Red Rain: Over 40 Bestselling Stories

by J. R. Rain

  The wind and rain and fog and sun and silvery moonlight, they know me.

  The night knows me well, too.

  But Death does not know me. Death has searched for me. Death has waited for me. Sometimes impatiently.

  Trying to breathe deeply, trying to fill my lungs, always trying, centuries of trying, but never can I find that rich, full-bodied breath. Always, it eludes me. Always. Why can I never fully engorge my lungs with rich air?

  Is it because I do not need it?

  Yes, that must be it.

  Air is not important to me. Something else keeps me alive. Something that has little to do with oxygen or natural laws.

  So what is it? What possesses this ancient body of mine? I don’t know. Few of my kind do know. And those who do aren’t talking. But I know it is something dark. Something ancient. I do know this. I feel it living in me, a primeval entity, crawling inside my flesh like a keeper.

  I am its host, and I live by its rules.

  Aw, it’s raining harder. Hair is soaked. Feels good, feels good. Like a mantle of wetness cloaking me with coolness. Clothing soaked, too. Don’t care. Listen to it. So soothing, so peaceful. So gentle, so calm. Rain is serenity. It is sweeter than music.

  I cannot go back to my dogs.

  I cannot go back.

  I cannot.

  I cannot do this anymore.

  The woman I killed last week. She had children. How, how could I do that to her? How could I take her away from her kids, her family, her life?

  So many like her. Too many. I can’t do this. Not again. Ever. No more. Taken too much. Time to stop. Taking.

  It is time.

  Yes, it is time.

  The rain, the fog, the moon, the wind, the ocean, the waves, the night. It is all so magnificent, so beautiful. But I am tired to the core. Even the primeval thing crawling inside of my skin, just under the surface, is tired. And quiet.

  Too tired. Rare quiet.

  The dogs will be taken care of. I’ve made sure of it. I have no one else, nothing else. No one will miss me or care that I’m gone. The world will be a better place. One less predator. One less killer. One less ungodly, unholy creature.

  I need to be stopped.

  It is time to end this and take my leave. I wonder what peace is and if it will come when I take my leave. And end this.

  My body is eternally sick. Strong, but sick. Dead, but alive.

  The rain, I will miss the rain. I will miss my dogs, too, but I will miss the rain most of all. The rain has been the one constant in every place I have ever been. The rain has been more of my home than any shelter. The rain was the one thing on which I could always count. The drops coming down to wash me, to renew me, to let me cry when it cried.

  The stake in my own hand is heavy. It is a good, solid stake. Made of the finest silver. I made sure that it was without flaw.

  I will not miss the sun. How do you miss something you do not see?

  I will miss the wind, I think. Its music is a song of the earth.

  No one will miss me. No one.

  It is time to go.

  I must do this thing. I have to. I cannot kill another human, another mother. Another animal. I cannot hurt another creature.

  No more dead mothers or fathers or sisters or brothers.

  No more killing.

  It is time to end this taking.

  Forever.

  So what will happen to me? Where will I go? What will become of me?

  I’m scared. So scared. I can’t do this. I can’t.

  Oh, God.

  Do it.

  Please.

  Do it.

  The rain feels so nice, so nice. I love the rain. The patter and the pounding of it, the splashing of it speaks to me that I, too, will splash my offering into the Earth and let it drink. As I did.

  I am a monster. But no more. No more.

  I will miss the rain. Besides blood, it was my only drink. Rain.

  I’m really doing this. Now!

  Pull harder, both hands.

  Harder.

  The stake! It hurts!

  I’m really doing this.

  Oh, fuck.

  Oh, fuck!

  Harder. No. Yes!

  Oh, sweet God, what am I doing?

  Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  The light is coming, it is spreading, it is taking me inside the sparkling droplets of rain.

  The rain, so nice.

  So sweet...the rain.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  They Came From the Sea

  In the moonlight, the shapes splashing in Clyde Goodbook’s pool looked almost human.

