by J. R. Rain
But she kept her eyes closed as my book had instructed...
God bless her.
Nightmare, infuriated, screeched loudly... but still, Susan kept the bastard at bay, holding him fast.
And before my very eyes, I watched as the entity continued shrieking even as he shriveled into something small and ugly, until it finally disappeared altogether. Even the slime that had covered her arm was gone.
Minutes later, Susan, who had been whimpering softly, dropped her empty hand and covered her eyes, still afraid to open them after she had destroyed such a formidable enemy.
***
I hung around for a few more days, and by God, the demon known as Nightmare didn’t return. Whether or not he had somehow survived to haunt another’s dreams, I didn’t know, but this time, it felt final.
This time, he felt gone. Forever gone. An acceptance spread through my consciousness.
My work here was done. Truth be known, my work was done long ago, the instant that bus decided to use me as a crash test dummy. As such, I had, of course, failed miserably.
I’ve seen things in the spirit worlds that I want to forget. Other demons. Darker entities. Creatures so foul that even I would look away.
But nothing as foul as Nightmare.
Where had he gone? I didn’t know, but all it took was for one brave and desperate young woman to face down her own nightmare. A nightmare in every sense of the word.
Susan was sleeping peacefully on her side, a smile on her face.
Sweet dreams, I thought.
I realized I had nowhere to go. My purpose in life—and death—had been fulfilled. I had no reason to go back to my familiar haunts. And with that thought, golden hands reached out to me for a fourth and final time.
This time, I took their hands.
This time, I allowed them to lead me away.
The End
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Vampire vs. Bigfoot
I’ve lived in many places and in many times.
For now, Seattle suits me. If Twilight got anything right, it’s that overcast days play less havoc on vampires. Not much less, granted, but enough.
Unlike Twilight, I don’t live with an adopted family of vampires. I live alone, as I have for many centuries. And as I pulled up to my current home, I actually had to think hard about how many centuries it has been.
Four of them. Four hundred and seventy-two years, to be exact.
Almost five centuries.
A half of a millennium.
Jesus, I’m old. And rich. After all, a vampire acquires a lot of money in five hundred years, and my own was spread liberally around banks the world over, not to mention secret stashes of gold and silver in various caves and beaches.
And now here I am, in Seattle, living yet another life, in another place, another time. The world continues on. People come and go. Technologies expand. Waistlines expand, too. But I will always be twenty-five.
Forever young, as they say.
I pull into my garage and shut off the car, which I sit in as the garage door grinds shut behind me. I could do anything, of course. Go anywhere, be anyone. There are people out there—very talented and corrupt people—who can turn you into anyone, in any country.
But, for now, I am staying put, living among the hippies and hipsters and baristas. Why? Why do I deal with the rain and gloom and cold?
The answer might surprise you.
Then again, it might not.
After all, Washington State is known more than just for its legal pot, gay marriages and trendy coffee shops.
It’s known for something monstrous stalking its woods.
Yes, I’m here to hunt the ultimate prize.
I’m here to hunt Bigfoot.
***
Don’t laugh.
I’m being serious. I’ve tasted all types of man and woman and child. All ethnicities, all age ranges. I’ve feasted on the very old to the very young. Yes, I’m a monster. I’ve never claimed to be otherwise. I have feasted on puppies and bear cubs, on lions and endangered rhinos. Yes, I am a monster.
And now I will hunt and feast upon the greatest prize of them all.
That is, of course, if he really exists.
***
I’ve spent many months planning and plotting.
I’ve even watched some of those ridiculous shows on TV, those shows that are all growl and no results.
Foolish mortals. Yes, I say that in jest, but it’s the truth. Never send a human to do what a vampire can do better. I am, of course, the perfect hunting machine. My ears can pick out the smallest sounds, the slightest rustling—breathing from across great distances. My eyes see deep into the dark. Hell, to my eyes, there is no dark. The night is alive with incandescent light. And I’m fast. So much faster than those bumbling idiots weighed down by camera equipment and backpacks.
I will wear nothing but the clothing on my back.
It will just be me and them.
And I will find them, too.
Oh yes, I will.
The ultimate prize.
***
The woods are dark.
But not to my eyes. No, to my eyes, the woods are alive with supernaturally bright filaments of lights. Thousands of them, millions of them. All melding together to illuminate the night. At least, for creatures like me.
Hunters like me.
It is late, perhaps 2:00 in the morning. I have about four hours left before sunrise. And when the sun does rise, I want to be long gone... with a belly full of a rare and very prized blood source.
I’m in a prime spot along the Olympic Peninsula. In fact, not far from the now famous Forks, with its glittering vampires. Lord, we are so much more than fictional heroes... or villains. Writers only partially get our stories right. Mostly, they get us wrong. Granted, I’ve made it my life purpose to cover my tracks, to conceal my true nature. But a few of us get sloppy, and a few of us even fall in love with mortals. I don’t fall in love. I take what I want.
