By Ryan Rahman

There is an entity known as The Tormentor.

On the island empire of Maruta, no one knows what it is, nor whence it came. Some Marutans whisper it is punishment delivered from the stars. Others remain quiet. The empire is proud. Too proud to call for aid, so it suffers in silence year after year. Every summer, at the turning of the season, The Tormentor rises from the long slumber.

And it does not rest until the last day of summer has passed.

But I know a truth the rest of Maruta does not.

Five summers ago—my dear friend—a philosopher whose name the empire chooses not to remember, fell ill the same day summer arrived. I tended to him in that dark, airless room where his papers and books formed towers around the bed. He spoke little. When he did, it was about the book he had yet to finish.

A myth, he said, about a monster that could change form.

A warning against the hubris of empires that forget even with all their might, they are mortal.

He believed the story would teach humility, serving as a cautionary tale. He lamented being unable to see it to its completion. I told him he had written and taught enough, that he should rest. And that he should be proud, for he lived a full life.

Before he could answer, the fever took him.

The Marutan Empire burned his writings that same week. They claimed his works were too dangerous and too critical of the empire. I managed to save the myth from the fire, hiding it beneath my cloak. I told myself it was only to keep his memory.

I must confess: I was surprised no one questioned my wearing a cloak in the summertime.

The first summer after his death, it appeared as a great storm. Endless clouds blackened the skies over Maruta. The rain fell day after day. Lightning lashed the island, flagellating cities and villages alike. Rivers swelled. Lakes overflowed. Tides rose higher. Floods consumed all they touched. The seawalls gave way, and waves swept entire coastal towns into the sea. On the final day of summer, the rain stopped and The Tormentor withdrew.

Driftwood and the unburied dead floated in the streets.

I remembered his myth then, and reopened it. In his writings, he indicated the first shape of the monster would be born of air and sea, serving as a warning of what was yet to come.

I was loath to read the rest, fearing what would follow.

The second summer, it emerged as a behemoth of the deep. Endless tentacles thrashed the ocean. It attacked the harbors, destroying boats and buildings alike. The Marutan navy was dispatched. They were forced to retreat by midsummer after suffering heavy losses. What remained of the fleet was broken and bloodied, never to return to sea. On the final day of summer, the beast slowly slipped beneath the depths.

Yet its presence lingered throughout, just as dreadful and heavy as the storm before it.

“…its second form shall strike the ports and cripple the navy, thus cutting the empire off even further. Now, it shall truly be isolated…”

It happened as he had written it.

Even now, the coasts still lie in ruin.

The third summer, it returned as a colossal dragon, whose breath burned the inner empire. Entire provinces were set ablaze. Entire towns were reduced to ashes. And Maruta knew, or thought it knew—this was no series of misfortunes, nor a string of calamities. This was the same sinister hunger taking on a new guise, reappearing with the birth of summer. The Marutan Empire turned to sacrifice, condemning prisoners and criminals to its flames.

On the final day of summer, the fires continued to rage long after it flew away.

“…its third form will focus on the inner workings of the empire. The ports and navy are still likely in ruins; damage to the interior would be catastrophic. But in the third summer, fire shall devour…”

The dragon burned my own home down. I regret not reading this sooner.

The fourth summer, it arrived as a towering knight in blackened armor. Wielding an equally blackened longsword, it took on its smallest form yet. But it was the most dreadful of them all. Its presence cut more sharply than ever. Wherever it roamed, madness spread; the people wailed and shrieked, fleeing in horror. It slaughtered soldiers and citizens alike. As with the navy, the army was forced to retreat. On the final day of summer, The Tormentor departed the imperial core, walking into darkness.

Its sword was still drenched and dripping with the blood of countless Marutans.

“…in the fourth summer, a figure of shadow and despair shall walk the streets of the empire, killing all in its way, driving the citizens to madness, reminding them of their complacency, hubris, decadence…”

I read until my hands shook.

Each ruin already existed in the myth, written before they happened.

Four forms.

Four summers.

Each summer I swore I would not look again, and each summer I failed.

Why did I not read everything at once when I had the chance?

I no longer sleep with ease. My nights are restless. Sometimes I dream of him.

And I wonder how he would have chosen to finish his myth.

Is he meant to finish it in death?

Or am I meant to finish it for him in waking life?

If I burn it, perhaps the story will finally die and these summers of torment will cease. If I tell the empire about it, the situation will no longer be in my hands. And I can only imagine what they would do to me if they found out I held onto his writing.

Torture?

Imprisonment?

Death?

If I finish the myth, perhaps I can give the empire (and myself) closure. Each night, I lay the unfinished manuscript on my table and stare at the emptiness of the pages, the void where closure and resolution should be.

