For those like me, who really enjoy the ins and outs and the why behind things, follow me into the history of Attachment Theory.

Before we dive in, lets start with some basic definitions:

Attachment: A deep, enduring emotional bond between two people, primarily established between infants and their caregivers, to ensure safety, security, and survival.1

Developmental Psychology: The scientific study of how and why humans grow, change, and maintain stability across their lifespan, from conception to death.

Attachment Theory Foundations

The founding father of Attachment Theory is John Bowlby, who published an article in 1944 titled, Forty-four Juvenile Thieves: Their Character and Home life. In this article, he determined that early attachment experiences became precursors to later delinquent behavior. He established that separation from caregivers and/or harsh caregiving negatively impacted attachment. He was also the first person to theorize that infants develop what is called an “Internal Working Model” within the first year of life.

An Internal Working Model (IWM) is an unconscious cognitive framework that shapes a person’s expectations, emotions, and behaviors in future relationships. In simplified terms, your IWM, which Bowlby theorized is developed within the first year of life, becomes the blueprint for how you will develop future relationships.

Nature Vs. Nurture

Why does this matter? Why did anyone bother studying this? Well, lets talk about some basic psychological concepts first. There is an ongoing conversation in the world of psychology that asks, what is nature vs. nurture? Meaning, are humans born that way, or are they raised that way?

In the world of developmental psychology, nature vs. nurture becomes, Temperament vs. Attachment.

Temperament refers to the innate, biologically based individual differences in emotional, motor, and attentional reactivity and self-regulation.2 AKA, the way you’re born. If you’re a parent with multiple children, you know not all babies are the same. Some are fussy, others are calm. Some cry easily, others are nothing but smiles.

Some of these differences are related to temperament (nature) but as time goes on, an infants attachment style begins to play a larger role.

The Strange Situation

The Strange Situation is one of the most well known research experiments in Attachment Theory, created by Mary Ainsworth in 1978. This experiment became the gold standard for identifying secure vs. insecure attachments and set the basis for future research which expanded upon the original secure vs. insecure into what many of us know now as the four main attachment styles: Secure, Avoidant (Dismissive), Anxious (Preoccupied), Disorganized (fearful).

In Mary Ainsworth’s experiment, she looked at how infants responded to potential threats (The stranger) and how their threat responses are shaped by their attachment relationships.

Experiment Set Up:

1. Child and mother play together

2. After playing for a bit, a stranger comes in

3. Stranger then tries to interact with child after a few minutes

4. Mother then leaves the room

5. Stranger tries to interact with child

6. Mother returns, stranger leaves

7. Mother settles child, “The Reunion”

8. Then mother leaves again

9. Stranger then returns and attempts to comfort infant

10. Mother returns again and settles infant

The Strange Situation Video:

Video of Insecurely Attached Infant Behavior

This experiment focuses on how the child interacts with its surroundings (the toys), how they respond to their caregiver leaving, returning, and how they engage and interact with the stranger.

Observed Infant Behaviors by Attachment Type:

Securely Attached Infant Behavior:

-Will explore and play freely when caregiver is present

-Will engage with stranger if caregiver is present

-May be upset when caregiver leaves, but is happy to see them return

Overall, the infant feels their caregiver is a secure base that allows them to interact and explore their world, and they develop a trust that their caregiver is available and will be responsive to their needs.

Avoidant (Dismissive) Attached Infant Behavior:

• Often ignores the caregiver

• Shows little response to the caregiver coming or going

• Will not explore their environment much regardless of who is present

• Overall, dismissive of their caregiver’s presence.

Anxious (Preoccupied) Attached Infant Behavior:

• Show distress before caregiver leaves

• Often clingy and difficult to comfort when caregiver returns

• Showed signs of resentment towards caregiver leaving, OR signs of helpless passivity

• Can display anger or helplessness towards their caregiver

Disorganized (Fearful) Attached Infant Behavior:

Important to note, this attachment style was in a way, an afterthought. It is sort of a catchall for infant behavior that did not fit into the other three classifications and should be viewed with consideration. Mary Ainsworth expressed concern that this classification might be too broad and treat too many different forms of behavior as if they were the same thing.3

Aka, a cluster of ‘symptoms’ (I use that term loosely) that are seen together, but may not necessarily belong together.

• The infants expressed tense movements, hunching of shoulders, putting their hands behind their neck and tensely cocking their heads. These tension movements signified stress, because they occurred in separation episodes. 4

• Infants behavior is not coordinated in a smooth way to achieve any proximity (closeness) to the caregiver and is therefore considered “disorganized.”

• Infant appears to experience flooding of their attachment system, displaying fear, contradictory behaviors, jerky movements, freezing, or apparent dissociation.

• Despite these seemingly fearful responses to both the situation and the caregiver, 52% of disorganized infants still approached the caregiver to seek comfort. 5

To over simplify:

1. Securely attached infants explored their environments and felt their caregivers were a secure base. They were easily comforted by their caregiver.

2. Avoidantly attached infants had little interest in their environment, caregiver, or stranger.

3. Anxiously attached infants were clingy and very emotionally reactive to their caregiver coming and going. These infants were difficult to settle down and sometimes hit/smacked their caregiver out of anger/resentment for being left.

4. Disorganized attached infants showed signs of extreme stress, were seemingly fearful of their caregiver but also sought out comfort from them.

What Types of Caregivers create these attachment styles?

We established earlier, that infants have temperament (nature) but their attachment styles seem to be more closely related to their nurture. (To be clear, there are multiple factors that contribute to attachment styles so please do not think that biological factors do not play any role in attachment theory, because they do.)

Observed Caregiver Behaviors by Attachment:

1. Secure: High in responsiveness both to child’s physical and emotional needs. Emotionally available and responds to child’s cries/needs. Prompt and consistent to meet child’s needs in a timely manner. Emotionally in tune with child, when child feels threatened, caregiver provides comfort. Caregiver provides “secure base” in which the child is encouraged to explore their surroundings. Caregiver is predictable

2. Avoidant: Caregiver is emotionally unavailable. May react with annoyance when a child is fearful/sad. Ignores child’s needs for reassurance or punishes child for vulnerability. “Toughen up,” mindset. Limited physical touch. Lack of nurturing. Caregiver tends to be dismissive of child’s needs.

3. Anxious: Inconsistent caregiver, either too fast in response, or ignores the child’s needs. Overbearing sometimes, dismissive other times. Gives child mixed signals. Can be very affectionate, but also cold and punitive. Caregiver is bad at boundaries focusing on their own emotional needs over the child’s. Unreliable caregivers. (Codependency/enmeshment).

4. Disorganized: Caregiver is unpredictable. From responsive to negligent and/or abusive. Caregiver scares the child. Can be emotionally unavailable or volatile. “Fear without solution,” caregiver is both a source of danger and the intended source of comfort. Leaving the child unsure of how to safely resolve stress. 6

*Interesting data to note: Main and Hesse found that 56% of mothers who lost a parent by death before they completed high school had children with disorganized attachments. It was also found that mothers who suffered a major loss or trauma just before or after the birth of a child and became severely depressed often raised disorganized attached children. 7

I point out this information about the caregivers of disorganized attached children because parental abandonment and mental illness are considered Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE’s), which I will discuss in greater detail in a future article. But for now, here is a LINK that gives some general information.

Attachment Theory in Character Development:

So, why do we care about attachment theory? Why does it matter how babies respond to their caregiver leaving the room and a stranger coming in?

Well, because your attachment style is your Internal Working Model for how you develop relationships in your adult life. Understanding the basis for attachment can help you create realistic and dynamic characters in your stories. It is important to consider your characters upbringing in the development of their behaviors and personalities. It wouldn’t make sense for a character who was raised by perfectly amazing loving and responsive parents to be disorganized in their attachment. Why in the world would someone raised by lovely people not trust anyone and also hate themselves?

Below is a graphic that does a good job and giving some key points about Relationship Attachment Styles.

It is important to note, that attachment styles are not lifelong curses. If you do have one of the insecure attachment styles (Anxious, Avoidant, Disorganized (Fearful)) you can become securely attached.

Here is a deeper breakdown:

Notice the colored dots on this image? It’s because attachment styles are dynamic not static. The image is a graph with plot points. Not all avoidantly attached people are extreme in their avoidance of intimate relationships. They can be more subtle and again, they can HEAL and move towards secure attachment.

Securely attached people have a Positive View of themselves AND a positive View of Others.

• Meaning, they have a good sense of self-worth and confidence in addition to in general, believing that other people are inherently good and trustworthy.

• They have a stable sense of self

• They are comfortable with intimacy, but are okay with being alone. They will choose to be alone, over putting up with mistreatment.

• Good with boundaries

• Their caregivers were responsive to their needs both physical and emotional, so they grow up trusting that people are reliable, good natured, and that they themselves are good, and good enough.

Avoidantly attached people have a Positive View of Themselves and a negative view of others.

• They were raised to be self-reliant. Taught that their emotional needs were their own burden to carry. As such, they don’t trust other people because they never had anyone to really lean on in their formative years. But they trust themselves and think pretty highly of themselves. Tend to be independent and non-committal. They can be content on their own. They tend to be slow to trust others and will easily shut down and push others away if they feel threatened.

• Life the infant, they take little interest in the world outside of themselves and focus on themselves.

• They struggle with loneliness, but fear giving up the freedom of independence for intimacy because closeness doesn’t feel safe.

• Can be selfish in relationships because they tend to worry more about taking care of themselves, (Again, independent in their behavior.)

• Will not ask for help. Will suffer before showing they have a need. They don’t trust that asking for help won’t result in emotional danger.

• AVOIDS CONFLICT. These people shut down and withdraw. Again, preferring to be alone than with others because they do not feel safe around others emotionally.

Anxiously attached people have a Positive View of others, but a negative view of themselves.

• These are your people pleasers. They have a low sense of self-worth, big abandonment wounds, but they generally like people. (Until they think you’ll abandon them.)

• These people tend to become who they think others will like instead of being themselves (they’re often co-dependent.)

• Will put their partners or other important relationships over themselves.

• In relationships, they’re clingy, and want constant validation that they are loved and needed, all of which stems from their lack of self-worth. They don’t feel like they’re good enough to be loved and cherished.

• This stems from the fact that these children had overbearing and neglectful caregivers which turned into the internalized belief that the inconsistencies in caregiving, were their fault. If only they had cried the right way, or asked for food the right way, or if only they were better, their caregiver would have responded appropriately. It’s no wonder this style is called anxious; these children never knew what kind of parent they were getting each day. So, in their desperate search for safety and predictability, they learned to blame themselves for everything. Because if everything is your fault, you can control it right? (It’s a trap.)

Disorganized attached people think poorly of themselves and others.

• They were raised to live in fear and internalized that they were “not good enough,” and that others were dangerous.

• A common feature of a disorganized attached person is this “hot & cold” dynamic.

• I love you, please don’t leave me, but also fuck you and I don’t need anyone.

• They have features of both an anxiously attached person and an avoidantly attached person.

• Their parents were not safe emotionally or physically. Their parents SCARED them. They are likely abused if not at least emotionally neglected/abused.

Examples of characters with the 4 attachment styles:

1. Secure: Reliable and kindhearted. When faced with a challenge, they feel capable, but will ask for help if they think it is beyond them. Stable in their sense of self and trusts other people. Will not easily give up and will not tolerate mistreatment. I think of the hero types that will not put up with shitty people. Emotionally stable. Probably not the best main character, but a great best friend for the main character.
   

2. Avoidant: Cold, distant, closed off. Independent and will risk their lives instead of asking for help. Confident and can seem/be arrogant. Probably condescending as they think other people suck. Will refuse help and become extremely uncomfortable when doted on. (I think of Yuno from Black Clover.) Lone wolf types. Probably a rogue. Mysterious, moody, cunty (probably.)
   
   

3. Anxious: Constantly chasing others. Freaks out if they think they’re being left behind. Will literally take a bullet for you. Might stalk you and will likely become jealous if they think their favorite people (friends or romantic interests) are taking an interest in others. Probably has identity issues. Will change their style/personality to match what they think others will like. Probably a really good spy or undercover agent. Tries to be likable by all, but can be extremely clingy and overbearing. Will obsessively dote on people. Will cry if they feel abandoned but they will blame themselves and decide that it was all their fault because they aren’t good enough. Will blindly love, follow, and kiss ass to dangerous and unhealthy people, especially if those people shower them with love. Susceptible to being manipulated and abused. Wears their heart on their sleeves.
   
   

4. Disorganized: Mix anxious and avoidant, but add the fact that if you hurt them, they will probably hate you forever. They do not take rejection well. They want community, they want to be loved, but they are very uncomfortable with it. So, they might open up, then run away for a few days out of sheer panic from the fact they let someone in. Then they will probably give you the cold shoulder and act like they never showed any vulnerability. They hate themselves too. Probably apathetic. Can be dangerous when they feel hurt. Again, hot and cold. Highly emotionally volatile, but also cold hearted and hateful.

Now, for extra fun, mix in their personality types and check out my article on The Big 5 Personality Traits

Happy Writing and Thanks for Reading! <3
-K.M.

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Thank you for the writing prompt. I followed it wherever it led me.

The men come to me 
In hunt for a night full of glee

A beauty I might be
To one as unsuspecting as thee

Rosy red lips
Wide child birthing hips

Delicate and sweet
Always looking for something to eat

Now alone in a room
They seek to enter my womb

Desperately they thrust
In temptation and lust

Riding their highs
Until they open their eyes

Revelations of what hides beneath
A stretching smile full of teeth

A demon they cry
As their night goes awry

Consuming yet again
What once made them men

I make their eyes roll
As I devour their souls

For they could never deny
The beguiling succubi

Thanks for reading <3

-K.M.

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Far too young to remember its conception
Where it came from
Gift or hand-me-down

At the back of the closet it rests
Quietly, patiently
Occasionally observed
Pressed

A gentle red pulsing
A reminder of a promise
For if I still beat
Life goes on

A silly little thing
A childhood wish can be
The hope I implanted

In that plastic heart necklace

-K.M.

Authors note:
I cannot remember how or when I got this necklace. But I have never been able to let it go. It has moved thousands of miles and states away from its original home.

When I get the itch to dig through old sentimental items, I pull this little heart out and after twenty some odd years, it still lights up.

Leaving me with a smile, a reminder of childhood, of sweet little naive hopes.

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Tonight I pulled a few tarot cards, just asking whatever powers that be, if they had any messages for me. The following card pulls, are what led to the creation of the piece above.

Three of Cups, Reversed:

When researching its meaning, what stood out to me was the remark that right now, “I might prefer” to go at things alone. That in terms of creativity, it’s being stifled because I feel the need to conform to the group. I may be surrounded by others who do things a certain way and are not open to innovation or alternative approaches.

My Interpretation:

Stop giving a shit about how things “should” be done in the writing world. Stop concerning myself with whether or not I am “good enough,” by others standards. Stop trying to conform to classical ways of writing because I have NEVER sought out traditional writing styles.

Something that is a bit odd about me, and something others may disagree with, is I actively avoid exposing myself to too much “training” around artistic skills. I don’t want to read articles about various styles, the best/worst writing habits, etc. Why? Because to me, writing is an art. Which means, Fuck the stupid god damn rules. Let it be what it needs to be. I don’t read other peoples work to “get better” myself.

As a hardcore rule follower in my day-to-day life, my artistic hobbies are where I set myself free. Following strict rules that others set in order to gatekeep what is considered “good” writing feels like a prison and I want no part of it.

Now obviously, some rules make sense. I won’t argue the basics. But don’t tell me how to write a story. Let me stumble my way through it until I settle on something that feels right to me. So long as others can read what I write and understand what I’m trying to convey, I can be happy with it.

The Two of Cups, Reversed:

I started pondering if I was too much of a loner and if my refusual to follow rules was a “bad thing.” As I was contemplating my introverted ways and questioning if I needed to be “more social,” and “follow the rules,” I pulled The Two of Cups, Reversed.

This card is all about self love. Ironic that I pull this card while actively dogging on myself for being the quiet little introvert I am. When I finally love and accept myself, I’ll finally find my happiness. (Whatever spirits that may be were obviously yelling at me tonight to be nice to myself. Almost like they knew I had fallen into a pit of self doubt.)

My Interpretation:

The better I become at loving the parts of myself I tend to hate, the better off I’ll be. Much of my self-doubt comes from the parts of myself I hide. My “shadow” self. But the sooner I stop pushing those parts away, and accept them as a part of who I am, the better. That isn’t to say that I need to stop trying to better myself. But I do need to stop expecting perfection from an imperfect existence.

Then I started thinking, “I hate the way I” in the tune of “10 things I hate about you,” which is where the poem above started at. It obviously changed a lot and doesn’t quite fit that original idea, but I like the way it turned out.

Six of Swords, Upright:

Final pull, when asking if my guides had anything else to add, I pulled the Six of Swords, Upright:

This card is about leaving behind the old, dropping baggage, and essentially making room for change.

My Interpretation:

The longer I hold onto my self-hatred, the longer I’ll hold myself back. I go back and forth on my self-acceptance journey. Some days, I feel fine being the weird little duck I tend to be. Other days, I feel like I need to conform, to fit in, to go with the flow because it is easier. But despite me thinking it’s “easier” I am far more miserable when I do it. It feels like a lie I have to carry.

I still cringe at the looks I get when I go off on my weird little tangents. I get self-conscious when someone gives a quiet polite nod instead of engaging. I crave connections with people, authentic connection. Not polite little conversations about arbitrary things that are irrelevant. Unless you had either a spectacular day, or a spectacularly bad day, I don’t really care about your day. You know what I care about? What fascinates you. What makes you question yourself, your world, and others. What inspires you, and what brings you joy. What terrifies you, and what breaks you. Tell me things I don’t know, that you do. Give me your fun little tidbits of life. Debate me!

I also think this tarot pull is yelling at me to stop trying to follow the status quo of writing. Do the weird shit that doesn’t “fit.” Because why not?

