Just past midnight and in a God-forsaken middle of nowhere, Jack Gallagher’s fist was poised to knock on a most formidable looking door. In desperation, Clara made a last ditch effort to change her husband’s mind.
“You probably have no idea what tonight is, do you?”
Jack lowered his hand and turned to her, waiting to be enlightened.
“It’s the Night of Dread. When Friday the thirteenth and a full moon join forces.”
“I’ll tell you babe,” he said, chuckling, “you’re a fountain. There’s only one problem—I’m not superstitious.”
“I’m not either, usually. But something’s telling me this is a really bad idea.”
“A premonition of doom? Is that what you’re saying you’ve got?”
“Kind of, I guess.”
“Listen—all we want to do is use their phone. Avis’ll come out to replace that thing they rented us and we’ll be out of here. One phone call. What could possibly happen?”
Clara gave it up. Jack was determined to get back on the road and describing for him the half-dozen or so graphic scenarios which sprang instantly to mind would have served no constructive purpose. And so, hampered by no further arguments, Jack’s fist connected with the door. The distant sound that started up concurrent with his knocking did, however, seem to lend a bit of credence to Clara’s premonition.
“What the—?” he said. “There hasn’t been a wolf in this area in over a hundred years.”
“Yeah? Maybe you’d like to inform those wolves of that fact. Because someone sure as hell forgot to.”
Instead of meeting Clara’s sarcasm with a rejoinder as would normally have been done, Jack pulled her close. Approaching footsteps from within, crescendoing howls, the ominous creak . . . creak . . . creak of an old and unused door was a most unsettling cacophony of sounds. Then, and most unsettling of all, appeared a pair of eyes most likely borrowed from the devil.
“Good heavens, children,” the ancient woman said, in a voice so soft and silken. “You gave me such a scare. Who could it be, I asked myself, knocking on my door at such an hour? Who ever could it be?”
She smiled, and a coldness descended chilling every fiber of their being.
“We’re sorry to bother you at such a late hour,” Jack said, doing his best to shake off a feeling he hadn’t had since last he’d been in dire straits upon the battlefield, “but we saw your upstairs light on. Our car broke down, and since this area isn’t cell phone friendly, we were hoping we could use your phone to call for help. It won’t take more than a minute. I promise.”
“Alas,” the old woman said, “you’ll find my home empty of telephones; modern conveniences, you see, are luxuries for which I have no need. But regardless, I insist you come inside to rest your weary bones. And while you relax in the parlor,”—said the spider to the fly,—“I’ll fix a bit of nourishment to better send you children on your way.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jack said, “but we’re in kind of a hurry.”
“Then I wish you a safe and uneventful journey home. However, should you find you’ve changed your minds,”—and how that hideous smile grew,—“I’ll be up late.”
“You win,” Jack said, immediately upon hearing the bolt slide shut. And grabbing his wife by the hand, away they went. Or so was their intent. But barely had they crossed half the courtyard’s width when Clara noticed something: it stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Oh God—listen.”
Puzzled, Jack looked at her.
“The wolves,” she said. “They’ve stopped howling.”
The sudden realization of impending doom begins with a clammy, crawling kind of sensation, originating in the pit of the stomach. It spreads, stopping not until every inch of the victim’s body is consumed, leaving him, not unlike a thousand year old redwood, rooted to the spot. Unless you’re Jack Gallagher, who’d faced death so many times he’d lost count. So fluid was Jack’s movement that the two wolves blocking their path barely noticed that one course of their prospective dinner had pulled a hunting knife from his boot.
“When they spring,” he said, in a quiet, confidence-instilling voice, as he placed himself between the wolves and his wife, “take off for that tree on the right.”
“Oh God, Jack—”
“I can handle them. But I need to know you’ve got your legs. Okay? Babe?”
The tree Jack made reference to was ten, maybe fifteen yards off. More than enough of a running start to easily make it to the lowest branches. Clara said a quick prayer of thanks to her father. For providing her, since a small child, with a cabin getaway surrounded by trees ripe for climbing. The place, in fact, from which she and Jack were just returning home.
“My legs are okay,” she managed, “as long as I know you’re not going to make a meal out of yourself.”
“Believe me,” Jack returned, “that’s not a part of the plan.”
Wolves; or dogs trained to rip a human being to shreds; it was all the same to Jack. It was a maneuver he’d performed in real life more than once and had rehearsed a thousand times. When they sprang, the one closest would have its throat slit before it even felt the blade. Its body, still sailing through the air, would block its friend from an immediate attack of its own. Jack’s next move would then be decided by the one remaining. Another direct attack and it would end up, its fate the same as its partner’s. If, however, the animal decided that Clara might make a tastier morsel, its demise was equally assured. The knife would, in a twinkling, be transformed into a missile: one which delivered its payload with deadly accuracy.
