Immortality (draft) | Mindshatter

There was once an idea to write a story based on Clive Barker’s Undying. And there was even a concept:

narration in the spirit of H. Lovecraft, i.e. in the first person, conducted by a person who directly touched some part of the mystery and builds a convincing assumption of what is happening (something grim, “cosmic horror”);

the narrator cannot control events: he is only a spectator; at some moments a participant, but no more than that;

the narrator was drawn into this story because of his interest in Elizabeth, whom he met “before” her change;

Elizabeth “before” is a girl rather positive, romantic and vulnerable, but at the same time with a hard character, otherwise there would be nowhere for Elizabeth “after” to come from;

at the same time Elizabeth is drawn to the mysteries and mysticism around the Monastery, and she sometimes shares her stories about it with the narrator;

the members of the Covenant family were not closely acquainted with the narrator; almost all of his communication with Elizabeth took place outside the estate;

the narrator touched the terrible events when he decided to find out what happened to Elizabeth. Two lines are possible here: either he made this decision some time after her death, or he did not know about her death (transformation), and she disappeared, and he decided to find out what happened to her. And here is what started to come out of it.

The dim light of the setting sun, breaking through the tightly drawn curtains, gave the window opening the look of a battered cinema screen. Strange images flickered on that screen, not letting me even for a moment calm the trembling in my hands, to quiet myself a little.

I can no longer hope that I will ever be able to rid myself of those blood-chilling pictures, firmly lodged in my unsteady consciousness. Even the walls of the room now watch with satisfied disdain as I pace from corner to corner, unable to stop even for a while.

From time to time, sharp sounds of someone’s cursing, muffled from behind the wall, shatter this monotone movement, almost materially dividing the hours spent here into parts.

My gaze involuntarily returned to the window. I closed my eyes for a moment, opened them again. In disjointed fragments, accompanied by heartbeats hollowly echoing in my temples, the story of the last months continued to flash before me — not at all joyful or dry memories. A heavy sense of hopelessness squeezed me, not letting me forget or reject them.

Leisurely steps in the corridor behind the door for a moment pulled me out of my stupor. I shook my head, trying to come to my senses. I went to the desk. Opening the shriek-squeaking drawer, I took out paper, ink, a quill. I returned, sat by the window still lighting the room with crimson rays, set out the writing materials. I began to write.

I cautiously moved along the tunnel, checking every step, every meter of space I intended to tread. It was dangerous to be here; one had to be very attentive, but far worse than that was the oppressive feeling of tightness, constantly increasing despite the near-complete darkness around. The considerable width of the tunnel only worsened the situation, giving the low-hanging ceiling the likeness of a huge gravestone.

The ancient vaults produced a deceptive impression of reliability. Despite the fact that the stonework outwardly looked intact, from time to time I came across frighteningly eloquent places of collapse. It was clearly felt that beneath the seeming monolith lay a threat. The stones above waited only for the slightest pretext to crash down and let tons of earth bury everything nearby.

The air was stale but not damp, despite the proximity of the sea. The floor was covered with an untouched layer of centuries-old dust fallen from the vaults. The place clearly enjoyed no notoriety among the locals: the monks who had once built these catacombs had long been forgotten by all, although from the few rumors I managed to draw from the taciturn servants, their lives ended far from the most peaceful and godly way.

I moved forward slowly, carefully examining the uneven gray floor. It was strange that the tunnel was so long. Along its entire length I had not yet encountered a single branch: straight as an arrow, the passage led inward, into the very heart of the ruins.

Indeed, this place had been abandoned for a very long time. Only God knows how many more centuries it would have stood empty if not for Lizbeth… I lowered my gaze, slowed my step. God, what is happening to her? I still know nothing about what was going on in their family in recent months. It’s impossible to believe that Marie’s words could be true, that I have not the slightest hope left… But even Marie herself did not believe what Joseph told her in a dry and tense tone. Lizbeth is no longer with us; in that better world she is no longer tormented as she suffered and was tormented here.

