38. A Moroi Story

Laura - The house in the suburbs
When my grandfather died, I was too young to remember him. Everybody says he was tall and handsome. The women in the village swooned at the sight of him. People said he had a girlfriend back in his birth hamlet, but they were both poor.
He married my grandmother even though she was already pregnant at the time with my father’s older brother. She had cows, land, and almost everything you can think of for those times, except for a noble title.
After his death, people reported sightings of him strolling through the main street out of the village. The more courageous ones tried to approach him, but he wouldn’t look any other way than straight ahead. It was as if he was sleepwalking.
They followed him into the next village, his birthplace. Every night he went to the same house, a modest cottage among fields. He cut wood, built a fire in the hearth, kissed the sleeping woman and child in the bedroom, and then returned to the cemetery to slide back into his tomb.
The woman had been his girlfriend before marrying my grandmother. Throughout his lifetime, he managed to sneak out from time to time and go to see her. He loved the child and took excellent care of him even after his death. He knew they didn’t have anyone else to help them.
My parents never mentioned anything about my grandfather's ghostly visits. Maybe they didn't know about them, or maybe they chose to forget about them.
I was with the cows on the pasture as I heard the stories. The women there started making the sign of the cross from the top of their heads, down to their belly button, then to their shoulders. Three times is the lucky charm.
“Moroi,” they whispered in a chorus. “He was a moroi. Thank god they staked him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Then they told me how they discovered him twisted around in his coffin when unburying him during the day. They staked him through the heart to send his soul back to where it belonged on the other side. Another two stakes were used to bind his hands inside the coffin so he could never escape again.
They crowded around, some spitting on the ground to ward off evil spirits. They instructed me to pass on the story to my children, grandkids, and future generations. When I see a dead man strolling down the street, I should run as fast as possible, screaming with all my might.
This story marked me for my whole life. I felt sorry for him, for that woman and the child. He never did anything wrong. He was simply going to help the people he loved. Why did they have to stake him? Was it to set his soul free or simply because they were afraid of the unknown?
***
Wiping my cheeks soaked in tears, I look up at Paul. He’s on the side, staring at me.
"I suppose that wasn't a fantastic bedtime story," I admit. Then I shift my head away from his sight.
To my surprise, he comes and settles next to me on the carpet on his knees. His hands force me to turn to him before they wrap around my shoulders. My tears burst out yet again. Why did I have to tell this story? I should have known I wouldn’t be able to hold them in. Damn gin!
His voice comes out soft in an attempt to explain. “A moroi is not like a strigoi. Their soul is not here. Only remnants of their desires remain impregnated inside the bodies. They are more like automatons, doing things they thought they had to do. It was for the better to be set free.”
“Better for whom?” I look at him through tears. “For that woman and child who got a fire to warm them up on winter nights? For a father’s soul who only wanted to take care of his kid? Or for the people who know that the dead should not be walking?”
"Be reasonable, Laura. It's unnatural."
I gulp. “That’s how it is, Paul? Am I unnatural for you?”
He tightens his grasp around me. I enjoy the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against mine, the tu-tump of his heartbeat, the warmth he puts out.
“You don’t understand.” He presses his cheek over the top of my head. I feel his chest rumble against mine as he speaks. “My mind would answer yes, you’re unnatural. But every fiber of my body says otherwise. My senses go haywire every time you’re close to me. I want to smell your perfume, taste your lips, touch your skin. It takes everything I have to hold myself back.”
“Then don’t.”
He grabs my shoulders and pushes me away from him. It’s like he did this just to get a better look at me. His eyes scour my face, searching for something I can’t understand.
"Laura, I should despise you. I should have killed you right from the start!" His eyes darken, and he seems to be two beings in one. His internal battle is almost tangible.
I almost recoil when Paul gently strokes a wayward hair behind my ear. So gentle and wonderful, and so unexpected. Fingers caressing my cheek, gripping my jaw, and turning my head just so. My lips part in anticipation of being kissed.
It starts slowly but rapidly and transforms into something else. A flood of emotion and desire that he cannot contain turns him into a ravenous beast. I squeal with delight. I run my hands over the broad expanse of muscles on his back, covered by his white shirt. He kisses me so passionately that I forget everything. The agony, the grief, and all the memories I've accumulated throughout my life.
Paul abruptly lifts from the floor before I even have the chance to try to hold onto him. Chest heaving, he fights to catch his breath.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.”
I don't have time to respond since the door has already shut behind him, leaving me on the floor with a hand reaching out in the thin air.