The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  Edouard jumped back in fright as a pale female face screamed, hitting the window. She ran a grotesquely bloody tongue across black lips and licked the blood smeared on the window. He looked behind him to see the dark figure he had bumped into rapidly approaching.

  “I will rip out your fucking heart and feast upon it,” the creature said, snarling with intent.

  Edouard ran for his life in a state of confusion and despair. Behind him he could hear the Mercedes’ doors opening and closing. The engine gunned into life. He picked up his pace and dashed down a narrow pedestrian walkway.

  He stopped, hidden from sight in the alley, gasping for breath. His lungs ached with the effort. What were those creatures doing? Could they be vampires? That was just sheer nonsense. Vampires are the stuff of myths and legends. His confusion washed away as he remembered the woman’s words – to meet her at the Ritz.

  Chapter 17

  AS THE NEAR full moon rose ever higher into the early night on the fourth of June, the massive black Mercedes raced from the cemetery. A set of long, black-lacquered fingernails tapped in irritation on the dashboard. Count Lucien Dupont admired his reflection in the passenger window. His normally delicate features held a hideous shroud of death, so pale with white makeup. Anger and frustration etched into his face while watching the city flashing by.

  Lucien muttered under his breath. “You can’t run from me my pretty Little Rose. No matter where you go I will always locate your fear.” He wiped smears of blood from his mouth, slid the window open and tossed the ruined handkerchief. Where would she run and hide?

  Count Lucien thought of medieval tortures to inflict on her for daring to escape. The punishment would be exquisitely painful. The vile bitch had not given her blood freely – something that now gnawed at his black soul. Her reluctance kept him in a permanent state of blood fire, dependant on taking her essence as a Suckling. The Count taunted Lucien for being so weak.

  “How could you depend on a miserable female?”

  Lucien’s rage fanned the flames of his desire to kill. And so the blood hunt was on – for Lucien relished the hunt, as it meant one thing – blood – and the rivers would overflow with it.

  Lucien grinned with an image of the first place she might seek help. It was a place he had taken her on the occasions he had decided to let her out. He shouted to Jacques, “La Rotonde!” He hated the avant-garde set, known as the Modernists. They had descended upon one of his favorite haunts and ruined everything with their insidious jocularity. Fuck it! At this time of night the place would be bursting at the seams – all friends of his Delicate Rose.

  Jacques nodded his head and hit the pedal to the floor. The car lurched off.

