Vampires Don't Cry: The Collection

by Ian Hall

  Laughter like chimes tingled in mid-air. Rick’s skin stood up in goosebumps; once again he stood cold and trembling.

  “Your house? No, Rick – you wouldn’t allow me into your world. So, now I’ve brought you into mine. Only here can we be complete – as one.”

  “Tanya...”

  She inhaled at the sound of her name, it moved over her in waves of gratification.

  Only then did Rick understand her need and concluded what she had come for. If that’s what she wanted – one final stick for the road – so be it.

  “Tanya,” he said again, “come closer to me, Baby. I can’t see you.”

  “But you can feel me, can’t you?”

  His voice turned to velvet. “I want to see you, too.”

  Like a curtain suddenly opening, a faint illumination bathed the room; a swirling fog of dim light that seemed to have no source.

  “Okay...” he said cautiously, “but, I still can’t find you. Don’t hide from me, Babe...”

  Tanya glided over to him, her being condensing into the form he knew, one pleasing to him: corporeal and naked. She stepped out of the darkness, to the outer edge of the light. His hands found her and roamed to her breasts, followed by his mouth.

  “Complete our union, Rick.”

  He collapsed her to the floor, spreading her.

  “You are one sick bitch,” he mocked as he thrust himself into her.

  Tanya took his anger gladly, reveling in the pleasures only beings of flesh could know.

  That night, Rick acted a brutal lover, filled with despise for the very thing he craved. Even as he pleased himself with her body, his fingers clenched over her slender throat.

  His mouth hissed at her ear, “Is this what you want? You like that, you twisted cunt?”

  Rick tightened his hold, sinking nails into tender tissue. Tanya gasped for air even as her pleasure intensified. She writhed in both rapture and torment.

  As he finished her, he let out a wail. Rick’s own satisfaction felt beyond compare of anything ever before experienced. He rolled off of her, gasping until he could compose himself.

  “Now get the fuck out of my house,” he hissed.

  But she gave no reply. He rolled Tanya’s face toward him; her breathing had stopped. Rick shook at her, trying to force life back into her body. All that remained of her lay a limp carcass.

  “Oh, my god! Tanya…c’mon, baby...wake up...”

  Her body turned to mist in his hands, sifting through his fingers like sand. It billowed and rolled above him. Again all went black; in the next instant, it shone bright daylight.

  The walls of Rick’s room had transformed into shimmering curtains of blue satin. He lay on the bed, dressed in a grey suit with a red tie.

  Tanya stepped out from behind the fabric, form-fitting black dress accentuating her flawless shape. Her smile dazzled him.

  The succubus slinked toward him in movements dangerously feline.

  “Now we’re together, Rick,” she told him, “forever together.”

  Rick’s mother tapped on his bedroom door late the next morning after finding his car still in the drive.

  “Rick?” she called. “Monday morning!”

  She knocked louder, then tried the locked door.

  “Damn it, if you’ve quit another job, so help me god...”

  They found him naked, sprawled upon his bed. Upon his lifeless chest there lay a photograph.

  Rick, sitting on his own in a photo booth. He smiled broadly.

  There was a poem written on the back;

  “Remember us

  Forever this way

  In our picture perfect

  We will stay...”

  Written in his own handwriting.

  The Price of a Portrait

  By Ian Hall

  As I entered the gallery, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the dark street outside to the brightly lit room.

  “Shadows on Grey

  By Maria Diva”

  The sign lay pinned on a large easel inside the door. Two prominent town sponsors’ logos were featured below. I knew I should be impressed.

  From my vantage point at the top of the three steps down into the gallery proper, I glanced around the room, my eyes alighting on the object of my journey.

  The artist herself.

  Maria stood half a head taller than most around her, and her angled head scanned the room as I had just done.

  I took a glass of champagne from the tray at the door, and swilled the bland liquid in one swallow, disregarding the look of disdain from the waiter. With a deep breath, I replaced the empty glass, and stepped down into the gallery.

