The Black Cross

by D-chan

-

The hideout was unusual, which explained why Karina had never before been able to find him. The doors were flat on the ground on the side of a dingy white house, almost covered by weeds and grass that hadn’t been mown in ages. She pushed the long blades aside to find a tiny latch holding the wooden door shut. Inhaling deeply to steady herself, Karina flipped the rusting metal and used all her strength to open the heavy door.

The basement was lit brighter than she had expected. No electricity, but the dim glow of candles gave her just enough to see what she was up against. The stairway was far longer, far steeper than expected, as though each stair had been made to suit a baby’s hobble. She had to grip the edge of the doorway to keep her balance as she made her descent.

Each step revealed a new sight. From the door she could see a cement floor with scattered books. A closer look revealed they were all hardbacks, all monotonous-colored bindings, and all old. Further down she could see the bookshelves lining every wall in the room, all filled with similar books. She finally reached the floor and began to explore.

To her left, another tiny set of stairs wound in a semi-circle around an enormous cement circumference, the block lined with strange engravings all around the edges. Each step had something carved into it. Atop the strange circle was a table, featuring a solitary candle, even more books, a pen, and fresh white papers with incomprehensible handwriting. She squinted at the ink, but could make no sense of it; the writing seemed to be a strange mix of cursive and kanji.

Giving up, she turned to her right. That proved the existence of an old futon shoved to the far end of the room; the only piece of comfortable furniture.

But a full turn revealed the hole in the wall.

Perhaps “hole” was not the proper way to describe the depression. Rather, a built-in shrine seemed more appropriate. A deep shelf held a statue, surrounded by candles on either side—candles that, Karina realized as she moved closer, smelled of black licorice. The image itself was large, probably about four feet in height, but was otherwise unremarkable. It had the appearance of a demon one might derive from the Bible or a creature of Greek mythology—hindquarters, human torso, a beast of a face, topped with horns akin to that of a ram.

The pendant, however, caught Karina’s eye. It hung from a thin silver chain around the monument’s neck, the design like something she might have seen in an underground goth or punk store—shaped like a cross, a glossy black lined with blood red. The horizontal bar ended with sharp tips slanting toward the floor. A circle with even more foreign hieroglyphs was centered at the T, black with glimmers of silver from the carvings.

Satanic, she abruptly realized. She had wandered into the home of a creature who worshipped the opposite of whom she was raised to adore.

Karina hadn’t believed in God for three years. Yet she found her throat could still close with fear, and that the urge to run could swell as fast as if she had still believed and had just been cursed by the worshipper himself.

She turned to run but came face-to-face with the very person she now feared.

Karina shrieked, a high-pitched sound that made the boy before her flinch. He stumbled away from her and she used the opportunity to bolt.

She didn’t make it to the stairs before he did. Once again she was met with fathomless black eyes, deeper than an endless void, and just as cold.

“You broke into my home,” said the boy, his voice disturbingly soft. “And now you want to leave?”

Karina choked on a sob, covering her mouth as she staggered back. The boy made no advancements on her; he stared intensely, as though still expecting an answer. Karina cried, stepping away and tripping over a stack of books that sent her sprawling. She landed on her back, the corner of a book digging into her spine.

The room dimmed with a slam. The boy had closed the basement door.

He didn’t bother with the stairs, only making it far enough for his head to clear the ceiling before hopping over the side. He landed smoothly on his feet and sidled toward her, staring down without emotion. Karina whimpered and forced herself to sit up, but she could no longer find a way out of this situation. Clearly he was faster than her; only inhuman speed could have moved him from one wall to the stairs before she could make it even halfway.

For a minute longer, he stared at her. At last, his voice still frighteningly quiet, he asked, “Are you going to get up?”

Karina began to feel her mind numb. She nodded stupidly, clumsily picking herself up. Her body felt boneless, as though her fear had driven them right out. But the boy made no move to hurt her, and for the first time, she had a moment to get a good look at him.

His skin was pale, as though he had spent the majority of his life in this very basement. Coal-black eyes met hers steadily, unafraid and filled with knowledge and power that made Karina feel terribly stilted. He wasn’t any taller than her—not much more than five feet—but the way he held himself made her feel small and weak. Strands of dark hair fell in his eyes, as though he’d needed a haircut for months now but couldn’t bother himself to even pick up a pair of scissors. His lashes weren’t long, but they were dark, setting off the whites of his eyes brilliantly.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

-

She is desolate and cold on rainy days. The house seems too big when her mother is at work, and the hallways echo with the lost sounds of boyish laughter. It has been three years since the third death in her family. The healing has been slow.

The pastor’s son stops by on these days, offering a smile and his ever-sincere regrets of her losses. He tries to console her with stories of his ambitions, how one day he will become as great and admired a man as his father. The pastor is Pastor Whitfield. His son is Aldon, and he has made it clear many times before that he expects Karina to marry him one day.

