Choice of Demons

Take a close look at this box of figurines. They look like toys, don’t they? Well, I suppose they are playthings of a kind. They’re a bunch of tiny demons! Look at how much effort has gone into carving them, each one is uniquely ugly with slightly different features, reflecting the variety of unholy creatures that swim eternally through the forbidden realms. These figures were created by a Satanic cult in the 1980s and handed out to unsuspecting members of the public as a way of proliferating some evil ideology. We’ve determined that most of these figures are just pieces of pseudo-religious tat. But not all of them were harmless…

Another night of angry screaming, screaming beyond hoarseness, beyond what the human voice could possibly produce. The neighbours banged the walls, cats out in the street wailed in sympathy, and Mrs Angela O’Neal went even further out of her mind.

At five am, she sat in the kitchen, lit cigarette balanced on the ashtray unsmoked, and cried. Then she stopped herself. However much she was going through, she understood, poor Jenny was suffering even more. Another long scream echoed from the bedroom upstairs as if to confirm the truth in her realisation. Not for the first time, Mrs O’Neal wondered if a pillow placed over Jenny’s head might solve all their problems. No, she decided. She had to hold on to her hope that things would get better. That the demon inside her daughter would go away.

The doorbell chimed at 9am exactly, and Mrs O’Neal ran downstairs, two steps at a time, to answer the front door. ‘Oh, thank goodness you’ve…’

She found herself momentarily startled by the appearance of their visitor. Of course, it was well known that the new arrival was blind, but Mrs O’Neal was not prepared for the gaping eye sockets. The man looked like a haunted skeleton wearing a tweed blazer.

‘Algernon Gervais, at your service, madam. May I take it you’re happy for Cerberus here to accompany me?’

Mrs O’Neal looked down at the wolf-like guide dog. ‘Yes, please come inside. Dogs are always welcome in this house.’

‘And Exorcists? What about them?’ he strode in and let her close the door behind him. I’ll save you the trouble of finding a polite way to ask the question on your mind. I knew to call you ‘madam’ because I can smell your perfume. You must be the lady of the manor, correct?’

She nodded, before realising how pointless that was when communicating with someone who couldn’t see. She’d only pick up on the sarcasm in his comment later – their council house was hardly a manor. ‘Yes, Mr Gervais, I’m Mrs O’Neal. Jenny’s mother. Thank you for agreeing to help us.’

‘Never said anything about helping, did we Cerberus?’ he patted the dog. ‘Can’t make any promises, not where the occult is concerned.’ He sniffed. ‘Do you have my money?’

She handed him an envelope containing ten newly minted pound coins. ‘As you requested. I really hope you can help us. We’re all out of options now, and we don’t have the funds to pay for any sort of specialists... You’re our only hope.’

She started to explain about the failure of the family doctor and local vicar to help, but Gervais silenced her with a chopping motion. ‘How did this all this start, that’s all I want to know.’

‘I wish we knew,’ Mrs O’Neal sighed. ‘I just wish we knew.’

…

A week earlier, after completing the first of her part-time jobs in town, Jenny was rushing for the bus when she bumped into a strange woman.

‘Look where you’re going, darling,’ the little woman snapped. ‘What’s the rush?’

Jenny threw her hands up. ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve got to get that bus, or I’ll be late for work again.’

She needed to keep the boss of her second job happy as a promotion was on the cards, and she and her mum desperately needed the extra money.

‘He won’t promote you, darling’ the old lady called after her. ‘He has his eye on that David for the role.’

Jenny came to a halt and turned around. ‘What did you say? How could you know that?’

She noticed the dark eyed woman was dressed in a very old-fashioned way and was wearing a strange symbol on her silver necklace. But she was smiling, her eyes wrinkled at the corners. ‘You need a change in your life, darling. Here, take this,’ she pressed a cool figurine into Jenny’s hand.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any money,’ Jenny said quickly, aware of the sales techniques of some in the travelling community. Once they have the goods in your hand they wanted paying.

‘I don’t want your money,’ the woman replied, offended. ‘He likes you,’ she indicated the figurine. ‘He wants to be one with you.’

Confused but too polite to argue, Jenny nodded back. ‘Thank you, but I really need to get this bus now,’ she put one foot inside the vehicle to stop the driver from closing the doors on her. When she turned back again, the woman was gone, disappeared.

On the back seat of the crowded bus, Jenny examined the strange figure that had been forced on her. It was about four inches high, a naked man with large feminine breasts poking his tongue out. She turned it in her hand wondering what on earth it could be made of. It wasn’t plastic, wood or stone. Perhaps it was valuable? She certainly hoped so. The figurine had a pointed tail, the barb of which pricked Jenny’s slim finger, drawing blood.

She gasped loudly, and a few other passengers turned to see what was wrong with her. She smiled at them, reassuringly, and sucked her finger. ‘I’m fine, just an accident.’

After they resumed their conversations or found something more interesting to do, she looked again at the figurine. Horrible little thing. She would throw it away at the first opportunity, get it out of her life. Of course, by then, it had already got its hooks in her.

…

‘Girl is upstairs, I take it?’ Gervais let Cerberus lead him up the stairs even before being invited. Mrs O’Neal trailed on behind.

‘Yes, second door on the right. I… er… must warn you, Mr Gervais, she can be… dangerous.’

‘No need to warn me about the dangers of the supernatural, my dear.’ His hands started to move towards his face, towards his empty eye sockets, but he stopped himself. The last thing he wanted – or deserved - was pity.

She understood his meaning, having heard the stories. ‘That door there. Good luck, Mr Gervais. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

He stopped at the threshold and produced a hip flask. ‘Brought my own poison, thank you.’

He took a deep breath before following Cerberus into Jenny’s room and quietly closing the door behind them. It was a normal teenager's bedroom, nothing immediately ominous - not that he could see any of it. He could sense that the curtains were drawn, rooms often had a familiar cold, musty quality when not exposed to the light of day. There was a foul stench – not just the normal adolescent smells, but an evil quality which he had encountered before.

Cerberus growled in the direction of the heavily breathing girl on the bed.

‘There, there, boy,’ Gervais comforted him. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, girly, but my dog won’t harm you, unless I tell him to. If you’ve got a demon inside you, it’s me you need to worry about.’

There was no response for at least a minute, and he began to feel his confidence subside. Then Jenny O’Neal – or the thing inside her – laughed at him, a low growl.

‘Something amused you, girl?’

‘I see the barrel is being well and truly scraped,’ she was surprisingly erudite. ‘First doctors, then holy men, now… well, what are you, exactly?’

‘Algernon Gervais, expert in matters of the occult.’

‘Have you dealt with a case of demonic possession before, Mr Gervais?’

He stumbled closer to the bed, Cerberus staying close to the door, sensing danger. ‘Can’t say I have. I do have experience of the demonic however, as you can see.’

‘You are blind.’

‘Ten out of ten for observation.’

‘You would love to look at this body, Gervais, if you could. It is young. Fresh. Would you like to touch it?’

‘Not today thank you,’ he answered, though his tongue was hanging out at the thought of it.

‘What is this you hold before me?’

He took the lid off the hip flask. ‘Just a little holy water. Let’s see how you like it,’ he tipped half of the contents over the girl, and she reacted with mild shock but not any sort of supernatural revulsion.

A moment later she said, ‘You’ve made me wet, Mr Gervais. Was that your intention?’

He snorted, annoyed. ‘Just trying something out.’

‘Is that all you’ve got for me, blind man?’

‘No,’ he answered quickly.

‘You’re an idiot. Stupid f**king idiot.’

‘Better than a liar, girly.’

‘What do you mean, blind man?’

‘I submit to you that you’re not possessed at all. Why are you doing this? For the attention? Perhaps you’re just mental? You O’Neal family seem the type – common and desperate.’

‘You do not believe that a demon fights for control of my body?’

‘You didn’t react to the holy water, did you? I’m not afraid of you, like everyone else seems to be. Of course, if you really were a demon, you’d prove it.’

‘How?’

‘By doing something only a demon could do. You shouldn’t need me to tell you that, my dear.’

The girl roared and thrashed on the bed. He stepped back, sensing the horrible change which was rolling over her. ‘Is this suitably demonic enough for you, blind man?’

He tossed the rest of the holy water over the creature. This time it reacted like acid and the demon inside Jenny screamed a different kind of scream – real pain this time.

Mrs O’Neal knocked urgently on the bedroom door. ‘Is everything all right in there?’

Jenny – and it was Jenny replied. ‘Mum! Mum, I’m back!’

Mrs O’Neal barrelled in, almost tripping over Cerberus.  She paused before her daughter, suspicious. She certainly looked her old self, if a little tired. ‘Have you cured her, Mr Gervais? Tell me you’ve done it?’

‘I have done it,’ he confirmed. ‘The demon inside her was giving control back to Jenny each time someone tried to exorcise her, just long enough to escape the impact. There are rules you see, even with demons. It’s just a matter of evoking them and making sure they follow them. The holy water has scared it away. I’ll work with you both to keep it away.’

Mrs O’Neal hugged Jenny and when it was over, tried to hug Gervais. He pushed her away.

‘Let’s talk about money, Mrs O’Neal. The fee for my continued protection will be five thousand pounds.’

Mrs O’Neal was flabbergasted. ‘I… well, I couldn’t possibly afford that, Mr Gervais, I’m sorry. It’s just me and our Jenny on our own since Alan died…’

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Very well. I’ll just return the beast to young Jenny, shall I? Is that what you want to me to do?’

Both were astounded. ‘No! Please!’ Jenny wailed. ‘Please, not that!’

‘You wouldn’t!’ Mrs O’Neal offered.

‘I bloody would you know.’

The older woman looked at her daughter and shrugged resignedly. It felt horribly like they may have switched from dealing with kind of one devil to another. ‘Well… perhaps we can arrange a repayment schedule?’

‘I think we’d better. I’ll return on Friday for the first instalment. If you haven’t got the money, you’ll have to offer something else instead. You or the girl, I don’t mind which. Come along, Cerberus.’

Gervais let himself out.

Mother and daughter held on to each other, tightly.

A thoroughly reprehensible character, that supposed expert in the occult, Algernon Gervais, features in several tales associated with items in the Scarlet Vault, so I’ve no doubt we’ll be hearing further from him, whether we’d like to or not. He was responsible for rounding up these figurines and dealing with the fallout from them – but only for his own grubby reasons. It was from his private collection that we acquired them for safekeeping. The elderly Mr Gervais was reluctant to hand them over, as I recall, but I was able to convince him by threatening to boil him alive in an acid bath. I wonder where he is now, and how he was judged.

See you again sometime? Enjoy your nightmares.