I’m under no illusion that most of you, will not give a flying fuck about what I just wrote. Some of you are here to read “high level” writing that tells a meaningful story and encapsulates all the writing “do’s.” (P.S. I think all artists, especially writers, are little masochists that get off on shaming themselves when they read someone elses quality work.) Some of you want to compete, which is fine. But I’m playing my own game in my own world that you’re welcome to join if you’d like.

I guess, I don’t care. Which is the best way for me to care. So I can create in a way that I love in hopes you love it too.

As always, thanks for reading <3
-K.M.

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Authors Note:

We may be coming to the end of Aldens story soon. I believe there may be another two parts after this, (we will see. I am a pantser through and through and these characters may decide otherwise.) For now, Aldens story continues as he becomes more at ease in his new home, The Manor.

As always, thank you for reading <3

“Do not lie Alden. You have taken an interest in me, have you not? You’ve only just admitted to spending hours in this library researching information that would tell you more about me. And yet you never thought to simply ask,” she turned back to him, her words a challenge, and her grin an invitation to play.

“You are a particularly challenging woman to find,” Alden admitted.

She scoffed, “Your attempts seek me out were rather half-hearted.” She caught his eyes with a playful smirk and added, “There is another reason, is there not?”

“I-well I-uh,” he stumbled over his words, feeling like the rook he knew he was.

“It would appear you are rather frightened of me,” she teased.

Alden shook his head with a laugh, “I do not fear you, I fear what you are capable of.”

She scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, “You only fear what you do not understand.”

Alden pursed his lips, “That may be so. However, I seek to gain an understanding. As you can see,” he gestured to the piles of books surrounding him strewn about haphazardly across the tables and chairs.

Ana caught his eyes in hers. No words were exchanged as she seemed to search for something within their shared gaze.

“Come along,” she finally announced, standing from her chair and moving towards the exit in one fluid motion.

Knocking his knees against the tables beside him in an attempt to follow, Alden scattered books across the floor. He huffed as he began to frantically clean up his mess, noticing the tower of books beside him now leaned at a dangerous angle.

“Leave them,” Ana ordered as she approached the Librarian. “Edith, after today Mister Cain should no longer be a bother,” she finished with an exaggerated displeasure.

Her words fed the guilt that fueled his miserable attempt at ‘tidying up.’

With glasses hung from the tip of her nose, Edith glanced up from her novel and nodded curtly. Then shifted her eyes to Alden, “Leave them Mister Cain.” She let out a heavy sigh as she closed her book with a thud. “Move along now, before I have a larger mess to tidy.”

Alden gave a small smile, “Apologies I-“

Edith put a finger to her lips, “Shush. Hurry along before the Lady loses her patience with you as I have.”

Alden glanced past Edith to Ana who stifled a laugh, then motioned for Alden to join her. They made their way to the lower level of the Manor where Ana led him through an new doorway. He entered expecting to find a library but was instead met with bedchambers.

At the center of room, sat a large bed with a burgundy lace canopy. Candelabras sat at the corners of the bedframe. Their black flames danced, illuminating the room with a bluish hue. On the left was a lounge area. Home to a deep burgundy chaise and a disheveled center table, scattered with books, half-empty tea cups, various herbs and bottles filled with questionable liquids.

Alden stopped in the doorway, breath hitching in his throat.

Ana glanced behind her as she continued into the room and smirked, “The library you seek is this way.”

She gestured to a wall that was decorated with handcrafted artwork; paintings, sculptures, drawings, all hung on the walls with care. As he scanned the artwork, he spotted a familiar drawing, now framed in gold.

“Is this Johnathan’s?” Alden asked.

Ana nodded as she waved her hand, revealing a new mist shrouded doorway, “Indeed it is. All of the art you find in my Manor was created by the children and attendants within it.”

Alden thought back to his many meanderings through the Manor. He thought the decorations were rather unconventional for such a grand Manor. Assuming Ana’s tastes were merely eclectic. Though he realized now, despite of her harsh persona, she was rather sentimental.

“Welcome to my personal library,” Ana announced as she disappeared beyond the doorway.

“Rooms within rooms,” Alden mused as he followed behind her.

This library was quaint in comparison to the library on the upper floor. Though, it shared a similar design; high ceilings with floor to ceiling bookshelves lining every wall. Loungers with tables beside them filled the center of the room. Unlike the other library, the books upon the shelves were not uniform. Some shelves were filled with scrolls, others with loose papers tied together with nothing but hope. The scent of rosemary drifted around the room, beneath it the familiar must of old paper lingered. A testament to the age of the literature found within.

“You may read anything you find. However, none of it may leave this room,” Ana said as she glided her way to a plush chesterfield couch, picking up a nearby leatherbound tome as she took a seat.

Alden moved to the bookshelves, walking the room slowly as he scanned the shelves in silent contemplation. He stared at the shelves, quietly trying to decipher what he was looking at. The names on the spines of the books were all worn, some were entirely unreadable. Though Alden was uncertain if they were illegible or simply written in a foreign language. The longer he combed the shelves, the further his shoulders fell.

Feeling Ana’s eyes piercing him from behind, he finally admitted, “I haven’t a clue where to begin.”

He turned to find Ana staring at him with amused anticipation, “Do you find pleasure in silent suffering? It seems you have an aversion to asking the simplest of questions.”

Alden gave a defeated smile, “A sound conclusion. I do allow my pride to get the better of me. But I concede, please m’lady,” he bowed with a dramatic flair, “Endow me with your wisdom for I am a mere fool.”

“I recall a time where you took offense to being called as such,” she teased.

Alden flinched at her answer, but replied in kind, “Indeed, I was as much a fool then as I am now. Only now I understand my folly.”

“Ah, so it seems my collection will not be wasted on you. For a man convinced he is all knowing, is the naivest of them all.”

“Indeed, he is.”

And a fool he had been for quite some time. Though her methods were, unorthodox, they had achieved their intended purpose. Ana exposed his folly in no uncertain terms. Alden was selfish in his endeavor to find her Manor and naive to the darkness lurking within Easton Burrough. He lived unknowingly as a sheep amongst wolves and he was grateful the wolf who ensnared him had been Ana. For she did not masquerade as anything but. Would a wolf in sheep’s clothing reveal its intentions when asked so directly? Her question rang through his mind.

He had assumed her the wolf, but now…

He met Ana’s now curious eyes and asked, “That first morning, when we met for breakfast…”

“The trader was already dead,” she answered plainly, unimpressed by his seemingly delayed conclusion.

Alden furrowed his brows, “Did you know of me before I found your Manor?”

“While I know I may appear omniscient, I am not all knowing. My scouts spotted your approach well before you laid eyes upon my Manor,” she admitted, eyes now back on the pages of her tome.

Alden crossed his arms in thought, “Did you-“

Ana interrupted again, “Fear not Alden Cain, if not for your daughter’s presence, you too would have been slain that day. We do not take kindly to unwelcomed visitors. But alas, I will not make a child bare the sins of their fathers.” She sighed, seemingly disinterested in their conversation then added, “If it is magic you wish to learn, you first need to learn its basics.”

She gestured to the wall behind Alden and added, “Behind you there are several scrolls.”

Alden turned to the scrolls then back to Ana, awaiting further instruction. She peaked above the edge of her book with eyes that told him that was all the information she would offer.

Sighing, Alden went to the shelves of scrolls and grabbed a handful, carrying them over to his own reading spot across from hers. Though he intended to set the scrolls down carefully, the moment he released them, several rolled off the table and onto the floor.

Alden grimaced then looked up to Ana, who looked to the scrolls, then him. She sighed then readjusted herself on the couch. As he reached for the scrolls on the floor, he nearly jumped out of his shoes when Ophelia appeared beside him.

“I have brought you your tea My Lady,” she curtseyed to Ana before side-eying Alden who was now picking up all of the scrolls off the floor.

“Thank you Ophelia,” Ana said warmly, “Tell me, how is Misses Eade faring? Has she shown signs of improvement?”

Ophelia stiffened, looking over her shoulder at Alden like he was an unwelcomed pest.

“Speak freely Ophelia,” Ana pushed.

Ophelia sighed, then took a seat beside Ana and poured herself a cup of tea, relaxing into the couch.

“I do not understand your trust in him Ana,” Ophelia spoke, now in a casual tone.

Alden looked up to find Ophelia glaring and Ana watching him with a contemplative look, the tip of her sharp fang sticking out where she bit her lip.

“I am…intrigued by him,” Ana finally said, closing her tome and reaching for her tea.

With the scrolls now neatly stacked on the table before him, Alden took a seat and added, “If I were not present, I fear my ears would be burning.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes and Ana smirked.

“Truly Ana, allowing a dog such as him access to your private quarters?” Ophelia continued.

Ana laughed, “You know better than to fret over me Ophelia.” She looked back to Alden and added, “Besides, it’s as you say, he is still a babe in the woods. Doe eyed, stumbling his way through his new life.”

“Tell me dog, what plans do you have? Or are you going to freeload off of Ana for all of eternity?”

“Ophelia,” Ana chastised halfheartedly.

Feeling like the outsider he was, Alden spoke up, “What would you have me do?”

Ophelia huffed, “Does the dolt need someone to wipe his backside too?”

Ana laughed, “Alden, what are your skills? If you plan to stay at my Manor, you will be expected to contribute. That is what I presume you meant to say, isn’t it Ophelia?” She asked pointedly.

Ophelia scoffed, “Spelling out the simplest of things for the slowest of dogs. Yes, Ana that is exactly what I mean.” She turned her attention back to Alden, “You’ve been here over a month have done nothing but wander the halls, stalk the attendants, and help yourself to our resources. You’ve nearly killed your blood donor each time you’ve fed from her. Though I know she is a wretched woman, your bite seems to worsen each time you sink your teeth into the wench.”

“As if she deserves any semblance of sympathy. Agnes is more beast than woman, and even you must agree,” Alden argued.

Ophelia was not wrong; he was particularly unskilled with his feeding. If he had not learned to notice the slowing of his donor’s heartbeat he would have killed her by now. Ophelia had scolded him repeatedly about this, as it was a rarity for Ana to allow a donor to be kept completely lucid. Most blood donors were kept in a fugue state, somewhere between fantasy and reality where they could live out their days in imagined bliss while they sustained Ana and her attendants.

Though, in Alden’s defense, Agnes’ sins against her sons were far worse than originally presumed. It took weeks for Ana to integrate the boys into the Manor. They were in such fear that their parents would punish them for running away that they holed themselves up in their room in terror.

Suffice to say, Alden had made it a point to inflict pain upon Agnes in silent retribution for the boys. He found pleasure in knowing the miserable woman now lived in fear of him. Alden had also made efforts to cultivate an intimidating presence when he entered her cell. Keeping her in complete darkness when he fed upon her, so the only thing her mortal eyes could see was the blazing red hunger in his.

“Regardless,” Ophelia ignored his remark and continued on her tirade, “Ana may be gifted with magic beyond your dull imagination, but this Manor doesn’t run on her alone. Even the surviving townsfolk of Easton Burrough are doing their share but you,” she spat, “Have done nothing.”

“You never did answer me about Misses Eade, how is she faring?” Ana asked, redirecting Ophelias fury.

Ophelia sighed heavily, giving Alden one last scowl before answering Ana, “Though it has taken her far longer than the others to recover from her change, she is becoming lucid.”

“Was she ill?” Alden asked.

Ophelia answered, “Not all are strong enough to withstand the transformation dog. Elderly women, such as Misses Eade, rarely survive the change.”

Ana nodded, “I warned her of this before the ritual, but she was adamant. Though as I suspected, she was indeed strong enough.”

“I couldn’t imagine going through that pain only to have died,” Alden said thoughtfully.

“Many do not withstand the change,” Ana said, brushing a strand of silky hair behind her ear.

“Unfortunately, you did,” Ophelia added under her breath.

“Have I done something to offend you, Ophelia?” Alden shot.

“As if a dog could offend me,” she quipped back.

Alden sighed then looked to Ana for aid.

She gave a small smile, “Ophelia is weary of you for good reason. We have had… many unsavory folk roam these halls and Ophelia is responsible for keeping an eye on all of the new additions to my Manor. To ensure a smooth transition, so to speak.”

Ana and Ophelia exchanged glances.

“How long has your Manor stood?” Alden asked, deciding it would be foolish to intrude on their silent exchange. He glanced down to the tea cups on the table in front of the ladies and noticed there were only two. Though he wanted to let out a disappointed sigh, he did not want to give Ophelia the satisfaction.

Ana sat back, bringing her teacup to her lips and pondered, “Two, no three centuries?”

Still glaring at Alden, Ophelia nodded, “Nearly three now.”

“Three hundred years?” Alden sputtered.

How many generations of children had seen these halls? What became of them? None of the adults in the Manor were human, it was only the children who retained their humanity.

“What becomes of the children when they reach adulthood?” He asked. “You told me you would care for Emily until her adulthood but if they are sheltered to this Manor what becomes of them? Especially now that…” he trailed off.

“Now that the closest town has been eradicated?” Ophelia remarked carelessly.

“Yes, now that Easton Burrough is no more,” he said.

“Ah yes,” Ana began, “I have not yet explained this to you.” She paused, collecting her words before continuing, “The children raised here are of course free to leave when they come of age. When that time approaches, the attendants and myself begin considering their placements.”

“Placements?” Alden asked.

She nodded, and Ophelia huffed as she poured herself a cup of tea and reached for a book from a nearby stack. Decidedly exiting the conversation.

“Yes, placements,” Ana continued. “Each child has their own skillset and as such, we search for places best suited to their talents. For instance, Easton Burrough was a busy trade town. Artisans skilled in practical creations fared well in that town. Often garnering enough success to purchase property in larger cities with more lucrative opportunities.

Other children, like Johnathan, who are skilled with arts tend to be placed in larger cities to start. As it is nobles and lords who often spend coin on the arts. Any of the children we feel need additional training are connected with a mentor who will provide them with the necessary skills and connection to further their abilities.”

“You make it sound as if dropping children off across the world in various towns is a simple task. How are they to find their footing when they have been raised here?” Alden pressed.

Ophelia chortled, “Ana, the dog is far too simple minded. I do not see the need in allowing him access to your library if he does not understand the simplest of explanations.”

Ana waved her off, “Ophelia, you must remember he did not come to this Manor a vampyr. He has only just entered the beginning of eternity.”

Ophelia gave Ana an exasperated look before returning to her book.

“Alden, you must understand by now that vampyr have the ability to influence humans,” Ana said.

Feeling like he was being pandered to like a child Alden answered confidently, “And each other as I’ve observed.”

Ophelia nearly spit out her tea, “Ana please, I fear I am growing more ignorant as he speaks.”

Ignoring Ophelia, Ana responded gently, “Not quite… Vampyr can only command their own spawn.”

She watched Alden closely, as if trying to determine if he understood her meaning. He answered again with false confidence, “Ah yes, spawn.”

Ana tried to hide her smirk, “Yes, spawn. You, are one of mine, and I am your dame.”

Alden raised a brow in question.

“Maker, as in, the one who turned you, the one who gave you vampirism,” Ophelia interrupted, shooting a look of desperation to Ana before returning to her book.

Alden nodded, “Are all of the attendants at the Manor your…spawn?”

“Indeed, well aside from Ophelia. Her and I were-” Ana stopped herself as Ophelias eyes widened in silent warning.

He watched the women have a seemingly silent conversation between themselves when he cut in, “I still don’t understand how you graduate the children from the Manor.”

Ana gave him a gentle smile, “It’s rather complicated to explain. I will-show you, in the future.”

Ophelia snickered. Alden shot her a glower which she returned in kind.

Ignoring the tension between the two, Ana stood from the couch and moved to a set of bookshelves across the room. Alden watched her in silent awe. Ana moved like mist on the breeze. Effortlessly gliding from place to place as silently as the shadows. He watched her in silent adoration when the sound of a screeching table against stone pulled his attention away. As he turned to check the noise, he felt the sharp edge of the center table bludgeon his shins.

Ophelia feigned an apologetic gesture as she jerked the table forward once more, before returning it to its rightful place.

“Ophelia,” Ana called tiredly. “Your childish behavior is unbecoming.”

Alden turned to Ana but found her already beside him, holding out a large leatherbound tome, sealed shut with a large iron lock. Cautiously, he accepted it. Then, Ana waved her hand, wisps of ebony smoke enshrouded the entire tome. The magic danced between his fingertips like the cold caress of a night’s breeze before slowly dissipating. The iron lock clicked open and clattered to the stone below.

“This tome holds the answers you seek,” Ana said, her gaze entrancing him as she spoke.

“T-thank you,” he stammered out.

“Ana, the dog is drooling over you. You mustn’t forget the effects your magic has on simpleminded fools,” Ophelia crooned.

Ana gave Alden a mischievous grin, then returned to her seat beside Ophelia. Reluctantly, Alden withdrew his gaze from Ana and glanced to the tome in his hands. Now eager to uncover what Ana offered him; he pulled open the heavy front cover to reveal pages full of…nothing?

Furrowing his brow, Alden looked from the empty pages to Ana who raised her cup of tea in salute, “Yet another mystery for you to uncover. Though I fear it will have to wait. I believe morning is upon us.”

Ophelia closed her book with a sigh, “Indeed. I shall return to my duties. Come along dog. Ana may be too polite to outright banish you from her chambers. But I am not so kind.”

“Ah, a matter on which we agree upon,” Alden teased.

Ophelia stopped in her tracks, orange curls bouncing as she swirled around to deliver a hateful glare. Ana’s decadent laughter echoed between them.

***
Alden began spending every free moment in Ana’s library. Though she often joined him and read quietly beside him, she left him to uncover his own answers in the centuries of literature within her study. The tome Ana revealed to him was a rather tricky bastard. Initially, only the first page revealed itself. Full of riddles and encrypted meanings that required his full depth of understanding before it revealed any further secrets. Once he uncovered the trick to revealing more, it took him nearly a month to get to the end of the tome. Finding, at last, in the final pages, how to kill a vampyr.

