Vampire Dreams (Bloodscreams #1) (15 page)

One account told of the Kwakiytl Indian tribe in British Columbia who were flesh and blood eaters.

At the front of the famous Stoker novel about the most infamous of vampires, Dracula, the old man had scribbled two urgent messages that leapt from the copyright page proclaiming the book to be a hundred years old:

This is not a work of fiction, but a collection of diary entries and direct recollections of the parties involved in the incidents of 1897.

Careful reading tells that on destruction of the vampire that Mina was pregnant not with J. Harker's child, but that of Count Dracula!

“To carry on the bad seed,” Abe said aloud in the room.

His voice bounced about as if in echo, but in the echo he thought he heard Ananias's voice say, “Yes ... yes...”

He closed the Stoker book in a mood of complete sadness at the condition of the old man's mind at the time he had exited this life: fevered and fearful and ranting. He'd died in his bed upstairs peacefully, Stroud had been told. Peacefully, no, he did not think so.

Stroud carefully opened a pamphlet-sized book he had pulled down earlier which now begged to be opened, a book entitled, 
Disinterment of Suspected Vampires.

Stroud could hardly believe the prescriptions and detailed recipes for spotting, unearthing, trapping, and destroying the beast. It sounded like the worst witch-hunt drivel. The eerie words on the pages were couched in the most dangerous tone--that of the believer, or religious fanatic. To Stroud it was the type of thinking and language that allowed the birth of the Spanish Inquisition, the blossoming of the Third Reich, and such world renown mistakes as Vietnam. Fortunately, few people believed in vampirism and so failed to become adherents of the faith that fought vampire practices.

He now scanned the “characteristics to be determined on exhuming the body of a suspected vampire from the grave.” The peculiar list read:

1. Are a number of holes (about the breadth of a man's finger) in the soil above the grave?

Always conclusive
, Stroud thought.

2. Does the revealed corpse have any of the following:

A. wide-open eyes

Again Stroud was skeptical, thinking, 
it happens even at the best of funerals.

B. a ruddy complexion

C. no (or few) signs of corruption

D. nails and hair grown as in life

Stroud shook his head over this last one, knowing that nails and hair continued to grow after death on every corpse.

E. small livid marks on the neck

“Ahhhh, yes, the infamous Devil's mark where the satanic beings feed on the corpse,” Stroud told himself aloud, his voice reverberating round the room. “Must remember that.” Then he did remember the small livid red marks on Timmy Meyers's neck.

As an anthropologist and archeologist, he knew a great deal about human myth and legend and the propensity to vent fear and frustration through magic and mythmaking to explain away the dark--both the dark of the night and the dark of the soul. And yet, he also knew that within every legend, myth, and parable there lay a grain of truth, sometimes more than just a grain.

“No ... no,” he told himself. The boy was attacked by some pervert, and then released to stumble away. Andover hid no worse horror than the psychotic who looked and acted just like anyone else in town until nightfall. But then his eyes fell on the large supply of stakes, both metal and wood, that the old man had put up here. Stroud's eyes continued on to the pain-making tools and instruments of torture that encircled the large body rack, and the medieval chains along the walls. It was no Nautilus room; and given the old man's proclivity for fantastic reading, Stroud's police mind was at great odds with his boy's memories of a gentle, caring old man. Was it the lot of mankind, that anyone in the race could fall prey to the evil within?

Here, now ... at the heart of the old house stood the relics and artifacts of the old man's secret self, a side not even his worse critic might have guessed at. Sitting in the old man's chair he heard the screams of anguish of some poor devil in the past who'd been coaxed and cajoled this way. Given the old man's money, any number of scenarios was possible. Hell, he may even have paid people to endure suffering for him to watch from this very chair where Stroud now sat.

Such a prostitution was infinitely preferable to the idea of the old man's abducting and drugging children or helpless women. Suddenly the chair began to feel like the chair of Satan, the room the property of the Devil.

In his loneliness, had old Ananias--with Abe never giving it a thought--turned to Satan for solace? For answers in a vain effort to find salvation through that darkest of corridors? To extract torturous cries to reach satanic ears in the lowest reaches of hell? In an abomination of raising voices to the Antichrist?

