by J. R. Rain
I knew the feeling well, and, sister, it doesn't go away.
The head groundsman was sitting at his desk, flipping through a thick stack of stapled papers. I caught the header of one such paper. It read "Lot 126" before he flipped to the next page. What he was going to do in Lot 126 was anybody's guess, but I figured somebody was getting buried.
He looked up, saw me, and nodded. I never did catch his name, and there was no placard on the door nor was there one on his desk. He was, in my mind, just the caretaker. The uncreepy caretaker, although that might be an oxymoron.
"Still working the Case of the Missing Corpse, huh?" he asked.
"Maybe I was a Hardy Boy in a past life. "
He chuckled. "What can I do you for?" He sounded busy and rushed, and he wanted me to know it.
"Is Boyd around?"
He frowned at that, then jutted a thumb toward the back room. "He's in the shop. "
"Building more coffins?"
"Always. But be quick. I need him outside soon. "
"Of course. Lot 126?"
His mouth was about to drop open until he looked at the stack of papers in front of him. "You're good, Spinoza. Anyway, don't be long. "
"Wouldn't dream of it. "
Chapter Sixteen
The man must have been busy.
There were easily three or four more of the generic coffins stacked along the near wall. Boyd himself was examining a length of wood when I entered the room. He looked up, saw me, and frowned. I get that a lot. Some people are happy to see me. Others, not so much. I casually shut the door behind me.
He leaned the long plank against a workbench and turned to face me. His overalls were covered with dirt. Where the dirt came from, I didn't want to know. His blond hair was slightly askew and he could have been Gary Busey's slightly more stable-looking brother. He was a big guy, with a thick chest and muscular arms. The kind of muscles one acquires from years of hammering and digging. Not all graveyard work, I suspected, was performed with backhoes.
"We need to talk," I said.
He kept looking at me. I decided then that he wasn't entirely there. Maybe it was the way his left eye seemed to not look directly at me, or the way the corner of his mouth kept twitching. Something was off about the man. Then again, he worked in a graveyard, building generic coffins all day. I think off was a given.
Since he hadn't spoken and the twitching in his mouth seemed to only have gotten worse, I decided to continue on. As I spoke, I kept the work bench between us.
"I know what happened," I said.
He tilted his head slightly, like a dog catching a far-off sound. I was suddenly all-too aware of the various armaments hanging from his tool belt. Most notable was the hammer and hand saw. The Batman utility belt for psychos.
I kept talking since he kept staring. His wandering right eye seemed to catch up, but that could have just been my imagination, or the shadows in the shop. I said, "It happened a few months ago. Or maybe even last year. You heard knocking. Perhaps you heard it in during your morning rounds. Or nightly rounds. Or anytime, really. Perhaps someone reported it. Either way, it all started with the knocking. "
He took a small step to the right, and I took one to the left, keeping the wide bench between us.
I continued, "You did what anyone would have. Well, most anyone. Probably most people would have reported it to their bosses. But you decided to act alone. Maybe out of curiosity. Maybe out of fear. Maybe for a reason I never want to know. But one night, with the park closed and the knocking persisting, you secretly dug up the grave. "
Something was going on with Boyd the coffin maker. He wasn't looking so intimidating. Suddenly, he looked scared. The color had drained from his face and his eyes were now resting somewhere near my navel. Or, at least, one of them was.
I went on, "You kept digging as the knocking grew louder, as more and more earth was removed. No doubt you were terrified. I would have been, too. Anyone would have been. I would have shit my pants, truth be known. Many times over. I mean, something inside a buried fucking coffin was knocking. "
And now Boyd spoke for the first time, and his soft, timorous voice was as chilling as I expected it to be. "Do not use the Lord's name in vain. "
"My apologies," I said. But I continued on, finishing up a tale that Boyd had yet to deny. "And so you dug up the casket, using the backhoe in the middle of the night. You were risking your job. But your sanity was more important. So you dug and dug, and the deeper you got, the louder the knocking became. Perhaps you even began hearing a woman's voice, screaming for help. You probably didn't need to lift the casket out. In fact, I suspect the moment most of the dirt had been removed and the weight lifted from it, the lid was thrown open and a woman sat up. "
I waited for him to laugh. I waited for him to deny it. I waited for him to wield his handsaw like a psychopathic knight.
