The Screaming

Excerpt from TRAPPED

Excerpt from ENDURANCE

Exclusive Ebooks by JA Konrath

This is from the first anthology I ever appeared in, The Many Faces of Van Helsing, which had nothing to do with the Hugh Jackman film but was released at the same time to capitalize on it. I don’t do many period pieces, and don’t do many stories set in foreign countries. I also don’t do many vampire stories, even though I love to read them. This is set in England in the 1960s, and I paid a lot of attention to vernacular, trying to get it to sound right.

“Three stinking quid?”

Colin wanted to reach over the counter and throttle the old bugger. The radio he brought in was brand new and worth at least twenty pounds.

Of course, it was also hot. Delaney’s was the last pawnbroker in Liverpool that didn’t ask questions. Colin dealt with them frequently because of this. But each and every time, he left the shop feeling ripped off.

“Look, this is state of the art. The latest model. You could at least go six.”

As expected, the old wank didn’t budge. Colin took the three coins and left, muttering curses under his breath.

Where the hell was he going to get more money?

Colin rubbed his hand, fingers trailing over dirty scabs. His eyes itched. His throat felt like he’d been swallowing gravel. His stomach was a tight fist that he couldn’t unclench.

If he didn’t score soon, the shakes would start.

Colin tried to work up enough saliva to spit, and only half-managed. The radio had been an easy snatch; stupid bird left it on the window ledge of her flat, plugged in and wailing a new Beatles tune. Gifts like that don’t come around that often.

He used to do okay robbing houses, but the last job he pulled left him with three broken ribs and a mashed nose when the owner came home early. And Colin’d been in pretty good shape back then. Now-frail and wasted and brittle as he was-a good beating would kill him.

Not that Colin was afraid to die. He just wanted to score first. And three pounds wouldn’t even buy him a taste.

Colin hunkered down on the walk, pulled up the collar on his wool coat. The coat had been nice once, bought when Colin was a straighty, making good wage. He’d almost sold it many times, but always held out. English winters bit at a man’s bones. There was already a winter-warning chill in the air, even though autumn had barely started.

Still, if he could have gotten five pounds for it, he’d have shucked it in an instant. But with the rips, the stains, the piss smell, he’d be lucky to get fifty p.

“Ello, Colin.”

Colin didn’t bother looking up. He recognized the sound of Butts’s raspy drone, and couldn’t bear to tolerate him right now.

“I said, ello, Colin.”

“I heard you, Butts.”

“No need to be rude, then.”

Butts plopped next to him without an invite, smelling like a loo set ablaze. His small eyes darted this way and that along the sidewalk, searching for half spent fags. That’s how he’d earned his nickname.

“Oh, lucky day!”

Butts grinned and reached into the street, plucking up something with filthy fingers. There was a lipstick stain on the filter, and it had been stamped flat.

“Good for a puff or two, eh?”

“I’m in no mood today, Butts.”

“Strung out again, are we?”

Butts lit the butt with some pub matches, drew hard.

“I need a few more quid for a nickel bag.”

“You could pull a job.”

“Look at me, Butts. I weigh ten stone, and half that is the coat. A small child could beat my arse.”

“Just make sure there’s no one home, mate.”

“Easier said,” Colin thought.

“You know”—Butts closed his eyes, smoke curling from his nostrils”—I’m short on scratch myself right now. Maybe we could team up for something. You go in, I could be lookout, we split the take.”

Colin almost laughed. He didn’t trust Butts as far as he could chuck him.

“How about I be the lookout?”

“Sorry, mate. You’ll run at the first sign of trouble.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

Butts shrugged. His fag went out. He made two more attempts at lighting it, and then flicked it back into the street.

“Sod it, then. Let’s do a job where we don’t need no lookout.”

“Such as?”

Butts scratched his beard, removed a twig.

“There’s this house, see? In Heysham, near where I grew up. Been abandoned for a long time. Loaded with bounty, I bet. That antiquey stuff fetches quite a lot in the district.”

“It’s probably all been jacked a long time ago.”

“I don’t think so. When I was a pup, the road leading up to it was practically invisible. All growed over by woods, you see. Only the kids knew about it. And we all stayed far away.”

“Why?”

“Stories. Supposed to have goblins. Bollocks like that. I went up to it once, on a dare. Got within ten yards. Then I heard the screaming.”

Colin rolled his eyes. He needed to quit wasting time with Butts and think of some way to get money. It would be dark soon.

“You think I’m joshing? I swear on the head of my lovely, sainted mother. I got within a stone’s throw, and a god-fearful scream comes out of the house. Sounded like the devil his self was torturing some poor soul. Wet my kecks, I did.”

“It was probably one of your stupid mates, Butts. Having a giggle at your expense.”

“Wasn’t a mate, Colin. I’m telling you, no kid in town went near that house. Nobody did. And I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately. I bet there’s some fine stuff to nick in there.”

“Why haven’t you gone back then, eh? If this place is full of stealables, why haven’t you made a run?”

Butts’s roving eyes locked onto another prize. He lit up, inhaled.

“It’s about fifteen miles from here. Every so often I save up the rail money, but I always seem to spend the dough on something else. Hey, you said you have a few quid, right? Maybe we can take the train and —”

“No way, Butts.”

Colin got up, his thin bones creaking. He could feel the onset of tremors in his hands, and jammed them into his pockets.

“Heysham Port is only a two hour ride. Then only a wee walk to the house.”

“I don’t want to spend my loot on train tics, and I don’t want to spend the night in bloody Heysham. Pissant little town.”

Colin looked left, then right, realizing it didn’t matter what direction he went. He began walking, Butts nipping at his heels.

“I got old buds in Heysham. They’ll put us up. Plus I got a contact there. He could set us up with some smack, right off. Wouldn’t even need quid; we can barter with the pretties we nick.”

“No.”

Butts put his dirty hand on Colin’s shoulder, squeezed. His fingernails resembled a coal miner’s.

“Come on, mate. We could be hooked up in three hours. Maybe less. You got something better to do? Find a hole somewhere, curl up until the puking stops? You recall how long it takes to stop, Colin?”

Colin paused. He hadn’t eaten in a few days, so there was nothing to throw up but his own stomach lining. He’d done that, once. Hurt something terrible, all bloody and foul.

But Heysham? Colin didn’t believe there was anything valuable in that armpit of a town. Let alone some treasure-filled house Butts’d seen thirty years back.

Colin rubbed his temple. It throbbed, in a familiar way. As the night dragged on, the throbbing would get worse.

He could take his quid, buy a tin of aspirin and some seltzer, and hope the withdrawal wouldn’t be too bad this time.

But he knew the truth.

As far as bad decisions went, Colin was king. One more wouldn’t make a dif.

“Fine, Butts. We’ll go to Heysham. But if there’s nothing there, you owe me. Big.”

Butts smiled. The three teeth he had left were as brown as his shoes.

“You got it, mate! And you’ll see! Old Butts has got a feeling about this one. We’re going to score, and score big. You’ll see.”

By the time the rail spit them out at Heysham Port, Colin was well into the vomiting.

He’d spent most of the ride in the loo, retching his guts out. With each purge, he forced himself to drink water, so as not to do any permanent damage to his gullet.

It didn’t help. When the water came back up, it was tinged pink.

“Hang in there, Colin. It isn’t far.”

Bollocks it wasn’t far. They walked for over three hours. The night air was a meat locker, and the ground was all slope and hill. Wooded country, overgrown with trees and high grass, dotted with freezing bogs. Colin noticed the full moon, through a sliver in the canopy, then the forest swallowed it up.

They walked by torchlight; Butts had swaddled an old undershirt around a stick. Colin stopped vomiting, but the shivering got so bad he fell several times. It didn’t help that Butts kept getting his reference points mixed up and changed directions constantly.

