The Real Dan Thompson @therealdanthompson-blog - Tumblr Blog

Passing Through: Short Story

Near a dark village surrounded by trees which held no leaves, barren from the cold autumn chill, two young men sputtered along, lost, in a Volkswagen beetle while driving through the countryside of New England. The skies were gray streaked with dark inkblot swirls and somewhere nearby ravens groaned like old men in dismay. It was cold, though not exceedingly so for autumn. The road they took winded against dull green grass which was waist high and looked tired and beaten. Hills rolled along in either direction before opening up to what perhaps little more than four or so dozen buildings reminiscent of the Victorian era. Smoke rose above several of the houses, and only a handful of the windows were illuminated; most were dim and cold, and felt empty. The faded yellow bug pulled to what must have been the town square, as its flagstone tiled center looked like something out of a magazine, and stopped near where a monument once stood, but no longer. A door swung open, struggled against a rising wind, and a lanky young man – perhaps nineteen or twenty – stepped out. His hair was chestnut brown, as were his eyes, and he was handsome. It was the genuine friendliness, the animated expressiveness about him that made him handsome, not the way his face had been formed. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt, a red cap, and navy blue jeans. In this moment, as he scanned from left to right looking for the right road that would take him home, his face was the image of resignation. He exhaled and let his shoulders sag. The other door opened: a young man, shaggy brown hair, green eyes. “Hey Mark, I’m sorry – when the directions say to stay right and take the left exit, and there are three lanes and each one has its own off ramp…” He said this without being defensive; he said it earnestly, helplessely. “I’m an idiot.” He stood there, feeling like an asshole. He fucked up pretty bad this time; this skeleton of a town was the first thing to resemble a town in the last two hours, and there were low on gas. His name was Jeff Hill, and his forbearing friend was Mark Sandoval.

They went to New York State, and had been on their way to Marks’ uncles house for a holiday weekend, and had taken a wrong turn and wound up here. It was a town which had no name, or perhaps it did at one point, but that point has long since passed. It was a shell. It’s a little bit of a town if there ever was one – a place where no one seemed to have any relatives. familiar on the tongues of men in conversation, unless it is spoken in dark whispers by those who may or may not have heard a story from a friend about strange lights in the sky and tales of strange noises in the countryside from those who border too close to this jilted little village. Mark turned around, grabbed the collar of his sweater and clasped it close to him, wind licking his sweatshirt and carrying the burnt smells of autumn across the air from some long forgotten fire. “It’s okay, I guess. Let’s just find a phone or something, I feel like a storm is coming and I’d like to be on the road and out of here before it hits.” Mark said, working his hands against his arms trying to fight off the biting cold. Jeff looked from dark spired building to dark spired building, looking for something that was open, a store or a supermarket or, well, anything. Down one of the wide streets, just over Marks’ shoulder, Jeff saw sliver of yellow light behind a thick gray curtain. “Someone’s here, at least.” Jeff said and nodded in the direction over the house. Mark turned around, and as his eyes settled on the small one story home the curtain closed, drowning the image of inhabitance. “Maybe we can use their phone for a second, call 411, or give your uncle a call for directions out of…” Jeff paused momentarily “wherever this is,” he finished, unsettled. His skin broke out in gooseflesh as he thought how creepy it was that someone had been watching them; that once their spectator realized the sliver of egg-yolk yellow light which traced the outline of the window drew the boys’ attention and shut it, in this goddamn weather... and he left those thoughts aside. “How many others are watching us right now?” He thought to himself, momentarily, and then this too faded to the back of his mind – not forgotten – but subdued for the moment like a promise. “Well, let’s go then.” Mark said this uncomfortably, but pushed on toward the small Victorian cottage. Jeff thought, for a moment, that he could smell cotton candy on the wind; some distant fair which had not realized that summer had long since died still had its carousel twirling endlessly to the looping organ. “I think that’s route 2 right there. We could just take that until we hit Burlington, we might be a day late – but it’s better than…” Jeff didn’t need to finish, and neither of them had any intention of staying much longer, let alone the night. “It’ll just take a couple seconds to ask for directions at most. If that’s route 2, then great – but if it’s not, then we’re fucked. I don’t have much gas left,” Mark said this earnestly. Marks gas gauge didn’t work, but he did rough math in his head and knew he couldn’t have much left. “Alright, we’ll, if she invites us in for dinner, we bolt - I don’t like this place. I feel like we’re tracking mud through someone’s carpet, man. “Jeff ended this with a chuckle, but it was a nervous one; his words while not eloquent, rang true, and were accentuated with the sound of whispers on the wind, and hoarse cawing from the west.