Ana had not been exaggerating, killing a vampyr was no simple feat. Unlike humans, vampyr had regenerative abilities that protected them from each other. Covens as large as Ana’s were uncommon. Due to their territorial nature, most vampyr kept only a handful of spawn in close proximity. For the larger number of potential enemies capable of killing you, the higher the risk.

Alden also discovered that very few vampyr were capable of magic at all. Ana’s magical prowess was nearly unheard of. When he asked how she became so adept at magic, Ana merely answered with a smile. A mystery she was, and a mystery he hoped to reveal.

Most vampyr were desperate to hold onto their immortality and vied for as much power as they could grasp to secure their survival. Power struggles between territories were responsible for the most vampyr deaths. There were many accounts of young and eager vampyr encroaching on another’s territory. Stirring up a wars that left the land and its people decimated.

To kill a vampyr, it was not enough to simply stab the heart, or even decapitate them. No, you not only had to dismember them, but you also have to burn each piece. However, burning a vampyrs body would not result in their permanent death. Even the ashes would begin to regenerate. It was advised that you bury the ashes, separately. For if they are buried too closely together, they would seek to reunite. Though it may take years, even centuries for the pieces of the whole to find each other, if left unattended, they would. As such, there were several accounts of vampyr locking away pieces of their kin in iron tombs, for iron could seemingly withstand the desperation of reunification.

From Alden’s research, there seemed only one way to experience true death as a vampyr. Only once they are free of their creators, shall they find any reprieve to their unending existence. Vampyr who are dismembered and burned, will never experience true death, until their sire is killed. Unsettlingly enough, there were even accounts of vampyr retraining awareness when left alive but dismembered. A detail Ana seemed rather uncomfortable discussing at any length.

Though Ana never outright stated it, it seemed her sire was still alive, and thus she was forced to continue her own existence. These discoveries left Alden with the nearly unbearable realization that Emilys life would end and he would be forced to continue on. A curse with no cure. An existence with no end. A life without completion.

Unwilling to dwell on that realization, Alden dove into his magical research. After countless hours of trial and error, he discovered he too had an affinity for magic. Though he could only conjure up a few measly wisps of bluish-magic, the fact he could conjure any at all was by all accounts a miracle.

Even Ophelia could not hide her surprise when she intruded on one of his training sessions. Though she never stopped referring to him as a dog, after realizing her attempts at convincing Ana to banish him from the Manor were for naught, she had begrudgingly accepted his presence.

He studied relentlessly for the next six months. While his knowledge of the occult grew more expansive, his limited magical abilities remained. Ana reassured him it took her nearly a century to conjure up her first tendril; he did not find her assurances comforting.

Late one evening, while quietly enjoying Ana’s company, Ophelia burst into the study in a panic. Alden jumped to his feet, startled by her uncharacteristic anxiety.

Breathlessly, she reported, “Ana, he has found us.”

Alden looked to Ana, whose normally unshaken composure, shattered. For the first time, she seemed at a loss for words.

Ophelia rushed to her, grabbing her by the shoulders, “We haven’t time to waste Ana, we must prepare the children.”
***

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Happy Reading!

Am patiently awaiting the physical release of Spooklight on the Devil’s Elbow

The Blackwater Canyon (Chapter 5)

Godfang (Chapter 3)

Foretelling of an Empire (Chapter 4)

Mark of a Herald (Chapter 4)

Blood: The Last Yokai (Chapter 5)

A Bargain to Become (Chapter 6)

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Authors note: This is a shorter part. But expect a larger reveal in part IX.

In the weeks after the massacre of Easton Burrough, Alden often found himself tucked in a corner of the Manors library, night after night lost in mountains of books. Like everything in the Manor, the library was expansive. A three-story tall room with bookshelves that lined the walls from floor to vaulted glass ceiling. Ladders far too tall for the children to climb were sprinkled around the perimeter and an attendant, named Edith, sat at the front entrance guarding the library from any noise or disturbance, and the ladders from the unpredictable children.

The weight of eternity was only starting to set it. Weeks without the break of sleep between days left Alden restless. Desperate to fill his quiet nights with something other than his thoughts, he delved into the endless selection of writing found in the Manors library. Initially, he was searching for an escape, reading fictional novels that stole him away from his own reality. But in time, his curiosity about his new world overcame him. He found himself scanning the rows of books in search of information about vampyr. What exactly were they? How did they come to be? What were they capable of? Though his mind wandered into the realm of generalities, his thoughts always led back at Lady Anastasia.

In search of answers, Alden began watching the attendants at the Manor. Observing them in moments where they thought no one was watching. Curious if they too shared that ichorous magic Lady Anastasia wielded. Though he never found his answer, he found several more questions. Why was Lady Anastasia the only one who could command him? He was certain Ophelia would command him if given the opportunity. Despite their now, several encounters, Ophelia seemed entirely disinterested in him. Like she merely tolerated his presence. He was certain she would command him to keep to his room, if only to free herself of his company. Her attitude towards him stood in stark contrast to how warmly she treated Lady Anastasia. Ophelia was devoutly loyal, behaving like a guard dog she was never found far from Lady Anastasia’s side. But even Ophelia seemed to lack any signs of magic.

Late one evening, after putting Emily to bed Alden began digging through the library’s collection in search of answers. After pulling out a stack of books almost as tall as him, Alden made himself comfortable on one of the chaise loungers in the corner of the library and began his research. Combing through historical books from around the world for hours. In search of anything that even remotely resembled Lady Anastasia’s magic.

“Has the lowly laborer decided to become an academic?” Lady Anastasia’s voice cut through his focus.

Shutting The History of The Blackwater Canyon like he’d been caught reading a diary, Alden said, “Now that my time isn’t finite, reading seems a good use of it. Reading is no longer a luxury as I am no longer a laborer.”

Lady Anastasia side eyed his mountain of books then took a seat in a chair across from his, “Are you, looking for something in particular?”

Alden shrugged, “I’m simply curious about the world, as mine has always been quite small.”

Her eyes narrowed on him, “The world you say… am I now your world?”

Alden stiffened, “I do not understand your meaning.”

Lady Anastasia leaned back in her chair, hair cascading over the arm and draping the floor she said, “Mister Cain-“

“Alden is fine,” he cut in.

She arched a brow, “Alden, your lurking has not gone unnoticed. I’ve had several of my attendants report an uneasiness at your constant…observations of them.”

Alden’s cheeks grew warm, “I-I meant no harm,” he stuttered.

Lady Anastasia laughed, “Do not fear Alden, none of them considered you a threat.”

Alden sat back in his chaise wanting to be offended by her words, but was instead reassured by them.

“I suppose that is, not a bad thing…” he trailed off as if asking himself how he felt about her statement.

“If you are only interested in researching information about the world, I suppose there is no use in me taking you to a different library within my Manor,” Lady Anastasia glanced up at the vaulted glass ceiling, moonlight highlighting the smooth texture of her skin.

“Another library?” Alden asked.

“Indeed, filled with a world of literature that is…not appropriate for the children.”

“Where might I find this library?” He could not hide the eagerness in his tone.

Lady Anastasia glanced at him with a smirk, “This library is likely of no interest to you. I fear it doesn’t have,” she scanned the titles of books sitting in a pile beside Alden, “Many historical novels within it. Seems you enjoy the literal realities of the world.” Then she stood from her chair as if prepared to depart.

“Wait-“ Alden reached out, almost grabbing her hand but stopping himself. “I-I am interested in…other topics.”

She stared down at him in wait.

He sighed, “Your games are rather obvious Lady Ana-“

“Ana is fine,” she cut in this time.

“Ana,” he said with a pause. The name felt improper.

She returned to her seat across from him, “Though I prefer you address me formally in front of the children.”

He nodded, “Tell me what you seek Ana. Why did you seek me out tonight? Why tease this…secret library if you did not intend to show it to me.”

“Delighted to see we are speaking directly now instead of evading honest answers to simple questions,” she retorted eyes flickering with amusement.

Alden smirked, “You are a fascinating creature, Ana.”

“Creature?” She spoke with feigned offense.

He shook his head, “Indeed, for I know not what to call you. You say we are vampyr however you…” he trailed off, “You are far more than I.”

“I am also far older than you,” she offered.

“How much older?” he asked, returning a curious gaze.

“Asking a Lady her age is rather inconsiderate, wouldn’t you say?” She accused.

Alden chuckled, “Indeed, though I fear there isn’t a thing I could say that would sway your confidence.”

She rolled her eyes, “I am over five hundred years old now.” She crossed her legs as if punctuating her statement. Her silky black gown elegantly draping her curves as she settled into her chair.

“Five hundred years,” Alden muttered, putting his hand to his chin in contemplation, “Is there…some kind of change that occurs with age for vampyr? Do we grow more powerful?”

She sighed, “Is power all you seek?”

He shook his head, “No, not at all. I’m merely curious about this new existence of mine. You’ve told me I’ve much to learn, though I haven’t a clue where to start. Nor have I been provided any clear direction.”

She gave him a pointed look then said, “You will not find what you seek in this library. It was cultivated with the children’s development in mind, and our world is not one they belong in.” She gazed up at the towering wall of books, “Though, I sense there is more to this curiosity of yours than you let on. If I’m to allow you access to my library, I must ensure the knowledge within is used appropriately. For I will not risk the safety of my Manor for some reckless man on a mission to gain power.” Her tone grew sharper as she spoke, “So I ask again, what knowledge do you seek, and why?”

She was dangling this library over him like a carrot on a stick. He had no doubt she knew the answer to her own question before even seeking him out. She was merely testing his integrity.

“I want to learn more about your magic and…” he sighed, “I want to know how to kill a vampyr.”

He watched for a reaction, but she simply nodded.

“Magic is a curious thing. Not all possess the capability of harnessing it,” she answered casually.

He furrowed his brow at her.

She laughed, “What is it Alden? Surprised I’m not more concerned about your interest in killing yourself?”

He sat back in his chaise, shocked, “What do you-“

“I already know you’ve considered it. After realizing that you would continue on, even after Emilys eventual demise,” her eyes flickered with understanding.

He lowered his head, “You must think me a coward.”

“Not at all. Eternity sounds enticing until you come to realize how lonely it can become.”

A silence fell between them. Ana gazed up at the sky above. It was as if the moon was admiring her, rather than she it.

“There are few who understand what it is to live as long as I,” she said somberly.

“Have you-“ he stopped himself.

“I have,” she replied, understanding his meaning. “It is an unfortunately difficult task to kill a vampyr. As such, it is near impossible for one to kill themselves. A rather cruel fate indeed,” sorrow shrouded Ana’s eyes as she gazed upon the moon once more, like it was a dear friend.

“Apologies, I do not mean to pry,” Alden stammered.

“Do not lie Alden. You have taken an interest in me, have you not? You’ve only just admitted to spending hours in this library researching information that would tell you more about me. And yet you never thought to simply ask,” she turned back to him, her words a challenge, and her grin an invitation to play.

Thanks for reading.

-K.M.

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Serial Fiction-The Manor

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Read Along Video of Part V
Part VI
Part VII

Lore Dumps for My Book

My Long Time WIP
Calendar System Lore Dump
Map Design

Flash Fictions

It Still Resists
The Diary of Sarah Muller
My Obsessions

Poetry

Kindred Spirits
Hey Big Brother
Shadow
Seasons of Depression
Like Your Mother Did to You

Writing Tools/Guides

Lofi to Lose Yourself in
The Big 5 Personality Traits

Thought Pieces

AI in Creative Spaces
To Grind or to Create?
Would the Wolrd be Better Without Lies or Deceit?
Stories That Shapes Me
Being Smart, Never Saved Me

When I saw you, I realized I didn’t care.

I realized I didn’t miss you.
I realized I had come to peace that you were going to die without ever changing.
I realized I had accepted, that you chose drinking over me.

Like your mother did to you.

You won’t even make it to seventy.
You are a shell.

I take no blame for that.
You made your decision.
I made sure I gave you what you needed to make a different choice.
And you never did.

That has nothing to do with me.

When you find yourself lying on your deathbed, wondering why your child isn’t by your side.
I hope you realize it was your decision.

All you had to do, was try.
I never asked for perfection.
I never asked you to reach perfect recovery.
I wanted to know I was worth the effort to try.

And I wasn’t.

You get to die with that.

-K.M.

Trigger Warning: Child Death/Grief

This last September, my five year old niece drowned. I flew back to my home state and saw my parents for the first time in almost 5 years. I left my home state to get away from them.

Well, my mom has struggled with alchoholism my entire life. I spent most of my early adulthood trying to provide my mom with resources and information to help guide her towards recovery. I tried to help her understand addiction was a disease not a character flaw. That therapy didn’t make her weak. That she deserved to find happiness. For years, I tried to convince her to attempt recovery.

Then, one of the last times I saw my mother she said to me, “I’m fifty years old. I am who I am and I’m not going to change.”

And that was it. I was weeks away from moving states and that statement set me free. It unburdened me. About a year after moving states, I officially cut my mother off due to her harassing behaviors when she drinks.

Well, when I saw my mom for the first time in nearly five years at my nieces funeral, she was near senile. The neuropathy from her severe diabetes had landed her in a wheelchair and diapers. Her eyes and skin were jaundiced. She is dying and she’s only sixty-two.

I had never planned to share what I wrote above. It was written right after the funeral and I was a mess of angry and volatile emotions. But Ira’s painting reflects that anger and feeling of loss. Despite the rage in my heart she is still my mother and I do love her. Or I suppose I love the idea of who I dreamed my mother would be. While I was falling to the depths of my despair over my nieces death, I still ached for the mother who has only ever existed in my head. I didn’t find comfort in my mothers presence, but I found comfort in knowing I wasn’t heartbroken to see my mother in that state.

It’s a strange experience to feel peace at the looming death of my mother while mourning the unexpected and tragic loss of my niece. I suppose it’s because my mothers death won’t be unexpected. I’ve been watching her slowly kill herself my entire life. At least when she finally goes, she won’t be suffering anymore.

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As we review the 5 factors that make up personality, it is important to note that each one falls on a spectrum. I will only be looking at either end of the extreme here, but when you are writing, it is perfectly normal to have a character fall in the middle on some of these traits. However, it is probably more interesting to have characters on the extreme end.

1. Openness To Experience

This is about how willing you are to experience new things. It’s about curiosity and willingness to learn.

People who are high in openness are flexible, adaptable, enjoy spontaneity, and are all about exploring the world around them. They actively seek to reach new depths of experiences and knowledge. They’re often creative and imaginative.

Example of a highly open character:

The one who would immediately say yes to any poorly thought-out plan if they thought it would give them a new experience, and the one who does nothing but complain when things get predictable. They are likely eclectic in their interests and annoy the shit out of pragmatic characters with their incessant use of the word “why?” They are highly intelligent, but not necessarily the most organized. They love deep conversations about the world around them. They live in the world of the abstract.

Low Openness:

Close minded. Stubborn about their beliefs and enjoy operating in concrete reality with facts and data as their driving force.

Example of a low openness character:

They would make a poor protagonist as they would not be likely to change much (Think a paladin who would NEVER become an oath-breaker.) They are devout in their beliefs. They like plans and routine. They wouldn’t bother to question the status quo because, “That’s just the way it is.” Their mentality would be, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” They may not be stupid, but they are rigid and tend to seek information out of necessity rather than curiosity. They’re unlikely to have thoughtful conversations or enjoy creative works, deeming them unnecessary and useless. They loathe the world of the abstract.

2. Conscientiousness:

Thoughtful in their actions. Has good impulse control. They enjoy plans and order. They have great attention to detail and are big on achievement. Think, Type A Personality types.

Highly Conscientious character:

The character that as a back up plan to the back-up plan. Likely very good with strategy and may be very calculated. Likely to get annoyed or pissed off when plans go awry. They are also likely to seek approval and praise for their accomplishments. Goal oriented person. Also, the friend who has a sewing kit in their purse, and a first aid kit, and a tampon, and a tooth brush, did you forget your contact solution? They probably have that somewhere too.

They probably take a long time to come to a decision or make a plan. Not because they’re indecisive but because they want to ensure the decision they are making is the most optimal. They also probably hate inefficient people. If you went into a grocery store with this person, they would take the most optimized route and go slightly mad if you tried to drag them to an unnecessary isle outside of their written and categorized shopping list.

Low Conscientiousness:

Unorganized, unplanned, impulsive. Highly flexible but may be unreliable.

Low Conscientiousness Character:

Likely messy both in their environment and minds. They don’t have a great sense of duty and don’t care to plan ahead. May be laid back but are also much more likely to be impulsive in their actions. They do very little thinking before acting. Could also be an aloof type. Forgetful and focused more on their inner world. Don’t really care about achievement or praise. Much more, “go with the flow,” mindset. Extremely unprepared for most things but are more than likely unbothered by their unpreparedness.

If you were to go on an epic adventure with this person, they would forget to pack food, throw on whatever clothes were nearby, and be woefully underprepared for most circumstances. Poor strategists. But also enjoy spontaneity. Probably outstanding under pressure.

As a friend, they might make plans with you for dinner on Friday, then an hour after they’re supposed to arrive, you call them and they “totally forgot” and ended up, “being offered to take a ride on this guy’s motorcycle and he took [them] to the beach.”

3. Extraversion:

Most people know this one. Focus on the “ex” for external. Outside of themselves. This person loves to experience things beyond themselves. They are likely to feel refreshed after social gatherings. Are likely to assert themselves and tend to be outgoing and do well in social settings.

High Extraversion in a character:

Charismatic and easily the center of attention. Bored when they’re by themselves for too long. Go out of their way to make conversation and make plans with others. Prone to loneliness. They would do poorly on a solo trip and would in fact desperately seek out a travel companion because the idea of traveling alone is worse than the travel itself. The character that will not shut the fuck up when everyone else is zoning out. If in a group when traveling, they would be desperate to keep the group dynamic positive and would want everyone to be on good terms to keep the flow of conversation going. Would do poorly in times of tension among friends/peers especially if it causes communication breakdown.

