Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Unseen ❯ Chapter 1

It was cold the night I died. The snow, gray and soft from foot traffic, was piled high along the sides of the street. My breath made clouds of white vapor that hung like a fog around my face. I shivered and pulled a hand out of my coat pocket to tighten the scarf around my neck.

 

The city was dark. What candles that were still lit in the streetlamps were my only light. I looked around me. The dark, curtain-less hulls of buildings stared back, hauntingly. I was alone. But I wasn't scared. I was used to being alone.

 

The clock in the city's courthouse played its discordant song, then tolled the hour. I stopped to count the chimes. One, two, three… all the way up to eleven. I shook my head and started on again, my footsteps echoing on the empty street.

 

“It's just like Lisette to send me out in the lonely hours of the night to fetch… liquor!” I said to myself. I rubbed the bottle of whiskey in my pocket and grimaced. “Oh! I do hate Lisette! Even if she is my sister…”

 

Suddenly noticing how eerily quiet it was, I began to sing to myself. “Ring around the rosies. A pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes-.”

 

“They all fall down.”

 

I whirled around. “Who's there?” I called into the darkness before me. My hand grasped the neck of the whiskey bottle tightly, ready to put up a fight. “I said who's there?” My only answer was my shrill voice bouncing off the cobblestones.

 

I laughed nervously. “Probably… a joke… a nasty trick? One of my sister's drunken friends trying to scare me I'll bet.” I turned back and resumed walking once again. But now, my footsteps weren't the only ones I could hear on the street.

 

Not letting on that I knew there was someone behind me, I kept walking at a steady pace. I could tell the person was not nearly the same size as me. There was a stark contrast between the sharp click-clack of my boots and the hard, pounding clomp-clomp of my pursuer's. This fact disturbed me and I began to walk faster. The footsteps quickened too.

 

Suddenly, I stopped. After a few steps, the person behind me stopped too. “Who's there?” I asked again over my shoulder. I snuck a glance behind me out of the corner of my eye. Whoever was there was a master of concealing himself in shadows. I saw no one.

 

Panic overwhelmed me. I broke out into a frantic run. The footsteps followed. I could hear the person closing in, their hot breath stinging the back of my neck through my scarf.

 

“Ashes, ashes. They all fall down.'” The voiced seemed to come from everywhere but nowhere at the same time, reverberating from the buildings.

 

Tears began streaming down my face, spattering my scarf with tiny, wet puddles.

 

“Ashes, ashes. They all fall down.”

 

“Stop it!” I screamed. I chanced a look behind me. I only caught a glimpse of a dark, blood red overcoat before I was face down on the cobblestones. My coat, soaked from ice and whiskey. The ground beside me, littered with glass shards from the broken bottle. Frantically, I sat up and turned around to face the stranger.

 

They stopped, just outside the pool of light from the streetlamp, so only their feet showed. Now I was positive it was a man. I could tell by the type of boots he wore. I tried to scoot back, away from him. But instead I cut my hand on a piece of glass.

 

“Ahh!” I gasped and held my hand up to my face. The cut was deep. I watched the blood begin to gush from the wound and drip down into my sleeve with a strange fascination. I looked up again. The man came towards me. His face still covered in shadows.

 

“Oh you poor thing.” His voice was and melodious, but it did nothing to ease my fear. “You really did fall down. Let me help you.” He bent down and took my bleeding hand, palm up in his own. His fingers were soft and warm, though he wore no gloves. “Oh look. You're bleeding.” He sniffed deeply and leaned in towards me. The shadows on his face fell away. Finally, I could put a face to the footsteps.

 

I was expecting a grotesque monster, rabid, with wild eyes and pointed horns. Lisette always told me I had a rather morbid imagination. But no matter how much I wanted to hate the man, I could not. He was beautiful. Light, saffron-colored hair. Golden cat-like eyes with flecks of yellow and green. Nice, full lips twisted into a macabre smile. I could tell he was rich. Maybe an Earl of some sort? His clothes were well made, sturdy. Unlike my patched, hand-me-down dress. What was a man of his stature doing here? And frightening young girls, no less. He couldn't be more than 25, for his face bore no wrinkles. Some strange part of me longed to stroke his porcelain cheek. But my fear kept me in place. All I could do was sit and stare into those eyes that were like swirling pools of amber.

 

He brought my hand up to those perfect lips. They parted as he inhaled deeply once again. His teeth were perfect too. All lined up in neat, pearly rows, except for two glistening fangs that seemed to grow straight from the gums as I watched in a fixated horror. His tongue gently caressed the cut on my palm. I winced and tried to squirm away. But the man held tight to my wrist. He slowly turned his attention away from my hand and stared so deep into my eyes, I felt he could see my very soul. My frightened face, reflected in his eyes.

 

All at once, I was not myself. I was high over me. Above the buildings and streetlamps. I could see the man peeling my scarf and the collar of my dress away from my neck. Why wasn't I moving? I saw the man sink those terrible fangs into my pink flesh. A limp smile played about my lips. I watched with mild shock as the life drained from my eyes, like the blood being drained from my veins.