Disclaimer: Van Helsing isn't mine. But I think it's cool.
Outer Romania, 1464
Van Helsing made his way through the snow, the brim of his hat low over his face, and a scarf wrapped around his mouth. The snow was deep, but he never lost his footing. He never took his eyes off the village ahead of him, either… It was his destination.
And the destination of his prey.
Over the roar of the blizzard, Van Helsing heard the high-pitched scream of the wounded strigoi - he was close now, but he'd have to be careful. Knowing strigoi, it would probably head back to its nest, where its friends would be waiting for him.
Van Helsing readied his Tojo blades. The village was visible through the snow now. All the lights were out, there was no smoke from any of the chimneys; somewhere, a dog howled mournfully. Other than that, the village looked deserted. And it was encircled completely by a graveyard.
"Cheery little place," he muttered, to no-one in particular.
A shrieking wail cut through the snow once more. And then, the strigoi attacked.
Strigoi, from the Romanian word 'to yell' and the Latin name for a blood-drinking creature known as the strix, these undead creatures weren't playing around. They wanted blood. Specifically, Van Helsing's blood, since he was the one who disturbed their night's hunting. True, Van Helsing hadn't been able to stop them from killing that shepherd, but he'd disturbed them. And that was excuse enough for the whole clan of undead creatures to come swooping through the snow, shrieking and screaming, claws out.
Just another day's work for Van Helsing.
He counted the bodies of the creatures that lay broken and defeated on the snowy ground around him. Twenty five. Van Helsing whistled. That was a lot of evil undead from just one pastoral village. He peered through the snow, seeing the rooftops of the houses through the storm. Maybe he should go down there and see just what it was that made the deceased people of the village rise from their graves after dark. Something in the village, perhaps? Or some outside influence?
He looked back down at the bodies of the strigoi. No, he'd better finish this off first. It would be best that these things die… and never rise again. Van Helsing uncorked the bottle of holy water at his side and went from body to body, smearing the water on each of the creature's foreheads.
"Requiescant in pace." He murmured, as the last of the dead things scattered into dust and was blown away by the wind. The ashes mingled with the snow, and vanished in less than a heartbeat.
Van Helsing sighed. His life, his job, his curse - to vanquish evil. It should have finished with the death of that upstart young aristocrat. But it didn't. Something continued to push him onwards, seeking out decay and corruption of the vilest sort… It did not make him feel any better, it did not give him a sense of completion… but somehow it was what he knew he had to do. Somehow, he felt as if it was all he had left.
Sighing again, he looked up. And his hands went immediately to his Tojo blades. A figure was standing in the snow, watching him. Van Helsing waited for the creature to strike, trying to see what exactly it was.
To save him the trouble, she came through the snow towards him.
"Impressive work, stranger," she said softly, "But if you don't come out of the cold now, you'll be the first man outside the village to join the ranks of the undead." She turned to go, heading in the opposite direction of the village.
Van Helsing frowned. She looked like a peasant woman. But what would a woman be doing standing out in the middle of a blizzard, especially with so many undead creatures lurking about?
"I have hot soup cooking, and a fire burning," she said, calling back over her shoulder. The storm nearly obliterated her words. "If you don't hurry, stranger, you'll never where I live. I've hidden it well."
Hidden? Van Helsing wondered, Hidden from what? Or whom?
He looked back through the maze of tombstones and crypts towards the village. Still, it remained dark and seemingly empty. If there was a blizzard, wouldn't the villagers have fires going to keep themselves warm? Wouldn't there be some kind of light? Wouldn't there be a church? Something was very wrong here. Very wrong.
He turned back to where the figure of the woman was rapidly disappearing through the snow. What choice did he have? To the village, which seemed so empty and cold, or this strange woman's home?
She did say she had hot soup, he thought with a wry smile, and started trudging through the snow after her.
"Welcome to my humble abode," the woman shut the door behind Van Helsing. "Please, take a seat. I will be with you in a moment." She busied herself with the locks… and then struggled to lift a heavy iron bar from next to the door.
Van Helsing allowed himself a moment to look around the woman's 'abode'. Small, but cosy. Herbs drying on the walls, food on the table, a bubbling cauldron over the fire. It looked like a typical peasant's home; a typical Romanian stone-walled cottage… but there were so many differences. The fire was not built in the fireplace, but in the middle of the room. The fireplace itself had been bricked up. The windows were boarded up, plastered over. There were boxes, sacks, and barrels aplenty, wall-to-wall, stacked to the ceiling. And everywhere, on every wall, on the stone of the fireplace, on the plaster across the window, a chalk drawing of a cross - as long as it was wide - in a circle, and a simplified drawing of a fish.
