by J. R. Rain
Her face was a little orange under the cheap streetlights. She had opened her mouth to speak, but instead she gasped. She hadn’t expected me to turn on her. Heck, maybe she even thought she had approached quietly.
Maybe she wasn’t sure she had wanted to talk to me. Maybe, just prior to my spinning around, she had decided to do the smart thing, turn herself around, and leave.
Maybe she had heard stories of me. Maybe she had heard that I was different from other students. That there was something odd about me.
I heard the stories, too. Mostly, of course, I overheard the whisperings behind my back. They didn’t know I could hear them. They thought they were being discreet. But I heard their harsh words. I heard their hateful stories. I heard them speak ill of me. I heard their laughter, but mostly I heard their fear.
I heard everything.
Her gasp hung in the air, much like her mouth hung open. She was a pretty girl. Long, blonde hair. Brown eyes impossibly round. She was small but curvy. She looked like a doll all grown up into its teen years.
“You are following me,” I said.
She closed her mouth. Some of the students spilling out into the parking lot watched us. In fact, most of the students were watching us. I ignored all of them. All of them, that is, except this new girl.
“Yes, sorry,” she said.
“Why are you sorry?” I asked. I turned and opened my car door. I tossed my backpack into the backseat.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” I said.
I heard her heartbeat clearly now. It thumped rapidly. It even seemed to labor a bit, which might mean she had some sort of heart condition, surprising for one so young. She looked once over her shoulder, and I could almost hear her thinking, although my hearing isn’t quite that good. She was thinking, and I would have bet good money on this, I can still leave now. Make up a good story, or even a bad one. Anything. Just leave. They call him a freak for a reason.
But she didn’t leave, and I knew why. Because they don’t just call me a freak.
They also call me Spider.
“You need help,” I said, draping an arm over my open car door, letting it support some of my weight.
She quit looking around and now she held my gaze, and as she did, her heartbeat steadied. She was no longer afraid. Then her eyes pooled with tears, but she did not look away even as the tears spilled out.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you have a ride home?” I asked. I’d learned to never trust tears.
“I walk.”
I motioned toward the passenger seat. “Get in,” I said, “And let’s talk.”
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Also available:
The Vampire Club
by
J.R. Rain
and Scott Nicholson
(read on for a sample)
My name is Andy Barthamoo, leader of The Vampire Club, which meets every Tuesday night at 7 p.m. in a small room in the basement of Western Virginia University’s library.
There are five of us, and we have one thing in common: we love vampires. We love them from the tip of their pointed teeth to the tip of their leathery batwings, devoting much of our pre-adolescent, high school, and college years in search of them.
You see, we want to become vampires.
However, we have yet to come across any documented proof that vampires truly exist. Until now....
* * *
On this particular Tuesday night, as I stood before the other four members of the group, I had some interesting news to share. Once all the members had assembled before me, I began the meeting. “Now friends and colleagues, I have asked you this question before and I will ask you again: what is the purpose behind our club?”
Four hands shot up. I would have expected no less. “Buddy,” I said, pointing to the blond football player in our group.
Buddy stood, all 215 pounds of him. “To gather evidence to prove the existence of vampires.”
“Very good, Buddy,” I said, and then paused for dramatic effect. “I believe I have found such evidence.”
There was a gasp or two. Probably Janice, though she’d never admit it. She had a way of hiding her true feelings, which is why she resisted her no-doubt undying love for me.
“This past week while doing research in the Virginia Times Library, I came across a newspaper article from the 1820s.” I opened my DayRunner and removed the photocopied article. I cleared my throat and read: “‘Stranger Shot Eleven Times, Dies Two Hours Later—Old man Andrews says he’d never seen anything like that in all his life. ‘Course I’m blind as a bat,’ says Andrews.’”
“Interesting,” said Juan, pulling at the goat hair on his chin.
“Now, as you will soon discover, this stranger behaved very much like a vampire.” I looked each member in the eye, stopping a bit longer with Janice and, of course, adding a wink. “And if so, there’s a chance he’s alive today. And I know where to find him.”
“Where did you get this article?” asked Juan.
“A weekly newspaper called The Inquireth.”
“A tabloid!”
“My assignment didn’t specify what newspaper I had to use—”
“A tabloid story about a mythical creature. Sure you didn’t confuse it with the Incredible Bat Boy? We can’t accept it as fact, Andy, or anywhere close to the truth,” Juan said.
