Vampire Untitled (Vampire Untitled Trilogy Book 1)

by Lee McGeorge

  First task after breakfast was laundry, a case of boiling water in all of the pans and hand washing in a bucket in the bathtub. The job was fairly straightforward and there wasn’t much. It was almost enjoyable to splash around in warm water and soap suds, it certainly left his hands feeling clean.

  The plan was to hang the clothes in the kitchen and use the heat from the oven to dry them but his denim jeans were dripping heavily. The obvious place for them would be above the bathtub but there was no way to hang anything in the bathroom. The balcony was the best option; it had several rows of clotheslines at waist height along its length. He carried his two pairs of jeans through to the small room and pulled at the balcony door. Of course, he knew he couldn’t leave clothes out there too long because they would freeze, but right now the sun was shining and it looked warm enough to leave them for an hour or two.

  The balcony door felt stiff and took some wrestling before the slowly rotting wood gave way and scraped open. Paul carried the jeans out and...

  “No!”

  Paul felt his blood turning to ice water. His heart slowed in pace but doubled in strength.“No, this isn’t true.”

  On the floor, outside the door...

  A present.

  A gift for him.

  “That was a dream. I had a dream. Nobody has been here.”

  The ice water in his veins coursed through his system paralysing each muscle it touched.

  “There are no such things as vampires. Do you hear me, Paul? There are no such things as vampires and you don’t believe in them.” The words sounded like a bluff. It didn’t sound convincing, even to himself. If anybody else had heard the tone of his voice they would think he was terrified.

  Driven by a compulsion to convince himself he was unfazed, he began hanging the jeans over the clotheslines. His hands trembled as he did it. He felt sick. He watched his hands trying to thread the wet clothing over the lines feeling as though he was having to consciously move each muscle. His coordination was gone, his second-nature motions had vanished and he behaved like a drunk trying to convince his boss he was sober.

  He was trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it, but when he turned back, it was still there.

  On the floor of the balcony, in the same spot the vampire had stood, was the crucifix that had hung over the entrance to the shrine in the forest. It was the same one, with the silver cruciform of Christ.

  Paul couldn’t rationally convince himself it was any other cruciform. He’d been out here on the balcony before and hadn’t seen it. If it had always been here, there was no way he could not have seen it. That was impossible. The cross was right there, he had to practically trip over it. The only rational thought he could muster was perhaps this cruciform had been here all along, had been hung here on the balcony above the door. He examined the doorframe. There was no nail or hook or any way this had been fastened to the smooth concrete. This crucifix had just appeared. It had appeared in exactly the same place he had dreamt he’d seen a vampire.

  But what if it wasn’t a dream?

  Could he have done it himself, placed it here and forgotten? Sleepwalking perhaps? Could Ildico have left it here when they first stood here together? What if he’d brought the cross and forgotten it, stolen it from the shrine?

  His imagination replayed a moment in the forest. He was at the shrine, reaching up to touch this cross, wrapping his fingers around it, resting his thumb on the silver body of Christ. He saw that moment again, recalling how he felt as though his mind was taking a mental photograph through his eyes, his arm outstretched, holding the cross. It would have taken only a second to snatch it down and keep it.

  No, that was crazy; but it was less crazy than it being left as a vampire’s calling card.

  “There are no such things as vampires,” Paul told himself. He picked up the cross. “There are no such things as vampires.”

  He went back into the apartment and into the lounge and looked at the picture of Jesus pointing to the heart. “What are you trying to do to me?” Paul snapped at the painting. “Are you trying to frighten me? Are you trying to convert me?”

  The picture didn’t answer.

  “You see this?” He held up the cruciform. “You go around making people decorate their homes in your image to try and twist their thinking, but it’s not true. There are no vampires, there is no God and you probably didn’t even exist. There are only crazy people who believe in bullshit.” Paul’s gaze dropped for a moment and he saw the bold text beneath the picture, ‘anti-religion’. He laughed. “That’s right. Religion is fucking stupid, and you’re fucking stupid, so fuck you Jesus.”

