Meyra - A vampire fairytale (english edition)

The choir’s voice echoes softly through the night. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly where the singing is coming from. Either way, it doesn’t really fit, because it’s a cold, wet night. Sleet and thick fog envelop the lonely side street, accompanied by an unpleasant, icy wind.

What time could it be? 11 p.m., maybe even past midnight?

After a while, the choral singing, wherever it came from, falls silent, and this strange, secluded place becomes very quiet.

She looks up briefly and then buries her head again under the collar of her thick wool sweater. She’s trembling. Her legs twitch rhythmically, and her breath forms small clouds in front of her face.

For a second it looks like she said something, but that’s probably just the shadow passing over her lips.

The bridge she’s sitting under isn’t big or very high, but at least it’s dry down here.

The girl looks up again. Her dark-blonde hair hangs in her face, her hairstyle is disheveled, and she repeatedly tries to wipe the strands from her eyes. Her lips are still trembling from the cold.

The footsteps are getting closer. When she hears them, she looks up. She quickly scurries behind a pillar and hides. She buries her head even deeper in her wool sweater and ties up her half-open jacket tightly, hoping not to be seen.

Slow footsteps. She hears each one. Is it the cold, or is it her fear, that makes her body tremble?

She leans tightly against the bridge pillar, almost clasping it with her arms. It’s as if she wants to become one with it so she remains invisible.

But it’s too late. The older man has already spotted her. He slowly approaches her. The sound of his footsteps echoes under the bridge.

She presses herself close to the pillar and closes her eyes. Suddenly, she feels a hand on her shoulder. Not firmly, but firmly, the man turns her around so he can look into her eyes.

“I knew someone was hiding here,” the old man grumbles at her. “What are you doing here, so late at night and all alone?”

The girl continues to tremble. She cautiously looks at him through her almost closed eyes and finally turns her head to the side without saying anything.

“A girl your age shouldn’t be walking around alone at night,” the man says in his sonorous voice.

The girl looks at her gray, thinning hair as it moves in the wind.

“I’m 19,” she finally says, almost whispering. “It’s my business what I do at night.”

“You look 14 or 15,” the old man says incredulously.

“I’m 19,” the girl repeats quietly.

Only then does she let go of the bridge pillar and sit down on a ledge. The older man sits next to her and lights a cigarette.

Almost disgusted, the girl waves the smoke away with her hand in front of her face and looks at the older man with a contemptuous look.

“Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?” he asks.

The girl shakes her head.

“I’m not very good at walking anymore,” says the man. “And it’s still a long way to my home. I have to take a break every now and then.”

The girl nods.

“You’re not very talkative,” the man observes with a questioning glance. “Do you have a name?”

The cloud of her breath almost completely envelops her pale face.

“Meyra,” she whispers softly.

“Okay, Meyra,” says the old man. “You don’t have to be afraid. I won’t hurt you, okay? I’ll just sit here for a while, and as soon as my legs can, I’ll move on.”

Meyra looks sideways at the old man. Her eyes seem compassionate, but upon closer inspection, you can see something completely different in her gaze.

Whatever it is, the old man doesn’t recognize it.

“Do you live alone?” the young woman asks the man.

He exhales deeply and then turns to her. “My wife died a long time ago,” he says. “We had no children. I don’t have a family anymore. Yes, I live alone.”

Meyra’s eyes flicker as if the wind were playing a song in them. Her heartbeat is doing somersaults.

“You don’t have anyone else?” Meyra wants to be sure.

The man nods.

“And no one will miss you?” Meyra asks him the question directly.

“Why do you ask such a question?” the man replies. “Are you planning to kill me? Go ahead. I have nothing left to expect from life.”

Meyra is breathing heavily. She’s trembling inside. Her body is vibrating. She knows how much she hates it. She knows she’s forced to do it, or she’ll die herself. And as much as Meyra hates her own life—as the old man probably hates his—she doesn’t want to die. It’s the raw instinct for survival that keeps her alive, and that makes her do things she would never do under normal circumstances.

One last look. One last flash from his eyes that seems to strike Meyra right in the heart.

And in the next second the old man is lying dead on the ground.

Meyra crouches beside him. Her expression is deeply sad. Her eyes are filled with tears. Her lips are red, probably smeared with blood.

She looks at him once more. Then she quietly stands up. She takes a few steps away from that dark, creepy place under that bridge. When she’s far enough away, she starts running.