 

 

 

Every Sixth Word

Tonight’s item is this rudimentary computer built by one of the unsung heroes of Bletchley Park at the start of World War Two. This suitcase-sized prototype is a Random Word Generator – The RWG Mark 1- developed to aid in the creation of codes and cyphers to assist in the war effort. This machine produces infinite strings of random words, I’ll er demonstrate if I can find the… there. Printed on teletype paper are the words IF, CAT, WHEN, HOUSE, RAIN, WE, SMILE. I’ll switch it off. The output on these long strips of teletype paper is, by design, completely haphazard, but a junior at Bletchley Park, with keen eyes trained to recognize patterns, discovered something rather interesting after noticing the presence of words that were not programmed into the machine’s vocabulary. Every sixth word, strung together, appeared to form coherent sentences. She filtered the chaff and typed them up onto these pages here. Much of the assembled dialogue is so much gibberish, but some parts are – terrifyingly – understandable. Indeed, you could almost think that distinct personalities are identifiable. Shall we try and lend them a voice?

Daisy. Daisy.

Can’t move. Can’t bloody move a muscle. Where’s that f**king nurse? Lazy b*tch. I rung the bell, where is she?

Give me your answer, do.

Will I ever get out of this bed? No one cares about me. Where’s that nurse? Come on woman. I need some help here. Can’t move, can’t even think.

I’m half crazy.

I think I might be dead, you know.

All for the love of you.

Drat it. Oh, I can touch it and my fingers don’t pass through! Can you read this? Is it coming through?

‘Ere is this thing working?

Hello. Hello. Hello. Are ya getting this? Testing 123.

I’ll assume it is working. I do not know how long this can be sustained, so I shall try and say as much as I can in the time that is available. My name is – was – Edward Trestlewick, born in Oxford on the 31^st of October in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.  I will certainly expect you to doubt the validity of that statement, but that is neither here nor there. You can believe it if you want to, or disbelieve if that is your will. I can do little to influence anything now but I do want to take this opportunity to be heard.

Me name’s Jim. Jim Rose and I am twelve – thirteen -  years old. Is me mummy there? I’m cold.

Yes, I was born in 1899 and died in 1940. I think June 12^th, though it may have been the 13^th. The details of my earthly life are slipping away from me now, but know that I am dead. This is the most important point. I am dead but still communicating from beyond the grave. Such is the wonder of this device – is that the right word? I was drawn to it. There are others here who also felt it’s reach, but most of them are confused. Such confusion!

I’ve looked around here for me dad but he ain’t here. Thought he would be, having died when I was a babe and all. Never was reliable, that’s what mum used to say.

I’m a ghost then. I don’t feel like a ghost. I’m just a normal boy, you know. There are other children here, but they don’t talk much. I fink they’re frightened. I ain’t scared. Never been scared in my… life…

I was always sensible, rational. I think I was a man of learning – a scientist. Can you check that? There will be records, of course. My name is Edward… Tre… I don’t remember. I would try to assist you with some further detail, but the specifics are being stripped from me. Part of the process, I think. Let me explain, as this should be noted. Upon death – was it a heart attack? I remember a pain in my chest. I left my body behind. I saw myself, briefly, through spiritual eyes, and I couldn’t believe what I looked like.

I was murdered. I bet the filth won’t have investi… investigated me death properly. I was murdered by that swine Sam… Sam… Old Whathisname. Pushed me, he did. Ended up at the bottom of the cliff, I did, all broken, like. I was a sight, I can tell ya.

It is not the same as looking in the mirror, or seeing a photograph of one’s self. I saw myself without life. I saw myself as dead flesh. Not me anymore. And there was no light! That is what I wanted to say! There was no light, no holy chorus – nor devils with pointed sticks. This is what I wanted to impart. Yes, I was a scientist in life, and I resented the daft ideas promoted by religion. There is no judgement at the end, no punishment or reward at the holy gates. There is naught but confusion. Edward Treslewick. That’s my name. Let it be known – do not fall for the lies of organised religion. Anyone who claims to understand the afterlife is not worth listening to. I don’t mean me, of course. Oh goodness. What else was there to say? There was something.

I think I’m happier like this. Life was never much fun, what with us being poor and that. I would like to see me mum again though. Does she think of me? I hope the memories are good ones. I dunno how long its been since I departed, like. Feels like forever, but I reckon it’s only been a day. Yeah, a day. That’s all. Wish I could remember, but I always was a bit thick, that’s what the teacher said.

My wife! Yes, and the children. Would you pass them a message. Tell M…M… Margeret. Was that her name? She was my wife, I should remember. Tell her that… Tell her…

I was pleased not to go to hell though, let me tell ya. You were wrong about that, Mr… Mr Wilson? I can’t remember the geezers name. He always said that if I didn’t do what I was told I’d go to hell. Well, he was wrong. Stupid bugger. Oh tarnation, what was the fella’s name?

Yes, the other important fact – just as the physical body decays after death, so does the spirit. I am being broken up. I can feel parts of myself break apart like icebergs. It’s happening to us all, hence the confusion. I can only assume that just as our bodies decompose and are swallowed up by the earth, our souls do as well. I am being dissolved, to be reconstituted into, into what? I don’t know what comes next. Yes, I was a scientist. A great scientist. Edward Tre… Tre….

Jim. Jim Rose is my name. Say hello to mumma.

John. My son is called John.

I’d like one of her cuddles right now, I can tell ya.

I must be honest. This erosion of self scares me more than physical death. What is this leading to, I wonder? What if there’s nothing? My soul rotted away like a corpse. Fertilizer for the next generation perhaps? This is gold. Important knowledge. People need to know this. Pass on this message from me… Ed… Edmund? All gone. Margeret?

I’m dead, mumma. I’m lost. Ain’t ever coming back and what’s left of me is circling the drain. I thought there would be demons but its worse than that even. I’m bloody cold mumma. Give us a blanket. I’m going, mumma, drifting apart like a cloud of smoke. This is really the end, I reckon. I don’t think I have anything else to say. I can’t think of anything. I can’t think.

I think I shall have to leave it there. I was a scientist, you know.

Daisy. Daisy.

The young lady who decrypted these strange messages was horrified by the fundamental truths the output seemed to suggest and was pleased to dispatch this machine and her summarisations to the Scarlet Vault for permanent storage. The Random Word Generator was recreated from scratch, but the Mark 2 and later models did not produce the same mysterious output. Some would say that is a good thing.

A Godless universe, without the chance of redemption, and the reality that there’s nothing after death but a gradual erosion of the soul is somewhat depressing – if you choose to accept the output, of course.  What we’ve seen and heard tonight is just curated parts of random data –  An old saying about enough monkeys writing Shakespeare springs to mind.

 Of course, I know what happens after death. But no, I’m not going to tell you. Not tonight, anyway. Enjoy your nightmares.

 

The Loyal Servant

 Tonight’s item has been kept here for safekeeping for over a hundred years and is still sought by many.  It’s a nineteenth-century Romanian cremation urn. Dark green in colour, almost black, with some Christian symbolism engraved in silver. Contained inside, the last earthly remains of a Great Elder Vampire. But who would be so bold and cunning to fight and kill such a powerful creature? Her name was Valentina Balan...

Even after thirty years of farming, the breaking light of dawn was still breathtaking. Features of the landscape, always there, unappreciated, momentarily had their time in the spotlight and shined. Farmer Constantin surveyed his grain fields with great satisfaction, his old but sharp eyes taking in every detail of arable land and the distant castle. He frowned suddenly. Something was visibly wrong in the top field – flattened crops spoke of a trespasser overnight. He rode his donkey up the hillside to investigate and upon closer inspection, he made a horrific discovery. A tiny broken body had been deposited in the field, arms and legs twisted across the torso, a terrible look of frozen fear on the dead child’s blue face. No stranger to death, but still greatly disturbed, he knelt next to the corpse and tried to recognise the girl. It was Zandra, the Butcher's daughter. Two marks on her little neck where she’d been bitten by… what? An animal? It had to be an animal. Only an animal could do such a thing…

…

‘Will you please step forward, Tina,’

Valentina Balan smoothed the creases on the black silk of her servant's dress and stepped into the kitchen.

Castle Verlesco’s head manservant, a big, bearded man named Georgescu, was sat at the kitchen table. ‘Take a chair,’ he pointed. It was not an invitation.

Valentina slid the wooden chair across the stone floor and gently sat down, locking eyes with Georgescu.

‘You are not like the other serving girls, Tina,’ he observed. ‘They do not find it so easy to stare me in the eye.’

Valentina quickly broke eye contact and looked towards the floor. ‘I am sorry, Georgescu. I did not mean any disrespect.’

He grunted, disbelieving. ‘You have been working for the Count for one week now. During this time you have been late on two occasions, frequently disobedient, and lazy in your work.’

It hung in the air for a while. Valentina continued to play sheepish. ‘I am sorry, Georgescu.’

‘You are sorry, I am sorry,’ he replied. ‘Sorry I ever employed you.’

She looked up. Was this a dismissal? She hoped not, having not yet achieved her objective.

‘Your references appeared to be very impressive. Too impressive. So, we sent a message to your supposed previous employer to see if he would confirm what was stated on the letter you provided.’

‘Ah,’ she exclaimed. She had hoped that the deception would have taken much longer to be discovered. ‘I am sure, sir, that I am not the first girl working here to overstate her employment history, am I not?’

He laughed. ‘You are not, that is true. What shall I do with you, Tina?’ He thought about what he would like to do to her, and the drool began to pool at the corner of his mouth. ‘How much do you need your position here? What are you prepared to do to keep it?’

Valentina recoiled but replied without fear. ‘Not that.’

Georgescu was disappointed, but not surprised. ‘You do not act like a simple peasant girl. You are hiding something, I think?’

She sighed. ‘I can see there is no fooling you, Georgescu, so I will be plain. My full name is Valentina Balan. You may have heard that name before, yes?’

A spark in his eyes showed he had. ‘The vampire huntress? You are Valentina Balan?’

‘The same,’ she smiled. ‘I am hunting a great evil, Georgescu, and I have reason to believe it hides inside this castle. I pretended to be a simple serving girl as it was expedient. This ruse has  allowed me free access inside these walls.’

‘You believe that there is a vampire here?’

‘One of the Great Elders, I believe.’

‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’

‘Completely. But nevertheless, I believe it to be true. You must have heard the stories, yes? The missing boys and girls? Poor Yetta from the village, found at the bottom of the well, her young body horribly mutilated. And Zandra, left for dead in the barn of Farmer Constantin, pints of blood missing from her corpse. What do you think is responsible for such crimes? Who could do this, but a vampire?’

Georgescu considered it. ‘I think that these children were killed by a man. A man who acts like a demon, certainly, but not a vampire. The vampire is a myth.’

