A full moon cast the cemetery looming high above the haunted mansion in an eerie glow. The dark woods surrounding the estate whispered with a danger so palpable, screech owls flapped their wings in fright. On Hallow’s Eve, the spookiest of nights, the visitor felt a presence as he scurried through the leaves and up the stone steps. A werewolf howled, its keening wail echoing through the thicket. Looking over his shoulder, certain he heard footsteps, the visitor yanked the hangman’s noose, the clanking of the dome in the bell tower so loud it rattled the windows.
Dressed in flowing black cape, the butler opened the door. You rang?
The visitor followed the butler to the parlor in silence. Blood-curdling screams rang from the walls. A funeral dirge played on the organ where no one sat. With a screech, a bat soared from the rafters and landed on the visitor’s shoulder. The butler beckoned his guest to be seated in one of the wing back chairs in front of the coffin table where goblets of deep red wine await. When the raven announced the thirteenth hour, the butler introduced the visitor.
Good Evening. On this most thrilling of nights, allow me to present Tony-Paul De Vissage. Tony has a chilling ghost tale to tell, followed by a sample of his work. Take it away, Tony.
Identity Theft
What was that? Everett Stead glanced furtively over his shoulder as he heard a rustle behind him.
Nothing.
He forced himself to relax. His imagination was getting the best of him. For days now, he’d had the eerie sensation of being watched, was certain someone was following him though so far, he hadn’t been able to prove it. No one lurking outside his flat. No faces seen too many times to be a coincidence.
It started the evening he picked that toff’s pocket. The gent had stumbled out of an alley and blundered right into him, practically begging to be robbed, so Ev obliged. He didn’t wonder what a gentleman was doing in an alley. From the cut of his suit, he was well-off, so Ev figured he’d been getting a piece. Since Ev hadn’t had any in quite a while, he took the hand-tooled leather billcase out of spite, relieving Mr. Alexander Kuprin of five hundred quid in cash, his driver’s permit and one Visa Platinum credit card.
The last was more than he’d expected and in the coming weeks, with the expertise of the career-hacker, he’d taken the information he had and gotten a lot more on Mr. Kuprin and put it to good use.
Ev was an identity thief, one of the best, never caught and never even suspected. He stole information, used it to advantage, then dropped it and went on to bigger and better prey, and that was why he’d never gotten caught…until now. Because he was convinced somehow, he’d slipped up and that feeling he kept getting was a certainty someone was on his trail.
Maybe it was a good time to use his own credit card and take a trip to regions having no extradition to the UK.
He never got the chance. As he walked past yet another alley, hands reached out, encircled his neck and jerked him into the darkness.
“Got you now, Kuprin!”
Fear sent adrenalin splashing. He flung his attacker over his head, dashing him against the wall but the man recovered and whirled, raising something defensively.
A stake? No! Ev had one moment of scalding horror as it descended…
“Finally.” The thief’s murderer sighed as he looked at his companion who’d stood by watching the entire episode.
“Get his head off, set the body on fire, and Lexei Kuprin’ll be the history he should’ve been five hundred years ago.”
The deed was accomplished with the swiftness of experts in doing just that. Then, they strolled back onto the thoroughfare, blending into the crowd. It would be several minutes before anyone saw flames or smoke and they’d be long gone by then.
Someone had noticed, however. He’d been following Everett Stead for a fortnight, ever since he realized his wallet had been lifted, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. Berating himself for being so careless, he’d seen the others after the thief and stood back to let Nature take its course. Gliding like a shadow into the alley to view the damage, he allowed himself gloating satisfaction as he watched the body burn, its severed head a flaming briquet a few feet away.
“Serves you right, you little bastard, for stealing a vampire’s identity.”
Hurrying to keep his appointment with the expert forger working on his new identity, Mr. Alexander Kuprin wafted into mist and left the alley, blending with London’s fog.
His mind was so befuddled with his blasphemous thoughts, Damien hadn’t paid attention to where he rode. Just let the horse have its head. Now they broke from the forest and found themselves in a man-made clearing, butts and limbless poles of trees stacked clumsily about. At that moment, his horse stopped and the wind shifted, bringing a scent of decay and burnt flesh…and Damien knew where their location. The plague pits.
