Winter Thirst

by Ilia Bera

  “This is Constable Hendricks. Lights have been left on in the Wilkinson house, but no one answered the door... There is blood on the wall, and it appears to be fresh,” the constable said into his walkie-talkie.

  “Jesus Christ,” Hendricks muttered as he walked through the cold house. “Hanna Wilkinson! I know you’re home!”

  Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!

  The policeman began to walk up the stairs in his heavy boots. The house’s deep groaning became louder as it became angrier of his presence.

  Connor closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. If he wasn’t careful, Constable Hendricks would hear his heart beating against his trembling rib cage. After a moment, Connor opened his eyes. There was a peculiar silence.

  Slowly, he peeked his head out of the closet.

  Constable Hendricks was standing a mere ten feet away with his back turned to the young athletic boy. Quickly, Connor receded back into his hiding place, his calmed heart exploding back into its rapid rhythm.

  “Miss Wilkinson!” the constable called out again.

  Suddenly, a swift breeze of cold air swirled through the house, accompanied by a loud, deep groan. Like the spirit of some powerful spectre, a chill stung Connor’s very soul.

  Constable Hendricks spun around swiftly as he felt something grab his shoulder. “Who’s there!” he yelled out. His hands were beginning to shake in fear. “Hello?”

  Connor could feel it too. They weren’t alone in that house. There was someone else—something else there with them.

  “Pull yourself together, man,” Hendricks told himself as he continued to patrol through the ostensibly empty house.

  Another cold shriek of impossible wind sailed through the frigid house, eliciting another swift spin out of the scared officer. His face was as pale as a fragile, cracked egg.

  And then, without any warning, some invisible force shoved the officer violently against the ancient wall of the house.

  Bang!

  His body slammed directly against a support beam, causing the officer to wince in pain. His breathing became frantic as he looked around for some logical explanation for the supernatural attack.

  “Who’s here?” he demanded to know.

  That unholy wind began again to whistle through the house. This time, it spoke in a serene, yet stern voice. “Leave,” it seemed to say. The strange voice echoed through the house in every key and every octave.

  Constable Hendricks complied. He wasted no time in heading directly down the stairs and towards the entrance of the house.

  Slam!

  Hendricks slammed the door behind him as he ran directly for his warm, safe cruiser.

  Eyes wide and breath staggered, Connor peeked back around the corner. The house was once again seemingly empty—as if no one had been inside for one hundred years.

  Connor stood up and began to walk down the hallway again. “H—Hanna?” he called out gently.

  But his voice was met with no response.

  It was more obvious than ever—Hanna had dark secrets that were beyond anything Connor could fathom. It was very possible that Hanna was behind the string of murders throughout the town.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  the ancient

  As Hanna stumbled through the snowy woods, she began to realize that she was not drawing any closer to her house. As a matter of fact, her house was completely out of sight, as was the entire town of Snowbrooke, and it’s orange glow.

  Out of breath, Hanna stopped and looked around. Snow continued to shroud the deeper forest, the sky and everything below her knees. She’d somehow become completely lost in those frozen woods on the outskirts of the little mountain town of Snowbrooke.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the hoarse whispering voice of the wind spoke again.

  “Who are you?” Hanna demanded to know. “Let me go home!”

  “You still have so much to learn.”

  “So much of what?” Hanna replied.

  “So much of who you are. You need to embrace who you are, Hanna—unlock your full potential.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a vampire. Stop hiding from it—embrace it. The old man and his wife next door—why spare them? It isn’t cruel or inhumane to put them out of their misery. They’re nothing but leeches, sucking the life out of society. They’re a waste of time—a waste of skin. People work day in and day out to keep them alive, to keep them happy. They eat the food that others farm, they sleep in the comfort of a house someone else built, they drive the car someone else made on the roads that someone else paved—and they give nothing back. You care about the world? Do the world a favour and put them down. It’s who you are.

  “Besides, would you rather they die slowly and painfully of some cancer? Or a stroke? Take them both at one, and let them die together.”

  “It’s not who I am!” Hanna cried as she began to stumble through the snow, trying to escape the omnipresent voice.

  “Oh, but it is!” the wind replied with a peculiar certainty.

  “Why?” Hanna demanded to know, tears swelling in her cold eyes.

  “The world is over populated—overpopulated with useless swine. It’s why you exist. It’s why we exist. We’re vampires Hanna.”

  “I don’t want to be a vampire!”

  “But why? Why wouldn’t you want to be a vampire? Why wouldn’t you want to have all of the power in the world at your fingertips. Every drop of blood makes you stronger—and you can do what you’d like with that strength! You wouldn’t believe the power you could have.”

  Suddenly, the snow of a distant snow bank began to shift into the image of a face. The face smiled at her and then began to speak. “You can do anything, Hanna,” it said.

  “I don’t want to do anything!”

  “Let the world become overpopulated with swine and it will turn to mud. Embrace who you are! Every useless slime who mocks you on the street—relieve them from the world. It’s why you have these cravings! It’s the world guiding you towards your duty; your destiny!”

