Tiny Tales of Terror, Page 3

  THE VAMPIRE BLOG

  The offices of PERSON MAGAZINE, Los Angeles - 2009

  When I reached my editor’s office, he was shouting. But then, he’s always shouting. His doctor had warned him about his heart, but running Person Magazine, with its many deadlines and failing circulation was stressful in the extreme. Only this time, he wasn’t shouting at a reporter. It was at Vasil, our new janitor, the Romanian immigrant.

  "You’re not a writer!" Mr. Douglas roared, knocking his overflowing ashtray from the desk. "You barely speak English! And besides, all this vampire crap’s been done to death! This is California! And this is just one more crackpot group."

  Vasil tried to suck up the spill with a hand vac, but Douglas marched him to the door. "If you wanna keep working here, concentrate on cleaning the restrooms." And the editor thrust the disappointed man out into the corridor, bumping him into me.

  "Sorry, Vasil," I murmured. "Douglas can be pretty cruel sometimes."

  "Oooh, Miss Julie," Vasil began in his broken English.

  "Hey," I gestured toward the reporters at their cubicles. "We’ve all been there. But, if you’re serious about wanting to write, there are classes you can take. Why not start with English as a second language, then take writing courses."

  He brightened. "In my country, real vampires not boring. I want to do story on people playing vampires."

  "If you really want to write about vampires, your story will need a new slant."

  I invited him into the employees’ lounge for coffee so we could discuss it. As we sat clutching steaming mugs, I said, "These are secret societies. And it’s very dangerous to go undercover. Fifteen years ago, a veteran reporter infiltrated the vampire world and was never seen again." Vasil’s eyes widened.

  I added, "Then there was a best-selling author who drew on his medical background to write a series of murder mysteries. One evening, friends told me his sister had been doing research on a Satanic cult. Her head was found, surrounded by burning candles and ritualistic symbols. Those cult members were never identified."

  "I not afraid," Vasil declared. And a thought came to me.

  "Perhaps we could set up a blog. That way, people will contact us, without us going to them." We planned to meet the following noon, at my cubicle, when our intrepid editor would be at the dentist.

  When Vasil arrived, I walked him through the setup. Appropriately, we decided to call our site, THE VAMPIRE BLOG.

  I was too busy to check the site for two days, then flipping up the screen, I gasped. We had 211 hits, each relating a run-in with a self-proclaimed vampire. We were in business!

  I set Vasil up with a discarded computer in the storeroom, and showed him how to cut and paste selected bits. By the end of the week, I planned to review this data. In the meanwhile, Vasil was improving his English and learning computer functions. By the following month, we’d compiled enough information on California’s vampire subculture to start an article. But he still wanted to infiltrate.

  "Too dangerous," I warned, "and keep the coffee coming." Vasil hurried to refill my mug. "I’m going to mention this blog in a memo. Douglas may check it out and become interested, but he won’t know the site is ours."

  Vasil had to leave, but I stayed behind, refilling my mug as I worked. A new response arrived, but it was on Satanists, saying, "The sacrificial victim must willingly enter the place of her death."

  Suddenly, the screen swam before my eyes. My head nodded and I dreamed of burning incense and a man in a black, hooded robe who touched my forehead. Marking me.

  Waking before the office opened, I shut down the computer and went to the restroom to splash my face. Unaccountably, there was a distinctly oily spot in the center of my forehead. But I was too groggy to care.

  Somehow I staggered through the day, accomplishing little. To catch up, I remained after the others had left for the evening. Shortly before midnight, I managed to polish my piece on Brad and Angie: "Are They Still a Couple? Who Cares!" My desk phone rang insistently. It was Vasil. He sounded terrified.

  "Help me, Miss Julie. They have me! Those vampire people. Locked me in cellar. In building across this street. I am sacrifice. Midnight."

  The fool had gone and sought them out! "Hang tight! I’m calling the police." I put through a call to 911. It was still 20 minutes to the witching hour and I ran for the elevator, praying I could delay the Satanists until the police arrived.

