Fall into Darkness

Chapter 15: Alcohol

The first thing the two women noticed after entering the house was just how cold they were. Their clothes were still drenched and they were both shivering after stepping in from the storm. The second thing they noticed just how lived in this house still was: it was as if the Anderson brothers had just stepped out for a tick and would be returning at any moment. Though due to how adept the Andersons were at escaping the former clinic, that was likely not all that far from the truth.

The house had power and Nymphadora quickly rushed from room to room switching on lights. Most of the rooms had musical instruments thrown about and a full on drumset in the living room near the fireplace. One of the bedrooms smelled very distinctly of cannabis. But more delightfully, they discovered both an old tumble-dryer and a working shower with hot water. Bellatrix left her wet clothes with her niece to feed the tumble-dryer with and was the first to claim the shower.

The moment the warm water fell down upon her, she just felt the grime, the cold and the pain wash away. She closed her eyes, borrowed some of the shampoo and allowed herself a moment of calm. Some ten minutes later she, quite reluctantly, exited the shower so she could leave enough hot water for her niece. With a towel around her body, she made her way to the living room where she put some logs in the fireplace. She then snapped her fingers to make the logs burst into flame. For a moment, Bellatrix warmed herself by the cozy fire where Max joined her for a bit. After spending some time giving the happy dog some belly-scratches, Bellatrix hung both their coats and boots to dry close by the fire.

She sat down on the sofa and searched through her backpack, finding the tapes and the player. Just then, Nymphadora came down with two stacks of dried clothes. After getting dressed both women took seats on the twin sofas facing each other near the fireplace. The wind still howled outside the farmhouse and rain had returned. Still, the lights were on, the house was warm and felt moderately safe.

"Where'd you get those?" asked Nymphadora, motioning to the tapes Bellatrix had removed from her backpack.

"Picked them up at the lodge," said Bellatrix. "I'm hoping they'll give some insight."

"Nightingale?" Nymphadora muttered to herself while holding up one of the tapes and reading the label. "Why would Hartman have a recording about an unstable FBI agent?"

"You might have just answered your question," returned Bellatrix. "But I'm more interested in the tapes labeled Granger. If I can figure out how this contraption works."

Nymphadora motioned for Bellatrix to hand it over. With some fascination, she looked on as the younger woman fed the tape to the machine and pressed a button. A moment later, the angelic voice of Hermione, a voice she had missed so much, sounded from the machine.

"Good evening, Hermione Granger speaking."

"Ah, Dr. Granger. This is Dr. Emil Hartman. I have received your letter today and I was quite intrigued."

"Oh, thank you for calling so soon! I was impressed with your work, The Creator's Dilemma, and I was hoping your method could be helpful for my patient. Especially since you are licensed to treat magical people."

"Yes, I read your letter. Quite a laundry list. A mix personality disorders from all cluster A and C, violent and anti-social tendencies, obsessive-compulsive behaviour, anger management issues, trust issues, abandonment issues. Genius level intelligence. And, she is a de-programmed cult member, correct?"

"Indeed. Creative endevours and self-improvement have been a tremendous help for her and she has come far in rebuilding her shattered life. Creativity has been a major positive force for her."

"I see. Cooking. Painting. Music. Sculpting. Writing. Woodcarving. Knitting?"

"That's a more recent one," said Hermione on the tape.

"Knitting?" Nymphadora laughed. "Seriously?!"

Bellatrix grumbled. "Stop talking over the tape!"

"She sounds beyond multi-talented."

"She's a perfectionist by nature. You should taste her home-baked bread. It's to die for. Everything that comes out of her kitchen is."

"Your concerns are that she might be sliding back into old behaviour?"

"Some of it. You see, Be… my patient has a need to constantly challenge herself. Lacking challenge creates boredom. Boredom brings violent tendencies bubbling to the surface."

"I take you have an example of this happening?"

Bellatrix sighed and closed her eyes: she knew what was coming. The incident.

