by James Lyon
He gazed at the flakes of discolored paint dangling over his head, petals of enamel unfurling from the dampness of a concrete ceiling, splattered with faded hues of black and grey by the lamppost outside the window: splinters of shadow, fingers of light and blades of dark, probing, crawling and stabbing across the room and ceiling in palmetto-leaf patterns. Light and dark were clearly in league with time, and none seemed to move.
His imagination began to create phantom apparitions from the shadows. A scene from an old documentary film about a great cat in Africa played over and over. He had watched it long ago on television in vivid color, but now it was blanched to black and grey by the night. He couldn’t remember if it was a cheetah or leopard, but it crept along slowly and methodically through deep brush at the edge of a thick forest bordering the savannah, waiting for an unsuspecting zebra or gazelle to venture too close. Camouflaged by its velvety coat, the cat bode its time, lurking, crawling and slinking, but never emerged fully to pounce. And throughout that night, as he waited for time to move forward ever so slightly, sleep was like the great cat, lurking always within view, but never coming close enough to take him.
Yet his mind raged wildly, his thoughts and ideas surging like waves. Was Katarina’s mother perhaps just a little bit crazy? Had the loss of her husband unsettled her? Why had she given him the stake? And where did she get it? Did vampires in fact really exist? Steven’s mind turned to the elusive von Zlatinow…what had he and his unit been doing at Petrovaradin, Kalemegdan and deeper inside Serbia between 1731 and 1733? Hunting vampires? What was the insignia of the Order of the Dragon doing on Lazarevic’s cane? What had the Imperial Grenadiers done with Hawthorne stakes? Where was the lock that was mentioned in the log books? Was it a lock to a secret chamber of some kind? And what on earth was he to do with the stake Katarina’s mother had given him, which he had yet to remove from his backpack for fear of attracting unwanted attention in the dorm.
‘What am I doing here,’ he asked himself. ‘There’s a war going on. The police and DB are probably looking for me. Should I leave? All this talk of vampires is nonsense. Mrs. Lazarevic has a screw loose,’ he said, vainly trying to reassure himself.
Then his thoughts raced back four years to the darkest moments of his fall from grace, when everyone in his congregation had turned their backs on him for having disgraced his priesthood and his calling. When his faith had begun to fail, Julie alone had ignored social conventions and seen the goodness within his heart. She had restored his faith in God and himself. She said “I do” to him across the altar two years later. And he had stood over her grave on crutches two weeks after that to lay her to rest...along with his faith.
And then suddenly his mind turned to Katarina, how she too had shown faith in him, and how it had led him to rediscover his faith in himself and God. He thought of his time with her, washing dishes, talking and learning Serbo-Croatian and realized he did indeed have feelings for her.
And Vesna? I like her, and she’s here. But I’m not sure I really feel anything for her except physical excitement. Katarina is an ocean and two continents away and… I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I’ve got to break this off with Vesna before it goes any further, he decided. I’ll talk to her when she comes next Saturday.
The conflict in his heart pushed aside his earlier fears about vampires, and fatigue finally set in. Sapped of emotion and energy Steven exhaled a deep sigh, clutched the cross at his throat, and let sleep carry him off like the great cat its prey.
In sleep he dreamt a battered trolleybus. Its doors opened and Vesna stepped down, clad in a diaphanous white gown, the white muslin draping thin upper arms, cascading off the peaks of her bosom, falling down to trace the firm roundness of her stomach and the beckoning junction between her legs. Or was it Katarina? She smiled at him, beckoned him closer and then he saw it was neither Katarina nor Vesna, but a woman of dark beauty, more alluring than any he had ever met. Around her face, thick dark hair framed milky skin, and her feline eyes glowed red, reminding him of the great cat in the documentary film. Urgent physical desire pulled him closer until he took her suddenly in his arms and pulled her forcefully to him, his body trembling with excitement. As he leaned in to kiss her she smiled, displaying sharp incisors between blood red lips.
With a shiver, he awoke. Late for his meeting with Niedermeier.