Like now, for instance.
Now, I want to taste the blood of this legendary creature. This Sasquatch. Yes, legendary even to vampires. You see, we vampires don’t know all, see all. We’re not plugged into some supernatural network. I, like the bungling idiots you see on TV, have to find them just like everyone else.
Except, of course, I will find them.
All I want is one.
One beautiful creature to feed upon. One beautiful creature to destroy. To claim, to be conquered by me.
Yes, I’m the asshole of the vampire world.
Pray you don’t cross paths with me.
***
Speaking of paths, I find myself on a narrow one now.
A game trail, no doubt, one that winds through thick ferns and stinging nettle. Of course, unlike with mortals, the stinging lasts only seconds. It’s good to be me. Bad to be anything I’m hunting.
Like Sasquatch.
Speaking of which, I am in a location along the densely-forested peninsula that was considered a hotbed for Bigfoot sightings. I know this because I feasted on the director of a popular Bigfoot organization just last night. Such a shame he died tragically in a house fire. Damn faulty wires.
I chuckled now as I moved stealthily through the forest, my hiking boots whispering over tree roots, compacted dirt and fallen leaves. I doubted even an alert dog would hear me. Hell, I barely heard me... and that’s saying something.
I sensed something out here. Something that was neither animal nor human. What that something was remained to be seen. Or remained to be feasted upon.
Centuries of hiding—hell, millenniums of hiding—were about to be undone in one wild night of hunting. By a real hunter.
By a vampire.
Quickly, I moved through the forest, pausing only briefly to listen, to sniff the air—Sasquatches are known for giving off a tremendous stink—and to feel. Yes, feel. Vampires use a sort of sixth sense. An ability to feel our way through any situation.
&n
bsp; Like I said, we are the ultimate hunters.
I was thinking about that now, reveling in my, well, greatness, when something thunderous crashed into me.
***
Rarely have I been hit so hard.
In fact, I could never think of a harder impact, especially one that sent me tumbling head over ass through a tangle of blackberry bushes.
And I mean a tangle. As I extricated myself from the thorny vines, I was a bleeding mess. But, being who I am, the wounds healed quickly.
As the kids say, that’s how I roll.
I carefully scanned my surroundings. Whatever had hit me was gone, having slipped back into the shadows, hidden even from my near-perfect night vision.
I heard a whispering of sound to my right, perhaps the slightest brush of a foot over leaves—remember, nothing escapes my hearing—when something slammed into me hard enough for me to believe I was in the path of a charging rhino. Which I had been once, before I feasted upon the creature (and made it appear to have been a poacher’s handiwork).
Anyway, there was no rhino in these forests. There was, in fact, nothing big enough in the Olympic Peninsula to hit me as hard as I had been hit. And as stealthily. Grizzly bears had long been pushed to extirpation in Washington State. And black bears were far too slow and loud and stupid to hit me with such precision, silence and strength.
So, what had hit me?
I didn’t know, but whatever was out there had me spinning around as I scrambled to my feet, had me looking wildly over my shoulders and behind me and up into the trees—had me feeling, well, mortal.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I felt fear. Real fear.
I hate when that happens.
So, I continued scanning the forest, feeling my heart thumping in my chest for the first time in years. I could not think of the last time that anyone—or anything—had gotten the upper hand on me.
The forest was silent.
No, not quite silent. I can hear what might be breathing. Except it’s coming from seemingly everywhere at once. I keep turning in circles, doing my damndest to get a handle on what is out here; in particular, on what is taking these small, shallow, controlled breaths.
I reached out with my mind. I can do this. I can do many things to hunt and kill and feed. Except I was having difficulty focusing now. Knowing there was something out there, something seemingly faster and stronger than me was unnerving.
Impossible, I think. I am the greatest hunter. The most successful hunter.
I hear my own breathing now, which is strange, since I don’t need to breathe. No, I was breathing out of an old habit. A habit of fear. A fear of being hunted.
There. I hear another sound. A tree branch snapping, and now I was moving quickly, covering the open space of the forest floor quickly, pouncing upon the site where I’d just heard the snap—
Except there’s nothing here.
I turn again, spinning, when something reaches around my neck, something much bigger than me, something more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced before. Something inhuman. Hell, something not of this earth.
It is a hand, clamped around my throat, lifting me off the ground.
I fight it, using my own great strength, strength that has hunted and killed and maimed and spread fear around the globe for centuries.
Except I... can’t... fight it.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
This isn’t happening.
The hand continues squeezing, and rising, lifting me off my feet. My hiking shoes dangle as I continued fighting, struggling, even as I felt my neck being literally crushed.
Now, I hear the sounds of more heavy footfalls.
I hear grunts, too.
And deep-throated growls.
Coming from seemingly everywhere.
I feel my eyes bulging, slowly being forced from their sockets as the powerful hand continued squeezing.
Hazy images take shape before me.
