Midvinterblot

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND A WARNING TO READERS: A strange tale of allegories woven together with occult symbolism and elements which may be psychologically disturbing. Pair this with some rather extreme fetishes, and you've got a cocktail of peculiarity ready for your consumption. Be wary that this tale is bound to make some people uncomfortable, so read the tags and proceed with caution. This story reads like a 'bad trip'.

It is a work of fiction, and all of the characters in the story are above the age of eighteen.

All of my work - including this one - is copyrighted. © Devinter.

--- MIDVINTERBLOT ---

Autumn had succumbed - a husk, like the remnants of some dry, brittle beetle shell on the forest floor - to winter's cold and unforgiving breath. The trees, seemingly void of life - sleeping ghouls awaiting spring - had now begun their silent mourning; the heavy snowfall draping itself like a shroud over the barren branches. The bird were no longer singing, though crows and magpies still remained in the shrubbery, sometimes leaving their little footprints in the thin layer of crystallized water on the frosted ground. The snow was thick in places, the earth underfoot hard and uncompromising, and the tires of the rusted 1996 Mercedes Benz - an almost antique vehicle to a generation brought up on hybrids and eco-friendly cars - slithered through the forest on the treacherous roads. Destination? Grackleton Manor.

Tamora von Bornheim was a sweet little thing - but naïve, vulnerable and sometimes prone to getting caught up in situations that were obviously beyond her. The leathery interior of the car smelt of tobacco. Her dress - a black cotton frock with white embroidered daisies - clung uncomfortably to her body, not nearly warm enough for a winter's eve, despite the thick woollen coat she wore on top. The sun was in no mood to make an appearance, hidden behind grey clouds like a frightened child behind their mommy when strangers came to visit. Tamora's silky curls clung to the sides of her face, the tears she had shed earlier still moistening her eyes and cheeks.

"Do you truly think this will work?" she sniffled quietly. "I have to admit, I'm feeling more scared by the minute."

"You needn't be afraid," the driver - Gerald Calamax - replied calmly, looking at her through the rearview mirror. "I'll protect you from him."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered. "That man sinks his clutches into people with such ease. There's something strange about him.."

Mister Calamax sighed deeply. "He's certainly eccentric, yes. And very determined. Intense, to be sure. But he's the only man I know of that can speak to the dead." The driver, three times Tamora's age - a man in his early 60's - was dressed in a thick dark brown suit, and wore spectacles with gold-rimmed frames. He looked a tad portly but well-groomed, with salt and pepper hair and a moustache to match. His hands, soft and smooth - and yet slightly worn - held the wheel tightly, his knuckles whitened. His sideburns and his nose hair were in desperate need of a trim. "As a matter of fact, I believe he's one of the most talented mediums in the world. Whilst I can't make any promises, I do believe he's your best chance at reaching out to your father, dear."

"... It's his price for doing so I am worried about." She brushed a curl away from her face with an elegant hand, adjusting the collar of her coat, the cold making her bones ache.

Mister Calamax nodded in agreement. "He's a shrewd man, and he has been in this business long enough to have mastered the art of manipulation. You would be wise to simply tell him whatever he needs to hear, and no more." He coughed quietly, before speaking again. "But he knew your father, dear. They spoke frequently. Your family name should carry some prestige in his halls. Besides, your father trusted him, didn't he?"

Tamora smiled faintly, thinking back to her childhood days, remembering when she used to attend tea parties with her father at one grand estate after the other. The faces would change only slightly, the same elite gathering of people at each event - but still, the places they'd visit was always exciting. She was never treated like an ordinary child - her mother always made sure of that, bringing her to every high society function to keep up appearances. All to impress. And he would be there all too often. The man who didn't seem to age. The man who's eyes held such intense blue flames that they left her feeling uneasy. The man she had seen snap the neck of a poor little kitten without the slightest hesitation just to conjure up some pointless party tricks.

"I suppose," she conceded quietly. "Though I never quite liked him." The way he commanded the attention of everyone in a room unnerved her, and it always seemed like a tempest was hiding beneath his ever-calm exterior.

