Enter the Shadowlands

Edward Crane stood in the stone frame of a high arching window, his too pale hands pressed against the cool glass. His world, the real world, had a sky bright and blue, crowned by a sun burning yellow. But here, the sky was a constant and unchanging shade of stormy gray, the sun itself a pale, dim thing, offering only the faintest illumination to the dead fields and thin forests of leafless, bone-white trees below. And though there was a strange, haunting beauty to this cold world, he had neither the interest nor the concentration to pay it any mind. His brain was too busy struggling to come up with an answer for the sole question that had been bouncing back and forth between his ears for the past several hours: ‘Where am I?’

Pulling back, Ed’s view became obscured by a foreign reflection. The face looking back was remarkably similar to his own, borderline indistinguishable, but it was too pale. Too sharp and angled, the eyes bright with a silver glow. The fangs were no less evidential. 

Ed stepped down from the window and swept weightlessly across the gothic chamber he’d woken in, polished black boots barely touching the stone bricks of the floor. Every floaty step was awkward and unbalanced, but the swift pace and considerable distance traveled with ease was well worth the vertigo. The walls stopped wavering when he flopped down in the high-backed crimson chair at the room's center.

The game’s aesthetic was unmistakable, as was the face he wore in place of his own. But it wasn’t reasonable, wasn’t possible. This world was make-believe, fantasy. A fictional setting where made-up creatures dwelled. Witches and goblins, werewolves and gargoyles. Vampires. Monsters born of the imagination, all of them. And yet, here he was, brimming with a mad fear he hadn’t felt since meeting the hospital’s most hated patient, the arrival of whom had sparked even the most iron-willed atheist to consider asking some divine force for aid. Doctors and nurses alike, and even a few of the custodians, had sworn the devil himself had come to Stoking Mills.

Ed hadn’t believed the rumors, not until it was announced Albu was being transferred to Hospice, and he caught Mrs O'leary praying the rosary with surprising oomph for an eighty-nine year old woman expected to drop any day. Worried for those under his care, Ed decided then and there to get to the bottom of things. Luckily, Ed’s regular lunch companion was all too excited to spill everything he knew about the supposed antichrist who was to be shuffled over that evening. 

“I’m telling you,” his nursing comrade said, tilting the wobbly, sticky-topped table they’d claimed, the careless placement of his elbows throwing the whole thing off balance. “He’s evil.”

“He’s bedridden and, what, seventy? Sounds like everyone’s making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Out of nothing?” Bill leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. Much to Ed’s appreciation, the table tipped back his way. “He chucked his lunch at my head!”

“Can’t blame him,” Ed teased, “I’d be tempted to do the same if I was stuck with you all day.”

Bill jabbed a finger at him. “Just don’t come crying to me when he tries to choke you with his tubes.”

Hours later, Ed stood in the carpeted hallway of the hospice unit, a food tray held snug in his hands. Bringing meals to dying patients was something he was well accustomed to, enjoyed even. Gave an opportunity to talk to people, to make jokes so lame they couldn’t help but laugh. It made him feel good. But here and now, he found himself breathing heavily, heart beating. The already present feeling of dread coursing through his body was only maximized by the cheap plastic clock above his head, its hauntingly slow tick making him feel as if a cursed doll sat rocking in its chair behind the door.

What did this man even look like? He’d heard stories of course, though they hardly painted a realistic picture. Hairless, skin pale as fresh bed sheets and tight over a skeletal frame. His nails had grown to nine inches, and apparently he managed to be born with a pair of impressive fangs. Descriptions like this were more tongue in cheek, and seldom were they ever spoken of in the same tone as the reports on Mr Albu’s monstrous behavior.

Shaking the nonsense from his head, Ed cautiously peered in at the scowling old man. Bald as an egg with no eyebrows to speak of, it was a complete shock that he hadn’t been on chemo. His skin was fleshy, almost grayish in coloring, and completely lacking in wrinkles. Mr Albu was hardly pleasant to look at, but he was no demon.

“My name’s Edward Crane, Nurse Crane officially. But I prefer Ed or Eddy, if it’s all the same to you.” He fiddled with the remote until the bed shifted into a chair-like position, and set the tray on Mr Albu’s lap. “We’ll be seeing each other pretty often.”

“Until I finally croak, you mean.” His voice was soft, friendly. His dark eyes seemed to trace Ed’s every feature, repeating the action a dozen more times. And in the end, he fully smiled, erasing a solid two decades from face. “Don’t look so surprised, Edward. We both know my days are numbered, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“I guess not,” Ed said honestly, beginning to feel somewhat comfortable. Hope doesn’t come easy to Hospice patients, but Adam Albu was the first he’d met who seemed truly comfortable, if not borderline excited, with his impending doom. “Just not an attitude too many people have.”

“I have high hopes for eternity.”

“Headed to Heaven, are you?”

Religious talk was frowned upon. Mockery or praise, it didn’t matter. Both were against policy. But Ed kept his tone neutral enough to hide any personal opinion on the matter, so he didn’t see the trouble in making a conversation.

“No,” Mr Albu said simply. “Hell has always been my preference.”