Low Extraversion (Introversion):

Focus on the “in” for inside of oneself. Enjoys solitude. Loses energy when around others for too long. Generally uninterested in the social world. Not necessarily awkward in social gatherings, but unlikely to talk unless its about something that interests them.

Low Extraversion (Introversion) as a character:

Burns out easily when in a group setting. Will sometimes shut down completely and retreat to their solitude. Likely to wander off alone. Often have rich inner worlds. If they found themselves stuck in a conversation they didn’t give two shits about, they would check out and may even fall into their own inner daydreams instead of listening to the conversation. Desperate for alone time. Would prefer to travel alone than with a group and is definitely NOT sharing a room at the inn with the group extrovert. May even get snippy at others who won’t shut the fuck up. Not necessarily shy, just uninterested in social gatherings. Likely to stick to the wall at a ball or event and probably only stays for whatever amount of time they deem socially acceptable. Perfectly okay with spending their birthday alone. May seem like they hate others in a group setting and could be harder to get to know. Generally reserved.

4. Agreeableness:

Extremely thoughtful people who are mindful about how their actions affect others. Values getting along with others. On the high end of agreeableness, you find the PEOPLE PLEASERS. Be careful not to confuse conscientious with considerate here. Highly agreeable people are extremely considerate. Very willing to compromise and have a kindhearted, trusting, and open mindset about the world.

Highly Agreeable Characters:

Will give you the shirt off their back (even if it means they will freeze to death.) Wants everyone to be happy and usually assumes the best in others. May be easily abused and taken advantage of. Could even be a big push-over if they encounter a manipulative person. Will push their needs to the side to keep the status quo going. Unlikely to stand up against others. Susceptible to peer-pressure and likely a professional at excusing others shitty behavior. Fits well into groups. On the extreme end, they are people pleasers who may lack a sense of identity because they are too focused on pleasing others. Will NOT rock the boat. Would probably fall prey to a cult. As a leader, they would be focused on keeping everyone happy. Which could be an awful trait depending on what is needed of the leader.

*People who get better at boundaries, are choosing to become less agreeable. Women also tend to score higher on agreeableness than men due to the fact that woman are socialized in ways to “fit in.” Disagreeable women are often labeled as “bitches” or “uncooperative,” when they are the same level of agreeable/disagreeable as a male counterpart. Agreeable women can be the subservient type. Can be seen as docile and obedient. Which is historically what women are expected to be in western cultures.

Low Agreeableness (Disagreeable):

Do not care about how their actions impact others. Glass half empty types and prone to assume the worst of others. Tend to look out for themselves first and foremost.

Low Agreeableness in characters:

If given the opportunity to get ahead in life, even if it meant fucking over someone else, they would take the opportunity. You do not want this person in your team if collaboration is a requirement. They may not be introverted, but they are going to do what they want to do regardless of what anyone else wants. If they were in the fellowship, they would have chosen to brave going over the misty mountains simply because fuck you and fuck Saruman, and fuck Frodo too. They can be extremely argumentative and want to actively go against the status quo because why not? If they are forced to follow the status quo and get out voted in a group setting, they will bitch and moan about it the whole way and wait for any opportunity to say, “I told you so.” Not necessarily conceited, they just don’t care about whether or not you like them. It’s their world, you’re simply living in it. They are not afraid to rock the boat and are probably brutally honest. They will send their incorrect plate back at a restaurant, despite it being the mothers-day brunch rush.

5. Neuroticism:

Prone to negative emotions. Emotionally unstable. May be animated or have a labile affect. Reactive and volatile. Vulnerable to stress and struggle to get over their negative emotions. Probably mentally ill.

Highly Neurotic Characters:

Usually down, easily provoked, and can go from fine to freaking the fuck out in seconds. Will cry easily or will punch you in the face for looking at them wrong. Always worried about something and can’t enjoy being in the moment because they’re afraid the world is about to end. You might not be able to tell if they’re laughing or crying at times. Probably makes others feel like they’re walking on eggshells when they’re around. Would likely benefit from a benzo or an anti-psychotic.

If you say something to upset them, they will hold a grudge and it will take them days to get the fuck over it, if they ever get over it at all. Not necessarily unlikable, but can be difficult to be around. Deeply emotional people who may be the exactly right person to go to when you yourself are feeling down in the dumps. They will be able to relate to your negative experiences. Probably a pity puker, and crier. If you found them sitting alone, they’re probably spiraling in their head about something. Highly anxious types but possibly very empathetic too. Think, “Can’t hug every cat,” girl.

Low Neuroticism:

Emotionally stable. Calm and not emotionally reactive.

Low Neuroticism in characters:

If you tell them your best friend died, they would be sad for you, but it wouldn’t ruin their entire day. They would be empathetic, they may even cry with you, but they wouldn’t burst into tears the moment you told them. Not necessarily “positive” people, but you will not experience a roller coaster ride of emotions with them. Have an easier time letting things go and moving on emotionally. Don’t need to “compartmentalize” things because they just don’t bother them too much.

They don’t struggle with winding down. Unlikely to be deeply bothered by insults or other people’s attempts to antagonize them. If you find them sitting alone, they’re just enjoying the present moment, not caught up in worries about the past or future.

An Acronym for remembering the Big 5 is OCEAN.

Now that we have a better understanding of each trait, lets combine some:

High Openness, low conscientiousness, introverted (low extraversion), highly agreeable, highly neurotic character:

If you invited them on an adventure, they would be extremely excited to go, would show up without anything packed and with no questions asked. Would walk alongside you in silence, doe eyed enjoying the world around them. Then during your quiet walk, you would find them sniffling because they realized they forgot to thank you for inviting them and came to the conclusion you hated them and that’s why you weren’t talking to them. When you tell them that’s not true, they won’t believe you, then will wander off on their own in tears. Then hours later, they will return without their shoes and with an armful of flower crowns to “make-up” for getting so upset earlier.

Low openness, high conscientiousness, introverted, disagreeable, low neuroticism:

If you did not ask them at least a month in advance to go on a trip, they’re simply not going. If the trip doesn’t give them something in return, they’re also, not going. If they do choose to go on a trip, they will probably not say a word to you unless absolutely necessary and you may find them looking at you like you are an absolute buffoon. If you try to antagonize a response out of them, they will easily brush you off and focus on what they’re busy with instead of you. If you go against one of their ideas, despite having a list of every exact reason why you are wrong, they will simply tell you you’re an idiot, and do what they want regardless of you. It won’t be out of anger. They will be cold and calculated in their responses to you. You will NEVER know what is going on in their head.

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Authors note:

I love psychology and I plan to write another post about attachment styles and how to utilize them in writing. Attachment styles will help you better understand the why behind someone’s personality traits.

But for now, I am simply going to leave you links to some personality tests for your own entertainment. Remember! They are only as accurate as you are honest. For your own research purposes, I recommend taking them multiple times across different moods and times to see how they change.

For example, when I was younger and took the Myers-Briggs personality test, I scored closer to the middle on extraversion vs. introversion so I often switched between INFJ and ENFJ. Now, I score much higher in introversion than I did as a teenager (hello, my peer groups don’t matter as much as an adult as they did as a teenager.) Now I actually tend to get INFP/INFJ. I score closer to the middle on perceiving vs. judging because I have made it a point in my life to let go of control and see where life takes me. I used to be far more rigid, now I strive to live by “Que Sera, Sera,” (Whatever will be, will be.)

All of this is to say, personality like most things in life, isn’t stagnant. It changes with you.

Personality tests for your entertainment:

The Big 5

Myers-Briggs

The Dark Triad: Looks at machiavellianism, narcissim, and psychopathy.

This website was recommended to me in my undergrad for psych. It is open-source and has TONS of personality tests.

Thanks for reading!

-K.M.

Enjoy <3

Easy Listening, upbeat vibes:

This one has a lofi version of unravel that hits extremely hard.

Dark Ambience:

Depresso Espresso:

Haunting Gothic Vibes:

Gentle Mornings:

Because Sometimes I simply need Calm:

Thanks for the recommendations!

Fantastical Escapes:

This is a very cozy whimsical fantasy vibe. Wonderful for writing scenes about travel.

Sassy Sultry Serenades:

I never know when it will arrive

The heavy bleakness of depression

But it has become a familiar friend

Who stops by now in passing



Like the dying of the leaves

I notice my small habits begin to fall away

My laundry piles up

Dishes fill the sink



The long nights come next

My need for the peace of sleep

Seems desperate and inescapable

An empty escape for an empty heart



Then the full harshness of season hits

Showers feel like an impassable mountain

The attempts to hide the heaviness fade

Withdraw and Isolation become my salvation



Like a tree that’s always stood

Through the harshest of seasons

The rings of my life are sometimes dense

As I stay standing, in eras of dormancy



I’ve lived through this season many times now

Knowing this too shall pass

But like that familiar friend

I never know when it might stop by again

-K.M.

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Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI

Current total reading time for all parts: Approximately 105 Minutes

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***

When they entered the Manor the hustle and bustle of the morning was in full throttle. Children and attendants rushed around completing their morning duties and attending breakfast. Alden stood in the grand foyer and quietly took in the scene before him. Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. Though the scent of human blood called to him, it’s call had quieted. Before, the scent had been loud and overwhelming. Now, he could differentiate the scents. He opened his eyes and began tracking which scent belonged to which child.

That’s when he caught it, a scent that felt like home.

“Papa!” Emily’s voice called out.

Then he felt her little arms around his waist grasping him in a tight hug. Alden’s heart filled with a warmth that bled into his entire being. Emily was the light to his darkness. The harshness and brutality of the previous days melted away as tears filled his eyes. He crouched to meet his daughter and pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, Emily dear I have missed you so,” he said into her ear. Kissing her head and cheek. Her grip around his neck tightened and he could feel her little body whimper.

“P-papa I missed you so much. I-I kept asking where you were but n-no one would tell me,” Her voice broke and her sobs deepened.

Alden’s heart felt bruised and sorrow hung in his throat, “I’m sorry Emily, I didn’t mean to be away for so long.” He let his own tears fall now.

“You can’t go away like that papa. I don’t like it,” she cried.

He nodded and picked her up in his arms. Holding her in an embrace he hoped expressed the depth of his love for her.

“Miss Emmerson,” Lady Anastasia called from beside Alden.

Miss Emmerson, no longer in her cloaked attire, gave a small bow, “Yes My Lady?”

“Please excuse Emily from her classes today,” Lady Anastasia looked to Alden and continued, “You are free to spend the day with your daughter.” Then, long black hair flowing behind her like a veil, she and Miss Emmerson disappeared into the Manor.

A weight lifted from Alden as he whispered into his daughter’s ear, “Were you listening Emily? I am all yours today.”

Emily nuzzled her face deeper into Alden’s neck and gave a nod. Her arms were still tightly wrapped around him like she was petrified to let go. Holding his daughter close, he returned to his room and took a seat on the bed.

Emily pulled herself away and wiped her eyes, “W-where were you, Papa? Why did you leave me behind?”

Alden wiped her tears, “I never meant to leave you behind Emily.”

Emily’s’ lower lip jutted out in a pout, her lip quivering.

“Oh, my darling girl, you must know how much you mean to me, I could never leave you behind,” Alden pulled her into his embrace and hugged her tightly. “How can I possibly make it up to you?”

Emily pulled away again, wiping her own eyes this time and giving her father a mischievous grin, “C-can we play dress up?”

The weight in Alden’s heart lightened at his daughter’s request. She looked up at her father with a satisfied yet guilty look.

He couldn’t help but let out a laugh, “Is that all it takes to make it up to you?”

She shrugged, “I have other ideas too.”

He kissed his daughter on the top of the head, “Today is your day, we can do whatever you please,” he saw her eyes light up again like she had a brilliant idea, “Within reason,” he added for his own safety.

She nodded happily, “Let’s go then papa! To my room.” She leapt from his lap and grabbed at his hand, pulling him away from his bed. “Miss Emmerson gave me a whole chest of new dresses! Though I don’t think any of them will fit you. But your hair is getting long again so I can practice braiding it.” Emily rambled on as she pulled her father out of his room and into hers.

The next several hours were spent watching his daughter try on her entire new wardrobe of dresses. Alden came to learn that Emily loved flower lace and her favorite pattern on her dresses was stripes. But her favorite dress was dark purple with long sleeves and a lace hem.

Alden was smiling ear from ear. His heart was full as he watched Emily come in and out of the bathroom with each new dress. Grateful his daughter was getting the childhood she always deserved. After Emily finished showing off her favorite dress she ran to the bathroom and grabbed a hairbrush. Her mischievous grin was back as she looked at her father.

He gave her a defeated but loving smile as he moved from the edge of the bed to the floor. Emily was nearly rumbling with excitement as she jumped up onto the bed and took a seat behind him. Her legs dangling off the edge while she brushed through her fathers’ curls with ferocity. As she brushed away, she told her father stories about all her new friends, what she was learning in school, and what her life had been like since coming to the manor.

Alden grimaced at his daughters’ rough strokes through his hair and after a somewhat excruciating amount of time, she finally finished, “Go look in the mirror papa and tell me how I did!”

Alden moved from a seated position to his knees, eyes barely above the height of the bed he looked at Emily with a raised brow, then raised his hands and pounced. Emily’s laughter filled the room as Alden attacked. She pushed at his hands and breathlessly exclaimed, “Stop! You’ll ruin your hair!”

He conceded and gave her a kiss on the forehead, “Fine, fine.”

Emily pushed at him as he moved away from the bed, “It’s not fair you’re bigger than me.”

Smirking at his daughters complaint, Alden made his way to the bathroom. When he caught sight of his new hairdo, he almost laughed at the sight. His curly brown hair had been braided haphazardly in varying directions leaving a jumbled mess of tangles on top of his head. Some braids were large and loose; others were so tightly braided he questioned if he would ever free the hair within them.

“What do you think?” Emily asked as she stepped beside him.

“You’ve improved,” he said hesitantly.

“You don’t like it,” Emily said as her shoulders sagged.

“Emily dear I love it, you did well.”

Then the sound of Emily’s stomach growling filled the small silence between them. She put a hand to her stomach and looked up at her father, wide eyed and giggled. Alden had completely lost track of time. He glanced out the window to find the sun was already setting behind the trees.

“We skipped lunch entirely,” he realized.

Emily shrugged as she set her hairbrush down on the bathroom counter, “I hardly noticed.” Her growling stomach made its presence known again.

Alden glanced at himself in the mirror, then reached for his daughters’ hand, “Come along, let’s find you something to eat.”

Emily looked up at her father, “You’re not going to fix your hair?”

He smiled down at her, “You’ve already fixed it haven’t you?”

Emily’s eyes lit up as she nodded excitedly.

Alden walked with Emily into the great dining hall, head of braided mazes on full display. Many of the attendants that caught sight of him had to cover their mouths to hide snickers. But Alden walked through the dining hall with his head held high.

He sat with Emily while she enjoyed her meal and watched as her eyelids began to grow heavy. By the end of the meal, Emily’s bright laughter had dimmed to slow, tired movements. Alden smiled as he watched her try to blink away the sleep. He got up and pulled the fork from her little hand then pulled her into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck and before he made it out of the dining hall, she was fast asleep.

After tucking her into bed, he laid beside her and brushed some of her own ringlets out of her face. Alden had always thought she looked more like her mother; her small button nose and heart shaped lips were almost exact replicas. But there was no denying she was his daughter. Her unruly curly hair had been a curse he passed on to her, but she wore it far better than he.

Alden laid awake beside his daughter waiting for a sleep that never took him.

“Find me in the grand foyer,” Lady Anastasia’s voice echoed in his mind. He restrained himself from jumping at the sound. The lightness that had settled over him washed away as he let out a sigh. He gave his daughter a kiss on the forehead before making his way out of the room.

In the Grand Foyer, Lady Anastasia stood quietly awaiting his arrival. Dressed in one of her familiar black ballgowns that draped the floor she met him at the base of the stairs.

She put her hand to her mouth as she laid eyes on Alden. Holding back a laugh she asked, “I see Emily had her way with you.”

Alden reached his hand up to his disheveled head of braided hair in realization and laughed, “Indeed she did.” He began to pull loose some of the braids in his hair but left behind the braids that were tightly wound together.

Lady Anastasia watched quietly with an amused look. As he finished pulling apart a braid he asked, “Why have you summoned me at such a late hour. Has there been an emergency?”

Lady Anastasia shook her head, “No, not at all. I simply presumed little Emily would be asleep by now. I still have much to show you.”

Alden raised a brow at her, “Summoning a man at such a late hour is rather scandalous wouldn’t you agree?”

Lady Anastasia rolled her eyes, “Have you not realized?” she asked as she began walking through the winding halls of the Manor.

“Realized what?” Alden asked.

“That you have not rested since you awoke as a vampyr nearly 4 days ago.”

Alden stopped in his tracks. Despite all that had occurred since he awoke, he sensed no weariness within him.

Lady Anastasia had not stopped moving as she called over her shoulder at him, “It is what many call the Eternal night.”

Alden hurried to join her again, “I thought that vampyr were night dwellers. Though-“ he furrowed his brow. Knowing now that all attendants at the manor were vampyr, he noted that all of them moved through the manor at all hours of the day and night.

She shook her head, “The movement of the sun and moon are irrelevant. We need not rest unless injured. Though many believe us to be night dwellers, the reason for that belief is rather uninteresting. It is simply easier to hunt at night.”

Before Alden could respond, they arrived at the mist shrouded door that led below the manor. A knot formed in the back of his throat as he paused.

Lady Anastasia looked at him with a raised brow, “Have you led any other disgusting animals to my Manor Mister Cain?”

He shook his head, “Of course not.”

“Then you’ve nothing to fear,” she said as she disappeared behind the shimmering mist. “Come along,” her voice called from beyond the doorway.