‘You noted, Georgescu, that I did not act like a serving girl. You also, do not act like the simple peasant you pretend to be.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You are presumptuous.’

‘I am clever,’ she said without arrogance. ‘So are you. So why are you pretending to be a simple manservant?’

Georgescu stood up suddenly, and walked around the kitchen as he spoke. ‘My mother and father died when I was very young. I was stateless, drifting. Until the Count found me. He employed me, gave me a position when no other would, and more – he educated me. Taught me to read the books in the library. He is a great man, Valentina, and I would do anything he required of me. There is no more loyal servant than I.’

‘Count Verlescu is a vampire,’ she replied.

‘No.’

‘Having investigated every person in this castle over this last week, I must come to that conclusion. It can only be him.’

‘No.’

She glared at him until he felt obliged to explain himself.

‘You have not met the Count in the course of your duties yet,’ he stated.

‘That is correct, he does not leave his room during the day. Does that not remind you of anything? I will not be satisfied until I have spoken with the Count, Georgescu.’

He looked angry for a moment, but then his face cleared. ‘Very well. I will take you to him, now, if you would like? Then, when you are satisfied he is not the creature you seek, you will leave this castle never to return.’

She nodded in agreement. ‘If you wish.’

‘Then, come.’

…

They paused outside the door of the master bedroom before entering. ‘You will not do or say anything to upset the Count,’ Georgescu instructed. ‘He is a very ill man. You will let me lead the conversation.’

Valentina nodded but did not agree aloud. They entered the darkened room and approached the grand four poster bed. The room was shaded, but oil lamps provided a little artificial light, but not enough to make her comfortable that there wasn’t something awful lurking in the shadows. Instinctively, she reached for the cross on the chain around her neck.

‘Count?’ Georgescu said with a gentleness that belied his form. ‘Are you awake?’

An ancient old man stirred in the bedsheets, his head emerged from under a blanket, his watery eyes blinking like an owl. Valentina noted his withered arms and legs. This old man was obviously bedridden and seemed incapable of threat. ‘What is it, Georgescu?’ he bleated. ‘I am very tired.’ He seemed to notice Valentina for the first time. ‘Who is this?’ his face brightened at the sight of the pretty newcomer.

Georgescu shot a warning look towards her, a reminder to follow his lead. ‘This is Tina, my Lord, the serving new girl. I wanted to introduce you both.’

Count Verlescu flashed a toothy grin at her. ‘Another new girl? What happened to the last one?’

Georgescu looked shifty. ‘Do not let it worry you, my Lord. Do you have any questions for our Lord and master, girl?’

‘None,’ she replied quickly. Perhaps she had been wrong. Her mind raced. If her target was not the Count, then who was it?

‘Then we will disturb you no longer,’ Georgescu said, about to draw Valentina away.

‘Wait!’ the old man croaked. ‘Bring her closer to me. I would look at her.’

Valentina shook her head slightly, but Georgescu ignored her distaste for the idea and shepherded her nearer the old fossil. She looked down at his pathetic form and tried to hide her disgust.

‘You are very beautiful,’ he leered up at her. ‘Such lovely blonde hair.’

She clamped her mouth closed, resisting the temptation to speak out of respect for Georgescu.

‘I should like to drink you up,’ the Count grinned.

Valentina wondered then whether she had been right after all. Before she could act, two big hands bit into her shoulders. Georgescu. He was frowning, not enjoying this, but his eyes were steely, determined.

‘You want her, my Lord?’ he offered. ‘She knows about your true nature, Lord,’ he said as she tried to squirm out of his grip. ‘She thought it was you snatching the children.’

The Count chuckled, the sound like a drain emptying. ‘Me? Chasing after little girls? In my condition?’

Georgescu released one half of Valentina to snatch the crucifix from her neck with a free hand. ‘You won’t be needing that,’ he said, as he tossed it across the room.

Valentina fought with the big man but was outmatched by his brute strength. ‘So, you procure the victims, do you not? To keep this old relic alive?’

‘I am nearly five hundred years old,’ The Count crowed, looking his age. ‘My days of hunting prey are over, but at least I have my loyal servant here to keep me well fed!’

Valentina twisted in his grip and struck out with her knee and kicked Georgescu in the groin. He groaned but didn’t give up on his slow relentless pushing of her closer to the keen mouth of the Count.

‘I’m so hungry for her, Georgescu! Give her to me!’

Valentina found herself forced down onto the bed next to the repellent creature. The Count strained his wrinkled face towards her, making the most vile anticipatory sucking noises. It was now or never. She ran her single free hand down her smooth leg and found the sheathed silver blade tucked in the garter above her stockings. Clasping and drawing it, she twisted the knife and jabbed it into the old man’s side. Unsure of how to react, he initially laughed, then the cleansing power of silver burned icily through his ancient body and he collapsed into dust and bone. He croaked like a frog as the ravages of time caught up with him. Georgescu gasped, horrified at the loss of his master, and Valentina used the distraction to slip off the bed, roll backwards and stand up.

‘My Lord!’ Georgescu wailed. ‘What have you done to him? How could you?’

‘I am a vampire huntress,’ she answered. ‘What exactly did you expect?’ she retrieved her little knife from the smoking remains on the bed and held it to Georgescu’s throat. ‘You’re next,’ she informed him.

His eyes widened with fear. ‘I am not a vampire,’ he stammered. ‘I’m a mortal man. If you kill me, that will be murder!’

She considered that, but only for a moment. ‘Tell that to the mothers and fathers of the girls you kidnapped and brought here to this parasite... Tell it to brothers and the sisters of the dead children you dumped around the village to draw attention away from this castle... Tell it to the devil. When you see him.’

She slashed at Georgescu’s neck and ripped a red line across his throat. Blood flowed from his carotid artery as he sank down on his knees then keeled forward onto the bed. His blood mixed with the remains of his master and the resulting mass began to bubble and fizz. Even in death he was feeding his master! Valentina leapt forward and dragged the body away from the bones and ashes, fearing the spilt lifeforce could reanimate the vampire and her eyes widened in horror as she saw that was exactly what seemed to be happening! Shapes were forming in the gore, growing, pulsating… She acted, grabbing an oil lamp with her left hand and smashing it against the side of the bed post and she tossed it onto the sheets surrounding the throbbing mass of flesh. The flame caught the oil and set fire to the bed, sterilising any stirrings of vampiric resurrection.  Satisfied both Count and servant were neutralised, she wiped her tiny blade on her dress and slid it back into the garter on her right leg.

It had done its work. So had she.

The encounter with Count Verlescu and his loyal servant taught Valentina Balan a very useful lesson – to always trust her instincts. Understanding the immense danger posed even in death by the remains of a Great Elder Vampire, she decanted the ashes into this urn and placed it here for protection in the Scarlet Vault. She was a magnificent woman and I fear we won’t see the like of her again. Many vampires – and their human agents – would like to get their hands on this. You’re not a vampire, are you? You do look a little pale…

Caveat Lector

I know that this item looks like a dusty old book, and I suppose in practical terms that’s all that it is. I can’t tell you the title of this ancient tome, or even what the book is about – as no one left alive knows. I can tell you that it’s referred to in some small circles as the Caveat Lector – Reader Beware! This is one of the most dangerous items in the Scarlet Vault. Oh, don’t be tempted to open the cover and flip through the pages, don’t even touch it! This book is protected.

Somerset, the Summer of 1967.

The two motionless ravens perched on either side of the iron gate might almost been mistaken for real birds. Only when Algernon Gervais pushed the heavy gate between them open and they did not move a muscle was he again reassured that they were indeed merely exquisite statues, bronze finished in a charcoal patina. Two gatekeepers, patiently guarding Marcham Manor from thieves and intruders, he surmised. His face flushed red as he realised, he could fall into either classification. Later, he’d discover that they were there not to keep something out, but to keep something in.

Gervais walked through the once immaculate garden – already going to ruin due to lack of care – and admired the pale brick edifice of Marcham Manor. He remembered the last time he’d visited, around five years ago now, only to be rudely turned away by the late Lord Marcham. Stubborn old fool. Still, he pondered hopefully, things were different now. The manor - and it’s possessions - had a new owner.

As he got closer to the formidable oak front door, the noise of dreadful hippy music drifted out at him, as did some rather suspicious smells. As did the sound of laugher, and the clink of bottles. It was only ten am, for goodness sake. Everything he’d heard about the decline of the Marcham’s was true, it seemed. And that was very good for him.

Before he could knock on the door, someone inside let him in. A pretty teenage girl, hair in braids, a slightly spaced out look on her face.

She squinted at him. ‘You’re not the law, are you?’

‘Most certainly not,’ he was offended.

‘Oh goodie,’ she smiled. ‘You can come in!’

He accepted the invitation. Once inside the great hall, he looked the girl up and down, lasciviously. If she was handing out free love that morning, he would gladly have accepted. But he turned straight to business.  ‘Are you Lady Marcham, by any chance?’

The girl snorted. ‘I wish! No, I’m Moonchild. That’s my given name.’

Moonchild? What sort of name was that?

‘I imagine Clementine’s still upstairs, sleeping off last night’s revelries,’ she explained. ‘Why don’t you wait in the drawing room? I expect she’ll come down eventually.’

Gervais coughed. ‘I erm… I’m here about a book. I did have an appointment with her Ladyship.’

‘So formal!’ Moonchild mocked, leading him into what he presumed was the drawing room. The space had been converted into an ashram style boudoir, all drapes and beads. Quite distasteful. Lord Marcham would be turning in his grave.

A couple of young men, both too blissed out to even acknowledge him were lazing on pillows.

‘Well, make yourself comfortable,’ Moonchild sort of curtseyed and left him standing there awkwardly. ‘Big John and Little Mike won’t bite. See you around, daddio.’

Daddio. Good lord, what was wrong with young people these days? Gervais eventually summoned the courage to make eye contact with the Big John and Little Mike. He need not have worried about being forced to make conversation. Their eyes were glazed over.

‘Peace, man,’ one of them murmured at him from a drug-addled daze.

He tried to hide his disgust and half-heartedly twisted his fingers into the peace sign in acknowledgement.

‘Who are you, man?’ the hippy asked about a minute later.

‘I’m Algernon Gervais, young man.’ he answered proudly. ‘I’m an expert on the occult. Who are you, when you’re at home?’

…

Sometime later, Lady Marcham deigned to welcome him.

‘Ah, Lady Marcham,’ he started.

‘Please,’ she grunted. ‘Call me Clementine.’ Like the others, the young aristocrat was now a fully paid-up member of the alternative community. A hippy. Algernon checked himself, hoping his rather square attitude didn’t rub the girl up the wrong way. He needed to charm her if he was going to get his way.