"Quite recently, in fact, It has been a particularly lazy summer in Montana and ou… my patient's house experienced a power failure, just like the entire region. Normally this doesn't bother my patient, but it unfortunately drove some rather bored teens to the streets. Including three of them which were in the mood for vandalism. My patient has an English garden and, well, long story short, three young intruders made a terrible mess. I am quite certain that, had I not intervened, she would have killed those teens. Though creativity has been a positive force in her life, in her past she had also been quite creative in the application of violence."

Nymphadora stopped the tape. "You almost killed three teenagers?"

Bellatrix huffed. "Hermione exaggerates. I would have just maimed them."

Nymphadora gave her an odd look and started the tape again.

"I would have to have an intake session with her. Would it be possible for you to bring your patient to the lodge?"

Hermione sounded hesitant. "That would be… difficult. Among other things, my patient also has severe trust issues."

"Hm," said Hartman. "Well, I might have an idea. Bright Falls is lovely this time of year. Sell to her as a holiday. I would only need her for a one morning intake to determine a treatment plan, which could involve a stay at the lodge or becoming a part of our weekly therapy sessions. She could spend the rest of the week hiking or the quiet of the forest."

"That might work," said Hermione. "I am loathe to keep secrets from her, but it's for the best that my patient keeps her focus. Especially now."

When the tape ended, Bellatrix started ahead, not knowing what to think or to feel. Betrayal? Not really, she knew Hermione loved her and wanted the best for her, that was not in question. It was more the fact that Hermione had kept all this to herself. "I… I thought Hermione would have more faith in me," she whispered, the hurt clear on her voice.

"She does," said Nymphadora. "I think that's why she approached Hartman in the first place. She thought she had exhausted her options and approached a fellow expert in the field. It's not because she didn't trust you. She didn't trust herself."

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that? Did she tell you? Did you know too?"

Nymphadora shook her head. "Only that she was working on a final report, but no details. Still, I've heard enough guilty people to recognize guilt. Didn't you hear her voice? She was wavering, second-guessing herself, worried."

Bellatrix closed her eyes, sighed and rubbed her temple with one hand. "Oh, pet… "

"There's another tape labeled Granger," said Nymphadora.

The voice of Hartman and only his voice, sounded from the recorder. "I know a woman in love when I hear one. Dr. Granger is far from unbiased in this story. She wouldn't be the first healthcare professional to fall for a patient and she won't be the last. But, her patient, this Bellatrix Black, is far more interesting. What miss Granger described to me is nothing less of a creative savant. In my experiments with the reality-altering powers of the lake entity, it has become abundantly clear that the best subjects are wizards. Though in the past non-magical folks have managed to invoke the powers of creation, magical folks are far more attuned to the reality altering powers of the lake and its inhabitant. It is as if the reality-altering powers of a wizard and the reality-altering powers of the entity interact and strengthen one another. This makes the research beyond difficult. Wizards are rare. Creative wizards are rarer still. Creative wizard savants are rarest. Creative wizard savants with the right mix of strong willpower and obsessive perfectionism are unique. Yet fate has deemed to throw one in my lap."

"Well, at least he thought highly of you," chuckled Nymphadora, before clicking in a third tape labeled Granger.

Again, the voice of Hartman spewed forth. "I should have known the lake-entity had made its move when Dr Granger and miss Black missed their appointment. It must have sensed miss Black's potential just as I did. Things are in motion. The Andersons are restless, Desole has withdrawn into herself completely and Lane… Lane's paintings are extraordinary. His paintings are a window into reality. I can see miss Black. She'll emerge in a few days, if these paintings are correct. If I am to control her, I will have to set up my own pieces on the board. Ben Mott, our very own gardener, will be the perfect pawn for the role. The man is mean-spirited, yet easily manipulated. An emotional infant who lives for approval. I see a certain similarity between him and miss Black."

Max got up from his place by the fire the moment Bellatrix had the overwhelming need to grab the nearest heavy object and throw it across the room. The ashtray shattered against the door. The dog jumped on the sofa and found himself being petted by an increasingly less irate Bellatrix. "Yeah?" she muttered. "Well, you two are dead and I am not."

"Touched a nerve, I think," Nymphadora chuckled and popped in a new tape, one labeled Nightingale.