“Don’t got much left, Butts.”

“Stay strong, mate. Almost there. See? We’re on the road.”

Colin looked down, saw only weeds and rocks.

“Road?”

“Cobblestone. You can still see bits of curbing.”

Colin’s hopes fell. If the road was in such disrepair, the house was probably worse off.

Stinking Heysham. Stinking Butts.

“There it is, mate! What did I tell you?”

Colin stared ahead and viewed nothing but trees. Slowly, gradually, he saw the house shape. The place was entirely obscured, the land so overgrown it appeared to be swallowing the frame.

“Seems like the house is part of the trees,” Colin said.

“Was like that years ago, too. Worse now, of course. And lookit that. Windows still intact. No one’s been inside here in fifty years, I bet.”

Colin straightened up. Butts was right. As rundown as it was, the house looked untouched by humans since the turn of the century.

“We don’t have to take everything at once. Just find something small and pricey to nick now, and then we can come back and —”

The scream paralyzed Colin. It was a force, high pitched thunder, ripping through him like needles. Unmistakably human, yet unlike any human voice Colin had ever heard.

And it was coming from the house.

Butts gripped him with both hands, the color fleeing his ruddy face.

“Jesus Christ! Did you hear that? Just like when I was a kid! What do we do, Colin?”

A spasm shook Colin’s guts, and he dry-heaved onto some scrub brush. He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve.

“We go in.”

“Go in? I just pissed myself.”

“What are you afraid of, Butts? Dying? Look at yourself. Death would be a blessing.”

“My life isn’t a good one, Colin, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

Colin pushed past. The scream was chilling, yes. But there was nothing in that house worse than what Colin had seen on the street. Plus, he needed to get fixed up, bad. He’d crawl inside the devil’s arse to get some cash.

“Hold up for me!”

Butts attached himself to Colin’s arm. They crept towards the front door.

Another scream rattled the night, even louder than the first. It vibrated through Colin’s body, making every nerve jangle.

“I just pissed myself again!”

“Quiet, Butts! Did you catch that?”

“Catch what?”

“It wasn’t just a scream. I think it was a word.”

Colin held his breath, waiting for the horrible sound to come again. The woods stayed silent around them, the wind and animals still.

The scream cut him to the marrow.

“There! Sounded like hell.”

Butts’s eyes widened, the yellows showing.

“Let’s leave, Colin. My trousers can’t hold anymore.”

Colin shook off Butts and continued creeping towards the house.

Though naive about architecture, Colin had grown up viewing enough castles and manors to recognize this building was very old. The masonry was concealed by climbing vines, but the wrought iron adorning the windows was magnificent. Even decades of rust couldn’t obscure the intricate, flowing curves and swirls.

As they neared, the house seemed to become larger, jutting dormers threatening to drop down on their heads, heavy walls stretching off and blending into the trees. Colin stopped at the door, nearly nine feet high, hinges big as a man’s arm.

“Butts! The torch!”

Butts slunk over, waving the flame at the door.

The knob was antique, solid brass, and glinted in the torchlight. At chest level hung a grimy knocker. Colin licked his thumb and rubbed away the patina.

“Silver.”

“Silver? That’s great, Colin! Let’s yank it and get out of here.”

But Colin wouldn’t budge. If just the door knocker was worth this much, what treasures lay inside?

He put his hand on the cold knob. Turned.

It opened.

As a youth, Colin often spent time with his grandparents, who owned a dairy farm in Shincliffe. That’s how the inside of this house smelled; like the musk and manure of wild beats. A feral smell, his grandmum had often called it.

Taking the torch from Butts, he stepped into the foyer, eyes scanning for booty. Decades of dust had settled on the furnishings, motes swirling into a thick fog wherever the duo stepped. Beneath the grime, Colin could recognize the quality of the furniture, the value of the wall hangings.

They’d hit it big.

It was way beyond a simple, quick score. If they did this right, went through the proper channels, he and Butts could get rich off of this.

Another scream shook the house.

Butts jumped back, his sudden movement sending clouds of dust into the air. Colin coughed, trying to wave the filth out of his face.

“It came from down there!” Butts pointed at the floor, his quivering hand casting erratic shadows in the torchlight. “It’s a ghost, I tell you! Come to take us to hell!”

Colin’s heart was a hummingbird in his chest, trying to find a way out. He was scared, but even more than that, he was concerned.

“Not hell, Butts. It sounded more like help.”

Colin stepped back, out of the dust cloud. He thrust the torch at the floor, looking for a way down.

“Ello! Anyone down there?”

He tapped at the wood slats with the torch, listening for a hollow sound.

“Ello!”

The voice exploded up through the floorboards, cracking like thunder.

“PRAISE GOD, HELP ME!”

Butts grabbed Colin’s shoulders, his foul breath assaulting his ear.

“Christ, Colin! There’s a wraith down there!”

“Don’t be stupid, Butts. It’s a man. Would a ghost be praising God?”

Colin bent down, peered at the floor.

“What’s a man doing under the house, Colin?”

“Bugger if I know. But we have to find him.”

Butts nodded, eager.

“Right! If we rescue the poor sap, maybe we’ll get a reward, eh?”

Colin grabbed Butts by the collar, pulled him close.

“This place is a gold mine. We can’t let anyone else know it exists.”

Butts gazed at him stupidly.

“We have to snuff him,” Colin said.

“Snuff him? Colin, I don’t think —”

Colin clamped his hand over Butts’s mouth.

“I’ll do it, when the time comes. Just shut up and follow my lead, got it?”

Butts nodded. Colin released him and went back to searching the floor. “Ello! How’d you get down there!”

“There is a trap door, in the kitchen!”

Colin located the kitchen off to the right. An ancient, wood burning stove stood vigil in one corner, and there was an icebox by the window. On the kitchen table, slathered with dust, lay a table setting for one. Colin wondered, fleetingly, what price the antique china and crystal would fetch, and then turned his attention to the floor.

“Where!”

“The corner! Next to the stove!”

Colin looked around for something to sweep away the dust. He reached for the curtains, figured they might be worth something, and then found a closet on the other side of the room. There was a broom inside.

He gave Butts the torch and swept slowly, trying not to stir up the motes. After a minute, he could make out a seam in the floorboards. The seam extended into a man-sized square, complete with a recessed iron latch.

When Colin pulled up on the handle, he was bathed in a foul odor a hundred times worse than anything on his grandparent’s farm. The source of the feral smell.

And it was horrible.

Mixed in with the scent of beasts was decay; rotting, stinking, flesh. Colin knelt down, gagging. It took several minutes for the contractions to stop.

“There’s a ladder.” Butts thrust the torch into the hole. His free hand covered his nose and mouth.

“How far down?” Colin managed.

“Not very. I can make out the bottom.”

“Hey! You still down there!”

“Yes. But before you come down, you must prepare yourselves, gentlemen.”

“Prepare ourselves? What for?”

“I am afraid my appearance may pose a bit of a shock. However, you must not be afraid. I promise I shall not hurt you.”

Butts eyed Colin, intense. “I’m getting seriously freaked out. Let’s just nick the silver knocker and —”

“Give me the torch.”

Butts handed it over. Colin dropped the burning stick into the passage, illuminating the floor.

A moan, sharp and strong, welled up from the hole.

“You okay down there, mate?”

“The light is painful. I have not born witness to light for a considerable amount of time.”

Butts dug a finger into his ear, scratching. “Bloke sure talks fancy.”

“He won’t for long.” Colin sat on the floor, found the rungs with his feet, and began to descend.

The smell doubled with every step down; a viscous odor that had heat and weight and sat on Colin’s tongue like a dead cat. In the flickering flame, Colin could make out the shape of the room. It was a root cellar, cold and foul. The dirt walls were rounded, and when Colin touched ground he sent plumes of dust into the air. He picked up the torch to locate the source of the voice. In the corner, standing next to the wall, was…

“Sweet Lord Jesus Christ!”

