Blood Kin

by Ronald Kelly

  Boyd was a hundred yards from the highway when he heard a deep grunt echo from behind him. He turned to see the hellish boar leap from the greenery of a thicket, eyes burning. The weight of the beast brought him down. Boyd turned as he fell, slamming onto his back in the clay dirt of the mountain road. He cried out as the razorback landed on his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs. Frantically, he looked for something to use as a weapon, perhaps a rock or a heavy stick. But he wasn’t as fortunate as he had been in his workshop. There was nothing within reach that could help him.

  He looked up into the dark face of the boar. Its tiny red eyes gleamed with triumph and its nasty breath washed coldly against Boyd’s sweat-dampened skin. The beast’s bristly head dipped and Boyd felt the edge of a tusk rest against the underside of his neck. The carpenter lay still, afraid even to breathe. He knew that one swipe of the tusk could slice his throat clean open, perhaps even decapitate him.

  Then, before it could kill him, the boar was gone. A strange mist engulfed Boyd and he felt the beast begin to change. He could not see it, but he could sense its bones and muscles lengthening, its coarse hair receding, leaving only smooth, pale skin. He stared up into the red eyes and suddenly found himself looking into the face of Josiah Craven. Grandpappy snarled down at him, fangs exposed. His hand, as lean and hard as a skeleton’s, clutched Boyd’s throat.

  “The contest is over,” he told him. “I have won.”

  Boyd looked over the fiend’s shoulder. A look of amazement came into his frightened eyes, and slowly, he began to smile. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t think so.”

  Grandpappy Craven glared at him, then suspicion shone in his gaunt face. Perplexed, he turned and looked over his shoulder.

  A pale halo was forming around the peak of Craven’s Mountain. With horror, the old man understood what it was. It was the sun on the verge of rising. He had been so involved with the pursuit of his prey that he had failed to notice the approach of dawn.

  Grandpappy stepped away, his face even paler than before. Boyd sat up and rubbed his throat. He stared at the preacherman, seeing the fear in his eyes. He could sense something else, too, and that was that Grandpappy was growing weaker with each passing moment.

  The vampire seemed to sense his vulnerability as well. He began to back away from Boyd as if he posed some threat to him. He leveled a bony finger at the carpenter. “You’ve won, this time!” he said. “The sun proved to be your savior. But if you come to Craven’s Mountain again, you will not be so lucky. You will pay for your trespassing with your life!”

  Boyd rose to his feet. “Oh, I’ll be back,” he told the old man. “You can count on that.”

  Grandpappy Craven glared disdainfully at the man. Then a vaporous cloud swallowed him. Boyd watched as a morning breeze blew across the face of the mountain, taking the mist with it. He heard the flapping of oily wings and looked skyward. In the gray light, he saw a carrion crow winging its way toward the peak. Its flight was urgent, as if it wished to beat the sunrise. Boyd prayed that it wouldn’t make it, but he knew better. The black bird would reach the cellar of the old house in plenty of time. There Grandpappy would rest until dusk fell once again.

  Boyd felt his spirits begin to sink. He also knew that Joan would be there by his side. He tried to put Joan out of his mind and focus on his children, as well as the dangers they faced at the mercy of Grandpappy Craven. But Joan kept coming back the way she had been before. Joan in that Fourth of July picture, hugging her kids and smiling at him, her eyes full of warmth and love.

  It hurt him to remember it now. Down deep in his heart, he knew he would never see that expression in her eyes again, only contempt and hatred. And perhaps even hunger.

  He watched the mountaintop until the sun broke, sending its warm rays over the peak of Craven’s Mountain and into the basin of the valley beyond. Then he turned and started for the highway.

  It was after eight when he finally made it back to town. He had walked most of the way, then caught a ride to Maple Creek Road with an old drinking buddy named Jake McTyne. Jake had wanted to talk about the massacre at their old hangout, the Cheating Heart, but Boyd had remained silent. He didn’t need to talk about it. He had a pretty good idea what had happened there and maybe even who had been responsible.