In the meantime, Maruta will rebuild as it awaits its return.

Some Marutans call for the empire to continue fighting. Others cry for renewed appeasements. And others simply weep in isolation over the death and destruction it leaves in its wake.

But everyone within the empire knows: The Tormentor will come forth without fail.

And the Marutan Empire will endure. Never to seek help from the outside. Too ashamed in its secrecy. Too alone in its grief.

If only they knew.

He wrote little of a fifth form except for some notes, but I can already feel it in the air. It stifles and strangles. All heat, no wind. It is quiet throughout the empire. The birds, the people, even the water. All remains still. Not knowing what lies ahead makes it worse.

“…in the fifth summer, the question remains: is this the final one? Does the empire finally fall? I wonder if The Tormentor shall endure. I do not know yet…”

Perhaps that is its fifth form: something without any form at all.

The pages await me.

I have neither burned the myth nor finished it yet, for I am rigid with inaction.

Summer is quickly approaching.

And I still do not know what to do.

By Jennifer Oliver

There’s a vampire in the attic.

Kelly tries to focus on her Geography essay “Early Warning Systems for Landslides,” but the vampire scrapes its gnarled, hooked nails at the attic trapdoor just outside her room. The low murmur of the TV drifts up from downstairs; that’s mum and dad settled in for the night. One day, Kelly won’t have to worry about homework and, like them, can spend her evenings watching TV. She prays it’s in a house without a vampire.

She rubs at her neck, irritating the sore spot just below her collar. She keeps it hidden whenever she’s around other people, but now she pops open her top three buttons and lets the two small reddened wounds breathe.

Scratch. Scrape.

When her phone screen lights up, Kelly turns it over and shoves it to the edge of her desk, but it’s not far enough away, so she throws it onto her bed. This essay isn’t going to write itself and it’s due in two days, and the title is looking lonely there at the top on its own. She’s painfully aware her grades are dropping—she can see it every time Mum and Dad look at her, their mouths pinched and eyes searching her face for reasons. They don’t say much, though. Perhaps they don’t know what to say, or they’re afraid to ask. She’s pretty sure they wouldn’t believe her if she told them about the vampire.

Scratch. Scratch. Scrape.

The trapdoor hinges whine.

From her bed, her phone buzzes once, twice, three times.

“Not again,” she whispers, to the vampire, to her phone, to everything.

She chews at the rough skin inside her cheek; that’s getting sore, too. But something about the sting helps her keep her mind on her screen, even as her bedroom door cracks open. Prickles crawl up her back and she hunches her shoulders. Just ignore it. Ignore it—it might go away.

It’s never gone away before, so why would it suddenly get struck by a conscience now?

The vampire is just a tall, skinny dark shape as it slips into Kelly’s room. It wears musty-smelling black robes that undulate around it, more like smoke than cloth. Beneath the old musty smell is the sickly-sweet stench of rot.

“Did you miss me?” it hisses between pallid lips. A skeletal hand reaches towards her as it drifts across the carpet, silent as a ghost.

“Not really,” Kelly manages. It’s hard to talk to the vampire; she always gets tongue tied, and as much as she wants to scream at it to leave her alone, she knows she can’t stop it. Her stomach feels heavy and sharp, like it’s full of briars. “I have to study.”

“Studying is for losers,” the vampire says. A bony finger tip, cold and lifeless, strokes her cheek. The nail catches on her skin, irritating her spots. “Studying won’t help you.”

Buzz, buzz. Someone’s lighting up her phone but it’s all the way on the bed and Kelly can’t move.

“I am hungry.” The vampire pushes hair away from Kelly’s neck with its dead grey fingers. “So hungry…”

The laptop has been idle for so long that the screen sleeps itself, bathing them both in darkness. “Please, no,” Kelly whispers.

But the vampire isn’t listening. The vampire doesn’t care what she wants. It leans in with sour breath, and a cold wet tongue moistens the flesh still red and weeping from the last time. Its feeds are never quick, like it relishes her anxiety and the knowledge that she is powerless. It seems to get more sustenance from that knowledge than from her blood.

#

“Kelly? Kelly Morton? Kelly Morton?”

Snickers drift around the lab. Kelly jolts upright, knocks her pencil case, scattering biros—all with chewed tops—across her desk. “Yeah?” More giggles rise up around her. The three girls two tables over stare at her with smirks on their faces. One of them, Miranda, turns to the others and mouthes ‘Oh my god,’ and they giggle. Kelly remembers when they were her friends.

“Sorry,” Kelly says and glances up at Mrs Laine.

“Am I boring you?” Mrs Laine asks.

Face hot, Kelly says, “No. Sorry.” She doesn’t need to see everyone staring at her to know everyone is staring at her.

