by Jonathan Fortin
March 27, 2020
343 pages
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
343 pages
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
England, 1876. Twenty-year-old Maraina Blackwood has always struggled to adhere to the restrictive standards of Victorian society, denying the courage and desire that burn within her soul. But after a terrifying supernatural encounter, Maraina's instincts compel her to action.
Maraina soon discovers a plot to unleash a new world—one of demonic aristocrats, bloody rituals, and nightmarish monsters. Putting her upbringing aside, Maraina vows to fight the dark forces assuming control of England. But as her world transforms, Maraina finds that she too must transform...and what she becomes will bring out all that she once buried.
Lilitu: The Memoirs of a Succubus is the first chapter in an epic dark fantasy saga, proudly represented by Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.
Maraina soon discovers a plot to unleash a new world—one of demonic aristocrats, bloody rituals, and nightmarish monsters. Putting her upbringing aside, Maraina vows to fight the dark forces assuming control of England. But as her world transforms, Maraina finds that she too must transform...and what she becomes will bring out all that she once buried.
Lilitu: The Memoirs of a Succubus is the first chapter in an epic dark fantasy saga, proudly represented by Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.
Excerpt from LILITU: THE MEMOIRS OF A SUCCUBUS
That night, I awoke to the sound of leathery wings. At first, I panicked, assuming that my room had been infested with bats. Then I noticed that my bedroom door had disappeared. So had the walls and the windows. There was only the bed, and the floor, and darkness.
I saw movement in the shadows beyond my bed. Something shifted around me, always in the corner of my eye, darting away whenever I turned to look. Slowly, I turned my head. For just a moment, I glimpsed a strong-jawed face, its eyes piercing into me with such intensity that I could not tell if it was out of rage or desire.
I awoke with a jolt. I was back in my room, in my bed—safe. But I did not feel relieved.
When I fell back asleep, the dream did not return.
I didn’t give the dream a great deal of thought the morning after. Unusually vivid though it had been, I had no reason to presume it had been anything other than my imagination. I’d had a strange experience with a creature on the road; it only made sense that I would have nightmares after.
So I went about my day as usual: reading, listening to Gladys gossip, and eating with my family.
But that night, the dream returned...and this time, it went further. After the familiar sound of fluttering wings, a lump formed in the sheets next to me. I felt paralyzed, unable to move, though I was not entirely sure I wanted to. I felt a tickle of pressure against the small of my back, as if something had brushed against it. I reached into the space behind me, searching for whatever might be there, until a hand clasped around mine. I felt the softest kiss against the back of my neck, and shivered in pleasure. At the same time, I was frightened by the delightful sensations. Was it sinful to enjoy this? Was this the same pleasure Amelia had succumbed to?
Blushing in shame, I pulled away—and then awoke as abruptly as before, breathing so hard I thought I was choking.
My dreams didn’t often repeat themselves, and this one was unusually disconcerting. Yet, for reasons I was too ashamed to admit, I found myself hoping the dream would return. I’d always hungered for affection—yearned to be held, kissed, and utterly loved, like the beautiful princesses I’d read about in stories. To briefly taste that pleasure, only to have it torn away, was more torturous than I could have imagined.
I felt like I’d been granted a drop of water after centuries of thirst—just enough to make me want more.
The dream returned on the third night as well. Just as before, the presence floated around me like a spectre, tentatively reaching out to touch me. This time, I let it.
I let those ghostly hands trace the curve of my hip, somehow beneath my nightgown, even though it had not been pulled up. I let them caress their way up to my breasts. I let them run through my hair, pulling it aside to reveal my neck.
The sensation was wonderful, but I still did not know whether I should allow myself to enjoy it. If a man I was not married to touched me this way in reality, it would be sinful. But did I have any reason to fear sin, if it only happened in a dream?
The presence returned the following night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Before long it had been over a week, and not a single night passed where I did not feel its touch. And each night, it explored further, touching more and more of my body.
I could no longer tell myself that it was a mere dream. Part of me knew that I was foolish to let it in, but another part was desperate to return to its arms each night. In truth, I feared these dreams would prove to be the closest thing I would ever have to a man’s affections, and I did not want them to stop. Strange and terrible things were happening in England, and in the waking world I had no one to turn to for support. But when I slept, the nightmares were there to comfort me. Their wrongness made them feel right. Their darkness made them a lantern for my lonely nights.
The dreams became all I thought about that month. Father continued to remind us about the upcoming concerto, Mother continued to brood, and Gladys avoided me whenever possible, but I scarcely noticed these things. All that mattered was returning to sleep.
I began leaving dinner early, so that I could go to bed sooner. Each night, as soon as there was a lull in my family’s discussion, I let out a feeble cough and asked if I could be excused.
“Again?” Mother asked one night.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I feel terribly ill.”
“But you seemed to be feeling so much better this morning. And the doctor found nothing wrong with you.”
“Perhaps this disease only occurs at night,” I said, keeping my voice soft so I would sound frail.
“I have never heard of such a thing in my life,” said Mother. “Have you, Benjamin?”
Father shook his head. “You’ve been leaving dinner early for weeks now, Maraina. How long do you think this will last?”
“I don’t know, Papa,” I said. “I only know that I require sleep. I apologize for distressing you.”
Trying to look as exhausted as I could, I went to my room, and changed into my nightgown without the help of a servant. Then I crawled into bed and waited impatiently for the fluttering sound.
I never moaned aloud, though sometimes my body yearned to do so. My back would arch, my muscles would tense, and my teeth would clench. I would ache for a release I did not yet understand. It was strange, how the slightest, subtlest touch could yield such a reaction.
The presence hadn’t broken my virtue, and I told myself that this made it acceptable. But each night, it went further, giving me more shameful pleasure than the night before. And I knew that someday, if I let it, it would corrupt me.
