Welcome again, my friends.  I cannot tell you how long I have been trapped in this ethereal, otherworldly realm, for indeed, I have no way of measuring the passage of time here.  There is no sun, at least, no sun that courses across the sky with each new day as it does in my native land, nor any moon to speak of, but that which illuminates the many and varied death scenes I have witnessed during my forced sojourn in this place.

You may remember me.  I am Francis Antre, the unlucky soul whose material body was stolen by the spirit of one Stephan Maval.  You may also recall the sequence of strange events which led to my being stranded here, as the Irish say, beyond the Pale, and my friend, Pere Sauvan, who, to this day, I hope, continues to chase my mortal body in the hope of exorcising Stephan Maval so that I may somehow return to the living world.  However, during the intervening time between our last meeting and this, I have not been idle myself, travelling through this unseen dimension conversing with the souls of those others who find themselves also prisoners in Limbo.  Their incarceration being eternal with no hope of escape, doomed to forever enact their deaths, doomed to forever scream repentance for sins during their lifetimes.  The stories they have told me, their stories, the stories which are the cause of their damnation, I now tell to you.  So listen, attend these tales and learn the fates of some of Eternity's inmates, and shiver at the dire warnings herein.

After the realisation of there being no method of influencing any external efforts to facilitate my release had fully impacted upon my mind, I began to wander about this Purgatory, assuming, on what basis I know not, that if Pere Sauvan achieved success I would somehow know of it.  With such thoughts in my mind, therefore, I saw no reason to stay in my immediate locale.  It was a strange way to travel, there not being any fixed day or night, nor possessing any flesh and bone body to fatigue, I walked for great lengths of time at a  stretch, covering many miles and clearly observing the local scenery as it changed far more quickly than I was previously used to.  

I was walking past a deserted beach - I would normally add 'one day' to the end of that phrase, but it possesses no meaning in this place - when I heard the sound of a man thrashing about in the churning waters of the waves.  Diverting my course to investigate (a word that now makes me smile in grim amusement, as you can imagine, for it was my insistence to investigate the Maval matter that placed me in this predicament), I saw a curious sight.  For there, obviously out of his depth in the tide water, was a man.  And more curiously, a second man also, but, before I jump ahead of my story, I shall break from this narrative and begin the tale in earnest.

The Untimely Death Of Mr Morgan Tremaine

It was decided.

He would die.

At midnight the man would die.

Sitting at his desk, the yellow light of the heavy wax candle casting long, rippling shadows over his writing, Morgan Tremaine finalised his plan to end the life of his wife's lover, having finally tried his patience too far.  It had been a small thing, he thought, as he sat back into the shadow of his chair, to trick the man into some business meeting, unaware as he was of Morgan Tremaine's knowledge of the regular meetings between himself and the other's wife.  The plan was simple, so simple, in fact, that Tremaine laughed with the irony that such a simple plan should kill and dispose of so great a writer of detective mysteries.  After the meeting, some easy and uncomplicated knife work, to dispatch the man to whatever afterlife awaited him, and the high tide to carry away the damning evidence.

That the road lead directly to the water pleased Morgan Tremaine, as he could be returned to his home soon after depositing the body and his wife would be none the wiser.  Ah, Elizabeth, his wife!  If not for her, this grim business would not be needed.  It was her nightly invitations, while he was away running his business affairs, to Mr Sommers that now forced him to take this more strict line of action.

Yes, soon all his problems would be over and this interminable man would finally be off his back, leaving him the time to deal with his unfaithful wife.  Never again would he have to listen to the snide remarks and tolerate the half laughs behind his back.

He checked his watch again, it was time.

It was imperative that events follow his plan precisely in order that the high tide carry the body out to sea, for, in order to return home at a normal hour, there must be no lengthy delays.

He left his house, heading for the park, the prearranged meeting place he had agreed with Mr Richard Sommers, the soon-to-be-late popular novelist.  There was a rain in the air, the drizzle lending, as Mr Sommers may have put it, a ‘darker, more brooding atmosphere’ to the night’s coming events.  Morgan Tremaine, a more practical man, however, thought the rain really rather useful, for there would be less people to witness this deed.  

Entering the park, he could see the gentleman (the victim, he thought with some dark amusement) waiting beneath a gas light.  This would pose a problem, he would have to move him to a darker place before he could execute (again, an internal smile) his plan.  Greeting the fellow, he began some dialogue concerning the commissioning of a new book and invited him to walk a little.  It did not take long before Morgan Tremaine decided that enough was enough and it was time to end this charade.  When they had reached a suitably secluded spot, and while the doomed Richard Sommers had his back toward Morgan Tremaine, out came the knife, a vicious kitchen blade, glinting in the moonlight.  It seemed such an easy act, with hardly any resistance, the blade cutting through flesh, finding its way between the ribs.   As Richard Sommers turned, he looked with shock into the eyes of his killer, not even wondering why, for he knew, at that moment, that this man knew of his wife's infidelity and knew he had been a fool not to have been more wary.  Indeed, the only thought that crossed his mind was that Morgan Tremaine could not possibly hope to get way with this, the Police would eventually catch him.