“If you’re done napping, tell me, what type of bond involves the sharing of electron pairs between different atoms?”

Kelly licks her lips and tries to pull the answer to mind, but it comes up blank. She should know this. She did know this, but the memory is gone. The whisper of ice cold fingers touch the back of her neck under her ponytail, seeking out the soft fleshy area beneath her hairline. Putrid breath wafts over her shoulder and she swallows hard, her stomach churning. “I don’t know,” she eventually says, wishing Mrs Laine would leave her alone and move on to someone else. It’s not the first time she’s drifted off in class, but it’s the first time a teacher has noticed.

“I’m not surprised,” Mrs Laine says. “You’re sleeping through my class. How do you expect to pass the year if you’re never conscious for my lessons?”

I can’t focus because of the vampire. It keeps me awake all night and I don’t know what to do about it. But Kelly can’t say it, especially not in front of the entire class.

At the end of the lesson Mrs Laine tells Kelly to hang back because she wants a word. Kelly saw this coming. Falling asleep at school isn’t great, but add to that her poor grades and it was only a matter of time.

When the last student leaves, Mrs Laine says, “Is everything OK at home?” It’s blunt, but Kelly knows that Mrs Laine’s default setting is blunt. Still, it rattles her.

“Yeah. Of course. Everything’s fine.”

“Then why are you so tired, Kelly?”

Well she can’t tell the teacher the truth. That would only make the vampire angry and then who knew what it would do to her. Maybe kill her. Kelly lifts one shoulder, then drops it.

“I’m afraid if you won’t talk to me, I’m going to have to refer you to the school counsellor. We have protocols.”

“But I said I’m fine,” Kelly repeats, and swallows the lump in her throat that makes her lie taste thick and sour.

“I don’t think anyone believes that, given your recent behaviour,” Mrs Laine says, tapping away on her keyboard, her glasses holding on for dear life at the very tip of her nose. She strikes the ENTER key. “There. I’ve emailed Ms Jackson. They’ll be in touch with an appointment.”

The only good thing about being called up to speak to Mrs Laine after science: everyone else has already gone to their next lessons, so Kelly doesn’t have to see anyone as she scuffs her way through the halls.

#

“Is there anything bothering you at the moment? Anything you want to talk about? It doesn’t matter how small or insignificant you think it might be.”

Kelly rubs at her collar through her shirt, hoping she doesn’t disturb the puncture wounds and make them weep. They’re so itchy during the day, always there reminding her of her unwanted nightly visitor. She wouldn’t call the vampire insignificant, but she also doesn’t know how to even begin to explain it. Would the counsellor believe her? It was a vampire’s word against hers, after all, and from its smell the thing was ancient and probably had more tricks up its sleeve than she knew.

Ms Jackson is young for a teacher—well, counsellor—only just out of university. But she has this… warm familiarity about her, almost like the vibe you’d get from a family member, if one of your family members actually had the guts to ask you if you were OK.

“I’m here for you. Nothing you say goes any further in this room, unless it’s a genuine danger to your health or your life.” Ms Jackson’s tone and soft smile undoes something deep in Kelly’s gut. The briars begin to unfold, releasing her innards. She releases a shaky breath and her vision blurs. “Oh, no, it’s all right. Here—have a tissue.”

Kelly scrubs at her eyes, stupid wet things that they are. She accepts the tissue Ms Jackson hands her.

“I just—” Kelly begins. “I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

“You can use a metaphor if it helps, or you can just come right out with whatever it is,” Ms Jackson suggests, putting down the tissue box on the table beside her. “This is a safe place, Kelly.”

Kelly sniffs. “All right.” But it’s hard to speak. “So there’s this girl and a—a vampire. She used to be friends with the vampire, until something happened at school and now all of a sudden it hates her, and it’s always at home waiting for her. She can’t avoid it and the girl gets tired. That’s kind of why she falls asleep sometimes.”

“I’ve heard stakes are good for that type of thing.” Mrs Jackson says with the flicker of a grin.

Kelly laughs despite herself, a wet sound but it’s like a big gust of pressure releases from her. She’s basically just told someone about her vampire problem. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“It’s not crazy at all. We process things in our own ways. Look, there are a few things I would suggest for this girl,” Ms Jackson says, and opens a drawer to riffle through a stack of papers. “First, she can tell an adult, someone in a position of authority. Her parents, perhaps? Or the headmistress—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“OK. Then what about these websites.” Ms Jackson selects a flyer from the drawer and hands it to Kelly. “There are websites especially for young people where you can chat to somebody completely unrelated to the situation, someone you don’t know. Sometimes talking to a stranger who’s compassionate can help you figure out what to do.” She paused and thought for a moment. “I’m guessing the vampire knows how to use a mobile phone?”

