Vampire's Tomb



  Vampire’s Tomb

  A Short Story of The Great North Woods Pack

  Copyright 2016 by Shawn Underhill. All rights reserved. This is purely a work of fiction. Anyone construing actual events from the following story does so at his or her own will. No animals were harmed. Shawn loves Italian food. He intends no offense to other cuisines.

  This story is standalone and can be read on its own or in addition to The Great North Woods Pack series. It is inconsequential to the overall plot of the rest of the series.

  Old longings nomadic leap,

  Chafing at custom’s chain;

  Again from its brumal sleep

  Wakens the ferine strain

  ~John Myers O’Hara

  Evie did not read the newspapers, or she might have known that trouble was brewing. Not alone for herself, but trouble for every member of the North Woods Pack. And beyond that secretive wolf pack in their remote corner of New England, the entire population of the eastern seaboard was mere hours from disaster. The rest of North America would soon follow, and from there the icy hand of death would reach out, its dark shadow stretching across the globe to the hapless world.

  No grand scheme or sinister plot was to blame, but rather the unwitting workings of average men, driven by curiosity and the blind hope for riches. Groping in the dark for hidden gold and bragging rights, they attained neither, and succeeded only in unleashing an ancient peril beyond their comprehension.

  It was a crisp October night, and the fallen leaves of New Hampshire’s Great North Woods were coated by a thin layer of frost. The light of the moon and stars shone pale through the leafless trees, casting shadows and dim reflections on those countless leaves. And on them fell the remarkably soft footfalls of a creature that was not supposed to exist.

  A wolf.

  But she was no common wolf.

  Evie Snow was a holdover of the original strain, which meant a wolf of grand scale, descended from the relics of the younger world who spoke the original language of the earth and animals. At just sixteen she had responded to the calling of the first wolf. In return, like all of her kind, she had received a portion of the ancient one’s life. The gift of the wolf.

  Being personally descended of the Snowe line, the primitive was strong in her, with her lineage tracing back to the harsh Northlands of Scandinavia and predating all known written history. Almost pure white in color, but for silver hackles and crest running down her back, she bore the likeness of her mother’s father, whose name in English was now Snow.

  Born at the tail end of the 20th century, a vast gulf of ages separated Evie from the ancient wolves. Yet within her wild body of mystique there was little to distinguish those ancients from herself. Thriving in secret in the twenty-first century, their instincts lived on, enduring in and through her. And beyond her now rare coloring, within her sleek and ghostly outline persisted the strength and cunning of her eldest and wildest forebearers. From those primitives of savage times, ruled by the law of claw and fang, she had inherited her love of all things wild and places remote, her endurance and bold nature, and most of all her nimble speed.

  On this particular frosty October night, Evie was not mindful of her forebearers as she darted so effortlessly through the dark woods. She certainly wasn’t aware of the growing threat from the east. As was her custom, she had spent most of the night roaming and reveling with her cousins and friends, the young of the pack who frolicked their nights away in the manner of excited dogs at parks. To band together and run and compete and mock battle was the compulsive expression of the depths of their natures, as well as the nightly outlet of their excessive energies. Therefore Evie’s attention had been focused wholly on the thrilling present, until the mindfulness of the approaching morning broke in on her fun.

  Though the dawning day would bring peril, Evie sensed it approaching with no more trepidation than any other morning. Her only apprehension was the hint of remorse for the beautiful night having passed too quickly. Time always flies when one is having fun. The clear and frosty nights of autumn always passed too quickly, as did the fleeting October colors of the oak and fiery maple leaves.

  An hour before sunup the pack of young wolves went their separate ways, and Evie left the northbound trail carving through the little town of Ludlow. From there she skirted the empty cornfields and pastures south of her grandparents’ house. Passing the long barns as quietly as a phantom, so as not to disturb the animals, she then crossed the frosted grass of the upper field and approached the big oak house from the side. Hopping onto the back porch, easily bypassing the steps, she neared the sliding glass door, slowing with each stride.

  Before the glass she caught a glimpse of her white-furred, green-eyed reflection under the moonlight. She always dreaded mornings. A being of lore, her nights now played out like strange and wild dreams come true, whereas mornings, and their accompanying human responsibilities, felt like unusually harsh realities. To bid a beautiful night farewell was difficult. To bid the wolf farewell for the daylight hours was harder still. It was the purposeful act of stifling the truer, favored portion of her being. More so, it was to give up the thrilling strength and freedom of the wild animal, exchanging it for the monotonous daily routine of the post-modern human creature.

