The Sickness Unto Death

The young man closed the book.

Once again, as he had done already, he felt the cover. It felt worn, didn’t it? Old, though to be perfectly honest, how did one “feel” oldness? He wasn’t sure, but the impression remained.

What was it, this book which he’d found? The handwriting was elegant, sometimes a bit frayed, and it practically screamed archaic. It’s tale was ridiculous at best. Entertaining? Well, sure. But impossible. Utterly and absolutely impossible.

The young man sighed and for the umpteenth time looked for some clue as to the book’s title. He assumed, of course, that it must have one. All stories had a title of some sort, didn’t they? And beyond that, if it were a diary as old as the words suggested, it would not have been so carelessly lost.

At least he’d been able to figure out who the book might belong to, or at least the name of someone who might be able to help.

He’d been in the library, headphones in and music going, when a woman had bumped him on accident. Startled, he’d looked up and seen Her.

She was, by all accounts, beautiful. Beyond that. Trying to describe her to a friend later had been met with rolled eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Perfect and whatever,” they’d said, but he had insisted. No, they didn’t understand. Not in the way one often hears that word thrown about. No, in a more otherwordly sense. Not in the sense that a model is perfect, but in the sense that a statue is perfect. A painting. Something which was not quite alive.

And yet She moved.

He watched her for a long moment as she walked calmly down the aisle between the chairs at tables and the books in their shelved homes. When she turned, he had caught but a glimpse of her face and seen little more than a pair of glasses.

Something had possessed him, and he did not tell this part of the story to anyone. He did not know his own intent, and even thinking of the stupor which had called him from his studies into the stacks was faintly humiliating. He hadn’t even bothered to put down the textbook that he’d been working from.

But he had followed. Of course he tried to speculate on why. To ask her name, perhaps? To talk to a beautiful woman? These are not harmful things in of themselves, with a right spirit, and he was a good sort. But these were explanations attached long after the fact.

He found her as she turned the corner. Or rather, she found him.

The crash was quick but loud. The beautiful woman’s stack of books clattered all around their feet, and her purse was lost briefly.

The impact had dispelled whatever strange mood had overtaken him. Awkward, a bit shaken, and altogether apologetic, he had quickly helped her recollect her things.

The beautiful woman thanked him, and rushed off before he could say much else, simply whispering that she was in a hurry, and that she was very sorry. Not quite rude, but it felt anticlimactic.

Until, of course, he noticed that she’d left one of her books behind.

He asked around. No one knew the woman, or if they did, they’d only seen her briefly here and there. Or they’d seen her, and didn’t know her name. Eventually, he found a student from the Physics department that gave him the answer he needed.

She’d absorbed his admittedly weak description of the mysterious woman and shrugged. “Go to Longville hall and find Dr. Shine. She can handle it for you.”

Whatever that meant.

So, here he was, book in hand in the lobby of Longville Hall, waiting for… what? Motivation? A bit. But mostly waiting one Dr. Shine’s last class for the day to let out. He’d skipped Metaphysical Poets for this, and he would be damned if there wasn’t some sort of answer to be had.

The young man checked his phone for the time. Oh. He’d gone over. Easy to do, with something to read.

He stretched and then headed upstairs.

Finding Dr. Shine’s office wasn’t particularly difficult, even though he’d not set foot in the building since his required science credits as an underclassmen. It just hadn’t been his thing.

But it was a bit of a walk up the stairs. There was enough time to think.

It read like a diary in some respects, but in others? No, not a diary. Personal narrative, yes, but a memoir? No, the conventions were all wrong. It claimed to be personal account, but too quickly gave up any sense of believability. It had to be fictional, obviously. Perhaps a personal project by a woman with an interest in period pieces? He couldn’t fault her. It was a fascinating period, though he did feel that she should try it again without the, ah, vampires. Bit of a distraction.

He hoped asking what the book was for wouldn’t be construed as rude. Was it prying to ask? He hoped not. But he still wished to know, either way.

He found her door open, and a conversation going on inside, so he paused at the door and tried not to listen as he waited his turn.

