Toska

by A. R. Kingston

  The ceiling is the best part; the lights are made to look like portholes, almost like something you would see in one of the science-fiction movies. Victor would have loved it here, and he would have loved those silly science-fiction movies too. The man was a dreamer and a visionary; we spend many hours lying side by side in the grass discussing what the future might look like. Wonder what Victor would have thought of the world the way it is now, I bet he would have loved all the things we couldn’t even dream of becoming possible.

  As I ponder about Victor, I find myself admiring one of the carvings on the wall. This one shows men working at what appears to be a metal factory; it gives me a slight pang. Papa was a blacksmith; he could well have been one of the men depicted here. Closing my eyes, I take in the smell of ozone to calm myself. I love this smell, not sure why but it makes me feel alive. My thoughts though are rudely interrupted by a deep rumble coming from the platform closest to me. Curious, I walk around the wall to see what is making the unearthly sound.

  The platform is dim, despite the amount of lights around me. Glancing about I stare at the crimson wall in front of me, the station's name is stuck on it in large brass letters. The pendulum lamps above the tracks sway idly back and forth, casting shadows on the platform. A thin, bright light strip on the floor cautions you to the upcoming yellow line. The only things behind me are brass sconce lamps, guarding the hammer and sickle at their center. I’m all alone in the empty metro station, or so I think.

  The same abysmal growl spreads through the silence around me; it’s closer this time, more intense. I glance to my left at the digital display counting down to the arrival of the next train. Under the glowing screen, at the mouth of the tunnel, a dark mist begins to form. Pressing my back against the stone wall, I look on, paralyzed by a primal fear which has a hold on me. The enormous thing begins moving closer to me as the sign above it starts to blink red zeros. The roar of the train can be heard in the distance, and two glowing spheres light up the darkness as they careen for the platform.

  Rapidly approaching the entry to the tunnel, the train plows through the black mist, dispelling it back into the darkness it came from. A strong breeze whips past me, spreading papers around the floor as my lifeline screeches its way to a stop, letting off the last of its late-night cargo. Nearly escaping the thing that was after me, I breathe a sigh of relief as the train passengers begin to step onto the platform.

  At this hour of the night, there is not much of a crowd, just the usual suspects who stumble off before they head back out into the city. A few soccer hooligans in track pants, screaming, howling, and chest bumping to celebrate the fact that their favorite team just won. A young woman dressed in black, her blue hair partially shaved on the side, and more metal in her face than on the studded leather jacket that she wears. A random drunk guy swaying to and fro, trying not to fall over, a bottle of vodka in a brown paper bag clutched tightly in his hands.

  And then, there is him; the man dressed all in black. He catches my eye the second he steps off the train. At the mere sight of him, I can feel my heart thump violently in its cage as blood begins to flow through my dusty veins. I stare at him biting my lip, half of me wants to scream, the other half can’t even figure out how to breathe. If only ghosts could cry, I would have a river of tears streaming down my face by now.

  His wavy, shoulder-length hair is barely visible under the wool beanie he is wearing, but I can still see enough of it. It’s layered, with jagged edges, it looks exactly the way Victor use to wear his, mostly because he insisted on cutting his own hair and it always came out looking a bit uneven. This man is strangely dressed though, with his wide leg jeans formed perfectly to his legs and large military styled boots. Over his slender frame sits a collarless wool coat that extends down to his knees, very popular with the young men of the city these days.

  Using a hand covered by a fingerless glove, he brushes a strand of dark brown hair out of his eyes turning his face towards me. I’m stunned by his impeccable bone structure, with its strong chin and his chiseled cheeks. These are same gorgeous features that I fell in love so many years ago. He looked exactly the same as my Victor did, but at the same time so different from him. His skin is so ashen that it almost resembled the snow we died in, and his beautiful eyes are pale, appearing more as green amethysts than the moss color they use to be.