"Nor did your father," Mister Calamax admitted, as Tamora stared out the window of the vehicle. The thick snow blanket made it look like the lands were covered by white silk. "But they did business together on numerous occasions, and as far as I'm aware, Vincent de la Rose always kept his word. If he said he'd do something, you could be certain he would see it through - to the end, and beyond. Your father corresponded with him down to his very last days."

Even though some of Tamora's earliest memories had been playing with her dollies on the mosaic tile floor of her father's library, surrounded by endless tomes on occult phenomenon and magic rites, and the shelves being lined with macabre curiosities like shrunken heads and mummified animals from foreign lands, she had never once seen definitive proof that magic was real. The claims she had heard were endless, of impossible feats performed by talented - and often important - people, everything that she had witnessed with her own eyes required belief or could likely have been the work of talented illusionists or charismatic charlatans. Still, what other option did she have? She had to figure out how her father had died. At any price. Nearly..

The old man turned onto the long winding driveway of Grackleton Manor, a dark brick edifice with tall towers rising high into the clouded sky, surrounded by perfectly-manicured gardens, now coddled in winter's bosom. The windows of the manor had a haunting shape to them, looking like empty eye sockets in a desolate skull. The name - Grackleton Manor - was embossed in black letters with a copper-coloured outline on a plaque by the main entrance. It looked haunting, as if daring any disillusioned visitors to trespass its walls and draw its attention. Perhaps the frightening ambiance wasn't entirely coincidental, and perhaps that was also why there were no guards at the gate. Who would dare enter this place willingly, without good cause?

"He certainly seems to believe that he can contact your father through you," Mister Calamax continued as the Mercedes rolled to a stop. "But be patient. There will be many guests here tonight, and some of them have paid hefty prices for their tickets. Ours were free, luckily." He glanced out the window as Tamora unclasped her seatbelt, slowly leaning to her side to look at Mister Calamax - and she saw a hint of nervousness in his eyes as well, if only a faint flicker. A slight chill passed through her body. He was also afraid, she realised, taking one last deep breath before opening the car door and stepping out onto the cold, hard ground. Numerous cars already littered the driveway, parked along the gravel pathway in front of the house. Gerald's Mercedes looked like junk compared to the other vehicles present. It was almost like they had been invited to a party rather than a séance, but among the social elite, perhaps the difference was negligible.

Tamora wrapped her arms around herself to shield her from winter's bite. "Do you have your invitation card?" she asked quietly, as Mister Calamax walked a few steps behind her, following her lead - though he kept a healthy distance between them as he walked down the drive to the main steps. She was the one with the prestigious roots, and they both knew that Gerald's invitation had been more of a courtesy so that the lady would not have to travel alone. The old man had worked for their family for most of his life, but came from humble beginnings.

"I do," Mister Calamax confirmed, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve the fancy-looking sheet of paper with cursive golden letters written on thick, jet-black paper. His hand was shaking slightly as he showed it to her, but she couldn't tell if it was nerves or the cold making him tremble. "Do you?"

"Yes. Mine should be here..." she replied, patting her coat pockets for her own card before remembering where it was, sighing in relief when she located it. Her eyes quickly skimmed the text which she had already read numerous times, about the séance at the winter equinox, and how her attendance was desired - free of charge - to offer her the opportunity to reach out to her beloved father who had sadly perished earlier in the year. Food and overnight rooms would be provided as well. No doubt about it - this was an exclusive affair. Perhaps more so than most.

She looked up at the majestic building, taking in the sights of the stone walkway leading to the front door, looking like a massive maw about to devour anyone who dared venture close enough. The feeling of anxiety began to build in intensity inside her belly; her dress felt a tad tight and uncomfortable around her midriff, and she fought the urge to vomit. "I guess anywhere is better than out here in the biting cold," she muttered - the winter wind carrying her words and breath into the grey sky, swirling away like misty ashes.

