The Mill and The Cross

Van Helsing’s soul, once unshakably at peace, crumbles into ruins as he gazes into Marianne’s tear-filled eyes, which haunted his during all those feverish nights between life and death. The bitterness and inconsolable pain within her gaze torment him like nothing else, turning his world black and white in an instant. The image of Marianne standing motionless, as if under a spell, clutching a worn Bible to her chest, no longer feels like a mere memory but a painful obsession. The love that tears them apart struggles to bear the weight of their belated and deadly confession. Yet, she listened to him intently, trembling, unconsciously touching her neck where his fiery kisses had left their mark just two nights ago. How could he resist the urge to taste the pulsing vein on Miss Danielle’s delicate neck? He had nearly torn her apart in every sense of the word. The dark essence within him, which threatened to break his will, unleashed unworthy and deeply hidden desires that Lawrence finds unbearable to live with. Despite this realization, he futilely fights against the constant passions of his bloodthirsty nature. His longing for Marianne consumes him, mentally pressing her body into the soft bed repeatedly, dominating her with rough and harsh force, rejecting her tenderness and inflicting pain devoid of pleasure or redemption. His desire for her mirrores the insatiable lust of forgotten pagan gods, craving bloody sacrifices in their honor. These thoughts drive Lawrence to the brink just hours before, compelling him to almost tear himself apart, by the first knife he can find. Now, his legs carry him towards the godforsaken ashes that remain at the site of the burned mill. The local inhabitants still tremble at the thought of venturing here, convinced that the sinister forces of darkness still find solace in this very place. And their fears may not be unfounded: where else could a devilish sorcerer possibly reside, if not in the vicinity of his deceased master’s charred grave? In the pre-dusk hour, a chilling stillness blankets everything, turning the surroundings a desolate grayness. Not a whisper of wind or a chirp of birds disrupts the eerie silence. The atmosphere, intangible yet undeniably alive, exudes a malevolence that lingers in the air. Lawrence treads upon the ground, covered in ashes, his steps barely audible. A wooden cross, tucked away in his jacket’s inner pocket, sears his flesh with excruciating pain. Without this symbol of faith, he knows he stands little chance against the nocturnal creature, brazenly flaunting its wickedness and mercilessly toying with innocent lives. Today, the local priest has already buried three innocent souls to rest in peace. Somewhere nearby, a faint crunching sound resonates, as if someone carelessly treads upon a branch or smoldering coal. “The third apostate won’t stand between our eternal bride and us!” a sinister laughter echoes menacingly, close enough to send shivers down Lawrence’s spine. It taunts and deceives, leading him in circles as nightfall descends, mockingly hurling handfuls of ashes in his face. “Reveal yourself, Mircea! In the name of the Almighty, I summon you!” But his furious words are swallowed by a pulsating silence, so alive that it reverberates within the depths of Lawrence’s skull, deafening him and causing disorientation. The surroundings come alive, swirling in slow motion. Shadows, viscous and ebony, stealthily creep from behind, yearning to ensnare him in their relentless embrace. The skeletal branches of the trees reach out like the gnarled hands of the undead, compelling him to retreat, his futile attempts to ignite a spark for the concealed candle proving fruitless. Suddenly, as if time had reversed, he is overwhelmed by a horrifying specter of the recent past. The mill before his eyes gradually rises from the ashes, its colossal wings twisting predatorily. “Lawrence! Lawrence, join us!” faintly familiar female voices beckon him from the depths of the resurrected diabolical structure. “Lawrence, you are one of us now!..” “Go away, you wicked creatures!” he repeats, completely stunned, striking a match in the hopes of dispelling the monstrous shadows that encircle him. But alas… It’s not the candle that burns in his chalk-white hands, but the notorious mill wings that once brought death to this place of evil. An ominous cross flaming above his head, beginning to sway, even in the absence of wind. Did he wish to relive that moment? Absolutely not! “Experience our suffering on your own flesh!” a hoarse voice comes from inside the building, just moments before the unstoppable wheel of fire descends to the ground, burying the professor. Distraught with horror, he futilely tries to shield himself with his hands from the inevitable death blazing in the night. Only with the first crow of the morning rooster, Lawrence barely opens his eyes, red and dry, only to find himself lying amidst a pile of old, long-cooled ashes, alive and unscathed. “Skillful witchcraft… So realistic that it could drive one mad,” he sadly ponders, rising to his feet and dusting himself off. “Is it