  Her white head drooped. Morning was fast approaching. Try as she might, she knew that wishful thinking could not hold off the inevitable. So with a heavy heart she focused her mind and made the instantaneous shift to her two-legged form.

  Entering the dark house, she closed the door softly behind her. Pulling on her warm robe, which was waiting just inside the door, she quietly crossed the great room on her toes, making a beeline for the kitchen. Her stomach was growling. A well-stocked refrigerator was one of the perks of the human aspect of her unusual life.

  She was a few strides from the fridge when the TV in the great room suddenly blinked on behind her. Instantly it filled the quiet house with light and sound that was harsh and sharp to her highly sensitive eyes and ears. A quick check confirmed that the great room was in fact deserted. Yet the TV was on. Apparently of its own accord.

  “What in Sam Hill?” she muttered, squinting as she went hunting for the remote control. Of course the news was on. She hated the news. And of course it was blaring. It would wake up the whole house.

  “Leave it on,” said Joseph Snow.

  Startled, Evie turned and looked up at her grandfather, the great leader of the pack. Sturdy and tall, appearing a fraction of his true age, he was standing by the balcony railing at the top of the oak staircase. Not so much looking out over the high-ceilinged great room, but looking squarely down at her.

  ***

  “I’m sorry,” Evie said just above a whisper. “Did I wake you?”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he returned and began descending the stairs. “I woke up at precisely the right time.”

  “Oh,” she exhaled, only mildly perplexed by his response. “Do you have the TV remote?”

  “No.”

  “Well, who turned it on?”

  He gave no answer.

  “Then, I guess it grew a mind of its own,” she reasoned aloud. “It turned on by itself.”

  “Strange,” her grandfather said with what struck her as unusual carelessness.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She watched him settle on one of the couches. Not only did his tone and mood seem unusually flat, he seemed abnormally fixated on the television. Which was far from normal.

  Before she could ask more questions or reach any conclusions, her attention was drawn away from him. This time she saw her mother at the top of the stairway. Just behind her followed her grandmother. She looked closely at their faces. Neither see
med cheerful. Nor were they upset. They were just there. Their expressions were blank. Emotionless. They moved down the stairs almost mechanically and settled into the great room as if marching in a slow funeral procession.

  “Did I miss something?” Evie asked, looking from one to the other. “Is this a joke or something?”

  “No joke,” her grandfather answered.

  “What is it?”

  “Trouble.”

  She took a breath before saying, “What is it?”

  “One of my oldest fears has come to pass,” he answered. But there was no distress in his tone. And he’d spoken without taking his eyes from the TV.

  Finally she looked from him to the TV, allowing her ears to absorb the sound she’d been working to block out. A news anchor was narrating video clips that seemed to be taken from a helicopter. The footage was jumpy, the scene chaotic. Colored lights of various emergency vehicles strobed in the dark, while the beam of the helicopter’s spotlight flashed over an area of disturbed earth. In the background there seemed to be equipment and machinery. Perhaps drilling and digging equipment.

  “Looks like a real mess.”

  Evie turned sharply to find her cousin Matthew seated on one of the big couches. They made eye contact for an instant and then he resumed watching the television.

  “When did you get here?”

  “Me?” Matthew said without looking at her.

  “Yeah, you. I left you by your parents’ house five minutes ago. You’re telling me you got dressed and drove up here that quickly?”

  He didn’t answer. Just shrugged and went on staring at the TV.

  “Okay,” she said, turning back to her grandfather. “You know almost everything, Papa. Please tell me what’s happening.”

  “On the television?”

  “No, in general.”

  “In general? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

  “Are you messing with me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “What’s happening with us?”

  “We are trying to watch the news, while you ask questions.”

  “Did someone slip me a crazy pill?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I came in a few minutes ago, like any other normal night, and the place was perfectly quiet. Then the TV turned on all by itself and y’all started appearing like a bunch of zombies. None of you are acting right.”

  “Y’all?” Joseph said, slightly furrowing his brow. “In case you’ve forgotten, my dear, you’re not living in the deep south anymore. This is rural New England. As always, you’re free to go on speaking as you please around home. But fair warning, it’s going to draw attention if you carry on like that out in public.”

