by Ronald Kelly
“That’s peculiar.”
“Yeah, isn’t it?” said Prichard.
Stan sighed. “What was the result of the autopsy, John? Can you tell me that?”
“Sure. It was just as I suspected. The body was completely devoid of blood. I examined the brain, the heart, and all the major organs. There was no trauma to any of them, just an absence of blood in the tissue.”
“And what about the possibility of rape?” Stan asked, even though he didn’t want to.
“There was no indication of sexual assault,” Prichard told him. “I examined both the oral and vaginal cavities. There was no trace of semen and no sign of penetration.” He paused for a second. “The girl was still a virgin.”
“Anything else?” asked Stan.
“Yes, there were a couple of things that turned up that I wanted to tell you about,” said the coroner. “First, there is the matter of the wound in her neck. It was deep, about five centimeters. But that wasn’t the odd thing. There were two places at the edges of the wound that were much deeper than the rest. Two round holes about as thick as a pencil. They measured a good six centimeters in depth.”
Stan felt cold. “So what does that mean, John?”
“If my suspicions are true, the deeper points of the wound were made by the attacker’s canine teeth,” said John Prichard. “In that case, they would have had to have been a good three centimeters longer than the rest of his teeth.”
Stan thought about it for a moment. Then he laughed harshly. “Aw, come on, John! What’re you trying to tell me? That we’ve got a frigging vampire on our hands?”
Prichard said nothing. There was merely a nervous cough on the other end of the line.
The police chief cast the idea out of his mind. “What else did you find out?”
“Well, the other strange aspect of my examination had to do with what I found beneath the girl’s fingernails,” said the coroner.
Stan sat up straighter in his chair. “You did find something, then?”
“Yes,” said Prichard. “Traces of flesh beneath the fingernails of the right hand.” He paused for a second, then continued. “I took the liberty of putting some of the tissue beneath a microscope.”
Stan could sense an odd tone in the medical examiner’s voice. “And?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Stan,” Prichard told him. “The tissue was both active and inactive.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Stan asked, confused.
John Prichard’s voice held a degree of awe. “Stan, the tissue I found beneath Jamie Bell’s fingernails was human skin, but it was dead skin. And, then again, it wasn’t.”
“You’re not making much sense, John,” Stan told him.
“What I’m trying to say is that the tissue sample was both dead and alive, although how that can be is completely beyond my expertise,” said Prichard. “A microscope doesn’t lie, Stan. The overall condition of the cell structure—the membrane, the nucleus, the cytoplasm—was normal with no sign of deterioration. But there was no life to it at all. None of the activity that takes place within a living cell. There wasn’t a trace of bacteria of any kind.”
Stan thought about it for a moment. “What does it mean?”
“I can’t say for sure,” the coroner told him. “But I’m not going to let it lie. I’m taking these samples up to the university in Knoxville early tomorrow. I’ll give you a call and let you know something as soon as I can.”
“I’d appreciate that, John,” the chief replied. “And I hope to hell you find Jamie’s body before tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Prichard, although there was a doubt in his voice that Stan didn’t quite understand.
Stan had barely hung up when the phone rang again. He picked it up, expecting it to be the coroner again. Instead, it was Bill King at the office.
“Chief, I just got a phone call from Tammy Craven over at the Baptist Church,” he said. “She’s awful upset.”
“What’s the problem?” he asked, feeling uneasy.
“Her husband, Wendell. He’s missing,” King told him. “She went over to the church to check on him and he was gone. She can’t find him anywhere.”
“Is his car still there?”
“She says it’s parked right where it’s supposed to be,” replied the officer.
Stan knew Wendell Craven. He was a strong-headed preacher with an ego big enough for three evangelists, but he was also a creature of habit. He would have told his wife where he was going, even if it was just down the road for a minute or two. “Call Jay and tell him to meet me over at the church,” the chief instructed. “I’m on my way.”