  “It’s on the Boulevard du Montparnasse!” Lucien offered.

  ~~~~

  Lucien, Jacques and Claudette entered the fashionable café, dressed like three undertakers attending a wake. An immediate hush befell the establishment. All eyes fixed on the strange trio, but in an instant the cacophony of pleasant chatter resumed. While the three Sucklings searched for an empty table, Lucien’s amplified hearing picked up pieces of boring conversation from vintages of notoriety well-known to him.

  Soo-Soo, stage actress and singer, was busy chatting with Kiki Du Montparnasse – the famous fashion model. Fashion, fashion and more fashion. Chanel! It’s always Chanel. How boring! Kiki smiled and waved.

  Man Ray, a slender middle-aged man with thick dark hair waved back from the next table. He was Kiki’s devoted husband and famous American fashion photographer. Man Ray engaged in conversation with Pierre de Massot, the surrealist writer and journalist of the arts.

  Oh such easy prey, Lucien mused.

  “They crave Chanel!” Man Ray remarked to Pierre as he looked around the crammed café.

  Pierre laughed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Lucien’s blood lust almost caused him to gleam at the delicious Robbie de Massot chatting gaily to Jean Cocteau, Picasso and Sergei Diaghilev.

  “You look so divine, Sergei,” Robbie cooed.

  “I tend to be the best-dressed man everywhere I go,” Sergei replied with a chuckle.

  Lucien smirked at the dire conversation. He grimaced at all those boring females adorned with items of Chanel and stinking up the air with that perfume. His desperate lungs fought hard against the onslaught of poisons so readily accepted by society. With a cough, he paused.

  Soo-Soo sucked in her breath as she recognized Lucien.

  Lucien easily sensed her hatred of him and so decided to tease her. He sauntered up to a couple, snatching the chair from under the man. The man fell on his backside. Here it comes.

  Soo-Soo leapt to her feet in anger. Kiki tried to hold her back. She shrugged Kiki off and marched up to Lucien, wagging an angry finger in his face.

  “I’ve had quite enough of you, Dupont.” Her bright red upper lip curled with distaste. “You’ve been warned for the last time.” She placed hands on hips and glared defiantly. Everyone clapped slowly to Soo-Soo’s outburst, egging her on.

  Lucien leaned up close and kissed her on the lips. A hush overcame the café.

  Soo-Soo wiped the kiss from her mouth, smearing her lipstick. She trembled with hatred. All eyes were upon her. She was dragged back to her table by Kiki.

  Lucien laughed out loud as he and his friends occupied the table now so recently vacated. He waved to the couple skulking away towards the exit. They looked terribly upset.

  Soo-Soo relaxed as much as she could, but looked defiantly angry.

  Lucien searched the room for his Petite Rose with eyes and mind. The clutter of rampant humanity made the search impossible as the signals became an indecipherable, jumbled mess. He gave up, instead watching the effect his new friends were having. The Count listened to covert whispers directed at the three of them. Tirades of revulsion and curiosity washed over him. He concentrated on his own companions for relief.

  Claudette slithered into a chair next to Lucien, immediately lighting a cigarette rammed into her elegant holder. She draped her long, black fur coat over the back of her chair revealing a slinky black dress which flattered her slender figure. Dark, Gothic makeup accentuated her pale face. She smiled back at adoring glances from men and women alike.

  The equally beautiful Jacques stared at all the gorgeous, high-class flesh on offer. Although obviously a bit of a rough-house, he had no trouble attracting the ladies.

  Count Lucien captured brief thoughts of disgust emanating from the Modernists. He was well aware that the waves of outrage hid their fear of him – fear of his vast wealth that prevented them from touching him. His precious family name was the only reason chic society accepted him. But he didn’t give a shit about anything in society, nor did he care what they thought of him and the manner in which he dressed. Let them stare if it gets them off. Let them waste valuable time on Count Lucien Dupont.

  He searched the café with desperate eyes that soon betrayed his failure to find the one he needed. That distinctive taste of her fear was not among them. Her sweet siren-song was silent. He wanted to scream out her name. He needed to. The urge was overpowering.

  Life without his mistress would mean certain death, now that he was addicted to her blood. Lucien clenched his teeth and inwardly apologized for his one weakness – his love for his Petite Rose. Perhaps he would never see her again – this second time she had finally succeeded in escaping his smothering grasp.

  The terrifying thought turned Lucien’s blood to a liquid lava of hate. At that moment, he would in all probability kill his Delicate Flower for her betrayal. He sat in miserable silence, nursing his glass of Armagnac, and decided to leave for the Moreau’s apartment. The only other time she had escaped, he had found her with that damnable artist, Ellise. He leapt to his feet – galvanizing his comrades, but faltered with a look of complete awe. Lucien trembled with adulation, his eyes locked on a strange-looking bald man entering the café.