"Ben failed to deliver. The fool forgot to ask for Black's diary. If I'm correct that little book would contain all of Black's reality-altering writings. He will try again, but I must have a contingency plan. I believe the answer lies in Robert Nightingale. A former patient of mine who still suffers from severe paranoid delusions. His FBI background will give him the clout he needs to chase down Black, if I can subtly feed him the suggestion that she is responsible for his… afflictions, I can convince him to bring Black to the clinic. The man is as determined and obsessive as Black herself. Once here, I think it best to override Black's personality with a new one. The procedure is risky, but viable. If she has been programmed by a cult before, she can be programmed again… for more beneficial purposes."

Nymphadora snorted. "Well, I for one am glad that arseface is dead. Who knows what he would have done to me too?!"

"Pumped full or medication which makes you drool all day while staring out the window," shrugged Bellatrix. Next to her, the dog wagged his tail and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ear. "Or having your personality overridden to become a test-subject for his experiments. Are you still drawing on the regular?"

Nymphadora seemed to blanche for a moment as she considered the implications, a blanching all the way from face through hair. "Yeah, let's not talk about that," said Nymphadora. She got up from the sofa and moved to the window. Nymphadora stood next to the frame, peeking outside. "Instead, how about we worry about the thing in the forest? It's tried very hard to kill us tonight."

"I agree," said Bellatrix. "It's getting bolder."

"We still know next to nothing about it," said her niece. "We came here to look for clues, remember? Been looking all over the place but so far it's been a lot of nothing. The Andersons don't strike me as people who keep records. I have, however, found something else."

Bellatrix didn't like the grin on Nymphadora's face, especially after she came back from the hallways carrying a wooden crate with unlabelled bottles. The moment she uncapped one, the smell of alcohol hit her like a slap in the face. "Ugh, what is that? Paintstripper?" Bellatrix exclaimed.

"This is good ole fashioned American country moonshine," grinned Nymphadora. "Smells like the good stuff, doesn't it?"

"That only smells good if you have no nose!"

"Come on, auntie," Nymphadora pressed. "We have no care, the night is dark and there's still a storm out. It's bloody suicide to go outside so we're stuck here until morning. Might as well enjoy ourselves. After the shit I've been through tonight, I'm gagging for a drink. You should be too."

"A drink, yes," Bellatrix crossed her arms. "Properly aged fire-whiskey, good champagne or fine wine. Not bloody moonshine. This swill might make us go blind!"

Nymphadora took a swig from the bottle, grit her teeth as it burned down and exclaimed her joy. "Oooh, that's the good stuff. But, auntie, if you're a yellow chicken too scared to lose herself to common moonshine, well…"

Bellatrix glared at her niece. "Give me that bottle."

"HAH!" Nymphadora grabbed a bottle and tossed it to her. The moment the moonshine hit Bellatrix' stomach, she felt as if she had swallowed a dumbbell. The moonshine was… something else, alright. A few sips and her vision was starting to get cloudy. A few good draughts and her entire body started to tingle. Half a bottle and the entire room was spinning. She was glad to be sitting down, especially when she saw Nymphadora tripping over the coffee table and landing face-first onto the other sofa. The sound of glass breaking and her niece cursing meant that good alcohol had been lost to the ages.

"Y-you are d-drunk," Bellatrix mocked, trying to cackle but only managing a small croak.

"N-no. No you… you… are d-drunk!" Nymphadora shot back, a big grin forming at her fantastic comeback.

Bellatrix shot back. "You've b-been among y-yanks too long. Y-you're just as… just as… just… uhm… what was I going to say again?"

"Uuuuhhhhhhh," Nymphadora squinted. "Lived here for… for three years. Anyway, you… you live here too! You ARE a yank!"

"Transplanted!"

"Traitor-brit!" Nymphadora snorted. "Go throw some… fucking tea… in the sea! Haha! Tea. Sea. Th-that…. rhymes."

Bellatrix shook her head. "Put… put on some sodding music already! Can't drink… without music."

"Pffff…" Nymphadora returned. "Why s-should I… put it on?"

"Y-you're closer to the… t-tape… recorder."