With nerves spring-loaded, waiting for the wolves to pull the trigger, a single clap resounded through the courtyard. In astonished disbelief, Jack and Clara watched the wolves—with fangs withdrawn and softened threats—back reluctantly away.
“Forgive me, children,” the old woman said, peeking through the doorway. “I forget, sometimes, what a nuisance my pets can be. How terrible a fright it must have been for you. Perhaps you’d best come in a while . . . to calm your frazzled nerves.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Perhaps we’d best.”
With the attractive young couple safe and sound inside her house, the old woman pocketed the enormous key with which she’d locked the door. On her countenance, as she turned ’round, was written nothing but the utmost concern for the all-but-traumatized girl whose head was buried in her husband’s shoulder.
“The poor child.” Oh how heartfelt were these words of lamentation. “Quickly now and straightaway to the guest room with the both of you—two flights up, just to the right of the stairs. In the meantime, I will prepare a pot of tea; a special blend of herbs and spices I never fail to keep on hand; it works wonders with the calming of the nerves.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “You’re very kind.” And with Clara cradled in his arms he took the stairs two at a time.
Freshly laundered linens; a tidily made up bed; a room scrubbed clean as if expecting royalty. But a sobering reminder that their surroundings weren’t quite what they appeared met their ears: baying wolves just below their window; bats’ wings all-a-flutter deep within the walls; the pitter patter of vermin feet, scurrying hither and yon, underneath the floorboards.
“I trust you won’t begrudge me an ‘I told you so,’” Clara said, as Jack, using one of the gleaming white pillow cases, wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead.
“I swear to God, I’ll never doubt another thing you say.”
“Quite the noble oath, but I’m afraid it comes a bit too late.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’re not leaving this place alive.”
“Listen,” Jack said, “why don’t we try to keep the melodrama to a minimum? I’ll give it to you that our hostess is the queen of the lunatic fringe. But I’m reasonably certain I can handle anything she cares to dish out.”
Clara took Jack’s hand; she kissed it; she held it to her cheek. Her husband’s ability to protect her was such that, if danger lurked, there wasn’t even a second choice as to whom she wanted by her side. But something was telling her that not even Jack stood a chance against the kind of evil which permeated every floorboard, joist, and fixture of this house.
“Doesn’t it bother you,” she said, “how immaculately made up this room is? I mean judging from what little I saw of the rest of the house, that woman is no neat-freak. And yet, this room—you could eat off the floors. Just like she was expecting overnight guests.”
“What are you saying?—That she knew we were going to be dropping in?—And that this Night of Dread of yours has come to pass?”
“I’m curious,” Clara said. “What has to happen in order for things to be dreadful enough for you?”
“Look, I’ll give it to you that this whole thing is pretty out there. But you’ll have to forgive me if I draw the line at crossing over into the supernatural.”
“I can hardly wait for that stoic skepticism of yours to meet up with its rude awakening.”
Before Jack had a chance to disabuse his wife of any such sarcastic notion, there came the sound, and soberingly so, of footsteps treading lightly on an old and creaking staircase.
“Oh God,” Clara said, grabbing Jack’s hand, wringing it dry of blood. “What does she want now? Why can’t she leave us alone?”
“And neglect her duties as a concerned hostess? Not likely. Especially since she’s gone to the trouble of preparing a cup of tea for you—a special blend she keeps on hand for settling the nerves.”
“No thanks. Just tell her I’ve gone out for the evening and that you’re not expecting me back. Ever.” Whereupon she turned over and buried her head under the pillow.
From the guest room, a clear view of that portion of the balcony leading to the staircase was to be had. The surreal setting of her approach set Jack to musing about just how strange this adventure was becoming. In stark contrast to the twinkling light—cast about by a half-dozen wall-hanging candelabra—the figure of a woman cloaked as if in eternal mourning shone like a black pearl in a golden treasure chest. As ancient as she may have been, her movements still were graceful as a prima ballerina’s. And as if leading a chilled winter’s breeze by the hand, she drifted into the room. Upon the night stand, next to the bed, she set down the sterling silver serving tray. And pouring from a stunning antique teapot, she filled the matching cup.
“For the dear child, in order that the hobgoblins be banished from her thoughts.”