For the few seconds it had taken to perform his crime, Morgan Tremaine held the knife tightly, feeling the pulse of the other man's life ebbing away as the knife found his heart, feeling the heavy weight of the body falling against him and feeling the thick, warm blood running over his hand.  Releasing the handle he staggered to hold the body, not realising how heavy the corpse would be, not realising that, as the man's final breath left his body, the body would seem to become heavier still.  Lifting the body of Richard Sommers, Morgan Tremaine walked toward the cart he had used to travel to the park where, prepared to receive the corpse, a cloth had been laid out in order to catch the blood and provide some cover in case some passing person should happen to catch a look into the cart and otherwise see the body.

The night seemed to close in around him as the reality of the situation struck.  A dog barked in the distance and the moon cast an unreal pall over the scene.  With the body in his arms, he made his way to the cart.  As he walked, he happened to catch a glimpse of a reflection from a puddle on the ground.  The image made him start with an unrealised horror and he quickened his pace.

In the puddle, the image of a dead man, his arms around Tremaine’s neck, sank into the moonlight as he walked away.

Shortly after, following a minor delay while loading the dead man onto the cart, Morgan Tremaine and his ghastly cargo were on the road leaving town, toward the sea.  All seemed to be going well, he reflected, as he attempted to keep the cart at a reasonable speed.  It would not be long before this whole unpleasant business was finished.  

Suddenly, sharply drawing Morgan Tremaine back to the present, and more immediate problems, came the high pitched scream of a Policeman's whistle.  Looking around, he saw a constable running after the cart.

‘Mr Tremaine!’

Tremaine looked around him, terror numbing all thinking abilities.

Again, that call.

‘Mr Tremaine!  Can you stop your cart, in the name of the Law?  This is Officer B--.’

Had they found out already?  Had there been someone who had overheard their conversation? They were sure to find the body in his cart.  It was only hidden under a heavy sheet.  With numb, trembling hands he pulled the cart over to the side of the road.

‘My apologies for delaying you, Mr Tremaine, but we are conducting an investigation regarding the disappearance of –

(a Mr Richard Sommers)

- some jewelry, stolen some nights ago.  I was wondering if you had seen anything unusual or suspicious in your neighborhood?’

‘Jewelry?  No. No, I haven’t seen anything.’

‘Well, I just thought that, as you were passing, It was worth the asking.  Just in case.  Well, once again, my apologies for the delay.  Goodnight.’

The Officer left, leaving Tremaine slightly shaken.  He glanced at the moon and realised with dread that he may have left it too late – the tide would soon be turning.  He quickly got the horse moving again and prayed to whatever god listens to the prayers of murderers that he still had time.  As the cart rolled swiftly along, Tremaine had time to consider his actions.  It had all proceeded according to his plan; only the unexpected delay by the Policeman, and his discussion with the now deceased Mr Sommers, having added any complications.

He whipped the horse with the reigns in his hands.  His hands!  My God, the blood!  How could the Officer not have noticed?  Maybe he had, and even now, planned a trap for his return!  He would wash in the sea before he left.  Yes, he would wash away the evidence of his crime as easily as he disposed of the body.

Twenty minutes passed before he reached the beach.  With sheer horror and despair he saw that the tide had indeed turned and now ridges in the wet sand were all that remained of his plans.

II

From the distance he could hear the soft laughter of the waves as they slowly broke on the beach, mocking him with their escape from his intentions.  He must remove the evidence tonight, to keep the body longer grated on his nerves and made his flesh crawl.  The only solution was to carry the body down the beach and place it into the sea.  He removed his overcoat and pulled the body from the cart.  To carry the body to the sea he slung it over his back and pulled the arms around his neck.  With the corpse on his back, he made his way slowly to the sea.

Under the weight of the dead man, Morgan Tremaine walked slowly to the waves, regardless of the cold night’s wind and rain.

The feel of the dead flesh on his back and the still vivid memories of his death played heavily on his mind.  He nearly cried out when the wind whistled past, fearing that the dead man had spoken, cursing him in his death.  The dead man’s arms and legs seemed to tighten around his body – his eyes, still open, screamed in horror.  His hair brushed the back of Tremaine’s neck.  The dead weigh more.

