It was a late winter's night when the wind outside billowed threateningly against the window panes of the lonely rustic abode, hidden by many rolling white hills and surrounded by ancient woodland through which a solitary man had once made winding paths to the distant village whence he would trek for provisions. By the light of the wax candles which surrounded a pile of scattered papers, a slouching figure poured over the manuscripts which he been recently been sent by his agents – men of diverse character whose duty was to traverse foreign lands in search of the cryptic letters which so entranced him. The nature of these volumes, folios, and scrolls was esoteric, kabbalist, alchemic, and folkloric dissertations as one so inclined might imagine to contained the mysteries of the universe ready to be unraveled by a discerning mind with many idle hours to spare. In his youth, Vasarius had been raised for a practical life of commerce, which little suited his pedant's nature but was with some success managed due to his perseverance and sense of duty. At the age of four and sixty, having served his penance and raised a sufficient fortune to sustain him for the time that he estimated remained to him, Vasarius retired from the bustling crowds of London to a remote region of the countryside, all but abandoned since the nearby quarry had fallen into disuse.
He then proceeded to hire a troop of able men from the village to assist him in raising a small but comfortable drystone hut which would become his place of refuge to pursue his studies undisturbed. Moreover, the legends surrounding the area could not help but hold a certain attraction for him, telling of unaccountable deaths of livestock and disappearances. With passing years of mingled eagerness and fear, he awaited the horror to visit his own herd animals, which he would sacrifice not without reluctance, for it was his nature to feel pain of both men and beasts alike as that of a fallen kinsman.
In the hours of daylight, he guilelessly imaged the visitation would be much like being called on by a long awaited guest, a relative who one had not seen for many years but was on most familiar terms with since childhood. It excited his fancy to think that one of the pages which had laid on his well-worn desk had already told him the history and the nature of the being, and of such conjectures he had many, aligned as best as wit could manage to the details of tall tales which came to him from the village.
On the fateful night that it happened, the solitude of the abode made every sound echo strikingly in his ears, anything but the screech of an owl or the rustling of a fox was felt to be amiss, and the other signs of nature that surrounded him for the decade for which he had called the place his home told him that it was one not of their number. Whether such conjectures were made in hindsight by his horror-stricken fancy, it could only be guessed, yet such a wail was heard from the field that he donned his coat in a hurry and rushed outside into the biting cold of the night, sending his heart pounding in his chest. In his hand swung a great lantern, yet little good it did him, for he could discern but a faint silhouette of a lone cow which seemed to struggle to support itself in its agony. As he approached, with a firm grip upon the cold steel of a fire-poker, he could see two small holes upon its flank, watching as they grew bigger and bigger as though the wound was being torn open by some invisible force. To the surprise of the beholder, the he cow made no attempt to flee, only its lowing grew fainter as its strength diminished by the loss of blood. By some instinct, Vasarius struck out with the fire-poker at the space by the wounds, for it seemed to him that a particular coldness hovered there, an abysmal aura which sent shivers down his spine, a sensation he could find no words for. As he swung the steel rod, he uttered a scream as he felt it meet a solid form, one that appeared before him in the semblance of a man. Vasarius staggered back at the sight of the apparition, dropping the lantern as every inch of him recoiled from the motionless form which lay before him on the grass.
At once, the dun cow made as though to run but soon collapsed in a heap as its attacker had done - its body appeared emaciated to Vasarius, as if by many weeks of near starvation, and he knew that there was little that he could do to save it from its untimely death. With a still palpitating heart, he turned his gaze back to the frost-covered grass where lay what appeared to be a human figure of moderate stature, its long black hair scattered over its shoulders and its stiff blood stained hands evoking the thought of a demon's claws. Its face was obscured, buried in the snow, as were its legs, hidden by a long cloak.
Gathering his courage, driven by a certain morbid curiosity and a sense of duty to his profession - the research to which he vowed the remnants of his mortal life, the old scholar took up the iron rod and prodded the body to see if there was life in it still, so motionless it lay. Upon the snow he could discern blood coming from the gash Vasarius had given it upon the skull, leaving it quite unconscious, so he surmised.
