Lilli Beth Comes Downstairs

Lilli Beth’s mother called, and called, and called.

“What could be the trouble? Go look in on her, Allison, and see if she’s well.”

Me, the servant, had to go see if her child was well, with her standing right next to me.

Still, I did like the child. At least, I used to.

I started walking up the stairs, thinking perhaps she really didn’t hear her mother; as I got closer to the top, I called out too.

“Lilli Beth! Lilli Beth! Come downstairs, please. Your mother wants to speak to you!”

Perfect silence.

She wasn’t one to nap, but she made no noises playing with her dolls and tea set and such either; the more I thought about it, I guess I liked her because she was quiet, and simply didn’t do much. She wasn’t sullen, but seemed like she was going through the motions, distracted, and looking up at things that weren’t there.

The more I thought about it, the weirder it got, and I felt a small pang in my gut.

I reached the top, looked down the hall, but all the bedroom doors were closed.

“Lilli Beth?”

I walked toward her bedroom, put my ear to the door, and heard her talking.

“I want a new mommy.”

“Why?” Another voice, but no one had come over, certainly not to visit her.

“Mommy doesn’t care. Allison takes care of me. I like Allison. She’s better than mommy.”

“Are you sure, Lilli Beth? Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Yes. I’m sure. Mommy doesn’t care, and I want Allison to be my mommy.”

“Alright. Get ready.”

I was about to call her when I heard a thump.

Pushing open the door, I saw Lilli Beth’s body on the floor, an ivory mist covering her, moving, roiling in on itself, hovering for a long moment, then seeping into her as if she were a sponge.

The room was freezing, and what I was watching was so surreal that I didn’t even scream.

“ALLISON! Is she up there?

Lilli Beth turned to look at me, and I began backing out of the room.

“Hi, mommy.”

“L-L-Lilli Beth…?”

She got up, but something had taken her soul; she was pale and her dress was filthy, as if she’d come out of  a grave.

“Will you be my new mommy, Allison?”

Her smile made every hair on my neck and arms stand on edge, and the red in her eyes was a manifestation of damnation.

I found I just wanted to live.  “Y-yes, yes, darling! Wh-whatever you want.”


Lilli Beth walked past me, still smiling, and walked down the hall toward the staircase.

“Don’t yell, mommy. I was sleeping, and Allison woke me up.”

“I’m coming downstairs now.”

She turned the corner, and as she went down, I heard her old mommy start to scream.

Dark Justice

The alley where I found my her was ripe with dirty people lined along the brick walls and sleeping under wet cardboard, on mattresses of trash, with rats and feral cats and dogs for pets.

Covered with the filth of life and the cruelty of people, I saw my Liandra in their midst, and in the rank wetness and soft patter of rain, I held her as the blood tears dripped. Everything in me wanted to scream my rage at the Council that banished her, but I did one better, and issued a challenge to the vampire king.

I took Liandra back to the catacombs, cleaned her, dressed her in a fine gown, and styled her hair; I would carry her in to my audience with King Edron, and have my day of reckoning.

He made me beg for her life, and granted it, but in a cruel mockery of my anguish, sent her away from me.

I didn’t know how she actually died, but the banished weaken in power, and they’re forbidden to feed.

She thought I would rescue her, but as her powers faded and they held me confined I could no longer track her scent to follow.

He was the King; he would know those things.



The throne room was full.

I heard the others gasp as I carried Liandra’s corpse to our sovereign, and saw the quiet rage move the muscles in his face, like a shark skimming the surface of an ocean stirred to storm.

The paleness of her lifeless skin was a stark contrast to the persimmon light of sunset splashing the colors on the floor in jigsaw shapes, a kaleidoscope with veins of marble running through its patterns.

He leaned forward, his anger unhidden now, and everyone’s eyes were riveted.

My eyes never left his.

“I should burn you for this,” he growled. “You profane my throne room.”

I took my time, gently laying Liandra’s corpse on his royal rug.

“You profaned my wife.”

He spat, then laughed. The others laughed too, nervously, in the shadows.

Wife, did you say? Our kind can’t marry. We take flesh, not wives.”

“We were committed. I made her.”

He sat back, steepled his fingers. “Ah, there was your first mistake. Your second was to love your creation.”