  After Jake let his rider out in front of his trailer, Boyd went inside. The trailer smelled like filthy clothes and dirty dishes. Exhausted, he sat down in a threadbare armchair he had bought at the Salvation Army store in Sevierville for thirty bucks. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was soaked in sweat and his bare arms were marked with dozens of scratches and abrasions from his mad dash down the side of Craven’s Mountain.

  He sat there and gathered his wits, then picked up a phone next to the chair. He dialed a number and waited.

  Jay Mathers came on the line, sounding a little upset. “Green Hollow Police Department. Could you please hold?”

  “Sure,” said Boyd. He sat there and waited some more, hoping that he wouldn’t drift off to sleep.

  The officer came back on a moment later. “Yeah, what can I help you with?” he asked impatiently.

  “Jay, this is Boyd Andrews,” he told him. “Can I speak to the chief for a second?”

  The policeman paused for a long moment. “Uh, Stan isn’t here. He called in just after he left your place yesterday afternoon and he hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Is that so?” asked Boyd. “The last time I saw him, he was heading for town.”

  “Yeah, he told me he was going to check something out,” said Mathers, sounding more than a little concerned. “He said he might know who was behind all this crap that’s been going on.”

  Boyd opened his mouth. He almost told the lawman everything, but he didn’t. He knew what it would sound like over the phone. It would sound like the ramblings of a drunken man, which would undoubtedly be Jay Mathers’s first assumption.

  “Well, I hope you find the chief,” he said instead.

  “Yeah, so do I. His wife and kid are worried sick. And I have to admit I am, too.” Jay sounded at his wit’s end. “Damn it, I should have insisted on going along to back him up.”

  After Boyd hung up, he sat there for a long time, not moving. He was afraid he knew where Stan Watts had gone after he had left the Andrews residence, as well as what had happened to him after his arrival.

  Boyd got out of his chair and went outside. He went around back to his workshop and put his hand in his pants pocket. It was empty. He had forgotten that Dud had stolen his keys from the truck. He went back into the trailer and found a spare one in a kitchen drawer.

  When he unlocked the workshop door and opened it, an overpowering stench hit him. He didn’t know what it was at first; then he remembered Blanche. He quickly closed the door behind him and walked across the workshop, holding his hand over his nose. Blanche lay on the floor, looking blue and a little bloated. He felt his stomach roll, but he didn’t throw up. He found an old canvas tarp and threw it over her.

  He was trying to figure out what to do with her, when he saw the coffin lying across the sawhorses in the middle of the workshop. Suddenly, he understood why Dud wanted him to build the damned thing in the first place.

  Boyd looked around and spotted a broad ax leaning in a corner along with a shovel and some other tools. He walked over and picked it up, hefting it tightly in his hands. Angrily, he turned and began to flail at the casket. Tears of rage bloomed in his eyes as he thought of the one it had been built for and what he had done to destroy his family.

  By the time Boyd dropped the ax, there was nothing left but splintered fragments. Overcome with exhaustion, he lay down next to his workbench and, before he knew it, fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  About the same time Boyd Andrews was falling asleep, Tammy Craven was waking up.

  She opened her eyes and stared into the dusty gloom. At first, she had a difficult time identifying exactly where she was. Then she saw the cobwebbe
d rafters overhead and the stacks of boxes and junk around her. She frowned, then her eyes widened. She suddenly remembered what had happened. All of it.

  She sat up and looked toward the oval window. The painting of the Crucifixion was still where she had put it, wedged tightly into the window frame. She recalled the terror that had possessed Wendell’s pale face as he’d looked upon the picture of Jesus on the cross. It was what had protected her… saved her from becoming what he had become.

  Feeling weak and lightheaded, she rose. She pulled the framed print from the window and looked outside. The morning was warm and sunny; a perfect day. She remembered the horror and panic she had experienced during Wendell’s attack. Oddly enough, she felt none of those emotions now. She felt a strange sense of calm, as well as a grim acceptance of what had taken place.

