Peter And The Vampires (Volume One)

by Darren Pillsbury

  He forgot about his leg, which was still sticking out over the cement porch.

  With one swipe, Mercy snagged his foot and yanked Dill out of the doorway. Kicking and screaming, he dangled upside down from her outstretched arm.

  “You see this? This is a pie tin on my neck! Don’t even TRY biting me!”

  Peter and Katie stood up inside the house.

  “Mercy, let Dill go, PLEASE,” Peter begged.

  “Mmmmm…no.” She gave an evil smile. “I’ve decided I like Dilly better than you. He’s not mean to me, are you, Dilly?”

  “My name is DILL, and I’ll be mean to you, give me a chance! I was mean to you all the time behind your back, I said awful things — ”

  “SHUT UP!” Mercy roared, loud as a tiger.

  “Okay,” Dill squeaked.

  “Mercy, please. Don’t hurt Dill…you can have me,” Peter said.

  Mercy turned up her nose. “I don’t like you anymore.”

  “That’s my fault, Mercy, not his…please…I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt Dill.”

  “Yes, don’t hurt Dill,” Dill said in a little mouse voice.

  “YOU TAKE AWAY ALL MY FRIENDS!” Mercy shouted at Peter. “You take away Agnes, you take away Katie — I think I’ll take away one of your friends, now, Peeeteeeeeer.”

  “Peter didn’t take me away — you didn’t even come get me!” Katie suddenly wailed. “You’re alive, and you didn’t even tell me?”

  Mercy looked at her quizzically. “I’m not alive. I’m a vampire.”

  Katie stomped her foot.

  “And you went to Peter before me?! And Agnes — why would you choose Agnes?” Katie went from shouting to whining. “We were best friends, Mercy — why would you choose Agnes?”

  “Because you’re so annoying?” Dill offered helpfully.

  Mercy shook him back and forth violently.

  “I’ll shut up, I’ll shut up,” Dill babbled.

  “Agnes lives closer. Lived closer.” She glared at Peter. “And I made a mistake with Peeeteeeer here. He’s done nothing but hurt me and be mean to me and…and…”

  Peter couldn’t believe it. Was Mercy choking up?

  “…and I’ll never let you hurt me again, Peeeteeeer,” she snarled. “Now I’m going to hurt YOU.”

  With one flick of her arm, she flipped Dill like a ragdoll and caught him by the collar.

  “I’m gonna puke,” Dill hacked.

  She hooked both of her arms under Dill’s and brought her hands up behind his head.

  “Hey, that’s a full nelson!” Dill exclaimed, amazed. “Do you watch wrestling?”

  “Shut up! Goodbye, Peeeteeeeer.”

  “MERCY, NO!” Peter yelled as he launched himself out of the doorway.

  Too late. She shot into the sky, dragging Dill along with her. Peter’s hands closed on air as she rose into the night.

  Katie shrieked. Peter stared up as the two small outlines moved darkly against the stars and began to hover away over the treetops.

  “Peter, help!” Dill cried. “Help me, help meeee!”

  Peter rushed to his bike.

  “What should we do, what should we do?” blubbered Katie. “Should I call the police?”

  Peter whipped off his backpack, ripped out a pen and paper, and wrote down his telephone number. “Call my house, NOW. Ask for my grandfather and tell him it’s an emergency. Tell him Mercy took Dill and I’m going to save him.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  Peter slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped onto his bike. “I don’t know,” he whispered, then raced off down the street.

  35

  He could see them — barely — in the moonlight. Mercy was moving slowly over the treetops. Though Dill was a scrawny little kid, she probably wasn’t used to carrying something heavy while she flew.

  Dill.

  Peter cursed himself for dragging Dill along. He’d been right, this was dumb, DUMB — two kids against a vampire? And now Dill was paying the price for Peter’s stupidity.

  Peter couldn’t afford to be stupid again.

  Huffing and puffing, he pedaled fast as he could, his eyes on the night sky, trying to make sure he kept Mercy and Dill in sight. That was why he heard the truck first instead of seeing it.