possible to attempt to defeat this when the very night favors its godless creatures?..” The fiery wheel was merely an obsession, although this demonic performance had deeply wounded his restless, sick heart. How many hours had he laid there on the ashes, believing he had finally surrendered his life? What a wicked twist of fate that the cross at the mill, once a savior for him and Marianne, now appeared as a cruel pawn in the game of supernatural forces. October truly belongs to the bleakest, darkest, coldest months of the year, with its icy pre-dawn breath leading to the heaviest and most melancholic thoughts. Withered, decayed leaves squish unpleasantly underfoot, reminding us of the inevitable fragility of all things. Perhaps, love that bloomed in such a hopelessly sorrowful time was doomed from the very start. “How did the priest, kissed by death, manage to outsmart Strygon and regain his humanity?” A question that may forever remain unanswered, condemning Lawrence Van Helsing to eternal suffering under the mercy of the never-ending night. He can only cling to the hope of an improbable miracle. However, the skeptical scientist’s heart hardly acknowledges the existence of miracles alongside the existence of dark magic. * Upon returning to the inn, a small note awaits him on the table from Marianne, who has once again locked herself in her room. A tiny note resting on top of a weathered manuscript, carefully secured under a paperweight. Truly… “Burial in Romania.” Just a few pages, handwritten in Latin, were tightly placed between two thick metal plates until yesterday. A cunning trick that not everyone can unravel and read what lies within. Several handwritten pages, torn from the monumental essay of the traveler, ethnographer, and mystic Simion Florea Marian, recount rare instances of successful retribution against strigoi mort witnessed by the author himself. A heart brimming with reverent love offered a prayer, allowing this manuscript to be read without much difficulty. The notion that Marianne is an angel sent from heaven to aid and console him is further solidified in the professor’s inherently rational mind. Isn’t this a miracle?.. Deep within him, a part of him resists this notion, vehemently rejecting the thought that transcends scientific understanding. Yet, as his eyes follow the enigmatic lines before him, a glimmer of belief in the sacred antithesis of dark sorcery begins to flicker. Lawrence’s heart skips a beat, for he stumbles upon a way to vanquish Strygon that was previously unknown to him. This is precisely why the baron went to great lengths to conceal these pages, for they hold the power to shatter his dreadful creation. However, will this newfound knowledge aid someone who has already lost much of their humanity? * A torn page from Simion Florea Marian’s work points to a significant weakening of the strigoi’s strength in these lands on the day of St. Ignatius — October 17. Lawrence’s gaze fixates on the distant silhouette of the village church, which seems to darken and blur before him. Is this mere happenstance? Just a couple of years ago, while delving into the remnants of the libraries once cherished by Galician Kabbalists, now ravaged by the gendarmes, Van Helsing had previously come across references to this paradoxical document. However, he had scarcely comprehended then that the Transylvanian Strigoi and Dracula’s ordinary vampire breed spawn were two distinct embodiments of malevolence. While a cross, a sword, and a sharpened stake may aid against one, even a silver bullet would prove futile against the other. Florea Martin writes of the priest Giorgio, who, like Lawrence, bore the devil’s mark, yet ultimately triumphed over the Strigoi, escaping the clutches of undeath. “On the day of St. Ignatius, even the most good-hearted Christian must, like a pagan, entice a Strigoi with a sacrificial offering of blood if they wish to overcome it. Appeased by the carcass of a freshly slain pig, cattle, or fowl, the creature will be deceived, unable to roam in search of human prey, and temporarily stripped of its malevolent powers. Then even a mere mortal can face the monster on this night.” Lawrence’s lips, pale and lacking vitality, quiver with nervous excitement as his eyes frantically scan the faded Latin phrases etched by the delicate ink trail. The priest Giorgio, who successfully vanquished the Strigoi, found solace in the Lord’s forgiveness and retained his humanity. But what hope is there for Lawrence now, as the very tools of God — the crucifix, holy water, and consecrated ground — confront him like the monstrous creatures he has always hunted? “What is the purpose of it all?” the thoughts of a vampire hunter, morally shattered, swirl in a chaotic and contradictory manner. The weapons of the church, once formidable against the forces of evil, now seem powerless. The miller deceived him, failed to instill fear, but instead cunningly sowed confusion. He recognizes a similarity between them, a similarity that frightenes him. Marianne can't be near him now, offering him encouragement, instilling confidence in a brighter future, and sealing