* * *
Steven stepped off the bus in Sremski Karlovci, backpack in hand. It was already midday in the airless town, the birds muted, the main square deserted. All Karlovci was hushed, its windows shuttered and doors closed as if the townspeople had fled inside, reminding Steven of a showdown in a bad spaghetti-western. As he walked with hesitant step through the main square, the only noise he heard was the raucous beat of Balkan turbo-folk blaring from the deserted café opposite the cathedral, its dark green sun umbrellas casting hollow shadows across empty plastic chairs and tables. He quickly crossed the main square, walked up the hill past the Gymnasium to the book shop, glancing furtively behind to see if he was being followed, nervous with anticipation about seeing the elusive Djordjevic book.
The bookstore shutters were closed, but the portal gates stood open. The door displayed a hastily hand-lettered cardboard sign in Cyrillic that read Popis – Inventory. ‘How strange,’ he thought. ‘Niedermeier is Volks Deutsch. Why would he write in Cyrillic?’
As he knocked, the door swung open under his fist, revealing blackness in place of the shop interior. The sight of the splintered doorjamb sent a shock of adrenalin coursing through his veins, causing his pulse to race wildly and his body to freeze in place.
‘Mr. Niedermeier,’ he called into the darkness. There was only silence. ‘Mr. Niedermeier,’ he repeated, louder. Still no reply.
Uncertain, he removed the Hawthorne stake Mrs. Lazarevic had given him from his backpack and wielded it in his left hand. ‘What am I doing,’ he asked himself. He felt around hesitantly on the wall inside the doorway with his right hand, vainly seeking a light switch.
He entered the darkness, his path dimly lit by faint beams of fugitive sunlight that had evaded the shutters. The few rays scattered, making a patchwork quilt of light and dark, barely illuminating torn-down shelves, an ankle-deep carpet of ripped books, paper and splintered wood in which the smell of pipe tobacco lingered faintly. Fragments from a coffee cup lay on the floor near a pile of kindling that had once been Niedermeier’s desk, as a small puddle of dark liquid soaked slowly into the wood. Blood perhaps? Or coffee? Steven couldn’t tell.
‘Mr. Niedermeier,’ he called. ‘Mr. Niedermeier, it’s me, Steven.’ No response. His eyes played tricks on him as he looked around the room. He heard the rustle of paper from the direction of the back room, where he thought he saw a human shadow flash across the wall.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. ‘Who is it?’
He waded through the detritus of the store towards where he had last seen the shadow. ‘Mr. Niedermeier,’ he called. ‘Is that you? Are you okay?’
There was no answer.
‘Hello?’ he called again.
‘Who’s back there?’ he called, as he walked into the back room, stake at the ready.
Yet the back room and shop were empty: there was no sign of Niedermeier anywhere.
Am I hearing and seeing things? he wondered.
His mind raced. Where is he? Have they hurt him? What if the police find me here? They’ll accuse me. What if the men in the black 4x4s come back? I’ve got to get out of here before somebody finds me.
Yet something compelled him to stay.
He lifted the loose floorboard near Niedermeier’s desk and lowered his face to see if Niedermeier had left anything inside, when a silent fuzzy blur darted out of the hole directly at him. He jumped with fright, shouted and flailed about with his hand, but whatever it was had vanished in the spectral gloom.
His peripheral vision registered a slight movement off to his right, causing him to yell and turn suddenly to face the threat: a butterfly th
at hovered between light and dark for a fleeting moment, only to disappear into the shadows.
Everything he had learned about butterflies in Balkan folklore came rushing back in a microsecond…the soul of a dead person turns into a butterfly…vampires transform into butterflies. Both ideas set his spine tingling with icy chills. His pulse sped up and a cold sweat trickled down his forehead. Is Mr. Niedermeier dead? he wondered.
He held the stake out, brandishing it as a weapon. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded loudly.
There was no answer.
What if it’s a vampire, he asked himself. Do I stab it through the heart? He shifted the stake in his left hand, reaffirming his grip, all the while staring intently into the shadows where the butterfly had disappeared, his heart pounding rapidly.
Is Mr. Niedermeier trying to contact me through the butterfly? He stood rooted to the spot by fear. ‘Mr. Niedermeier!’ he cried. ‘Mr. Niedermeier, is that you?’