  If her skin had been unblemished, she would have been beautiful; an upturned nose and high cheeks were remnants of a pretty child. However, thin, irregular red lines marred her forehead, cheeks, and chin. Thin, crimson lines that covered her face, from a distance looking like paint or tattoos.

  Approaching, I could see the long scratches were newly cut, the blood fresh and recently congealed. Beneath them, less pronounced, were the scars of previous self-mutilation. Pale. Some white, some still edged in pink. Behind her confident mask, she appeared bewildered, but somehow she still exuded strength.

  Her once-pert nose had ridges of red etched across it, almost catlike. Like she’d stepped out of a sci-fi film set.

  Dark red lips were unnaturally thin, their edges bleached with small, white dots, making her mouth a slit of red with a slight smile. Almost a sneer.

  I passed a few of the paintings, paying them little heed; drab, grey tones with dramatic blood-red images. On a depressed day they would have disturbed me, but in essence, I paid scant attention. If she could mutilate her own face, then the canvasses on show seemed almost irrelevant; mere shadows of her true art, held much closer to home.

  I grabbed another glass from a waiter’s tray and ambled closer.

  Below thick brows shone intelligent blue eyes, beaming from her face like police lamps. They darted from side to side, searching the crowded room. Occasionally she would nod at a passing comment, but her expression never changed.

  A disheveled mop of curly brown hair crowned her head, expensively coiffured, to give the effect of a tousled, unkempt appearance. It worked; her hair rebelled on her head.

  A slender hand, marked in red like her face, held a half-filled crystal glass, although she seemed to hold it like a shield.

  On the thin-strapped black dress, a shiny gold badge read: “Maria Diva; Showing Artist.” The badge seemed as out of place on her, as much as she looked in the company.

  Detached.

  I reached forward with my glass and touched hers with it. The delicate tuneful sound startled her, and for a moment she seemed confused by my sudden presence. Slowly her eyes filled with warmth, but her smile looked a thin, false covering: a mask.

  “Maria?” I asked, smiling my best.

  “Yes.”

  “Your work?” I motioned round the room with my glass.

  Maria tilted her head to one side, confidence infusing her. “How discerning of you.”

  With a tired expression, I stared at her eyes. “I just wondered. None of the work is signed.”

  “I don’t sign.” Then she looked away. For a moment she seemed suddenly very vulnerable, her lip quivered, then she slid behind her shell, the visage gone.

  “My name is Frank Conroy.” She extended her free hand, but I resisted the invitation to shake it. “I’m here on behalf of Walter Hoggan.”

  She drew a quick breath, and her lips thinned as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees.

  “I’m not sure if I can place the name.” A sharply manicured nail picked at one of the scabs on her cheek. New blood spread with her finger.

  I knew she talked a load of crap. My boss, Walt, had put up the money for the gallery, the showing, everything. So I ignored her comment completely.

  “He’d like to commission a new piece,” I said as she continued her mutilation. I re
ached over and pulled her hand away. “Maybe you’d better stop that. You’re ruining the look.”

  She looked quizzical, then I motioned to a corridor away from the main gallery.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I pushed the ladies restroom door open, to a surprised woman, leaning into the large mirror. “Beat it, darling!”

  She looked at my no-nonsense stare, stifled her protests, and shuffled quickly out.

  I closed the door, and put my back against it.

  Maria stood in front of the large mirror, took out a tissue, and carefully wiped the new blood from her cheek.

  “Walter wants a favor returned.” I opened a gum wrapper and put the luminous green stick in my mouth. “And he wants it tonight.”

  She spun on me. “I can’t do it tonight! I have this crap to go through!” Maria’s voice sounded strictly New York, but somehow still found a way to sound exotic.

  “Walt wants a new painting, and even you know that he gets what he wants.”

  “But you don’t understand what I have to go through.”

