by J. R. Rain
I strode across the grass in the dead of night, brushing past some overgrown plants. The car in the driveway was an 80s Oldsmobile. There was a front porch and a bench where, I suspected, the sick bastard watched the neighborhood kids.
Still striding purposefully, I went up the stairs and didn’t miss a beat as I lowered my shoulder into the front door. It exploded nicely from its hinges, landing with a thunderous crash.
Perhaps loud enough to wake the dead.
Or, in the least, to wake some neighbors.
Either way, I didn’t care.
I continued forward, ignoring my inner alarm system which was ringing off the hook, and stepped over the flattened door and into the lair of the beast.
***
He was waiting for me in the living room.
A small living room, to be sure. Smaller than my own, but filled with lots of crap. Everything from broken grandfather clocks to doll houses to train sets.
A kid’s paradise, I thought.
He was sitting in a winged-back chair, smoking a very long and slender cigarette, and watching me from behind the barrel of a pistol.
He adjusted the barrel, now pointing it directly at my head.
“I’ve called the police,” he said.
My inner alarm was raging so loud that I forced it to calm down. I get it, I thought. I’m in terrible danger here.
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “A scumbag like you does all he can to avoid the police.”
The gun never wavered. The only thing that did was the billowing smoke, which drifted up from his slightly open mouth.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No. But you will never forget me.”
He laughed. More smoke issued out of his mouth as he did so. He next sat a little more forward. “No, I suppose I didn’t call the police, but it hardly matters, right?” He waved the gun again, then settled it on a spot directly between my eyes.
“How did you know I was coming?” I asked.
“Oh, a little bird told me,” he said, and as he spoke, something dark and slithery appeared in his already-dark aura. It wrapped around him once, twice, and then plunged into his heart area, where it disappeared as surely as the Loch Ness Monster might into the depths. He didn’t react to the evil surrounding him.
The evil in him, I thought.
It was no little bird. It was something evil—perhaps not as dark and evolved as the thing that lived in me, but it was a real thing. And it was hungry. I suspected the old man’s own evil, his negativity and hate, kept the thing alive. Fueled it. Gave it life. Kept it satisfied.
For now.
But it was hungry. Very, very hungry.
“You killed a little boy named Conner,” I said, inching closer. A gun couldn’t kill me, unless the bullet was laced with silver. Either way, a gunshot wound to the head would hurt like hell.
“Now that’s not a very neighborly thing to say, Samantha Moon.”
That made me stop. My inner alarm rang all over again, louder than ever. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh, I know all my neighbors’ names, Ms. Moon.”
I shivered at the implication. “You mean, all those with kids.”
He grinned broadly. “Children are so precious, don’t you think?”
Was I faster than his trigger finger? I didn’t know. There was so much about me that I didn’t know. But I felt faster. More importantly, could I predict when he was going to fire? I didn’t know yet, either, but I was about to find out.
“You’re a monster,” I said.
“Sometimes, Samantha Moon. These days, not so much... although I feel my old hunger coming back. My old desires, so to speak.”
Although he was sitting mostly in darkness, I could see him clearly, thanks to the energized light particles that forever danced before my eyes. Danced and illuminated. And so, I watched his trigger finger closely.
He looked at me some more from behind the pistol. Then cocked his head as if listening to someone or something whispering into his ear.
A moment later, he said, “I’m being told that you are not wearing a wire and that you are here alone, but also that I need to be very, very careful with you.” He raised the gun higher and straightened his arm. A shooter’s stance. His finger wrapped a little tighter around the trigger. “Now, why is that?”
And in that moment, I was nearly overwhelmed with horrific psychic images. I gasped as I saw the mutilation, the degradation, the perversion, the torture, the horror that this man inflicted on his victims. On children. The innocent of innocents. I stumbled as the images hit me in wave after sickening wave. Truly, I was in the presence of pure evil.
And as I struggled to regain my composure—hell, just to stay standing—he said, “Now, why should I be afraid of you, Samantha Moon? Mother of two darling children, Tammy and Anthony? And my, my, my, aren’t they getting to be so big. So very, very big.”
I didn’t wait for him to pull the trigger. I didn’t wait to test the limits of my own supernatural prowess and agility. I didn’t, because I didn’t have to.
By mentioning my kids by name, he’d awakened something in me that was more primal—and more powerful—than any darkness that lived within me.
I was, after all, a mother first.
And a vampire second.
I lunged forward, charging, hurling my body through the small living room. Closing the distance between us in a heartbeat, a blink. Instantly. I was on him before he knew what hit him, before he could even squeeze the trigger.
Turns out my reflexes were pretty damn fast.
He screamed because I had his arm and was twisting. The gun discharged into the ceiling. I still had hold of his arm as I lifted him from the chair and hurled him against the wall behind him.
The gun went off yet again, shattering a window to his right.