  Almost. But not quite.

  It was just past 2:00 a.m., and Clyde was sitting in a deckchair on his upstairs balcony, drinking deeply from a steaming mug of coffee. As a cool wind shivered him to his bones, despite the blanket draped over his legs, he watched as a white-skinned female rose from the pool and stepped lithely onto the spring diving board. Her body was smooth and thin, her limbs unnaturally elongated. She had two small, bare breasts. Her bare breasts did nothing for Clyde.

  After all, she wasn’t human.

  The males, most lounging along the concrete edge of the pool, all watched her intently. They always watched each other intently. It was almost as if they were as fascinated by each other as Clyde was fascinated by them.

  The female stepped out onto Clyde’s diving board, which looked like a wide stick of gum from where Clyde sat on his balcony. She paused briefly, and seemingly held the attention of all the other creatures. Then she jumped once, twice, and did a perfect swan dive into the deep end.

  And why wouldn’t she do a perfect swan dive? After all, they came from the sea.

  Clyde wished that just once he could stay awake for the whole night. Yet it never happened. He always eventually fell asleep, no matter how much No-Doz or caffeine flooded his blood stream; and awoke each morning in his deck chair to find the pool empty.

  Now, as he did on this night each and every year, he watched the creatures silently...and alone. He had to watch them alone. He trusted no one with his secret. The moment word got out about these beings, he knew the world would descend on his Malibu home. And he didn’t want that. Not for him, and not for them.

  Whatever they were.

  So, he sat alone in the night, with only the outdoor floodlight and some mosquitoes keeping him company. He considered again the possibility of being the only human aware of these creatures. It was actually a considerable burden to live alone with the knowledge of their existence. He suspected there were others like him. Others who kept these creatures’ secret. Just like, perhaps, there were others keeping the Sasquatch secret. Or aliens. Or whatever. Clyde was well aware that just because someone had knowledge of the fantastic, they didn’t necessarily go around telling the world.

  Some people, like him, liked to keep the fantastic for themselves.

  He drank more of the coffee. The wind came stronger. The white-skinned creatures frolicking in his pool below didn’t seem to mind the wind. Hell, they didn’t seem to notice Clyde at all.

  As if he didn’t exist.

  Still, sometimes Clyde wondered how he would tell someone. How would that conversation go? He was sure it wouldn’t go well. Not for him, and not for them.

  Thanks to a string of bestselling novels featuring a crime-solving dog, eleven years ago Clyde had used his fortune to purchase an acre of ocean front property. He spent additional millions building his palatial residence. His plan had been simple: to create heaven on earth.

  A secluded heaven on earth.

  And he had succeeded. Perhaps far more than he had expected.

  Shortly after the completion of his home, as his bestselling novels already replenished the funds he had used to build his dream house, Clyde had been drinking on his balcony, thinking up the next plot for his crime-solving dog, when they first appeared.

  Dozens of them.

  Walkin
g up out of the ocean, gleaming white, nearly featureless. Definitely hairless. Like bipedal seals. But thinner, gangly. They moved awkwardly, as if unsure of their feet Or as if their limbs were not used to supporting their weight.

  Clyde had immediately grabbed his house phone, had already pressed 9-1 and was just about to press the second “1” when something amazing happened:

  They bounded over his fence. Not just jumping. But leaping effortlessly, gliding seemingly on the wind. He had never seen anything like it.

  And it filled him with terror.

  His finger was very, very close to jamming down on the “1” when something made him stop. Not only to stop but to set aside his phone...and to forget about it for the rest of the night.

  The creatures piled into his pool, where they began, of all things to...frolic.

  Yes, frolic.

  Rather passionately.

  Clyde watched from his balcony, stunned, horrified and a little ashamed, as he proceeded to watch the two dozen or so creatures, well, mate.

  Right there in his own back yard.

  Right there in his pool.