I was trembling with contained rage, but he might have taken it for fear.

“I would make allowances for your youth in being one of us, but you said you understood the rules.”

“I did. You shouldn’t have banished her.”

“She spurned me.”

“And I just told you why!”

He came toward me so fast that I flinched. “And I say that is not a reason!”

Up close, his rage was a palpable force, and his eyes held my death in them.

He looked down at Liandra, then up at me. “Yet, I am a merciful king. I will give you an opportunity to put this behind you. Keep in mind that your decision, whatever it is, won’t bring her back to you.”

The shadows shifted, and the slayers came into the last of the sunlight as a servant lit candles.

“A torch!” he called, and another attendant scurried to bring one.

He held it out to me. “Kneel, and set her corpse alight, and I will consider the matter closed.”

It was my turn to spit and laugh.

He wiped his face, then struck me with the torch, the fire licking my skin like a demon lover.

I fell, and scrambled back to protect Liandra’s corpse, but I was too late, and it caught like pitch.

I screamed as he called his slayers forward, and they held me on top of her as the fire caught my own robe and started on my own flesh.


The room slowly emptied as my screams faded, and King Edron’s laughter set the sparks to dancing as they leapt and whirled in the gloom above us.

At least we, my love, we are now together.




Last Steppes

Clouds cover the evening sun, smother it, choke its light to thunderous darkness.

Rising wind sings a dirge over the sere landscape, whipping the sparse, bare trees tied to the ground through sheer determination.

I chant my song in a whisper, and the steppe wolves answer with yips and howls, and the notes blend and greet each other in mourning.

The lonely cries of strange birds respond to the call, and fill the empty spaces where there’s no room for even mournful music.

The stars form a chain around my spirit, the moon a metal ball around my heart.

I will not wander this land again, and fall to my knees in anguished relief as the scavengers gather, their eyes feverish for my flesh.

My soul will rest in the clouds.

The sound of rushing waters fills my ears, as my eyes run with the last of hot tears that freeze in the evening air.

A bare, stooped, and twisted tree provides rest for my back, and greets me as a brother whipped by the cords of a lonely, battered life.

There is nothing left.

There is no one here to see me die.

There is no one here to witness that I ever lived.

Free me, I pray.

My consciousness slithers down the branches of my bones, and out across the rocky soil.

And as a final blessing, the snow falls, gently at first, then gathering strength and speed.

It covers my tattered rags that were once clothes, whisks away the smell of my living rot.

I close my eyes, and naked oblivion spreads her legs, opens her arms, and bids me to lie with her.

If I could, I would run to her, but I walk; she is a patient lover, smug in the certainty that I am hers.

I give myself over completely, the fire of life grows dim on the other side as she embraces me.

Her smile is as dark as her purpose.

Welcome home, my love.

We kiss.

I die.

The Wedding Feast

I knew even then, in all my horror, what a bloody, evil thing she was.

Knew it, and went still, knowing what she would do to me, with me, if I couldn’t defeat her.

I couldn’t defeat her.

In this cold, post-midnight silence, looking at the setting crescent moon cleave a path down the sky for the burgeoning sun, my blood steaming on the hard, snow packed soil, I try to feel regret, sorrow, and anger.

I don’t.

I close my eyes and try to pray, and the cold flicks my ear like a seductress, renders my prayer a moan as blood spurts when I try to speak.

I stop, and roll onto my back, and the pain grows worse when she smiles, her mouth red from rending me.

“Soon, lover,” she whispers, but her red mouth never moves.

The night, and everything about it, seems brighter, sharper, clearer than before.

They said there’d be fire. Why is there no fire?

My exhalations into the freezing cold leave in white, tattered ribbons, and the effort to draw air is taking a toll.

She reaches for me, pulls me close, but there’s no warmth in her, no tender flesh, just a corrupt perfection.

I didn’t want this.

Even as I think it, I remain uncertain.

We were walking, hand in hand. She said she loved me, I felt her arms around me…

      She’s cradling my head against her cold shoulder, and I turn to look at her face, and see the gates of mortality closing, see the fire there in her eyes.

Ah, there it is. Who’s screaming? Who’s crying?

I see a vortex of screaming, burning souls in her irises, and my own is swept up with them; a sudden wash of blood floods them over, and the fire flares beneath it, burning the image away.

