Ravenna

'This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.'—Lord Byron

I do not quite know how best to describe, with full acknowledgment, the succession of events that transpired with Ravenna, except to say that my recollection of her life has always remained indelible. The notion of Ravenna’s resuscitation was deemed unnatural, yet the prefiguration of that actuality had been proven. For centuries, mankind has sought the ultimate answer to the riddle that has most perplexed him: could the dead truly be reanimated to live once more upon the earth?

Even if such contemplative notions were attributed to fanciful imagination, the mere thought of such an occurrence was enough to make me conscious of its chilling plausibility. If the deceased were indeed to rise from the grave, then how could Ravenna’s resuscitation be explained in scientific terms? Perhaps it was a phenomenon not meant to be construed as purely scientific, but more praeternatural.

I shall attempt to expound my hypothesis on this matter through the narrative I present here—an account of the phantasmagorical episodes of horror that I endured following the disconcerting death of my beloved Ravenna, whom I loved with all the fervour my heart could kindle, as a man of profound affection.

Know that I make this private disclosure of an ineffable tale to serve a singular purpose: to record, with candid admission, the resuscitation of the one being I cherished above all else—Ravenna. She was my burning heart and soul, and her unexpected death tormented me daily, with a piacular grief that I could not efface, its bitter effects and circumstances haunting my every waking hour and breath.

After a week, we had left Geneva and Dr Kauffman behind, and I had rented a small villa in a remote village of the Valle d'Aosta—the Aosta Valley—nestled in the Alps of northern Italy, near the Swiss border. It was an idyllic setting by a mountain lake, surrounded by the extensive plateau and steep slopes of the region. It was to be a delightful time for both of us, as we had planned our long-awaited honeymoon in that part of the Alps. My name is Gianluca Lombardi, an accomplished Italian physician and anatomist.

For years, I had studied meticulously, first as a student and then as a physician, exploring distinct fields of medicine and science, drawn particularly to the research into the intrinsic composition of the human anatomy. I cannot say with precision when my fascination with the mysterious nature of the human body truly began to take hold.

In all my days prior, I could not have conceived the inconceivable—the resurrection of Ravenna—as anything but fantasy. As a young Catholic boy, raised devoutly within the Church, my peculiar interests were often considered a morbid fascination with the darker aspects of contemporary thought and scientific enquiry.

The mortal earth was our terrestrial paradise, and our unbroken union was to be the eternal sanctuary of our unwavering affection for each other in life. Ravenna was the radiant light that brightened my existence, but fate would decree that her mortal breath would one day expire in tragic fashion.

I hearken now to the matinal sounds of the bracing Alpine winds, which have eclipsed the once serene village that sheltered our earthly pleasures and diversions. To relive the interminable satisfaction of those whimsical days of yore, I would exchange my very soul for but a fleeting glimpse of Ravenna once more.

Hitherto, I dread to recall the fatal hour of Ravenna’s death on that memorable day, yet I must relate her merciless fate, for the sake of her blemished memory. It occurred on a spring day in the month of April, when the sunlight’s glint was particularly bright and reflective. Ravenna had always been fond of the countryside since her childhood, having been born amidst the majestic surroundings of the Alps.

We had met in Switzerland several years prior, where our passion blossomed into a devotion that seemed unquestionable and unmatched. To many of our acquaintances, we were the epitome of a perfect couple—modern-day Romeo and Juliet—but alas, our time together on this earth was cruelly brief. On that tragic day of Ravenna’s death, we were in the villa’s garden, frolicking in mirth and gaiety, until she suddenly collapsed on to the ground. I thought at first that she had merely fainted in a momentary swoon.

When I approached her, however, she was already dead. What I had not known was the severity of the weakened state of her heart, which had silently led to her untimely demise. I acted at once, attempting desperately to revive her lifeless heart, but it was impossible. Though I was a man of medicine, there was nothing I could do to bring her back to life, much as I willed it with every fibre of my being.

