Lady Nightmares

I’ve been burdened with a terrible secret, and someone must know. 

I was with her again last night, getting drinks, discussing Mary Queen of Scots. I guess I didn’t notice how many drinks she’d had, until she leaned over and grabbed my shoulders, and began whispering in my ear. “I have a secret.” 

I steadied her and laughed, sure she was about to admit to sympathising with Henry Stuart, when she began the tale which now utterly haunts me. 

She’s the first-born daughter of a first-born daughter of a first-born daughter, going back generations so numerous that my mind still fails to comprehend them. I was still chuckling a bit, confused by her sudden insistence on this exposition – but with each word my smile fell further as I heard her tone solidifying into something completely unfamiliar to me. 

She told me of the First Daughter in this line, the first of the first of the first. She told me of the deal the First had made: A pact with the forest spirits who roamed her homeland, those who had reigned over it long ago. She told me of the forbidden knowledge these forest spirits possessed, and of the jealousy some settlers had over the spirits’ connection to a Divine Objective. A desperate zeal within the First Daughter grew, the need to obtain these secrets; she swore these spirits possessed some truth which was worthy of any sacrifice she had to make. 

The First Daughter learned these secrets eventually, but they had been long since lost. All which remained was her Sacrifice, which carried along the bloodline. 

The haste and conviction with which she spoke terrified me, but I was entranced, utterly lost in her urgent tone and her unblinking eyes. At once I was shaken from her tale of ancient woes and returned to our current ones. She had dug her nails into my forearm and spoke so closely that I felt her tongue flickering in my ear, soft and reptilian. She asked, “Would you like to meet Lady Nightmares?” 

I had come to my senses at this point, and shook my head, pulling away, and muttering “No,” with as much conviction as I had left. This only made her giggle.

“That’s alright,” she said, mocking me with her gaze. “She isn’t here tonight.” But before I could escape, she grabbed me again, unwilling to leave me with any shred of blissful ignorance intact. 

She told me how the forest spirits had possessed the First Daughter’s first daughter, how they had infested her blood with a curse, a type of control which would be exerted over her, summoned according to the whims of these perpetrators. They call upon her when they say she is needed, though the vessel rarely remembers exactly what she does, who all she hunts. The Spirits always insisted the work of each first daughter was necessary – both to keep the daughter in line, aware of the sins of her ancestors, and to perform the less savoury work that the Spirits no longer wished to do themselves. And so Lady Nightmares continues to emerge every few fortnights, sometimes more often, sometimes less. She harvests the souls of those who are too curious, taking them back to her patrons so that further deals can be made and further curses inflicted. 

Quietly, she told me all of this, and each word seemed to ring louder and louder in my own mind, even though her voice dropped deeper and softer all the while. Her words seemed to describe a familial curse, but her expressions and the greed in her tone gave me the impression of something quite different indeed. She told me of the daughter she knew she would have one day, and her eagerness to pass on this mantle, to create the future vessels which would carry this weight for as long as it was demanded of her line. She giggled and grinned as she recounted the flashing images which remained in her mind after each episode, images of gore and greenery and ghosts. And she told me how she wished the curse might never end, as she was sure each previous daughter had grown grateful of the burden eventually, and that each future daughter would surely follow suit. She leaned back now, smirking up to her glittering eyes as she waved her hands clumsily, trying to illustrate countless generations with a single gesture. 

I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Why?” She only said that I was being silly, that a good little boy like me would never tell, would never even begin to understand this. Here was where I wrested my arm away finally, snatching up my bag as I tore through the pub – knocking over my chair and tripping over my feet in the process. I kept a rapid pace as I stumbled away, but still caught the jaded comments made by the doormen, remarking on how far gone I must be, and at such an early hour. 

I can’t stop thinking of this. Of her, of her words, of her eyes and her steel grip. I can’t stop wondering what all of this means, or how any of it could be true…. I also wonder what might happen to me now that I know. Will what becomes of me be entirely self-inflicted, brought on by my crazed delusions and attempts to justify her words in my mind? Will I deteriorate organically, following a fate of my own? Or will she come after me again, remembering all she’s told me and determined to ensure I don’t look too far, dig too deeply, discover too much? 

No, it must be the final option. This fate of my own – this natural decline via insanity or alcoholism – was nothing but a deluded false hope. I’d searched for patterns in my own past, generational or genetic “curses” which might mirror some of what she’d divulged to me. It was a rabbit hole which led me nowhere. I believe there is no way out of this to be found, nothing within my control or within the control of professionals or experts or fellow sufferers. I believe there aren’t any fellow sufferers at all; this is the point. She isolated me, planted that fatal curiosity within me, this must be it – musn’t it? Surely…. 

I’ve spent the last few nights on my bathroom floor, nursing my maimed arm, the tissue full of puncture wounds which quickly became home for the infections festering beneath her fingernails, those she’d left behind in me, reminding me of her now. It’s a reminder which permeates my soul, proving to me that she had both thoroughly tainted my mind and attached her vice to my physical form as well. I haven’t been able to sleep – not through the night, and I’ve barely gotten a few winks even in the safety of the daylight hours. I’ve kept my doors locked, and keep returning to them to pile up blankets around the baseboards, ensuring my flat looks dark and vacant from the corridor. Her story won’t stop turning over in my mind, swirling in my thoughts, repeating itself in distorting forms as I try to puzzle out some sense from it. 

But she was right – I don’t understand, not at all.