  Once outside, I raced across the empty street and tried the handle of the building opposite. It was unlocked! I continued down to the cellar. Sounds of eerie flute music and chanting filled the passage. Then I burst through another door and ran smack into a gathering of black-robed men and women. But Vasil was nowhere to be seen. I screamed his name.

  At this, their high priest threw back his hood and I recognized him. Vasil pointed at me and the others leapt forward to catch hold of me, forcing me to kneel at his feet. He raised a sword, while the others pushed my head onto a block. And I knew.

  After choosing me as a sacrifice, Vasil had tricked me into willingly coming to this place of death.

  Police sirens! The cops were here! I would be saved.

  *

  During the French Revolution decapitated heads were said to be able to see, reason, and try to speak for many seconds afterwards. And now I know this to be true.

  I watch as the police come crashing in and stop short, staring at me, at the now empty room with its circle of burning candles on the floor. Me in the center, looking up.

  I stare back, trying to name my murderer, but no sound comes from my lips.

  "Oh, God!" one gasps. "They’ve lopped off her head!"

  BACK TO TOP

  THE MUMMY MURDERS

  A small museum - upstate New York - 1999

  "What’s one more mummy?" Mrs. Janice asked after viewing the contents of the crate. "There was a time when Egypt had so many cluttering up the landscape that these were used as kindling. And rich men brought them back as conversation pieces. They’d throw a party and, as the highlight of the evening, everyone would get to help unwrap the mummy."

  "Poor, old mummy," Laura sighed, "to be misused that way. But Kheruf here is the only mummy our little museum will probably see it its lifetime.

  "Kheruf?" Steve asked. "Let’s look it up." He leafed through a book of ancient Egyptian lineage. "The son of a king. Possibly Fifth Dynasty."

  "Enough! Just put that tidbit in the publicity release and spare me any more facts," Mrs. Janice snapped. "Now get a crew. I want this sarcophagus out of the crate and into the display case." And she left them to get on with it.

  "Welcome to our museum, oh, great prince," Laura reverently told the mummy. "I’m Laura Urbi. May you enjoy your stay." At this, a scarab beetle wriggled free of the wrappings and scuttled out of the crate and onto the floor. Laura shrieked, but it was gone before anyone could react. Steve supposed the insect had gotten in during the packing.

  "It couldn’t have survived over 3,000 years," he assured her. Laura hoped not, deciding to entitle this display as "The Lost Prince."

  When this latest acquisition had been properly set up and everyone, including the cleaning staff had left for the day, Laura whispered, "Good night, sweet prince." And, for a moment, she fantasized that she was back in Egypt, during the Fifth Dynasty, as Kheruf’s princess. Then she, too, left the museum.

  All was well until Sadiki, the night guard, came on duty. His rounds brought him into the Egyptian Room, where he was surprised to find the display case open and the sarcophagus empty. A torn length of bandage left behind on the marble floor. For all intents and purposes, The Lost Prince had decamped.

  The guard raced frantically from room to room, even checking the restrooms, but the mummy was gone. He hit the alarm and checked the security panel. All doors and windows were still locked. This meant the mummy was either still inside or whoever took him had known the codes
and relocked the doors.

  Sadiki returned to the darkened Egyptian Room and gasped. At the far end of the room, illuminated by light from the hall, stood the mummy. It turned toward the sound, beginning a strange, shuffling gait. Sadiki drew his pistol, thinking it was some college kid pulling a stunt.

  "Okay, Weirdo! Stand down or I’ll shoot!" But the mummy kept coming. When it was half-way across the room, Sadiki fired, catching the mummy in the chest. As it came closer, Sadiki fired again, a head shot. He was close enough to see the bullet holes and the bits of wrapping breaking away from the wounds, but the creature kept coming. Sadiki picked up a courtesy chair and swung it hard. The mummy blocked the blow with one hand and grabbed the guard’s throat with the other.

  *

  By the time the police arrived, the mummy was gone and Sadiki’s lifeless body lay beside the display case. As far as Laura could tell, nothing, save for Kheruf, had been stolen. An investigation revealed no usable fingerprints, except for those on Sadiki’s throat. "There’s mold and dust spores here," Detective Flynn observed. "Take samples."

