This story was originally written for a yahoo group Halloween challenge. Requirements were: mentioning Halloween, mentioning vampires and/or werewolves, writing a scary story.
I would like to thank ProfessorWannabe for prodding me into translating it. Her kind help, patient support and firm but gentle insistence helped the story to grow and blossom.
"Nocturne" will be posted in three parts. Reviews are always welcome.
Nocturne Part I
The seven-year-old boy was shivering with cold. The wind was blowing through his thin white nightshirt as he put one bare foot carefully before the other. The moss was unpleasantly cold, moist and spongy and every now and then thin branches pierced through the soft soles of his feet. He sobbed once and looked around.
Around him were just a few trees, they were thin and bare with long branches which resembled the legs of spiders. The ground was mostly covered with moss, here and there few patches of grass, naked earth. He could see headstones – many headstones but there was no path he could have followed.
He felt very lonely and did not know for how long he had been walking around aimlessly. He looked around him again, knew he was deserted but certainly not alone. Yet, whatever was watching him from beyond the mist, it was not human. He felt that very distinctly. He felt how it lurked ... waited. Again he sobbed. He knew what his father would say.
Pull yourself together, boy.
But he was only seven years old. He wanted to go home. He wanted to lie in his bed with a cup of hot chocolate. He wanted to listen to his grandmother reading him a bedtime story. This was all he really wanted. Yet here he was, and this place was not good. He did not want to stay here and a voice told him it would not be wise to stay if he did not want something very bad to happen. How was he supposed to find his way home if he did not know how he had gotten here in the first place?
With a sleeve of his nightshirt he wiped the tears from his face which seemed to flow more readily the longer he stayed in this place. The sleeves were damp and stained. His father would be very angry with him.
"Severus, follow me." A whisper echoed from everywhere.
The small boy froze in terror.
"Come on. Be a good boy," the voice lured softly.
It was not a benign voice. It was a voice which eerily resembled this place. Cold. Insidious. He did not want to hear it. He did not want to see the creature behind it.
The small boy squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip so as not to let slip a sound.
"I know where you are. I am going to get you. You are mine. And if you do not come of your own accord, I will see to it that you are going to reconsider."
The boy whimpered quietly and pressed both his small hands to his ears, so he would not have to listen to the voice.
"Oh, come on. Be a good boy, Severus."
The voice was still there, as loud and clear as ever and it sounded amused over his feeble attempt to elude it.
"Do you really want me to take control over you?"
The small boy merely stood there in his thin nightshirt hands pressed onto his ears, eyes squeezed shut. Nevertheless, tears were escaping his eyes. He bit his lower lip until it hurt.
"Open your eyes; I want to show you something."
The small boy shook his head.
"I told you to open your eyes and follow me. I want to show you something."
"No," the small boy croaked.
"You are only a small human being. You are going to do as I say. Open your eyes and follow me."
The small boy thought he felt a mighty shadow brush past him. His eyelids went upward as though being pulled by strong fingers. He gasped in pain.
Twenty steps ahead stood a figure; its back was turned to him.
"Follow me. Keep the distance. Do not try to come closer."
The figure slid a few paces ahead. The small boy stayed where he stood.
"Alright then," the voice said with threatening calm, "if that's how you want it."
And without wanting to, the boy made a step. And one more. He tried to fight it and heard the cold voice.
"Twenty paces exactly. Not one more. Not one less. Don't not be foolish enough to fight it. It won't get you anywhere."
New tears started to flow. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw movement. Blurred human frames. Carefully, he looked to his right. The shapes became more distinct. He thought he could make out an older boy with blonde hair, who was followed by several other boys. The small boy opened his mouth to attract their attention, yet something told him they would not hear him. He turned his head to the left. He saw a black haired boy who appeared to be as old as he was. That boy also had a few other boys following him. They would not hear him either.
"Follow me!" The voice interrupted his train of thought harshly.
