Toska
A.R Kingston
Copyright © 2018 by A.R. Kingston
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
A.R. Kingston
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Toska/ A.R. Kingston -- 1st ed.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thank you goes out to my friends and family who were with me every step of the way in this process. Without your support and encouragement, I would not have this book out now. Thank you for believing in me when no one else did. I hope you don’t mind me torturing you further in the future with additional books.
Also, thank you to my fantastic editor who not only helped clean up my manuscript but provided positive words of support, they were needed more than you know. To my cover designer, thank you for giving me your work of art, I don’t think I could have asked for a better person to work with. And lastly, thank you to my fellow authors who rallied behind me and gave me a push when I needed it, you guys rock, keep on writing your best stuff.
“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”.
―Vladimir Nabokov
contents
Prologue
My Requiem
His Dirge
Her Resurrection
Victor’s Memorare
Sacred Vow
The Atonement
Unusual Salvation
Unholy Damnation
Devil’s Confirmation
Eternal Sacrifice
Brief Sanctuary
True Absolute
Their Covenant
The Sacrament
Dark Exodus
Our Absolution
Epilogue
Prologue
D
eath, it comes for all of us eventually. The question of what happens to us when we die has eluded and tormented humanity from the dawn of time. Everyone always says you’ll find out what happens when you die, except they really have no clue what it means. So what does happen? Guess it depends on how lucky you are. The majority will get to cross over, get reborn, or find salvation. Those of us who are not so lucky get to stick around, not part of the living world, and not fully part of the dead.
I know you must be wondering by now what it’s like to be mostly dead. Well, it’s not as bad as one might imagine at first. I mean sure, there are the blank stares, they can be a bit off-putting at first, it’s hard to get used to the fact that you no longer exist. Then there are the people who just rudely walk right through you, but you get used to that as well after a while. At first, you hated it; you try so hard to communicate with my friends, loved ones, anyone who would listen really; eventually, though, you surrender to the fact that you no longer exist, not in a way the living can understand.
Guess that’s another downfall, you’re dead, but you’re not all dead since you failed to cross over. Simply put, you exist between two planes without belonging to either one. That realization is one of the hardest parts to get used to once you wake up as a ghost, and you literally do wake up. It’s like you open your eyes and then boom, you are staring at people trying to talk to them but you can’t, and that’s when you look down and see your body on the ground being covered by a tarp. Suddenly reality slaps you in the face, you realize you are not only dead, but a ghost, your ideas of the world shatter around you.
There are upsides to this, almost dead thing too. For one, you don’t really need the same things fleshy beings do in order to survive. You don’t need to sleep anymore, gives you a lot of time to really focus on improving yourself. Over the course of your existence, you start to learn things you wouldn’t otherwise learn, mostly because it gets incredibly boring otherwise. Everyone always thinks how great it would be to have all this extra time, but after a few decades you’ve pretty much-done everything there is to do, it's getting old quick.
Food is another thing no longer required, although you will miss food a lot. The smells of it are still there, and your mouth will still water at its pleasant aroma, but you won’t be able to put it in your mouth and taste it. It reminds me of one of those punishments found in hell to punish the glutenous, except you are being punished for something you didn’t do. Starts to wear thin on the person after a while, but to this too you eventually surrender.
Ghosts also don’t bleed, and we can’t feel pain. I should know, I slit my wrists once when I was still new to this mostly dead gig. Another ghost had a knife on him, and I borrowed it to see what would happen if I was to run it down my wrist. Much to my dismay, not only did it not hurt, it closed before I had the chance to make it all the way down. Not sure what I was thinking with that, I know I just wanted to die, guess I forgot the part where I was already dead.
The temperature is of no consequence to spooks, which is a good thing considering you come back in the clothing you died in. I’ve been wearing the same scarlet gown I got from my mama for over a century now. Can only imagine how bad this eternity thing would be if one could not warm up or cool down. No, whether hot or cold, I prefer not to feel the world around me, makes me more at peace with my fate. Alright, maybe not at peace, but I feel deader if I cannot feel the space surrounding me, and in a way, it calms the flames on the inside.
The best part of being dead though must be your ability to read all the books in the world, after all, you have the time. Not that you can physically pick up a book or anything, but you know, you can easily linger over someone’s shoulder as they turn the page. I’ve been known to follow a person around for a week while we finished a book together, made me feel a bit more connected to the world of the living, even if my partner had no idea I was there.