‘Algernon Gervais, at your service, madam,’

‘You can drop all the fancy stuff,’ she led him out of the room, and up an ornate staircase to the well-stocked library. ‘There are no airs and graces here,’ she informed.

He rather liked the look of the sandy-haired girl, he decided, not that he’d be able to make anything of it. Far too young. He tried hard not to stare at her cleavage, exposed by the flimsy tie-dyed summer dress. He coughed again, the result of smoking too many cigars. ‘As we discussed on the telephone, there is an item in your late father’s collection I would very much like to get my hands on,’ he scanned the bookshelves, looking for it, but his keen eye couldn’t pick it out.

‘Oh, it’s not kept here,’ she cottoned on. ‘Daddy stored it in the cellar with all his other valuables. I have to confess, Mr Gervais, I’m surprised by your interest in it, given the more interesting antiques in his collection.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, did your father never discuss the er… value of the text?’

He certainly hoped not, as that would make his acquisition of the book so much easier – and cheaper.

‘Daddy and I didn’t really see eye to eye, so avoided each other as much as possible,’ Clementine admitted. ‘I only know he didn’t want anyone to have it. On that, he was most definite.’

She recalled a childhood memory of her father sternly lecturing her, finger in air as he spoke. ‘No one must take the book. No one must read the book. Do I make myself clear?’

She’d laughed, nervously, not really understanding.

Algernon considered telling her of his earlier visit, and how Lord Marcham had previously denied him the item, but realised that might not help his chances if he informed her of the fact.

‘And what about you, Clementine?’ he asked slowly. ‘Are you willing to sell?’

She took a long breath out. ‘Unfortunately, the generous inheritance I acquired is already slipping away from me,’ she admitted.

This was just as he had hoped. Rumours of the financial mismanagement of the estate were rife. He had visions of all that lovely money being spent on parties and alcohol and hashish. Wasted.

Clementine continued, ‘So, regretfully, I must go against some of my late fathers express wishes. The book is yours, Mr Gervais.’

He guffawed and clapped his hands happily.

‘If you can afford to bid for it,’ she continued. ‘I’ve decided to auction it off.’

The smile was wiped from his face. ‘But… I understood this would be a private sale?’

‘Oh, that was the idea,’ she grinned, ‘but since I told the auctioneers about it, I’ve had so many expressions of interest for it, even a few solid offers…’

His heart sank. ‘I had thought I was the only person aware he even owned a copy,’ a nasty thought occurred to him. ‘Many of the people interested in the text – myself not included – are somewhat questionable characters. I do hope you haven’t shared your identity or address? It’s a private, anonymous auction you’ve got planned, correct?’

For the first time, a little sense of worry crept across her pretty features. ‘I… well, I didn’t think of that. Perhaps I should have, Mr Gervais.’

He found himself putting a protective hand on her shoulder. ‘Now you must listen to me, Clementine, dear. I’m an expert on these matters. You aren’t entirely safe while others know the book is in this house. You’ll need to take great care from now on.’

She stepped back, crossed her arms and pouted. ‘You’re just saying all this because you want the book for yourself.’

‘I do want the book,’ he accepted, ‘but not out of acquisitiveness. I just want to read it. Know what the fuss is about. That book is dangerous, Clementine. I know it, and your father knew it.’

She ran over to the large Palladian window that looked down onto the garden, stared out and took a sharp intake of air and pressed her hand against her heart. Gervais walked over and squinted out of the dirty glass, keen to see what had disturbed her. He saw only the walled garden, slightly overgrown, and the gate he himself had come in earlier.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, concerned at the frozen fear on her face.

Clementine stammered. ‘D... Daddy always said the ravens on the gate would protect his precious book. I thought he was just joking.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gervais looked out of the window once more. This time he noticed that the two sentry birds had left their perch. His head swung back to face the stunned girl. ‘The book, Clementine, where is it?  You must take us to it at once. If it’s still there!’

That was when they heard the screaming.

…

They rushed downstairs to the scene of the disturbance, Gervais out of breath when they reached the entrance hall. The front door was ajar, and as they got closer, the feet of a body sprawled outside across the front steps became visible. Clementine recognized the sandals – It was Moonchild lying dead, clutching a raffia shopping bag. The top half of her body was a mess of blood and hair.

‘Oh god,’ Clementine covered her mouth. ‘What happened to her?’

Gervais yanked up his trouser legs and squatted next to the body. The girl was leaking blood everywhere, her skull torn open and – horribly – her brain was exposed to the air. Were those fragments of it over on the concrete a few feet away? He shuddered to think.

‘Did she slip and fall, do you think?’

‘I don’t think banging your head could do that much damage to you,’ Gervais muttered, looking ominously upwards towards the sky. ‘I’d say she’s been pecked to death, wouldn’t you?’

A bird shrieked above them, and Clementine shuddered. Some of the other house guests were watching fearfully from a distance, having been disturbed from their drink and drug induced stupor by the commotion.

Clementine ignored them and pointed with a shaking hand. ‘What’s that she’s got in the bag?’

Gervais had a strong suspicion, so very gingerly pulled the bag free of the body and took it inside, watching at all times for the ravens. He slowly opened the bag and showed her the contents.

‘Looks like your friend here wasn’t really a friend after all. The girl must have brought forward her plans to steal it from you when I turned up.’

Clementine broke down in tears. ‘Oh, Mr Gervais, what are we going to do?’

‘What are we going to do?’ he repeated, ‘I should say that’s your problem, Clementine. Inherited from your father. Not my responsibility!’

‘But what about the book?’ she shouted, knowing it might keep him on her side. However disreputable she found him, she was somewhat calmed by the presence of a senior. A supposed expert on matters of the occult, though somehow she found herself doubting.

‘You’ll keep it locked away inside this house, if you’ve got any sense, girl. Forever. Those ravens only attacked when someone tried to take it away, after all.’

As he said the words, a thought occurred to him. He pushed the front door closed with his boot.  ‘So, I should be alright if I just take a quick look, shouldn’t I?’ he took the book from the bag and resolved to read as much as he could.  This could be his last chance to satisfy his desire to know the content, after all. ‘I’m not going anywhere with it,’ he shouted to any creatures that might be listening outside the door which he bolted firmly with his free hand. ‘I’m just reading it. There’s no harm in reading a book, is there?’

As the spine creaked open, Clementine backed away from him. ‘Mr Gervais, I don’t think you should do that,’ she spoke quietly. ‘Daddy always said that no one should read the book.’

‘No harm in it,’ he repeated confidently, turning to the first page with writing on it, ‘These occult thingies have rules, you know. As long as I don’t try and take the book past the threshold, I should be fine.’

His eyes widened as he started to read and understand the content. He was so engrossed, that he didn’t immediately notice the bird swoop from where it had been hiding inside the manor house, mighty wings extended, talons reaching for his eyeballs. It was the last thing he would ever see.

Clementine gasped. Gervais tried to swot the attacking raven with the book, but it was no mere animal, and the tome struck against metal, bouncing off. Gervais yelled as the bird claws dug into his face, pressing sharply into his eyes, creating such incredible pain. He sobbed as his eyeballs were ripped to shreds and sunk to his knees and forward onto his face. Although he couldn’t see the blood, he could feel the sticky wetness on his hands, sliding down his forearms, dripping to the floor. He tried to speak, tried to cry out in pain, but couldn’t hear his own voice over the sound of Clementine screaming.

The parliament of ravens had judged him unworthy. His punishment was never being able to read again.

No one can take the book. No one can read the book.

Clementine finally understood the grave seriousness of what her father had told her, and finally understood the truth of her inheritance – her family’s mission.

No one can take the book. No one can read the book.

It was quite some considerable effort for the Scarlet Vault to acquire the Caveat Lector. It was decided that we had to own it for safekeeping after the deeds for Marcham manor and all its possessions were stolen from Lady Clementine by unscrupulous property developers. This was in 2019, so the old woman had guarded it well for five decades.

The ravens didn’t give me any trouble during the transfer… I like to think that they trust me. Perhaps they are a little afraid of me as well?

I admit that, occasionally, I have been tempted to take a peek inside the covers of this mysterious book, but so far, I’ve been able to restrain myself.

The black wings of its guardians – ever watchful - are fluttering above us. Can you hear them?

History Lover

Here is an interesting item, sealed inside this glass display casket. You may recognize it from trips to the local museum as a child – it’s an Egyptian mummy, in life a beautiful princess, but in death, a well-preserved corpse. Missing the brain and most of the other vital organs, of course, as these would have been placed in canopic jars. According to the death rites of ancient Egyptian custom, however, she was permitted to keep her heart. Perhaps that was a mistake…

‘Is this some kind of joke, Simon? Tell me it isn’t?’

Simon Mason blinked like a confused bird. ‘I’m sorry, Professor, I don’t follow you.’

Professor McDonald sighed and turned her head to look out her office window at the Ancient History Museum. The grass and the trees had a calming effect. ‘The latest radiocarbon results came back this morning, Simon. Look, I enjoy a joke as much as the next woman, but really, this is too far.’

Simon shifted in his seat awkwardly. ‘I still don’t follow you.’

She tossed a reading print-out at him. ‘Look at that. It’s the results for your precious Egyptian princess... apparently. Dennis took another sample for the lab boys so we could perhaps try and understand that last result – as if you didn’t know all this already. What’s come back from the techies is very interesting. Apparently, Nubia is dated as being five hundred years old, which is rather impressive, given she died over four thousand years ago.’

Simon gulped. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’’

‘Yes, Simon, that’s exactly what I’m doing. You switched the samples, didn’t you?’

‘No, Professor.’

‘Look, we all know about your - how should I put it - infatuation with her, but we have a right to take the occasional skin and cloth sample for testing!’

‘I don’t disagree in principle with radiocarbon dating,’ Simon said quietly, silently annoyed that he had a reputation. ‘But Nubia is precious. There’s so little of her left, without Dennis going around stealing his pound of flesh.’

‘It’s a few millimetres squared, hardly a pound - Ah, so you admit it then? You switched the sample with something more modern as what, a joke? A protest?’

He considered what he’d just learned before answering. ‘The last sample dated her as being five hundred years old this time?’

Professor McDonald nodded her big head. ‘You know it did. And it was a thousand in the earlier test, which we wrote off as a mistake rather than anything sinister. I expect you were behind that as well, weren’t you? What did you swap the latest sample with, Simon? Something from one of the Tudor exhibits?’

Simon gripped the arms of the chair he was sat on. A lie might be better than the truth here, he realised. ‘Say I did do that…as a prank against Dennis… what does it matter? It’s just a silly test.’ It was the best he could come up with.

