If Morning Never Comes - Episode Twenty-Six
In Which: The Hunters Face Their Quarry
Editor’s Note:
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It was night. No moon shone on the two figures at the church door. The early winds had stilled. Charles stood, pistol at the ready as Herr Stryker worked the lock from a crouch. If he had not been already familiar with the terrain, he doubted he would have been able to recognize anything past a few feet. He tried to rely on his ears instead, as Stryker recommended, but all he could hear was the ticking of the brass lock and the rush of his own blood.
A snick ended Stryker’s fiddling and he whispered for Charles to hurry. The oiled door was silent as they stepped in. It was darker within the church than it was outside. Charles pressed the door closed while Stryker lit a match. They each carried a lantern. Charles’ squeaked when he opened the shutter.
They passed through the vestibule into the sanctuary. The rows of pews and the arched ceiling took on an eerie new character in the quivering light. Everything was shrouded in furtive shadows. Charles wondered how he had never been afraid here before. They moved quickly through the large room to the back. Stryker stepped onto the platform; Charles tentatively followed. Despite the Hunt, he still felt out of place at the front of the church.
Stryker saw him coming and whispered, “Check the doors.” He gestured to one side.
Charles moved off the platform stage left. A door stood nearby. The knob would not turn.
“Locked!” he called out, as softly as he could.
“I’ll be along, check the next one.”
In the corner stood another door. Charles pushed on it. It opened, and a draft of air cooled his face. He poked his head inside and opened the lantern a little more. Wooden stairs twisted up and up. A rope dangled.
He leaned back out, “It’s the belfry.”
Herr Stryker was at work picking the other lock. “Up you go, then.”
Charles swallowed. “Should I wait for you?”
Stryker paused and looked at him, “Why?”
Slowly, Charles ascended the stairs. Two nights, two adventures up tall stairs. The fear of the strange observatory atop Raines Manor was still fresh in his heart. At the top, a small platform lay beneath the large, sleeping bell. Charles looked for anything suspicious. There was a door on the opposite side. He opened it. Nothing but a large wooden room situated, he guessed, above the sanctuary. The rafters angled up. His light disturbed a nest, where a black shape shifted.
“Help!” it croaked tiredly. “Help!”
Charles shook his head at the poor bird. He shone the lantern around the attic, but it was empty. There was a skylight over the center of the floor. He stepped inside for a closer look.
“Charles!”
The call echoed up the tower and nearly scared Charles out of his wits. He flinched and whirled to face the door. The call came again, this time in a recognizable German accent.
“Anything?”
Charles took a deep breath and let it out. He closed the attic door and started down the stairs. Stryker was waiting at the bottom.
“Well?”
“Nothing,” said Charles. “You?”
Stryker shut the belfry back up. “Not worth mentioning.” He pointed, “But there’s another door.”
Stryker had already picked the lock. The stairs here went down half a flight, wrapping around until they were directly under where the pulpit would have been. They ducked their heads down into a drab cellar. Stryker turned up his lantern and Charles followed suit. A quick perusal revealed no hidden secrets. The earthen floor was tidy and swept, with a few odds and ends stacked against the walls. An old broken pew, a rack hung with moth-eaten robes.
At the end of the low-ceilinged basement stood a small table, set up like a simpler version of the altar upstairs. Charles drew close and held up his lantern. A wooden table covered in a white cloth. Unlit candlesticks were on either end, a Bible in the center on a red runner. Above it hung a floor-length painting. In it, a troop of angry soldiers led a train of captives. In the foreground knelt a figure in a loincloth, eyes towards Heaven. His hands were manacled and a crown was on his head. Hooks dug into his arms and body, pulled by sinister figures in shadow. Light seemed to be shining down on him.
Stryker came to look. He nodded.
“The repentance of Manasseh.”
“Who?” asked Charles.
“The king of Israel. Here, help me move this.”
Together, they moved the table aside. Stryker went right up to the enormous painting and felt the edges with the palm of his hand. He hummed to himself and paused on a corner. He went up and down that side, as high as he could reach.
“Here.” He handed Charles his lantern.
“What is it?” asked Charles.
The old man put his fingers under the painting and pulled steadily. There was a pop, and it swung out from the wall, revealing a heavy wooden door.
The sight of that door overwhelmed Charles with another attack of dread like he had felt in the Raines tower. His ears buzzed again as he tried not to think of the strange symbols that had been burned into his memory. The door was entirely unremarkable, but it seemed to assault Charles’ mind, snarling at him not to open it. He felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. He was dizzy.
Herr Stryker said, “I think we’ve found it.”
His voice helped Charles’ headache. He turned to his teacher. “Do you feel that?” he whispered.
Stryker must not have heard him. He tried the door. It was locked, but the German made short work of it. Opening it sent a rush of relief through Charles’ mind, like stopping to rest after a long run. The madness was gone, but the fear remained. There was no light behind the door. Herr Stryker stood and took his lantern back. He peered down into the darkness. It looked like another descending stair. They listened. No noise came. The air beyond the door felt heavy; a fetid smell poured out.