More silence.
‘I can’t believe I’m talking to a butterfly,’ he laughed nervously.
He spoke louder, trying to bolster up his courage. ‘I’m being ridiculous. There are no such things as vampires…a person’s soul doesn’t turn into a butterfly. It was only a butterfly.’ He shivered suddenly and could barely swallow.
‘There’s a perfectly rational explanation for all of this…but what’s a butterfly doing under the floorboards of a book shop?’
But if it is a vampire, he thought, how do I kill it? Can I squash it like a bug while it’s a butterfly?
Steven’s peripheral vision detected movement and he turned. An enormous brown fuzzy insect with black spots on its wings walked slowly along the spine of a fallen book. It stopped and fixed its gaze on him.
Steven held the stake out in front of him with both hands, hoping to keep the butterfly at bay. His hands shook, sweat glistened on his forehead and his armpits were wet. His breathing and pulse were so rapid he feared blacking out.
Wings folded together, the butterfly continued walking. Suddenly it fluttered into the air, disappearing backwards into shadow, only to reemerge and fly directly towards the human intruder, lighting on the tip of the stake. Steven froze, but the tip of the stake shook violently in his hands.
The butterfly began walking slowly up the stake, bit by bit. Reaching his left hand it took a tentative step onto Steven’s damp skin, stopped to scent his flesh, unfolded and then refolded its wings as if trying to decide whether or not to fly away, and then continued gradually onward. First to his knuckle, then the back of his hand – it kind of tickled – then up to the gooseflesh on his wrist. The journey from wrist to elbow took forever, and Steven breathed deeply to calm his shaking.
‘Mr. Niedermeier?’ his voice croaked dryly.
The creature continued its measured journey, from his elbow up towards his shoulder. ‘Mr. Niedermeier?’ he rasped once more. ‘Oh Lord. Can butterflies bite through cloth?’
The butterfly continued towards his shoulder, heading for his neck. And then he remembered that vampires feed…
‘From the left side!’ he shouted and brushed the creature off himself in panic, then watched it flutter rapidly towards the still-open front door and disappear into the sunlight.
He sank suddenly to the floor, the energy drained from his body. He put his right hand on the floor to steady himself, but it found only air, and he plunged rapidly downward, his arm swallowed up by the hole where the floorboard had been.
* * *
First it was the numbness, and then a massive wave of pain. His neck, head and torso screamed in a chorus of twisted muscle and bruised flesh. Everything remained foggy. He couldn’t move his right shoulder but he could move his right hand, which felt strangely detached, floating in air. As he gradually opened his eyes, needles pierced his optic nerves. He couldn’t focus: he could only sense pain. ‘Slowly,’ he said to himself. And slowly the world came back together, piece by distorted piece, out of focus, a mixture of torn paper and splintered wood, the smell of mold permeating his nostrils.
‘I…I… Niedermeier’s bookstore…’ It all came rushing back to him. The store appeared unfamiliar when viewed from the floor. Steven’s head was twisted at an unnatural angle and his neck lay across the opening of the floorboards, his right arm hanging in the hole. He felt something in his left hand, and brought it around in front of his face until he could see his fingers gripping the handle of a wooden stake.
‘Oooow.’ Debris muffled his moan. He dropped the stake and pushed himself up out of the hole, only to quickly lie flat as pain jolted through his body. The right side of his head was sore and tender to the touch, as was his neck. His ribcage felt bruised, the fingers on his right hand were scraped and his left hand was numb from gripping the stake tightly. Everything hurt.
Looking down at the hole that had been the cause of his troubles he saw a scrap of paper. He gingerly pulled out string and a piece of brown wrapping paper creased in the shape of a book, with Niedermeier’s address scribbled in pencil on the front, and on the back a return address in Pirot. Folding the paper carefully, he placed it in his pocket, and continued rummaging under the floorboards. He found several accounting ledgers, as well as two unopened bottles of vintage Bermet, but no sign of the Djordjevic book. He opened the ledgers and thumbed through them, but found only columns of numbers and book titles. Nowhere was the Djordjevic book listed.