Karina does not like him, but he is the only boy who has ever shown interest in her. She always invites him in, like today, and she always listens quietly, without comment, as she makes him hot tea and warms cookies.

Aldon smiles at her, calls her a “charming little town-girl.” She will raise wonderful children one day, he says, and he can’t wait to see how smart and talented their kids will be.

She always nods without a word. But today she does not, because she is distracted by a sight in the rain. Aldon seems to notice her preoccupation, because he leaves the dinner table to join her at the kitchen window.

Outside there is a pale boy, with dark hair plastered to his head from all the rain. His black shirt clings to his flesh, wrinkling and sticking to show his thin frame and slight muscles. He does not seem to notice either of them. He just stands on the sidewalk, staring purposefully into the distance.

Karina cannot see his face. But she is instantly enamored. She must meet this boy.

-

The boy crouched to the floor, picking up the book that had hurt Karina in her fall. He opened it, flipping through the pages and skimming every so often. Just as she began to wonder if she could run, the boy spoke.

“The youngest twin was called Jackie. He died at age four, when he and his brother Donnie were playing in the fields. They were told several times not to go near the barbed fences, but they didn’t listen. When trying to crawl through to the other side, Jackie was caught. Afraid, Donnie ran back to your house for help. By the time your father arrived, Jackie had already lost too much blood. He died before your father could untangle him from the wire.”

Karina felt the blood drain from her face. The tips of her fingers went cold.

The boy didn’t look up. “Your father died next,” he said calmly. “Donnie was seven. He opened the bathroom door, but had a bad habit of slamming. He ended up knocking over a radio that fell into the shower where your father, Christopher, was. He was electrocuted to death. You still smell burnt flesh and hair when you take a shower every morning.”

He finally closed the book, staring Karina in the eye. Whether or not he was taking pleasure from her small whimpers, she couldn’t tell. He was impossible to read. Continuing, he said, “Donnie grew up manic depressive, feeling he was to blame for both his brother and father’s deaths. You never thought he was suicidal, because he was so popular with children his age. You thought he was growing up to be a handsome little boy. You believed he was the smartest twelve-year-old alive. Because your father’s death always left you insecure, you always begged to share the bed with him. Donnie always said yes, but one morning you woke up covered in his blood. He was cold when you touched him. The knife had always been hidden under his pillow.”

Karina felt her legs wobble. She stumbled toward the futon, but fell to her knees before she could make it. Always she was haunted by the deaths in her family, but until now they had only been fading memories. She had never been aware of just how faded until the boy began to describe the deaths in detail—and her emotions. Emotions he couldn’t have known of unless he knew her personally. Details even Aldon could have never guessed.

And he was relentless. “Your mother blames you for Donnie’s death. She says you should have noticed how depressed he was, that you should have taken him to the doctor to ‘get fixed.’ She never had time herself, what with her staying in the city five nights a week, earning a bit of extra cash in addition to her regular office job.”

“Stop it,” whispered Karina.

To her relief, the boy did. He left her, wandering to the statue, pausing as though to revel in the sharp scent of licorice. Karina knew if she wanted to run, now was her chance. But she couldn’t make her legs work; she was weak, and the powerful reminder of the deaths overwhelmed her. For the first time, she could smell the electrocuted flesh of her father outside of the shower.

The boy glanced back at her. Perhaps out of pity, or more likely because he simply felt like it, he offered his name. “Dolan.”

Dolan. Karina tested the name on her tongue, gently; afraid if she mispronounced it the boy would strike at her in what he would deem righteous fury. She herself would call it insanity. But he didn’t strike, and she tried it again. The sound was almost like candy; the sugar-coated kind that surprised you with the sharp sour taste beneath, and then again with soothing sweetness in the middle.

Except Dolan seemed neither sweet nor sour. He merely came off as dead serious, collected, and too old for his own good. Karina remembered his accounts for her family deaths, and she could no longer look into those fathomless eyes and think of him as a boy. He wasn’t a man, either. Just a creature.

The creature spoke again. “By how you think of me, I know you’re wondering what you did wrong; how you ended up here. A mess. But you know.”

Karina was on the edge of the futon, clutching the worn cushion. Her hands were imitating a grim reaper’s Grip of Death, but there was no danger of tearing the fabric. Since Donnie’s suicide, she hadn’t been able to kick the habit of biting her nails.

“What do you mean, I know?” she whispered.

Dolan turned his eyes to the statue again. He reached out, rough fingers toying with the black cross.

“You know,” he repeated. “Because you lost your faith in your God a long time ago.”

-

It is impossible for her to be swayed. Karina sits on Donnie’s bed—the bed they now share—and hugs her knees to her chest. Her expression is dark as her mother stands in the doorway, expression twisted in religious anger.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll be late,” says her mother.