The flagstone was wet and cold, a dark gray which looked black under the swirling skies. To their left, as they walked down what was once main street, in this forgotten, nameless place. It was a simple Victorian cottage, one floor, with a large bay window which overlooked a juniper bush. The juniper looked like it was just hanging onto life; Mark noticed this, and couldn’t decide if it was on the fringe of life, or if whatever gave it the spark of life had been long decayed. It sat nestled against two brown stone buildings; one looked like a furniture store, but all it held was dusty floors and imprints of its past, and the other looked like a fire had gotten to it at some point; there were dark and silent licks of some charcoal flame coursing up from the windows. As they approached the house, walking its short unkempt path, ash yellow leaves fluttered by Jeff’s right arm. Goddamn its cold, he thought to himself, and began to rub his arms with his hands. His inner voice had been trembling, but not with cold – with fear. Jeff Hill was scared, near shitless, and he had no idea why – but he did not want to go in that fucking house, and that he did not want to meet whoever it was behind that door; not if it meant they had directions, or if it was a super model with a million bucks and a fucking Mercedes. “Mark, man, I think that’s Route 2 man, we don’t need to ask for directions,” His voice was distressed, and he was not far from panic. Mark turned to him, and it was apparent he could feel something too, but held himself together with a guise of minor annoyance. “It’ll take a second, and then we’ll be out of here,” Mark said and finished with brevity, no longer wanting in discussion of this unnaturally silent place any more than he wanted to be there. His knuckles nocked solidly against the old wooden door. Each knock was an exclamation, exaggerated by the silence, the drone of wind, and each seemed to ring endlessly. They could not hear movement, but they could feel it. Like when you enter a public bathroom, searching for an open stall, and knowing which are occupied. Condensation marked the four corners of the large bay window; thick gray drapes, which seemed more dust than cloth, did a poor job of blocking out the light from here. They could see light leaking out from certain points where the curtains had not been flush with the wall, but no more. “It’s obvious she doesn’t want company,” Jeff began, but his words died in his throat. The drapes had flinched like skin away from a flame. In the heavy folds there was movement, like someone lost in cloth hills and valleys. Mark turned around to watch, and time began to slow for the both of them. A hand with papyrus like skin had emerged from the moth eaten depths; it was frail, old, and had blue spider web like veins. “Holy shit,” Jeff heard himself in disbelief, his stomaching arching in mild terror. Mark was rapt in the moment, eyes glued to the large frame and the miniscule hand which was emerging like an iceberg; there was surely more to come. It began to rain. Fat heavy droplets lazily descended from the tumultuous sky above. Marks balls felt iced – in a vice, being squeezed by some kind of ghost fist with an iron grip. A small woman emerged from the ropes of gray; clouded eyes, and an equally clouded expression took her face. Her skin was ash-yellow and looked dry – taught – as if movement alone might rip it, and the dust of her life spilled in its entirety. Her eyes, wandering, sequestering the boys, outside – the idea of outside, Mark found himself thinking – and her trembling old hand extended a finger, and tapped the glass three times with a split brown nail. It was the sound of hard picks against thin ice. The vices tightened, and the gooseflesh spread across both of their bodies. Like an animal that has heard, yet not seen, an invasive noise she began to sniff the air, and lightly rapped at the window again. This time, she left her nail against it. She smiled for a moment, if slightly, and Jeff swore there was something vulpine; something crafty, about her face, as if through some haze was laid a trap. They dare not move, even to blink, as she did this. Mark felt a tugging in his mind - something urgent and wild; he felt, quietly, the urge to help this poor old woman, to come inside and give her a hand like a nice little… and he pushed it away as quickly as it came, and the woman – as if smelling the thought as it dissipated into the air, withdrew into the house, into the folds of the curtain and into the dull light within. “She’s setting the fucking table,” Mark thought, and despite his attempts to comfort himself, he felt as if part of it were true.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here. Let’s just take one of these roads, there’s ‘gotta be something else out here, how far can your car get us?” Jeff, spell broken, began to move toward the car, half waiting for Mark to pursue. Mark said nothing for a moment, caught in lucid speculation on what would happen if they were to be caught in the outer lying area, what else might be waiting for them?

