Crimson Hunger

By Anan Tello

Back from the grave, Ian develops an unusual disorder. He is haunted by an eerie woman and a hunger for the blood of one person: his best friend... and murderer?

He leaves London in 2014 and sets off on a treacherous journey in war-torn Syria to quench his thirst for revenge. In Damascus, he meets Ada, a struggling, peculiar Syrian artist, who promises to help him find peace but gets unwillingly trapped in his vindictive quest.

The journey takes an unexpected turn and Ian and Ada fall prey to savage human traffickers and drug dealers with whom Syria is infested. They manage to escape at times but end in the hands of an international drug lord who has a personal interest in them.

Ian continues to be haunted by his hunger for blood and revenge. How will his journey end and what will become of him and his companion?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anan Tello
• Release date: Jun 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386925163

Anan Tello

Anan Tello is a Syrian writer, journalist, blogger and artist.  She was born and raised in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where she studied Computer Science and worked at several multinational corporations until 2014 when she decided to move to her city of origin, Damascus, during the war in 2014, study Media Communications and pursue a career in journalism and content creation.  Crimson Hunger is her first published novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He opened his eyes to a blurry image which he ever so slowly recognized as a pair of hairy lips twitching in an intimidating manner and unveiling greenish, crooked teeth decorated with black and beige tartar. All he could hear was a loud, painful ringing paralyzing his ears. His head felt as if it's been pressed in between a troll's giant hands and rocked repeatedly, and his chest was hollow. His limbs and nose were ice-cold and his right side, on which he lay, felt wet, freezing and almost paralyzed.

He licked his chapped lips then swallowed hard. His mouth was dry as if about to crack. The smell of blood, sulfur and burning flesh filled his throat alongside a metallic taste. He shut his eyes for a second and lay on his back before he opened them again to an image still clouded as if he were lying under the surface of clear water inspecting the sky above—a sky filled with grey clouds raining mortar shells.

Clear voices started to find their way to his eardrums, and he wished they didn't. People were screaming uncontrollably as they hysterically ran in different directions while others either stared with their eyes widely open or lay motionless on the ground. To his right, a little boy's traumatized body jolted repeatedly and his mouth ejected blood. Despite that, the boy was calm, completely surrendering to his fate.

He's my brother, a feminine, husky voice said, as if whispering a prayer from inside a deep well. He closed his eyes, hoping to wake up from the nightmare.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder and he jerked his eyelids open. Stay away from me, he snapped, his voice hollow, but not as loud as he imagined.

What's your name, sir? a woman staring into his eyes asked in a soothing tone.

Ian O'Connor, he obediently replied, surrendering to what seemed to be the bright side of death.

Ian, she said, I am Ada Hawaja, and I'm taking you somewhere safe. You're welcome.

IAN'S EYES WERE MET with a bright off-white color that made him squint. He touched it. It felt soft and cold. His body was in bliss. Bit by bit, he began to fathom his surroundings, or simply that he was in a bed, facing a dull wall. His body felt as if it were floating on water and his mind, although a bit groggy, was at peace. A soft, warm quilt hugged him so tightly he could make love to it.

It's about time you got out of bed, he heard a woman say, so he turned around and instantly jumped.

A lady stood at the room's door dressed in white sheets like a ghost, revealing only her face. An oval, slim face that was remarkably beautiful like that of a mythical goddess.

Is this Purgatory? 

Prepare thyself for judgement, the lady said with a note of finality in her voice before she turned around and disappeared from Ian's sight.

Ian's lips turned white as if life were sucked out of them. His jaw dropped and his eyes grew wider.

He heard the woman chuckle before he saw her walk back into the room, Probably worse, she said, welcome to Damascus!

Ian's mouth hung open. He was silent and motionless like an ice sculpture.

Get up! I've prepared dinner, she said, There is a bathroom to the left at the end of the corridor outside this room. Gussy up and come upstairs.

Still shocked, Ian got out of bed as soon as the woman left. He found himself dressed in a white undershirt and plaid baby blue cotton pants. The room was remarkably small, but enchanting and homey. There was a pink and mint Persian carpet on the floor, the bed was bulky but not very wide and covered with mint and white sheets. There was an oil stove in the corner, but no fire was burning inside, and beige curtains draped over a wide window above the bed.