Ed snorted a laugh at that.

Humor would be a tentpole in establishing their relationship over the next few days, as would an obscure old game.

“Come on,” Bill said one night over cold pizza, shaking his head in disbelief as Ed sang Mr Albu’s praises. “Admit it, you killed the old guy and now you just make up these stories so everyone will think he’s still alive.”

“Bill, it’s hospice care, the one place I wouldn’t need to hide a murder.” Ed kept his voice low to avoid anyone overhearing. Jokes about death were bad taste in the hospital cafeteria. “Serious though, he’s a wicked cool guy. Cranky, sure, but still cool.” He finished his crust before asking the question he’d been dying to ask all day. “You know anything about Sanguis Daemoniorum?”

Bill’s forehead wrinkled. “What?”

“Some old game.” Mr Albu had told him about it, though his description was cryptic at best. Considering what a roleplay nut Bill was, Ed was hoping for some info. “Looked it up online, but couldn’t find much beyond it being discontinued in the late seventies.”

“Vampires.”

“Vampires?”

“Vampires,” Bill confirmed, grinning as he began to count off on his fingers. “And gargoyles, goblins, wolfmen, zombies… gothic monsters galore! Sang-Daem had it all. Unfortunately suburban moms weren’t too happy about their little lambs having, you know, fun. Destroyed every set they could get their hands on. Hosted full on burnings. They caused such a stir the company decided to just dump the whole game. Hasn’t been a new edition since seventy-nine.” Bill suddenly looked very bitter. “If it survived to the eighties– who knows. Probably would be considered a work of genius. Not that I’d know, can’t exactly play it.”

“Maybe someday.”

“Ed, you’re more likely to become an actual vampire than ever see that game.”

Ed’s mind burned with eternal debate. Bill would’ve gone nuts, absolutely insane, if he knew a complete 1977 edition of Sanguis Daemoniorum was gathering dust just across the parking lot.

It had taken a long time for the old man to trust Ed enough with just a peek at the box he kept hidden in his room, and he’d been very adamant that no one could know. Ed tried asking what was so bad about an old tabletop RPG, but Albu was reluctant to share. With Bill’s additional info, he now understood just how valuable the infamous game. He decided then and there to keep his mouth shut and spoke no more of Sanguis Daemoniorum for the rest of his shift. But this stoicism only lasted until the next day.

“The game,” he said, forgoing his usual greeting. Maybe it had some hold on him, a spell as supernatural as the monsters that dwelled within the Shadowlands. “I’d like to know more about it. Please.”

For a time, Mr Albu regarded him silently from the bed, black eyes traced over his face, studying him. “Listen well,” he said at last. “There’s much to learn.”

Mr Albu told him of the creatures who dwelled in the Shadowlands. There were humans, “Like you are now, Edward.” But too there were the gargoyles who guarded castles and served their lordly masters. Viscous goblins, starving liches, subservient draugrs. But highest among them, the true powers, were the vampires.

“I’ve always favored them. Beautiful creatures of the dark who lust for blood and never age because of it, never grow weak and ill.” He smiled, though his eyes seemed mournful. “We’re all hindered by this mortal life. Held back, trapped in place. But this game lets you feel power, allows you to do things you could never do in this world. Adventures, quests, vengeance. It’s all laid out before you, just waiting for you to put your mind to action.”

Ed found himself falling mute for a time. But when he regained his voice moments later, there was only one proper question.

“How do you play?”

“Why Edward,” Mr Albu said, half his face suddenly bleached out by the last few rays of sunlight slipping through the window. “I thought you’d never ask.”

It soon became something of a ritual, the two of them playing the obscure old game. Twice a week, Ed stopped by Mr Albu’s room and they’d break out the box and cruise through for about half an hour, though twice they’d ended up playing for a full hour, once it came close to two. Then, everything changed.

“Good evening, Edward,” Mr Albu greeted when Ed pushed through the door, spirits high despite his visibly worsening health.

“Evening.” Ed took the game down from the top cupboard and settled by the bed. There wasn’t any need to check over the machines, he’d done so an hour ago, but he still gave everything a quick once over before sitting down. “Can only do the half-hour tonight, forty minutes at the most.”

Mr Albu’s long, crooked fingers dusted over the game box. Etched on the cover was ‘Sanguis Daemonium’, and it was these letters his fingers spent a remarkably long time tracing. Eventually he lifted the lid and the contents once again returned to the land of the living for their biweekly playtime.

“Where were we?” Mr Albu asked once everything was spread out over the bed. He always started like this, just like he always continued with, “Ah yes, I remember now.” He adopted an almost dramatic voice to recite, “Baron Eldred of Argoth is wandering the Haunted Wood with his squire after their excursion to the Flesh Markets of Civitas Ossium.”

Ed’s eyes scanned over the world map. It was undeniably beautiful, the artwork alone proving Sanguis Daemoniorum certainly wasn’t just some cheap game. But for all its aesthetically pleasing qualities, he couldn’t ignore the grotesque imagery which served as decoration.

“I can understand why they burned this.”

