Strigoi's Awakening

Awakening. It began not with the gentle hum of twilight, but with a jarring disruption to the ancient quiet of the Richmond cottage, a sharp, insistent rap echoing from the surprisingly sturdy oak front door.

Greg Strigoi, the cottage's sole, nocturnal inhabitant, stirred. His awakening was usually a slow, deliberate affair, but this was different. This was a deliberate, human knock, insistent and desperate. A flicker of panic, a sensation he rarely felt, tightened his chest. Visitors were… unheard of. Undesirable. Dangerous.

He rose silently from his deep slumber in the specially reinforced cellar. The room was cold and still, but the knocking persisted, a rhythmic plea against the heavy oak.

Greg was tall, with a lean elegance and pale, almost alabaster skin. His eyes, deep intelligent hazel, held the weight of forgotten libraries and countless moonlit nights. They were eyes that had seen empires rise and fall, and in their depths, a profound, almost aching loneliness resided.

His productivity usually began with a thirst for knowledge in his cluttered study, where towering bookshelves groaned under the weight of ancient tomes. But tonight, his nightly ritual was interrupted.

He moved with unnerving silence through the cottage’s narrow hallways. The knocking grew louder, more frantic, as he approached the front. Peering through a crack in the curtains, he saw a small figure below, bundled in a pink puffer jacket over tarot and star printed pyjamas, clutching a tattered satchel. It was a child. The satchel felt oddly heavy, and a faint, rhythmic thrum, like a tiny, muffled heartbeat, emanated from within.

Greg felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. A child. At his cottage. At this hour.

The child knocked again, a little louder, a desperate, insistent rhythm. Then, a small, choked sob escaped them.

In that moment, something stirred within Greg that was older than his own unique existence, older than the cottage, older than loneliness itself. It was the faintest echo of a forgotten humanity, a flicker of something he thought had long since withered and died.

He watched as the child shivered, pulling the puffer jacket tighter, their small face turned up towards the dark, silent cottage. Their eyes seemed to plead.

Greg closed his eyes, a silent battle raging within him. A deep, unsettling unease, the danger, the endless solitude – all of it warred with that tiny, unexpected spark of compassion.

He opened his eyes. The child looked even smaller, more vulnerable. Greg, the lonesome scholar of the night, made a decision. The horror, he realised with a chilling certainty, had just begun.

With a barely audible sigh, Greg unlatched the heavy bolts. The ancient door groaned open, revealing a sliver of moonlit night and the small figure huddled on the stoop.

She was no older than twelve, perhaps on the cusp of thirteen, with tangled brown hair and wide, frightened eyes. Her face was smudged, her lips trembled. 'Please,' she whispered, 'I… I don't know where I am.'

Greg stood in the shadowed doorway. His gaze softened. 'And how did you come to be at this cottage, child?' His voice was a low rumble, unaccustomed to human speech.

The girl hugged her satchel tighter, noticing the faint thrumming. 'I don't know,' she confessed. 'One moment I was in my bed, and the next… I was just walking. I always do this. I walk when I'm asleep. But I've never gone this far. And this place… it felt… strange. Like a pull.' She gestured vaguely at the cottage. 'Like something was calling me.'

Greg considered her words. Sleepwalking. Drawn to strange energy. He stepped back. 'Come in, then, child. The night is cold, and this cottage offers shelter.'

The girl hesitated, peering into the dimly lit hall. A shiver ran through her, unrelated to the cold. But the vast, dark woods of Richmond Park were clearly worse. With a hesitant step, she crossed the threshold.

'My name is Bellatrix,' she offered.

'Greg,' he replied, closing the heavy door. He led her to his study, where the faint, eerie glow of his bubbling concoction illuminated the room. Bellatrix gasped, eyes wide at the strange apparatus, the towering, ominous bookshelves, and the metallic tang in the air.

'What is this place?' she whispered, clutching her satchel.

'A place of study,' Greg answered, his gaze returning to the belladonna brew. He offered her a worn, velvet armchair. 'You are safe here, Bellatrix. For now.'

The night deepened. Greg continued his nocturnal pursuits, his study now with a silent observer. Bellatrix, curious, explored the cottage's nooks.

