He got out of the shower, but he let the water run a bit more to wash away whatever blood might remain in the stall. He’d need to buy some more bleach to clean it out thoroughly. He dried himself and then examined the towel for bloodstains. It looked fine, but he decided to throw it away with his bloody clothes, just in case. He stuffed the towel into the garbage bag, shoved it back under the bed, and started to get dressed.
His bedroom only had one window, but he kept the blinds closed during the day. He wasn’t a real vampire yet, but he figured he might as well start getting used to avoiding sunlight. That way, he’d be less likely to slip up and expose himself to the sun’s deadly rays once he officially joined the ranks of the undead.
The walls of his bedroom were covered with posters of women who’d starred in vampire movies. Ingrid Pitt from The Vampire Lovers, Catherine Deneuve from The Hunger, Sharon Tate from The Fearless Vampire Killers, Jamie Gertz from The Lost Boys, Kate Beckinsale from Underworld, and the queen of them all, Gloria Holden from Dracula’s Daughter. He was too embarrassed by his fuck-up at the gas station to meet what he imagined to be their disappointed, almost contemptuous gazes. He hurriedly put on a fresh T-shirt–this one featuring Johnny Depp as Barnabas Collins from Tim Burton’s version of Dark Shadows–and jeans, and then headed for the living room, closing the door behind him, as if to shield himself from the women’s disapproval.
Not that it helped much, considering the rest of his apartment was decorated with posters from other vampire movies. From Dusk Till Dawn, Near Dark, Blacula, Love at First Bite, Martin, Fright Night, Innocent Blood, and more. And then there were posters of the best actors to portray the legendary Count himself: John Carradine, Christopher Lee, Gary Oldman, Frank Langella, and the greatest of them all, Bela Lugosi. He didn’t want to face any of them right now, either, so he got an Orange Crush from the fridge in the hope it would wash the lingering taste of blood and vomit from his mouth. He then selected a Blu-ray from his voluminous collection, popped it into the player, and sat down on his worn, secondhand couch as Queen of the Damned began playing.
“This film is a piece of shit.”
Bela sat on the couch next to Mike, cape off, legs stretched out, his polished leather shoes resting on the old orange crate that served as a coffee table. Mike had no idea where Bela’s cape was. Sometimes he wore it when he appeared, other times he didn’t.
Mike didn’t acknowledge Bela’s presence right away. He took another sip of his soda and tried to concentrate on the movie. Bela went on.
“This is cheap, garish entertainment, more about fucking than anything else.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Mike said.
“Metaphor, my ass. Fucking is fucking.”
Mike tried to change the subject. “Want an Orange Crush?”
Bela shook his head. “I never drink . . . soda.”
Bela had first visited Mike one night at work. Mike had been behind the counter at Second Run, a small store that sold used movies, going through a box of DVDs someone had brought in to sell and calculating how much he could offer them. He was hunched over the counter, jotting figures on a small yellow pad when he sensed someone standing at the counter–which was weird because he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He glanced up and standing there, looking as if he’d somehow been transported from a 1930’s movie set, was Bela Fucking Lugosi in full Dracula regalia. He told himself it couldn’t be the real Bela, of course. The actor had died in 1956, and if by some miracle he was still alive, he’d be at least 130 years old, and the man in front of him looked to be in his late thirties, early forties at most.
The movie on top of the stack to Mike’s right was, coincidentally enough, one of Lugosi’s: The Devil Bat. The man dressed like Bela looked at the movie and then tapped the case with a perfectly manicured index finger.
“I hated making this one. The stuffed giant bat they used looked like a teddy bear with VD.”
There was something in the man’s voice–aside from his European accent–and in his bearing that told Mike this wasn’t some random cosplayer who’d wandered into the store. Somehow, amazingly, this was the real deal. Mike was too flabbergasted to say anything, and Bela soon turned and walked away. Mike watched him leave the store and head west down the sidewalk. When the man was out of sight, Mike’s paralysis broke, and he ran to the front of the store, where his coworker Tiffany Barnes stood behind the register, looking bored. She had long black hair and a dull glaze over her eyes, as if she were on the verge of falling asleep. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered her. There were often lulls in activity at the store, and it wasn’t uncommon for the staff to space out when nothing was going on. But he was too excited to keep quiet.
