The Man at the Door Part 3

Please read Parts 1 and 2 first. This story picks up where they end. Readings the first parts will fill you in on what's happening.


The sun is just rising as I awake in my Atlanta home. Actually, I’m about forty miles north of Atlanta in a restored plantation home on about fifty acres of woods and farmland. Everywhere I live tends to be just outside the main hub of civilization, being a little further than normal from neighbors helps to avoid question about my odd hours. The home here I bought nearly 150 years ago. Just days after Sherman’s march through Atlanta on November 15, 1864, I bought the home from Emmalene Johnson. Emmalene was a widow whose husband died at Gettysburg. The day she received the news of her husband’s death she freed the slaves and begin assisting the Underground Railroad. After Sherman’s March Emmalene and her fiancé, former slave Tyler James, decided to move into Atlanta and help the newly freed slaves after the war was over. Two years later Emmalene was raped and murdered and Tyler James was hanged by a group of white extremists.

In the open kitchen downstairs, I start the coffee and grab a banana before opening the door that lead into the basement. The stairs are old and creaky and I hear small rustlings in the corners of the basement. “Have to call an exterminator,” I mutter as I put my hand along the wall beneath the stairs. The wall slides open with a hiss. Behind the wall, a hidden room lights up. The was originally used for the Underground Railroad; however, I had it expanded to nearly seven times the original size and stainless steel shelves, drawers, and hooks gleam along the walls. This is my most well equipped weapons room. Guns are neatly arranged on the shelves; the drawers are full of ammunition, and knives and swords hand neatly on the far side of the room. Holsters and Kevlar vests are arranged to my left. The holsters and vests must be custom made for my small frame, so I keep several on hand. Bad guys are always ripping them to shreds.

I hurry through the room gathering up everything I will need to hunt the monster. I even sling an Uzi over my shoulder. Overkill? Maybe, but if I need it I will be grateful, if I don’t I will feel stupid later. I also grab several rounds of silver bullets. Contrary to popular belief, the silver bullet is not an automatic death knoll for supernaturals, but they hurt a hell of a lot more for some reason. Loaded down with weapons and holding the banana peel between my teeth I shove the door open upstairs with my hip.

I let out a small scream and guns and bullets fly out of my hands. I manage to swing the Uzi from my shoulder to my hands and point it at the figure sitting at the table. The other weapons go clattering across the tile floor. Mere seconds before I pull the trigger, I recognize Elizabeth at the table. At least the body is Elizabeth’s. Her eyes are open black cesspools sinking deeply into her face; dark bruises stain the translucent skin beneath the black eyes. I lay the Uzi on the counter and walk towards her. A quick scan of the area shows no one else his here so I kneel beside her and look into her eyes. The blackness is startling; there is no iris, no white, and no pupil just swimming blackness. Her body is still alive; I can feel her heart beating slowly and only a little unsteady. Her soul has been stolen and I don’t know what has it.

When a person’s body dies, the soul leaves and moves on. However, if the soul leaves first, the body does not die immediately. A stolen soul cannot move on. The body will slowly begin to decompose itself. The longer it is soulless the more it deteriorates. After three days, the soul would return to a dead shell. Luckily, the soul does not abandon the body, unluckily; I have never seen a soul successfully return to an abandoned body. I have only ever seen one person with a missing soul. However, he chose to force his soul out; it was not stolen and he decomposed after six day into a puddle of stinking liquid. So in short, I have less than three days to find the monster from my past that is terrorizing the present and threatening the future. I pick up Elizabeth and carry her to the bedroom at the front hall.

The room is one of my favorites. It is cool blue with pale yellow accents and a beautiful view of the woods. I settle Elizabeth onto the bed a pull the comforter to her chin. The haunted black eyes seem to follow my every move and silently I promise to find the creature that has done this to a beautiful child.

