by Morgan Rice
“I’m sorry I haven’t come here more often,” she said. “I live practically down the block. I hope you’re not offended.”
He smiled.
“I’m happy that you’re here now. The present is all we have, isn’t it? All of our mistakes, all of our regrets—all that we’ve done in the past—it’s nothing compared to the power of the present.
Thank you for coming now.”
He stepped to the side and opened the door for her. They continued down a stone corridor, leading towards the rear courtyard.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good with confession,” Caitlin said. “I don’t even know what it is, really. I don’t think I’ve ever done it—or at least properly. I’m not really sure what to say—”
“Don’t worry about any of that,” he said reassuringly. “Just speak from your heart. Tell me whatever you want to tell me.”
They walked out into a small courtyard in the back of the church. It was beautiful, quaint, filled with blooming fall flowers of every variety and a small pumpkin patch, and framed by large, reassuring, ancient trees, their leaves a medley of color, many of which were sprinkled in the garden.
They followed a narrow, stone pathway and made their way to a bench beneath a tree.
They sat side by side and Caitlin leaned back, feeling at ease for the first time in days. A cool October breeze caressed her, taking off the heat of the sun. All around her, birds were chirping.
They sat there in silence for what felt like forever. Not once did the Father intrude on her thoughts. Clearly, this was a patient man, well-trained in the art of listening.
Caitlin didn’t quite know how to begin.
“My daughter, Scarlet, is sick,” she finally said.
He turned to her, looking back with caring eyes.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Yesterday—” she began, then stopped. My God, was it only yesterday? she thought. It felt like years had passed. “Yesterday…she came home sick from school. Then…she ran out of the house. She was missing, until today. We found her in the morning, and took her to the hospital. She was fine.
The doctors say she’s fine. But I don’t feel that she’s fine.”
“What’s wrong with her?” he asked again.
Caitlin sighed, trying to figure how to phrase it. She wanted to stop beating around the bush.
“Father, do you believe in the paranormal?” she asked.
He turned and really looked at her for the first time, and she could see his green eyes widen in surprise. He looked away.
“If by that you mean, do I believe there are spiritual and unexplained forces beyond the physical realm? Yes, I do. I do not believe that we live in just a physical realm. There are clearly things in God’s universe that are meant to be unexplained. Things which we were never meant to understand.”
“But do you believe in the…supernatural?” Caitlin asked. “I mean—for example—the Catholic Church—it believes in spirits, right? Demons? Possession? Exorcism? I mean—you have exorcism rituals, don’t you?”
He shifted in his seat and rubbed his palms on his knees, and she could sense he was uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.
“Officially, yes. There is a ritual in the Catholic Church for exorcism. Have I ever seen it in practice? No. Have I ever practiced it myself? No. It is a very rare thing. As much as it may have been dramatized in the movies,” he said with a smile, “it is something you really never hear about.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”
Caitlin collected her thoughts. She wanted to say the right thing, and didn’t want to seem crazy.
“I guess what I’m asking you is…do you believe in it? Do you believe that such a thing can exist?”
He blinked, and she could see him thinking. He was silent for a long time.
Finally, he took a deep breath.
“Yes. Personally, I do. Over my years, I have certainly encountered things which I could not explain. What I like to think of as intense, spiritual moments. Moments where people’s spirits defied their bodies, and vice versa. There is a spiritual realm. And yes, of course, where there is light, there is darkness—and there can be a dark side to the spiritual realm, as well. In my view, though, light is stronger than darkness—and all darkness can be conquered by the light.” He paused, looking at her.
“Why do you ask? Are you concerned for your daughter? Has something happened to her?” Caitlin decided she had to tell him. She had no choice, and she felt she could trust him.
“I don’t believe that my daughter is possessed, no,” she said. “I know this whole conversation must sound crazy, forgive me—”
He held up a palm.
“Please. I don’t judge. You would not believe the things I see and hear. Nothing surprises me, and I’m open to anything.”
Caitlin sighed, feeling better.
“I don’t believe that Scarlet is possessed, no. But I do think she is suffering from something that is not…physical, for lack of a better word. You see, father,” she said, and dropped her voice, “I believe that my daughter is becoming a vampire.”
He stared back at her, his eyes opening twice as wide. He looked startled. But, to Caitlin’s relief, she didn’t sense he was dismissing her.
He sat there for several moments, as he looked out at the garden in amazed silence.
“I’m not crazy, father. I’m a scholar. I have a beautiful, loving family. I’ve been a member of this community for years. I…I…”
Caitlin suddenly lowered her head into her hands and started to cry, realizing how crazy she sounded.
To her surprise, she felt a reassuring hand on her back.
“There is no need to explain, or apologize. I don’t judge you.” She looked up at him, through teary eyes.
“But do you believe me? Do you believe it’s possible? That vampires can exist?” He sighed and looked away.