Jeff and Mark moved rapidly toward the Volkswagen eager to leave this place. The sun was now visible through broken clouds on the horizon, and it shone through in a brilliant but somehow foul red. “Just get in the car, and let’s drive.” Jeff said, uneasily. Mark thought it sounded like Jeff wanted to throw up. Mark was right. Mark opened the driver side door, and Jeff, nearly frantically, opened the passenger. The gooseflesh on their skin now felt like stinging nettles, alive with painful electricity. Jeff wanted to scream start the fucking car, you dumb shit! Just start the fucking car! But he saw Mark trying – twisting the key – but nothing. The car didn’t turn, didn’t even try – it sat there dead, like a stone. Mark began to twist faster, furiously “Goddamn thing! Goddamn battery! I just bought a new battery; I just spent sixty bucks on a new battery! It can’t be dead –“and then Jeff overcame him “- shut the fuck up, there are people coming.” Jeff said this urgently, deadly. Mark raised his eyes from the steering column, and in the now quickly setting sun saw four, maybe five – six? Six people, he counted them now, their shapes, Six. They came from the dark, coming from somewhere south of them, behind one of the larger clusters of houses, silently and toward them in a slow inquisitive haze. The air filled with a foul rotten – wet and musty, the smell of vegetation which has gone wrong – it was a cloying smell, one which Mark and Jeff recognized as death. “We gotta get out of the car, maybe find an empty house or something,” Jeff was speaking, terrified, but his voice sounded distant to Mark “- it doesn’t matter where else, not really, just that we can’t stay here? Can’t you feel that something is just wrong here? Christ, can’t you feel it?” Mark could. He could feel it in the bottom of his stomach, and in the pit of his heart. Like milk which has gone sour in his mouth, he tasted it. Weak at first, but now it was strong. Something has woken up, he thought, questioning nothingness. And almost immediately, he answered himself. The town has woken up.

Mark was in a daze, his body was taught with fear, or was it dread which held him – before this moment he didn’t know there was a distinction – there was. A purple ray of light, the last bit of sun now just a whisper above the horizon, caught his eye, and he was free from dreads terrible chains. Jeff glanced several hundred yards east of them, just beyond what looked like a scarce river and sun-rotted old wooden bridge, a small white church jutted out like a jagged tooth. “In all the movies and books and video games, evil shit can’t come onto hallowed ground.” Jeff said this in eager belief, and it made sense to Mark. Neither of them were interested in religion, but they knew a trope as a trope – rationale had left the building, because the internal alarm inside each and every person was blaring inside of them: SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS GOING TO HAPPEN. GET THE FUCK OUT WHILE YOU CAN. THIS. IS. NOT. A. TEST.

Both of them bolted from the car in a dead sprint toward the old church. As they ran, they could see more figures stepping out from the places between – the nooks and crannies of the small village, and Mark saw several of the figures eyes; there was a glint, like that of cold, dull steel for a moment. They reminded Mark of the dead reflective fish eyes in the grocery store he saw when he was a kid. There they were again. He could see them more and more, like dancing pairs of fireflies frantically scanning the sky. Running came easily now, but in the back of Marks mind he felt the intense urge to just give up, turn around, and give up. But he ran on – over the frail bridge with the dry creek bed which lay beneath it and past the pale grave markers to their left and their right. As they approached the church, Jeff realized the church looked bleached, like bones in the sun, more than painted white, and hoped he had been right about coming to the church in the first place. Mark did not knock, but opened the door as if walking into his own home, and Jeff followed. Mark shut the door behind Jeff, and was not surprised to find a thick beam which would brace the door shut from the outside. “Help me with this Jeff,” Mark said and made for the beam. Jeff met the left side of the splintered but still massive beam, and they both lugged it onto the braces on the door. Jeff felt a biting pain – his thumb. “God da-,” he continued in his mind. He felt that to continue in such a place, especially when under such circumstances seeking haven was probably not in good taste. A large splinter stuck out of his thumb. He put the thumb to his mouth, bit down on the end of the splinter, and pulled it out with his teeth. Large, deep ruby pearls began to well out onto the floor. Jeff put the thumb to the hem of his white t-shirt, and began to apply pressure with his other hand, using the shirt as a rag for the blood. The people outside – you could see the well as they massed outside, standing at the bank of the dried old river. Dull coins of vulpine light glittered in the other dark places on the other side of the river. Mark began, his voice sounding distant “I don’t think they can cross,” Something had been on the tip of his tongue, tracing its way towards leaping out of his mouth, something old, very old from one of those stupid books he read when he was a kid. His voice became much clearer, lucid “- the undead can’t pass rivers, I think I read that somewhere. I don’t think they can get at us over here.” Mark said this, and it ignited a small flame of hope in Jeff’s heart – they need only to stay in the church for the night, and walk a couple miles ‘til they run into the next village. “I’d still feel safer if we took a look around, made sure there isn’t…” He either didn’t have the word, or didn’t want to say it “-one of them in here.” Jeff’s words took whatever security Mark had felt and dashed them, carried off on some dark wind. “None of that splitting up bullshit, like they always do in the movies – seriously. Stay within arm’s reach of each other, alright?” Jeff nodded; he understood the rationale behind this – in movies, when people broke up into groups or went off by themselves they died, almost always.