  The mating, he would learn in subsequent years, was always quick and very passionate. The creatures bellowed in pleasure, arching their narrow backs. The female gripped the males with clawed, webbed hands, urging the males deeper and faster.

  Soon, as had happened already tonight, Clyde’s pool was a heaving mass of white limbs and thrusting and heaving and clawing and arching.

  That was usually when Clyde would begin drinking...and watching safely from his balcony.

  Never once had the creatures looked up. Never once had Clyde ever given them a reason to look up. He just watched and drank and wondered what in the devil he’d gotten himself mixed up with.

  And when the mating was done...the playing began. The swimming and diving and splashing. They were a playful bunch. Horny, but playful.

  And it all happened one night a year.

  In Clyde’s backyard.

  He sipped his coffee, and inhaled on his cigarette. Two vices he was determined to someday quit.

  But not tonight.

  No, tonight was all about the creatures who come from the sea. And about staying up. He had never watched them leave. He always wanted to watch them leave. Maybe watching them leave would give him some clue as to who they were. Or what they were. Or where they came from.

  Maybe.

  He didn’t know, because he always fell asleep. Always, dammit. What was wrong with him? After all, how many people got to witness...this?

  Not many.

  And as the wind subsided and the playing in his pool mellowed, Clyde could feel his eyelids getting heavy.

  No, dammit.

  He jammed them up, drank more coffee, stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward.

  Shortly, he found himself sitting back again, his eyelids even heavier, the white images below his balcony just a blur. Long blurs, granted, but blurs nonetheless.

  No, he thought. Just a few more hours.

  As the wind picked up again, bringing with it the scent of salt and brine, Clyde’s eyes were tightly shut.

  And the creatures played on.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Teeth

  Fang’s Story

  The defense attorney circled the witness box and studied the killer. The young man, with his head bowed and hands clasped loosely before him, looked as if he were in a confessional. The attorney nearly chuckled at the image.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sucked my girlfriend dry.”

  He stopped circling and now stood directly in front of his client. As usual, the young man ignored him and stared down into his lap.

  Remember, Aaron, thought the attorney. Your fate rests with me. I’m your friend here, not the enemy.

  The crowd was silent; so silent, in fact, that the attorney actually heard a pen drop, clattering loudly on the polished tiles. The lawyer, however, was not so delusional as to believe that those in the courtroom were holding their collective breaths and waiting for him. Indeed, he knew they were spellbound by the young man. The killer. Hell, the whole damn world seemed spellbound by the young man, whom the press had dubbed the American Vampire.

  The attorney removed his glasses dramatically—he always removed them dramatically—and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. After all, this was his big moment, too. This case would make his career.

  “Aaron, you have been found guilty for the murder of Annie Hox. Now a new jury must decide your punishment. In particular, they will decide if you are worth more alive than dead. The ball is in your court, Aaron.”

  The young man continued staring down at his hands, almost petulantly, like a scolded kid.

  A hell of a scolding, thought the attorney.

  Aaron Parker had always been a quiet young man, the very definition of introverted. Long ago he had learned never to trust anyone, especially not to open up to anyone. Now, sitting here for all the world to see in the witness box, he felt uneasy at best. The uncomfortable chair didn’t help, either.

  As Aaron shifted again, the lead defender paused in front of him, smelling of expensive cologne and looking, if anything, like he was enjoying himself. Aaron hated him. Aaron hated most people, but he especially hated his own attorney. The polished man looked like the older version of all the kids in school who had made fun of him. All the good-looking kids who had it good and easy.

  Aaron never had it easy. Ever.

  And so he hated the man, just like he hated all the others.

  Despite himself, Aaron inhaled deeply, drawing in the man’s cologne. Aaron always had a thing for scents and smells. In fact, he often thought of all his senses as being highly attuned. Especially his sense of taste.