“I must not be much to look at.”

That was the understatement of the century. The man, if he could be called that, was excruciatingly thin. His bare chest resembled a skeleton with a thin sheet of white skin wrapped tight around, and his waist was so reduced it had the breadth of Colin’s thigh.

A pair of tattered trousers hung loosely on the unfortunate man’s pelvis, and remnants of shoes clung to his feet, several filthy toes protruding through the leather.

And the face, the face! A hideous skull topped with limp, white hair, thin features stretched across cheekbones, eyes sunken deep into bulging sockets.

“Please, do not flee.”

The old man held up a bony arm, the elbow knobby and ball-shaped. Around his wrist coiled a heavy, rusted chain, leading to a massive steel ball on the ground.

Colin squinted, then gasped. The chain wasn’t going around this unfortunate’s wrist; it went through the wrist, a thick link penetrating the flesh between the radius and ulna.

“Colin! You okay?”

Butts’s voice made Colin jump.

“Come on down, Butts! I think I need you!”

“There is no need to be afraid. I will not bite. Even if I desired to do so.”

The old man stretched his mouth open, exposing sticky, gray gums. Both the upper and lower teeth were gone.

“I knocked them out quite some time ago. I could not bear to be a threat to anyone. May I ask to whom I am addressing?”

“Eh?”

“What is your name, dear sir?”

Colin started to lie, then realized there was no point. He was going to snuff this poor sod, anyway.

“Colin. Colin Willoughby.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Willoughby. Allow me. My name is Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, professor emeritus at Oxford University. Will you allow me one more question?”

Colin nodded. It was eerie, watching this man talk. His body was ravaged to the point of disbelief, but his manner was polite and even affable.

“What year of our Lord is this, Mr. Willoughby?”

“The year? It’s nineteen sixty-five.”

Van Helsing’s lips quivered. His sad, sunken eyes went glassy.

“I have been down here longer than I have imagined. Tell me, pray do, the nosferatu; were they wiped out in the war?”

“What war? And what is a nosfer-whatever you said?”

“The war must have been many years ago. There were horrible, deafening explosions that shook the ground. I believe it went on for many months. I assumed it was a battle with the undead.”

Was this crackpot talking about the bombing from WWII? He couldn’t have been down here for that long. There was no food, no water…

“Mary, Mother of God!”

Butts stepped off the ladder and crouched behind Colin. He held another torch, this one made from the broom they’d used to sweep the kitchen floor.

“Whom am I addressing now, good sir?”

“He’s asking your name, Butts.”

“Oh. It’s Butts.”

“Good evening to you, Mr. Butts. Now if I may get an answer to my previous inquiry, Mr. Willoughby?”

“If you mean World War Two, the war was with Germany.”

“I take it, because you both are speaking in our mother tongue, that Germany was defeated?”

“We kicked the krauts’ arses,” Butts said from behind Colin’s shoulder.

“Very good, then. You also related that you do not recognize the term nosferatu?”

“Never heard of it.”

“How about the term vampire?”

Butts nodded, nudging Colin in the ribs with his elbow. “Yeah, we know about vampires, don’t we Colin? They been in some great flickers.”

“Flickers?”

“You know. Movie shows.”

Van Helsing knitted his brow. His skin was so tight, it made the corners of his mouth draw upwards.

“So the nosferatu attend these movie shows?”

“Attend? Blimey, no. They’re in the movies. Vampires are fake, old man. Everyone knows that. Dracula don’t really exist.”

“Dracula!” Van Helsing took a step forward, the chain tugging cruelly against his arm. “You know the name of the monster!”

“Everyone knows Dracula. Been in a million books and movies.”

Van Helsing seemed lost for a moment, confused. Then a light flashed behind his black eyes.

“My memorandum,” he whispered. “Someone must have published it.”

“Eh?”

“These vampires… you say they do not exist?”

“They’re imaginary, old man. Like faeries and dragons.”

Van Helsing slumped against the wall. His arm jutted out to the side, chain stretched and jangling in protest. He gummed his lower lip, staring into the dirt floor.

“Then I must be the last one.”

Colin was getting anxious. He needed some smack, and this old relic was wasting precious time. In Colin’s pocket rested a boning knife he kept for protection. Colin’d never killed anybody before, but he figured he could manage. A quick poke-poke, and then they’d be on their way.

“I thought vampires had fangs.” Butts approached Van Helsing, his head cocked to the side like a curious dog.

“I threw them in the dirt, about where you are presently standing. Knocked them out by ramming my mouth rather forcefully into this iron weight I am chained to.”

“So you’re really a vampire?”

Colin almost told Butts to shut the hell up, but decided it was smarter to keep the old man talking. He fingered the knife handle and took a casual step forward.

“Unfortunately, I am. After Seward and Morris destroyed the Monster, we thought there were no more. Foolish.”

Van Helsing’s eyes looked beyond Colin and Butts.

“Morris passed on. Jonathan and Mina named their son after him. Quincey. He was destined to be a great man of science; that was the sort of mind the boy had. Logical and quick to question. But on his sixth birthday, they came.”

“Who came?” Butts asked.

“Keep him talking,” Colin thought. He took another step forward, the knife clutched tight.

“The vampiri. Unholy children of the fiend, Dracula. They found us. My wife, Dr. Seward, Jonathan, Mina… all slaughtered. But poor, dear Quincey, his fate proved even worse. They turned him.”

“You mean, they bit him on the neck and made him a vampire?”

“Indeed they did, Mr. Butts. I should have ended his torment, but he was so small. An innocent lamb. I decided that perhaps, with a combination of religion and science, I might be able to cure him.”

Butts squatted on his haunches, less than a yard from the old man. “I’ll wager he’s the one that got you, isn’t he?”

Van Helsing nodded, glumly.

“I kept him down here. Performed my experiments during the day, while he slept. But one afternoon, distracted by a chemistry problem, I stayed too late, and he awoke from his undead slumber and administered the venom into my hand.”

“Keep talking, old man,” Colin whispered under his breath. He pulled the knife from his pocket and held it at his side, hidden up the sleeve of his coat.

“I developed the sickness. While drifting in and out of consciousness, I realized I was being tended to. Quincey, dear, innocent Quincey, had brought others of his kind back to my house.”

“They the ones that chained you to the wall?”

“Indeed they did, Mr. Butts. This is the ultimate punishment for one of their kind. Existing with this terrible, gnawing hunger, with no way to relieve the ache. The pain has been quite excruciating, throughout the years. Starvation combined with a sickening craving. Like narcotic withdrawal.”

“We know what that’s like,” Butts offered.

“I tried drinking my own blood, but it is sour and offers no relief. Occasionally, a small insect or rodent wanders into the cellar, and much as I try to resist it, the hunger forces me to commit horrible acts.” Van Helsing shook his head. “Renfield would have been amused.”

“So you been living on bugs and vermin all this time? You can’t survive on that.”

“That is my problem, Mr. Butts. I do survive. As I am already dead, I shall exist forever unless extraordinary means are applied.”

Butts laughed, giving his knees a smack. “It’s a bloody wicked tale, old man. But we both know there ain’t no such things as vampires.”

“Do either of you have a mirror? Or a crucifix, perhaps? I believe there is one in the jewelry box, on the night stand in the upstairs bedroom. I suggest you bring it here.”

Now they were getting somewhere. Jewelry was easy to carry, and easier to pawn. Colin’s veins twitched in anticipation.

“Go get it, Butts. Bring the whole box down.”

Butts nodded, quickly disappearing up the ladder.

Colin studied Van Helsing, puzzling about the best way to end him. The old man was so frail, one quick jab in the chest and he should be done with it.