  He is in the company of a strange woman. She is tall, almost his height, and blond. You could see bone poking out through her translucent skin; it looks like she is in desperate need of a good meal. From my angle on the platform, she resembled a skeleton found in universities that someone had draped a sheet of skin over for fun. On her pale arm, you can see a cluster of fresh needle marks and bruises on top of old scars. Clearly, she was into this modern human hobby of injecting strange substances into one's body.

  She is scantily dressed in a short, low-cut red dress and high red heels. There is not much of a jacket there either, just some fake fur shrug that does not suit her well. It is a strange choice of attire for a cold December night in Moscow, even for a well-adjusted local. I silently wondered if she was one of those women for hire that the paper talked about, selling her body to random men to pay for her drug habit.

  The man looks utterly indifferent to his date as he glances around the metro station. He has his arm around her waist as she leans on him, giggling, and running her fingers along his chest and shoulders. I cringe at her overly obnoxious show of affection, notably considering that he did not seem to care much for it. A woman like this was never Victor’s type, at least she wouldn’t have been while we were alive, but then again, this man was not him.

  I keep forgetting; this was not Victor, that would be impossible, my Victor has been dead for over one hundred and fifty years. Still, this man’s resemblance to him was uncanny; I might as well have been looking at Victor as he resurrected from the grave. Unable to control myself, and still in fear of the dark mist in the tunnel, I follow the two of them as they head up the escalator to the city.

  Standing one step behind them I stare up at his back, I want so badly to reach out and touch him, but I refrain. Instead, I lean in slightly closer to him and smell him. This man smells nothing like Victor used to, but he does have the sweet, pleasant aroma of oranges. The woman he is with on the other hand stinks of death. She is so pungent I know right away she is going to be dead before the night is over. The putrid smell of her is enough to make me gag, and I hang back to get away from her.

  I continue to flow behind them as the man, and the blond leave the station and head into the direction I came from. At the shopping complex, he leads her into a secluded alleyway between the mall and a clothing store. Nervously, he looks around as if to make sure no one is coming. Seemingly satisfied by the lack of pedestrians, he slams her against the wall. Pressing his body against hers, he looks at her seductively as he begins to kiss her neck. I want to turn and run, but my legs won’t move, I stay planted firmly in place and continue to watch. This is wrong, I shouldn’t encroach like this, but like looking at a train wreck in front of me I can’t turn away, it’s been so long since I felt the touch of a man that I want to experience it vicariously.

  The woman moans deeply, gasping as his hand trails up the side of her dress, stopping to rest on her breast. Once again, I attempt to turn away and leave the two of them be, but I am frozen in place by some invisible force that is holding me, demanding I keep looking on. Suddenly the silence is assaulted by an ear-piercing scream ringing out through the darkness. In front of me, I see the woman slumping as the man’s arms wrap themselves tightly around her slender body.

  At first, I think she is simply enjoying herself, but then I look closer, that’s when I see it. This Victor imposter is holding up her limp body as his lips are pressing firmly against her neck. The smell of death is immensely intense now, and it is being intermixed with a rich metallic smell of blood. I am horrified by what I’m witnessing.

  Right away I know what he is, there have b
een rumors of these creatures. The Slav lore is rich with their tales; I just did not think they existed here, not in Moscow. This man before me couldn’t possibly be my Victor; this man is a bloodthirsty monster, a creature of the night. I refused to accept the unlikely possibility of my Victor turning into this undead creature of the night, one in which cultures throughout the world fear.

  The same creature of which Bram Stoker wrote about in Dracula. I know most people assume that his book was a work of fiction, a figment of his dark imagination, when in fact it was an actual account of his adventure. I won’t tell you which character he was; I’ll let you figure that one out by yourself. But there was no way in hell I am going to accept the possibility of the man I love turning into nothing but an unholy beast.

  “Victor!” I stifle a loud scream by placing a hand over my mouth in horror as I look at the nightmare unfolding before me.