Hesitant, she set course for the slate-grey steps leading to the massive doors, the ivory ornaments atop the balustrade sparkling in the light of the lanterns hung from each side of the entrance. The click of her heels against the sanded stone echoed through the open space, and they didn't have to knock for the tall wooden doors to creak open. A dapper man in a black suit greeted them, with thinning grey hair parted to one side. His lips looked dry as if they'd been scrubbed raw. The darkly-clad servant ushered them inside immediately after acknowledging their invitations, only extending the briefest of welcomes. Tamora pulled off her coat as she was approached by another attendant, whom in turn fastened a feather plume brooch onto the breast of her black frock.

"What is this for?" she asked quietly, as Mister Calamax removed his own jacket and gave it to the servant standing beside him, whom received it with a courteous smile.

"It's a sign that you're not merely a guest, but also here to help conduct tonight's proceedings in some way," the servant explained, adjusting the white cuffs of his crisp shirt, "May I take the skin you've shed?"

Tamora blinked, confused - but then realized the servant was staring at the coat she nursed in her arms. She handed the garment over, wondering how long she would have to wear this strange little accessory on the top of her outfit before they were ready to start their task. It reminded her of the lessons her father had held for her as a child. "Feathers represents the element of air, which in turn represents thought and creation," he would say, with that serious look on his face. The lessons had bored her then, but she missed them now.

Mister Calamax reached up and removed the glasses he was wearing, carefully placing them in the inside pocket of his blazer. He mostly wore them whilst driving, but somehow he looked at least five years older without them on. "Most séances are held at midnight, so we have to get through the dinner first" He glanced down at his watch - a simple yet elegant leather strap - and nodded to himself before walking off through the front foyer of the house, looking as if he were perfectly comfortable inside a home of such a daunting size. But unlike the young woman, this was not his first visit to Grackleton Manor. He had come here with her father a couple of times prior. Tamora followed him, feeling decidedly out of place and wishing she were anywhere but there at that moment. Her fingers absent-mindedly touched the brooch as she took a look around.

The chandeliers were dimmed - but Tamora knew why; it was to set the mood. To give the whole manor a feel of mystery, creating the correct ambiance for tonight's unusual endeavours. Strange how no magic rituals or séances were ever conducted on a warm summer's day, under the pleasant caress of sunshine and fresh air, surrounded by nature's song in the bright daylight. What, magic suddenly stopped working during hours when people were usually awake? The mere thought sounded absurd. Tamora had witnessed some strange things over the years, but she remained sceptical to much that the world of magic claimed to offer.

She tried not to let herself be distracted by the fancy artwork and grand tapestries upon the walls - nor by her sombre and mistrusting thoughts - as she entered the main ballroom with Mister Calamax. A plethora of guests scurried about, like mice in an overpopulated maze, as if mingling with everyone was a sport with the goal being to gain insight into current affairs. The occasional laughter pierced through the whispers and polite murmurs like the melody of a broken music box. Most seemed to be enjoying a fine brandy, handed out by servants on large trays - and the fireplace on one end of the room roared with flickering orange flames.

As Tamora looked around, she noticed that none of them were wearing brooches like hers - that is, until her gaze fell on a stunning woman whom was dressed entirely in red, her golden hair down, two thick locks of hair framing either side of her face. Her dark brown eyes stood out brilliantly against her pale skin, even from across the room - but the way she seemed to be staring directly at Tamora, like a predator about to pounce, made her feel small and caused her to falter slightly in her steps. She looked down at the chequered floor, tiles alternating between white and blue, seeing all sorts of odd and whimsical shoes. A tell-tale sign that she was amongst eccentrics, loons, dreamers - those claiming to in some way having connections to the magical realm, to arcane arts, or to beings who possessed supernatural abilities. A few were also simply filthy rich and was present for the macabre entertainment.

"Do not be alarmed," Mister Calamax said in a quiet tone. "You're not here to win a popularity contest." She did her best not to frown at that comment, keeping up the façade of belonging among this odd group of people. The entire manor had a certain eerie aura enveloping it - and now, with so many people in one room, the feeling became overpowering. Her senses began to go into overdrive; the smell of the expensive perfumes and colognes mingled with the scent of cigar smoke caused her head spin slightly. At least there was no sign of the host. A small blessing, she thought.