it with a tender kiss that speaks of unwavering hope. She hides in her dark, locked in fear, both thirsty and mortally afraid of him — the one who roams the night amidst ancient graves, uncertain of his place in the realm of the living or the dead. The fact that witchcraft proves stronger than any sacred relic aimed at him suggests that God has truly forsaken him. “If only I could speak to her before it’s too late… Only her loving hands were able to unlock the final book, a book that remains beyond my apostate grasp,” his gaze grows heavier, darker, desperately searching for a glimmer of light through the windows of his beloved’s room on the second floor. “Behold Jesus Christ, you vampire! Stop tormenting us!” the pure-hearted, devout priest Giorgio commands the Strigon, driving him relentlessly into a freshly dug grave, sprinkled with blood mixed with ashes. The simplest truth, which Lawrence had been oblivious to until that moment, suddenly strikes him like a delicate silver blade, compelling him to instinctively clutch his still-beating heart. An apostate?… Undoubtedly. Lawrence Van Helsing, who had dedicated decades to an extraordinary scientific education, possessed both knowledge and the power of prayer, yet the latter had always been a tool of retribution for him. Never before had a prayer escaped his lips sincerely, with a reverent stupor. Where rationality was derived from Descartes' works, there was no space for understanding solely with the heart, disregarding the mind. The Nietzschean within him mockingly declared: There is no God, and religion is unnecessary to justify the concept of the superman. As a non-practicing but curious occultist, a status he could indirectly claim, he added: sacred symbolism is only required to expand knowledge. Leave the priests their prayers. Extract the main essence and make it serve you. It appears that Marianne was the one who finally taught him to comprehend with his heart; otherwise, he would have forever remained deaf to the sacrificially beautiful love. In a dim corner of her room, she continues to pray tearfully, repeatedly uttering his name, beseeching the Lord for forgiveness for all the sins Lawrence has ever committed. He hears this, leaning against her door in a desolate corridor, gently tapping on it, his fingers cautiously scratching like rats within ancient walls. He can even perceive the frantic pounding of her trembling heart, the escape of a fearful sigh from her lips, as she stands frozen, bewitched, unsure of how to respond. “Teach me to pray like you, Marianne.” Teach him to pray, Marianne, or else on the night of October 17th, he will vanish forever from this world and from your life. After wiping away her scorching tears, she comprehends this truth deep within her subconscious. Slowly, she crawls towards the closed door, torn between the overwhelming desire to let him in and the wisdom that holds her back from doing so. “It’s doubtful that this will bring any solace, Lawrence. But try. Repeat after me…” As the elderly innkeeper strolls along the corridor, dimming the lamps for the night, he nearly stumbles over the figure of Van Helsing sitting by Miss Danielle’s door. Van Helsing mutters lines from the Gospel, his eyes shutting as if on the brink of death, whether in bliss or agony. Broken and spiritually disfigured, Lawrence clings to the fading remnants of his human consciousness, compelled to repeat the same words, feeling the unbearable pain searing him from within. It grips his heart, constricts his throat, and pierces him like thorns. This is the punishment that the Lord’s word inflicts upon the wicked who dare to utter this holy prayer. This is how ghouls meet their demise, unable to endure such torment. But he will endure it all. “Oh my God! Someone, please help!” The old innkeeper recoils in horror, stepping back from the possessed figure on the floor. “Fetch the doctor! The professor’s throat is gushing blood!” Unfortunately, one’s own blood is incapable of quenching the insatiable thirst of the nearly converted. The night of October, 17 proves to be tumultuous, tormented by an icy wind hitting the windows like a predatory bird. The villagers are driven indoors by the storm. The lightning slashes through the black sky like lashes from ancient gods. The rain pours down relentlessly, washing away all the roads in a matter of hours, as if this night will never cease. And that is the reason why it's even more strange and frightening for the old innkeeper, who is already suspicious, to suddenly notice that the lifeless body of Van Helsing, who seemed to be in a state of hypnosis, mysteriously vanishes from sight. Additionally, the scent of damp decay from outside is flowing into the hallway through the open window at the far end. “If he doesn’t come back, he’ll die. But if he does come back, won’t it be an ominous shadow of him?” Will Marianne’s life also come to an end when Lawrence dies? Sadly, Marianne, who is curled up on the carpet by the door, doesn't know anything anymore. * All the books he read were filled with lies. Even the most respected philosophers and scientists of the past, whom