I need someone more knowledgeable about souls. I don’t know enough about them. Someone needs to tell me how long I have and whether or not they can tell what has stolen her soul by the way it was done. I need a necromancer and I know just who to call.

Dorian arrives thirty minutes after I called him. He is a bit theatrical and enjoys playing the James Bond of the underworld, driving his little Aston Martin, wearing black suits and long capes, towering over people, and turning women to mush, although he is happily married for twenty years to his high school sweetheart. He says she is the only woman he ever met when he was a young man that didn’t run screaming when her dead dog followed him home one day. Necromancers must use their power or it becomes a little haywire, sometimes raising things you didn’t mean to raise. This often happens to young necromancer before they learn how to control and release their powers as necessary. He sweeps up the walk and kisses me flat on the mouth. “Darling, let me see her.”

“In the front bedroom,” I nod the way and step back so he can come in. He ducks under the doorway, at nearly seven feet he ducks a lot, and strides down the hallway. Dorian makes a small sound at the back of his throat when he sees Elizabeth lying on the bed. He moves close and when I open my mouth to explain further he merely holds up a large palm to silence me. I watch from the doorway as he kneels beside her and rests his fingertips against her forehead. His body stiffens and begins to tremble. I feel waves of power coming from him as he probes the shell of Elizabeth’s body to learn what he can. Several minutes pass before I see him relax and stand. He turns to me and tears stain his dark skin. He comes toward me and we leave the room pulling the door shut.

We move to the kitchen where the morning’s coffee has congealed in the bottom of the pot. I dump it out and rinse the pot while Dorian helps himself to a bottle of water from the fridge. He sets another bottle at the table and we settle into our seats. “Can you tell anything about what has done this to her?” I ask him taking a grateful sip of water. I will need to drink soon. I can feel the craving begin.

“I have a few ideas, but nothing concrete. Really anything with a grasp of souls. I suppose I could even draw a soul out, although I’ve never tried it. You are probably looking for another necromancer, a liche, or a pricolici. Her soul has only been gone an hour tops. He had to have removed it just moments before placing her in the chair here. I think he will come after you next. I could feel the frustration at this stealing, as if he wasn’t really interested in her. I don’t think you will have to go find him; he will be finding you soon.” Dorian stands up and hugs me, lifting me off my feet. “Be careful, Cay. This is a bad one.”

“Thanks, Dorian.” I give him a slightly lopsided smile as we make our way to the front door.

The door slings open the moment Dorian touches it and slings him back into the wall with a sickening crunch. His chocolate eyes roll back into his head. A movement draws my eyes back to the door. A dark figure stands before me wrapped in a long brown cape with a hood shadowing his face completely. The clothes are old and remind a bit of a monks robe; his arms are even crossed and his hands are tucked up in the sleeves. He inclines his hand and a band of light falls across his face. I bite back a scream. His eyes seem to glow with a red light inside black sockets. His face is skeletal and his skin seems to hang along his cheekbones. His lips are nearly nonexistent and completely colorless. I am shocked and feel I can’t move. Something’s wrong. I can’t move! A creased dry hand shoot out from the folds of the robe and knocks me down the hallway. The breath rushes out of my lungs leaving them burning inside my chest as I struggle to draw in air, but I can move again. I stand and look towards the doorway. The creature is still there and Dorian lies in a heap behind the door. I can barely see his chest moving, so he’s alive. The creature glides slowly towards me.

