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The Legends Continue
Posted: 16 Jul 2012, 02:39
by Aysel Johari (DELETED 2936)
I've found the vampire legends are many and varied, as varied as ghosts and poltergeists. Every culture has it's own mythology and some times that belief is as devout as a belief in a god. I've been here in Romania for a few weeks now and have found the local lore to be colorful and entertaining. The following story is from Ylenia Mechitbayeva, a woman who seems to be as old, if not older than the village it's self. She insists I call her Grandmama and keeps trying to offer me some sort of stale cookie and watery tea. She is blind in one eye, almost blind in the other and hard of hearing. Her hands are wrinkled and her back hunched by age and hard work. But she smiles a lot and laughs frequently, still full of life even at such an advanced age.
It was 1914 and our little village was quiet and untouched by modern nuisances like cars and electricity and telephones. I was just a girl then, still looking on the world with innocent eyes. I was the sixth daughter of a wood cutters son and a sheep farmers daughter. We were poor but happy. All of us kids had many many things we did to keep the family clothed and fed. My sisters and I would wander the woods and gather berries and nuts and things. My mother had a modest flock of sheep with just enough wool left over to trade for things like milk and eggs. Some times we even got a fresh loaf of bread from the baker. It was a happy time. Made even happier by the announcement that mama was expecting child number seven. Oh we are all so happy, and yet there was a fear that lingered under the happiness. The seventh child...
She trailed off, staring sightless across the small village square and I gently prompted her with a question. "What was there to fear?"
Oh you see the seventh child... there is a belief among the old ones, like my parents and myself, that the seventh child can become a vampire! Papa prayed for another girl, because then it wouldn't happen. But if it were a boy...
She paused again and crossed herself, which I've seen many times. But then she did something I've only seen a time or two. She made a warding sign. The sign of the Evil Eye, to protect herself and ward off evil. I sat patiently and waited for her to listen.
On the first day of November, 1915 my mother gave birth to a healthy baby boy. There was much joy and yet I saw the fear lingering in my fathers eyes when he held his new born son. He was torn between love and superstition. He didn't know what to do but I knew my papa would do what was best. For a time things grew tough, people were frightened of our little brother and mama would often clothe him in our left over dresses to try and hide that the seventh child was a boy, doomed to become a vampire.
As my brother grew the people grew more accustomed and less afraid. Life returned as it always did. Quiet, peaceful. And then it happened. It was a terrible terrible accident in the woods. My father and my brother were out chopping trees and one fell on top of him, my brother. He looked so lifeless when he was brought home on the back of a cart. His skin was grey and cold, there were no signs of breath. No one could feel his heart beat. Oh my mama... she screamed as if her very heart was shattered inside her chest. So much grief, so many tears. We tried to comfort her as best we could. Papa and the men took my brother inside and lay him on the table. Then papa came to take mama to bed. We didn't see her for the rest of the night. So my papa and sisters and I set to preparing my brother for his final rest.
We were going to bury him on the fourth morning after his death, leaving three days and nights for people to pay their respects and such. And they did. They brought food and herbs and flowers to send him off with. The house was filled to bursting and mama seemed to be doing better. And then every thing changed. I will never forget that night.
She pauses again and takes a sip of her tea, blinking slowly as if to clear her vision. When she begins again, her voice is soft and I have to lean in close to hear her.
I was asleep in my bed with three of my sisters, the night was cold and quiet and there wasn't a soul to be seen in the house or the village. The next thing I knew there was this weight on me, and hands around my throat. I opened my eyes and there was my brother! My dead brother! He was on top of me, trying to choke the life out of me. I screamed... I screamed so loudly my sisters woke. They screamed to! I don't know who went to get papa but I heard him yell. A roar of rage and fear... and the blood... oh! There was so much blood! Papa had his axe and he chooped in to my brother's neck. He fell on top of me and his sticky warm blood soaked in to my clothes and skin...