“I’ll make sure she has some.” Jack took the offered cup but was careful that their fingers shouldn’t touch in doing so. “You have my gratitude.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” she said, with elegantly flourishing gestures. “It’s the very least that I could do. But I see your lovely companion is not yet fit to receive company, and so, with your permission, I’ll bid you both good-night.”
At the doorway she stopped and turned. And while Jack unwaveringly returned her evil gaze, she said, “Take care, child, to bolt the door when I have gone. There are things that bear watching . . . in the night.”
Then, with a smile and a curtsey, she withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Jack did as instructed, though he’d have done so regardless, and when the bolt had been slid shut, and he had turned around, Clara was sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard.
“At dawn,” he said, “we’re history.”
And though Clara nodded, she’d believe it when she saw it.
Jack threw open the window; the close stench of death—one with which he was far too familiar—was stifling. He leaned out to find a cleansing breath of air and watched as the wind, with its eerie moan, stacked layers of darkening clouds against the moon. He listened to the wolves’ howls, so remindful of childhood friends, calling from beneath his window to come on out and play. And he whistled under his breath at the rocky surface below, separated from where he stood by a distance of a thousand feet or more.
“That’s not good news,” he muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Clara said. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”
“The house is built on a cliff.”
“So?”
“So—it rules this window out as a means of escape.”
“Escape? I thought you said there was nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t say there was nothing to worry about. All I did was rule out the supernatural.”
“Jack?” She held out her hand; he wrapped his own around it and sitting down, placed his body close to hers.
“That woman? There’s something about her.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean there’s really something about her.”
Holding her hand to his lips, Jack waited to hear.
“It’s the strangest thing. But . . . I feel, somehow, like I know her.”
To this Jack made no reply, except to look at her a little cock-eyed.
“Did I ever tell you,” she went on, “about the stories Dad used to tell us—me and Giselle—about the walking dead?”
“Happily I’ve been spared any knowledge of Jonathan’s morbid side; until now.”
“Oh please. You know as well as I do that Dad’s the least morbid person in the world. It was more like he was just telling real, true-to-life stories. That’s all. About him and Uncle Edward—”
“Who?”
“Uncle Edward—Dad’s little brother—how they belonged to an ultra-secret society dedicated to hunting down the walking dead and ramming stakes through their miserable blackened hearts.”
“I don’t know—it sounds pretty morbid to me.”
“I guess you had to have been there. God I loved those stories, and I loved watching Dad tell them. Somehow, in the telling, it was as if a terrific weight were being lifted from his shoulders. Giselle and I used to talk for hours pretending they were true. We’d work Mom in as a cast member and throw in a conjecture or two about how she might have met a ghastly end. My wondrous mother—Dad’s so mysterious about her—and about how she died. Sometimes I think I’ll never find out what really happened.”
“I guess that explains why I’ve barely heard you mention two words together about her.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know a whole lot, ’cause I was just an itty bitty baby when she died. I’ll tell you what I do know if you want. But not right now. Somehow I don’t think it would do much for my mood.”
Jack nodded; whenever she was ready.
“It must have been tough on Jonathan, raising two little girls with no mother around.”
“God, was it ever. It still tears my heart out thinking about when we were kids. The night terrors; the long periods spent steeped in despair; and even though he hardly ever mentions her name, I can tell he’s never gotten over Mom’s death. He deals with it a lot better now than he did back then; or maybe it’s just that he’s gotten better at hiding his feelings. Sometimes I wonder.”
“Back to those stories,” Jack said. “It’s kind of a stretch for me to imagine Jonathan as a vampire hunter. And I don’t mean that as any kind of insult. It’s just that he’s such an easy-going, gentle kind of a guy.”
“Yeah? You think so? Then let me clue you in on a couple of things hidden beneath that mild-mannered exterior. Dad’s amazingly strong, and more startling than his strength is how quick he is. When we were growing up in the Bronx, I used to watch him playing basketball with the black kids in the neighborhood; he made them look like they were standing still. Then there are times—not so much anymore—when he gets a look on his face like he could, with his bare hands, tear out a lion’s heart. It would be scary if you didn’t know what a softy he is underneath.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t doubt it for a second. There’s a kind of quiet competence about your father; a sleeping giant sort of thing—you know what I mean? And as long as we’re on the subject, just where was it these adventures were supposed to have taken place? Not, perhaps, in that most mysterious of places—the city of your birth?”
Clara faltered. Her evasiveness on this particular subject was something she’d never really understood herself. All Jack had ever been able to get out of her were vague references to some small province buried deep in Romania.
