The Shadow Anthology

Damian

When he came of age, in accordance with his mother's will, Damian Milbrey received roughly four hundred thousand pounds. When she first set up the fund it was significantly less, though eighteen years of substantial tax-free interest bestowed a small fortune upon the young man. Clarice had given this forethought and hoped for it to go unused. Her hopes were dashed long after her funeral.
In his childhood, Damian lost his father to a blind and relentless vendetta. So being that, in his opinion, the house he matured in was thoroughly malevolent and haunted, it was no large deliberation when he contemplated leaving Milbrey Farm and never returning. The young man was hungry for a purpose in life, his unquenchable thirst for adventure tumbled around in his stomach every day, making him feel dizzy with anticipation. He was desperate to be rid of the incessant whining of both the barn animals and his father.
This desire drove Damian away, in hope of finding himself. He moved by chance and random encounter around his home country at first, through moors and museums, finding no muse. In an effort to better his success he then expanded the area of his ventures. He allowed himself to become engulfed by countless foreign cultures. He aspired to learn of the heritage of wherever he went, though this too was unable to sate his hunger. Journeying across all the known continents, he made and lost friends like snow falling on fire.
Years passed him by like a freight train and, though he found work wherever possible, he had scythed away almost a quarter of his fortune. A trait of modest living had allowed Damian to pursue this way of life for as long as he had; he found this was one of the few benefits of having been his father's son. He longed to meet his mother; to speak to her for the first time. He was always told that he was in no way responsible for his mother's death, though it was no comfort to his hollowing heart.
A few months after his twenty-first birthday, he found himself touring the islands of a distant land immersed in mythology. He wandered the land for many days like a stray and starving cat, finding rest when he could and little comfort where not. After more than a fortnight of travelling he moved further away from the city, hoping that the wilderness or the sea could give him the answers which made people mute if he questioned them.
The following day he happened upon a rather short stone wall. The wall was high enough to make climbing clumsy and clattering, though not high enough to deter prying eyes. Damian's curiosity piqued. The young man crept up to the wall and crouched down. He carefully lifted his eyes above the horizon to view the lustrous garden that was kept from him.
The garden held colours as vibrant as an artist's palette. There were painted flowers strewn across the green grass floor, organised into small brown beds. An array of fruits and vegetables were on display, all of which looked perfectly ripe. Behind this beauteous visage lay a docile little house. It looked rather plain, if only for the fact it couldn’t compare to the grandeur of the garden.
Damian stood there a while and waited. He then waited a short while more. During this time, he released himself unto the sensual pleasure which had been encircling his mind since first sight of this holy ground, and it sent his docile mind into a flourish. He was unsure of what he was waiting for. His mind gradually rationalised that he should be offered some food from the garden by whomever it belonged to because of how long he spent bestowing his mental praise upon it.
As this thought graced his mind, a woman appeared in her kitchen window. It would appear to any unseen viewer that she had just returned from the market. After storing away all her produce, she turned her attention to the garden. There, she saw a well-tanned, middle aged man with golden brown hair that lightly tousled in the slow breeze. She could see he didn't have profound muscles bursting from his ragged clothes, though on closer inspection of the sculpture, there seemed to be a hint of meat larger than meagre bone. His innocent smile perfumed his aura; she felt he was no threat.
To some people, or even most, this sight would be either worrying or glorious, though this man neither made her uncomfortable nor could he make her swoon. She was no ordinary woman and she could tell this was far from an ordinary stranger. Even from afar she could tell the man had his eyes closed while a subtle smile graced the garden. After she crept out of her back door, she snuck out of the house and into the garden, being careful not to muddy her long, blushing dress. Crouching down, she positioned herself below the strange man and his ever-twitching nose. Then, suddenly pouncing up, she screamed a single, elongated vowel in his face, whilst waving her arms frantically.