At last, he heard a woman cough, and say: “I think a student is here. Give me just a moment.”

“Oh… fine. Darling, will you at least help me look?”

“Of course, love. Why wouldn’t I?”

The young man peered in and was greeted by the woman he had run into and another, who wore the same awe. He stood stunned for a moment, but they did not seem to notice.

“I, ah… I found this book,” he said. “You bumped into me at the library and lost it, ma’am, and it took me awhile to find out who it belonged to.”

“Oh! There it is, Twilight! And you say that luck isn’t real,” said the first lady he had seen, smiling widely at him. He held the book out and she took it, cradling it to her chest. “Ah… I’m so glad that you took good care of it! It’s my baby, you know. The first diary of a new life, and all that.”

“It’s like reading a romance novel of your own life,” groused the shorter woman, who rose and offered him a hand. “Thank you, regardless. My wife has been worried.”

“You were worried too, Twilight!”

There it was again. He’d missed the first time but now… The pouting woman with her book, the smirking one behind the desk, it all narrowed down into a single idea.

“I…” He swallowed. “Just glad to be of service, I guess.”

He shook the professor’s hand. It was cold to the touch. That didn’t mean anything.

He left after a few pleasantries, and steadied himself against the wall once he was at the end of the hall.

Coincidence. A story written as a joke. IT had to be.

Why did they seem so…

A door behind him shut, and he whirled to see “Twilight” and who he only assumed was Rarity herself standing there. Twilight locked the door, and some joke or another caused her to laugh as they talked.

He hid behind the corner, heart pounding. Why was he so terrified? What could possibly be threatening about two women he’d only met once? Nerves. IT was all nerves from finals coming up, all of it. He just needed—

They were coming closer. He heard them.

“Are we going out tonight? I’m famished.”

“Tonight? Alright,” Twilight said. “Mind if I pick where and when?”

“Ooh, certainly. Surprise me, dear.”

The young man took a breath.

And found himself caught in a vice. His face was against the wall, and a cold hand pinned him there. Another was firmly planted right beside his face. Painted nails. Pale.

“Oh stars,” he breathed.

“I knew you’d read it,” Twilight said in his ear. “Not you specifically, mind you. Just whoever picked up my wife’s little book.”

“Oh, don’t tease him,” Rarity said near his other side.

“I’m sorry! I was trying to figure out who it belonged to!” he wailed.

“Oh, we believe you,” Rarity purred. He felt a hand playing with his hair. “I’m very grateful you brought the book back. You’re a kind young man.”

“Would you like this one?” Twilight said. “He’s on the way, as it were. Besides, I think he’s most properly yours.”

Rarity huffed in his ear. “Honestly. I prefer to seduce and woo a bit before, you know that.”

“And I love seeing you work. I’m sorry to spoil your sport, Rarity. But our guest is a bit nervous.”

“Poor dear. I’ll take him.”

They moved too fast for him to run. Twilight released, and then Rarity had spun him around. His back was against the wall, and her body was pressed against him. He swore he could feel every inch of her through the short dress.

She smiled, and he saw her fangs.

“I really am grateful,” she said. “Did you read it?”

He wanted to say no. He desperately needed to say no. A negative answer would save him, somewhere he was sure of this. But as he gazed into her eyes--how they had changed! So dark now, so red, taking up all of his vision--that hope died. No, nothing would spare him. This was a huntress, beautiful as she was savage in her grace. To even be noticed was a blessing.

“Y-yes. Oh, stars, please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Darling, dearest! I’d never dream of that. No, not of that.” She chuckled and pet his cheek. “No, this won’t hurt at all. And you will be waking up in your dorm room with a headache and nothing more. No more memories, not even of this. No dreams of me, nor of my beloved. You’ll not want to think about that book, or about this night. Isn’t that nice? And…” She traced a finger down his chest and lowered her voice. “Come now, I knew you were staring at me before. I felt it. My love and I have places to be, but…” she chuckled.

And then she struck, and he lost sight of the world.