Make the Streets Run Vampire Red - Vampire Erotica Stories

by Alex Severin

  He'd say it until it didn't mean anything any more - not to him or to me. He used those words like a salve, as if they, accompanied by the chocolates and flowers and Champagne he'd come home with, would wash off all the dirt and the filth he'd brought in with him. To me, the wine and the roses and confectionery just seemed like a celebration of his sordid little trysts in dirty-sheeted motel rooms with fuck-anything whores.

  He says it, every time, "I love you," and hands me the tokens of his low esteem for me, gives me that you're such a dumb bitch look that he believes me incapable of interpreting.

  That's what he thinks.

  Sometimes, when he's asleep, I stand over him with a keen blade glinting in my hand, itching to stick it in him, twitching and shaking with the desire to fuck his guts with it, fuck it as hard as he fucks his rancid salmon-cunted alley-dwellers. I'd love to watch his life dripping from my shining steel in a red river rush, love to see the little prick bleed for me.

  I could do it. I wouldn't think twice about it if I thought I could get away with it, but he's not worth rotting in prison for, or being electrocuted for. He's not worth crossing the street for, frankly.

  Why don't I leave?

  Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  And this one is extremely cold, believe me.

  He thinks I will never leave him. He thinks I'm here for the duration to put up with his shit, endure him staying out all day and all night and wandering in when he pleases without me saying boo about it.

  I do what I want. I'm left alone to get on with it by myself, while he goes off and does what he does with whomever he does it with. There is no one to bother me. I can do what I please.

  And that includes sleeping with his twin sister.

  Right from the first time I met her, I knew their relationship wasn't a normal one.

  I only had vague suspicions for the first year of our marriage, nothing firm; I thought perhaps I was just being bad minded, thought that my feeling about them was more of a reflection on me and my deviant mind than any wrong doing on their part. I used to feel so guilty when I had those thoughts about them, when I would sit and wonder if they really were sleeping together. But my gut feeling was strong. And, of course, my suspicions were entirely accurate.

  I came home early one day, back from the doctor's office, brimming over with excitement to tell him that I was pregnant. I walked in on them, just as he was entering her from behind and violently shoving her face into the pillow on our bed.

  It was such a shock to my system, to have what I suspected confirmed in one retina-scorching vision, that I miscarried the baby.

  Later, he told me that losing the baby was a blessing in disguise because he didn't want kids anyway, and would have demanded I have an abortion if I had not lost it naturally.

  Naturally.

  Jesus.

  He's under the impression he is the only person his sister has ever slept with, thinks she's pure except for his own incestuous touch. He may be the only man she's ever had, but he's not aware that she swings like a Wild West saloon door. I think it might kill him. I think he may drop fucking dead on the spot. I can live in hope.

  I know how much he loves her, truly loves her. He loves her far, far beyond the point of obsession. I've never seen anybody look at someone the way he looks at her; it's a look of awe, a look of fascination. And you know, she's not even pretty, really. But there's something there that just fills up his heart when he sees her. I know that the very thought of somebody else touching her, kissing her, caressing her, fingering her, fucking her, makes him so insane he could kill. He's that much in love with her.

  I can't wait for the day he finds out. I can't wait to see that arrogant bastard's face drenched in horror when he walks in on us, when he sees us naked in bed together, sees me eating her pussy, sees her with her ankles round her ears screaming my name louder than she's ever screamed his.

  He'll be especially perplexed since he's under the impression that I am frigid. He also believes that I have a problem in the lubrication department. He thinks that I loathe sex, that I find it dirty and degrading. I do...but only when the sex is with him. It simply must be me there's something wrong with. I mean, how could any normal woman not be able to get it wet for such a big man?

  Christ.

  He just doesn't do it for me, you know? Frankly, the stink of some cheap hooker's unwashed pussy on my husband's breath fails to put me in the mood for some strange reason. But I'm strange like that, you know?

  I can almost hear the scream I know will burst from his cruel mouth, the mouth that has tasted the filth of a hundred buck-a-fuck whores, the mouth that has feasted on the juices that stagnate in the stinking snatches of his preferred class of women, the mouth that sneers at me because he thinks I'm a weak, pathetic, subservient bitch.

  We'll see who the bitch is.

  I'm wet just writing about this. I have arranged everything - Friday night is the night. It's their birthday. I got one of his friends (another sleazy whore-fucker) to make sure he gets here on time as I have arranged a surprise party for his birthday.

  When there's nobody there to greet him, he'll search the house, thinking we're all hiding in another room, ready to jump out and simultaneously roar "Surprise!" at him.

  He'll be surprised all right. When he finds us, he'll stand there, staring, shaking, shocked senseless at first, and I'll get up real close to him, make sure I'm close enough so that he can smell his beloved sister's pussy on my breath. He'll want to kill me. He'll want to kill her. Then he will want to die. This will completely destroy him. He'll fall apart. It'll mess with his head so badly that he'll probably have a nervous breakdown.

  Good.

