"As long as what you are afraid of is something evil, you may still hope that the good may come to your rescue. But suppose you struggle through to the good and find that it also is dreadful? How if food itself turns out to be the very thing you can't eat, and home the very place you can't live, and your very comforter the person who makes you uncomfortable? Then, indeed, there is no rescue possible: the last card has been played."

—C.S. Lewis

The Stranger

1.

The musty scent of old leather and old wood spilled over every crack in the saloon. Behind the counter, large barrels with old spigots rested one atop the other all the way to the ceiling. The barmaid moved like a butterfly from one set of customers to the other, flashing an attractive if toothy grin as she did. It was mostly dark inside - the only light coming from the candles hanging along the walls and on the tables. Towards one end of the bar, two plump Pukwudgies sat, feet dangling high above the ground from the stool, and a tall man clad in a trench coat sat beside them.

"Ya ain't gonna find nothing of the sort here, Kid," the larger Pukwudgie said, tilting his glass back.

"Why'd you say you were here again?" the smaller one asked, glancing over from the bar.

The Kid took the last swig from his beer and set it down against the wood counter so it made a loud thud. "No reason in particular," he said. He hoisted himself up from the stool and brushed off his sleeves. "Thank you gents for your time."

"Is that all?" the waitress asked with a slight drawl, looking over at them from the far side of the counter. She finished drying a glass and set it down while walking over to his empty bottle.

"That's all, miss. I've got to be getting back to the madam now."

"Alright," she said slowly, smiling. She picked up his bottle and lifted it over her head. "Don't be a stranger."

He tipped his hat and grinned in the dark light. "Don't worry. Nothing too strange about me." He turned around and walked towards the swinging doors. His boots made a heavy sound against the floor, not quite a scrape and not quite a stomp.

As soon as they were sure he was out of earshot, the larger one looked to the smaller one and scoffed: "Nothing too strange about him? He was downright creepy. If I ain't never saw the whiskers of a feral 'wolf all glistenin'-like in that alley, I think he'd be the damned creepiest thing I ever saw."

The smaller one nodded emphatically. "And his eyes—you see those eyes? All yellow and swirly. Like some kind of twisted Cheshire Cat, I says."

"Mhm," the big one agreed, setting his empty glass down. "'Nother round, darling."

The waitress looked over at them with a hint of disdain. "Don't you think you boys had enough to drink for one night?"

"Not after getting the willies from that fella," the small one replied.

She rolled her eyes and picked up their glasses. "He seemed perfectly fine to me."

They both rolled their eyes as she lifted the mugs to the spigot.

"Oh hush," she said, finally walking back over to them with full glasses in hand. "You can't be running off the newcomers. He just doesn't know how things are done around here is all"

"Hmph," the big one said. He watched as she returned to the others before he leaned towards the smaller one. "If ya askin' me, I think she needs to get her nose checked."

The smaller one snickered before draining his glass. "Did you get a whiff of that too?"

"Mhm. Ain't got no smell about him."

"It's suspicious!"

"A downright scandal!"

"Well, Bub, I got to be heading out." The smaller one pushed his glass to the edge of the counter and jumped down from the seat. "We're going to Damascus tomorrow."

"Damascus!?" Bub squealed, following the smaller one's lead and jumping down. "Are you out of your gourd?"

"I ain't calling the shots," the small one shrugged, waddling to the door. "I got to feed the youngins somehow."

"I hear ya," Bub said, shaking his head as they exited the saloon. "I'll see ya next week then, Tute."

"Take care, Bub. Tell Mumsel I said 'ello."

"Will do."

2.

"Darian, I told you—!"

A thundering crash echoed through the apartment as pile upon pile of books fell to the ground. Marcel raced into the library and gaped at the mess on the floor. Darian stood, frozen in place, book in hand. At his feet a small mountain of books from the emptied shelves splayed out. "Sorry," he winced, lowering his arm.

"Ugh." Marcel stepped over some of the outliers and began picking them up.

"I can pick them up, Marcel—"

"Just...go away." Marcel couldn't bring himself to look at his brother. "Now. Please."