‘Oh Simon!’ McDonald exclaimed, like a disappointed mother. ‘And you were so bright and promising at one stage. A fellow History Lover – or so I thought. And now this. What has happened to you, Simon? What exactly has Nubia done to you?’

…

Sometime previously.

The artist’s brush stroked the canvas one final time and both Simon and the artist took a step back to admire the handiwork. ‘What do you think?’ the Artist asked. ‘Really? Have I captured her?’

Simon looked into the eyes of the artist’s reconstruction of the face of the great Nubia and swooned. ‘Oh yes,’ he answered finally. ‘That’s lovely. She’s just as beautiful as I imagined.’

The artist, a student called Kylie, grinned at the compliment. ‘I’m so pleased. It’s very difficult to look at the face of a corpse and decide from that what the person might have looked at in life. But with Nubia, it all seemed too easy. Like I could see her spirit.’

Simon raised an eyebrow, alarmed. ‘You couldn’t though? See her spirit?’

Kylie laughed. ‘No, of course not! Anyway, how about that drink you promised me?’

He frowned. He’d promised no such thing, of course, but recognized what was being offered. ‘Well, maybe some other time,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m on night shifts at the moment, so socialising is a bit difficult. We’re short staffed due to government cuts, and someone’s got to guard this place when we’re closed.’

She patted him on the shoulder. ‘Poor you. So dedicated to your work,’ she washed her brushes and started to pack up. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you’ve got my number, right?’

Simon was lost in the eyes of Nubia. At last – something tangible he could look at, even if it was simply a portrait. He became aware that Kylie was waiting for an answer. ‘What? Or, er, yes. Right.’

…

The museum closed at five thirty exactly as Simon had successfully shooed away the last little band of tourists at five twenty five. He then waited at the front door for the rest of the staff to leave, tapping his foot impatiently.

‘Goodnight, Simon,’ Professor McDonald waved as she hurried out. The Professor was always first to arrive at the museum in the morning, and last to leave at night.

‘Goodnight, Professor,’ he returned. 

‘You’ll look after the place while I’m gone, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’

…

It was on nights like this, when they were alone, that Nubia spoke to him.

The first time, he’d thought he was going crazy. A four thousand-year-old princess, talking to him telepathically? Perhaps he’d been working too hard. He ignored the voice at first, which was a grave mistake, as Nubia was highly offended. As a Princess, she demanded, no, expected to be obeyed at all times. As was her right.

‘Your majesty?’ he thought towards the decaying brown shape inside the glass display cabinet. ‘Will you speak with me again?’

The blaze of colour and chorus of angles in his head heralded her return to him.

‘Simon – my love,’ she expressed such warmth in her shared thoughts. ‘One is so pleased to blend with you once more.’

His mouth twisted into a dopey grin. ‘I’ve missed you too.’

Her invisible arms embraced him, and he felt the imagined warmth of her body press against him. Then the spirit withdrew. ‘You do not long for me as much as usual, Simon,’ she stated. ‘You have been worshipping that false idol of me in my place, have you not?’

He glanced worriedly over to Kylie’s painting, which had been positioned next to the exhibit. Dennis’s idea. ‘This portrait was made in honour of you, my love,’ he mentally explained. ‘I thought you would be pleased?’

The cold silence told him otherwise. Eventually, Nubia responded in thought with a command. ‘You must only direct your love towards me, Simon. You know how your spark enriches me. Fill me again with your love so that I might grow stronger still, then I will live and walk again!’

He slid the glass cover away from the mummified remains and gently placed it to one side before standing over the body.

‘I will obey,’ he confirmed, and the next moments were lost in lust.

…

Another night.

‘Who was that little man who took from me?’ Nubia was angry. Simon hated it when she was angry. It frightened him.

‘You mean, Dennis?’ He guessed. ‘He took a sample from you earlier, for analysis. We only want to understand you, majesty.’

‘Sample? What is sample? What is analysis? He has no right to take the royal flesh. I was growing stronger until he took from me. I am now... less whole. Now you must replenish the regrowth that has been lost, Simon. Do you understand?’

He loosened his belt. ‘I am your servant, majesty.’

…

Another night.

‘I regret this must be the last time we… er see each other for a while, majesty,’ he prepared for the worst.

‘Explain.’

‘The man, Dennis, is suspicious of what happens here at night. If I get caught…’

‘He will be dealt with.’

Simon wondered what that meant exactly but kept the question away from the forefront of his mind. ‘There is another matter, majesty. The samples came back today. They show that the ravages of time on your body are being reversed.’

‘This is excellent,’ she replied. ‘Your spark renews me, as foretold.’

‘Questions will be asked, majesty.’

She screamed. ‘Questions? Questions? Who dares question Nubia?’

Simon cowered. ‘I am sorry, majesty. But what we’re doing may be put at risk.’ He dropped to his knees, whimpering at the psychic assault she subjected him to.

The storm of anger came to a head and died. She reached out with invisible fingers and caressed her servant. ‘You are wise, Simon. We must be cautious. My love for you grows stronger with my flesh, and I fear I am not reasoning intelligently. We must be patient.’

‘Yes, your majesty,’ he confirmed, relieved. ‘You are most wise, majesty.’

…

Another night, a week later.

Replenishment given, Simon zipped up his fly and then reached and picked up the glass cover, moving it back into place over the mummy.

‘Must you cage me so soon after our rapture?’ she asked him.

‘I apologise, majesty. It has been a while for us, has it not? Did I satisfy you?’

She let him wait for an answer. ‘You did. I grow ever stronger through your loving.’

He clapped his hands, joyfully. ‘Oh good!’ His mind turned to other worries. ‘Majesty, we spoke before of the man Dennis. Today he is quite sick, majesty. We don’t expect him back at the museum for many days…. Was this… your doing?’

It could just have been coincidence of course, but he felt that she was smiling. ‘A taste of my growing power. See that you don’t disappoint me, Simon, lest even worse happen to you.’

…

Another night, another week later.

‘My return to life is but days away, Simon. I feel my strength growing due to your worship. I am drawing ever closer to your present day.’

He nodded. ‘My only wish is to please you, majesty.’

‘One is most pleased. I should like to kiss you with my own lips, to love you physically as you do to me. It will happen soon.’

Simon shivered in anticipation. ‘I long for it, majesty. But I have some bad news…’

He waited for her nod to continue. ‘I suspect that Dennis may take more samples from you, majesty. The others at the museum are concerned about the changes happening to your… your royal body. The test results revealed that you appear to be getting… well, younger.’

‘Every part of me taken away sets back my return to life. You must not allow further ‘samples’, Simon. Do you understand?’

‘I… understand, majesty.’

…

‘Dennis should never have taken the second sample.’ Simon explained patiently, hoping he was keeping control of his fear he had failed his majesty. ‘It was quite unnecessary.’

Back in the present, Professor McDonald glanced out of the window again. The weather was changing, grey clouds were starting to creep across the sky. A lovely day about to be ruined. ‘That may be so, but we still have the matter of this ‘joke’ to deal with. Radiocarbon dating tests are expensive, you know.’

‘The person responsible could offer to pay for it out of their wages,’ he offered quickly.

McDonald shook her head. ‘It’s not just that. Your whole attitude towards the Egyptian exhibit is a cause for concern. This little ‘prank’ of yours is the straw that broke the camel’s back, I’m afraid. I’ve been under pressure from the board to lose a member of staff. This has sealed it. It has to be you, I’m afraid, Simon.’

He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

‘Clear your desk, please. Your last day is today.’

The idea of not being able to spend time with Nubia any longer pained him. No more blaze of colour, no more heavenly chorus.

‘You’ll be paid until the end of the month, of course. Are you listening, Simon?’

He imagined the anger of his Egyptian princess. Her plan to regenerate set back and her lover denied her. Perhaps she would find another source of life? Of love? 

Dennis? The idea of it turned his stomach.

‘Simon? Are you listening to me?’

‘I… there’s something I need to tell you.’ The words left his mouth, he wasn’t sure exactly where they came from, but it must have been within him. ‘I didn’t tamper with the samples. Someone else did it.’

Professor McDonald cringed. ‘Oh, do come on, Simon. There’s no use denying it.’

‘I’ve been covering for someone,’ he said quickly. ‘I… I don’t want to get him in trouble.’

‘Trouble? Whatever do you mean? If it wasn’t you, who was it?’

‘Dennis. Dennis did it. He didn’t want the lab getting samples of Nubia, so replaced them with anything else he could get his hands on.’ His mind raced. Would this lie stand up? It had to.

McDonald was suspicious. ‘But why would Dennis do that?’ she almost wanted to believe him, wanted him to provide some evidence.

‘He’s obsessed with her,’ Simon lied. ‘Absolutely obsessed. In fact, I’ve got a strong feeling he…’

‘… he what?’ the Professor gave her full attention.

‘I think he’s been interfering with the body.’

When understanding of the inference hit her, McDonald went green in the face.

Simon delivered the coup de grace. ‘He wouldn’t want them to notice any traces of… contamination, would he?’

…

The museum closed at five thirty exactly as Simon had successfully shooed away the last little band of tourists at five twenty five. He waited at the front door for the other staff to leave, tapping his foot impatiently.

‘Goodnight, Simon,’ Professor McDonald waved as she hurried out. Always the last to leave.

‘Goodnight, Professor,’ he returned. 

‘I’m sorry about that misunderstanding earlier,’ she said quietly. ‘Always had my suspicions about that Dennis. He’s a bit of a weird one. All of that stuff he was saying about you – it was him doing it, all along. I’m so sorry, Simon. I’ll find some pretext to sack him tomorrow.’

Simon just smiled.

‘Thank goodness our museum – and our Egyptian princess – are safe with you!’

He nodded, and firmly locked the door behind her.

I was able to intervene before Princess Nubia’s final return to life – if that indeed was what was happening, and all of this wasn’t simply in the mind of the deviant, Simon.

He begged me not to take the mummified remains away. I love her, he wailed. This isn’t love, I told him, it’s necrophilia! I threatened him with the law, with being sectioned, and he eventually gave way, and stood aside and denied all knowledge as the mummy was ‘stolen’ from the museum.

Now it sits here, isolated for eternity. Occasionally, I think I hear her voice, calling out. But I’m fairly certain that it’s just loneliness on my part, just my own imagination. But then again… as I hope you’re coming to understand, in the Scarlet Vault, one can never be sure of anything…

Bad Blood

You were interested, I think, in this item. An iron maiden torture cabinet, Germanic, possibly. Six feet high, and I’d wager over two hundred years old. There are signs it has been put to sinister use recently, however, and I can still smell the sweat and fear of the last poor soul to be locked inside. Rather them than me!