'So,' Bellatrix said, watching Greg arrange ancient scrolls. 'What exactly is your job? You just… read old things at night?'

'I acquire knowledge. And occasionally, I prevent certain… unfortunate occurrences.'

'Like what?'

'Like the spontaneous combustion of rare manuscripts,' Greg said, deadpan. 'It is surprisingly common if one is not vigilant.'

Bellatrix stared. 'Really? My mum always said I just left my books too close to the heater.'

'Your mother,' Greg stated, 'lacks a fundamental understanding of arcane paper preservation.'

Bellatrix giggled. A profound sense of detachment remained, but Bellatrix’s presence distracted from it. He found himself growing… fond of her.

'I'm starving,' Bellatrix announced. 'Do you have anything? Like… bread? Or fruit?' She patted her satchel.

Greg paused. Food. His own needs were particular. He thought of the dusty pantry. 'I believe there are… preserved items. Come.'

He led her to the kitchen, rummaging through a cobwebbed cupboard, pulling out hardtack and a shrivelled apple.

Bellatrix stared. 'Is that… bread?'

'It is a form of sustenance,' Greg stated. 'Highly durable.'

Bellatrix sniffed the apple. 'It looks a bit… sleepy.'

'Sleepy? It is merely… aged. Perhaps it has gained wisdom.' He watched her take a hesitant bite. 'Is it not to your satisfaction?'

'It's… crunchy,' Bellatrix managed. 'And a bit like chewing on a very old shoe.'

Greg frowned. 'Humans are particular about their sustenance. A curious weakness.' He decided then that providing human food was a chore he was ill-equipped for.

'Well, can I at least call my mum or dad?' Bellatrix asked, pulling out a small, cracked smartphone. 'They'll be worried sick.' The satchel gave another faint pulse.

Greg looked at the device, utterly bewildered. 'Call? What is that… peculiar rectangle?'

'It's a phone! For calling people. To talk to them when they're far away.'

'Ah,' Greg said. 'Like a speaking tube, but without the tube? Or perhaps a very elaborate carrier pigeon?'

Bellatrix stifled a giggle. 'No, it's… electronic. You just dial their number. Do you have one? I've only got a tiny bit of battery left.'

Greg stared at the glowing screen. 'I possess no such… electronic contraptions. They interfere with the delicate energies of the cottage. And, frankly, they emit a most irritating hum.' He gestured vaguely. 'Far too much chatter for a scholar of my… disposition.'

Bellatrix sighed. 'You don't have a phone? What kind of person doesn't have a phone in London? Are you secretly a wizard living off the grid?'

'I am a scholar,' Greg repeated, a hint of annoyance. 'And the grid, as you call it, is entirely too… illuminated for my tastes. And no, I am not a wizard. Their methods are often rather… flamboyant.'

Bellatrix just shook her head. 'Right. No phone. No normal food. Just old books and… whatever that green bubbling stuff is.'

'Precisely,' Greg said. 'Now, about these less alarming provisions...'

He vanished, returning moments later with dried berries and nuts. Bellatrix ate them with less drama.

As the hours passed, Bellatrix’s sensitivity to the cottage’s unseen inhabitants grew. She would often stop mid-sentence, head cocked. 'Someone just walked through the wall,' she'd announce. Or, 'The old woman in the parlour is looking for her knitting needles again.' The thrumming in her satchel intensified subtly.

Greg, intrigued, began to test her. 'Describe this "old woman",' he'd command.

Bellatrix would close her eyes. 'She has a bun, and a very stern face. And she smells like lavender and old wool. She's muttering about a dropped stitch.'

Greg would consult his journals. Bellatrix's details were chillingly accurate. 'Fascinating,' he'd muse. He began to suspect her 'sleepwalking' was a subconscious seeking of places where the veil between worlds was thin.

The cottage itself seemed to respond to Bellatrix. Creaks and groans became communicative. Objects would subtly shift. Greg knew these were not mere draughts. The cottage was reacting to her.

A fierce storm raged outside. Bellatrix, huddled in the study, was sketching. Greg was engrossed in his belladonna brew.

