Work Text:
It starts snowing when Song Lan is making tea, feathery flakes that fall from a grey sky onto the frosty cobblestones outside.
The Department of Art History and Religious Studies is in an old building with drafty windows and creaky floors. The electric kettle takes its time hissing and gurgling. Back at the office, Song Lan looks for somewhere to set his mug.
Perturbed by the shuffling of bookstacks and papers, his office mate Wen Qing looks up from her computer screen. “Shit, it’s almost two,” she says hurriedly. “I completely lost track of time. Are you coming to the seminar?”
A visiting researcher is going to give a talk on the effects of Reformation on Northern European church art in the afternoon. Song Lan is still undecided—the topic isn’t directly related to his work, and he’s got enough to do as it is. He’ll skip the coffee afterwards, for sure.
Wen Qing pulls her sleeves over her hands. She’s dark-haired and pale, a few loose strands escaping her ponytail. “You should come,” she says in a serious tone. “To keep me company, if nothing else. You’ve worked so hard all fall long. Maybe a bit of socializing would do you good.”
The final weeks of the semester have been busy for everyone, and Wen Qing has stayed at the office longer than Song Lan many nights. Song Lan doesn’t say it, though.
On Wen Qing’s screen, a 3D model of a gargoyle slowly spins. Her PhD is on Medieval monster imagery and its digital conservation. While she rummages in her bag for lip balm, an error message starts flashing. “Fuck this program,” she curses and begins clicking frantically. “This is not the first time it’s crashed today either.”
This is the cue for Song Lan to retreat to his desk—he knows he’s useless with whatever Wen Qing is doing on her computer. His own work is mainly archival. He’s currently collecting data on succubi, incubi and other night monsters in Early Modern folklore. Lately, he’s been waiting on a bunch of interlibrary loan requests and user registrations to digital archives to be approved. The mug of tea sits untouched on his desk as he opens his email.
Staff meeting, brown bag seminar, proofs of an accepted paper. The thing that catches Song Lan’s attention is a reservation ready email from the library. Monstrorum Historia. Medieval and Early Modern Night Monsters in Their Social and Historical Context, edited by Jane A. Davidson, 2015.
He’s been waiting for the volume for weeks. Pickup by December 13th at the latest. “I’ll skip the seminar. See you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he slips his laptop into his backpack and throws on his coat.
The courtyard is empty. Pale yellow light shines from the rows of office windows. It’s still snowing, the fine layer of ice crystals painting the cobblestones, bare trees and stuccoed buildings the same hue of frosty white. A gust of wind tugs at Song Lan’s coat before disappearing between the stone foundations of the early nineteenth-century houses. For a moment, he pictures the cold earth beneath their floors, the pieces of mortar and shards of broken glass buried in the soil. Rat skeletons and rusted nails.
The library is a couple of blocks away, warmly lit but quiet. The librarian is a young woman in a green sweater, so short that the desk reaches up to her chest. Song? Staff? May I see your library card please? The loan period is thirty days.
It isn’t until the girl has checked out the book and disappeared somewhere between the shelves that Song Lan realizes the volume in front of him is clearly not the edited collection of papers he requested. The title is correct—Monstrorum Historia—and the hold slip cites his name, but the blackened leather cover and brittle, yellowed pages tell a different story.
Song Lan tries to call the librarian back, but she’s vanished in the labyrinth of books as though she was never there. The space is silent and empty.
As Song Lan stands there, lights go off in the lobby. Snow and darkness inch a little closer. And just like that, he tucks the book carefully in his backpack and walks out.
December weeks are as busy as the days are lightless. Song Lan has an article deadline at the end of the month, and he needs to submit the reviewer corrections for another by the same date. Wen Qing is equally occupied, so it’s a frantic clatter of fingers tapping on keyboards and a constant influx of mugs of coffee and strong black tea in their office.
End-of-the-year deadlines are a popular topic of discussion in the break room too, in addition to holiday preparations and plans. Family gatherings and cottage Christmases, someone is going to Paris for a long weekend. Wen Qing will spend Christmas with her brother. Song Lan listens and nods politely. In the window’s dark mirror, his face is pale and impassive, like the Victorian death masks one of his colleagues studies.
In the evenings, he walks home through quiet, snowy streets. The streetlights near his building have been out for weeks; only the neon sign of the sex shop downstairs casts its red glow across the fresh white sheen on the ground as he sticks his key in the lock.
After dinner and a shower, he works on his paper. The Devil in Early Modern folk beliefs. The dark side of Christianity. Music blasts in his headphones.