Instead, he sat heavily on a nearby stool - collapsing on it, actually - and covered his face with his hands.
Chapter Seventeen
I stopped by my apartment in Los Feliz before I headed out to the mansion.
My heart was racing. Sitting next to me was an-honest-to-God crossbow. Sitting next to it was a leather quiver containing three silver-tipped bolts. I happened to know first hand that these bolts were the real deal. Nothing silver-plated here.
With only a few slight variations to my story, Boyd had confirmed the crazy details. He had watched in stunned silence as the woman climbed awkwardly out of the casket and up to the surface. Her clean clothing was filthy by the time she stood on shaky legs. She had stared at Boyd blankly, and then she turned and stumbled through the graveyard, looking pale and impossibly thin. By Boyd's estimation, she had been in the grave for three months.
It was mid-morning as I headed up Los Feliz Blvd. I considered calling Hammer, except I knew he would never believe me. I even considered calling the old man, Arron King, but I didn't want to endanger him.
Boyd, an expert groundskeeper as well, had shut the now-empty coffin, recovered it with the soil, and then carefully replaced the grass as well. This had happened 18 months ago, and he had never told another living soul his story.
My heart was beating steadily, loudly. Adrenaline was flooding my blood stream. A good thing, because I suspected I was going to need all my strength.
Traffic on Los Feliz was sick, but I knew some short cuts, and after winding my way through some back streets that bordered some truly impressive homes, I soon pulled up in front of the mansion. The same mansion I had been in just a few days earlier.
Where I had seen a woman who had looked like Evelyn Drake's younger sister or cousin.
Only I was now certain she hadn't been Evelyn's younger sister.
I was certain it was her.
Evelyn Drake.
Back from the dead.
Chapter Eighteen
So how does one hide a crossbow in plain site?
Very carefully. The crossbow in question was smaller than most, designed to shoot shorter bolts. It had come into my possession last month after I had dealt with an author who not only wrote about the undead, but was also one of them. Method acting, as my theater friends would call it. Method writing, perhaps?
So I grabbed the emergency blanket I always kept folded on the back seat and wrapped it around the crossbow. At least no one would be calling the cops on the crazy guy walking up to the mansion carrying a medieval weapon.
At the door, I took in some air, listened to the all-pervasive silence, and then rapped loudly on the frosted glass.
I gripped the crossbow under the blanket while I waited.
Did I come here to kill a vampire? Hell, no. Was I protecting myself in case something very strange was going on? Hell, yes. And things only seemed to be getting stranger by the minute.
I heard footsteps well before anyone got to the door. That's what happens when you have a massive home covered
in polished marble flooring. The footsteps grew louder, appearing just behind the door, where they paused. No doubt I was being peeped at through the peep hole. I must have passed the peep test because a moment later the door clicked open.
"Mt. Spinoza," said Mrs. Perkins. She tried to sound surprised but I knew a fake surprise when I heard one. A sort of unnatural rise in octave. Prior to life as a private eye, I had spent years investigating insurance claims - and frauds, too. I knew bullshit when I heard it. "What brings you back here?" she asked.
"I'd like to speak with you inside," I said, "if you wouldn't mind. "
Her eyes briefly darted up. . . up to where I knew a woman was hiding - and with this being daylight - no doubt sleeping. Her gaze settled back on me and she nodded reluctantly. "Okay, but please be quick about it. I have. . . some errands to run. "
I said I would, and she let me inside. I followed behind her, my blanketed arm behind my back. For now, she hadn't noticed it.
She led me deeper into the mansion.
Chapter Nineteen
We were soon in the same wide-open living room.
