Night's Gift: Book One of the Night's Vampire Trilogy

by Mary M. Cushnie-mansour

  Every day on the way to and from work, my footsteps took me past a certain house—a house I had finally nicknamed Mystery House. I called it this because never once in passing had I noticed a living soul on the premises. The house just stood there, seemingly isolated from the world, aloof behind an army of formidable trees.

  It did, however, flaunt a stately demeanour that appeared to be cultivated by the most experienced of horticulturalists, and it looked as if, in its loneliness, it was daring someone, anyone, to step past those trees and behold its wonder. I guess I was that someone. Several times I had stood by the trees at the perimeter of the property and gazed at the scene before me. Everything in the yard was in perfect order, and I was constantly baffled as to when such tedious work was performed.

  The windows were shaded with thick, white lace curtains, which I presumed were meant to filter out the direct rays of the sun. My mother had always drawn her curtains during the day to keep the sun from fading our furniture. I wondered if whoever was living behind those curtains was similarly inclined.

  Large white lounge chairs with rose-coloured cushions were scattered on the imposing wooden veranda that surrounded the house, but I never noticed anybody sitting in them, at least not in the daytime when I passed by. What a waste because they looked invitingly comfortable. I thought it might be nice to stretch out on one of them, on a sunny afternoon, with a good book in hand and an ice tea by my side, or maybe a glass of bubbly wine. I was beginning to dream again.

  The flowerbeds were manicured to perfection, displaying an exquisite spectrum of colours. Bright red roses crowded the lily-white trellises that were attached to the side veranda. On each corner of the veranda were monumental stone flowerpots filled with pink, red, and white petunias. It was difficult to tell, from a distance, exactly what the pots looked like, although they appeared to be shaped like some sort of animals. What animals, I could not quite tell, but I assumed they were probably the cute kind that most people would purchase ... squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, and so on

  The lawn was mowed in exact, even rows, which created a checkerboard effect. The ancient trees that surrounded the entire area were gnarled by time, and when the breezes blew, they whispered a century of secrets to passers-by. I had yet to hear one of those secrets, but my imagination was ready to conjure up what they might be.

  The large, rambling house actually looked like a miniature castle. It appeared to be a replica of the larger monstrosities that dotted the countryside in Europe. The bricks sparkled with a strange shimmering lustre under the rays of the daytime sun. I had wondered many times if it were a sleeping castle waiting for its ... and then I would shake my head, discarding such juvenile fairytale thoughts. Silly me ... waiting for what? I could not allow the dream to go that far, not yet.

  My deep-seated curiosity continued nagging at my better sense—the sense my mother had always told me to keep at the forefront of my priorities. Why I chose such a potentially stormy evening for a late-night walk, to discover who lived in the house, is still beyond my comprehension. I have rationalized that the night had been unusually hot for the month of October and my apartment terribly stuffy. My landlord did not believe in wasting electricity on an air conditioner, especially in the fall. Instead of taking that stroll, especially at such a late hour, I should have been content to stay home, where I would have been safe. I could have had some popcorn, watched a good movie, put my feet up, and relaxed. How different my life would have been had I done that!

  However, as I reflect back on the events now, I often wonder if it was the night that had chosen me.

  ~

  I found myself creeping stealthily up to the main door. Should I knock? Don’t be silly, I thought to myself. What would I say? Hi, I was just passing by. I’m new in the area and just want to meet my neighbours. For God’s sake, by the time I arrived at the house it was after 11:00—almost midnight, actually! What could I have been thinking? Who would want to be bothered at this ungodly hour?

  I let my hand drop back down to my side. Curiosity still pestered me, though, so I proceeded to move slowly along the wall toward the large bay window that jutted out of the front part of the house, to the right of the main door. I noticed a small nightlight flickering through the curtains. Maybe there was someone still up reading or watching television. After all, the hour was not late for those who liked to catch the evening news. Maybe just a glimpse of a human entity would satisfy my inquisitiveness.

