Neckbeard Vampire: Nightbeard Rising

by David Morgan

  Chapter 26

  Paxton blinked his eyes. He was lying on something soft and warm. The ceiling came into focus, although it seemed to him to be spinning.

  He moaned in confusion, trying to recall what had happened. A split-second memory of the previous night...Kara leaning over him…kissing his neck. He rolled to his side and vomited on the floor.

  He looked around the room—it was dark, pitch black, in fact. But strange as it seemed, he could ‘see’ everything in the room with clarity—down to minute details. He held his hand in front of his face, flexing his fingers—clenching his palm into a fist and then releasing.

  “Amazing,” he said out loud. It seemed to him that he gained a new kind of vision—a shadow vison of sorts, which required no light whatsoever. The room was in complete darkness, but in the distant corner he saw a lone candle stick—he remembered Kara flicking the wick into a flame with a motion of her fingers. He saw the windows, covered in paint, he could make out the tiny figurine animals—to the slightest detail—across the room on the dresser.

  He sat up, dropping his feet to the floor. The room spun in place once again. Carefully, he planted his feet on the ground and straightened his legs. He noted how much smaller it looked than before. He reached a hand up and touched the ceiling.

  He put a foot forward, daring to try and walk. The dizziness continued, but it was growing weaker. He tripped, reaching out and steadying himself on the bed frame. The bedframe had bent under his weight—he leaned in to examine the where his hand had gripped—four little dents in a row, with a large one on the far side where his thumb wrapped around—had formed in the metal.

  He looked around him, looking for some witness to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming—a tall mirror hung from the door. He looked at it, studying the man that stood before him.

  Reaching up, he tested the large bicep that he didn’t remember being there before, pushing the fingers of his opposite hand against the flesh. Surprised that it didn’t mush like play-dough, he flexed. The 2XL T-shirt he used to hide his insecurity had grown tight around his chest and lose around his stomach. He lifted the bottom to see tight abs. He prodded them with his fingers as well, then pinched himself on the cheek.

  Confirming that it was not actually a dream, he let out a triumphant laugh and tore the mirror from the wall as though it were a piece of paper. Having grown weary of the darkness, he threw it through the painted window on the wall. The shattered glass fell from its place, crumpling to the ground and letting the hazy light of an overcast sky come crashing into the room.

  How much time had gone by? The electric red numbers of an alarm clock caught his eye.

  “7:30,” he read aloud. “7:30?! He repeated, “The attack!” and he threw open the door. He was met by a slovenly neckbeard with unkempt blond hair crawling out from under a trilby down to his shoulders. The neckbeard was grinning wide when Paxton had thrown open the door—was—as it had quickly changed to an expression of surprise, then fear. He threw out his arm, landing a fist square on Paxton’s jaw.

  Paxton’s looked at his opponent, unmoved. The neckbeard had punched him with all the force of a baby’s fart. He raised his arm to this amazing neckbeard’s head and pushed. To his amused surprise, the fatty flew across the hallway, flopping and crashing through the door opposite then slumping against a wall.

  Wondering at his newfound strength and studying his now unconscious enemy, something in the room caught his eye. A small box—a few feet in length was placed in the center of the room. Remembering the Dakimakura, he opened the box.

  “Kara.” He said, his voice filled with pity as he stared at the image of his friend, flattened to two dimensions on the white cotton background of the body pillow.

  His thoughts moved to the Dakimakura—to her deceit in leading him to the friend zone, the way she had tried to enslave him, the way she mercilessly hunted others like him. And he thought about what foul devices she must have implemented to turn his friend like her.

  Fists clenched and teeth grit, Paxton shut the lid and walked down the hall while Neckbeards scrambled to hide in shadowy corners of the house, as cockroaches scurry when the kitchen light is turned on. Paxton noticed them, but had no interest in giving chase. He took great pleasure in feeling their fear of him.

  Throwing the car into drive, he started towards the city hospital where the others would be launching their attack, but a brilliant light blinded him momentarily, sending a splitting pain through his head.

  Suddenly, he found himself sitting in a room—familiar, but not his own. He was laying down, looking up towards the ceiling. Short wooden walls, plastered in anime pictures surrounded him. A figure stood above him.

  “Good night, gorgeous.” The figure said to him. He couldn’t control it---he cringed hard at the pudgy face, gazing down at him with a warm smile.

  Still, he let out a giggle—but his voice had become delicate and sweet, high pitched. “Good night, my prince.” He said. But the words weren’t his. And where did he know that voice?

  The door closed over him, sealing him in a thick darkness. The searing pain flashed through his head once again, the blinding light and he was back in his car, stopped on the side of the road.

  In the light of day, and the reality of the present, he remembered the voice as Dasha’s. He didn’t understand, was he seeing what Dasha was seeing?

  Then he remembered the face and he knew precisely where to find the Dakimakura. “Chad.” He gripped the wheel and hit the gas.