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Sunday, October 30, 2011

Oliver Presents: The Visitor


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.

ShortStory: Identity Theft (included in my anthology Sweet Sips of Blood, released this month by Vamptasy Publishing (UK) http://www.vamptasypublishing.co.uk/#/sweet-sips/4552635837:

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.





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40 comments:

Sharon Donovan said...

A warm welcome for Tony-Paul DeVissage

Tony-Paul said...

Merci for having me here, Sharon.

Tony-Paul said...

TP looks around with appreciation. "Most interesting decor you have, Sharon. Kind of reminds me of my ol' home in Noo Orleens. Except we have Spanish moss on the centuries-old oaks and 'gators floating around in the fishpond. Can't seem to keep any fish in it, though."

Bianca Swan said...

Grand little story, TP. And the excerpt is a compelling teaser. Sharon, as always, the setting for TP's visit was atmospheric--and shivery this time!

Nightingale said...

Night Man Cometh sounds like my kind of book. Greetings Sharon and Kisses to Oliver

Tony-Paul said...

And glad to see both you lovely ladies, Bianca (kisses her hand) and Linda (swipes a peck of a kiss across her fingers also). You two are so much alike you could be twins!
Merci for the compliments on my little bits of writing.

Sharon Donovan said...

You are most welcome TP. It's my pleasure to have you as my guest. Thank y'all for the compliments on the decor. Hmm...I love hearing about the mysterious Cajun Bayou, so many legends and all that voodoo magic!

Sharon Donovan said...

Bianca and Linda, two of my favorite friends. Welcome! Come sit in the parlor with us and Oliver will serve drinks while we chat with Tp about his writing. Such wonderful teasers!

Tony-Paul said...

Alas, I fear Noo Orleens is becoming inundated with too much magic, Sharon. Everyone from zombies to vampires converges there. It's a vampire hunters' delight and I understand some supernatural folk are actually seeking real estate elsewhere...like Savannah, which also has its share of a Creole population and voodoo.

Sharon Donovan said...

Interesting. I actually collect ceramic face masks from a quaint boutique in New Orleans and like thinking of the city as legendary for its magical allure.

Oliver said...

TP can I bring you something from the bar?

Oliver said...

Bianca and Linda, my lovelies, drinks, ladies?

Tony-Paul said...

Merci, Sharon. Oliver, can you bring me some B&B, please? And throw in just a dash of Coca-Cola?

Barbara Monajem said...

Creeeeepy! And hair-raising. Thanks for putting me in a Hallowe'en mood. ;~)

Oliver said...

Here we go then, TP, a nice BnB with just a dash of Coca-Cola. Sharon, a perfectly chilled chardonnay.

Hywela Lyn said...

Good Day Tony=Paul - and hello Sharon sweet soul-sister. *waves* Hello Linda/Bianca.

Oliver dear, a goblet of mead if you would be so kind, and some chocolate perhaps? I need something to sustain me after reading Tony-Paul's
story at Class Act Books site! (Fans herself a little nervously.)

Tony-Paul, that is a great short story you gave us here, thank you, I did enjoy it (if 'enjoy is quite the right word, *grin*) and I think you have an almost poetic style of writing. Wishing you much success!

Hywela Lyn said...

(Sorry Barbara, didn't mean to ignore you - I didn't see you there behind Oliver!)

Tony-Paul said...

Hm...that Oliver, he's a tall one, isn't he?. From where I stand (at 5'4") everyone's tall, though. Tell me, Barbara, do you think I should try lifts in my boots? (Tastes drink) Just right, Oliver! By the way, Barbara, did you mean my story is creepy or my ordering Bourbon and Coke?

Tony-Paul said...

Thank you for the compliment, Hywela. Haven't seen you in a bit. I had a reviewer once call my writing "near prosody." I was downright insulted until I looked up "prosody" and found out what it meant.

Tony-Paul said...

Chocolate sounds good. Say, Oliver, if you've got any chocolate-covered pomegranate lying around anywhere, I'd sure like a couple of handsful.

Oliver said...

Kisses, Lyn my sweet, and a nice goblet of mead. And look what I found in the kitchen, TP, a platter of chocolate covered pomegranates. Smile

Sharon Donovan said...

Hugs, Lyn dear friend, and hi to you, Barbara. Yes, TP has a unique voice and that certainly is a rather interesting bio!

Hywela Lyn said...

LOL on the 'prosody'! Your writing certainly does have a beautiful rhythm and flow!

Yes, I wouldn't mind some more chocolate Oliver , if you wouldn't mind. Oh we ladies are so lucky to have not one, but two delightful gentlemen on Sharon's blog today!

Mary Ricksen said...

