THE VAMPERS

By Harry Shannon

From the collection “BAD SEED (2^nd Edition)”

(First published in Fear Of The Dark magazine, 2001)

        Timmy Baxter knew his sister was a vamper, just like in all the horror comics he collected, but nobody would believe him. Not even old Mr. Evans who lived in the small white “candominium” next door. Mr. Evans said: “Vampires don’t exist, boy! Har har!” and he then lapsed into a raspy cigarette cough. He just laughed and laughed at little Timmy Baxter, and the way he pronounced the word vampire.

II.

        They had come for Mr. Evans early in the morning. They had taken him out on a stretcher, with a white sheet covering his emaciated body. His yellowed toes were sticking out at one end, his white hair from the other. They said it was a heart attack, but Timmy knew better. A vamper had gotten him during that long, cold Nevada night. And now it was dark again, and Timmy was waiting. His mother thought sister Julie had a sunburn, and that’s why she wouldn’t go outside to play during the day, but Timmy Baxter had a huge collection of horror comics, and he just knew that Julie was a vamper. She would try for him too, and soon, but he intended to be ready.

        Darkness had stretched like a cat in the foothills and then padded down to cover up the little trailer park. Timmy had moved his croquet set over in front the window, in case his sister or another vamper showed up there. He tried and tried to stay awake, but finally dozed off somewhere near midnight.

        Someone was knocking on the door. The RV squeaked, then swayed to the left, as his mother went to see who it was. Timmy, still half asleep, imagined that the police were outside. They had come to rescue him. His fantasy died the moment he heard the start of the conversation.

        “Who is it?”

        “Open the door, Mommy.” That voice. It sounded like her, but it wasn’t Julie.

        “Julie? What in God’s name are you doing out there at this time of night?”

        “Let me in. I’ll explain.”

        Timmy found his voice. “Mom, don’t! Wait!”

        A click: The lock, turning. The door squeaked open. Timmy heard his mother grunt, as if surprised by a sneaky punch. Twice. Three times. A vase slid from the dining room table and shattered on the floor. A wheeze, a gurgle. Sobbing. Then a loud thump as if she had collapsed, all loose and clumsy like a rag doll. Timmy could feel his little heart trying to climb up through his throat and run away. An empty throb of mourning filled his stomach. He was much too frightened for tears. Mommy was dead. That was horrible enough, especially for an eight year old boy all alone in the dark. But then, in a matter of seconds, it got worse.

        Those awful sucking sounds.

        Julie was feeding on their mother. His mind reeled. He remained motionless, struck dumb. Did the creature know he was awake and listening? Yes.

        “Are you ready, Timmy?” Julie chortled. “You’re next. I’ll be coming for you soon.” Her voice suddenly sank down into a raspy baritone. “Know what, little brother?  I think I’ll take you in the closet, where your bogeyman hides. That’s where you’ll be the most afraid. That’s where it will be as bad as I can make it for you.”

         Those sickening sounds again, now even louder than before.

        Timmy walked quietly down the hall in his bare feet. He flicked on the lights and stood there; docile as a lamb, hands behind his back. She had no super-long fangs, just normal teeth, and somehow that made it even worse. Maybe she only thought she was a vamper. Her face was smeared with Mom’s blood. A long string of pink drool hung from the corner of her mouth. Then Timmy spotted the butcher knife she had used. It had been tossed carelessly into a corner. He went all gray and flat inside.

        “What is it? Are you curious now, brother dear? Wondering what it is like?”

        Her own voice again, instead of a man’s. Timmy knew he was being played with. The worst thing he could do would be to give it his fear. He would surrender nothing. He owed his mother that much.

        “My sunburn feels better,” the creature giggled. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She pointed to Paula’s neck wound with her stained, wet fingers. “Would you like something to drink?”

        That did it. Timmy brought his hands into view. He had a croquet stake in one hand and the mallet in the other. He threw himself at Julie, wailing like a banshee; stabbing and swinging. Julie held her ground and made no effort to defend herself. At the last second she stepped to one side, laughing. Timmy swallowed his rage and fear. He had to keep his mind on what needed to be done. He moved in again.  He jabbed and stayed aggressive, gradually forcing Julie into the corner farthest from the abandoned butcher knife. As she slithered back and forth to avoid the stake, her actions seemed clumsy, almost comic. He knew he had the upper hand.

           She began to panic. She ducked low, hoping to slip beneath his arm and out the door of the camper. Timmy reacted at once. He launched himself through the air. He landed on top of her, with every ounce of his weight behind him…and the sharp stake thrust forward.

