Succubus

 

And

… though it's easy to get lost in conjecture.

I was sitting in a chair by Małgorzata's bed. Her sweat-dripping face turned amber in the lamplight. The girl's entire body was wet from the last… But for a moment, peace reigned. Now she was sleeping, breathing calmly and evenly. The attack seemed to have passed, but I knew: I couldn't succumb to appearances. This unsettling silence was merely a prelude to another attack.

I gently took Małgorzata's hand. An unpleasant shiver ran through my body; she was terribly cold. So cold, in fact, that I couldn't hold her any longer. I rose from the chair and slowly slid deeper into the room. I began to wonder when and how it had happened. Was it already when the clock spring broke? Or maybe… No, it was too much for me. My mind was already tired—too tired to think about it. I realized that in this situation, my efforts would be in vain, and I would only be wallowing in all these speculations and impressions. And they were fatal. Yes… I needed rest.

When I looked out the window, I remembered Baudelaire's words:

"Or the flat silence in the empty sea

is the mirror of my despair!"

True, there was no "empty sea" there, but before my eyes stretched an equally pathetic sight: a gloomy and—it would seem—rotten city, engulfed in fog. Indeed, in the dim light of the streetlamps, scattered among the vapors, the nearby houses seemed to be rotting, decaying, and crumbling. I was convinced I looked the same inside. I was filled with splinters and the charred remains of my youthful dreams.

"Why…" whispered Marguerite. Her soft, hoarse voice ripped me from my reverie. For a moment, I stood motionless, waiting for the girl to say another word. Silence. Finally, I overcame myself; with uncertain steps, I approached the bed and bent over the sick woman.

"Did you say something?"

I wanted to hold Małgorzata's hand again, but her coldness repelled me. I simply brushed the hair away from her face, and then I noticed that the girl's cracked, blue lips were quickly flushed with blood. The dry crackle of her lips turned into juicy fruit, the color of blood-red cherries, and beaded with saliva.

"Why are you looking for the devil outside the window?" whispered Małgorzata. "He is inside me."

The words rang through the silence like some mysterious Kabbalistic incantation.

"There is no devil," I replied.

"He is... I feel him inside... he fills me... he is here... inside me..."

I felt Małgorzata's breathing quicken on my face. The veins bulged at her temples. It was the prelude to another attack.

I felt sick sitting idly by the nightmare Margaret was now experiencing… but, by God, there was nothing I could do. I simply couldn't. I was as helpless as she was, bedridden, tormented by something I couldn't even fully imagine.

Spasms gripped her body again. She writhed, sighed, and moaned. I don't know where she found the strength to do so after so much torment…

"The devil is inside me…" she screamed. "He's inside… He fills me…"

No, it couldn't be simply delirium, although at first everything pointed to it. The spasms now transformed into smooth, delicate muscle movements and a rapid rhythm of breathing. I watched, knowing Margaret was suffering, as if she were taking in some alien, hostile body. Was it possible for hallucinations to give such a strong illusion of physical influence?

II

The wall blurred before my eyes like a great gray smudge. I don't know if it was lack of sleep or an internal conflict that had dulled my senses. My thoughts felt the same as I tried to reach inside… They scattered and became tangled. They got lost in the maze they had created, revealing to me the pain and horror of it all.

I took the spiral staircase to the second floor. Last night had passed, but after waking from a short nap, I felt her nightmare still linger. The morning walk brought no relief to my frayed nerves. The streets were wet and stinking from the fumes rising from the sewers. All the way, I thought only of Margaret's illness. I knew there was little I could do to help this girl—and that was what troubled me most.

So what was left for me?

Wait and painfully observe the changes taking place?

The key grated in the lock. I opened the door… Margaret was still sleeping peacefully. She'd had three attacks during the night, so now she needed time to regain her strength. Her body was still deathly pale and cold. Her arm hung limply along the foot of the bed, and her black hair was scattered in a wild mess on the pillow.

I wiped her face with a soft handkerchief, and something inside me snapped. I heard a sound like a falling clockspring, and at the same time, it seemed to me that the walls shook. Then, for a moment, I lost control. I don't know how to describe the state. It seemed to me that I was momentarily drowning in nothingness, nirvana... It was as if I had (…) Once I regained full mental faculties, everything seemed to return to normal. The walls stopped shaking.

I went to the bathroom. Something kept me from looking at my own face in the mirror. Couldn't I look, or didn't I want to? What difference did it make... My head was bent low over the sink. I felt a strange, nauseating taste in my mouth, as if I was about to vomit.

The tap water felt cold—extremely cold—piercing my entire body with its cold. Just like Margaret's hands. When I ran my damp fingers over the rough crust of my mouth, I drifted away.

Colors, light, and shadows swirled, merging into a single torrent of gray-green plasma. I felt the vortex tighten around me. It thickened like magma. It clung to my skin with invisible suction cups. I felt stuffy, nauseated, and weak—and, honestly, I don't know how I was still standing. Everything around me suddenly seemed so… like something out of an expressionist painting. Unfriendly and ominous. Sharp. Contrasting. Distorted. I stood alone in the heart of this vortex, which was constantly condensing, choking me, and swallowing me. And if I could, I would have screamed with all my might, but my voice caught in my throat. A crushing fear practically burst me from within.

When the fantastic images vanished and I awoke from this strange semi-lethargy, I collapsed to the floor. My arms and legs shattered loudly. My head struck something hard. When I looked at the spot, I saw a shattered clock. It must have accidentally fallen from the wall, or I'd unconsciously knocked it off with my hands as I fell. But never mind. I was shaking all over. I had to take several deep breaths to gather my strength and stand up.

Then I thought of mirages. I had the impression that they had long been dormant in the depths of my mind and were only now being released—due to some unknown factor. I had never believed in any metaphysical truths, but at that moment I suddenly became convinced that there must be something to them after all…

Was it possible that deep within my brain, layers of something I hadn't been aware of until then, were slumbering?

"...but it was forgotten and hidden from my consciousness until this day..." Pernat's words seemed all too real to me now.

***

I rose cautiously and walked towards the room. I felt heavy, as if filled with mercury; my legs were buckling under me, I felt weak and stuffy. "What's going on?" I whispered, wiping my sweat-beaded forehead.

The day was rainy and gloomy. Pale light streamed into the room through the window, casting phosphorescent spots on the furniture and mat. Margaret hadn't woken yet; she was still sleeping with her head tilted to the side, while a black shape lay motionless on the white duvet. As I approached, I recognized the pointed shape of ears and a small muzzle. A warm purr filled the silence. The shiny, smooth back stretched like an accordion and then arched. Suddenly, the tomcat jumped up. With a sudden movement, he jumped off the bed, darted across the room, and dove under the desk. Sitting in its shadow, he began to focus on me with the spotlights of his large, round eyes.

I wonder what the court was up to? I opened the door and tried to shoo him away into the stairwell. Meanwhile, he continued to stare, refusing to take his eyes off me.