The screams stop.

My breathing stops; if my soul was tossed into the fire, I never felt it.

Is it a shadow of life, or just a different one? I’m the same, yet I’m changed.

Her cold fingers trace my lips, her lips open, and her gore-speckled fangs gleam.

I kiss my maker, my lover, my demon-bride, and my own red mouth smiles against her neck.

Death leaves me, a petulant child whose parents ignore him; he will gather his toy soldier hunters and send them for us one day.

But tonight I bleed, and watch the red fires burn…



*art by Vintion

The Last Lamp Lighter

The mist comes early tonight.

That means they’ll be here soon; they hide in the mist.

The last of the day revelers seeks shelter from the chilly night, and I take my lantern, its little light a small but comforting protection against the things that walk in the starlight.

It allows me to see their eyes, which is only less terrifying than not seeing them at all.

They greet me now, some with sibilant whispers, some with solemn nods.

Why they stay, no one knows. They wander, lost, soulless, fleshless, without a destination. All their plans rot alongside them with whatever remains in the old graves, the headstones crooked and faded, broken teeth knocked out of nature’s mouth.

The tip of the ladder clacks against the cobblestones as I walk, tapping out a dirge to my own eventual demise. The ladder gets lower with every passing year as my strength to carry it fades, but they still expect me to do my job.

I must light the streetlamps.

The scrape of my own worn shoes gets swallowed up, the echo choked off by the thickening veil of fog.

It gets difficult to see, so I must hurry while the lamps are still visible; painted black, I will lose them in the darkness.

I walk a little faster.

They’re here now. Soft laughter, whispered conversations, arguments and vows of undying love, the laughter of a child, the song of a musician, sung in a language I don’t know, all swirl through the streets like autumn leaves caught in an eddying wind.

I hear my name, called in greeting as I climb to the first lamp, and open the creaky gate.

The wick sizzles and pops as the oil catches, and the flame grows and swells with its greedy need for air.

Satisfied it will survive the night, I close the creaky gate and descend.

Walking against the traffic of ghostly strollers, I feel the feather touch of ethereal bodies brushing against me, the hair on my arms wet, even as they stand on end.

The lamps, not at all high above, have gazed on these streets for time untold, and the people, long past and forgotten, still remember living life in the night because of those who came before me.

Long lost is the name of the first, but I am the last, and when I go, they will doubtless convert them to something more modern.

I don’t know what these wandering spirits will do then; indeed, I may walk among them.

For now, they rely on me to keep them from being completely obscured, however slight, and for now, I can oblige them.

Clack, clack, clack, creak, creak, clack, clack, clack.  The lullaby with no words awakens them, and I see them taking comfort in the small fires. I see them glowing like souls with memories against the misty onslaught of Time, who will reach down to scoop them all away again when my aching bones make the morning rounds.

And the small fires, like the distant stars, will be snuffed out one by one by one, until the day comes when Death places the bell over me, my own light pushed into darkness, and I join the midnight miasma of melancholic souls.


I’ll Hold You Forever…

Hold me.

I’ll hold you forever.

That was our phrase. We used it whenever one of us was feeling adrift, needing reassurance, needing to know things were well between us after arguing.

Needed it, to know that things were well after we made love.

We stopped seeing each other the day I hesitated; she retreated from me and stayed upstairs, in her claustrophobic room, refusing me several times a day.

She’d always been quirky, effusive, but with a loose connection to reality. To hold her was to bring her back to herself, and me.

Those days are over, but I check on her now and then, and when I do, she gets stranger still.

In her hands is an offering, and whenever I look in, she holds it out for me to see; it seems to be something between a heart and a flower, but I see no blood, and there are no plants.

“What is that, Tavia?” I took a step further than I should have, and she pulled it away.

The silence seemed to pulse, and her eyes seemed to gleam in the semidarkness as she folded herself against the wall.

I stopped, and sought sanctuary in the doorway once again, keeping my distance.


She looked at me, the glittering light shining in her eyes from an unseen source, or perhaps from the object in her hand.

Slowly, she lifted it out to me again, trusting.

Slowly, I reached out my hands to take it. “What is it?”

The object pulsed, and I hesitated, but she didn’t pull it back. “What is this, Tavia?”

