Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 9

I walk to the truck and climb in the passenger side, my energy spent.

"What was that about?" Dana says, starting the truck.

I don't answer, just stare out the side window into the never-ending darkness that is my life. Always hiding. Always running. Always lying.

"You seem all out of whack today and you don't look so good either. I thought you were the Terminator. Never tires, never eats, strong as a man. I've got to say, Anne, you're not living up to your reputation. You okay?"

I shake my head, not knowing what to say. Tears are threatening. I'm so hungry I could cry. This is how an addict feels, damaged and desperate, unable to extinguish the insatiable craving raging inside, burning away dignity and sense of self. My poor brother. Is this how he felt?

This is why I will never drink directly from a human without killing them. To feed upon a human and let them live is to inject them with a thirst that can never be quenched. It will turn them into a degenerate manifestation of their former selves. A wretched, quivering shadow. This is why Branwell fought his addictions for years before finally succumbing. Now I know he was fed on, played with, savored, before he was ultimately taken by a soul thief.

I will not do this to another living being. But, oh I am sorely tempted to erase this need and restore my self-control.

I look over at Dana. Even through her uniform, her breasts swell, soft and ample. She is a picture of healthy fertility. How would she recover if I drank from her? I could knock her out so fast she wouldn't know what happened. Sedate her with an amnesiac from the med box and drink. When she awoke, I could say she had fallen asleep.

Shame washes over me. How low I have fallen! I am not this girl. I am gentle and good. Humane. No one has more reverence for the sanctity of life. I am dying for it.

If I don't feed again tonight, tomorrow I will have to call in sick and hunt. Search through this smoky wilderness for life. Can I even do it? Have I let my strength fade so far that I can no longer chase down a deer? Can I drain a life, even an animal's, in order to live? Will God forsake me longer if I do? Is this all a great test?

If Thou should bring me back to life, more humbled I should be;

More wise—more strengthened for the strife—More apt to lean on thee.

My own words haunt me, reminding me how I fail my vow. I'm weaker and more ignorant than ever.

Dana drives back to the station and goes inside, falls into bed, hoping we're done for the night. Sunrise is hours away, and I sit in the truck, staring blankly into nothingness. I consider pulling out my sketchpad and drawing, but all I see are varying shades of black and grey. How I miss the rosy pink and sunlit gold and glowing orange of dawn. Green grass and blue skies. The neon yellow of a butterfly. My world now is a thousand shades of shadow. For hours I sit in cold solitude, succumbing to weakness while sunrise crawls closer with a pull as sure as gravity.

Are these the symptoms of a heart, of heavenly grace bereft—

For ever banished from its God, to Satan's fury left?

Everyone I have ever loved is dead and I will never love again. This isn't despair; it is fact.

I've heard modern souls astonishingly suggest that those who lived long ago, encircled by death as we were, grew numb to it, that perhaps we suffered our losses less. This is not true. Our attachments were stronger, deeper, and more enduring. We knew from hard experience that no one can be replaced.

After Mama died, Papa never loved another woman again. That must have been hard for a man in his prime. Branwell had one engulfing love, whom he claimed to die for: the married Mrs. Robinson. Charlotte had her professor. Emily, her dead poet. And for me, there was the heartbreaking rogue, Reverend William Weightman. I can't help smiling at the vibrant memory of him. His passion for Greek and Latin. His youthful enthusiasm for life. Every time he entered the Parsonage, it was like clouds dispersed and the sun burst forth. His light drew even Emily from her self-constructed cage—some feat!

Charlotte warned me his charm shone for many girls, not only me. Always the protectress, she was. How was I to know he wrote sweet letters to other more beautiful, worthy subjects? And so I waited at Thorpe Green, feverishly hoping and praying for his promised visit, that he was traveling near my place of employment and would stop in. So long had I been removed from family and friends, so starved for a single ray of warmth, the thought of his presence was like oxygen to a drowning sailor. I prayed so relentlessly for him to come, my knees grew bruised and black and bled.

He never came. Apparently, I didn't fit into his social schedule.

Two years later, cholera took him at 28, transmuting my anger into forgiveness and purifying the memory of him.

Yes, thou art gone! And never more, Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;

But I may pass the old church door, and pace the floor that covers thee

May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below

The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know.

All our loves were unrequited but they endured. Death did not break them. Time did not sunder them. It's modern love that is shallower than a grave.

The curse of being a Night Walker is not living forever—it is living forever in perpetual darkness. Alone. If I could sense divine love, I would bear this purgatory with grace, for I once was a holy girl and though God has exiled me, I've not lost hope one day He'll gather me back again. I want restoration of my soul. I've patiently endured my penance and I won't stop striving for salvation, even though it is killing me.

Only one thing is certain. I have accumulated too many attachments. I must sell my house and possessions. Tomorrow I will call the Realtor and list the house as is, with my library, antiques, and art. Such foolish extravagances! I have currency stashed in strategically placed safety deposit boxes throughout the country. It will hold me until I acquire new I.D. and find another job.

I will revert back to the life of a nomad as I once lived, with few possessions and no indulgences. With a trembling heart, I know my time here is over. Too many eyes watching: Santos, Dr. Webb, Professor Hardcastle.

I think of William Hardcastle looking at me as if he has known me all his life. And, I remember William Weightman, sitting across from me at church, catching my eye and sighing in transient longing. He is gone, but the professor is here.

He has read my words.

He thinks I'm the strong one.