  Paul turned the cruciform over in his fingers. It was the one from the shrine, the exact one. He knew it, he knew that if he went back to the shrine right now it would be missing from the entranceway.

  He laid the cross down beside his laptop and exhaled hard to try and purge the swell of emotions and negative feelings.

  “Take a break, Paul,” he said to himself. “Let’s go out. Let’s take a break today.”

  ----- X -----

  Finding his way to the centre of Brasov was easier than he’d imagined. The place he was looking for was called Piazza Sfatului and the first bus he spotted had that marked as the destination. Ildico had been right, it was only fifteen or twenty minutes from Noua.

  Ildico. It would be nice if she were here.

  Paul was alone and aimless. He walked around the square kicking slush and snow until it seeped through his shoes and made his socks wet. The buildings were very ornate, like one would expect to see in Vienna; cuckoo-clock buildings he called them, but there weren’t many and beyond the square it was back to tower blocks and dilapidated old homes. There was a fountain made from abstract concrete shapes that, being winter, was switched off and there was a large pretty building in the centre that was possibly a museum.

  He bought a takeaway cappuccino that was sickly. Instead of steamed milk on the top it was processed whipped cream from a pressurised can. Adding insult to the already injured coffee, the barista had added some kind of vanilla syrup. None of this was asked for; he’d simply said ‘cappuccino’ and ended up with a liquid cream cake. He had to throw it in the bin before he’d even drunk a third of it.

  The shops in Brasov held no interest either, other than how weirdly boutique they were. He found one shop with a sumptuously dressed window as though they should be selling vintage violins. It sold vacuum cleaners and nothing else. They seemed to have five models on display in the window and that was it. Inside the shop was a man sitting behind a desk who looked unbelievably bored.

  Across from the Piazza was a glittery looking frontage that said Topless Bar. “Have I sunk that far already?” Paul said as he walked to it. He would have gone in. He would have drank and ogled and tried to distance himself in a boozy stupor, but it was only lunchtime and the place seemed to open after ten at night.

  As he read the opening hours he felt a surge of misery hit him. Here he was in a picturesque town that was steeped in history. It was one of the starting points of the Silk Road, a place of transit for a thousand years. On the far side of the piazza was The Black Church, a cathedral that he’d read was built in the 14th century and was a major tourist attraction. But the thought of visiting a church made him feel sick; it would be an effort. The only thing that held any interest were the two bright red cable cars he’d seen running up and down the side of the mountains and after lunch at a small bistro he set off to find it.

  It was a windy ride up the mountainside in the cable car. He rode the cabin alone trying to picture himself clinging to the top of the gondola like Clint Eastwood or Richard Burton in Where Eagles Dare. He didn’t fancy it much; it was too cold and miserable for brave heroics of the mind. The building at the top where the cable car stopped was a restaurant that looked down on the city. He could imagine it bustling with tourists in summer, but right now there were only a handful of patrons. Outside of this building in the forests he saw wooden post
s painted with shapes such as a red triangle or two yellow stripes. He’d seen a red triangle post at the bottom of the mountain and figured it was a trail walk. Not likely. His feet were already cold and damp and the snow up here was seriously deep.

  He stayed long enough to find a viewing platform that looked down onto the city. It was overcast, grey and little could be seen through the clouds clinging to the mountainside. The only enjoyment to this place was the fact that he was alone and as he leaned on the railing he suddenly felt a whoosh of emotion that made him cry. There was no reason for it. Homesickness perhaps. It felt like reminiscing over a dead friend; that sadness when you realise they’ve been gone for three or four years and you imagine what you did and what they missed out on. Sadness. Just sadness. He looked out across rooftops covered in snow far below him and found he couldn’t raise a single happy thought or memory.