The old church smelled musty – not of decay, but a time long before the moistness. It smelled dry, like old books and memories; sun baked wood, and a summer which had long since passed. There were old wooden benches – a dozen rows which lead up to a dark wooden pulpit. Behind the pulpit was a large stained-glass window, but because there was very little light to be seen, it simply looked like a dark jigsaw puzzle. To their left, there was a set of stairs which lead to what Mark imagined would have been a priest’s rectory. “I bet you sat up there, watching a town go mad, your congregation growing smaller by the day – no,” he amended, “-by night.” There was a door which was beneath the stairs, perhaps a supply closet. “Let’s check upstairs first,” Mark suggested. Jeff had been thinking the same. The wooden floors were solidly built, and aside from the occasional groan, stood the test of time. It had been a stubborn sentinel. Mark led Jeff up the stairs, first testing each step for signs that it was going to give under his weight – but he found that this too was built well enough to cause little concern while ascending. Jeff placed a hand on the flat wooden bannister. It felt coarse with dust, webs, and the filth of age, and he decided he’d prefer to leave his hand at his side instead. “What do we do, Mark, if there are more of ‘em,” Jeff nodded, motioning toward the simple brown door “- in there? What do you want to do? It’s a real possibility, man. Just because we’ve seen the movies doesn’t mean it’ll hold up here.” Jeff said this now without trepidation, but with cold clarity. “I don’t know, I guess we can take our chances outside or something, make a run for it.” Mark didn’t know the direction of what “It” was, nor how far they would have to run to get there. They continued up the stairs, noise in temporary suspension, mimicking their subconsciously held breath – as if maintaining silence would keep a potential undead creature from being roused. Mark again without fear or hesitation, opened the door. Before them was a small room, with an equally small window, several large book cases, a chest, and a table littered with dusty books and papers. They walked into the study, as it appeared to be, but left the door open so if anything should move below them they would know it. “Undead are like, vulnerable to silver, garlic, a wooden stakes, right?” Jeff said this, and began to search the room for some type of defensive makeshift weapon. “I think so, yeah, except I don’t know if they vulnerable to wooden stakes – it’s like saying I’m vulnerable to bullets shot from a gun, but you’re not – I think stakes just destroy the heart – I think that’s the idea. But we don’t have any silver, and I’m all out of garlic.” Mark said absent mindedly, dusting off the papers on the desk with a hand, scanning the old pages. “Well, I don’t know – just trying to make sure there wasn’t something I was missing.” From the window came a tap, tap, tap. Mark and Jeff froze, but their eyes darted to the window. There was nothing there, nothing they could see at least. “Rain,” Mark said at last. The faint sound of rain hitting the church, the occasional tapping noise, like the old woman’s finger against the glass, and ghastly wind played the music of this long lost church. Jeff and Mark relaxed slightly, and Jeff went back to searching the room for something usable. Mark read the old slips, old notes which were spread hastily across the wooden desk; much of it was symbols: A star with an eye in the center, a circle with squirming lines which drew away from it, an unfinished triangle; symbols that Mark did not understand, with unintelligible words scrawled beneath each they seemed alien and cryptic. Words, English words, caught his eye. It was a book, a small red-brown bound book – and Mark recognized this immediately as a diary, or a journal. He grabbed the book and flipped through the pages: the earliest entries were fairly typical. Marks eyes caught something strange near the back of the journal, shortly before the words ran out entirely. Mark skimmed the page, and barely managed to spurt out “Listen, wait – listen.” He motioned toward Jeff, and then Mark began to read aloud the open page before him.

