Cicero sat on the windowsill in his apartment, looking out to the world below him. It was so unfamiliar, so strange, so far from home. He held his ebony dagger in his hand, tossing it from his left to his right, weighing it, examining it. A tiny sliver of blood clung to its black, razor-sharp blade. Dr. Clarice Stoker's blood. The only person in the world, this one and his home, who tried endlessly to help him. And what did he do? He attacked her. He may have even killed her. She was the first person whose blood his blade had tasted, that he didn't want to squeeze the life out of.
He sighed heavily, ten thousand things running through his mind. Accusations, blames, self-loathing… laughter. He glared down at the blade, his lips pulling back over his teeth like a snarling skeever. He looked back out the open window, pulled his arm back, and shot the thing, as far as he could, out the window. In the early morning sunlight, he saw a glint of ruby reflect the light, before the entire blade disappeared out of his sight.
Clarice watched herself in the mirror, her mascara sending dark, black lines trailing down her face. She sniffed, lifting her bruised neck carefully, dabbing gently with a hydrogen peroxide-drenched cotton ball at the gushing wound on her throat. She inhaled sharply when she felt the sting of the peroxide cleaning the wound. A spurt of blood launched forward, spilling over the cotton ball, and onto her fingers. She felt the sticky blood coat her skin and run down her neck. She cursed slightly, before pressing a damp cloth on her wound. She sighed, feeling her head spinning with the dramatic loss of blood. What was she thinking?
Suddenly, there came a knock at the door. She sighed and called to her door, asking who it was. The polite voice of her best friend replied with her own name, before she opened the door on her own.
"Where are you?" Wanda called to her.
"Don't come in," Clarice insisted, her voice shaking. "You're going to throw up."
Wanda followed the voice of her best friend to her bathroom. She tried the handle, but found the room locked. She pounded hard on the door. "Let me in, Clarice! Seriously!"
Clarice sighed, flinching as she felt her bruised neck strain with the motion. Last week, when she met with her best friend, she was told that Wanda and her boyfriend were having a baby. The best part, was that Clarice was going to be the baby's godmother. They hadn't known the sex of the baby, nor even how far along they were yet, but the tests she took all said positive. This was quite the reality check for Clarice. Wanda was about five years younger than Clarice, but they met in college, roomed together for a long time until Wanda met her boyfriend, and they moved in together. Clarice went on to become a psychologist, whereas Wanda became a high school social sciences teacher. They stayed best friends throughout their lives. Clarice married Pat at 30, became pregnant at 32, and lost the baby due to Anencephaly. Shortly afterwards, Pat was diagnosed with cancer, and died about a month after the diagnosis. Clarice, now 39, was mostly alone, until meeting the man who nearly killed her. Wanda, meanwhile, was not married to her boyfriend, due to expenses and morals, but, at age 34, were finally going to have their first baby. They were going to live happily ever after, together – Clarice would always be alone.
Wanda was much younger, thinner, prettier than Clarice. People loved being around her, due to her fantastic sense of humour, her party-hardy attitude, and the millions of friends she had. Clarice was a boring psychologist who was never as thin and pretty like the other girls by whom she was surrounded. Where Wanda would go out and dye her hair blue and pink in all strange styles and shapes, Clarice always had the same general hairstyle, always less colourful clothes and the same boring attitude. She was shier than Wanda, more cautious than Wanda, and although she was unorthodox in her methods of therapy, she was often just considered "sarcastic" or "original" rather than "fun" and "different". They were so different. Clarice had much less to live for than Wanda – Wanda was, essentially, the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Clarice, I'm not kidding!" Wanda pounded on the door. "What is going on in there?"
Clarice's hand shook as she pressed the blood-soaked cloth to her neck, feeling her muscle capacity dwindling. She was soon going to be unable to hold it at her neck, and may bleed out before her blood got the chance to coagulate. She knew very well that she needed help. She leaned forward and unlocked the door. Wanda shoved through the door, and stopped dead at the threshold.
"Oh my god," she said, her voice shaking. She raised her shaking hands to her mouth. "What the fuck happened to you?"
Clarice shook as she looked up to her friend, her face pale. She offered a weak smile, pressing the cloth hard on her neck. Down her arm, the floor below her, and her clothes were all covered in blood, as well as a series of cotton balls and cloths. "Nothing. I'm fine."
"No you're not," Wanda said, walking to her friend, and forcing her to her feet. Clarice's legs shook underneath her and could not hold their own weight. Wanda carefully brought her best friend towards the door of the bathroom. "You need to go to the hospital."
"No," Clarice said, her voice weak. "I can't. They're going to try to question me. I can't tell them what happened."
"I don't care; you're going to bleed out otherwise!" Wanda dragged her to the door to her apartment. "You can tell me what really happened on the way there, and we'll come up with a good lie."