To say this man was frightened would be an understatement, as well as an insult to the woman's bravado. He had fallen off his feet, shredded his kneecaps against the wall and hit his head on a ragged pimple of rough rocks behind him, knocking him utterly unconscious. The woman roared with laughter until she realised that he was staying down. Then, cursing to the earth amid the muffling wind, she ran inside and picked up her phone, calling her neighbour for help.
Waking up in a hospital bed surrounded by people he didn’t know, who were currently speaking a language he didn’t understand, gave Damian a startle to say the least. His confusion was only heightened when an attractive young woman leapt before him, speaking a foreign language. The intensity of the dialect pierced his ears like a blaring foghorn.
Damian then saw one of the, what he severely hoped were, doctors blurt something to the busy, bubbling, bustling room. Upon this announcement the room cleared leaving only Damian, the doctor, the young woman and, who he assumed was, her friend. The doctor held a clipboard in his hand and motioned to speak, though he stopped himself soon after. He moved spritely out of the room and didn’t return. Some minutes later a different doctor appeared with Damian's clipboard in hand. He spoke softly, yet swiftly and with purpose.
“Hello, Mister Damian; I am Doctor Alanis. You seem to have taken a bad fall a few hours ago. Your friends helped you quickly, so you should be better in a few hours. Rest now and leave when you’re ready.” With that, the doctor hurried out of the room, dropping the clipboard onto on the bedside table, where it then fell to the floor and landed on the woman’s elfish feet. She suppressed a shrill shriek by keeping her mouth closed. Her dress floated down beside her as she picked up the clipboard and smoothed her sleek legs with tender kisses as she blossomed back to her regal stature. Though her skin was already caramelised a divine shade, a hint of humiliated or perhaps aggravated blush stroked her cheeks now.
Though he was glad to have heard a familiar language, what the doctor had said hadn’t put him wholly at ease. Questions were pumping through his mind like fervent sewage. Where was he? Where had his clothes gone? Where were his wallet and bag? Had they given him drugs? Who stood beside him? Why had he fallen earlier?
The last question was shortly answered by his own memory, after a slight struggle against his amnesia. His clothes, he found, were situated on the windowsill, now free of a week's mud. His bag was found resting on a table in a corner of the room, though his wallet was not. His worries were soon put to rest by the flailing wallet being presently shoved into his face, by the peculiar woman. It licked his nose with each persistent shake. Damian couldn’t help but eject his most pressing desire.
“Who are you?” he posed to the pillar stood before him. The question spurred his sight into action and the haze of fantasy was cleaned from his eyes to reveal who stood before him. At first, she looked at him confusedly. Her face then lit up, as though she remembered something. She retrieved her phone from her handbag, ferociously tapped away at it and held the device to Damian's face expectantly.
“Who are you?” he slowly released, which compelled the phone to expel unintelligible sludge at the woman, to which the she betrothed a welcoming smile. She then proceeded to type into her phone. Though her nimble fingers moved with the elegance and dexterity of a spider, she paced herself and controlled the conversation, after which the device conveyed her message in a man’s thick, crunching accent.
“My name is Marina Lambros, this is Pantelis. I saw you outside my garden looking funny. I could tell you weren't dangerous as you hadn't even tried to climb into my garden. I tried to sneak up on you and surprise you. I am so sorry, I thought it would be funny. I am sorry to have hurt you; it was an accident and I have already paid your bill. The doctor said you need rest so you will stay at my house until you are well, yes?”
Damian, despite the aggressive man who spoke through the phone, sat in awe of the woman. She would always be, in his eyes, the most magnificent rose to ever have graced his fertile earth. Her hair was nought but gentle obsidian which caressed her smooth face and cascaded down her back like an ebony river. Her stature held her high and her frame was the pride of nature's works. He knew that her birth must have culled two stars from heaven, for her eyes shone down on him with the radiance of a setting sun and the purity of a sapphire sky but he knew then that, even if clouds showered him with flawless feathers made of dainty diamonds every day for eternity, no sight could ever give him such joy, yet such heartbreak, as this first sight of Marina Lambros. Her skin let the sun set warmly every day but now left the outside world freeze over as she ignited the frigid hearth within Damian’s heart. She was a tender statue of voiceless grace, making Damian the same. This woman could start a war.