  I shook my head, unwilling to take the argument further. “There’s a car at the door. You get in it when you feel right. But you will get in.” As I opened the door, I flashed a look over my shoulder. “If you don’t get in that car tonight, you’ll have deeper cuts than you’re used to. And they won’t be cosmetic.”

  I left her leaning on the sink. She had tears in her eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  The gallery began to empty at ten, and at five minutes past, Maria arrived at the curb, looking for the car. I wound the window down and waved her over. She leant down to my window.

  “I simply can’t do it,” she said, obviously expecting me to fold. “I don’t have the right emotional base. It won’t work tonight.”

  I smiled and extended the silencer of my pistol into the night air. “Baby, you either get in the car right this instant, or I’ll make your collection a whole lot more valuable.”

  She stood defiant for a second, then her shoulders slumped visibly, and she got into the car.

  She sat silent all the way to Walt’s.

  Primed by the driver, Walt met us at the door, and we followed him down into a well-lit cellar. Not one of the best of finishes, but at least the concrete floor lay clean and tidy. Painted grey, the red and black specks caught the light. In the middle of the room were an easel, a blank canvas, and a few chairs.

  “I want you to paint me,” Walt said, sitting in the middle of the room. “A portrait.”

  Maria jumped back into my arms. “No!” She struggled to get free. “You don’t understand! I don’t do portraits. I can’t!” I pressed her arms into her sides as Walt approached. Even though she looked far too skinny, my fingers seemed to melt into her flesh.

  Walt leapt to his feet and grabbed her chin. “No, my pretty, you don’t understand. You think you’re too fucking good to paint me. You paint all that other shit, the pallid crap you call art! Well, tonight, you’ll paint me.”

  “You won’t survive.” She shook her head violently. “That’s why I don’t paint people!”

  He turned and slapped her hard, her head swinging into mine. Her forehead stung my nose, but I kept a grip. “Shut the fuck up and paint!” he retraced his steps and sat down. “You have paints. You have brushes. Just start fucking painting.”

  I felt her go limp, her objections seemingly gone. I let go and she walked across the room to the box of paints. “I need a knife.”

  I reached in my pocket and found my small pocket knife. “Will this do?”

  Maria tested the tip of the blade and nodded.

  She squeezed the tubes and poured black and red paint onto the floor and stood back.

  With a deliberate movement she made a cut on her palm, more of a scratch than an actual cut. She gasped slightly.

  I started forward, then looked up at the canvas. Somehow a line had been painted, although she had not been even close to it; a long, sensuous, curving black line.

  I retraced my steps, and even took another few backwards. A cold feeling grew in the air and instinctively, I wanted distance between us.

  I looked back to Maria as she carefully cut her wrist, then her arm, then across the backs of her fingers. The outline of Walt’s nose appeared on the canvas with bold, black strokes. The whole process looked particularly alarming, but Maria seemed somewhere else, lost in the moment.

  Walt could see the canvas, and he looked back and forth from Maria to the canvas with curious amazement as the lines continued.

  Cuts on her other arm brought his eyes into view, then to my amazement, she slipped both her straps off her shoulders. Her dress fell into a furrowed belt at her waist. Her breasts were beautiful; small and firm, but I never had any time to admire further. With a curving movement, she cut across one breast, ending close to the nipple. I gasped in synchronicity with her.

  The more she cut, the more it hurt.

  On the rectangular board, Walt’s image stood clear, his questioning expression caught in flowing black lines. Maria cut her breasts more, and shading around the eyes appeared, his image growing more dimensional.

  As she carved into her flesh, tracing the knife down her smooth belly, the receding locks of Walt’s hair appeared. The image looked perfect, his face staring and vibrant, just as he appeared that night.

  She pulled her dress up into her crotch, and shivered as she cut the inside of her thighs, deep cuts that left trails of blood dripping down her legs.

  I looked from Walt, to the canvas, then to Maria, and back; mesmerized.

  The painting looked more than a masterpiece. Walt had never looked so animated. So alive.

  With a gasp, she let the knife drop to the floor.