When he reached the water, he waded in up to his waist in order to float the body into the current, thankful for the cold water, thankful to finally remove the dead weight.

As the cold water began to numb his legs, he tried to move the dead man’s arms.

Terror filled his mind as the arms remained locked around his throat, the legs locked around his waist.  With no thought but terror stricken panic, he tried to unlock the corpse from his back.

He thrashed.  He kicked.  He cried out in horror but still the dead man clung to him.

The water rose higher and higher as he unconsciously moved further from the beach while, in his mind, the dead man came alive and dragged him down into the black water.  He screamed and lost his footing in the shifting sand.

Cold, murky salt water filled his mouth and he swallowed reflexively.  Coughing, he tried to raise his head above the waves, but the weight on his back had shifted slightly, forcing his head back beneath the water.  He took a breath but his mouth filled once more with the burning sea water and the hair of the dead man brushed his face, again causing him to choke.  His knees buckled and he sank under the water, pressed down further by his awful burden.  As blackness took hold of his mind and weariness his body, the waves finally covered his head and the body of Richard Sommers floated above him.

The body of Morgan Tremaine sank into the moonlit water.

---x---

A gruesome way to die, I'm sure you'll agree.  Others we shall meet on our way, yet there are countless others trapped here, so numerous that, given all eternity, which I suppose I have, I could still not introduce to you even a fraction of their sorry stories.  Indeed, in this collection there are only two others.  I have tried to tell you the stories of the few most touching and chilling of my companions.  But what of you?  What has passed in your world since we last spoke?  Notice I cannot speak of it as my world anymore, even though, one day, I hope to return.  No, do not answer me.  The pain of hearing of day and night, the sun, moon and stars would torment me too much.

Come, instead, and let us walk and leave Mr Tremaine to his watery grave.  Let us, in this unchanging and shadowy place, seek to change our surroundings - not drastically, perhaps, but sufficiently to recognise a change in the lay of the land, enough to meet more damned souls and enough to realise that we are not so bound by the hideous chains of repetition which so dominate their existence.  Perhaps you can tell me of Pere Sauvan and his quest to find my body?  Again, no!  I would not hear of hopeful things!  Please, forgive me and forget I asked.

See, even after so short a time, the land changes, mountains rise and rivers flow along different paths.  I still have not fully grown accustomed to the method of transport here - one glides across the ground - though my body reports that I walk, the distance seems as naught.

Ah, look!  There is our next storyteller...

His name?  I do not know, but the words carved onto the door of his stone prison proclaim that once - and still?  who knows? - one Emmanuel Gias lay here.  Why? you ask.  Why does this unfortunate rest, if that can be the word, in a tomb raised for another man?  A question, I think, best left for he himself to answer.  Come, let us knock and pry him from his torment for some short time.  Come.

The Lengthening Shadow

Once, when I was but a child, I happened to find an old knife.  Feeling quite the brave adventurer I played among the overgrown weeds of my grandmother’s garden, cutting down the pretend jungle in order to reach some lost castle.  As I played and grew bolder with my blade, I slipped on some wet leaves and fell, the blade cutting my hand and drawing blood.  With the stalwart bravery of any eight year old I did not cry, pretending instead that the wound was, in fact, some heroic injury to be borne with pride and courage.  But this did not stop me from returning to the kitchen and safety of my grandmother’s care earlier than I otherwise would have.

As I stood at the large kitchen table, waiting for her to tend to my injury, she busied herself finding some suitable dressing and boiling some water – for what purpose I did not know and did not want to think about, fearing the stinging that would inevitably follow the cleaning of the cut.  After some time my grandmother came over to the table and with the reassuring tones of any grandmother began to inspect the wound, while at the same time rebuking me for my carelessness.  As she worked and I stood sullenly looking at my feet, she began to tell me of the dangers of letting blood run freely from an open wound, becoming angry with me as she became more passionate in her scolding.  Looking up at me, she seemed to freeze as she stared at me.  With no warning she slapped my face, telling me to clean my face and to wash out my mouth.  For what reason I, at the time, had no idea, but she seemed very cross – and afraid? – that I had, when the cut was fresh and bleeding, licked the red blood from my hand and sucked at the incision to stop the bleeding.  Of the strict talking to, the only word I can now fully recall is ‘Wamphyie’ – the vampire!  Indeed, it was that scolding and that incident which, I believe, led to my incarceration, many years later, in this wretched place.

So much for the beginning of this story – I shall skip to the end; the part, I am sure, that you are waiting for anyway.  I will pass over the details of my adult life as, germane though they are to this story, they would take up too much of your time.  Perhaps if you are ever passing this way again I will tell you of the foolishness which culminated in the situation where this story starts.