The man became an infant lost in wonder, as though he was seeing the sky for the first time. He melted at the sight of her, but still managed to form a smile. Looking up at her with a reanimated lust for life, and filled with adoration, he pleaded for her phone with a glance and limp gesture. Granting his wish, she lay it in his hands, slipping her fingers away, almost caressing him. Once he finished typing, she played his response.
“Marina, you have no reason to apologise because you’ve done nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have been standing right outside your garden. I’m glad you didn’t call the police! Thank you for the care you’ve given and promised me, but I need to pay you back; I have the money, and it’s the right thing to do. I haven't kept you from anyone, have I? I'm sorry for any inconvenience I've caused. I'll just pay my debt and leave, if you want?” To this, she blushed, and typed again with a slow-burning passion betwixt her fingers. As she typed, she let out a light-hearted laugh and shook her head, causing her hair to flutter about her like a conspiracy of silk, which piqued his curiosity. Damian's impatience made him feverishly infatuated. He disclosed an understated smile when she gave him back the phone.
“Damian, I am alone in the world, with only my cousin for company. Our family died many years ago and they left us all they had. You can think me poor, but I am a woman without want or regret. However, your offer is sweet, so I accept. I feel bad for causing this mess so I will take you out to dinner tonight?” Before his answer, Damian gestured out to her cousin. She answered this gesture with a small smile as she shook her head. A pang of electricity tumbled around his veins, which he tried in vain to suppress. She saw him quiver and laughed while she analysed him.
Damian now blushed like a rose. He took the phone once more from her soft, warm hands. Then, changing his mind, he bowed his head in agreement and allowed their hands to touch again. The electricity crackled in their touch. Pantelis, having grown bored of the exclusive conversation, had left some minutes after the intervention of the phone. Marina found him there as she left the room to allow the strange man to get dressed.
Later that evening, Marina and Damian arrived at the restaurant. Damian was attired in what little respectable clothing he had kept on the island, which consisted of a slightly worn out three-piece ocean blue suit, held together by firm brown shoes with wearied edges and soles. He was stainless walking in but soon after, sweat darkened the entirety of his suit by an indistinguishable amount, though the feeling was horrific and made matters worse.
Marina was clueless as to the profusion of Damian’s sweat. The woman was perched in an opposing state of mind which allowed her to find the man endearing. She now wore a flowing floral turquoise gown with a sapphire sash. The fruitful flowers were faded by the sun but were no less beauteous because of it. Her sash swayed when there was no breeze, glistened without sequins, and embraced her figure like a long-lost lover. Heads turned her way when she walked through a doorway, but her eyes never wavered from the sight of why she was there, and she never turned back to glance at wherever or whomever she had left.
Though it was the only such establishment in the area, Marina loved both the audacious atmosphere and the incredible cuisine, so she was eager to show Damian her ideal evening. She was well known both on the island and the restaurant, so a table was provided almost immediately. Being that he couldn’t speak the language, she ordered Damian an exquisite, and expensive local dish.
Conversation, though slow, was captivating. Both parties were enthralled by each other's stories and enchanted by their sense of humour. The food would have been devoured at a slightly more frantic rate had the conversation not been so engrossing. They found their personalities blended to make an intoxicating aroma that mystified the restaurant and all around them. Throughout the night, restaurateurs looked over their shoulders or stole glances to memorise tomorrow’s gossip. When the night concluded, Marina paid the bill at the desk after excusing herself to the toilet. Seeing through her ruse, Damian made his way to another waiter and tried to pay faster. Unready to relinquish defeat, he paid the bill as a tip, unbeknownst to Marina. In leaving the door, her hand found his and was welcomed with a warm embrace. They meandered home in silence, but never released their humid hands.
Rousing the next morning, Damian found himself drowsy. He saw an empty wine bottle left on the table and remembered how they had finished it the previous night over a matter of endless hours. The room, he found, was miniscule yet pretty. It had ornaments, paintings and colourful candles in place all around. The sofa, he thought, was comfortable enough, but deemed the unseen bed upstairs more suitable for his next visit.
