It was here.
She could feel it. It had been nearby before, but never this close. Never so imminent.
The likelihood of avoiding it this time was nil. It would have to literally go against its nature—show compassion, deny its bloodlust, find a way to reason—for that to happen. She had never wanted to believe in anything being set in stone, but their meeting, she knew, was inevitable.
Like the sunrise, or more aptly put, the darkness after sunset.
This was mostly her fault. She had ignored her calling for most of her life, believing that the times, a modern era of science, knowledge and enlightenment, did not allow for the horrors of an underworld that few even could conceive of, let alone know existed.
But now, standing just inside the ravaged gate of the abandoned, broken castle, on the windswept outcropping somewhere in the Southern Carpathians, she knew as certainly as she could know anything that her denial of personal responsibility, of taking up the mantle of hero, to save mankind from death and destruction, or worse eternal enslavement, had only made things worse.
Where there may have been a way to prevent the events that had led to this point, difficult but manageable sacrifices and strategic wins along the way, now there was only the natural, raw fury of the monster outside, against the fragile, weak light flickering inside her.
It was a curse being of the house of Van Helsing.
But her attempts to bury who she was had only created a paradox of contrasts. Chain smoking, trying every illicit drug, and downing innumerable quantities of every liquor known to man in an attempt to numb the mind so she could forget, or better yet, give in to the sweet, longing caress of death, had only produced an opposite set of behaviors—order to the chaos.
She couldn't stand the thought of ash falling anywhere so she had ashtrays all over the house. The thought of empty bottles strewn everywhere led to them being neatly stacked in the recycle bin. Even for the powders and injections there were painstaking procedures for their use and storage, so that she would not get an infection, or die of some sort of blood disorder.
That would be dishonorable. Shameful. A pall on the family name. It made no sense, but it was the world she had created for herself.
It was only in the last several months that she had realized that none of this was her, really. The tidiness and order certainly was, but the mess she was creating with her life was not. Instead, she had discovered, quite inadvertently, that she was under some kind of spell, some form of soul manipulation, so subtle, so pervasive, that she had not known what thought was hers, and which was the exterior force.
But evil has a way of revealing itself. It can't just be content with getting away with its plans, but it has to gloat about them. Someone needs to know, especially the victims, so they can suffer even more before their terrifying demise. There is no thrill, no true conquering, in anonymity.
So, the enchantress, a close, beloved family member, had finally, after a few decades of maneuvering her like a puppet on a string, had told her everything.
The funny thing about when evil tells the truth, it opens a lot of doors it would rather remain shut, if not entirely hidden. Doors that lead to hope, to awareness, the ability to adapt, to learn, to grow, to progress, to become more than the trajectory of a tragic life, to rise above ones self pity and self-loathing, to embrace the legacy that was always meant to be.
In other words, evil ceases to have its stranglehold on the soul, and that tiny loosening of grip is the only opening a true hero needs.
What she didn't know in that moment, alone, was if the intervening months had been enough to prepare for this moment. Personal redemption was comforting, but it wasn't enough. The world needed saving. What true good would come out of her finding her purpose if she were only to be vanquished by the demonic creature which now filled the massive doorway.
She couldn't yet see it, but she could feel the strength of its life force coming at her in waves. Such a formidable foe, its mere presence could drown someone, overwhelm them, defeat them before the fight had even begun.
The fact that she was still standing, conscious of everything around her, and steeled against what must be, was a victory unto itself.
Sighing, a smile of pure relish crossed her lips.
She knew what she must do.
The foul beast would never know what hit it.
Image source—Pixabay
This post is inspired by the daily five minute freewrite hosted by 