Vampires: The Recent Undead

by Harris, Charlaine; Russell, Karen; Kiernan, Caitlin R. ; Smith, Michael Marshall; Armstrong, Kelley; Caine, Rachel; Sizemore, Susan; Vaughn, Carrie; Black, Holly

  I still have this idea that we should turn Mom and Dad, too, but I’m going to wait awhile before I bring it up again. I think I understand Apples’s nervousness better after she told me what she learned the last time she saw the woman who turned her. I don’t think it’s that she doesn’t love our parents. She’s just nervous that they won’t make the transition well. That they’ll be more like the woman than us.

  “Let’s give it a year or two,” she said, “ ’till we see how we do ourselves.”

  Mom and Dad sure weren’t happy about me moving out and into Apples’s apartment. I wish I could at least tell them that I’m not sick anymore, but I’m kind of stuck having a secret identity whenever we go back home for a visit. I have to carry around my puffer and pretend to use it. I have to put the leg brace on again, though we had to adjust it since my leg’s all healed.

  What’s going to happen to us? I don’t know. I just know that we’ll be together. Always. And I guess, for now, that’s enough.

  The Screaming

  J.A. Konrath

  Joseph Andrew Konrath’s first novel, Whiskey Sour (2004), introduced Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels. The eighth in the series, Stirred, will be published this year. Joe is also the editor of the Hitman anthology These Guns For Hire (2006). Under the name Jack Kilborn, Konrath has written four horror novels. His short stories have appeared in more than sixty magazines and compilations, and his work has been translated into ten languages. His blog, A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing (jakonrath.blogspot.com), gets over a million hits a year.

  Konrath’s “The Screaming” was originally published in The Many Faces of Van Helsing, edited by Jeanne Cavelos. This excellent anthology featured new stories of literature’s first vampire hunter: Bram Stoker’s Dr. Abraham Van Helsing. In “The Screaming,” we find the hunter and the hunted creepily combined.

  “Three stinking quid?”

  Colin wanted to reach over the counter and throttle the old bugger. The radio he brought in was brand new and worth at least twenty pounds.

  Of course, it was also hot. Delaney’s was the last pawnbroker in Liverpool that didn’t ask questions. Colin dealt with them frequently because of this. But each and every time, he left the shop feeling ripped off.

  “Look, this is state of the art. The latest model. You could at least go six.”

  As expected, the old wank didn’t budge. Colin took the three coins and left, muttering curses under his breath.

  Where the hell was he going to get more money?

  Colin rubbed his hand, fingers trailing over dirty scabs. His eyes itched. His throat felt like he’d been swallowing gravel. His stomach was a tight fist that he couldn’t unclench.

  If he didn’t score soon, the shakes would start.

  Colin tried to work up enough saliva to spit, and only half-managed. The radio had been an easy snatch; stupid bird left it on the window ledge of her flat, plugged in and wailing a new Beatles tune. Gifts like that don’t come around that often.

  He used to do okay robbing houses, but the last job he pulled left him with three broken ribs and a mashed nose when the owner came home early. And Colin’d been in pretty good shape back then. Now—frail and wasted and brittle as he was—a good beating would kill him.

  Not that Colin was afraid to die. He just wanted to score first. And three pounds wouldn’t even buy him a taste.

  Colin hunkered down on the walk, pulled up the collar on his wool coat. The coat had been nice once, bought when Colin was a straighty, making good wage. He’d almost sold it many times, but always held out. English winters bit at a man’s bones. There was already a winter-warning chill in the air, even though autumn had barely started.

  Still, if he could have gotten five pounds for it, he’d have shucked it in an instant. But with the rips, the stains, the piss smell, he’d be lucky to get fifty p.

  “ ’Ello, Colin.”

  Colin didn’t bother looking up. He recognized the sound of Butts’s raspy drone, and couldn’t bear to tolerate him right now.

  “I said, ’ello, Colin.”

  “I heard you, Butts.”

  “No need to be rude, then.”

  Butts plopped next to him without an invite, smelling like a loo set ablaze. His small eyes darted this way and that along the sidewalk, searching for half spent fags. That’s how he’d earned his nickname.

