Only months before, I had lost my closest friend in the world: Emily. And months before her Branwell had died a sudden death, shocking us to the core. Nothing was left for me. No love or friendship. Only endless service amongst people who cared nothing for me and valued me even less. Or maybe more novels, in which I poured out my deepest thoughts to have them scorned and derided by those who read them.
I was ready to go. I felt no fear, only love. My greatest worry was for Charlotte and my father. For them to lose us all so rapidly would be a grievous blow from which I knew they would never recover.
I journeyed to Scarborough to see the sea once more. On my final night, Charlotte stayed by my side. "Have courage, Charlotte," I whispered, as she grasped my burning hand. She was so pale with fear and grief. Stoic, yes, but I could see the horror swimming beneath her facade. All of her creative confidants, Branwell, Emily and now me, dying within one year. It was too much. There wasn't enough courage in the world to shield her from this loss. Poised on the edge of death, I forgave her then, all her judgment. Her damnation of my work. So much pain was coming for her and my poor father, whom she begged not to come, afraid the sight of me would kill him, that I could feel nothing for her but pity.
And transcendent love.
Fever dragged me into a dreadful darkness. Steaming delirium. The heat felt like hell and in desperation I hacked off my long hot hair with a pair of my sister's sewing shears. Charlotte, at the insistence of her friends, had retired for a few hours to take some much-needed rest, and in those moments Emily appeared by my side. She glowed in the darkness like a beacon. I remember the feel of her cool hand against my forehead. So soothing. So settling. "Don't be afraid, my love," she said. "I'm here now."
The vision gave me immense comfort. I thought my dead sister was waiting for me at heaven's door. All of it was true! God. Heaven. Serenity. I would be reunited with all my loves. My mother would hold me in her arms. My sisters Maria and Elizabeth. And I would finally know the existence of God. Bathe in His divine light. Be one with Him. In that feverish apparition, all my faith was restored. "Take me, my Lord," I prayed. "I am yours."
I survived the night, beset by wild dreams and apparitions. Branwell's ghost murmured in my ear. A dark form loomed over me, trying to kiss me. The blessed sun arose one final time as I rested upon the couch, listening to the waves outside our window, Charlotte speaking softly to Ellen in the background.
I closed my eyes against the day and called my willing soul away, from earth, and air, and sky.
I was leaving her, leaving this world behind. And I was ready. Inwardly, I recited my poem like a prayer:
I know that my Redeemer lives; I do not fear to die;
Full sure that I shall rise again to immortality.
I long to view that bliss divine, which eye hath never seen,
Like Moses I will see His face, without the veil between.
Then was all blackness and cold.
I awoke in a frigid grave, buried deep. It smelled like wet earth and worms and fresh pine. I don't know how much time had passed, but possibly days. I was so ravaged by disease, it took time for me to heal and turn. All the fears you can imagine upon waking in a grave came rushing at me. Absolute horror at the knowledge I had been buried alive. Thirst so fierce it tore my throat. Cold so deep my limbs felt frozen. I could hardly move. I screamed and scratched and clawed at the wood. Panic welled and broke in brutal waves over my ravaged mind. In a frenzied blur of terror, I smashed through the coffin and dug my way up out of the earth into the warm night air.
Branwell was waiting. My supposedly dead brother stood at the foot of my grave, shining beneath the stars like a dark Apollo. His blazing red hair shone in the starlight, warming me. "Welcome to the night, Anne," he said. His first words, as if the night were a blessing.
I fell into his arms and he held me, and never had I felt such comfort from a man. He brought me to his abode, plying me all the way with soft, careful words. I clung to him. His ravaged dissipation was gone. Never before had I noticed his beauty, the thrilling brilliant energy of him. It intoxicated and frightened me. Every touch of his flesh sent heat sparking toward my core. My own brother was stirring new and overwhelming sensations in me.
But then came the hunger. It howled at me. Ripped and tore at my flesh like a fiend. I thought it was a nightmare from which I couldn't awake. Impossible for it to be real. Impossible. I'd gone insane from fever, broken from reality, or perhaps this was a vision of hell worse than any I'd ever imagined.
Branwell had brought me to a secluded manor, abandoned and crumbling upon the moors. Emily and I had wandered far and wide, yet never seen it. It was something out of Gondal, so Gothic and dreary looking. He led me deep into its bowels and I followed like a dazed lamb after her shepherd. Don't leave me, I begged. He locked me in, for my safety he said, and then vanished.
And where was Emily? She had run, abandoning me to my fate, apparently unable to bear the destiny she'd thrust upon me in her moment of grief. And yet, I couldn't hate her. I understood. I knew too well the pain that came from losing her. When she died, I died too, and I would have done anything to have her back.
Anything.
Emily and Branwell took to the night in a way I never did. It was like they were born for it, their souls akin to darkness, carved from the moon like the owl or the wolf, whereas I was made for the light. Long before the turning, Emily worshipped nightfall. She'd been a tormented sleeper, haunted by guilt-filled nightmares I never understood and visions of the dead I didn't see. And still she longed for the sun to set. She once wrote:
O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night; O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light that does not warm, but burn—
That drains the blood of suffering men; drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign and only wake with you!
Emily wanted to be a Night Walker before she knew what one was. Sometimes I think she summoned it. She was made for this world, and maybe Branwell too, but not me. I've always craved the sun. My poems are threaded with its metaphor. Light is God. The darkness, His absence. I believe Emily knew this, and fled from the shame of stealing my eternal peace.