Cautiously, they managed to get the weak woman into the car, and she raced to the hospital. Wanda asked Clarice constantly what happened, mostly just to try to keep her conscious. Clarice eventually told her basically what happened – how she went to Cicero's house, how he attacked her but let her leave. When Wanda asked why he attacked her, Clarice just shrugged, and said that he was completely insane and the smallest things could trigger an unpredictable reaction. She informed her that she think she was drugged, because she saw some strange things while meeting the Mother.
"We need to call the police," Wanda insisted. "Have that bastard arrested and put away where he can't harm anyone. You knew this would happen!"
"I know," Clarice sighed. "I know… But we can't call them. They won't understand. He'll only go even crazier without his Mother. He's not a threat as long as he's with Her and nothing is tampering with that."
Eventually, they made it to the hospital. Wanda carefully pulled her friend from the car, and practically carried her into the hospital. The nurse behind the desk gasped when she saw the woman with the large gash in her throat, and immediately called a doctor. One doctor, who had been performing a routine check-up to some random patient, apologised to said patient, before running out with a mobile bed, and carefully laid Clarice down on it. Wanda assured her that she would take care of Clarice's paperwork, since the doctor insisted that Wanda wait in the waiting room.
Clarice stared up at the ceiling passing by her. The fluorescent lights she walked down, brought her to the hallway leading to her office. At the end of the hallway, she saw Cicero standing there, waiting for her. She tried to stop moving towards it, but she was unable to stop. She floated down the hallway, towards the madman. She couldn't to stop herself from walking directly through the open door, leading into her office. There, she saw Cicero standing at the window, holding a clipboard, facing outside. She watched as he slowly turned to face her. He had a massive, Cheshire grin on his face, glinting in the moonlight from the outside. She involuntarily took slow, gradual steps towards him. The closer she got to him, the more she saw his insanity. She noticed blood drenching his lips, his chin, his neck, all the way down his shirt. He stared at her hungrily.
"Dr. Stoker," he said, his voice seething like when he whispered in his ear. He held the clipboard at his chest. It, too, was blood-soaked. "Please. Have a seat."
"Dr. Stoker?" a voice cut through the strange place. Cicero began to spin and distort, as though falling down a drain. The world followed him, until it was replaced with a steady reality – her, in a hospital bed, looking up to the masked face of a doctor. She relaxed, knowing all was well again. She was safe. "Can you hear me?"
She tried to open her mouth to speak, but she couldn't. She felt completely numb from the eyes down. Nothing hurt, but nothing felt good either. She was completely unfeeling. Her head spun slightly, but it was a sort of soothing, pacifying feeling that made her just feel good. She blinked slowly and managed to muster a slow nod.
"Good," the doctor replied. "You've been asleep for a while. You're under a small dose of morphine right now, just so you don't hurt too much. We had to administer a blood transfusion, since you lost a lot of blood, but you'll definitely make it. We've stitched up the gash on your neck, and although there may be quite the scar in your future, it will heal fine. You could probably leave tomorrow, but we're going to keep you for one more night, just to make sure. Sometimes your body will reject the blood…"
His voice trailed off in her mind. She felt her eyes slowly closing. That's right… She remembered. She was attacked. She saw the Night Mother in her mind when she closed her eyes. She saw the dead eyes staring at her, her lack of lips, her dark skin on dead bones. Slowly, however, the face of the Night Mother began to fade away, but was replaced with something else.
She saw a beautiful, bodacious woman standing there. Incredibly red, pouting lips sat under a perked, perfect nose, between two large, slanted, almond-shaped, unnaturally red eyes which were covered by long, curled lashes. Her hair was long, black, voluminous, like black fluid falling in low gravity down from her head and onto her shoulders. She had dark, thin, arched eyebrows, high, prominent cheekbones, and was just overall gorgeous. She had a strange sort of dark-gray skin, and long, pointed ears. She regarded Clarice with arms crossed, her slender fingers tapping her arms idly, watching her.
"Hello, Clarice," she said. Her voice was like melted caramel dripping from her perfect mouth. A glint of pointed, pearly teeth could be seen when she spoke. Her voice filled Clarice's mind, but was much less cold, so much more gentle and warm.
"Night Mother?" she replied, her voice groggy.
"It seems you are in a bit of a predicament," the Night Mother told her, grinning slightly. "My beloved Cicero can be a bit… touchy."
"Why are you doing this to me…?" Clarice asked.
"Well," said the bodacious woman. "Put it this way. You are playing with one of my toys, and I don't like to share. Stick that in your psychologist pipe and smoke it."
Clarice clenched her eyes shut tightly and struggled against the invisible bonds in which she felt tied. She writhed in her trapped position, feeling helpless for whatever else the Night Mother had planned for her.
"No," she said, struggling. She felt invisible ropes tied tightly around her wrist, snaking themselves around her waist and legs, holding her tight. "No, you're just a figment of a morphine-induced high. That's all you are."
