The tentacles of darkness still entangled the crisp fall sky when Lamia Breen Blanchet stirred from her fitful slumber. As she lied silently in the familiar blackness, she traced the numerous scars that littered her body with a cold, pale finger. One, on her cheek, from a shattered glass that she barely managed to dodge, another, on her upper arm, from the splinters of a weak, wood table as it shattered under her weight. She thought long and hard about these marks of torture, these brands of anguish -- not merely physical, but mental and emotional as well. She did not want the hatred in her heart to diminish even slightly, for fear of losing her conviction.
She did not know when she decided that he must die. She only knew that it had to be today; that singular contemplation was so deeply etched into her mind that she could scarcely think of anything else. Her frail, small form shuddered in quiet rage and indescribable pain at the mere thought of postponing or hastening his demise. Although she was not more than ten years old, her entire world revolved around this day; she could not remember a time when it did not.
In her mind, he was immortal, one who would never surrender to death quietly and would never give her peace of his own accord. He haunted her every moment and darkened her every thought. She knew that it was up to her to liberate herself from the cage of oppression and darkness that confined her, and the only way she knew how was to kill him herself.
Alastor Blanchet, Lamia’s maternal grandfather, had been her caretaker ever since her unmarried mother of twenty-five had died in a train accident when Lamia was six years old. The title ofwarden, however, might fit the situation much more readily. Alastor had never shown anything close to care for either Lamia or her mother; he was a burly, angry man who, although advanced in his years, was still quite capable of enforcing any punishment he deemed fit -- however bloody and brutal that may be.
It seemed that every inch of the dilapidated mansion-like estate was soaked in her blood, bathed in her tears, or sodden by her misery. That, of course, was not the case. When she first came to this dark abode, her grandfather made it quite clear that the west wing of the house was strictly forbidden. It was his territory and his alone. In her four years of imprisonment she had only once gone beyond the invisible borders. It was a fall day, much like the one she found herself in now. Frost hung in the air and an icy gray settled over the ancient manor that bound her to that small chunk of broken country promises. That day had begun like any other, but normality flew out the window the moment Alastor left the residence. Alastor never left. The Blanchet family had made a fortune in the oil business generations back, and the descendants were still living comfortably off of what remained. Because of this, Alastor did not work. If he needed anything, it was delivered; there was no need to leave the confines of his dwelling. But, that morning, he climbed into a rusted Cadillac and drove in the direction of town, or what Lamia assumed was town.
In all her time, Lamia never did discover why he left; all she knew was that he did and that her childish fancies seized her with the opportunity to explore. She did not immediately stray; it was a soft call, a distant cry, that drew her into treachery. It echoed slightly through the halls, painful and pleading, the voice of a young girl. The Girl sounded awful, as if she were being ripped limb by limb by some horrible monster.
The Girl was familiar somehow; it was as if Lamia had spoken to her, known her, and understood her without once meeting her face. In fact, Lamia heard her cries often at night when the moon was bright and darkness seemed to ring in the air, a tangible thing, alive and menacing. It was in these moments of dread that a voice, echoing her own terror called to her, beckoning her toward it. But, until that day, she had never answered its plea.