“Given our present circumstances, I guess I should come clean.” And pulling his head close, she whispered, “Transylvania.”
“Not seriously?”
Sheepishly, Clara nodded.
“And this Night of Dread business? That’s something Jonathan picked up back there?”
“Yep. And so much more you wouldn’t believe.”
“Which he, I assume, passed on to you. Making you an expert on the subject?”
“Put me on a game show. I’d clean up.”
“I’m on the verge of being astonished. How long have we known each other?—And you’ve managed to keep this ghoulish nature of yours completely to yourself?”
“I don’t have a ghoulish nature. I just liked Dad’s stories, that’s all. And you would too; or at least you would have when you were a kid.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I’ll admit to having watched a vampire movie or two, but my suspension of disbelief has its limits. Not to mention that I can’t stand horror in any form—movies; books; war. Ironic, I guess, since I voluntarily spent so much time immersed in the worst of it. I’ll tell you what though—if that old lady downstairs ever signed a movie contract, I’d be the first in line to see the show.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Clara’s lips. “Can’t you just see it? Those Hollywood harvesters of mediocrity lined up to be admitted into her chambers—perennial bloodsuckers that they are—on the other side of the sucking for a change.”
“And this from the girl who doesn’t have a ghoulish bone in her body.”
“So I missed a bone or two in my earlier declaration. I am, in my defense, only human. Though we may strive for his noble intrepidness, there will always be but one Jack Gallagher.”
Jack just rolled his eyes. One of Clara’s great joys in life was teasing him about his untarnished code of ethics and the cavalier manner in which he treated danger no matter how great it might be. He was who he was, and that was the end of it: a former military special services operative trained to within an inch of his life to handle anything—anything—which threatened to stand in his way. And tease him though she might, and sometimes mercilessly, she wouldn’t have traded his competence away for the world.
“What I do find a little disconcerting,” Jack said, picking up from where he’d left off a while back, “is that you’re beginning to sound like you actually believe in this stuff. I know you don’t, really; but it sure sounds like it.”
“Dad’s influence; kind of contagious, I guess. But that has nothing to do with this feeling I have. I swear to God, there’s something familiar about her. But I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
Jack made no reply, but kissed her heavy eyelids while with a fading voice she said, “I don’t know why, but I’m feeling strangely tired. I’m scared to death to close my eyes, but I don’t think I have any choice.”
“Go ahead. And you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay? Because there’s no way I’m closing mine tonight.”
“Okay. Bright and early, right?”
“Bright and early with the dawn.”
Tenderly he kissed her lips and whispered in her ear a comforting ‘good night.’ But not until she’d fallen fast asleep did he let go of her hand.
“You probably have no idea what tonight is, do you?”
Jack lowered his hand and turned to her, waiting to be enlightened.
“It’s the Night of Dread. When Friday the thirteenth and a full moon join forces.”
“I’ll tell you babe,” he said, chuckling, “you’re a fountain. There’s only one problem—I’m not superstitious.”
“I’m not either, usually. But something’s telling me this is a really bad idea.”
“A premonition of doom? Is that what you’re saying you’ve got?”
“Kind of, I guess.”
“Listen—all we want to do is use their phone. Avis’ll come out to replace that thing they rented us and we’ll be out of here. One phone call. What could possibly happen?”
Clara gave it up. Jack was determined to get back on the road and describing for him the half-dozen or so graphic scenarios which sprang instantly to mind would have served no constructive purpose. And so, hampered by no further arguments, Jack’s fist connected with the door. The distant sound that started up concurrent with his knocking did, however, seem to lend a bit of credence to Clara’s premonition.
“What the—?” he said. “There hasn’t been a wolf in this area in over a hundred years.”
“Yeah? Maybe you’d like to inform those wolves of that fact. Because someone sure as hell forgot to.”
Instead of meeting Clara’s sarcasm with a rejoinder as would normally have been done, Jack pulled her close. Approaching footsteps from within, crescendoing howls, the ominous creak . . . creak . . . creak of an old and unused door was a most unsettling cacophony of sounds. Then, and most unsettling of all, appeared a pair of eyes most likely borrowed from the devil.
“Good heavens, children,” the ancient woman said, in a voice so soft and silken. “You gave me such a scare. Who could it be, I asked myself, knocking on my door at such an hour? Who ever could it be?”
She smiled, and a coldness descended chilling every fiber of their being.
“We’re sorry to bother you at such a late hour,” Jack said, doing his best to shake off a feeling he hadn’t had since last he’d been in dire straits upon the battlefield, “but we saw your upstairs light on. Our car broke down, and since this area isn’t cell phone friendly, we were hoping we could use your phone to call for help. It won’t take more than a minute. I promise.”