  I inched slowly over to the window and peered into the shadowy room. The flickering light, to my surprise, was a candle, and its light glowed on a massive figure that appeared to be dressed in black. Not that being dressed in black was strange—lots of people wear black. But there was something strange about the figure sitting in the armchair. Whoever it was, was wearing something with a high, stiff collar that covered half its face, making it extremely difficult for me to distinguish any features. And there was no late-night news on the television. There was no television. The figure was just sitting there, with not even a book in hand to pass the time.

  Once again, I found myself conjuring up foolish thoughts of what might be sitting in the chair. Of course, it was a human—what else could it be? People were entitled to eccentric tastes, especially in their own homes. After living in Toronto for so long, I had seen things that would make my great-grandmother’s poker-straight hair curl, and I had a tendency to over sensationalize things. My mother had mentioned, on many occasions, my imagination would probably land me in trouble one day!

  I continued my vigil, nervously waiting for more clues of who resided in the mysterious house. Another shadow entered the room and walked over to the figure in the chair. The two images appeared to be having a quarrel, but from where I crouched against the thick brick wall, I was unable to hear a word. The house seemed quite soundproof. Besides, the noisy night melodies of the crickets kept any other sounds from my ears.

  The standing figure waved its arms and turned to leave the room. I observed long black hair sweeping around the body as it moved, but she, as I now presumed by the hair, did not get far. The figure in the chair stood up. He, as I presumed by the height, was wearing a cape! He grabbed the woman by the wrist and spun her around to face him. By the looks of what was happening, I had landed myself in a family squabble, and I felt a twinge of guilt for being a peeping Tomasina.

  I was unable to pull my eyes away from the scene. I stared more closely at the figures, and my heart leapt into my mouth. “It can’t be,” I stammered. “It just can’t be!” I pinched my arm. I was real. I ran my hand along the window ledge. It was real. I peered through the window again. I watched as the man snarled at the woman, and when his mouth opened I saw the two grotesque fangs protruding from within! They looked so real. But how—how could this be? He threw his head back and let out a hideous laugh. At least that is what it looked like to me!

  I started to shake. Halloween around the corner or not, that man in there was too real for comfort! I had to get away. I panicked, spun around, and began to run. I did not get far, though. I half-turned to get another glimpse of the house I was fleeing from. Whatever I ran into, well let’s just say that it was a lot harder than my body. All I remembered later was that I felt myself spinning down a tunnel of darkness, into a deathly blackness, deeper than the deepest of sleeps.

  Her

  Chapter Two

  Upon awakening, I found myself enclosed in a beautiful canopy bed. Heavy red curtains hung from the overhead wooden bar that extended around the perimeter of the bed. I reached out to touch the material, and my fingertips sank into the lush velvet. The dark wood on the headboard and bedposts was distinctive. I was sure the bed dated back at least to the 1700s. I was slightly startled when I noticed the wood was grooved with intricate carvings of creatures.

  The creatures were diabolical. They could be considered human if one were to stretch one’s imagination, yet there was an even greater animal-like form to them. If I looked at them from a certain angle, t
he creatures could be a pack of wild wolves. I also detected the strangest thing—each one had two enormous incisors protruding from its snarling snout, much like the incisors I had noticed on the man in the room. I was aware that wolves had fangs, but not like these!

  I dared to peer through a crack in the curtain. Sitting in a chair, not far from the door, was a lady. She had long, black hair, like the woman I had seen through the window. I assumed it was the same one. She turned her head toward the bed as she sensed my stirring. I tried not to breathe. I did not feel ready yet to encounter anyone. Too late.

  “Finally, you are awake.” She rose from her chair, walked over to the bed, and drew the curtain back. “You have slept long. It was a nasty blow you took when you ran into the statue in our garden.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.

  I tried to catch my breath. Earlier, I had only observed the lady from a distance. Now, up close, I could see that she was beautiful, more so than I thought possible for any woman to be. Never, and I mean never, had I ever witnessed such perfection of body and face.

