She arrived only a few days ago, since which time our loud and friendly wing has become a place of desolate silence. Her presence is a deadening one, stifling all our customary conversations with a single glance. There is something baleful and malefic in her dark eyes, something inscrutable and quietly terrifying. She never speaks herself, and no-one on the wing even known her name or her crime. Usually this information can act as a starting point for conversation, but she seems to have an inherent dislike for such an amiable and harmless occupation. I thought at first that perhaps she was a mute, that perhaps her hatred of others' conversation stemmed from her own inability to participate, but I have heard her muttering to herself in the middle of the night, so I know she can speak, she just chooses not to.
I long for our weekly walk, so that I may talk to my fellow inmates and see what they make of her. Surely I cannot be the only one who has noticed her muttering, surely I am not alone in thinking her dangerous and unearthly. I have two more days of this waiting. Two more days to watch my neighbour and attempt to find some grain of humanity in what she is. Sometimes I think she is as much a victim as we all are, but when I look into her eyes I see a darkness there which frightens me, and makes me think that whatever else she may be, she is most certainly not innocent of her crimes. Whatever she is accused of doing, it is probably far less harmful than what she has already done, or what she may still do. I fear being this close to her; I know full well that she could reach me through the bars of this cell if she chose to.
I have already had a demonstration of her strength and her powerful anger. The day she arrived here she was sullen and quiet, but as they locked her away she began screaming and wailing and tearing at the bars with frantic hands. There were no words to her screams, just desperate exclamations of pain and anger. Her hands were bleeding by the time she finally calmed down, and then she lapsed into the silence which has become her customary state ever since. Was it just my imagination, or were the bars slightly warped where she had clawed at them? Are the bars perhaps not as reliable a captivation as the warders would like to believe they are? I cannot escape the pain in her eyes, and the unnatural patience which seems to suggest a waiting for opportunity. I think she plans something behind those dark eyes, and I fear it will end in bloodshed.
Not even knowing why she is here, I can but speculate as to her crime. It will be interesting to see what my fellows have deduced from her appearance and her behaviour. I pray I am not the only one who considers her non-human, though I have resolved not to say a word of this unless someone else mentions it first. My silence may cost myself or someone else dear, but by speaking out I may also condemn myself. I have known women taken off for 'psychiatric re-alignment', and I have seen the state in which they return, far worse than they ever were before they went. I am not prepared to undergo such things, just to relieve myself of the burden of my own wild imaginings.
She is slightly built, this woman, and to look at her as she sits still, one would imagine her the victim of others, and yet when she moves there is something predatory about her, something curiously feral. It is not simply in the expression of her eyes that one may read her madness, if indeed it is a madness. I almost hope that it is, for fear of what else it might be. When she sleeps, usually only around dawn, and then on until the early afternoon, she curls herself up into a tight, foetal ball, her long arms wrapped around her knees and clutching her legs against her thin body. Her long, dark hair falls over her face and hands, and no part of her skin is visible. She could almost be a mere sack of clothes lying there, were it not for the regular rise and fall of her sleeping form. She sleeps very deeply, so deeply that I could probably carry on full conversations with my fellows without her awareness, yet some reticence in me, some reluctance to trust her passivity and silence, makes me wary. I have seen the look in her eyes when she awakes, a sudden movement from seemingly comatose to upright and completely conscious. The way she wakes is not natural, and is yet another reason why I cannot accept her as the human being she appears to be. Her keeping of irregular hours, her method of sleeping and waking, her silence punctuated only by the nightly mutterings to herself, her violent outburst: all these things conspire to warn me. That, and her curious eating habits...
Being in the cell adjoining hers, I have more opportunity than most to observe her behaviour. When she refused to eat on her first night inside, I assumed she was making a protest of her innocence. Indeed, she seemed so adamant that she would not eat the food that she pushed the plate close to my bars and gestured for me to take it. I would not do this, in case she decided at a later hour that she was hungry, and laid into me through the bars for stealing her food. On one of my own first days here, I was offered another's portion and took it eagerly, only to be violently assaulted on the next walk, and I was not about to repeat my naοve mistake with a woman I felt sure could kill me if she chose to. I declined the food, ushering it back into her cell, where she just stared sullenly at it, scowling at it as though she thought it poisoned.