“It’s complicated,” he said. “There is a long and complex history between the paranormal and the Catholic Church. Over the centuries, some factions have discounted it as absurd; others have acknowledged it. The official position now is somewhere in between. Exorcism is safer ground. But when you deal with other…forms of the supernatural…it is a very fine line.”
“But what do you believe?” Caitlin pressed.
He stared silently out at the courtyard.
“It’s odd you should ask me this question, because my own doctorate was on the history of the paranormal and the church. I happen to know the history of it, from a scholarly perspective, very well. If you look at the literature, the records, what’s remarkable about the vampire legend is that it persists—not just for a century or two, but for thousands of years. That would be remarkable in and of itself, but even more remarkable is that the vampire legend has existed in nearly every culture in the world, in every geographical location, every language. Even in ancient times, you find recorded entries of vampire myths and legends, even some supposed documented occurrences, in languages ranging from Chinese to African, and in places that were never geographically connected. That, of course, makes it not so easy to explain away.”
He paused, taking a deep breath.
“Even harder to explain away is that there appear common threads to the legends. Nearly always, it has to do with the body of someone recently interred. With a body rising again. Almost always, the soul has died in a way which was unharmonious—a suicide, or murder, for example.
Someone who had left the earth in a way of great calamity. In the legends, these unsettled souls rise again, after burial. In some legends, they merely visit their families; in others, they are more aggressive, and seek out blood. Blood is the common theme.” He sighed again.
“Of course, viewed from another light, blood is a recurring theme in Catholicism, too. The blood of Christ. The sipping of the wine. The holy Grail. The drink that promises immortality. In this light, one could argue that these legends and fables are intertwined with Catholic doctrine in a disturbing way.”
“What are you saying?” Caitlin asked, excited. “As you saying that you believe they exist? Now, in the modern day and age?”
He sighed.
“Again, it’s not so simple. Historically, there were many forms of vampires. Not just a physical one—but emotional and even psychic vampires. I do believe in emotional and psychic vampirism.
We see it every day, all around us. A person who, for example, vents on a co-worker with all of their troubles, and the co-worker leaves feeling deflated. That is emotional vampirism. One has fed on the other.”
“But what about the other kind?” she asked. “Physical vampires?” He slowly shook his head.
“It is not that I discount it, necessarily. It is that I have yet to see an example of it with my own eyes. I’ve seen horrible, awful things. I’ve seen perfectly healthy people have psychotic breaks.
Completely unexplained. Could this be accounted to demonic possession? Yes. Could it be accounted to vampirism? Perhaps. In my view, it doesn’t really matter what you label it. What you have is an unexplained event that is outside the guise of normal—thus, para-normal.
“Do I believe there exist in the universe dark spiritual forces that can sway a normal human life?
Yes. If you would like to call that vampirism, you could. But I would view it more along the lines of possession. In other words—I would view it as a dark spiritual force that could be exorcised. I believe that God is all-powerful, and that any force on this earth which is not positive, can be healed through God’s light.”
Caitlin’s eyes opened wide, as she felt herself fill with hope for the first time.
“Can you heal my daughter?”
He looked back at her, long and hard.
“First, remember that I am not a healer.”
“But you have healed people. I mean, you have helped them, at least. You help them every day.”
“Yes, I have helped people. Whether I can help her…I would have to meet her before I could say,” he said. “But I don’t feel that anything is impossible. I don’t know if I can heal her,” he said,
“but I do have faith that she can be healed. Whatever her ailment.” Caitlin stared back at him, welling with hope.
“Please, father. I would give anything. Please, please help my daughter.” He stared back at her, long and hard. Finally, he said:
“Bring her to me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sage pulled the huge, iron gate closed behind him, rattling as it slammed shut, then began his walk down the endless driveway towards his family mansion, upset with himself. They had asked him to fulfill a simple mission, for the sake of his entire clan. And he had sincerely intended to. But once he had seen her—Scarlet—everything had changed. He could not possibly bring himself to do what they asked.
He walked slowly, kicking the dirt, eyes on his toes, thinking. The driveway stretched as far as the eye could see, lined with huge, old oak trees, branches arching over it, almost touching, their leaves creating a medley of color. Sage felt as if he were walking into a postcard on this beautiful, late-October day, leaves crunching beneath his feet, the late afternoon sun bouncing off of everything. On the one hand, it made him happy to be alive.
But on the other, it sent a pain to his stomach, as it made him more aware of his own mortality than ever. After all these centuries, he was now faced with only a few weeks left to live. He knew he must savor each day more than ever, savor every site, every smell, taste, experience—knowing it would all be his last. He wanted to hold onto everything, but he felt it all slipping through his fingers so quickly. It was a funny feeling: he’d lived for almost two thousand years—1,999 to be exact—and all throughout the centuries, he’d never paid attention to the passing of time. He had taken it for granted. He had felt like he would live forever.
But now, with only weeks left to live, everything took on a supreme importance, a supreme urgency. Finally, after so many years on this earth, he felt what it was like to be mortal. To be human. To be frail, vulnerable. It was awful, like a cruel joke. Finally, he realized what humans went through. He couldn’t understand how they dealt with it, how they lived with their own death sentence every day. It made him admire them more than he’d ever did.