he admired, only believed in things that could be proven through experiments or rational thinking. It’s unlikely that any of them could convincingly explain why a heartfelt prayer can cause blood to gush from one’s throat, without any physical injury. Similarly, they wouldn’t be able to explain how he could jump out of a second-floor window and land on the ground unharmed, as if he had multiple lives like a cat. “Mircea, you'll love some blood on your burial site, I know it. So, I'll give you this solace,” Lawrence says in a trance-like state, as he pours the grave he recently dug in unholy ground with the blood of a slaughtered goose. The scent is enticing and intoxicating, driving him to madness, not even a heavy rain can wash it away. The overwhelming urge to lick his bloodied fingers is suppressed only by the burning prayer that consumes his very being. “I believe that you will show up soon, I can sense it... And I'm waiting patiently." The late Baron Meinster, didn't want anyone to discover a secret which was incredibly simple yet incredibly hidden. This is why he stored his books about Jure Grando in a locked box. However, all that is needed to uncover this secret is a pure, sensitive, loving, and faithful heart. And something that can protect from harm even in complete darkness. The St. Ignatius Church, eerily and quietly greeting him, appeared to have prior knowledge of everything. Priest Giorgio nearly bled to death while forcing the strigon back into its grave. Lawrence Van Helsing, enduring excruciating pain throughout his body, with his torn and bloody hands, makes one final attempt to touch the large altar crucifix in a silver frame, which had nearly blinded him before. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for all the sins I have committed, both knowingly and unknowingly,” he repeats, coughing out blood onto the pure white tablecloth that lies beneath the communion cup. Tomorrow morning, when the local priest arrives, he might think that someone has forcefully entered and performed a sacrilegious ritual on the altar. Furthermore, feeling more courageous, he might choose to follow the bloody path, even though it’s doubtful that it will guide him anywhere. Eventually, the rain will wash away all evidence, concealing dreadful secrets from that tumultuous night. * “The Lord offered himself as a sacrifice to cleanse us of our sins, not so that the damned could rise from their graves and inflict harm upon the innocent. While science may not acknowledge the existence of the soul, even if it does exist, I would rather save my soul and conscience than my physical body,” he thinks burdened by the weight of his guilt. Van Helsing struggles to think clearly as he cautiously approaches the cursed grave, his mind clouded. Despite stumbling and falling on the muddy path, he clings tightly to the precious crucifix, ensuring it remaines untainted by the dirt. With only a few hours until sunrise, he holds onto the belief that, with God’s guidance, he had managed to deceive the deceitful creature into sinking into the soft ground of a new grave. The intense pain tormentes his hands, rendering them numb. This is the consequence of regretting his actions too late. If his fate is to die alongside the monster he relentlessly pursues, perhaps it can be his only means of escape. If he won’t find forgiveness, he won't protect Marianne from himself. He cannot bear for her to suffer the same fate, so he's willing to die, a testament to his ultimate love and sacrifice for her. “What did I envision myself as, as a scientist? Did I see myself as a hunter, a savior, a helper? Did I believe I possessed extraordinary qualities, akin to a new breed of superhuman? It was all a matter of pride, a dreadful sin! And now, I have been rightfully punished, seeking redemption.” The miller, deceived by the fresh blood of a bird instead of a human, lays in the grave, appearing lost in the face of his impending death. He curses the one who had easily manipulated him on this fateful night. Van Helsing, wiping his bloodied face with a sleeve and concealing a crucifix, observes his terrifying enemy with a mix of fascination and disgust, truly seeing him for the first time. This creature has a horrible, almost inhumanly wild face, a messy, black beard, earthly skin, elongated claws, and harbors a profound animosity towards both his hunter and the mortal world. Once, this malevolent being was a human, someone’s dear grandfather. However, the rotten blood flowing through his veins led him astray, transforming him into a servant of evil, one of its nocturnal executors. “Vurdalak or Striga cannot be harmed by one of their kind! If you persist on this path, you will only kill yourself, you fool!” Mircea vehemently declares, desperately attempting to break free from the confines of the grave. Yet, the ashes from his master’s place of demise, scattered around, prevent the sorcerer from escaping. “And what of your eternal bride? Are you truly willing to forsake her in pursuit of revenge against me?” The crucifix, concealed beneath a thin layer, seems to radiate with an intensity as if