She has fallen silent again, and we sit here soaking up the sun. After a time I realize that she won't continue the story again. In fact she will say nothing more. Perhaps it was her age, perhaps it was the horror of the story, but Ylenia Mechitbayeva has died. The last of her family, the last of a Romanian legacy. I plan to stay for her funeral, and perhaps I can find some one to continue the story she was telling me.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 16 Jul 2012, 17:45
by Aysel Johari (DELETED 2936)
Today I find my self in Celakovice, Czech Republic approximately 25 kilometers from Prague. Local legend says there was a mass vampire grave site here. Fourteen bodies in all. They were discovered in 1966 by a man digging in his garden. I've come here to find out more. What made them think it was a vampire grave? Why did the people of the 10th century believe these fourteen to be vampires? I hope I will find some answers.
The museum is small, of Gothic-Renaissance architecture and has clearly been rebuilt and piecemeal-ed together over many many years. A historic sight in and of it's self. I can see my arrival is anxiously awaited by a bespectacled young man who shifts from foot to foot in the doorway. His smile grows when he sees me coming up the walk, excitement takes his eyes from dull brown to warm chocolate, his cheeks growing flush as I near him. This is a man who clearly loves his work and the history behind it. He greets me enthusiastically and it takes a few seconds for the blood to return to my fingers from his crushing grip. Hale and healthy he is, with a vibrant spark of life. I have to ask him several times to slow down because I can't understand his accent, so different from my own Turkish drawl. We move through the museum to the place where the "vampire" bodies have been interred. He gives me a few moments of silent study.
The bodies have been placed as they were found. Some are tied down, some have legs weighted with stones. In some I can see an iron nail driven through the skull. In others knifes have been forced through the mouth. On the bodies weighted with stones, the torso has been severed from the legs. All have been decapitated with the heads buried face down as well as staked through the heart. It is gruesome and fascinating to see. The questions come almost as fast from my lips as his initial babble had come from his. Why the stones? What purpose do the knife and nails serve? He smiles patiently and begins to answer, speaking slowly and clearly so that I can write it all down in my little book.
Let me say again, welcome to Celakovice, Czechoslovakia. I know I know we are the Czech Republic now, but some things, some traditions don't go away just because every thing collapsed and independence was won. This here, in this case, is the biggest discovery of it's time. Found in 1966 by a man digging in his garden. Can you imagine the fright? The police were called in at first, because they thought it was a murder. But this was no case for the police! No it was for the archaeologists of the day to tell the tale of these 14 poor souls.
You see, these bodies, all adults, were believed to be vampires. No one knows how they died really, if it was murder or natural causes. But you can see the precautions taken to ensure they do not rise again. We Slavic people have the most respect for our dead. But not for vampires. They are disposed of quickly and efficiently. Drive a nail through the brain to keep them from being able to think. Sever the torso from the legs to keep them from being able to walk. Use stones to weigh them down to keep them from being able to move. Place the head face down to keep them from being able to see. Drive a knife through the mouth to keep them from drinking blood.
He pauses here, thankfully, to give me a chance to catch up with my frantic writing. I know these notes will have to be rewritten and made legible. But the knowledge he's given me is fascinating. It seems that burial traditions vary from region to region. My guide begins to explain these before I can even ask.
We are a nation of skeptics now, belief in vampires has fallen to the wayside. If not for those of us who keep the history, there would be nothing to talk about, no one to tell the stories. And the stories are many and varied. You've heard of garlic, crosses and holy water, yes?
He barely waits for my nod before continuing.
Those are some of the more mild forms of keeping a vampire at bay. Some times when you remove the head from the shoulders, a bulb of garlic is placed in the mouth. There are other things as well. Twin brothers would hitch twin ox to a plow and make a furrow around the village. And then an egg would be broken and a nail driven in to the floor beneath the house of the recently dead. This was a prevention you see.
Hmm, and then there was trailing red woolen thread around the grave, you light it on fire and wait until every last bit is burned. Or you can sprinkle tiny little poppy grains on the coffin. This gives the dead a tedious task, such as counting every last grain before they can arise. Then some funny ones yes?