“Alas,” the old woman said, “you’ll find my home empty of telephones; modern conveniences, you see, are luxuries for which I have no need. But regardless, I insist you come inside to rest your weary bones. And while you relax in the parlor,”—said the spider to the fly,—“I’ll fix a bit of nourishment to better send you children on your way.”
“Thanks anyway,” Jack said, “but we’re in kind of a hurry.”
“Then I wish you a safe and uneventful journey home. However, should you find you’ve changed your minds,”—and how that hideous smile grew,—“I’ll be up late.”
“You win,” Jack said, immediately upon hearing the bolt slide shut. And grabbing his wife by the hand, away they went. Or so was their intent. But barely had they crossed half the courtyard’s width when Clara noticed something: it stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Oh God—listen.”
Puzzled, Jack looked at her.
“The wolves,” she said. “They’ve stopped howling.”
The sudden realization of impending doom begins with a clammy, crawling kind of sensation, originating in the pit of the stomach. It spreads, stopping not until every inch of the victim’s body is consumed, leaving him, not unlike a thousand year old redwood, rooted to the spot. Unless you’re Jack Gallagher, who’d faced death so many times he’d lost count. So fluid was Jack’s movement that the two wolves blocking their path barely noticed that one course of their prospective dinner had pulled a hunting knife from his boot.
“When they spring,” he said, in a quiet, confidence-instilling voice, as he placed himself between the wolves and his wife, “take off for that tree on the right.”
“Oh God, Jack—”
“I can handle them. But I need to know you’ve got your legs. Okay? Babe?”
The tree Jack made reference to was ten, maybe fifteen yards off. More than enough of a running start to easily make it to the lowest branches. Clara said a quick prayer of thanks to her father. For providing her, since a small child, with a cabin getaway surrounded by trees ripe for climbing. The place, in fact, from which she and Jack were just returning home.
“My legs are okay,” she managed, “as long as I know you’re not going to make a meal out of yourself.”
“Believe me,” Jack returned, “that’s not a part of the plan.”
Wolves; or dogs trained to rip a human being to shreds; it was all the same to Jack. It was a maneuver he’d performed in real life more than once and had rehearsed a thousand times. When they sprang, the one closest would have its throat slit before it even felt the blade. Its body, still sailing through the air, would block its friend from an immediate attack of its own. Jack’s next move would then be decided by the one remaining. Another direct attack and it would end up, its fate the same as its partner’s. If, however, the animal decided that Clara might make a tastier morsel, its demise was equally assured. The knife would, in a twinkling, be transformed into a missile: one which delivered its payload with deadly accuracy.
With nerves spring-loaded, waiting for the wolves to pull the trigger, a single clap resounded through the courtyard. In astonished disbelief, Jack and Clara watched the wolves—with fangs withdrawn and softened threats—back reluctantly away.
“Forgive me, children,” the old woman said, peeking through the doorway. “I forget, sometimes, what a nuisance my pets can be. How terrible a fright it must have been for you. Perhaps you’d best come in a while . . . to calm your frazzled nerves.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Perhaps we’d best.”
With the attractive young couple safe and sound inside her house, the old woman pocketed the enormous key with which she’d locked the door. On her countenance, as she turned ’round, was written nothing but the utmost concern for the all-but-traumatized girl whose head was buried in her husband’s shoulder.
“The poor child.” Oh how heartfelt were these words of lamentation. “Quickly now and straightaway to the guest room with the both of you—two flights up, just to the right of the stairs. In the meantime, I will prepare a pot of tea; a special blend of herbs and spices I never fail to keep on hand; it works wonders with the calming of the nerves.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. “You’re very kind.” And with Clara cradled in his arms he took the stairs two at a time.
Freshly laundered linens; a tidily made up bed; a room scrubbed clean as if expecting royalty. But a sobering reminder that their surroundings weren’t quite what they appeared met their ears: baying wolves just below their window; bats’ wings all-a-flutter deep within the walls; the pitter patter of vermin feet, scurrying hither and yon, underneath the floorboards.
“I trust you won’t begrudge me an ‘I told you so,’” Clara said, as Jack, using one of the gleaming white pillow cases, wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead.
“I swear to God, I’ll never doubt another thing you say.”
“Quite the noble oath, but I’m afraid it comes a bit too late.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’re not leaving this place alive.”
“Listen,” Jack said, “why don’t we try to keep the melodrama to a minimum? I’ll give it to you that our hostess is the queen of the lunatic fringe. But I’m reasonably certain I can handle anything she cares to dish out.”