My heart, despite all persuasion, tightened, pulled my chest with unbearable pain. What is the point of all this? I must admit, it was absurd to listen to those foolish ravings and come here. Everything is lost, everything. Forever…

But there is still hope. Not for nothing did I distrust this strange family from the very beginning; they are always hiding something, not finishing what they say. And now these servants spreading such gossip. And there is confirmation — those traces at the entrance, the earth, the carefully stacked stones… Someone has indeed been here recently, and though it could very well have been one of the servants, it’s hard to believe they could be so cynical. Lizbeth is their only consolation in this whole family. But, Lord, what could have been happening here? What do these strange, God-forsaken dungeons have to do with it, damn it? I saw her by the Monastery, my poor girl… If they dared to touch a single hair on her head, if they made her suffer even for a moment, they will regret it. How could I have remained on the sidelines all this time, to believe those lying words?!

My resolve now was enough to challenge everyone — the police, and that family, and that scoundrel, Ambrose. The damned tunnel clearly leads somewhere; it is there that I must resolve all doubts.

It seems I was approaching the goal, otherwise that strange measured hum would not be intensifying.

Strange. Only now did I understand that the evenly beating sound from somewhere far away was growing as I moved along the tunnel. I thought it was the noise of sea waves coming through the thickness of the earth, but if I calculated the direction correctly, I was moving away from the coast.

That very evening, when I first felt in full measure how meaningless and useless my life was. Any life, if you think about it. That very evening, when I was transformed, first sensing in full measure how full of meaning and warmth life is…

A society reception, one of many at which I was so desperately bored and so desperately hid my boredom, began exactly the same as everything always does. Completely different people, but with the same polite smiles and the same dry, mannered friendliness, moved through the halls, meeting acquaintances, talking about the weather, the theater, the arts, horses and races, dresses and hats. Despite the fact that each of them already knew everything that could interest him in that weather, theater, and hats. Trying to preserve the appearance in the absence of content.

Such meaningless conversations were useful. At the very least, they allowed one to kill time otherwise spent in the same everyday cares, each day occupying its unchanged place on the shoulders, like that very cross. In addition, those conversations distracted from other cares of that restless time, when Europe raged, seized by the crimson of bloody war, and there was no certainty in anything, for any day now one could expect that the everyday tiring yet peaceful life would come to an end.

It was precisely for such evenings that I felt not the slightest sympathy. Despite the richly decorated halls, the gentlemen maintaining visible seriousness, and the smiling yet cautiously restrained ladies dressed according to the latest fashion, there reigned an atmosphere of emptiness. The most one could expect to meet was naive youth forever anticipating happiness, or a wound-up cheerfulness with which couples would soon whirl in dance. But no naturalness, no cordiality, no warmth.

In essence, all this was devoid of meaning. Looking at the faces of people wandering the hall, one could predict each fate to within a few years. Predictable infatuation turning into predictable marriage. Predictable small quarrels that nonetheless separate forever, predictable cheerful, quiet, playful children growing up to the sounds of predictable songs. Predictable society evenings, where those children, with the trembling of still-young hearts, would look at each other.

Or else a predictable resolute departure for the igniting front, and an inglorious death, a heroic demise, a joylessly stern return with teeth tightly clenched from memories and a deathly pale gaze.

Now I stood and looked at everything around me with a mixed feeling of fatigue and indifference. And yet it was not only a melancholic mood that ruled me in such moments. Sometimes I discovered with surprise that, despite everything, deep in my soul I looked at those people warmly and with interest, feeling that some part of me was close to and understood their experiences, their lives.

However well I understood the meaninglessness and emptiness of such a way of living, some naive and absurd part of my soul always held me at the edge, not letting me simply turn away and leave behind my acquaintances, my friends, this city. And I really answered greetings with some strange sincerity, returned smiles. But still, today the very atmosphere of the evening was too tense; it could not be hidden either by smile or by words.

I swept my gaze over the hall, trying to find Howard…