  “Oh, lucky day!”

  Butts grinned and reached into the street, plucking up something with filthy fingers. There was a lipstick stain on the filter, and it had been stamped flat.

  “Good for a puff or two, eh?”

  “I’m in no mood today, Butts.”

  “Strung out again, are we?”

  Butts lit the butt with some pub matches, drew hard.

  “I need a few more quid for a nickle bag.”

  “You could pull a job.”

  “Look at me, Butts. I weigh ten stone, and half that is the coat. A small child could beat my arse.”

  “Just make sure there’s no one home, mate.”

  Easier said, Colin thought.

  “You know”—Butts closed his eyes, smoke curling from his nostrils—“I’m short on scratch myself right now. Maybe we could team up for something. You go in, I could be lookout, we split the take.”

  Colin almost laughed. He didn’t trust Butts as far as he could chuck him.

  “How about I be the lookout?”

  “Sorry, mate. You’ll run at the first sign of trouble.”

  “And you wouldn’t?”

  Butts shrugged. His fag went out. He made two more attempts at lighting it, and then flicked it back into the street.

  “Sod it, then. Let’s do a job where we don’t need no lookout.”

  “Such as?”

  Butts scratched his beard, removed a twig.

  “There’s this house, see? In Heysham, near where I grew up. Been abandoned for a long time. Loaded with bounty, I bet. That antiquey stuff fetches quite a lot in the district.”

  “It’s probably all been jacked a long time ago.”

  “I don’t think so. When I was a pup, the road leading up to it was practically invisible. All growed over by woods, you see. Only the kids knew about it. And we all stayed far away.”

  “Why?”

  “Stories. Supposed to have goblins. Bollocks like that. I went up to it once, on a dare. Got within ten yards. Then I heard the screaming.”

  Colin rolled his eyes. He needed to quit wasting time with Butts and think of some way to get money. It would be dark soon.

  “You think I’m joshing? I swear on the head of my lovely, sainted mother. I got within a stone’s throw, and a god-fearful scream comes out of the house. Sounded like the devil his self was torturing some poor soul. Wet my kecks, I did.”

  “It was probably one of your stupid mates, Butts. Having a giggle at your expense.”

  “Wasn’t a mate, Colin. I’m telling you, no kid in town went near that house. Nobody did. And I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately. I bet there’s some fine stuff to nick in there.”

  “Why haven’t you gone back then, eh? If this place is full of stealables, why haven’t you made a run?”

  Butts’s roving eyes locked onto another prize. He lit up, inhaled.

  “It’s about fifteen miles from here. Every so often I save up the rail money, but I always seem to spend the dough on something else. Hey, you said you have a few quid, right? Maybe we can take the train and—”

  “No way, Butts.”

  Colin got up, his thin bones creaking. He could feel the onset of tremors in his hands, and jammed them into his pockets.

  “Heysham Port is only a two-hour ride. Then only a wee walk to the house.”

  “I don’t want to spend my loot on train tics, and I don’t want to spend the night in bloody Heysham. Piss-ant little town.”

  Colin looked left, then right, realizing it didn’t matter what direction he went. He began walking, Butts nipping at his heels.

  “I got
old buds in Heysham. They’ll put us up. Plus I got a contact there. He could set us up with some smack, right off. Wouldn’t even need quid; we can barter with the pretties we nick.”

  “No.”

  Butts put his dirty hand on Colin’s shoulder, squeezed. His fingernails resembled a coal miner’s.

  “Come on, mate. We could be hooked up in three hours. Maybe less. You got something better to do? Find a hole somewhere, curl up until the puking stops? You recall how long it takes to stop, Colin?”

  Colin paused. He hadn’t eaten in a few days, so there was nothing to throw up but his own stomach lining. He’d done that, once. Hurt something terrible, all bloody and foul.

  But Heysham? Colin didn’t believe there was anything valuable in that armpit of a town. Let alone some treasure-filled house Butts’d seen thirty years back.

  Colin rubbed his temple. It throbbed, in a familiar way. As the night dragged on, the throbbing would get worse.