Clara took Jack’s hand; she kissed it; she held it to her cheek. Her husband’s ability to protect her was such that, if danger lurked, there wasn’t even a second choice as to whom she wanted by her side. But something was telling her that not even Jack stood a chance against the kind of evil which permeated every floorboard, joist, and fixture of this house.
“Doesn’t it bother you,” she said, “how immaculately made up this room is? I mean judging from what little I saw of the rest of the house, that woman is no neat-freak. And yet, this room—you could eat off the floors. Just like she was expecting overnight guests.”
“What are you saying?—That she knew we were going to be dropping in?—And that this Night of Dread of yours has come to pass?”
“I’m curious,” Clara said. “What has to happen in order for things to be dreadful enough for you?”
“Look, I’ll give it to you that this whole thing is pretty out there. But you’ll have to forgive me if I draw the line at crossing over into the supernatural.”
“I can hardly wait for that stoic skepticism of yours to meet up with its rude awakening.”
Before Jack had a chance to disabuse his wife of any such sarcastic notion, there came the sound, and soberingly so, of footsteps treading lightly on an old and creaking staircase.
“Oh God,” Clara said, grabbing Jack’s hand, wringing it dry of blood. “What does she want now? Why can’t she leave us alone?”
“And neglect her duties as a concerned hostess? Not likely. Especially since she’s gone to the trouble of preparing a cup of tea for you—a special blend she keeps on hand for settling the nerves.”
“No thanks. Just tell her I’ve gone out for the evening and that you’re not expecting me back. Ever.” Whereupon she turned over and buried her head under the pillow.
From the guest room, a clear view of that portion of the balcony leading to the staircase was to be had. The surreal setting of her approach set Jack to musing about just how strange this adventure was becoming. In stark contrast to the twinkling light—cast about by a half-dozen wall-hanging candelabra—the figure of a woman cloaked as if in eternal mourning shone like a black pearl in a golden treasure chest. As ancient as she may have been, her movements still were graceful as a prima ballerina’s. And as if leading a chilled winter’s breeze by the hand, she drifted into the room. Upon the night stand, next to the bed, she set down the sterling silver serving tray. And pouring from a stunning antique teapot, she filled the matching cup.
“For the dear child, in order that the hobgoblins be banished from her thoughts.”
“I’ll make sure she has some.” Jack took the offered cup but was careful that their fingers shouldn’t touch in doing so. “You have my gratitude.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” she said, with elegantly flourishing gestures. “It’s the very least that I could do. But I see your lovely companion is not yet fit to receive company, and so, with your permission, I’ll bid you both good-night.”
At the doorway she stopped and turned. And while Jack unwaveringly returned her evil gaze, she said, “Take care, child, to bolt the door when I have gone. There are things that bear watching . . . in the night.”
Then, with a smile and a curtsey, she withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Jack did as instructed, though he’d have done so regardless, and when the bolt had been slid shut, and he had turned around, Clara was sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard.
“At dawn,” he said, “we’re history.”
And though Clara nodded, she’d believe it when she saw it.
Jack threw open the window; the close stench of death—one with which he was far too familiar—was stifling. He leaned out to find a cleansing breath of air and watched as the wind, with its eerie moan, stacked layers of darkening clouds against the moon. He listened to the wolves’ howls, so remindful of childhood friends, calling from beneath his window to come on out and play. And he whistled under his breath at the rocky surface below, separated from where he stood by a distance of a thousand feet or more.
“That’s not good news,” he muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Clara said. “Aside from the obvious, I mean.”
“The house is built on a cliff.”
“So?”
“So—it rules this window out as a means of escape.”
“Escape? I thought you said there was nothing to worry about.”
“I didn’t say there was nothing to worry about. All I did was rule out the supernatural.”
“Jack?” She held out her hand; he wrapped his own around it and sitting down, placed his body close to hers.
“That woman? There’s something about her.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean there’s really something about her.”
Holding her hand to his lips, Jack waited to hear.
“It’s the strangest thing. But . . . I feel, somehow, like I know her.”
To this Jack made no reply, except to look at her a little cock-eyed.
“Did I ever tell you,” she went on, “about the stories Dad used to tell us—me and Giselle—about the walking dead?”
“Happily I’ve been spared any knowledge of Jonathan’s morbid side; until now.”
“Oh please. You know as well as I do that Dad’s the least morbid person in the world. It was more like he was just telling real, true-to-life stories. That’s all. About him and Uncle Edward—”
“Who?”
