Victorian Tale (Victorian Tales Book 1)

by K. L. Somniate

Shut up, would you?

  “Do you usually invite interviewees over to your apartment for interviews?”

  “Just the special ones. The rest I tend to meet at a café or something. But here,” the journalist says as he comes over, two cups of steaming tea in both hands, “I can make sure we’re not overheard.”

  that is so sketch-

  “Thank you!”

  She’s never drank tea before, but she already feels a little shy, almost like a child, as he sits calmly across from her. Drinking tea will at least make her feel more like an adult.

  She takes a cautious sip.

  he could’ve drugged-

  I watched him make it and bring it over. He’s drinking from the same pot and besides, I would’ve noticed if he were hovering over my cup longer than-

  “So, were your scores good enough to get you to regionals?”

  “Yes, in two weeks! I’m so excited, my team worked so hard, they deserve it, honestly-”

  “’They?’ Don’t you mean ‘we?’” the journalist says.

  Victoria doesn’t like tea, but she hides her grimace, because adults like tea.

  “I-I meant we.”

  “Good, because you did well too.”

  he doesn’t understand the scoring system, yet he says he writes pieces on this shit?

  She freezes, suddenly aware of a…pressure on her shoulder.

  She turns her head, her hair briefly obscuring her vision, but the journalist is talking again and she snaps back to his direction.

  “Tori, are you dating anyone?”

  She drops the teacup in shock.

  It bounces off the carpet, thankfully not shattering, but leaving a dirty brown stain.

  Victoria, both embarrassed and horrified, leaps up.

  “I’ll get a napkin!”

  “Don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it, please, I’ll do it,” the journalist says kindly, patting her on the shoulder as he passes to get something to clean the spill up. “But you didn’t answer my question!”

  creepy question.

  Victoria almost screams.

  For just a second, she’d felt his hand on her shoulder, Malek’s, holding it tight, his breath on her ear, his presence lurking over her like a shadow.

  “I-I’m not seeing anyone, no!”

  Stop it.

  Malek lets out a hiss of frustration.

  As the journalist shuffles around his kitchen, ripping up paper towels, Victoria clamps a hand over her mouth, which had almost hissed aloud.

  He’s like a live eel wriggling its way across the landscape of her mind, squirming over the crevasses of her brain, worming over her nerve endings and sending shocks through her entire system.

  In his agitation, his concentration wavers.

  She’s able to slip into his corner, just for a-

  wrong wrong wrong wrong this is wrong get out of here get out of here my instinct always knows the senses will not be fooled she taught me everything i know one when i see one he’s no journalist i’ve seen his eyes before his face they’re all the same those cunts those cunts who left me to rot

  But his emotions, his thoughts, his compulsion to leave, get out, they’re too strong, too overwhelming. She forces herself out of the corner, feeling his mind snap shut like a trapdoor behind her. He’s once again impenetrable, locked in his hiding place, leaving her nothing but the façade once more.

  But one thing she can still feel, a part of him she can’t quite shake?

  His fear.

  The overpowering distrust and dislike for this man, who seems so familiar, in his movements, in the way he speaks, in his kind, handsome face.

  He’s…

  It doesn’t seem possible, but he’s…

  “Afraid I’ll bite?” the journalist asks teasingly. “You seem nervous.”

  “I-I’m just-just, um…a little nervous,” Victoria laughs shrilly.

  tell him you need to go to the bathroom. find a room with a window. and leap out of it.

  You’re crazy!

  “Tori? You spaced out there for a moment,” the journalist says.

  “Uh…uh, sorry, I’m so sorry, I’d be a terrible interview subject, I should go!” Victoria says.

  Immediately, Malek’s relief washes over her.

  She stands up abruptly, his energy making her skin crawl, and begins to edge her way around the table and towards the door.

  “Nonsense, you just need to get into the spirit of the thing,” the journalist says jovially, flapping his hand dismissively.

  “No, no, I’m really not sure I’m a good person for-for whatever this is, I’m-I’m not even, um, gay-”

  Malek’s twitching, practically hopping in his corner.

  out out out out

  “I knew you weren’t.”

  Malek freezes and Victoria does too.

  She turns, unable to stop herself, to look at the back of the journalist’s head.

  It turns to the side.

  Frozen, she stares at the side profile of his face.

  From this angle, he seems…sharper.

  Colder.

  He watches her out of the corner of his eye, a predator keeping its prey within its range of sight.

  “But you are a dancer.”

  All of her limbs feel like lead.

  All of her muscles have been cut.

  All she can do is stand there.

  And nod dumbly in response to his question.

  “I love dancers.”

  Malek is pushing at something.

  Immediately, she rushes to shove whatever it is back.

  She doesn’t trust him.

  To her surprise, he lets her shove whatever it is down, back to its cell, in his hiding place, where it belongs.

  “I…I really need to go, I’m very sorry, I hope you can find someone else for your interview!” Victoria pipes.

  She tries to continue walking towards the door, but he coughs and she flinches, banging her shoulder against the wall.

  Malek tenses.

  She feels her own heart responding to his wariness, beating harder and harder against her ribcage.