AAAHH! It's Tony-Paul. How are your vampire friends. I think I saw one last night on Letterman.
Hello sweet Sharon and Oliver, give us a hug guys. I missed you both since yesterday...
Tony, keep on writing those awful stories! Scare me to death!
Love it. Great excerpt to what sounds like a great story. We could add prolific to the special words too!

Mary Ricksen said...

Lyn, do you think there are vampires on other planets. One's with pink snow?
Tony-Paul, what do you think?
Sharon, great blog today and Oliver thanks for the Smoothie! Mmmm. this is strawberry right?

Tony-Paul said...

Pink snow? I did read a story recently by my friend Toni Sweeney. That involved pink snow but the stuff was radioactive. Don't think I'd want to make snowballs out of that. Oliver, these pomegranate arils are great! Good to see you, by the way, Mary. I rather doubt any of my vamp friend would be on Letterman. Conan, perhaps...but most of them are very shy when it comes to personal appearances.

Sharon Donovan said...

Oh good, the gang's all here. Mary, group hug, my dear. Yes radioactive snowballs would be a bit EXPLOSIVE!

Tony-Paul said...

Glad you ladies could make it. I was afraid, with the party being on a Sunday, no one would show up. Someone said something about my "voice." I'm afraid my writing voice is better than my speaking one. My publisher wants me to do an audio book but I shudder to think how I'll sound if I'm recorder. (shudders just for the fun of it.)

Wicked Leanore said...

I loved the excerpts with T.P. He is a prolific writer. I am a huge fan. As a child, I remember the very moment I saw Bello Lugosi(on TV) coming down those stone stairs as Dracula and he walked through the spiderweb without causing any movement?His eyes aglow. I was hooked! LOL.
Loved the spot here! Oh, and Dear Oliver can bring me anything HE wants! LOL

Tony-Paul said...

I like that scene, too, Leanore. I did a double take when the spiderwebs didn't even move. Bela will always be the quintessential Dracula though there are other who've played the part better. If you liked the excerpt, you're going to love the new novels I have coming out later this year. Getting back to the "traditional vampire"...the lean, mean, biting machine...

Nightingale said...

This party seems to be in full swing. Yes, TP, thanks for getting us into the Halloween mood. I've already done my Halloween parties and will be staying home tomorrow night.

Oliver, dear, may I have an Mandarin Absolut with orange juice please. Discovered this little drinky-poo at a party last night.

Tony-Paul said...

What? No Bombay Sterling tonight, Linda? Morgan will be affronted.

Sharon Donovan said...

My goodness, step out for a few to pick up a few more chocolate treats and the haunted mansion is rocking, literally. Organ music pumps up to an ear-splitting crescendo. Waves to Wicked Leanore.
Everyone, have some chocolates.

Sharon Donovan said...

TP, please do tell us more about your upcoming and when we might expect them.

Oliver said...

Linda, my lovely Nightingale, a Mandarin Absolut with orange juice. Wicked Leanore, a flute of champagne, another BB for TP and a piping hot pizza with the works.
And for you, Sharon, another chardonnay, perfectly chilled.

Tony-Paul said...

I've got a trio of novels waiting to be released. Or should I say waiting to escape. Dark God Descending is up for reprint. That's the one about the Mayan vampire. Then, there Shadow Hunter, about the vampires who really aren't. (conundrum there?) And last but not least, Last Vampire Standing with a tried and true genuine, traditional Transylvanian vampire challenging the vampire king for the right to rule. If you think Night Man was scary, Mary and Leanore, you'll think Last Vampire's even more so! My "hero" Vlad Chemare is kind of like Damian on The Vampire Diaries. he says what he thinks and does what he wants to and enjoys all of it.

Hywela Lyn said...

I'm back - couldn't stay away from a gathering like this! Mary, dear sister-friend. No - there were never any vampires on my ice planet -although there might be on another of my planets, Lyrrh. Tony=Paul, that's interesting about Toni Sweeney's pink snow - great minds think alike. But mine isn't radioactive, it's just a natural phenomenon caused by minute plant forms.

Your books sound absolutely fascinating - especially the Mayab vampire!

Tony-Paul said...

Thanks, Hywela. I've half-way got a sequel in mind. Found another Mayan vampire. Seems there's one who preys only on women in childbirth...Hm...and since a woman has 50% more blood during that time, maybe it makes sense. Anyway, that's on the back burner for now. Got to do promo on these three first. Say, Oliver, could you get me a hand and swiss sandwich? I missed lunch somewhere along the line.

Tony-Paul said...

Looks like I've got to be shoving off, Sharon. Thanks for inviting me, and thank all the lovely ladies for stopping by also. See everyone around the loops!

Sharon Donovan said...

A warm thank you to Tony-Paul for a most fascinating and delightful visit. Wishing all a spooky Halloween!