I write now having read the pages of my phantom, having taken in the details again and again. It is now dawn and as the sun breaks the horizon in two, the words from those pages still tumble about my brain. I write what happened here as an affirmation that I am not losing my mind. Just after my brothers left I pulled free the pack of pages I’d tucked to neatly into my satchel. Upon the first sheet, bisected by a neat leather thong to hold the bunch together, was the name Dmitry. No other name existed alongside that one that might tell me of his origins or of the family from which he came. My hands shook visibly and I hoped silently to myself that this Dmitry was a man of ages past in which case I could forget his having existed. I suppose that in the hind-parts of my brain I knew that this was no man of years gone by, but still the hope burned impatiently in the fore front of my mind.
The pages held before me where newer in fact than the pages I had collected from the records room of the hall below us and the leather strap that bound them still smelled of flesh. The focus of my eyes faded in and out as I pulled the pages from their binding and stared blankly at the title. Had I read this name before in the pages that I’d been logging, I wondered as I studied the finely scrawled lettering. Had I gazed upon this person as my brothers loaded the wagons? As I steeled myself against the fear and uncertainty building within my chest, I knew that I had not. Before me were the thoughts of a man that I had no knowledge of before tonight. If indeed this man is still among the realm of the living, I have no doubt that soon he shall seek us out and I will be waiting.
With the title page etched in my mind and tucked neatly beneath the final page in the packet, I began to read. The first page contains a factual listing of Dmitry’s origins. His life began twenty years ago in the village below us, his family perished among the many that succumbed to the illness. I made note of the fact that no surname was included, his way of keeping my prying eyes from discovering the identities of his family I suppose. I read silently, not noticing the lightening of the sky or the small speck of a campfire that burned in the forest. Within the pages I found an account of the days of sickness to which I was not given a close look. I have watched from high above the city in my study, seeing the death from afar but with the reading of this text I am enlightened as to the closeness of the sickness.
He detailed the death of the villagers one by one, taking care to include a brief list of ages and how he knew them, and he included his personal thoughts on the matter. In his eyes the cause of the sickness was not some bacteria to which a name had yet to be assigned, but in fact a force that has for centuries lorded over the land upon which the village had been built. Never expressly did he mention the castle, but I knew that shrouded behind his words of thought and wonder he meant to blame us. The time passed quickly so that when I looked up from the volume to rub the weariness from my eyes, the campfire was already put out. The journal of course was not complete, as I had stolen it away before the last pen strokes could be applied. What few pages there were detailed the end of the village.
The entries became more detailed as they progressed. The first of these pages stated vague facts about the fear that plagued the villagers to the point of death, the vast number of living making close inspection of the deaths challenging. As the numbers of villagers dwindled, Dmitry’s entries became more detailed, especially as those close to him died. Their names have since been kept from the record but the manner of their death helps me to narrow down the people that could have been his family. As I read the tears speckled the pages and I was sure for a moment that the purpose of this journal was not to record what happened, but to discourage my brothers and myself from continuing the cycle that was sure to destroy millions by the end of our time here.
The passages grew more and more distressing and desperate as the number of villagers not yet stricken grew smaller and the time that it took for them to die lessened. I learned that Dmitry was present when the village woman broke her neck, the faces of the men helping escape me but his account can only be one of a person that watched the death first hand. I wondered to myself as I read the passage about Irina, for that was her name I learned, and knew that I watched from the single clear glass portion of the stained glass window in the study, that he was there watching also. The pages felt heavy in my hand though the parchment that the volume was written on had been scraped and cleaned a good dozen times at least. After that moment, the realization that the man that penned these words watched as every other soul in the village died became real.
I began to sympathize with the man that wrote these words. I feared that he too was trapped in the cycle to which I was bound and that he might have to spend his eternity alone. I wished for a split second that he would seek me out, that I could help to understand what I knew he did not. I felt like a monster in his eyes, as if even if he did find us, I would be some crude grotesque visage of the woman that I was when I ceased to be human. My mind clouded with emotion and as I rested my hand against my brow a rustling in the trees outside the castle drew my attention. The campfire was out by this time and all the light that was afforded to me through the open window was pink filled with early morning fog. The haze made it hard to tell if it were possible for someone in the forest below me to see what I was doing.
I saw nothing but the feeling that I was being watched grew with each passing moment that I spent gazing out the open window. I slammed it shut without my knowing and now the broken pieces of glass lay unattended on the floor around the window. The sound of shattering glass did nothing to break the reverie that I felt as I finished reading through the pages before me for the first time. As I placed the final page at the back of the stack I was again faced with the title page and the name Dmitry. I stared for a moment longer, trying to summon the image of a man befitting the account I had completed. Rhys broke my silence, knocking his fist forcefully against the locked door of the study. His fists were like thunder, sending shock waves through my pounding skull with each round. He always had a firm knock that resounded loudly through the halls, just like our father.