  Or, it might make him want to shoot himself in the face. God, I fucking hope he shoots himself in the face. I'll even clean that shit up.

  Just in case you're wondering - this is no more than he deserves. Perhaps all of this sounds unusually cruel for mere infidelity. If you are a man - and a man anything like him - I'm sure that you will think it is. What I have told you is merely a scratch on the surface. For instance, I have not yet mentioned the photographs he sometimes leaves in his underwear drawer where he knows I will find them. Photographs of him with one of his sluts - her on all fours, ball gag in her mouth, him pissing on her face. He thinks it shocks and disgusts me. It doesn't really - I just find him sad and pathetic now...but he still has to pay.

  Oh, and the magazines he would leave lying under the mattress where he knew I would find them when changing the bed linen. These really were disgusting, degrading - even nastier than the photographs he so kindly left for my perusal. There were women being pissed on, shit on, women being stabbed through the breasts with needles, pierced and prodded, poked and beaten by big, sweating bastards wearing executioner's masks.

  That's what he thinks of women.

  That's what he thinks of me.

  If he needs that in his life to bring him jollies, then he has my sympathy, because I can see now how he will end up after I completely mind fuck him on Friday.

  All men should know by now, when you mess with a woman, degrade her, rip her heart out of her chest and throw it in to rush hour traffic, you take your life into your own hands, you must suffer the consequences - whatever they may be.

  But you just never learn, do you?

  An eye for an eye.

  A tooth for a tooth.

  And you always seem to forget, even although this goes back to time immemorial, that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  BONUS STORY 4 - Lo and behold, another story written for an antho that never was. This one was going to be mass market with some big names attached, but even a publisher who had already published books by at least two of those big names, names anybody who reads horror will have read, weren't interested in this anthology because “anthos don't sell.” This story was inspired by a real place back home in Scotland, and real rumored events that may or may not have taken place there. All I can say is the place felt r
eally bad.

  THE BLAIR

  Victoria slammed on her brakes the moment she saw the house. It was nothing more than a fleeting glance from far down the quiet winding road, but as she drove past she felt it pulling her back. She was compelled to get a closer look at the imposing structure at the end of a long, twisting drive.

  A shiver ran up her spine as she drew nearer - the house was not as aesthetically pleasing as she had first thought, but nevertheless it was love at first sight. She parked in front of it and sat gazing up at her.

  It was a dark and brooding building; twisted, sparsely leaved vines clawed their way up her facade like painful arthritic fingers. The wild and unruly grounds reached up from the earth as if they were trying to pull the house down into the comfort of her muddy womb.

  Her broken windows were like soulless, sightless eyes. But Victoria knew the building was not soulless - she felt that within those rotting walls lived the souls of many.

  Even in the daylight, winter sun shining, the whole area around the house seemed dark, or at least darker than beyond the grounds. It was not a happy place. The whole area felt bad to her but she could not avert her gaze. The stones themselves had called out to her, beckoned her closer so they could work their magic on her and make her fall in love with its flawed and aged beauty. And she did.

  Victoria got out of the car and walked around. She ran her fingers over the old discolored brickwork. In some places the stones were crumbling, slate from the roof had fallen to the ground and smashed into pieces. All the windows were broken and the shards of glass were scattered around the building like tears.

  The building was old, uncared for, unloved. Until now. Victoria had to have it. Then she saw a For Sale sign struggling to free itself from an ancient ivy that had almost obscured it from view. She punched the number into her mobile phone and called the estate agent immediately.

  The agent came to meet her at the property right away. Mr. Wilson was a tall, thin, man with salt and pepper hair - although it had much more salt than pepper - receding at the temples. His hair was unkempt and clumps of it stuck out in all directions. His dark suit was crumpled and looked as if he had slept in it. He was a nervous man with eyes that did not stay still, but darted from side to side and up and down. Victoria wondered why his strange rapid eye movements didn't make him dizzy.

  He introduced himself, gave her a minute history of the building and asked her to follow him inside, all without stopping for breath. She could see that he did not want to spend any more time here than was absolutely necessary. She was sure he flinched when he stepped across the threshold and entered the building.

  Victoria followed Mr. Wilson inside. This had most definitely been a grand place long ago. Rich, dark woods framed every door and skirted every wall, spiraled up the huge staircase. The floor had been inlaid with an intricate black and white mosaic that, save for decades of dirt and dust, looked to be completely intact. She smiled as she imagined herself on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush, lovingly restoring the floor back to its former glory.

  "What was this place, Mr. Wilson?" She asked the twitchy estate agent.

  "A seminary. A seminary for apprentice priests. Been lots of things since those days though, aye, lots of things. Hotel last. Empty for a lot of years now, near thirty."

  "Just thirty years?" She asked. "It looks as if its been empty a lot longer than that. Looks as if its been abandoned for a century. It's falling apart."

  "No, just thirty years." He ushered her speedily through the ground floor rooms. He was clearly uncomfortable talking about the house. She wanted to press him further, needed to know more about it. She told him that no matter what stories he related to her about it, no matter how bad, she would still buy it. He would not be coaxed into telling her anything and she was frustrated by this. She was itching to know all she could find out about the place.

