Clytemnestra or The Homecoming:

        The arid summer heat had done little to harm the sea of dark-leafed tobacco growing dense across the fields of Blue Hollow. It was said that the land had been blessed by God himself the first time Thaddeus Hardaway's field slaves had broken ground in the fertile soil. His great grandson, Jonathan Hardaway, had thus never longed for any earthly thing in all forty-seven years of his life. Yet tonight, he longed for peace.

        He took off his spectacles and rubbed at the throbbing pain at his temples before finally pressing closed his ledger and pushing back from his desk. He was a respectable man with an even more respectable name.  His great grandfather had practically built the town back when it was naught, but wilderness overrun by Indians and unturned soil. And Jonathan had used the fruits of his wealth to help fund the war efforts that had seen his beloved colony become the great state of Virginia. His name commanded respect, but only it seemed from those not under his immediate care.

         The ledgers were in order as usual, the plantation coffers were overflowing, and it seemed whatever business venture a Hardaway touched turned to gold. 

         But the business of his marriage was another matter.

         His wife had always been cold, but once she was the most eligible girl in the whole county. Time had been unkind to her. She'd grown fat and aloof with each child he'd sired on her. But worst of all she'd grown more demanding with each passing year. And the children! 

         The girl had become a lay-about who'd inherited her mother's plain looks and unhospitable attitude. Marrying her off had proved difficult despite their family's good name. And the boy. A drunk and a gambler...

             Jonathan raised himself from his seat and felt his knees buckle from fatigue. Or was it age? No matter, the pain was the same. He stretched out his aching limbs with abandon; feeling his bones crack as they came back to life.  

            As he turned to work the crick from his neck, he glimpsed a figure clothed in white dancing through the tall grass on the edge of his garden. He went to the window, sure he'd seen his wife's scrawny chambermaid Louise, but there proved to be nothing amiss. Louise knew better than to be out so late without permission. And there hadn't been a runaway in years. He rubbed at his eyes then peered out through the fog of darkness. There was no movement. No sound but the click-singing of a thousand lovesick cicadas. The only light came from the sliver of moonlight half hiding behind a curtain of rainclouds. He shrugged and pulled closed the shutters against the warm night's air. A specter of the tired eye. No more, no less.

        He took two quick strides back to his desk and began blowing out the flames of the candelabra that had kept him company for the last three hours. When the room was lit by naught but the last flickering candle, he grabbed it and thrust it into the worn iron holder his father and grandfather had used before him. A bit of wax singed his finger, but he didn't feel it. His mind was already upstairs in his bed.

       Grabbing at the candle holder, he started the trek from the study to his bedroom where his wife had likely already turned in.

        As he moved through the parlor the darkness retreated around him. The manor was curiously quiet except for his own feet echoing with every step: Tap, tap, tap, tap... 

        Even the incessant nightly scratching from inside the walls had ceased for the night. Perhaps the traps George had set had finally caught their prey. They could wait 'til the morrow...but where was George? 

         Usually, his manservant chose to stay awake with his Master to tend to his late-night needs, but tonight he found himself alone and unattended. Odd, but no bother. Jonathan could manage for a night but tomorrow he'd inquire about it. Perhaps George was ill again. There'd been word of a malady going through the county, perhaps it had finally found its way to Blue Hollow.

        Jonathan continued his pilgrimage to his bed, his mind heavy with the work to be done tomorrow. As he moved his aching body up the stairs, the silence was broken by the sudden snarling of the hounds. He groaned. Caesar and Henry had forgotten to chain them up again. They were mere boys so mostly they fetched things and carried things and tied up the dogs after sundown. It was easy work, but they weren't the smartest, or the most hardworking.

        He contemplated leaving it until dawn but if he left them, they would run wild across the grounds like a pack of wolves. He turned in place and walked back down the stairs; tired and angry. As he approached the front door the growling grew and grew, until he could hear their jaws snapping manically; teeth connecting with teeth. Then one of them whimpered, and then—

        Silence.

         Jonathan paused and listened intently to the night. There was no sound anymore but the roaring of his heart in his ears. He pulled open the door and peered out into the darkness. There was no sign of the dogs. Not on the wrap around porch and not on the steps leading to the front path. He didn't hear their paws scratching in the mud or their howls carrying on the wind either. He held up his lone candle, but nothing was visible beyond the small cocoon of light it provided. He could barely see beyond the porch, but of what he could see nothing was out of the ordinary. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought. Perhaps.

          He turned to go back inside, more perplexed than angry. As he closed and locked the door the flame of his candle lit up a trail of muddy footprints headed toward the library. Jonathan stiffened as he stared after them. Had those been there before? Had he been so tired he'd missed it? Why hadn't the maids cleaned the floors today? 