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Alden stepped through the doorway and followed Lady Anastasia down the spiraling staircase. Without warning, she turned and entered the hall of doors. The once silent corridor now bumbled with boisterous townsfolk. Ophelia stood beside the door, fielding question after question from nervous and quivering townsfolk.

“Where are our children?” one asked.

“This is a trap! Look at the door, it’s clouded with evil,” another added.

“Silence,” Lady Anastasias voice echoed down the hall.

As their voices quieted, she turned to Ophelia and spoke in whispers. After a brief conversation she nodded then turned to address the crowd again.

“Each of you will be sorted into a room,” she said as she waved her hand out. The crowd shifted in fear. Then the back wall of the hall stretched, expanding and adding dozens of rooms to the already expansive corridor.

“Those who wish to join the Manor please step to the left. Everyone else, step to the right,” she commanded.

To Alden’s surprise, only half of the remaining townsfolk chose to join the Manor. As he scanned the two lines, he set eyes on Missus Eade, who was standing in the line of those joining the manor. She stared at the opposing side with wide worried eyes.

“Fools, the lot of you. Will you give up on your children so easily?” Missus Eade called out over the murmurs.

Silence grew before the tailers wife stepped forward and spoke, “I will not become a demon and damn myself to hell like the lot of you!”

“So, you instead choose the selfish path. I thought better of you Agnes. Protecting your own life over your child’s? What are we to tell them about your passing?”

Agnes scoffed, “Tell them that monster killed their parents,” she gestured at Lady Anastasia who remained unperturbed by her remark.

Missus Eade shook her head, “You defended your children with words alone, but your actions reveal your cowardice.” Then she turned to face the front of the line, ignoring the scowl Agnes sent her way.

“It is decided,” Lady Anastasia’s voice rang out. “The day has been long, the weariness in your hearts may weigh heavily on you now. Though the town of Easton Burrough and its parasites are no longer, your children remain. Please know that they will be treated with the utmost care. For those of you who have chosen to transition into a new life here at my Manor, I hope you come to understand what it stands for. For those who have chosen death, I hope that my words bring you peace before your passing.”

“Monstrous bitch!” one woman shouted.

“I hope you rot in hell!” yelled Agnes.

Lady Anastasia turned to Ophelia, and they whispered amongst themselves before Ophelia stepped forward, leather bound book in hand she began assigning the townsfolk their rooms.

The group who had chosen death were quickly becoming unruly. Though they dared not direct their aggression at Lady Anastasia, instead directing it at those who had chosen to join the Manor. Agnes shouted a few obscenities at Missus Eade before reaching for her hair. Though Missus Eade was older in age, the speed at which she gripped her attackers’ arm was swift and decisive. Missus Eade did not face Agnes as she threw her hand away. Agnes raised her hand again at Missus Eade, only this time Lady Anastasia intercepted the attack. The room fell silent. Agnes glared at Lady Anastasia then attempted to rip her hand away. Lady Anastasia grip was solid, leaving Agnes looking like a petulant child trying to escape discipline from a parent.

“Ophelia, I will be tending to this one myself,” Lady Anastasia said with cold authority.

Ophelia nodded and scribbled a note in her journal. With Agnes in her grip, Lady Anastasia moved to the door closest to the exit. Agnes hollered and tugged at her grip. Tripping over herself and nearly falling to the ground.

With one hand around the woman’s arm, Lady Anastasia raised her free hand and began a low chant. The once solid oak door transformed into that familiar iridescent mist.

“What are you doing to me! You monster, release me!” Agnes shouted.

As Lady Anastasia finished her chant, she glanced at Alden and gestured for him to follow then disappeared beyond the doorway with Agnes in tow. Alden swallowed hard then glanced to Ophelia who was giving him an incredulous look.

“You best hurry along before she decides you are a problem to be dealt with as well,” Ophelia warned before turning her attention back to the townsfolk before her.

Alden inhaled deeply, then followed Lady Anastasia. As he stepped through the misty doorway, he found an entirely new hall. What was once a small room was now a sprawling corridor. It was dim and the scent of human blood was heavy in the air. Iron bars lined the walls and the faint sound of heavy breathing echoed quietly against the stone.

The quietness was shattered by the screams of Agnes. Alden followed the shrieks to the end of the hall beyond a solid iron door. As he entered the dark room, Lady Anastasia was standing beside the door, staring down at Agnes who was shrieking incoherently in the corner. Lady Anastasia looked to Alden, her eyes full of disdain she spoke impatiently, “The door please.”

Alden shut the door as Lady Anastasia approached the woman.

Her shrieking intensified, “Damn you to hell! You devil!”

“Cease your charade,” Lady Anastasia’s voice commanded and Agnes’ mouth snapped shut, silencing her.

“Now tell me your surname,” Lady Anastasia continued.

“Brown,” she answered obediently.

Then Lady Anastasia raised her hands and spoke in a melodic voice, “Deceit is all you speak, rot within the soul found deep, to end the corruption from within, may you speak with only honest whim.”

Shimmering mist seeped from Lady Anastasias fingertips and slithered their way towards Agnes. She scampered back but the mist wrapped around her, binding her arms to the ceiling and her ankles to the ground, forcing her into a wide stance pose. She struggled against her restraints then squeaked in pain. The scent of fresh blood flooded Alden’s senses before he caught sight of the blood trickling down Agnes’ arm.

Lady Anastasia finished her incantation and the mist turned to ichorous tendrils. They slithered down and lapped up the droplets of blood flowing down Agnes’ arms.

“Now tell me, why is it you have chosen death Agnes Brown?”

Agnes shot Lady Anastasia a hateful glare, “I would rather die a thousand deaths than live alongside a devil like you.”

Lady Anastasia laughed, “So you would choose your own piety over your children? Leave them to the hands of a supposed devil?”

“I care not what happens to those ungrateful hellions!” Agnes’ eyes grew wide, her own words surprising even herself.

Lady Anastasia gave a sinister smirk, “That withered heart of yours has revealed itself. Curious it is, that you defended them so, back at the church. If you care not what happens to your children, why put on a spectacle?”

Agnes scoffed, “I revel in any opportunity to tarnish my wretched husband’s reputation. I believed your auction a perfect opportunity to rid myself of those little brats. My husband was a prideful dolt, too ashamed to let the town see that it was his wife that gambled away his coin. I knew he cared more for his reputation than his children. I ran his coffers dry, and your auction would have allowed me to walk away a grieving mother, betrayed by her heartless husband.

Killing him off after his betrayal would have been simple. A little arsenic in his ale and he’d have died a useless drunkard, taking our debts to the grave along with him. Then you revealed your devilish wager. I considered your offer, but I refuse to go from one prison to another. I’d rather die than be controlled by the likes of you.”

“It seems I am mistaken; there is no heart in that chest of yours. Only rot remains,” Lady Anastasia walked around Agnes as she spoke, circling her like prey. “Tell me, have you ever cared for your children?”

Agnes rolled her eyes, “Those wretched brats destroyed my body. Four pregnancies I ended before them, but those two little bastards wouldn’t die. Then I had to do what I was expected. I became a wife and a mother, and it was nothing but misery.”

“Did you ever attempt to end your children’s life after their birth?” Alden cut in.

Agnes let out a hateful laugh, “Of course I did. As far as I was concerned, I had done my duty as a wife. I waited until I was no longer of child rearing age so my husband could not seed me again. Then I told the little animals to jump into the river after their favorite cat. I tied it out on a low hanging branch. I had already killed it of course, but they were too dimwitted to notice. I hoped the swiftness of the river would take them. But to my dismay they both were natural born swimmers.”

“Why become a mother and wife at all?” Alden asked. He understood what this was, it wasn’t merely a conversation, it was a trial. Agnes’ answers would determine her fate and the severity of her punishment.

Agnes let out an annoyed guffaw, “I am no fool. Unmarried women have little opportunity at wealth. My husband deceived me. Promising me a life of riches, convincing me his business would provide. He failed to mention that I would become his new seamstress. Working day in and day out, suckling brats on one teat and a pathetic husband on the other.”

“Which of you laid your hands on those boys of yours?” Lady Anastasia asked pointedly.

She laughed again, “You should have seen their distraught faces. ‘Mama what did I do wrong?’, ‘Mama why are you hurting me?’ Mama, mama, mama!” She ended in a shout. “They deserved to know my suffering for they were the cause of it. Why should they have the luxury of happiness when I did not?”

“What is your decision, Alden Cain?” Lady Anastasia asked.

Alden’s head snapped from Agnes to Lady Anastasia, “Decision? Is she not marked for death?”

Lady Anastasia raised a brow, “There are other options…” she said as she circled Agnes again, then ran a sharp nail down the length of her arm, slicing open the skin allowing the blood beneath to flow out freely.

Agnes screeched, “Kill me already you witch! Free me of these binds and send me from this godforsaken world. I will not be your food!”

Lady Anastasia laughed as she caressed Agnes’ cheek, running her nails across the line of her jaw, leaving a trail of blood behind, then she slapped her across the cheek. “Speak when spoken to wench.”

Agnes stared daggers at Lady Anastasia, her eyes saying what her mouth was forbade from speaking.

Then Lady Anastasia turned back to Alden, “Is she deserving of the mercy of death?”

Alden paused, considering her words, “Her story is not unfamiliar. Many women wish the freedom to choose their own fates. Not all wish to become mothers and wives. However…” he met Agnes’ eyes as he spoke his next words, “She is no victim of her age, her cruelty towards other living beings is no symptom of her mores but a symptom of the wickedness within her heart.”

Lady Anastasia nodded, “It is decided then,” she reached for one of Agnes’ arms, pulling it free from the tendril bindings.

Agnes tried to pull her arm from Lady Anastasia’s grip, but the more she pulled, the deeper Lady Anastasias nails dug into her arm. Then Lady Anastasia held Agnes’ arm out to Alden. An invitation he never knew he craved. The scent of fresh blood had awoken the hunger within him.

“Feed upon her freely Alden Cain. Be careful not to drain her dry.”

Alden’s feet moved before his mind. Agnes’ arm was now within his grip. He looked to Lady Anastasia, mouth watering in desire. She ran a hand through his hair, pushing his curls from his face and gave him a nod. Signaling that he was free to feed. Gripping her forearm in both of his hands, Alden dug his teeth into the meat of Agnes’ arm. The warmth of her blood coated his mouth. Unlike the trader, her blood was decadently rich. The sweetness of rot was no where to be found. As he fed upon her essence, his mind slipped away, losing himself to the compulsion to feed.

“Enough,” Lady Anastasia commanded.

Without warning, Alden ripped his teeth from Agnes’ flesh. His awareness returning as her breathless shrieks filled his ears. He released her arm, stepping away in a panic. Agnes, now looking like the meek pale woman she pretended to be struggled against her restraints. Lady Anastasia stepped forward and ran her tongue up Agnes’ forearm, sealing the wound Alden left behind.

Furrowing his brow he asked, “She shrieks as if it causes her pain?”

Lady Anastasia waved her hand, releasing Agnes from her bindings. Her body dropped against the stone floor with an unforgiving thud.

“Did you believe all vampyr bites are as pleasurable as mine?” She asked as she approached him.

Then, running her fingers across his cheek and ending at his lips, she wiped away the remnants of Agnes’ blood. Glancing at her bloodied finger, she brought it to her own lips and savored the blood for herself.

She gave Alden a sultry smirk then stepped past him, “You’ve still much to learn, Mister Cain.”

-K.M.

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Being smart never saved me.

I have come to realize a large part of my identity was formed to be a shield. Now, when someone tells me I’m smart, I tend to resent it.

I by no means think I’m stupid, but I’m not so arrogant to think I’m the smartest person in (most) rooms. I am a curious person and I love to learn. I ask a lot of questions to stay open minded. That opens me up to learning quite a lot.

But ever since I was a child, I have been known as “the smart one.”

Back in the day, in the era of late myspace and early facebook, people used to post statuses “Comment a number and I’ll tell you what I think of you.” When I would comment a number, my peers would always say, “You’re so smart.”

It made me feel unseen. It attracted people to me who wanted to use my intelligence for themselves. It made me feel alone, like I had to protect myself from those who would pretend to be my friend to use me. But growing up, I leaned into “being the smart one.” It made me safer.

I grew up in a chaotic and dysfunctional family. If you are not familiar with the roles of a dysfunctional family, I will lay them about briefly below. I am not an expert, so do more of your own research. What I am providing is surface level.

The 8 Dysfunctional Family Roles:1

1. The Golden Child: Many are familiar with this one. This in the most dramatic sense, is the kid who could get away with murder and still be protected by their family. They tend to be perfectionistic and get their sense of self worth extrinsically. (Outside of themselves/from others.)

2. The Hero: This is the kid who is always trying to prove that the family is okay. They look for evidence as to why their family is not dysfunctional. They also tend to be perfectionistic and over achievers.

3. The mascot/Comedian: This is the person who uses humor to take the attention away from the family problems. In some cases, it’s the addicted person. They use humor to diffuse tension.

4. The patient: This person is the one who the family sees as the root cause of the dysfunction. The identified patient, and often the one who has an addiction. (Or any other behavioral health issue, or medical illness, etc.)

5. The Scapegoat/Black sheep: This is another that many are familiar with. This is the person who is to blame for everything, even things they haven’t done. In the eyes of most of the family, or the caregivers, they are the problem and everything is their fault.

6. The Lost Child: I don’t know how to describe this one better than this: This is the kid who keeps their head down, desperately trying to survive unnoticed. Being seen feels unsafe.

7. The Enabler/Caretaker: This is the one who acts like everything is fine to the outside world. They enable the dysfunctional behavior of other family members and make excuses for it.

8. The parentified child: The one who steps up and takes the role of caregiver in place of an adult. They struggle with boundaries. In my experience, they feel responsible for their caregivers wellbeing. (Co-dependency anyone?)

If you read through these and identified yourself or other family members to be multiple roles, that is not uncommon. These roles were initially researched as roles found in families with addiction, but they are understood now to translate outside of that sphere. Dysfunction is learned, passed down, and repeated.

My role in my family started as The Hero. I became smart, because my older two siblings were always in trouble at school. I came to believe, as the Hero and or/parentified child, it was my responsibility to make my parents lives easier. So, I did everything I could to be “the one kid they didn’t have to worry about.”

I always excelled academically, even in elementary school. It used to be for the love of learning. But also, spite. My older siblings loved to tell me “How easy” school was at my age and that I would struggle when I got older. They were seemingly rooting for my failure, and that made me passionate about proving them wrong.

In middle school my spite turned to a burden. I felt like I had to be the good kid who never got in trouble. The one who proved to the world that my family was actually okay (hero). The easy kid my parents never had to worry about because I was so responsible, (Lost child). The child my parents could brag about (Golden child.) A large portion of my identity formed around being the child who protected the family image.

At some point I learned that being unseen and unheard was safer. If my parents noticed me, it was usually because I had done something wrong. It made me anxious to be noticed because I had seen their wrath. I wanted to be invisible, but I wanted to be seen. My intelligence became my shield. It allowed me to become more independent so I could continue to go unnoticed. The less I needed from my parents, the less I had to interact with them, the smaller chance they could find something to be upset with me about.

Now here comes an identity conflict. I was unseen, ignored, left to my own devices, but I was also the child my parents bragged about. When talking with “outsiders” they always used my accomplishments. The attention was shifted away from the screaming, holes punched in walls, slamming doors, and was put on me, when it made our family look better.

The older I became, the more I resented that. The more it made me feel like my accomplishments were nothing more than pawns to be used to make my mother feel better about her failures as a parent. Like my successes weren’t mine. They were hers because she was my mother.

It wasn’t until my early twenties that I started to question what motivated me to make the choices I was making. I have spent most of my life trying to live up to my parents’ expectations. After getting my bachelor’s degree and feeling no sense of accomplishment, I came to realize, I was always making choices I thought they would approve of, instead of choices for myself. I had to face the reality that I didn’t know what I wanted for myself. I didn’t know who I was, outside of my parents.

Being “smart,” didn’t save me from that identity crisis.

I have been out of that home for 10 years. I am low/no contact with my parents and family. I still struggle with my identity. I resent my intelligence. I can’t stand when people say, “You’re so smart.” As a kid, it made me an outsider. I was referred to as, “An old soul,” by many teachers. Which many understand now, that calling a child an “old soul,” typically means that child has likely endured some sort of traumatic/adverse childhood experience, (ACE’s).2

As I grew older, I became a weird mentor/motherly role to friends. When I was in my undergrad, trying to make friends with people my age, I often found myself giving life advice. My friends emotionally relied on me in ways I couldn’t rely on them. I fell into the exact same role I played in my family. Taking on everyone else’s emotional burdens as my own. I would say I have a high level of emotional intelligence, but that strength became isolating.

I became the friend who would ghost people because I had placed myself in the role of the savior. I became a doormat, then I would get tired of feeling like everyone only took (when I was the one who played into that dynamic) then I would shut down and ice people out because I didn’t know how to handle it. That feeling of being used for my intelligence would return and I would resent these people because of it. I felt like an outsider in my own skin and by my own doing.

Being “smart,” didn’t save me from that. I knew exactly what was happening, when it was happening, but I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know how to stop playing that role.

There is a part of me that does take pride in my intelligence. I can’t deny that it is a part of my identity. But I also resent it. I don’t know how to re-categorize my intelligence in my head as a positive attribute. My intelligence became something that was used by my family as a tool to keep the family secrets. My intelligence led me to create unbalanced friendships. It led me to feel isolated and alone.

Being smart didn’t save me. It protected me, for a time but I don’t need that protection anymore.

My intelligence doesn’t overpower my easily triggered emotional brain. It didn’t stop me from dating a man who was the epitome of my entire dysfunctional family in one person. It doesn’t stop my heart from skipping a beat at a loud sound, or from spiraling when I think someone is mad. The hypervigilance has never gone away. My intelligence doesn’t stop my brain from scanning for constant threats. My intelligence doesn’t make me feel safe anymore.

