POPPY

It was red grass I walked on, wavering with the wind's whispers. The small lake mirrored the trees in the distance, shadows melting into one stretched row of black arrows. Alongside the lake stood parents behind Eileen Davenport and Demetra Fortier, and a pair of men with sticks and drums, each watching the floating wooden raft upon which seven little girls had been laid to rest. Their white lace dresses were drenched with the red I walked on. They were dead.

Every little witch dreamt of the awakening. It was all we talked about in third grade. We imagined the elders touching us with a wand, performing a show of hocus-pocus with golden sparkles and pink fireworks, our bodies glowing as volts of power were being driven into our veins. They never told us about the knife cutting our throats. It happened fast, one child after the other without a second rest, and you didn't have time to realize what was happening unless you were last in the line. I was the last in line. I remembered the nine-year-old me looking down upon the bloodstained bodies of my little friends as the knife came my way. Never could I have guessed that I'd die the same way I was awakened.

One would wonder, was it traumatizing for a child to see that sight of bloodshed? Not in our town. Our bedtime stories were no fairytales. My mother would tell me about my ancestors, how they had suffered and bled for our name, tormented by those who disagreed with our dark way of magic, she'd tell me how they had burned alive for me to walk with pride today. My father would tell me about the Fynce cleansing, describing the piles of dead children and babies in all its gruesome details. When we fell asleep we'd dream of burning witches and slaughtered children. And when we woke up, we knew we owed everything to our ancestors, we knew we needed to be proud of our bloodline, and we knew there was nothing more important than the last name we carried. It was what they had wanted us to know, a sense of pride passed down generation after generation. And for a long time I had truly believed the importance of my last name was that massive. Until the massacre, I had carried the coat of supremacy they had taught me to wear, believing that whoever did not carry the name Van Velsen was below me, constantly pulling the dreams of bloodshed into my head to remind myself why I needed to be proud. It was how each generation of the Original Seven was raised to this very day.

But I did not raise Frank and Farren in that traditional way. After a dozen of my family members were laid to rest inside the crypt, I had come to realize that my living family members were more important than my dead ancestors. Every night I read the twins stories about princes and princesses while secretly enjoying the tales myself. Often, I had felt guilty for doing so, feeling as if I betrayed their parents by teaching them fairytales instead of our history.

The blue of the lake turned white as it began to spew bubbles and smoke. A ball of boiling water lifted the wooden raft a little, then sucked it down to the bottom. I watched the faces of the children disappear underneath a layer of foam. Demetra raised her hand and Eileen instructed, chanting words in the Old Language, which Demetra repeated flawlessly. For as long I could remember it had been Eileen who'd perform the rituals, each and every one of them. I wondered why she no longer did. After a long while, the water stopped boiling and spat the girls back. The raft was gone, their throats were healed but the blood on their dresses remained. With a deep gasp they opened their eyes. Those few who still had living parents were pulled out of the water, the others led by the hands of Eileen and Demetra. The drums began, a fast tempo, accompanied by cheers. The girls coughed out what water had entered their lungs. Shivering, they exchanged glances with each other, knowing that this was the day they could call themselves witches.

----

The tall square bell tower of Downtown was a shadow against the darkening sky, and its bells struck ten. The bells were wrapped inside layers of cloth, making it sound like distant thumps, for the vampires in Downtown who heard it much louder, but they still struck. Time, it used to tell me when to wake up and when to sleep and when to rush and where to go. Every day I found myself staring up at the bell tower, hoping for it to tell me what to do next.

My eyes skimmed the energetic crowd. In Chrim they were always smiling, despite the scars of sorrow they carried and the bloodshed they'd witnessed. It was something I admired about our residents, but it was also something the other supernaturals in the world considered cold and heartless. In the middle of the square stood a dark haired man dressed in black. His eyes stood wide and manic, with quick turns of his head he glanced in every direction and ran his hands over his torso while the crowds walked through him. I approached him. When he noticed me in front of him, looking right at him, his head stopped turning and his hands came to a rest alongside his hips.

"What's happening to me? Why can't anyone hear me?"