September 17 1801

The Briarson boy was found today. It looked as though the wolf pack which killed all of the cattle over in Milford last week got him. There wasn’t much left of him, but what was we buried him on a plot behind the Briarsons farm. Terrible tragedy, his mother and father are good Christians, and I have never seen such sorrow in a person’s eyes. I do not question our savior, or his will, and so what has passed has certainly been in accordance to, but it pains me to see so much pain. I hope that he is at peace now.

September 20 1801

Bill Briarson came to me today; he was ill of mind, and seemed distraught. His eyes were heavy lidded with lack of sleep. He told me, with a madness which can only stem from grief, that he spoke with his son last night. At first I took this to be a spiritual conversation, but perhaps sensing this, Bill Briarson told me he saw him, his son, stark naked, rended flesh hanging from his ghastly white body, in the cold hours after midnight at his bedroom window. His wife had awoken, and she rushed outside to her son, despite his pleading and warning. Bill told me he heard a single mortified scream, and then nothing else. He did not hear or see from his wife. Oh, such a terrible fortune, and such an undeserving man to bear it; I fear that Bill Briarson has gone mad with grief. Such ghastly images are not conjured of sane mind, and sudden loss has been known to cause temporary mania. I agreed to visit his home and purify whatever evil ails it. I sent bill home, and spoke with the constable, who said he would keep an eye on him.

21 September 1801

Something terrible has happened. My pen [sic] shaking as [sic] writes this. As I had promised to visit the Briarson home, I left for it after the morning light had been up but only an hour or so. As I approached, I felt sick – as if my stomach were on a boat fairing tumultuous seas, and my nostrils flared as if sensing a foulness – but there was no foulness to be smelled, just the cold morning air. I knocked on the Briarsons door, and neither bill nor his wife answered. I waited nearly an hour, and decided to open the door and walk in. I wish I had not done this. I wish I had left [sic] right then. The house was empty, but only just so. Cold coffee was on the table, and muddy footprints – child’s foot prints – were tracked through the house. At first I only saw the path leading from the door to what must have been a bedroom; it was not until later I saw the tracks on the walls, and on the ceiling. After expunging my stomachs of its contents, I quickly left the house. Dear Lord, what has happened to such a good family? What foulness has set upon them? I reported what I saw to the constable. I pray that whatever is happening, I may be the Lords shining light through these dark times.

23 September 1801

My curiosity perhaps, or perhaps my faith challenged, drew me to the Briarsons back lot, where just a week before the Briarson child lay at rest. Now, there was a soggy empty hole which felt vacant like an eye socket, peering at me with blind spite. The child’s body was gone! I have sent a letter to a good friend, Marcus Patton, in Portland, requesting he come immediately. I informed the perplexed constable of the vacant grave, and have resigned myself to the church until Marcus arrives.

A hastily written letter addressed to a Marcus Patton acts as a bookmark.

23 September 1801

Marcus, my friend, something terrible is happening. A boy saw buried with my own two eyes has risen from the grave, and I fear has claimed two lives – those of his parents. I must ask that you come, warrior of our lord, for my faith alone cannot heal this blight – of this I am sure! Please come at once.

Your friend,

Cornelius Goddard

7 August 1801

In the earliest hours of the morning, I awoke to a child screaming from somewhere in town. I know what the town must think of me; some dark cloud has shadowed our home, and their priest is too fearful to leave his church. What faith must this inspire? My fears do not yet let me leave this church; it is not my sanctuary, but my burden, my prison. If my faith were stronger, it would indubitably steel my resolve; I wish I were stronger. Strange sounds can be heard in the night, some animals – others something else. If God once watched over this town, he does so no longer; God has turned a blind eye to us. Last night, I thought I heard scraping from underneath the floor, coming from the cellar. I dare not investigate, for no rat or rodent has ever ailed this church; whatever it is, it came with the storm. I have since used the oak beam to seal the door from opening from the inside.

