Death at Okobridge Cove - Ten Years later - By Hannah Elizabeth Fisher
Ten Years Later
Any typical human would see nothing but an unimaginative red brick building with large, darkened windows covered in those awful school-chic blinds. There was a white door with a key coded lock to enter, which deterred anyone that might try to open it, and a gravel path leading to the pavement where two ancient trees stood. Sometimes a homeless woman could be seen sleeping in the doorway of this building for a little safety and sometimes kids would fly past on their bicycles and throw rocks at the glass. It was quintessentially British.
If you were like me, as you got closer to this seemingly normal building, it would shift. The windows would fold in on themselves silently, imploding slowly as something new appeared in the building’s location. The first time I witnessed this I had the urge to throw up.
They say once you’re turned, it opens a whole new world. Perfect vision. The irony.
I paused at the end of the path, taking in a long deep breath even though I didn’t need to. Force of habit, I reminded myself, you’re dead.
I was playing with the ring on my finger, watching it turn and turn, my mind running at a hundred miles an hour.
Flashes of Poppy laughing in my ear. Her cold, lifeless body laid out in our first floor flat. Deep red blood pooling into my carefully picked out cream carpet. I was screaming, yet no sound was coming out. It reminded me of those old black and white silent movies my grandmother loved so much.
I lifted my eyes to look at the ominous building in front of me. I took a few steps and watched as it merged into the grand building I remembered from that very first night. I used to walk past here every day on my way home from work. It was always the same, boring old building. I just assumed it was an admin office for Fallmond College close by. But now I had my new eyes, it was a lot different. I wasn’t totally sure how The Hive had managed to conceal an entire building, and quite frankly the details confused me. I wasn’t ready to believe in magic quite yet.
Towering over me, where the boring office building stood a moment ago was a grand manor house. As I leaned my head back to look up at the now grey brickwork, I felt an uneasy sensation in my stomach. The building was sloping out of the darkness, beckoning me inside. The path lead up to a set of grey stone steps and was encased by two enormous square towers. There were no visible windows on the lower floor, but the floors above had grand circular stained-glass art works as far as the eye could see.
The rooms on the lowest floor were home to the “little demons.” A rather awful name engineered for the newly turned Strigoi, where they were tortured into having their first meal as a monster. My research into the creature I had become took me down some very disturbing paths. Their reasoning was simple, these rooms were the closest to the protection spells to the outside world, so there was no chance a passing postman could hear screaming younglings while on his morning rounds.
I took another false deep breath, hands resting on either side of my face as I tried to ground myself and began to trudge up the pathway and steps. Returning here was something I never intended on doing. I remember my first day so vividly.
Forcing myself to resist. A darkness taking over my mind. The steaming hot beast crawling up my throat. My own helplessness. The boy crying, screaming. I hate myself.
I rested my hand on the deep mahogany wood of the door, it felt warm to my fingertips. I found myself wishing my phone would buzz, someone telling me I’m needed. I pulled it from my pocket and checked the screen, nothing. Unwillingly and after fighting with myself for a moment, I pushed on the door, and it opened easily with an eerie creek.
There were no handles or locks, only those apart of the Faction of Fallmond could enter without an invitation. Unfortunately, I was technically one of them.
Once I was inside, the door closed itself behind me softly.
I entered into a long hallway with six doors on either side. There was no noise, but I knew what was happening behind them. The walls were made from dark wood and there were tables between each door with vases of red roses on, almost like The Hive were trying to cover up their murderous tendencies with pretty flowers.
There were two men at the bottom, sitting on large comfy looking chairs and chatting about some football game from the 80’s. I wondered if they were there to intervene if things started to get hairy with the Little Demons or if they were simply trying to avoid others. I know I would be. Neither of them looked up to see who had come in, but I doubt they cared. Or they knew I weas coming and were told not to acknowledge me. It had been ten years since I left.
It was a strange feeling, returning here. There was no attachment for me apart from the man who killed my girlfriend, The Hive’s Forebearer. Sabian. The one who I was escaping from. The one who had sent me a letter, describing a Faction Crisis, all hands-on deck situation… And then there was Lucas, the one who helped me when I needed it.
Why did I even return? Did I want to see him again, Sabian? Remind myself of his face? Remind myself of what he has done? Or did I care enough about the Faction members I left behind to come running when I am beckoned…? I made a mental note to think more about this later.
 I straightened my black denim jacket, a present from my grandfather, with its makeshift studded detail that I had carefully sewn on at four am one morning and tried to walk down the corridor with some form of purpose. I should at least try and look like I belong here.
I rounded the corner into another long hallway, this one lined with paintings or photographs taken by members. They’d had some pretty famous faction members in the past, a portrait of Andy Warhol sat proudly above a table, teeth out like a growling wolf.
The old wooden floor of the entry way turned into a fluffy cherry red carpet as I made my way to the meeting room at the bottom. The paintings here depicted something horrific. Unhinged scenes of murder, of turning rituals and the historical “blood draining” from the 1600’s. I wonder If this is like The Hive’s equivalent to the crucifixion…
The mahogany double doors at the bottom of the hallway were propped open, and hushed voices were emitting from within. I paused just before I got to there. I could see Lucas from where I stood, tall and overbearing, chatting to a girl I didn’t recognise. There was the man who helped me make my first kill… but also the man who helped me leave without being seen.
I’d missed him.