He hung up the phone and walked to the foot of the stairs. He could still hear Lisa crying, although softer now. “Beth,” he called. “I’ve got to go out for a while.”
“Be careful, sweetheart,” echoed his wife’s voice.
Stan Watts went to the foyer closet and opened the steel gun safe he kept there. He took out his shoulder rig and slipped it on, then checked his service revolver. It was a Smith & Wesson .357 snubnose. He didn’t load it with magnum cartridges, preferring the lighter .38 loads. Less recoil and better control. He slipped the revolver into its holster, then left.
A moment later, he was climbing behind the wheel of the Lincoln. He sat there for a moment, thinking of the brutal murder of Jamie Bell and now, the disappearance of Wendell Craven. “What the hell’s going on here?” he asked himself. Then he started up the car and backed out of the driveway.
Chapter Fifteen
Wendell Craven awoke, cold and disoriented.
He opened his eyes to find the glare of headlights centered on him. Wendell stared into the beams, but they didn’t blind him. His eyes adjusted to the glare instantly and he saw that it came from the old primer-gray Dodge. The truck that belonged to Dudley Craven.
The young preacher sat up and looked around. He was no longer in the thicket next to the church parking lot. During the time he had been out, he had been taken somewhere else. At first, he didn’t recognize the wooded spot. Then he heard the trickle of water nearby and saw a grove of weeping willows waving in the night breeze a few yards away. He knew the place. It was four or five miles north of town, along the winding channel of Maple Creek. He had taken the church’s youth group on hikes before, and this had been one of their favorite picnic spots. They would sit in the soft clover and eat tuna fish sandwiches while Wendell taught a short lesson about the beauty of nature and the one who had created it.
But at that late hour, that beauty was hidden in deep shadow. The place seemed godforsaken, as if no one had ever been there before. It was funny that he would think in such a negative way. Wendell was usually an optimistic, bright-spirited person. But he had awakened feeling weak and depressed, as if something very important to him had been stolen.
Wendell rose to his feet, attempting to clear his head. He tried to remember what had happened after he’d left the church with Dud Craven. They had walked across the parking lot to the truck. No one had been inside, but then he had walked to the far side and—
Abruptly, he remembered. He placed a hand to the side of his neck. There was a deep pit there, the skin around the edges ragged. There was no blood. When he pulled his hand away, the palm was clean.
That intense sensation of coldness engulfed him again. He rubbed his arms, trying to generate some heat, but he couldn’t seem to warm up. It was as if his body had lost its ability to do so.
“How do you feel?” came a voice from behind him.
Startled, Wendell turned. Standing a few yards away was Dudley Craven and the elderly gentleman who had attacked him. It was the old man who had spoken.
“Cold,” said Wendell. He lifted his hand back to his neck. “Why, in the name of God, did you do this? And why did you bring me here?”
“As for the first, it was necessary,” said the man with the gray hair and mustache. “And we brought you here to talk. No one will overhear us he
re. No one will interfere.”
“How long have I been unconscious?” asked Wendell.
The old man seemed amused. “You weren’t unconscious, my boy.”
“I don’t understand.”
The man’s eyes sparkled. “You were dead.” A little grin creased his lips. “Are dead.”
Wendell grew even colder than before. He pressed his palm tighter to his neck. After a few seconds he came to the realization that he no longer possessed a pulse. He lowered his hand to his chest. It was deathly still. He could detect no rhythm whatsoever.
“God help me,” he groaned.
The elderly man laughed. “God can’t hear you now,” he said. “You are part of a different realm. A realm without life. A realm that your precious Savior plays no part in.”
“You’re wrong,” said the young minister.
“No,” replied the old man, “I’m not.” He took a couple of steps toward Wendell. “Do you know who I am?”
Wendell stared at him. He recalled the realization that had formed in his mind the moment before he had blacked out. “Yes,” he said dully. “You’re Josiah Craven.”
“That is right.”
The minister shook his head. “But you can’t be. Grandpappy Craven died ninety-seven years ago.”
