S. Cedric - Of Fever and Blood

Eva gags. She is only half hearing her. She does not know what to say. Every breath is torture.

“I know that you do,” the insane woman whispers. “Everybody uses them. Those creams. Those products that the commercials sell us, promising they will make us look more beautiful, younger. How’s that different from what I do?”

Eva shakes her head.

Tries to control the pain.

She manages to utter, “That’s got nothing… to do with it.”

The masked woman snickers.

“Don’t you know where those products come from? Just think about it. They’re animal byproducts. There’s always an inferior life to take in order to improve your own, to erase the inevitable wrinkles, to tighten the aging skin, to regenerate sick organs. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Eva’s heart slams in her chest. She needs to take action.

“Just like… Bathory,” she manages to say.

The masked woman smiles.

“Yes. Just like her. Everything I’ve been able to do, I owe to her. The secrets were lost. Countess Elizabeth is the one who found the ways of the past again. She unearthed the secrets and the rituals. She gave her life to that end, to present the gods with blood and tears.”

She giggles and licks her bloody fingers.

“For this is the source of everything, isn’t it? What runs in our veins, what gives us life, what makes the gods hungry.”

“Bathory ended up being tried… and locked up in her room,” Eva coughs before adding, “Then she died, like… the poor crazy bitch she was.”

The woman’s face registers disappointment. She buttons her dress.

“You don’t understand a thing after all.”

When she comes near again, she’s holding the scalpel. The small blade, gleams in the dark.

Behind the mask, Eva can see only the whites of her eyes. The woman raises her hands, palms turned upward, throws her head back, and expels a throaty, droning chant.

“Spirits that dwell in the deepest of darkness, hear my voice! Zalmoxis! Abandon your dwelling. Isten! Abbadon! Come, hurry to the blood feast!”

Eva shuts her eyes, powerless.

The insane woman’s chant becomes high-pitched and animal-like.

“Diseebeh! Zabh! Let your voices be heard! Ashtaroth! Gebeleizis! Come to me with your love, your suffering, and your sacrifice! May your ancient pain come into me and speak through my mouth! Show your reality to me so I can believe in the power of will over death!”

And Eva can feel the blade entering her flesh again. Sliding all the way to the handle, while the masked woman heaves orgasmic screams.

But Eva’s own screaming is louder.

The house was not very big and certainly not very pretty. A crude, square, two-story structure. The beams of their flashlights illuminated rough stone walls covered with moss.

Vauvert headed for the front door.

Leroy inspected the windows, trying to find one that was not shuttered and locked.

There was no light coming from inside, nor any sound.

Vauvert tried the door, but, as expected, it was locked.

“Okay.”

He took a step back and gave the door a hard kick. It did not budge.

Then he pointed his Smith amp; Wesson at the lock and fired. Once, then twice. The sound was deafening.

“Vauvert! What the hell are you doing?” Leroy cried out.

Again, the giant flung himself at the door. This time it came open. He stepped inside, his gun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. Leroy trotted after him.

The entry hall had a yellowish tile floor. There was an empty coat rack along one wall. A framed photo of a girl wearing a tutu was hanging on the opposite wall.

Vauvert reached for the light switch.

Nothing happened.

He flipped the switch on and off a few times and then directed his flashlight at the ceiling. The chandelier had three bulbs.

“Maybe the power’s cut off,” Leroy said.

“Yeah. Let’s be careful,” Vauvert responded.

He trained the beam of light on the photo.

“You think this is her?”

“Could be. If it is, she was pretty,” Leroy said.

Then they set about exploring the rest of the house, the beams of their flashlights coming together and then separating as they streamed over ceilings, walls and floors. In the first room, there was old furniture, a table and wooden chairs, and a large television set on a dresser.

Dust moats floated in their beams of light, creating a constellation of swirling flecks.

There was total silence.

Leroy tried the light switches in that room, with no result.

Cautiously, they made their way to the kitchen. Pots and pans were hanging on a wall, and a few plates rested in a drying rack by the sink.

Vauvert instinctively knew that something was off.

He realized what it was when he took a closer look at the sink. The three plates in the drying rack were covered with gray dust. No one had touched them in years. Even the bottom of the sink was coated with dust.

“Looks like no one lives here,” Vauvert said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” Leroy replied. “But there must be an explanation. Earlier on the phone, I was told that someone here has been using electricity.”

He opened the fridge. It was out of service and obviously had been for a long time. On the shelves were a half dozen jars of jam, now moldy. Leroy quickly shut the door.

“All right. No one’s been in this fucking kitchen for ages.”

Vauvert headed for the stairs. The second floor had two bedrooms separated by a hallway.

He stepped into the first bedroom. Inside was a small bed, carefully made, with a thick lace-embroidered quilt. When Vauvert touched it, a cloud of dust rose up.

“If someone had been here lately, there would be signs. Do you see any?”

“Nowhere,” Leroy said.

He opened an armoire and aimed his light at the piles of musty sheets.

Then he inspected a chair in the far corner of the room, over which a grayish skirt was draped. Everything in the room was coated with dust.

Two framed photographs were on the bedside table. One showed an old couple. The other photo was of a bright-eyed girl sitting on a bench.

The detective picked up the photo of the girl. It was the same girl whose picture was in the hallway, but this one looked like it had been taken a few years later. The girl appeared to be fifteen or sixteen. Her face was a perfect oval, highlighted by a mane of thick curly hair. Her smile was radiant.

“That must be how she looked. Before she was sick…”

“And she never came back here?”

“This is the home address she gave the hospital.”

Leroy returned the photo to the bedside table.

A quick inspection of the second bedroom, then the bathroom, both in the same state of abandonment, revealed nothing more.

“This just doesn’t make sense. We are at the wrong place,” Vauvert said.

He turned and punched the door, sending dust swirling into the air.

“We’re wasting time!”

He dashed for the stairs.

Back outside, the cold biting his cheeks, Vauvert hurried along the gravel path to the mailbox. He trained the beam of his flashlight on the side. The name written on it: “Saint-Clair.”

“We’ve got the right house,” Leroy said.

“But we’re missing something,” Vauvert replied.

He ran the beam of his flashlight along the power lines running to the house from the pole by the road.

“Let’s take this from the beginning. You’re certain that somebody’s been using power?”

“That’s what they told me on the phone. They were positive about it.”

“Okay.”

Vauvert ran the beam along the wires again. There was no doubt about it. The house was connected. He illuminated the pole again.