“That small knife you clutch in your hand, that may not be enough, Mr. Willoughby.”

Colin was surprised that Van Helsing had noticed, but it didn’t matter at this point. He held the boning knife out before him.

“I think it’ll do just fine.”

“I have tried to end my own life many times. On many nights, I would pound my head against this steel block until bones cracked. When I still had teeth, I tried gnawing off my own arm to escape into the sunlight. Yet every time the sun set again, I awoke fully healed.”

Colin hesitated. The knife handle was sweaty, uncomfortable. He wondered where Butts was.

“My death must come from a wooden stake through my heart, or, in lieu of that, you must sever my head and separate it from my shoulders.” Van Helsing wiped away a long line of drool that leaked down his chin. “Do not be afraid. I am hungry, yes, but I am still strong enough to fight the urge. I will not resist.”

The old man knelt, lifting his chin. Colin brought the blade to his throat. Van Helsing’s neck was thin, dry, like rice paper. One good slice would do it.

“I want to die, Mr. Willoughby. Please.”

Hand trembling, Colin set his jaw and sucked in air through his teeth.

But he couldn’t do it.

“Sorry, mate. I —”

“Then I shall!”

Van Helsing sprung to his feet, tearing the knife away from Colin. With animal ferocity he began to hack at his own neck, slashing through tissue and artery, blood pumping down his translucent chest in pulsing waterfalls.

Colin took a step back, the gorge rising.

Van Helsing screamed, an inhuman cry that made Colin go rigid with fear. The old man’s head cocked at a funny angle, tilting to the side. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, exposing the whites. But still he continued, slashing away at the neck vertebrae, buried deep within his bleeding flesh like a white peach pit.

Colin vomited, unable to pull his eyes away.

“He’s going to make it,” Colin thought, incredulous. “He’s going to cut off his own head.”

But it wasn’t to be. Just as the knife plunged into the bone of his spine, Van Helsing went limp, sprawling face first onto the dirt.

Colin stared, amazed. The horror, the violence of what he just witnessed, pressed down upon him like a great weight. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed to normal, and he found his mind again.

Colin reached tentatively for the knife, still clutched in Van Helsing’s hand. The gore gave him pause.

“Go ahead and keep it,” Colin decided. “I’ll buy another one when —”

Alarm jolted through Colin. He realized, all at once, that Butts hadn’t returned. Had the bugger run off with the jewelry box?

Colin sped up the ladder, panicked.

“Butts!”

No answer.

Using the torch, he followed Butts’s tracks in the dust, into the bedroom, and then back out the front door. Colin swung it open.

“Butts! Butts, you son of a whore!”

No reply.

Colin sprinted into the night. He ran fast as he could, hoping that his direction was true, screaming and cursing Butts between labored breaths.

His foot caught on a protruding root and Colin went sprawling forward, skidding on his chin, his torch flying off into the woods and sizzling out in a bog.

Blackness.

The dark was complete, penetrating. Not even the moon and stars were visible.

It felt like being in the grave.

Colin, wracked by claustrophobia, once again called out for Butts.

The forest swallowed up his voice.

Fear set in. Without a torch, Colin would never find his way back to Heysham. Wandering around the woods without fire or shelter, he could easily die of exposure.

Colin got back on his feet, but walking was impossible. On the rough terrain, without being able to see, he had no sense of direction. He tried to head back to the house, but couldn’t manage a straight line.

After falling twice more, Colin gave up. Exhausted, frightened, and wracked with the pain of withdrawal, he curled up at the base of large tree and let sleep overtake him.

“This better be it, Butts.”

“We’re almost there. I swear on it.”

Colin opened his crusty eyes, attempted to find his bearings.

He was surrounded by high grass, next to a giant elm. The sun peeked through the canopy at an angle; it was either early morning or late afternoon.

“You’ve been saying that for three hours, you little wank. You need a little more encouragement to find this place?”

“I’m not holding out on you, Willie. Don’t hit me again.”

Colin squinted in the direction of the voices. Butts and two others. They weren’t street people, either. Both wore clean clothes, good shoes. The smaller one, Willie, had a bowler hat and a matching black vest. The larger sported a beard, along with a chest big as a whiskey barrel.

Butts had taken on some partners.

Colin tried to stand, but felt weak and dizzy. He knelt for a moment, trying to clear his head. When the cobwebs dissipated, he began to trail the trio.

“Tell us again, Butts, how much loot there is in this place.”

“It’s crammed full, Jake. All that old, antiquey stuff. I’m telling you, that jewelry box was just a taste.”

“Better be, Butts, or you’ll be wearing your yarbles around your filthy neck.”

“I swear, Willie. You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

Colin stayed ten yards back, keeping low, moving quiet. Several times he lost sight of them, but they were a loud bunch and easy to track. His rage grew with each step.

This house was his big break, his shot at a better life. He didn’t want to share it with anybody. He may have choked when trying to off Van Helsing, but when they arrived at the house, Colin vowed to kill them all.

“Hey, Willie. Some bloke is following us.”

“Eh?”

“In the woods. There.”

Colin froze. The man named Jake stared, pointing through the brush.

“Who’s there, then? Don’t make me run you down.”

“That’s Colin. He came here with me.”

Damned Butts.

“He knows about this place? Jake, go get the little bleeder!”

Colin ran, but Jake was fast. Within moments the bigger man caught Colin’s arm and threw him to the ground.

“Trying to run from me, eh?”

A swift kick caught Colin in the ribs, searing pain stealing his breath.

“I hate running. Hate it.”

Another kick. Colin groaned. Bright spots swirled in his vision.

“Get up, wanker. Let’s go talk to Willie.”

Jake grabbed Colin by the ear and tugged him along, dumping him at Willie’s feet.

“Why didn’t you tell us about your mate, Butts?”

“I thought he’d gone. I swear it.”

Jake let loose with another kick. Colin curled up fetal, began to cry.

“Should we kill him, Willie?”

“Not yet. We might need an extra body, help take back some of the loot. You hear me, you drug-addled bastard? We’re going to keep you around for awhile, as long as you’re helpful.”

Butts knelt next to Colin and smiled, brown teeth flashing. “Get up, Colin. They’re not going to kill you.” He helped Colin gain his footing, keeping a steady arm around his shoulders until they arrived at the house.

In the daylight, the house’s aristocratic appearance was overtaken by the many apparent flaws; peeling paint, cracked foundation, sunken roof. Even the stately iron work covering the windows looked drab and shabby.

“This place is a dump.” Willie placed a finger on one nostril and blew the contents of his nose onto a patch of clover.

“It’s better on the inside,” encouraged Butts. “You’ll see.”

Unfortunately, the inside was even less impressive. The dust-covered furniture Colin had pegged as antique was damaged and rotting.

“You call this treasure?” Willie punched Butts square in the nose.

Butts dropped to the floor, bleeding and hysterical.

“This is good stuff, Willie! It’ll clean up nice! Worth a couple thousand quid, I swear!”

Willie and Jake walked away from Butts, and he crawled behind them, babbling.

A moment later, Colin was alone.

The pain in his ribs sharpened with every intake of breath.

If he made a run for it, they’d catch him easily. But if he did nothing, he was a dead man.

He needed a weapon.

Colin crept into the kitchen, mindful of the creaking floorboards. Perhaps the drawers contained a weapon or some kind.

“What you doing in here, eh? Nicking silver?” Jake slapped him across the face.

Colin staggered back, his feet becoming rubber. Then the floor simply ceased to be there. He dropped, straight down, landing on his arse at the bottom of the root cellar.

Everything went fuzzy, and then black.

Colin awoke in darkness.

He felt around, noticed his leg bent at a funny angle.

The touch made him cry out.

Broken. Badly, from the size of the swelling.