He, like his entire clan, had known for centuries that there was an end-time to their existence.
He’d always assumed that when the time came, he would deal with it gracefully, would have had enough of life, would be tired of all the centuries, of all the people coming and going. But now that the end was here, he wanted more time. It still wasn’t enough.
Being an Immortalist, Sage’s life was almost identical to that of a human’s: he ate and drank and slept and woke and gained energy from food and drink—just like any other human. The only difference was, he could not die. If he did not eat or drink, he would not die from starvation; if he got injured, he would heal almost instantly. He could not get sick, or disease.
Luckily, his kind did not need to prey on humans, or animals—or anything—to sustain its life energy. They could co-habit with them peacefully. There were some among his clan who attacked humans for sport, for a drug-like high: if they chose to, late at night they could transform to an enormous raven-like creature, roam the skies, swoop down and wrap a human in an embrace with their huge, air-tight wings, holding them like that for minutes until they depleted all the human’s psychic and emotional energy. They would leave them crumpled on the ground, collapsed, when they were through. They would never actually bite them. But they didn’t need to—when they wrapped their wings tight around a human, it drew out all the energy they needed.
Of course, this was completely unnecessary for an Immortalist’s existence. Those of his clan who did this did it for a high that only lasted for a few hours and sent them crashing after that. Sage could only always tell when one of his clan had fed—he could see it in the brightness of their eyes, the flush of their cheeks. Human-feeding was an unnecessary and hedonistic sport. It was also cruel, as it left the human victim psychotic. For this reason the Grand Council had outlawed human-
feeding centuries ago. None of his immediate clan partook. After all, who wanted to draw so much negative attention?
But lately, things were starting to change. With only a few weeks left to live, he noticed his people acting differently. They were all on edge, acting desperate, and doing things they never would. He’d even heard that last night, one of his own had attacked a human.
Of course, he knew who it had to be: Lore. Who else? A distant cousin, Lore was the bad-apple of his clan, and had been a thorn in Sage’s side for centuries. He was an energy addict, and he relished in causing trouble for his clan everywhere they went. He was also a hot-head, vindictive, and totally unpredictable.
Sage continued down the driveway, approaching their ancestral home—a huge, sprawling marble mansion surrounded by dozens of acres, right on the river. They had homes all over the world, of course; they had grand castles, and marble townhomes, and fortresses, and entire islands. But of all the homes around the world, Sage liked this one the most. Tucked away, far from any main roads, nestled against the tranquil Hudson River, this one felt most like home. He loved to sit out on the balcony, especially late at night, under the moon, and watch the reflection of the water. It made him feel as if he were the only one left in the world. He remembered, centuries ago, during the Revolutionary war, sitting out and watching the battles on the Hudson.
But now, as he walked towards the house, instead of being filled with joy, he was filled with dread. His clan had only recently moved back here, and in Sage’s view, it was an act of desperation.
He wanted to live out his remaining time in peace. Instead, the clan had raced back here, hoping, as always, to find a cure for their sickness, to prolong their lifetime. Sage knew it was ridiculous, a futile endeavor: they had been searching for a cure for as long as he could remember—and never, not once, not in any remote corner of the world, had they found it. They were all f
alse leads, dead-ends.
In his view, the cure was just a myth, a legend. There was no way to extend their lifetime. It would end, and that would be all. Sage was resigned to it. He just wanted to live out his life and enjoy what he had, instead of desperately chasing myths and fables.
But others in his clan felt differently. Especially his parents. Once again, they claimed to have sensed the last remaining vampire on earth, the mythical teenage girl rumored to hold the key to the cure. Sage had heard this before—many times. But this time, they were serious. They had moved everyone back here in hopes of finding her—and worse, they had assigned Sage to be the one to gain her trust. To find out if she held the key—and to make sure she gave it to him. Because legend had it that the key must be given freely, and could not be simply taken.
What bothered Sage most about all this was that, even if all of this was true, even if this was the right girl, even if she did hold the key, even if he managed to gain her trust and get the key—there was still the next part. Because in order for the cure to work, the vampire girl who gave it had to be killed. The thought of it repulsed Sage. He had never killed a soul—not in two thousand years—and he didn’t plan on starting now. Especially a teenage girl.
As he thought of the girl he’d seen in the cafeteria today, Scarlet, it made him feel even sicker.
She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and the thought of her sent butterflies to his stomach. He felt awful having to be assigned to gain her trust, to find out her secrets—to potentially kill her. It was against everything he stood for. He would keep up appearances to please his parents and his clan—but he already knew that he would sooner kill himself than harm her.
What troubled him most was that, when he saw her, for the first time in his entire existence, he actually sensed something unusual: he felt he was in the presence of another immortal being. He knew right away that she was not one of his. Which meant she could only be one thing: a vampire.