“Uncle Edward—Dad’s little brother—how they belonged to an ultra-secret society dedicated to hunting down the walking dead and ramming stakes through their miserable blackened hearts.”
“I don’t know—it sounds pretty morbid to me.”
“I guess you had to have been there. God I loved those stories, and I loved watching Dad tell them. Somehow, in the telling, it was as if a terrific weight were being lifted from his shoulders. Giselle and I used to talk for hours pretending they were true. We’d work Mom in as a cast member and throw in a conjecture or two about how she might have met a ghastly end. My wondrous mother—Dad’s so mysterious about her—and about how she died. Sometimes I think I’ll never find out what really happened.”
“I guess that explains why I’ve barely heard you mention two words together about her.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know a whole lot, ’cause I was just an itty bitty baby when she died. I’ll tell you what I do know if you want. But not right now. Somehow I don’t think it would do much for my mood.”
Jack nodded; whenever she was ready.
“It must have been tough on Jonathan, raising two little girls with no mother around.”
“God, was it ever. It still tears my heart out thinking about when we were kids. The night terrors; the long periods spent steeped in despair; and even though he hardly ever mentions her name, I can tell he’s never gotten over Mom’s death. He deals with it a lot better now than he did back then; or maybe it’s just that he’s gotten better at hiding his feelings. Sometimes I wonder.”
“Back to those stories,” Jack said. “It’s kind of a stretch for me to imagine Jonathan as a vampire hunter. And I don’t mean that as any kind of insult. It’s just that he’s such an easy-going, gentle kind of a guy.”
“Yeah? You think so? Then let me clue you in on a couple of things hidden beneath that mild-mannered exterior. Dad’s amazingly strong, and more startling than his strength is how quick he is. When we were growing up in the Bronx, I used to watch him playing basketball with the black kids in the neighborhood; he made them look like they were standing still. Then there are times—not so much anymore—when he gets a look on his face like he could, with his bare hands, tear out a lion’s heart. It would be scary if you didn’t know what a softy he is underneath.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t doubt it for a second. There’s a kind of quiet competence about your father; a sleeping giant sort of thing—you know what I mean? And as long as we’re on the subject, just where was it these adventures were supposed to have taken place? Not, perhaps, in that most mysterious of places—the city of your birth?”
Clara faltered. Her evasiveness on this particular subject was something she’d never really understood herself. All Jack had ever been able to get out of her were vague references to some small province buried deep in Romania.
“Given our present circumstances, I guess I should come clean.” And pulling his head close, she whispered, “Transylvania.”
“Not seriously?”
Sheepishly, Clara nodded.
“And this Night of Dread business? That’s something Jonathan picked up back there?”
“Yep. And so much more you wouldn’t believe.”
“Which he, I assume, passed on to you. Making you an expert on the subject?”
“Put me on a game show. I’d clean up.”
“I’m on the verge of being astonished. How long have we known each other?—And you’ve managed to keep this ghoulish nature of yours completely to yourself?”
“I don’t have a ghoulish nature. I just liked Dad’s stories, that’s all. And you would too; or at least you would have when you were a kid.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I’ll admit to having watched a vampire movie or two, but my suspension of disbelief has its limits. Not to mention that I can’t stand horror in any form—movies; books; war. Ironic, I guess, since I voluntarily spent so much time immersed in the worst of it. I’ll tell you what though—if that old lady downstairs ever signed a movie contract, I’d be the first in line to see the show.”
A flicker of a smile crossed Clara’s lips. “Can’t you just see it? Those Hollywood harvesters of mediocrity lined up to be admitted into her chambers—perennial bloodsuckers that they are—on the other side of the sucking for a change.”
“And this from the girl who doesn’t have a ghoulish bone in her body.”
“So I missed a bone or two in my earlier declaration. I am, in my defense, only human. Though we may strive for his noble intrepidness, there will always be but one Jack Gallagher.”
Jack just rolled his eyes. One of Clara’s great joys in life was teasing him about his untarnished code of ethics and the cavalier manner in which he treated danger no matter how great it might be. He was who he was, and that was the end of it: a former military special services operative trained to within an inch of his life to handle anything—anything—which threatened to stand in his way. And tease him though she might, and sometimes mercilessly, she wouldn’t have traded his competence away for the world.
“What I do find a little disconcerting,” Jack said, picking up from where he’d left off a while back, “is that you’re beginning to sound like you actually believe in this stuff. I know you don’t, really; but it sure sounds like it.”