I recognize my complaining about “being smart,” may come across as a silly little pity party. Out of all the problems one could have, “being smart,” sounds like a first world problem. Though, maybe that’s just my fear of being seen talking.

I don’t necessarily wish I was “dumb” or unintelligent, but there is some truth behind the saying, “Ignorance is bliss.” Research3 supports that a higher level of intelligence in children is often correlated with higher susceptibility to trauma. In my opinion, that demonstrates that children who have a more realistic perception of the world due to their intelligence, are more likely to be traumatized by life’s experiences. They don’t get the shield of ignorance, of childhood naivety. I think that translates into later life too.

Maybe that’s my answer. My intelligence was used as a shield to keep dangerous attention away from me during my upbringing. Being ignored was safest, and being an overachiever kept the attention away from me and on my accomplishments. So while my intelligence did shield me from additional hostility and threats, it also increased my perception of reality, which increased my susceptibility to trauma.

Which explains my overactive “lizard” brain:

Your amygdala and hippocampus are a part of this “lizard,” brain (Limbic system). They are supposed to work in tandem. Your amygdala detects threats and throws out the alarm bells. In people who are traumatized, it is hypersensitive. Your hippocampus is supposed to be a sort of buffer to determine if the threat is real. In people who have been traumatized, the hippocampus is often smaller in size and less effective at quieting down an overactive amygdala.

Being “smart,” doesn’t overpower my brains primitive warning system.

No amount of being aware of that fact, has made the panic I feel in perceived moments of danger any quieter. Knowing these things has forced me to accept that my brain developed in a way that makes me overly sensitive to threats, easily triggered by loud noises, and easily flooded by fear. I cannot change that, the only thing I can do now, is learn how to live with a brain like this. At times it feels like a prison sentence. When I realized my brain would likely never “be normal,” it felt like loss. It added to my resentments.

Being “smart,” cannot save me from a brain that developed in an unsafe environment.

Cognitive dissonance is a term used to describe the discomfort of holding two contradictory beliefs/attitudes/attributes.

I both take pride in being smart and resent it. It protected me, but it didn’t save me. Consolidating that conflict would bring me immense relief. I’d love to tell you how to do that, but I don’t know how.

Being smart, didn’t save me.

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My first introduction to being emotionally moved by a book. I read it when I was in middle school. In this story, the child accidentally burns her mother alive with kerosine. Her mother was pregnant. Her family suffers dearly. It is a collection of short stories that tell a bigger story. Middle school me thought this book was groundbreaking. The scene of a pregnant woman getting burned has never left my psyche. This book showed me how to get lost in someone else’s world of tragedy.

The first book I ever read that pissed me off. I grew up watching the movies and I fell in love with Anne Shirley’s character. I was moved by her experiences, so when middle school me found this book in my school library I thought it would be a wonderful read.

I hated it. There was almost an entire chapter (I may be wrong about the length) that explicitly described a tree. It went on, and on, and on, and on, about a tree. I was insulted. I wanted to use my own imagination but that tree was described so much there was zero room left for my own imagination. I forced myself to finish that book and I resented it. I vowed to never read another Anne of Green Gables book after that.

This book is a big reason why I am adverse to overly describing my worlds. This can be a bad habit that can cause me to leave a reader blind sometimes. But I want a balance. My reader should understand the general world. Is it futuristic, medieval, otherworldly, modern, and so on. Then aside from narrative relevant details, I leave it up to the reader to fill in the blanks.

For example, I don’t tend to give too much description about a characters looks because if their looks aren’t an important part of the story, feel free to decide how you think they look. I don’t describe skin color unless it’s relevant. I may say that they are “pale” because pale denotes being unwell. But I wont tell you if they’re olive skinned, Sunkissed, etc. I once shared with a friend how I imagined a character in a book looked and they corrected my imagination and referenced the authors description. That came from one paragraph, at the beginning of the story but was otherwise irrelevant to the story. It pissed me off. If their description is so unimportant the author only references specific physical details one or two times in the entire story, who cares if I create my own version in my head?

Don’t take away my freedom to escape into a world by grounding it in such depth of detail I get bored at your adjectives. I am unreasonably passionate about this. Let me play around in my imagination when I read. Stop stealing that experience from me.

I read this book my freshman year of high school. When I was forced to read an entire chapter about Frankenstein’s monster taking a walk through the park as homework I was enraged. I complained about that chapter in class then resentfully read the rest of the book. I get it, Frankenstein’s monster was new to experience existence. Blah blah blah. I did not need an entire chapter about what the park looked like and how the air felt and what thing smelled like and on, and on, and on. For the same reasons mentioned under Anne of Green Gables, I decidedly resent this book.

The first and currently only book I did not finish because of how graphic it was. The fact that a horse is on the front cover is an affront to god. I got to the part where it described the sound the horses made after being decimated on a battlefield. I am not meant for war. I do not like animal suffering. I write horror, I enjoy horror, the images this story put in my head haunted me. The sounds it put in my head, haunted me.

I am combing these two, because I read both of these series roughly around the same time period. End of middle school and into high school. House of Night was the first story where I got emotionally lost in a story. Where I felt like I was experiencing the main characters emotions alongside her. I have read these books in my adulthood, and while their outdated high school references can create a kind of cringy experience now, I will never dog on this series. Jacks death had me sobbing, the betrayal of the professor Loren Blake taking advantage of Zoey felt like my own betrayal wound. Heaths death shattering Zoey’s soul felt like it shattered mine. Nyx and the references to the Isle of Man, I loved experiencing this story. It is nostalgic for me now, and I do not relate to the main character like I did as a teenager, but it showed me how much an author can influence a readers emotions.

Divergent broke my fucking heart and gutted me. It was the first story I read that made you believe that the main character finally won, they completed their 3 book long trials and tribulations, then she died. The author fucking killed her then wrote a whole scene about the man who loved her spreading her ashes like she was a martyr for their freedom. My dad came in my room after hearing me crying to check on me because I was sobbing so hard I could hardly read. All I could do was point at my book. He gave me a concerned nod and left me alone to sob over a fictional character.

Well about 3 days later, while I was at work at Pizza Hut in the back of the store chopping tomatoes, I started sobbing just thinking about the story. I was heartbroken. The worst part was while I was ugly crying alone in the back, the dishwasher maintenance guy showed up and I had to put on a brave face and answer the door, bloodshot eyes and puffy faced. He of course did not ask what was wrong and I would have lied anyways.

I never watched the movies. I will never watch the movies. I will never re-read those books. But I love that that series had me emotionally disturbed days after the fact.

I read this book my freshman year of high school. This book haunts me. Not in the way the sounds of dying horses did from All Quiet on the Western Front, but in the reality Ray Bradbury so accurately described in 1953. This disconnectedness, the isolation, the loss of our humanity and freedom of thought. I think everyone should read this book. It will leave a lasting impact on the way you see the world.

This story broke my heart repeatedly. It opened my eyes to the cruelty of the world and made me angry for the life so many are born into. This is non-fiction but it is written so well that you can still get lost in the story. You feel the hopelessness. You understand the brutal reality of the lives of those in the story. The feelings of being trapped and helpless. If you don’t know what it’s like to grow up on the streets, around violence, in constant fear of your life and safety, read this book to gain an understanding. It teaches empathy. I will never know what it was truly like to grow up the way these kids did, but it gives you a small glimpse into a world that may be entirely different from your own.

This book taught me about growing old and death in a way that brought me peace. I read it in my undergrad. It broke my heart in a beautiful way. This story follows the progressive deterioration of a man, Morrie, whose body is slowly betraying him. I have had a lot of death in my life, especially for how young I am. I am barely 29 and I have been to almost 20 funerals in my life. Death is familiar, inevitable, and it used to keep me up at night.

But not anymore. This book helped me reach a point of acceptance of death. There is a lot of unknown things about it. People spend lifetimes convincing others about what comes next but until we get there we cannot know for certain. That terrifies so many. It used to terrify me. But now, I lean into that unknown. If I cannot know what happens after death, I will not be closed minded about the possibilities. There could be nothing, there could be heaven, or hell, or reincarnation, or ascension. I have no idea. But what I know for certain, is that I will die. You will die. Every human being on this earth today, will eventually die. And we can all die with grace.

Hopefully, we get to grow old.

Here are some of my favorite quotes from this book:

“He was intent on proving that the word ‘dying’ was not synonymous with ‘useless.’”

“‘So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning in your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.’”

“‘It’s very simple. As you grow, you learn more. If you stayed twenty-two, you’d always be as ignorant as you were at twenty-two. Aging is not just decay, you know. It’s growth. It’s more than the negative that you’re going to die, it’s also the positive that you understand you’re going to die, and that you live a better life because of it.’”

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.”

All of these books have had a lasting impact on me as a person and author. They shaped me into who I am today and I am grateful for that. These books are what inspire me to write in a way that makes readers feel something. I am a deeply emotional person. To experience life, is to experience the depth of emotions we are capable of. Our emotions and experiences are what connects us. I want to make readers face the harshness and cruelty of the world, and walk away with understanding and hope.

Life is hard. Life brings sorrow. Life brings tragedy. But there is beauty to be found in all of that. The horrors of this world feed the whimsical joy. When you’ve seen the darkness and danced with it, you come to understand how precious the light is.

Feel free to share your own versions of this. I find what makes people tick fascinating. What stories shaped you?

Thanks for reading,
-K.M.

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Audio:

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“D-do we all have to become v-vampyr?” The tailors wife stammered, head bowed in fearful subservience.

“If you wish to remain human, you choose to forfeit your life. The moment the trader found my manor, your fates were sealed,” Lady Anastasia said with cold indifference.

Whimpers escaped several of the townsfolk who exchanged worried glances.

Misses Eade asked, “How did he find your manor, my lady?”

Alden’s chest tightened. A Manor deep in the woods housing hundreds of children was written off as a local folktale. It was used to scare the town children into behaving. It wasn’t until Alden sought it out that it became more than a legend. He held his breath in anticipating for Lady Anastasias answer.

“He was an unfortunately cunning animal. Setting traps to ensnare victims, using them to lure him to others. It was his greed that led him to my Manor. I fear, Easton Burrough didn’t carry enough supply for his business demands,” the words slid off her tongue like she was eager to free herself from their rancid taste.

Alden’s eyes widened at her answer. Resentment flooded into his heart. She commanded him to consume a rotting corpse as punishment for exposing her manor, but simultaneously believed him to be a victim. Then murdered half a town in order to lure out the rest of the rot. She was a brutal woman. Though, as he reflected on her actions the bitterness in his heart eased. She wasn’t quite the monster he thought her to be. Every move she made was calculated. She was no mere beast hunting others for sport. Her actions were merciless, but they were not senseless.

“H-how do we know you won’t sell our children?” The tailor’s wife asked.

“I will do no such thing,” Lady Anastasias voice cut through the nervous chatter like a blade. All eyes were on her now. “Before you make your decision, I will tell you this. If you choose to serve me at my Manor, your service will not end until your existence does. This decision is not to be made lightly. Choose wisely.”

Unceremoniously, Lady Anastasia stepped down from the pulpit. Without word, the Attendants began corralling the leftover townsfolk while Lady Anastasia walked down the center of the pews, gracefully stepping over the leftover limbs and entrails scattering the floor. She moved like a haunting reaper, her shadowy dress swept the floor behind her, leaving streaks of blood in its wake.

Free to choose his next move, Alden maneuvered his way out of the church, glancing around in search of Lady Anastasia. He found her silhouette against the moonlight, slowly gliding down the graveled main road. Following her path, they continued to the edge of town. As she drew near her wall of tendrils they began to dance, like children excitedly greeting their mother after time apart.

She stopped at the towns edge and held her arm out to her tendrils that reached for her. As Alden drew closer, he watched their exchange. The tendrils twirled around her in greeting, dripping ichor dissipated into shimmering mist as it fell around her. She spoke with quiet affection to her tendrils caressing them gently. Moments later she waved them away and they slithered off in somber farewell, returning to their sentinel duties. Their flickering movements now reignited with fervor.

Lady Anastasia did not acknowledge Alden’s presence. Instead, she wove her arms together, long draping sleeves fluttering in the nights breeze as she turned to face the town of Easton Burrough. Like a weary mourner, she stood as the final farewell. The sound of hooves against gravel turned Alden’s attention away from her and to the three horse-drawn carriages headed in their direction.

The lead carriage, driven by Ophelia, was filled with the group of townsfolk from the church. Many wept softly and held each other close. Misses Eade watched out the back of the carriage catching Alden’s attention. She looked him up and down, then raised her brows as if asking a question. He gave a nod of reassurance. She returned a small smile back then turned back to the carriage, comforting the wife of the tailor who sobbed hysterically.

The next carriage was full of supplies and a handful of other townsfolk that Alden didn’t recall seeing in the church. Trailing behind, the last carriage was full of children. Alden’s stomach hitched. The children were still, slumped over one another like bodies being hauled away from a battlefield. Frantically, Alden scanned them, searching their little bodies for signs of life.

“Close your eyes and listen,” Lady Anastasia said quietly beside him.

Alden glanced at her, then closed his eyes and opened his ears. He could hear it, the gentle murmur of heartbeats, their soft breathing filled the nights air. Alden relaxed then turned to ask Lady Anastasia a question but found she was already gone, walking towards the center of the road as the last carriage crossed the barrier.

She looked over her shoulder, “If you do not wish to die, I would advise you to follow me.” She announced as she crossed the border herself.

Alden hurried after her. Now outside of town beyond her tendrils, Lady Anastasia turned back to face Easton Burrough. Alden took a step back and watched quietly as she raised her hands to the sky and began chanting. That same unfamiliar language from before whispered in the winds like a haunting melody. The air around her began to shimmer with twinkling iridescence.

Though her magic possessed the capacity for wicked destruction, there was an ancient beauty to it. Before her, before his change, the sight would have struck fear in Alden’s heart. But her magic wafted around her like crashing waves of playful sprites, excitedly reaching up to their master desperate for her attention. Whatever this power was, Lady Anastasia commanded it with a gentle grace.

Her quiet chanting continued, dark mist seeped from the ground beneath her, drifting up above the town of Easton Burrough, coalescing into wisps of starlit night, ebbing and flowing above the town.

Her chanting quickened; her voice carried the weight of an eternal night. That ominous cloud began to trickle over the town. Everything it touched evaporated into darkness. In less than an hour, the town of Easton Burrough and whomever was left within, had been eradicated. Generations of memories, erased.

Lady Anastasia lowered her hands and breathed deeply, releasing her magic. Her tendrils slowly wisped away into the breeze, along with the ominous cloud above. As her magic faded, she watched the starlit sky, her endless black hair flowed delicately in the wind. A heartbreaking silence befell the forest. What was once a prosperous town, was now an empty dirt covered field. In time, the space that held it would return to the forest.

“Your eyes are rather loud Mister Cain,” Lady Anastasia said, still watching the stars above.

Alden cheeks flushed as he searched for the words, “Apologies if I have offended you M’lady.” He gave a bow.

“You behave like a frightened animal.”

Still in a bow, Alden glanced up. The light of the moon shone down on Lady Anastasia like a spotlight in the night. He imagined if he was not there, she would have been communing with the moon rather than him.

“May I speak honestly?” he asked.

“You may.”

“You hold an immense power that is rather…merciless.”

Lady Anastasia gave a slow nod, “Tell me, Alden Cain, do you believe my actions to be unjust?”

“I-I well,” he stuttered.

Lady Anastasia sighed, “Speak freely Mister Cain, I am not so bloated with power that I am unreasonable.”

Alden cleared his throat, “My opinion on the matter is rather trivial now.”

“You avoid my question Alden Cain,” she said with a cool warning. “What would you have done, if a stranger came to your home and threatened Emily’s safety? Exposed her? How far would you have gone?”

“To the furthest reaches of hell until I ensured her safety,” his answer came easily.

Still gazing above, she pursed her lips before asking, “Do you grieve for Easton Burrough?”

“I can’t say I do,” he said as he looked out at the patch of emptiness before them.

Lady Anastasia looked to Alden now, eyes glowing with the night sky, “What of its people?”

“Those worthy of life have been spared.”

She closed the space between them, moving like the gentle mist of night she asked, “Do you believe yourself capable of determining whose life to condemn, and whose to save?”

Despite the suffering she inflicted upon him, her closeness did not frighten him. He stared into her night filled eyes and answered, “I know what I hold dear, and when to act in defense of it.”

“A rarity among men,” she replied, eyes falling away as she turned towards her manor. “Come, walk with me.”

They walked in silence, taking in the mossy landscape around them when Lady Anastasia asked, “Do you plan to remain at my Manor?”

“I was unaware that leaving was an option,” Alden answered honestly.

“I am not your slaver.”

After a moment of hesitation, Alden spoke, “You told the surviving townsfolk they would remain at your Manor until their end. Does that not extend to me?”

“It does not.”

Alden raised a brow, “Why am I free to leave but they are not?”

“Do you harbor resentments towards me? Do you wish to see my manor fall?” She asked.

“No, your Manor is truly a sanctuary for the children. They seem to blossom under your care,” he answered with a certainty he felt in his heart.

“And what of your punishment? Consuming the traders remains?”

Alden sighed heavily, the images of greenish entrails painted his mind sending both a shiver down his spine and a grumble to his stomach. “It was… merciless. However,” he trailed off. “I cannot say it was meaningless. You are a rather fierce woman. I would certainly fear becoming your enemy.”

She nodded thoughtfully, “A sound conclusion and precisely why you have the freedom to choose how you spend your eternity. Though you have a propensity for foolishness at times, you have also proven yourself to be pure of heart.”

The corners of Alden’s mouth turned up, “That seems a gracious way of suggesting I am of no threat to you.”

Lady Anastasia let out a spirited laugh, putting her fingers to her lips in an attempt to silence herself she added, “I see now where Emily learned to speak so candidly.”

