David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

The scratching came again, fainter now. From the hall beyond.

Lord Godefroy slowly closed the book, without looking down at it. He frowned in silence at the doors.

This had all happened before. More than once. It seemed that it was dreadfully important to him that he remember why it kept happening.

He left the book lying on the table by his chair. Adhering to tradition, he walked over, still staring at the doors. He carefully unlocked and opened them.

The dark hall beyond was empty. Moonlight crept in through the tall, old windows.

The scratching sound, from the same window as before.

It would seem that he hadn't finished the job of killing the briar. He was getting senile after all, even in this new sort of life that wasn't quite life, in a body that wasn't quite a body.

But he was still lord of Gryphon Hill. He still had the Touch.

As was proper, he walked down the hallway to the window, peered out until he saw a pale branch swing close, then stepped forward and put his hand through the streaked glass window. He caught the branch.

It was not a branch. It was an arm like ice.

Something white floated into view behind the glass and fluttered in the moonlight. He let go — too late.

Freezing cold hands clamped down on his wrist and drove nails of ice into his now-solid flesh.

He screamed with the shock of pain he had not felt in years uncounted. He flailed his arm to dislodge the clawed apparition. White fingers gripped his arm, fingers attached to bare, translucent arms.

A face came up to the window.

The face was dead. Its wide eyes were frozen open, and its black hair crackled as it pressed against the dirty glass, as if it had been walking a long time in the cold on its way down the low hill where the moonlight never fell.

Lord Godefroy howled like a wild animal. He fell back, staggering, and struck the far wall of the hallway.

He pulled the face and the body behind it through the window as he did. Its claws dug into the bones of his arm. Its wide, frozen eyes silently drank him in as the mouth opened, a black wound on a face like a snowfield.

Wilfred, said the face as he screamed.

He threw himself forward, trying to push it all back through the window. He beat at the fingers that gripped him. He swung his arm to knock the fingers off against the windowpanes. His other arm passed close by the windowpanes.

Something grabbed that other arm, the iron grip tearing old flesh. Something pulled itself into the hall as he struggled back, placed blue lips to Lord Godefroy's ear.

I hate you, it said. Its cold breath blew worms and grave rot over Lord Godefroy's fine black jacket and ruffled shirt. The lord of Gryphon Hill saw its white eyes next to his own, set in a face of cold blue stone, and he screamed and screamed and screamed, until his screaming was all there was in the universe.

Wilfred. One pulled him toward his study.

I hate you. The other pushed.

He was in his study. Four cold arms brought him to his chair. His limbs flailed. He kicked his feet at them, striking nothing, helpless as wood in a vice. Their touch made him solid. His new body was just like his old. It couldn't fly. It couldn't fade through the chair. It ached. It bruised. It was cold, cold, cold. And his Touch was gone.

They forced him down in his chair. The small, dead blue face mouthed words as it levered his right arm down against the arm of his favorite chair. Only one word issued from the black mouth of the dead white face as it pressed his other arm down as well. It was terribly easy. They had done this many times before.

In the depths of madness, Lord Godefroy now remembered the first time this had happened, ages ago, the night he had killed his wife and child. Then it all happened again, the night after that, then all the nights after that, on forever, until he escaped them at last by drinking bitter herbs he bought from the apothecary, falling into his last sleep in this very chair. The next day he had his new body and new powers while the powerless old body was buried far, far away, and he came back to Gryphon Hill to rule again. He had been free, free, free!

That freedom had lasted one day.

Estelle and Amanda came back that night, unstoppable. And they were back the night after that. And the night after that. It was too much to live with, even in death, and his mind was gone from trying to block it out.

A cold, foul breeze brushed his face. He opened his eyes for a moment. It was the wrong thing to do.

The dead faces were against his own. Their breath washed over him, suffocating him with rot. He was beyond remembering that he didn't need to breathe.

But he did remember what came next. He always did.

His mind fled. He screamed. It was a new sound, a great magnitude louder than before. It was not the scream of a lord or master or god. It was an animal's scream when it knows of an unspeakable thing and is joined to that thing forever, without end, without escape.

Dead lips touched the skin on his face. Cold teeth would touch next.

Estelle and Amanda had missed dinner ages ago.

With sightless, hungry eyes, they again began to eat.

The black skies contained no moon this night, and apparently the stars had fled as well. Richemulot was blanketed in the darkness of midnight, except for the candlelight the citizenry provided themselves. But since most of the good citizens had retired for the night, even the candlelight was feeble, and it could be spotted only here and there throughout the town of St. Ronges.

No candle burned in the home of Klaus Nellak. He had retired hours earlier; after all, his duties as burgomeister of St. Ronges required much devotion and even more energy. His day had begun at sunrise, and he had worked hard and long until well past the dinner hour. He had debated with members of the town council, made judgments on several important civic matters, dealt severely with a couple of chronic troublemakers, and, most importantly — at least to him — raised his salary for the next year. The two bottles of wine he had consumed at dinner might have had some small effect on his retiring early, too.

He slept soundly, but some slight vibration, some minor deviation from the normal calm of his room, caused him to open his eyes for a moment, and he stared into the almost complete darkness. He felt a weight upon his chest, as if someone were pressing a hand against his heart. Bah! he thought: perhaps the physicians were correct after all. Perhaps I should not drink so much. Perhaps the wine — and the tremendous stress of his civic duties — were taking their toll on his heart. Perhaps. .

The weight shifted on his chest. Had he not been half asleep at this moment, he would have sworn that the weight walked from one side of his chest to the other! He put his hand on his chest, expecting to feel his heart beating, but instead felt. . fur, and then a stinging pain in his thumb. Something bit him! He cried out, and his cry was answered with a throaty squeak. Then the weight leapt from his chest.

The burgomeister sat upright, lit a candle, and surveyed the room. In the far corner, two illuminated eyes gazed defiantly at him. His own eyes adjusted to the light, and he realized the source of the weight, the stinging pain, and the squeak: it was a rather large, mangy rat. The creature squeaked again and dashed out of the room.

"Hell's Bells!" Klaus Nellak exclaimed loudly. "Those damnable creatures! Now they've invaded my home! I'll put a stop to this. . "He yawned, closed his door and window, blew out the candle, and got back into bed. He pulled the blanket up around his neck and continued his thought: ". . tomorrow."

The next morning, the St. Ronges town council was called in for an emergency meeting. The members muttered to each other, wondering what the source of the emergency could be.