  Is this what depression is? Is this how it starts? Being in a place of outstanding natural beauty, in a new country, on an adventure and all you want is to be alone and cry?

  What was he doing with his life? What was he doing with his time? He hadn’t been here long. A week? It’s homesickness, that’s all it is, at least that was what he was trying to convince himself. Missing that handful of friends, missing the creature comforts. This was supposed to be a writing retreat, a hidden space devoid of distractions like TV and social engagements; in that regard this was the most brilliant place to come. But there was a price he hadn’t factored; it was a prison of solitude and although he’d wanted to create that, he hadn’t realised he might need time to adjust to it.

  He wiped his tears onto the sleeve of his jacket. “You’re just homesick, that’s all,” he said. “You’re just homesick. You should go back now, it’s cold up here.” But he didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay here on the ledge staring down at the city. It was peaceful up here. He could cry, and he could be alone.

  ----- X -----

  The bus grumbled to a halt back at Noua and the engine died. The doors swung open and stayed open. The bus had been warmed by some kind of engineering miracle that blew hot air around his ankles. It was so comfortable it had left him feeling a little sleepy until this chilling blast of outside air hit him.

  The sky was a dark blue and night was only minutes away. The brightest stars were already twinkling and as Paul looked at them, he realised he was almost under the constellation of Orion. He knew that the Ancient Egyptians saw great significance in the three stars of Orion’s belt and had built the grand pyramids directly beneath them. Seen from London, Orion always appeared low in the sky, but here it was much higher and he could tell by the different angle that he was halfway to Egypt. This would be a good place for stargazing. High altitude, zero street lights. Shame it was so cold.

  When Paul arrived at the block he swung the door open and reached for the light switch. The lights were on already, there was a matchstick jammed into the button holding the switch to keep the lights on.

  “Hey...” A voice from the corner.

  Paul felt his body tense as he spun. He knew... he wished to Christ he didn’t!

  “Englezoiule.”

  That was the name, the nickname, ‘English’.

  Nealla.

  He was quick, fierce, grabbing Paul’s coat and pushing him back to the letterboxes on the wall. This was it. There was a split second where Paul saw it all in crystal clarity. Nealla had been ruminating on some idea in his little head. Ildico. He was angry, pissed off, wanting to assert himself. Nealla would prove himself to Ildico by beating the living fuck out of Paul.

  As Nealla smashed him back against the letterboxes Paul’s appreciation of his foe changed. He didn’t feel fear. For a fleeting moment, Nealla was no more bothersome than a wasp buzzing around his face at a picnic. Nealla wanted Ildico. He couldn’t have her. Fuck Nealla.

  Paul grabbed the lapels to Nealla’s leather jacket and kicked back against the wall, he ducked to the side and swung Nealla in an arc, using the momentum to swing him into the opposite wall. “LISTEN TO ME YOU FUCKING ARROGANT CUNT, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU...”

  Bang!

  Then he was falling sideways. A flash of light accented the fist that smacked against his left temple. The fall lasted enough time to see everything. The fluorescent strip-light of the ceiling spun into view, he felt water on his hand and knew he’d landed in the perpetual puddle in the entrance. Then he saw the sole of Nealla’s boot as it smashed down onto his face.

  Reality returned.

  Paul screeched a yelp. The boot hit the left side of his brow and sliced down his face almost taking his ear off. The boot was in the air again, slamming down. Barely a millisecond to get elbows high to avoid the second stomp. His arms shielded the kick but it was so well placed it cracked his head back into the puddle and bounced it off the concrete floor.

  Paul screamed and screamed. It was involuntary but in the confines of the entranceway it echoed all the way to the top of the stairs and all the way back down.

  Nealla dropped to straddle him, knees on either side, throwing punches like a pro boxer. All Paul could do was defend and scream. Scream. Scream. Keep screaming. It was all he could do. He had to hope beyond hope that someone would come.

  Then Nealla stopped the punches and stood, still straddling him. His hand went in his pocket. The razor came out.