“It’s been a long time, Cilissa. I see you are still fucking other people’s husbands. Why the shocked face Cilissa? Don’t you remember me? Have I changed that much in 500 years? I know my skin isn’t as soft or smooth as it once was,” he lifts a gnarled hand to his face. “But my husband was already tiring of my skin. He wanted you! You with your bloodthirsty ways and never changing face! Do you know what its like to watch you husband turn away from you night after night for the WITCH! Do you know what he did to me? Do you know? Look at me Cilissa! See what has become of Johann’s wife, Belinda!” She throws off her robe and stands before me. I am without words. I knew Johann had a wife, but he told me she was frigid. It had been an arranged marriage of sorts, decided by their parents to merge their wealth. He told me she also didn’t want their marriage. I had seen her, at university functions. She had been a handsome woman, tall, stately, with a strong jaw and piles of mouse colored hair. But, the fact that this was Johann’s wife was not as shocking as what had become of her. Her body was that of an ancient woman’s to the waist, sagging sallow skin draped over thin protruding bone, but at her waist the skin seemed to wrinkle up tightly becoming scales just bellow her belly button. From the waist down she was a serpent of dull brownish scales. A sudden hiss came from her mouth and a bright red forked tongue jutted from her thin white lips. “Did you know Belinda means ‘beautiful serpent’?

I stare transfixed at the creature before me. “What happened to you?” I am shocked and cannot bring myself to approach her. I have never seen anything like this before and something inside me was repulsed, but at the same time drawn to her. I feel like I have to know how she became this. I had once met a naga, a half-human half serpent creature; however, he could choose his form.

“Johann wanted you,” she spits out in disgust flinging the words at me like weapons. “He wanted to divorce me! Do you know what it would be like for me if he divorced me for the witch? He really thought you were a witch,” she almost laughs a bit at Johann’s naiveté. “I knew what you were. I had spent my life searching for beauty. I always just wanted to be beautiful. My mother was dainty and beautiful, my sisters were beautiful. I was a giant among them, an ugly giant resigned to the far corner at galas so my mother wouldn’t be embarrassed by my hugeness, to tall and masculine to be beautiful. I knew you were a vampire, but becoming a vampire is only everlasting life not beauty. You were beautiful before you became the undead and becoming a vampire myself would only trap me in my huge Amazonian body. I searched the world for something to make me beautiful. Johann always told me I was beautiful and in the beginning I believe him. I was in love with him and he loved me and thought I was beautiful. He thought I was beautiful,” her voice breaks, but she looks back at me quickly and an odd light has come into her eyes igniting them from within with anger and madness. “But, he eventually saw how ugly I was too. Like everyone else he saw I was hideous and he fell in love with you! When he told me he wanted to divorce me, I fell apart. My friend and fellow searcher for eternal beauty, Countess Elizabeth Bathory had written me about bathing in beautiful young girls blood. She wrote that her skin was whiting and smoothing out; the fine wrinkles around her face were fading away. She was growing younger and more beautiful by the day. I knew if I could only become beautiful Johann would want me again. I ordered my young servant girls killed and drained of blood. I hurried home the evening I was to take my blood bath. An old gypsy woman came up to me in the street selling flowers. I pushed her aside in my hurry. She called out from behind me, ‘Belinda, beautiful serpent, what you want will not make you happy.’ I spun around and faced her, demanded she tell me what she meant. ‘You will not be happy with beauty. Johann will not want you. You will have only half your name.’ She turned away from me and disappeared in the crowd. I pushed her crazy ravings from my mind and hurried home. I lay in the tub of their blood until it grew cold and sticky with a crusty film on top as the blood begin to dry. I stood up and looked down to see my new beautiful body. My skin was itching where the blood was drying along my legs and stomach. I scratched at it and the blood flaked off bringing my skin with it and underneath was this,” she gestures wildly at the scales on her body. “ I must have gone to the bedroom and blacked out. A servant found me hours later, luckily I had crawled under the covers, to tell me Johann was dead. You had killed him! I was trapped in this hellish body, more ugly than ever before, and you had killed Johann!”

She lashes out with her hand and rips the leg off a chair in the hallway. She brandishes the make shift stake held tightly in her hand. Her tail suddenly flies at me as I prepare to leap on her wrapping tightly around me. She slings me into the wall and my head cracks against the hard wood floor. Dazed I try to get up and she brings the stake towards my heart. I feel the stake pierce my skin and burnig pain blurs my vision. The wrold goes black.