The small boy's head turned without his wanting to, forcing him to look ahead. His legs made one step after the other as though they had never done anything else in his whole life.
The figure kept gliding while the trees were beginning to stand more closely even though they were still bare. More and more, the trees were resembling bones which had been stuck into the earth by some mad mind. The boy felt the soles of his feet being pierced by small, sharp stones and branches. He wanted to drop onto the ground, overwhelmed by :ph34r, fatigue and pain.
The figure stopped gliding ahead, but the boy did not even notice. Without having the order to do so, his short legs made two more steps. A squelching noise reached his ears before his nerves registered the cold sensation. He was standing ankle-deep in ice-cold marsh. The small boy panicked when he felt could not free himself from the mud's icy grip.
Two strong invisible hands gripped him from behind under his armpits; he was raised in the air and lowered onto the safe ground. The little boy turned hastily but no one was to be seen. His heart was beating madly in his chest. Instinctively he wanted to run, yet again, his body would not obey.
"Stop! Look here!"
He turned around to see the figure facing him.
The face was half hidden under the black hood of his cloak, but the boy could make out a dominant chin. The man was tall and remarkably elegant. The boy did not know much about the world and its people, but he could tell that this man had power and that he was used to giving orders.
"Watch! Learn! Understand!" The man pointed on the ground.
With surprise, the boy saw the man hovering inches over a lake's surface while he was standing at the edge of it. A picture appeared on the surface of the water.
A boy – much older than himself, almost an adult. He had long black hair and was rather thin. This boy was running through a dark tunnel. He stopped at a door and just when he was about to open it, another black haired boy appeared, pulling out his wand.
The picture stilled, faded to make room for another scene.
It was the same boy with long black hair. He was older now. A young man. He looked tired, kneeling in front of a figure whose face was not discernable. He held out his left arm, his head was bowed to the ground. A bolt of lightning filled the picture with bright green light. When the picture was clear again, the young man was holding his arm to his body, his face contorted in pain.
Again the picture faded to make room for an new one.
It was night. The young man was standing next to a tree, gazing at the ruins of a house. Smoke was whirling about. Despite the dark, one could see a baby, sitting in the debris of what had been its home. It was crying. The young man merely stood there. When a light hit the street, he retreated into the shadows of the tree. A very large man, who was sitting on a flying motorbike, landed on the street. He took the baby into his huge arms, wrapped it safely into blankets, climbed back onto the motorbike and flew off again.
The picture faded.
The surface of the lake rippled, drawing a dominant chin, lips, nose, eyes. The lips curled into a superior smile, revealing very sharp teeth. The nose was long and straight. The eyes so piercing, they could look right into the very bottom of a person's soul.
The boy's heart skipped several beats.
You are mine!
The face lifted from the lake's surface. It was large and evil. Quick as lighting it made a snapping movement toward the little boy, threatening to swallow him with its size. Before it could reach the boy, he screamed in pure terror and woke up.
Everything around him was dark and he screamed. Screamed. He did not stop until his lungs were burning and his throat was aching.
The door to his room flew open with a crash; candles flickered alight. His grandmother hurried to his bed, put her arms around him and cradled him until he calmed. His little body was shaking with sobs.
She was stroking his hair, whispering quietly, "Calm down, Severus. It's only a dream. Everything is okay. Shhhh. Don't cry anymore."
He snuggled into her, smelling her scent, which always comforted him and made him feel safe.
Loud footsteps echoed from the hall.
"That cry-baby's bawling again?" His father's voice shouted even before he could be seen.
The little boy nestled even closer to his grandmother, who held him tighter in turn.
"Your son Severus," the grandmother pointed out sharply, "was having a bad dream. Children are allowed to have nightmares and they are allowed to cry when they have them. There is nothing wrong with that."
"It is I, who is responsible for his rearing."
His father was yelling so loudly, the little boy flinched. Out of the corner of his eye, the boy could see his mother, her arms tightly wrapped around her shawl.