  He could take his quid, buy a tin of aspirin and some seltzer, and hope the withdrawal wouldn’t be too bad this time.

  But he knew the truth.

  As far as bad decisions went, Colin was king. One more wouldn’t make a dif.

  “Fine, Butts. We’ll go to Heysham. But if there’s nothing there, you owe me. Big.”

  Butts smiled. The three teeth he had left were as brown as his shoes.

  “You got it, mate! And you’ll see! Old Butts has got a feeling about this one. We’re going to score, and score big. You’ll see.”

  By the time the rail spit them out at Heysham Port, Colin was well into the vomiting.

  He’d spent most of the ride in the loo, retching his guts out. With each purge, he forced himself to drink water, so as not to do any permanent damage to his gullet. It didn’t help. When the water came back up, it was tinged pink.

  “Hang in there, Colin. It isn’t far.”

  Bollocks it wasn’t far. They walked for over three hours. The night air was a meat locker, and the ground was all slope and hill. Wooded country, overgrown with trees and high grass, dotted with freezing bogs. Colin noticed the full moon, through a sliver in the canopy, then the forest swallowed it up.

  They walked by torchlight; Butts had swaddled an old undershirt around a stick. Colin stopped vomiting, but the shivering got so bad he fell several times. It didn’t help that Butts kept getting his reference points mixed up and changed directions constantly.

  “Don’t got much left, Butts.”

  “Stay strong, mate. Almost there. See? We’re on the road.”

  Colin looked down, saw only weeds and rocks.

  “Road?”

  “Cobblestone. You can still see bits of curbing.”

  Colin’s hopes fell. If the road was in such disrepair, the house was probably worse off.

  Stinking Heysham. Stinking Butts.

  “There it is, mate! What did I tell you?”

  Colin stared ahead and viewed nothing but trees. Slowly, gradually, he saw the house shape. The place was entirely obscured, the land so overgrown it appeared to be swallowing the frame.

  “Seems like the house is part of the trees,” Colin said.

  “Was like that years ago, too. Worse now, of course. And lookit that. Windows still intact. No one’s been inside here in fifty years, I bet.”

  Colin straightened up. Butts was right. As rundown as it was, the house looked untouched by humans since the turn of the century.

  “We don’t have to take everything at once. Just find something small and pricey to nick now, and then we can come back and—”

  The scream paralyzed Colin. It was a force, high pitched thunder, ripping through him like needles. Unmistakably human, yet unlike any human voice Colin had ever heard.

  And it was coming from the house.

  Butts gripped him with both hands, the color fleeing his ruddy face.

  “Jesus Christ! Did you hear that? Just like when I was a kid! What do we do, Colin?”

  A spasm shook Colin’s guts, and he dry-heaved onto some scrub brush. He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve.

  “We go in.”

  “Go in? I just pissed myself.”

  “What are you afraid of, Butts? Dying? Look at yourself. Death would be a blessing.”

  “My life isn’t a good one, Colin, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

  Colin pushed past. The scream was chilling, yes. But there was nothing in that house worse than what Colin had seen on the street. Plus, he needed to get fixed up, bad. He’d crawl inside the devil’s arse to get some cash.

  “Hold up for me!”

  Butts attached himself to Colin’s arm. They crept towards the front door.

  Another scream rattled the night, even louder than the first. It vibrated through Colin’s body, making every nerve jangle.

  “I just pissed myself again!”

  “Quiet, Butts! Did you catch that?”

  “Catch what?”

  “It wasn’t just a scream. I think it was a word.”

  Colin held his breath, waiting for the horrible sound to come again. The woods stayed silent around them, the wind and animals still.

  The scream cut him to the marrow.

  “There! Sounded like hell.”

  Butts’s eyes widened, the yellows showing.

  “Let’s leave, Colin. My trousers can’t hold anymore.”

  Colin shook off Butts and continued creeping towards the house.

  Though naive about architecture, Colin had grown up viewing enough castles and manors to recognize this building was very old. The masonry was concealed by climbing vines, but the wrought iron adorning the windows was magnificent. Even decades of rust couldn’t obscure the intricate, flowing curves and swirls.