Grandpappy frowned sternly. “Do you not believe in eternal life?”
“Of course,” said Wendell. “But in the kingdom of Heaven. Not here on earth.”
“Yet I am here, standing before you,” said the old man. “I’ve been resurrected.” He turned to the farmer behind him. “Dudley helped me in that regard.”
Dud Craven said nothing. He simply nodded and smiled lamely. Although he tried to hide it, there was a shade of regret in his sad eyes.
Wendell couldn’t believe that the man was actually there. He had seen a few old photographs of his great-grandfather, and there was no mistaking that it was, indeed, him. “But how? How can this be?”
Grandpappy eyed his great-grandson. “You have heard of the undead? Vampires and such?”
Wendell immediately thought of his wife’s horror books. “Of course I have.”
“That is what I am,” Grandpappy told him. “And so are you.”
The young preacher couldn’t help but laugh. It was the first spark of his old self he had felt since he had awakened. “Do you actually expect me to believe that?” he balked.
The humor faded from Grandpappy’s face. In its place grew a cold contempt. Apparently, the old man didn’t appreciate being laughed at. “I expect you to believe whatever I tell you,” he said.
Wendell felt a thrill of fear run through him. Then his usual bravado surfaced. “I hold my belief in God Almighty and no one else,” he declared boldly.
Grandpappy shook his gray head. “You just can’t seem to get it through that thick skull of yours, can you, boy? God isn’t a part of your life now, Wendell. He abandoned you the moment you became undead. I know it is difficult for a man of the Word to accept, but accept it you must.”
“This is ridiculous!” snapped Wendell. “What you’re saying is blasphemy!”
Grandpappy Craven sighed. “I figured this would be a bitter pill for you to swallow,” he said. “I reckon you’ll just have to be convinced of the truth.” He turned to Dud. “Go ahead and show him,” he instructed.
Reluctance filled the farmer’s face. “You don’t actually expect me to…”
“Do it!” commanded Grandpappy, his voice booming. “Now!”
Wendell hadn’t noticed until that moment that Dudley Craven was armed. He brought up a double-barreled shotgun he held in his right hand and aimed it at Wendell’s stomach. Wendell could tell by the size of the muzzles that it was a twelve-gauge.
“No, don’t!” cried the minister, throwing up his hands.
A second later, the gun went off, expelling both chambers with a roar and a flash of burnt powder. Wendell felt a sharp tug at his midsection and staggered back a few steps. He waited for pain to rip through him as well, but it failed to come. He looked down. Dozens of tiny holes peppered the front of his white shirt, but there was no sign of blood.
Grandpappy grinned as the thunderous report of the shotgun faded. “Do you believe me now?” he asked. “Would that not have destroyed a normal man? A living man?”
Wendell stood there, stunned. “But such things… they don’t exist.”
“Oh, but they do,” claimed the elder Craven. “And they have since the beginning of time. We are a part of a very select fraternity, you and I. The fraternity of immortality. We shall live forever, Wendell. That is, as long as we are careful. And take care of our own.”
“I still can’t believe it,” said Wendell. His soul rebelled against the very idea. “I can’t accept it.”
Impatience blazed in Grandpappy’s eyes. “You are a hard-headed fool, aren’t you? Well, if you must be convinced further, I shall certainly oblige you.”
“What do you—?” began Wendell. Then his words hung in his throat as he watched the elderly man change before his eyes.
A strange blue mist engulfed the tall mountain preacher, completely obscuring him from view, except for the red glow of his eyes. For a moment the twin points of fire seemed to hang suspended in the vapor, devoid of a physical body. Then the mist parted and a dark form emerged, unleashing a shrill cry.
It was a huge crow, a good two feet long, its wingspan twice its width. As it flew at Wendell’s head, he could see those fiery red eyes glaring from the bird’s dark head. They were the hellish eyes of Josiah Craven.