She refused the morning meal and the evening meal on the following day also, and I began to be concerned. (This was, you understand, before I fully came to realise that she was not what she seemed; when I still felt anxiety for her as a fellow inmate, and a possible companion. Now I know more of her nature, I feel nothing but indifference as to whether she lives or dies.) I had seen a fellow on hunger strike before, had seen the vicious manner in which the warders 'persuaded' her to eat in the end, forcing the mush down her throat in a tube. Of course, it was for her own good, so that she did not die, but it was also a brutality I would rather forget. I did not speak to the new woman about her apparent hunger strike, but I motioned towards her plate when she ignored it, and gave her to understand by my looks that she should eat. She was already thin, almost anorexically so, and her skin had begun to show the signs of anaemia and vitamin deficiency which could well lead to something far worse if she did not begin to eat. I had once visited the hospital here, and I would not inflict such indignities on my dearest enemy. (Which, ironically, this woman may prove to be.)
She took no heed of my warnings, so I left her to it. If she wanted to die, if she wanted to give up all hope of ever being released alive, then let her. It was a fight to survive for all of us, and we could ill afford to support the burden of another's pessimism, whilst ever striving to defeat our own fears. I thought no more of her, refused to allow concern to show on my face again, until I discovered her eating one night. I awoke to the sound of chewing, a succulent sound which triggered the pooling of saliva in my own mouth. I opened my eyes cautiously to look at her, knowing instinctively that it would be her and not another who was eating at this hour. She sat on her bed, seemingly oblivious to everything around her, including myself, which her hands up to her face. She was holding something to her lips, something dark and shadowy in the pallid light which came in through the far window. My eyes could not pick out any detail of her repast, but I knew that it was not part of the meal the warders had delivered, for that still lay on its plate by the door, untouched. She seemed rather to be sucking at the food than eating it, although she undoubtedly chewed at it too. It was only when I heard the unmistakeable crack of bones that I realised that what she was so eagerly feasting upon was an animal of some kind, probably one of the rats which lived in the cells here, thriving on the damp and the sticky heat of the rotting walls. I stifled a sickened cry, and fought the impulse to gag, burying my face deep into my blankets and covering my ears against the terrible sound.
When I awoke the next morning she was fast asleep, and I had ample opportunity to look about her cell for evidence of her revolting midnight snack. I found it eventually, although she had spared precious little of the beast, so that any casual observer one of the warders, perhaps would not notice anything untoward. Beneath her bed, close to the wall, was a tiny sliver of dark, matted fur. It seemed I had been right about it being a rat. I gagged then, my throat constricting and filling with a bitter fluid which I fought hard to swallow back. I looked around at my fellow inmates, to see if any of them had witnessed my discovery or my distress at it, but most of them were still asleep, and those that were awake were preoccupied with clothing or washing themselves. No-one looked in my direction at all.
I looked for further evidence, but thankfully found nothing to warrant further revulsion. My suspicions were alerted by now, but I had not yet had the confirmation of her unearthliness. She undoubtedly kept unsociable hours, and she certainly had some disgusting dining habits, but that could be the result of eccentricity, insanity, illness, despair or loneliness. I could not condemn a person as an alien or a monster simply for doing things which I found distasteful. For all I knew, she might have some strange disease or religious obsession which forbade her eating cooked meats or bread. It was implausible, I thought, but it was just feasible, and I am nothing if not tolerant of others' beliefs, even when they do not concur with my own.
I only wish that the days would now pass, so that I can discuss this strange creature with my fellows and my friends. Keeping my suspicions to myself is the most severe torture. Not that I am a gossip, but this is certainly an astounding piece of news, which I think would amaze and horrify my fellows, and I feel they have a right to know. I may not always be here, after all one day, who knows, I may be released and it is only fair that someone else has a warning about her, in case she attempts to turn her hideous feeding attentions upon something larger and less docile than a rat. Oh horror of horrors, I pray I am not here when that day comes, as surely it might! I am the closest one to her, and there is no-one in the cell on the other side of her, so it would naturally be to me that she turned if she chose to take this fiendish option. May whatever god exists in this place protect me from her evil touch...
I am beginning to feel as though I am the one that is mad. The woman has done nothing untoward for two nights now, and indeed has become somewhat more sociable than was her wont. She still does not engage me, or any of the other inmates, in conversation, but I have seen her looking curiously in my direction, and when I look up at her she smiles. I wish I could believe she intends me no harm, but there is something about her smile that unnerves me. Is it perhaps that her eyes still carry that baleful glare that they have always held towards me? Or is it the way her lips part too widely, to reveal teeth that are too long and too sharp? If I were a superstitious person, I should say we had something worse than a monster here, we had a vampire but such things do not exist in this modern world, do they? If I allow myself to believe in such impossibilities, I shall surely lose my mind.
