Toska

by A. R. Kingston

  My Victor copy takes off his hat and tosses in on the floor, the snow on it has begun to melt, and now a small puddle is forming on the wood floor. He kicks off his shoes and hangs up his coat revealing a long sleeve shirt concealed underneath. It has no buttons, and like the rest of his clothing, it’s black. I contemplate to myself if all vampires prefer black, or maybe this is his way of showing off whatever grief he may feel inside. Maybe he wears black as a symbolic way of showing the world that he is mourning the loss of someone or something, his one connection to humanity perhaps.

  He walks to the middle of the three windows and pulls back one of its panels, leaning against a wood window frame he looks out into a sleeping city which is starting to wake up. I join him, the view of the cityscape is spectacular from here, I can see why he likes it. It appears to have stopped snowing for now, and a hazy winter sky is starting to turn a light shade of burnt sienna, the sun is starting to make its way up. Angrily he draws the curtain closed, slamming his fist against the wall he turns and walks away from a site he can’t witness.

  He heads straight for a cabinet under the bookshelf along the wall and pulls out a full bottle of cognac. Twisting the cap off he tosses it aside and flops down on the push burgundy sofa; his right leg rests on the top of its delicate wood back. Putting the glass bottle to his lips, he begins to chug its amber contents. I stand next to him and look on, all the men in my time enjoyed a good cognac from time to time, but my Victor had enough manners to pour it in a glass first.

  Emptying the bottle of its contents he sits up, spreading his legs his head is hung low facing the floor. Suddenly he shoots up from his seat and angrily throws the empty bottle into the fireplace, it explodes like fireworks in the night sky spraying the floor around it with a fine glass dust. The intensity of his rage both frightens me and excites me at the same time, the flame inside me that I have felt the moment that I entered the city burns hot, warming me from the inside out.

  Breathing heavily, he stands in the middle of the room, the flicker of fury in his eyes slowly changes to that of misery. He rubs the temples of his head and pushes past the wood coffee table, walking straight for a small door by the fireplace. Jerking the door open he walks in and slams it shut before I have a chance to join him. Shrugging my shoulders, I push myself through and rematerialize on the other side.

  This room is smaller, but it’s not lacking in wood paneling or the extravagance of the decor. To my right stands a small fireplace, also carved from mahogany, but this one has a painting of Zmey Gorynych. The monster is depicted as a shimmering green, three-head serpent, being slain by Dobrynya Nikitich. It is probably one of the most famous of Slavic lore, and it happens to be Victor’s favorite. As kids, he used to tell me this story all the time, wishing he was great as Nikitich. I never got tired of hearing about it, and every time, I assured him I thought he was far better than some Slavic knight. I was not lying either, for me, Victor was just as good, if not better, and he did not need to slay monsters to impress me.

  Smiling, I walk to the chest of drawers, tucked in between the fireplace and the wall, its bowed legs barely fit in the space provided. Running my fingers along its smooth polished surface, I admire the timeless craftsmanship. It’s made of mahogany like everything else in the room, beautifully made by expert hands. I study what he has on it, a white lace doily, with subtle roses, sits in the center. Roses have always been my favorite flowers, wonder what he would say if he knew, but I doubt he’d care. To one side of the large mirror, closest to the wall sits a drinking horn on a wooden stand; it looks exactly like the one that papa gave Victor as an early wedding gift.

  I trace the horns marbled brown curves with my fingers. Papa had made Victor’s, yet this one looks practically identical. I wonder where this one came from and how the man came to possess it. My fingers trail off the horn and find their way across the wood to a jewelry box sitting by the fireplace. It looks like a miniature Faberge egg, on three gold legs, it’s white porcelain surface covered in a silver fishnet pattern and bright Swarovski crystals. It's breathtaking, I would have loved one of those eggs back in the day, but they were not for people like us. I’m curious to see what treasures this one contains, so guess I have to let my imagination run wild.