  The man’s eyes shoot open, their luminous green glow is haunting as he looks straight at me, wait, no, through me. I realize he cannot see me, I am nothing more than a whisper of a time gone by, but with the intensity that he looks in my direction, I can’t help feeling as if he sees me. Dropping the woman’s lifeless body, he takes a few steps closer; I can see the trickle of her blood tracing a fine line down his chin from the corner of his mouth. He pauses briefly to wipe it off with the sleeve of his coat. Peering past me he begins walking closer towards me, stopping right before the spot I am standing in. At first, I think he is staring at the street behind me, perhaps having heard something, but then he reaches up a hand and touches me.

  “Impossible.” He whispers as he places his hands into the pockets of his coat, he shakes his head and walks to the side of me, heading deeper into the city.

  For some unknown reason, I feel compelled to follow him, and before I get a chance to think it over my body moves on its own, trailing closely behind him. Maybe it’s his uncanny resemblance to Victor, or maybe I don’t want to be alone tonight, whatever my reasons are I rush to catch up to him. The snow has not let up yet; the white powder has already dusted a light layer on the sidewalk. This Victor’s boots leave large, defined impressions as he walks. I walk by his side, but my footprints are nowhere to be found, not in some Biblical sense, but for this simple fact; ghost don’t leave footprints.

  He stops on Elektrozavodskiy bridge and leans on the icy rail to look over a frozen river, staring into oblivion. I trace his line of sight to some apartment building with half its lights on. There is nothing of merit to see from here, so I turn my attention to the subject I find far more interesting, this eerie Victor clone. The look on his face is genuinely sad as he stares into the distance. This somber look up his brow causes a fierce sting of pain in my heart. I do not know this man, but I know his pain all too well.

  “Why? Why tonight of all nights?” the deep tone of his voice is laced with sorrow “Why won’t this emptiness go away.”

  I know he is not talking to me, but at the same time, it feels like he is. I too have an emptiness inside of me that can’t be filled, the two of us seem to have a lot in common than I originally thought. A tear falls down his face, the site of it feels like a knife going right through my heart, I reach over and trace it with the back of my finger. The single tear remains where it is, glistening on his face. The man lets out a shiver as he reaches up to touch his cheek with tips of his fingers, passing through my hand in the process. For once, I don’t mind being passed through, not by him; it makes me feels closer to this strange man for whom I feel a strangely powerful connection to.

  A small part of me knows I should leave, but I don’t want to, a much larger part of me wishes to stay. Some love-sick girl in me desires to remain with this man a little while longer, get to know him a bit better. Knowing myself well by now I don’t bother attempting to go, I know I won’t get far. Hoisting myself up, I sit on the ledge of the bridge next to him, studying his face while he looks on, oblivious to my presence.

  “Why have you forsaken me God?” he looks up at the sky, eyes full of tears as the snow falls on his pain-stricken face.

  “He can’t hear you; he’s deff to our plight,” I whisper knowing full well this vampire can’t hear me. It may be a one-sided conversation, but talking to him makes me feel like there is someone here who understands, even though I am the one who understands him.

  It seems strange to me that he would use the word ‘forsaken’ when referring to his situation. Not long ago I too felt like God had abandoned me. For the first half of a century, I felt God had turned his back on me for the transgressions I may have made in life. Eventually, though, I came to realize I had worshiped a blind and indifferent God for my entire life, a realization that made me angrier than waking up as a ghost.

  This creature next to me, he isn’t so different from what I was now. I may not need to kill to survive, but I too am a forsaken being left to rot in this harsh living world. Whatever this man lost in his life must have been precious to him, like my Victor was too me. If a man was willing to cry in public, you knew that his wounds extended far beyond visual range. He may not know I’m here, but for me, this man was a kindred spirit, someone I felt instantly connected to. I wished there was something I could do to comfort him, but all I am capable of doing is keeping him company, even if I did not exist in his mind.