  "That’s from the wrappings, carried along from the tomb," Laura explained, sighing, "Would that Kheruf and I were back in ancient Egypt and I were his princess."

  "Oh, yeah! Real romantic!" the detective snorted.

  "It beats working for bitchy Mrs. Janice who never appreciates my talents and plans to lay me off before the exhibit opens."

  Detective Flynn gave Laura Urbi a hard look thinking this might be a motive, but his thoughts were interrupted by shouts. Patrolman Anhur had been bitten by a bug that scuttled away before they could kill it. "Don’t be a pussy!" Flynn told him. "You’ll live." But the fellow died on the way to the hospital.

  *

  Mrs. Janice ordered her staff to work in pairs, even on trips to the rest rooms as being separated from the others afforded opportunity to be attacked. And then she phoned an exterminator. "Find that damn bug and kill it!"

  Laura and Steve worked together for the next hour. "I need an aspirin," she muttered. And before either realized it, Laura was two rooms away.

  Rummaging about for the aspirin, she felt something move behind her and looked up to see the shadow of the mummy bending over her. She screamed.

  Realizing they’d become separated, Steve came charging in but, by then, the mummy was gone and so was Laura.

  "Search everywhere!" Steve told the others, but their efforts were in vain. And by nightfall, the police began to suspect this latest victim was no longer in the museum. But she’d been there all along, deep in the basement vault, in the arms of her lost prince.

  When his lips touched hers, she was suddenly standing in the bright Egyptian sunlight, back in his time. "Urbi, my princess," he whispered, placing a necklace with a scarab pendant around her neck. The others were there, too. Sadiki, the faithful servant, and Anhur, he who brings back the distant one.

  And then the scarab pendant came to life and bit her. As Laura’s eyes closed in death, Prince Kheruf intoned, "Together in life; together in death."

  *

  Back at the museum, an annoyed Mrs. Janice peered into the newly arrived crate containing Kheruf. "I’m one assistant short and now this! There’s two mummies in this sarcophagus!" Steve peered over her shoulder and began translating the hieroglyphics.

  "Together in life; together in death."

  BACK TO TOP

  DON’T GO NEAR THE CAVES

  Hungry families, crop failures, floods - Wyoming - 1846

  Beth Ann was sixteen when Silas Stone asked her daddy for her hand. Silas had a little, run-down farm, was already in his forties and, considered by most, to be a strange man. But the years hadn’t been kind to the girl’s family, what with crop failures and a flood, her people was barely scraping by. So, when Silas asked to marry Beth Ann, her daddy reluctantly agreed. One less mouth to feed, he reckoned.

  Beth Ann’s mama wanted to send her little girl off right, so she took down her prized, lace curtains and made a wedding dress. The ceremony was brief and there was no reception. Without delay, Silas swung his bride up into the wagon and snapped the reins. Beth Ann’s mama barely had time to toss the girl’s bundle of old clothes into the back and call out a goodbye. As they traveled along, the child saw no other homes or people.

  "No one around, girl," Silas muttered. "Not for 50 miles."

  Beth Ann wondered what she’d gotten herself into, but seeing that Silas wasn’t a talker, she kept quiet throughout the trip. When they arrived, she saw his home was in poor repair and his crops not well tended. "How does he spend his days," she wondered, thinking of how hard her own daddy worked. She took her bundle down from the wagon.

  He led her inside, barking orders. "Git my meals ready on time. Clean up this mess. And never, never go into the hills. There are caves up there!"

  Beth Ann brightened. "I’ve never seen a cave."

  "There are bears up there, girl. And cougars. They’ll kill ya as soon as look at ya. There be ghosts to trick travelers inside. People have gone missing. Don’t go near the caves!" And all she could do was nod.

  Not knowing the ways of men or the world, at first she found his differences intriguing and was looking forward to their wedding night. But that came and went, as did the next two months, without a caress or a kind word. And she came to understand that he just wasn’t interested in her in that way. So there would never be any children. And as they never visited anyone and no one came to them, Beth Ann became starved for the sound of another human voice.

