Gothic Literature – or Twilight?


Some of the best novels and literary figures start as dreams. Frankenstein, the Byronic vampyre, Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories… I like to think I have some affinity in my desire to write up this particular dream. I just can’t think what my literary influences for this were… can you?

I’m stuck on this word, eight letters across, name for that period between evening and night, when it’s just getting dark…

He was luring me into the dark corridor of the school at night. I knew it was wrong, something felt wrong, something was missing… it just wasn’t him. The one I had left, the cute innocent young boy I recalled with such painful clarity, the one who told me to go. Because it didn’t fit in the with the plot. Because I had to like the main hero of the town, not him. I was Bella, the beautiful one, and I had to like the beautiful man.

But Bor was the opposite of a man. A corpse. A sinister, upright phantasmagorial ghost, dressed up but undisguised. Beautiful, in the way that an abandoned dead antelope is beautiful to a hyena.

When Bor leered over me, his piercing blue eyes scratched deep into my soul and tore my heart in two like a hulk would rip a sheet of steel down the middle. I refused to consent. I couldn’t. I wasn’t the author, I was the character, and I detested how I couldn’t choose anything. What if I had feelings too? His hair springed against his forehead in a pretentious Superman-curl as he stood, a foot taller than me, putting his hands on my shoulders and smiling. A smile that, apparently, would set girls on fire and make them scream. But, it just made my blood run cold. It was an icy chill of… wrongness. I had dressed up for this Halloween date, with preparation to make sure I looked just like I should, as Bella did. But it felt… hollow. Ween.

Eek. Engaged. It made me shiver. And now here he was, holding my hand, the one with the ring on it, and seducing me. He had said he had a surprise for me in a room. He had mentioned a headboard.

I stopped. Adamant. I didn’t want to be taken anywhere any more. I wanted to make MY choice. And I wanted HIM.

“No, Ny-“

Suddenly, a lightning flash of speed and his ice cold hand was clamped against my mouth. It smelt of death.

I screamed. I tossed and turned in my bed (I’m sure). I started to sweat. Because he had me in a firm grip, a grip I couldn’t get out of, and he was taking me into the room. The room that I knew had no windows, and no other door. And it was high, high up.

Suddenly, a sweet, ginger-haired American girl friend’s voice sung out. She ran towards me, dressed in her jogging gear. She was super cute.


The hand was removed. I coughed. “Help!” I ran, desperately, to hug her. To give her some sign to rescue me. But my hands were suddenly clasped behind my back. And I was being dragged into the room.

“Berühren Sie nicht sie!

Behind me, a warrior friend appeared from the opposite direction, behind us. Alexius Maximus. A Prince. A Lord. A Friend. Full of nobility, fury, and secret societal deviance. (He philosophises. It’s illegal in this fictitious world.)

Bor clouts him with a rash, merciless hand, which I now notice has long, creepy, Nosferatu-esque nails that scrape, yellow and sharp, across Alexius’ face. He then slashes his chest, as he lies, bleeding. He draws his sword. He aims and throws it at Bor. He gets him, right in the chest. But Bor merely plucks it out and throws it back. Alexius ducks and misses it.

Oh. God. My fiancé. He isn’t human.

And as if in response, Bor spins around to face me. As if some confession has spoiled the romance between us, as if the plot hinges on me believing what I was always incredulous about in the first place. That I would choose him, above all others. Above the cute one.

No. I only ever want Ny-

But Bor looks around. And suddenly I sense he is much more scared of something else.


The corridor reverberates with a roar so frightening that Bor suddenly turns feral. Desperate. Dangerous. He grips me, nails hovering across my neck like the threat of a sword that will slit my life away. He drags me to the room. To… make love to him? To this gruesome animal? This horrible, smelly, corpse-like zombie? No! Not a zombie! Urgh! His fangs were at my neck! He was a vampire! Oh, no, and he was going to make me one, too! To be with him forever! Oh god, in this godforsaken place, please, no!

I thrashed, screamed, blindly, the feel of fangs against my skin making me squirm, shiver. I just wanted, I ached, to feel safe again… to be saved… by that warm, protective bear-hug that I loved, that scent I felt so keenly now, those soft lips on my forehead kissing me… before… before I died?

No! I was alive! I was in the arms of Nyar!

And tossed aside, in his arms, as Nyar was struck by Bor against the wall. Bor flew at us, a bat. But that bat was whipped back by Nyar’s heavy paw.

Wait, paw?

A snarl, a manly roar, erupted from the jaws of a huge wolf.

A wolf half-bewildered by what he was capable of. A wolf that rippled with muscles, quivering with pure, strong, masculine power. Now that was beautiful. What kind of stupid plot would prefer the other guy?!

And he was at my side. Tail whipping against each flank, side to side, beside himself with protective anger, jealousy, affinity. This was him, wasn’t it? It was Nyar… he was a werewolf!

And the Nosferatu-corpse was back. Bloody, pallid, and fuming with violent tendencies. And he had my cute American friend. By the throat. Gripping her arm with such fierceness that blood trickled down it. He bent down to lick it, seductively, looking at us.


The gigantic wolf bounded over and they fought. It was all a blur. Impossible to tell who was winning, and I feared for Nyar. Please, please don’t let some vampire-corpse win. Please let the good win. Nyar was whimpering, his leg was torn, his muzzle was bleeding, he howled in pain.

Bor was winning.

No! >.<

My dear friend screamed. Bor had her again, and was dragging HER into the room now. And Nyar was… wait… where was he?

He had disappeared. But now I could see him. He had sneaked into that room. He was waiting. And as soon as Bor was close enough, he pulled him in and pushed my friend away, and after a kerfuffle, and a heart-breaking wolf whimper, Nyar bounded out, bleeding, and kicked the door closed. And locked it. And collapsed.


I was talking to Alexius and my friend in the canteen at lunchtime at school, a couple of days later. Over vegan pizza. I don’t remember exactly what we talking about, but I think it might have been something about how the most recent teen romance-horror-fantasy bestseller on the shelves at the moment was laughable, and that someone of my self-professed literary calibre could toss off something of superior value in the space of about two hours. Or it might have been something else.

And suddenly, for the four billionth time that day, I was struck with romance. I pined, for that most ferocious, powerful wolf, rippling with the muscles of virile, agile, manly force. Because I had known it all along. He was the real hero.

Nyar, perhaps.


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