Father Martin interrupted him quickly. "I'm not sure I know what that is."
Michael patiently explained everything Jem had told him.
"I know it sounds crazy, and it's a long story. It started with the Indians, and they were absolutely convinced that there was an evil spirit afoot, a white evil spirit. Oh, Lord! I—"
"Michael," Father Martin said passionately, "we know that there is the power of good in the world. We believe in God, in the Holy Spirit. So perhaps there are evil spirits as well."
Stunned, Michael stared at him. "Then you believe me?"
"I don't believe or disbelieve you." The young priest suddenly shivered fiercely. "But something is going on here. Jesus in His heaven, my friend, something is going on here. And I'll do anything in my power to help you! I'd be pleased to bless you and your efforts in any fight against evil."
Michael smiled. "I don't exactly know what I'm doing myself, Father Martin, but I've been given some advice, and you might supply me with a few of the things I've been told I'm going to need." He hesitated. "You don't think I'm insane?"
Father Martin paused for a minute. Then he spoke in a rush. "I felt it—something, a while back. One night. I don't know how to explain it. Something came with the breeze, something that had a strange feel of..."
"Evil?" Michael suggested softly.
Father Martin nodded somberly. "And then there was the Indian massacre. Then old Smokey. And now poor Cissy. I don't know the truth. And, of course, the Church isn't taking any official stand, you realize."
Michael nodded. He didn't give a damn if anything was official or not.
"There is something out there," Father Martin said. "Ask what you will. I'll help you."
Michael went to the church with Father Martin, who blessed him and gave him a wooden walking stick with a pointed end—a stake.
He left the church with a small cross around his own neck, a vial of holy water in his shirt pocket, and the stick at his side.
He walked slowly along the empty street until he looked up and realized that it was almost dark. Then he began to run.
* * *
Anne looked worriedly out the window. Almost all the others had gone home now. Jeannie was lying down. The boys were sitting in their sister's empty room. Tim was getting drunk.
Jem and Billy were still there, quietly sipping from glasses of beer.
Anne, growing more anxious, was just about to jump up and run out to look for Michael when he entered the front door. She frowned, worried that he might have hurt himself, because he seemed to be leaning on a walking stick. He gave her a faint smile. She frowned, lifting a brow to him. But before she could say anything, they heard a loud shriek from Jeannie McAllistair's bedroom.
In a panic, Anne flew up. She raced into the room, followed by the others.
Jeannie was sitting up in bed, shaking, pointing to the window. "She's out there. My baby is out there. I swear it! I saw her. She was calling to me. She said that she was cold, that she was lonely, that she needed me!"
"Oh, Jeannie!" Anne cried, taking the woman into her arms. "It's all right, Jeannie, it's going to be all right! I'm here with you. Cissy isn't cold! She's with God now. She's going to be fine. But she loves you so much! She'd want you to be well!"
"There's nothing in the window, Ma, nothing at all!" Anthony told her.
Jeannie collapsed in Anne's arms. Anne soothed her until she ceased sobbing.
Michael swung around and walked through the house, past Tim McAllistair who sat in a stupor in his armchair.
He walked outside. There was nothing to be seen in the front of the house. He leaned against his walking-stick stake, then rounded the corner.
And then he stopped still.
It was true, all of it.
Because she was there. Cissy McAllistair, dressed in the beautiful white spring gown her mother had chosen for her funeral, was there. She looked as young and sweet as ever, but she smiled at him in a way that was no longer innocent.
"Michael..."
The sound of her voice was hypnotic. He wanted to go to her.
"Michael, I'm so cold. Come, put your arms around me. Warm me. I beg you, Michael..."
He was moving before he knew it. Somehow Cissy's blue eyes now resembled Drago's gold ones. There was a rim around them. A rim of a different color.
"Cissy?" he said softly. They must have been mistaken. She hadn't really been dead. They had buried her prematurely; he had heard of it happening before. He went closer and closer to her.