How I regret those decisions I made, the absence of sanity and the heights of terror to which I scaled during that final, decisive meeting with Salvatoré Bey in that remote, desolate castle, that fateful night so long ago.  For my part, I must mention that all of the previous encounters and situations which led to my downfall were careful constructions of that madman Salvatoré Bey, but I must also confess, that the final choice and actions were mine and mine alone.  God!  How I wish it could be undone, but it is not to be – and so I will continue, but please forgive me if I lapse from this narrative from time to time to curse the devil Bey and my own stupidity.

I, and I alone, picked up the crystal glass from the offered tray.  I, and I alone, raised the glass of thick red liquid to my lips.  I, and I alone, drank deeply of the blood of the vampire Salvatoré Bey.  I, and I alone!

The sweet liquid, so unlike any wine, slid down my throat, settling in the pit of my stomach and, sitting there, becoming a vile, tainted thing, began to course through my being.  The true and very real horror of what I had done filtered through to my besotted brain and I began to feel fear as I have never felt before.  I retched violently and emptied myself of the atrocious contents of my stomach.  But still I felt the remnants of that awful liquid coating my innards with its ghastly self.  The last thing I remember, before waking, was the encroaching blackness and the terrible laugh of Salvatoré Bey.

I awoke.

Darkness.

I opened my eyes.

Darkness.

I tried to move but found my arms pinned to my side with very little room for movement.  I seemed to lie between two walls and could only move my arms up, away from my prone position.  I was lying down and could feel the heat of my own breath against my skin, reflected from the roof, scant inches above my face.  My head lay on a soft pillow and with crushing terror I realised I lay in a coffin!

In recent years there had been a growing fear, fueled by the ever more prevalent terror-mongering pamphlets published by certain ill-informed, publicity seeking inventors – or, rather, failed doctors, perhaps, being a more accurate description of these macabre ‘Humanists’; intent solely on promoting their own fantastic devices, and their own fame, to an increasingly worried market – of that most timeless of mortal dreads – being buried alive.  How, now though, I wished that even one of the supposedly life-saving features of those preposterous caskets were present.  I, even before proper, rational thought broke into my mind, began to imagine, and picture, the grotesque death that awaited me – the hopeless, horrific final struggle – the destruction of my own hands in that hideous sub-terranean room – the finger nails mashed and pulped in the frantic scrabble against the hard, unyielding wooden ceiling and the descent into a more monstrous occurrence – self cannibalisation.  I had read, yes, in those same articles I found so repulsive, of how those unlucky enough to revive post-interrment had actually resorted to consuming their own fingers – whether through the sheer insanity of their tortured minds or the more awful, and fully aware, necessity to sustain oneself, I do not know.  I knew that I intended, however, that this should not happen to me – in the same way, I am sure, that countless wretched souls before me have also determined, in the same circumstances – and I grasped the thought that I might be saved, that some passerby might hear my pathetic struggling and alert the groundskeeper that I might be spared the agonies of that loneliest of deaths.

As these fleeting terrors crowded my thoughts, action also took part in the events and I pushed upwards, preparing to take the great strain of the weight of the earth above, prepared to engage in that coming struggle – thus it was that I found with a great relief (which I cannot adequately convey nor which you can possibly appreciate) that the lid was not nailed down and that I was not, in fact, buried beneath the ground.

I felt weak and numb, the ordeal only having lasted a few seconds but seconds during which I thought I would surely die alone and suffocated within that wooden box.  I sat up, almost laughing at the image I must have portrayed to any witness of that strange, macabre awakening.  The image of the classic vampire, rising at night from his daytime slumber, so absurdly portrayed in the new cinematographs.  I remember checking, with some grim amusement, that I had not been dressed in evening wear.  These, however, were only the hysterical reactions of my confused mind.  The terrible reality was that I had tasted the blood of a vampire and awoken in darkness – inside a coffin!

The room in which the coffin lay was of stone construction, in the centre of which stood a stone bier, the coffin on top.  Next to my coffin lay another, and in a cold rage I assumed it was that of Salvatoré Bey.  There still remained within me a streak of humanity and, horrified though I was at the thought, I decided to open that coffin and kill the creature that had so trapped me.

Climbing out from my own coffin I could see that the stone room had no exit, or rather, none that I could perceive although all around, between the top of the walls and the roof, there was a space of perhaps twelve inches, filled at equal intervals with sturdy looking iron bars.