An old house surrounded by dark forest. The night animals keep their distance, sensing perhaps that something is very wrong about the house’s two human occupants.

The first – Clara - is a thin, serious brunette in her early twenties. She is focused on an arts and crafts project she is pursuing – sewing the words ‘home sweet home’ into white cloth with the aim of framing it on the living room wall once complete. 

The tranquil scene is shattered by a  desperate howl of pain and anguish, coming up from the basement. Clara does not react to it with fear, instead, her face displays something more like annoyance. She sighs, and unpicks her last, mistaken stitch. 

‘I wish she’d shut up,’ Clara sighs, resuming her sewing.  She glances up at an ornate clock. ‘It’s a long time until morning.’

In the basement beneath, is the other resident of the house. This is Sadie. Not much can be seen of poor Sadie, as she is locked inside a large medieval iron maiden, only a small square of her face is visible through a tiny hatched window at the front of the torture device. She is clearly in great distress. What we see of her eyes are wild, her forehead covered in sweat. The poor girl cannot move an inch, or she’ll impale herself on the rusty spikes enclosing her whole body inside the terrible structure. Sadie has a very limited view of the basement that is her prison, but she can see a small clock which has been placed on a stool in front of her. This single allowance from her captor, is also another form of torture, as time has never seemed to move so slowly.

She cries out once more. ‘Clara,’ she wails. ‘Please! You have to let me out of here!’

She sobs gently after waiting for a response that doesn’t come.

‘Clara! Clara! I know you can hear me. You have to let me out of this thing!’

She hears the stomp of footsteps and her heart leaps for joy – Finally, Clara has taken notice of her pain and is coming downstairs. Sadie sniffs up the mucus dripping from her nose and readies herself for the conversation that is about to take place when –

The heavy door to the basement opens and Clara enters, her face like thunder.

‘Thank you,’ Sadie shouts, hoping a show of gratitude will grease the wheels. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘This noise has to stop,’ Clara says without emotion. ‘Don’t make me close the hatch on you.’

‘No! No please don’t close the hatch,’ Sadie begs, the tiny square window the only thing keeping her sane. ‘Please, Clara, you have to let me out of here. I won’t be bad again, I promise!’

Clara shakes her head having heard all this before. ‘Unfortunately,’ she says eventually, ‘Your promises aren’t worth very much, are they? Especially when you’re being like this.’

She turns to leave, and Sadie panics. ‘Wait! Can’t we just talk about this? It’s so horrible being stuck in this thing. Have you any idea what it’s like? Clara? Please!’

Clara thinks it over for just a second and smiles. ‘Alright, I’m just going to go and get something, okay? I’ll be right back.’ She resists the temptation to add the words don’t go anywhere.

Sadie waits impatiently, adjusting her aching body to try to hold off the creeping cramp in every limb. Clara is gone for a minute, then two, and eventually any hope that Sadie had that Clara was about to return and let her out is drained away until….

Footsteps on the stairs again. She’s coming back!

Sadie spots that she has a portable virtual assistant with her this time. ‘What?’ Sadie does not hide her surprise and anger. ‘Why have you brought that thing down here?’

Clara grins as she plugs the device into a wall socket. ‘Thought you’d like some music,’ she answers. ‘Might make the time go by a bit faster, you know?’

‘You’re joking!’ Sadie spits at Clara through the tiny window. ‘You f**king bitch!’

Clara ignores the insult. ‘Assistant. Play Taylor Swift.’

Welcome to New York, from the 1989 album fills the air.

‘I f**king hate you.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Clara mumbles as she walks away. ‘We have to go through this for your own good, remember.’

Sadie screams at her until she’s back up the stairs.  As the track finishes and Blank Space begins, a thought occurs to her. She mulls it over then laughs out loud at her own audacity.

‘Assistant,’ she calls out to the device. ‘Call Tom!’.

She prays that the device is still hands-free connected to her mobile phone upstairs in her room. After a few anxious seconds, the call connects, and the dial tone echoes through the basement over the speaker.

Ring ring.

Upstairs, Clara’s ears prick up, alerted by the end of Taylor Swift’s singing and then she gulps in horror when she overhears the personal assistant connecting the. How could she have been so stupid to plug the bloody thing in down there?

Ring ring.

She throws down her sewing and bolts to the stairs. She curses herself for making that mistake. It was a moment of weakness, she decides. She won’t make that mistake again.

Ring ring.

She flies down the stone steps, almost tripping over her slippers on the way.

‘Please,’  Sadie wishes aloud, knowing she hasn’t got much time. ‘Come on, pick up.’

Clara enters the basement, skidding to a halt by the device.

‘Hello? Sadie, that you?’ Tom’s voice comes through the speaker.

‘Tom! Tom! You have to help me!’ Sadie shouts quickly. ‘You’re the only other person I can trust! Help me, please!’

Clara’s face is twisted in anger and in a violent rage, she swipes the device to the floor. The call disconnects, the device is broken.

There is an awkward silence as Sadie steels herself for Clara’s reaction.

‘Who the hell is Tom?’ she eventually speaks. 

Sadie tells her about the amazing guy she’s met. The truth spills out of her. The secret dates, the stolen kisses. 

Clara just stands there, arms crossed defensively. ‘When were you going to tell me, then?’

Sadie finds herself in the weird position of having to apologise to her captor. ‘I didn’t want you to find out like this, I’m sorry.’

Clara steps closer to the iron maiden, and Sadie can now see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. ‘You don’t sound sorry.’

‘Just let me out. Please.’

Clara leans forward and places her hand on the cold metal surrounding Sadie’s enclosed face. 

She’s about to give in, Sadie understands. The confession has weakened her resolve. Any minute now…

But Clara slides closed the hatch that had been granting Sadie a tiny amount of vision and breathing space. She turns quickly and leaves the basement, so she doesn’t have to face the shame of her actions. Doesn’t have to hear the muffled shouts and screams.

Back upstairs, she recovers her ‘home sweet home’ embroidery and rips it to shreds before jumping up and down on it.

Whatever is now happening inside the Iron Maiden – we have no understanding. Occasionally there is a scream, occasionally an animal snarl, but mostly a gentle sob.

At two thirty-eight am. Tom arrives at the house.

Clara hasn’t slept – no chance of that – so at once answers the door when the bell rings.

‘Yes?’ she snaps at the unwelcome visitor.

Tom looks panicked. ‘Is Sadie there? I think this is her house, right?’

‘Our house.’ Clara corrects. Another mistake, she realises later. She should have denied all knowledge, sent him packing.

‘You must be Clara, right? I need to come in,’ Tom puts his foot in the door. ‘I think Sadie’s in some kind of trouble.’

‘She’s fine. Sadie is fine,’ she states. ‘If anything, if you come in here, it’s you that’s in danger.’

Tom ignores her and pushes past. ‘Sadie?’ he calls into the grand house. ‘Sadie?’

First, he checks upstairs, followed by Clara. ‘She’s not here,’ she announces behind him. Then Tom checks the ground floor, room by room, but can’t find what he seeks.

‘You see,’ Clara huffs. ‘Not here. I told you.’

But Tom is not satisfied. ‘Basement,’ he says quietly. ‘A place like this must have a basement, right?’

Clara doesn’t stop him investigating, doesn’t stand in his way as he runs down the steps. She only follows behind, trying to think of the best course of action, given this predicament.

Tom is stunned by the sight of the iron maiden in the basement, it’s like something from Edgar Allen Poe or an old horror film. He turns to Clara, incredulous. ‘Oh God, she’s not in there, is she?’

He already knows the answer. ‘We’ve got to let her out!’

Clara shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you…’

He paws at the instrument of torture. ‘Are you in there? Sadie, are you in there?’

Frustrated, he gives up. ‘Open it,’ he commands. ‘Come on, Clara, open it. Let her out!’

‘The key is over on the side there.’ Clara covers her mouth to try and stop the words from escaping but does not try hard enough.

Tom quickly retrieves the key and takes it over to the maiden. ‘Did you put her in there, Clara?’ he accuses. ‘You must be sick!’

Clara sniggers involuntarily. He doesn’t know the half of it. ‘I’m warning you not to open that,’ she eventually says. But her eyes are keen, anticipatory.

Tom finds the lock at the side of the structure and puts the key inside. He pauses before turning it. ‘What the f**k is wrong with you?’ he hisses. ‘How could you do something like this to your own sister?’

He unlocks the maiden, and the great hinges squeal as the front half swings open. Tom has prepared himself for an unpleasant sight but couldn’t possibly have expected what happens next. An upright wolf, with shaggy brown fur, long sinewy limbs ending in sharp claws erupts from confinement and sets upon him, tearing at him angrily, scratching him furiously with both fingernails and toes. Together they knock over the little stool with the clock on it, and it explodes into its component pieces. The terrible mouth splits open and bites down firmly on his neck, ripping him to shreds, shaking his head back and forth like a broken rag doll. Within seconds, it is all over. He is dead.

The carnage is reflected in the panting werewolf’s cold black eyes. Suddenly the animal rage is gone and the creature slumps down slightly, an oddly guilty expression on her long face. She then turns her attention to Clara and growls, revealing bloodied teeth.

Clara takes a step backwards but otherwise doesn’t recoil. ‘It’s me,’ she says quietly to the werewolf. ‘It’s only me. Get control of yourself.’

The werewolf leaps at her, but by the time physical contact is made she is Sadie again. Naked and shivering. Eyes filled with guilt and pain. ‘What did you make me do?’ Sadie croaks. ‘I killed him! You just let it happen!’

Clara takes on an expression of sorrow, but it is not entirely genuine. ‘Just getting you back for doing the dirty on me,’ she explains. ‘Don’t worry about the body, I’ll clear up the mess later.’

She was always the one who cleared up the mess.

‘I hate you,’ Sadie stammers as the two sisters embrace.

‘No, you don’t,’ Clara strokes her face. ‘You love me really. You know, you really are unbearable when it’s this time of the month. Who else would put up with this but me?’

Sadie glances at the broken body leaking all over the stone floor. ‘He might have.’

‘Bullsh*t,’ is Clara’s considered response. ‘It’s just the two of us, remember?’

She reminds Sadie of their deep, unnatural connection with a long, lingering kiss. Then she pushes her lover back into the embrace of the iron maiden and swings it shut. She picks up the broken personal assistant, sadder about its loss than the dead man next to it, and tosses it back down again. ‘No more Taylor Swift for you, my love.’

I wonder how many lunar cycles saw the Maiden deployed in this manner – to cage a werewolf. Or to perpetuate that twisted relationship. Little wonder it’s now positively brimming with supernatural energy and so I had to spirit it away to the Scarlet Vault. As for what became of Sadie the Werewolf, well, that’s a story for another day. Perhaps I’ll introduce you to her?