“Dad’s influence; kind of contagious, I guess. But that has nothing to do with this feeling I have. I swear to God, there’s something familiar about her. But I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
Jack made no reply, but kissed her heavy eyelids while with a fading voice she said, “I don’t know why, but I’m feeling strangely tired. I’m scared to death to close my eyes, but I don’t think I have any choice.”
“Go ahead. And you’ve got nothing to worry about, okay? Because there’s no way I’m closing mine tonight.”
“Okay. Bright and early, right?”
“Bright and early with the dawn.”
Tenderly he kissed her lips and whispered in her ear a comforting ‘good night.’ But not until she’d fallen fast asleep did he let go of her hand.
On the battlefield, several successive all-night vigils were a commonplace occurrence. And with the night before’s solid eight hours under his belt, tonight’s would be a piece of cake. The chair by the writing desk was placed so as to give him a clear view of the bed, the window, the door. And making himself comfortable, Jack wondered what the concern was. What possible problem could a little old lady present to a battle-hardened soldier? Damn Clara’s premonition—it permeated the air; it clouded his thoughts. Once, twice, three times he shook his head to clear it of the thickening cobwebs. But that was it and nothing more, for just like that he’d drifted off to sleep
ok i have only read chap 1 writing is with in excellence i will be coming back for more when i have time . I love the mysterious and mystical though it is a myth i do love a good vampire book it's kind of sexy;),em
Posted by: emma doran | September 27, 2009 at 03:38 AM
excellent writing skill. pity its not on the shelves yet
Posted by: rodov | August 24, 2009 at 01:26 PM
LOL, great character development! lol, loving the old lady, she's perfectly spooky
Posted by: AngelIVXXX | August 08, 2009 at 09:34 AM
Came here via Twitter. 'Though I am not into the clichés of vampire stories, I really enjoy the way you are writing and describing. It's pure magic of movies in my head. Love that, hope the book is soon available Amazon ;)
Best regards,
Avarra
Posted by: Avarra | June 19, 2009 at 02:04 PM
Also here via twitter. Intriguing beginnings. Now, make your book available for Kindle, and I'll buy it.
Posted by: Michelle | May 11, 2009 at 08:33 PM
Wonderful beginning and a very intriguing read! Here via Twitter - not certain how you found me, but I am glad that you did. I look forward to reading your novel in its entirety.
Posted by: joanna_eberhart | May 07, 2009 at 04:51 PM
Old movie buff..check out my facebook page. My cuz, Susannah Russe (her pen name) is a vampire romance novelist. Maybe u 2 should meet? Online anyway.
Posted by: Ginger Rodgers | May 05, 2009 at 06:43 PM
Suitably creepy. The stage is set for a vampire that is looking for more than...understanding. heh
Posted by: Miles | May 05, 2009 at 05:18 PM
Awesome! It grabbed me right out the box, emotional, gripping, and totally engossing.
Posted by: Elizabeth | January 27, 2009 at 03:45 PM
Phenomenal. A real page-turner! I am transported into this story and NEED to know what happens next.
Posted by: twilightprincess | January 27, 2009 at 03:43 PM
Oh wow, I'm completely enthralled with this, Martin! You are a wonderful writer. Please, if you post the next chapter, let me know.
Jinxie_G
Posted by: NL Gervasio | January 18, 2009 at 11:18 PM
Excellent story! Keep up the good work! I look forward to the next installments.
Posted by: Patricia | January 17, 2009 at 11:52 AM
Martin, If I had this book in hand, I wouldn't be able to put it down. I just had to come back and read the first chapter. Now, I want to read the rest! You are a great writer!
Posted by: Shelly Burns | January 17, 2009 at 08:59 AM
Great dialogue!
Posted by: Kate McLaughlin | January 13, 2009 at 03:58 PM
I can't judge your book without reading the whole of it but from what I read, you grip. And you make me want to get on with my book. All the best.
Posted by: Rosemary Ambale | January 12, 2009 at 08:07 PM
Hey, this is a very gripping beginning.. waiting to read more...
Posted by: | January 12, 2009 at 07:46 PM
Martin, you have talent!!! Your voice speaks out in your writings. One day you will be published and remember when you first published your literary work on a blog. I want to read more....
Posted by: LaShea Miller | January 12, 2009 at 07:24 PM
Interesting opening. It reminds me of a movie I watched with my 'tweeners.' Is this the audience you're going for?
Posted by: Theresa | January 11, 2009 at 12:10 PM
Nice beginning! Prologue's coming into focus and I'm ready to jump into the story!
Posted by: Amber | December 19, 2008 at 04:23 PM