Secrets Better Left Hidden

There once was a man named Abidjalaf who was a vampire-hunter; he hunted supernatural creatures like werewolves and ghosts. So Abidjalaf was unpleasantly surprised when his friend told him he was a werewolf one morning. Abidjalaf said, “We’ve known each other for all these years, Binjolum. And you tell me now?” Binjolum rapidly nodded his head over and over again. His arms shook and his hands crawled up and down his sides. His eyes darted between Abidjalaf and the silver-tipped wood-cutter axe leaning against a wooden log on the cold hearth.

Abidjalaf scratched his black, bushy beard as he considered the implications of his friend’s secret. His friend wasn’t human. But then again, neither was he. Is it possible that Binjolum knew this? Abidjalaf frowned deeply and stood up from his seat. He paced lethargically round the log cabin, wooden boards creaking with every other step. He stopped at the one window that lit the house: It was honeycomb instead of glass. It didn’t really provide him with much light, but he didn’t need much light. His eyes were far sharper than that of any human. He now knew that his friend could get around in the dark just as well. He should have known. Oh, he’d been such a fool. His friend never complained about the near absolute darkness that he kept his house in. And his friend never seemed to have problems traveling on their nightly excursions.

“Abidjalaf, are you okay?” his friend called from the table a few feet away. Abidjalaf would have liked a little bit more privacy to be alone with his thoughts, but the cabin contained only one room. And he didn’t want to send his friend outside in the cold morning rain. He turned to face Binjolum. “I have something to confess, too,” he started, “I’m a—” Binjolum interrupted him, “A werewolf. I know.” Abidjalaf groaned. This is why Binjollum had been willing to confess his secret. If only he hadn’t made such assumptions. “Actually,” Abidjalaf said, “I wasn’t going to say werewolf. I’m a vampire.” Abidjalaf didn’t really expect much of a reaction. Binjolum had already guessed that he was a werewolf, an inhuman monster. He was just a different kind of monster. So it came to his surprise when Binjolum went pale and shook viciously.

Binjolum tried to stand up, but his feet gave out and he found himself trembling on the floor, cowering behind his chair. His best friend was a vampire: a lord of darkness, a scourge of the night, a fang-toothed beast, an abomination of man’s most corrupt desires. Binjolum squirmed on the ground, as if he had a seizure. He bumped into a stack of logs, and was rewarded with a few logs falling on his chest. He saw the silver-tipped axe to his left. Maybe he could save himself: wound the beast and flee before it recovers.

Abidjalaf was not pleased with his friend’s reaction. He thought he would have been a bit more understanding. They had both shared secrets. This should have been a moment of bonding. Instead, his friend, Binjolum, laid on the ground and shook as if stricken with palsy. He heard a clap of thunder, so close that it shook the ground. A few more logs fell upon Binjolum’s face from the tremors. Perhaps he just needed some time to process this sudden revelation. Abidjalaf was old and experienced. He knew how to take such surprises in stride, but his dear friend Binjolum didn’t have such experience. After all, Binjolum couldn’t be more than half century old. He was practically a newborn.

No, an axe wouldn’t work. Binjolum needed something deadly. Fire. He’d never seen the fireplace in use before, but these piles of wood would burn just fine. Vampires were weak to fire, right? This should at least buy him enough time to escape. Vampires were too fast for him to hit with an axe, but not even a vampire could dodge a burning building. Binjolum continued to thrash about as he planned his escape. He didn’t have much control over his body. He was too consumed with fear. But whether by accident or a conscious effort on his part, he got a hold of the silver-tipped axe. Abidjalaf didn’t notice. He wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t like seeing his friend like this.

Binjolum screamed, but his cries turned into growls. His nails became sharp and his body became grew long black hair on all parts of his body. Black blankets of hair rose from his skin. He’d never experienced a panic-driven transformation before, but he had heard about them. Most werewolves never experienced enough terror to induce such a transformation. This racket, Abidjalaf could not ignore. He turned to see what was happening. “No!” he shouted. But it was too late. Binjolum scratched and scraped at the blade of the axe, producing sparks. Not much happened at first. A few sparks may be enough to alight kindling, but not logs. But the ferocious frenzy of the werewolf with a single minded desire driving his ill-planned actions in this form of primal instinct did more than make a few sparks. The shower of sparks—like an arc welding strike—covered the the house in tiny, candle-light flames. Most flames dwindled to smoke within moments. But a few flames grew to fires, which began to consume the logs, the furniture, and Binjolum’s fur.