“Did you see him?”
He spoke so loud that Tiffany jumped, eyes wide with alarm. Once her gaze focused on him, she relaxed.
“Saw who?” she said, sounding completely uninterested.
He answered without thinking. “Bela Lugosi.”
Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head slightly.
“Are you on crack or is this some kind of dumbass attempt at a joke? I know you’re a big vampire fan and all. Hell, I love ‘em too, but if you’re starting to hallucinate dead horror actors, maybe you should find yourself another hobby.”
Her words stung.
Tiffany perpetually dressed in black, always looked slightly malnourished, and possessed pale skin and puffy dark patches beneath her eyes. She was exactly his type, but although he’d tried flirting with her, had even asked her out–with no luck–he hadn’t been able to catch her interest. Still, he had hopes of hooking up with her one day, so to try and redeem himself in her eyes, he said, “I mean I saw a guy who resembled Lugosi, that’s all.”
She looked at him for a moment, as if trying to discern if he was lying.
“I’ve been at the register for the last hour,” she said. “I haven’t left, not even to pee. If someone–regardless of which old-time movie star they looked like–had come in and then gone, I would’ve seen them. And I didn’t see any Belas. The only customer we’ve had in the last hour is the dude who brought in those movies for you to make an offer on.”
She nodded to the man, who was browsing the Action-Adventure section while waiting for his offer to be ready. The guy was in his early twenties and of Indian descent. As Tiffany had said, no Bela.
“I saw what I saw,” Mike said, sounding more defensive than he liked. Without waiting for Tiffany to reply, he turned and headed back to the buy counter.
The next time he saw Bela was when he went to a small arthouse theater in town that was showing Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu, starring Klaus Kinski. It was a late afternoon showing on a weekday, so Mike was the only one in the audience–until Bela walked in and sat down next to him.
“This one is not so bad,” Bela said. “Although I prefer the original. Vampires are more frightening in black and white.”
Normally, Mike loathed people who talked during movies, but as they were the only two present–and this was Bela Lugosi–Mike figured he could make an exception.
“I don’t mean to sound disrespectful,” he began, “but why are you here? I mean, you’re . . . ”
“Dead?” Bela sounded amused. “As long as my films survive, as long as they are viewed, I endure. But as to why I am here sitting next to you right now, I have come to teach you. When did you first realize you wanted to be a vampire?”
Mike was shocked at first. He’d never told anyone about that, not ever. His first impulse was to deny it, to insist that just because he loved vampire films, it didn’t mean he actually wanted to be a vampire. After all, vampires were make-believe monsters that were fun to read about or watch on the screen, but nothing more. But he couldn’t lie. Not to Bela.
“I guess it started when I was a kid. I was watching Dracula–your Dracula–on TV, and when you said ‘The blood is the life, Mr. Renfield,’ you said it with such conviction, such passion . . . I wanted to feel that passion too. I wanted to fee
l that alive.”
“Did you know that when I first played Dracula on the stage, I spoke very little English and had to learn my lines phonetically? I barely had any idea what the fuck I was saying.”
“That’s a showbiz legend,” Mike said. “By the time you starred in Dracula you knew English. Well enough to get by, anyway.”
Bela gave him a sidelong look before speaking again.
“You wish to become a vampire. I have come to teach you how to do so.”
“Are . . . you going to bite me?”
Bela burst out laughing.
“Why the hell would I want to do that? That is nothing but movie bullshit. You do not become a vampire by catching a supernatural version of the clap. You must become a vampire. It is a matter of personal evolution, a profound transformation, not unlike the way actors learn to immerse ourselves in a part. To surrender to it, our identity becoming totally subsumed.”
And that’s how it began.