  “Go away! Hanna demanded. She turned away from the ominous face and began to stumble through the deep snow.

  Suddenly, her house became visible through the eternal whiteness. She ran towards it with the last of her draining energy.

  “Embrace it, Hanna. You’ll finally be happy once you embrace it. And once you do, you can come join me—and learn the ways of the Ancients.”

  Hanna wiped the freezing tears from her eyes. “I don’t want this anymore!” she cried as she approached her door.

  She entered her silent house and slammed the door behind her. She ran straight up to her bedroom and collapsed onto the floor. She began to cry.

  That same ominous smile began to materialize in a dusty mirror on the bedroom wall.

  “Don’t worry, Hanna,” the face said, in its hoarse, bitter voice. “Daddy will always be here with you.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  fallen brother

  This way, Mr. Daniels,” the coroner said to Eric as he led him down a hallway in the basement of the hospital.

  A tall, shrimpy sort of man, the coroner wore a thick pair of glasses and walked with a nasty hunch—likely from leaning over dead bodies all day long. He stank of formaldehyde, vinegar and rubbing alcohol, and he had a sort of permanent grin plastered onto his awkward face.

  Every man should be proud of their work—every man except for the coroner that is. But this coroner was particularly proud of his work. For whatever reason, no one will ever know.

  Eric wanted desperately to believe that he would walk into that room, and the body on the table would turn out to be some stranger—some kid who looked like Andrew, but was actually just some drifter. He wanted to believe Andrew would jump out from around a corner, yelling “Got you!” He wanted to believe it badly, but he knew it wasn’t true. He knew the moment Andrew didn’t show up at his house the night before that something was wrong.

  He just knew.

  The coroner opened
a large metal door and walked into a large room, filled with metal cupboards—each containing its own body waiting quietly in escrow.

  The coroner walked up to a table, on which a corpse lay covered with a thin sheet.

  Eric had spent the past few hours mentally preparing himself for this moment. He thought he would be able to handle it.

  The coroner pulled back the sheet.

  Eric’s heart shattered. Every molecule of hidden joy in his body seeped out of him and dissipated into the cold, cruel air. Andrew was dead—laying on a cold metal table directly in front of him.

  “For God sakes! Put a blanket under him, and get him a pillow!” Eric shouted loudly, suddenly overcome by a rage.

  The coroner stood still for a moment, taken aback by the sudden outburst.

  “What are you waiting for, man?” Eric shouted.

  The coroner scurried away like a frightened shrimp to fetch a blanket and a pillow from the hospital storage room.

  Andrew looked down at his fallen brother. “Who did this to you?” Eric asked, his eyes blurring with tears.

  Eric was looking down at a corpse—not Andrew. The Andrew he knew was full of life—always dreaming. The Andrew he knew didn’t close his eyes—afraid he would miss something exciting. He was always on the hunt—always alive.

  The man in front of him was not.

  Eric’s muscles became tense, thinking about the cruel, lifeless human who could have committed such a crime. The last person on earth to deserve this was Andrew Walker.

  “I’ll kill whoever did this to you,” Eric promised. “They aren’t getting away with this.”

  Andrew’s body continued to lay lifelessly on the cold table. His skin was impossibly pale. All of his dreams of grandeur were nowhere to be heard.

  “It’s not fair...” Eric said, holding back his tears.

  The shrimp of a coroner scurried back with a blanket and a pillow. He stood still next to Eric for a moment.

  “Well? Help me lift him up!” Eric demanded, reaching his hand carefully underneath Andrew’s head.

  Eric and the coroner lifted Andrew up gently and slid a warm blanket between the lifeless body and the cold metal table. Softly, Eric placed the pillow under Andrew’s head.

  “He didn’t deserve this, man,” Eric said to the coroner.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the shrimp of a man replied.

  Eric sighed. He placed his hand gently on his brother’s forehead. “He might have only been twenty years old, but he lived twenty lives. Love you, brother.”

  Eric turned around to leave—he’d taken all he could take.

  “Wait,” the coroner said, stopping Eric.

  Eric stopped and turned back. “What?”

  “His wallet, his keys and all of the other belongings he had with him—I don’t know who to give them to.”

  “I’ll take them,” Eric said.

  The coroner turned to grab a little plastic container with all of Andrew’s things. “We can’t get a hold of his family. Do you know if they’ve moved or changed their phone number recently?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” Eric took the box from the coroner, and then turned to leave again.

  He walked out of the room and began to head down the hallway.

  When he got home, he opened up the little plastic box and looked inside. Something inside caught his attention.

  Hanging from a string was the glowing red Sunstone. Eric twirled it around, looking through it. It was incredibly clear, and it glowed seemingly from nothing.

  After a moment, Eric took the pendant and placed it in his pocket.

  FORTY

  secrets no more

  Exhausted, Connor collapsed into the chair in his mother’s new hospital room. The room was on the top floor of the hospital, with its own door, and its own set of walls—no curtains.

  Charlotte was hooked up to an iv, as well as a blood pressure and heart monitor. She looked peaceful as she slept, which was a great relief for Connor.