  Across from me, the man lets out another depressing sigh, forcing me to look over to where he is standing. He almost blends in leaning up against the black wall, his pale face and eyes stand out as he glances wistfully in my direction. Next to him is a single window in an otherwise dark room. I notice him playing with its plum, crushed velvet curtain with a great deal of turmoil on his face. Turning away from me, this Victor heads for the large canopy bed in the center of the room. It's royal purple; silk sheets match the velvet canopy draped over them. Dearest Victor could only fantasize about such luxury and elegance in our humble life, yet this man is living the dream.

  I’m not sure why I keep referring to this man as Victor, the man I loved died a long time ago, this was an imposter who happens to resemble him perfectly. Still, I just couldn’t let go of the notion that I had found him after all this time, even if he was a monster. After all these years of loneliness, I had finally found a kindred spirit I connected to on a whole other plane of existence. I did not care who he was or what he was; I just wanted to spend some more time with him, wishing to get to know him a little more. At the very least, maybe, learn his name.

  The man walked over to his bed and flung himself onto its sheets. Curling up on the silk surface he began to cry. Seeing him like this pulled apart the cracks of my damaged heart, and it crumpled into a heap of un-mendable shards. It killed me to see him this way, all I wanted to do was run over and embrace him in my arms, so he did not have to suffer alone. Regrettably, in my current condition there was not much I could do, so I walked over and sat on the bed beside him. Momentarily he stopped crying and looked up to the spot I was sitting in. Closing his eyes, he allowed the tears to fall freely from his face, compelling me to reach over to stroke his hair.

  Curling up on the bed next to him I continue to play with his hair or at least pretending to as his locks glide effortlessly through my fingers. Not opening his eyes, he reaches over and places his arm in the spot I am laying in. The prickles tickled my body, causing me to giggle and shiver. However, I do not move, I feel he can sense my presence here, and this by itself makes me happy. Such comfort in death doesn’t come easy, and I eagerly accept whatever feeling of joy I get out of this, even if it is for a fleeting moment in my eternal existence.

  It takes him a good hour to settle down and go to sleep, I remained by his side, watching him sleep. As wrong as this is I can’t seem to pull myself away from him, my heart keeps begging me to look on at his gorgeous face. He looks so peaceful, so alive, so much like the Victor, I remember. It does not matter who he is, I intended to spend my day by this man’s side, attempting to relive the days I spent with my beloved over a century ago.

  3

  Her Resurrection

  W

  e stayed in bed together until the sun begun to set over the frozen city. When the last bit of light had been snuffed out from the horizon the man lying next to me awoke. In his eyes, I can still see a pining for whatever it was he lost, his hand was still placed squarely through me. Gazing into his faint green eyes, I reach out and touch his face with the tips of my fingers, his body shivers, and he touches the spot where my finger is with the palm of his hand.

  Sitting up in bed he removes his shirt, tossing it on the floor. He collapses back on the bed, spreading out to let me admire his toned physique. On his left side I notice a scar, it’s deep, old, and goes between his ribs directly to his heart. Lightly touching it with the tip of my finger I trace it up to the tattoo on his chest. It’s a strange symbol; an inverted pentagram encircled in a briar vine with spiky thorns appearing as if they are actually digging into his flesh. Two serpents are weaving their way through the pentagrams center, forming a letter V with their elongated bodies. I am about to reach
out and touch it, when the thing around his neck grabs hold of my attention, catching me off guard as a sucker punch to the face.

  I get a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, much like my insides are being twisted in knots and pummeled by rocks. At first, I think I am mistaken, perhaps I have spent so much time here I have begun to lose my mind. Maybe I am creating a fantasy to escape my reality. I take a closer look; the main part of the necklace is made up of five sets of ten obsidian beads separated by five ruby beads. At the end of one of the rubies is three more obsidian beads, followed by a ruby with an intricate silver cross at the end.