With a grunt, Nymphadora managed to push herself off the sofa, only to roll right to the ground. With some effort, she managed to grab the tape-recorder off the table with a flailing arm. "N-no good. Only H-Hartman talking. Killing me vibe."

"Tape… over there… near the drumset. T-try that one," Bellatrix slurred, her limbs becoming heavy while her niece struggled to get up from the ground and staggered towards the drumset. While her niece was on the more, Bellatrix held her hand before her eyes and swore she could count six or seven fingers. Even so, everything seemed a little… brighter. It was as if she could literally see the magical winds moving across the laylines through the house, matter and her own body.

The bottles. The same blue tint of magic shone from the bottles like a beacon. Her own stomach. Nymphadora's stomach. Both glowed bright blue.

"W-what d-did they put in this?" muttered Bellatrix. "A-are w-we drinking LSD?"

By now, Nymphadora was engaging in a mighty struggle to actually put the tape into the recorder and find the right button to start playing. Just as the music started, Nymphadora toppled onto the sofa again, with the tape-recorder landing somewhere on the floor. Nymphadora didn't care and got comfortable on the sofa.

"Oooh," Bellatrix closed her eyes and smiled broadly as she didn't recognize the song. "It's a completely new song and it's ballad…" she muttered, almost melting into a puddle right then and there.

There's an old tale wrought with the mystery of Tom

The poet and his muse

And the magic lake which gave a life

To the words the poet used

Now the muse she was his happiness

And he rhymed about her grace

And told her stories of treasures deep

Beneath the blackened waves

'Till in the stillness of one dawn

Still in its misty crown

The muse she went down to the lake

And in the waves she drowned

"I'll h-have you know... Rose M-marigold. I w-went back there," Nymphadora slurred. "To the t-tra-tra-railer park!"

"Stop tt-talking over the song!" Bellatrix hissed, a demand which was swiftly ignored. A wet tongue was dragged over her cheek again and again as Max had figured out that his new friend was too out of it to protest. "Y-you went b-back to the b-bint who got you y-your stomach pumped? Smart."

"W-wasn't h-her fault," said Nymphadora. "T-that t-thing in the woods… made her… do it. A-anyway, we kissed and m-made up. In fact, w-we k-kissed and m-made up for half… half the night!"

"Hah!" Bellatrix laughed. "Well d-done."

"I had c-coffee with her in the evening. And t-then I had c-coffee with her again in the morning!" Nymphadora adopted a big fat grin on her face while laying with her limbs sprawled out on the sofa. "Chicks dig our accepts…. Accepts? A-Accents! Yeah. Our access."

Bellatrix and Nymphadora laughed together.

"Wait," Bellatrix put a finger to her lips. "Are you sure y-you aren't the o-one who digs her accent?"

Nymphadora frowned. "Oh, ho, that's deep. Turning it on its h-head and all that. Gonna… put that in that… d-diary of yours?"

The poet came down to the lake

To call out to his dear

'When there was no answer

'He was overcome with fear

He searched in vain for his treasure lost

And too soon the night would fall

And only his own echo

Would wail back at his call

And when he swore to bring back his love

By the stories he'd create

Nightmares shifted in their sleep

In the darkness of the lake

Bellatrix huffed. "I'll… I'll have you know I could write fifteen books a year. And they'd be best books that year. And open a restaurant... get TEN Miche.. Miche... Mich... Michaelango stars! M-my food would m-making fucking G-gordon Ramsay swoon! C-cause I'm l-like a… a generational… Michaelangelo, Hartman said…. so."

"Pffft," Nymphadora snorted through her nose. "You make it s-sound like he… w-was some sort of expert!"

In the dead of night she came to him

With darkness in her eyes

Wearing a mourning gown

Sweet words as her disguise

He took her in without a word

For he saw his grave mistake

And vowed them both to silence

Deep beneath the lake

Now if its real or just a dream

One mystery remains

For it is said on moonless nights

They may still haunt this place

Bellatrix grinned. "I w-wonder what your mum w-will say when you bring a y-yank home. You know your mum doesn't like yanks."

"She never even met a yank!"

