Under her fluttering eyelids, she imagined that she could see a figure, a vague shadow looming above her. With terror seeping through her, she tried once more to will her body into control. Open your eyes, she begged internally, open your eyes.
The hands continued to trail up her body, travelling along the bones of her rib cage. The touch, his touch, her touch, its touch, whatever it was, was as cold as death itself. It was so cold it almost hurt. She wondered if those hands could feel her heart as its beats grew stronger and stronger, thudding inside her like a drum. Desperately, she pushed inside herself with all the strength she had, desperately willing her body to do something, and was amazed when her eyelids lifted enough of the way for her to see. Her vision was blurred the way it blurred after too much wine, when her head was too fuzzy to make sense of anything, but it didn’t matter. Emily knew that she was staring up into the eyes of a demon.
The thing above her was almost indefinable, a creature made from fog and shadow that shifted under her gaze, slowly taking the form of a man. A man with eyes the colour of gilded metal. A man with eyes that burned. But it was not a man, Emily knew, it was a thing of darkness.
And she knew that could not stop it.
The thing, the man, tore at the neckline of her nightgown. The cloth came apart in his fingers like cheap toilet paper, exposing her breasts to the frigid air. Her nipples stiffened and puckered, the skin erupting in goose bumps.
She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She wanted to fight back, but she couldn’t even do that. She couldn’t do anything. There was no way that this could be real, but she felt so cold and so very, very frightened and if she was dreaming she couldn’t wake herself up. She was laid beneath a beast, a beast that was becoming more and more solid by the moment, taking a truer form, and she could not stop or even try to stop what he was going to do to her. She felt removed, uncertain of what was real and what wasn’t, but was suddenly aware that a fine mist had begun to creep into the room, surrounding the bed like some portent from a gothic novel, a signifier of regret and sorrow, of memory. The thing continued to change before her, taking shape and growing skin and hair, jaw lengthening, hands growing nails that dug into her flesh, sharp enough to cut. Black hair hanging over a heavy brow, white skin stretched across sharp cheekbones.
The thing, she realised with horror, was Volkov.
Her nightgown was in tatters, leaving her naked and trapped beneath him. The thing that was Volkov stared down her, golden eyes darkening with hunger and lust and want. Roughly, he took her breasts in his hands; against his touch, Emily’s skin burned, white-hot and agonising. A single pathetic moan finally escaped her lips, and she cursed her body for failing her. His hands drifted down, fingers encircling her wrist. He pulled up her bandaged hand, and the concealed wound throbbed ceaselessly in his grasp. He held it to his face, inhaling deeply. The sharp intake of air penetrated the silence. Would he tear the bandage away, exposing the puckered flesh? In her mind’s eye, she saw his nails slicing along the wound, reopening the knitted skin and freeing the blood contained inside her. She saw it flow with strength, pouring over her hand, staining her.
Suddenly, Volkov took Emily’s head in his hands and pushed his thumbs viciously beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. Without blinking, Volkov’s mouth split into a wide, cavernous grin. He looked like the Cheshire Cat reflected in a black mirror, grinning and grinning with his teeth bone-white and sharp as knives. He pressed the icy length of his body against hers, all the while staring down at her with eyes filled with what almost seemed like need. The moonbeams that poured into the room seemed to pass straight through him, unaware of his existence, though he felt to her as real as she herself. A single tear beaded in the corner of Emily’s eye, brimmed over and slid silently, pitifully, down her cheek. Volkov watched the tear roll down her white flesh and, as it hung from the curve of her chin, caught it up with his tongue, taking with him the salt of her sorrow. It was not an act of tenderness, but of greed. He wanted her tears, wanted all of her, and she was incapable of denying him.