Colin peeled his eyes wide, tried to see. There was no light at all. The trap door, leading to the kitchen, was closed. Not that it mattered; he couldn’t have climbed up the ladder anyway.

He sat up, tears erupting onto his cheeks. There was a creaking sound above him, and then a sudden burst of light.

“I see you’re still alive, eh?”

Colin squinted through the glare, made out the bowler hat.

“No worries, mate. We won’t let you starve to death down there. We’re not barbarians. Willie will be down shortly to finish you off. Promise it’ll be quick. Right Willie?”

Willie’s laugh was an evil thing.

“See you in a bit.”

The trap door closed.

Fear rippled through Colin, but it was overwhelmed by something greater.

Anger.

Colin had ever been the victim. From his boyhood days, being beaten by his alcoholic father, up to his nagging ex-wife, suing him into the recesses of poverty.

Well, if his miserable life was going to end here, in a foul smelling dirt cellar, then so be it.

But he wasn’t going without a fight.

Colin pulled himself along the cold ground, dragging his wounded leg. He wanted the boning knife, the one he’d left curled in Van Helsing’s hand.

When Jake came down to finish him off, the fat bastard was going to get a nice surprise.

Colin’s hand touched moisture, blood or some other type of grue, so he knew he was close. He reached into the inky blackness, finding Van Helsing’s body, trailing down over his shoulder…

“What in the hell?”

Colin brought his other hand over, groped around.

It made no sense.

Van Helsing’s head, which had been practically severed from his shoulders, had reattached itself. The neck was completely intact. No gaping wound, no deep cut.

“Can’t be him.”

Perhaps another body had been dumped down there, possibly Butts. Colin touched the face.

No beard.

Grazing the mouth with his fingers, Colin winced and stuck a digit past the clammy lips.

It was cold and slimy inside the mouth. Revolting. But Colin probed around for almost an entire minute, searching for teeth that weren’t there.

This was Van Helsing. And he had completely healed.

Which was impossible. Unless —

“Jesus Christ.” Colin recoiled, scooting away from the body.

He was trapped in the dark with a vampire.

When would Van Helsing awake? Damn good thing the bloke was chained down. Who knows what horrors he could commit if he were free?

Colin repeated that thought, and grinned.

Perhaps if he helped the poor sod escape, Van Helsing would be so grateful he’d take care of the goons upstairs.

The idea vanished when Colin remembered Van Helsing’s words. All the poor sod wanted was to die. He didn’t want to kill anyone.

“Bloody hell. If I were a vampire, I’d do things —”

Colin halted mid-sentence. His works were in a sardine can, inside his breast pocket. He reached for them, took out the hypo.

It just might work.

Crawling back to Van Helsing, Colin probed until he found the bony neck. He pushed the needle in, then eased back the plunger, drawing out blood.

Vampire blood.

Tying off his own arm and finding his vein in the dark wasn’t a problem; he’d done it many times before.

Teeth clenched, eyes shut, he gave himself the shot.

But there was no rush.

Only pain.

The pain seared up his arm, as if someone was yanking out his veins with pliers.

Colin cried out. When the tainted blood reached his heart, the muscle stopped cold, killing him instantly.

Colin opened his eyes.

He was still in the cellar, but he could see perfectly fine. He wondered where the light could be coming from, but a quick look around found no source.

Colin stood, realizing with a start that the pain in his leg had vanished.

So, in fact, had all of his other pain. He lifted his shirt, expecting to see bruised ribs, but there wasn’t a mark on them.

Even the withdrawal symptoms had vanished.

The hypodermic was still in his hand. Colin stared at it, remembering.

“It worked. It bloody well worked.”

Van Helsing still lay sprawled out on the floor, face down.

Colin looked at him, and he began to drool. Hunger surged through him, an urge so completely overwhelming it dwarfed his addiction to heroin.

Without resisting the impulse, he fell to the ground and bit into the old man’s neck. His new teeth tore through the skin easily, but when his tongue touched blood, Colin jerked away.

Rancid. Like spoiled milk.

A sound, from above. Colin listened, amused at how acute his hearing had become.

“All right, then. Jake, you go downstairs and mercy kill the junkie, and then we’ll be off.”

Mercy kill, indeed.

Colin forced himself to be patient, standing stock-still, as the trap door opened and a figure descended.

“Well well well, look who’s up and about. Be brave, I’ll try to make it painless.”

Jake moved forward. Colin almost grinned. Big, sweating, dirty Jake smelled delicious.

“You got some fight left in you, eh?”

Colin lunged.

His speed was unnatural; he was on Jake in an instant. Even more astounding was his strength. Using almost no effort at all, he pulled the larger man to the ground and pinned down his arms.

“What the hell?”

“I’ll try to make it painless,” Colin said.

But from the sound of Jake’s screams, it wasn’t painless at all.

This blood wasn’t rancid. This blood was ecstasy.

Every cell in Colin’s body shuddered with pleasure; an overwhelming rush that dwarfed the feeling of heroin, a full body orgasm so intense he couldn’t control the moan escaping his throat.

He sucked until Jake stopped moving. Until his stomach distended, the warm liquid sloshing around inside him like a full term embryo.

But he remained hungry.

He raced up the ladder, practically floating on his newfound power. Butts stood at the table, piling dishes into a wooden crate.

“Colin?”

Butts proved delicious, too. In a slightly different way. Not as sweet, sort of a Bordeaux to Jake’s Cabernet. Colin’s tongue was a wild thing. He lapped up the blood like a mad dog at a water dish, ravenous.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Colin let Butts drop, whirling to face Willie.

“Good God!”

Willie reached into his vest, removed a small Derringer. He fired twice, both shots tearing into Colin’s chest.

There was pain.

But more than pain, there was hunger.

Willie turned to run, but Colin caught him easily.

“I wonder what you’ll taste like,” he whispered in the screaming man’s ear.

Honeysuckle mead. The best of the three.

Colin suckled, gulping down the nectar as it pulsed from Willie’s carotid. He gorged himself until one more swallow would have caused him to burst.

Then, in an orgiastic stupor, he stumbled from the house and into the glorious night.

No longer dark and silent and scary, the air now hummed with a bright glow, and animal sounds from miles away were clear and lovely.

Bats, chasing insects. A wolf, baying the moon. A tree toad, calling out to its mate.

Such sweet, wonderful music.

The feeling overwhelmed Colin, and he shuddered and wept. This is what he’d been searching for his entire life. This was euphoria. This was power. This was a fresh start.

“I see you have been busy.”

Colin spun around.

Van Helsing stood at the entrance to the house. His right hand still gripped Colin’s bone knife. His left hand was gone, severed above the wrist where the chain had bound him. The stump dripped gore, jagged white bone poking out.

Colin studied Van Helsing’s face. Still sunken, still anguished. But there was something new in the eyes. A spark.

“Happy, old man? You finally have your freedom.”

“Freedom is not what I seek. I desire only the redemption that comes with death.”

Colin grinned, baring the sharp tips of his new fangs.

“I’ll be happy to kill you, if you want.”

Van Helsing frowned.

“The lineage of nosferatu ends now, Mr. Willoughby. No more may be allowed to live. I have severed the heads of the ones inside the house. Only you and I remain.”

Colin laughed, blood dripping from his lips.

“You mean to kill me? With that tiny knife? Don’t you sense my power, old man? Don’t you see what I have become?” Colin spread out his arms, reaching up into the night. “I have been reborn!”

Colin opened wide, fangs bared to tear flesh. But something in Van Helsing’s face, some awful fusion of hate and determination, made Colin hesitate.

Van Helsing closed the distance between them with supernatural speed, plunging the knife deep into Colin’s heart.

Colin fell, gasping. The agony was exquisite. He tried to speak, and blood — his own rancid blood — bubbled up sour in his throat.

“Not…not…wood.”