it yearns to burn out Lawrence’s recently awakened demonic inner turmoil. However, he must exercise patience and bide his time. The hurtful words cruelly uttered by the creature before him inflict wounds upon Lawrence no less severe. “My bride is mortal. I haven't tasted her blood, thus God shall not punish me. Instead, I shall exorcise evil like any human being must do!” Van Helsing, standing amidst the pouring rain, painfully relishes in the chilling solace of the wetness, extinguishing the raging flame within him. Cold droplets cleanse his pallid face, devoid of any signs of vitality. “Do you truly wish to gamble with your own life? But why, you fool?” The feral creature grows restless, breathing heavily and digging its claws into the earth. It realizes that relying on supernatural powers will offer little aid, as the hunter above conceals something dreadfully potent beneath his gray coat. Something extraordinary and lethal. A force destined to bring destruction upon both of them. The madness reflected in Lawrence’s icy gaze reveals his unwavering determination.Not even the horrifying prospect of confronting the cruelest and most abominable forms of death can deter him. “I'm ready to give up my life in order to eradicate the final trace of evil in these lands. Life no longer matters. Though my physical body may perish, my soul will remain in the mercy of God,” he proclaims, closing his eyes. He senses the electric energy in the atmosphere, bracing himself to unleash a single yet devastating blow. Until the very last moment, the miller remains unaware of what his adversary is clutching in his hands. It's only when he hears Van Helsing’s cry of pain that he realizes it. The darkness is momentarily illuminated by a flash of lightning, revealing the silver outline of a crucifix. This flash resembles a lethal beam that appears to pierce through the abyss and delve deep into the grave. “See, strigon, Jesus Christ saved us from Hell and suffered for us! And you, strigon, will now find peace!” Lawrence exclaims, fervently and sorrowfully reciting the words from St. Ignatius' prayer. He witnesses the dying creature, engulfed in the powerful light from above, writhing in agonizing torment. Finally, the sorcerer’s body ceases its screams and convulsions, gradually collapsing to the ground and resembling a waxen figure. Lawrence watches as the human skin in front of him decays, leaving behind a pile of tattered rags and bones. Within a matter of minutes, even these remnants are washed away by the rain, transforming into dust. Lawrence has nothing left but to bury these remains with soil, placing a simple cross crafted from two aspen branches atop the mound. As he does so, Lawrence unconsciously experiences a peculiar and intense calming of his tormented heart, slowing down with every beat, which brings him an oddly light sensation of… purity and rejoice. * As the sun rises, the relentless storm finally subsides. Concerned about Van Helsing’s absence and intrigued by a strange story shared by the innkeeper, the villagers gather on the ground floor, sipping on potent ale. Sadly, three individuals lost their lives yesterday after hearing a mysterious knock on their windows, believed to be the work of a devilish creature. “It's wise to stay here, away from any evil eye,” the community leader logically concludes, rallying everyone in the pub. Thus, they spend the night in safety. “Could it be that the professor has finally found a way to eradicate this unstoppable evil?” wonders the elderly doctor, occasionally glancing at his watch. “Poor Miss Marianne… What if he never returns? It would devastate her,” laments Anka the maid, openly displaying her emotions and wiping her tear-stained face with her skirt. “Shh! Did you hear that? Someone just knocked on the door.” Indeed, a soft yet confident knock, originating from outside, startles the weary patrons of the tavern. It almost feels as if the ground trembles beneath them, as if an unforeseen force is intruding upon their very thoughts. Could it be that malevolence has found its way to them, capable of unraveling their deepest secrets? As the knock gradually fades away, the crowd realizes it came from the door, not the window as they initially assumed. Perhaps, unbeknownst to them, another weary traveler seeks refuge for the night, unaware of the unfortunate events that await them. “Oh my goodness, sir! What in the world has befallen you?” The innkeeper’s wife exclaims in terror, her eyes darting towards a tall and gaunt figure standing motionless at the entrance. Lawrence Van Helsing, caked in filth and mire from head to toe, his face smeared with blood and a wild look of complete devastation in his eyes. Weary and silent, he takes a few faltering steps towards the stunned villagers, anxiously surveying his surroundings as the crowd encircles him. “None of you will face death again,” he whispers, clutching a large crucifix desperately, mere moments before he collapses lifeless onto the floor. It appears that with his own death, the string of unfortunate events in this forsaken place in Transylvania will finally draw to a close.