After I had failed to revive her jovial beauty and grace, I could not yield to the ultimate course of its mournful finality. I refused to bury her or to accept the grim fact of her passing. Caught in the turmoil of my troubled thoughts and sorrow, I pondered every option that might seem, to my anguished mind, even remotely valid.

That day and evening were consumed entirely by a singular obsession: Ravenna’s resuscitation. When an indifferent God turned a deaf ear to my fervent supplications, I usurped His place. I became as God and dared to attempt the resurrection of a fellow human being. But in bringing Ravenna back from the mysterious chasm of death, I was blind to the terrible truth—that I was awakening a malevolent force, a dark terror waiting to unfold.

Blinded by my unconditional love for her, I was determined to sell my soul to the devil himself if it meant reclaiming her. Instead of burying her in the local cemetery, I filled a coffin with heavy stones to resemble the weight of her body. A headstone was erected, bearing her name in vivid inscription, and to the villagers, she was truly and irrevocably dead.

The next night, whilst I was in our bedchamber, I glanced at her pallid body, laid out in a bed of crystal salt, surrounded by red roses that I had so carefully arranged. In that moment of quiet contemplation, the elusive answer finally revealed itself to me: I was going to use raw electricity to make her heart beat once more.

It seemed that, after much deliberation, I had devised a method. Yet the question remained—was this experiment I intended to undertake even plausible? The undeniable result would depend upon certain factors intrinsic to the complex nature of death itself.

As a physician, I was well aware of the recent discoveries in science and medicine of the late 18th century. I had heard of a curious practice known as Galvanism—the stimulation of muscle contractions through the application of electric currents—discovered by the Italian scientist Luigi Galvani.

He had demonstrated the remarkable effects of electricity on dissected animals during the 1780s and 1790s, famously experimenting on the legs of a frog. Using a copper probe and a piece of iron simultaneously, he succeeded in making the frog’s legs twitch in response to the electric currents he had channelled.

I had read of Galvani’s discovery of bioelectromagnetics, which demonstrated that electricity was the medium through which neurons transmitted signals to the muscles, and I had also studied the fascinating discovery of the voltaic pile by another Italian scientist, Alessandro Volta.

I was well acquainted with static electricity, its stimulation of the nerves, and its primary function. I believed I could send electric shocks to the muscle of Ravenna’s heart until it beat once again, thereby averting any unforeseen circadian dysrhythmia.

Thus, my first actual attempt to resuscitate Ravenna was set to occur the day after her death. It was an immeasurable act of utter desperation and uncertainty, in which I intended to replicate the procedure utilised by Galvani. That night, I proceeded with my audacious experiment, fully aware that time was no longer my ally; for beyond the stage of rigor mortis, the inevitable process of decomposition would begin to take effect.

I then kept her body hidden in a large retainer, covered meticulously in crystal salt. I perfumed her remains with a local aromatic fragrance, strong enough to mask any initial signs of sphacelate putrefaction. I could not endure watching her languish in that atrocious state of utter expiry. Her brunneous eyes and the long, lustrous hair that once framed her Mediterranean olive-toned skin had begun to fade gradually, overtaken by the ghostly pallor that now shadowed her once-vivacious complexion. To me, Ravenna was my Roman goddess of verecundity, whom I revered endlessly, and I gazed—unsettled and haunted—at the motionless form of her disquieting placidity.

I dismissed the few servants who had attended us, ensuring there were no witnesses to observe my grim medical undertaking. The main components of my experiment required metal rods, and I was aware that the human body produced electricity, allowing synapses and signals to activate the heart.

I ventured into the village to procure the rods, paying a wealthy merchant who, to my relief, asked no questions regarding my intentions. Within an hour, I was ready to proceed. Carefully, I prepared for the significant task of resuscitating my beloved Ravenna. I inserted the metal rods into her mouth and ears, aligning everything with precision.