Their relationship progressed at a steady rate over the ensuing months, which both were comfortable with. With each secret they bestowed upon one another, there grew an urge to satisfy their more primitive desires. Their tango of desires was ceaseless. A spontaneous touch of the hand sent them both into a voluptuous frenzy of desperation. Touches morphed into prolonged massages until, some months later, the couple began to share a bed. However, they maintained their resolve and halted at every chance to become intensely physical, though their desires were mounting, and their control was falling to insatiable savagery. The pair lay in bed together for the first time and Marina chose to recount the day her family died. Both tender statues would divulge details they had never shared aloud before that day.
It was a sunny day at first. Her father had recently been let go from work permanently, and her uncle was the same. Her father had been searching for a new job, so this only furthered his drive. Meanwhile, her uncle turned to alcohol. He could only now afford the strong and distasteful drinks, so he was consistently sour and inebriated beyond logic. Marina’s father and uncle had worked together for most of their lives, but scarcely did they converse. Her uncle spoke little to his wife and child, let alone his brother or anyone else after his firing from menial labour. Marina’s father had never brought the stench of work home with him and was consistently chipper, compared to his brother.
This afternoon, her father and uncle were absent, and had been for several days; given the escalating food shortage both men had taken to sea, hoping to catch some form of fish. They promised to not return empty handed, and, begrudgingly of her uncle, they left all their possessions and wealth in the arms of their family in case they weren't able to return for a while.
Her uncle returned to the compound while the sun still blazed behind parting clouds. He threw open his front door, almost tearing it off the hinges. She heard her aunt scream, and then beg her son to run. A single shot rang in the air as Marina’s front door was pounded upon. Her mother ran to the door revealing a crying, shaking Pantelis. All the while, Marina was frozen to her chair, gripping the arm with what conviction she could muster. Her eyes fixed upon her cousin but she couldn’t get up.
Marina's mother whispered for them to run for her truck and drive to the police station, in a vain hope that they would get away, or even save her. They were outside in the family truck when her uncle darted for her house. Marina fumbled with the keys and started the car as Pantelis looked behind him at the empty seats. The roar of ignition barely muffled the echo of another gunshot, let alone the woman's dying scream.
As they clumsily drove across the rickety road, her uncle exploded from the house. He ran after them like a rabid horse. Though he seemed drunk and foaming at the mouth, he was still faster than either child would have been on foot. Bullets littered the air around them. A patter of shells echoed onto the floor like a storm. Marina glanced over her shoulder and could still see her uncle gaining ground. She watched her cousin keel over as a slow red fountain began to bubble from his back.
Throwing her brother aside, with bullets still raining around her, Marina accelerated as much as she could. The police were alerted of her arrival by public panic. After coercing her down from the vehicle and taking Pantelis to medical attention, the police headed southward. When they arrived at the scene, the man was collapsed in the middle of the road, bottle in hand. They would find all the bodies where they had been left, even her father had washed up on the shore. They wouldn’t, however, find the gun. It would seem the man had disposed of the evidence, thinking it might relieve him of his crimes. They would also never regain the escaped Marina and Pantelis, as the former had smuggled the latter out of the hospital, and they were already at sea by the time her uncle was behind bars.
After a moment of nurturing and silent reflection, Damian told his love the tale of why he had to leave his father's farm. He painted the scene in red and began with the night of the butchering; the night he lost his father irredeemably. Not only had Chris become distant, but he had also become secretive. When they spoke, infrequent as it was, Damian felt that his father was being closed off and evasive.
Three months prior to his eighteenth birthday, and departure from Milbrey Cottage, Damian ventured into the local village, followed by the nearest city. There had been an intense fight with his father the night before, where aggressions had almost turned physical, so he wished to be thoroughly rid of the man for at least one day. He hadn’t been near the city in several years, but even then, he had only gone to certain areas with his father. This was his first journey alone and he set out with a defiant grin.
