Lady of the Crypt

The town of ----port, unmarked as it was on most modern maps, held a certain inevitable allure for a man utterly fascinated with antiquities and forgotten things. There were undoubtedly other crumbling places of equal decrepitude, but as far as I know, none can evoke the same discomfort in their neighbors that, without exception, results from the mention of the name. Complaints are almost never specific, and when they are, they take the form of patently ludicrous ghost stories: haunted mansions, tormented maidens, and other obvious products of overactive imagination.

I prided myself to a conceivably excessive extent on my self-pronounced lack of belief in any such fantasy, but all the same felt compelled to have a look for myself, intrigued by the almost completely faded sign that marked a fork in the road that I drove twice a month as part of my duties as a representative of a well-respected distributor of laboratory chemicals. With no small anticipation did I take the ancient-looking branch, finding myself in a bizarrely thick woods, a place that seemed utterly unconcerned with the modernity of the area.

A good twenty minutes passed before I saw any buildings, which at first consisted entirely of collapsed farmhouses and their periphery. There was no doubt in my mind that the place had been utterly uninhabited for decades. Further in, some of the more intact hovels showed signs of recent habitation, and I was glad to have the company of the double-barreled shotgun in the back. Thievery would be very likely among the hungry vagabonds that would choose to scrape a living from such a territory.

To my surprise, the manor-like structure that was bound to accompany this spread of grimy cabins was, while in shambles, still recognizable as such. It could conceivably have been an impressively spired mansion in its heyday, but the pile of half-rotted timbers now barely merited the title of house. All the same, its place as the only distinguished architecture in sight appealed greatly to my love of the old, and stopped the car for a closer look.

I stepped out, pausing for a moment to retrieve my gun and all of the ammunition I had at hand, noting several extinguished campfires dotted about the grounds and concluding that such a large and possibly still habitable house would be an ideal shelter for robbers, scroungers, or whoever else might still populate this forgotten place. The sun was low, but still a good ways from dusk, and I thought it certain that I would return to the car by nightfall. All the same, I pressed a few candies into my shirt pocket as a safeguard against any unexpected cravings.

The front hall seemed largely intact, although I was saddened to see a once-grand staircase reduced to a pile of roughly cracked marble. Seeing that access to the interior via the front was going to be limited at best, I began a circuit of the manor, willing to climb through a low window or lever a rusted hinge in order to get a better look within. My hopes were largely in vain, and I had been reduced to a dejected shuffle back to the road by the time I had rounded the third corner.

That turn, however, brought to light a view that instantly rekindled whatever zeal for the aged and untouched that compelled me to this ruin from the first. What I had taken from a distance to be a collapsed stone wall was in fact a row of broken grave markers. More interestingly, I was unmistakably looking at the entrance to a crypt of sorts, set into a hillock in such a way as to be utterly invisible from my earlier perspective.

Had I not carried a trusty firearm, the slightly opened door and distinct footprint in the dirt nearby would have rendered the prospect of entry wholly unacceptable, but I was emboldened by the weapon and, furthermore, resolute that my time here would not be completely without remarkable occurrence. Adjusting a few details of my clothing and tightly re-lacing my boots, just in anticipation of an unsavory encounter, I took an excited, deep breath and pulled the crypt door open, further interested by the barely visible inscription of "von Messerherz" beneath a layer of grime: the very same family that I had heard mentioned, if mispronounced, in relation to the past of the small town of ----port.

My small electric light was more than adequate to cut through the distinctly musty air, showing me just the sort of long, cobwebbed hall one might have expected. A number of alcoves were set into the walls, although rather more than I had thought sensible in consideration of the mere two centuries that I had believed the place to have been inhabited. Most were occupied by greenishly aged caskets, but more than a few were empty and showed no signs of having been otherwise: the masters of the house had clearly intended for a longer period of residence.

A ways in, after one sharp turn, I saw a number of these alcoves that showed unmistakably recent scraps of food and shred of cloth. Aware that I might actually have cause to use it, I hefted the gun and pressed my teeth together, determined to at least explore a little further. The partial illumination provided by my light began to feel inadequate against the increasingly opposing darkness, and I found myself repeatedly calculating the distance between myself and daylight as the improbably long tunnel showed no signs of coming to an end.

After passing another few caskets, I reflected that none of the names included that of Lavinia von Messerherz, whom I understood to have been the only member of the last generation of the family buried around me. In fact, her father, Otto, and mother, whose name I had not been able to obtain but who was well known as a widow dead since 1837, were also nowhere in sight. I could only conclude that they lay still further within the walls, and began to wish I had more thoroughly inspected the early alcoves.

Shortly after that thought, I froze: there was no doubt in my mind that something else moved inside the crypt. More alarmingly, the clatter originated behind me, rather than further in. Since my own entrance underground, something had joined me. I raised the gun, ready to fire, and slowly moved back towards the right-angled turn and the exit that lay beyond. My finger shook somewhat on the trigger as soft but clear footsteps reached my ears. I kept my wits about me, but I was not unaware that I had a rather slight build, a few years away from the exercise of my old university fencing club, and was likely no match for a hardened, desperate thief of the sort that might lurk in a centuries-old burial place for lack of better shelter from the elements.