He followed the woman's directions, stepped out of the room, turned left, walked down the corridor and entered the bathroom which was also small; he could reach everything just by turning around and without the need to move his feet. There were clean towels hanging nearby, a small shower area with a purple, floral plastic curtain, a shiny white sink and a large square mirror hanging above it. A post-it on the mirror read, Look around. There is everything you need. They are clean and new. It was signed with a smiley face that had cross eyes and a tongue sticking out.

He smiled then looked at the sink, avoiding to see his reflection in the mirror, and found on the corner a cup with a new, unopened toothbrush and a toothpaste tube inside.

IAN CLIMBED A BLACK, spiral staircase to a corridor decorated with bright, hope-filled paintings and a large extravagant mirror. One of the paintings caught his attention most. It looked very familiar and as if it escaped the Renaissance. It depicted an old woman dressed in back, lace draped over her ghost-white face and her wrists were bleeding. She carried a baby in her hands and raised him upwards, but her eyes were not looking at him. Only the back of the baby's head could be seen. The woman sat on what looked like a huge, black rock, and the hem of her dress was soaked in blood.

He moved to the mirror and stared at his reflection, indifferent to it as if it were a still image of a man he didn't know.

He was thirty-two, dark and heartbreakingly handsome. His unruly black curls and his hazel, narrow-almond eyes were his best features. He was six feet tall with a strong, lean build and a fresh tan. He had a stubble beard that perfectly complemented his heart-shaped face and strong jaw. A pair of black, bushy eyebrows added intensity to his stare. His upper lip was very thin while the lower was slightly thicker.

This way, the lady said, appearing out of nowhere and flashing him a smile to die for, revealing a set of beautiful, white teeth and shining through her dark eyes.

This time, she was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a violet tunic and a beige headscarf which she fully wrapped around her head and neck and draped on one side. Having lived in London for years now, Ian was very familiar with the Muslim hijab. He stared at her curvaceous, tall figure as she led him into a small kitchen featuring three bright shades of lime and white. A wide window at the end of the kitchen overlooked a residential area with many 7-story buildings. It was dark outside, allowing the lights breaking through the buildings' windows to shine like large, square-shaped stars.

Who are you? Ian finally asked, staring at the woman who seemed in her late twenties or early thirties. She had a radiant creamy complexion, her cheeks were so smooth and rosy like two apples with no cheekbones, her lips flushed and small, her nose sharp and delicate and her almond, slightly-hooded eyes intense, ebony and surrounded by thick eyelashes. 

Ada. Don't you remember me?

No, he replied, searching in his exhausted mind palace for a name or a face like hers, I don't remember we've ever met.

You were stunned by a bombing followed by showers of mortar shells and I found you cute so I brought you home with me, she said, now offering him a cup of steaming tea, she added, My goal is to put cyanide in your tea and then stuff you after you die.

Ian started to see flashbacks of a boy drowned in his own blood and a darkened sky raining meteors that he could not see the cup Ada held in front of his face. His head played the sounds of people screaming hysterically.

So what brings you here? She asked, bringing Ian back to the present moment.

She placed his cup on a white table glued to the lime tile wall and motioned for him to sit on a white wooden chair before she handed him a steamy plate of mac and cheese.

He started munching on his food as if it had been a lifetime since he'd last eaten.

You slept for two days, she announced.

He stared blankly at her, no longer chewing his food.

You must feel a bit groggy because I injected you with a tranquilizer when you woke up agitated, she admitted, you were like this for more than 20 minutes, so I had to help you go back to sleep.

I don't remember any of that, he said through a mouth stuffed with mac and cheese.

So, why have you come to Syria?

I am searching for a person.

I know.

He found himself adding, I want to kill someone.

You came to the right place. Murder has become a trend in Syria.

He started to regain his senses, "Now who are you? he retorted, You brought me here, God knows what you did to me and now you're interrogating me!"

How about you start with thank you? Her tone was suddenly aggressive, I just cleaned you up and made sure you did not fall prey to anyone with a hidden agenda and a gun.

I did not ask for your help!

Fine, Ada said, staring intensely into Ian's eyes before she got up and left.

Chapter 2

Ian stepped back into his room when the lights suddenly went out. The place was pitch-dark and quiet he could hear his heart thump as though through earbuds.

Hello, he cried, receiving no answer even though he felt a presence.