In my paranoia as I read through the night I must have locked it, but for the life of me I cannot recall when. I rose to open the door to him just after he grumpily rushed off down the hall. As I stepped out beyond the threshold of the massive oak door, I saw his back slump sadly as he walked toward the room that he and Regelus shared. I supposed that he was on his way to tattle to Regelus that I was refusing to grant him entry. I leaned passively against the frame as I waited for the pair of them to move back down through the hall to force the study door open. The look on Rhys’ face was enough to put the outburst on his part behind us. He had feared the worst of course, worried that the library too shall too become a room of tragic memories.
They are now working to find a spare window in one of the unused rooms of the castle to replace the study window that I shattered. I haven’t told them yet what made me so startled that I could shatter the window without even knowing. They dutifully came to repair it, hoping that this was not an early warning sign that my strength is beginning to wan like Daphene’s did. The remainder of the day I will be forced out of the study, they need space to fix the window, space to talk among one another and pontificate on the matter of the broken window. While they toil away in the study, I sit brazenly on the front steps of the castle; this is my way of inviting Dmitry, if he does in fact still live, to show himself. On occasion I venture outside the castle when it is not time for the cleaning, but seldom do I stay for long for fear of being seen.
I’ve been sitting here in the early morning sun for nearly an hour, scribbling away at my papers with the packet of entries tucked neatly beneath my right thigh. I knew better than place the packet in the desk or one of the shelves in the study, my brothers are no doubt rummaging through the things I left there wondering what upset me so that I should smash a window and work straight through the night. They are also wondering I might add, as to why I am sitting on the front steps of the castle, as if there is no chance in the
world that someone may see me. I know this last bit for a fact since Regelus stuck his head out the window in the study that they are repairing just moments ago to ask if I was feeling alright. I’ve never seen him so informal, even with me. His air has always been one of great propriety and dignity, and now he hangs his head out of windows and calls down to his baby sister below.
I’ve annotated this work with my own thoughts on little things, lest the account that is written here becomes dry and dull as I talk about each and every detail of our lives as if I was not there to witness them. I suppose in this way that the work that I’ve been composing since the day that Daphene died is more like a journal, more like what Dmitry left for me to discover. I wonder now if while my brothers ponder the window and struggle to fit a new mosaic in its hinges if I should go to the hall and seek out the man that spoke so painfully to me through words. I resolve that I shall remain here a moment longer, perhaps more before I begin to journey to the village for if my brothers happen to be peering out the window, they should see my progress. I knew they would be watching me until I was once again in the study about the tasks that normally fill my day. Until I was again in what state they saw as normal, I would be in their sights.
I waited until the time at which my brothers were finished with the window and it was again securely latched in place. They moved into the inner parts of the castle then, fixing things here and there as the spirit of progress filled their minds. Before they left the study I went spoke to them. They thought me for the longest time in the study, finishing the records that the night before had not produced. They left me to my task knowing full well that if they bothered me while I worked they would greatly regret it. When I knew for certain that they were tucked far away from windows in the dungeons of the castle moving things about to simulate working, I crept out through the servant door and snuck to the path that leads to the village. I discovered the door that leads directly from the study to the back of the castle not long after I decided to make it my permanent workstation.
I assumed they heeded my false warning as the walk down the path to the hall was quiet with nary a sound to disrupt the still. The hall was deserted as I had expected but not wished it to be. I sat upon the bench that rested inside the door of the building, hoping to hear a sound from the depths that would reveal a hidden life. No life moved within the building but I could feel that something had changed. Slowly I rose from the bench and whirled on that point toward the door to the room in which I had found Dmitry’s journal. The room which I had righted had again been thrown amiss so that the cupboards and cabinets as well as the desk that rested in the middle of the room were thrown about like trash. It looked as if by my taking of the packet had disturbed some delicate balance that now must be put right.
I left the room feeling as though I had perpetrated some horrible evil in taking the papers and the writing utensils. Gingerly I placed the ink well from my own fine set upon the desk that was caddy coroner to the fireplace. Next to that I placed the pen that until earlier had served as the only tool of my trade and next to that I placed the packet of papers tied neatly with the leather strap that had originally bound them. I turned to see a faint flutter of papers as some one or something moved about the building and as I came to the hall to see what caused the disturbance I shivered. The room, now colder it seemed by several degrees, became cloying and as I exited through the front door I pulled it close. I stood for only a moment to listen to a shifting that I attributed to the wind. I don’t know if I expected to find someone living in the hall or if I wanted it to be bare.