  As they neared, the house seemed to become larger, jutting dormers threatening to drop down on their heads, heavy walls stretching off and blending into the trees. Colin stopped at the door, nearly nine feet high, hinges big as a man’s arm.

  “Butts! The torch!”

  Butts slunk over, waving the flame at the door.

  The knob was antique, solid brass, and glinted in the torchlight. At chest level hung a grimy knocker. Colin licked his thumb and rubbed away the patina.

  “Silver.”

  “Silver? That’s great, Colin! Let’s yank it and get out of here.”

  But Colin wouldn’t budge. If just the door knocker was worth this much, what treasures lay inside?

  He put his hand on the cold knob. Turned.

  It opened.

  As a youth, Colin often spent time with his grandparents, who owned a dairy farm in Shincliffe. That’s how the inside of this house smelled; like the musk and manure of wild beats. A feral smell, his grandmum had often called it.

  Taking the torch from Butts, he stepped into the foyer, eyes scanning for booty. Decades of dust had settled on the furnishings, motes swirling into a thick fog wherever the duo stepped. Beneath the grime, Colin could recognize the quality of the furniture, the value of the wall hangings.

  They’d hit it big.

  It was way beyond a simple, quick score. If they did this right, went through the proper channels, he and Butts could get rich off of this.

  Another scream shook the house.

  Butts jumped back, his sudden movement sending clouds of dust into the air. Colin coughed, trying to wave the filth out of his face.

  “It came from down there!” Butts pointed at the floor, his quivering hand casting erratic shadows in the torchlight. “It’s a ghost, I tell you! Come to take us to hell!”

  Colin’s heart was a hummingbird in his chest, trying to find a way out. He was scared, but even more than that, he was concerned.

  “Not hell, Butts. It sounded more like help.”

  Colin stepped back, out of the dust cloud. He thrust the torch at the floor, looking for a way down.

  “ ’Ello! Anyone down there?”

  He tapped at the wood slats with the torch, listening for a hollow sound.’

  �
� ’Ello!”

  The voice exploded up through the floorboards, cracking like thunder.

  “PRAISE GOD, HELP ME!”

  Butts grabbed Colin’s shoulders, his foul breath assaulting his ear.

  “Christ, Colin! There’s a wraith down there!”

  “Don’t be stupid, Butts. It’s a man. Would a ghost be praising God?”

  Colin bent down, peered at the floor.

  “What’s a man doing under the house, Colin?”

  “Bugger if I know. But we have to find him.”

  Butts nodded, eager.

  “Right! If we rescue the poor sap, maybe we’ll get a reward, eh?”

  Colin grabbed Butts by the collar, pulled him close.

  “This place is a gold mine. We can’t let anyone else know it exists.”

  Butts gazed at him stupidly.

  “We have to snuff him,” Colin said.

  “Snuff him? Colin, I don’t think—”

  Colin clamped his hand over Butts’s mouth.

  “I’ll do it, when the time comes. Just shut up and follow my lead, got it?”

  Butts nodded. Colin released him and went back to searching the floor. “ ’Ello! How’d you get down there!”

  “There is a trap door, in the kitchen!”

  Colin located the kitchen off to the right. An ancient, wood burning stove stood vigil in one corner, and there was an icebox by the window. On the kitchen table, slathered with dust, lay a table setting for one. Colin wondered, fleetingly, what price the antique china and crystal would fetch, and then turned his attention to the floor.

  “Where!”

  “The corner! Next to the stove!”

  Colin looked around for something to sweep away the dust. He reached for the curtains, figured they might be worth something, and then found a closet on the other side of the room. There was a broom inside.

  He gave Butts the torch and swept slowly, trying not to stir up the motes. After a minute, he could make out a seam in the floorboards. The seam extended into a man-sized square, complete with a recessed iron latch.

  When Colin pulled up on the handle, he was bathed in a foul odor a hundred times worse than anything on his grandparent’s farm. The source of the feral smell.

  And it was horrible.