The Screaming Read online

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

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

  “Where!”

  “The corner! Next to the stove!”

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

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

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

  And it was horrible.

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

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

  “How far down?” Colin managed.

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

  “Hey! You still down there!”

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

  “Prepare ourselves? What for?”

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

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

  “Give me the torch.”

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

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

  “You okay down there, mate?”

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

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

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

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

  “Sweet Lord Jesus Christ!”

  “I must not be much to look at.”

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

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

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

  “Please, do not flee.”

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

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

  “Colin! You okay?”

  Butts’s voice made Colin jump.

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

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

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

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

  “Eh?”

  “What is your name, dear sir?”

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

  “Colin. Colin Willoughby.”

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

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

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

  “The year? It’s nineteen sixty-five.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Mary, Mother of God!”

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

  “Whom am I addressing now, good sir?”

  “He’s asking your name, Butts.”

  “Oh. It’s Butts.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Never heard of it.”

  “How about the term vampire?”

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

  “Flickers?”

  “You know. Movie shows.”

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

  “So the nosferatu attend these movie shows?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Eh?”

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

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

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

  “Then I must be the last one.”

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

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

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

  “So you’re really a vampire?”

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

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

  Van Helsing’s eyes looked beyond Colin and Butts.

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

  “Who came?” Butts asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  Van Helsing nodded, glumly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Butts nodded, quickly disappearing up the ladder.

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

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

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

  “I think it’ll do just fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But he couldn’t do it.

  “Sorry, mate. I —”

  “Then I shall!”

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

  Colin took a step back, the gorge rising.

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

  Colin vomited, unable to pull his eyes away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Colin sped up the ladder, panicked.

  “Butts!”

  No answer.

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

  “Butts! Butts, you son of a whore!”

  No reply.

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

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

  Blackness.

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

  It felt like being in the grave.

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

  The forest swallowed up his voice.

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

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

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

  “This better be it, Butts.”