The Dark Domain by Stefan Grabinski

enemy. Their hatred was terrifying, yet mesmerizing. And, strangely enough, in the deepest layers of his mind, he understood their anger and acknowledged its justness.
    And they, as if fathoming him from afar, gathered certainty of expression, and their masks became more severe with every day.
    Then one August night, while he was leaning out of his window, enduring the crucifying gazes of their hateful eyes, the immobile faces suddenly became animated; in each flashed simultaneously the same will. Hundreds of pale, thin hands raised themselves in a movement of command, and scores of bony fingers made beckoning motions … .
    Wrzesmian understood: he was being summoned inside. As if hypnotized he leaped over the windowsill, crossed the narrow street, jumped over the railing, and began to walk along the alley to the villa … .
    It was four in the morning, the hour before dawn’s tremblings. The magnesium jets of the moon bathed the house in a silver whirlpool, luring long shadows from its curves. The path was a dazzling white in the midst of sorrowful shrub walls. The hollow echo of Wrzesmian’s steps reverberated on the stone slabs, as the fountains rippled quietly and their bent waters drizzled with unsolved mystery … . He went up the terrace and jerked strongly on the door handle: the door gave way. He walked along a lengthy corridor of two rows of Corinthian columns. The darkness brightened the glory of the moon, whose beams, pouring through a stained-glass panel at the end of the gallery, unreeled green fables onto porphyritic floor tiles … .
    Suddenly, as he was walking, a figure emerged from behind the shaft of a column and followed him. Wrzesmian shuddered but silently went on. A couple of steps further a new figure detached itself from a niche between two columns; then a third, and a fourth…a tenth – all followed him. He wanted to turn back, but they blocked his way. He crossed the forest of columns and swerved to the right, into some circular hall. It was illuminated by the shimmering moon and crowded with strange people. He slipped between them, looking for an exit. In vain! They surrounded him in an increasingly closed circle. From pale, bloodless lips flowed out a menacing whisper:
    ‘It’s him! It’s him!’
    He stopped and looked defiantly at the throng:
    ‘What do you want from me?’
    ‘Your blood! We want your blood! Blood! Blood!’
    ‘What do you want it for?’
    ‘We want to live! We want to live! Why did you call us out from the chaos of non-existence and condemn us to be miserable half-corporeal vagrants? Look at how weak and pale we are!’
    ‘Mercy!’ he wailed, desperately throwing himself toward a winding staircase in the depth of the hall.
    ‘Hold him! Surround him! Surround him!’
    With the speed of a madman he ascended the stairs to the upper floor and burst into a medieval chamber. But his oppressors entered after him. Their slender arms, their fluid, damp hands joined in a macabre line.
    ‘What did I do to you?’
    ‘We want full life! You confined us to this house, you wretch! We want to go out into the world; we want to be released from this place to live in freedom! Your blood will fortify us, your blood will give us strength! Strangle him! Strangle him!’
    Thousands of hungry mouths extended toward him, thousands of pale, sucking lips.
    In a crazy reflex he flung himself toward the window, ready to jump out. A legion of slimy, cold hands seized him by the waist, dug crooked hook-like fingers into his hair, wrung his neck. He struggled desperately. Someone’s fingernails cut into his larynx, someone’s lips fastened to his temple … .
    He staggered, supported himself on the embrasure with his shoulders, and leaned back. His convulsively extended arms spread out in a sacrificial movement; a weary smile of fulfilment crept over his whitened lips – he was already dead … .
    At the moment when the interior cooled with the agonized throes of Wrzesmian’s body, the