Mr Albu glared for a moment, then flicked a card at him. Ed picked it up from off the floor, smiling as he turned it over. Like any old trading card, it had a picture. But it didn’t depict a baseball player, or a cute collectible monster. It was a citizen of the Shadowlands.

While it was perfectly acceptable to create your own character, the game had come with a thick stack of pre-developed characters. Some were humans outright, while others were only varying levels of humanoid, like the vampires and draugr, hags and gargoyles and goblins. The card in Ed’s hand depicted a remarkably realistic sketch of the vampiric nobleman Eldred Longfang, and it was this that was truly remarkable, because he had Ed’s eyes, Ed’s nose and chin. His lips and forehead and standard way of standing. Eldred was Ed’s twin, a mirrored image of himself. Refined and dashing, and printed on an obscure tabletop game card twenty-five years before he was even born, but his twin nonetheless.

Ed had been shocked upon first discovering his fictional doppelganger, somewhat unnerved even. But Eldred’s similarities proved to make the game that much more fun. He didn’t have to imagine what he’d look like as a vampiric Shadowlander, all he had to do was look down and there he was. The provided convenience made it easier to submerge himself in the quests Mr Albu led him through, adventures within which the other-him could do as he wished.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t mind swapping roles.”

Mr Albu’s dark eyes were set firmly on the map laid out over his lap. “After you complete your quest, perhaps.”

They started out pretty basic, playing little missions. You kill a monster, or anything really, you get points. The more points you get, the more skills you unlock. It involved a lot of math, and frequent consultations of the guidebook, but it was still a decent system. And for the first few sessions, that’s about all he did. Track down an enemy and roll the dice to see if he could manage to kill them, or drink their blood. It wasn’t all that exciting at first, considering the repetition and constant arithmetic. But it didn’t take long to get into the game, especially with Mr Albu’s dramatic narration. His award-worthy performance was almost enough to make Ed feel as if he really was Eldred Longfang, vampire lord, as opposed to Edward Crane, nurse.

Once Ed’s stats, or as Mr Albu insisted: statistics, were high enough, they started the real adventures. Traveling through the Haunted Wood, sailing the Sea of Souls, discovering lost treasures and slaying monsters to claim ownership over them, and occasionally terrorizing mortal villages. There were also those pesky hunters, seemingly always on his tail. But his grand quest was something else entirely. He was to recover a mystical object of vast importance, the Gemini Cup.

“Alright,” Ed said twenty minutes later, eyeing the clock on the wall. “Now I really got to go.”

Those words usually got a scowl out of the old man, but not this time. To Ed’s surprise, he simply nodded and helped gather up the pieces, storing them all neatly back inside the box. Back into the cupboard it went, but Mr Albu spoke just as Ed was shutting the door.

“Remember the quest, Edward.” He sunk down into his bed, groaning as he did so. His body was thin as of late, boney and corpse-like. “Find the cup.”

“I will,” Ed promised, receiving only a wheezing snore in response. He pulled the chain on the lamp, casting the room into darkness, and stepped out into the hall.

The following events were less clear. He remembered driving home, but the experience was fuzzy, distorted. Had there been a crash?

An earsplitting creak tore into the room as the heavy wooden doors parted behind him. In a swift movement that should have given him whiplash, Ed twisted his head around to see a short, pitiful figure emerge from the shadows.

“M’lord,” Squire Florin greeted, bowing low.

Though they’d only met hours before, Ed knew much of the squire. Or Mr Albu’s take on the character, at least. The old man was a mortal bound to Eldred Longfang, condemned to half a century of servitude all so that he might one day earn the immortality vampirism allowed. But in Florin’s possibly existent mind, they’d known each other some decades now, requiring a charade to keep things going smoothly.

“You may enter.”

Based on the smile he received, his impression worked. Or maybe Florin was just glad to see his lord calmer than their last interaction. Panic had been his first instinct upon waking up in this world, and he’d thoroughly terrified the poor man.

“I’ve brought sustenance.”

Ed noticed the wineskin in Florin’s hands. His nostrils flared. 

“Blood?”

“Bull’s blood, M’lord. But if you’d rather…” Florin tugged up his sleeve. Scars covered pale flesh from wrist to elbow, bite marks of varying deepness. “I’d be honored.”

“I’ll have the bull’s.”

Ed sipped cautiously at first, face screwed up in disgust. But mere seconds later, he was greedily gulping down mouthful after mouthful until there wasn’t a drop left.

The room seemed far less dim and gloomy, and the chill much more comfortable. He felt strong now, stable. Standing, the weightlessness of this body felt almost natural. Worry no longer tortured him, his thoughts now flowing freely and fearlessly, and he decided this wasn’t a dream. No dream could be so complex.

“Squire, get me a pen and paper.”

Florin reappeared with a surprising swiftness for an elderly mortal. But then, did he even go anywhere? Or did he just respawn with the requested materials in his hands?

Ed spread the yellow parchment over his thighs, dipped the feather quill in the inkpot, and thrice scribbled out: ‘My name is Edward Crane’. The short sentence came out perfectly clear. He wasn’t dreaming.

“M’lord,” Florin said, wringing his hands as he came close. “Is something wrong?”

Ed sighed. “You have no idea.”