I waited—watching intently—for any sign of reaction, hoping the static electricity would provoke some physical response. At first, nothing transpired. But then, minutes later, her right fingers gave a faint twitch, followed by a tremor in her left leg. Suddenly, Ravenna’s eyes sprang open wide, and her radiant gaze shone once more.

I approached her as she lay upon the table, straining to detect the faintest heartbeat that might confirm her miraculous resuscitation. Pressing my ear close, I listened intently—then, astonishingly, I heard it: the unmistakable thrum of life, however fragile, within her chest. The evidence of her return stirred a wild exhilaration in my own heart, a surge of hope. Yet tragically, her revival proved fleeting.

Her eyes, now bright with renewed colour, seemed to lock on to mine, as if she acknowledged my desperate presence, my unwavering devotion.

As I have already confessed, her resurrection was brief and incomplete. In my blind, unyielding love, I had overlooked the unforgettable thing that doomed her from the start: her weakened heart. Consumed by obsession, I had failed to recognise that her frail organ could not endure the force of life, no matter how valiantly I tried to reignite it.

Though her heart had beaten, and palpable signs of vitality coursed through her body, they were not enough to sustain meaningful existence. My efforts, in the end, amounted to failure. What I had summoned was no true resurrection—only a transient, reflexive stir of her muscles, a cruel illusion of revival. The magical glimpses of her longed-for return dissolved swiftly, leaving her once more rigid and unresponsive, as she had been before my fateful experiment.

Was I descending into madness, believing I could truly revive a lifeless corpse? Did I simply want to believe it—to convince myself that Ravenna could be drawn back from the abhorrent abyss of death? Surely, it was unthinkable, even sacrilegious, yet I could not relinquish the notion that such a miracle might still be wrought. I stood dumbfounded, grappling with bitter disbelief, for I had calculated every detail of the experiment to succeed.

I had envisioned Ravenna’s celestial return, but it was her corporeal essence I had failed to properly account for in preparing the experiment. Her fragile heart had ceased its beating once more, and there seemed little left for me to do but accept the inescapable fact: she was truly dead.

My thoughts turned to her esteemed parents, who would undoubtedly expect a proper Christian burial for their beloved daughter. I also had to confront the practical matter: how could I possibly conceal her body from the vigilant eyes of the villagers, ever watchful and suspicious of strangers, especially after the news of her death?

It was then that my mind drifted to a distinct recollection: the Resurrectionists of England, those grim figures who had built their livelihoods on the theft of corpses from local graveyards. Employed by anatomists eager for cadavers to dissect, they prowled neglected cemeteries under the cover of night, stealing the bodies of the impoverished, whose resting places were all too vulnerable to such desecration.

But the nagging question remained—where might I find such a figure here, in Switzerland or Italy? I was unfamiliar with any sexton or undertaker in the nearby village who might be persuaded, discreetly or otherwise.

As I pondered, my mind wandered back to my university days, when I was a prodigious student of medicine. I had pored over countless books on human anatomy and the art of resuscitation. It was well known that human cadavers had been dissected by physicians as early as the 3rd century BC, and that by the 16th century, in places like Scotland and England, anatomical study had become a vital, if macabre, part of medical advancement.

It was said that Leonardo da Vinci had secretly dissected numerous corpses, and I myself had studied De humani corporis fabrica by the 16th-century Flemish anatomist Andreas Vesalius. I had been extremely precocious as a child, and though my intelligence often soared, it sometimes outpaced my cautious intuition.

The following morning, driven by determination, I ventured into the village to seek a sexton amongst the bucolic peasants. There stood a small Gothic church, its cloister’s columns casting deep shadows across the polygonal inner wall of the apse, adorned with intricate mosaics, and crowned by a Renaissance bell tower—the campanile. The village, once part of the Cisalpine Republic, bore the same Roman marble and medieval brick cement that echoed the architecture of many structures in the village centre.