In his distraction, he’d unconsciously guided his mount directly to the last place he ever wished to be. Not that he could see much of it at the moment. While he was riding alone in a self-induced fugue, the sun’s last rays had long ago winked out through the trees’ shielding branches.
Now he was alone. In the dark. At the edge of a charnel pit.
Got to get out of here. Damien pressed a rein against the horse’s neck, urging him to turn. The animal balked, instead giving a chest-muffled nicker. He touched ribs with his heels, pulled on the reins now. The creature refused to move, legs stiffening. This time, the sound it made was a protest, sounding almost…frightened?
’Tis the scent of death here. How could anything living not be affected?
Nothing to do but lead it, then.
Damien slid from the saddle, walking to the horse’s head. He gripped the bridle at the bit, stroking the fine Barbary muzzle and whispering some soothing nonsense. And then, he raised his head, and did something he hadn’t intended. He looked out across the pit. Nothing could’ve prepared him for that sight. Not the woodcuts of Hell in the family Bible. Nor the threats of Damnation Pere Gervaise heaped upon them at services. Not even his own most secret nightmares.
The hole was nearly fifteen feet deep. It must have taken laborers a goodly time to dig it. Dirt lay in high heaps around the sides, silhouetted like low mountains in the dimness. It extended a fair fifty feet, more a gorge than a pit but to Damien’s horror-struck eyes, it appeared a valley into Hell. How many bodies can this hold? A good number of la Croix’s population, to be sure, for beyond it was a mound of the same size, piled high with tamped dirt and beyond that another, testimony to how many were already buried here.
The bodies in this one were still uncovered, a fresh layer, though the wagoneer and his helper would be back soon, pouring lamp oil over the corpses and tossing lighted faggots to send these unfortunates to their Reward. Sometimes the flames would leap so high, they could see them at the chateau, tinting the sky a lurid red. Like the flames of Hell, Maman would say and cross herself. Damien pushed thoughts of his mother out of his mind. He didn’t want to think of her right now.
As the bodies burned, those under them, already reduced to human charcoal and cinders, would burn again, transformed into even finer ashes rising with the smoke to float away on the winds. And when the pit could hold no more, it would be covered over by that waiting dirt.
The horse snuffled again, an odd little choking deep in its chest. That brought Damien out of his grisly regard. He reached up, patting the dark neck. “Quiet, now. ’Tis all—”
What’s that? Whatever else he was going to say died away as he saw something move. At the far side of the pit. It seemed to have simply appeared. He’d swear it wasn’t there a moment ago. Hunched over, a dark, unwieldly shape, picking its clumsy way among the bodies.
A survivor? Some poor soul not yet dead, awakening to find himself covered by his friends and neighbors’ corpses. Now stumbling over them in half-mad terror?
The shape halted, bent as if peering at one of the bodies, and reached out. The hand dropped and the dark form moved on. It went a few more feet, then hesitated again. This time, it seized a body, wrenching it from under another. For a moment, it seemed to embrace the corpse it held.
Is it actually kissing its neck? Damien felt his throat clog in revulsion.
The body was tossed aside, disgust in the movement. It fell with a liquid thud. The thing moved on, peering this way and that, searching for something it didn’t find, coming closer to where Damien stood.
The horse threw back its head, short, sharp squeals bursting from its throat. It began to back away, pulling the reins from Damien’s hands. He reached out to catch them, and the creature below him raised its head.
Holy Mother! It eyes were glowing. Red as coals. And they were looking straight at him. At that moment, the wind swirled into the pit. It stirred the thing’s cloak, making it flutter away from the thin body. For a moment, it looked like…
Wings.
Lord God, save us! They are wings! Now unfurling, great dark sails dwarfing the creature’s body. Flapping as if preparing to take it airborne.
The horse was moving again. Backing frantically, Damien following. It reared, and he felt the burn of leather across his fingers as the reins were jerked out of his hand. He turned to make a futile grab for the flying straps but the animal whirled on hind legs, galloping wildly back into the safety of the trees.
There was a sound behind him. Something landing with a thump. Damien spun around.
The creature stood before him, eyes still glowing. He could swear he saw flames flickering within them. It collapsed its wings; once more they were merely clumsy shreds of cloth. Then, it took a step toward him. Hand curved into claws reached out.