  The middle-aged man walked through clouds of smoke, towards the bar
as a ship drifts through fog. His grace didn’t match his grim appearance. He snapped his fingers for a drink, but was diverted by Jean Cocteau.

  “Hey, Max … over here.” Jean indicated with a wave of his hand.

  Count Lucien stood transfixed by Nosferatu himself. All thoughts of bloody revenge evaporated from his dark soul to be replaced by adolescent worship. He shuddered with unbearable excitement at being so close to his idol.

  Max Schreck turned to spot Jean Cocteau, and proceeded to his table. He was about to sit down when a pale hand grabbed his arm.

  Max turned to look into the gaunt, white face of Lucien Dupont. “Yes, what is it young man?” Max frowned.

  “Please, Mr. Schreck, excuse my manners, but I ....” He turned to his comrades. “.... We would be deeply honored if you would sit with us and entertain us with recollections of Nosferatu … in fact, I would be eternally grateful if you could join us for a late showing at The Lyceum … it’s just around the corner.”

  Max Schreck stared into a pair of deathly cold, blue eyes then down to the hand still clenched to his arm. Max glared at the long, black finger nails, stained with grime. A smile flickered across his face as he extended his hand and wriggled his slender bony fingers to show off his own long nails, neatly painted black.

  Lucien removed his hand and smiled. “Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Schreck.” Lucien pointed to his table.

  Max turned to Jean Cocteau and his companions, shrugging apologetically. He joined Lucien at his table.

  “That young man could do with some manners,” Jean Cocteau said.

  Robbie de Massot laughed. “So could you, darling.”

  Cocteau, Picasso and Diaghilev laughed with Robbie, soon forgetting their brief encounter with Max Schreck and Lucien Dupont, resuming their discussion on the arts.

  Lucien waved down a waiter and ordered a glass for Max, he knew what Max liked. The actor poured Armagnac into his glass. All four of them proceeded to empty the bottle over a dissection of F W Murneau’s greatest creation – Nosferatu.

  Lucien just had to know. “Have you really tasted blood, Max ... you know as a vampire?”

  Max looked askance at Lucien and gave a wicked smile. “Am I not Nosferatu?” Max hissed and curled his fingers.

  Lucien was hooked. “You must have read Dracula?”

  Max shrugged. “But of course, dear fellow. It is the bible of vampiric lore.”

  Lucien whispered in Max’s ear, “I’ve dedicated my life to the vampire’s blood bible ... and to your film. Blood is life. Life is blood.” Lucien grabbed Max by the arm and looked earnestly into his eyes, “I even sleep in my own coffin, custom-made of course.”

  Max gave Lucien a shrewd look, bordering on condescending. “You do realize I am an actor ... Nosferatu isn’t real, you know?”

  Count Lucien went rigid with rage. He had to take a gulp of brandy to steady his nerves. The Count’s angry tears left streaks of betrayal down his white face. “Nosferatu is real Max. You are real. I am real. Vampires exist. We are all proof of that.”

  Max stared in amazement as the young man’s voice became louder with each astonishing statement. The entire café had fallen silent.

  Jacques cleared his throat.

  The Count glared at Jacques.

  Jacques shifted uneasily. He looked away from those cold eyes of death.

  The Count looked all around and focused on Soo-Soo’s glare of ridicule.

  She shouted out, “What have you done to my Petite Fleur, Dupont? We haven’t seen her in weeks.”

  Lucien wondered how lovely she would look with her throat slashed from ear to ear. He could see her hot blood spraying between frantic fingers. The Count’s imagination ran riot as the whole café became awash with gore.

  Lucien snapped out of his trance. His temple throbbed with agitated blood surging like a tidal wave to drown his fevered brain. He emptied the bottle of brandy down his throat. By the time he thumped the empty bottle back onto the table, the café had resumed its joyful mood. The room breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Please excuse my outburst, Max ... can I call you Max?” Lucien’s heart soured as Max agreed with a shrug and nod.

  A slim young woman, dressed in black Chanel and her equally beautiful boyfriend couldn’t fail to notice the famous actor at Lucien’s table, now that Lucien had drawn attention to Max. The fashionable pair waltzed over to Max and rudely interrupted Lucien.

  “Are you Max Schreck?” they asked simultaneously.

  Max opened his mouth to reply, but Lucien placed a hand on his arm to say nothing with a shake of his head.

  “Come, join us,” Lucien offered, licking his lips in anticipation. “But beware ... you dance with the Devil … you sleep with the Devil.”

  A ripe pair of beauties, Lucien mused while the attractive pair searched for spare chairs. It never ceased to amuse The Count the way the spider entrapped the eager flies, entangled in the web of enticing beauty.