  Her hair was of the deepest ebony. It lay in ripples down her back, falling far below her waist, tickling at her calves. Her eyes were deep pools of darkness, and I could not help wondering what secrets they concealed. Her cheeks and lips possessed a natural rosiness that was not created by human touch; it could only have been produced by the mistress of all beauticians, Mother Nature. The ivory smoothness of her skin only emphasized the colour more strongly.

  Her body curved in all the fitting places. The sash enclosing the petite waist was slightly loose, as though there were no belt made that was diminutive enough to fit her snugly. Finishing the picture were the hips, which curved out softly from the waist and added a bountiful perfection to the lower extremities.

  Then why, I wondered, was this apparently perfect woman dressed in black? With her colouring, she could have worn a deep shade of red, or sapphire. Black was such a sombre colour, usually reserved for funerals and evil creatures, or for women who tried to hide their extra pounds. At least that is what some women believed, but I knew it was actually a fallacy, having read an article on the subject. Black could be very becoming on a woman with the right skin tone for it. This woman did not appear evil, nor was she overweight. Possibly she was in mourning, then.

  “Where am I?” I finally managed to stutter.

  “I cannot say,” her voice was a bare whisper. “Only he can tell you this—if he wants to.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if he wants to’? Who is he?” I began to tremble, and it was not just from petty nerves, but from well-grounded, home-grown terror—especially if the he she spoke of was the one I had seen in the room—the one with the fangs!

  “He is the owner of this house, the ruler within these walls. His word is the ultimate authority in this, his domain. Only he decides who comes and goes from here, most especially so for those who come without an invitation!” The strange lady’s voice had risen to a more audible level.

  “What are you talking about? Ultimate authority? His domain? We are living in the twentieth century, are we not? Is this some kind of sick Halloween joke? Time travel is something that only happens in the movies!” My voice trembled with frustration ... or was it fear?

  “Yes, your world is in the twentieth century,” she confirmed. “But ours is not.” She paused. “As for this being a sick joke, my dear, I think you will find joking is one thing the count never does!” There was no mistaking the meaning of that final statement.

  I decided to ignore the word count, for the moment. Instead of pursuing the suggestion of aristocracy, I dared myself to ask another question. “How long have you been here?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, here, in this place.”

  “I have been here, and there—a bit of everywhere—for what seems to be an eternity.” Her lips curled into a peculiar smile as she answered me.

  “Well, that is a long time, eternity,” I retorted with an edge of sarcasm in my words. “Maybe you could translate that into years for me?”

  “Years, such as you know them, have no meaning in our world. I have seen thousands of moons ...”

  “What about suns?” I choked on the question. I had no idea why I dared such an enquiry; maybe it was because I still held a vivid picture of the man in my short-term memory. The last time I had laid eyes on a creature like him had been in the Dracula movie I had recently watched.

  “I don’t care for the sun,” she whispered huskily.

  “Oh, i...i...is it bad for your skin?” I dared to dig further into what might be dangerous ground.

  Once again, the peculiar smile. “Something like that.” She turned to a long rope that was hanging by the bed and gave it a pull. “Perhaps you would like some refreshments?”

  I wondered how long I had been unconscious. My hand moved to my stomach as my innards acknowledged their hunger by growling loudly. I glanced toward the window. It was dark outside. “How long was I sleeping?”

  “For a day. As I said, you took quite a nasty blow. Actually, I am surprised you are up this soon,” she declared.

  There was a knock at the door. The lady stood up. It appeared to me that she slithered across the floor to unlock the large wooden door. The hinges squeaked as the door swung open. A withered old man stood there, apparently awaiting further orders.

  His hair was unkempt, reminding me of the style used to depict mad scientists in the movies. His bones bubbled under his skin, giving him the appearance of a gnarled tree trunk that had witnessed too many years of sun and terrible weather.