That batty old Jem had been right. Drago really must be a vampire. He had given Cissy his deadly kiss...
No, it couldn't be.
Her blonde hair tumbled all around her. Her pretty smile was in place.
"Oh, Michael! I always envied Anne so much. Come to me now, Michael! Come to me. You think you've found ecstasy with Anne. It's nothing—nothing, Michael, like the things I can show you. Like the way I can make you feel. Let me touch you. Let me show you. Let me kiss you."
Something glittered in the moonlight. He realized it was coming from her... mouth. Her lips had drawn back. He saw with mesmerized horror the incredible length and sharpness of her teeth,. They dripped clear liquid...
"Michael!"
She called his name in dismay, as if having sensed that she had lost something.
And then he noticed much more. The pieces of graveyard dirt in her hair. The subtle, putrid smell of... death.
"Michael!" she whispered. "I'm so cold. You're supposed to be my friend, Michael. Please come, make me warmer..."
He wanted to. She had caught his eyes, and her power was so strong, he wanted to do just as she asked.
No! Oh, no!
He wrenched his anguished gaze from hers. This wasn't Cissy. Cissy was dead. This was some hellish creation with Cissy's sweet face and youth, yet with the devil's own eyes.
"You come to me, Cissy," he said softly.
She started to move toward him. Smiling. Moving slowly. She was in front of him, ready to sweep her arms around him.
Ready to taste his flesh.
He drew his stake between them. It seemed his silent scream echoed inside him. He took the stake and drove it into her chest with all his strength, seeing in her eyes the shriek of absolute horror she never voiced.
Then she was falling to the ground. He leaned over her. Her eyes were still open. She smiled, and for an instant she was once again the sweet innocent Cissy who had been Anne's best friend. "Thank you, Michael!" she whispered, and her eyes closed.
"Oh, God!" he breathed. He sat back on his heels, covering his face with his hands.
"Michael!"
It was Billy, coming around the corner of the house. Michael looked at his friend and waited for him to express his shock, but apparently Billy had been seeing and understanding a lot more than Michael had realized.
Billy crossed himself. "She come up from the dead like a devil, right?"
"Something like that," Michael told him.
"You've got to help us all, Michael."
Michael swallowed hard. He nodded. "I'm going to try Billy. But now, you've got to help me, before her parents see her. Let's bring her back to the cemetery."
Together they carried Cissy back to the graveyard and laid her in her coffin. And once again he felt the cold breeze of fear suddenly crash down upon him.
Anne!
She was in the house. It was nighttime. Drago's time.
Somewhere, a wolf howled. Michael stood in the cemetery and looked back toward town. The breeze picked up. It was cold.
He started to run.
Chapter 6
Jeannie was sleeping at last.
Anne returned to the living room. Tim had fallen into a drunken sleep in his chair. The boys were gone. Uncle Jem was on the sofa in the parlor, trying to keep his eyes open.
Anne went into the kitchen and started washing the dishes as best she could. She was worried. Michael had been gone for a long time now, and he had been act
ing very strangely.
She looked out the kitchen window and thought she saw him hurrying toward the house. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and went out the back door, onto the porch. There was a shadow against the darkness.
"Michael?" she said softly.
But it wasn't Michael. David Drago quite suddenly stepped into view, smiling. "Anne!" he said softly.
All at once she felt uneasy, and was sorry she had come outside. She backed away, watching him. "The funeral was this afternoon, Mr. Drago," she said. "The McAllistairs are all sleeping, if you have come to pay your respects."
To her dismay, he kept walking toward her. She backed away from him. He stopped, reaching a hand out to her.
"I didn't come to see the McAllistairs, Anne. I came for you."
She shook her head, fighting the confusion that threatened to engulf her very soul. There was something about the man that mesmerized her. She had to think carefully to speak. "Mr. Drago, I don't know what impression I gave you, but I'm very much in love with Michael Johnston. I'm going to marry him. I—"
"I intend to change that."