Alden smiled at the lightness in Lady Anastasia’s tone, “Though I have considered leaving, I do not think Emily would allow it now,” he joked.

Wearing a kind smile, Lady Anastasia added, “Indeed, she has certainly become the little socialite. There is rarely a time I see her alone.”

The chill in the air became suddenly apparent as Alden’s heart shuddered with longing. Emily’s absence weighed heavily on him. He glanced up at the sky above; the early light of day trickled into the darkness of night, washing away the depth of depravity that occurred only hours ago.

Neither filled the silence the hung between them.

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His arms are crossed and he has a serious look on his face. My heart drops to my stomach as my mind races.

What did I do?

Does he think you’re cheating?

Did I forget something? Did my cat ruin something?

Does he think you’re cheating on him?

Why is he mad?

He looks at me with a raised brow, expression unchanged.

“I-I don’t know. Why?” I ask nervously.

“Are you sure? There’s nothing you can think of?” He asks again, his tone now a little more dramatic than before.

Is this a joke?

No, it’s a trap. He thinks you’re cheating so he wants to see your reaction.

Maybe he’s just messing with me.

I shake me head, “I can’t think of anything.”

Liam walks to the sink and lifts the spray nozzle, “Were you going to tell me the handle on this broke or?” His voice trailed off in dramatic emphasis.

He’s just messing with me.

Or it was an intentional trap. He wanted to see how you’d react. He’s convinced.

No-no, he always teases me.

“I noticed it before I left for work the other day, I thought you broke it,” I say with a small laugh.

He gives me an incredulous look, “Uh-huh, so now it’s my fault,” his voice was heavy with sarcasm.

He wouldn’t set a trap like that for me. I’m acting silly.

No, he thinks you’re cheating and now he’s playing it off like it’s nothing.

The next day I found myself watching him closely, searching for any sign of distance. He sat at his computer, clicking away at his game. I planned to go to my office to get some work done but I paused.

If you take your laptop to another room, he will think you’re hiding something. He’ll think you’re in there talking to another man.

I look at him, then to my office, then make a spot on the couch. I try to focus on my work, but I keep glancing up at him, scanning him for any signs of change.

He’s convinced you’re cheating on him. You need to make it up to him. You need to make him trust you.

No, he never said that. He doesn’t think I’m cheating. He was only giving me a hard time. Let it go.

Anxiety builds within me. I notice his every movement, ready to flinch whenever he chooses to strike. I decide to go to the kitchen and get him a soda.

That’s right. Be nice to him. Prove to him how much you love him. Go out of your way for him.

“Here you go,” I smile at him.

“Thank you,” he says plainly, barely glancing in my direction.

There it is. He’s being cold.

No, he’s in the middle of a game, he’s distracted.

No, he is pushing you away.

Stop.

Hours pass, I hardly get any work done and eventually he catches me staring at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

His tone is uncertain, but not overly worried.

He doesn’t care. He’s waiting for you to admit something to him.

But I haven’t cheated. I’ve done nothing wrong.

Well think about all the times you’ve come home later than planned from work. He probably thinks you stay late to see someone.

He knows I don’t know what time I’ll be off. It varies. I can’t help it. It’s been like that for years.

He doesn’t trust you. He thinks you’re cheating.

“Nothings wrong,” I lie.

He raises a brow, “Are you sure?”

I smile, “Yeah I’m sure, why?”

“Cause you’re being needy.”

I play along, “I’m not being needy.”

He always jokingly calls me needy because he knows it bothers me.

He senses your anxiety. He definitely thinks you’re cheating. You’re acting suspicious.

I’m just trying to prove I’m trustworthy.

No, you’re acting like a cheater.

I’m not a cheater.

He thinks you are.

I don’t know what to do.

Prove yourself.

Days pass, I find myself walking on eggshells. Silently trying to prove my innocence for a crime I never committed. For something I haven’t ever been accused of. He’s told me million times he trusts me. Why can’t I just believe him?

Your obsession with him thinking your cheating makes you look like a cheater. Cheaters project onto their partners.

So stop making me fucking feel like I’ve done something wrong!

Stop acting like you have.

I’m not!

You are. So caught up in your own thoughts he probably thinks you’re daydreaming about another man.

I let out an annoyed huff. Then I continue playing along. Feeding it. Trying my best to play the perfect girlfriend. Trying my hardest to prove to him that I’m faithful. Telling him when I leave, who I’m seeing, when I’ll be back.

That only makes you look guiltier.

But not telling him will look like I’m hiding something.

Well then you better tell him everything you do.

But I thought it made me look guilty?

It does.

This continues on. I start oversharing. Going out of my way in every way for him. Changing myself to become more of what I think he likes. Convincing myself this is my devotion to him. That this is how I prove to him I’m good. That I’m innocent. That he has nothing to fear.

Months pass until finally the distance starts to feel real. Our conversations fall flat. The way he looks at me changes.

See, any day now he will accuse me. I did this. I ruined us. Stop acting like a cheater.

I’m not a cheater.

Well, he thinks I am.

“Can we talk?” Liam asks as he sets his dinner plate in the kitchen sink.

That damn sink. Where it all started. Where I couldn’t just let it go.

Here it comes.

“What is it?” I ask. Hiding the anxiety in my tone.

“I-I don’t really know how to say this. But, I feel like I don’t know who you are anymore,” he admits.

“What do you mean?” I ask, a knot in my throat forming.

“I-I don’t know. Something happened.”

He’s about to say it.

“It’s like you just started focusing only on me. It was flattering at first but then you just, disappeared.”

I looked at Liam. Though he was only a few steps away, it felt like I was looking at him from a distance. Like I wasn’t seeing him from my own eyes, but from someone else’s.

“So what does that mean?” I ask. My tone flat, uncaring.

I knew he would leave. This is my fault. I should have tried harder.

I did try. I tried to make him happy.

But I failed. I made him miserable instead.

“Are you happy in this relationship?” he asks.

“I’m miserable,” I say aloud. I only meant to think those words but there’s no going back now.

I did this. I didn’t even need to cheat. I still contaminated the whole relationship with my filth.

Liam’s face was now shrouded in despair, “So why are we still doing this?”

I opened my mouth to respond but I couldn’t find the words.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to answer. I had a feeling you weren’t happy anymore,” he moved from the sink towards the hall leading to the bedroom.

I hadn’t noticed but his shoes were already on.

This was planned. He won’t say it, but he thinks I changed because I cheated. He probably just doesn’t want the confirmation.

But I didn’t cheat.

I looked to him. The eyes that once greeted me with playful love were empty. Whatever love he had for me, was gone.

“I wish you wouldn’t have waited so long to tell me you were unhappy. You could have saved us both some time,” he said as he disappeared into the bedroom.

I stood, frozen in place listening to him pack his bags.

Standing there like a guilty little rat. I’m not even fighting for him. Only someone who is guilty wouldn’t fight.

I-I can’t. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Liam walked out of the bedroom, carrying two suitcases, “You don’t even have anything to say?”

“I-“ my words fell flat.

See, he wants me to admit to cheating.

I haven’t cheated.

He thinks I have. That’s why he’s really doing this. It’s another test to see if I’ll admit it.

I have nothing to admit to. I haven’t cheated! I’ve never cheated. I love him.

Do I?

Of course I do. He’s amazing, he’s funny, he’s sweet, he’s thoughtful. He’s the love of my life.

Is he really?

I got so lost arguing with myself that I didn’t notice him walk out the front door.

What have I done?

I stood in cold silence for hours. Unmoving, trapped in the bickering of my head until I finally moved to the bathroom. I turned to face the mirror, flipping on the light switch, I met a set of eyes. They should have been familiar. I should have known them, but they were the eyes of a stranger. I looked at the mask I wore, knowing tears sat locked behind it.

I never cheated.

He never said I did.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I do.

Who am I?

Me.

Authors Note:

I have genuinely been stuck in this repetitive thought before. Two weeks ago in fact. The beginning of this story is 100% true (Other than the changed names.)

Obsessive thinking is all consuming sometimes. I am fortunate to be self aware enough to know when my thoughts are irrational, but it does not stop them. They keep coming and then I start to seek ways to alleviate my anxieties.

Well, I learned that giving in to those anxieties and finding ways to reassure yourself, reinforces the obsession. Which makes logical sense. But, it also means I have to sit in my discomfort. Trapped in my own head.

I almost didn’t write this because one of my obsessive thoughts is that if I write about my partner and I breaking up, we will. That somehow me writing a fictional story will influence my actual relationship with him. I pushed through the fear and wrote it anyways. It was uncomfortable, but I did it.

If you understand the feeling, I hope it gets easier for you.

Thanks for reading,

-K.M.

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Dear Diary, if that’s even how you start one of these. It’s been so long now it’s hard to remember. Writing to yourself seems silly but I can’t get these rambling thoughts out of my head. So here it goes.

I’ve become too familiar with being alone. Big accomplishments with no one to share them with is heartbreaking. Living life’s moments only for yourself makes the world feel meaningless. There’s an emptiness within me that has become so comfortable I’m afraid of what it would feel like to fill it again.

I do long for companionship, but it’s just easier to be alone. At least when I’m alone, I don’t have to live in fear that the person I let in will abandon me one day. Pathetic isn’t it? Such horrible abandonment wounds I won’t even put myself out there anymore. Writing this down on paper seems way more depressing that I thought it would.

I guess I’ll leave it at that.
-Sarah Muller

April 20^th, 2024 11 pm

I decided to give this another shot. I’d rather not go to the psychiatrist again and everything online says journaling solves a world of problems.

It’s another typical Friday evening. I finished an uninteresting week of work and like usual, I wasted most of my free time mindlessly scrolling. Wasting away what little bit of useless life I have, living vicariously through others.

I hate being around people. Being seen. It’s easier to be unimportant, unnoticed.

But tonight, something odd happened. I was engrossed in my doom scrolling when it felt like someone was in the room with me. I brushed it off. It’s not the first time I’ve convinced myself someone was stalking me. Even though I enjoy living alone, it does put a target on my back. Rather than working myself into a panic like I normally do, I ignored it. Well, I’m lying in bed now with a youtube video playing and that feeling is still here.

Maybe I am going insane. Fuck, these journals won’t help. If they find my dead body in my apartment a week from now, it’ll look like I did it to myself.

If someone is reading this, I AM NOT SUICIDAL. Yes, depressed. But life is, fine, I guess.

Well, I decided I’m going to down half a bottle of Nyquil to help me fall asleep since I can’t get this creepy feeling to go away.

Until next time diary,
-Sarah Muller

April 21^st, 2024

When I woke up today that same feeling was there. It’s like someone is here with me but it feels closer now. It’s hard to describe, sort of like they’re hovering. I haven’t felt anything, but whatever it is feels like it wants to be closer.

Maybe I don’t like being alone as much as I thought I did. Seems I’m making up imaginary friends now. Some spooky invisible monster that wants to be close.

God I’m an idiot.
-Sarah Muller

April 21^st, 2024 9 pm

I just felt a breath up the back of my neck. I checked all my windows and door frames and while I can’t 100% rule it out, I really don’t think it was a gust of wind.

Whatever is here is trying to get my attention. I’m trying to ignore it but the more I do the more it seems to push.

Fuck. If only I had someone to text about this, maybe they could ease my nerves. Anyways, this diary is now a log of strange events I guess. Who knows, maybe I can convince some youtubers to come to my house to “cleanse” it for me.

Actually scratch that. They want everything to be a demon and I definitely don’t want a demon in my home.

On that note, I’m signing off.
-Sarah Muller

April 22^nd, 11 pm

I think I need to move. I can’t explain what happened tonight, but I know that I can’t keep doing this. Either I have a stalker who is fucking with me or some really fucked up shit is happening to me.

I’m going to write it all down so I don’t forget it in case I do have to hire a fucking exorcist to come to my home. How I wish I could go back to being a healthy skeptic.

Earlier tonight, I was sitting on my couch in my nest of pillows and blankets when that same gust of wind crept up the back of my neck. But tonight, it didn’t stop there.

I tried to ignore it. I pulled my blanket up over my head, but whatever’s here didn’t like that. It’s like it started toying with me.

I started hearing tapping on my window. Only a couple, but loud enough to hear over the sound of my TV. The first taps came from the window beside the TV. When I heard it I froze. I am not a brave woman. I couldn’t even call out. I held my breath then started to relax when more taps came. But this time on the window right next to my front door.

My eyes are watering again just from writing this. Tonight was truly horrifying, I wish I was making this shit up.

After the taps near the door, I just sat there, looking between the windows. Then, of course it can’t stop there. Then my fucking door handle started jiggling.

Well safe to say I freaked the fuck out at that. I lunged for my phone on the coffee table but I realized who the fuck was I going to call? Even if I called police, I knew they would ask if I actually saw anyone, and I didn’t and I sure as shit wasn’t going to open my door to find out if someone was there.

But the jiggling of the handle lasted only for a few seconds, if they were really trying to get in, it wouldn’t have stopped there.

Fuck. I don’t even want to write this but I just realized. What if they were already in the house?

On that note, I’m going to get something stronger than Nyquil to knock me out tonight. Whatever is fucking with me is going to have a hard time waking me from a dead sleep after a fifth of jack. If whatever you are is reading this now, FUCK YOU.
(I’m insane, I’m now writing to ghosts in my diary.)

Goodnight I guess.
-Sarah Muller

April 23^rd, 2 am

FUCK ME. I was passed out after finishing most of a bottle of jack when my TV suddenly shifted from my usual, random youtubers ranking random products, to the sound of cackling laughter.

The scene “They won’t stop laughing,” from the Evil Dead was playing on repeat. I couldn’t see shit, but when I set eyes on my remote on my bedside table and reached for it, I shit you not, the whole fucking table flipped over.

But of course, whatever the fuck this is couldn’t stop there. No, after flipping my entire beside table, glass of jack included, it started turning up the volume on my TV. It was so loud I couldn’t even hear myself think. I fell out of bed scrambling for the remote and to my absolute horror, I felt something actually touch me. It was like a nail scratching across the back of my neck.

I fortunately got ahold of the remote and turned off the video but the back of my neck burned. There was nothing in the room with me. Nothing that I could see at least. But something was there, I have the scabbed over scratch on the back of my neck to prove it.

At this rate, I am going to actually need a psych hold. Maybe all I need is a few antipsychotics and everything will go back to normal. But I can’t keep doing this. Whatever is here is amping up. But who can I even tell?

If I show this diary to anyone I know they’ll think I’m practicing for some shitty horror story competition. I guess being alone has really come to bite me in the fucking ass.

Here’s getting fucked *Cheers*
-Sarah Muller

May 10^th, 2024 10 pm

Good Evening Diary,

I thought it would be a good time to update you finally. This will be my last entry. I don’t need to write my woes down in a journal anymore because I have someone now.

I know it scared me at first, but I’m okay now.

You’ll be happy to hear that I’m not alone anymore. It’s here now, always watching me. No one else does, but it sees me. I don’t really know why it chose to notice me, or how long it’s going to stay.

But I’m glad I’m not alone anymore.
-Sarah Muller

No Further Entries.

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Find previous parts here:

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV

Thanks for watching,
-K.M.

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Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV

It took an unfortunately short amount of time for Alden to complete Lady Anastasia’s command. Even after cracking open the bones and sucking out every last drop of marrow, the cavernous hunger within him lingered. Now alone in deafening silence, Alden sat in the corner of that stone cell, beside a pile of cleaned bones.

He looked down at his hands. They were stained with crusty dried blood and his linen shirt was painted with a matching shade of brownish red. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, desperately trying to wash away the memories of what he had done. Of who he had eaten.

A fire burned in his chest as he looked at the pile of bones. He stood from the corner and walked over to them. His heart was brimming with hatred as he slammed his foot into it. Alden resented the fact he didn’t get to face that monster while he was still alive. Unable to get true retribution, he settled on destroying every bit of the trader until nothing of him remained.

Alden understood now that this cure, or rather, his becoming a vampyr, involved some considerable changes. Obviously, there was his desire for humans and not simply their blood, but their entire essence. There was Lady Anastasias inky black power, her ability to command him. Then, there was his strength. He was too caught up in his moment of fury to recognize how strong he had become, throwing an entire carriage like it weighed no more than a feather.

This strength aided him in making quick work of the traders’ bones, shredding them across the rough stone wall until they were nothing more than a pile of dust. Though his mind wandered to thoughts of his newfound abilities, his heart panged with guilt. Lady Anastasia was correct; he truly was a fool for searching for her manor. Though her chosen punishment was reprehensible, he couldn’t blame her for demanding he pay for his actions.

Alden had unknowingly exposed his daughter and Lady Anastasias manor to a vile beast. His shoulders fell as he realized the trader could have easily attacked that dark and relentless night and he would have been incapable of protecting his daughter.

He sat back down on the rough stone floor and leaned his back against the cool wall behind him. Looking up at the ceiling in contemplation. He was anxious to see his daughter again, but terrified to face her. A deep shame sat in the depths of his ravenous stomach. Only days ago, Alden had deluded himself into believing that he had found a sanctuary. That he had secured his daughters safety and future. But that had been fantasy. He jeopardized his daughter’s safety in search of a fairytale that didn’t exist.

His chest felt like a sunken cavern, no longer filled with fluid from an uncurable ailment, but suffocating anguish. The loss of a hopeless dream. He was nothing more than a naïve fool who hoped for a brighter future for his daughter. He sat in his self-pity, replaying all of his mistakes as a father. All of the times he failed Emily. The page from the traders’ journal danced across his mind, ‘Malnourished.’

He let out a defeated scoff; he couldn’t even provide enough food for his daughter. His ailment and limited education forced him to travel between towns for work, preventing Emily from attending school. Years of lies started falling away. Lies that it was only temporary, he was doing what was best, that she was better off with him than at an orphanage. He was a selfish man. Desperate to keep his daughter by his side not for her sake, but for his.