“Yeah,” Kelly says.

Ms Jackson nods as if she was just making sure she has it correct in her head.

“Then you should definitely give that pamphlet a read. I’d still go for the stake through the heart method though. Get it out of your home and give yourself a breather. It’ll allow you to think about your next steps.”

Kelly stuffs the pamphlet into her schoolbag. “Thanks.” She doesn’t know how talking to somebody she doesn’t know will help, but she likes the idea of ridding her house of the vampire for now at least. How many more sleepless nights can she handle before her parents are called into school for a chat? Deep within her bag, her phone buzzes.

“Any time. Remember, it’s your home and you don’t have to give it access into your safe space. You can un-invite it. There are ways.” She glances briefly at Kelly’s bag as it vibrates again.

When their session is over, Kelly grabs her bag and heads out, ideas swirling in her mind. Her phone continues to buzz, but she ignores it on her way home.

She just might have a plan.

#

Ms Jackson might have been kidding about the stake, but if Kelly can kill the vampire and remove it from the house, even if it’s hard and dangerous, it’s worth a try. Adapting to life without the vampire in the attic will be challenging, but it has to be better than how things are right now, and honestly, what has she got left to lose?

Kelly pops into the garden shed when she gets home and finds an old pair of garden sheers, the wooden handles already splintered, tucked beneath a workbench. She pushes it against the bench, leans her entire weight against it, and snaps one of the handles off before hiding it in her bag.

That night, the vampire creeps into Kelly’s room, its smoky black form casting long, looming shadows against the walls.

Kelly lies in bed, one arm under the covers, hand wrapped tightly around the wooden handle, her phone in her other hand and her social media pulled up on the screen. The glow from her phone screen casts an eerie blue light in a bubble around her head.

“I am hungry. I heard you fell asleep in school,” the vampire whispers in a rough voice. “Why are you so lame?” It’s beside her bed now, towering over her, its matted hair falling around a face so torn and decrepit strips of flesh have started to fall away in ribbons. “Literally, what’s the point of you?”

Kelly is used to this, and used to not replying. It wouldn’t do any good.

“I shall be sure to drink plenty of your blood tonight.”

“Whatever,” Kelly says, clutching the stake as hard as she can.

As it leans in, putrid breath gushing over her face, she whips her duvet back and strikes. The vampire’s huge dark eyes grow wider, until they look like they might swallow its face.

“No,” it hisses. “No, you can’t shut me out.”

“Yes I can.” Kelly draws the stake back, then stabs it again, deep in its chest this time, ramming it as far as it’ll go. Brittle bones snap with a pop and ribs sink inward like paper pulp.

“No!”

“Go away,” Kelly says. “Just go the hell away. You’re not welcome here.”

The vampire turns a deathly pale grey, turning to dust in front of her eyes. It sinks to the floor in a puddle of black goo and shadow.

Kelly flops back against her pillow and lifts her phone, the screen now dark, turned off. It does not light up again that night.

#

In the morning Kelly digs in her schoolbag and finds the flyer Ms Jackson gave her. It’s Saturday and she has the entire day to herself. Today, she’s leaving her phone off, her laptop at home, and heads to the library in town where she can use the computers without worrying about anyone being able to see that she’s online.

Before she heads out, she pops her head around her parents’ bedroom door to check if they’re awake yet.

The room is dim, the curtains drawn, just a slant of morning light cutting across the floor. At first, everything looks normal—her mother curled under the duvet, her father sprawled onto his side. Then she sees it.

A figure looms over the bed, over him.

Not her vampire. This one is taller, thinner, its arms hanging too long at its sides, like it was strung together wrong. Its lips—plump and red, blood-bright—pull back into a knowing smile.

Kelly’s stomach lurches, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

The vampire leans down, right against her father’s ear.

Buzz. Buzz.

Kelly jumps. But the sound isn’t coming from her pocket. It’s coming from the bedside table, where her father’s phone is lit up, vibrating against the wood.

A message. Then another.

The vampire shifts, watching the screen. It doesn’t even look at Kelly. Just stretches its bony fingers and strokes her father’s thinning hair.

Kelly is frozen, every part of her screaming to do something—to yell, to lunge, to stop it—but she doesn’t. She can’t.

Because she recognises the way he flinched in his sleep. The way his fingers clenched in the sheets.

She’s seen it before. In the mirror.

The vampire doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge her. It doesn’t have to.

Kelly stares at the glow of the phone screen, the soft buzz buzz, the way her father shifts but doesn’t wake.

Her throat tightens.

She thought she’d killed it. She thought it was gone.

She should have known better.

It was never just hers.

Never just one.