8 August 1801

I hear scratching at the other side of the door. No one has come to church today. I do not know who – or what – is left in the town. At night I see fey glints of light wandering the streets from this study. I dare not light a candle.

10 August 1801

Marcus arrived last night. He tapped at my window – the second story window – to get my attention is I read the lords holy book, seeking salvation in the words. His face was the shade of bleached bone. Part of it was missing. He asked me to let him in. He told me that he had come for me, as I had asked, and I should ask him in. It was the face of my friend Marcus, but it was something else inside which wore him, as one might wear a suit or a hat! Marcus would not leave, not even the invocation of our lord and savior drew his attention, whether it be scorn or disgust, he showed neither. Endlessly, he requested I let him in. I did not, and near sun rise, Marcus eventually fled to some dark corner. I will attempt to make my way from [sic] tomorrow night; I feel the dark shadow which has spread across our town is lengthening.

Added hastily: As I reviewed my previous journal entries, any and every mention of [sic] has been made mottled or indistinct. Our town shall certainly be forsaken; no longer will people speak of [sic]. We have been damned.

“It ends there,” Mark said, reaching the last page before what appeared to be an endless sea of empty pages. “Jesus,” Jeff said, and it hung around him like a weight. “So whatever has been happening to this town has been happening since the eighteen hundreds?” Jeff said with a hint of terrified reverence in his voice. “Places like this don’t exist, this isn’t happening.” He said quietly, and without credence of his own words. The storm began to pick up outside. Jeff heard an old wooden door, or perhaps a gate blown open by the turbulent wind outside. “Maybe they shouldn’t, but they do.” Mark said. “- and the only thing we have to do is sit tight – we’ve just got to sit tight until dawn, and we’ll be fine.” He said this now with confidence. He looked older in the dim light cast by the moon. “Yeah, ‘til dawn,” Mark felt that nagging, that tip of the tongue, tip of the damn conscious mind, something which his subconscious picked up but could not translate to him, he knew there was something important something he missed, something his mind was unable to piece together fully – and then the pieces floated away. Mark shook it off, and stood up to look at the crowd which had gathered below. Dull light glittered in semi-circles, blinking in and out, the town below alive with movement. Some of the eyes scaled the houses like flies on a carcass; stemming from every which way and traversing another. Mark did not count the sets of eyes; he did not want to know how many of them were down there, waiting, hungry. One of the steps groaned, and Mark pieced it together. They had used the beam which held the cellar shut to secure the front door. The door swung open, and a tall, lithe, vulpine creature slid into the room with blinding and delicate speed. It was bald and gaunt; its eyes sunk deep within its head. The creature was naked. Long scythe like fingers wrapped around Jeff’s throat, tearing away most of his neck before he had a chance to turn around. His face spun around to meet his assailant; wolf like eyes set far back from each other; beady, and black, like two garnets in the night. “Oh god Mark,” He said between gasps which were drowned by blood, and began to cry and make choked squealing noises. Its skin was waxen and white, its mouth a chasm of needles – cruel thorns which now gnashed at his head, and then no more. Jeff Hill was dead, but the creature’s dinner was not nearly done. The sound of sucking and licking, savoring the pitch red blood which began to run freely over Jeff filled the room. Mark realized this was not just food, or sustenance, but somehow terrible. It was a perverse lust which came over the creature. Mark realized that Jeff was dead, and he would be next unless he didn’t get moving and quick.