After countless trials, using his cane for guidance, Damian finally managed to track down a tour guide who would describe to him everything which passed them by. No matter how irrelevant or obscure the question was that the young man asked, the guide would offer kind and precise enlightenment. This woman was kinder to him than his father had been in years. His curiosities were more like pleasantries than actual spouts of interest, though after some time Damian's interest piqued.
“What do you mean by “opticians"?” he asked with a furrowed brow, pushing his cane into the ground like a grudge, and making air-quotes with his free hand. His tone had somewhat darkened, though he didn’t know why.
“Well, it's a practice that specialises in analysing how well people see, and then helping them to see better if they need to.” she responded, gesturing to the building. Her eyes widened and she clenched her palm and replaced it by her side yet again.
“But, can they help me see? Like, actually see?” A slight laugh came upon him. He didn’t mean to mock the woman, yet the idea seemed preposterous.
“Well, there’s no guarantee. You might need to see an ophthalmologist.” Given Damian's blank stare, she clarified. “An eye-doctor. I can take you to the hospital to see one now, if you want?” Damian responded in the affirmative, and they strolled some more. Damian made a point to memorise any significant objects in his path, as he figured he might need to know the path for a future visit.
Arriving at the front desk, the young man was told to wait. As instructed, he waited for almost an hour, and the woman waited with him. Once he was finally called up, Damian was taken into an office. His guide waited outside for him. He was seated beside the doctor and briefly examined. He was told his sight could be fixed with minor surgery, though the waiting list was long so he booked an appointment scheduled for three months’ time which would last a small number of hours, though he would be unconscious for most of it. He returned outside and she embraced him upon hearing the news. The pair then departed, and she walked him to the bus station. She left him with another, now uncomfortable embrace and a solemn laugh.
Damian didn’t tell his father the news and waited until his birthday to act upon it. When the time came, he left in the early morning. His father would wake up some hours later to prepare for yet another of his cases. Damian was the first patient to arrive. His surgery was lengthy but painless. It was the news which followed his newfound vision, however, that would forever change his life.
The doctor began by telling him, “I knew something was off about your situation from your consultancy some months ago, but I didn’t have the slightest inclination as to why this could be. It appears the reason your surgery took so long, was...” The doctor checked Damian’s file for reassurance, despite the fact he had written it. “It seems you’ve already had surgery some time ago. I’ve tried to piece together what I can, but it just looks...” he looked down at the file again and laughed at the incredulity of it.
“Well, it looks wrong.” He furthered, “I could tell you were blind from birth from both physical examination and your extensive file, but there were marks and stitches behind your iris and retina for some reason. Now, I can’t come to any conclusion except somehow, without your knowing, someone performed surgery on you to prevent your sight from healing.”
Damian almost broke down on the spot. He paid and left before he could do so. The sun was yet to rise on him, so he walked back home blind, shrouded in shame which bubbled into hatred. He returned to his ghostly home and packed his bag, being sure not to awaken his father. He scribbled a note with a twitching hand, and left it hanging from the mantle atop the front door. He then closed the ever-gaping mouth of his unending childhood for good. When morning awoke and the bank opened, the young man opened his account, claimed his money, and ran away into the dazzling light of his free future.
They lay in sombre silence for a moment and then held each other with tight smiles and slowly rolling tears. There was a fresh fountain of love in the room pouring from both supple springs. The moment was unlike anything either had shared before. Before, each was clutching a different end of a tether, submersed in scathing fog. They had hoped to find something wonderful, but now felt it; the deep, ebbing love for someone else burst from their lips. Their passion would have roared like a ferocious flame for a few weeks, but their tether would bind them together forever, defying whatever opposed them.
Some months on, the couple had cemented their love in bedrock so, in the act of displaying their love publicly, they announced their engagement to any who would hear of it. The town buzzed with the thrill of an oncoming wedding. Half a year later, following a long and love-filled engagement, they were given to each other by a local priest on their petite island.