Now, Abidjalaf knew that it was rude to throw out your honored guests, but now was not a time for propriety. He threw Binjolum out of the house. He grimaced as he heard a crack from what he hoped was not his friend’s bones. Now to deal with the fire. Oh, that's a lot of fire. Perhaps he shouldn't have made his house out of wood. It was raining, but he didn’t think that would do too much for him.  Abidjalaf gave his house one more glance before leaping out the front door. He hit an invisible wall. He sat there, stunned for a few seconds. He was in the open doorway to the outside. He felt the wall. It was like air pushing him back. It had no substance, but when he tried to push through, he felt as if something fluid, like wind or water, forced him back. It was like ramming into a semi-solid, semi-fluid object, like some gelatinous jello. Abidjalaf couldn’t determine the root of the problem, nor did he have the time to do so. The flames were crawling towards the doorway.

Binjolum knew that he was lucky. His gambit paid off for reasons he could not have predicted. The vampire was stuck in his house. The fires were consuming him. Binjolum would not only escape, but he wouldn’t have a vampire chasing after him either. Now that he would not be in any immediate danger, he examined the situation. It was raining hard. The cabin must have been on a slight slope because the rainwater was running down past the door.  A tiny stream of water—no more than a few inches thick—ran into the slight step of the doorway and ran along it. The effect was a line of running water outlining the bottom of the door way. Binjolum really was lucky. Vampires can’t cross running water. And had the vampire decided to attack him while he was still in the house instead of throwing him out, he would have died before the flames touched his skin.

Abidjalaf knew he was done for. He had made a mistake in revealing his secret, and now he was paying the price. He remembered when he first met Binjolum. He told his new friend that he was a vampire-hunter. He left the statement ambiguous, not clarifying that he was a vampire who was a hunter instead of a person who hunted vampires. He stared at Binjolum. How could he betray him like that? Binjolum was supposed to be his friend. Binjolum had been with him for so many years. Binjolum was, himself, a werewolf. Why would he fear another monster? Binjolum was on fire. Binjolum was just laying there. Was Binjolum okay?

“Binjolum!” the vampire yelled—even as its skin cracked, dry and withered. The creature spoke again, “Binjolum! Get up. You’re burning. You’re on fire. Drop and roll.” Binjolum didn’t want to move. His head was pounding. He was pretty sure he had broken some bones. He was calm. He wasn’t in danger anymore. The vampire was trapped by the water. And it was yelling at him. The flames were starting to spread to the outside of the cabin. The honeycomb window was melting. It was a big window, but the honeycomb usually prevented much light from getting in. The window and the outline of the door were usually the only sources of the light in the cabin, but now it was ablaze with the consuming light of an inferno.

“Binjolum!” the vampire cried.” What does that vampire want? Does it think Binjolum will help him? Fool. Binjolum knows its secrets, and he will not be deceived. The vampire repeated, “Binjolum, you’re burning. You’re on fire.” What could it mean? Had the vampire lost its mind: so consumed by fire that all the world seemed aflame? Binjolum decided to ignore mad ravings of the fiend. He decided it was time to leave. He couldn’t stand. He tried to move, but it was very difficult. He was still in lupine form, he should have greater strength. Why was he having so much trouble moving? He managed to get up on his knees, but then he fell upon his face. There, in the soil, he could see the problem—blood. But this blood was too thick to be his. It couldn’t belong to the vampire; the beast was too far away. He sniffed at the blood. His enhanced senses detected that this blood wasn’t as much blood as it was something else—flesh. It was melted flesh. He was burning. He had been burning since he started the fire. His fur was mostly gone, a black melting layer took its place. His skin was burning too; it was beginning to melt. Some of it had already dropped to the ground as he had seen. He was dying. He was paralyzed. He was helpless.

Abidjalaf watched as his friend started to transform. It wasn’t his lupine transformation or his human transformation, but it was a transformation from solid wolf fur and flesh into a gelatinous corpse. Abidjalaf, himself, was becoming a corpse. But his transformation was from his hairy and rough skin to cracked and wrinkled skin, as the moisture was taken from his body. He was but a wrinkled husk, wasting away in the fire. But he wasn’t dead. His final transformation and destiny had yet to befall. He would become dust. Nothing but a fine powder would remain as evidence of his existence. His poor friend. If only there was something he could do. Abidjalaf turned to face the flames. He was going to die, but he was going to die trying to save his friend.

Binjolum opened his eyes again. He could barely see. But even so, he noticed that the vampire was missing from his place in the doorway. Had the flames finally overcome him? Doesn’t it usually take longer for them to be reduced to dust? Binjolum couldn’t tell. He knew how long it would take to kill a vampire with fire. But Binjolum couldn’t tell how much time had passed. He was beginning to regret his decisions. Maybe he could have negotiated with the beast. He had once thought that thing to be his friend. Even if it was all a charade, maybe he could have convinced it to let him go. Maybe the vampire wouldn’t kill him immediately. Maybe the vampire would have waited. He could crept out when the vampire didn’t expect it. It was too late now. There was nothing he could… there was a series of cracking sounds coming from the cabin. Binjolum couldn’t turn to look, but he moved his eyes and was able to see the building start to collapse. The doorway fell in on itself. He saw an explosion of dust and debris come from a few feet next to the doorway. A cloud of dust blocked his view. He smelled honey. Something wet grabbed him and rolled him along the ground. Some of his flesh clung to the grass and ground, ripping off of him as he rolled. He coughed as dust entered his lungs. Something had him. He was going to be eaten by some wild animal. He didn’t know if that was preferable to burning to death.