And then he was inside her and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. The voice in Emily’s mind was screaming, every nerve in her body inflamed. She wanted to cry out, to tell him no, to push him away or even hurt him if she could, but she was rendered dumb and limp in his grasp, high on the heady mix of pain and inertia. Volkov’s open mouth was at her throat, his teeth resting against the taut skin of her neck. His breath was hot and damp and he growled and grunted like a wild animal in mating season, holding her so tightly she felt that she would break in his grip, like a poorly made toy in the hands of a mean-spirited child. Her own hands, that she would have used to punch, to push and pull, to do anything at all, lay uselessly on either side of her. Her body, in this moment, was like a rock tied around her ankle as she sank to the bottom of the ocean.
Volkov’s teeth grazed the tender flesh of her neck and she suddenly realised what was happening, what was about to happen. The fangs sank into her throat as easily as a knife slides through butter. He bit her and there was nothing but pain.
There was a poison raging through her veins, tearing her apart from the inside out. Her back arched up involuntarily, and a weak cry was drawn from her lips as Volkov pressed her to him, holding her up. One hand gripped the back of her head, forcing his lips further around her neck, and she could hear sick sounds of pleasure coming from him, rumbling in the back of his own un-violated throat. They were growing louder and louder, deafening her.
Emily’s eyes rolled up in the back of her head as blackness began to creep around the edge of her consciousness. Pain was singing inside her, too much pain for any one person to bear. He was taking something from her, some fundamental part of herself that she couldn’t get back again, stealing her soul as well as her body. Strength was seeping out of her with every beat of her panicked heart. She could feel blood, her blood, trickling down her naked breasts and belly, flowing from her like wine. It was hot and sticky on her skin, and all she could do was count the seconds, which bled into minutes, which bled into something else. Time was fluid around her, swirling like the mist that filled the room, and she might have been here for eternity or only seconds. Everything was slowly fading away, but she did not know what it faded into. She did not know if she would fall into the arms of death, or of something else. She didn’t know anything at all.
Volkov’s body stiffened against her, convulsing violently and clutching at her with enough strength to snap her in two. Her breath was squeezed out of her until her lungs were empty. A guttural, unnatural howl resonated in her ears, a sound more horrifying than anything she had ever heard or ever would again, and then there was nothing. Only darkness and impenetrable silence, the crashing waves far beyond her reach.
***
When Emily awoke, the first signs of dawn were creeping up over the horizon. The sky was tinged with pinks and purples and reds, rich colours that would lead into a fine day. Thin clouds scudded across the sky, full of the light of the coming morning, and the sound of birds singing could be heard from far off. The ocean was calm, the gentle lapping of the waves only just audible from her window. Emily sluggishly pulled herself up into a sitting position and held her head in her hands, fingers twisting into her hair as memories from the dream came flooding back. Not a dream, not a nightmare even, but something much worse. Her body was aching like she’d run a marathon, her muscles tight and stiff and almost alien to her. The cut on her hand was alive with new, fresh pain, but when she checked it she found the bandages still clean, the flesh still healing. She also found that she was wearing the nightgown she had gone to bed in. She thought of how it had been before, lying around her in shreds, how it had felt to be naked in front of… not another person, but that thing, whatever it was. She thought of what he did to her and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. It wasn’t real, she tried to assure herself. It wasn’t real.
Gingerly, she touched herself under her clothes,
gently pushing her fingers into the soft flesh as she tested for bruising. Her breasts were a little tender, but that didn’t signify anything other than that her period was due in a few days from now. There were no marks along her stomach and ribs that she could see, and when she hesitantly placed her fingers on the thatch of her pubic hair, she was relieved to find no pain, no blood and no sign of anything untoward.
She remembered her neck, the bite, and hurried to the vanity mirror. Her hair was wild from her boisterous sleep. Pulling it back, Emily looked at her throat and found the skin still smooth and unbroken. She rested two fingers against where she had dreamt Volkov’s teeth had been. She could feel her pulse beneath the skin, throbbing gently against the pads of her fingertips and reminding her that she was still alive. She faintly recalled the pain of Volkov’s bite and how it was unlike any pain she had felt before. Her heart jumped as if it were experiencing it all over again; she shuddered and let the hair fall back over her neck, not wanting to see it anymore.