The village’s unique setting was a stark contrast to the congested cities of England, which I had visited numerous times before. Here, the acanthus leaves seemed omnipresent, and the grazing pasturelands stretched out beneath steep, rocky terrain, as clear and open as the lofty alpine chalets above them.

The language of the herdsmen varied—a tapestry of distinct dialects and tongues: Arpitan, Romansh, French, German, and Italian. Truly, it was a mélange of diversified cultures woven into the fabric of this remote corner of Europe.

I was fortunate to locate a gravedigger, a man whose face revealed a hardened familiarity with death’s dealings. I paid him the equivalent of five shillings—or eight guineas—for both his labor and his silence. He requested, with a certain gravity, that his name remain undisclosed, and I readily agreed to his condition.

The chosen body was placed into a suitable container, carefully salted and preserved, then transported by wagon to my villa’s cellar for storage. The gravedigger detailed his method: using dark lanthorns for concealment and a wooden spade to quietly unearth the corpse. He and another reliable gentleman hoisted the body, completing the task within thirty minutes. They had encountered no real obstacles, nor had they been spotted under cover of night.

Most solitary graves, he explained, lacked the protective iron safes designed to thwart body snatchers, leaving the coffins vulnerable. The man’s demeanour did not seem perfidious; he conducted himself with the unflinching professionalism of one accustomed to grim duties, and he was duly rewarded for his critical service.

Once the gravedigger departed from the villa, I was alone again with my clandestine ambition. I prepared to undertake, yet again, the daring experiment I had so feverishly envisioned.

This time, however, I was convinced of the necessary refinements. I felt a heightened sense of readiness—for I knew with growing certainty that life without Ravenna was intolerable. Surely, I thought, it was God’s volition that she should return to the earth alive.

The process, as before, involved electrical charges and the metal rods, but I had now grasped a crucial realisation: Ravenna herself was the conduit—the living conductor, as Volta had demonstrated in his studies. My calculations had brought me to a pivotal conclusion: it was the brain that required electricity—the immense flow of electrons that might awaken its dormant pathways.

The signals needed to be transmitted to the brain as well; it was not enough merely to activate the heart. I had to generate natural electricity in sufficient measure to secure ultimate success. Without it, Ravenna would perish forever, and utter failure would be the bitter consequence.

Before I could attain any proficient result from the experiment, I was compelled to perform a surgical procedure requiring the extraction of the heart from the unknown individual whose corpse had been deliberately exhumed from the graveyard.

As a qualified surgeon, I fulfilled that prerequisite with utmost precision. After removing the heart from the stranger, I implanted it into the body of Ravenna. Her original heart, which I had previously extracted, was preserved in a large storage jar for the nonce. There lingered a residual pungency of death from the exposed corpse, the odour unmistakable and ghastly.

Thus, I had to act swiftly, before the transplanted heart deteriorated beyond any hope of function—if such a feat were feasible at all. In the brief span since Ravenna’s death, I had devised an innovative mechanical contrivance, designed to channel massive bolts of lightning to strike the metal rods I had implanted, in the hope of reviving her.

Fortunately for me, there was an imminent storm looming on the horizon, which had already wrought its presence upon the Alps and the village. It was precisely at around ten o’clock at night when a brilliant force of lightning struck, coinciding with the moment the metal rods, implanted in the mouth, ears, feet, arms, and torso of Ravenna, were activated. I was gravely concerned by the sheer magnitude of voltage generated by the lightning, which could quite feasibly ignite a devastating fire.

The prospect of the villa erupting into a towering inferno was all too real, posing a serious threat to my vital endeavour. I found myself at the unpredictable mercy of the consequences of my actions, and the fickle collaboration of science. I stood at a distance, observing the operation with growing trepidation, whilst an ineffable sense of uncertainty engulfed me. Beads of perspiration pooled on my brow, and my expression must have betrayed sheer horror as I witnessed Ravenna rise from the dead.