I kept one hand at my side now, lest I be bound in some way, and she’d be free to harm me.

My fingers were just grazing it when it pulsed again, and something locked my wrist so I could not break free.

As Tavia drew it back, it drew more of me inside of it, pulsing and growing.

The pain was keen enough to turn my screams to hoarse grunting; I couldn’t save myself, and I couldn’t kill her.

Bracing my free hand on the wall behind her, I pushed back against the dark force that seized me as quick and sure as a wilderness hunter’s trap.

She smiled, and her own hands began to glow asthe pull grew stronger. She was giving it strength to overpower me. Writhing like a hooked fish, I kicked and screamed and cursed at her, but all she did was give me her glittery eyed stare, seeming not to comprehend was she was doing, that she was killing me.

The force of the pull was like an ocean current, and I wasn’t fit to endure it long. My lone fist punching the wall behind her, looking to break through to find a handhold, was neither strong enough or sufficiently expert to find one.

“Tavia! Tavia, let me go!”

“I can’t, Jeral.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I am only a gatherer.”

“Gatherer?” I fought harder.

“I merely gather the souls and send them to my lord.”

“And who is this lord?”

Her smile was feral. “We don’t say his name, and you wouldn’t know it if I did.”

I stopped struggling. My strength was failing. “Why my soul?”

That gave her pause, and she gazed at me a long moment, watched me grieving the inevitable, ignoble death she was about to impose.

“I wanted to share with you. I tried.”

“It was too much.”

“But even so, could you not have loved me?”

I now gazed at her a long moment, and knowing death was imminent, saw no reason to be any more dishonest with her than I’d already been.

“I tried, and I tried to tell you we were losing it, but you were oblivious.”

She bristled at that, but stayed silent, and a dark film began to envelope the object in which she’d trapped me, tears running down her face as I was hidden from view.

I don’t know if I still existed physically, but when her lord came for me, I felt her hold me, the warmth of her soft hands seeping through the shell, and offer me up to him.

He took the proffered object in one hand, and ran the other along its surface.

As it passed over me, there was only blinding agony, and then—

I’ll hold you forever…


I look into the eyes of my mistress, and see an ember of hope yet burns.

She did not hear his heart skip as he promised he’d return, nor the cry of the infant daughter he’d made with another.
She did not see his late- night candles burning as he wrote love letters to her rival, pouring out his soul on the parchment, and on the morrow greet my mistress with a warm, false smile, a passionless embrace.

His mind whispered the name of the other, and shortly after he kissed my mistress, his mind whispered ‘farewell’.

For the loss of his love, she donned black mourning clothes, keeping vigil, a living silhouette against the gray sky and the churning chiaroscuro of the restless sea. Mizzle and tears mingled and beaded her eyelashes; through that wet prism, sitting on sodden shoreline rocks draped in seaweed and clusters of small crabs, she watched the horizon,
One day, a thread of humming harmonized the susurrating wave songs.
What sad and lovely melody is this you hum, mistress?
What primal melancholy chains you to these salted stones, the bell sleeves of your black dress fluttering, buffeted wings seeking shelter from the hurricane?
I took some steps toward her, and she let me perch on her wrist.
Teach it to me, that I may sing it back to you.
She looked right at me, as if she knew my thoughts, and began to sing:

“Love is the mask hate wears. Hate is the cloak of indifference.
“Indifference is the herald of abandonment. And I am lost in love.”
She was patient with me, even as the words came with no melody; for all the sorrow in her heart, I could not become a songbird, but would have for her sake.
She stood to her feet, wiping a single tear from her eye, and when she looked at me, I knew I’d never see her again.

“You don’t belong here, noble raven, any more than I do. This is but an open and foggy grave. I’m leaving, and so should you.”

I heard her feet crunching pebbles into the silt, the steps echoing slightly between the sloshing waves as the gray day took her into its chilly arms, and hid her from my sight.
But the memory of her sad eyes and sweet voice felt heavy inside me, and I could no more take wing if a predator plucked me from these dizzying heights, bit me open, and supped on my heart.

So now I, a black-beaconed lighthouse full of darkness, keep watch from the watery, wind-ravaged stones, calling her letter to her lover, somewhere out there in the mist.

*art by Cindy Grundsten