Who is A. F. Stewart, Fantasy Novelist

Devoid

I wish I had my eyes closed.
Then I'd know why I can't see.
Everything is black, there's no light, no shapes.
I'm blind.
And I don't know where I am.

I'm sitting on a damp cold surface, my back against something hard; it feels like stone under my hands. Maybe I'm in a basement. I think I am alone, at least I can't hear any sounds, in fact there's no noise at all. It's a perfect silence.

I don't know how I got here.
Or where here is.
I'm so scared.
The last thing I remember is... being happy.
I was with Jeremy.
Jeremy, where's Jeremy?!
What if he's been...?

I reach out and my hand touches a hard surface, more stone, I think. I feel my way along the stonework to find four walls. I think I'm in a very small room, but I can't locate a door. I try to stand, but my head hits a solid ceiling before I'm upright. I sit down again, the dread slowly crushing my thoughts. It can't be true, I can't be imprisoned!

NO! NO! NO!
I'm trapped!
I'm alone and I'm trapped!
What happened!
How did I get here!
And how do I get out!
Someone has to get me out!

I'm screaming now. I can't help it. I'm in a nightmare and I don't know how to wake up. I claw at the walls in a futile attempt to escape, but all I manage is to bloody my fingers. I stop and take a breath, to calm myself.

I need to figure things out.
To remember last night.
Was it last night?
I don't even know how long I've been here.
Jeremy and I were celebrating our six-month anniversary.
With champagne, in my apartment.
I was laughing and drinking.
Then...? Wait, yes. I stumbled, fell and...
Jeremy was smiling?
Why was he smiling?
I think I passed out.
Why did I pass out after one drink?

"Hello, Anna."
"Jeremy?!" Relief floods through me. He found me; I'm getting out of here! "I'm here, Jeremy! Help me! Get me out of here!"
"Why would I do that? After all the trouble I went through to put you in there?"
"Wh-what?!" The awful realization finally sinks in to my foolish mind.
"I spent months constructing your little underground prison, planning how to get you inside. I took great care in getting it all right. I made certain the stone was thick enough, the hatch could be permanently sealed, that there was a wireless setup so we could talk this one last time. I'm so happy. Everything fell into place flawlessly."
"Why?! Why did you do this?!" I heard him laugh. A twisted version of the sound I used to love.
"For fun. I like doing this sort of thing. I like tormenting. I like killing." There was more laughter. "Good-bye, Anna, and enjoy your new home. For the rest of your very short life."
"No! You can't mean it! Jeremy! Jeremy, please! Please don't leave me here!" I wait for an answer, but there is only silence. "Jeremy! Please, please! Don't leave me here!" I pray he is still there, cling to hope he will let me out, strain my ears for any noise, but nothing. He is gone.

I'm going to die.
He locked me in a hole to die.
He buried me alive and I'm going to die!
I'm not getting out!
There is no way to get out!
Somebody help me!

All around me it is darkness, and it is so still, so quiet.
I start screaming again.

Samuel Harrington's Diaries
1793-1795
London, England

April 26, 1793.
A rather uneventful day.
I accomplished some profitable business at the Exchange; trade was excellent, a rare thing these days. Owen's coffeehouse was livelier than usual, very spirited with political debate and talk of the war. It was quite enjoyable.
The vicar stopped in for a late afternoon visit. He was brimming with accounts of our new neighbours, Henri Forain, and the cousin, Eleanor de Burgh. The vicar seems to think they are foreign, of French origin he believes. I do hope they are not Catholic; the vicar did not seem to think they were. I know such things are not taken into much account these days, but one does have to have standards.
I wearily listened to Eliza at dinner, as she complained about the household accounts. She never ceases to beg for more money. I cannot reason why she has such trouble keeping expenses to a minimum. She is the one who insisted we hire a cook, and staff. She must make do on the money that has been allowed.

April 30, 1793.
Eliza has invited those foreign neighbours to her card party tomorrow. They are to be her honoured guests and she plans to make the proper introductions into our little neighbourhood community. She is all aflutter over the details, and the household is in a domestic uproar.
I do wish Eliza would not carry on so about her parties. It is so tedious and annoying.

May 2, 1793.
Eliza's little card party was quite the success; even I enjoyed myself. Our favoured guests were witty and charming; utterly delightful. Henri was particularly well versed in all manner of subjects. It made for fine conversation. He also has good taste in port, bringing an excellent vintage as a gift. The cousin, Miss de Burgh, was likewise well mannered and poised, a proper lady.
Both were excellent whist players; several of the other guests remarked on their skill. I had the privilege of being partnered with Henri during the evening and the fortune to have the winning hands as a result. I do enjoy a lively card game with a good partner.
I fear our neighbours may be in slightly ill health, though, as both were of rather a pale complexion. And they did not seem to partake much of the cheese and wine that was served.
I may suggest a good elixir to restore their vigour.

Edmund Harrington's Diaries
1795-1797
London, England

October 9, 1795.
I have finally met the rest of the Society, at least the three other members that are here at Oxford.
Two are students, as I am, named Stephen and William; one is a Timothy Martin, who lectures here at Oxford. The rest of our members reside in London, but I was kindly informed of their names.
I am pleased that they trust me.

October 14, 1795.
I cannot conceive how the information contained in the Society's archives was amassed. It is obvious they have spent years tracking and recording the lives of the vampires named within these pages. Each member has made notes of various vampires, their lives and habits. But there is so much more lurking in these papers, and much of this information could not have possibly been collected within a span of five years.
How could they possibly know the very country where the foul vampires originated? I found an account that states the first vampire had its genesis in India, spit out of some abhorrent darkness no doubt. From there the curse flowed to Persia and then on to Europe.
It is obvious they have another source of information.

October 15, 1795.
I asked the origins of the information contained in the archives, and I was quite shocked at the answer I was given.
Gypsies, if that is to be believed, are their source of knowledge. These odd nomads have long been sworn enemies of the vampire.
I still do not know how the Gypsy's knowledge fell into the Society's hands; they all refused to say.
I suspect it was by underhanded means.

Charlotte Harrington's Diaries
1825-1826
London, England

March 5, 1825.
I have tried to put those wretched diaries out of my head, to not indulge in speculation and worry, but I find it impossible.
Odd thoughts keep plaguing me. Perhaps it was merely a game, some bizarre family jest; I want to believe that. It is a far more enjoyable alternative than madness or the possibility the diaries are true.
I must resolve to either forget the diaries or actively seek the truth.

March 7, 1825.
I cannot spend the rest of my days wondering if the strain of lunacy runs in my family, so I have decided to research the matter.
There are people mentioned in my father's diary that I may be able to locate here in London. I believe I shall make discreet inquiries.