"But I don't want it changed," she said firmly.
Abruptly he was furious. "Well, it will be changed this time, Anne! I have waited hundreds of years for you! I have searched nations, continents! And I finally found you here!"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" she cried, starting to back away again. Centuries...
How strange. She'd once had the feeling that she'd known him before. She had dreamed about him, again and again.
She was attracted to him.
She feared him...
They were all losing their minds. Or else it was true, and David Drago was a vampire.
No, that couldn't be! It was legend, superstition. It just couldn't be true!
She should have paid more heed to Uncle Jem, to Michael...
"No!" She mouthed the word. "I have to go in. Michael is coming. Michael will be here at any minute."
He started to laugh. "And you think Michael can keep us apart? My love, you are mistaken!" His golden eyes were latched upon hers, and to her horror, she discovered that she could not move. "I can break your precious Michael's neck with the snap of my fingers," he whispered. "I can send him flying across the state with the whisper of my breath. Anne, you are now mine!"
Deny him! Fight him! she charged herself. But she didn't know how. Why had she been such a fool? She'd sensed his power before. Now she was trapped in it. Its strength was incredible! She couldn't move. His gaze touched her, and she couldn't move.
Fight, fight, she had to fight...
Over and over she whispered, "Michael will come. He will come."
Drago reached for her, finding her wrist, wrenching her toward him. He held her shoulders, staring down into her eyes, murmuring, "I meant it to be so slow! A sure, sweet seduction of the senses. You would have come with me so willingly then. But fast or slow, it doesn't matter. You must still discover all that I can give you."
"I'll never want you! Never."
"But you will. Once I touch you, you will know my power and you will want what I want. Just once, when your blood has trickled from your body into mine, warming it, giving it sustenance, then you will be my creation. Three times, Anne, and you will be mine for eternity!"
He brushed aside her hair. Then fie paused, swearing violently, and Anne dimly realized that Michael's small gold cross lay around her neck.
Dear Lord, please...
He swore again, dragging her with him. "I wanted you! I esteemed you above all women! I searched for you forever! Don't fight me!"
She was fighting him, though, struggling with every ounce of strength she possessed, and still, unable to dislodge his secure hold on her. He was taking her with him. Running with him. But then it seemed they were not running anymore; they were not touching the ground at all.
He had lifted her. He had become a shadow in the night. He was holding her, and they were soaring over the town.
She looked down. There was Michael, running back to town from the graveyard.
From the graveyard?
Oh, dear God! Michael was running away from the direction in which they were rushing. She began to shiver with dread. Drago was a creature of death and shadows, and he was taking her to the cemetery.
He was taking her toward death.
"Michael!" she cried out.
Drago was laughing. His whisper, hot, throaty, encompassed her. "You'll come to my home, my pet. I'm sure your fool uncle has been wondering where it is. A patch of earth in unhallowed ground has warmed and welcomed me nightly. A small tunnel beneath it leads up to my newly built house on the hill. Richard Servian lives there. You'll come to like the fat little bug, my dear, for he serves me well. Watches over my coffin by day, cares for my comfort at night."
Impossible...
Oh, why hadn't she believed?
She was dreaming. No, they were standing on the unhallowed ground, where the suicides were buried. The atheists who had scorned God. The poor, the unknown, the unloved.
Drago just looked at her, smiling. She heard a noise behind her. She turned to see Richard Servian, the fat little man who had arrived one day on the daily stage coach. Short, plump, he should have been the picture of health, but instead his skin, too, was as pale as death.
"The cross!" Drago roared.
Caught between the two of them, Anne spun around. Servian started toward her. She backed away, striking out. She caught his face, his throat. The man was human! She should have hurt him. But he didn't cry out. And he kept coming for her.
She backed into Drago, and his fingers, cold as steel bars, curled around her arms, holding her in place before Servian. The servant reached out and wrenched the cross from her throat.