  Taking the picture with her, she walked to the trap door and opened it. As she let the steps unfold, she felt an overwhelming pressure in her bladder. She felt as if she would burst if she didn’t pee within the next few seconds.

  She hit the hallway running and made it to the upstairs bathroom before she could wet on herself. She sat on the commode and urinated until the painful sensation in her bladder eased.

  When she was finished, Tammy shed her nightgown and panties, and laid her glasses—still stained with dried tears—on the bathroom vanity. She turned the water of the shower as hot as she could stand it, then stepped into the steamy spray.

  She stood there for a long time, letting the shower relax her. When the hot water finally ran out and began to turn cold, she cut it off and stepped out. She toweled off, and picking up her glasses, washed them in the sink. Then she walked naked down the hallway to the master bedroom. She felt some comfort in that simple act alone. In the household she had been accustomed to, one didn’t walk around in the buff, even from the bathroom to the bedroom. Wendell considered nudity sinful, something that was acceptable only when bathing and making love. And as for the latter, only in pitch dark and behind closed doors.

  Tammy went to her closet and found a pair of blue jeans and a lavender blouse. She dressed, then dug a pair of old Reeboks from the back of the closet. She wore them when she cleaned the house, but Wendell never allowed her to wear them in public. He thought it didn’t set a proper example, a pastor’s wife looking like a gum-popping teenaged girl. Come to think of it, her husband had practically told her how to dress and the way she should wear her hair. He had ever since they were first married. Tammy smiled to herself. “Screw you, Wendell,” she said, as she tied the laces.

  As she went downstairs, she suddenly realized how very hungry she was. She was practically starved. When she reached the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and began to toss things onto the counter: sandwich meat, lettuce, cheese slices, mustard, and mayonnaise. She grabbed a loaf of bread from the pantry, made herself two huge sandwiches, and then found a bag of potato chips in one of the kitchen cabinets. When she was finished, she had wiped out the sandwiches and most of the chips. She topped it off with half a bag of chocolate chip cookies. She normally ate like a bird, but she was ravenous that morning.

  It was at that moment that she began to wonder exactly how long she had been out of commission. She walked to the front door and found a copy of the Green Hollow Herald lying on the front porch. The Herald was a weekly paper, delivered on Thursday morning. Tammy realized then that she had been holed up in the attic for nearly thirty-five hours.

  She sat in a chair on the front porch and opened the newspaper. Tammy was shocked by what she found on the front page. Every article had to do with a crime that had taken place in Green Hollow or strange incidents that were suspected of being crimes. The disappearances of Stan Watts, Joan Craven and her children, and Tammy’s own husband headlined the articles, as well as a mass killing at the Cheating Heart at the edge of town.

  She thought of Wendell and what he used to say whenever he would drive past the honky-tonk. Someday I’m going to just walk in there and preach the gospel, he would tell her. They might laugh at me, might beat me half to death, but at least I would’ve tried to save a sinner. She recalled the ugly gunshot wound Wendell had shown her when he had returned home. She realized then that he had finally gotten up the guts to walk into the Cheating Heart. But apparently, it hadn’t turned out the way he had hoped.

  Tammy sat and read the paper for a long time. Gradually, the articles of murder and suspected abduction began to converge and link into a disturbing pattern.

  It wasn’t long before she became convinced that Wendell Craven wasn’t the only vampire who stalked the little mountain town of Green Hollow, Tennessee.

  Caleb Vanleer walked along the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly, pushing a shopping cart and feeling downright foolish. He had come into town for his monthly supplies and the grocery store was the only place he could pick up staples like salt, sugar, and flour. When he was on Eagle Point he was king of the mountain. But once he set foot into town, he began to feel self-conscious and out of place.

  He now found himself heading toward the checkout, being eyed by every customer and employee in the place. He either glared back at them or tried to ignore them completely. Caleb had left his Bowie knife and coonskin cap in the Blazer, but apparently his buckskins and belly-length beard gave the townfolk something to gawk at.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, he had gotten hold of a shopping cart whose left front wheel jittered and spun and refused to turn in the direction he wanted it to. “Damned contraption!” he said, giving it a kick with the toe of his fringed boot and drawing more strange looks from those around him.