To my surprise, the unseen walker stopped. In response, so did I, decidedly shaken and pointing the gun nervously into the dimly lit hall, cursing the border of gloom untouched by the spread of the bulb and hoping that the loaded barrels would be a sufficient deterrent to permit a safe escape. Several moments of uncertain length passed, leaving me along with shuddering, low breaths as I attempted to maintain a manful degree of composure.

I grimaced hard enough to hurt my jaw when I fired both barrels, conscious of my totally useless reflexive reaction to the fleeting touch on my shoulder. Inwardly, I cursed myself in every term I could conceive when I obeyed the laughing command and dropped the shotgun. After all, with what was unmistakably a dagger held to my throat and no real hope to defend myself, I had no option but to hope for humane treatment after surrendering what valuables I had with me.

"I have no intention to hurt you, intruder. You are required merely to provide a small thing of value in reparation for your trespass, and you will be allowed to leave without a scratch. Is that clear to you?"

In addition to scared, I was also confused. While of a strange accent, her- for the voice from behind me could only have belonged to a woman- enunciation was clear and hinted at a formidable degree of education. Furthermore, a thoroughly out-of-place note of coquettishness gave the unmistakable impression of someone used to the luxury of flirtation. In fact, she seemed to be rather enjoying the situation, mocking me with her comparative tranquility. I quickly nodded in agreement, as much as was possible without risking any damage to my neck.

Quietly giggling, a sound that was exceedingly out of place echoing in the decrepit tunnel, she compounded my disorientation by reaching not for my pocket but for the fastening of my trousers, placing a hand between my legs without the slightest sign of hesitation. My initial exclamation of surprise was met with a more assertive pressure of the blade, which succeeded in convincing me of the prudence of silence for the time being.

"The least I can possibly ask is your contribution to my revelry. New guests are rare here, after all, and few strike my fancy as you do. I could always simply deal with you as I do others, but I doubt that would be as agreeable as a minor pleasure such as this. Besides, your enjoyment is obvious."

She was entirely right: as she moved her hand away, I was immediately aware that I wanted more of her touch, perverse as the situation was. I swallowed hard in response to the profoundly feminine body pressed against mine from behind, the hand not holding a knife to my throat reaching up my shirt and caressing my chest in a grotesque parody of a lover's attentions. I ached for more tactile gratification, but it was increasingly clear that I was not to be so lucky.

"You are expected to provide for yourself, of course. Expecting me to give a passerby such an extravagant welcome is far beyond the realm of reason."

With that somewhat irritated preface, she grabbed my wrist and assertively shoved my hand where hers had been. I only partially registered the shame I felt at immediately beginning to stroke myself, thoughts blurred by the shape and pressure of her breasts on my back. Her coo of satisfaction seemed like a reward of sorts, and the knife was taken away from my throat. It was unnecessary to articulate that I was expected to remain in place, and my helplessness was already an established fact.

The idea of being forced into exhibition of indecency by a degenerate robber was abhorrent, but some indefinite aspect of her aura gave the sensation an undesired pleasantness. Moreover, certain sounds from behind me, as well as the presence of only one hand still on my body, made it clear that her enjoyment equalled my own.

She evidently had no use whatsoever for any notion of restraint, freely expressing the pleasure she felt under her own touch, a series of indulgent whines and hard breathing that did not for even a second hint at anything other than enjoyment of control. The stagnant atmosphere of the crypt must have affected my faculties of reason in some way, as I recall taking stimulation from this as well, soon finding myself at the limit of my body's tolerance for such attention.

To this very moment I wish that I had had the sense to close my eyes, but it was far beyond my power to completely ignore the convulsions of orgasm. What I saw in the shudders of climax as she reached in front of me with a container of sorts defies any rational explanation, and I have not once attempted to produce such a clarification. I would be a happier and saner man if I could believe my own attribution of the strange greyish-green pallor of the skin of her arm, but the more fleeting glance I unhappily received rendered that impossible.

In her forward lean, from the corner of my eye, I caught a single blurred glimpse of her face. The details, while clearly feminine, were largely spared me, but the fact of the hideous yellow glow of her eye refuses to depart from my memory. Hope as I may to call it a hallucination, the reality of the matter remains horridly clear to me.

By that time, I was in an even greater state of panic and nearing a point of such frantic desperation as to dash for the exit without any further regard to the imminent danger to life and limb. To my surprise and relief, I was released, dropping entirely to the ground as my legs momentarily failed me. Shaking off the terror as quickly as I could, I presumably bolted for the surface and started the car: I remember little of the intervening period up until my entry, at a ludicrous speed, into the nearest village, where I spent a restless night in a cheap inn.

Unsettling as the entire experience was, my nightmares did not reach their full scope into the next day, when I found a small piece of paper in my shirt pocket as I undressed in the morning. I was uncertain as to how it could have arrived there, but any doubt was annihilated in the few instants between my reading and burning the paper. It was an old-fashioned calling card, bearing a name that had no business meeting any living eye: Miss Lavinia von Messerherz.