She motioned for me take a seat on the couch, with my back to the hallway. She asked if I wanted a drink and I said no. She said she wanted some hot tea and I said fine. I recalled it had been 98 degrees outside and suspected I might have been hoodwinked.
When she left the room, I immediately switched positions to an overstuffed chair-and-a-half that gave me a good view of anything approaching from the hallway. I also felt more comfortable with my back against a wall.
Vampires, I suspected, were sneaky.
My heart rate increased considerably while I waited. I adjusted my grip on the crossbow, which now rested in my lap, partially hidden by the chair's overstuffed pillow. From my position in the living room, I couldn't see the upstairs landing.
Mrs. Perkins returned five minutes later, carrying a steaming cup of tea.
"Now," she said, as she sat on the couch across from me. "How can I help you, Mr. Spinoza?" She didn't seem to notice that I had switched spots. If anything, she seemed very distracted.
I heard movement upstairs. Something heavy fell. I looked up at the sound, but Mrs. Perkins ignored it completely. Her demeanor was different this time around. Gone was the sour old lady, replaced now by something overly friendly.
And that's when I noticed the white cloth wrapped around her neck; in particular, what appeared to be a splotch of blood.
"What happened to your neck, Mrs. Perkins?" I asked.
The question seemed to shock her. She jerked a little and sat up straighter. She reached for her neck but never quite touched it. "Oh, that?" Her strange, pleasant demeanor never wavered. "Oh, that was just a minor. . . thing I had removed at the doctor's the other day. "
I motioned to her arms, both of which were wrapped up in a similar white cloth. "And you had other. . . things removed from your arms as well?"
She smiled serenely. "It's horrible getting old, Mr. Spinoza. "
"I'll remember that. "
I found myself scanning the room. . . in particular, the two exits. One seemed to head off into what appeared to be a library, and the other went down the hallway. I suspected there were a few offshoots from the hallway, an opening to the kitchen, no doubt, and the stairway leading up to the second floor.
"Who's upstairs, Mrs. Perkins?" I asked.
Her slender form tensed a little; her fingers clawed the arm of the couch. "What do you mean, dear?"
"I mean, who's that I hear walking around upstairs?"
"Oh, I have a guest. "
"Who?"
"Isn't that a personal question, Mr. Spinoza?"
"Perhaps you could tell the police then. "
"Oh, I'm sure the police would have no interest in - "
"And you can also show them the wounds on your neck and arms - "
"Please, Mr. Spinoza, there's no need for that. "
And that's when a woman's voice resonated from somewhere down the hallway. "I would suggest," and the voice, growing louder as the speaker drew closer, "that you leave my mother alone. "
And as the last words were spoken, a very lovely, pale-faced woman stepped into the living room.
It was, of course, Evelyn Drake.
Chapter Twenty
She looked sick and weak.
My first impression was that I was looking at someone who should probably be in the hospital, or lying in bed.
Or in a grave.
She didn't stand entirely straight, as if the weight of something was dragging her down. I also noticed she was supporting herself by resting a long-fingered hand on an elegant couch table sporting a vase with flowers. Dead flowers.
She looked like the perfect candidate to be gasping for air but, as far as I could tell, she wasn't having any problems breathing. Did vampires even breathe?
I didn't know. In fact, I didn't know much about the undead at all, and I was seriously beginning to regret my decision to come here at all.
After all, the woman in front of me was the same woman I had seen in the autopsy report. The same woman whose body had been covered in knife wounds.
Seventy-two of them, in fact.
Her feet were bare. She was wearing a dark robe. Silk, I think. Her hair was slightly mussed. She had been sleeping, roused, no doubt, by her mother. A little pit stop on her way to making tea.
Evelyn Drake was pretty in an undead, goth sort of way. Her cheek bones were prominent. Her lips full, her eyes round and seemingly all-seeing. Her blondish hair was matted in places and I figured even vampires get bedhead.
"You're supposed to be dead," I said.