He shuddered where he sat feeling suddenly very cold. The thoughts he was entertaining were unbearable, so unbearable they were moving him toward another seizure. He must block the horrific images and mad ideas if he were to block the black out.

He fought desperately to sustain his consciousness, however, wondering in the back of his mind how the Ashyers fit in. How had they not known of the old man's strange proclivities and activities here in the middle of the place? They must know something. He knew he must get out of this horror chamber to avoid the seizure, he must fix on some more powerful notion than the terror of this place if he were to succeed. He concentrated on the Ashyers. Concentrated on how they procured the helpless victims brought to this terrible place. Concentrated on the living culprits, concentrated on how they could be brought to justice.

He concentrated on the whispering voices in the walls here. Some were plaintive echoes of the tortured. Some were pleading. None were laughing; none were taunting. Then he thought he heard the Ashyers clear and controlled, calling him out. He thought of Ray Carroll and the thin tie he had with his new neighbor. He thought of the deal they'd made, above in the real world. Ray was likely on his way to the manse this moment.

The spoken reason: to locate Timmy's unfound dog, to have a look at the body they expected to find, for clues. There was some other reason they'd search tonight, some unspoken need. What had it been?

He kept getting the image of Timmy's dog ruthlessly killed after being used. Used how? To lure Timmy deeper into the trap? God, a marginal notation his grandfather'd made about vampires 
using dogs
 in just such a fashion had passed his eyes this night. Where had he seen that notation? No, no ... he told himself. That's madness, that's a hole he didn't wish to stand in--the brink of a volcano ready to erupt. Instead he wanted the door to this place, the stairs leading out, and the very real world of light and solids above. Besides, there were people waiting dinner for him. There was Ray on his way. People were counting on him up there. The real world, he told himself, needed him. He must pull himself out from this place and these crushing feelings and the threat of his steel-plate seizure. He must. He must....

And he did. He found himself outside the horror chamber in the secret passageway which led from the old man's bedchamber through his wardrobe and up several flights of stairs. He still had no idea in his head how he had found the chamber the first time.

When he emerged, the Ashyers treated him with a mixture of curiosity and staid reserve, a kind of pretense, he decided. He could almost hear them thinking:
Just like his grandfather, isn't he?

But Mrs. Ashyer simply said, “We looked for you, sir, but could not find you anywhere. Supper'll be just a moment. I'll have it warmed for you, sir.”

“In the kitchen, Mrs. Ashyer,” he said.

“What?”

“I'll eat with you both in the kitchen, if you don't mind.”

They stared at one another. “Oh, no, not at all,” she said after a reluctant moment.

It was, after all, his kitchen. And he dearly did not want to eat in the mammoth dining room alone again.

The meal was good, warming and wholesome, a credit to Mrs. Ashyer. All these things he conveyed to them. He also said that they were becoming indispensable.

At the same time he wondered anew just how indispensable they'd been to his grandfather. They must know of the secret room and the secrets kept there for so long.

After much blushing and denial that they were anything but mediocre servants, Ashyer said, “Oh, I've found a chap to do the cleaning. Jack Trell and Company. They'll be out in the morning, sir.”

“Splendid, splendid. I hope they bring more than a dustpan and broom.”

Someone came on the intercom from the gate out front, back-scatter behind Ray Carroll's voice. “Doctor Stroud, it's me, Carroll. Got a couple friends to join us, if you're ready?”

“Open the gate, Mr. Ashyer,” Stroud told his man.

“But, sir--”

“Let them up.”

Ashyer pressed the reply and said into the intercom, “Gentlemen, please, drive up to the house.”

There seemed some reluctance to do so, but finally Ray Carroll's crowd came through and the light indicating that the gate was open went off again.

“I'll be out late, so you folks just relax tonight, do what comes natural, take in a movie, whatever, okay?” he told the Ashyers as he busied to join Carroll and the others.

“Sir,” said Ashyer, stopping him suddenly.

Stroud saw eye contact between the married couple as if they were sharing a psi message between themselves. “What is it, Ashyer? I'm in a rush.”