"It took you five minutes to make it from your bed to this room and to act like a complete idiot. You never gave a handful of bat droppings when it comes to your son's well-being, much less his rearing. You are treating my daughter and my grandson like a tyrant. You live in my house and if you don't retreat to your bedroom this instant, you will be very sorry. Out! Now!"
His grandmother's voice had taken an very hard, sharp edge. The little boy felt his grandmother's chest rise and fall when she spoke. Her words were reverberating in her body and in his room. As always, his mother did not interfere, she just stood there, listening passively.
"This boy needs a decent flogging." His father shouted in rage.
"Not in my house. For the last time Ambrose: Out!"
It was plain as the light of day; this was her last warning. His father turned, swearing loudly and let the door slam shut.
His grandmother turned her attention back to the boy. Her face grew softer; her voice was calm and soothing.
"You know the rules. Tell me your dream and I will dream it for you. It won't come back to you again."
Indeed, he had often told her what had happened in his nightmares and sure enough, they had never come back. However, this dream was different. He shook his head and buried his head in the crook of her arm.
"Was it so bad, then?"
He nodded.
"And you do not want to give me the dream because it was so bad."
Again, he nodded.
She skimmed her fingers through his hair, lovingly. "I can deal with your father, can't I? Do you really think I won't be able to deal with your dream?"
The little boy thought.
The grandmother reached for her wand. A blink of an eye later, he heard the fire crackling merrily in the grate and he smelled hot chocolate.
"Alright, and now tell me the dream."
The little boy looked up. The candles, the fire, his grandmother, the hot chocolate. His bedroom was the safe haven he had longed for when he had been trapped in the nightmare. Everything had been so real-- he took a secret glance at the sleeves of his nightshirt. They were white. He moved his feet about, carefully. They were warm, dry and not injured. His grandmother smiled. He curled his lips into a meek smile. Everything was alright.
"Here, drink a bit of this." She handed him his favourite cup, it was dark blue with sparkling green stars.
The little boy took the cup and drank a few sips. The hot chocolate was good. He was about to open his mouth to pass the dream to his grandmother when there was a movement by the grate. Someone was sitting in one of the armchairs, which were turned to face the fire.
A cold voice whispered, "You'd better not try."
The little boy's face went chalk white; he started shaking uncontrollably. His grandmother quickly took the cup.
"What's going on?" she asked.
He sat there -- petrified, starting to whimper.
"You won't tell her," the voice hissed threateningly.
He could not really see the man to whom the voice belonged. Only the upper part of his head, a mass of straight raven black hair, was visible. When the boy sat up a little straighter, he could see the man's black boots. He was sure it was the man he had seen in his nightmare.
His grandmother looked in the same direction as he did.
"What do you see?"
He did not answer. She wanted to get up, but he held on to her arm when she moved.
"Let go, please," she said patiently.
"No. No, don't go there."
"Well, what do you see?"
He almost said: 'The man from my dream.' He swallowed it only at the last moment.
She gently removed his hand from her sleeve and went to the armchair. She turned it around. No one sat in it. She turned the other armchair as well. It was devoid of anything remotely alive.
"You see, no one here. It's all as it should be." She looked at him intently.
His reaction seemed to satisfy her because she sat back on the edge of the mattress. "Do you want to pass me the dream now?"
And suddenly the man was back. He was standing right behind his grandmother, put a hand on her shoulder and flashed his teeth. He looked like a sly, dangerous animal. She neither seemed to notice his touch nor his presence. The boy was confused, paralyzed with :ph34r:. The man moved his lips, but no sound could be heard.
One word about me and I'll kill her.
The meaning of the words sliced into the boy's heart like cold steel. The boy's lips were trembling; he threw his arms around his grandmother's hips and started to cry.
She realized that whatever scared him so much was real to him. He would not let go of her until he was asleep, so she turned to lay back on the headboard. He held on to her desperately. It took a very long time for him to calm down and even longer for sleep to claim him.
-TBC-