Mike never doubted for a moment that Bela was real. He didn’t know if he was a ghost or if he had somehow literally become Dracula. He’d asked Bela about it once, and the man had said some method acting bullshit about how true actors–ones who were willing to do the arduous mental and emotional work their craft demanded–ultimately became their parts, and in return, their parts became them. Mike didn’t really care about the specifics, though. All that mattered was that his dream–of power, of strength, of transcending mere humanity and becoming something more, something better–was now within grasp.
Bela spoke once more. “A true vampire does not focus on sex.” He paused, then added, “Not only sex. The soul of any great vampire story is romance. That is what lies at the heart of my Dracula. He is an immortal creature, cut off from a world that has passed him by. He wishes to see the modern world, to be a part of it. And he longs for a connection to a living woman who embodies her age.”
“Mina,” Mike said, almost reverently.
Bela nodded.
“No more butchering anonymous women in gas stations. You must find your own Mina and make her yours. You must seduce her. Do you have a Mina in your life?”
Mike smiled.
“I do.”
***
Tiffany was scheduled to close on Tuesday night, so Mike called off sick–mightily pissing off his manager in the process–and took up a position in the alley across the street where he could keep watch on Second Run’s entrance. He knew Tiffany lived downtown and walked to work, and tonight he intended to follow her and, as Bela had said, make her his.
It was chilly out, and Mike–who wore only a dark blue windbreaker–was freezing. He hadn’t wanted to wear a heavier coat because real vampires didn’t feel the cold. Besides, a hooded parka was hardly a cool look for a vampire. He regretted his sartorial choice now, though, and he kept his hands balled into fists in his pockets and periodically stomped his feet in an ineffective effort to warm himself.
Wish I had a cape, he thought. I could pull it around me like a blanket and it would still look cool.
Bela wasn’t present. Mike wished he was, if for no other reason than he’d be company. But it seemed the old vampire was too smart to waste time hanging out in a cold alley with his student.
Second Run closed at ten p.m. every night, but there were always a few things left to do before anyone could leave, and it was close to 10:30 by the time Tiffany walked out of the store. She wore a black knit cap, a black leather jacket, and a pair of black gloves. She didn’t exactly look toasty, but she looked a hell of a lot warmer than he was.
He left the alley and followed, keeping to his side of the street and doing his best to stay in the shadows. He felt the cold metal of the knife he carried tucked into his left sock–concealed beneath his pants leg, of course–and he experienced a pang of shame. It was a smaller knife than the one he’d used on Kari the barista. The larger knife remained in the garbage bag with his bloody clothes beneath his bed, which he still hadn’t gotten around to getting rid of. He knew Bela wouldn’t approve of him using another blade, but until he sported fangs, he’d have to keep making do.
Block after block went by, and he began wondering just how far from work Tiffany lived. If they kept walking like this, they’d end up on the other side of town before long, and by then his testicles would probably have frozen off. But she eventually took a left turn and disappeared from his view. He stopped at the corner and waited a few moments before hurrying across the street and continuing after her. He quickly caught sight of her once more and felt a wave of relief. Bad enough that he’d made a mess killing Kari, but if he lost Tiffany, he was sure Bela would never let him hear the end of it.
Mike doubted this situation was exactly what Bela had in mind. This was more like stalking than romantic pursuit. But it was exciting. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and all of his senses were clear and sharp. He felt an electric thrill of anticipation in the base of his chest, adrenaline building for what was to come. This might not be as classy or dignified as Bela would like, but he did feel alive in a way that he never had before, a way that up to this point, he’d only imagined. Killing Kari had been rushed, sloppy, and ultimately unsatisfying. But this . . . this was what it was all about–the hunt and the anticipation of its culmination. He was surprised to find himself actually looking forward to tasting Tiffany’s blood. He bet it would be different than Kari’s, more like fine wine.
There was yet another layer to his excitement. He had a feeling that if all went well tonight–and right now he was confident it would–he might complete his transformation and at last become his truest, darkest self.
He couldn’t wait.
