Duskfall

A boy and his father return home to vanquish an evil from their life, once and for all, and must reckon with their greatest weaknesses if they are to survive what awaits before them. . . .

“I am afraid,” the man heard the boy say, soft and solemn, as he had always been.

“If you are afraid,” he replied, “then I’ve failed you. Nothing before us should bring any unease to your heart.”

“I’m afraid all the same.” The boy looked small in the carriage. The setting sun was approaching the tall trees, and the shadows of dusk were broadening the features of his frightened face. Briefly, he looked much older. “Knowing what will happen soon.”

The carriage hitched, then righted itself, carving through the grove of trees. There was little to this part of the world—trees upon countless trees, hills that rose and fell like waves, wolves tearing at the carcass of their hunt, and the flutter of winged creatures above. He loathed to admit each bat of wings made him start for the pistol at his hip. In this age, you could only hope, with all the faith you had left in your heart, that they were birds.

“I haven’t taught you to give into your fears, have I?” He needed no answer. “You have known this was what needed to be done; you have known it was coming. Now isn’t the time for you to give into your fears. Now is the time to snuff them out.”

The boy looked away. “Yes, Father.”

Reins cracked, and the carriage only barely quickened, but they needed all the time they could snatch up. The sun was fading swiftly, the skies burning bright orange, and there was a poison deep in the man’s stomach, incessantly whispering sweet lies. Would this all be for nothing?

The feeling momentarily eased by a rotting sign approaching, the wood painted green and brown, the words a faded black. Grimm’s Hollow, New Duskfall.

“We’re home,” the man said.

The boy trembled beside him.

The carriage eventually halted before a pair of tall iron gates. The horses cried fearfully as the man opened the door, letting the boy out first, then climbed out himself. He stood upon the dirt road, looking up at the hill before them—and at the dark, silent manor at its peak.

The man went to the front of the carriage.

“This is as far as I can take you,” the coachman said.

“Thank you greatly.” The man fished out the necessary payment from his coat pocket, dropping a mixture of silver and gold into the coachman’s gloved hand. He studied the man, then the boy standing closely by his side, his eyes glinting warily.

“I don’t know what your goal is, friend, but I hope you achieve it,” he said. “Godspeed.”

Then he snapped up the reins, and the horses cried into the night as the carriage lurched forward, circled back, and disappeared into the woods, melting into the shadows.

“We’re losing daylight.” The man eyed the darkening skies. He grabbed his pistol and opened the cylinder, inspecting each chamber. Then he retrieved his knife from his belt, removed his glove, and pricked the tip of his thumb. No pain came from this act, not anymore. Then he let the blood drip into each chamber, soaking in deep.

“Why must you always do that?” the boy moaned.

“I made a deal, long ago,” he said, “with a man from a strange, far away land. I signed away my name for these silver bullets. This cursed weapon shall always be enough to fell any demon—so long as it has had a taste of the wielder’s blood.”

He slammed the cylinder shut. The pistol was satiated.

“Are you ready?”

The boy studied his shoes. “I’m unsure,” he said. “I feel the fear still, deep in my heart. How can I know if I am ready?”

The man unhooked something from his belt, handing it to the boy: a wooden stake, sharpened to the point. “Smother your fears,” he said. “Your fear will get you killed; nothing but a rein upon your courage. You are brave, Dorian. You must only acknowledge it.”

The boy looked at the stake. Then he took it in his small hands, running a finger along it. He nodded, straightening.

The man nodded, starting up the hill. “We must move.”

He didn’t wait for Dorian to follow—eventually, he did.

---

The man pushed the great doors open with a heavy shove, and they rumbled against the frame. The house was cold, neither light nor joy left to fill the husk. There hadn’t been for a while.

Dorian shifted uneasily beside him. “I miss her,” he said.

The man nodded. “I know.”

“I miss her pies.”

The man almost smiled. “That was your grandmother’s recipe. Passed down in our family for decades. I could never learn how it was made.” He wanted to laugh; but a stream of light filtered through a window, crossing his face. The sun, falling behind the trees.

“We must act,” the man said.

Dorian nodded, gripping the stake. They began for the stairs at once, for their time was scarce. Wood groaned underfoot. Dust hung in the air, and their footsteps were frighteningly loud in the silence of the night. They reached the top and began for the bedroom at the end of the hall.

The man took the doorhandle. He felt it then—that poison filling his stomach, weakening his grip. For a moment, he couldn’t open the door, and together they remained unmoved. He knew what was on the other side. He’d known all this time, but now as he was facing it, he was paralyzed.

Then a small hand wrapped around his, startling him. He met his son’s eyes, only for a dull heartbeat—and together they turned the knob. The door drifted open. Blood roared in his ears.

A great bed sat in the center of the bedroom, and a stiff, cold body lay upon the sheets, dressed in a pale nightgown. Its smooth skin was pallid, the chestnut hair spread out like ghostly roots. Its eyes were closed in a mockery of sleep. Its hands and feet were bound to the bedposts by thick rope.