  Oh Fuck.

  Paul screamed in panic so shrill and high that the sound was inaudible. He was going to die here, he was going to be cut and murdered and he was screaming and no sound was coming out. Nealla unfolded the razor. Paul raised his leg and jammed his foot hard into Nealla’s balls, unbalancing him. Paul was on his back with one leg straight in the air and had lifted Nealla up on his foot. Nealla wobbled like a child trying to get on a bicycle that was too tall for him. He tried to slip off to one side but was too unsteady. At the same time one of the inaudible screams caught in Paul’s vocal chords and let out the most deafening scream Paul could ever imagine himself making.

  A door on the first floor above opened and an old lady looked over the balcony. She shouted something down. Both Paul and Nealla looked up at her together and the action suddenly paused at the intrusion. Then the door to the building opened. There was another woman, middle aged, carrying a shopping bag. Again both Paul and Nealla looked at her. Nealla quickly stuffed the knife in his pocket and stepped aside.

  Words were yelled in Romanian. Nealla was shouting about something. This woman and the old lady upstairs were yelling back, telling him off, admonishing him.

  Nealla glared at Paul with the most sickening look of hatred and crashed through the doors to make his exit.

  Paul tried to roll over but he was in too much pain or in some state of capitulation that made it feel impossible. He wanted to lay here in the puddle and wait for an ambulance but the woman with the shopping bag was pulling at him, trying to make him stand.

  He rolled onto his side and propped himself on an elbow before sitting. He was sat in the water. He saw blood on the concrete. As he looked down more blood hit the puddle, it must have dropped from his face. More blood. He touched his hand to his mouth and it came back slick and crimson. The woman with the bag was pulling him, chattering in Romanian, concerned, saying things that he didn’t understand.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Romanian.” His words sounded fat, slurred. “Nu Romanesta. No speak Romanesta.” He tried to spit and saw thick slimy blood and saliva drool onto his coat. There was no strength to spit. With effort he slid up the wall to get to his feet. There was blood all over the floor. His blood. The razor... Paul started checking himself for a cut but couldn’t even tell where to look. His jeans were soaked, his hair was wet, the back of his head felt the worst from being stamped into the concrete and it felt as though it was bleeding.

  The woman cried out in a high pitch. She fell against him, pinning him to the wall.

  Nealla.

  Back for round two.

  He’d sprung back through the doors and tried to swi
ng a punch but by misfortune the woman had become sandwiched between them. Nealla aimed one well placed blow across her shoulder and it connected smartly on Paul’s nose. It was a perfect and clean punch but the power and ferocity wasn’t there to do any injury worse than he was already dealing with. It was enough for Nealla. Paul could read it in his face. For him it was like having the last word in an argument. He’d won, he was satisfied.

  Paul barely felt the punch, but physically his head jolted back with the theatre of a Hollywood stuntman who fakes being smacked in the chops.

  Nealla was back out the door. Paul saw him briefly as it swung closed, walking down the steps into the street, straightening his clothes, moving with a swagger. It took Paul a few more seconds to realise that the woman was talking to him, looking him straight in the eyes. A few sentences passed before he realised she was saying the words ‘adresa’ and ‘acasa’.

  Address. She was asking his address.

  “Here,” Paul said with the same thickness of slurred words. “Address,” he pointed up the stairs.

  The woman took his elbow and started moving him that way. He held the banister and made it up each stair one at a time, slowly. Some of it he did in darkness as he couldn’t move as fast as the timed light switch allowed. At one point the woman passed him to activate the light switch ahead and he saw there was blood on the back of her coat, probably from when they were sandwiched together. She talked incessantly all the way up. No doubt this was incredibly traumatic for her too.

  When they made it to the top floor she stood and waited as Paul unlocked the apartment door. He was slurring his words, trying to tell her that this was indeed his apartment, but she didn’t seem satisfied until he’d actually opened the door with the key.