He broke out in a cold sweat. His heart began to race, his palms turned ice-cold and he felt bitterness sink down his throat and deep into his stomach.

The nasty, disturbing laughter of children and a woman broke the silence. Ian gathered all the strength he found in every inch of his body to ask, Who’s there? his voice close to a whisper. He swallowed hard.   

There was a strong, abrupt whoosh... then silence. Deadly silence. Another whoosh, this time closer. He started to breathe so heavily all he could hear was his air enter his body and leave it and his violent heartbeats.

Ada? He whispered, a little louder this time.

A woman laughed tauntingly before he felt her warm breath against his right ear. Every muscle in his body stiffened and the hair on the back of his neck stood at end. The woman hissed wickedly in his ear, I’ve come for you!

Ian let out a very loud shriek before he hit the cold marble floor.

A WET CLOTH MADE IAN’S forehead feel heavy yet cool. He opened his eyes but not all the way through. There was a candle on the bedside table to his left.

Sitting on a chair next to his bed was Ada. He watched her take the cloth off his forehead, wash it in a bowl on the floor and squeeze it. She began to wipe the rest of his face with it.

Power outage is very common in Damascus and it’s been so since the war erupted in 2011, she explained, her voice calm and steady, I called out for you; I knew you’d be frightened or at least would stumble over something and fall. A panic attack was not on my list of speculations.

A panic attack? Ian’s eyes scanned the room for another light source. All he could find was the tiny window of an oil stove burning vigorously.

Who lives here with you? he asked, his voice a whisper, now staring at the ceiling.

My friends sleep over sometimes, she replied, but for now, we are the only people in here.

How could you bring a stranger home when you live alone? He frowned.

You are no stranger, she said, her tone nonchalant, I know you and was asked to help you out once you were in Damascus.

Puzzled, Ian shut his eyes and remained silent. It seemed better than trying to process the nonsense he had just heard—his mind was confused enough already.

My father owns these two apartments, which we connected with a spiral staircase, Ada went on, as if embarking on telling Ian a long bedtime story, I moved here almost a year ago. Before that, I lived with my family in South Afri—

You said you called out for me, Ian interjected, as if not listening to a word Ada was saying.

Yes.

How did you find me?

Duh! It’s my house! I can find a roach if he slipped into some corner, she replied, her voice a tad louder, Besides, you screamed, remember? I bet the whole neighborhood heard that!

Are you always so rude? Ian asked, frowning at her demeanor.

You call this rude? She raised her eyebrows in disapproval, "Oh, dear, that was nothing! Wait until you really piss me off."

Did I piss you off? Ian asked, hoping he didn’t because her presence made him feel at home.

Nah, she replied, shaking her head. I was just gonna tell you a good story but you treated me like I was that vase on the nightstand.

What time is it? he asked.

Two past midnight, she replied.

He shut his eyes and silenced the chaos in his mind.

AS SOON AS ADA WAS gone, Ian got out of bed, changed his clothes and went on a quest to find the front door. He was surprised Ada did not hide any of his stuff.

There were many candles spread in every corner of the house. He studied every wall in the flat but figured it had no front door, so he went upstairs to search the other apartment. He finally came across a large wood door with multiple locks along its right side. He studied them closely with the candle he had in hand to figure out how to unlock each of them.

I’m not keeping you hostage, you know, Ada’s voice pierces through the dim silence.

He turned to see her standing in the corridor, her hands crossed. The candle’s light illuminated her soft cheeks and dark, twinkling eyes.

You can go out any time you want, she said, but at this hour, you may fall in the hands of human traffickers who would be very glad to harvest your British testicles, or maybe you’ll get abducted by sick retards who will torture you and ask your family for a large sum of money then only send you home after they’ve injected you with heating oil, raped you or probably chopped off a finger or two.

Ian furrowed his eyebrows. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His face looked as if he’d just smelled a dog’s rotten corpse.

Ada extended her right hand in which she held a bundle of keys connected with one metal keychain. These are all the keys, she said, you may leave any time you want, but I suggest you wait until the sun rises.

By then, you would have killed me and harvested my testicles, he grunted crustily, not interested in taking the keys.

I have no interest in that hairy head of yours, she replied, her tone nonchalant, much less your privates.

In this case, I find myself obliged to stay, he said, a sly smile creasing his face, do you have tea?