The library loan has caused a complete re-structuring and re-orienting of his manuscript. A seventeenth-century printed book, it contains several succubus and incubus descriptions Song Lan hasn’t found in any of the research literature he has read. This could be the defining article of his career.
Incubi and succubi are demonic creatures, defined by their respective positions as a giver or a receiver in sexual intercourse occurring during their victim’s sleep. Their appearance, gender, and other details vary, but in general, repeated intercourse with them was believed to produce offspring of the Devil and/or lead to death (Kiessling 1977; Peterson 2002). An analysis of lesser-known succubus stories shows that these myths were not only expressions of Christian sexual ethics–
Song Lan saves the document and rolls his shoulders. It’s almost midnight. The wind howls outside the window. The street below is empty. A lone swirl of snow dances across it before disappearing around the corner. For a second, he imagines seeing a lithe figure, like a young boy in a long black overcoat, crossing the street, but when he blinks, there’s no one there. The snow is pristine, without footprints.
At night, he dreams that he’s walking along a vaulted corridor with white-chalked walls and closed doors on both sides—the cells of a monastery or a prison, he doesn’t know. As he walks, he trails his fingers along the wall. His feet are bare, the floor beneath them cold. It’s dark. Someone is calling for him, an urgent whisper—Come come come, come to me—but there’s no one there.
In the morning, the duvet lies on the floor. The sheets are wrapped around his chest so tight he can barely breathe. Between his legs, he’s sticky and wet.
It’s Saturday. Dawn after nine, and even then, the pale glow in the horizon barely counts as daylight. On the desk, the book lies open. In the woodcut print on the open page, a bird-footed creature straddles a sleeping man; its dark eyes seem to follow Song Lan around the apartment all day.
The department’s traditional Christmas lunch is on December eighteenth.
Wen Qing is wearing a red sequin top for the occasion. She’s beautiful in a quiet, classy way; a serious art history girl in black slacks and small diamond earrings.
“How’s work? Did you already submit your article manuscript?” Song Lan asks her as they stand in line for the buffet.
Wen Qing’s smile is a little brittle as she loads her plate with beet and pomegranate salad. “No, not yet. I’ll send it to my supervisor on Friday, and it will be her headache over the holidays,” she says.
The cafeteria is noisy, with red disposable cloths and LED candles on the tables for a festive mood. During the meal, the conversation meanders from upcoming funding calls to holiday plans and favorite chocolate cake recipes. A new PhD student is encouraged to talk about her research; on the other side of the table, someone tells about the Latin class he has enrolled in for fun.
Finally, as they’re getting coffee and gingerbreads for dessert, Song Lan blurts out his question. “Do you ever have nightmares about work?”
“Do I ever,” Wen Qing sighs and pours herself a cup of coffee. “Last night I dreamt that my manuscript was so bad my supervisor fed it to her dog.”
“Does she even have a dog?” Song Lan asks, handing her a carton of oat milk.
Wen Qing grimaces. “No.”
“See,” Song Lan says. “But seriously, I know you’ve done a great job. And I’m sure whatever feedback she’ll give will be kind and constructive.”
Wen Qing’s smile is small but genuine now. “I know, I know. She’s a darling, and I’m probably worrying for nothing.”
Then she looks at Song Lan. “What about you? You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Has a succubus started visiting you in your dreams?”
As she sees Song Lan’s expression, her ears turn pink. “Oh. Really?”
Song Lan feels his face flashing hot. He stares at the tea bag selection, fumbling for words. “No. Yeah. But it’s more like–”
He’s had… dreams.
They are in black and white and washed-out shades of gray. When he wakes up in the morning, his chest feels heavy as though someone’s sitting on it, and his pajama pants are sticky with shame.
Nightmares. Lucid dreams. Visions. He doesn't quite know what to call them.
Or perhaps he knows. As he’s writing about them all day.
Page after page. They pour out of him, the words, almost as if on their own, almost like he’s been possessed. With the new descriptions and illustrations he’s found, it’s all coming together. Altered states of consciousness and folk beliefs, monstrosity and shame. He’s on the verge of an important breakthrough, he can practically feel it in his fingertips–
Wen Qing looks at him, a concerned frown on her face. “You look tired. You’ve been working really hard lately. You should take a couple of days off. Forget all about night monsters and deadlines for a while. Get some rest. Go for a walk. I always find that fresh air helps me sleep better.”
Back at the table, she turns to Song Lan once more, lowering her voice. “And you need to return that book. Now. It needs to be in a library with proper environmental control. Not on your desk with tea cups and half-eaten sandwiches and god knows what else.”