“No, Mr. Willoughby, this is not a wooden stake. It will not kill you. But the damage should be substantial enough to keep you here for an hour or so.”

Van Helsing drove the knife further, puncturing the back of Colin’s rib cage, pinning him to the ground.

“I have been waiting sixty years to end this nightmare, and I am tired. So very tired. With our destruction, my wait shall finally be over. May God have mercy on our souls.”

Colin tried to rise, but the pain brought tears.

Van Helsing rolled off, and sat, cross-legged, on the old cobblestone road. He closed his eyes, his thin, colorless lips forming a serene smile.

“I have not seen a sunrise in sixty years, Mr. Willoughby. I remember them to be very beautiful. This should be the most magnificent of them all.”

Colin began to scream.

When sunrise came, it cleansed like fire.

He couldn’t move.

The table he lay on was cold against his naked back. There were no ropes binding his arms, no belts securing his legs. But he was immobile, paralyzed.

Yet he was still able to feel.

Panicked thoughts swirled through his brain. Where am I? Was I in an accident? I can’t open my eyes. Am I blind? Am I dead? I can still think, so I must be alive. But I can’t move. Can’t talk. What’s happening to me?

He concentrated, hard as he could, trying to move his hands and touch his face.

Nothing happened.

Noise, from the right. Footsteps. His body didn’t seem to work, but thankfully, his ears did.

Someone’s in the room.

He felt a hand touch his face, and then saw painful bright light.

A doctor in a green smock stared down at him.

He just pried my eyelids open.

“Good morning. You’re disoriented, I bet. Confused. Probably can’t even remember how you got here.” The doctor’s voice was scratchy, strained, as if he wasn’t accustomed to using it.

Please, tell me what’s going on…

“You can’t move because you’ve been given a paralytic.” He was an older man, bald, his scrubs stained. “Unfortunately, you have to remain conscious for this procedure to work.”

The doctor walked off, out of sight. The man’s eyes remained open, unblinking, gazing into the light overhead. Am I in an operating room? What procedure? Who was that doctor?

It was bright, but it didn’t seem bright enough to be a hospital. The light was yellowish, dingy, coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there was a smell. Not an antiseptic, care-facility smell. A smell of rot and decay.

“The drug immobilizes the skeletomuscular system.” The doctor was somewhere near his feet. The man couldn’t move his eyes to see him. “You’re completely helpless. One more dose and you’d stop breathing altogether.”

The doctor rested a hand on the man’s knee, gave it a pat.

“You’ve lost your reflexes, your ability to flinch. But other vital functions remain active.”

A sudden pressure, between his legs. The doctor was squeezing his testicles. The agony bloomed, white hot and inescapable. His vision went blurry. He tried to pull away, tried with all of his might, but he didn’t budge an inch.

“You can still feel pain, as I’m sure you notice. Lacrimation is normal, for now. Your pupils can dilate. And, of course, your pulse and heart rate just shot up considerably. The drug keeps you from moving so I can do the procedure, but it doesn’t shut you down completely.”

The man felt the tears flow down the sides of his head, the throb still lingering after the doctor released his grip.

This wasn’t a hospital. It couldn’t be. A doctor wouldn’t do that to me. What the hell was going on?

Then he heard the most agonizing scream of his life.

It didn’t come from the room, but from someplace else in the building. Nearby, maybe a room or two over. The scream was so shrill it didn’t sound human at first. Then it lost pitch and was replaced by shouting.

“NO! PLEASE NO! STOP IT! JESUS NOOOOOO!”

What are they doing to that poor guy?

And what are they going to do to me?

“That’s one of Lester’s guests,” the doctor said. “Lester has been with him for a few hours now. I’m surprised he still has a voice left. I shudder to think what’s being done to make him cry out like that. Do you recognize who it is?”

And then, all at once, the man knew who was screaming. He remembered how they got there. The strange noises. Being chased. Hunted. Running terrified. And then being caught. Caught by…

“No need to worry.” The doctor leaned over him, smiling. Crumbs wedged in the corners of his thin lips, on his chin, and a small streak of something brown—blood?—smeared across his age-spotted forehead. “You won’t end up like that. You’re being given a gift. An invaluable, extraordinary gift. The world is full of lambs. But very few get to be wolves. Lester’s playmate, sadly for him, is a lamb. But you, you, my lucky fellow—you’re about to become a wolf.”

The doctor raised a gigantic syringe.

“This is going to hurt. Quite a bit, in fact.”

The man couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, and he was forced to watch and feel as the needle descended and plunged into his unblinking eye.

Maria unlocked the door to her room and was greeted by Abraham Lincoln.

The poster was yellowed with age, the edges tattered, and it hung directly over the queen-sized bed where the headboard would normally be. The adjoining walls were papered with postcards, all of them boasting various pictures and portraits of Lincoln. The single light in the room came from a floor lamp, the shade decorated with a collage of faded newspaper clippings, all featuring—big surprise—Lincoln.

So that’s why the crazy old proprietor called it the Lincoln Bedroom.

Maria pulled her suitcase in behind her, placed the room key on a scarred, old dresser, and turned the deadbolt. The door, like the lock, was heavy, solid. As reassuring as that was, this room still gave her the creeps. In fact, everything about this bed and breakfast gave her the creeps, from its remote and impossible-to-find location, to its run-down facade, to its eccentric decorations and menagerie of odd odors. But Maria didn’t have a choice. The hotel in town had overbooked, and this seemed to be the last room available in the entire state of West Virginia.

Iron Woman had become quite the popular event, with worldwide media coverage, and apparently they’d given her room reservation to some reporter. Which was ironic, because Maria was a registered contestant, and without contestants, there wouldn’t be any need for reporters. The reporter was the one who should have been staying in the Lincoln Bedroom, with its bizarre decor and its strange smell of sandalwood mixed with spoiled milk.

Maria sighed. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was a good night’s sleep after more than twelve hours on the road. She’d missed her late night workout—this inn didn’t have an exercise room—so the best she could hope for was a five mile run in the morning before getting back to the event hotel, which assured her it would have a room available tomorrow.

Actually, the hotel room will be ready later today.

A glance at the Lincoln clock on the nightstand showed it was past two in the morning.

She had promised to let Felix know when she got in, and pulled her cell phone out of her jeans, her thumbs a blur on the keyboard.

F — U R probably asleep. I M @ a creepy B&B, not the hotel. Long story, but it’s free. That = more $$$ to spend on our honeymoon. J WTL8R. TTFN, H2CUS, luv U — M.

Maria circled the room, holding her cell over her head, trying to find a signal while the floorboards creaked underfoot. When a single bar appeared, she sent the text message and walked to the poster. She placed her cell on the nightstand as a reminder to charge it before she went to sleep, hefted her suitcase onto the bed, and dug inside, freeing her make-up bag and taking it to the bathroom. She flipped on the light switch and was rewarded with the sight of President Lincoln’s face on the toilet seat cover.

“I’ll never look at a five dollar bill the same again,” she said, but her tone was without mirth. Rather than amusing, she was finding this whole Lincoln thing creepy.

Maria shut the door behind her—more out of habit than modesty—lifted the lid, undid her jeans, and sat down, the cold seat raising goosebumps on her tan thighs. She yawned, big and wide, as the long day caught up with her.

The bathroom, like the bedroom, was tiny. The sink was crowded next to the shower stall, and if Maria were a few inches taller her knees would touch the opposing wall. Hanging on that wall was a framed painting of Lincoln. A head and shoulders portrait of his younger years, before he had the famous beard. His ultra-realistic eyes seemed to be staring right at her.

“Pervert,” Maria whispered.

Lincoln didn’t reply.

Voices came through the wall. The same two men Maria had heard while checking in, arguing about some sports game, repeating the same points over and over. She listened to the floorboards creak and wondered if they’d keep it up all night, disturbing her sleep. The thought was quickly dismissed. At that moment, Maria was so tired she could have dozed through a Metallica concert.