Finally, Stryker nodded and stepped back. He shifted the lantern to his left hand and drew his saber. Looking back at Charles he indicated the pistol.
“Eyes up, Charles.”
Charles nodded and took a deep breath. The shudder caught Stryker’s attention. He looked at Charles with his piercing blue eyes.
“No fear.”
Charles nodded. “Alright.”
Stryker shook his head and stepped closer. He said again, “No fear.”
“No fear,” Charles rasped.
They went down the stairs, lanterns turned down low. Charles was behind Herr Stryker, but he was not sure if he was glad of that. The thought of something crashing down the stairs after him was not a pleasant one. The flight was short, only about twelve steps. Stryker had them pause halfway down. The room opened up on Charles’ left as they descended. Herr Stryker shushed, and they closed their lanterns. No sound, no light, just that awful smell. When he was satisfied they were alone, the German opened his lantern all the way. Charles did the same.
“Mein Gott!”
The stench seemed to expand with the light, but Charles’ thoughts were directed elsewhere. The room was small, and filled with all manner of strange things. There was a table of various beakers and bottles, like Stryker’s chemistry equipment, only smaller and set on a table with arcane symbols etched into it in bright colors. A shelf was stacked with large books and crusty old scrolls. Beneath the stairs against the wall was a long table with bones and jars of organs and other gruesome specimens. The wall was hung with a chart of what looked like dates and other indecipherable notations. There was more; Charles could hardly take it all in. A small forge, a wash basin, a door to one side.
But his attention was fixed on what dominated the long wall opposite them as they entered the room. On a stone slab lay a young woman, cut open and mutilated. Her dried blood soaked what looked like the altar upon which she lay. Charles could see her face, eyes and mouth open to the ceiling, blond hair matted and uneven. One lifeless arm dangled towards the floor, lacerated from shoulder to wrist, the torn skin stiff and discolored. On the wall above her were painted more weird symbols and words in Latin and other languages he did not recognize. They looked to have been written with her blood.
Charles was repulsed, but Stryker hurried down into the room. He followed, not wanting to be separated even by a few feet. Stryker checked the girl, but she was clearly long gone. One eye seemed to have burst and run out of the socket. Stryker bowed his head. Charles looked around the room once again. The blend of modern and ancient, culture and barbarism, was fascinating and yet so offensive to his every sensibility. He wanted to leave. Immediately.
“Herr Stryker, we must go.”
Stryker said nothing as he examined the girl.
“Herr Stryker, please!”
“Not yet, Charles. See if you can find anything in that bookshelf.”
“Stryker, I can’t. We shouldn’t be here!”
“What did you think–?”
In a flash, the room was flooded with light. Not the dim glow of the lanterns, but bright as day. Charles blinked and whirled around. Stryker dropped his lantern with a crash and stood, pistol raised, sword at the ready. The light revealed a dark figure smiling on the stairs.
“Electric light. Expensive if you don’t know how to wire it. But luckily,” he descended the remaining stairs. “I do.” He stopped. “Good evening messieurs.”
“Stay right where you are,” Stryker warned. Charles raised his own weapon and tried not to tremble.
Vicar Clarke laughed, “Or what, Herr Stryker? You’re not going to kill me.”
Charles glanced and saw the steel in Stryker’s eyes. If Mr. Clarke doubted the man’s resolve, he was a fool.
“Are you?” pressed Clarke.
To Charles’ shock, Stryker holstered his weapons and stood tall. “No.”
“What?” blurted out Charles. “Why not?”
The vicar laughed again, unnerving in the echo-less room. “Surely you know, Charles? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
Charles kept the blunderbuss at the ready, but doubt slipped into his mind. What was happening?
“Herr Stryker?” he asked quietly.
Stryker didn’t address him. “So it is you,” he challenged the vicar.
Mr. Clarke spread his arms wide, “Me!”
“You’re commanding them?”
“You mean the vampires? Let’s not be cryptic, Stryker. We are men apart, you and I. Besides, ‘commanding’ is too strong – ‘restraining’ would be closer to the truth.”
“For how long?” Stryker demanded, his voice flat.
“Not long. They’re an awful trouble to manage, you know? They don’t much like being restrained.” He smiled again, “Actually, I suppose I owe you my thanks. If you hadn’t damaged the female, I might not have been able to keep them under control at all.” He took a step.
“That’s far enough!” barked Charles, raising his weapon to aim at the vicar’s head.
“Don’t be a fool, Charles!” hissed Herr Stryker.
Charles opened his mouth to argue, but then it hit him. He lowered his weapon.
Vicar Clarke chuckled, “Ah, young love. So fiery. So frail. Have you figured it out yet, Charles?”
Charles looked at Herr Stryker. The hunter blinked in affirmation. His voice was subdued, “We can’t kill you.”
“And why not?”
Charles said nothing.
“Now, don’t stop. You’re doing so well!”
“You’re the only thing keeping them at bay.”
“Bravo!” the cleric clapped his hands. “Do you see? A master stroke, wouldn’t you say, Stryker?”
“Don’t patronize me,” Herr Stryker growled. “You’re mad if you think you can keep this up.”