        It didn’t make any difference that he had seen it in a dozen movies. Timmy was totally unprepared for how it actually felt to shove the point deep into her chest. That brief resistance, then the slippery give. What it was like to puncture the rubbery muscles; crack through the brittle ribs, twist and turn and push while you tried to ignore the terrible screaming. Julie thrashed and bellowed. She begged him to stop, in that wheedling tone of voice he’d always hated so much. Hearing his sister’s voice again now almost broke his will. No mercy. Show to mercy. Twist and turn and push with everything you’ve got.

        Her voice changed again; now she was old Mr. Evans. “There’s no such thing, Timmy!” he cried. “Stop it! Stop it, boy!” The creature swore and snapped and bit at his face. Sickened, Timmy raised the mallet. He poised himself to strike.

        Julie went berserk at the sight of the wooden mallet. She began to buck like an unbroken colt. She arched her back, shook and twisted and finally threw him. Timmy sailed backwards, off balance, and tripped over his mother’s body. The fall knocked the wind out of him. He lay gasping for air, his face only inches from Paula Baxter’s wide, surprised and very dead eyes.

        Julie was growling. Timmy slipped in the fresh blood as he tried to get to his feet. Julie, the gory stake protruding from her chest, had made it as far as the doorway. She had even opened the latch. Maybe she was just going out for a walk, as if she were really still his sister and none of this had actually happened…..

        Wait a minute. No. She had killed his Mom and now she was hanging there, clinging like a squashed bug to the screen door.

        Timmy went right at her, swinging the croquet mallet. He hammered and pounded. Pounded and hammered. He didn’t stop until the stake had gone right through her and the point was sticking out of her back. He released her and stood panting a few feet away, watching his sister die.

        Julie crumpled up like a tattered ball of newspaper. She slid to her knees, fell through the door, rolled down the steps and out onto the grass. The gory corpse twitched a few times and then was still.

        Raindrops. Thunder in the distance. He looked around, but the trailer park seemed deserted. No lights anywhere. Timmy made himself retrieve the stake from Julie’s shattered chest. He threw up in the dirt right after, then went back into the RV. He could hardly bear to look at his mother. He tried to drag her into the bathroom, but she was too heavy. After several minutes of tugging and shoving he settled for the closet. Crying, he sat her up and pushed as hard as he could. She fell over. He pushed her legs with his legs and then forced the door shut.

        Silence. No neighbors, no telephone. And there were real monsters out there, prowling around in the dark. Timmy sat motionless in a pool of blood, holding the stake and the mallet. Something had just occurred to him. Who was the vamper that had made Julie? Would he or she be outside waiting if he tried to run away?

          He would have to wait until morning. He could wait.

         Oh, no.

        Yes. A rustling sound, a little like brush rubbing against something more solid; a bit like the wings of some impossibly large insect. It was close, real close. Timmy got to his feet, clutching his weapons. He tried to sound tough. Said: “Come on, then. I’m ready you old vamper you!”

        To keep from freaking out, Timmy thought about sunshine; the way the whole world springs into life around dawn. He imagined fresh fruit, ripe for the picking, and wild flowers blooming on a hill. Tall pines rocking in an afternoon breeze. The joys of broad daylight. He’d be safe, then. Free to go.

        But go where? There was supposed to be an old ghost town at the foot of the hill, a place called Dry Wells. But could he find it all by himself, without directions? If he did leave, and didn’t find the town before it got dark again…but wait, they’d have some kind of street lights, wouldn’t they? And he could…

        Huh?

        That noise again.

        A faint sound, like someone moving around nearby. Pay attention, dummy. Where is that coming from?

        It stopped.

        They’re playing with me, Timmy thought. Maybe they feed off my fear. Well, he would just ignore them. He wouldn’t give them what they wanted.

        There. Again.

        Timmy began to tremble. I want to be a hero, really I do, but I just can’t stop being scared. If that’s not okay, God, I’m sorry. Show me how to act and stuff, because right now I feel like I could just…leave. And never come back to my body again.

        “Ooohhh. Mmmmmmm.”

         No. Not that, God. Please.

        “Oooohhhh…”

        He was slipping out of himself hanging on by just a shred of raw nerve, tottering on the brink.

         Scrape. Rattle.

        “Mmmmm?”

         Scraaaape.