Mildly assured of his safety, the hermit proceeded to lift the body and examine its face in the light of the lantern, the flame of which had luckily survived the fall. Adjusting the candle, he held it close to the ashen-faced figure, its mouth and neck smeared in scarlet. The character of the slender visage took on cadaverous qualities which Vasarius attributed to the sunken cheeks, slightly aquiline nose and thin lips which had a certain bluish hue, whether from the cold winter's night air or otherwise. These lips, slightly parted, revealed long pointed canines which both unnerved and satisfied the man, who considered what risks he had taken to confront the being in order to make the discovery. If he were to find but an ordinary bandit he would have been much disappointed and far less daring, for there was something about unnatural dangers that made him less fearful for his mortal life and more so for his spiritual one, as though such phantasms had only a passing interest in the corpulent and were not averse to bargaining.
These thoughts were of course but whimsy and conjecture, never had he encountered anything untoward in all of the years that he had lived, nor did he doubt that his documentation of such an episode would hardly be believed without evidence. Another side of him considered how little desire he had for frivolous sensation and bringing the world's eye upon himself, wishing only to know for knowing's sake of the existence of a world beyond that of natural perception. He was uncertain as to where such creatures as this belonged in the hierarchy of creation and how many men had laid eyes upon them, only that before him was decaying proof of something which once belonged in the realm of folklore.
Vasarius was still greatly hesitant to remain too close to the other, lest his unconscious state was but a ruse, but with a significant exertion of will, he raised the body and managed to drag it into the hall of his cabin, a part of him feeling apologetic for the unceremonious way in which he maneuvered his prize through the door. His next step was to clear his dining room table, which most often served as work desk but for a small corner where a cup and saucer had been left from supper, and draped it with a cotton sheet which gave the appearance of an operating table.
This done, he proceeded to carry all of the candles which he could find scattered about the house to illuminate the room and the body which he had, with no small struggle, deposited atop of the table. His writing instruments, a bundle of parchment, and an assortment of improvised operating tools he gathered as well in preparation of the work, the nature of which he had but a vague idea, brought to the forefront of an excitable mind caught between the urge to dash the fiend into the fireplace and extol him as a fallen deity.
Taking a brass basin of water, he gently washed the clotted blood from the man's wound, which upon closer inspection appeared much less severe than he had originally believed when he recalled the first sight of it by the lantern's light. He continued to wash the face and neck as an archeologist might remove the dirt from an ancient monument, holding the promise of reward for a life's work. He examined its features minutely, as well as the clothing that it wore, which seemed not unlike that of a well to do country gentleman. Carefully, he removed the coat and examined the high collar shirt with its fine embroidery of intricate motifs, then the leather riding boots, which he set down on the floor beside the table. He felt embarrassed then, as though he had attacked an innocent man and was in the process of robbing him of his clothing in store for the pawn shops. Vasarius shook his head at the absurdity of the idea and turned his eyes back to the teeth, which reassured him of the strangeness and reality of what he had seen, and also of the justice of the blow which the being had sustained from venturing into the kabbalist's fields.
The passing of time had some effect upon his resolve, no longer fearing the sudden plunging of teeth and claws into his person, and so he allowed himself to press his ear to the other's heart, which seemed to beat not at all. Feeling his pulse, and the icy coldness of the hand itself, the hermit was affirmed in the belief that the writing of his predecessors did no err in the details describing the physiology of the caste of creature which he presumed to have under his roof. Their guidance and precautions he then resolved to follow to the detail, including soaking a blanket in holy water and draping it over the body in the case that it should awaken and rise from the table with the semblance of life while the master of the house lay asleep.
Vasarius was reluctant to leave the body unattended as he went in search of the items he sought and was relieved to find it still as he had left it. He wasted no time in covering the legs and torso of the creature, and only then did he allow himself to slouch back into a chair, wringing his hands at what he ought to do. He felt nearly overcome by the stress upon his nerves from the happenings of the disturbed night and struggled much against sleep, whose beckoning he could only fight off by focusing on his fears, the startling phantasms which danced before him, showing him his own untimely death. It was one of the rare times when he questioned the wisdom of his purpose, whether perhaps it was at odds with his desire for peace, as it had that night crossed from the realm of the theoretical into that of the tangible. His thoughts were therefore fixed upon the necessity of a vigil all the while that the moon shone, permitting rest only in the safety of daylight.