"Nothing is happening to you," I said as gentle as I could manage. "And nothing will ever happen to you again. Welcome the nothingness. Limbo, purgatory, whatever word you prefer."

He grimaced. "What? What do you mean?"

I did not answer. He didn't really want me to answer, I knew, it was simply the shock. From afar he had seemed older, but it was now that I noticed he had only freshly crossed the border from boy to manhood. He shut his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. His chest began to shake and he fell on his knees. His loud cry of agony pierced through the air, the pain only I could hear, and was followed by silent sniffs and sobs.

When he stopped crying and rose up, he was still trembling. "I don't even know what happened. I was at a club, dancing with a blonde, and... and that's it. That's all I remember."

"I'm sorry this has happened to you, I really am." I placed a hand on his shoulder. The dead were the only ones I could touch. "What's your name?"

"Nathaniel. My friends call me Nate." A few fresh drops appeared in his dark eyes. "Called."

It wouldn't take long now for him to see his light, I knew, since he had now come to realize he was dead and I did not sense any bitterness. I met a lot of lost souls, every week a handful, yet I could not manage to become numb for them. With each soul, old or young, convict or innocent, I felt their pain as if it were my own.

"Who was your friend?" I asked. "Not many people in Chrim have friends outside of this town."

"His name's Frank. We went to college together."

"Van Velsen?"

"That's him. How do you know him?"

I tried to smile, but only managed to twitch the corners of my mouth. "That's my nephew."

"Really? Nicest guy I've ever met. This one time he..." Nate's voice trailed off. He gasped and stared with big eyes at something behind me.

"Run," I shouted, my voice sounded pleading and desperate. I grabbed his shoulders and shoved him forward. "Go. Or you'll be stuck here, like me."

When I walked through the closed gates of the Reverie, the bells struck eleven.

It had come to be a routine, every morning and every evening and every night before they went to sleep I would check on Frank and Farren and Wren. In-between, I tried to find evidence, though I had not come one step further into figuring it out.

When I arrived at their accommodations in the black wing, a note had been left on the door. It was addressed to Wren and read that the others had gone to watch the blood moon. Disappointed she wasn't there, I turned around to make my way to Frank and Farren. Immediately as I had turned around, I heard a loud bang and gurgling noises followed by a scream.

I walked through the door.

"Please," The woman said as she stumbled backwards. "I'm begging you, I'm a mother."

The man with a red shirt and long brown hair slowly paced forward. "And I'm hungry."

He lunged at her and grabbed her hair as she turned around and tried to crawl into Wren and Elora's bedroom. The woman fell on a bed with her legs kicking underneath him on the floor. I ran and punched him in the back with my fists, over and over, and my hands disappeared inside of him, again and again. I screamed along with her as two shiny fangs appeared from the corners of his mouth, and screamed harder when he buried his fangs in her neck. Streams of blood seeped out of her neck, painting the white sheets she was tightly grabbing deep red.

With my hands in my hair and tears falling over my cheeks, I dropped on my knees and stood by as the woman stopped screaming – and eventually struggling. The slurping noises made me nauseous, as did his wobbling head in her neck.

"Poppy?"
She looked from me to her own body, and back at me. My eyes dropped. "Eliza, I'm so sorry."

I felt her hand on my jaw as she gently turned my face to hers. "So am I." Eliza wrapped her arms around me and held me tightly. "Something is wrong with him, Poppy. I saw fire in his eyes."

I turned around to face the stranger. His eyes were closed and his head thrown back. He wiped off the seeping blood from the corners of his mouth. The vampire moved away from Eliza's body, and her corpse fell on the floor. He opened his eyes, and I saw it clearly, blazing orange and red flames swaying in his iris, with only his pupil left its original black.

"Demon," I said, nearly in a whisper. "He's under the influence of a demon."

"How is that possible?"

"I don't know."

The vampire rose up, and the door opened. A young man with shoulder length brown hair appeared, behind him I caught the glimpse of a head with auburn locks and another head with blue and black locks. Farren pushed Milos to the side and squirmed herself through the doorway, Torill followed her. Both of their faces stood horrified, their eyes wide open. Milos nodded to the vampire. The vampire's eyes closed and his body collapsed on the floor. Farren slowly moved towards Eliza's body, walking on the balls of her feet to avoid stepping into the pools of blood, and kneeled down by Eliza's face. She pulled the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and placed a fabric covered finger on Eliza's bloody neck.