  Jacques played gentleman and snatched two chairs recently vacated. The former occupiers soon returned with fresh drinks, looking for their chairs.

  The young woman sat beside Lucien and giggled. “Ooh ... the Devil you say. Been there ... done that.” She nudged her partner and winked.

  Lucien drank in the obvious wealth the couple exuded. Gold jewelry was on display everywhere, right down to her ankle bracelet. In no time Lucien and his friends were plying the couple with copious amounts of Armagnac and Pernod.

  Lucien quickly deduced the couple’s intentions, taking the liberty to stroke the delicate underneath of the woman’s knee. He was gratified as she allowed him to continue with a shiver of delight. His vampire senses reacted in kind when her skin rippled with goose bumps.

  Her secret dark desires, locked deep within her heart filled him with a terrible longing. A rush of sexual perversion of orgiastic pleasure blended with his own sanguineous needs created a heady cocktail in Lucien’s mind. He ached for his cock to impale her at the same time his fangs drained her.

  Lucien eyed the man who didn’t seem to mind at all what Lucien was doing to his woman. He seemed more concerned with wrapping Claudette’s pouting lips around his own. The young man instinctively placed a hand to his groin and massaged. Claudette’s hand joined in the fun.

  Lucien returned his mind to the female. He ran his fingers up her thigh and was most gratified when she opened her legs. He slipped a finger into her moist folds and became entangled in her ecstasy.

  Claudette knocked back her Pernod and wantonly massaged the young man’s twitching erection. She slithered onto his lap where she ground her behind on his firmness.

  Jacques sat brooding, drinking his Armagnac with a petulant pout. He gave Max a shrug and a sigh.

  Throughout this wanton debauchery, Max sat properly composed and calm, with the faintest of smiles on his face, as if this were as much an everyday occurrence as cleaning one’s teeth. And it probably was in the circles he travelled.

  A few lustful moments later, Lucien suggested, “Come on Max, time to catch the flick.”

  “Why not ... it’s been an eternity since I’ve seen it,” Max offered.

  Lucien gave a curt nod to Jacques. Lucien dipped his fingers in his brandy and offered them to the woman. She eagerly licked them, her tongue suggesting so much more.

  Jacques moaned with barely concealed excitement. They all downed their drinks and left La Rotonde with Max and the beautiful young couple in tow.

  Chapter 18

  LUCIEN AND HIS guests stepped into the warm night air and proceeded down the boulevard, turning into a side street. The Count faltered and looked behind.

  Max shrugged and brought up the rear. He was about to make a run for it when Lucien rushed to him and put an arm around his shoulder.

  The chic group passed drab grey stone apartments crammed one on top of another. Buildings huddled shoulder to shoulder, creating a tunnel-like effect above the quaint shops and smaller cafés where the undesirables frequented. In between tw
o such cafés, appearing crushed and sadly neglected was The Lyceum, proudly playing F W Murneau’s Nosferatu.

  Lucien paid for the tickets, giving a wry smile when the attendant gawped in wonder at Max Schreck. While Lucien offered the tickets for inspection, Jacques, Claudette and their two guests eagerly parted the velvet curtains.

  The ticket inspector’s hand trembled as Max gave him a courteous nod before entering the darkness beyond. Thankfully, there was enough room in the back row.

  The lights went out and the projector flickered on. A hush of anticipation descended on the darkened auditorium as the opening credits rolled. On one side of Max Schreck sat Lucien, Jacques and the female guest and on the other side sat Claudette with her fresh, unopened bottle of male companion.

  Lucien kissed the beautiful young woman passionately on the lips, licking her earlobes before nuzzling the nape of her neck. As she groaned with pleasure, he sprayed Forbidden Kiss into her face.

  “What is that perfume?” She was about to say more but her words were smothered by Jacques’ mouth.

  “Forbidden Kiss,” Lucien said with a devilish smile. He kissed the spray bottle and slipped it back into his coat.

  Claudette kissed the boyfriend with rampant abandon, their tongues eagerly entwining, tasting one another. The man undid the buttons of his trousers where his obvious arousal dwelled. Claudette gave an unexpected giggle, impaling herself on the man’s erection. She sprayed his face with perfume, leaning back so the cloud wouldn’t affect her, sniggering all the while.

  Within a minute the beautiful young couple slumped into a coma-like state, their eyes wide open, feeling nothing, but experiencing everything.

  Lucien gently draped the young woman across Jacques’ lap, her right arm now limp.

  Jacques bent down and opened his mouth wide to accommodate the painful gleaming. He groaned as his vicious incisors uncorked the woman’s wrist. Droplets of blood fell to the dark red carpet as he partook of her blood wine.