  He looked past his attorney, his small darting eyes finding the faces of those sitting in the courtroom beyond. Hundreds of faces, belonging to everyone from family members and friends, to the media and the damn curious. Expressions ranging from revulsion to amusement to horror. And all were staring at him. Every one of them.

  Just another freak show, he thought.

  As he gazed at the crowd, as he watched those watching him, he did what he always did, what many in the crowd had noticed throughout the course of this outrageous trial:

  He opened his mouth, just a little, and the tip of his tongue poked out as he unconsciously ran it back and forth along his upper incisors. He did this for perhaps ten seconds—

  And then he opened his mouth a little more, as he always did. Now his roaming tongue stopped at his massive canines—teeth that projected down from his upper jaw like mighty ivory stalactites—

  Wet, gleaming tongue sliding down one of the freakishly long stalactites—the right one, in fact—down, down this massive fang, stopping finally at the tip. There it paused, and, like an elephant’s curious trunk, gently tapped the tip of the tooth. Tapped it hesitantly, as if testing it. Tapped it carefully, as if fearful of it. Tapped it again and again and again...

  “Aaron, can you please recount for the court the events that led to the killing of Annie Hox?”

  The long tongue retracted like a frightened turtle and his lips slammed shut and the young man turned his attention away from a frowning older woman sitting in the second row—a woman who seemed to be staring at him almost sideways, as if afraid to look the devil in the eye. Aaron Parker settled his gaze onto the smooth-shaven face of the defense attorney.

  “Where would you like me to begin?” Aaron asked shyly, speaking in such a way that his lips barely moved, a way that completely concealed his teeth.

  “At the beginning,” said the attorney.

  “The beginning...was a long time ago,” said Aaron.

  “Remember, Aaron, this is a new jury. They haven’t heard your case.”

  The young man chuckled softly. “All they had to do was turn on the TV.”

  “Please, Aaron, just tell us your story.”

  The young man inhaled
deeply and motioned vaguely to his mouth. He said, “I suppose it all started when they grew in.”

  “They, Aaron?”

  “My teeth, of course.”

  “Thank you, Aaron, now will you please display your teeth to the jury?”

  Aaron felt his pulse quicken. He was always aware of his own pulse. Vigilantly aware. And it quickened now because showing his teeth went against his every instinct. Showing his teeth inspired questions. Showing his teeth induced ridicule. Showing his teeth had often gotten him beat up, and worse.

  “Please, Aaron, this is important.”

  Dance for us, monkey boy, thought Aaron.

  Not wanting to see their reactions, he closed his eyes and turned his face toward the jury box. And opened his mouth. He might not have seen their faces, but he heard the gasps. And he heard their fervent whisperings.

  I am more than my teeth.

  “That’s quite enough, Aaron,” said his attorney. “Thank you.”

  Now they know you’re a freak, thought Aaron.

  Yeah? So what else is new?

  He closed his mouth and slumped back in the chair, trying unsuccessfully to hide, and found himself staring up once again at the defense attorney. The man was indeed good-looking: muscular neck, strong jaw, square shoulders. Aaron went back to his clean-shaven neck, which was roped with thick muscle. And he kept on looking, searching really...

  Ah, there it is.

  The man’s jugular vein, pulsing steadily, strongly. Aaron’s stomach growled. Loudly.

  The attorney heard the young man’s stomach growl, saw the laser-focused intent in the young man’s eyes. He paused in mid-pace.

  Jesus, he’s staring at you again, he thought. No, he’s staring at your neck.

  The attorney, despite himself, swallowed.

  But Aaron was no longer thinking of the attorney. Indeed, as he gazed upon the man’s neck he found himself thinking of Annie Hox. Specifically, her blood. Her sweet, salty, precious, delicious blood.

  The young man felt an immediate swelling in his pants.

  The attorney, who found the young man’s gaze disconcerting at best, stammered slightly as he spoke again: “So, your problems began, Aaron, when your teeth grew in?”