Flash Fiction 17. The Girl in the Crypt

Some of you were curious about the girl in the crypt, who appeared in Two Sentence Stories. Here’s her tale…


The sun had not yet risen and the sky over Paris was a dim dream-like blue.

Eloise and her master walked through the cobblestone streets of the Ile de la Cite. There was something troubling about the way he had insisted on accompanying her to the market that morning. Indeed, there had been something troubling from the moment she had entered his employ, as a maid in the strange house on the Boulevard Malesherbes, three months before.

She glanced at his tall, brooding figure. A man with a young face but ancient eyes.

And what of the inquisitive Englishman who would leave his calling card, always asking questions about her master? A master whom she had never seen in full daylight.

As they passed into more shadows, Eloise’s heart began to thud. She was not afraid of him. She was afraid for him.

“The sweet light of dawn,” he sighed, as the slightest glow infused the horizon, “Eloise I need your assistance. I must leave Paris today and I need you to look after my affairs.”

Eloise clutched the handle of her basket, “Monsieur!”

“Do not be concerned. You are a bright girl. This note contains the address of the place where you must seek refuge tonight.”

“But are not we to return to the house?”

“You can rest there today only. Goodbye Eloise.”

Eloise felt sad, knowing her master was good at heart.

“Forgive me, but this is the only way,” he said.

She only saw his sharp fangs for a second before he sank his teeth into her neck.

She was aware of being carried through the city, of her master closing all the shutters in the house, of him searching his desk, putting on his cloak and leaving. When she finally woke, she was all alone in the house, the note crumpled in her hand.

Danger. The Englishman was nearby. The one who hunted those like her master, those like what she herself had just become.

What had she become? What was her life to be now? But the sense of danger coursed through her again.

She stared at her master’s elegant handwriting: he was telling her to go to his family plot in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery.

*   *  *  *  *

 Moonbeams pierced the shattered roof of the crypt, as Eloise walked fearfully over the flagstones. She found the coffin he had prepared for her and climbed inside, thankful she had reached shelter before dawn.

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