  His body was bent in an awkward position. My first glance of him had suggested irrefutable frailty, but the deeper I gazed beyond the outward appearance, the more I sensed an indefinable strength that might possibly last forever. Elderly people were like that sometimes, I guessed, even though my experience with seniors was quite limited. I had never known my own grandparents, both having passed on before I was born. My only memory of them was their wedding picture, which my mother had kept, well dusted, on the fireplace mantel. My mother had always said that I had inherited my grandmother’s long, thick red hair and my grandfather’s slim physique.

  “Would you please bring us some refreshments,” the lady ordered him, a little coolly, I thought.

  “The usual, madam?” he droned.

  She smiled. “Yes, that will be fine, Max.”

  I pondered what the usual was, and also, who would be desperate enough to work in what might be a godforsaken place. The lady was a tad weird, and the man she had been arguing with had seemed sinister, to say the least. At that point, I had no idea just how sinister, or how godforsaken, this place truly was!

  Max returned a few minutes later pushing a dinner cart. If I were a betting person, I would have said the cart had been sitting just down the hallway, already fully prepared. “Will that be all, madam?”

  “Yes, Max, thank you. You may return for the trays in half an hour.” She paused. “Please inform the master that our guest has awakened, and I will be supping with her tonight.”

  “As you wish, madam.” The door squeaked shut as the old man took his leave.

  The beautiful lady motioned to the table. “Please, join me.”

  I stared at the china soup bowls and mugs sitting on a silver tray. Pictures of ancient castles, overgrown with wild vegetation, were painted all around their exteriors. I leaned closer in order to get a better view of the images. Were those wolves hiding in the thickets? Wolves with fangs? They closely resembled the creatures carved on the wooden bed. How interesting, I thought to myself, wondering if the castles were actually replicas of real things.

  She lifted the lid from the soup bowl. My stomach churned, just about heaving up what dregs might have still been taking refuge there. It was the most ghastly looking food I had ever seen, if one could even imagine it was food.

  “W...w...what is that?” I stammered.

  “Pudding—blood pudding,” she smiled provocatively. “May I se
rve you a bowl?” The spoon hovered over the pot.

  “Ah, no ... no thanks. I believe I’ll pass, and wait for dessert,” I said staring at the liquid in the bowl. It absolutely was no ordinary blood pudding, or at least, not like the one I had tried while living in Toronto.

  A friend had taken me to an Irish pub, and we’d had a breakfast of sliced blood pudding, eggs, and potatoes. When I had asked what the black sausage was on my plate, my friend had laughed and said, “Oh, that is just blood pudding.” When she had noticed the startled look on my face, she’d explained the pudding was made of animal blood, grains, raisins, and spices. To my surprise, I had found it quite pleasing.

  However, such was not the case here; what was in that bowl I could have sworn was honest-to-goodness real blood, the kind that flows through the veins of every red-blooded mammal! I shook my head in an attempt to cast out such thoughts.

  “Oh dear, I am so, so sorry! How absolutely thoughtless of me; I should have known better. I will get Max to bring you something else ... something more palatable to your taste buds.” The lady in black moved toward the bell. Again I noticed that peculiar curl at the corner of her lips.

  “No ... please ... its okay; don’t bother yourself, or Max. I should just be getting on my way. I’m not actually that hungry. I’ll be able to grab a bite to eat when I get home.”

  “Oh no, I insist you stay! Maybe you just need a bit more rest to regain your appetite. You do look a little pale still. Max can bring something up before he retires for the night.” Once again, the peculiar smile.

  “If you don’t mind, and I don’t mean to insult your hospitality, I would really rather just be going on my way. If I don’t arrive home soon, my family will miss me. My mother expects a call from me at least every three days, and I never leave for any great length of time without giving her some kind of word.” There was no need for this lady to know my mother had already passed away. “If you would be kind enough to show me the door—front, back, any one will do; I’ll find my way from there.”