  He glanced at a clock that hung at the front of the store. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. Caleb wanted to get his business over and done with before the children of Green Hollow were dismissed from school. They tended to point and make fun of him. During his last trip, a bunch of them had followed him around like a pack of dogs, acting like he was a one-man circus, or something.

  He was unloading his cart at the checkout when he heard someone call his name. He looked up to see Boyd Andrews walking through the automatic doors. Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. It was comforting to see a friendly face for a change.

  “I spotted your Blazer in the parking lot,” said Boyd. He looked haggard and worried, as if he had been through hell since the last time Caleb had seen him. His clothes looked dingy and wrinkled, like they were some dirty laundry he had picked up off the floor of his trailer. And that wasn’t the only thing Boyd had neglected.

  Caleb stepped back a few feet when he walked up. “Hoo-wee, son!” he said with a scowl. “You stink like a fly-blown polecat! When was the last time you took yourself a bath?”

  Boyd ignored his remark. “Caleb, I need to talk to you about something. Something important.”

  He could see that the carpenter was upset. “Just hold your horses, Boyd,” he said. “Let me pay for my goods here and we’ll go outside and chew the fat.”

  As Caleb paid for his groceries, Boyd saw Tammy Craven walk through the store entrance. She paused and stared at him for a moment as if she wanted to say something. Then she pulled a shopping cart from those up front and went about her business.

  After Caleb was through, they carried his supplies to the Blazer. Boyd wasn’t surprised that he had insisted they put them in brown grocery sacks. Caleb didn’t put much faith in those flimsy plastic bags.

  “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” the old man asked him, after they had put his groceries in the back.

  “I need your help,” he said. He looked at Caleb with uncertainty in his eyes. “But first I have to tell you about something that happened to me. I’ll warn you up front, it’s gonna sound unbelievable and you’ll likely end up calling me crazy.”

  “Aw, bullshit,” grinned Caleb. “I’d never call you crazy.”

  Boyd then proceeded to tell Caleb about everything: the disappearance of Joan and the kids, his killing of Blanche, and his trip to the top of Craven’s Mountain. He a
lso told him about Grandpappy Craven and how he had chased him back down the mountain in the form of a monstrous wild boar.

  When he finished, Boyd stood there and waited for his friend’s reaction.

  “You’re crazy, Boyd,” Caleb said. “You’re loonier than a grizzly on crack.”

  “Thanks,” said Boyd, his shoulders sagging. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Caleb sensed the man’s disappointment. “Well, now, do you blame me, Boyd? I mean, all this talk about vampires and demon boars and such… it ain’t the sort of stuff we usually talk about during the course of a conversation.”

  “I know that, Caleb,” said Boyd grimly. “But it’s true. I swear on my children it is.”

  “I think that you think it’s true,” said Caleb. He eyed the man closely. “Have you been sampling too much of my stumpwater lately, Boyd? From the looks of you, you’ve been living through a whale of a hangover for the past few days.”

  “I haven’t had a drop to drink since three this morning,” Boyd told him. “When I killed Blanche.”

  Caleb ushered him to the far side of the Blazer, away from two women who were pushing their carts across the parking lot. “Now, you hush up that kinda talk!” he warned. “You don’t want folks to overhear you saying you’ve gone and killed your mother-in-law!”

  “Well, it’s the truth. I just wish you’d believe me.”

  “Why? So I can help you with what you’ve got planned?” asked Caleb. “I’m sorry, Boyd, but I can’t go along with something so dadblamed crazy. I suggest you go somewhere and get yourself some help. I understand what you’re going through, not knowing what’s happened to your wife and young’uns and all, but you’ve got to pull yourself together!” He laid a weathered hand on the carpenter’s shoulder. “I’m just concerned about you, Boyd. I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but you’ve always been like a son to me.”