She’s right. Of course she is; she has always been remarkably good at being correct. Song Lan should take a break. And he never should have taken the book home in the first place.
“A few more days is all I need,” he promises. “Then it’ll be nothing but pajamas, Christmas movies and frolics in the snow for a week straight.”
Around them, people are pushing back their chairs and getting their coats. Daylight is waning; the cafeteria is a brightly illuminated glass square surrounded by thickening darkness. A flock of jackdaws wheels in the air before landing on the roof of the opposite building, but Song Lan’s thoughts are already elsewhere.
They are with inky letters slithering across the page like snakes and fallen angels sticking their tongues out at him. With rustling pages that sound like a voice whispering. If he listens closely enough, he can almost hear what it’s saying.
Song Lan plans to return the book. He really does. But somehow, he keeps putting it off. He takes it home and keeps writing instead. Demonic possession, folk beliefs, zoomorphism. His fingers tap-tap-tap on the keyboard as the days pass, blurring into one another.
At night, the dreams keep coming.
Most nights, he goes to bed well past midnight. When he finally switches off the lights and turns to stare at the dark window, restlessness immediately begins to crawl under his skin.
Sometimes, it comes as soon as Song Lan falls asleep. It. The boy, for a boy it is. Song Lan stirs, and there it is, a dark figure at the foot of the bed. It’s clad in a black robe-like garment of ragged heavy silk and has a pair of dark eyes, like a bird’s. A sharp beak-like nose, even sharper little teeth on a blood-red lower lip. I know you want me, says its gaze. It climbs onto the bed, slowly crawls in between Song Lan’s legs. Silky fingers slip under the duvet and make their way up, up Song Lan’s thigh–
Other nights, the boy rides him. Its black hair falls down into Song Lan’s face as it slowly rocks on his cock, its palms splayed onto his sweaty chest. Candlelight flickers in its eyes; Song Lan can’t look away. They move as one, hips undulating, breathing together in the languid rhythm of lovemaking, and when Song Lan finally spills himself, the moan that oozes out of his mouth is thick and dark like tar.
Don’t be foolish. It was only a dream, he tells himself in the morning. He tries not to think of the red scratch marks he found on his thighs. At least the dark stains under his eyes when he looks in the mirror are easier to explain.
He settles at his desk and turns on his laptop. As he opens the book, he pictures the hands of the long-dead scholars who have turned its brittle pages. Men in worn-down wool and threadbare silk, hunched over their desks in faint candlelight. They believed witches and devils and other monsters were real, cataloging and classifying them in their books as meticulously as they studied strange plants and peculiar animals—feathers of rare birds, pretty trilobites and beautiful seashells coiled into delicate spirals.
One afternoon, he receives an email from the library. The standard Your loan is due notification, due date today, followed by a personalized message:
Dear Dr. Song, We are afraid there has been a mistake. The interlibrary loan you checked out two weeks ago is not the volume you requested. The book in your possession belongs to an ancient manuscripts collection and needs to be returned immediately. Would you be so kind and return it as soon as possible? We are sorry for the inconvenience.
Signed by Xiao Qing, Information Specialist. Annoyance rises in Song Lan. He clicks the browser closed as quickly as he can, turns off all notifications and goes back to work. Hybrid anatomy, sleep paralysis and sexual repression. Two more weeks. That's all he needs.
Another early evening, his phone rings, Wen Qing’s name flashing on the screen. Song Lan doesn’t pick up. A text arrives a few minutes later:
Hi Song Lan. How are you? On holiday already? I just called to say that you’re welcome to come over to ours if you want company for Christmas. We’ve got way too much mushroom Wellington and apple crumble for two. Just let me know, and I’ll pick you up. P.S. Wen Ning says hi too.
What day is it again? Song Lan has completely forgotten the upcoming holidays. He looks around. Empty mugs sitting on the desk. Post-its, notebooks. The book. Between its pages are tucked dozens of paper sheets to mark important passages and interesting illustrations. The phone lies forgotten on the desk as he continues writing:
Medical explanations for succubus and incubus myths have ranged from hysteria and psychosis to sleep paralysis, a state in which a disturbance of REM sleep causes the sleeper to become partially conscious (Lewis 1961; Cox et al. 2015)–
The freezing fog outside the window is murky and shapeless; down on the street, the sex shop’s neon sign glows in sinful red. On the page, a man in a nightgown lies on top of a boy with long hair and something feather-like growing on its thighs. A shudder runs through Song Lan’s body. He adds:
A succubus is a creature of the borderland between wakefulness and sleep. It does not pass through windows or doors, but seems to condense into its victim’s dream out of thin air, like mist. Yet, for a brief midnight moment, it becomes flesh and blood.