  Putter groan clank, putter putter clank.

  Two beams of light cast Peter’s shadow far on the road in front of him.

  The ancient truck swerved into the middle of the road and chugged up beside Peter. Through the passenger window, Grandfather was yelling and swiping his hand in a ‘STOP!’ motion.

  Peter braked, and so did the truck. When they both came to a halt, Grandfather hopped out and ran to the bike.

  “Boy, am I glad to see — ”

  “Get off!” Grandfather commanded.

  Peter almost fell, he jumped off so quickly. Grandfather grabbed the bike and threw it in the back of his truck. It landed beside an ominous–looking steel box that hadn’t been there at the cemetery. The box was slightly larger than a hotel mini–fridge and was crisscrossed with chains, which appeared to be bolted or fastened to the truck bed.

  When the bike smacked into it, the metal case started to bang and clatter.

  “What are you waiting for? Get in, get in!” Grandfather barked as he headed for the driver’s side door.

  As he raced for the passenger side, Peter glanced fearfully at the metal box. It jumped about two inches into the air. The chains restrained it, though, and then it crashed back down.

  Once in his seat, Peter pointed back behind him. “Is that…?”

  “Your lady caller from earlier in the evening,” Grandfather growled. “Where’s she headed?”

  Peter looked dumbfounded. “I don’t know, she’s in a box.”

  “The other one, the other one!” Grandfather raged.

  “Ohhhh, Mercy! I don’t know — she’s up there.”

  Peter pointed up at the sky, where a tiny black shape could still be seen over the trees. Grandfather cursed when he saw it, then slammed the truck into gear and drove off down the road.

  “She’s got Dill!” Peter moaned.

  “I know — a blubbering little snot called the house. I would have been here sooner, but I had to…pack.” Grandfather squinted at Peter. “Is that a pie tin around your neck?”

  Peter half–winced, half–smiled.

  Grandfather groaned and turned back to the road. “This is not going to go well,” he muttered to himself.

  “Why’d you bring Agnes?”

  “I wasn’t about to let that that thing stay in the same house with my daughter and granddaughter.” Grandfather glared at Peter. “You I might let her alone with, for getting me into all of this nonsense. Grab the bag by your feet, and be careful.”

  Peter reached down and pulled up a canvas bag — the same one he’d seen Grandfather wearing at the cemetery.

  “Open it up. Mind you don’t cut yourself.”

  Peter’s hands trembled as he pulled the bag open and stared at an assortment of props straight out of a horror movie. Wooden stakes. Two hammers. Crosses. A knife that gleamed silver in the moonlight. A string of garlic bulbs.

  “Take one of each and put it in your backpack there.”

  Peter started gathering the tools, then hesitated. “Grandfather, I…I don’t know if I can do this…”

  “Do you want to save your friend?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll do what you have to.”

  Peter jerked his thumb back towards the rear of the truck. “What about her?”

  “Who, the one in the box? There are some books that say once the head of the vampire line is destroyed, all his victims return to normal. We’re going to test that theory tonight.”

  “But…what if Mercy’s not the head vampire?”

  Grandfather was silent.

  “What’s going to happen to Mercy?” Peter whispered.

  Grandfather shook his head slowly. �
��There’s only one thing to do.”

  “She’s a kid,” Peter protested.

  “Who’s taking other children from their families. She’s not the girl you knew, boy. She’s something evil now, something rank and foul. Remember that, and don’t hesitate when you have the chance. Your great–great–great–great–great–great grandfather Willard didn’t.”

  Peter stared. “Are you talking about…”

  “1822. Gilbraith Chalmers. You asked who stopped the madness back then? Willard Flannagan, the son of John Stephen.”

  “The guy with the hobos in the garden?” Peter asked, shocked.