"Believe what you want," she said, smirking. "But… As utterly painful as this is to say, I need your help with something. You see, I am allowed to say a total of thirteen words to any Keeper. At all. Ever. That's a little tidbit they left out in the Keeper Tomes. Anyway, I wasted nine last night. Basically, I'll need you to be my little carried pigeon – just don't make me have to shoot you down."
Clarice turned her head and looked to the Night Mother. Her red eyes seemed sincere, though dark and still conniving. There was no way she could trust this woman (if she really was a woman) full-heartedly without questioning anything.
"What is the message?" Clarice asked, suspicious.
"Well, it isn't just one message, but a series of messages I'll need you to convey over a span of time," the Night Mother told her. "You see, I know how to return home. But, obviously, I'm not about to waste my last words on something that could be snipped at the bud right away."
"Well, I don't know if you've noticed, but you're beloved Cicero and I aren't really on the best of terms right now," Clarice said, drenching her voice in as much venom as possible.
The Mother's lips spread into a curt smirk, until it gradually spread into a grin, and eventually into a large smile, before she began laughing. "You're not so bad, mortal. Nevertheless, what you mentioned does present an issue. But I have five words for you that will remedy it right away. Now, when you get out of this gods-awful medical institution, you need to go back to his apartment, and say these words: Darkness Rises when Silence Dies. Say those words, and he'll be all over you like moss on rock in no time," she sneered. "Good luck."
With that, the Mother disappeared from her sight. Clarice's eyes felt heavy, and she allowed them to close. She decided not to think much about these delusions for right now, since there were more pressing matters – such as sleep, and recovery. Perhaps she would venture back to the apartment, speak the words to him, and see what happens. No, curiosity killed the Clarice. She couldn't risk seeing that madman again, especially when he warned her not to return.
Consciousness hung on a fragile rope, and she willed it to snap. She wanted to drift away into a more pleasant world without a talking corpse, a madman, a black blade, and psychology. She allowed herself to fall into a warm, comfortable unconsciousness, which cradled her gently, rocking her back and forth until the world around her disappeared.
Wanda sat beside her best friend's bed, watching her with sleep. She glared at nothing, the thought of a person harming her friend like he had, and not being punished was gnawing at her. Wanda King was not the sort of person to allow such a thing to transpire under her watch. She remained at her friend's bedside until visiting hours were over. As she left the hospital, she shuffled through her massive purse for the shred of paper Clarice had given her, which contained the address of Cicero's abode. She then dove into her car, quickly called her boyfriend and told him that she would he home a bit late and that she loved him very much, before driving into the expensive end of town, on a hunt.
Eventually she found the apartment, and stormed into it, to the elevator, and into the hallway where she knew, according to the shred of paper, that Cicero's apartment was. She paused in her marching down the hallway, when she noticed something strange at the end of the hall. There was an absurd blackness there, consuming the end of the hallway with an unnatural negativity and darkness. Within the darkness, she could make out a slight silhouette which stood completely still, facing her. Inside that silhouette, she could see the glint of two eyes watching her. She felt a hunger from the strange thing, but it did not move nor look away from her. She felt completely frozen solid in her spot.
Gradually, carefully, she took a step forward, hoping it was just the lights out in that end of the hall that was playing tricks on her eyes. The closer she got, however, the more of the dark silhouette she could make out, and the more alive the eyes began to seem. They followed her as she walked, not removing themselves from her for a moment, not even to blink. She knew she recognised the thing from the bar the week before. The closer she became, the more negativity she felt radiating off of it, and the more she just wanted to turn around and run away. For some reason, her legs wouldn't allow her to do so. Instead, she continued to step forward.
Suddenly, she came to an abrupt stop when she noticed the black figure take a step towards her. She widened her eyes, watching it. After what felt like the most agonising moment she had ever experienced, it took another step forward. And another. She couldn't make out any distinctive figures, except that it was probably hooded, and cloaked to prevent recognition. Instead, the figure was ominous and dark, threatening her wordlessly.
She took the hint that she was not welcomed there, and abandoned her plot. She took a step backwards away from the creature, afraid to turn her back. The thing stopped moving when she began again, and she assumed that all it wanted was for her to leave. So, she began to carefully turn away from it, keeping an eye over her shoulder just in case. As she did so, she began to shuffle through her bag again, and pulled out a Compaq and opened it so she could watch behind herself through the mirror. Her hands shook as she lifted it. When she finally steadied it, she could see the creature as she continued to walk out. However, she saw the thing continue to approach her, faster and faster. Wanda abandoned the Compaq, dropping it to the floor, and began to run back to the elevator. She only managed to make it a few steps before she heard a high-pitched screech, and felt a huge body collide with her, knocking her down. She struggled with it, trying to remove herself from it, but it was to no avail. It was much stronger than her. She couldn't fight it. She forced out a scream for help, but it was cut short to a gurgling clamour when blood began to rise in her throat.