“Mother,” Dorian whispered.

They approached the bed cautiously, as if sliding up to a wild animal. Dorian stepped forward, nearer than the man dared. He touched the hand beside the body.

“It’s cold,” he mumbled.

The man stepped forward, eyes tracing her lifeless body. He felt a strangling of his throat, the swelling of his eyes. It had all been so unfair—he fought the urge to weep. Even now, in death, she looked as beautiful as the day they’d met—save for the two marks upon her neck. He felt sick looking at them. He hadn’t been enough to protect her then, but he would be enough for the boy. The skies were turning purple, the golden orange fading swiftly.

“The time is now, Dorian,” the man said. He retrieved another stake from his belt. Dorian, gripping his stake, looked pale as his mother’s corpse. Together, they raised the stakes above their heads, and stood before the body, ready to strike. The skies darkened.

But the man couldn’t move. His arms froze above his head, restrained by invisible chains. He looked down at the woman, the embodiment of his heart, and felt his hands go weak. The stake nearly fell from his grasp. The purple skies were fading into dark blue.

“Father?” Dorian whispered.

The man could not speak. He lowered the stake.

Blue faded into black, into darkness.

“Father,” Dorian repeated, “we must—”

The eyes of the body opened. The pupils gleamed red.

The woman broke from her bonds as if they were made of fleece, surging forth to take the man’s throat. He stared into her lifeless red eyes—then she threw him across the room. He crashed into the wardrobe, then to the floor. Wood rained upon him. His head rang.

She then seized Dorian by the throat.

“Mother,” he rasped, prying at clawed hands. “Mother, please—”

Her grip tightened. Dorian’s face paled deeper. She bared her fangs, drawing him closer.

A gunshot. One bullet tore through her thigh. She screamed a high, inhuman wail, dropping the boy. Her hand covered her leg, though there was no blood. She whirled, staring at the man, aiming his pistol at her.

Hissing, she leapt from the bed, soaring through the air. He fired another shot that struck her in the shoulder; she crashed to the floor, wailing loud and sharp. The man leapt atop her, pinning her with his knees. She snapped at him as he raised the stake once again, high above his head. She stared up at him—and her eyes, for a flash, shone a deep, fearful hazel.

“Lenore,” the man whispered.

Her eyes widened. “Dante,” she said softly. She eyed the stake. Dante tightened his grip, his hands shaking terribly.

“Please,” she said.

“I . . .” he began, the words locked in his chest, sounding boyish to his ears. “I am . . . afraid.”

She looked at him, her eyes flooded with moonlight. Then she grinned and licked her fangs like an animal, and hazel turned to blood. A sudden, searing pain tore through Dante’s stomach—Lenore had plunged her claws into his gut. Then, in a swift motion, she slashed her hand across his face, and he was thrown back against the wardrobe again. Blood poured from his blind eye. He covered it with his hand, watching from his good eye as Lenore rose from the floor. Her gaze was crimson. Her smile was wicked. She stepped towards him, licking her fangs, outstretching her arms.

“Darling, how I’ve missed you,” she cooed. “And I can make it so we’ll never be apart ever again. Never—never—again—”

Her voice was swallowed back into her throat, silenced by the tearing of flesh, as a wooden stake erupted from her chest.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Dorian sobbed.

She gave no reply as she looked at him. First at the stake, then softly at Dorian, embracing him with one clawed hand. And faster than could be seen, she grabbed him by the face, yanked him forward, and tore her teeth deep into his throat.

Dorian stiffened. Then went limp.

Dante screamed, reaching for his pistol, but it was of no use by now. Lenore fell to her knees, loosening her grip. Mother and son fell to the floor. The man surged forth with all his strength. His stomach seared with pain, and his vision was half dark. But he picked up the boy.

“Son?” he cried. “Dorian?”

His eyes were blank, his mouth slightly ajar. Dante felt for breath, and it came, ragged and weak. Blood pooled from the wound in his neck. Beside him, Lenore’s body had gone still, colder than before. Her eyes had returned to hazel, the red flushed away.

Dante looked down at his son, moonlight seeping through the curtains. Dust hung in the air like mist. The boy’s body was going cold. His pain was numbed by rage as he lifted Dorian’s body, standing from the floor. There must be something to be done, he thought—something, someone, somewhere. He fled the bedroom, carrying the body down the hallway, down the stairs. They groaned underneath each heavy step.

He paused in the foyer, Dorian’s body in his arms. He felt his cheek—by then cold with death. His neck was painted with blood, his eyes blank. He started at the first sight of red in them.

Dante felt for breath.

Nothing.

Kneeling, Dante laid the body on the floor, brushing the hair from Dorian’s face. Then he took the stake from his belt, brought it over his head, and without any hesitation, brought it down gracelessly, embedding it deep within the boy’s chest.

There was no cry of pain, nor tears.

He sat there for a long while. His hand lay upon the chest, feeling for a heartbeat that never came, until dawn arrived, blazing the land in its warmth, its golden light burning so sweetly.