She finished peeing, flushed, then turned on the faucet. The water was rust-colored. Last week Maria had read an article about water-borne bacteria, and she elected to brush her teeth with something safer. She turned off the water and set her toothbrush on the sink. Then she opened the bathroom door, picked her suitcase up off the floor, and placed it on the bed. Maria pulled out a half-empty bottle of Evian and was two steps to the bathroom when she froze.

Didn’t I already put the suitcase on the bed?

A flush of adrenalin made Maria turn, her heart racing. She stared at the suitcase like it was a hostile creature, and then she hurried to the front door and eyed the knob.

Still locked. The key was where she’d left it, on the dresser.

Maria spun around, taking everything in. A small desk and chair were tucked in the corner of the room. The bed had a beige comforter and a matching dust ruffle, and it seemed undisturbed. The closet door was open, revealing an empty space. Tan curtains covered the window on the adjacent wall.

The curtains were fluttering.

Almost like someone is hiding behind them.

Her first instinct was to run, but common sense kicked in. She was on the second floor. It was doubtful someone had come in through the window and moved her luggage. A more likely explanation was she’d put the suitcase on the floor herself and was too tired to remember it. The curtains probably jerked because the window was open and a breeze was blowing in.

“You’re exhausted,” she said aloud. “You’re imagining things.”

But Maria was sure she put the suitcase on the bed. She’d put it on its side and unzipped it to get her make-up bag. She was sure of it.

Maybe it fell off?

But how could it fall and land perfectly on its wheels? And why didn’t I hear it fall?

She stared at the suitcase again. It was heavy; packed alongside her clothes was an entire case of bottled water, a result of her recent germ phobia. The suitcase would have made noise hitting the floor. But all Maria heard from the bathroom was those men arguing, and…

“The creaking,” she said aloud. “I heard the floors creaking.”

What if the creaking didn’t come from the room next door?

What if the creaking came from her room—from someone walking around?

Maria felt goosebumps break out on her arms.

What if that someone is still here?

She paused, unsure of what to do next. Her feet felt heavy. Her mouth became so dry her tongue stuck to her teeth. Maria knew the odds were high that her paranoia was the result of exhaustion. She also knew there was practically a zero likelihood someone had come into her room just to move her suitcase.

And yet…

Maria clenched and unclenched her hands, eyes locking on the curtains. She made a decision.

I need to check.

She took a deep breath, let it out slow. Then she crept toward the window. The curtains were still, and Maria wondered if she’d imagined the fluttering. No light came through them even though they were thin. Not surprising—the inn was way out in the boonies, not another building for miles, and the tall pine trees obscured the moon and stars.

Either that, or someone is crouching on the window sill, blocking the light.

Maria swallowed, knowing she was psyching herself out, feeling the same kind of adrenaline tingles she got before a race.

Upstairs, the arguing abruptly ceased, mid-word. The room became deathly quiet, the only sound Maria’s timid footfalls, creaking on the hardwood floor. The smell of rot in the room got stronger the closer she got to the window.

Could someone really be behind the curtains, ready to pounce?

Maria felt like she was nine-years-old again, playing hide and seek with her younger brother, Cameron. He loved to jump out and scream Boo! at her, making her scream. For an absurd moment, she could picture Cam behind that curtain, hands raised, ready to leap out and grab her. One of her few pleasant childhood memories of Cam.

Then she pictured something else grabbing her. A filthy, hairy, insane maniac with a rusty knife.

Maria shook her head, trying to dispel the thought.

The thought wouldn’t leave.

“Get a grip,” she whispered. “There’s nothing there.”

She was two feet away when the curtains moved again.

And again.

Like someone was poking them from the other side.

Maria flinched, jerking backward.

It’s just the wind.

It’s got to be.

Right?

“It’s the wind,” she said through her clenched jaw.

The wind. Nothing more. Certainly not some creep climbing into my room.

But, what if…?

She thought about the pepper spray in her suitcase. Then she thought about just getting the hell out of there. Maria wished Felix was here with her. He’d find this whole situation ridiculously funny.

You compete in triathlons and you’re too chicken to check a window?

No. I’m not chicken. I’m not afraid of anything.

But she got the pepper spray anyway, holding it out ahead of her like a talisman to ward off evil. She paused in front of the window, the curtains still.

“Do it.”

Maria didn’t move.

“Just do it.”

Maria set her jaw and in one quick motion swept back the curtains—

—revealing bricks where the glass should have been.

She stared for a moment, confused, then felt a cool breeze on her arm.

There. In the corner. A hole in the mortar, letting the air in.

Maria let out an abrupt laugh. It sounded hollow in the tiny room. She gave the bricks a tentative push, just to make sure they were real and didn’t swing on hinges or anything. They were cold to the touch, as hard as stone could be.

Only a ghost could have gotten through that. And Maria didn’t believe in ghosts. Life had enough scary things in it without having to make stuff up.

She let the curtain fall, and thought of Cameron again. About the things he’d gone through. That was real horror. Not the wind blowing some curtains in a run-down, hillbilly bed and breakfast.

Maria hadn’t seen Cam in a few weeks, because of her training regimen. She promised herself she would visit the hospital, right after the event. Maybe Felix would come with, even though Cam seemed to creep him out.

He’ll do it anyway. Because he loves me.

Again, she wished Felix were here. He promised to be at the race on Saturday. Promised to rub her sore muscles afterward.

She glanced down at her left hand, at the pear-shaped diamond on her ring finger. Yellow, her favorite color. Sometimes hours would go by and she’d forget it was there, even though she’d only been wearing it for less than a week. Looking at it never failed to bring a smile.

Maria walked past the bed, glanced at the knob on the front door to make sure it was still locked, and mused about how she’d gotten herself all worked up over nothing.

She was heading back to the bathroom when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dust ruffle on the bed was fluttering.

Like something had disturbed it.

Something that had just crawled underneath.

Maria paused, standing stock-still. The fear kicked in again like an energy drink, and she could feel her heart in her neck as she tried to swallow.

There is NOT some man under my bed.

And yet…

Far-fetched as it may be, there was probably enough room for someone to fit under there. The bed was high up off the floor on its frame, with plenty of space for a man to slip underneath.

A filthy man with a rusty knife?

Maria gave her head a shake.

It’s the wind again.

No, it can’t be. This side of the bed isn’t facing the window.

A rat?

Could be a rat.

“I came in fourth in Iron Woman last year. I’m not afraid of a little rat.”

Maria got on her hands and knees and began to crawl over to the bed.

What if there’s a man under there?

There won’t be.

But what if there is? What if he grabs me when I lift the dust ruffle?

“Then I’ll squirt him in the eyes and kick his ass,” she said to herself.

Maria reached for the fabric, aiming her pepper spray with her other hand.

I’ll do it on three.

One…

Two…

Three!

Maria jerked up the dust ruffle.

No one grabbed her. The space under the bed was vacant, except for a small plume of dust that she waved away. Maria let the ruffle drop, and her shoulders drooped in a big sigh.

“I really need to get some rest.”

Maria got to her feet, wondering when she’d last slept. She quickly calculated she’d been awake for over twenty hours. That was probably enough to make anyone a little jumpy.

She padded back to the bathroom, reaching for her toothbrush on the sink, picturing her head on the pillow, the covers all around her.

Her toothbrush was gone.

Maria checked under the sink, and in her make-up bag.

It was nowhere to be found.

She stared at the Lincoln poster. He stared back, his expression grim.

This isn’t exhaustion. Someone is messing with me.

“Screw the free room,” she said, picking up the bag. “I’m out of here.”

Maria rushed to the bed, reaching for her cell phone on the nightstand.

Her phone wasn’t there.