I could also perceive that the sun outside had not set – the room was quite light, basked as it was by the sun shining through the bars, the shadow of the wall slowly stretching across the floor, leaving, at the moment, the coffins in light.  I crossed to the coffin beside me and prepared to lift the lid, holding my strained nerves in check against what I would see.  Indeed, I had not considered what action I should take to kill the sleeping body of Salvatoré Bey so it was, in all honesty, somewhat of an anticlimax, and a relief, when, after pushing aside the coffin lid, I saw, not the recumbent form of that undead beast, but the rather decayed, and very dead, fleshless skull of what was the rightful occupant of this very real coffin.  The relief that flooded through me at the escape from having to fight a supernatural foe quickly evaporated, to be replaced by almost abject terror when I finally realised that my predicament was, in some way, even worse than before.  For now I realised that I was trapped within what could only be a crypt with no reassurance of my escape or rescue – with only the skeleton of a deceased man as company.

Wild, animal instincts for survival rose in my mind, the most primitive areas of the brain which control such emotions being taxed to their very limit.  My nerves shattered, and all reason gone, I began frantically to search for some exit from this hideous room.  I had no idea how long I had been in that box – surely not long enough to suffocate, that much was obvious, but I must have been placed there during the previous night, unless, of course, that devil Salvatoré Bey had some wholly human henchmen to move about in the sunlight for him.  I had been, unconsciously, staying within the comforting and familiar sunlit areas of the tomb, an irrational fear of that slowly advancing wall of shadow feeding the terror which now seemed to remain with me perpetually.

Closer and closer came the blackness.  Closer and closer came the night.  I huddled pathetically into a corner still illuminated by the golden light.  Huddled and shivering, half gibbering with fear, I waited and watched the progress of time as more and more of the flagstones which made up the floor were eaten by shadow.  I recall a bird cry in the twilight, sounding like an evil trumpeter heralding the charger of Death.  I tried to gather my wits and attempted to summon the courage to face the night.  It was a raven I tried to convince myself .  Only a raven (only that and nothing more, my panicked mind added maliciously).  I stifled a short hysterical laugh at my own poor joke and quickly pulled my feet toward me, noticing that, during my mind’s rambling thoughts, the black line of shadow had crept upon me unaware.

Eventually the sun set and blackness surrounded me.  I had no idea what was to happen to me but I remained huddled in my corner, one wary eye trained on the occupied coffin.  Perhaps Salvatoré Bey would save me from this place.  A mad rush of hope that my captor would save me only served to plummet me to new depths of despair when I realised that I would exist as a member of his abominable race.  A vampire!  Afeared of the sun and despised by Man.  But, I reasoned in a rare moment of clarity, how could this be?  The sun had not troubled me before it sank beneath the horizon and I felt no different now than I ever did.  No, it must be that his evil plot to convert me had failed.  Of course, I had disgorged myself of his foul essence so, surely, I would be saved that vile destiny.

Suddenly, the bright silvery light of the moon broke through the clouds and shone brilliantly into the crypt.  I stood up and walked into its cold illumination, feeling myself gain strength from its presence.  I felt such joy and exuberance, standing there bathed in that strange light.  I felt a power building within me and a triumphant surge of feeling following the strength sapping terror I had endured.

No wall of stone could contain me, I may have screamed my defiance at the unyielding walls, noticing as I did so all of the fascinating sounds I now heard.  Birds, insects, in all things I seemed now to find new pleasure.  In sight, too, my perception grew in clarity and precision.  Things which otherwise would be overlooked now held such detail for me.  And yet, somewhere in the deepest part of my mind, I still knew fear and desperately tried to warn myself.

As I felt these new powers building within my body there was suddenly a second feeling.  The newly growing strength seemed to subside and falter as though some unknown force had opened a valve and released all of the vital energy behind it.  I fell to the floor, gasping for breath as I recovered.  Lying there, in the light of the moon, I wailed a pitiable sound, like a frightened child or a wounded dog.  I had no strength and when I stood I felt off balance and sick.  I cursed myself for my inaction during that time of strength.  Perhaps I could have broken the walls of this place and left, but now it was all I could do to barely stand.  I had not become a vampire – could not have – I felt nothing save as any mortal man may feel – I had vomited out the blood of the vampire, and, perhaps,  so lost the potency of its draught.  Yet still within me, remained a small quantity of that brew.  It must have been that which had imparted me with but a feeling of vampirism but not enough to entirely convert me.

I remained the rest of the night in surprisingly good spirit, for even though I still had to find some way out of this prison, I took comfort in the fact that I had not been made other than human.  I waited for the night to pass, following the strip of moonlight as it passed across the floor, but no longer fearing the shadow which followed it.  In fact, the shadow now seemed to hold more appeal as I could easily discern the features of the room within it.

I thought through the night’s strange events, although a disquieting thought kept interrupting my thinking.  I had drunk the blood of a vampire and, although I had removed it from my system, I had drunk it and, surely, some remained within.  And, if that was the case, what did it mean?  And why did my mind, even now after passing through the terrors of the night, keep returning that thought to me?