  “John Stephen, yes. Willard was his son, just a lad when the Todenhorns met their grim end. When he saved Duskerville as a man, he had to fight to do it. The Chalmers family…” Grandfather gritted his teeth. “The Chalmers family did everything they could to stop him. They knew — they knew, boy. They helped. They aided and abetted, and if they didn’t do that, they certainly turned their heads while their son went from family to family, destroying one life after another. They even profited off it, what with the uncle selling coffins to the families, knowing that his nephew had done his murderous deeds, and would bring him more business to come. But the books never recorded that, did they? When it was all said and done, Willard was an outcast, and a quarter of the town had died from cholera. Well, history repeats itself tonight. My great–great–great–great grandfather then, and you and I now. Let’s hope the results are the same, but that the body count is a good deal less.”

  “Did, uh, anybody help your great…whatever grandfather?”

  The old man ignored the question. “Do you know how to do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “A stake through the heart. It’s the only thing that will stop her...that you would be capable of. If you get the opportunity, take it. Then wait for me, I’ll finish the job. But whatever you do, don’t take out the stake. Leave it in. If you don’t, she could come back to consciousness. And that will not be a pretty sight, I guarantee it.”

  “There’s no way to stop her without hurting her?”

  Grandfather shook his head ‘no.’

  “There’s no way to bring her back, you’re sure?”

  “None, boy. In all my readings, the books say there’s only one thing to do.”

  “But in fairy tales, they always save their friends. Everything’s always okay.”

  “This isn’t a fairytale, boy,” his grandfather said softly. “At least not one with a happy ending.”

  “But books — you said books cover up the truth, that people change the story, like the cholera.”

  “The books aren’t wrong. Not about this. I’ll be the one to do it if I can, but if I can’t, I need to know — can you do this? Can you do this to save your friend, and this town, and your mother and your baby sister?”

  Peter was still for a long moment…then nodded silently.

  “I can’t hear you,” the old man growled.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Boy — ”

  “Yes,” Peter nearly yelled. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

  “That’s a good lad, a brave lad.” Grandfather’s tone wasn’t exactly kind, but there was a sort of quiet pride in his voice.

  But Peter was lying.

  He didn’t know if he could do this at all.

  Please God…make this all a dream…make it so I’m still sick, and lying on the couch in the den, and all of this is just a dream…

  Grandfather peered up through the top of the windshield. “She’s veering off to the left.”

  Peter looked outside the window. “Wait — this is where the bus lets her off! She must be going home!”

  “Then ready yourself, boy. We have a dark hour ahead of us.”

  36

  The truck pulled into a wooded driveway with a long, low tunnel of treetops overhead. At the end of the drive, the headlights illuminated an old, old house, probably built in the time of Gilbraith Chalmers. It was two stories tall with a giant wooden porch and peeling paint.

  As the truck came to a stop, they saw it: an old storm cellar on the side of the house, set in the ground not thirty feet away. The door was halfway open, blocking their view — and then it slammed shut.

  “Let’s go,” Grandfather said, and hopped out the door. He grabbed something out of the back of the truck and then ran for the house.

  Peter ran after him to the cellar door. Grandfather bent and pulled at the handle. Nothing. The door didn’t budge.

  “Stand back.” With that warning, Grandfather heaved an ax into the air and down into the wood with a sickening CRACK.

  Suddenly, light flooded all around them.

  “Ho there,” an angry voice shouted. “Who are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Peter squinted against the flashlight beam. Behind it stood a tall man, thin as a skeleton, dressed in black.

  “You know who I am, Chalmers, and you know why I’ve come,” Grandfather snarled. “Stand back, we need to get into this cellar.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Get off my property, or I’ll have the law here faster than you can sneeze.”

  “Call them! Let’s show them what dark secrets you’re hiding, just like your ancestors. How in God’s name could you do that to a child?”

  Mr. Chalmers pointed a bony finger. “You’re one to talk, Seamus Flannagan. You forget, I know exactly what you did thirty years ago.”

  Peter’s ears perked up. What?

  “Now get off my land,” Mr. Chalmers growled, “before I finish what the town should have done back then.”

  “I’ve been to the cemetery, Chalmers. And I’m not leaving without the thing you took from there.”

  Grandfather swung the axe again against the storm cellar door. CRACK.

  “STOP!” Chalmers shouted, and ran for Grandfather.