Here he nods to himself and I have to agree. It would be nice to hear something light and funny.
It is said that if, in the night, you hear a sound and think it's a vampire. You call out your window, "Come tomorrow and I will give you some salt!" or you say, "Hey, pal, go get some fish." You give the dead these things to do, and they will do it before they try and take your blood.
But the funniest of all... they say that if a vampire stalks you, you must run backwards up a hill with a lit candle and a turtle. This will ward off the vampire!
He laughs then and I join him. That has to be the funniest thing I have heard. He checks his watch and mentions that he must close the museum, but if I would come by tomorrow, there's much much more he will tell me. We agree to meet in the morning and I take my leave, bidding him a fond farewell and submitting my hand to his crushing grip once more.
Day 2, Celakovice Museum
I have come at the appointed time to meet my guide, but am instead met by a grim faced police man. He won't let me through the door and dread fills my stomach. A few quiet questions brings me answers I don't like. My guide was found this morning by the museum's head curator. He was beheaded, a nail driven in to his skull, a knife and bulb of garlic in his mouth. Every one is in shock over this horrific crime. I think I had best be moving on.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 23 Jul 2012, 15:12
by Aysel Johari (DELETED 2936)
Today I find myself in Slovakia, in the Carpathian Mountains of what used to be Hungarian territory. I've come to Castle Csejthe to learn more about Countess Bathory. While her tale is not a legend, but something firmly sealed in the annals of history, much speculation and superstition surrounds a woman that many called Countess Dracula. She is credited with over 600 murders of young peasant and Aristocratic girls. In the end, she was bricked in to a set of rooms in her castle and died four years later.
I've done my research in to Elizabeth Bathory but I am reluctant to write what I've discovered before I find my guide. She and I were supposed to meet in the front of the castle ruins. I don't see her yet, but perhaps I am a little bit early. I think I'll wander around a little while I wait.
It's been an hour since I've arrived, my guide is no where to be seen and I have explored all of the outside of the castle. I have no cell phone reception and so, no way to call her. I will wait a little more, and take the time to write what I know of the Countess while I do. Perhaps while I am writing this tale in my book, she will arrive.
At age 15, Elizabeth married Count Ferencz Nadasdy, who carried his bride away to Castle Csejthe, in his northern Hungarian territory deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Elizabeth provided the Count with an heir, after which he abandoned her and fled for the battlefield, returning only occasionally to sire more children. During her time alone in the castle, Elizabeth took many lovers, and gained a reputation as a cruel mistress, often mistreating slaves and beating young maidens who reportedly threatened her with their beauty. The superstitious peasants from the lands surrounding the castle quickly began to speak of Elizabeth’s evil deeds, and she, like Vlad before her, began to have supernatural aspects attributed to her nature.
Although Elizabeth was renouned for her incomparable beauty, with age her lovely appearance began to fade. As this evident decline in her facade became apparent to Elizabeth, she became even more cruel. Legend has it that she began to ritualistically torture female servants, beating them and imprisoning them in her dungeon. After her husband’s death, she sent her children away to relatives, freeing her to continue her reign of terror on the innocent women of the region. Now in her 40′s, Elizabeth became obsessed with regaining her youth. One day, in a terrible fit of rage, Bathory struck a young female servant, causing her mouth and nose to bleed. Upon wiping away the blood, she became convinced that the skin beneath the blood had become smoother and more youthful. Thus began her 10 year killing spree of maidens, whose blood she drained into a basin where she would bathe.
As the supply of peasant girls began to dwindle, Bathory devised a plan to have the daughters of Aristocrats sent to the castle for lessons in ettiquete. These girls often met the same fate as their peasant counterparts, and Elizabeth’s obsession was sated once again. Of course, while it is one thing for peasants to go missing, it is another thing entirely for the noble daughters of the elite to vanish, and Elizabeth’s carelessness eventually caught up with her. Especially since it is said that rather than burying the blood drained corpses of her victims, she simply had her henchmen cast their bodies to the wolves. With evidence laying about, Elizabeth was surely destined to be caught.
