On the other side of death - A story of love beyond the grave

When I was little, all I knew was fear. Fear of the gnawing hunger that consumed us from the inside. Fear of the biting cold that seeped through walls and wools and nipped at our toes and fingers. And fear of the ruthless lords who partied in the castle, up on the mountain, living off our work, our tears, our blood.

We thought fear would keep us safe, make us cautious and wise. We prayed to our gods for protection, and paid our tithe to the vampire lords, and hoped for peace. Fear kept us in our place, my family and I. And it is in fear that they died. When I found them, mangled and covered in blood, l swore I would never live in fear again. If I were to die like them, l would at least die a brave death. I didn’t think that I might die a stupid death.

All it takes is one wrong step. Tread on a twig, and they will hear you coming. Step on a viper and you will never have a chance to take on the vampire. There are so many things that can go wrong in the mountains. One moment, one tiny slip, and your life flashes before your eyes, every memory vivid and painful like a knife through the heart. And when you breathe your last, labored breath, the last thing you see is the vampire, leaning over you in the dark, moonless night, savoring his victory.

My last thought, as I lay dying, was that, at least, there would be no vampires in the afterlife. Whether I was going to heaven or hell, I knew I had escaped him and his kind. There is no eternal rest for the undead, no passage into the world beyond. We would never meet again. Or so I thought.

For the briefest moment, when I woke up in the tight coffin, I thought that
I’d survived. But only for a moment. Then the painful realization hit me: my heart wasn’t beating. And, instead of the hunger that had ruled my entire life, I felt a dire thirst.