At first, her fingers twitched, then her legs. Soon, the rest of her torso followed as her bosom heaved with breath. At last, she opened her virginal eyes—eyes of magnificent beauty—and drew a deep inhalation.

I approached her cautiously, and she gazed directly into my own eyes with an endearing smile that utterly bewitched my overjoyed heart once more. I paused, struggling to comprehend the incomprehensible occurrence that had unfolded before me.

My astonished countenance surely revealed the bewilderment I felt at witnessing her immaculate rebirth. She slowly rose from the table, stepping tentatively onto her bare feet. It was an immutable fact—she was alive once more. Tears of disbelief and rapture rolled uncontrollably down my cheeks. I longed to embrace her, to hold her close, but I was uncertain whether she was strong enough to endure it. Thus, I resisted the profound temptation to clasp her in my arms and kiss her.

That night, she rested in the comfort of our bedchamber, where I kept watch over her, monitoring her condition and offering her my incessant devotion and passion. I could not help but gaze at her, though she spoke no words nor seemed to desire anything from me.

Her body temperature was normal, and her heart continued to beat steadily. She appeared weary, exhibiting a natural stupor that seemed to be expected. I could not ascertain whether her mental and emotional faculties had fully returned, but in the hours following the experiment, I discerned that she was struggling to regain those fundamental human functions and the clarity of sentience. It was imperative that she endure the first twenty-four hours, as only then could I deem the experiment a definite success.

Thankfully, Ravenna had survived the night. The following morning, as the birds chirped merrily by the mullioned wrought-iron casement that framed the window, she awoke from her slumber, inhaling the fresh, earthy air of the vast fields that lay beneath the towering Alps.

The profound and lugubrious anguish I had once felt at her death was now replaced by the joyous nature of her angelic return. The scent of the countryside, thick with the perfume of the earth, filled the air, drawing our immediate attention. Her sublime gaze met mine—a delightful surprise that struck me to my core.

Even though she still did not speak, I understood her desire to see the countryside. This was a present peril, for the villagers knew she had died, and seeing her alive would undoubtedly stir their foolish superstitions of the wandering dead.

Consequently, I disguised Ravenna’s appearance so that she might jaunt with me across the countryside, taking every precaution to avoid her being noticed by the villagers. That afternoon, we spent our time in the one place I felt was secluded and private. There stood an abandoned abbey, hidden in the extremity of the Alps. Once we arrived, we entered the deserted monastery and beheld the vaulted chambers, the spiral stairway, the carved arches, and the myriad of mosaics, all medieval in their composition. I saw unmistakable contentment in Ravenna’s eyes, as they resonated with the deep emotion of renewed life.

I noticed that the darkness and cold inside the monastery weakened her into an enfeebled state. The vibrant sunlight outside, by contrast, seemed to strengthen her vigour and bodily resistance. We returned to the villa, where Ravenna reposed and gradually regained her vitality. Nonetheless, her uncertain health preoccupied me, and at times I sensed her delicate nature and a strange indifference towards me.

I prayed fervently that her heart would not cease to beat and that she might live until old age. But for how long? Was it merely an illusion to believe she could resume a normal life? She remained susceptible to the cold draughts of the Alps and the sable nights that brought the whistling winds, which frightened her. I imagined that her fears were rooted in the horrendous time she had endured in death.

Two days had passed, and I noticed that Ravenna’s health was deteriorating, and she was dying. She struggled greatly to breathe, and her beautiful face was consumed by a wretched pallor that I loathed. I discovered, after speaking to the gravedigger, that the heart which had been placed into Ravenna’s body had belonged to a sick man who had died of phthisis.

Once I was informed of this startling disclosure, I made certain that I would extricate the damaged heart Ravenna was using and replace it with another healthy and sturdy heart that was more vigorous. That night, I paid the gravedigger to find me another heart, this time from a young woman, as women were known to outlive men in those days. There were not many young, robust women from the village to select from amongst the dead, and that was my dilemma. All I cared about was prolonging the life of my beloved Ravenna.