        He followed behind them, half awake, half delirious from lack of sleep. As he turned into the library the candle began to quiver and fade. He cupped his hand to the flame to shield it from the abrupt chill. The footprints ended near an old writing desk, but whoever it was was gone. He held up his candle and scrutinized every dark corner until the light caught the glimmer of flowing white fabric rustling by his bookcase.

        There she stood. She wore nothing but a thin cotton slip that clung obscenely to her lean form. Her hair was as wild and untamed as the bristly black thickets that grew at the edge of the property and twice longer than he'd ever have allowed her to have it. Her skin, shining softly in the candlelight, was smooth and dark as molasses. Her expression just as sweet. She smiled at him behind large, lovely eyes. The same eyes they'd been some twenty years ago when he'd last looked upon her.

        "You," he said.

        "Me." Her voice was sharper than remembered.

        "It's been twenty years. I thought you were—"

        "Dead. Yes." 

       His back straightened. "Why have you come home?"

        The thing smiled wider. "All creature's go home eventually. Particularly when there's a debt to be repaid."

        He bristled at the word. "Debt? I owe no debt. Least of all to you."

        "I believe you will find that to me, you owe most."

        He was far too tired to decipher this nonsense. "Where have you been?"

        "North, of course."

        "If you've come back for your children, they're gone."

       For a moment she looked pained and like the girl she once was, fearful and so very small. "I know." She inhaled her grief and the grin returned.

        "Then I don't understand what you could possibly be doing back here."

        "I've come for you."

        "I don't under—"

        "The debt, sir." She stepped further into the light and his little candle shivered. "You will repay it with your life."

       He recoiled. "You've gone mad these past twenty years!"

        "No." For a moment her smile seemed sad. "I see the truth of it now." 

        The distance between them closed. Fingers dug into flesh. He had only a moment to comprehend before her fangs found the delicate skin at the base of his neck. He fought, thrashing against her as effectively as a trout caught in the jaws of a great bear but it was futile. 

        Her arms engulfed him, warm and strong as a lover's. His heart thundered. His limbs went slack. His body withered and grew cold. He sank into an abyss so dark it seemed without end. And for just a moment, he saw the eyes of God. 

        It was he who belonged to her now.

        Sharp pain pierced the deepest crevice of his mind. The agony nearly crippled him as it peeled back layer after layer after layer...until she'd consumed every moment of his blessed life into herself.

       "Hmm." Her voice caressed him...from within... "The life you've lived these last twenty years."

       He saw her for what she was then.

       He saw her running wildly through the tobacco fields, the sun hot on her skin. Saw her grow soft and beautiful. Saw her be beaten and brutalized. He felt the stifled horror on those nights her would sneak into her bed. He saw the day he'd ripped her child from her arms. Felt the cruel, hot tears run down her cheeks. Felt her heart shatter like brittle clay. Felt the first sparks of her rage grow like wildfire...

       But it wasn't only him who saw. 

       She saw him come screaming into the world those forty-seven years ago. Saw him grow tall and strong. Saw his marriage, and his children, and his grandchildren. Saw him sneaking into the beds of other slave girls in the night once she had disappeared...

       She saw him for what he truly was, and she hated.

       He screamed, but no one heard. No one came for him.

       The creature laughed and laughed and laughed. And when she was done, she laughed some more. It was a grotesquely joyous sound that rung from the attic to the cellar. She reveled in the misery, let the ecstasy wash over her like the holiest of baptism.

       When she released him, he tumbled, trembling to the ground. Terror gripped at his very soul as he stared up at the monstrosity before him. The ends of her long beastly fangs glistened as her body shook with joy. She was toying with him. Like a child's plaything.

        "The night is far from over, my Master." His blood had seeped through the fabric of her slip and pooled under her bare feet. She stepped through it; smearing it across the cold ground as she lumbered toward him, her eyes gluttonous for vengeance. "I've not only come for you."

        He knew at once she meant to claim the life of his children and his children's children as well. Until there was nothing left of his monstrous dynasty but dust and ruin. Just as he had claimed her life and the life of her children all those years ago. 

         But death would not come quickly—not for him. She would not release him from this torture. Not until she had her satisfaction. And Jonathan Hardaway who had never longed for anything in all forty-seven years of his life suddenly, savagely longed for death.

          He wept—

           —But the creature felt no sorrow. She only smiled, licked at the fresh blood dripping from her lips and said, "A man indebted, is a man enslaved."

                                                                                      End.