As he struggled, I punched him hard, perhaps harder than I had ever punched anyone. The back of his head exploded into the drywall, even as I shattered his jaw. I punched him again, as hard or harder than the first time, and felt the bones of his face shatter as well. I punched him again and again and again.
And when I was done, when the rage that overcame me finally subsided, the man before me was a man no more.
He was gone, forever.
***
Her name was Pauline and she was a medium from Los Angeles.
She was a heavyset woman. Beautiful, she possessed a serene aura, full of violets and golds. I knew these were the colors of those who were on a spiritual path. I’d seen the same aura around preachers and priests and spiritual teachers.
When I told her about the little boy, she instantly agreed to help, stating the boy had come to her in a dream just the night before. I wasn’t sure what to make of this on the phone, but since I had seen my share of crazy crap, I accepted it, thanked her, and gave her my address.
She arrived two hours later.
Now we were once again seated on my living room floor. Pauline, me... and now, a presence that was beginning to manifest to my right. Pauline smiled as the energy collected and swirled and began to form into a little boy.
She looked at me. “You see him?”
“Yes.”
She looked at me some more, then nodded to herself. I sensed her deep understanding. Her knowing.
She knows what I am, I thought. And doesn’t care.
Pauline was a medium and psychic. I was drawn to her internet ad almost instantly, and knew I had to call her, knew she was the right woman for the job.
A job for what, I didn’t know.
Conner manifested by my side, holding onto my knee as he did so. His small touch sent a crackle of electricity through me, warming me instantly. He was clearer than I remembered. He was remembering who he was.
“Hi, Conner,” said the medium gently. “My name’s Pauline and I want to help you go home.”
Conner looked up at me again. I smiled. He squeezed my knee tighter. I did my best to ignore his badly broken arm and
leg. The bastard who’d done this was gone. The police had come and gone, too, after shutting down our street for a few days to investigate. Sherbet was front and center, looking like a man determined to find a killer. Never once had he contacted me or mentioned the incident to me.
It was quickly discovered, through copious amounts of evidence, that the man, one Rudolph Vega, had been a killer of children. Apparently, he enjoyed keeping souvenirs from his victims... and burying their bones in a makeshift basement under his kitchen. They had found seven in total, as I knew they would. I had, after all, seen their faces.
My street would never be the same again. The families involved would never be the same. The sweet innocence of my neighborhood was forever tarnished.
But at least the monster was gone.
The police never did find Rudolph Vega’s killer, but it was believed to be someone who might have lost a child, or someone who had figured out Rudolph Vega’s dark secret.
I would never forget the rage that gripped me, that overcame me. As I stood over him, delivering blow after blow, I was no longer a mother or a concerned citizen or anything with feelings or emotions. I was a monster fueled by hate. I would have killed him ten times over if I could have.
I inhaled deeply at that, shielding my thoughts from the psychic in front of me. After all, she didn’t need to know all of my secrets.
“It’s okay,” I said to little Conner. “She’s here to help you.”
He continued staring up at me. The electrified air around him danced and swirled, and I wondered if Pauline saw him the same way I saw him.
“You are a very brave boy, Conner,” said Pauline. “You stayed around until you found someone who could stop your killer.”
I glanced sharply at Pauline, but she kept her focus on the boy. How much, exactly, did she know? Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Either way, I knew she was a friend and would keep my secrets.
Conner nodded shyly, then buried his face in his hands and wept, his little body shaking. Pauline reached out and drew him in close and gave the little boy a big, loving hug.
I couldn’t hide the tears on my own face.
***
It was later.
Pauline had indeed helped Conner go home. A home in the sky. A home far away from here. Or, as Pauline said, everywhere and anywhere at once.
When she was gone, and when he was gone, too, I eased back down in the center of the living room and buried my face in my own hands. I would never, ever forget the images of the children, their torment, their horror.
I rocked on my floor and wrapped my hands around myself and thought of my children.
Lord help anyone who threatened my children.
Anyone.
The End
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Grampire
You think I like being called Gramps for all eternity?
Hell, no. In fact, I was quite looking forward to death. I lived a damn full life. I married my high school sweetheart, stormed the beach at Normandy, had five kids, and worked in real estate until I had enough to retire. Which I did, and spent the next twenty or so years with my fourteen grandkids and three great grandkids.
A good life. A perfect life.
I deserved a good death, too.
Sadly, my dear wife was the first to go. That hurt. A lot. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer. After all, how does one live with a shattered heart? How can one live with such unbearable, heartbreaking loneliness?
I knew I couldn’t.
Hell, I didn’t want to.
With her passing, I welcomed death. Ached for death. And had I been a lesser man, I just might have done it myself. Put a bullet in the old noggin’. Except you don’t storm Normandy, dodging bullets and bodies, only to take your own life later.
No, I was going to let nature do that for me.
And it was doing it. I had felt my body shutting down. My strength leaving me. Within months, my good health disappeared. My body was literally preparing itself for death.