Suddenly, a cacophony erupted from above – crashing, wailing, crockery being thrown. Bellatrix shrieked. The thrumming in her satchel became a frantic pulse.

'What was that?!' she cried.

Greg tilted his head. 'It appears the cottage is… expressing itself with unusual vigour tonight.'

But this was different. The air grew heavy, thick with dread. The temperature plummeted. The faint, eerie glow of the belladonna brew intensified.

'No,' Bellatrix whispered, eyes wide. 'It's not the cottage. It's… them. They're angry. They're trying to get in.' She pointed at the wall, where a faint, shimmering outline of a figure began to coalesce.

Greg turned, his gaze fixed on the nascent apparition. His eyes narrowed. This was no mere echo. This was a manifestation, fuelled by Bellatrix's heightened sensitivity and the storm's raw energy. The horror was no longer subtle.

The figure grew clearer, a gaunt, furious man. It lunged forward with a chilling, spectral force. The belladonna brew began to boil violently.

Bellatrix let out a piercing scream. Her hands flew up, and a blinding, emerald green light erupted from her fingertips, a raw, uncontrolled burst of power.

The light slammed into the spectral figure, which recoiled with an unearthly shriek. The tremor that followed was from the sheer force of Bellatrix's unleashed magic. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Greg, who had instinctively moved to protect a goblet, froze. His eyes widened. He looked from the goblet to Bellatrix’s trembling hand, then to her face, a mask of bewildered terror.

'What… what was that?' she whispered.

Greg slowly straightened. A profound realisation dawned. The 'strange energy' that drew her, the sleepwalking, her approaching thirteenth birthday… it all clicked. He had seen this before. But this… this was something more.

He knelt before her, his pale face illuminated by the belladonna brew. 'Bellatrix,' he said, 'you are a witch. And more. You are a medium. You can see and touch the spirits of this place.'

Bellatrix stared. 'A witch? A medium?'

Greg nodded, a wistful expression on his face. 'This cottage is a nexus, where the veil between worlds is thin. And you, child, are a conduit. That spectral presence… was a fragment of this place's darkest past, stirred by your presence.'

He stood. The peculiar emptiness within him, a low thrum for centuries, now intensified, a profound yearning. He had suppressed it for so long. But Bellatrix's raw, vibrant life force, combined with the intense magical energy she had just released, was a potent, almost irresistible lure.

He turned away, clenching his fists. The horror, he realised, was not just in the spectral threats, or in Bellatrix's burgeoning power. It was in him. It was in the constant battle against his own nature.

Bellatrix, sensing his shift, looked at him. 'Greg? Are you alright?'

He took a deep, shuddering breath. 'I am… merely contemplating the implications of your… unique gifts, child.' He forced his voice level. He needed to regain control.

He moved to a hidden alcove, revealing ancient, silver-bound vials. He selected one, its contents a viscous, dark liquid. 'This,' he said, his back still to Bellatrix, 'is a fortifying draught. For… moments of extreme agitation. For the cottage, of course.' He uncorked it, and a faint, pungent scent wafted through the air. He drank it in a single gulp.

Bellatrix watched. 'What was that?'

Greg turned, his face pale, but his eyes now held a chilling composure. The immediate yearning had receded. 'A necessary measure, Bellatrix. To ensure the… tranquillity of this cottage. And to ensure your safety.'

Just then, a new sound cut through the storm's wail – a distant, rising siren. Then another, closer. Blue and red lights flashed through the gaps in the curtains.

'Oh no,' Bellatrix whispered. 'The police. My parents must have called them.'

Greg's gaze hardened. 'Police?' His encounters with law enforcement typically ended… messily.

The sirens grew deafening, stopping just outside. A loud, authoritative rap thundered on the door. 'Police! Open up!'

Greg looked at Bellatrix, then back at the door. His centuries of caution, his desire for solitude, warred with a new, protective instinct.

'Stay here,' Greg commanded, his voice low and dangerous. He moved with a swiftness that was almost a blur.

He unlatched the bolts. The door groaned open, revealing two uniformed officers, grim in the flashing blue light.

'Evening, sir,' the lead officer began. 'We've had a report of a missing child in the area, and a disturbance. Is there anyone else in this residence?'