The other inmates are no longer wary of her, it seems. They seem almost not to notice her presence at all, but carry on their conversations as they always used to, although not including me. She no longer exerts her evil influence over them, halting their chattering with one of her terrible stares. She seems instead to have singled me out for her especial attention, and I cannot feel that this bodes well for me. I fear I shall lose my mind if the situation with her does not improve, although I am frightened to admit what form the 'improvement' might take, and whom in fact it will best benefit: her or myself. It seems to me that she is in complete control of this situation now, and I fear for my safety. I used to believe that getting the opportunity to talk to the other inmates would solve at least part of my problem with her; now I think it will make things worse. If I publicly voice my suspicions of her I run the risk of being laughed at, ridiculed or sent for 're-alignment' or hospital treatment, and there is also the very real danger of her finding out what I think of her and perhaps silencing me for good. I am in agony, wondering what is the best thing to do.
She did not feed last night, or the night before. Perhaps I imagined it? Perhaps it was all a dream? But then was the scrap of rat's fur I saw in her cell all part of the dream? I cannot believe so. The only other conclusion I can come to if this is not a nightmare, and I am not insane is that it is true, and I do not know any more which I would prefer. If she is what I dread to call her vampire! then my life is now in mortal danger. She must know that I have discovered her guilty secret, and that is why she has not fed since I caught her. She must realise that I have uncovered her sins, and that I may expose her. Dare she take the risk of keeping me alive?
Tomorrow morning we are allowed out on our supervised walk. I must speak with some of my friends here, people I know I can trust and depend upon. If it comes to a battle, I would like to feel that my destruction was not all in vain. I must tell someone of my suspicions about this horrifying woman, even if no-one else has noticed anything, and they all think I am insane. Knowing what I do of this demonic creature, I cannot allow her to feed upon my life force and my blood, as surely she must need to in order to stay alive. I cannot permit such atrocities in our once friendly wing. Being perhaps the only one who can see what is happening, it is my solemn responsibility to do something, to tell someone, to warn them. Oh God, I must confess what I have discovered before it is too late.
She is smiling again, and I hate to look at her dreadful face. Her eyes seem to mock me, her mouth to be set in a permanent sneer of contempt. She knows that I know, but she cares not. Perhaps she knows I shall never be believed, perhaps... merciful Heaven, perhaps she means to destroy me tonight, so that I may not speak of what I know tomorrow! How can I tell what she plans behind those wicked, dark eyes of hers? I have noticed that she wears a crucifix, but that does not fool me. I know that to be only folklore anyway, and it is the perfect cover for her, hiding her corruption behind the mask of our Lord. What can I do? How can I protect myself against this creature of darkness, this devil of the pit?
I pray to all that is merciful and good that I live through this night. These other innocents must be warned...
In the centre of the room, Magdalena was the focus of all attention. Not only had she visited that terrible place, but she had stayed there, as though a prisoner, for almost a week. The place was rich in history, dark and evil history. It had been a place of torture for women for almost a hundred years, and many had thought Magdalena was taking too much upon herself this time. An interest in the dead was all very well indeed quite fashionable in these nihilistic days but to elect to spend a week with them was sheer lunacy! When she had been released she had been quiet and withdrawn, and many of her friends had feared that something she had witnessed in there, or something she had felt, had driven her finally over the edge. She had always been slightly eccentric, but now it was feared she had slid into insanity. Tonight, when she was finally prepared to talk of her experiences, would be a fascinating evening, and the room was packed with scholars and mystic alike, all eager to hear her tales of the witches' prison.
Towards the stage she stepped, calm and assured in her poise and her traditional black velvet. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her thin shoulders and wrapped around her tiny waist. This was one performance she had been prepared for all her life, and she was not going to put a foot wrong. She gracefully ascended the steps to the dais, her gown trailing behind her, her movements languid and dreamy. She turned to face the assembled crowd. Her thin, pinched face, with its dark, haunted eyes, seemed paler even than usual, and her skin seemed almost translucent, the veins rich and dark like mariner's rope beneath the merest sheen of make-up. She gazed down at her friends and her family, at all the people who had, she knew, thought her mad for making this one last journey, this final descent into the hell of the past. Well, she had survived it, as she had always survived, and always would. Her lips parted in an almost savage smile and she began to speak, her voice soft yet deep, with a powerful sibilance that had surely not been so pronounced before her ordeal.
"I entered the prison on Monday. It seemed the best day, as it gave me a few days to adjust before the culmination of the psychic activity on Thursday. Friday was to be the day of my release, the day when traditionally the women were allowed out of the confines to walk in the forest. I knew that if I had discovered nothing by then, the opportunity would be wasted until the same phase of the moon next month.