I fear I must pause here with my story as my hand is cramping up. I'm going to go inside and see if my guide is waiting, and if not, I shall explore the castle myself and then return to the village.
I don't know what to say... where to start.... the horror... the tragedy....
I found my guide... quite by accident really. I was following the sound of dripping water. Curious to the source because there's been no rain. My guide was a lovely woman, at least I think so. She was so cold, so pale. Her fingers hung over the sides. The blood... there was so much blood, so dark, dripping off the tips of her stained fingers. Splash, splash splashing into a small puddle on the floor.
She was soaked to the skin in her own blood, sitting in a bath... so pale, almost serene... if not for the blood, she could have been sleeping. I touched her, I had to. I needed to know. Maybe she was still alive, but no... there was nothing. No pulse, no breath, no flutter behind the eyes. She's dead, just like the others...
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 17 Feb 2013, 20:46
by Aysel
Ayan-al_Arab, Turkey. Some would say Syria. I say home. Or it was. This is where we come from, where we came from. Before the war, before fleeing to the United States. Before Brooklyn, NY became my new home. This is where I'm from and yet I find I know so little of the legends here. So I've come here to learn, to research and to record it all in my trusty book.
Sadly I haven't learned much and so my stay here will be brief. I will forge my way across the border in to Syria to follow up on this interesting Assyrian cuneiform incantation that I found through my research. It talks of vampire like demon's and I am sure I can find some one in the museum to give me more advice. The incantation reads (roughly translated)
Seven are they!
Knowing no care,
They grind the land like corn;
Knowing no mercy,
They rage against mankind;
They spill their blood like rain,
Devouring their flesh [and] sucking their veins....
They are demons full of violence,
Ceaselessly devouring blood.
I admit to a certain trepidation in continuing my studies. Syria and Turkey are harsh countries with deeply rooted legends and it's hard to say what line of questioning breaks the laws of these mystic lands. It's a lot different here than in the states, and ten years away has left me rusty in the ways of my people. Luckily I am a quick learner and I think I will be able to blend in. I will resume my search at the National Museum of Aleppo, in the city of Aleppo, Syria. I've been in contact with a scholar who has studied much of Assyrian history and perhaps they will be able to help me. For now it's a long, dusty bus ride to reach Aleppo. Perhaps I will find an elder or two to chat up during the ride and be able to record some colorful local history.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 20 May 2014, 21:08
by Aysel
I arrived in Syria today. While I know this journal is used for my research, I plan to use it to record my journey. All of it. I was met at the airport in Syria by Abdallah. He is the leader of a Bedouin tribe I had befriended years ago. He had a string of horses for me, and some robes that I quickly donned. By horse back, we traveled to Aleppo by horse back, riding through the night together with the tribe.
Once my studies are done in Syria, I will ride with the tribe across the dessert. In these hot summer months, they ride at night so it won't be a problem for me. Plus the tents used for sleeping during the day time block out all light and heat, it will be a comfortable trip I think. I am looking forward to the time spent away.
There are a few people at home I will miss. I will not name them here, for they reside in my heart and mind. I did make sure to say good bye to Zakar and a couple of others. I left the book Jonah gave me with Zakar. He can return it. I want no gifts from him. Frankly, I want nothing to do with him. Some times it is better to cut a wound out completely rather than keep picking at it and that is what I am doing. I will do my research, spend my time with the Tribe and then move on. I am not sure where I will go just yet.
For now I will go to sleep. I can feel the sun rising and I have a meeting with the curator tonight after sunset. Then I will ride out to meet the Tribe. This will be my last night in a real bed for quite some time, so I plan to enjoy it.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 25 May 2014, 01:54
by Aysel
The meeting at the museum went exactly as I expected it to. I do not know why I think things will change. It never has before and it never will. Something stalks me, and I wish I could find answers to what it is. Abdallah and I, along with a host of guards arrived at the museum not long after the last of the suns rays vanished from the sky. It was quiet and empty, almost eerily so.