She looked back at the bed, at the still rumpled duvet and dishevelled pillows, realising that there was no way she could return to sleep, not now. There was a small, irrational part of her that wanted nothing more than to tear the sheets off and boil them in bleach, or to even burn them. Looking at them now filled her with repulsion, enough to make her skin crawl. Even if it was a dream, the memories of it remained. She went back to the bed, resolving to at least change the sheets, only to have her eye caught by something that made her heart sink. The bottom sheet was stained with a wide patch of dry blood, already woven into the fabric like an old mark. She was instantly taken back to her first period at the age of fourteen, reliving the same terror she had felt when she had woken in the night to find her thighs hot and slick with blood, seeping beneath her and spreading across the cloth like spilled wine. But she had checked herself before, and she had not been bleeding, not from there or anywhere. She stared down at the stain for what felt like a long time, as if she were waiting to be proven wrong. When she blinked, it was still there.
Furious, she tore the sheet from the bed and forced it down into the laundry basket, trying to ignore the rusty, salty stink of it that wafted up into her nostrils. She couldn’t stay in this room for much longer, she had to do something with herself before she started screaming. Wrapping herself up in her dressing gown, thankful for the comforting and familiar scent of it, Emily went downstairs.
Christopher Van Buren was in the kitchen, as he always was this early in the morning, preparing breakfast for himself. He had been for a run, judging by his tracksuit, in his latest bid to get into shape. His stomach strained a little against the fabric and his face was shiny with perspiration, but he looked cheerful enough. Christopher was a perpetual lark, thriving on early rises, whereas Victoria, for all her preparedness and professionalism, was incapable of rising any time before 8am. He was in the middle of slicing up a grapefruit when Emily shuffled in. The kettle was boiling, whistling away on the countertop like a bird. After the night she’d had, Emily was filled with happy relief to see her father going about his normal routine as is nothing had changed. Really, she supposed, nothing had changed at all. She was still herself, for all intents and purposes.
“Emily, are you feeling all right?” Christopher said, quickly glancing at the clock. “It’s the crack of dawn, you should be sleeping.”
Emily sat at the table and rested her head in her hands. “Bad dreams.”
“Ah,” Christopher intoned. The switch of the kettle clicked off, steam pouring steadily from the spout. It made Emily think of the mist in her dream, so she turned her face away, cheeks staining red in embarrassment.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” Christopher asked. “No sense in going back to bed now.”
Emily nodded. Christopher clattered about for a few minutes before placing a steaming mug in front of Emily, along with the sugar bowl and the milk. Emily normally didn’t take sugar, but she heaped three spoonfuls of the stuff into the mug and stirred slowly, watching the liquid curve fluidly around the neck of the spoon and back round again, eternally spinning. Her whole body felt heavy and sluggish, like she had woken up from heavy sedation.
“Dad,” she said. “Have you ever had a dream where you thought you were awake but you weren’t?”
Christopher placed his grapefruit on the table and began to dig at the pale pink flesh with his spoon. “Isn’t that what most dreams are like?”
Emily took a sip of tea. The sweetness of it was almost overwhelming, but she swallowed it down. Something inside was telling her that she needed it, and she wasn’t willing to ignore it. She was trying to think of a way to explain what had happened without actually mentioning what happened. She couldn’t bear for her father to hear something like that, even if it wasn’t true.
“Last night,” she began, slowly, “There was this moment where I felt like I was awake, but not. I couldn’t move or speak even though I was trying, and there was… something above me, something that was holding me down.”
She was careful to avoid the finer details of the experience, both for herself and her father’s sake. Christopher grimaced as he chewed on the sour fruit, swallowed it down with some considerable effort. “To my knowledge, I’ve never experienced anything like that and I don’t exactly envy your position.”
“Dad,” Emily said, running her fingers through her hair. “Could you not be glib? I’ve had a really, really rough night.”
