It was that same smell she’d noticed after leaving the taxi...she still couldn’t place it, but it tugged at the corner of her senses like something out of a dream. The feeling of paranoia increased still further, as though she was remembering fear from something past, and she noticed her hands were shaking. There was a sudden thump from downstairs...surely it hadn’t been the front door? She walked quickly back to the window, looking out for any sign of movement...nothing. The sky had deepened to a threatening dark bluish-grey, and there was lightning in the distance as a true storm moved in.
Marie felt her pulse and breathing quicken...her muscles tightened, and she felt shaky and lightheaded...maybe she had gotten a concussion on the train earlier, she reasoned with herself. Maybe she was hallucinating that there had been sounds?
There was a crash of breaking glass from outside her room. She felt panic rise up, panic that even the usually-composed Countess Marie Wagner couldn’t stifle. Her hands flew to the straps of her bag, whether out of desire for having something to hold onto, or whether to stop her sudden trembling. She walked swiftly to the room’s exit, on the brink of tears; she had nothing to protect herself with.
She felt the sudden desire to withdraw back to the bedroom – a wave of heat smashed into her face as she stepped out into the loft. Fearful of what might await her, she cautiously moved to the solid banister to look over, and screamed.
Flames surged, bright yellow, orange and blue through the carpet of the main hall, racing almost faster than she could have run. She stood, frozen with fear, for several seconds as the flames tore up into the columns supporting the loft balcony, and then her consciousness rose to the surface. She bolted, head down, towards the far end and around the first turn back to the stairs, and almost instantaneously the flames caught up, swallowing up the end of the staircase and bathing the ceiling above with a hellish glow. She felt her ears pop and heard several windows explode distantly in the house, and realized a moment too late that she should have tried jumping from one of them.
She was weeping now in fear, but the tears simply evaporated on her face as the air’s temperature rose exponentially; the fire spread up the wall fore and aft as she stood in place, trapped and unable to go either way. Marie took a deep breath, deciding that the best she could do was make a run for it; jumping over the loft’s edge to the floor below was no option, in part because of the stone floor beneath the carpet, but more because of the orange tongues of flame that beckoned her hungrily there.
But the fire had other plans; the carpet beneath her feet ignited as the inferno ate through the wood under it, tearing a scream from her lungs momentarily before the hot, acrid air filled them again. She coughed, desperately trying to free her foot from where it had fallen through, but the carpet had melted in a black-stained gel around her shoe, making the effort difficult, and as she watched her shoe, too, began to liquefy and smoke under the intense heat. Embers rained down into her hair and on the back of her neck as she tried in vain to free herself; her glasses dropped from her face into the fire, and time seemed to slow as she watched, in horror, as the frame deformed and cracked bit by bit under the flames. One last scream flew from her as she finally managed to free her shoe from the splintered, charred wood, and seeing a slight decline in the flames between her and the stairs, she prepared to make a run for it; her clothes were partially on fire, her skirt burning brightly inches from her exposed legs. Even if she had her glasses still, they wouldn’t have done much good; the air was full of smoke, and she knew she was going to succumb soon if her luck didn’t turn...the rational side of her mind was returning now that the initial panic had passed, but fear still occupied every second of her thoughts. She made up her mind, and head down prepared to charge the stairs as though she were jousting the flames that stood thereon, but once more the hot gases had decided otherwise. She managed one step, then two, before the entire section of flooring simply gave way, and she felt a moment of utter nothingness, terrifying and empty as one feels when ascending stairs in the dark and suddenly finding the ending.
She slammed the stone floor on her right hip, feeling bits of wood and ash rain down upon her as she tried to regain her footing, failing at first when her right leg failed to support her. Managing to get to her feet, she had a moment of rest before the heat from the burning carpet and ceiling consumed her, but this was no solution; the foyer was bathed in white-hot flames, as though doused in the waters of Hell itself, and this was slowing working its way up into the rest of the second floor and around the entire building. Marie gasped for air as the taste of smoke ate its way into her lungs once more, and then remembered.