We wandered the empty halls and rooms, searching for the man I was supposed to meet. When we got to the room where the tablet was stored, it, too, was empty. I should have listened when Abdallah said he had a bad feeling and we should leave. Instead I walked in to the room, drawn by the faintest scent of blood in the air. As I got towards the tablet, I felt a fine mist on my skin. A swipe of fingers to my cheek revealed this mist to be blood. It was literally raining blood.
I felt a shiver roll down my spine and it seemed as if I couldn't help myself. As if drawn by some invisible force, my eyes were pulled upwards and there he was. At least I think it was him. There were six others, nailed together as if to form a macabre sort of cross. And crucified on this cross was a man. I think. His muscle glistened in the dim light, all the skin had been stripped from his flesh. His face was carved in a horrible grin, brown eyes cloudy and staring. Sightless, but I swear they were on me. Blaming me. Condemning me.
Abdallah and the guards saw it, too. They all surrounded me and literally dragged me from the museum. I think I went in to some sort of shock because I do not remember much of what happened. All I know is we fled before the cops came. Some one covered my bloody face with the edges of my robe, some one else lifted me on to a horse. Abdallah rode behind me to hold me in the saddle and one of the guards led his horse.
We are at a camp now, lost to the desert with the sun about to rise. It is dark in my tent, not a hint of light can be seen. I know I will be safe, living in the center of the camp. The men are on the outside, the women in the middle. I have my own tent for privacy. Once we got to camp, the women took me off in private to help me wash the blood away.
They have also taken to tattooing me. They started last night with my hands. Delicate lacework pounded in to the backs of my hands, trailing down my fingers. My rings are on a chain around my neck while the new work heals. I can only pray it will not fade away. The women say it will keep me protected and safe. They have plans for many many many more tattoos. Each night when we stop, they will go to work before the sun rises and the heat of the day sends every one seeking shelter and rest.
For now I am tired and worn. And scared. I have sketched what I saw, but I do not think it will ever leave my mind. I can only hope that when I sleep, I will not dream. I hope I will not see it over and over again. And yet I know the memory will never leave me. For now I will try and rest. We will reach our mail stop tomorrow and I hope there is news from home to lift my spirits.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 30 May 2014, 04:04
by Aysel
We broke camp earlier this evening, heading on to the next stop. The desert was beautiful as always. At least for the first five miles. And then the bodies started appearing. Not really bodies... what was left of them. Skeletons dried by the blistering heat of the desert sun. Each one bleached white, each one with skeletal fingers grasping at nonexistent throats. There was one each mile, in an endless trail of carnage. Morbid markers reminding one how easy it would be to die out here, alone and lost.
There was no single change to the bodies. All of them were the same. Half buried by sand. No trace of how they died, if they were men or women, old or young. There was nothing. Not even foot prints. It was as if the desert erased every thing. Their past, their method of death. It could have been the winds, smoothing over the tragedy. Or it could have been something else. Something supernatural. Something sinister and frightening.
The more we rode, the more dread began to settle across the tribe. At first it was one or two of the women. I could see them making warding signs to chase away the evil. But the more bodies that we passed, the more the tribe began to ward off evil. Even me. It may be a silly superstition, but it made me feel better. All I wanted was to get off the road. To set up camp and stop counting the bodies. Bodies I had, in fact, lost count of. It made me sick, even though it could have been natural.
But it wasn't. We all know it wasn't. We had reached our stop, leaving us several hours to set up. And then there came a scream. A scream of terror like nothing I had ever heard. So chilling it would make the blood run cold. We all ran to see what was wrong and there it was. The 'freshest' of the bodies. Hands clutching his throat. Eyes wide, mouth open in terror. Even though there were no eyeballs. They had either been eaten or dried up from the sun.