That night they shared their love in a beautiful birch bed, where Marina became pregnant with her husband's child. The months that followed the joyful news, which had sent the town bustling like a nest of wasps, meant the house had to be organised to awing perfection. Items were bought, rooms were repurposed, and locks were installed, though their wall remained low.
Marina and Pantelis had never felt so full of hope, joy and wonder since they were infants in a friendly world. Pantelis had, for years, been a dark and gloomy soul, who had disliked Damian since his arrival. However, as the weeks, months and eventually years passed by, he began to let down his guard. He let one, then another, new person into his stubborn, warming heart.
As Marina drew near to seven months, Damian, a man of almost twenty-four years now, received a letter from his father. Chris had somehow managed to find his son, but something seemed out of place. The letter explained that Chris had known for almost a year that his son had hidden himself away on the isles of a distant land with a woman whom he had betrothed. His intent wasn’t to disturb the happily wed couple, as had been done to him so long ago; he wanted only to see his son again and try to make amends before it was too late. It appeared Chris had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
After his initial realisation and shock, Damian examined the letter in closer detail. He was intent on disproving his father's lies but found no such evidence in the writing he knew too well. Though he did feel that something was wrong, therefor he wouldn’t falter or halt until evidence was brought forth. The writing held no greater information than his father’s death, but the envelope was another matter. The address was almost bleached off, though not by a chemical’s hand. There was a diagonal slice of shade slitting the letter apart. The date had somehow been washed away, despite a distinct lack of rain in recent weeks, though there was no evidence to show the latter had been opened. Finally, Damian expunged the secret under a burning lightbulb. The lie: the letter was dated almost a year ago. He recognised that international post was slow, especially to an island, but this had a nefarious air.
Damian loved his wife and held absolute trust in her. Given this, he lay the issue at her feet, which she lay on the ground; Marina was walking to her cousin's house. After she left, the sun went with her. Damian waited hours on end, with the weather deteriorating all the while. Clouds drowned the village in darkness and, though they presented no rain, the wind grew stronger and mutated into a gale, and then a ripping hurricane.
Sometime later she returned. The door swung open with her gentle push. The wind at her back suspended her midnight hair on the breeze, billowing her dress of ashes around her limbs. She strode through the doorway with Pantelis at her heels. He seemed to have received a beating from the air before he even entered the house.
“Damian, my love, this man has told a lie and he will now make it right. I lay him at your feet to let him beg for mercy. He may be my cousin, but you are the blood running through my veins. My husband, I leave him for you. He has a story to tell.” Marina’s dress enveloped the room as she swung around to face the door and moved to leave.
“My brother, I -" began Pantelis, though he was swiftly cut short by Marina's darting oceanic eyes. Following this she wafted over to him, cupped her hand to his ear and whispered daggers which Damian couldn’t decipher, though from her cousin's mortified eyes, he understood enough. “Damian, some months ago I received a letter from a man I did not know. I read it and saw it was for you. I would have given it to you, but I saw you laughing with my...” She shot shards of sapphires from her eyes and he corrected himself. “I saw you through the window; you were happy. I look at your face when you speak of this man and I know your father wasn’t good to you. I saw your life and I see it now! It is good; better without that man. I hid the letter until I could bear no more guilt. I beg you: forgive me. I am sorry.” He became a papal puppy and begged at the statue’s feet. “Please.”
The next day, Damian and Marina left their house with overflowing suitcases. It took them two days of travelling across seas, air and land, but eventually they reached Milbrey cottage. Marina watched the rolling fields with flourishing flora and fauna with amazement. The only land she had ever seen with such cultivated beauty had been wrought by her own nimble hands. She resigned herself to distant wonder until they drew near to their destination.
As they drove past the gate and onto his father's land, Marina tried to comfort her wary husband, but to little avail. Upon reaching the humble abode, the couple were greeted by a huddle of lawyers. They informed the young man that his father had died only a week ago. Damian's grief was as intangible as his father's ghost, as neither existed. He shed no tears. He was then further informed that the entire estate and other such nearby properties had been bequeathed to him and were now under his name. Following their duties, the lawyers fled the scene with darting eyes and sweating brows.
