T
tragicomicnight
Guest
Samuel Pentecost, 30, brown hair and eyes, palish features, 5'10 and thin, but handsome
When I was a child, the devils took my mother. She awakened me from my bed with the same gentle hands she always used, but when I looked up at her face, it was wan with dripping red lips. Her eyes glowed with a feral hunger, the look on them sufficient to devour me, in some ways more intimidating than the sharp canines that she flashed. I wanted to let her rip my throat out, I wanted to let her have me. She was my mother. How could I have been frightened of her? I should have been, oh, how I should have been. The monster hovered over me, but for providence I would not be alive on this day.
My door was battered down by a great commotion. An old man with a crucifix in one hand and a sharpened stake in the other had burst in and forcefully presented the symbol at her. She recoiled. she screeched, she growled like a wild beast and retreated into the corner. I watched as the old man, with surprising strength, penetrated her heart with and made a spray of blood pour forth. She fell to the ground, after which time he shouted for a man outside who entered with a bag containing a very sharp knife. I was terrified as I watched him use it to sever her head.
I, a young man of 8 years old was then subjected to the understanding that my mother had become one of the brides of the Count Dracula, only one of the dark and nefarious race of creatures that haunted the night. My saviour was Doctor Abraham Van Helsing and his dedication to hunting the supernatural became my own and from the age of 16 on I began to take on these monsters in hopes that no child would ever lose a mother or father to true evil again.
And that is why, I, at the age of 30, seasoned, experienced and well armed, ended up at the manor of a certain Lady Arabella. She was an elusive and powerful creature, and to find her I had to go to great lengths indeed. I listened to rumors at the filthiest taverns in Whitechapel, I had paid off grave robbers in order to perfom illicit autopsies. I had bribed, lied and cheated my way to this place with all the fanaticism I was taught and all the fanaticism one would need to triumph over such deep and powerful darkness.
Even in daylight, Lady Arabella's lair was a dangerous place. I knew it would not be unprotected, but her measures were truly astonishing. I was beset by dead men that walked and snarling hounds with burning red eyes. I walked through great corridors with rooms that I swear were all the same until at last I reached a study where I sat and rested for a moment. There were beautiful paintings on the walls of the night falling over the moors and of young women stretching out nude on sumptuous divans. There was something deeply beautiful, something deeply moving and I sat looking at them for what must have been hours, completely spellbound. My mission was almost forgotten. I at last arose from my trance and began to examine the walls around me meticulously until one of them pulled away and I was led into what I expected to be a dank catacomb.
But this was a beautiful bedchamber where more of the lovely paintings were hanging. In fact, a similar painting was unfinished on an easel at the side of the room. I was nauseated at myself for loving art created by a monster with no semblance of a soul. I was even more nauseated with myself when I stopped and looked upon the smooth, white skin of the sleeping demon who lay at the center of the room in peace and contentment in a bed with soil strewn about beneath her. I lifted my stake and mallet over my head, not knowing that outside the sun was setting...
When I was a child, the devils took my mother. She awakened me from my bed with the same gentle hands she always used, but when I looked up at her face, it was wan with dripping red lips. Her eyes glowed with a feral hunger, the look on them sufficient to devour me, in some ways more intimidating than the sharp canines that she flashed. I wanted to let her rip my throat out, I wanted to let her have me. She was my mother. How could I have been frightened of her? I should have been, oh, how I should have been. The monster hovered over me, but for providence I would not be alive on this day.
My door was battered down by a great commotion. An old man with a crucifix in one hand and a sharpened stake in the other had burst in and forcefully presented the symbol at her. She recoiled. she screeched, she growled like a wild beast and retreated into the corner. I watched as the old man, with surprising strength, penetrated her heart with and made a spray of blood pour forth. She fell to the ground, after which time he shouted for a man outside who entered with a bag containing a very sharp knife. I was terrified as I watched him use it to sever her head.
I, a young man of 8 years old was then subjected to the understanding that my mother had become one of the brides of the Count Dracula, only one of the dark and nefarious race of creatures that haunted the night. My saviour was Doctor Abraham Van Helsing and his dedication to hunting the supernatural became my own and from the age of 16 on I began to take on these monsters in hopes that no child would ever lose a mother or father to true evil again.
And that is why, I, at the age of 30, seasoned, experienced and well armed, ended up at the manor of a certain Lady Arabella. She was an elusive and powerful creature, and to find her I had to go to great lengths indeed. I listened to rumors at the filthiest taverns in Whitechapel, I had paid off grave robbers in order to perfom illicit autopsies. I had bribed, lied and cheated my way to this place with all the fanaticism I was taught and all the fanaticism one would need to triumph over such deep and powerful darkness.
Even in daylight, Lady Arabella's lair was a dangerous place. I knew it would not be unprotected, but her measures were truly astonishing. I was beset by dead men that walked and snarling hounds with burning red eyes. I walked through great corridors with rooms that I swear were all the same until at last I reached a study where I sat and rested for a moment. There were beautiful paintings on the walls of the night falling over the moors and of young women stretching out nude on sumptuous divans. There was something deeply beautiful, something deeply moving and I sat looking at them for what must have been hours, completely spellbound. My mission was almost forgotten. I at last arose from my trance and began to examine the walls around me meticulously until one of them pulled away and I was led into what I expected to be a dank catacomb.
But this was a beautiful bedchamber where more of the lovely paintings were hanging. In fact, a similar painting was unfinished on an easel at the side of the room. I was nauseated at myself for loving art created by a monster with no semblance of a soul. I was even more nauseated with myself when I stopped and looked upon the smooth, white skin of the sleeping demon who lay at the center of the room in peace and contentment in a bed with soil strewn about beneath her. I lifted my stake and mallet over my head, not knowing that outside the sun was setting...