        He couldn’t pretend any more, couldn’t ignore the truth any longer. This was real. The doorknob was kind of brass, and it reflected a compressed image of the table lamp. The reflection had moved. The knob was turning, slowly turning. The closet. The door was being opened…from the inside.

        A sing-song phrase kept running through his mind and it went she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not…

        “Oh, Timmy. Don’t be silly. You know I love you,” it said.

        The boy moaned, his eyes glued to the closet. The door slid open, whispering along the nappy surface of the throw rug. It had been his mother’s favorite rug. Paula, her neck slashed wide open and her clothing shredded and bloody from stab wounds, stepped out of the dreaded closet. She located her son. She grinned.

        Drops of blood fell in thickened clumps to splatter on the precious antique rug, the one his mother loved. Timmy returned from the edge of insanity. This was not his mother. This thing was hideous; raw wounds, white bone and naked tendons. It kept weaving like a drunk, as if whatever had just entered the corpse didn’t quite have control. The lips twitched; peeled back like slices of fresh, wet tomato.

        “Timmy, she croaked. “Come give your Mom a kiss.”

        She started towards him, still clumsy, her arms spread wide in simulated affection. They had violated his mother, dirtied her, made her into a monster. He would not allow this to happen. She deserved to rest in peace.

        As Mr. Evans, it said: “Hey, Timmy. What’s happening, little man?”

        Timmy’s skin crawled. He reached down and grabbed a magazine and one of his Mom’s cigarette lighters and set the pages ablaze. The creature made a hissing noise and began to retreat on stiff, reluctant legs. Timmy waved the fire. He followed the obscene thing along the wall, finally forcing it back into the closet. It growled, but the stories were true. They couldn’t stand fire.

        Timmy could not bear using the stake and mallet on his Mother’s body, so he kicked newspapers and magazines and even some of his prize horror comics into the closet with the thing. He kept it pinned by waving burning pages near it’s sensitive, pale skin. He was ready. He tossed the burning torch inside; right onto the stack of dry, volatile paper. He slammed the closet door shut and locked it from the outside and the thing began to shriek and scream and wail. She howled and kicked and shoved but the blaze roared up and consumed her almost immediately. Smoke filled the room, choking Timmy and making his eyes water. He found his croquet stake and his mallet, threw on a jacket and walked out into the unholy night.

          He knew the camper would burn for hours. There was no turning back, now. If they came for him, they would have to brave the fire. If they did not, he would walk down to the town after sunrise.

        He slowed his breathing and squatted down to wait.

III.

The forest rangers found him there, near the burning RV in the deserted trailer park. The sun was rising blood red behind him. The little boy sat silently at the base of a tree, clutching his stained weapons. He remained mute, even after hundreds of sessions with many different kinds of therapists. Medication didn’t help. Timmy Baxter stayed silent as a tomb for years.

        But then, inexplicably, the boy began to respond to treatment. By the age of seventeen he realized that his sleep disorder had made him semi-psychotic and delusional; that he had read far too many gruesome comic books while all alone and awake during those long, desert nights. That sibling rivalry had made him hate his sister. At twenty he admitted that the monster he had perceived her to be had been a projection of his own terrible rage and jealousy. He vividly remembered killing his mother and sister, but in time he came to understand the depressive illness that had caused him to murder his family at the tender age of eight.

         At the age of twenty-four, Timmy Baxter finally won his release. He declared his intention to live near some distant relatives in Indiana.

IV.  

        In the deserted town of Dry Wells, Nevada the wizened old man sits behind the desk in the tourist office. He sits all alone, in the dark. He waits for headlights to approach the little ghost town before turning up the lantern. He wanders out onto the porch, a friendly expression on his weathered face.

        “Can I help you, sonny?”

        The tall, handsome stranger smiles disarmingly and shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not,” he says. “I think I’m lost. Is this the road to Elko?”

        The old man laughs. “Naw, you missed the turnoff,” he says. “I’ll get you a map.” He turns his back and reaches for the butcher knife in the desk drawer. Small fangs begin to protrude from his upper lip. This one is big enough, he thinks. He should feed the whole clan for a week. The old man snarls and turns back around, the knife raised high. His jaw drops and his eyes go wide.

        “Hello Mr. Evans,” Timmy Baxter says. “You don’t look a day older.”

           And he closes in, sharpened stake in one big hand and a hammer in the other.

          What a fine night for hunting!

Harry Shannon is a former film executive whose first collection “Bad Seed” is in its second printing and has received numerous HWA Stoker Award recommendations. He may be contacted via his website.

© 2001 Harry Shannon, all rights reserved.