“Has anyone spoken to you, sir, about the ... well, about the Andover Devil, sir?”

“The what?” Stroud felt a lump rise in his throat, sure they were referring to what the townies must've been calling Grandfather Ananias at the end.

“Sir, there's been cattle and sheep--that sort of thing--slaughtered around here on occasion, and this latest thing with the children disappearing ... well, you're determined to go out in those woods, sir, but we ... Mrs. Ashyer and I are ... worried for you, sir.”

“Don't worry about me, please.”

“There is something out there, sir. Your grandfather, sir...”

“What about my grandfather?”

“He knew it, sir.... He had a run in with it once. Returned here in a very bad state, sir ... most bloody.”

“When did it happen?”

“Many years ago, sir ... 1966. After that it seemed to have gone away, but now ... now it seems to have returned.”

Stroud took in a deep breath of air and pulled on a favorite fedora and a hunting vest with some padding and casings for extra shells. He took a shotgun from the rack in the gun room, Ashyer following him about now, saying no more. He also took down a powerful rifle with a night scope on it.

“Not to worry, Ashyer,” he told the other man. “I'm very good with this.”

Outside, he tossed a water canteen into the back of his Jeep, along with a sandwich hastily put together by Mrs. Ashyer, and a thermos of coffee.

Stroud carefully placed the guns in safety holsters on each wall of the Jeep doors. All the while, he was being introduced and re-introduced to the men Carroll had brought with him. Stroud recognized faces from the hunt of the other night. There were, counting himself, only four men. Much better than the mob of the other night, so far as Stroud was concerned.

“One of you men want to ride with me?” he asked the others.

“Stroud,” said Carroll, “we're all here family men with kids. We ... we're all worried about our kids.”

“Don't believe the official spiel given out by Briggs and Banaker, that all is right in the Andover world? Now, why do I not find that hard to believe?”

“Take that car accident the other day,” said one of the men, Herman Curtis.

“What about it, Mr. Curtis?” asked Stroud. “What's it got to do with anything?”

“They said there was a woman in the car, but the only body found was a man's.”

“They located the body of the driver?”

“Yeah, and none too pretty a sight.”

“Broken neck,” said Phil Loomis who was getting into Stroud's Jeep now. “Terrible gashes from having gone through the windshield.”

“Not the windshield, the side window,” Carroll corrected Loomis. “Odd way to get thrown from the car.”

“And white ... Jesus ... never saw such white on a man,” added Curtis. “I was happening by when they pulled him outa the water.”

“White, huh?”

“Bleach white.”

“Like clean paper,” said Loomis.

“Water does that to a body,” said Carroll.

Stroud knew there was some truth in what Carroll said, but the body hadn't been in the water long enough to turn it so thoroughly white as these men were describing. On the other hand, men looking on death created horror out of it.

“Looking still for the woman. She'll show up. Spoon always delivers 'em up, sooner or later,” said Carroll.

“Sounds like there are a lot of accidents along the river,” said Stroud.

Carroll nodded. “We get our share all right.”

Stroud got in and revved up the motor. “Maybe we oughta be looking for the woman instead of the dog.”

“Briggs and the State Patrol have it covered,” said Carroll, whose vehicle lurched and turned out of the circle drive before Stroud Manse. Stroud tore out after him, leaving it to Carroll to pick the jumping off point when the land vehicles would leave the road and start over rough terrain.

Beside him, a near useless twenty-two carbine in his hands, Loomis lit up a cigarette and began small talk.

“Hear you were a cop in Chicago? Hear you were in Nam? Is it true you're staying on in Andover? People figured you'd sell out quick and never look back.”

“Loomis.”

“Yeah?”

“Where you from, around here?”

“Grew up in South Bend, Indiana. Moved here about ... going on six years now. Wife and kids--got three. My boy and Ray's are best of friends, inseparable. Tell you this, I'd go nuts out of my skull if my boy just disappeared like the Meyers kid done and the Cooper kid before him.”

“Any other disappearances, before the Cooper kid, I mean?”

“Naw ... nice place to live before all this ... 'cept...” He became quiet.