"I can s-see it now… N-nymphadora… why are y-you picking up y-yank g-girls from the t-trailer park? W-we have plenty of British girls w-who live in council houses you c-could pick up instead. You bring home a c-chavette, why not a British one?!"

"Pfff… M-mum is not v-very cosmopo… cosmo… cosomo… cosmetic… international minded."

Bellatrix grinned. "Maybe Rose is y-your Hermione, you know?"

Nymphadora frowned. "What... Rose would be involved in a torrid secret affair w-with a wild woman w-while she s-should know better? Yeah... yeah, I do like the sound of that. I'm s-such a bad girl, me!"

And now to see your love set free

You will need the witch's cabin key

Find the lady of the light gone mad with the night

That's how you reshape destiny

Wait.

Those words. That song.

And now to see your love set free

You will need the witch's cabin key

Find the lady of the light still ravin' in the night

That's how you reshape destiny

Bellatrix shot up in a moment clarity, before the drink went to her head again. It made sense. The Andersons were musicians. A band. So of course they wouldn't leave their clue behind written down on a piece of paper!

"W… wind that tape thing… back! Listen… to the s-song."

"Is fine. Is on repeat," slurred her niece, who by now was draped over the sofa like beached whale unable to move. Bellatrix waited impatiently for the tape to rewind itself and start playing again. This time, she motioned her niece to silence and listened to the song.

"I… I heard this s-story before…" Nymphadora slurred.

Thomas Zane. It all came back to Thomas Zane. But of particular note was the refrain. See your love set free. Find the lady of the light.

"Cynthia Weaver," whispered Bellatrix.

"T-that c-crazy bint going a-around town replacing all the l-lights?"

"She knows m-more," Bellatrix closed her eyes. She felt so… so sleepy. The drink. Someone about that moonshine made it more potent than it should be. Tomorrow… tomorrow they would look for Cynthia Weaver. Tonight, she would remain here on this sofa. Hermione was within reach, she knew that now, just before she unceremoniously toppled to her side and the world slipped away from her amid the sound of empty glass bottles rolling over the floor.

And then she was awake. No. No, she was sleeping. Before her was the mirror's edge of Cauldron Lake, bathed in evening red. Bellatrix made her way over the road to Diver's Isle, with Bird Leg Cabin once again in its place. This… this was the day she and Hermione had arrived.

That same blue hue she had seen after drinking the moonshine permeated her vision. It was strongest within the waters of the lake and, in that moment, she understood. The moonshine she and Nymphadora had been drinking had been made from unfiltered water from the lake.

It was surreal. She moved through the air as if walking under water. She entered the cabin and walked upstairs, seeing herself laying alone in the bed. Herself waking. Herself asking where Hermione had gone. She followed her past self. She was an out-of-body observer, a time traveller in a fever dream. This was the beginning, the night Hermione had disappeared. The mystery of what had happened during her missing week was about to reveal itself.

She watched as Hermione, her will no longer her own, walked off the jetty and fell into the lake. She watched as she saw herself dive after her. And she watched as herself emerged from the water again and dragged herself up onto the jetty. Diving after Hermione was the last vague memory of that night, the next thing was waking up in the car; everything in between was still missing.

Bellatrix watched herself as she curled up into a ball and wept, finally remembering. She hadn't been able to find her in the darkness. She'd thought Hermione had drowned. The wails, her own wails, were heartrending. The pain, the terror, the self-blame, the heartbreak.

It all came back to her.

In that moment, she had wanted to die. Bellatrix had wanted to jump back into the water, let herself sink into the depths until her body gave up so she could be with Hermione forever, down in the dark depths of the lake.

A disembodied voice, Hermione's voice. Look at the cabin. Is there someone at the window?

Hope. Hope against hope. Had it all been a nightmare? Bellatrix watched herself run up the stairs and into the cabin, to a small room on the second floor which had a small writing desk.

By then, the Dark Presence had already touched her. It knew. It knew she would do anything for Hermione. So when it had Hermione, it had her. The nightmarish entity from the lake had dug itself into her brain and made her her slave.