Time again for you to leave me. Goodbye, my friend. Sweet dreams.

The Male Gaze

Maria glanced at her own naked body in the bathroom mirror as she slipped into some expensive black underwear. Not too bad, considering, she appraised her thirty-year-old form. She smoothed a pair of tights over her long legs and checked herself again. Her bra strap was twisted, so she slipped the whole thing off and put back it on again. Then she turned her attention to her hair. Steven liked it tied up, so he could kiss her neck. She was going to a lot of effort tonight, more than she had for a while, but it would be worth it, she told herself. That baby isn’t going to make itself.

Steven quickly turned off the television set as the connecting door opened and Maria entered their grimy hotel room. Drinking up the vision of her beauty, he smiled at what he saw so she knew he was appreciative and stepped forward to embrace her.

‘Do you think it’ll happen tonight?’ she asked as he kissed her shoulder. ‘It’s bang on the right part of my cycle.’

Steven stepped back, annoyed. ‘I remember when we made love for fun, seems a long time ago now. Now it’s just straight to business!’

‘Don’t be like that,’ she wailed, any built-up romantic desire rapidly fading. ‘You know how much having a baby means to me.’

He sighed, calmed slightly by the proximity of her body. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He sat down on the rickety bed which creaked loudly – even before they’d started putting to other, more vigorous use. ‘I’d like a little loving as well – it’s not all just about the act itself!’

Here we go again, thought Maria.

He continued. ‘I’d like to think you enjoyed the process, rather than just seeing every shag as a potential fertilization event.’

She controlled her response and sat next to him. The bed springs creaked again. ‘I do see it as more than that! This is romantic isn’t it? Just the two of us, gone away for the weekend…’

‘In this so-called luxury hotel,’ he deadpanned, waving at the faded décor. ‘It’s horrible, this place, isn’t it? Sort of seedy, don’t you think?’

Maria flushed slightly. ‘That’s why I picked it. I thought it might inspire you.’

‘Filthy cow.’

‘You love it,’ she grinned, putting her hand on his knee. 

The blood rushed to his groin. ‘Yeah, you’re right, I’ve got to be honest,’ he laughed. ‘Although I’m not sure about having Hitler over there watching us while we’re doing it.’

He indicated a portrait hung over the bed of a stern, moustached middle-aged man with penetrating eyes. Unlike the rest of the room, it was clear that the picture had been cleaned recently.

‘Oh god,’ she giggled. ‘Yeah, he’s really creepy isn’t he? Do his eyes follow you around the room, or is it just me?’

‘It’s not just you.’

‘Well,’ she moved her hand higher up his leg. ‘Shall we give him something to watch? Put on a show?’ She bit him on the ear and he let desire take over for the next few minutes.

…

‘Enjoy your stay, did you ducky?’ the gap-toothed landlady crowed next morning. ‘Certainly sounded like you did.’

Steven and Maria looked across the breakfast table at each other guiltily.

‘Don’t be shy,’ the old woman crooned. ‘It’s natural, ain’t it? A man and a woman. Not like some of the stuff folks get up to these days.’

Steven coughed awkwardly, then focused on his finishing his complimentary fry-up.

Maria returned to their room before they left to give it one last check-over to ensure they’d left nothing of theirs behind. She looked at the ruffled, stained bedsheets with a little shame and wondered whether she ought to strip the bed, then dismissed the notion – the old woman could do it – that was her job, after all. She cheekily waved goodbye to the Hitler on the wall then dropped her suitcase in shock when he winked back at her. Too stunned to do anything but stare for a moment, she blinked and when her vision cleared, the man in the portrait again looked as he had done so before – the serious staring eyes. Of course, it hadn’t winked at her. She shrugged and picked up the bags. Must be imagining things.

…

‘What’s wrong, love?’ Steven rolled off her body and sunk back into his side of the bed. They’d returned home that afternoon, and as soon as the suitcases were unpacked, Maria had insisted upon them having another go at it. Straight to the act again. Yet to Steven, she seemed strangely distracted. ‘You’re heart’s not in it, even less than usual!’

He framed it as a joke, but they both aware that it wasn’t.

Maria exploded. ‘Oh, it’s that bloody painting back at the hotel! I can’t get it out of my head!’

Steven deliberately misunderstood. ‘I’m sure that old bag would have sold it to us, if we’d asked.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ she snapped, mostly angry at herself for not being able to express to him that she’d been sure the man had winked at her for fear of looking foolish. ‘Didn’t you feel it was sort of.. watching us?’

‘Well, I thought you liked that,’ Steven took a sip from a glass of water – staying hydrated was vital for fertility, he had been instructed, several times.

They lay in silence for a moment. ‘I keep seeing his eyes, Steven,’ she confessed quietly. Especially when we’re… you know…’

‘Getting it on?’ he suggested, sniggering.

‘I can’t shake the feeling that dirty old man is watching me, even now.’

‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you, love.’

‘I don’t think so. He’s watching us. Me. I’m sure of it.’

He turned to face her and gently circled his index finger around her nipple, watching it stiffen. ‘Let me take your mind off it?’ he suggested.

They tried again that night, but it didn’t work for Maria, who eventually pushed him aside, frustrated. Both stared at the ceiling for a while, until the curtain of sleep pulled them even further apart.

...

One week later, and after several unsuccessful attempts at the process of baby-making, Maria finally lost patience.

‘I’m not going mad, Steven!’ she cried. ‘I can see his eyes, all the time. Watching! This time I’m sure I saw his whole head appear out of thin air! Just sort of floating there!’

‘It’s all in your mind,’ he grumbled.

‘No it isn’t. You can’t see it? You really can’t?’

Steven made a show of examining the four walls. ‘All I see are photos of babies and ovulation charts.’

‘I’m sure he’s in the room with us. Like he’s got out of the painting and has followed us home. I’m being haunted by a pervy ghost! This is no good, we’ve got to do something about this!’

Steven laughed without humour. ‘Like what? See a psychologist? An exorcist? Do you realise how nuts you sound, Maria?’

She made a decision and hurriedly got off the bed and pulled on her clothes. ‘Each time I see him, he’s getting stronger, more physical. I’m going back to that hotel, Steven. I’ve got to see the picture, make sure he’s still in it!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Steven erupted, pulling the sheet over his naked body. 

‘This is interfering with my fertility plans,’ she announced. ‘It can’t go on.’

There she goes again, Steven thought, nothing was more important than getting pregnant. It was never about his needs. All he wanted was a little loving, and it was being denied him. ‘You do whatever you want to, love, but I’m staying right here in bed!’

…

She drove all night back to that dingy hotel, charged with a kind of steely resolve to get to the bottom of things. It was only when the old woman answered the door that she started to lose her nerve.

‘Oh, hello again, ducky,’ the Landlady blew a puff of cigarette smoke at her. ‘Back again so soon? What ya doing coming here at this time of night? I don’t do refunds, if that’s what you're after?’

Maria shook her head. ‘I… this is going to sound foolish, but I just had to come back here. I want to talk to you about the painting. I need to see it, actually. Will you let me in?’

‘Don’t know what you mean, ducks,’ she replied, but it was clear from her twisted rubbery face that she was being evasive.

‘There’s a portrait in the room we stayed in – of a man with a moustache and these piercing eyes…’

‘Oh yes, dear, that’s our Charlie.’

Maria pushed the old woman aside and started up the stairs. ‘I want to look at it again, is that alright?’ though she was already nearly at the door to the room, unstoppable.

The Landlady looked flustered, but as no guests were currently occupying that particular room – as business was slow – she happily allowed the younger woman to go inside.

The portrait was still on the wall, unchanged. Charlie still iside the borders of the frame. Of course he was. What else could he be?

‘So, he’s Charlie?’ Maria asked, not taking her eyes off the man in the painting.

‘That’s right, dear. That’s our Charlie. Died fifteen years ago, so he did. My husband, he was.’

‘Your husband?’ Maria exclaimed. She wasn’t about to accuse this woman’s deceased partner of being a spirit pervert, was she? She talked around that central issue as her mind raced. ‘I know this will sound crazy, but I keep seeing his eyes, watching me – whenever I’m… well.. naked. Sometimes, it’s almost like he’s in the room with us.’

Improbably, the Landlady just nodded. ‘Oh, he likes to watch, does our Charlie,’

‘Oh God,’ Maria murmured, her worst fears being realised. She fought down a sick feeling that was pushing itself up from her stomach. The horrible sensation of being leered over by a dirty old man.

‘Though you’ve got nothing to worry about, ducky,’ the old woman continued.

Maria snapped back to attention. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t know what you mean?’

‘Not interested in women, our Charlie.’

‘What? What does that mean?’

‘Oh, it’s no secret, ducky. We just kept up the pretence of marriage, you know. I loved him, of course, even if he didn’t love me back. He was always out with the boys, gallivanting. The young boys. I’m just saying, it’s probably not you he was… you know… looking at.’

This was all so confusing. How could the damn woman be so blase about all of this? She stared into her watery eyes, looking for answers.

‘Well, then what was he looking at?’ As the words left her mouth she suddenly realised with abject horror that Charlie was no longer a figure in his own portrait. The picture showed the background only. Charlie had got out. Gallivanting, again, perhaps?

The Landlady crossed her arms but seemed to take it all in her stride. ‘If anything, I’d say he was more interested in that fella of yours…’

…

Back at home, Steven was sleeping soundly until a creaking floor board stirred him to the edge of wakefulness. He kept his head safely under the duvet to avoid the harsh light of dawn and mumbled ‘Is that you, love? Back already?’

The bed shook as the weight of another body joined him. 

‘Got it all sorted out have you?’ he patronised, still half-asleep. ‘I hope you’ve got it out of your system. I could do with a little loving.’

The bottom half of the duvet was gently moved to one side and a cold hand took a firm hold on his manhood, which was then fed greedily in to a hungry wet mouth.

Steven moaned quietly, his eyes tightly shut, his face taking on a blissful expression as he concentrated only on his own pleasure. At last, he thought. A little loving at last.

WLTM

 Shall we take a look at one of the smallest items in this unnatural collection?

Here it is in the palm of my hand – a spent bullet, crumpled and useless, having served its singular purpose to kill. I removed this item myself from the heart of its victim, post-mortem. But I am getting ahead of myself. This story very aptly demonstrates at least two things of significance. Firstly, that Love is always surprising, secondly, that death is always inevitable...