After being handed a drink by a servant, she took small sips of the bubbling liquid, attempting to enjoy it. Mister Calamax did the rounds, mingling with the other guests, but Tamora remained at a spot she had chosen for herself by the wall, deciding to keep a low profile. After all, this wasn't about her. Or, at least that's what she told herself.

It didn't take long before the girl in red approached her, however. She seemed to be about the same age as Tamora - maybe younger, though her eyes were anything but innocent, the mischievous glimmer only serving to further deepen her striking beauty and sex-appeal. She was stunning; petite, yet with an elegance about her that could not be denied. Her crimson dress clung to her slim frame, accentuating every feminine curve. But there was something different about her - something beyond that veneer of sophistication and grace. It made her look unearthly. Unnatural. Lustful?

"Another lamb to the slaughter?" she asked, her tone amused and sultry. "Are you here for business or for pleasure? Or perhaps both?" The way she spoke seemed rehearsed, and Tamora realised almost instantly that it must be a greeting the woman had used a hundred times - thus refined over time, the words perfectly pronounced yet delivered with a charming lisp. She was brazen enough to reach out and fondle Tamora's feather plume brooch, tracing her slender fingers over the small trinket in what looked like an attempt at seduction. Her eyes remained focused on Tamora though, keeping that unnerving stare.

Tamora felt her cheeks blush, though she wasn't entirely certain why. She tried not to sound too judgemental, yet she was sure to maintain a cold exterior as best as she could. "I am here on behalf of my father, whom sadly passed away recently." Her voice cracked slightly, yet the other girl took no notice of it, instead taking another sip of her drink. "I'm Tamora von Bornheim," she added, extending her hand out to the young woman.

"Nimue de Montague," the girl responded in a soft voice, taking Tamora's hand and placing a little kiss upon the knuckles. A chivalrous act - though unusual between two women. Her touch was surprisingly warm and soft, and her eyes looked like two galaxies reflecting the stars. "You must be Otto's daughter, then? My condolences. He passed far too soon." She was polite, but her words lacked real emotion. It was as if she were reading lines off a script.

Tamora did her best to remain professional. "Thank you." She attempted a smile, which Nimue returned. "Did you know my father?"

"Know?" Nimue tilted her head to one side, before continuing. "No, I never met him. But everyone knows who he was. A brilliant man. I read his 'Lures of the concealed' long before my 18th birthday. Truly a masterful work - at least that of it which I understood. It left a lasting impression." She paused, likely expecting Tamora to say something, but the young woman remained quiet so Nimue continued. "My father worked with him once, on a ritual conducted to reach out to Eligos. Breathtaking stuff! Speaking of, tonight is bound to be quite the special event, Miss von Bornheim. Are you familiar with the Midvinterblot?" The golden-haired girl looked like a ghost bathed in firelight, and her presence made Tamora feel more vulnerable than she'd have liked to admit. And she was standing far too close, leaning in as if trying to whisper secrets into her ear - even though nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.

"I don't believe I am," Tamora replied, and shifted in her place as Nimue leant against the wall beside her, scanning her up and down. The woman's cleavage was invitingly exposed, looking like two ripe peaches pressing against the thin red fabric. The fainted outline of her nipples could be seen through the sheer cloth.

"It dates back thousands of years, to a time long before Christmas - a pagan tradition, always performed in the dead of winter, by the Nordic people of Sweden. Not much is known of the exact details of their ritual, only that it included the presence of Gods, and the sacrifice of virgins." She chuckled lightly, though her laugh seemed hollow, as if she were mocking her own words. Tamora could feel her discomfort rising, and the temperature in the room seemed to have increased by at least a few degrees. "Are you a virgin, Tamora? You are, aren't you? I can almost taste it." The woman practically purred. "I could help you with that if you'd like?"

"Excuse me?" Tamora blinked, confused by what Nimue had just suggested. Her mouth felt dry.

The girl in red looked amused. "Better safe than sorry, no? Who knows what whims Gods and spirits from the otherworld may act upon, hmm? If it's innocent virgins they like, then isn't it a swell idea to embrace debauchery on a night like this?" Her voice was velvety, seductive in tone as she leant closer still, her eyes hooded. "I would hate to see anything bad happen to you."