Less than an hour later I discovered why!

Waiting in my tomb, calmly waiting for the day, I happened to look up at the bars and the sky beyond.  It had become lighter with the rosy tints of the pre-dawn.  And this sight, beautiful though it was in some small part of my brain, struck fear anew into my very soul.

The golden glow of the sun’s rays eventually brightened the sky and I, suddenly terrified of being struck by those rays, again hid within the shadows, watching, this time, the light of the day creep across the floor.  I realised then the vampire’s hideous nocturnal preference and also realised that the sun, nemesis to the true vampire, also hated that which I had become.  Not human, but partly vampire – just as damned, just as ghastly and just as capable of being destroyed by the natural sunlight that even now inexorably crawled across the floor.

Again I huddled into that corner in which, the previous day, I had struggled to remain in the feeble sun’s last rays.  Only now I hid from the brilliant rays of the new day and the utter destruction which must shortly follow.

---x---

Vampires!  I, myself, would have laughed at the absurdity of such a notion had not the very reality of the supernatural been made so shockingly true to me by my own terrifying experiences.

Come, dear friend, you have become silent.  Surely you are not shocked already?  Surely you have the stomach for one more tale?  But, be warned, the next story is far more shocking, far more terrible for it concerns a far more gruesome subject.  Gather your wits while we walk to visit the unfortunate Michel Gral.

I have said several times already, and lamented it countless times during my travels in this realm, that time has no meaning here.  Those dwell in this place simply appear, when their time is done on Earth, or rather, in the Real World, as I stress it.  Their physical bodies may die, but their damned souls live on, not in the peaceful rest that Men hope for, but here in this limbo, forever living out their final sin until that blessed Judgement Day releases them from their torment.  Thus it will be seen what lies ahead for the unfortunate Michel Gral.  Again, I must warn you that his story is one of insanity and absolute horror, his actions damning him eternally, even though it was no conscious actions on his behalf which led him here, but rather the terrible consequences of his overwrought brain.  So, I ask you again – are you certain you wish to meet Michel Gral and learn the horrid depths to which depravity can drag a man?  Yes?  Then, very well.  Look, beyond that iron fence.  Take in the scene that now stands before us.

There is a house, a cottage really, made of stone in a typical country style, climbing plants covering both of the side walls, a small path leading from the gate to the front of the house.  The path also leads off to the left and to a small wooden barn.  Between the house and the barn in a large area of earth, part of which is ploughed into straight furrows – the plough for which is stood to one end of the field, a sturdy construction of iron, designed to be pushed by the operator.  The stems of old roses, their flowers, black of the darkest hue in this realm’s strange light, strewn on the black earth, lie broken and twisted.  There is, however, motion in this garden.  Two men, locked in eternity, struggle to wrestle each other to the ground, the exertion of the fight evident on their faces.  Neither seems to gain advantage over the other – certainly it was different in life – but both fight on, gruesome determination and hatred allowing no quarter.

There seems to be little way for either of them to tell their story, so I shall narrate to you the tale of the Garden of Red Roses.

The Garden Of Red Roses

There was a man known as the grower of the most beautiful white roses in the region.  Every year at the local flower exhibition he won first prize for his roses.  No one could match his flowers for their pure colour, freshness or bouquet.  Every year the judges and other competitors watched in awe, and with no small amount of envy, as he brought forth yet more examples of his expertise, the number of flowers, for example, far surpassing, on any one vine, the number of flowers on any one else’s exhibits.  They clapped and cheered, more out of politeness and good manners, as again, as every year, he walked away with the winner’s ribbon.

Some people, in fact, usually those who had been beaten in the competition, rumored, when he wasn’t about, that perhaps he cheated, or others, more envious still, spoke of enchantments and magic, or other, even more fanciful speculations as to how one man could so consistently win the first prize.

One day, however, these rumor mongers spoke too loudly and freely and the flower grower overheard their whisperings and accusations.  Cursing them all that he would, this year, win again – not with his usual white roses, but with any other flower, of their own choice, he left them alone to decide.  The next day they came to see him and informed him that they wished him to enter the competition to exhibit yellow roses.  In his arrogance, he laughed at them, claiming that he would, surely, easily win again if all they wanted him to do was to change the colour and nothing else.

All year the flower grower worked in his garden, preparing his soil and smiling to himself how easily he would win again.  During the planting season, he began experimenting with various seeds, feeding and nurturing his plants in order to achieve the desired colour.  But, try as he might, the only colour rose that bloomed was white.  He tried many different methods and many different combinations of cuttings but still could product no colour other than that which he was famous for.