Karina doesn’t respond. She intertwines her fingers, squeezing until her knuckles turn white. She is aware of her younger brother watching her steadily, and even more aware of her mother’s distaste at the sight she portrayed. Perhaps she had a right; it was, after all, considered indecent for a girl’s panties to be displayed. Particularly when she was wearing a skirt and especially in front of a boy, even if he was her own brother.

Donnie is staring at her as well, but unlike his mother, he holds no expression. His eyes do not trail downward—that would be indecent—but he has seen her in less before. But their mother will never know; or if she does, she refuses to acknowledge a possible sin snaking its way into her remaining childrens’ hearts.

“I won’t go to mass,” says Karina stubbornly.

“You will.”

“What’s the use?” she snaps. “God’s useless. He didn’t save Jackie and he didn’t save Papa.”

Donnie’s eyes flicker and he diverts his gaze. But still he is rigid; silent, still beside their mother.

“God is not useless,” her mother says firmly. “He merely decided it was Jackie and Christopher’s time to go.”

“What does God need Jackie or Papa for? We need them more!”

And then, to her amazement, Donnie at last leaves their mother’s side. He sits next to her on the bed, clutching her hand with his smaller fingers. It is the warmest he has been toward her since Jackie’s death.

“I agree,” he says softly. “God is useless.” Karina feels her heart melt, and for an instant she loves her brother more than ever. It is a strange sensation, and despite how frightening it is, she also accepts it.

His next words crush her illusion. “But this is a real small town. If we don’t go, everyone will make it worse on us.”

Karina realizes the truth of his words. From that day forth, she and her brother attend church without question. It is merely an act, a façade for the town, and neither believe.

But it satisfies their mother.

-

With a start, Karina realized Dolan was right—and at the same time, he had missed her other reason for seeking him out. It was because his expression, so empty, reminded her of Donnie before he had died. The little brother she had loved so much, perhaps more than a sister should love one of her siblings. They looked nothing alike; Donnie would have been taller than Dolan by now, his hair chestnut to Dolan’s black, and his eyes forest green to the endless void of the boy before her now.

Dolan stared at her, and for a brief instant his expression changed. Something akin to surprise and dismay drew lines across his forehead. And then it was gone, so fast that Karina almost thought she had been imagining it.

He shook his head somewhat sadly. He lifted the cross from the statue’s neck, holding it between two fingers as he squinted at it, as though to decipher the inscriptions on the mysterious circle. “You seek more than you can handle. Love, acceptance, new beliefs that fit your cynicisms exactly—you cannot have all these things. Especially,” he added in a darker voice, “if you intend on looking even more into this religion I have created.”

It was her turn to stare. “You . . . created this?”

“I had to suffer to be a part of this,” he continued softly. “Went through tortures you can’t even imagine. Tell me: for the sake of embracing a new religion, would you willingly travel to Hell itself to find your own god? Would you take on all the daunting tasks your new god gives you, simply so you have permission to name and worship him? Can you spend years creating a language of your own? Could you, perhaps, kill someone? Kill thousands? Yourself, even?”

He raised his head again, eyes as black as coals, but burning with intensity hotter than any fire Karina had ever seen. Prickles fled across her skin as he said, “Could you consume the flesh of another person—and drink all their blood to attain immortal life for as long as you worship your god?”

“Not only a Satanist, but a cannibal and vampire as well.”

The voice was new and familiar, so startling that Karina stumbled to her feet. Only then did she realize the room was brighter; sunlight was creeping down the stairs. A silhouette stood in the square doorway; obviously male, from the compact body and rough shape of the shadow, and tall.

The figure descended into the basement, glared heatedly at Dolan, and Karina felt a whole new kind of fear.

Aldon had somehow found them. And he was armed.

Dolan didn’t move from his position. He continued to finger his cross, his lips thinning into a fine line. His jaw seemed tense, but his body lax.

“You were not invited, either,” said the boy.

Aldon replied by aiming the shotgun at his chest. “Your kind of people shouldn’t exist. You’re a sinner in the worst way.”

Karina spoke before thinking. “Aldon, wait—”

“And you,” the pastor’s son snarled. “You committed just as bad a sin, lusting after your own brother. You’ll die next.”

She was speechless.

“But I, first,” said Dolan. He sounded irritated. Karina felt a white-hot burst of fear. Would he insist she be killed first? If so, she was mistaken to believe he was anything like Donnie at all. While cold to the world in his last years, he had still somewhat cared for her.

“Yes,” Aldon said tightly. “You first.” His finger slowly tightened on the trigger, as he closed one eye to correct his aim.

“Then note this,” said Dolan. Dark hair brushed against his face, but Karina felt no breeze. The room seemed to grow colder, and the mysterious wind that touched no one but the boy grew harsher. “You have your beliefs, as well as your God.”