The walk back up the path to the castle was more of a sprint and as my foot came in contact with the cobblestone of the courtyard I slowed my pace and evened my breath so as not to betray the flurry in which I had arrived back home. I am now comfortably nestled in the confines of my study with my brothers staring intently at me. I have become exceedingly adept in the past few years at pretending that I am not bothered when they stare at me and they have become adept at staring. I suppose that they want to know why in fact I broke the window and if they should remove extra windows for the future. Their eyes are boring holes into me as I write this and it looks as though Rhys may be angling to read what I am writing. I shall cease what I am doing now to allow their outburst.
Just moments ago as I put my pen lightly down on my paper Rhys and Regelus descended upon me as if I had all the answers in the world. I cleverly told them that the wind had slammed the open window back against the wall as the window in the study opens inward and I was not at all worried about the prospect of a night without a window so I left them to their night and simply closed the frame. I think that they believed me but if in fact they did not it was well hidden. They are still watching me now, talking quietly to one another as if I cannot hear them. I believe they accomplished nothing more than moving things about today after the repair of my window. Seldom do they accomplish more than one task in a day. They tend to dwell upon one task for days, working it again and again until it meets their standards of perfection.
Now as I sit, wondering if in fact I had glanced upon some private thoughts that I was not meant to see, they sit with me. The packet of papers is gone and with it, the fear that my brothers might seek out the man who penned the work. Neither of them have ever been much for conversation save for niceties and things that interest them, I am sure that if they knew of Dmitry he would soon be dead with the rest in the catacombs. Though the secret that we bear is one of great proportion, to share it with another would be to place a burden that may not be supported. They’ve gone to their room now, no doubt to worry over my condition, and I’ve stayed in the study. Just a moment ago, as the boys left the room, I heard laughing. It was a great bellowing that came from the clearing, and now as the wick of my candle sputters and my eyes adjust to the darkness, there is a fire burning in the forest.
I’ve watched it for an hour now. My chair is pulled close to the window that is cracked ever so slightly so I can peer out without being seen. The laughter lasted only moments, but its pitch and timber sounded like that of a man, perhaps it was my phantom. The candle is out and as I sit here writing down my thoughts, I can see, if I look just right, the leaping of the flames of the campfire in the forest. I’ve been watching for quite some time now, the darkness of the room in which I sit hides me from the man in the forest. The pen in my hand feels heavy, I wonder if I should have left one of the pens that I took from the village rather than my own. Tomorrow I will go back to the village, but this time I will be prepared. Perhaps with the knowledge that something else does live in this clearing, Dmitry will be waiting for me. Though I know that I am eternal and that should his existence be true I could no doubt end his life, I am still worried.
6: The Sounding
I traveled slowly as I walked down the path to the hall from the castle. The birds’ chirping hid my footsteps but still I felt vulnerable. I took with me the only weapon I had to my name, a sword of impressive size and weight that held my spine erect. I walked slowly along the path, glancing from side to side as if the man in the forest would leap out at me at any moment. I arrived at the hall without incident, but the feeling of being watched followed into the depths of the building. The rooms had been tidied and the packet was back in the center of the desk with my pen and ink placed neatly beside it. I crossed the room to the desk and took the pen firmly in hand. Determined to reclaim that which I had abandoned in such haste the day before, I reached deep into my satchel and pulled out the pen I had taken the day before. I rolled it back and forth between my fingers, not at all certain what reaction it would merit.
I’d devised a story that should I be caught, I was simply coming to retrieve my pen and leave another in its stead. The pen felt warm in my hand as I turned it back and forth. Carved deeply into the wood of the handle were strange markings. I quickly pocketed the pen, replacing it with the more substantial model I had confiscated two days before. I placed it just beside the packet as I had the day before
. The leather strap that bound the pages when I returned them was neatly coiled on the desk to the left of the pages. The title page was no longer on the top of the stack and a new entry was laid out to dry. I fought with myself to leave the room without reading the entry but something compelled me. I was drawn to the papers like a moth to the flame. I pulled the chair close to the desk and perched myself neatly on its edge.
Written across the pages in the same cramped script that filled the other pages was an account of the day before. ‘I was so angry that my things had been taken, with no outlet for my feelings I resolved to expel my anger in other ways. I tore the room apart looking for the things that were so dear to me. I spent the day in the forest watching, trying to find a reason for my pain. Just as the things dear to me had been taken, they were returned. With the coming of the night my sachet was where I left it, an ink well far grander than the pot I was using was beside it, and the pen that I had relished so dearly in its finding was still missing. I was angry at first, but then I realized that the pen left in its stead was of far finer quality and as delicate as the flower that left it. If she is reading this now while I hunt in the forests surrounding the clearing, I want to say thank you. Dmitry’
The Crypt Keepers Page 5