Abdallah ordered us all to the horses and we rode away as fast as we could. Evil surrounded that place and none of us wanted to camp there. That leaves us here, in the middle of the desert. We deviated from our course, not wanting to encounter any more evil. There was no ink working tonight as we barely had time to set the camp before the sun rose. Abdallah was worried enough that he set guard watches. Shifts through out the day. I just hope nothing attacks the camp. I cannot recall a time I have been so frightened.
While I may not know what killed people over the years, at least I knew the cause of death. The manner of the way people were murdered. This... this was just... nothing. There are no answers and I do not think there ever will be.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 08 Jun 2014, 01:12
by Aysel
***Back Dated, Weds, June 4, 2014***
It has been a while since I've written. We were so busy in Egypt that I forgot. Right now I am sitting in the airport, enjoying air conditioning after two weeks in the desert. Shame it is spoiled by the abaya and veil covering. But once I am out of Saudi Arabia or even on the plane I can remove it. But for now, for the sake of propriety and keeping my head attached to my shoulders, I will wear it and suffer in silence. On the bright side the full face veil lets me people watch. It is a little hard for any one to tell I am staring at them through the mesh over my eyes.
But I digress. After the discovery of the mummified remains, we switched our route. Abdallah and the tribe agreed that the direction we were traveling was marked in evil. It seemed to them as if the bodies were a dark omen foretelling doom. So we changed directions and headed directly for Cairo rather than visiting the trading points we had set up.
Once we reached Saudi Arabia, Abdallah and I rode to the nearest village. We said our goodbyes and he promised to deliver my horses to Zakar's home stable where they will be cared for and spoiled as they deserve. And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, I took a hot shower to wash away the desert sand. I forgot just how luxurious hot running water is. It is not that I could not get clean in the desert, but a copper tub of tepid water is nothing compared to a rushing spray of hot liquid.
I felt as if all traces of death and destruction were being cleaned away. I was finally able to close my eyes and not see the curators from Syria or the bodies littering the desert. It was a nice change. I slept the day away in a soft bed. The deep, dreamless sleep of the truly dead, and woke refreshed for the first time in a very very long time. I feel as if my time in the desert did just what I needed it to do. My soul is healed, the broken edges smoothed off. I am restored in spirit and mind.
I could simply end my trip here and return to Canada, but something inside me calls me to move on to the next destination. A restlessness that says I am not ready to return home, and I would not be happy if I did. I would always wonder "what if" should I return now. And it is with that thought in mind that I find myself sitting in this uncomfortable airport chair, waiting for my flight to board.
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 08 Jun 2014, 02:05
by Aysel
***Present Day - Amazon Jungle - Location Unknown***
I don't know where I am. I don't even know who I am. All I know is that I woke up in this little hut. I am not sure how I got here, and the few villagers I have seen have been less than helpful. They keep bowing and crawling away, like I am some sort of creature to be worshiped. If I was not so confused, I might find it entertaining. For now, all I know is fear.
I have examined my surroundings as best I can. But when I try to leave the hut, I find the sun to be agonizingly painful. The skin on one hand is still black and charred just from sticking it outside. So now I sit here, staring longingly out side. I am in the darkness, I am not sure how they managed to make a mud and grass hut impervious to light, but they did. A candle burns beside me, and I can only sit and watch as the villagers pass by, each and every one afraid to come to close. They even turn their eyes away as if they are afraid that some sort of evil will attach to them if they look at me.
Thanks to the light of the candle, I have been able to read and write in this journal. I must have some sort of an education for I have noticed several different languages in this book and I can read them all. There was another journal and there was writing in it that did not appear to be my own. I was afraid to read it at first, so I occupied myself with a letter that had fallen out of it.
The letter was from a man named Micah. It seems I must know him for him to write to me. It was addressed to me, to a mail stop in Cairo, Egypt. And from reading in this book, I can only surmise that I was there. He makes mention of a woman named Velveteen and about the things she likes. I must know her as well, and I must be close to her because in searching through the pack I found in here with me I found a gift that matches every thing described in the letter. They must be family of some sort. Perhaps a brother and a sister-in-law? That is my best guess for now.