Darian watched as Marcel slowly sank to the ground, slowly picking through the books. He hadn't meant to knock them off the shelves; he just wanted the one book to read, and he would have got it too had he not been distracted by...by what?

He noticed a strange light outside the living room window. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Marcel was watching—he wasn't. Slowly, quietly, Darian moved from the hall and towards the window. It was dark, and he nearly fell tripping over the small coffee table. Glancing over his shoulder to see if Marcel had noticed the sound, he continued, slower still, towards the light. It had started moving, swinging back and forth as though it were slow dancing in the wind, as though it were grinning at him. But there was almost never any wind in Roanoke, at least not that he could remember, and this light wasn't like the candles he'd grown accustomed to: it seemed to radiate from no particular place and illuminate the very atoms of the air.

He toed up to the window, his face inches away from it when he felt a cold draft wash over him. His skin prickled at the sudden chill, but his eyes remained transfixed on the glowing light. It was growing softer, but he was certain he could hear something coming from it: it was like a whisper that reached around his body and tickled at his ear until he was certain the sound was coming from the room itself. The coldness had seized upon his body; he was standing in a full tremble as the light faded away and the whispering seemed to grow louder and more full-bodied. It was still inarticulate, but he knew it was speaking or, rather, breathing. A hand suddenly snapped around his waist and tore him from the window, but he couldn't see whose it was.

This is who we are...

"Darian? Darian! What are you doing?"

The hands moved along his body, and he felt how very warm they were against him.

"You're freezing! What happened to you?" He now recognized Marcel's voice, and a blurry white light was coming into focus again. It was sometimes obstructed by what he assumed were Marcel's movements. "Dari! Talk to me. Say something."

Marcel looked around to see if anyone had entered the room before putting his arm around his brother's waist and guiding him to the bedroom. He set him down on the end of the bed and wrapped a blanket around his body. "Dari," he said, voice quivering, "talk to me, man. Say something, okay?"

Darian felt blood rush to his head and nearly passed out, but Marcel braced his body and kept him upright. His vision returned all at once, and he recoiled at the explosion of light. Marcel was looking him in the face, hands gripping his shoulders, and noticed the sudden dilation as his eyes adjusted to the light. "Darian!" Marcel cried. He threw his arms around his brother and knocked him back against the bed in a full-bodied hug.

"Hey," Darian said, startled by the weakness of his own voice. "What...what happened?"

Marcel pulled away from him and shook his head. "I don't know! You were standing in the living room just staring out the window, and I—"

"The light." Darian sat up and looked down the hall. "It was this light. It spoke to me."

Marcel furrowed his brow. "Ahuh." He stood up and brushed himself off. "What light?"

"There was a light outside. I saw it."

Marcel shook his head. "There isn't a light outside."

"I'm telling you, there was a light. I just wanted to see what it—"

"What it was? Jesus Christ, Dari, don't you realize it could have been a trap? Vampires have been luring people out of their—"

"It wasn't a vampire! It wasn'—"

"How do you know it wasn't?"

"Because I would have known. I know what we deal with, and this wasn't anything like that. This was different. It was strange, like something new...."

"Yeah? Well screw that. You can't just go investigate whatever looks interesting unless you want to get yourself killed."

Darian unfolded the blanket from around him and stood up, pointing. "Go look. Come on."

"There's nothing out there!"

"Go. Look."

Marcel threw his hands up and they both walked down the hall. They turned into the living room and looked out the window, but it was completely dark. "See? There's nothing there."

"But I--I saw it, it was right there, Marcel. I'm telling you."

"Yeah," Marcel nodded. Let's get you some rest." Marcel patted Darian on the shoulder and walked back to his bedroom.

Darian shook his head as he sat down on the bed, confused. "I know it was there. I saw it."

"I'm sure you did."

"Marcel, really. I know what I saw."

"I'm not saying you don't. I'm just saying it's not there."

Darian scoffed and tugged his shirt off his body and started unbuttoning his jeans.

"G'night, Dari."

"Yeah. Whatever."

Marcel turned and walked back to the library. As he walked by the living room, a spot of light caught his eye; he wasn't sure what he had seen, really, but it couldn't have been a light. He paused in the hall, considering, before he turned around and walked into the living room.

Nothing.

It was completely and utterly dark.