One night, Song Lan lies in bed, unable to sleep.
A westerly gale has brought high winds and wet snow. Out the window, sleet splatters against the glass and runs down as icy rivers and streams. Shadows shift in the ceiling. One moment, something dark seems to be taking shape in the corner of the room, but when Song Lan blinks, it’s only an armchair with clothes piled on it.
He presses his fingers to the hollows under his eyes. The dark smudges there look more and more like bruises with each sleepless night. He doesn’t want to stay awake; he doesn’t want to fall asleep.
Every time he closes his eyes, his own words come back to haunt him. Hybrid anatomy. Shame. Flesh and blood. Is he really dreaming about the article he’s writing? Or, is it in fact the other way around? Perhaps he’s writing an article about his dreams. With each passing night, the order of things seems less and less clear.
Two. Two thirty. Three. The wind howls down in the streets.
When he startles awake, it’s still dark. He jerks upright.
First, he thinks the sound is only the whisper or the wind outside. Then, a rush of warm air grazes his ear. It makes all the hair on his neck stand up.
Don’t think. Don’t resist. I’m only a dream.
Is that true? It doesn’t feel like a dream. Song Lan tries to speak, but it’s as though he’s paralyzed; not a sound comes out.
Something feather-light ghosts across his chest, and voice whispers, Good. Just like that. I’m only a dream. Your darkest dream. You know you can do whatever you want in your dreams.
Song Lan’s body is still not cooperating, but his eyes are wide open now, and he sees.
There's a hand grazing his nipple over his T-shirt and another sliding down his stomach. They slip under his t-shirt and coil around his waist. Soon, hot little fingers creep under the waistband of his pajama pants.
Don’t fight back. I know you want it.
Want what? What does Song Lan want?
His mind scrambles for an answer, but his body already knows.
With one sharp motion, he grabs the bird-boned wrist, turns around and uses his body weight to pin the creature to the bed. There’s a gasp as its back hits the mattress, a shaky exhale. Something flutters under Song Lan’s fingertips. A pulse? Or is it his own wild heartbeat, adrenaline tingling in his extremities? It’s very dark. His heart hammers in his chest.
Slowly, very slowly, he lets go of the being’s wrists. It stays still, its warm breath fanning across Song Lan’s face. Is it smiling? Song Lan imagines seeing a flash of sharp teeth in the dark. He reaches out a shaky hand and feels the being’s face. An ear, fragile and delicate like a spiral shell. Coarse hair. The nose is sharp, almost aquiline. His hand slides lower down. No ragged silk tonight, only a bare chest that rapidly rises and falls. Delicate ribs, pebbled nipples, a fluttering downy stomach–
With a sickening rush, he realizes he knows what he’s going to find down there. It isn’t knowledge of ink on paper either, it’s knowledge of a hand on warm skin, knowledge of the hungry dark blood pumping in his veins.
He pulls off his T-shirt, tosses it somewhere on the floor, and lunges back on top of the creature again. It emits a sharp burst of laughter, like the alarm call of a bird.
The downy softness of the being’s belly changes into a feather coat, sleek, almost oily, as his hand slides down onto its thigh. It spreads its legs. In between, hidden in a nest of feathers, Song Lan finds a swollen bulge, flushed and hard to the touch. The creature lets out a piercing sound when he rubs it with the heel of his hand. A little lower still is a soft opening, hot and wet on the inside.
A choked out sound escapes Song Lan, unruly and desperate. He yanks at the drawstrings of his pajama pants and pulls them down onto his thighs. His cock springs out, stiff and hot with blood. The creature laughs, a shrill, wild trill. A red light throbs behind Song Lan’s eyes as he blindly pokes his erection between its legs.
With an ugly grunt, he finally manages to shove his cock in; the creature’s laughter morphs into a hoarse cry. Its feathery legs wrap around his waist, and the night closes its dark wings around them.
Dawn comes, pale and inevitable. Song Lan wakes up with chilly feet and a heavy chest.
The sleep that still lingers is thick and stuffy. The dreams are getting worse, is his first thought. He should have listened to Wen Qing and returned the book. He can’t remember when was the last time he did something other than work on his paper.
It’s too late now, says a little voice in his head, and Song Lan blinks his eyes open.