One day, growing angry and careless with his lack of success, he cut his hand while pruning a small rose shoot.  It was not a deep cut so he paid it no heed and did not think twice about the few small drops of blood which fell and soaked into the soil besides the roots of the small plant.  With growing apprehension he waited until the small bush had grown and was ready to put forth its flowers.  With growing anxiety he checked every morning to see if his hard work had yielded the yellow rose he so coveted.  Again, he was disappointed to find that still he had no yellow flowers but was perplexed as to how the flower which had bloomed could have so come into being.  For there on the rose bush were several white flowers, each with several small pink spots on them.

For many days and nights he tried to understand what had happened, growing more agitated at his failures and the knowing, self satisfied half-smiles on the faces of his competitors.  One night as he washed his hands, he remembered the small drops of his own blood that had fallen near the roots of the rose bush.  With almost maniacal glee he rubbed his hands together and laughed, still unsure as to what exactly had occurred, but positive that he now had some way of producing roses with a colour other than white.  In the middle of the night, he immediately went outside to his garden and found another small shoot which he planted near the bush which had brought forth the spotted flowers.  Fearing to cut himself deliberately, and tormented that he may not be able to reproduce his former results, he looked around for some other source of the strange nourishment his plant required.  It was unfortunate that a neighbour’s cat crossed his garden at that moment, not only for the animal itself but also for what was to come.

Seizing the creature, and half mad with torment, he cut the small animal’s throat, allowing the body to drain itself of its vital liquid onto the roots of the newly planted shoot.  Over the next few weeks he became convinced of the idea that the ground itself had demanded the – what? –  Sacrifice? Who knew?  And who cared?  All the flower grower wanted was to grow anything but that damned white rose which had made his life so miserable, and so he waited, and watched, occasionally answering his neighbour that no, he had not seen their cat recently, all the while a strange smile playing about his lips.

When the first flower bloomed from that bush, he was there to inspect it, and with a triumphant joy he saw a bloom of wholly pink roses.  It was the day before the competition and so he carefully dug the bush from the soil and replanted it in a pot he could take with him to the exhibition.  In his fervour to produce anything but white roses, he had quite forgotten the original challenge to exhibit yellow roses and, even if he had not forgotten, he would have cared no more about it, now he had this beautiful pink flower to show instead.

At the exhibition, careful not to explain how he had achieved this effect, he displayed the rose bush with its pink flowers.  But the other flower growers had not forgotten their challenge and so they laughed at him and his rose bush saying, to his face, that he had lost his ability to grow roses and scorned his work.  The flower grower grew angry at their tauntings and left the exhibition vowing to return the next year with the fullest, most luscious roses of the brightest, deepest red; no one at the meeting realising what he meant with his final sentence, not knowing the dreadful and horrific meaning contained in the words ‘the very mud demands it!’

Over the course of the next year,  few people saw the flower grower, content to leave him to his eccentric and odd behaviour.  Content to leave him to the fevered ploughing of his rose garden, content to leave him alone completely, for the townsfolk had their own more serious concerns.  There had, over the last several months, been several disappearances – children, pets and adults had been missing for some time, with no evidence as to why this was happening.  No clues had been found to their whereabouts and no clues as to why they were gone were forthcoming, despite the investigations of the local policeman Michel Gral.

The time for the local flower competition had come around again and, although there was a despondent atmosphere due to the unsolved disappearances, the townsfolk looked forward to the exhibition, even if only to bring some joy, for some small time, into their lives.  Discordant to the subdued feelings generally demonstrated by the townsfolk, the flower grower, who had been largely ignored all year, seemed filled with joy, but a joy that seemed to have a malicious edge to it.  All waited for him to unveil his plants and all waited with curiosity to behold what he promised, last year, to be truly breath-taking.

Indeed, they were not disappointed.  The flower grower had excelled, and even surpassed his own high standards.  The flowers on his roses were a rich, dark, blood red, their petals full and fresh. He watched them file past his display, even occasionally smiling a cruel, thin smile as particular competitors came to smell his roses.  The aroma was a heady, rich bouquet, earthy and tangy – a smell familiar to all but none could even guess what gave the flowers their quality.  There was one peculiarity to the rose bushes on display, however, though no one thought it worthy of attention when seeing such flowers.  It was a strange peculiarity that had troubled the flower grower himself, but not so much that he thought it too strange to exhibit such lovely plants.  Each rose bush only yielded one rose and that slightly drooping as if solemnly bowing.  There had been seven disappearances around the town over the past year but none thought it strange that there were seven rose bushes on display – for how would anyone think that was strange?