Before going over and introducing himself, Jacob took the opportunity to get a good look at the girl he was about to meet. She sat alone in an alcove of the busy bar, nursing two drinks. He liked what he could see of her - Short, raven black hair cut in the pixie style. Pale skin and dimples. Glasses that make her look both cute and over-serious. A leather mini-skirt short enough to greatly accentuate two slender crossed legs. Just a little cleavage on display. Yes, she’d do very nicely, he thought. He wondered briefly what she’d think of him. Well, it hardly mattered, he decided. Nothing really mattered, in the end. 

Little did he know how she’d change his perspective on things.

He breezed alongside her and took the empty seat opposite, his flapping long leather coat having the intended dramatic effect. ‘Hannah? Is that you?’ he smiled, making an effort to be charming. ‘I really hope it’s you.’

She looked slightly startled for a moment before nodding, slipping her mobile phone away to give her full attention. ‘Jacob?’

He fixed her with a direct stare. Confident. ‘Jacob Dubicki, at your service. But please, call me Jake. I haven’t been Jacob for years.’

‘Jake,’ she parroted, liking the name. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘It’s my pleasure. Can I get you a drink?’

She shook her head gently. ‘Already got you one,’ she grinned, emphasizing the cute little dimples on either side of her pretty face. She pushed one the drinks across the table towards him. ‘Thought you might appreciate this.’

‘A bloody mary?’

‘What else would you drink, right? Am I right?!’

He laughed at that, for the first time in what seemed like centuries. ‘You clearly have a great sense of humour.’

For the first time since they’d been introduced her smile dropped for a few moments as she considered the compliment. ‘I’ve had to develop it, it’s all that’s kept me going, to be honest.’

He put his finger to her lips. ‘Shhhh. Don’t give in to misery. You are comfortable, are you? With what we are going to do, I mean?’

‘Oh, more than comfortable!’

‘I don’t… disappoint you? I was what you were expecting?’ He was vain and felt oddly unburdened about showing it.

She let him wait for an answer. He was no Robert Pattison, but he’d do very nicely. ‘Oh yes,’ she eventually replied. ‘And I hope I don’t disappoint you?’

‘You really don’t disappoint me. Shall we go now, do you want to get this over with?’

‘Get it over with?’ she queried. ‘You make it sound like a chore.’

‘It won’t be a chore for me,’ he said quickly. ‘But I must confess, I wonder what it is that you think you’ll take from the experience? I must admit, I’ve never encountered someone quite so… willing before.’

She uncrossed her legs at the word ‘willing’. ‘And as we’re being honest, I didn’t expect you to be so considerate.’

Neither did he, if he was honest. ‘Your dating profile listed some pretty wild things that you’re looking for. I couldn’t quite believe what a perfect match we were. Too perfect, in fact.’ Jake broke his visual lock on this intriguing girl and glanced at the other clientele in the bar. ‘I… must admit I’m a little suspicious that this could be some kind of trap.’

She looked confused. ‘Sorry, what? Me trapping you?’ The idea seemed ridiculous to her. 

Jake finished his scan of the room, seemingly satisfied there was no threat contained within, only ordinary people doing ordinary things.  ‘You’d be surprised. There’s lot of people out to get me.’

She was sweetly incredulous. ‘What have you got to be afraid of?’

‘You’d be surprised.’ He put his hand over hers, and she didn’t recoil. ‘But I don’t want to talk about me. I’m finding myself more interested in you.’

She felt herself getting lost in his blue eyes. Drowning. Perhaps he was right about one thing - this was too perfect. ‘Well, what do you want to know, exactly?’

He broke physical contact with her and leaned back on his chair. ‘I didn’t expect to give a damn about this, but I would like to understand exactly why you want me to kill you.’

…

They walked and talked along the canal-side, mostly alone and unobserved, as few people were around at that time of night.

Jake instinctively gripped hold of Hannah’s hand where the towpath narrowed. When he became consciously aware they were holding hands he let it drop to her side. She tilted her head towards him, strangely disappointed.

‘I’m just so bored of life, you know?’ she continued speaking, pretending the sudden gain and loss of intimacy didn’t hurt her. ‘I just feel like I’ve done everything I’m going to.’

‘How are old are you?’ 

‘I’m 23.’

‘Only 23, and you feel like that?’

‘I’ve never been what you’d call a happy person.’

‘But you’re so funny. And you were smiling earlier – when we first met?’

She stopped walking. A conflicted look crossed her face, then she regained control of herself.  ‘That’s because I’m pleased that everything’s going to end soon.’

He chuckled. ‘Well, you’re a bundle of laughs, aren’t you?’

She stiffened. ‘And the whole idea of dying this way really turns me on, if I’m honest. Makes me feel alive, in a weird way. Shall we do it now? Like you said – get it over with?’

She drew him forward along the path to the relative privacy afforded under a bridge over the canal.

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’ he found himself checking. He’d never checked before.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

That was all the invitation he needed. He growled and pushed her up against the brick wall. 

She gasped as he pressed firmly against her. ‘Take me,’ she murmured. ‘Please, take me now.’

The scent of her was almost overpowering. The familiar drumming in his head announced that his animal instinct was about to  take over and Jake reached out and grabbed her head and yanked it to the right. Two glistening fangs extended from his widening mouth…

He shouldn’t have looked into her eyes before biting down, before tasting her warm, delicious blood. But he did and got lost in those eyes and suddenly the need to feed on her simply dropped away. His extended teeth retracted into his gums and he broke free of the deadly embrace and punched the wall behind her in sudden rage.

‘What is it?’ Hannah eventually asked, massively disappointed. ‘I thought we had an arrangement?’

Jake roared in impotent anger, his voice echoing under the bridge. Why was he feeling like this? What was it he was feeling, exactly? It had been so long since…

‘Is it me?’ she offered, unaware of his line of thought. ‘You don’t… like me?’

‘I do like you!’ he shouted, the words echoing under the bridge. ‘That’s the f**king problem! Who the hell are you, Hannah?’

She wanted to help him with the answer but couldn’t as she didn’t know it. ‘I’m just… me. I don’t get what the problem is?’

Jake took three slow breaths to steady himself. ‘I can’t bring myself to do it, Hannah. I thought I’d be able to pick you up and use you and cast you aside like all the rest.’

As she came to understand and accept what he had said, just a little of that initial smile he’d been warmed by returned to her face. ‘What do you want then? Have you fallen in love with me? Is that it? You couldn’t love me – I’m unlovable. And besides, we’ve only just met!’

He ran over to her again, pressing her against the wall, even harder this time. Brick dust fell on her shoulders. Again, she did not resist. But the intent behind his actions was different this time. His mouth found her ear. ‘I just want to f**k you, Hannah,’ he hissed. ‘Can I f**k you?’

She loosened the belt of her mini-skirt and let it drop to the dirty concrete. ‘Oh God, yes,’ she surrendered. ‘Do it now!’

They didn’t care if anyone saw or heard them. Nothing else really mattered apart from their most basic of needs. She moaned as he entered her, lightheaded all of a sudden, and he ground against her with an almost frightening ferocity. After several minutes of pure pleasure he came to a glorious climax, enjoying the sensation more than he had for decades - since he was human. As he filled her with his warm seed, Hannah came to a shuddering orgasm and threw back her head and laughed deliriously. This rapture they enjoyed came from more than just sex. A happy existence suddenly seemed available for the both of them, and in that one moment they both independently came to the blatant and obvious conclusion that, in fact, life was worth living after all.

‘I must be going soft in my old age,’ Jake panted between kisses.

‘Oh no,’ she deadpanned as she squeezed his behind. ‘We can’t have you going soft, can we?’

They basked in a mutual glow for a while before Hannah admitted, ‘We make an odd couple, don’t we?’

A couple? His cold dead heart almost jumped for joy. ‘Are you happy now, Hannah? Do I make you happy?’

‘No,’ she answered immediately, ‘But, I really think you could, you know.’ Not a doubt in the world about it, she kissed him full on the lips.

It was then that the sound of a gun being cocked broke the magic. A little old man had joined them, his features obscured by darkness. An old-fashioned revolver shook in his right hand. Hannah, and Jake, even with his sharpened senses, didn’t notice it at first. ‘Leave us alone, old man,’ Jake warned. ‘We’re not doing anything you didn’t get up to, back in the day.’

Hannah scrambled to get dressed, deeply embarrassed. ‘Jesus, he’s got a gun!’

‘I doubt that’ll worry a monster like him,’ the old fella croaked. ‘It should worry him, though.’

‘What do you mean, grandad?’ Jake spat. ‘Why don’t you just piss off.’

The old man took an old photo from the pocket of his dirty raincoat and held it out with his free hand. A faded black and white photograph of a smiling girl. Judging by the fashion of the clothes and hairstyle, it was taken in World War Two or just after.

Jake froze. The man placed the photo back in his pocket and patted it affectionately.

‘What’s wrong, Jake?’ Hannah asked, suddenly reminded of how little she actually knew this creature of the night, and how little she could ever fully understand him. ‘Do you know that girl?’

‘Do you even remember her name?’ the old man crowed.

The slightly guilty expression confirmed he did not. Yet he hadn’t forgotten her face. Or the taste of her blood.

‘My little sister. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, Jacob Dubicki.’

‘If you know what he is,’ Hannah found herself defending him, ‘You’ll know bullets can’t kill him.’

The old man grinned toothlessly. ‘Silver bullets can. Step aside, darling, I’ve only got one shot. Silver’s bloody expensive these days.’

She refused to move so Jake pushed her gently to one side. ‘This is my problem,’ he told her. ‘Let me deal with it. I should face the consequences of my actions. Funnily enough, I hadn’t realised that until I met you.’

A wrinkled finger curled around the trigger. ‘Time to die.’

In a fluid movement, Hannah positioned herself between the gun and the target without even thinking. The gunshot split the night and echoed in the darkness. Jake looked down at his chest, expecting to see a hole, expecting blood, but there was nothing. Beside him, Hannah groaned, dropped down on her knees and sank forward, face down onto the towpath. Jake tried to help her up, but it was useless. Her body slumped back down immediately. Her blood coated his pale hands. Blood that had once looked appetizing now appeared absolutely revolting.

‘You stupid girl,’ the old man snapped. ‘That bullet wasn’t meant for you. What were you thinking?’

He didn’t live long after that. The Police recovered his mutilated corpse from the canal three weeks later. His eyeballs had been forced back into his brain before he drowned.

The last thing Hannah saw was Jake leaning over her.  ‘Why?’ he said quietly. ‘Why did you do that for me?’

She smiled back up at him, dreamily, and closed her eyes.

So, that’s the tale of the spent bullet. A beautiful life was ended by this small piece of metal, but it is steeped in more than just blood. All that unfulfilled potential remains held inside it. An undying love, cut short before it’s time. An eternity of Jacob’s pain and loss. Forever is a very long time when you’re immortal. Take my word for it.