  “Look out!” Peter yelled.

  The man in black tackled the older one, and they spilled to the ground in a jumble of arms and legs. The flashlight spun through the air and thudded in the grass. Peter picked it up and ran to Grandfather’s aid.

  “Never mind me!” the old man barked. “Get in the house — somewhere in the house there’s got to be a way to the cellar!”

  Peter dashed for the front porch and opened the door — only to have his way blocked by a woman in a housedress. Her eyes were puffy and red.

  “We only wanted to keep our little baby girl,” she whimpered. “We thought we were going to lose her…I only wanted my baby to stay with me.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” Peter said, and meant it — but he had to get into the house. He tried to push past her, but hands grabbed his shoulders and held him back.

  “Don’t you hurt her!” the woman screamed. “Don’t you hurt my baby girl! Leave her alone, you nasty little brat, leave her alone!”

  Peter turned and smacked her arms with the heavy metal flashlight, and the woman screamed. Peter whacked her again, and she turned him loose. He fled into the dark house as fast as he could.

  “Gregory!” the woman screamed behind him, and ran out into the front yard. “Gregory, he’s going to hurt my baby!”

  37

  Peter ran to the nearest door he could see and flung it open: a closet. He ran to the next, the flashlight beam bobbing every which way. A bathroom. He ran into the kitchen, where the moonlight streaming through the windows made everything look ghostly. Over in the corner was another door. Peter ran to it, his heart pounding, his mind filled with images of Mercy bent over Dill’s lifeless body.

  He opened the door and found darkness. A long, rickety staircase made from plywood descended into utter black.

  A light switch was on the rough cement wall inside, but when Peter flipped it, nothing happened.

  He shone the flashlight down instead. A cement floor and a bag of potatoes appeared in the circular beam. There was a squeak somewhere, a rat or a mouse disturbed from its late–night scavenging.

&nb
sp; Peter shuddered…and started down the stairs.

  Creak…creak…creeaaaaak…

  As he went, he rummaged in the backpack. His right hand held the flashlight, so he couldn’t use the stakes and hammer. His fingers closed on the cool metal of a cross, and he pulled it out of the bag.

  The wall to his left ended halfway down the stairs. Once he was past it he swung the ray of his flashlight into the middle of the basement.

  It was one big room, the whole length of the house, and stacked with a hundred years of junk and knickknacks…except for the middle, which had been cleared for two tables. Each one had a coffin on top of it. Both caskets were open — the first with a top that swung open on hinges, the second with a lid that lay on the floor.

  The first was white and pretty, with pink velvet lining inside and shiny metal handles on the outside. Shriveled flowers lay on a cross–stitched pillow, but the coffin was new. Only a few smudges of dirt marred its pristine surface.

  The other coffin was entirely different. It was a simple pine box, far older than the white one. Dried dirt caked every surface. Jagged nails poked out here and there.

  The lid on the floor looked hacked apart in the middle, like something — or someone — had smashed its way out.

  And inside the coffin itself, rust–colored splotches covered the wood.

  Blood. Dried blood.

  Peter tried to swallow, and couldn’t. He reached the end of the stairwell and swung the flashlight around the room.

  The beam passed over a pale, writhing shape. Fear choked his brain and urged him to run, but Peter whipped the light back on the thing he had glimpsed.

  Dill. It was Dill lying on the floor, his hands and legs tied with old rags. Another was stuffed in his mouth. His eyes were wide and very much alive. The pie tin still hung around his neck, apparently untouched.

  “Dill!” Peter whispered in relief. As he ran over to his friend, he realized Dill was jerking his head and his eyes upward, trying to tell him something.

  Peter aimed the light at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Nothing. As he was bringing it down, though, brightness struck the corner of the room.

  Mercy Chalmers clung to the wall, her black eyes glinting red in the light.

  She hissed and sprang straight at Peter.

  38

  Peter dove and rolled under one of the tables. Once he realized what was directly above him, though, he scampered back out in the open.

  Mercy popped up on the other side of the table across from Peter. The white coffin between them partially blocked her from view.