The next day

I hear a loud, screeching, “AAAAAAAAAAH” enough to make anyone jump up off the couch and see what’s going on. I turn and see Charlie, or at least I think it’s Charlie, on his butt at the bottom of the stairs. I run to him and crouch down.

“Are you alright, Charlie?”

He turns and stares at me wide-eyed, “So, what Carmilla was telling me was true. You did take me home.”

I smile at him, “Of course, how are you feeling?” He talks to his second self? Interesting.

Somewhere a branch cracked, the sound of tearing wood reverberating through Karl's brain. He rolled onto his back, groping the furs for Solacia, but found them empty. He cracked open one eyelid, to search further.

The meadow was bright, the grass rimmed with frost so thick, that the blades of grass looked like fingers. The black coals of the fire likewise rimmed in white. The pool where he had first seen his wife, was as still as silvered glass, reflecting a sapphire sky.

Alaric Stephens was riding his Harley Davidson 2009 model year Fatboy, having just entered the town of Silverhill, Texas and decided to pull into a restaurant and bar that reminded him somewhat of an old English pub with its heavy wooden beams and part wood, part stone walls.

He was a big, sturdy, muscular man, standing 6'2" in stocking feet, weighing about 205 pounds, with a medium brown crewcut. He was clad in a pair of heavy leather pants, a 3XL t-shirt with a picture of a Harley Davidson Fatboy on it, a zipped up worn leather jacket and combat boots.