The crow dive-bombed Wendell, then soared into the night sky. Wendell could hear Grandpappy laughing gleefully, but it came from inside his head, not through his ears. He watched as the bird lit on the ground only a few feet from him. Then came the unnatural mist again. Wendell was close enough this time to catch its scent. It smelled like what the vaporous steam of Hell must smell like: heavy with the stench of sulfur, seared flesh, and decay.
When the mist finally dissipated, he found Grandpappy standing before him, a smile on his face. “Do you believe now?” he asked.
Wendell couldn’t help but believe. “Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, I do.”
“Good,” said the old man. He reached out and laid a fatherly hand on the shoulder of the young minister. “Now I suppose you would like to know why I have blessed you with this gift.”
Wendell nodded. “Yes. Please, tell me.” A look of torment shone in his eyes. “Why have you?”
Grandpappy thought for a moment. He seemed to stare back into the past, a past that spanned decades before Wendell or Dud had even been conceived. “I was once a man of God, like yourself. I was the only chance at salvation that many of the mountain folk had back in those days. Yet I myself was far from faithful in the eyes of the Lord. Every man has his weakness. For some men it is liquor, for others it is gambling. For me it was the desires of the flesh. I strayed further and further from the path of righteousness, using my power and influence for seduction and conquest. Eventually, those evil yearnings involved my own daughters.”
Wendell was stunned. “Incest?” he asked.
“It would have gone that far, if their mother hadn’t chased me from their beds,” Grandpappy told him. “Discouraged by what I had become, I fled to the mountains, to preach to the infidels and, in turn, attempt to regain the spirit of the Holy Ghost. But those desires returned, not to be denied. It was during one night of my travels that my indiscretion became my salvation. My true salvation. I was camping on a mountainside in an abandoned village, when a young woman appeared out of nowhere. She was a beautiful thing with raven-black hair and alabaster skin. She wore a thin garment as white and sheer as a burial shroud. I didn’t know at the time that that was precisely what it was.”
Wendell nodded.
“That’s right,” said Grandpappy. “She herself was one of the undead. Nosferatu, as they would say back in the Old World. She came to me, aware of my desire for her. She disrobed and we engaged in fo
rnication. I found her unnaturally cold, both inside and out. But it was too late then. She baptized me, just as I did to you earlier this night. She bled my life away, leaving me with a soul trapped within a dead shell of a body. A soul condemned to a much more damnable and maddening desire than the one I had suffered before.”
A strange craving began to build within Wendell. He understood at once what Grandpappy was referring to, even though it horrified him. “Blood,” he said.
“Yes!” agreed Grandpappy, his eyes bright with the same bloodlust as Wendell’s. “I made my way back along the Smokies by night, careful not to destroy myself with impatience and carelessness. When I finally returned home, I concealed the nature of what I was for several days. Then your great-grandmother, Elizabeth, discovered my secret. One night as I attempted to recruit one of my daughters into the fold, she caught me unaware and put a stake of ashwood through my heart.”
“She destroyed you,” said Wendell.
“Yes, and buried me where no one would ever find me.” Grandpappy looked at Dud, whose eyes were bright with fear. “But she was wrong. Someone did find me… and released me.”
The young minister shook his head. “But why would you curse me with the same affliction?’ he asked, his voice pleading. “So I can end up the same way?”
“No!” said Grandpappy. “I did it out of love! Don’t you see? Even though my kin betrayed me, I never lost my love for family. It has always been a part of my soul and always shall be. That is why I blessed you with the gift of eternal life, Wendell.”
“What do you mean?” asked Wendell, although he was beginning to see the old man’s motive.
“I need your help,” he said. “You must help me assemble our family once again and baptize them into the church of the undead.”
“But that would be a sin, wouldn’t it?” asked the young preacher. “It would be a blasphemy against God to do such a thing.”
Grandpappy’s eyes gleamed evilly. “There you go again, with your talk of God and righteousness! How many times do I have to tell you? God has abandoned you, Wendell. You have a new master now.”