“Ah, but I am keeping it up,” said Clarke, strolling forward. “Although I would not contest the accusation of madness. But what’s life without a little insanity?”
Stryker would not take the bait, “What have you done to that girl?”
Clarke leaned against a table. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He laughed, “I couldn’t very well keep stealing sheep, now, could I? Bad form, you know.”
“You did not need to tear her up just to get her blood.”
“You’re right of course. Blood is cheap. But there are more uses for it than the likes of them can conceive.”
“Part of your restraining rituals then?”
“Oh good, so you don’t know everything yet. I am glad. It would have been frightfully disappointing to think I was as much a dunce as all that.”
“I can make you tell me.”
The vicar yawned, “Yes, I’m sure you could. But if you torture me, you’ll have to kill me, because if you don’t then the moment you leave I’ll send them after you. But if you do kill me, then there’s no telling what might happen, so let’s just keep threats out of it, hmm?”
Stryker said nothing. Charles willed him to respond, to attack, anything. The old man looked tense, almost embarrassed before the vicar. Charles felt his pulse in his wrists.
“That’s better,” continued Clarke. “Now, I am curious as to how you figured it out.”
“Why would we tell you?” asked Stryker.
“No reason, really. But I am curious. Must have been something Raines said, right? Perhaps while at Ashwood, Charles?”
At the thought of his home, Charles’ blood boiled. “You stay away from my family, Clarke.”
“Mr. Clarke, Charles. There’s no need to be rude,” chided the vicar. “And as for your family, well, there’s really nothing I can do. They invited him in, you know. And you’ll find that once you’ve opened your home to one of them, they can be rather hard to...” he took his time selecting the right word, “eradicate.”
Herr Stryker tried to catch Charles’ eye, but he didn’t respond. “You can’t have Eleanor.”
“I don’t want her. But he does. He really does. I won’t let him, of course. Then again, a hostage is always a good idea in case of a standoff.”
“You godless wretch!” shouted Charles. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?” Clarke raised his voice. “Is that all you can say? What do I want? You think I want something from you?” He sounded frustrated. “You don’t even know what I’m doing, you small-minded child!”
The vicar indicated the charts on the wall. “Can you read this? No, of course you can’t. You don’t even know what it is.” He pointed over their heads to the blood-scrawled writing on the wall. “You couldn’t even begin to understand what I’m doing here. I’m a bloody prophet, and I’m the only one who knows it.”
“You are a peddler of blasphemies and abominations,” said Stryker.
“Blasphemy!” spat the cleric. “Blasphemy of what? The real blasphemy is the tripe you expect me to parrot every week. We come to the little chapel and sing our little songs and pray for our little problems. Insignificant, all of it! No one looks up, or down, or even inward; they glaze over and go home to eat and sleep and fornicate and die. You say you believe in God, Herr Stryker? What god is honored by that?”
“The living God,” said Stryker.
“The living God?” laughed the vicar. “The living God, you say. And yet you would restrict the words of the living God to the dusty pages of some old book. You don’t even have the insight to read it properly. You’re afraid of mystery, afraid of the darkness and the light both. You’re too scared to move beyond what’s been said before. A safe theology, no doubt, but I’m not interested in safe. I demand an experience of what I believe.”
“You believe in nothing,” Stryker’s voice had grown low.
The vicar laughed loudly, a mirthless insult, “Oh, I have seen far too much to believe in nothing, Herr Stryker. There are powers in the air of which you know absolutely nothing. You think you are a man of wisdom because you believe in demons and contend with monsters. And yet even you are small, Georg Stryker. Small!”
He stepped between the two hunters and laid his hand on the bloody altar. He spoke tenderly now, “That which seems wicked and grotesque to our carnal sensibilities may be the beginning of a higher wisdom – beyond this mortal plane. It’s a hard road. But if Christ taught us anything, it is that without sacrifice,” he caressed the face of the dead girl, “we gain nothing.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead, like he were tucking her in for the night.
Herr Stryker said in his thick accent, “You are truly lost, then.”
Mr. Clarke turned around and folded his arms. He grinned, “Well, that all depends on where you want to end up. So!” he looked at them both like naughty schoolboys. “I think we’ve said all that needs to be said. We understand each other, yes? I have no intention of harming either of you, but dare to intrude again...” A shadow passed over his smiling face, “And you’ll see what a real living god can do.”
Charles felt a buzz in his ears. Herr Stryker said nothing. Vicar Clarke loomed in the unnatural light, despite his size. The moment passed.
“It’s time you were on your way, gentlemen,” he said cheerfully. “You may use the side door if you like.” He gestured to the small exit set in the wall.
A moment, then Herr Stryker turned to Charles. “Let’s go.”
He turned to leave. Charles followed quickly, confused and overwhelmed. Stryker did not look back. As they began to ascend the stairs, another laugh rang out from Vicar Clarke.
“Not much of a soldier, are you, Stryker?”
Stryker paused, his hand on the railing. His eyes were down at his shoes. For a moment, he was still. He looked defeated. Old. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.
“I’m not a soldier.”
He turned and made eye contact with his adversary across the room.
“Ich bin ein Jäger.”
They left.