He replaced the ledgers and floorboard, gathered his things, and walked into the shop’s back room, where the cloudy bathroom mirror showed him that his neck and face were swelling on the right side.
He emerged into the diluted sunlight to find the town was still deserted. He hurried down the hill and caught the first bus back to Novi Sad, trying to avoid stares at his injured face.
He watched a large brown butterfly with black spots on its wings flutter alongside the bus until it could no longer keep up. Then it turned aside into a field of yellow flowers.
* * *
Back at the dormitory Neso saw Steven’s injured face. ‘Who did this to you? Just tell me and I guarantee you he’ll never touch you again.’
‘Thanks, but I had an accident and fell and hit myself really badly on the floor,’ Steven winced.
‘Yeah, an accident. If you need me to talk to “the floor” that hit you, let me know. I don’t want you having any more accidents.’
‘Ooooo, does it hurt?’ Ceca cooed, walking up to him, running her fingers gently across his cheek. She too had bruises on her face. His right cheek was so numb that he barely felt her touch. ‘Let me get you something cold.’ She walked down the hall and returned in a matter of seconds with a bag of frozen peas. ‘This will help you.’
‘Thanks,’ he grunted, wondering who kept frozen peas in a dormitory.
‘Do you still want the mini-van for Monday?’ Neso looked at him.
‘How about Saturday?’
‘No problem. It’ll be here at 11:00 p.m.’
‘Why so late?’
‘Because it takes passengers to the airport, and most of them have morning flights, so they need to get there around 6 or 7 a.m.’
Steven nodded and retreated to his room. It was mid-afternoon, so he closed the curtains and lay down on his rumpled bed, the frozen peas pressed tightly against his cheek. His thoughts raced as doubts crept into his mind.
What am I doing here? I thought I was doing research, but now I’m chasing butterflies…or vampires. How safe is it here? Am I to blame for Gordana losing her job? Is her son in danger because of me? Now Niedermeier’s missing and his shop is trashed and the DB is involved. Why is that Djordjevic book so damn important? Are they torturing Niedermeier? Is he dead?
He searched the ceiling for meaning, its peeling paint creating patterns he had stared at the previous night. His eyes picked out a zebra; a castle on a hill; the Mona Lisa; a surfboard… But the splotches became less innocent, more eerie: twelve murky shapes; Niedermeier’s body floating face down in a pool of water; a vampire kneeli
ng over a body, feeding.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and muttered to himself. ‘Did the butterfly really follow the bus or was it my imagination?’
A strong weight pressed against his throat until it began to constrict his breathing. He struggled against it, tried to lift it, yet couldn’t. He tried to sit up and call for help, but no sound emerged.
Abruptly all light fled, driven by a swirling blackness that descended from the ceiling and expanded until it filled the corners of the room. An unseen force overpowered him and dragged him from his bed into a realm of shadow. His tongue was bound and he could neither cry out nor speak as grey mists swirled about and enveloped him. Demonic shades circled round like wolves thirsting for the blood of a lamb, while thick tentacles of shadow held him fast and dangled him above an interminable void, ready to cast him into its maw. Dark winds buffeted him, and then the very jaws of hell surged forward from the void and parted and Evil opened its grisly mouth wide after him. Claws of despair pulled him downward as he fought for breath, knowing he would succumb at any moment.
He knew this was no dream, that he was about to be destroyed by a power more sinister than any he had imagined possible. As thick darkness closed round him, he saw in his mind the small pine cone Katarina had given him in California those many months ago and felt its rough raspy petals on the skin of his palm. At once he felt himself falling, until his legs crumpled to the floor of a dungeon cell and he found himself kneeling in supplication. The tentacles of the unseen adversary still held his tongue hostage, but his heart cried out for deliverance.
No sooner had desire forced the prayer from his heart, then his bands were loosed, the weight lifted from his throat and his tongue freed from the spectral bonds. Light flooded the room and his heart, while deep peace permeated his entire being. Wings of blinding glory lifted him upward, and carried him sailing across bright sunlit lands, protected by sentinels wielding shields of light and fiery swords with righteous arms.