The wine cellar.
She took a deep breath before standing into the cloud of smoke once more; her eyes watered viciously, and her chest burned with inhaled ash and heat; oxygen was indeed scarce, and she would have to find her way to her destination quickly. Red throbbed around her peripheral vision as she made her way cautiously between the edge of the burning carpet and the burning wall to the far end of the room, throwing herself against the door to the rear half of the house. She passed the music room on her left, the kitchen and dining room to the right, and finally found the small wooden-and-iron-banded door that simply had to be right. The fire had found its way into this section of the chateaû, probably through the upper floor – her parents’ bedroom would have been right above here. The ceiling burned and glowed eerily, and nothing else; she had some time, but not too much. She ran back to the far door, closing it to prevent the fire from entering so quickly that way, buying herself some more precious seconds, and returned to the wine cellar door.
It was locked, but she pressed herself against the far wall and began kicking the door handle as hard as she possibly could. Each kick jarred her injured leg into feeling like it was on fire, but after five such the handle snapped, and she ran her slender index finger in the hole to release the latch. The door opened outwards, and she closed the door behind her, realizing only after descending two of the steps that curved to the right she’d made a mistake; there was quite literally no light here, and after two more she completely lost her footing, tumbling down the other 14 to lay in a huddled mess on the cold stone floor.
A small window, too small and too high to crawl through, provided barely enough light for her to make out the room around her; a fair quantity of barrels and cases of wine lay around her in the room that was perhaps 10 metres by 10 metres, all bathed in the same bluish grey light like something out of a comic book. She found an alcove unoccupied by any of the above and pulled herself into one of the corners, sobbing quietly to herself, unable to call forth tears. Her heart beat furiously like a trapped mouse despite her best efforts be calm. She didn’t feel particularly burned at all, or injured severely at all, which was rather miraculous...
And then, as though things could get no worse, an electric light bulb clicked on across the room.
Her mind tried to pull fear forwards again, but there was simply none left in reserve. Marie pressed herself even more tightly against the wall, her hands and feet pawing uselessly against the stone floor. She almost would have preferred that the footsteps she was imagining were really coming towards her.
They were. The man stepped into view, and for a brief moment, he was strange to her. And then fear truly did find its way into her...she couldn’t place it, even as the first embers began to fall from the ceiling. He was clad all in black, silver-rimmed spectacles of red lenses balanced on his nose. His hair was short like Hanschen’s, but spiked as though wet, and his right hand clad in a fingerless glove stroked his goatee, chains dangling from his sleeves and pants.
“I suppose I shall bypass my usual routine, Marie.” She tried to cry out, but was frozen with terror, and only a faint squeak escaped her lips as she shook, a sudden icy chill penetrating every part of her body. “Ah, now I see why they all call you ‘Mouse’. Do you mind if I were to call you that?” He smiled at her, his white teeth glinting far more than they should be in the dim lighting. “I suppose so. Are you alright, Mouse? Here, drink this...perhaps you won’t remember that your mother and father weren’t here to save you.” He produced from his right pants pocket a small silver flask, decorked it, and held it out to her. “What’s wrong? Not thirsty?” He grinned maliciously again, reaching unnaturally far and pressing the bottle to her lips. A hot, greasy-tasting substance flooded her mouth, and she withdrew her face, trying to spit the fiery draught out, but it adhered to the inside of her mouth, leaving her even more yearning for water than she already was...she coughed uncontrollably for a full half-minute, nothing escaping her pained lungs but a thick, black smoke.
“Don’t worry, it’s not permanent. Give it a few more minutes, though, you’ll feel much better.” Marie did feel strange...her mind felt ready to break in two, but her senses were fading away – she still saw everything around with perfect clarity, still felt the heat from the fire on her skin, but she simply didn’t care. Numbness was creeping inwards from her extremities, and she felt momentary panic as it slowly moved towards her heart, but that too was fading away.
