The Empty Mirror
Chapter 49: Granny
Immersed in profound disbelief, I found myself, gripped by a stupor caused by my crime, by the bloodthirsty act I had committed. My body seemed shrouded in a fog of disbelief, while my mind was whipped by a whirlwind of anxiety, threatening to tear my nails out and leave my fingers bare of skin. Amidst the confusion that enveloped me, I wandered through the cabin, where the corpses of Esme and Hilda lay in a state of decomposition that would soon attract flies to desecrate their bodies. Dougal, too, lay there, drained of blood by my own hands.
With unsteady steps, I approached Hilda's body, while my mind wrestled in an internal struggle. I picked up the knife once more, wiping it with the fabric of the yellow dress, the same one that had been a gift from the unfortunate Esme. The white blade, now stained scarlet, was carefully stowed away in my attire, while my trembling hands struggled to maintain composure.
As I surveyed Hilda's body, I spotted a bottle of liquor near her. It no longer held the amber liquid of yesteryear, but a darker, almost black liquid that tainted the air with its presence. I examined Hilda's pale face closely, stripping her of the knife with which she had attempted to end Dougal's life in his final moments of agony and vomiting. It was the sad narrative of a son-in-law and his mother-in-law, a man and his lover, a woman and her betrothed, a mother and her daughter, a daughter and her mother, a traveler lost in the labyrinth of fate.
The kitchen knife, dulled by use and circumstances, I contemplated solemnly and left resting on the table, like a macabre symbol of the tragedy that had engulfed that cabin of sorrows.
Subsequently, I made my way to the fireplace, whose flames were languishing at that moment. I did not feel the urge to revive them, and so they remained, sombre witnesses to the tragedy that had enveloped that abode. My eyes then settled on the candles, whose flickering flames cast dancing shadows throughout the room. Next to them lay a bottle that appeared to contain olive oil, but its contents were a perversion of that noble liquid: poison. The bottle, now empty, held nothing but the echoes of malice unleashed by Dougal. I refrained from touching it, merely contemplating the lethal substance trapped within the glass walls, mere evidence of its Machiavellian purpose.
Then, among the shards of glass, I spotted the gap where Dougal had extracted the liquor bottle, a subtle ruse, hiding the liquor among the wooden planks while the poison lurked, harassing like a vigilant beast, ready for its prey. For two years, that poison had waited in the shadows, eager to be unleashed. No, it was not two years of waiting, but enough time to corrupt Esme and Hilda. I approached the splintered planks, whose surface was tainted with the patina of time and earth. In the gap between the splinters, I sensed the presence of something else. With caution, I leaned in and extended my hand into the darkness. I found earth, but also something more: a small notebook, its yellowed pages stitched with cowhide, now stained by the passage of time and neglect.
Within its pages, there lay not the tale of a "vampire," though the term was never explicitly mentioned. Perhaps it had never been spoken, nor heard by any human ear. Instead, the pages were imbued with stories of deformed, pale monsters who voraciously fed on the blood of their victims. It was a legend involving my progeny, a dark mythology woven around their existence. Everything that followed in the legend, as Dougal had predicted, unfolded before my eyes.
In the subsequent pages, medicinal recipes and practical advice were revealed, the fruit of knowledge passed down to Dougal. For instance, I recalled how he had massaged my ankle to relieve the pain and aid in its healing. Now, though I still limped when walking, I no longer needed the crutches I had used in recent days to protect my foot from strain. I had even regained some strength, if only to inflict death upon Dougal in a grotesque frenzy, stabbing his throat repeatedly as he reached for the weapon. It seemed as if that notebook had been bequeathed by his own grandmother, and in its final pages, it detailed the creation of that poison, the recipe for concocting that grotesque and repugnant substance that caused gangrene: gangrenous poison.
I contemplated it, examined it meticulously, absorbed every word as if they were runes inscribed in my mind. For memory is nothing more than a network of neuronal traces repeating themselves over and over to keep the memory alive, but which, with a simple oversight, can fade into the darkness of forgetfulness. Nevertheless, I engraved the recipe for that poison, "Agonal Breathing," deep within my being. Then, with unleashed fury, I crumpled the pages of paper and leather, tearing them apart page by page.
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My irritation unleashed with overwhelming fury, pounding the aged wooden planks with my bare hands until they seemed to ooze the red of blood, their already reddened surfaces nearly lacerating me with the sharp splinters of the ancient cabin. It was as if all the agony suffered by Dougal's grandmother, from the moment she embarked on the construction of this dwelling in the forest to the abduction of her own grandson, had been concentrated in this moment. All to perpetuate her legacy, her memory, and to end the legend of the bloodsuckers, the horrors, releasing her grandson to the city only to return one day, after fermenting the poison, acquiring knowledge, and professing a devotion to the church, to poison me with that gangrenous liquid.