Mark ran toward the window, opened it, and climbed out. There was no hesitation, there was simply that voice again; GET THE FUCK OUT. THERE IS STILL TIME. The creature had killed his friend, and was now eating him, Mark knew this and if perhaps his conscious mind had been in control, not the primal urge to survive which drove him now, he would have given up all hope then. He thought of this, and processed this as unnecessary information for the moment; the moment required getting the fuck out, that’s it - nothing else. Unfortunately the only way out was through the window, atop the battered old church during a rainstorm. The roof was tiled, and like the rest of the town had gone bad. Mark could see thick support beams which ran to a point, a platform really; a steeple. Upon the steeple was a cross, one which looked weathered look about it, hunched over as if in defeat. Mark clamored up the soft roof as carefully as he could, but not sparing any more time than necessary. Rain whipped at him violently and veins of light streaked the sky. Lightning patches illuminated perhaps forty vampires below, watching Mark ascend. The steeple was a flat area, about three feet around, and at its center was a lightning rod in the shape of a cross. Mark glanced behind himself as he climbed against the rotting old roof; his back was pins and needles, and it felt like ice. He knew the thing was behind him, watching him squirm. He reached the cross and, grabbing it, pulled himself up to the steeple. The cross buckled for a moment under his weight. For a moment Mark thought of falling, and what how he hoped the fall would kill him. The lightning rod held, and Mark was able to pull himself up. It felt old, pock marked, rusted. It wasn’t even bolted down – the base had been inserted into a hole on the platform, but it wasn’t secured. Mark stood behind the cross, and in a moment the sky lit up. The smell of ozone burned Marks nostrils, and the sound of thunder pierced his ears. I’m going to die now, sorry Uncle Brad. Mark thought to himself. His parents would never know what happened to him, school would think he just stopped going, hell, he’d never get to make it past second base with Katie. He heard splitting of wood; the white creature – “the vampire,” Mark thought. “He’s one of the bad ones – maybe the daddy,” he thought again. The vampire approached Mark, pressed against the roof like a fly against a wall. “Now is your time to die, child.” It had an uncomfortable voice; one which does not speak English as much as it sounds it out. Mark stepped behind the iron cross defensively. “Oh,” the voice glinted, full of pity. “Those tricks do nothing.” The voice was that of two boulders being rubbed together. “Your god holds no power over me. I have seen the rise of your people,” it paused momentarily, licking its lips. “I have seen many gods live, and many gods die. Your sigil bears no power.” The vampire grinned ghoulishly. “Bow before me. I am their god,” He considered, savoring the next word “- as I am your god.” He said, lips quivering. Mark wondered if he might shit himself. “I offer you life eternal,” The vampire said in reverence. “All I ask from you is but a drink. I will baptize you, as I did your friend, in the river of the night,” His voice was filled admiration of his power. “He does not yet stir, but soon… Soon,” He licked his lips fiendishly, and his face began to pull back into a vulpine snarl. The voice that was once boulders rubbing together was now a whisper, but a suggestion – a persuasive one at that. “Kneel before me. Kneel before your god.” His voice was quaking in exultation; he mistook Marks quiet fear as defeat. Mark did not. Instead he clutched the old iron sigil for dear life. His skin felt itchy, tingly, electrified.

Light filled the sky in a ribbon of fey, blue light. You will worship me,” it sneered, “-it enjoys this - Toying with me. This son of a bitch doesn’t get many visitors,” Mark thought, not in futility but with bleak understanding. The rain was pouring down; the fat droplets bit Marks skin and he subconsciously began to shiver. “You could kill me right now,” Mark said from behind the cross, still using it as a shield. “Yes.” The vampire said. “Why don’t you?” Mark heard himself ask in a faraway voice. The creature looked taken aback for a moment, stunned, and then a coy look crossed his face. “There is much to show you of my kingdom,” He said, smiling madly and focusing on the indistinct silhouettes which made up the town below. “My hunger is quiet now. And I will need to make you last a long, long time.” The vampire was drooling. Marks skin felt electrified, as if some transducer of electricity – he felt an ocean of force build up behind his right arm, and that internal alarm said but one thing:

Stab Him.

Mark withdrew the lightning rod like a sword. The Vampires’ eyes lit up madly. He thrust the cross forward as hard as he could. It met its mark, though not its target. It missed the place where a heart would be, if it had one, by four or five inches. Instead it slipped through the pale chest and the waxen skin, with surprisingly little resistance. Marks eyes met the vampires. He meant to say something, something meaningful, and something powerful – something that would drive the vampire away, to die off in the night by itself. Mark could not speak; but his snarling face spoke for him - I killed you, you son of a bitch. It began to laugh. The vampire began to pull the sword deeper into itself - through itself - pulling Mark closer, gnashing its giant maw of razors. As it did so, Mark knew it was laughing at him. It slashed at Mark with its scythe like fingers, and Mark put up his hands defensively. Fine blood red mist sprayed from three severed fingers on his left hand. Mark howled in pain. The vampire bared its teeth. Daddy is hungry. “I will find your people. I will find your mother and feed her to your father, and then I will eat them both,” it snarled. Mark could feel its breath which stank of decay and long dead things. And then Marks arm was alight with pain. A fey blue light enveloped his right arm as a crack of lightning touched Marks shoulder. The blue light coursed down his right arm, to his hand and bridged to the old cross now buried deep within the vampires’ chest. His eyes widened and he snarled, began to curse incoherently, eyes turning to jet black slits, his jaw unhinging, ready for his final course of the day. The hair on Marks arm shriveled, and then knew what he smelled like cooked, medium rare. The blue light dimmed, and the rush of energy, not the pain, had left Mark. There was a sickening rupturing sound - it was wet and oily, too. Blood began to pour out of the white vampires orifices. The vampire hissed dully, faltered and fell to one knee, then tumbled off the roof. The vampires below rushed toward the corpse. Three husks approached on all fours as scavengers would a destitute corpse; greedily. There was a loud pop, like the sound a water balloon hits hot pavement. The vampire exploded in a gratuitous hail of blood. Mark could hear hissing, and he saw the undead shrink back to their dark, in-between places. “Oh what the fuck just happened,” Mark said to himself, exhausted, and in excruciating pain. He tried to move his right arm. It felt well done. Mark passed out atop the steeple, clutching the cross.