Huge images. Hairy images. Unspeakably horrible images. The images surround me, watch me curiously, heads tilted...
My vision is fading quickly. The pain is excruciating, unbearable. Even my supernatural ability to heal myself cannot keep up with the steady pressure. Still, I fight the clawed hand. The clawed and hairy hand. I dig into it, raking it with my nails, but this only causes the creature to squeeze harder and harder.
The others draw closer, turning their heads curiously, and as their mouths open, I smell ungodly stinks, even as their mouths drip saliva.
The snap I hear is my own neck.
And it is only when the creatures descend upon me, tearing at my flesh and making wet feasting sounds, do I realize that the hunter has been the hunted.
The End
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Halloween Moon
“What is death? We do not know. We will never know.”
—Diary of the Undead
I was watching Judge Judy.
I’ve always been drawn to strong women. I think most women are drawn to such women, too. In a world often dominated by men, it’s always nice to see one strong woman reduce a man to tears. Any man. Then again, I might have something against some men.
Not all men, I thought, as I idly stitched a hole in the armpit of Anthony’s new shirt. Just the cheaters.
Next to me was a pair of shorts with a hole in the crotch. The shorts might not be salvageable, but I would do my best. The problem was Anthony. The kid was growing fast—and he was damn hard on his clothes. Probably no harder than other boys on their clothes.
Then again, my boy also had a dash of vampire in him.
More than a dash.
The thought, once again, made me sick to my stomach, and I worried all over again about what I’d done.
Let it go, I thought, as I tied off the thread, and clipped the ends easily with my freakishly long fingernails.
Just as Judge Judy was reducing an eBay con artist into a sputtering idiot—and just as I was feeling good again—my doorbell rang.
This was curious for two reasons: one, my doorbell didn’t work and, two, there was no one standing at my door.
It was midday. I would soon be leaving to pick up my kids. The laundry was folded and the dishes were done and the carpet was vacuumed. The house was silent. The calm before the storm. The storm being, of course, my two kids.
And as I stood there looking out through my open door, as the sun angled in and touched my eternally cold skin, doing its best to warm it and failing miserably, something slowly, slowly began to materialize before my eyes.
Had I not been what I was, I might have panicked. Might have freaked, in fact. But these days, these very, very strange days, I had often seen such manifestations and knew them to be spirits.
Ghosts.
Lord, my life is weird.
The entity that was appearing in my doorway, shimmering in the golden light of the sun, was smallish. Perhaps it was only able to partially manifest... or perhaps it was something else.
A child, I thought.
I glanced down at my cell phone. An odd thing to do, certainly, when there’s a spirit manifesting in front of you, but I had my kids to pick up, after all. And spirit or no spirit, I wasn’t going to be late.
Again.
The entity continued taking on more definition. It did this by gathering the light particles around it. Light particles that were less noticeable to me during the day, but still there. I thought of these particles less as light and more as energy. The energy that, perhaps, connected us all. Energy that, miraculously, lights up the night for me.
Whatever it was, and however it worked, it was gathering before me, perhaps for my eyes only. After all, few people could see what I saw.
A few seconds later, as the bright filaments swirled and continue to take shape, I wasn’t very surprised to see a young boy standing before me, wavering in and out of focus, watching me, one finger hooked in his mouth.
A very, very dead boy.
***<
br />
He stood there and stared at me, and judging by his lack of detail, I suspected he had been dead for a long time.
I knew that the newly departed, those who had recently passed away, often seemed to retain more of themselves. Or to remember more of themselves. This boy, whoever he was, seemed to have only retained a fraction of a memory of who he was.
As he watched me, shimmering, one finger hooked in his mouth, I saw that he had a badly broken leg and arm. And...
Sweet Jesus.
There was a wound in his chest.
His chest.
Sweet Jesus, I thought again, and reached out to him without realizing what I was doing.
The wound in his chest, I was certain, was a knife wound. Spirits, I knew, could project themselves as they were at the time of their death. Some did so consciously, while others did so unconsciously. Although there was no color to him and he consisted of nothing more than shimmering light particles, the gash was obvious, and so was the broken arm and leg.
I covered my mouth with one hand, even as I reached out with the other.
The shimmering boy looked down at my outstretched arm and seemed surprised. He unhooked his finger, and now, I sensed his confusion. No, I knew his confusion. Spirits were an open book to me. Immortals, not so much. But spirits were nothing but projected energy, projected thoughts. Easy for me to read.
The boy was struggling with the fact that I could see him. He’d spent most of his death in oblivion... alone and lost. I saw it now. Saw him wandering the streets beyond, slipping into homes, watching silently from corners of rooms, from closets, from doorways, watching as families interacted, mothers loved and siblings fought. He watched all of it, silently, forgotten and lost.
My God...
Now, his shimmering head, which had been looking down at my proffered hand, looked up at me slowly... and, amazingly, he came into even sharper focus.