When I placed the fresh heart of the next corpse into Ravenna’s body, it was reanimated by electricity and began to beat normally. It seemed that this time there would be no mysterious complications. I hired new servants from outside the region, from different parts of Italy, to tend to Ravenna whilst I worked on my research into the experiment to prolong her life. A month had passed since Ravenna had been resuscitated, but there was no precedent for this experiment.

Therefore, the only thing that had been established of this nature was what I had speculated in my theory. Ravenna’s life appeared to be progressing in a favourable manner, and we continued our stay at the villa. We sallied forth amongst the Alps daily, and Ravenna’s name and memory amongst the villagers gradually faded with time.

One day, her health began to worsen, and her appearance also deteriorated. She had become too weak and gaunt from the troubling affliction that had started to overtake her health. I examined her and discovered that she was suffering from an acute form of phthisis, which was untreatable.

Tragically, this illness meant inevitable death. How was I to tell Ravenna that she was going to die once more? The daunting thought of my world crumbling with another loss of Ravenna drove me to the brink of sanity and helpless rage. I never imagined that my obsession with saving her would cost the life of another living person.

Unknown to me at the time was the fact that Ravenna had killed the young servant girl, Luciana. I discovered her body lying dead on the floor; Ravenna had torn out her heart with a knife and held it in her hand to show me. She said nothing but looked at me, insinuating that I should place the servant girl’s heart into her body, as I had done before with others. I was aghast at the entire scene and the shocking occurrence; I could not accept the damnable act that had been committed.

The other servants were not present, as they lived in the village, and Luciana was the only person staying with us in the villa, in her own quarters. She had been tending to Ravenna’s needs. I knew I had to save Ravenna from being apprehended by the municipal police.

I disposed of the body in the nearby river during the late hours of the night, when the villagers were asleep. If the body were found, the villagers would believe the heart had been torn out by a wild animal—a wolf would be suspected. I planned to take Ravenna to central Italy and escape the Alps, but she was too fatigued and attenuated to travel far, having already traipsed.

Then I took her to the solitary monastery, where I could hide her from the danger posed by the municipal police. I could not find a hidden passage to escape. If the observant villagers discovered that she had killed the servant girl, and that I had unearthed the dead bodies of their loved ones, it would likely stir them into an impassioned uproar. The palladium of the monastery, with its quadrels near the ancient columns, had sheltered her.

I made a small fire from the boughs outside and the worn books left behind in the monastery. It was enough to keep Ravenna’s body warm and steady, but her wan appearance was worsening by the hour, and a sudden desperation and hopelessness began to creep into me.

The complete darkness of the night perturbed her continuously, along with the strange sounds of the whistling wind, the animals in the vicinity, and the liquid murmur of the stream’s water. I sensed the feckless hope of saving her, as she declined in the terrible condition that was rapidly consuming her will and body.

She was too ill and frail for another surgical operation, which in any case would not guarantee her survival. I was racked with insurmountable guilt and wracked by doubt, not knowing what to do. On one hand, as a physician, my mind knew it was no longer possible to continue replacing her heart, since the rest of her body was already badly affected by the contagion of the disease.

As her devoted husband, my heart urged me to keep her alive at any cost—even if that meant replacing the heart once more. I had everything prepared, with the exception of the lightning bolts of an impending storm. I believed there was no other way, and time was running out for Ravenna. I comforted her in my arms with a warm, soothing blanket before the flickering flame of the fire, wrapped with the alligation of our love.

As I held her tightly, I heard the sounds of thunder and saw the fulguration of an approaching pluvious storm, but it was too late—for Ravenna was stone dead. My hands touched her softened strands of black hair for the last time, and for the last time, I gazed upon her large, brown, oval eyes, which stared at me with a haunting look. Ravenna had succumbed to the fatal effects of phthisis. I contemplated reanimating her with the heart of the servant girl.