  Silence filled the room.

  She lifted her hands to her scalp, then placed her sharp nails into her hair.

  In the silence, I wasn’t quite ready for her scream.

  With a murmur that turned into an ear-bending screech, she pushed her nails into her skin. I couldn’t believe that anyone could stand so much pain.

  A second color appeared on the canvas; a deep red, verging on vermillion. It pushed a dark blood red into Walt’s eyes and lips. The color continued with the scream until his hair and ear were more defined.

  Blood ran in small rivulets from her hairline. Slowly, like a marionette suddenly cut from its strings, Maria dropped to her knees in front of the painting.

  I knew that she had completed her work.

  The silence grew.

  “Wonderful,” Walt said, standing. “Fucking wonderful.”

  “I’m done,” Maria croaked. Her chest rose and fell quickly, gulping air.

  “It’s not finished until it’s signed.” Walt handed her a small, thin brush.

  “You don’t want me to sign it,” she said, pulling one dress strap onto her shoulder.

  Leaning low with a hard backhand, Walt slapped her face, sending her sprawling on the hard concrete floor.

  “Sign it!” he roared.

  She hesitated too long. Walt’s backhand caught her again, whipping her face.

  “Fucking sign it!” The room seemed to vibrate to his voice, sustaining like a thousand discordant guitars.

  The look of hate on Maria’s face as she gathered herself looked as sinister as I’d ever witnessed. She slowly raised herself to the canvas and dipped the brush into a cut on her thigh. With a steady hand, she wrote “Diva” on the corner, dipping into the blood at each letter.

  When she’d finished, she sat back on the concrete floor, then slowly slunk back to the edge of the room, her back hard against the wall.

  I looked from Walt to Maria, not grasping any of the interplay between them.

  She tried to push herself back into the wall.

  He stood triumphant in the cellar light, his eyes darting maniacally around the painting.

  But as the first cut appeared on Walt’s face, I opened my mouth in shock.

  Maria grinned.

  A sly,
knowing smile that spread as the cut advanced from Walt’s temple to his mouth. Initially, the cut appeared thin like hers, then it opened, showing the flesh beneath. His skin opened like an overripe grapefruit. In seconds, his face lay open an inch deep, and the blood welled like a dam.

  I looked from Maria to Walt, as one of her cuts healed before my eyes.

  Walt shook as each gash appeared.

  His lower lip split like a zipper down to his chin, revealing his teeth and gums. He turned to Maria, and managed a nasty sneer as he advanced a step towards her. But it would be his last step. As he looked at the myriad of cuts breaking out on his hands, he gradually became aware of the scale of the damage.

  Then blood from below the white shirt spread like ink stains. His trousers were black, but even I saw the darkening patches. He began to wobble unsteadily on his feet, then fell suddenly to the floor, sending the easel and painting flying to a dark corner.

  He began to die as a cut began on his forehead, and ran through his eye, splitting the eyeball.

  Walt produced a hoarse scream as Maria laughed.

  She healed as he fell apart.

  With a croak, Walt slumped to the floor, as dead a person as I’d ever seen.

  A dark pool spread around him, a lake of crimson from a thousand rivers.

  I watched as the blood edge advanced.

  “Can you take me home?” Maria got gracefully to her feet. Her previous demeanor had returned; she stood proud, confident, unmoved by the event.

  Nervously I looked at her, all traces of previous cuts gone, beautiful in the stark white fluorescent light.

  “Sure,” I said nervously. I wanted to get as far from her as possible.

  We walked the steps out of the cellar in silence.

  The gravel in the driveway seemed to sound louder under my feet than earlier.

  “Take her wherever she wants,” I said to the driver as I closed the door of the car. As the car started, Maria lowered her window.

  Her eyes stared into mine from the dark interior. I felt fear course through me, and an involuntary shiver shook my face and chin.

  As the car eased away, she raised her hand to her face. Silver flashed as her sensuous crimson tongue licked the blade of my knife.