A wave of hardened resolve washed over him. Dying in ignorant bliss would have been an easier path, but he was granted an opportunity to make up for his lifetime of failures. Though he knew not what Lady Anastasia had in store for him, she had gifted him with more time. He only hoped he’d be able to use that time for his daughter’s sake.

“A pathetic sight this is,” a voice rang from beside him.

Alden jumped at the sound as his eyes met Ophelias. She was standing before him, bright orange hair braided in an updo and dressed in riding clothes. In her hands she carried chains.

She shook them at him, the sound of rattling metal filling the once silent room, “Lady Anastasia has requested your presence. I was tasked with bringing you to her, though I’d prefer not to use these if at all possible.”

“Is summoning a man from a torture chamber an ordinary occurrence for you?” Alden asked.

“I haven’t the time to answer your silly questions, will you come along willingly or need I restrain you?”

Alden rose in answer.

She nodded, “Before we depart, I have been given permission to kill you if you attempt to flee. While you are likely aware of some of your new abilities, I assure you, I am stronger than you. If you wish to see your daughter again, you will not force my hand. Understood?”

“Understood,” he said dryly.

Ophelia tossed the chains to the floor then made her way towards the misty black door. Shoulders hung in accepted defeat, Alden followed. They made their way up the spiraling staircase before Ophelia turned and entered another mist shrouded doorway. Beyond it was a long cobblestone corridor with heavy oak doors lining each side of the hall. It was brightly lit, brass candelabra sconces sitting between each doorway flickered gently across the worn stone. Ophelia opened the first door to their right and motioned Alden to enter it.

“I presume you can no longer smell yourself, so please, before I am forced to accompany you any longer, clean yourself up and be quick about it. There is a fresh shirt on the bed,” she said before quickly shutting the door.

Alden heeded her orders and gladly washed away the bloody memories of before. After replacing his shirt, he opened the wooden door where Ophelia was waiting. They returned to the spiraling staircase making their way up to the main floor of the manor. Alden anticipated the scent of human blood to overwhelm him, but it now whirled around him like a playful perfume. Tantalizing still, but no longer unbearable.

Ophelia navigated through the sprawling halls of the Manor until they managed to make it outside. It was a clear night, stars sprinkled the sky. Alden inhaled the fresh air as he took in his surroundings with breathtaking clarity. A waning moon peaked just above the evergreen treetops. Shining a dim light across the untamed wilderness below.

“Like a babe in the woods,” Ophelia chided under her breath bringing Alden’s attention back to the task at hand.

They followed a gravel path away from the manor to a small stable, housing two saddled horses. Ophelia began untying the horses from their hitching posts. She reached out to hand Alden a set of reins.

“Where are we headed?” he finally asked as he took the reins.

Ophelia placed her foot in the stirrup and swung her leg over, “As I said, I am bringing you to Lady Anastasia.”

Alden rolled his eyes then mounted his horse.

“Follow me and do not fall behind,” She ordered as she took off in a gallop.

Without command, Alden’s horse followed, rushing into a gallop behind Ophelia. Though much of the underbrush of the forest was untamed, the horses needed little guidance, making their way out of the dense wilderness and onto the main road effortlessly. The brisk night air clung to Alden as he realized their destination. They were headed straight for Easton Burrough.

As they drew closer Alden expected to see plumes of smoke billowing from chimneys. But the normally bright and bustling town was drenched in darkness. As they drew closer to the towns edge, Alden noticed a wall of crystalline tendrils that reached up at the sky. Droplets of darkness melted off them as they flickered around in search of something to grasp onto.

Ophelia galloped right past the barrier and Alden’s horse, which seemed to have a mind of its own, ignored the tug at its reins and followed. Alden shut his eyes in anticipation as he rushed the barrier. Moments later, his horse came to a complete stop. Alden opened his eyes, realizing they were stopped in front of the town church.

He glanced over his shoulder at the tendrils and shivered, grateful to have been granted passage. Though it was late, the town of Easton Burrough carried an unsettling quietness. The lights that typically casted a warm flickering glow across the gravel roads were out. The only sign of life came from within the church. Alden could hear the rumble of chatter from inside. He dismounted his horse and followed as Ophelia approached the church. She pushed open the large wooden doors that whined with age.

Inside, the old church pews were filled to the brim and at the center near the altar sat Lady Anastasia. Dressed in a black floor length gown with a fitted bodice and high collar she looked like a queen upon her throne. A line of townsfolk stood before her and the room was alight with excited chatter.

Ignoring the stares as they entered the room, Ophelia made her way to Lady Anastasia. Trailing behind Alden scanned the room recognizing many familiar faces, though not one spared him a second glance. Once at the altar, Ophelia took her place beside Lady Anastasia standing at the ready for her next command. Alden joined them at the pulpit, silently taking in scene before him.

“I’ve got two boys, six and nine, both are skilled with farm work. Good strong boys ready to work,” a man said to Lady Anastasia.

Alden recognized the man before them as the town tailor. He knew little of the tailor but had heard rumors he suffered from a terrible gambling problem.

“What price do you seek?” Lady Anastasia asked.

The man looked to the trembling woman beside him who shook her head in desperation, quietly pleading with her husband.

The man ignored his wife and said, “A shingle a piece.”

His wife grabbed him by the collar, “Alfred you musn’t. They’re mere boys.”

Alfred ripped his wives grip away focusing on Lady Anastasia response.

“Two shillings it is. Alfred go to that side,” she said as she pointed to the right, “Your wife will take a seat over there while we handle our affairs,” she finished as she gestured to the left.

Alfred nodded and his wife let out a pitiful sob, nearly falling to her knees. Alden scanned the room, searching for the boys who were sold so heartlessly. But there were no children to be found. Alden furrowed his brow in confusion and glanced to Ophelia.

She glared back at him, “Listen and observe, quietly,” her voice echoed in his mind.

The next in line was an elderly woman who stared at Lady Anastasia like she was a parasite, “You ought be ashamed of yourself. Buying up the next generation of Easton Burrough. What gives you the right,” she scolded.

Lady Anastasia let out a deafening laugh, stunning the entire room to silence. She leaned forward and met the woman’s eyes, “Surprised you made it to your ripe age with a tongue so sour.”

The woman scoffed, “Your beauty will betray you one day.”

Lady Anastasia smirked and waved her hand to the left, dismissing the woman’s complaints. The woman huffed giving Lady Anastasia one last dirty look before taking a seat. The atmosphere in the left pews carried an ominous weight of horror and fear. It stood in stark contrast to the other half of the room, that bustled with jovial chatter.

Alden’s eyes grew wide with realization; this was an auction. Lady Anastasia was doing exactly what the trader had planned, but she was doing it in plain sight. Methodically revealing the dark underbelly of Easton Burrough. To the right, Alden recognized several of the men to be members of the town council, including the mayor. Most of the towns influential class sat on the right. Landowners, barons, and even the town priest chattered amongst themselves in excited anticipation.

After a few more offers, at last they reached the end of the line. An older fellow baring a cane and dressed in proper church attire waddled his way to the front of the room.

“What is your request?” Lady Anastasia asked, her tone effortlessly enthralling.

The man smiled as he laid eyes upon Lady Anastasia. Then he glanced at Alden and his delighted grin fell, “Alden Cain is that you?”

“Harold? It’s great to see you again,” Alden said warmly he took a step forward to shake the man’s hand.

“You greet your daughters’ buyer,” Lady Anastasias voice echoed in his mind.

Alden’s grip tightened and the old man grimaced, “My-Alden it seems you’re doing well.”

Alden released Harolds hand and gave a tight nod, “Indeed I am.” After an uncomfortable pause, he added, “Carry on, apologies for the interruption.” He feigned a small bow, returning to his place beside Ophelia, heart now ablaze with fury.

“Behave yourself,” Ophelia whispered.

Alden nodded as he gritted his teeth.

“I ask again, what is it you seek?” Lady Anastasia repeated, her tone sharp.

Harold bowed his head, “Well I know not what your plans are for the children; however, I am in desperate need of assistance. You see, I had no children of my own and my old age is getting the better of me,” he paused and let out a dramatic cough before continuing, “I seek a child to aid me in my final days. Someone to ease the journey.”

He gave a smile to Lady Anastasia that made Alden’s blood boil. Harold had employed him several times over the years. Alden had believed him to be a kind but capable old man. As he ran through his memories of Harold, he thought back to the disappointed looks he wore whenever Alden didn’t bring Emily along with him for a day of work. What Alden had taken as grandfatherly behavior now carried a weight of eerie intention.

Alden had to restrain a scoff, watching Harold put on the act of a feeble old man. Only a month ago, Alden watched this man load and unload an entire carriage of lumber singlehanded. The man was in better health than he had been before his cure.

“Tell me exactly what you’re looking for,” Lady Anastasia said, her tone reflecting her waning patience.

Harold nodded, “I’d much prefer a girl. Young enough to train. About six or so. She doesn’t need to read or write, so long as she knows how to tend to wounds and cook. That is all I ask.”

Bile rose to the back of Alden’s throat as this man described his daughter. Violent visions of ripping out Harolds heart played in his mind. It took every ounce of strength he had not to attack Harold on the spot. He was grateful his fear of Lady Anastasia was greater than his rage in that moment.

“I believe we have one that fits your request perfectly,” Lady Anastasia said smoothly. “Mister Cain, little Emily fits that description exactly, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alden stood frozen in stunned silence. Eyes growing wide as he looked to Lady Anastasia.

Her typically cold eyes met his but carried a gentleness behind them as her voice echoed in his mind, “Play along.”

Clearing his throat he turned back to Harold, “Indeed she does. In fact, she has become quite the little chef.”

Lady Anastasia glanced over her shoulder at Alden as he spoke, looking him up and down briefly before nodding and turning back to Harold, “Would little Emily suffice?”

Harold’s eyes grew wide, “I-I couldn’t. Alden, Emily is your pride and joy is she not?”

Alden scoffed, “A few shillings are of much more use to me.”

The lie felt like fire on his lips. But he spoke it effortlessly adding a shrug of nonchalance. Garnering the approval from the lively group on the right who let out several chuckles and sounds of agreeance.

“Name your price,” Alden said, feeling the skewering glares from the left.

Harold glanced between Lady Anastasia and Alden, as if searching for their bluff. Then, after being lured into a false sense of comfort he spoke, “Would three shillings suffice?”

Alden maintained his composure despite the growing hatred inside and nodded, “Deal.”

Harolds eyes lit up with excitement, “Deal.” He gave a toothy grin to both Alden and Lady Anastasia as he spoke, “I assure you I will treat her well.”

Alden restrained himself from lunging at the man. Instead, giving a tight nod as Lady Anastasia gestured for him to join the others on the right. Then she rose from her seat, addressing the entire crowd.

“I am truly grateful to you all for attending this unexpected event,” she spoke with charismatic warmth. Her presence captivated the room.

Lady Anastasia scanned the room methodically as she continued, “I never imagined I’d be welcomed by the entire town when I announced this auction. The mayor and councilmen welcomed me with open arms.” She gave them a beguiling smile as she continued, “I assure you all I will take good care of your children.”

Murmurs of excitement and dread filled the room. Lady Anastasia paused, allowing the tension to grow before adding, “Some of you may have heard rumors of a strange Manor deep in the woods. I am the Lady of that Manor.”

The room fell suddenly quiet at her introduction. Several of the men and women sitting to the right now wore pale expressions, their eyes locked on Lady Anastasia in knowing anticipation.

She continued with her charade, “Who here is familiar with the Trader, Warner McGrath?”

Several of the townsfolk, including most of the councilmen, hesitantly raised their hands. Their enthusiastic mood shifted to uncertainty. Alden smirked at their now obvious discomfort.

The elderly woman from before spoke up, “May god damn him to eternal hell! That sick bastard.”

The townsfolk in the pews beside her nodded in agreement. Though the crowd to the right shifted in their seats.

Lady Anastasia continued ignoring the outburst, “The trader came to my Manor, not but a week ago. In fact,” she lifted her hands, releasing a gust of wind that blew out the candles and slammed the front door closed. “He came to my manor in search of merchandise,” her once affectionate tone now dripped with animosity.

The townsfolk all gasped at her display, glancing around the room frantically as dark figures began lining walls, blocking every exit. Alden recognized the cloaked figures. They were attendants from the manner. Their typical attire now replaced with matching black cloaks. They stood like grim apparitions around the room in wait for their master’s order.

Lady Anastasia casted her hand in an upward motion, pulling those crystalline black tendrils from the border up through the center of the room. Dividing the townsfolk.

Her voice bellowed, “You will all come to understand the weight of your sins. Either from your participation,” she looked to the right, “Or from ignorant complicity” she finished as she looked to her left.

Cries echoed throughout the church. The translucent tendrils flicked in hunger, snapping at townsfolk on either side. Lady Anastasias icy laugh filled the room, her sinister smile reflecting the cold moonlight. Several of the cloaked figure’s moved forward. Skittering out of the shadows like cobras. Striking at the townsfolk on the right.

The townsfolk on the left huddled together, crying into each other’s arms as bloodcurdling screams erupted. The attendants began cutting down the buyers and sellers in malicious delight. The scent of fresh blood filled the room and the urge to hunt overwhelmed Alden, who stood obediently beside Ophelia.

Lady Anastasia glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes glimmering with iridescent darkness, “Mister Cain, that one,” she pointed to Harold who was backed against a wall, watching the massacre unfold, “Is yours.”

Without hesitation, Alden lunged forward in unnatural speed, grabbing Harold by the throat shoving him against the wall.

Eyes wide with fear, Harold choked out, “P-please don’t. I-I promise, I meant to take good care of Emily.”

Alden’s grip tightened, “Do not dare speak her name.”

Using his free hand, Alden shoved his fingers into Harolds mouth, grabbing hold of his tongue, yanking it free with ease.

Harold tried to scream, but all that came was ragged wet gasps. Alden wanted to restrain himself to prolong Harolds suffering, but the unbridled hatred in his heart screamed for retribution. Throwing the mans tongue to the side, Alden reached into his mouth again, forcing it open. Harold let out pathetic whimpers and grabbed at Aldens arm in a feeble attempt to defend himself.

Alden dug into the soft underside of his mouth. His fingers pierced out the bottom of Harolds face curling around the jawbone, tearing it slowly from its socket. Alden pulled his hand away, leaving Harolds ravaged mouth hanging wide. His jaw now dangling like a morbid swing from his skull.

Harolds eyes began to roll back into his head as Alden lifted his body off the ground by his throat.

“We trusted you,” he seethed, staring up at Harold with blazing crimson eyes.

Harold squealed in terror, his feet kicking aimlessly in the air.

“Years I worked for you. Believing you to be a gentle man. A kind man,” Alden continued. He brought Harolds face to his, locking eyes with the man who stared back in horror. “Rot in hell,” Alden spat.

Then, Alden tightened his grip around Harolds throat until the bone cracked and blood and fatty tissue squeezed out from between his fingers. Harolds eyes became lightless voids as his body went limp. Dissatisfaction rippled over Alden. Frustrated that his death had been a mercy, Alden threw Harolds lifeless body to the tendrils in the center of the room. They hungrily whipped at the body, slicing away pieces of flesh. Turning it a sickly grey color before melding with the tendrils, becoming one.

Alden stood back, watching the chaos around him. Blood and limbs scattered the pews as the attendants made quick work of the townsfolk, tearing them limb from limb and feeding them to Lady Anastasias tendrils. Gurgling screams filled the space and blood painted the stained-glass windows. The rush of his kill faded leaving behind an emptiness he had never known. Slowly, Alden walked back to the altar, returning to Lady Anastasias side.

Looking out at her orchestrated massacre she asked, “Do you not wish to continue the hunt?”

Alden shook his head. He had never killed a man before, but now, he had killed without question. Lady Anastasia didn’t command the kill, she offered and he willingly accepted. Though he did not regret his actions, he longed for the simplicity of his past, his lost ignorance.

Lady Anastasias nodded, “Very well.”

They stood at the pulpit watching the massacre in silent satisfaction. Slowly, the chaos came to an end, the attendants returning to their place at the perimeter of the room in silent obedience. When the last body fell, Lady Anastasia raised her hand, then swung it down in a sweeping motion. The tendrils at the center of the room dissipated into black mist.

The townsfolk on the left who had been huddled together in frantic terror screamed as the mist subsided, revealing the bloodbath.

“Silence,” Lady Anastasia commanded.

The room grew silent.

“Each of you has a choice to make,” Lady Anastasia continued. “The town of Easton Burrough will fade into oblivion tonight. Its children will come to my manor where my attendants and I will care for them until adulthood.”

“Where you’ll eat them!” screamed a trembling woman.

Ophelia stepped forward, “The Lady will do no such thing,” she shouted back. “You petulant human, know your place.”

The woman cowered at her words.

Lady Anastasia put her hand to Ophelia’s chest. Ophelia sighed, then nodded in submission, returning to her place between Alden and Lady Anastasia.

“Your choice is simple, die here tonight with the town of Easton Burrough, or serve me at my Manor.”

The elderly woman from before stepped forward, speaking firmly she asked, “Tell me, what kind of beast are you?”

Ophelia began to step forward but Lady Anastasia stopped her, then said, “You label me a beast when it was your kin who sought to sully the innocence of your youth.”

“They were no kin of mine. Not all carry the power you hold, nor the ability to lure out the monsters in disguise. You called us complicit, but weakness does not equate culpability.”

Lady Anastasia let out an amused laugh, “Tell me your name so I might address you properly.”

The woman stood proud, “My name is Doris Eade.”

“Well Misses Eade, you are a fearless woman, so I will grant you an answer. Your people call us as Vampyr.”

Shouts erupted from the crowd, but Doris put her hands out to silence them, “Is that what the children are to become?”

Lady Anastasia shook her head, “I would not subject the children to the cruelty of eternity. However, if you choose to join me at my manor, that curse will become your burden.”

Doris gave a small bow then looked up with tear-filled eyes, “Then, Lady of the Manor, I would be grateful to carry this burden alongside you.”

***

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