  The journalist bends his neck over the back of the couch, turning his face upside down, his eyes almost rolling back into his head as he stares at her in this childlike manner.

  And this time, she can see a strange, ghoulish smile on his face.

  A smile tinged with…grey, curling on his lower lip.

  “I really love dancers.”

  Malek screams something, probably an expletive, and he begins pushing again, but instinctively, she shuts him out. She tamps down on all of his force with all of her might.

  And in her distraction, she fails to notice the handsome journalist standing up, reaching for her.

  But not with his hand.

  With something she’s never seen before, something Malek recognizes, a dark, spiny, sharp-

  Malek stops struggling instantly.

  His fear is replaced by an icy, apathetic, disdainful disappointment in just a split second.

  oh well. i warned you.

  She has only a moment to contemplate the sudden change in attitude before-

  “I don’t want to hurt you…here.”

  And all of sudden, she’s being crushed, she’s being surrounded and squeezed tight like a tin can in a boa constrictor’s grip, the spines are digging into her skin, she screams as loud and shrill as she can, but at the same time, she doesn’t, because it clamps itself over her mouth, it’s cut off her air supply, it’s wrapped around her entire body, around her skull, it hurts so much, she can’t breathe, her ribs are going to break-they’rebreakingthey’rebreaking-

  And something sharp pricks her neck almost imperceptibly.

  She squirms, kicks, and struggles in vain against the immense pressure, but she can’t fight it, her strength is fading fast, her body is limp and unresponsive, a sack of bones and organs.

  Please, please, you-you-Malek-

  i warned you, he says darkly.<
br />
  He…he…he’s…

  that’s right. he’s one of us.

  he’s a revenant.

  25

  Not my fault.

  it was.

  He was so nice, he smiled like-like

  your father?

  …

  poor little tori-fied tori.

  You’re a monster, you’re the cruelest, save me, why won’t you save me, you bastard, you heartless, soulless, callous-

  i already tried to save you.

  26

  When she wakes up again, she’s on her back, her wrists strapped down with leather belt straps, her ankles similarly constricted, in complete darkness.

  She immediately struggles, tossing her head from side to side, trying to pull away from a chair, it feels like.

  A reclining chair.

  Like one you’d lie in at the dentist’s office. Or even a therapist’s office.

  It quickly becomes obvious how futile struggling is.

  She squints, her heart pumping too hard in its ribcage, trying to see through the gloom.

  But it’s so dark that she can’t see anything but a flash of white, her own nose, as alone and as lost in the shadows as she.

  Terrified, she reaches instinctively for Malek, her last resort, the only source of help she can think of right now.

  But he’s silent.

  So quiet, so diminutive, that she can barely feel him.

  Malek, why-

  “Good to see you’ve awakened, Tori.”

  Victoria screams out in surprise.

  Her hands jerk, her legs straining against her bonds.

  “P-please!”

  The journalist doesn’t move.

  She tries to see something, anything, but can’t quite strain her eyes enough. All she can do is lie helplessly in the chair and try to arch her back enough to see behind her.

  But it’s so dark, she doesn’t think it would matter much even if she managed it.

  “I’m so glad we can finally talk properly.”

  “Wha-whatever it is you’re planning, you don’t have to do it,” Victoria babbles. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

  “I find interviewees are much more compliant, much more…honest,” he says slowly. “When I get them truly alone. In a place where they can feel…truly vulnerable.”

  “What do you want from me?” Victoria pleads. “Will you let me go?”

  “What do I…hm. What do I want from you?” the journalist muses slowly, his mouth leisurely filling the empty, freezing air, his lips forming the words with great rapture. “Why…Tori, I want an interview. I wasn’t lying to you. I want to know the truth. I want you to be completely honest with me. More honest than you’ve ever been in your entire life, with anyone, even yourself. More than anything, I want…the true you. The…Tori no one knows.”

  “I-I-I’m scared, please don’t hurt me!”

  Malek, please, can you hear me? You have to get me out of here!

  “Never be afraid of the truth,” the journalist says with a smile she cannot see, but can hear, in his slow, affable tone. “It can save you like nothing else can.”

  Malek, you were right, I’m sorry, but please, he’s going to kill us-

  no, Malek whispers suddenly. he isn’t. he’s going to find the truth.

  She only has a brief moment to contemplate this nonsensical drivel before she feels the journalist’s hand on her head, massaging her scalp absentmindedly.

  She tenses, suddenly afraid he would yank out every strand of hair one by one (white strands are so ugly, aren’t they, Tori).

  “Do you know where we are, Tori?”

  Victoria shakes her head vigorously.

  His fingernails dig into her skin ever so slightly.

  Then they’re gone.

  And then he’s gone; she can hear him shuffling away.

  A moment later, the room is illuminated, completely deluged with blinding light.

  She’s in the center of an oval room.

  She is in a reclining chair, as she suspected, and she’s on the lower level of what seems to be some kind of small stadium-like room, with an upper level of seats above her, all around her.

  One portion of the wall is not covered with seats. There’s only a raised, rusted metal walkway attached to it, a flight of flimsy-looking stairs connecting it to the ground level.

  “W-what is this place?”