“I thought the same thing, until I read between the lines and discovered the writer could not have made this up. He hit too close to vampiric truth. And it was before Bram Stoker, back when vampires were legend and not yet mainstream fiction.”
“Just read the article,” said Professor L. He smiled and nodded his gray head at me. “And we’ll see what exactly you’ve stumbled upon.”
Professor L was not only head of the Vampire Studies department, he was its only teacher. This was the only university in the nation that offered Vampire Studies as a major, and it attracted the devout, which was pretty much us four. You couldn’t just spout lines from Buffy the Vampire Slayer to get in. You had to know about Carmilla, Varney the Vampire, Vlad Dracul, and Nosferatu.
I cleared my throat dramatically, gazed at a promotional poster for The Lost Boys on the far wall to help me focus—Corey Haim had been my hero when I was a kid—then read the article aloud:
“It is common knowledge that evil is brewing in our Pennsylvania. Folk have been disappearing across the state for the last year. Most thought it was Indians, yet there have been reports of a pale-faced demon haunting an area right before a person is discovered missing.
We all know we all got sort of a start when a pale-faced stranger turned up in our town last week, staying at Buford’s Boarding House. He called himself ‘Laumer,’ and never said whether it was his first name or last. We all kept a suspicious eye on the stranger, but he seemed harmless enough; indeed, he was very charming, though rarely seen except at night.
But when old Al Hockborough disappeared, we knew we were in the presence of evil, perhaps Satan himself. A committee was formed, addressing the issue of the stranger and what to do about him. Four of the ten in the committee, including yours truly, wanted to burn him. Sure, give him a trial, and then burn him. Al was a great guy. He didn’t deserve to die by the hands of Satan. The others in the committee, led by Ed Royce, wanted to search his residence; maybe we’d find old Al.
At Buford’s Boarding House, we confronted the stranger at noon, though he was somewhat bedraggled. He was once again all charm, and let us search his residence at will. Nothing unordinary. He expressed his extreme concern over the disappearance of Al, and that times were indeed hard enough for a traveling man without people disappearing and heaping suspicion on innocent strangers.
It was pretty much back to the drawing board, though some of us didn’t like it, especially Ed Royce. ‘Fire’ could be the only word to describe our town’s blacksmith. He really had it in for the stranger, though most of us accepted the fact that his pre
sence was purely coincidental to the disappearing of Al.
We were not surprised then when two days later gunfire shattered the night like fine crystal in the hands of a newborn. Roused from their sleep, most folks stumbled out of their beds to find the stranger dying in the streets. Ed and his gang stood by explaining, while the stranger lay gasping in the street. “He tried to kill Edith! We caught him just in time.” That’s when Edith answered curtly, crying. “He just offered to carry my bags home!
“Then why did he attack us?” demanded Ed.
“Maybe because you bullies cornered him with your guns.”
“Look at Billy, Sheriff, the stranger done him in good.” And Billy was a terrible mess.
“He also just disappeared on us,” said Hank. “When we looked again, he was behind us somehow. We shot at him,” Hank went on, “I knows I hit him a few times, and the others did, too, but he kept on running.”
“And that’s when he ran into me,” said Ed Royce. “One shot was all I needed.” The stranger died two hours later.
The sheriff investigated further, and it was agreed it was in self-defense that the stranger had to die.
If he was an innocent man, God forgive us. And if he was the killer, may God deal with him appropriately.”
They were silent, mulling over what they had just heard. I gave them a moment to reflect before spurring them into a conclusion. “Now, Buddy, who and what was that article really talking about?”
“A vampire, of course!”
“Indeed. The clues are all there. But I have another question: Who is this Edward Royce, and how did he and his gang kill our vampire?”
“The answer,” said Janice, “was the bullet. A silver bullet.”
“Exactly!” I stepped from behind the podium and circled the room. “Fact: we have researched vampires extensively. Fact: we have read all the vampire fiction, and though usually it’s a good read, most of it should be burned. Fact: we know more about vampires than anyone else alive. Question: can a silver bullet kill a vampire?”
As expected, four hands shot up in unison. “Juan,” I said.
Juan stood. “In our studies, we have uncovered voluminous accounts of vampires. The trouble is that most vary as to the true characteristics of vampires. So what we have done, as you all know, is sort through all the slush and find similarities. We are the uncoverers of fact.
“Simply put, we have uncovered the truths and dispelled the fallacies; and, unbeknownst to most folks, a silver bullet can wound a vampire but not kill a vampire. Our vampire is not dead.”
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About the Author:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams.
Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.