I welcomed it. Hungered for it. I had lived a long life. A full life. A rich life. I loved my kids and grandkids, but I missed my wife most of all.
I was ready, ready...
That is, until that sick son-of-a-bitch broke into the hospital. At the time, I had been given weeks to live. Hell, I even heard a nurse whisper that I had only days. Days! Yippee!
That is, until that sick prick broke in and...
I still can’t believe it. I especially couldn’t believe it when I had looked up from my deathbed and saw the pale-faced bastard standing over me, lowering his face onto my neck.
Yes, my neck.
I was too weak to scream, but not so weak to feel the agony of his teeth sink into my neck. Not so weak that I couldn’t hear him actually drinking from me, drinking my blood, swallowing hungrily.
Yes, I had been waiting for death in that hospital room, except death never came.
That had been twenty-eight years ago.
***
I’m not exactly what people imagine when they think of vampires. I couldn’t look less like Edward or Jacob, or whichever one was the damn vampire. I certainly don’t sparkle. Mostly, I scowl because I’m pissed off.
I wanted to die, and now I can’t die.
Son-of-a-bitch.
Unlike popular perception, I didn’t revert back to the glory of my youth. Nope. Now I’m permanently broken, permanently wrinkled, permanently hunched and feeble.
Well, not entirely feeble. I do have more strength than many men combined. But that didn’t do much for my hunched back, or ruined knees.
My doctors think I’m a marvel of science. My kids think it’s a miracle, too. Only I know the truth. Only I remember the pale-faced bastard hunched over me, drinking from my neck.
I’m neither a marvel nor a miracle.
I’m a cursed wretch.
***
These days, I live on a farm, where I feed from my poor chickens and goats and cows. Luckily, I didn’t have to kill too many of them. I just tranquilize the buggers and drain them of some of the red stuff.
Then I would sit on my porch and drink from a foul-smelling mug, usually drinking with the sun having already long set.
Yes, I’m a creature of the night.
A very old creature of the night.
And if I ever find that son-of-a-bitch who turned me, well, I had a mind to strangle his neck. Or not. The truth was, he’d given me a great gift, too.
You see, sometimes when I sit on the porch, creaking away in my rocking chair, drinking my latest batch of chicken blood, wondering when I would see my grandkids again, wondering what the weather would be like the next day, wondering if the cold would affect my ruined knees, my poor sweet dear wife would make an appearance right there on the porch.
Turns out, being a vampire has a few side effects—and not all were bad.
Some, in fact, were very, very good.
Now I can see into the spirit world. Most importantly, I could see my wife.
She often comes over and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder and stands next to me quietly. All while I rocked and drank and smiled and ached—and wondered what the weather would be like tomorrow.
Someone had to be the world’s oldest vampire.
I guess it might as well be me.
The End
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Soul Train
Judd Ramses lay in bed with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the coming train.
Yesterday, after crossing the train tracks, Judd watched the odometer in his mother’s Acura, watched it until they pulled into their driveway. It was exactly 2.2 miles from their house to the train tracks.
And still, he could hear the train rumbling along the tracks.
Between his house and the train tracks, there was a main boulevard, two smaller roads and even a small commuter airport.
And still, he could hear the train roaring down the tracks.
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sp; The train’s whistle pierced the air, hooting. In the big-screen, surround-sound television of his mind, he could see train cars rushing past him, each with a faded Santa Fe logo splashed on their broad sides. Judd saw himself standing next to the tracks as this monster of a train roared past him, dirt, gravel, exhaust and trash washing over him. He saw himself grinding the palms of his hands into his ears, trying in vain to thwart the deafening roar against his eardrums.
If the train’s this loud to me, he reasoned, bewildered yet again, how loud was it to those people who actually lived closer to the train tracks?
The night was hot and humid, making sleep nearly impossible. Well, that and the damn train. Judd lay spread-eagled in his Fruit of the Looms. The fan on his desk chugged away, doing its best to disperse the sticky air.
Maybe, he thought now, maybe I can hear it so clearly because nighttime is always quieter than daytime.
The whistle had come and gone, and the train’s rumbling was only a memory now. A troublesome memory.
Goodness, he thought, I can’t be the only one who thinks this is insane. I can’t be the only one who hears this thing louder than the freeway that’s not even a block away.
He rolled to his side and finally went to sleep. And in his dreams, he dreamed of a train plowing through his backyard, knocking over fences and exploding through homes. A train that seemed alive... and hungry.
A train that was coming for him.
***
Her routine had been disrupted by Judd’s persistent questions.
That was a no-no in the Ramses household. His mother had her mornings planned down to the minute. Between the hours of six and seven-thirty, he could have told you the exact spot his mother would have been standing. More efficient than clockwork, she now stood glaring down.
“It’s just that I hear it every night, Mom. As loud as can be.”
“I’ll tell you once more, and only once more. What you hear is not a train but the freeway. And as far as I know, those tracks were abandoned years ago.”