The next morning, I buried her in an anonymous patch of earth near the abandoned abbey, with a headstone that simply bore the name Ravenna. I omitted the surname Toscano, since she was already officially buried in the local cemetery under the name Ravenna Toscano.

The villa, once vibrant with her presence, had become an oppressive mausoleum of silence. I wandered its echoing halls aimlessly, a hollow man adrift in a world now stripped of all meaning. Every corner seemed imbued with her spirit—the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the delicate imprint of her figure on the faded chaise longue, her books left open as though she might return to them at any moment. But she would not. The cold finality of that truth pressed upon me with unbearable weight.

Nights were the worst. Alone in the vast emptiness of my chamber, I would lie awake, my mind tormented by visions of her—sometimes radiant and laughing, sometimes pale and still, as she had been at the end. I would reach out instinctively, seeking her warmth beside me, only to clutch at empty sheets that mocked my yearning. The darkness seemed alive with her absence, a palpable void that whispered of my failure, my folly in believing that I could cheat death and keep her with me.

Often I found myself seated by the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows upon the walls, a glass of brandy untouched at my side. I would stare into the flames for hours, searching for meaning, for solace, but none came. I spoke to her sometimes, aloud, as though she were simply in another room and might answer if I just waited long enough. But my words dissolved into the silence, unanswered and echoing with bitter futility.

Her rooms remained untouched. I dared not disturb them, as though preserving the delicate chaos of her belongings might somehow tether her spirit to this earth. I would stand at her doorway, paralysed, my hand resting lightly upon the frame, straining to hear a whisper, a sigh—anything. But only the creak of ancient wood and the restless sigh of the wind answered me.

The villagers, too, had retreated into forgetfulness, or perhaps polite avoidance. No one spoke of Ravenna now; her name had faded from the collective memory as though she had never existed. It was as if I alone bore the burden of remembrance, trapped in a ceaseless vigil to a love that was now dust and shadow.

In my loneliest moments, I questioned everything—my science, my purpose, even my own sanity. Had I played God, only to be reminded cruelly of my own mortality and impotence? I could no longer tell. What I did know was that Ravenna, my beloved Ravenna, was lost to me forever, and all that remained was the aching hollow of her absence—a void no invention of man could ever fill.

And so I lingered in the villa, a ghost amongst ghosts, my days a blur of mourning and regret, my nights consumed by dreams that left me more shattered upon waking. Time itself seemed to move strangely, as though it, too, were reluctant to proceed without her. Yet deep within, I understood: this was my punishment, my reckoning. To have loved so fiercely, and to have lost so utterly.

And in that desolate silence, I remained—alone, waiting for a peace that might never come.

I knew no one in this world would believe that she had risen from the pit of death—but risen she had, again! When I thought she was finally dead and interred, she rose up after a week, from where I had buried her outside the deserted monastery, to haunt me so dreadfully and passionately. I was lost in the heartfelt depths of my mourning, alone with the horrible memory of Ravenna’s recent death, amid the lingering scent of a snuffed candle’s gnast.

As I stood in the main hall of the villa, observing the only portrait of her ever drawn, I heard an ambiguous and plangent wailing nearby. Then, from an inconspicuous silhouette, a peculiar shadow of a singular, uninhibited figure emerged. I approached the source of the resounding echo and gloom, and discovered it was the deceased corpse of the hyaline Ravenna, standing before me in an advanced state of decomposition. I was utterly horrified by her deathlike, cadaverous guise of pallidity, which was unmistakable.

She was covered from head to toe in the familiar soil in which she had been buried, and her clothing reeked of the hideous odour of the graveyard. The genuine detachment of her once exquisite beauty was all too evident, replaced by the abominable appearance of death. She opened her mouth and, at last, uttered a daunting cry of my name that chilled me to the core: ‘Gialunca!’

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