Back to this other journal. I am certain it was wrong of me, but I read it. I read all the thoughts that were written in it's pages. In the first entry I found my name and mention of a contractual marriage. That explains the elaborate wedding set that I found on a chain around my neck. Then I noticed, the more I read, that the entries changed from his thoughts and feelings, to letters. Intimate letters, though they are incredibly proper in context. There is so much unwritten, so much that I was able to read between the lines.
It seems to me that I love this man, this Zakar. And that he might love me as well. We certainly fulfilled the contract, that I can tell from the way I use his last name. It makes me wonder why I am here alone with out him. Did something happen? Did we divorce? I do not think that is the case because, clearly, we are Muslim and while it is not forbidden, it is not something proper Muslims do. And I use his last name, so we cannot be divorced. Maybe I am reading to much in to it and we do not love each other. Perhaps we are just good friends and that is all.
More searching through the pack turned up pictures. One of a heavily tattooed male wearing sunglasses and a scowl. Written on the back is the name "Micah Andras". It is nice to be able to put a face to the name on the letter. I found another one of a petite, dark haired woman. "Velveteen Andras" is written on the back. It seems as if neither of them were aware these pictures were being taken. I wonder what would have made me sneak photos? Searching through the pack has, so far, revealed more questions than answers.
I found a small album of photos. But these ones were clearly willingly taken. On the back of one is written "Zakar Aarif El-Sayed". This is the person I am married to. This is the person who writes me with such feeling. When I think about him, I feel more than just a fondness for him. At least, on my part, there is love for this man. There were other pictures in this album. Pictures of Zakar and a woman. I think it is me. I am pretty certain, actually, because I found a passport with my name on it, and the photo inside matches the woman in the pictures. And yet I feel a strange sort of disconnect when I look at the woman in the pictures and in the passport.
I wish I had a way to reach out to these people. I found a cell phone, but the screen is shattered and it no longer turns on. There are a few changes of clothes, a gun (holy cow!!), these journals and photos, but nothing else. Why am I here? How did I get here? And more importantly.... how in Allah's name do I get home?!
Re: The Legends Continue
Posted: 10 Jun 2014, 02:25
by Aysel
I think I am a serial killer.
Not the most elegant way to start a new entry, but it is the most direct. I have spent the last couple of days and nights looking through this journal, reading the stories and the sketches. There is no explanation for these murders that are written and drawn about. The only common factor is me. And so the only thing I can think is that I am a serial killer.
And that is not even the strangest thing.
The blood... I crave it. The people bring it to me in jars from their kills. They are a cannibalistic band of warriors. When they fight other tribes, they bring their kills back and eat them. But first they exsanguinate them and bring me the blood. Hot, fresh, and utterly mouth watering. Allah forgive me, but I always look forward to those clay jars being delivered. After consuming them, I feel revived, strengthened. Maybe I am the demon they claim me to be?
A serial killing demon. I might laugh if the thought was not so frightening. I do not believe in the supernatural. This book is filled with stories. Just that, stories, of vampires and ghosts and stuff. It almost seems like research. But then each story is accompanied by a brutal sketch and a tale of death and murder. Maybe I suffer from some sort of psychosis. That is a much more logical thought.
After all, I have consumed the food and drink the people bring me, as well as the blood. No matter how much blood I take in, I still cannot go out in the sun. So it is only at night that I roam the village and surrounding jungle. I have found no further information on who or what I am. And I can only assume that beyond a marriage contract and this maybe brother, I have no family.
And my brother and Zakar must know I am gone, for no one has come looking and there does not seem to be any worry. I wonder if there is a time when I am supposed to be back to... where ever we all live. Perhaps then they will worry? I have thought of trying to find my way to a town or at least a place with electricity. Then I could make a phone call or send a telegraph or something. Sadly, I do not know where I would send such a thing to.
Strangely I do not feel lonely, alone out here with no one who speaks my language. Then again it has only been a few nights. I am curious though, I want to go home, I want to know who I am. What kind of a life do I have? Or did I have I mean. Hopefully the answers will come to me some day.