  Within moments of sitting down, the tired Connor began to doze off. His eyes were heavy and his muscles were all sore. Finally, after a long, hectic day, he could rest.

  “Connor?” his mother’s voice said softly, pulling him from his near-slumber.

  Connor looked up at his mother. She was looking over at him with a smile on her face.

  “Hey. What are you doing awake?” Connor asked.

  “Why don’t you sleep at the house, where it’s comfortable?” Charlotte asked.

  “This is fine mom. I’m comfortable here.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m sure. Go back to sleep. You need the rest.”

  “Okay...”

  Charlotte let her head roll back and she began again to doze off. Then, she suddenly turned her head back to Connor. The smile dissipated from her face.

  “Connor?” she said again.

  Connor looked back over at his mother. “Yeah, mom?”

  “That girl—be careful with that girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl who drove me that night. She’s not right, that girl.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  Charlotte froze for a moment, thinking of the best way to formulate her next sentence.

  “What is it, mom?”

  “She’s—She’s not human.”

  Connor stared at his mother, unsure of how to respond. If it wasn’t for that night, where he saw Constable Hendricks get launched into the wall by some supernatural entity, he wouldn’t have believed the claim. But unfortunately, given all he’d been through in the past twenty-four hours, he believed it.

  “I know it sounds crazy—but for me, please be careful,” Charlotte begged.

  “I’ll be careful,” Connor said.

  “Just stay away from her. Please.”

  “I will mom... I will,” Connor said.

  He loved Hanna, but his mother was right. Hanna wasn’t human. He didn’t know anything about her. As far as he knew, she was the town murderer. As far as he knew, she was the “demon child” that the vandals accused her of being.

  Connor watched as his mother dozed back off to sleep. His poor mother had sacrificed too much of her life for Connor for him to go risking it all on some girl he only knew for a week.

  He was going to have to cut her loose, and keep his distance.

  As Connor dozed off, he felt something lingering deep in his bones—that same sensation of dread that he’d felt just hours earlier, except this time it was less specific. This feeling had nothing to do with Hanna, or anyone. This was something different.

  Something strange.

  And Connor wasn’t the only person to feel it on that cold winter night.

  As Tarun lay in bed, dreaming about the beautiful Megan Gold, he was awaken swiftly. A loud gust of wind whistled against his bedroom window.

  He felt it too.

  It was a cold and cruel feeling. It filled his body with a peculiar anxiety that he’d never felt before.

  In that same building, Brittany felt it too. She sprung awake on Kane’s bed.

  “What is it?” Kane asked, waking up.

  “I—I’m not sure. I think I just had a nightmare,” she said.

  “What about?”

  “I—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “It’s alright. It was just a nightmare,” Kane assured. “Go back to sleep.

  Normally, Kane would have just gone back to sleep, but he felt it too. As that Arctic wind whistled against his apartment window, that gripping dread clutched his gut.

  Something was coming.

  Everyone could feel it. Every single person in Snowbrooke. It was something big.

  To be continued...

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  from ilia bera

  What a beautiful time to be a writer! Just ten years ago, you needed to jump through a lot of hoops to get a book in the hands of a reader—and not to mention, a lot of luck. These days, yo
u don’t even have to leave your house. You might be thinking, “That’s a bad thing!” In a way, it’s true—Over the past decade, the market has been flooded with books that have been quickly slapped together, poorly formatted and filled with atrocious spelling mistakes.

  On the other hand, authors no longer need to bend over to publisher demands. We don’t have someone standing over our shoulders saying, “More explosions! Fewer explosions! More sex! Less sex! That ending won’t sell! Make that character more like Harry Potter!” Before, only the well-established writers got to write exactly what they wanted—and even they suffered from publisher pressure.

  What we have now are products that are less commercial. These “self-published” books may be less appealing to the broader market, but they are genuine, and genuine is the most beautiful thing I have ever known. When a book is genuine, the story moves to the beat of the writer’s heart, and not to the rhythm of some publisher’s bank account. It’s easy to forget that literature is an art form, and art by definition is expression—and not market campaign.

  So next time you are looking for that new book to read, don’t pick the flashiest book by the most popular writer—choose the book that feels genuine. The book that speaks in its own voice—not the voice of anyone else.

  I am proud to say that I made this book by myself. I wrote it in Microsoft Word, I edited it in Adobe inDesign, I made the cover in Adobe Photoshop and I even directed the photoshoot with the cover model. I put a lot of work into this book, and I couldn’t be happier with it.

  But please, keep in mind that I did make this book on my own. I didn’t hire a copywriter, or a professional editor—so if you come across an error, please let me know so that I can fix it. In a sea of 65,000 words, my eyes are destined to miss a few!

  I hope you continue to read my series, and I hope that you continue to invest in independent publishing!

  Sincerely,

  Ilia Bera

  ABOUT THE

  AUTHOR

  ilia bera

  Ilia Bera is a young writer from the golden prairies of Alberta, Canada. Ilia’s schooling years were spent absorbed in a fantastic imagination land, writing everything from screenplays and comic books to short stories and novels.