  The snow continues to fall from the sky, dusting his black jacket and hat with a fine white sheet of fluff. I don’t know how long we stood there on the bridge; I didn’t even care, his company was a welcome change to my usually dull routine. But eventually, he did pull away, walking far from the direction we came, heading closer to the center of Moscow. Looking down at his feet he continues to walk down the snow-covered street without looking up once. I float along by his side, enjoying his company.

  It is a long, quiet walk, no living soul is out at this time, and we have the street all to ourselves. I have no idea where he is headed, but I know he would have probably been better off taking the metro, had it been running at this hour. He, on the other hand, did not seem to mind the walk at all, glancing up occasionally in my direction as if he could sense my presence next to him. It has been a long time since I felt at peace, but walking next to this vampire in the dead of night made me feel like I was walking by my beloved’s side once again.

  The man saunters all the way down to Stary Arbat, a long way away from where we started. During the day, this historic street would be alive with people moving about their day, and vendors selling matryoshkas and random works of art. Tonight, however, there was only a stray dog looking for food by the trash can and a drunk man walking down the opposite side of the street, heading away from us.

  The vampire stops in front of a three-story champagne pink building, looking up at its windows. This must be an apartment complex or house from the turn of the century; it’s beautiful. Standing beside my companion, I admire the architectural details that were prevalent in architecture before the Bolshevik take over. Bright white trim outlines the windows, and elegant scrollwork forms the window ledge. Carvings of lions and shields adorn the exterior around the window panes. They sure don’t make them like they use to anymore, I wonder if he lives here.

  The man heaves out a melancholy sigh, I can almost taste the pain in his breath, and there is deep despair in his eyes. Heading for a wrought iron gate connected to the building the man flings it violently open and we find ourselves in a vacant garden. In the summer, this place must be a pleasant escape from the active city life, full of shrubs and flowers, but in the winter it looks derelict. The ground is covered in mounds of snow that no one bothers to shovel, and the small trees are bare, bending down to the ground under the weight of their winter coat.

  Shuffling his feet on the walkway, he flings up snow as he walks further into the courtyard. Stopping before a heavy wood door that leads inside, he grumbles something under his breath. With an anguished expression on his face, he looks up one more time to the moonless sky before softly opening the door and sliding through the
crack. Not wishing to be left alone outside for the shadows to catch up to me, I walk through the door and stand in the building entrance hall next to the man in black.

  This building is far too old for elevators, opting out for the use of a grand marble staircase to get to the top floors instead. My Victor doppelganger heads for it and begins to shuffle up the long flight of gray stairs. At the top of the second floor, he walks to my right straight for an elegant looking wooden door. It’s carved from some exotic wood I have not seen before; its varnished surface is dark red, almost the color of blood. From its center hangs a stately brass door knocker in the shape of a fierce lion holding onto the ring in his powerful jaws.

  Fishing around in his pocket the man pulls out a set of keys and finds the one he is looking for. Opening his door, he flicks on the lights to reveal an elegant interior of the apartment. I find myself standing on a parquet floor of a grand room with varnished wood panels and pink diamond wallpaper. To my right is a great fireplace carved from mahogany, it’s mantel decorated with nutcrackers and matryoshkas. The entire left wall is a built-in bookcase containing books that span over a century of literature, this man is more like Victor than I initially thought.

  The room is decorated exclusively in period decor from our era, it’s very much to Victor’s tastes, but in our lives, far from what we could afford. Champagne colored Victorian curtains hang from the three windows across from me, they remain closed to snuff out any bit of light which may dare enter. On the tray ceiling above me hangs a large crystal chandelier, each bead dazzles and sparkles from the light. A small circular space above it is light blue, with whimsy clouds painted on top of it. I wonder if he was the one to put them there. My Victor was a good artist, and I can envision him putting something like this on our ceiling.