Yes, but we’re having cumin and lemon, not tea, she announced before marching to the kitchen.

Is that even a drink?

Chapter 3

It was New Year’s Eve . The wind was howling outside London’s Ballie Ballerson, where Ian, who was twenty-four at the time, and five of his friends were celebrating the new year.

Right after countdown to New Year 2006, Garrick proposed a toast. Ian always considered Garrick his better half. He was very presentable, elegant, charismatic and courteous while Ian, on the other hand, was often described as boorish, reckless and uncivilized. He had a robust body, broad shoulders and fair skin. He was a Hugh Jackman replica, only with blond hair and a pair of small, dreamy blue eyes.

Here is to six years of friendship, Garrick said, raising his glass and looking into Ian’s eyes, which impatiently anticipated the rest of the toast, If not for you, Ian, I wouldn’t have made it through college nor through life. This company you and I started would never have been born if not for your talent, spirit and genius. May this friendship last until the end of days, and may you continue to have restless genitals!

Everyone burst into laughter. You’re a dick! Ian said as he broke up completely, laughing himself into a coughing fit. He then pulled himself together, cleared his throat and said, Here is to the most elegant wanker in the world! He then downed his martini in one.

Fifteen minutes later, Garrick whispered to Ian, I wanna speak to you outside.

Ian was busy smooching with a blonde in a mini black dress. Can it wait until I’m done snogging this candy bar? He asked loudly, smiling seductively at the blonde, who giggled as she unbuttoned half of his black shirt and pushed her hand inside and ran it over his pecs.

Okay, Garrick replied, I’ll be waiting in the back alley.

Ian stepped outside, instantly feeling the icy air slap his face. All he had on was a thin black shirt and a black studded leather jacket like a biker’s; his coat was still inside. He also wore black half finger gloves, which were useless in the face of that night’s frosty weather, so he pushed his hands into his dark jeans’ pockets.

Garrick? he cried but saw no one, so he walked a little farther.

His friend appeared at his side and briskly wrapped his left arm around his shoulders. Ian almost jumped then said, Man, you almost gave me a heart attack!

Garrick didn’t crack a smile. He pulled his arm back, leaned toward Ian and whispered in his ear, I always thought you were my very loyal friend. I’m so sorry this has to happen.

Ian felt Garrick’s warm breath on his cold neck until he was caught off guard by a sharp pain tearing his abdomen. He felt the air sucked out of his lungs and a warm fluid spread over his skin. He looked down and saw a dark liquid seep through his shirt, making it blacker that it had ever been.

I’m sorry, Ian heard Garrick say before he saw a large kitchen knife in his hand stabbing him repeatedly. He felt the warm, salty liquid rise in his throat and pour from his mouth. He saw the ground rise to slap him in the face. The last image registered in his mind that night as his body jerked in its place was his best friend’s black desert boots.

The world then faded into utter darkness.

ARE YOU NOT AFRAID of me? Ian asked Ada, who handed him a cup of hot cumin with lemon.

Should I be? she sat down opposite to him.

I’m a monster, he said, his tone that of someone trying to impress, not frighten.

Ada calmly and indifferently sipped her drink. Interesting, she said, you’ve come to the right country. Syria has become infested with all kinds of monsters. Species one never imagined existed. Someone should open a monsters’ university here.

Ian had to pucker every time he took a sip of his drink. It was both salty and sour, but for some reason, Ada didn’t seem to have a problem with it.

Are you sure this isn’t fresh piss? he asked, wrinkling his nose.  

Yes, I usually store my pee in the fridge and heat it before I offer it to guests, she said then asked, So why do you think you’re a monster?

Why are you not afraid of me? Ian furrowed his eyebrows, which was his trademark expression.

Ada’s face creased into a wry smile, You’re easy on the eye.

A smug smile curled Ian’s thin lips and his fingers brushed through his curls.

So you made a deal with the devil?

Kind of, Ian replied, but I fail to remember many details following my death.

Chapter 4

It was pitch-dark and the air was thick and damp. Ian heard water drip around him but never over him. A light appeared far away and gradually drew closer. He realized he was in a cavern.

A man dressed in a black hooded cloak covering his body, head and most of his face emerged from the dark carrying an oil lamp. His hand was huge yet bony with bulging veins, his nails long, dry, yellowish and pointed and his skin pale like the dead. He pulled his