EPILOGUE

The early rays of sunlight hit Marks face, and he woke nearly immediately. He slowly descended the top of the roof; he had a surprising amount of energy for what he had been put through, but it was more than likely borrowed time; adrenaline, and he would make as much use of it as he could. He went to the Volkswagen and tried to start it. It sputtered, but the engine became stronger, as if shaking the dust of a season off, and Mark pulled away from the small town. He was unsure of where he was going, or how much gas he had left. He just wanted to get the hell out of here. So he drove. He had no idea which road he took, only that it was one far away from here. Mark didn’t stop until he reached Verna, another town he had never heard of, but this one had cars, and people, and a sign that said “Welcome to Verna, Massachusetts!” He found his way to the hospital, and collapsed in the entry way. Mark did have his wallet on him, and was treated as a John Doe. He was treated for severe burns, and slept for almost seventy two hours.

Mark lie there with a bandage around his arm, in a cramped hospital bed. The room was off-white, and it smiled of pine-sol. His eyes fluttered open, and there was a doctor sitting patiently in a chair with a notebook. He peered out from behind his glasses, “How you feelin’?” He said, and stated flatly “- any pain of the head? Blurriness in your vision?” He asked methodically. Mark shook his head. “I feel groggy is all,” Mark said quietly. “The nurses tell me you can’t remember anything,”

“That’s right.” The doctor considered this. “You might have what’s called stress induced amnesia; you know what it is?” Mark nodded a little “The gist of it, I guess. I understand the idea of it,” Mark finished. “Whatever happened to you, you blocked it out but over time you might begin to remember parts… you should probably look into some therapy about this; your wounds will heal, but you had some shock, kid” the doctor reasoned with him. “You’re going to need to take it easy for a while. You’ve been in and out for the last half hour, but you’re pretty lucid now. We’re going to keep you for a while, and one of the nurses is going to get your information – we’ll call your folks, okay?” Mark nodded slightly. “Do you recall who Jeff Hill is?” the doctor said cautiously. “Yeah, he was – is,” Mark corrected himself. “-he’s my friend.” The doctor looked at him gravely. “The police are going to want to talk to you, get as much information as they can about what happened,” the doctor sighed. “But we haven’t heard or seen from him yet, there’s been no sign.” And there wouldn’t be, Mark was sure of this. Just as he had been sure to stab that son of a bitch in the heart with that cross. Just as he had been sure he could still hear the vampire feasting on his best friend. He was as sure as this as he was that there would be no body, if he could return – or remember how – to return to that place from which he knows for certain will haunt him to the day he dies. Because sometimes the dead do not die. They hang around like a dark cloud. “It’s actually pretty amazing… I’ve seen some burns kid, but yours left you relatively unharmed. You’re lucky,” The doctor got up, and took a step to leave, but stopped. “Do you need anything before I leave?” the doctor asked him, concerned. “Something for sleep. Something to knock me out,” He said, feeling tired all of a sudden. But it was not the sudden drowsiness which drove this, but the mere fact that he did not want to wake in the middle of the night, as he did the night before, to the sound of tapping at his glass. He did not have the courage to peer at the glass, and see the face of his dead best friend. He did not need to look to know it was there.

#Long Reads #Fiction #Dark #Dark Fiction #Lit #Prose #Horror #Short Story #Creepy

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