Yes, this being mostly dead thing is not all bad, but for me, this eternity has been torture. In life, I had lost someone very important to me, someone I still cling to even in death, and my spirit cannot rest until I find out what happened to him. So, I wander through life, through Russia, through the years, always searching for the one clue that will lead me to my dearest Victor.
1
My Requiem
H
ow do you define death? The dictionary tells me it is the irreversible cessation of all vital functions, the end of life as we know it. According to the Bible, it is the separation of the soul from our earthly vessels; an act that will reward the virtuous by ascension to heaven, and punishes the villainous by condemning them to hell. But which one is it? Which one described death in all its violent glory for what it truly is? I use to think the answer to the question was so simple, in fact, I use to be able to answer it without hesitation. That is, until the eve of my wedding.
I remember that night so vividly, almost like it had happened yesterday. Walking arm and arm with Victor along the snow-covered road, laughing, excited over what tomorrow woul
d bring. A loud bang sliced through the peaceful silence like a shrill of a motherless child, along with it was a bright flash of light which illuminated the shadows around us. Almost immediately I felt a searing pain in my chest; it felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for breath, but my lungs refused to work.
I recall laying on the cold blanket of snow, soft white flakes falling from the sky on my raven hair, matting my bangs down on my forehead. Most of all, I remember the burgundy puddle that was staining the pure white ground beneath my body. There was a loud scream, Victor’s scream, he was hurt. I still see Victor, laying across from me, his hand desperately stretching towards me as he attempted to crawl his way back to me.
Hopelessly I reached for him, trying to take hold of his hand, but he was too far, I could not get to him in time. Instead, I just watched the light flicker out from his moss-colored eyes as tears froze on my face. The figure who did this to us was lurking behind him, still concealed under a black cloak. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. And just like that, my world went dark.
That is how we died, or at least how we were supposed to, and I guess in a way, we did. That was meant to be it for us, the end of our story, but as everyone knows, sometimes the end is only just the beginning. So here I am, fumbling through life, well past the point of where it ended.
I’m Katya by the way, that’s short for Yekaterina. My papa named me, on the account that my mama died giving birth to me. Not sure why he picked this name out for me, he always claimed it reminded him of some fairy tale my grandmother used to tell him as a child. Whatever his reasons were, I doubt he picked it knowing he would be carving it into my tombstone. And yet, here it was, staring right at me, a somber reminder of what I use to be.
Yekaterina Orlova
1845-1864
Her Body Is But A Vessel
May Her Soul Rest In Peace
Yes, that’s me alright. And my body is, in fact, resting beneath my feet, in a lone grave atop a hill, under a single willow tree. Although, I doubt there is much left of me by now. After all this time, I’m fairly sure the worms have stripped me down to nothing but my bones. As for my soul, well it’s not doing much resting, now is it? No, it more or less just wanders aimlessly about, searching for a proverbial needle in a haystack.
I do suppose one hundred fifty-three years is a long time for anyone to contemplate their fate. Especially when one was murdered in the prime of their life, on the eve of their wedding no less. And this whole time I have been roaming the Russian countryside, mainly between my home in Dedinovo and Moscow. There isn’t much left for me to do, as I have already done everything humanly possible about seventy-five years ago.
It gets so very lonely here too, especially in a small place like Dedinovo. I’m not the only ghost around, but I am the only murder victim Dedinovo has ever had, which makes relating to the companions around me a bit difficult. I suppose even if I could find something in common with the other ghosts, the company I have leaves a lot to be desired. Truthfully there are not many spirits here; a farmer who died in an accident before his daughter’s birthday, a woman who committed suicide to get away from an alcoholic husband, a small girl who drowned in a well before I was born, and then there are the soldiers. We have about a dozen young men, all of whom have been trying to woo me for years.
Yes, ghosts can have relationships of the physical kind too. I did say we are only mostly dead; we can still feel touch and savor the sinful pleasures of the flesh. Not that I’ve had an interest in such endeavors in this ghostly life of mine. No, those thoughts and passionate desires died that night, they died with him. I could not possibly give myself to anyone the way I did to Victor; my heart, my body, my soul will always belong to him. That’s why I don’t bother, I smile and politely decline their advances, because the truth is, I’m still madly in love with him.
You see, we all have our reasons for staying; some deep, powerful emotion keeping us bound to this world of ours. For me, it’s the painful longing I feel knowing that I let him go and that my Victor is somewhere without me now. It’s funny; I use to think physically dying was the worst part, until the day I died, only then did I find out how wrong I was. Once your body is dead, the physical pain is over. Now the pain lingering in your heart is the pain which stings the most.