  A year passed and the girl realized he never took her anywhere or bought her anything. Her one pair of shoes had since fallen apart and her dresses had, one by one, turned to rags, but Silas took no notice. His main interest in her, besides demanding his meals on time, was to snarl a constant reminder: "Don’t go near the caves."

  Then he would leave as he did every day, but not to tend the crops or repair their home with its broken windows and missing fence rails. And each evening he’d mysteriously return with some meat for the stew pot, but it didn’t taste like squirrel, rabbit, or deer.

  Standing barefoot in the kitchen, wearing her last remaining garment, the wedding dress with its skirt now chopped short, Beth Ann made a decision. She was going to run away. Go back to her family. Anything was better than this. But, she reminded herself, it was a good 50 miles to freedom, with naught but wilderness between here and there.

  Then she thought back to the time when she’d attended the one-room school house. Their teacher had told them the story of how the early pioneers had walked, men and women and children, from the east coast to California. It had taken months, but thousands had successfully made the trip."

  My journey must begin," she said to herself, "with courage to take the first step."

  The next morning, Silas left, growling, "Don’t go near the caves!" And, seconds later, Beth Ann bundled up bread, cheese, and a water jug. Then she betook herself out the door and across the fields.

  She meant to avoid the roads because that would be the first place Silas would look, but the alternate route took her through the woods and past the dreaded caves. As she drew nearer the hills, with their honeycombed caverns, she trembled with fear, but her bare feet kept padding along.

  Then ghostly moans reached her ears. Thinking it was a trick of the wind through the caves, the girl forced herself to continue. And as she picked her way through brambles at the mouth of the last cave, the voices became louder and distinct. Beth Ann stood still trying make out the words. Cries for help. And her husband’s warning came back to her: "Don’t go near the caves!"

  As frightened as she was, Beth Ann thought someone must be hurt and she was the only one to hear, to help. As she hesitantly drew nearer the cave’s mouth, the cries became more desperate. The girl trembled with fear, but forced herself to leave the sunlight behind and walked into the dark mouth.

  At first she could see nothing, the
n her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. "I’m coming!" she shouted, hurrying along. Without warning, the tunnel became a small chamber. A shaft of sunlight beamed down from an opening in its roof. And she stopped short.

  Before her were the missing people, women and children, encrusted with grime and chained to the rock walls. One boy lay on the stony ground. Beth Ann could see both his arms and legs had been amputated, but he was still breathing. "Help us! Oh, God!" the prisoners cried. "He’ll be coming back!"

  But, before she could react, something moved between her and the shaft of light. The water jug slipped from her hand and broke on the rocky ground. It was Silas, returning to his larder and he carried a bloody axe. He snarled the first words he’d spoken to her since breakfast.

  "I told you not to go near the caves!"

  BACK TO TOP

  RED QUEEN, WHITE QUEEN

  The Smythe Estate - Windlesham, Surrey - 1959

  ‘Life is like a game of chess,’ thought the Queen. And then, with a wave of her bejeweled hand, she ordered the bishop removed.

  "Off with his head!"

  On the day of his execution, the unfortunate fellow mounted the platform. Gazing mournfully at those gathered as witnesses, he uttered a cryptic statement.

  "Red Queen, White Queen."

  He was then forced to kneel before the block and the executioner’s axe swung down with a mighty thwack. The head dropped into the waiting basket, landing face up, the eyes reflecting the horror of the moment. Those in attendance insist those dead lips still moved, in pantomime.

  ‘Red Queen, White Queen.’

  Then the moment was over and the crowd dispersed.

  News of the bishop’s dying message flashed through the court, but none could determine the meaning. And, as her majesty ordered a new execution each day, the bishop’s message was soon forgotten.

  *

  It was not until Lord James Alfred Smythe trotted down to his wine cellar on the quest of a merlot that the bodies were discovered. The black-and-white tile floor was covered with what appeared to be blood, with accompanying spatter on the wine racks.