Bellatrix watched her younger self search the cabin with increasing panic, until that voice returned once more. She's not here. You were a fool to think so. No. She is dead. Hermione drowned. And you couldn't save her. It's all… your… fault. But! There is still hope. Cauldron Lake is a special place. It gives you the power to change things. Hermione wanted you to write. To create. To improve yourself. To better yourself. Well… here is your chance to go even further.

A dark cloud spawned and from it stepped Hermione. No. The Thing That Was Hermione, with malicious distorted voice and dark pools for eyes. But in that moment, her younger self rushed to embrace her tightly. The Thing That Was Hermione stood there, seemingly unsure of what to do until it slowly raised its arms to return the embrace in an awkward, robotic fashion. I will tell you want to do. You listened to me before. Listen to me again. You can write me back. Your deepest desires, your darkest inspirations. It can all come true.

Bellatrix yelled and screamed at her younger self not to trust this… thing. But it was to no avail. This had all happened before and she was merely an observer.

"I'll do it!" spoke her younger self as she made a grasp for her diary and her quill. "I'll write! I'll fix it! I'll bring you back to me! I'll write a story so grand, so powerful that I will reality itself bend to my will!"

"Excellent," hissed The Thing That Was Hermione.

Bellatrix looked through the round window while her younger self was frantically writing in her diary. The entire island had sank beneath the waves. They were in whatever place the Dark Presence called its home. Time was different here. Past, Present and Future all blended together. Bellatrix remembered seeing events ahead in the coming days and wove a story around them, not so much creating as she was recording. But The Thing That Was Hermione was always there, telling her where to make… changes. Where to insert her will. Where to give the Dark Presence power. Making sure Bellatrix would open the door for it.

Bellatrix wrote a book the length of a novel in that diary of hers during the week that was missing from her mind.

But, even with the fever dream in her head, Bellatrix was Slytherin enough to realize she was being deceived on some level. She managed to escape the room several times, becoming aware of the Thomas Zane books downstairs in the shoebox. She knew not how or why, but only that Zane had encountered it before. She had to bring a light into the cabin to release her before she could finish the novel and to interrupt the story before the ending, in which darkness consumed everything and everyone. Including her.

And so Bellatrix altered the story again. Adding more details, adding her escape.

Zane was weak and far away. But she had written him into the story and his diver's light was enough to set her free. Bellatrix watched her younger self woke up, confused and groggy. She staggered out of the cabin, onto the road and towards Hermione's beloved Toyota Sienna. She'd seen Hermione drive it so many times before. It couldn't be hard. With her mind still consumed by darkness and fear, she was barely conscious and perhaps not in the best state to drive. It had cost Zane even more as the man had been cast even deeper in whatever horror he now haunted. But it had been worth the price.

For Hermione, she'd do anything and sacrifice anyone. She closed her eyes as she heard the car speed off.

So that's what happened that week. Small wonder she couldn't remember. It hardly made any sense even when seeing it in front of her eyes. Perhaps that was still the influence of the alcohol. Or perhaps she had finally gone completely insane.

When she opened her eyes again, she was staring directly at the dark pools of eyes that belonged to The Thing That Was Hermione. Anger soared through her: this creature, this thing was wearing her beloved's face, speaking with her voice, moving with her grace. It befouled Hermione every second this was allowed to continue. And now it was again inches away from her. She knew it was stronger. She knew it was beyond her capabilities to destroy, especially here, but she showed no fear.

"You will be found. You will continue. And you will fall into darkness," the creature hissed in a foul distortion of Hermione's voice.

Immediately, Bellatrix was shot away like an old rubber band, forcefully ejected from the creature's realm.

When Bellatrix stirred from her alcohol-induced, two things became apparent. One, her head was pounding something fierce. Two, there was something cold and round pressing against her forehead. When she opened her eyes, she noticed the room was bathed in artificial light. Red and blue. Standing over her was agent Nightingale, his face grim. The cold thing pressed against her forehead was the barrel of a revolver. He seemed torn for a moment, contemplating if he should just shoot her and call it a day.

On the other sofa, her beached whale of a niece lay fast asleep with her hands cuffed behind her back.

Bellatrix smirked. Then smiled. And once she started laughing, the agent became even more confused.