The snow swirling outside the window is the first thing he sees. He sits up. The bed is a mess, the sheets twisted and creased. He’s naked, his clothes scattered across the floor.
No.
Pulse racing, he scrambles up. Fumbles for his pants on the floor. There are marks on his thighs, thin red lines like cat scratches. He looks away, finds a wrinkled T-shirt. As he’s pulling it on, he sees angry bruises the size of fingertips dotting his shoulders and upper arms.
No. No.
His stomach twists. The bed draws his gaze like a magnet. Rumpled sheets, a bunched-up duvet. Is there someone lying under it? A delicate hand peeking out, a strand of black hair?
No no no.
Song Lan turns on his heels. He’s in the hallway now. Coat. Boots. He goes back only to pick the book from the desk, stuffs it into his backpack, and then he’s out the door.
It’s a ghost city outside, streets buried in ankle-deep snow with treacherous ice beneath. The wind throws Song Lan’s hair around and sneaks under his wool coat as he blindly trudges ahead, but he doesn’t care—at least the sharp little ice crystals blowing on his face keep his racing thoughts at bay.
But even the blizzard can’t stop the memories coursing through his mind. The strange sex in its feathery nest. The feeling of sinking his cock into the slick opening. The pleasure curling up his spine.
His mind recoils, but his skin remembers—it remembers the body that trembled under his hands in dizzying detail.
On campus, the library is dark, its doors closed. It takes several yanks on the handle before he finally accepts it really is closed. He realizes he doesn't even know what day it is. But maybe there's a staff door at the back? Or a returns box? Around the corner, one of the windows is faintly lit. As he peeks in, Song Lan imagines seeing a flash of a green sweater, but when he knocks on the door, no one answers.
The department is as quiet as the library. Closed doors, dark windows that look like blank eyes staring into the snow-covered courtyard. A lone crow sits on the roof, cocking its head when it sees Song Lan standing there. As he looks back where he came from, snow has already covered his tracks.
Snowflakes swirl wildly in the air. Song Lan rummages in his pockets for the keycard, but his numb fingers find his phone instead. There’s an unanswered call from Wen Qing, several messages from the following days. The last one is short:
Just wanted to check in for one last time. Could you let me know you’re okay when you can?
An image of her, phone in hand, standing somewhere in a room full of people, flashes through Song Lan’s mind. Clinking glasses, laughter and chatter in the background.
He can’t imagine himself in the room with her. He can’t imagine himself in a room like that ever again.
He pictures her face furrowing into a frown. She’d probably tell him to see a doctor. A scoff escapes him. A prescription and a handshake, what good would that do? Demonic possession falls more into the Church’s expertise anyway. Except all they do these days are Christmas carol sing-alongs and weddings. Your lips are like a scarlet thread, and your mouth is lovely.
A choked-out sound, like a hysterical laugh, forces its way out of his throat. What is he doing here? He’s not going to find reason and orderliness in these houses and empty courtyards, no salvation either. It’s just him and… the boy now.
Come come come, come to me, whispers a voice in the wind. He turns around and heads back to the labyrinth of the city streets.
As he’s walking, the snowfall gets heavier. A city of ghosts, he thinks as he looks back only to see that fresh snow has already covered his tracks as though he was never there. The park he crosses used to be a plague cemetery, and in the neighboring block, there once was a hanging place. A dull sound echoes from somewhere, like death bells tolling, but it’s soon drowned by the howling snowstorm.
He’s lost track of time and his sense of direction when he finally sees a crimson light glowing in the dark. Red neon light spills onto the snow like blood, and he knows he’s come home.
Upstairs, the apartment is unlit, its corners bathed in shadows. The creature sits on the windowsill, looking out. When Song Lan enters, it turns its head, eyes oil-black and luminous. Its lips glisten. Like a scarlet thread, crosses Song Lan’s mind. In the dark, it almost looks like blood.
Song Lan’s heart beats in his chest.
There’s a sharp-toothed smile. A faint rustle of feathers.
The spiral shell of an ear.
His hand trembles only a little when he lays it on the dark plumage.
On the bed, he spreads his legs and throws his head back. There’s his own voice, Come come come. Oh fuck. Please. Now. Sharp nails scratch his thighs, wet mouth presses a kiss after another onto his heaving stomach. A candle flickers on the table. Between his legs, his cock stands stiff and flushed dark with bad blood.
The boy’s eyes fall shut when it closes its mouth around Song Lan’s cockhead and starts sucking. Dark lashes flutter on its cheeks. Song Lan twines his fingers in its hair and pulls it all the way down.