Later that evening, after everyone had gone home, to return in the morning for the judges to award the prizes, the caretaker was cleaning around the exhibits.  When he approached the flower grower’s stall and his seven beautiful roses, he stopped to smell them, taking in their heady fragrance.  Thinking it to be of no concern he carefully clipped one of the roses from its stem, thinking to make a gift of it to his wife.  From the stem of the rose welled a red liquid which dripped from the end like a bloody limb.  As the caretaker watched a small pool accumulate on the floor, he also noticed the same red liquid running freely from the stump left on the bush.  With shaking hands he touched the liquid.  It felt sticky and thick between his fingers and, with horror, he realised what it was.

The caretaker dropped the rose and fled from the room, leaving the now perfectly white rose lying in a deep, dark, pool of red blood!

Frantically, the caretaker ran to fetch Michel Gral, almost pulling him to the exhibition room where the rose had fallen.  The policeman inspected each rose and found them all to be the same – living white roses, swelled up with the blood that they had absorbed.  Without thinking Michel Gral ran to the house of the flower grower, a sick, mortal fear gnawing at his mind as to what he would find there.  As he approached the house he could hear sounds coming from the garden.

He crept slowly around to the side of the house, his heart thumping loudly within his chest, the beating almost drowning out the sounds from the garden.  It was late at night and the darkness made it difficult to see details but it was all too clear that it was the flower grower using his hand driven plough that was making the noise.  What was he doing at this time of night?  Michel Gral did not know, but soon found out when the flower grower stopped to change direction.  The horror that filled Michel Gral’s mind was almost too much to bear and he nearly cried out when he saw the flower grower begin to place human arms and legs, chopped from the torso, into the strange device fixed above the plough.  It was then that Michel Gral realised that the noises emanated not from the plough itself, but from the grinder that was fixed above it!

Choking back the tears and trying to control the revulsion, Michel Gral crept up on the working flower grower, the pistol in his belt giving him the extra strength needed to overcome the terror that threatened to engulf him.

The fight did not last long.

Michel Gral quickly overpowered the flower grower, but as they fought images and thoughts kept filtering into his mind.  How many had died to feed this garden of death?  How much blood had been ploughed into the earth?  How, in God’s name, could a man do such a thing?  As they fought, the raw, terrible emotions building within him, Michel Gral would be satisfied with nothing less than this man’s death, not at the hands of Justice but here, now, surrounded by his hideous crime, at the hands of the man who had stopped him.  With his hands around the flower grower’s throat, Michel Gral began to crush the life from him, the terrible rage fed by the absolute horror of what he had witnessed.  The flower grower began to weaken, the end must be soon.

No!  Not so easily!

Michel Gral, insanity in his eyes, released the man’s neck, dragging him across the blood soaked ground.  All reason and humanity having left him, and with no emotion on his face, he began to feed the flower grower into that awful machine – pushing, pushing it slowly and deliberately across the soil.

The blood, running freely now from the plough, soaked into the earth and the flower grower struggled no more.  As the flower grower died, so some semblance of thought returned to Michel Gral.  Sickened by his actions and overwrought by the ordeal, he sank to his knees in the wet earth.  Overcome by a sudden wave of guilt and fear, he slowly raised his pistol to his head and with one swift motion he fired the fateful bullet into his own brain that sent him screaming to this eternal damnation!

---x---

 Rain, I miss the rain.  But perhaps, in this place, it would be a kindness not to be afforded.  Perhaps, with enough rain, the blood soaked earth of the rose garden would be washed clean; yet, all the rain that ever fell, and is yet to fall, would not wash Michel Gral’s soul of his crime, nor the flower grower’s of his, although his soul, I am sure, was sent directly to the inferno, for he does not reside here.  God!  How I wish to feel the rain again, wish to feel anything at all, wish to return to the Real World, wish to die an old man, peacefully in my sleep.  One day.  One day.

But enough of my despair.  You, my friend, the stories are over, the tales are told.  What of your thoughts?  You have met Mr Tremaine and his watery death.  You have met the tomb dweller and heard his tale.  You know of Michel Gral and his horrible secret.  Tell me then, which is worse – who is the most worthy of damnation?  And tell me of yourself, how you came to this place – surely, a tale in itself?

But, as you do, walk again with me – accompany me back along the way.

Brezzenshire – where I entered this horrid realm, full circle to await my release –

My God!  What is this?

No!  No!

Oh, God!  Is this a trick?  Do not let this be so!

Look, for God’s sake, look at that stone – read it!

  Pere Phillipe Sauvan

          1846-1909

   ‘Only one man will

    know his sorrow at

failure’

An old man!  Has it been so long?  Oh, God!  Oh, God!

Falling to his knees at the grave of Pere Sauvan, the shade of Francis Antre wept in grief, the burning tears of the damned running down his face with the knowledge he was trapped forever!

FIN