Eleven Shadows for a Sleepless Man

More photos of this madam here.

 

Artyom hadn’t slept in three days. Not because he didn’t want to. He wanted it so desperately that he was ready to sell his soul. But sleep would not come. Doctors threw up their hands: his tests were perfect, his heart like a clock, his blood pressure like something out of a textbook. “Stress,” they said, and prescribed pills that turned his head to cotton wool while sleep still refused to come. Only a heavy, sticky drowse, in which he heard his own pulse and saw an endless gray news feed.

That night he sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea and staring into the black window. Rain drizzled outside. The city was asleep, but he was not. And then something rustled under the door. Artyom flinched and went to look. A letter lay on the floor. Black, thick, with a wax seal in the shape of a bat. Inside was a card written in thin, slightly slanting handwriting:

“Eleven outfits. One night. You will sleep. Come alone. If you dare.”

Below it was an address. An old mansion on the edge of the city, about which strange rumors circulated. They said a woman lived there who did not reflect in mirrors. That men who visited her later slept like the dead for months and stopped getting sick. That she was not a vampire, but something ancient, dark, and beautiful.

Artyom did not believe in mysticism. But he was too tired to be afraid. He dressed, took his keys, and stepped out into the rain.

The mansion greeted him with silence. The heavy door opened by itself. Inside it smelled of wax, old books, and night flowers. Candles burned in candelabra, casting trembling shadows. She came out to meet him. Pale, with eyes black as the abyss. A dress the color of clotted blood flowed along the floor. She smiled—slowly, as if tasting his fear.

“You came for sleep,” she said. “But sleep is not a pill. It is a bargain. I will take from you what keeps you awake. And you will give me what you yourself have long wanted to throw away.”

“Who are you?” Artyom asked hoarsely.

“Call me Lilith. I am the mistress of shadows. And tonight I have eleven outfits for you. Not for beauty. For healing. Sit. Do not speak. Watch. Breathe.”

He sat in an old armchair. She disappeared behind a screen. The room sank into half-darkness. And it began.

Outfit One. The Mantle of the Midnight Sun.
Lilith came out in black silk embroidered with gold threads. The fabric glowed faintly, as if an eclipse lived inside it. She approached and passed her hand over his head. Artyom felt the heaviness leave his temples. As if someone had pulled red-hot nails out of his brain.

“This is anxiety,” she whispered. “I am taking it.”

Outfit Two. The Corset of Frozen Time.
Black leather, and instead of lacing there were tiny hourglasses built into the fabric. They turned over by themselves, and the sand inside did not fall but hung suspended. Lilith became taller, stricter. Discipline appeared in her movements. Artyom involuntarily straightened his back. Breathing became easier. He realized that for months he had been slouching, shrinking, defending himself from the world.

“These are your boundaries,” Lilith said. “You forgot you had them. And time is not a master. It is a servant.”

Outfit Three. The Dress of Forgotten Names.
Dark lace, on which names were embroidered in silver thread. Hundreds, thousands of names. Those who had loved her. Those who had feared her. Those who had left. Lilith moved, and the names flickered like stars in black water. Artyom felt the grievances he had carried for years grow dim.

“This is memory,” she said. “But not every memory deserves to be kept. I leave only what gives strength.”

Outfit Four. The Cloak of Silence.
Dense black fabric that swallowed sound. She threw it over her shoulders, and the room became even quieter. The noise of the rain vanished. The hum of the city vanished. Artyom heard only her steps and his own heart. It beat slower. More evenly.

“This is silence,” she said. “You were afraid of it. Now listen.”

Outfit Five. The Chainmail of Nightmares.
Black links, light as feathers. In each link, if you looked closely, a tiny face was frozen—someone’s fear, someone’s scream, someone’s night terror. Lilith put it on, and Artyom suddenly understood that he was no longer afraid to fall asleep. His nightmares were now part of her armor.