  “You’ve never heard of this place?” the journalist asks.

  She still can’t see him.

  “A pity. It was closed two years ago. Well, destroyed, really. The Greys overran it. Let all of the Revenants out.”

  Victoria, in a cold sweat, only continues to dig her fingers and heels into the padding of the chair, which she now notices is torn. And the rips on the armrests look like they’d been created with desperate, clawing fingernails, by people in the same position as her…

  “They used to hold Revenants prisoner here. Used to make them fight. Like dogs.”

  “I-I do know this place, it’s-it’s called the-”

  “Shhh, shhh, I’m talking,” he says quietly.

  She closes her mouth with a snap, feeling the terror of a schoolchild being scolded by an admonishing teacher.

  “This hall was known as the Hall of Truths, or something like that. They used to perform punishments here, penalties for any Revenants who refused to fight or refused to kill. They would roll dice and see which limb would be severed, which organ would be plucked out, the gallbladder or the eye, the kidney or the heart. Spectators used to sit up there, watching, clapping, laughing. It’s a shame we don’t have an audience, isn’t it…”

  “Please!” Victoria begs, tears in her eyes. Her voice is cracking, choked up with fear, but she can’t help it.

  She can finally see him.

  He leans over her.

  His attractive face kind and paternal, as though he were looking down on a grandchild.

  “All I want is the truth,” he says simply. “The truth…the truth you deserve.”

  She has no idea what he means.

  Only that his hand, coming to rest over her mouth, is to be feared.

  Only that his smile, shining before the blinding lights for just a moment before the darkness of his face overtakes her vision, is to be feared.

  And only that the truth, whatever this madman believes it is…must be feared.

  Malek, the useless bastard, watches from a distance.

  And before the man slips another needle in her neck and darkness swirls before her eyes once more, she could swear, he’s actually…excited.

  27

  “What’s your name, love?”

  Victoria, sopping wet, her freezing cold hair clinging to her face and neck, her clothing suffocating her skin, can only gasp.

  “Hm,” the journalist hums.

  Victoria thrashes against the belts tied securely around her body, her arms squeezed tight against her sides, her legs bound together, flopping uselessly like a mermaid’s tail. The thought almost makes her laugh hysterically at its absurdity, but instead she chokes, spit and water dribbling out of her mouth.

  “You say it, but I don’t believe you.”

  “My-my name i-is Tori,” Victoria sobs.

  rinse and repeat. you never learn.

  “Hm. No. You’re lying. Maybe not to me, but to yourself.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but his fingers are in her hair again. He pushes her back down into the tub.

  She knows she needs to not panic.

  She needs to focus, relax herself, and preserve oxygen by not thrashing.

  But she can’t suppress the instinct.

  She can’t control her body, can’t control the adrenaline, can’t control the fear that drives her to flop uselessly underwater, pushing against his hand in a futile attempt to rise above.

  And it doesn’t matter.

  Even if she could calm herself, he’s holding her down too long.

  He’s intentionally-inte
ntionally-

  She wants to scream, but doesn’t have the air for it when he lets her back up.

  you don’t need to breathe.

  She hurls a wordless, voiceless scream at him.

  Malek keeps his distance.

  He’d been watching the proceedings with detached interest, not saying much, not thinking much, just observing.

  She hates him more than she’s ever hated anyone in her life for it.

  She hates his nonchalance, his apathy, his smug, condescending, self-centered, callous-

  “Your age?”

  “Fifteen!”

  “Gender?”

  “Female!”

  “Your sexuality? Be honest now,” the journalist murmurs.

  “I…I…I don’t know,” Victoria heaves. “Please, stop!”

  “How long can you hold your breath? Thirty seconds? Forty?”

  The journalist puts his hand in her hair again and she shrieks in terror, her voice shrill and piercing, echoing through the empty underground like a sharp train whistle in a subway, but he merely pats her head.

  “I…I can-I can do thirty seconds!”

  “Oh, don’t lie to me about what you’re actually capable of.” The journalist clucks his tongue disappointedly. “I told you to be honest with me. You can go perhaps fifty seconds, maybe a minute, without air, is that right?”

  “…yes,” Victoria says, her voice small. “That’s the longest I swear-”

  His fingers slip into her hair again. And he shoves her back down into the water. Most of the ice cubes have melted by now, but it’s still cool enough to be uncomfortable.

  “And now you’re lying to yourself,” the journalist says slowly, down into the water, where he can see Victoria’s panicked face, her eyes opened wide beneath the rippling surface. “Maybe not to me. But to yourself.”

  PleasePleasePleasePleaseLetMeUpLetMeUpLetMeUpPlease

  you don’t need to breathe.

  When he finally lets her back up, her lungs are on fire, her vision grey, her entire body heaving with great force.

  “I’m-I’m not lying, I can’t breathe, I need to-I need to breathe,” she wheezes. “Please-”

  “This is only going to get harder if you cannot embrace the real truth about yourself, Tori,” the journalist says patiently. “What are you, Tori? Do tell me. Fifteen years old? Female? Are these the most important details, modifiers, distinctions of the person known as Tori? Because you know that’s a lie. It has been for some time, hasn’t it?”