It took Damian only a few short seconds to decide whether he was to sell all he had just been given or not. Living out the rest of his days on an idyllic island with a beautiful wife and child seemed far better than working with cattle. He knew what he wanted, but he was now a part of something much greater than himself, so he consulted his better half.
“No! You cannot sell this place!” Marina exploded, her oceanic dress encapsulating them both like a dome. He seized the opportunity and dashed toward her, wrapping himself around her with a passionate kiss. He knocked them both to the ground. They erupted into a fit of laughter and regained their feet. Damian was told he’d be cleaning their clothes. He accepted his punishment and kissed her again, continuing their conversation soon after.
“Why not? It's ugly and it won't give us any money!” He then spoke to himself with a light chuckle, “And there’s the ghosts.” Overhearing this, Marina exploded in fits of laughter.
“It has ghosts!" She was wheezing by the time Damian interrupted her hysterics. “Oh, no!” She couldn’t stop the rapturous rumble of laughter sweeping over her. “What will we do!” A spark of inspiration came over her. She composed herself and donned a sympathetic look. With sincerity woven deep into her tone, she asked, “Who’re we going to call?” She fell to the floor and rolled in her laughter.
He looked down at his wife and sighed, “Never mind. Anyway, we're not living here, so why keep it?” Marina saw both the logic and the sentiment in her husband's argument. She stood up and deliberated.
“Well, I don’t want to spend money on a hotel tonight so we will sleep here, yes?” She smiled, took his arm and nodded. Her other hand moved to the back of his head and started bobbing it up and down until a smile cracked through his stern visage. Damian yielded with another sigh. He then pondered whether ownership of such an immense and profitable landmass would be overtly harmful for himself and his growing family. The answer came after much deliberation of the question.
“This farm has too many tired and tainted memories for us to live here, but if we rent out the land, we could make a decent profit. What do you say?”
After relinquishing this thought to his wife, she heartily agreed and tackled him to the ground with a whirlwind of kisses. Marina found surprising joy in the thought of owning such land, as well as the joy of making friends and neighbours. Though they had been married for several years now, she still felt her pulse quicken hearing her husband use the pronoun that united them with his breath.
As the night drew in, the couple finished unpacking their necessities for the ensuing night and coming day. These consisted of clothes, several notebooks and a mortifying amount of paperwork. The latter items were to be used in combat against his father’s will, and those who protected it. Damian and Marina had bequeathed all their possessions to each other and their unborn child. However, the deed to a small villa on a miniature, unknown island would be left to Pantelis by Damian, with instructions to raise his family as his own. There would be enough of a population to satisfy his wife’s thirst for socialising, as well as a newly-established school for his son, though he hoped none of this would come to pass. Chris, on the other hand, left all he owned to Damian, knowing it still wouldn’t sate his son's desire for retribution.
That night, the family all lay down to sleep in Damian's old bed. His father's room was far too small and uncomfortable for both parties. Chris was definitively a man who detested grandeur, but he also disliked change. It was for this reason and another that his son's bed remained intact. The man wasn’t a fool; he knew his son wouldn’t return.
As wife and husband lay asleep upstairs, the downstairs door began to open, inch by inch, minute dragging on to minute, until it hung fully agape. It had been many years since the house had been defiled in such a way. With little relief over the years, the floorboards had become creaky, as had the steps. They felt weight on them which was still imprinted in their memory.
Though summer had only begun to conclude, the house was now consuming a slow chill that echoed through the rooms and hallway. When Damian was a boy, he trained his ears to define certain noises so, even in his sleep, they could defend him. Though after his eyes recovered from their mangling, his other senses retired into lethargy and were now far away from their previous precision. Neither man nor woman awoke when a hush bellowed through the small house. Neither husband nor wife noticed as a cold presence wafted into the room. Marina Milbrey didn’t notice when her arm fell to her side or when her child twitched within her.