The fight was finished from that moment, for Drago held her immobile with absolute power.
First she felt the warmth of his breath against her throat. Then she felt the razor-sharp jab of his teeth. She cried out. His teeth sank deep into her neck. And suddenly, it wasn't painful anymore. A coldness entered her body. And with it, a curious feeling of sweet ecstasy. Yes, she wanted more.
More and more...
* * *
Michael reached the McAllistair house to find it dead quiet. Frantically, he searched for Anne, and stumbled upon Jem Turner, fast asleep.
"Jem!" He shook the man. "Anne... where's Anne? Jem, you have to help me. Where is she?"
"Anne, Anne!" Jem cried, waking. He shook his head. Michael's heart sank. Jem gripped his arm tightly. "My God, she's gone. He's taken her! You'll have to go for him, you can't wait until morning;, you have to find him. Three times! All he needs to do is drink three times!" He leaped up. "I'm coming with you. Get Billy to come with us, too. We've got to fight—now!"
Michael knew there wasn't time to dissuade Jem from coming. Billy, as white as a sheet, was still willing to stay at his side.
"Where?" Michael cried. "Where would he have taken her?"
"Where else would the dead find a home?" Jem replied. "The cemetery. He must have taken her to the cemetery, probably to the unhallowed ground. He'll make her sleep with him!"
Michael rushed out of the house with Jem and Billy behind him. Then he realized that although Billy was right behind him, Jem was falling back.
He turned for just a minute. He had forgotten Jem's age. The old man was panting, gasping, his face lobster-red. They should have taken the carriage. They should have—
No, there was no time.
"Go on, go on!" Jem urged him, catching up. He gripped Michael's shirtfront. "Don't forget how powerful he is! Have faith, Michael." Jem was shaking him. "You've got to win! You've got to win."
Michael nodded and spun around. He and Billy ran the rest of the way to the cemetery.
At first he didn't see Drago or Anne. All he could see was a squat little man standing amidst the makeshift crosses on the unhallowed ground.
The fat man raised his arm. Michael realized he was
holding a pistol. "Down!" he shouted to Billy, who fell to the grass and rolled. The pistol exploded. Michael butted the fat man in the gut with his shoulder, and the man went down easily, sending the pistol flying.
When Michael stumbled back to his feet, Drago was standing there. Billy was staring at him in awe and horror. Drago walked straight toward him, but he never moved. Drago swung his arm, and it was as if he were swatting a fly. He slapped Billy against the side of the head, lifting him into the air. Billy crashed down upon a tombstone, unconscious... or dead.
Drago turned his attention to Michael. "All right, little man. It has come down to you and me. It is over. She is mine. And I will tear you limb from limb!"
Michael heard something soft—a word, perhaps—and realized Anne was standing behind Drago.
"Anne!" he cried. Drago stepped aside. She didn't move. She didn't even seem to see him.
There were two tiny puncture marks on her throat.
Michael was overcome with anguish. "No!" he cried in despair.
Drago need touch her only twice more—touch her throat, drink her blood—and she would be lost to Michael forever.
His stake was gone, imbedded in Cissy's heart, buried in the ground beyond. The holy water remained in his shirt pocket. Drago beckoned to him, circling him.
"Come, Michael Johnston, proud Indian hunter, great soldier, warrior, all! Come, fight me!"
Drago was laughing. Anne stood perfectly still, touched by the vampire.
"Anne!" Michael whispered again.
"Don't you see, you fool creature," Drago said to him. "She cannot help you. She is mine, and mine alone. Only I have the power to keep her!"
He moved toward Michael. Impatient, he was now ready for the kill.
Michael reached into his pocket and found the vial of holy water. He splashed it onto Drago's face.
The man let out a chilling scream of pain. He backed away, then fell to his knees.
Good God! Michael thought. Was that it? Had he won?
But Drago was stumbling to his feet. His face was burned where the water had hit him. "You will die slowly!" he promised.
Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures Page 8