The road sloped downward toward a poorly illuminated underpass, and he knew that would be the place where he’d make his move. It wasn’t a bedroom where a woman in a diaphanous nightgown lay beneath silk sheets, head back and neck bared, waiting for her vampire lover to materialize by her bedside and penetrate her tender flesh with his sharp, rigid fangs. But Mike no longer gave a shit. Fuck Bela and fuck his advice. This was his hunt, and he’d conduct it any way he liked. To hell with Bela’s old-world bullshit. This was the twenty-first fucking century, and if you wanted something, you took it, and screw everything else.
He picked up his pace to decrease the distance between them. He wanted to be close enough to Tiffany by the time she reached the underpass so she wouldn’t be able to escape him. He paused, bent down, and drew the knife from his sock. He gripped it tight and began walking once more. He no longer felt the cold, no longer felt anything except a burgeoning need deep inside the core of his being. A need that could only be called hunger.
He was less than six feet behind Tiffany when she entered the shadowy gloom of the underpass. Traffic passed back and forth on the road above, engines humming, tires whispering across asphalt. But when he stepped into the underpass, the sounds of moving vehicles died away, and all became silent. He was so focused on Tiffany–on his prey–that he scarcely noticed.
When she was halfway through the underpass, he glanced quickly forward and back to make sure no cars were approaching from either direction. When he saw none, he raised his knife and sprinted toward Tiffany. He was almost upon her when she spun around and grinned at him, displaying a pair of long ivory-white incisors.
“Hey, Mike,” she said, and then opened her mouth wide and came at him.
***
Bela watched as Tiffany crouched over Mike’s body, face pressed against his neck as she drank. He sighed.
“I thought he showed promise.”
Bela wasn’t alone. Standing next to him was a tall man wearing similar clothes–cape included–but his were plainer, less ornate, with the sole exception of his cape, which had a striking red inner lining. He had a serious, patrician mien, and his eyes–threaded with small crimson veins–gazed upon Tiffany as well.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” the other man said in a British accent. “I had better material to work with, that’s all.”
&nbs
p; “I suppose you are right.” Bela looked upon his failed protégé one last time, and then he smiled at Christopher. “Until we meet again.”
The other man gave him a measure nod, and Bela’s body began to fold in upon itself. Seconds later a large black bat resembling a teddy bear with VD flew out from beneath the underpass and rose into the night sky.
UNPRETTY MONSTER
MERCEDES M. YARDLEY
The Titanic was a grand ship, full of beautiful things and people. There were fine ladies and handsome gentlemen dressed in their best. Men and women with gowns and furs and threadbare knickers and skirts. There were children with scrubbed faces and perfectly brushed hair, and other children who wore their poverty like dirt on their faces. They were perfect in every way for what she and her sisters needed.
She met a human man on this ship. He had a strong, white smile and brown eyes that didn’t shy away from her. She realized her gait was awkward and her fingers were too long, almost otherworldly. She wrapped them around the railing of the ship and looked out to the sea, which called to her bones in a way that made her breath catch.
“Are you all right?” this man asked. He put his hand on the small of her back, kindly, protectively, an easy gesture that had been bred into him from years of impressive schools. She automatically tensed up under his touch, but then tried to remember the ways of humans.
“I don’t mean any harm,” he said, and drew his hand away.
She smiled demurely, careful not to show her teeth.
“No harm. I’m simply a bit . . . unsteady.”
His hand jumped to her back again. “Shall we sit down? Please, let’s do that. My name is William. Will you tell me yours?”
She had a name centuries ago, long and deliciously difficult, but that was a more complex time. It was a time where gods left thunderous footsteps on top of the mountains, and monsters openly vaulted against the sky. They didn’t need to hide or blend in or secret themselves away. They didn’t don the skins and trappings of their prey and move amongst them. Things were simple now. There was no grandeur or nuance in the way that things were. The earth belonged to artless creatures, and she had also let her wondrous name slip away.
Fantastic Tales of Terror Page 2