Don’t
The eerie warning still echoes through my shaken psyche.
It has been about ten months since I last updated the Báthory saga. Ten months and three more disappearances. I am not sure where the dumping ground for the devoured cadavers has moved to, but I am all too aware of where Báthory is the vast majority of the time.
Even though Báthory has not spoken to me again since its warning in the wake of the medium’s grisly demise, its presence has been a constant at work.
When I arrive.
When I hold a Zoom conference.
When I pick up the phone.
Báthory’s inky outline haunts my door when it isn’t off hunting for another stomach-curdling meal. A constant reminder that it is aware of my reluctance to stand idly by while the feeding continues. A reminder that any effort to stymie its bloody feast will be met with swift, intense, and lethal violence. A reminder that my usefulness has expired and Báthory’s patience has limits.
As you can imagine, this has done wonders for my general disposition. My colleagues have noticed my constant nervousness. Students openly comment about my paranoid “vibe” and complain about the ever widening turn around on grades. I have struggled with anxiety before, but this is different. That was general anxiousness about everything that made me frustrated to stand in slow lines or push through crowds. This is a paranoia about something very real. I know exactly what the threat is and what it can do.
But how can I grade in a timely fashion when I still have to be a husband and father at home, then use my old sleeping hours to conduct the research necessary to stop Báthory? Grading is slipped in between meetings and classes during my work day. The few hours between work and “bed time” are to ensure my burden does not destroy my family, and then I browse through online sources for any glimmer of information that could banish this malevolent entity.
Honestly, the late night research hours sometimes work to my advantage. I have moved beyond keeping the scope of research limited to Native American folklore and mythology. I have expanded to any and all strains of supernatural belief across the globe. You know, a completely realistic and manageable scope. I’m not running headlong into a swirling vortex of paranoia and guilt induced insanity, I swear. You just have to have solid, healthy coping mechanisms. The off-brand sugar-free Sour Patch Kids that I devour like a hangry Kronos keep the crazies away. Down the hatch blue raspberry Poseidon.
But, back to how being a night owl researcher has worked to my advantage. Many of the repositories that I contact in search of ancient tomes on mythology and lore are overseas. The time difference means that even though it is the wee hours for me, it is normal business time for some of them. Language barriers be damned, I have Google Translate on my side. Oh, and also the motivation of not wanting to continue being an accessory to appalling murders. That helps me to get my point across the linguistic gaps to these archivists a lot too.
I have already racked up an impressive selection of books of mythology, demonology, and every other topic that could possibly lend some insight to the origins and weaknesses of my shadowy companion. Composed of ancient first editions, reprints, translations, and original copies, the stack has taken over the entire right side of my desk and the coffee table next to the visitors chair in my office. It has been slow going to get through the books. Even when I can locate a colleague that can help with translations, there is often an issue with dialects or other translation hurdles that slow the quest for illumination. Not to mention the probing questions about what exactly my research goals are.
I have spun so many incoherent stevia-fueled lies that I have lost track of what I tell everyone I am on about. The sleep deprivation tends to leave me unprepared for the question and each query receives an off-the-cuff response that never seems entirely satisfactory. It is a good thing I already had a reputation for being a bit eccentric.
Then again, the rumors about how I am linked to the death of that medium might be a more compelling reason for many to lend a helping hand to the rambling, disheveled, wide-eyed professor that storms into their office looking for assistance with analyzing passages of arcane ghost stories.
Keeping my hoard of esoteric books in the center of Báthory’s hunting grounds and conducting my research throughout the fields of prey turned out to be the opposite of a well conceived plan. When prepping a trap for a predator, you should probably not shop for the supplies in its lair.
Keep in mind, I never once claimed to be the Napoleon of monster hunting.
A few days ago I stepped from my office for a quick faculty meeting. I know for a fact that the office door was shut completely behind me, I am a bit obsessive about making sure I close doors behind me. Just be sure that it was fully shut, you will understand why I am emphasizing it here in a minute or two.
After a speedy yet frustrating faculty meeting about details that could have been an email and a shortcut to gather some more snackables, I set off to return to my lair of gothic readings. Imagine my surprise when I found the door ajar.
Imagine my surprise when I entered the room and found the wall smeared with gore and the crumpled body of a student topped with the stump of what had once been a head on the floor.
The bright green collared polo and slacks were still immaculate. His black and white sneakers were as clean as if he was trying them on fresh from the box. The only thing askew was that his neck ended in a still oozing stump and a viscous concoction of skull, skin, brain, and blood was smeared around a rather deep hole in the drywall. This wasn’t the kind of drywall hole a Mountain Dew infused Kyle creates after losing a match on Call of Duty, this was the kind of hole a sledgehammer wielded by someone with a bloody glee in their heart creates.
Naturally, after a brief shocked yelp and unceremoniously depositing my lunch on the floor I called the police. A murder had just occurred in my office. I knew the police could never catch this particular culprit, but what else was I supposed to do when faced with a corpse in my office? Wait for the custodians to take it away with the gummi wrappers and other garbage?
Imagine my surprise when the first responding officer had also been there to question me at the medium’s death. And oh boy, did he definitely recognize me. That stern face was clearly practiced. His face had the round quality of a cheerful baker in a Disney cartoon. Eyes not hardened by years of stress and worry. This was someone who could leave work at the office, but turn on the character while in uniform.
If you are wondering, he did not seem to regard my presence at another death scene as an unwelcome coincidence. His face had more of an “I knew this motherfucker was up to no good” quality to it than surprise or any other reaction. Can you blame him? First I was walking with someone who just happened to start screaming before running away from me into traffic and now one of my students looked like he was trying to spread brain jam on my office wall. He knew I am connected to the deaths somehow.
If only he would believe the truth. If I told him, I would definitely have a Netflix documentary sooner rather than later.
He asked me the normal, if you can call them that, interview questions. We discussed my whereabouts, the identity of the victim, and the timeline of events.
Not buying what I was selling, he decided to pull the security footage. I offered up no objections, the tape would clearly exonerate me. But I also knew it would not provide any evidence he would accept of another, more sinister, culprit.
Just as I had stated, the video showed me leaving my office at the time I had provided. About three minutes later, the student could be seen entering my office.
But how? I know I had shut the door.
Unfortunately, the angle of the camera did not show the latch side of my door, and thus there was no evidence that I had securely shut it. Clearly, according to the officer, I had misremembered. We had both watched the student enter with no resistance. He just pushed the door open. I asked the officer to play back the tape from after I left.
What was I looking for? The shadow that played along the wall toward my door about a minute after I left.
Báthory had set a trap for both the student and myself.
Báthory had had enough of my meddling.
But why not just kill me?
The next part of the video showed me returning, making the gruesome discovery, and calling the police after soiling myself. No evidence of anyone else ever having entered or left my office.
Except for that shadow again.
Releasing me upon my own recognizance, the officer asked if I took one last look at the scene to see if I noticed anything unusual. Aside from the Pollock-esque redecoration my wall had undergone. I indicated to the officer that I did not.
But that was a lie.
About a quarter way down the stack of books on my desk had been a hefty tome bound in faded blue and gilded with dull silver lettering. That book stood out to me among the others due to its age and quality of craftsmanship.
It was no longer in the stack.
That book had the key to Báthory.
You sly bitch.
I racked my brain to remember the origin of that book.
French? Slavic? Uzbek?
I could search through my spreadsheet, find its metadata, and track down any copies if my office wasn’t now a crime scene and everything in it evidence. I would have to find the book itself.
You have overplayed your hand, Báthory.
Now it is a race to the finish. Either I find the contents of that book or Báthory successfully frames me for murder.
Game on.