Van Helsing looked up. There was a very small hole in the roof for the smoke of the fire to escape. It was cut in the shape of a cross - also as long as it was wide - and, judging from what could be seen, there was a second roof over the top of that - no doubt to stop snow and rain from coming back in. A circle in chalk had been drawn around the cross-shaped hole.
He looked back at the woman. She was barring the door with the large rod of iron, struggling to fit it into place. Van Helsing came over to help her. It slid into its place with something of a final - if not protective - clank.
"My thanks," she smiled, breathing heavily from the exertions. "I'm still not used to lifting that damnab… that thing yet." She smiled, then nodded towards the fire. "I hope you're not a Jew, good sir - the soup is made from boar."
"I'm not," Van Helsing pulled the scarf off his face and let the fire melt away the chill of the blizzard outside. "But I hope you don't have anything against Jews."
The woman knelt down by the cauldron, her pale skin warming to the heat coming from the fire. "I don't," she said matter-of-factly, ladling a healthy portion of the bubbling brew into a bowl. "It's just hard to find fish or fowl at this time of year." She handed it to Van Helsing, and gestured to a small table near the fire, where a pair of comfortable - albeit slightly worn - chairs waited. "I apologise for the poor welcome you have received. Our village doesn't get many visitors."
Van Helsing pulled a wry face. "With all those strigoi, I'm not surprised." He blew the steam off his soup - it smelt really good, but he wasn't about to have any just yet. You could never be too careful… especially when you're locked in the house with the woman who made it. She could be trying to kill him, or drug him, or something.
The woman gave a short laugh. "Oh, that's not all we have, stranger. Wait until you meet the zmeu."
Van Helsing frowned. "The what?"
"Zmeu." She raised an eyebrow. "Like a dragon, but can take any form they will. Spit fire, steal livestock, cannot be killed by anything other than cold iron."
"Oh," he nodded, "Is that all." He shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he didn't really feel. "Doesn't sound like something I couldn't handle."
The woman pulled a face. "Zmeu, plural. As in, more than one. Not to mention the other creatures that live in the wilds, natural and otherwise." She stirred the soup listlessly. "Generally, they leave us alone. Especially since…" She paused, her face hardening, "Recent times." She looked over at Van Helsing. "You were a fool to come here." Her eyes were heavy, burdened.
Van Helsing jerked his head meaningfully towards the door. "Well, I can't exactly leave, now can I?" Outside, the blizzard seemed to be growing in intensity - it would be suicide to go outside. The rod of iron barring the doorway further illustrated Van Helsing's point. There was no escape… but this was a sanctuary. At least, it seemed to be. The woman said nothing, but turned back to the cauldron, and ladled herself a portion of the dark brown soup. She took a seat opposite Van Helsing, and started eating.
"What made you come here?" She asked him, drinking the soup from the side of the spoon.
Van Helsing shrugged. "I found a strigoi, and it was alone. And I know that those things…" He stopped, then amended, "I know they used to be people, but they're just monsters now. No offence to the dead."
"None taken," the woman said simply.
"Since strigoi hunt in packs," he continued, "I decided to follow this strigoi and finish the whole pack off at once."
The woman nodded. "Then, on behalf of my village, I thank you. For giving those poor souls rest, I thank you." She took another sip of her soup, then looked at Van Helsing curiously. "You aren't hungry?" She gestured to one of the crates along the back wall. "If you aren't, then I could at least get you a drink." She looked at him with veiled expectantly.
Van Helsing decided to try the soup - after all, it couldn't be poisoned if she was eating it too, and he did watch her serve it to him. He lifted the soup to his lips and blew away the steam. The woman watched him closely, her face blank, her eyes hooded.
The soup tasted… thick. Meaty, but flavoured with something more. It was dark. Strong. Van Helsing paused to gasp. There had to be some kind of alcohol in this, because no soup had a kick like that. Even boar soup didn't bite like that. It was slightly familiar… wait. Garlic. That was the flavour. Strong, bitter. Almost toxic. Along with the heavy greasy taste of the boar, the soup was thick with garlic. Some kind of garlic ale, maybe? Unusual. But not bad. Different, but not bad. "It's pretty good," he managed. "My compliments."
The woman wasn't listening. She was still looking at Van Helsing, but her mind was elsewhere. Her gaze was intense. And almost frightening.
"Miss?" Van Helsing frowned. "Are you… are you alright?" The wind screamed outside, and the sound of the snowfall began to sound even harder on the roof of the woman's hovel. The fire crackled and popped, and the cauldron of soup bubbled placidly.
"Don't listen to them." She said sharply. "Whatever happens, don't do what they want." She set down her bowl, and made for a table on the other side of the room, where cooking utensils were laid out. Van Helsing stayed where he was, but listened intently.