“These are your fears,” she smiled. “They are no longer yours. They are mine.”

Outfit Six. The Dress of Moon Blood.
Silver and crimson shimmered like blood in moonlight. It flowed like water. Lilith came closer. Artyom heard his pulse synchronize with her breathing. He no longer counted the seconds. He simply was.

“This is rhythm,” she said. “At night you must be a river, not a stone.”

Outfit Seven. The Crown of Cold Flame.
A crown of black silver, and on its points small candles burned. The flame was cold—it did not burn, but froze everything unnecessary. Lilith raised her hands, and Artyom felt the heat of anxiety leave his chest, leaving only cool calm.

“This is your pain,” she said. “I do not kill it. I make it part of you. You are stronger than you think.”

Outfit Eight. The Mantle of a Thousand Eyes.
Black velvet studded with eyes. They were closed. But when Artyom looked at them, they opened and immediately closed again, as if winking. Lilith turned, and all the eyes on the mantle closed at once. Artyom realized he no longer felt as if he were being watched.

“This is your paranoia,” she said. “The world is not watching you. The world does not think about you at all. That is freedom.”

Outfit Nine. The Dress of the Last Breath.
Light as mist, almost weightless. Along the hem was embroidery of faded roses. It did not flow; it drifted. Lilith went to the window, and Artyom saw the moon appear for a moment beyond the glass. It was full. He suddenly felt that the day was over. Not in the sense of time, but in the sense of the soul.

“This is completion,” she said. “You must not drag the day into the night. Leave it here.”

Outfit Ten. The Suit of the Keeper of the Threshold.
Strict, almost masculine. A black jacket, silver chains, and at her waist a bunch of keys. Each key was cold and heavy. Lilith took one of the keys and touched it to Artyom’s forehead. He shuddered. Something clicked inside him, as if a door had opened.

“This is the threshold,” she said. “Between waking and sleep. You did not know how to cross it. Now I will lead you through.”

Artyom felt his eyelids grow heavy. Lilith led him into the bedroom. There stood a huge bed with a dark canopy. She pointed him to the pillows.

“Lie down,” she said. “I will be near. You are not alone.”

Artyom lay down. He felt his eyelids grow heavy. Lilith sat at the head of the bed and began to hum softly. The words were unfamiliar, but warmth spread through his body from them.

Outfit Eleven. The Empress of Darkness.
The last thing he saw was her standing in a heavy dress, with a crown of black silver. Beyond the window the full moon shone. Lilith looked down at him, and in her eyes there was neither evil nor pity. Only peace.

“Now you are mine,” she said. “But do not be afraid. It means you are finally free.”

Artyom closed his eyes. And for the first time in three years he fell into sleep. Deep, black, without dreams. A sleep in which there was no anxiety, no pain, no time.

He woke up in his apartment. Outside it was morning. The rain had ended. The same black card lay on the table, but the text on it had changed: “You have slept. Now your health is my concern. But remember: I come only to those who are ready to give up their darkness.”

Artyom stood up. He felt as if he had been born again. His head was clear, his body light, his heart even. He looked at the clock—he had slept twelve hours. For the first time in years.

Three months had passed since then. Artyom no longer took pills. He slept every night. Deeply, soundly, calmly. Doctors were amazed. Friends envied him. And he remembered her more and more often—the pale woman in eleven outfits who had taken away his insomnia the way an old friend collects a debt.

One evening he found a letter in his mail. No address. Inside was a link to a video. On the thumbnail was her. Lilith. In that very Mantle of the Midnight Sun. And a caption: “If you want to see what the one who gave you sleep looks like, watch. But remember: darkness does not like to be sought. It likes to be awaited.”

Artyom smiled. He did not open the video. He simply went to bed. And sleep came to him on its own.

And if you are interested in such a woman—a mistress of vampires who changes eleven outfits and gives a man health and sound sleep—you can get her photo from the link under the video.