Greg's eyes held a cold, ancient fire. 'There is no disturbance. And the child you seek is… safe.'

'We'll be the judge of that, sir,' the second officer interjected. 'We need to come in and have a look around.'

Greg's lips curved into a slow, terrifying smile. 'Indeed?' he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, resonant purr. 'You wish to enter my home?'

He extended a pale, slender hand, fingers unnaturally long, and gently touched the lead officer's arm. The officer flinched at the impossibly cold touch.

'I am a creature of the night, Bellatrix,' he continued, voice a soft, hypnotic rumble. 'My existence is bound to the shadows, to the ancient secrets of this world. And my sustenance… is different entirely than bread, or berries, or even the wisdom of old books.' He looked into the officer's eyes, and for the first time, the officer saw it – a flash of something primal, ancient, and terrifyingly hungry. It was the hunger of a predator, refined by centuries of intellect, but unmistakable.

'I am Greg Strigoi,' he stated, 'and I am a vampire.'

With a speed that defied human perception, Greg lunged. A choked cry, a sickening tear of fabric and flesh, then silence. The second officer stared, frozen, as Greg stood over his fallen colleague, his pale face smeared with crimson. The peculiar emptiness within him was, for a fleeting moment, sated.

Bellatrix, who had crept to the hallway, witnessed the horrifying scene. Her small hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with a horror that was both profound and, strangely, mixed with a dawning understanding. The pieces clicked into place.

Greg turned his head, crimson-stained lips curving into a predatory smile as he met Bellatrix's gaze. The horror was still there, lurking in the shadows, a constant threat. But now shared. And perhaps, just perhaps, that made it a little less terrifying. She slowly reached out, her small, warm hand hesitantly taking his impossibly cold one.

Greg then turned to the remaining officer, whose face was a mask of pure terror. Greg's eyes, still glowing, locked onto the officer's. A shimmering haze emanated, swirling around the officer's head. His eyes glazed over, his stance softening, replaced by a peculiar, almost dreamlike serenity.

'You will take the child home,' Greg's voice resonated, an irresistible suggestion. 'She is safe. And you will forget everything that transpired here tonight, save for the fact that you found her, and she is well. You will remember nothing of me, or this cottage, or… your colleague.'

The officer nodded slowly, eyes vacant. 'Yes, sir. Take the child home. She is safe.' He turned, a strange, placid smile, and walked towards Bellatrix.

Bellatrix, though shaken, felt a strange calm settle over her. She knew he was no longer a threat. She reached into her satchel, pulling out a small, tarnished silver locket. It pulsed in her hand, a steady, strong heartbeat. She held it out to him. 'This was in my bag. I don't know how it got there. But… it felt like it belonged to someone important. Someone… who was very loved.'

Greg's eyes, still glinting, fixed on the locket. His predatory smile faltered, replaced by an expression Bellatrix couldn't quite decipher – ancient pain, profound longing, a ghost of a memory. His long fingers, still stained, reached out and gently took the locket. He opened it, revealing a faded, miniature portrait of a young woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile. His own eyes, centuries old, softened, a tearless sorrow in their depths. It was a face he hadn't seen in over five hundred years, a face he had tried to forget, a fragment of the humanity he thought he had buried for ever.

He looked from the locket to Bellatrix, a profound tenderness replacing the predatory glint in his eyes. 'The cottage called to you, Bellatrix, not just because of its own peculiar hum, but because it recognised a kindred spirit. A powerful medium, on the cusp of her abilities, drawn to a place steeped in ancient energies. And I… I have found myself… un-alone.' He paused, then added, his voice soft but firm, 'You are always welcome here, Bellatrix. This cottage, and my knowledge, are open to you. You can learn about your powers, and your heritage as a witch. Whenever you wish.'

Bellatrix looked at his ancient, strangely gentle face, then at the locket in his hand, feeling the echo of its heartbeat in her own chest. The horror was still there, lurking in the shadows, a constant threat. But now, it was shared. And perhaps, just perhaps, that made it a little less terrifying. She nodded, her small, warm hand hesitantly taking his impossibly cold one. Awakening.