He didn't hear anything outside. Just the roar of the blizzard, the groan of the wind, the screech of the storm. But the woman seemed nervous - she stood at the table at the other end of the room, rearranging objects, picking things up and putting them down again. Doing something - anything - to distract herself. But from what?
Van Helsing could smell her fear, it was so tangible.
Carina…
He nearly dropped his spoon. There was something definitely out there. That long, drawn-out wail on the wind… that was a human voice. Or at least, a voice that sounded human. He reached for his pistol.
"No," the woman turned, her voice low and urgent, "Don't let them know you're here." Her dark brown eyes were wide with fear. Van Helsing nodded, and just sat back to wait. But he didn't have an appetite anymore. He set his soup bowl down.
Carina… Carina…
More than one voice now. In a chorus of pained pleading wails. Not strigoi, definitely not strigoi - the voices were too human to be strigoi. Van Helsing looked over to the woman. She had her eyes screwed tight, like she was in pain, but she continued to fiddle with the items on the table. As though it were the difference between life and death if she didn't move the spoons, rearrange the herbs, twist ragged washcloths over and in her hands…
Carina… please… Help us… We're so cold…
"Don't listen to them," the woman whispered, though it seemed she was talking more to herself. "Don't listen."
Van Helsing did not have to strain his ears anymore. The voices were getting closer. Close enough to hear at least twenty different voices, at least twenty different pleas. Maybe even more.
Carina, my love… Please, Carina… My dear girl, let me in… Open the door… I'm so cold… I'm so hungry… Carina… Carina, please… Carina… Please… Carina, my love…
The woman put her hands to her ears and knelt down on the floor, shaking and muttering to herself. From an unseen and intangible wind, the candles that lit her home died one by one, and the fire grew low, almost down to the embers. The darkness only seemed to make the voices grow stronger.
Carina, why are you doing this?… Please, Carina… Heartless! So heartless! Do you hate us so much?… Please, Carina, listen to your mother!… Open the door, Carina!
Van Helsing could barely stand it any more. The voices were so pathetic, so pleading. But at the same time, the smell of evil was getting thicker. Thicker than the taste of the soup. The garlic was overpowering. And that kept him balanced between alert and under the creatures' spell. Somehow, Van Helsing kept his head. And just as well.
There was a thud on the roof. And then another, and another, another, another. The voices came creeping through the slit in the ceiling, through the boards across the windows, through wood of the door. Scratches and scrapes across the windowpanes and walls teased and taunted along with the voices.
The voices, chanting over and over, in a slow, drawn out wail. "Carina… Open the door…"
Van Helsing found himself rising from his chair, heading for the door. He didn't want to, he should fight against it… He was going to open the door…
The woman looked up from her huddle on the floor, and swiftly hurried towards him. She laid a hand on his arm, gripping him hard, her eyes flinty despite the fear. When Van Helsing struggled in her grip, she gripped him harder through the jacket of his coat, gripping him so hard that Van Helsing felt her fingernails pressing into his skin. It hurt. The mist lifted from his mind. Van Helsing shook himself, and looked to the woman gratefully, but she had screwed her eyes tight again. The voices continued, pleading. And there was a harder, harsher edge to them.
"Carina… Who is that in there?"
"Is someone there with you?"
"Who is that, Carina?"
"Will you open the door?"
"Carina, please, don't be so cruel!"
"Help us! Open the door!"
The woman was trembling, and deadly pale. She looked like she was about to pass out. Van Helsing took her hand in his, and she seemed to draw strength from him. Just as he had woken from his state of near-hypnosis with her help, she was gaining strength from him. She smiled weakly, but said nothing. Van Helsing did likewise.
CARINA! OPEN THE DOOR!
The voice - if it was a voice - thundered across Van Helsing's senses, leaving him stunned. The woman fell backwards, landing on the floor, her eyes wide and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Van Helsing himself staggered to his knees. This movement loosened the rosary that was tied to his wrist. The sight of the cross gave him back his voice, and his strength. He lifted the tiny cross high.
"In the name of God, begone!"
The sound of the storm was punctuated by a hundred piercing shrieks of anger, and then… silence. But for the wind and the snow, silence. The fire grew back again, and the room was flooded with warm red firelight.
The woman sat up, slowly, shivering despite the fact she was right next to the fire. "Thankyou." She gasped. "Thankyou." She drew her cloak tighter around her and shivered again.
"What were those things?" Van Helsing asked.
Outside, the blizzard no longer seemed as furious as it once was. Even the roar of the blizzard, the groan of the wind, the screech of the storm seemed muted, as though it had been whipped to a fury by the voices of the creatures that had assaulted the woman's home.
The woman looked at Van Helsing, her eyes burdened and sad. "My entire village." She looked into the dancing flames of the fire, and sighed heavily. "Or what's left of them."
A/N: More to follow. Reviews make me happy.