Christopher dropped his spoon into the now-hollow skin of the grapefruit, looking thoroughly disgusted with the experience. He observed his daughter for a moment, like he was taking in the shadows beneath her eyes and the dull pallor of her skin as evidence for a diagnosis. “There are at least two things it could be, I think, either lucid dreaming or sleep paralysis. Probably sleep paralysis from what you described, anyway. Neither is much fun, from what I’ve heard.”
“It’s never happened to you, then?” Emily asked.
Christopher shook his head. “Not yet.”
Emily took another gulp of tea, enjoying the way the heat spread from her stomach and into the rest of her body. She was beginning to feel more awake now, more alive. “I hope it never happens to me again.”
Christopher had the look on his face that he always got when he wanted to know about something more. He got up and left the kitchen for a moment. When he returned, he was holding an old medical dictionary with a half-busted spine and yellow-tinted pages. He dropped it in front of Emily and opened it up, leaning over her shoulder as he leafed through the pages.
“Here we are.” he said triumphantly, finger pressed against the text, “Sleep paralysis.”
The words were little more than a series of black squiggles for a moment, her head still foggy. She looked over the book carefully and, finally, read: “The inability to move when in the act of falling asleep or waking up. Sleep paralysis is often associated with frightening visions that the sufferer is incapable of reacting to.”
“I’ve heard that the visions vary from country to country,” Christopher said. “But the most common one is the old hag. She comes out of people’s cupboards, slowly crawls up their beds, and strangles them.”
He made a little show of it, the way he used to when she was a little girl and he told her stories before bed. Victoria didn’t approve of it, of course, but Emily loved to be scared by her father. Her favourite story was Little Red Riding Hood, because when the Big Bad Wolf leapt from the bed as Granny in drag, Christopher would bundle little Emily up in his big arms and snarl into her ear: “All the better to eat you with my dear!” It never failed to make her squeal in joyful terror. But now, his theatrics fell flat.
“Well, it certainly wasn’t a hag,” Emily said darkly. She closed the book, the thud of it echoing around the kitchen much louder than she expected. “And I certainly wasn’t strangled.” Nothing so pleasant, she thought.
Christopher looked at his daughter’s pale face and realised that she was more shaken up that he initially realis
ed. He leant over and took her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It was just a dream, Emily. It’s over now.”
Emily sighed and returned the squeeze of the hand. “I know, it’s just sometimes these things… they linger.”
“When I was a boy,” Christopher said, “I used to have nightmares about a big spider that was living in my shoes. Every time there’d come a point where I had to put the damn shoes on and I knew that it was in there, waiting, but I always woke up before it could sink its teeth into my leg. I hated spiders then and I hate them now, so I suppose you’re right about things lingering.”
Emily giggled quietly. “The whole thing reminds me of this piece I read about in my first year at university. The Nightmare, I think it was called.”
“Perhaps you were visited by the incubus,” Christopher said.
He was joking, she knew, but the words rang in her head like a bell nonetheless. Suddenly, she could see the painting in her mind’s eye quite clearly: the sleeping woman half-hung over the bed and the squat, dark little man that sat upon her breast, peering out of the canvas as if issuing a challenge to those that looked upon it. She had read about the theories of sublimated sexual desires and the male libido, and these theories sat uncomfortably like a rock in her gut. The incubus, after all, had its own history outside of this single painting, a history of lying upon sleeping humans to slake its own lusts. The thing in her dream had been nothing like Fuseli’s diminutive, hairy goblin, but it had lain upon her sleeping form and it had raped her just like an incubus would.
It was too absurd to be true, but Emily couldn’t help but wonder. A seed of doubt had been sown inside her that was only going to grow into an oak.
“Perhaps,” she said, softly, and drank the last of her tea.
5
In the early hours of the grey morning, Sarah Wilson rose up out of bed and prepared for the long day ahead. Her husband, Howard, groaned in protest when she switched on the bedside lamp, turning onto his side and lazily reaching for her.
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