The pain of your heart dying slowly deep inside of you, it doesn’t kill you, but it sure makes you wish like you were dead. It feels like a thirst you cannot quench, no matter how much you drink. It is the feeling of flames engulfing your body, ones you cannot put out, a frostbite you cannot warm up, an open wound you keep putting salt and lemon juice on. This is far worse than any physical pain you can experience because unlike the pain you feel in your body, this pain never goes away, not even with death.
This longing I feel as my heart repeatedly dies with the man I loved that night, this is a fate far worse than death. If you ever wondered what hell would feel like, this is it; this is my personal hell. Whether it's my punishment or my curse, I do not know, all I know is that I am doomed to feel this torture for all eternity. My fate is to continually have my heart ripped out of my chest, being unable to do anything to stop it.
Therefore, I stay. It’s why I came back to this world of ours, because of him, my beloved Victor. I have spent over a century looking to figure out what happened to him. As it stands, his body was never recovered from the fateful night, nor was our murderer ever caught. Many people, including my own friends, suspected it was Victor who killed me to get out of getting married.
There were talks by the local police, and the priest claiming Victor found someone else and ran off with them after my murder. Papa has always loved Victor as a son and refused to believe the rumors, but still, they persisted. That is how the local legend was born, about a man who murdered his fiancée on the eve of their wedding, only to run off with his lover. But this couldn’t be farther from the truth though, I should know because I was there, I watched him die.
So, you see my dilemma now; I can’t rest until I figure out what happened to him, I need to find him. I know this is all wishful thinking, but there might be a chance his spirit is still around too. Even if it’s not, I need to know what happened, I want to find what remains of him, and I won’t be at peace until I do. This was my resolve, my one mission in the afterlife, it gave my life meaning and purpose, and it helped keep my memories of Victor alive.
This is why I go to Moscow so often, which is ironic since in life I’ve only visited the city once, but in death, I’m there constantly. Don’t worry though; there is a reason for my seeming madness. It all started years back when I was researching the murder in the old archives of the small police station which remained in town many years ago. A handsome young sleuth had inherited my cold case; and by cold, I mean frozen over like Siberian lakes in the winter. Undoubtfully, there was nothing new left to find, but I give the man credit, he was persistent in attempting to solve the case.
Not sure what he was trying to uncover after all this time, the crime scene photos alone were horrible. But I lingered by his side, glancing over his shoulder as he carefully went over them, muttering to himself. The detective was baffled to see the photos clearly show two distinct blood pools in the snow, mine and Victor’s. Two blood pools should mean two bodies, but there was only one body under a blanket that night, mine.
“If there were two victims, why is there only one body?” he mumbled softly under his breath “What in God’s name happened to you that night Victor Vasilyev?”
What indeed, but I was glad all the same. After all this time someone had finally come along to clear Victor’s name. I watched the detective take my case file and underline Victor’s name three times in the suspect section and put a big question mark next to it. He picked up another hazy photograph; this one showed a picture of the road next to which my body was found. On it I could see a clean set of sleigh tracks, going away from the crime scene and into the city.
According to the papers in th
e file, it was believed Victor had killed me and got in a sleigh bound for Moscow, where he disappeared. As we have already established, that was impossible. Unfortunately, me being the only witness, I couldn’t exactly provide him with an alibi. But then, what did happen to Victor’s body?
Apparently, the detective working on the case had the same question, rubbing his weary eyes as he leaned his face into the palms of his hands. Pulling up the papers of my file he scribbled in a note into the margins; this note had since become my life purpose. All he wrote was: Victor, murdered, body possibly stolen to Moscow, medical research? I knew he was on to something with someone taking the body, but why, why kill two people and only take the corpse of one? Something was missing, a crucial piece of the puzzle was yet to be uncovered, and I intended to figure it out.
That was over fifty years ago; the young detective had long since retired and moved away from the village. I, however, have not given up. So now you understand why I travel to Moscow regularly, it just happens to be where the road leads, in every sense of the word. For years I have been scouring the city, trying to uncover any clues which may have been left behind, this is no easy task for someone who is dead.
Moscow has changed a lot over the years, been through so much in the short time I’ve been dead. With every change I was always there, hoping something, somewhere would turn up. Nothing ever did; no clue, no body, nothing. Unfortunately for me, I do not know how to quit, Papa always called it one of my more endearing qualities, and he was right. Perhaps it’s why I always find myself going back to the city every week, scouring a new part of it, looking for a clue I may have previously missed.
Toska (Dark World Saga Book 1) Page 1