"Now, that's not a very nice thing to say to a woman," she said.
She stepped into the room, feeling her way over the furniture, which supported her weight. She stumbled slightly over the spot where the carpet met the marble flooring.
The skin showing around her robe was so white that I found myself staring. Her thighs and arms and neck. . . like pure alabaster. Her lips were red, but not exorbitantly so. I had an image of those lips covered in blood as she fed.
She smiled as if she had read my thoughts.
"How long have you been living here?" I asked, unnerved. I had read somewhere that vampires could read minds. And so I did all I could to not think of the crossbow hidden under the blanket. In fact, I imagined I was holding a puppy. It's just a puppy. A puppy, dammit.
She said, "Since my rather. . . premature burial. "
Although obviously weakened, her movements were oddly fluid. As if I were being approached by a ballerina. A very pale and hungry-looking ballerina.
"So, you've been living here secretly for, what, over a year and a half?"
"It's no bother, really," said Mrs. Perkins nervously. "It's such a joy to have her back. We missed her so much. She stays in her room all day, sleeping. She's such a hard working dear. And when we go to bed at night she leaves for work. Works all night, and sometimes she's just coming home when we awaken. Always so tired and dirty. " The mother looked at her daughter with so much love in her eyes that my heart nearly broke. Evelyn was now about halfway across the room.
"Your daughter was killed, Mrs. Perkins," I said. "An autopsy was performed on her. She was buried. "
"Ooh, we don't talk about that," said Mrs. Perkins, clearly living in denial. "Mistakes are made. "
"Mother and I have an agreement to keep my presence a secret," said Evelyn, still approaching me. She looked weak, almost helpless, but there was something in her eye that scared the shit out of me. It was the look of a killer. A predator. A hungry predator. "In return, she gets to see her daughter. "
I looked at her mother's wounded neck and arms. "And you get to feed. "
"Mother loves her baby girl," said Evelyn.
My stomach turned. I tried to picture a daughter drinking blood from her own mother and it was too disturbing an image to h
old for long.
"And what of your own children?" I asked Evelyn.
"My children have moved on, Mr. Spinoza," she said, glancing at my card that was still on the coffee table. "They think mummy is dead and we'll just leave it like that. My kids were always. . . in the way. And just a little too tempting. "
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Young blood. . . is particularly fresh. "
She looked at her mother who was watching this whole exchange with a frozen smile. Her cheek muscles twitched as she held the smile.
"You kill people," I said.
She grinned. "I kill lots of people, Mr. Spinoza. It's kind of what I do. "
"What are you?" I asked.
"What do you think I am?"
"A bitch. A user. And a parasite. "
The mother looked at me sharply. "I will not have such language - "
And that's when Evelyn Drake lunged forward, leaping -
Chapter Twenty-one
I didn't want to kill her.
Especially not in front of her own mother. It was all so fucked up.
But she didn't give me much choice.
Her strength was alarming, especially when she had appeared so visibly weakened. Or perhaps that had all been an act to catch me off guard.
With her mother screaming behind her, Evelyn's hand went straight for my throat and squeezed with such force that my neck would have snapped or been crushed within seconds.
The angle of her body was such that I didn't have to even adjust the crossbow. As darkness rapidly approached the corners of my vision, I fired the weapon.
The first thing that I notice was a loosening of her grip. The next thing I noticed was the strangled sounds I heard. . . of course, those strangled sounds were my own feeble attempts to breathe.
The next thing I noticed was the woman on the ground, kicking and clawing her chest. It was a site I'll never forget. Steam hissed from between her fingers. Her screaming mother dove on her, pulling at the silver shaft that protruded from her chest.
"My baby! My baby!" She worked the bolt with both hands as the vampire writhed and twisted and screamed.
Gasping, I found my feet, and just as the mother pulled free the bloody crossbow bolt, which dripped blood and meat, the woman on the floor lay still.
Mrs. Perkins threw herself on her daughter, wailing and begging her to come back to her.