Once she reaches the country road, Meyra runs even faster. Almost like lightning, faster than the passing cars, she runs through the dark night. Every now and then, a headlight grazed her, but it doesn’t bother her. It’s not her fault, she tells herself. If anyone asks, it’s not her fault.

Yes, she hates it. She always has. But she has no choice. She knows that. It is so, and it always will be so.

The district that Meyra reaches after some time is located about 20 kilometers from the city center. It’s not large. It actually consists of just a few houses, and these look like they’re inhabited by rather wealthy people. It’s obviously a good area.

As Meyra walks through the town, everything has long since fallen silent. No one is on the street. Meyra slows her pace and looks at a street lamp. She sees the fog drifting gently past and also notices the small raindrops in the light.

Meyra wipes the sweat from her forehead. Because she’s warm, she opens her jacket again.

She walks slowly along the main road until she reaches the edge of town. Then, at the last traffic light, she turns right onto a nearby forest path.

The town’s lights seem to slowly fade. Meyra turns around once more. When she looks ahead again, she finds herself standing in front of a small, hidden alley, its light seemingly completely swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

Hidden among shadowy hills lies the unknown village, gloomy and dark—a secluded cluster of half-timbered houses, their facades shimmering moss-green and their shingled roofs barely distinguishable from the dense canopy of the surrounding oaks. No signpost points the way, no map indicates it; only those familiar with the quiet paths can find the gate of vines between two ancient trees.

At the heart of this nameless, secret place, narrow alleys wind, little more than cracks between rows of houses. Cobblestones, cracked by root roots, gape here and there as if trees had driven their fingers through the soil. Blackened iron lanterns hang crookedly from the half-timbered beams, flickering in an irregular rhythm and casting dancing shadows on the weathered walls.

Some of these alleys end abruptly at massive oak trapdoors, studded with rusty bolts and faded runes. Those who listen closely can hear the distant dripping of water and the faint echo of distant footsteps. Beneath the steep steps of these hiding places lies the subterranean labyrinth—a network of damp passages, ancient catacombs, and high vaults where the breath of the city above barely echoes.

By day, hardly a traveler strolls here; but in the evening, when the mist creeps from the trees, stories are whispered of scholars who studied forgotten secrets in the deepest bunkers, and of travelers who smiled invitingly in the alleys, only to disappear into the shadows of the trapdoors. For once you’ve chosen the path, you’ll find not just a hidden village, but an entire underground realm whose passages wind endlessly into the depths.

Meyra quietly steps through the moss-covered vine gate and enters the quiet village in the pale dawn. The half-timbered houses rise like silent witnesses to ancient times, and dew lurks beneath their heavy shingled roofs. Her gaze wanders to the narrow alleys that wind through the village in labyrinthine twists and turns, as if they wanted to trap any intruder forever.

She chooses an alley whose cobblestones creak softly beneath her boots and follows the gentle incline that leads her deeper between the wooden walls. The lamppost flames flicker in the gentle breeze, and shadows dance beyond on the cracks in the pavement. The branches of the old oaks arch above her, giving the alley a greenish twilight.

At one point, Meyra stops. A massive trapdoor made of antique oak, locked with a rusty bolt, bears faded markings. Her heart beats faster, for this is precisely where the path into the depths begins. With a practiced grip, Meyra turns the bolt, lifts the door a crack, and feels the cool, moist air wafting from the steps below.

She descends cautiously, each step a prayer echoing in the stone walls. Moss and root veins entwine along the crumbling walls, and the dripping of water echoes in the distance. Meyra follows the narrow corridor, its ceiling deepening, until she reaches a wide intersection. Arrows point left to the forgotten well, right to the Crypt of Whispering Night—but a faint torchlight glows straight ahead.

She chooses the middle path, leaving the whispering behind, and arrives at a wooden gate. Two stone gargoyles stand silent watch, and the gate itself is intricately carved—signs of a power older than the city above. Meyra’s hand grips the metal handle as she takes the first pull. A creak, a glow of ancient magic—and the gate to the Night Watchmen’s underground castle opens before her.

Beyond the threshold rises a hall of black marble, its surface reflecting the torchlight in cold reflections. Colossal columns reach into the shadows, the ceiling is covered with weathered frescoes telling stories of blood and honor. Meyra pulls back her hood, breathes in the scent of moss and ancient stone—and knows she has found the path into the darkness, the only way to her destiny.