire carriage shuddering. Victoria swayed with the vibration, but she didn't react, as if she had lost all sensation in her body.
"Three months ago," she finally spoke, "I started having dreams. Not ordinary dreams. The kind... you wake up and you can still smell blood." She looked up at Eileen.
"There was a man in my dream. He was tall, thin, and had white hair. His eyes... Eileen, his eyes were red. Like two burning flames. He called my name. He said... he said he had waited for me for four hundred years." A chill ran down Eileen's spine. The chill spread from her tailbone to the back of her head, making her scalp tingle.
"And then?"
"Then I woke up. But every time I woke up, there were two small holes in my neck." Victoria pulled down her collar, revealing her neck.
Eileen gasped.
The two small holes had healed, but left two dark red scars. Their positions were perfectly symmetrical, about an inch apart, as if pierced by some precise instrument. The skin around the scars was bluish-purple, like bruises that hadn't completely healed.
"What is this?" Eileen's voice trembled.
"I don't know," Victoria said. "But I know one thing—he will come. He will come on the next full moon."
"Have you told anyone?"
"Professor Hassing."
"Hassing?"
"Abraham van Hassing—a Dutch doctor," Victoria said. "He is also… a scholar who specializes in these things. He said he had seen similar cases. He said—it's an ancient curse. He said he would come to help me."
"When will he come?"
"He said he would try to arrive before the next full moon." The carriage suddenly stopped.
The carriage suddenly stopped.
The coachman's voice came from the front—a dry, hollow voice, as if coming from a dry well: "Madam, we've arrived." Eileen looked out the window and saw a vast manor. It sat atop a small hill, surrounded by dark forest. Even by day, it resembled a tomb—grey stone walls, black windows, pointed roofs, all appearing somber and solemn under the grey sky. The windows, like empty eye sockets, silently watched in the direction of those who came.
This was Blackwood Manor. Eileen and Victoria had grown up here. The manor had been empty since their parents died in a fire ten years ago. Eileen hadn't returned for ten years. She thought she would never come back.
But now, light shone from its windows.
A dim, flickering light—like candlelight—danced behind the dark windows, as if beckoning someone.
But now, light shone from its windows.
A dim, flickering light
The light—like candlelight.
"Someone's inside," Eileen said.
Victoria's face paled even more. The color drained from her lips, leaving them as deathly white as her face.
"It's him," she whispered. "He's here earlier than I expected…." The manor gates were open.
Not ajar—they were wide open, as if welcoming someone.
This in itself was very unusual. Eileen remembered clearly that when they left, the gates were locked—locked with a huge iron padlock. The key to that lock was in a London bank vault. No one could open it.
"Follow me closely," Victoria said, leading the way into the foyer.
Candles were lit in the foyer. Dozens of candles, placed on silver candlesticks, illuminated the entire hall. A strange fragrance filled the air—not floral, but more like… incense. Mixed with some ancient, indescribable scent, like the smell of old wood and paper in a museum.
“This wasn’t what I ordered,” Victoria said, her voice tinged with fear. Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight, pupils narrowed to pinpoints.
Eileen looked around. Everything was as she remembered—the huge family portrait hung above the stairs, depicting Blackwood ancestors in black robes, staring blankly down. A red Persian rug covered the floor, its edges worn. Portraits of ancestors hung on the walls—rows of solemn faces, appearing even more somber in the candlelight.
- Writer