"She's dead," Milos said with folded arms, still standing in the doorway.

"Obviously, Einstein." Farren rubbed her forehead and grunted. "What the fuck are we gonna do now, huh? Tell me that, Einstein."

Milos hunched over the vampire and grabbed him by his shoulders. "We have to take this lad out of here, or he'll definitely lead Krol back to us. And you girls have to work your magic and erase our traces, our energy is all over this place."

"What about the Watchers? Krol will throw them in jail," Torill said.

Milos swung the vampire over his shoulders as if he were a ragdoll. "Don't worry about the Watchers. Spyro, Elora and Niobe are watching the blood moon and Wren is on a date with Clyde. Trust me, Krol will know they couldn't have done it."

"But..." Farren's voice trailed off and a deep frown appeared. "Wait, what? Wren is on a date with Clyde fucking Thorpe? My cousin with a filthy demon?"

Milos threw a glance at the ceiling and sighed. "Your cousin is a filthy demon too, don't forget that. And, I think we have a bigger problem right now, Einstein."

"He's right," Torill said. "We have to get out of here before Krol checks the map."

Farren leaped over the pools of blood. Standing in the doorway, the girls raised their hands, and swirling blue lines appeared as they whispered a spell in the Old Language. They'd do the spell in every hall and room they would pass, I knew, to erase every single trace of their energy and scent. When I heard the door slamming shut, my body started to tremble.

"No," I said as I shook my head. "Tell me this isn't true." I turned to face Eliza and my voice sounded small. "Tell me my niece, the girl I have raised, is not working with a demon. Tell me it was not my niece who is the reason for your death."

Eliza briefly closed her eyes. "It's okay. I'm not angry with the girls. Obviously it was an accident. They did not expect this."

I continued shaking my head. "Tell me this isn't true."

Eliza's face blossomed and a wide grin appeared on her face as she gazed at something above and beyond me. With slow steps she moved towards it, but stopped and turned to me. "I expect you to join me soon, Poppy. You have to let go and move on." Then, with a final smile, Eliza turned around and faded away.

I felt numb. I was numb. My body trembled as I stared into nothing. An image of a laughing black haired toddler flashed by. Farren had been so innocent, so beautiful, and so clever. At age three, she could count to five-hundred-and-sixty and say the alphabet and write her own name, along with mine and Frank's. At age four, she learned how to ride a bike without side-wheels and did not fall once. At age seven, however, her little lies began. And today, at age twenty, she was an executioner who worked together with demons. Tears burned my eyes and I lowered my head. Where did I go wrong? I had tried so hard to raise them to be good and respectful and caring. I was a child myself, but I did everything I could, I gave them all my time and love. It hadn't been enough, I knew. If it had, Farren would never have turned out this way.

When I heard another slamming door, my body was still trembling. As I listened to the silence, I quickly realized it was neither Farren nor Krol who had arrived, since they would make far more noise. When the door opened, my biggest fear was confirmed.

Wren stepped in and closed her eyes as she deeply sniffed in the cold air, and a brief smile flashed across her face. Her eyes had not yet caught the bloodshed, instead she quickly moved to the window and looked above, as if she were searching something in the sky.

"Run." I ran towards her and screamed in her ear. "Honey, please, run."

A shudder went through her body as I brushed against her. Her eyes widened and she froze.

When she turned around and finally saw her blood covered sheets, she froze again. I could not even hear her breath as she stared at the body with a horrified look on her face.

"Wren..." I moved in front of her. "I'm begging you, run."

With trembling lips, she slowly sauntered towards her bed. When she saw the body, she pushed her hands against her mouth and a heartbreaking cry broke the silence. She fell on her knees and placed her ear on Eliza's chest, then began to massage her heart as she whimpered and said some words I was too horrified to catch.

"Wren, please, she's dead." I tried to pull her by her arm. "Run, please..."