Binjlum stopped rolling. His blurry vision took a second to re-focus. He was facing the cabin. It wasn’t very far away. Wait, when did that hole get there? The window was gone. Instead, the wall had collapsed partially, covering the opening. But the honey comb was strewn about outside of the cabin. Maybe it got pushed out by the explosion? Binjolum heard a voice—a rasp whisper. A croak and a cough. It took some time to decipher its words. “Binjo… cough. You’re my best friend.” Who could that be? Binjolum didn’t have many friends, and none of them would be out here in the middle of the woods. Then he saw it—a dry husk coated with honey. It was the vampire. It wasn’t burning. But it also wasn’t going to last much longer. The rain had dropped to a drizzle, and it was morning. Early morning, but still morning. Soon, the Sun would come out and return this dessicated corpse to the dust. Why did he feel so bad about that? Why did he feel a desire to prevent its death?

Binjolum was covered in honey, as well. His flames were gone. The vampire that be used to call a friend was dying, and Binjolum wasn’t doing too great himself. He could survive these wounds if given proper treatment, but none such medicine would be found in the woods. The vampire—little more than a skeleton at this point—stirred. It wasn’t going to make it through the morning, but that didn’t mean Binjolum had to die. With a great deal of effort, the living corpse rolled to the burning rubble that used to be the cabin. It grabbed one of the burning logs and rolled towards a bush. Its skin peeled off as it held the burning log. The log fell onto its chest. It hadn’t dropped the log on purpose; it’s hands had been burned to dust. It continued rolling towards the bush with a flaming log held close to his chest. The vampire was fading to dust as it rolled. Before it could reach the bush, the vampire vanished. It left nothing but dust in its wake. The little momentum the vampire had carried, however, continued to roll the burning log to the bush. The bush caught fire. Smoke filled the air. Binjolum had started to think that the vampire was helping him. That it wanted to save him. But it was starting a forest fire. He couldn’t think about what the vampire had done. Binjolum, no longer burning, saw nothing but darkness.

Grestin didn’t know anybody lived in these woods, but apparently one did. He was on his normal everyday forest ranger business when he saw a bunch of smoke in the forest. There was a wildfire. He called in back-up to help him secure the area. Wild fires were natural. His job wasn’t to extinguish them. The forest would actually die without wildfires. However, the forest’s safety was secondary to the safety of the people. His men would surround the fire to make sure it doesn’t come too close to the town. Grestin and a few other scouts, each with in groups of three, would check the wood for hikers, campers, and anyone else who might be in the forest at this time. He needed to escort them out of the forest and away from the fire.

So when he found the smoldering remains of what might have been a house, he was more than a little surprised. Further investigation suggested that the wildfire started from the house or at least near it. The poor chap living here was probably just making a fire to cook himself some breakfast. Luckily, that same poor chap had Grestin to rescue him. He might never walk again, or move again, or breathe again, or wake again. He was in a coma. He was not brain dead, but he was on life support. A few more minutes in the woods and the defibrillator might not have worked. This poor chap was so burnt that nobody could identify him, or her, or it. It might not even be human. Investigations showed what looked like burnt fur coating the poor chap. But the poor chap might have just been wearing a fur jacket.

Grestin sat on the foot of the bed where the poor chap was sleeping. Grestin prefered to believe that the poor chap was sleeping. But deep down, Grestin knew that the poor chap was dead. Sure, the poor chap was technically alive via life support. And there were signs of brain activity. But this coma had lasted three months already. Certainly, if the poor chap was going to wake, it would have done so already. “Sorry, poor chap,” Grestin said, “We’re turning off life support today. You’ll be dead. Like dead-dead. I’m sure your spirit would have already found its way to Heaven if we hadn’t been holding you back. Whether you live or die is not for us to decide anymore. We’ve done what we can. Now we—'' There were some beeping sounds on the electronics, indicating a change in health status. Grestin looked at the display, but he couldn’t figure whether the zig-zag lines were a good thing or a bad thing. Something grabbed his arm. Grestin yelped and pulled back. The grip wasn’t very strong and it let go of him. He turned to the poor chap who had an arm reaching towards him. The poor chap’s eyes were still closed. It must have been reliving a memory or a dream. Grestin didn’t know much about medicine, but he knew one thing. This poor chap had nearly died, but he’s reliving—living, again.