  She asked him the price of the property and he answered after rubbing his lips together; his mouth was dry and he looked terrified of telling her. He could see this property finally being out of his hands, finally see it not being his responsibility any more but with one series of numbers spilling from his lips, those hopes could be dashed.

  "｣175,000."

  "｣175,000!" She shouted with a giggle in her throat.

  Mr. Wilson's body seemed to gravitate toward the floor; his knees bent slightly and his shoulders dropped forward.

  "I'll take it!"

  "What?" He bolted upright, his legs and shoulders straight, rigid now.

  In Victoria's profession - a solicitor specializing in corporate law and partner in the firm she worked at - her salary was massive and ｣175,000 for a property was cheap. Some of her colleagues had paid in excess of ｣500,000 for their homes, which were little more than over-priced boxes in the heart of the city. She was thrilled at the price tag.

  "I'll take it!" She handed him her business card as she asked him to draw up the papers immediately. She wanted to take possession of the house as soon as possible.

  The client Victoria was heading to see had been forgotten in the midst of her excitement about the old building. She hastily called her secretary to deliver the good news, and the bad news that she would have to reschedule all her appointments for the rest of the day; she would not be back in the office.

  Victoria asked Mr. Wilson if there was a library or somewhere else she could find out about the house. He directed her to it and took off in his car, throwing a hasty goodbye over his shoulder at her as he left.

  Victoria didn't need books or papers to research the building - the old librarian with pure white hair piled up in a bun on top of her head and tiny oblong-lensed spectacles told her all she needed to know. The librarian, Moira, made Victoria a cup of tea and sat her down to tell her the story of The Blair.

  The way The Blair looked reflected her history - tragic, sinister, forbidding. There were many good reasons why she now stood empty and decaying. There were many good reasons why she had not been lived in for decades and now stood almost dead.

  The house was born in 1861. Earnest Patterson, a whisky distillery owner, built the house for his family. It was a happy place, its vast rooms and corridors all filled with the noises of children at play, the laughter of a devoted couple. The Patterson family lived for each other.

  Caroline Patterson, wife of Earnest, died screaming, birthing her seventh child upstairs in the master bedroom. One local legend about the house - and there were many - says that the half-born infant, unable to be pushed out or pulled free, drowned in the blood that flowed from the hemorrhaging womb of her mother. The scarlet torrent ran like a waterfall off the end of the bed and dripped like red rain through the floorboards and onto the other four children at play in the nursery downstairs.

  Victoria listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed, fascinated, but not believing a word of it.

  After the death of his wife, Earnest Patterson plunged into grief and was held in the grip of unending despair. Early one morning in the winter that soon followed, Mr. Patterson tied seven noose-ended ropes to the limbs of the giant Oak tree that stood in the back garden. He hung each of his children, starting with the youngest and then hung himself. They quivered and twitched in mid air, like strange fruit ready to drop, ripe from the vine.

  The elderly librarian seemed to revel in relaying the details to Victoria; she told the tale with the flair of a storyteller and Victoria was captivated by her words.

  There were dozens of stories centered on the house. Each person who entered the library was summoned by Moira to tell Victoria a tale. Each one had a different tale to tell.

  It was the kind of house that local kids dare each other to enter on Halloween. It was the kind of house that was used by local gangs of kids for initiations - spend the night in the spooky old dark house and you're in. No one ever spent the night there.

  But the most disturbing story of all wasn't the stuff of the myths and legends, it was the corroborated story;
books had been written about it. Police reports regarding it were abundant. Moira the librarian directed her to the one man she needed to talk to about the house, the man who knew everything about it. The man who'd been haunted by the house for as long as he could remember.

  Before she opened her mouth, retired Detective George Dalziel knew what the stranger was here for.

  He was reluctant at first, evasive, but once he opened his mouth and he began to talk in more than one word answers, it seemed as if he needed to get this off his chest once and for all. The old man needed to purge himself of this story. What did it matter if everybody thought he was crazy now? Why should he care? He made a conscious decision to tell her everything. Everything.

  ~

  It happened on 31st October 1935.

  His first encounter with the house happened when he was seven years old.

  His family moved to a tiny croft on a small piece of land a mile or so from The Blair.

  He had to go take a look - especially since his mother and father had told him to stay away from it, talked about the big house down the road in whispers while looking sideways at him.

  He snuck out of the house after his parents tucked him up in bed. They thought he was sleeping soundly when they looked in on him before they retired for the night. He'd got into bed fully clothed and pulled the blankets up tight under his chin.

  He crept away from the quiet cottage, parents gently snoring in their bedroom, then belted down the road at full speed; his pulse throbbed in his ears with excitement.

  He reached the house in a few minutes and stood at the bottom of the drive, staring at the darkened windows.

  There were shapes moving in those windows, whispers penetrating the night air and filtering over to him as he stood there. He couldn't decipher what they were saying but he didn't like it. The whispers made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.