But Branwell would not desert me. He would be my protector. The only son, the elder brother, he would guard me in death as he never had in life.
His philosophy was simple: embrace my nature completely. For him, it was all or nothing. A great leap into the void. He wanted me to learn to feed, and only human life would suffice. That's what we were made for. That is from where our strength comes, he said. Animals were for the weak, the soft. Human blood was for the strong.
Of course, I refused. Bring me death, please, it would be a salvation, but I would not skulk upon the earth like a beast, tearing open the throats of men, lapping at their blood like a devil.
William said that I was the brave one. This is not true. What's true was that I had no fear of death. That was my greatest strength.
For weeks, Branwell kept me locked away in that dungeon. I grew weaker and wilder as the nights passed. My discipline for this new life hadn't been forged and memory of our human life still pierced me. All I wanted was death. Oblivion. A long, dreamless sleep. I no longer believed in God. This hell had shattered my faith. What God would create creatures like us? Demons must rule the world. The angels had fallen and Satan had gained dominion.
Was this the apocalypse?
Branwell brought me boys, hoping I would feed. He thought males would be more amenable to me and the younger they were, the more manageable. He wished to spare me a great, bloody fight. But I refused to eat, so he consumed them in front of me with as much pleasure as he took in his opium, instructing as he went along, oblivious to any fear and pain he would bring their families.
We knew pain. The Brontës know pain. I didn't understand how he could inflict such suffering on others. The boys quivered in horror, stinking with terror, the most horrible odor I'd ever breathed, and more than feeling for them, I felt for their mothers. Their sisters. The wives they would never love. The children they would never sire. It wasn't just one life Branwell stole, it was a line of lives stretching into infinity. It was a wake of pain that would only end when every single person who had ever loved these boys was dead.
I wouldn't do it, yet he refused to give me an animal. As far as he was concerned, no doe or rabbit was worthy. He felt that once I crossed that undead threshold and made my first kill, all the pieces would fall into place. My nature would be complete. I would know my true self. He truly believed killing could bring self-knowledge and purpose.
He rambled on and on, saying, "Blood is the life. God tells us this. If God would give His own child to you, do you think He'd withhold a peasant in order for you to have eternal life? Jesus rose from the dead. He is one of us. Embrace this life. Embrace your destiny."
Starvation confused me. Branwell could be so persuasive and now his burning beauty clouded my mind. His reborn intellect shone like a sword, sharper edged and brighter despite his bizarre rantings about Jesus and Lazarus. The Resurrection. Even as a man, his mind blazed with intelligence until he snuffed it out with opium and alcohol. But those addictions were born from constant craving. His maker, a soul thief, was to blame. He had feasted upon Bran for years, taunting him with a promise of eternal life. Seducing and using him. Branwell told me everything and promised he would take care of me in a way his Alpha never did him. He would love me in a way he had never been loved. Gently. Softly. Sweetly.
It was a lie.
One night he brought me a young girl, warm and soft as a kitten. Camilla. Her eyes were doe brown. Freckles sprinkled her nose and trailed off her cheeks. Her nails were torn. One was ripped clear off her thumb, leaving a small oval of raw flesh gaping at the air. He tossed her in my cell like a rat to an anaconda, leaving her there, still and silent in the corner.
She stayed with me for three days. The moon was dark. I learned all about her. From what village she came, who her father was. The names of her brothers. I thought if I knew her, she would be impossible to kill. When the moon returned, a slender shining crescent, it brought Camilla's moontime. She began to bleed her first woman's blood and then to quietly cry at the shock of it.
The aroma hit me like a mortar. An uncontrollable instinct rose up, and I struggled to control myself. "Don't cry, child," I whispered. "Your first blood is a gift." I edged closer, trying to soothe her, but she recoiled from me, pressing deep into the wall. I could hear her heart pattering like endless rain. "It is a moment for rejoicing," I soothed, trembling like a hyena as I crawled toward her on my hands and knees.
"No," she said with conviction. "Stop." I could imagine her speaking to her brothers, giving them orders to which they yielded. Pick this up. Put that down. Stop fighting. She spoke as if she were used to being listened to. Cherished. "No," she repeated, like a little mother scolding me.
Blood touched her thighs, drenching the room in its smell. Starvation overtook me. I fell on her like an animal. She began to fight, furiously, and I only wanted her more. The hunger rose up, pure as God, and I was on top of her laying her into the ground, sinking my teeth into her throat.
I drank her dry while she squirmed and squealed beneath me. It was like pure heaven coursing down my throat. I felt the blood healing me. Sanctifying me. Her final moment rushed up like a hand that gripped my heart. It was the life force, beating fast and fierce, clinging to existence with that indomitable will of the young. I felt it fight and pull, and greedily I yanked and drank it down and swallowed it all.
Branwell had known what he was doing. But he hadn't known how powerful I'd become. When he returned and saw with satisfaction that I had drunk and was standing strong and still beneath a shard of moonlight, he unlocked the chamber door and opened his arms wide.
"Come to me, love. Now we are true equals."
But he was wrong.
I was stronger.
I swept past him. When he caught my wrist, I flung him so hard against the wall he fell broken and stiff. I was momentarily afraid I'd killed him but then I could hear his heart, his breath, even the blood coursing through his veins. I heard the grass outside. An owl call. The stars shine. I heard the night.
And I flew to it like a flame falling back into the fire.