"As soon as they put me in the cell, I could feel the hostility of the presence there. It was stronger than I had expected, doubtless the effect of layers of successive inmates, all with their echoes of pain and sadness and anger, overlapping in an eternal loop. I admit that for a moment I panicked, and began to scream to block out the sounds. At length they died away, and I was left in peace.
"I entered my trance late on the first evening, and was soon rewarded. The cell next to mine was full of activity for some time, as the woman there seemed to be gesturing for me to eat. I could feel her anxiety so strongly, even though I could see nothing. I gained the impression that she could see me, that she knew I was there, although what or whom she thought I was I cannot possibly say. She repeated this strange performance of gesturing for me to eat something which I could not see in the morning and in the following evening, and then appeared to despair and gave up trying to coax me.
"It was then that I noticed the activity in the other cells. There were a number of women in that place, presences I could clearly identify as all belonging to one period of history. They were all contemporaries, it seemed, of the woman in the cell adjoining mine. I felt that I had disturbed their existence, that somehow they all knew I was there. It was as though I became a physical presence in their world, as though my trance had given me substance in their insubstantial sphere. I felt a terrible sadness, and an overwhelming sense of suspicion and fear. They seemed to view me as other-worldly, as surely as I viewed them that way. I suspect they were more frightened, living as they still were in the superstitious time which gave them mortal birth. I can only speculate as to what they thought I was, but I felt very strongly that they suspected me of wishing them harm. Quite ironic really, for inmates of a prison who had all been condemned for witchcraft!
"As requested, the guardian of the estate brought me food on my second night, that is on Tuesday. I came briefly out of the trance, long enough to eat, but I had the feeling that I was being constantly watched. Maybe it was just paranoia, and the spookiness of that place in near darkness and all alone, but I felt as though the woman in the adjoining cell was somehow still with me, still looking at me. I dread to think what I looked like to her then, out of my trance, no longer part of her contemporary life, and eating pizza in the middle of the night! There was definitely a wave of fear coming from her, but I couldn't isolate whether I was the cause, and if so, in what was I was frightening her.
"My next two days in the trance were fairly uneventful. The women began to accept me it seemed, and began talking to one another again, carrying on their eternal ritual as though a stranger were not in their midst, listening to them. I could not clearly distinguish anything of what was being said on the other side of the prison, however, because the activity from the cell adjoining mine had increased to a quite alarming magnitude. Whatever had alarmed this woman during the night, whether it was eating or not, was burning inside of her now. She was anxious and frightened, and desperate to communicate her fears to someone else. I could tell that she was awaiting the walk on Friday with an almost unnatural urgency. It was almost as though she had resolved in her mind what I was, or what I appeared to her to be, and she was now firmly convinced that I meant her harm. I tried to reassure her, by smiling and making pacific gestures towards her, but she obviously was not going to trust me. I admit that my appearance may have startled her, considering the folklore with which she had been brought up, but her frantic terror was appalling to me, and I longed to be able to do something more to calm her and comfort her.
"I could not. Just before the sun rose on the Friday, I felt a long, anguished sigh from the adjoining cell, and then a heavy silence. Whatever she had seen had obviously been too much for her, and she has now, I trust, gone on to the rest she deserves after all these centuries. The presence on the other side of the prison seemed uncoordinated without her, as though she had been their strongest member, and the others had all withered without her to support them. By the time the guardian of the estate came to release me, the prison seemed quite empty, just a residual echo left which I am sure will soon pass."
Magdalena concluded her report with a note of almost tangible sadness in her voice, as though the parting of these tortured souls had been an ordeal for her as much as for them. It was true that she did get rather too involved in her work sometimes, but then when one has to deal with so much raw human emotion, magnified over centuries of haunting repetition, it is scarcely surprising that it was an exhausting experience to go through. But if her physical exhaustion guaranteed the eternal rest of many dozens of souls, then it was well worth the effort.
All eyes turned to Magdalena as she descended from the dais, and once more walked across the room, parting the crowds with one languid, translucent hand. "I am rather tired now; I think I shall rest, if nobody has any objections...?" She left the room and sought the darkness and silence of her own room. To tell the tale had been to relive every moment of it, and it had been as overpowering a sensation now as it had been two months before. Here perhaps, in the dark and quiet room, she would get some peace. She lay down upon the bed and closed her eyes, to surrender once more to the dreams of a woman long dead, a woman whose possession had begun upon the very night she had left the witches' prison all those centuries ago. "Magdalena, do not forget," she whispered. "Magdalena, you will never forget..."
[11th July 1995]
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