The most disturbing thing of all was, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to stop that from happening.
That night, I awoke to the sound of leathery wings. At first, I panicked, assuming that my room had been infested with bats. Then I noticed that my bedroom door had disappeared. So had the walls and the windows. There was only the bed, and the floor, and darkness.
I saw movement in the shadows beyond my bed. Something shifted around me, always in the corner of my eye, darting away whenever I turned to look. Slowly, I turned my head. For just a moment, I glimpsed a strong-jawed face, its eyes piercing into me with such intensity that I could not tell if it was out of rage or desire.
I awoke with a jolt. I was back in my room, in my bed—safe. But I did not feel relieved.
When I fell back asleep, the dream did not return.
I didn’t give the dream a great deal of thought the morning after. Unusually vivid though it had been, I had no reason to presume it had been anything other than my imagination. I’d had a strange experience with a creature on the road; it only made sense that I would have nightmares after.
So I went about my day as usual: reading, listening to Gladys gossip, and eating with my family.
But that night, the dream returned...and this time, it went further. After the familiar sound of fluttering wings, a lump formed in the sheets next to me. I felt paralyzed, unable to move, though I was not entirely sure I wanted to. I felt a tickle of pressure against the small of my back, as if something had brushed against it. I reached into the space behind me, searching for whatever might be there, until a hand clasped around mine. I felt the softest kiss against the back of my neck, and shivered in pleasure. At the same time, I was frightened by the delightful sensations. Was it sinful to enjoy this? Was this the same pleasure Amelia had succumbed to?
Blushing in shame, I pulled away—and then awoke as abruptly as before, breathing so hard I thought I was choking.
My dreams didn’t often repeat themselves, and this one was unusually disconcerting. Yet, for reasons I was too ashamed to admit, I found myself hoping the dream would return. I’d always hungered for affection—yearned to be held, kissed, and utterly loved, like the beautiful princesses I’d read about in stories. To briefly taste that pleasure, only to have it torn away, was more torturous than I could have imagined.
I felt like I’d been granted a drop of water after centuries of thirst—just enough to make me want more.
The dream returned on the third night as well. Just as before, the presence floated around me like a spectre, tentatively reaching out to touch me. This time, I let it.
I let those ghostly hands trace the curve of my hip, somehow beneath my nightgown, even though it had not been pulled up. I let them caress their way up to my breasts. I let them run through my hair, pulling it aside to reveal my neck.
The sensation was wonderful, but I still did not know whether I should allow myself to enjoy it. If a man I was not married to touched me this way in reality, it would be sinful. But did I have any reason to fear sin, if it only happened in a dream?
The presence returned the following night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Before long it had been over a week, and not a single night passed where I did not feel its touch. And each night, it explored further, touching more and more of my body.
I could no longer tell myself that it was a mere dream. Part of me knew that I was foolish to let it in, but another part was desperate to return to its arms each night. In truth, I feared these dreams would prove to be the closest thing I would ever have to a man’s affections, and I did not want them to stop. Strange and terrible things were happening in England, and in the waking world I had no one to turn to for support. But when I slept, the nightmares were there to comfort me. Their wrongness made them feel right. Their darkness made them a lantern for my lonely nights.
The dreams became all I thought about that month. Father continued to remind us about the upcoming concerto, Mother continued to brood, and Gladys avoided me whenever possible, but I scarcely noticed these things. All that mattered was returning to sleep.
I began leaving dinner early, so that I could go to bed sooner. Each night, as soon as there was a lull in my family’s discussion, I let out a feeble cough and asked if I could be excused.
“Again?” Mother asked one night.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I feel terribly ill.”
“But you seemed to be feeling so much better this morning. And the doctor found nothing wrong with you.”
“Perhaps this disease only occurs at night,” I said, keeping my voice soft so I would sound frail.
“I have never heard of such a thing in my life,” said Mother. “Have you, Benjamin?”
Father shook his head. “You’ve been leaving dinner early for weeks now, Maraina. How long do you think this will last?”
“I don’t know, Papa,” I said. “I only know that I require sleep. I apologize for distressing you.”
Trying to look as exhausted as I could, I went to my room, and changed into my nightgown without the help of a servant. Then I crawled into bed and waited impatiently for the fluttering sound.
I never moaned aloud, though sometimes my body yearned to do so. My back would arch, my muscles would tense, and my teeth would clench. I would ache for a release I did not yet understand. It was strange, how the slightest, subtlest touch could yield such a reaction.
The presence hadn’t broken my virtue, and I told myself that this made it acceptable. But each night, it went further, giving me more shameful pleasure than the night before. And I knew that someday, if I let it, it would corrupt me.
The most disturbing thing of all was, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to stop that from happening.
About the Author:
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Jonathan Fortin is an author and voice actor located in the San Francisco Bay Area.
He the author of Lilitu: The Memoirs of a Succubus, Requiem In Frost, and Nightmarescape. A lifelong lover of spooky Gothic stories, Jonathan was named the "Next Great Horror Writer" in 2017 by HorrorAddicts.net. He attended the Clarion Writing Program in 2012, one year after graduating summa cum laude from San Francisco State University's Creative Writing program.
Jonathan Fortin is an author and voice actor located in the San Francisco Bay Area.
He the author of Lilitu: The Memoirs of a Succubus, Requiem In Frost, and Nightmarescape. A lifelong lover of spooky Gothic stories, Jonathan was named the "Next Great Horror Writer" in 2017 by HorrorAddicts.net. He attended the Clarion Writing Program in 2012, one year after graduating summa cum laude from San Francisco State University's Creative Writing program.
For his voice-over work, Jonathan has studied at VoiceTrax in Sausalito.
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