Even if it cost Esme and Hilda their lives, their fate mattered little. Only I was destined to perish, consumed by gangrene. That was the final design of Dougal's grandmother: my death, a sacrifice to extinguish that legend that had robbed her son. Thus, she offered her grandson to consummate the crime, even though she had died long before, even before my torment, perhaps even before my own existence. All to eradicate that pale terror that enveloped me, for I was the living embodiment of that legend, that tale of bloodsuckers and pale terror. Or perhaps, I am just delirious.
I stood, desolate, with the torn notebook in my hands, and buried it again beneath the earth, where it belonged. With the boards overlapping, I covered the hole, hiding all traces of that macabre past. Everything faded around me. Then, my eyes sought the door, but I knew I could not yet leave that place. The night enveloped the cabin in its dark cloak, and I had to await the arrival of dawn. With the wooden staff, I blocked the entrance, fearful of the wolves. I did not fear the wild beasts, for I had never crossed their gaze, but the men dressed in wolf skins, predators who stalked defenseless maidens.
After securing the entrance, I sat at the table, in the same spot I occupied upon arriving at the cabin, in the seat that once belonged to Esme. Before me, the shelf where that vinegar rested, which had been my salvation, delaying the effects of the poison. Behind me, lay the beds of those unfortunate souls, while my blood-stained dress lay as a mute witness to the tragedy. Dougal's blood still seeped through the cracks in the wooden floor, as if the cabin itself mourned the loss of its unfortunate occupant.
I gazed at the flickering flame of the oil lantern, as the warm light filtered through the glass clouded with dust. I deliberately ignored the buzzing of the flies that danced around the corpses of those three unfortunate souls, with their fetid stench. Thus, the night passed in a silence filled with denial, interrupted only by my bursts of hostility, as I pounded the table until finally, dawn broke the darkness.
At daybreak, I rummaged through the scattered belongings in the suitcase, my hands seizing the jars of oil for the lamp, disregarding the rest: the quill, everything else. I also left the map there alongside the Plague Bible, for I had no intention of abandoning the anomaly; my destiny was to return to it. It was then that I realized there was no longer any tea, aromatic herbs, or spices left in the cabin, barely a memory remained of the taste of salmon on my palate, the fish we once shared together.
Among Dougal's belongings, I found a short, rusty shovel, with a handle that wobbled with every movement. Undoubtedly, he had used it to dig the trench. With this tool, I set out to dig two graves. I left the cabin and, by the trees, in front of the facade of the dwelling, I began my task. I dug and dug with all my strength, without rest. The hours passed, and I completed a worthy task. The graves were deep enough. I dragged Esme's body and buried it, leveling the earth without leaving a trace that distinguished the grave. Then, I repeated the same procedure with Hilda's body. I dragged her body, threw it into the grave, and covered it with soil, smoothing the surface with the shovel. Over their graves, I placed a yellow camellia, which faded with the wind's breath.
After hesitating, I chose not to erect a grave for Dougal; instead, I wrapped his body in sheets and left it resting in the cabin, keeping everything as I found it upon arrival, or almost everything. I only took the oil lantern and some jars of oil for the lamp. Then, I sealed the door, uttering a prayer as farewell, pleading that their corrupted souls find forgiveness, a plea directed to the god of the Plague. Perhaps it was not heard, but I uttered it nonetheless, for they were devout believers, though I was not, especially after Dougal's words to his deity.
Retreating, I cleansed myself and took my black attire, which rested on the branches of a tree, discarding the yellow outfit I had worn. I let the other dress fade with the wind, just like that Canary camellia. I prepared to return to the castle, storing the jars in my attire. Holding the extinguished lamp, I realized that despite starting to dig the graves at dawn, it was already noon. With gangrenous nails holding the lamp, I made my way back to the depths of the forest, leaving behind that somber episode in the cabin.
After minutes and hours of wandering, the anomaly grew increasingly ominous. At one point, I encountered a wild boar. I dropped the lamp to the ground and fled, but stumbled. The animal lunged at me, and in a surge of savage instinct, I killed it. It was an act of barbarity, the first against a human being, Dougal, and the second against a beast, that boar. I tore it apart and fed on it by the lake, consumed by voracious hunger.
Under the flickering light of the oil lamp, I committed my crime. After that, everything unfolded with a strange sense of normalcy, if it can be called that. I attempted to reintegrate into life, but ultimately resigned myself to despair. I returned to the castle, exhausted, with an emptiness and pain in my heart that seemed insurmountable.
Once again, I crossed the castle gates as an intruder, with no intention of engaging in conversation with the knight. It was then that I unveiled the deceit of that impostor moon, realizing the absolute emptiness in my displacement. I left the extinguished oil lamp near the stairs and entered the dimly lit chamber, until I reached my "coffin," or rather, my cenotaph. I collapsed into it, craving rest, relief for my pain, only to plunge into an endless nightmare, plagued by atrocities spawned by the foulest debauchery. Everything else, the circus, the Marquise, the garden, and the spreading gangrene, became mere shadows in my torment.