“Told you.” The grin persisted on his face. “Now, I’d like to say a few things before both of us go. First off, I’ve really enjoyed meeting you face-to-face. You’ve filled out nicely over the years – not that I’m coming on to you, I promise; you’re just not my type.” Marie blinked, finding it suddenly hard to stay awake. “Yes, you’re definitely a pretty one. Second of all, and I guess I really ought to have started with this, I’m Mephistopheles. At least, that’s what humans call me. I could tell you my real name, but I think your head might explode – no, wait, that’s only in movies.” He laughed to himself, replacing the flask back in his pocket. “Actually, that is my name. I’ve been watching you for some time, but I never had the opportunity to meet you somewhere. Don’t you have a boyfriend that should be following that around?” He nodded indicatively at her, his eyes drifting below her belt. “Oh, sorry...I suppose you’re either out of reach for most commoners.”
Marie suddenly felt the urge to fight back rise up from the smouldering terror. Feeling returned to her arms and legs, and she tensed up, preparing to do...something. Fight or flight...he nonchalantly began pacing back and forth in front of her, a snowstorm of ashes and flaming bits of wood falling now from the ceiling. She waited, waited.
“So I suppose you’re frightened out of your mind. I guess I tend to have that effect on people, no matter how I appear.” He laughed again, louder this time, catching a burning piece of timber in between his fingers and placing it on his tongue like a fine delicacy. “Nothing tastes so good as real Bavarian. 1792, actually. Did you know it?” He smiled at her again. “Would you like to try some? Or perhaps you would like some wine.” He drew the flask from his pocket again, and Marie tried to make her move, lunging at him, trying to knock him off of balance long enough to make a run for it, but he was too fast. He caught her by both shoulders as though they were lovers, holding her at bay.
She struggled and thrashed, trying desperately to kick him, to free herself from his grasp...he still held the flask in his right hand, and she sensed the weakness and thrust that shoulder forwards and down, doing a somersault partially by intent and partially by accident. Her feet smashed into his face, knocking glasses askew, and she landed on top of his legs, her feet at his throat. She rolled to her right, trying to climb to her feet and make a run up the stairs, but he swept both of her ankles and stood in one motion, swooping down on her as she fell, catching her with left hand, deftly pouring more of the solution down her throat as she choked to no avail. He laid her down on her back on a pile of shattered barrels as the numbness began to take her once more, the sheer apathy from all care. This time, the liquid slid down easier, burning less as it found its way into her veins.
“You really ought to enjoy this comfort while it lasts. All your life you’ve been struggling, and I try to help you, and what do you do? You fight me, fight against someone who honestly wants to bring you happiness. Or at least, to lead you away from pain. Which is very clearly something God couldn’t do for you.” He smiled at her. “Wish I could leave this here for you. You know, this is the best vintage your parents ever laid down. They really put a little of themselves into it.” It took Marie only a moment to realize what he’d said, and furiously fought the feeling of involuntary calm from her limbs, clawing the air madly in an attempt to get to her feet. Her legs finally followed, and she lunged at him once more.
But this time, there was a flash of steel, and a dagger at her throat. She gasped more out of sheer adrenaline than shock as the tip drew a little blood from her neck, but froze. “So I see that the Countess in you doesn’t give up so easily. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to put a little of you in a flask to drink when I get lonely...” He smiled, their faces but a finger’s length apart. “I’m amazed you haven’t figured out what’s happening.”
She couldn’t help but let a look of utter confusion cross her face. “Yes, you’re still a little too screwed up in that mind of yours to understand. Although it’s a bit difficult to imagine that all of this has been a dream, a delusion, a hallucination, I know. But I’m here to help. I’m in your head too, Marie, and you can’t escape me.” Marie felt a scream rising as it all came back – the fire, the night after the funeral, the burns, the pain, the fear, the terror, but not this. Not this!
Mephistopheles pulled the knife away from her throat, tossing it behind him. “Oops.” He placed that hand on her heart, and shoved; there was a brief sensation of falling as fire, blessed fire finally broke the ceiling above her, and as her head snapped back from striking the pile of old wine crates, she flinched.
prev chapter
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Subscribe
Flag Writing