In its place was something else. Something small and brownish.

Maria let out a squeal, jumping back.

This can’t actually be happening. It all has to be some sort of joke.

She stared at the brown thing like it would jump up and grab her.

Is it real? It looks shriveled and old.

Some stupid Halloween prop?

Then she smelled it. An odor of decay that invaded her nose and mouth and made her gag.

“It’s real. Oh my god… it’s real.”

Someone put a severed human ear in my room.

She ran to the door, and the knob twisted without her unlocking it. Maria tugged it inward, raising her pepper spray to dose anyone standing there.

The hallway was empty. Dark and quiet.

She hurried to the stairs, passing doors with the names Theodore Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, and Millard Fillmore. Over the winding staircase was a gigantic poster of Mount Rushmore. Maria took the stairs two at a time, sprinting as soon as her feet hit the ground floor. She flew past the dining room, and the living room with its artificial fireplace, and ran up to the front door, turning the knob and throwing her weight against it.

Her shoulder bounced off, painfully. Maria twisted the knob the other way, giving it a second push.

No good. The door won’t budge.

She tried pulling, with equal results.

Swearing, Maria searched for a deadbolt, a latch, a door stop, or some other clue why it wasn’t opening. The only lock on the door was on the knob, and that spun freely. She ground her molars together and gave it another firm shoulder-butt.

It was like slamming into concrete. The door didn’t even shake in its jamb.

“Hey! Girly!”

The words shook Maria like a blow. A male voice, coming from somewhere behind her. She spun around, her muscles all bunching up.

“Yeah, I’m talkin’ to y’all, ya pretty thang. We gonna have some fun, we are.”

The voice was raspy and mean, dripping with country twang. But she couldn’t spot where it was coming from. The foyer, and the living room to the right, looked empty except for the furniture. The overhead chandelier, made from dusty deer antlers, cast crazy, crooked shadows over everything. The shadows undulated, due to the artificial fireplace, a plastic log flickering electric orange.

“Who’s there?” Maria demanded, her pepper spray held out at arm’s length, her index finger on the spray button and ready to press.

No one answered.

There were many places he could be hiding. Behind the sofa. Around any number of corners. Tucked next to the large bookcase. Behind the larger-than-life-size statue of George Washington, holding a sign that said Welcome to the Rushmore Inn. Or even up the stairs, beyond her line of sight.

Maria kept her back to the wall and moved slowly to the right, her eyes sweeping the area, scanning for any kind of movement. She yearned to run, to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Behind her, she felt the drapes of one of the windows. She quickly turned around, parting the fabric, seeking out the window latch.

But like the Lincoln bedroom, there was no glass there. Only bricks, hidden from view on the outside by closed wooden shutters that she’d thought quaint when she first pulled in.

This house is like a prison.

That thought was followed by one even more distressing.

I’m not their first victim. They’ve done this before.

Oh, Jesus, they’ve done this before.

Maria clutched the pepper spray in both hands, but she couldn’t keep it steady. She was so terrified her legs were trembling—a first for her. A nervous giggle escaped her lips, but it came out more like a whimper. Taking a big breath, she screamed, “Help me!”

The house carried her plea, bounced it around, then swallowed it up.

A moment later she heard, “Help me!”

But it wasn’t her echo. It was a male falsetto, mocking her voice.

Coming from the stairs.

“Help me!” Another voice. Coming from the living room.

“Help me!” This one even closer, from a closet door less than ten feet away.

“Help me.” The last one was low pitched. Quiet.

Coming from right next to her.

The statue of Washington.

It smiled at her, its crooked teeth announcing it wasn’t a statue at all.

The incredibly large man dropped the Welcome sign and lunged, both arms outstretched.

Maria pressed the button on pepper spray.

The jet missed him by several feet, and his hand brushed her shirt.

She danced away from his grasp, and then barreled toward the stairs as the closet door crashed open and someone burst out. Someone big and fat and…

Sweet lord, what was wrong with his body?

Maria pulled her eyes away and attacked the stairs with every bit of her energy. The hundreds of hours she spent training paid off, and she climbed so quickly the man—don’t look at his horrible face—on the second floor couldn’t react in time to grab her. She ducked past, inhaling a stench of body odor and rot, heading for the only other room she knew to be occupied, the two men arguing sports.

And they were still arguing, behind the door labeled Theodore Roosevelt. Maria threw herself into the room without knocking, slamming and locking the door behind her.

“You’ve got to help—”

The lights were on, but the room was empty. Maria looked for the voices, which hadn’t abated, and quickly focused on the nightstand next to the bed. Setting on top was an old reel-to-reel tape recorder. The voices of the arguing men droned through its speakers in an endless loop.

A trick. To distract her. Make her feel like she wasn’t alone.

Or maybe the purpose of the recording was to lure her into this room.

Then the tape recorder, and the lights, abruptly went off.

Maria froze. She heard someone crying, and with no small surprise realized the sound was coming from her. Dropping onto all fours, she crawled toward the bed. This room was laid out the same way as the Lincoln room, and she quickly bumped against the dust ruffle, brought her legs in front of her, and eased underneath on her belly, feet first, keeping her head poking out so she could listen.

At first she couldn’t hear anything above her heart hammering in her ears and her own shallow panting. She forced her breathing to slow down, sucking in air through her nose, blowing it out softly through her puffed cheeks.

Then she heard the footsteps. From the hallway. Getting closer. First one set, slow and deliberate, each footfall sounding like a thunderclap. Then another set, equally heavy, running up fast.

Both of them stopped at the door.

“I think the girly is in here.”

“That’s Teddy’s room. We can’t go in.”

“But she’s in there. It’s bleedin’ time.”

Maria heard the doorknob turn. She scooted further under the bed, the dust ruffle covering her hair.

“You shouldn’t do that. You really shouldn’t do that.”

The door creaked, inching open. Maria saw a beam of light sliver through the crack. It widened until she could see two huge figures silhouetted in the doorway. They each held flashlights.

“The one that catches her, bleeds her first. Them’s the rules.”

“I ain’t goin’ in. You shouldn’t neither.”

“Shuddup. This girlie is mine.”

“It’s Teddy’s room.”

“Shuddup!”

The man dressed in the George Washington outfit shone his light on the other man’s face. Maria put her hand in her mouth and bit down so she didn’t scream. His face was… dear God… it was…

“Watch my eyes!”

“I said shuddup!”

“I’m tellin’ on you!”

“Hey! Don’t!”

The door abruptly closed, and both sets of footsteps retreated up the hall, down the stairs.

Maria’s whole body shivered like she was freezing to death. Terror locked her muscles and she couldn’t move. But she had to move. She had to find some kind of way out of there.

Were all the windows bricked-over? Maybe some of them weren’t. Maybe she could get out of a window, climb down somehow. Or get up on the roof. The roof sounded a lot better than waiting around for those freaks to come back.

Maria heard something soft. Faint. Nearby.

Some kind of scratching sound.

She concentrated on listening, but couldn’t hear anything above her own labored gasping. She took a deep breath, held it in.

And could still hear the breathing.

Raspy, wet breathing.

Right next to her.

Someone else is under the bed.

“I’m Teddy.”

His voice was deep, rough, and hearing it that close scared Maria so badly her bladder let loose.

“I’m gonna bleed you, girly girl. Bleed you nice and long.”

Then something grabbed Maria’s legs, and she screamed louder than she’d ever screamed in her life, screamed louder than she’d ever thought possible, kicking and clawing as she was dragged down through the trap-door in the floor.

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Copyright © 2009 Joe Konrath
Cover art copyright © Carl Graves
“The Screaming” originally appeared in The Many Faces of Van Helsing

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the authors.

Edition: February 2011

Table of Contents

The Screaming

Excerpt from TRAPPED

Excerpt from ENDURANCE

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