  Cautiously, I reach out and touch the crucifix shape that has been prominent within the Orthodox church for ages. Sure enough, a figure of Jesus is raised, nailed to this makeshift cross. I bite down on my lip, wishing to cry, I know this rosary too well. And the reason I know it so intimately is because I had picked it out myself as a gift for Victor’s seventeenth birthday. To this day I can recall every detail of how he came into the possession of this necklace he is still wearing.

  It was not long after he started courting me, I distinctly remember the outrage that it caused, as it should have. Can you imagine, the most handsome young man in the village was courting an awkward fourteen-year-old child? The truth is, Victor could have easily had any girl he wanted, but for some reason he chose me. All the village girls hated me for it. None the less, I have always loved Victor and was thrilled that out of all the girls in town he would have picked me.

  His birthday was coming up a few months after, and I wanted to get him something extra special. I did extra work and saved up all my money so I could get Victor a gift he would be proud to wear. The cross he had was old, and I wanted him to have one as beautiful as he was in my eyes. I realize now how silly this was, but for us, at the time it was something that would hold significant meaning, and it was all that I could afford.

  I went to a local church where I knew the nuns had crafted their rosaries by hand; every single one was unique, there was no other one like it in the world. Victor was overjoyed to receive it; he said it was the best gift he ever got and promised to never take it off. He kept his word up until the fateful night we died, and apparently well past it. There was no mistaking it any longer, this man, this monster, he was my beloved Victor.

  I clutch my chest, unable to breathe; the pain feels like I have been shot all over again. Feeling hysterical I try to force the tears to come, but they don’t, so I just sit in place, stifling a scream which is attempting to claw its way out from my throat. All this time, Victor had been here all along, living a life as some monster he is not. I don’t want to believe it has taken me so long to find him, worst yet, he has been suffering. I think this is what stings me most, knowing my Victor has been in pain for so long and that I was not around to help him, I feel like I’ve failed him again.

  Without noticing me he rolls out of bed, walking to his dresser. He leans on it, staring at himself in the mirror. I leave the bed and float behind him, reaching out for him. Longing to touch him one more time, the fire in my chest begins to grow frosty. All of a sudden Victor turns around wide-eyed, staring at the spot in which I’m standing. With such a look on his face he might as well just rip my heart out of my chest and burn it in his fireplace, I can no longer bear the dull ache smoldering inside me. Resisting the urge to run up and fling my arms around his neck and profess my love for him, I collapse on the floor, hanging my head down in defeat.

  Turning his face away from me, Victor shakes his head despondently, while muttering something under his breath, too soft for me to hear from where I’m sitting. He picks up the egg-shaped jewelry box and studies it thoughtfully. Turning it in his hands his eye glow with bitter gloom as if the contents of the container would burn him if he opened it. Without opening it up, he carefully sets it back down and heads out of the room, leaving the door open this time.

  Getting back up to my feet I casually float out into his seating area. Victor is squatting down on the floor looking inside his liquor cabinet. I can see from here that it is full of different types of bottles, all vary in color and consistency. Reaching in, he pulls out a bottle of Absolute vodka, twisting off its cap and tossing it to the floor by one from last night.

  Tilting his head back he begins to empty this new container of its contents. He stops only when the bottle is empty, and tosses it aside. It slides past me, coming to a rest by a wall behind me. Slamming his fists down on the wood shelf in front of him, his head drops down to meet his fists. I can’t help but feel responsible for the torment he feels; this realization burns far worse than the bullet that ended my life. Walking up close to him, I rest my hand on his shoulder, hoping my presence alone will provide him some relief.

  We will not be enjoying this for long as an incessant clicking disrupts the stillness of his chamber. To my left I hear the lock on the door being fiddled with, I turn my head just in time to see it swing out to reveal a tall woman on the other side. She slips through the doorway, wearing a skin-tight red dress over her flat, shapeless frame. My jaw drops open, not at the site of such a creature in Victor’s apartment, but at the frightening realization that I know her.

