Excerpt from "The Last Nephilim"
While in its entirety a work of fiction, this story is based on actual events.
His sleep was anything but restful. Between the listless tossing between his sheets, and the thoughts he could not stop thinking, peace would not be his tonight. Suddenly, he became aware a numbing coldness creeping up his spine. Fear did not reach out and clutch him however, for if this was death coming to visit him tonight, he was more than welcome.
He heard the tiny footsteps then, a slight dragging against the carpet. And there she stood, not death, but equally embracing. The little Asian girl with her porcelain-white skin stood at the foot of his bed spinning her frilled umbrella on her shoulder. He had never seen her without it. It was a constant fixture, even when it wasn’t raining, even when she was indoors. The pretty white Victorian dress looked as if it never had a stain or taint, just like her soul. Her dark eyes peered into his with a gaze that could burn a hole through his soul. He could swear she was able to see every wrong he had ever committed, but her eyes, black and opaque, was as much a mystery as she was.
The old Jewish man stepped out of the shadows then, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. His sleeves were perfectly rolled up to his elbows as usual, an indecipherable mixture of vein muscle and bone lining his scrawny hands. And there was the tattooed number on his forearm right above his wrist. It read “07281982,” the numbers almost illegible. A bobby pin lay transfixed at the corner of his mouth by teeth which had replaced others that had simply seen too much wear. His clothes in contrast to the little girl’s, was old and dingy. The spots on his balding scalp seemed to get darker with each subsequent visit, while the hair he had left seemed to get lighter, thinner and more sparse.
His white shirt had long turned a beige-cream hue, and his black slacks and vest weren’t as black as they used to be. He wore a short tape-measure around his neck that dangled freely down his concave chest. His face like the girl’s, held little expression, but his eyes weren’t nearly as penetrating. They were dark however, and sullen, with bags weighing them down, holding them in a perpetual state of openness. The old man stared at him with tired eyes, eyes that had seen too much. Beneath the weariness, he could see something else, pity or compassion perhaps, but he wasn’t sure.
He then heard a rustling like that of someone threading on dry, fall leaves. The rustling became a more concentrated sound, and then a melody, and then a voice. The voice didn’t merely sing the notes, it carried them, nurtured them along like a mother carrying her child. She was where all music came from and returned to. He could hear lyrics in the melody. The lyrics followed, “Oh Mother of God have compassion on me. Forget not that it is a mortal who prays this prayer. Fill the clouds with tears for me, and reassure me that it is not a tyrant who sits on the throne.”
The man listened intently, propping himself up with an arm. “Alona” was the only thing he said, and there she was lying next to him on the bed, her cold lips caressing his face and stealing the warmth from his body. The thought crossed his mind to fight her off, but he could not find a good enough reason to, his logic lost in her deadly seduction. The sensation of having the warmth taken from his body was invasive at first, an oppressive feeling that then became like an exchange where she took his warmth, and gave him her cold. It felt like he was falling slowly into a deep sleep. From the corner of his eye he could see the death-pale skin of her face, more like the color of the moon, her ebon hair, and those thin hands reaching into his soul giving him the gift of cold emptiness. She lay on top of him, caressing his cheeks, his lips, and then his chest. He could see the color of his skin growing lighter as his blood’s flow began to slow. In what seemed like his last moment of cognition, he became aware of the flatness of her stomach. “The child!” he exclaimed, trying to rise and shove her off at the same time. Her draining kisses increased with a fervor then that seem to subdue him rather quickly. “Don’t worry,” she said with a sinister smile, “Our child is fine” The cold emptiness took him then before he could understand the ramifications of what had taken place, and what was taking place. (To be continued)
His sleep was anything but restful. Between the listless tossing between his sheets, and the thoughts he could not stop thinking, peace would not be his tonight. Suddenly, he became aware a numbing coldness creeping up his spine. Fear did not reach out and clutch him however, for if this was death coming to visit him tonight, he was more than welcome.
He heard the tiny footsteps then, a slight dragging against the carpet. And there she stood, not death, but equally embracing. The little Asian girl with her porcelain-white skin stood at the foot of his bed spinning her frilled umbrella on her shoulder. He had never seen her without it. It was a constant fixture, even when it wasn’t raining, even when she was indoors. The pretty white Victorian dress looked as if it never had a stain or taint, just like her soul. Her dark eyes peered into his with a gaze that could burn a hole through his soul. He could swear she was able to see every wrong he had ever committed, but her eyes, black and opaque, was as much a mystery as she was.
The old Jewish man stepped out of the shadows then, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. His sleeves were perfectly rolled up to his elbows as usual, an indecipherable mixture of vein muscle and bone lining his scrawny hands. And there was the tattooed number on his forearm right above his wrist. It read “07281982,” the numbers almost illegible. A bobby pin lay transfixed at the corner of his mouth by teeth which had replaced others that had simply seen too much wear. His clothes in contrast to the little girl’s, was old and dingy. The spots on his balding scalp seemed to get darker with each subsequent visit, while the hair he had left seemed to get lighter, thinner and more sparse.
His white shirt had long turned a beige-cream hue, and his black slacks and vest weren’t as black as they used to be. He wore a short tape-measure around his neck that dangled freely down his concave chest. His face like the girl’s, held little expression, but his eyes weren’t nearly as penetrating. They were dark however, and sullen, with bags weighing them down, holding them in a perpetual state of openness. The old man stared at him with tired eyes, eyes that had seen too much. Beneath the weariness, he could see something else, pity or compassion perhaps, but he wasn’t sure.
He then heard a rustling like that of someone threading on dry, fall leaves. The rustling became a more concentrated sound, and then a melody, and then a voice. The voice didn’t merely sing the notes, it carried them, nurtured them along like a mother carrying her child. She was where all music came from and returned to. He could hear lyrics in the melody. The lyrics followed, “Oh Mother of God have compassion on me. Forget not that it is a mortal who prays this prayer. Fill the clouds with tears for me, and reassure me that it is not a tyrant who sits on the throne.”
The man listened intently, propping himself up with an arm. “Alona” was the only thing he said, and there she was lying next to him on the bed, her cold lips caressing his face and stealing the warmth from his body. The thought crossed his mind to fight her off, but he could not find a good enough reason to, his logic lost in her deadly seduction. The sensation of having the warmth taken from his body was invasive at first, an oppressive feeling that then became like an exchange where she took his warmth, and gave him her cold. It felt like he was falling slowly into a deep sleep. From the corner of his eye he could see the death-pale skin of her face, more like the color of the moon, her ebon hair, and those thin hands reaching into his soul giving him the gift of cold emptiness. She lay on top of him, caressing his cheeks, his lips, and then his chest. He could see the color of his skin growing lighter as his blood’s flow began to slow. In what seemed like his last moment of cognition, he became aware of the flatness of her stomach. “The child!” he exclaimed, trying to rise and shove her off at the same time. Her draining kisses increased with a fervor then that seem to subdue him rather quickly. “Don’t worry,” she said with a sinister smile, “Our child is fine” The cold emptiness took him then before he could understand the ramifications of what had taken place, and what was taking place. (To be continued)