He clutched his cross in one hand, bared sharp teeth, and tore into his other wrist, his movements quicker than Karina could comprehend.

“But your God is different from my god.”

Blood spurted from the wound. Karina cried out; even Aldon appeared taken aback. But the pastor’s son would not be swayed from his purposeful mission, and he gave an angry shout as he fired.

Wood and debris exploded as the bullets hit the bookshelf. Karina shrieked and fell to a crouch, covering her head but not shielding her eyes. She looked frantically across the floor, only to realize that Dolan was nowhere in sight. The situation must have been the same for Aldon. She could hear him utter a curse no good Catholic boy would use.

So much for being a greater man than his father, she thought.

Karina straightened so she was on her knees, peering through her fingers at a bewildered, frightened, and furious Aldon.

“Show yourself, heretic!” he bellowed.

Just as Karina blinked, Dolan appeared behind Aldon. He looked different; holding a book in one hand, his hair wildly mussed, and his expression colder than harsh winter. His clothes were torn in places they hadn’t been earlier, with blood trickling from a cut in his forehead that couldn’t possibly have been Aldon’s doing. And, she realized, there was a strange figure behind him; foggy but just distinct enough for her to recognize it as the statue.

His god.

“In my religion,” said Dolan coldly, “you are the heresy.” He unfolded his hand, the one not holding the book. There lay the cross; still glossy, but covered in blood so dark it was nearly black. Karina felt her throat close; all she could think was, It’s poisoned. It had to be—poisoned somehow in order for Dolan to retain immortality. A “blessing” from his god.

Behind him, the misty creature smiled ghoulishly.

“Sevahlk!” Dolan’s roar shook the room. Books tumbled from their shelves, some falling open as they landed on the floor. Aldon was screaming, high-pitched sounds that cut Karina to the bone. She screamed too, instinctively reaching out to him; to help the only boy who had ever wanted her, no matter what the reasons. But she flinched and jerked her hand back, for Aldon’s body was too hot to touch; searing heat, like pressing your palm flat against the racks of an oven that had been on for an hour. At first Karina couldn’t fathom why.

But then she noticed it. The figure behind Dolan had moved, wrapping its phantom body around Aldon until the young man was encased in thick, hot fog. Pointed shapes that might have been teeth were snapping at Aldon’s chest, going for the heart. He continued to scream and writhe. The shotgun lay on the floor, useless to the suffering man.

It was a slow, bloodless death. Yet in the end, there was no body—no flesh or bones or fabric—to prove Aldon had ever been in the room.

Karina’s knees gave out beneath her. She stared where Aldon used to be, trembling, dimly wondering if the basement was truly so deep beneath the earth that no one could hear the poor man’s cries.

And Dolan stood before her; victorious, but not without a price. He looked exhausted, ready to collapse, but he remained standing. The wound beneath his hair seemed to bleed even more profusely; half his face dripped with the dark fluids. His lower lip was split wide open, and bruises scattered across the visible flesh were yet another reminder of what he had done. Karina couldn’t be sure, not unless he told her, but she was almost certain that the damage had been inflicted by his god himself. The god, if she was guessing right again, he had christened with the mysterious name of Sevahlk.

“Well?” he asked quietly. “Isn’t this the escape you wanted, Karina?” He bent down on one knee, staring her in the eye. “It’s the escape I found when I killed myself beside you.”

Karina was beyond words. Shock and dismay and joy and terror flooded her all at once. She didn’t know if she wanted to embrace the terrible creature this boy claiming to be her long-dead brother or if she wanted to run and never look back.

His cold hand tipped her chin up. “This religion is not perfect for you,” said Dolan softly. “But it will grant you some benefits—immortality, strength beyond your imagination, senses you can’t even begin to describe now . . . and, of course, the ability to read minds.”

Was he truly Donnie? She didn’t know what to believe, but as she stared at him, Karina began to notice familiar features on his face. Their father’s nose and chin, their mother’s high cheekbones, and on his lips, very faint traces of a boy’s smile gone grim. Just has he had been at death.

“You’ll look different,” he continued. “Your body has to adapt to the powers. I haven’t figured out why just yet, but you’ll take on the appearance of a classic vampire. You’ll be a bit like them, but no worries—we can walk in sunlight and eat whatever we wish. Only when Sevahlk commands it do we drink blood, and for ritual purposes only.”

And then he was grabbing her hand, forcing the bloodied cross into her palm. Karina flinched. The edges were sharper than they looked. She had already cut herself; her blood was mingling with Dolan’s, red against near-black. Live versus undead blood.

“It’s up to you,” he said emotionlessly. “You’ll lose everything you have now. But you’ll be with me.”

Just like she had always wanted.

With trembling hands, Karina shoved the cross through her racing heart.