  She looks different than she did back in our time, her hair is short like a boy and almost white. The eyes that were once gray are barely visible, as they have turned to the color of pearls giving her a surreal appearance. It may have taken me a moment to recognize her, but I have no doubt this woman is Nadia from the village. I could never forget such a vile person; she loathed what Victor and I had, and was always hell-bent on winning him over. What on earth was she doing here? I thought she went missing a month before our death; she should have been dead herself by now.

  And then there is the thing behind her, lurking in the shadows of the hallway. I can’t see what it is, but I feel its dark presence. Whatever it is, it's ancient, with unmatched strength. Even from where I stand I can sense that it's not at its full power, but it’s still stronger than anything found on earth. The presence of it alone, so close by, takes hold of me, trying to kill me. I can feel it gripping me; my body feels like it's being crushed by an unseen slab of stone. I’m starting to feel like I am going to suffocate from its presence, but just as suddenly as it appears it vanishes, relinquishing its hold on me.

  Nadia is leaning on the door frame; one hand draped over her head, the other is pulling down part of her dress to expose her non-existent breast. She takes her hand off her chest and springs it up to her face, seductively biting on her long, scarlet fingernail. Pulling her hand out of her mouth, she licks her crimson lips and clears her throat, likely annoyed that he still has not noticed her. Beside me, Victor looks up at her from the shelf that he was leaning on, his expression automatically changes to one of revolt.

  “Hey,” Victor speaks in the flat tone he had always used with her.

  Budging from her spot in the doorway, Nadia slinks over to him, trying to sway what little hips she may have. As she gets closer to him, I notice she smells nothing like him, her scent is relatively obnoxious. It’s an odd odor, much like week-old gym socks, topped with spoiled cottage cheese and a hint of rotting onion. Rotten to the core I take it.

  “Hello, Lover,” Nadia says provocatively as she comes even closer to him. She begins running her claws over his bare skin, tracing little patterns as she makes her way up from his abs to his chest. Stopping at his rosary, her lips curl in revulsion as she lets out a deep groan. “You still wear that foul thing?”

  “What? This?” Victor raises his eyebrow and smirks. He takes up the rosary in his hand and plays with it on his finger. “If it bothers you that much Nadia, we don’t have to do anything. I promise I won’t mind.”

  “As if I’d let that insignificant little trinket of yours stop me from getting what I want.”

  Helplessly, I watch as Nadia shoves Victor against the wall between the windows. Pressing her body against his, she starts kissing him; poor Victor looks like he is being eaten alive by an octopu
s. Reluctantly his hands move to her waist, and he returns her kiss while still keeping her body away from his. I feel like I have swallowed some sour milk, a nauseating lump forms at the base of my throat. Clasping my hand over my mouth I stumble back, finding myself planted halfway in his sofa.

  How dare she lay her filthy paws on him? Victor is mine. Alright, was mine, but she had no right to go after him. And Victor, how could you go for someone like her, had I meant absolutely nothing to you? I realize I have been dead all this time, but in the undead terms I have not been dead a long time at all, yet he goes and replaces me with ease. For the first time since my death, I begin to feel angry, which is no easy feat for a ghost. You see, for the most part, we spirits are only able to feel and connect with emotions similar to the ones we died with, experiencing something different is almost unheard of.

  There have only been a handful of stories and some rumors amongst spooks I have encountered on my journeys, stories of a ghost who felt the whole spectrum of human emotions. These were always considered to be a fairy tale, stories told to scare the young ones, for spirits that were too human are thought to be dangerous and unstable. These rouge spirits have such an intimate connection with the physical plane they can do things most cannot. But all have always vanished without a trace, never to be seen again.

  I have never thought myself to be either dangerous or unstable. Yet, here I was, feeling an emotion I had become a stranger to. The terrifying prospect of vanishing from existence right as I found Victor started to overwhelm me. Fearing what this meant for me, I pushed the anger down, tightening the lid over it and looked on.