Damien didn’t run. He knew now what the creature was and also there was no chance he could escape. The priests told of such night-demons and of their incredible speed and powers greater than any mortal’s. What had they said of ways to overcome them? He couldn’t remember.
He could see the thing gathering itself for a leap. It would be on him before he could run.
And was.
He barely had time to reach into the pouch at his waist, fingers scrabbling for the rosary tucked there. Thank God I didn’t toss it away! He thought of that irony as the creature launched itself. Damien thrust out his arm, crucifix dangling from the string of beads wrapped around his hand.
The creature ran directly into it. With a scream it recoiled, falling backward so quickly it appeared to have been tossed by the holy object. Perhaps it had. It fell on its back in the dirt and Damien was upon it, pressing the cross into its chest through the filthy rags, one knee on its belly to hold it down.
It gasped and struggled and a smell of rot and filth floated upward from the rags. Blackened flesh appeared under the edges of the crucifix. Damien swallowed and fought the urge to gag. He forced himself to touch the creature, catching one flailing wrist and pinning it to the ground. He was surprised at how light it felt, at the frailty of the body beneath his. He thought if he pressed harder with his knee, it might actually crush the bony chest and go through.
Suddenly, it stopped fighting. Blinking, the red glow faded and it lay still. For a moment, he thought it had died. When it spoke, he was startled.
“If you’re going to destroy me, go ahead. Oblivion is better than the existence I now suffer.” The sound was deep and hoarse. Rusty, like a gate hinge grown solid with age suddenly being wrenched open.
“What can you know of Oblivion?” Damien asked. “You’re le sansmort, aren’t you?”
There was a faint nod. Another wafting of that frightful smell. Damien swallowed, gulping back his disgust.
“Oui, I’m le sansmort but what good does immortality do me?” Damien couldn’t believe the whine in the creature’s voice. It sounded so…human. So full of self-pity. “What pleasure is there in feeding on corpses?”
“Why bother?” Damien surprised himself by laughing at that. “There’s an entire village only a short distance…”
“A dying village. No one has strength to invite me in. I can’t get to them, so I hunt among the dead, disgusting as that may be. Bah!” He made a spitting motion. Damien shrank back without releasing his hold upon the bony wrist. “Blood thick and drying…solid in their veins…and if I find one still holding a spark of life… ’Tis too mixed with pus to be palatable.” He shook his head. “Go ahead. Destroy me. I no longer care.”
Author Bio:
A writer of French Huguenot extraction, one of Tony-Paul de Vissage's first movie memories is of viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula's Daughter, on television, and being scared sleepless--and that may explain a lifelong interest in vampires.
This was further inspired when the author was kidnapped by a band of transplanted Romanian vampires who were sightseeing in the South. Having never seen a human who wasn’t frightened of them, they offered to pay his way through college if he would become an author and write about vampires in a positive manner. He agreed, and continued to keep in touch with his supernatural mentors.
Though the author didn't begin writing horror--or any other genre--until after graduating with a Bachelor's degree in Fine Arts from a well-known Southern University (and a second in Graphic Art), that one particular interest--and the promise made to his mentors--survived a liberal arts' education and the scorn of friends and family.
Eventually that first story--a short story about the hapless vampire Clan Andriescu--was published. A voracious reader whose personal library has been shipped more than 3,000 miles, Tony-Paul has read hundreds of vampire tales and viewed more than as many movies.
Contact Info:
A vampire serves drinks from behind the sleek mahogany bar. Music from The Godfather eerily drifts from hidden wall speakers. Standing candelabras flicker on either side of the crimson settee, and a log crackles and snaps in the hearth. Looking devilishly handsome in a flowing black cape with blood-red interior, Oliver escorts the lovely Lori Graham into his parlor where crimson roses, a bottle of deep red wine and chocolates are laid out on the coffin coffee table. The raven clock gongs thirteen times, announcing the witching hour.
Ah, Oliver, it is getting really dark outside, will you maybe light a few more candles…that’s it, darling, you are the sweetest thing…
In honor of Editor Appreciation Day at TWRP, we salute Lori Graham as NUMBER ONE EDITOR SUPREME. We love you, Lori!
