Michael Scott Hand

Before men ruled the world it was the domain of beasts.

All were guided by the Great and Noble Order, such that even those creatures who preyed upon one another for sustenance never took more than they needed and a long and glorious peace reigned.

But then came Lilith, Queen of the Frozen Hells and spurned lover of Lucifer. And with her she brought a frost that stripped the earth bare.

The beasts first began to starve and then they went mad. It was not long before they turned on each other, for desperation breeds evil; indiscriminate killing came upon the earth.

Some of the creatures were faster to adapt than others. Among them the wolves, who became Lilith’s willing servants. The wolves roamed freely through these blighted lands they called the Frostwood and took whatever they pleased.

It was not long, however, before game became scarce and even Lilith’s wolves grew hungry. They were forced to seek out ever smaller prey in their holes and burrows—foxes, rabbits and mice. Entire colonies were slaughtered, snatched from their homes by the jaws of the ravenous wolves.

Some of the foxes fled, for foxes are cunning and quick-witted. Many of the rabbits fought back, with a thumping of feet and a gnashing of teeth. But the mice only cowered in their homes, uncertain of what to do and stricken with fear.

The mice convened a council. Various suggestions were proposed and each was dismissed as more foolish or dangerous than the last. The mice debated until they could barely squeak another word. Eventually only one plan remained, but it seemed even more foolish and dangerous than all of the others had combined.

The mice decided to seek out Ol’ Grandfather Crow, one of the oldest creatures in the Frostwood and a powerful magician. Ol’ Grandfather Crow had long been an enemy to the mice, but it was known that he had not aligned himself with the White Queen; if any could save them from the wolves, it would be he.

And so the mice sent a delegation across the Frostwood to seek an audience with Ol’ Grandfather Crow. The adventures they had could fill several volumes. When, at last, they reached their destination they stood bravely before the magician and pleaded with him that they might be granted wings with which they could escape from the wolves as the crows were able.

To the great surprise of the mouse delegation, Ol’ Grandfather Crow agreed. But instead of granting the mice the same shimmering feathery wings of his ilk, he instead cursed them with strange, leathery wings, such that they would never be confused with crows.

Such is the way that Ol’ Grandfather Crow created bats—and why bats are sometimes called flitmice, by those who have lived long enough to remember the old stories.

The flitmice were forced from their nests. Some used their new wings to flee the Frostwood and found refuge: on mountains and in caves, in distant jungles amongst the high trees. There they remain to this day.

But others among the mice were displeased by the magician’s trickery and so, another council was convened. There they agreed to seek out an even greater enemy than Ol’ Grandfather Crow and an even more powerful magician… they sought out the Great Serpent himself and found him, at last, deep within the Frostwood, coiled up in the skull of a long-dead giant.

Without pretence, the Great Serpent told the mice that their salvation could be found in Lilith’s garden. For although the frost had killed many of the plants in the Frostwood, there in Lilith’s garden, grew a tree heavily laden with a prickly red fruit: the vampire tree.

In great numbers the flitmice descended upon Lilith’s garden, where they found the tree exactly as the Serpent had told them. In desperation they clutched and tore at the fruit, gorging themselves on it until their chins were stained red and dark droplets fell upon the snow.

The Great Serpent had been right: for the fruit made the flitmice stronger and smarter… but it also made them thirsty.

And that is the story of how mice became bats and how bats became vampires. And the moral, it is told, to never trust a magician no matter how desperate you become; for magic never comes without a cost.

Missed one? Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. 

Ripped from the pages of an age-yellowed penny blood, the page stained and smeared, the cover lost and the author dead to time, yet from these half-writ fragments forms a story in the mind…

Peter wedged the crowbar into the crack at the edge of the door. He leaned on it, carefully at first in case the stone decided to crumble. But the door to the tomb seemed stuck fast, for even as he leaned more heavily on the crowbar it refused to budge.

“Shall I fetch Haldur to help?” asked Father McCafferty and like the words of a spell it seemed his mere suggestion was what finally caused the door to grumble open.

Inch by horrible inch, Peter prised his way into the darkness. When the door was open far enough for him to put his weight behind it he leaned on it heavily, flattening soil as he pushed it aside. The rectangle of light cast by Manuel’s reflecting mirrors hit Peter firmly in the eyes when he turned back to look at them. “It is done,” he said, squinting.

All three men stared into the confined box of the tomb. Now Peter was certain that he could smell death, although the smell seemed indistinguishable from dust and stone. The sarcophagus took up almost the entire space inside the tomb, a stone box within a stone box. There was a shelf on the back wall of the tomb upon which stood a pale statue of the Virgin Mary. As Peter moved away the light from the mirrors danced across her draping skirts.

There was no sign of Sammael.

They lit a gas lantern to illuminate the tomb. The priest held the lamp in one hand, while in the other he tightly clasped a crucifix that he kept pointed at all times towards the unmarked stone sarcophagus.

Manuel and Peter moved to opposite sides of the stone box where Lucille LaFey had been laid to rest. Peter did his best to try not to imagine what awaited them beyond that heavy stone lid. His mind conjured images of skin stretched tight across old bones. It was deathly cold inside the tomb.

Moving with almost agonising deliberateness, Manuel Churchill placed the sharpened cleaver atop the sarcophagus and instructed Peter to take it. Manuel went on to place a clove of garlic upon the shelf at the feet of the Virgin Mary. Beside the garlic he placed a sharp wooden peg and a wooden mallet with which to strike it.

“Do not be alarmed, Peter, by what you are about to see.”

In the doorway to the tomb Father McCafferty was shaking. The light from the lantern flickered. Behind the priest, the day seemed impossibly bright; almost painfully so. Father McCafferty was a crucifix-wielding silhouette outlined against that blinding brilliance.

“Help me shift the lid,” said Manuel, shuffling sideways so that Peter could push it without trapping him against the wall. Peter placed the cleaver at his feet, with the sharp edge pointing away. He gripped the lid of the sarcophagus and it shifted too easily, sliding aside with the sound of stone against stone.

“Hold up the lamp, Father,” said Manuel and Father McCafferty stepped forward to help illuminate whatever lay within the stone sarcophagus. Peter gasped at what he saw, while the priest gave voice to the boy’s name: “Sammael…”

Peter had no idea how the boy had managed to sneak into the tomb, surely the door alone would have been too heavy for him to open. The boy lay across the Lucille LaFey’s corpse, his face against her breast. The boy lay as still as the corpse, so still in fact that Peter feared the worst. “Is he..?”

Manuel shook his head. Reaching into the sarcophagus he lifted the boy away from the body and then dragged him out into the sunlight. The boy’s body was limp and extremely pale. There were red smears around his lips as though he had been eating berries.

And now too was the body of Lucille LaFey revealed. The body was plump and smooth-skinned, looking as though it had been dead for no longer than hours rather than decades. Her eyes were closed and her lips were turned up in what almost appeared to be a smirk. A thin line of dried blood ran down her chin.

“Peter,” said Manuel, stepping back inside the tomb and standing on the opposite side. “I’m going to need you to cut off her head.”