  She glared at him in disbelief, at a total loss for words.

  “Okay?” he said.

  She made only a small huffing sound in response.

  “Good,” he said. Then he looked back at the TV.

  “Will someone tell me what’s going on?” she said louder. “Please? And why hasn’t anyone made any coffee yet? It looks like we’re all up for the day.”

  “Don’t look at me,” her grandmother said. “None of this was my idea.”

  “But you’re usually so possessive of your fancy kitchen.”

  “Not today,” she replied.

  Joseph Snow looked at his wife. Then he raised the remote control to lower the TV’s volume. He set the remote back on the coffee table and then gazed thoughtfully at his granddaughter.

  “What now?” she asked, staring back at him.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Well, if I had to guess,” he ventured slowly. “I’d say you were having a dream.”

  She looked around at everyone. They all stared back at her strangely. Like she’d just knocked over an expensive vase.

  “Seriously?” she said. “What are you all looking at? You’re all older than me and y’all are supposed to know more than I do about the weirdness that comes along with being a wolf.”

  “I doubt this has much to do with being a wolf,” her grandfather said. “If I had to guess, I’d say this is all on you.”

  “Ditto,” Matthew chimed.

  Evie pushed her messy red-and-white hair back from her face. Crossed her arms. Took a deep breath. Exhaled heavily.

  “It’s a dream,” her mother confirmed.

  “Sure it is.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Wouldn’t I be able to tell?”

  “That I can’t explain. But this is definitely a dream.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m your mother,” Janie said. “You’re all worked up right now, and yet, I don’t feel the slightest bit worried about you. I feel normal in every other way. So it has to be some weird, very realistic delusion you’ve conjured up.”

  “Fine,” Evie said. “If it’s a dream, I want a nice fire in the fireplace. Instantly.”

  A fire instantly appeared in the big stone fireplace.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, her expression going from surprised to almost devious. “How about some music? I want Lindsey Stirling to come dancing through the room playing one of her violin songs.”

  Lindsey appeared near the glass door, dancing and twirling and leaping about as she sawed on her violin. She skipped away through the length of the great room and disappeared down the dark hallway beyond the kitchen.

  “Fascinating,” said Joseph Snow. “I feel entirely conscious, like my usual self, even though this is your dream.”

  “Great,” Evie said. “Glad I could help you out.”

  “Guys, I can hardly hear the TV,” Matthew complained.

  “Sorry,” Evie snapped. “Didn’t mean to bug you during my dream.”

  “Hey, this is some serious news. It looks like the undead are trying to take over the world.”

  “Ugh,” Evie groaned, flopping back into a chair by the fireplace. “I’m not in the mood for a zombie apocalypse dream.”

  “Not zombies, bloodsuckers,” Matthew clarified.

  “Either way, it’s still—”

  “Shhh!” It was her grandmother.

  “That’s it,” Evie said. “I hate being shushed. Let me out of this dream. Be over! Wake up!”

  Nothing happened.

  “I said, I want out.”

  No change.

  She stood up and stared at her family, waiting for some further response or explanation. Seconds ticked by. Nothing changed. They went on staring at the TV as if she wasn’t there.

  “Guess I’m stuck here for a while,” she muttered. “Might as well—”

  “Shhh!” Her grandmother again. Not a quiet little shhh. I’m talking about the sort of shhh that makes you want to deliver a Tyson uppercut to the chin of the one shushing you.

  For half a second Evie felt ready to explode with rage. But then she caught herself and stomped to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. In the process she made sure to rattle the silverware drawer with extra gusto and clatter all the cupboard doors.

  ***

  The news was bleak. A rash of violence had erupted overnight in the otherwise quiet Canadian province of Nova Scotia. Hundreds of emergency calls had been placed by the hour during the course of the night. Some reported strange activity about homes and neighborhoods. Others described victims narrowly escaping vicious attacks from a terrifying apparition. Most reported missing family and friends.

  A visual aid appeared on the screen. It mapped the timeline and progress of events of the night. Beginning west of Halifax, the rampage moved east into the little city. From there it turned north before turning back west toward New Brunswick and the eastern border of the US.

  The news anchor turned to eyewitness testimony given by a very frightened man. He claimed to work for a heavy equipment company that provided on-site maintenance to the equipment. Some twelve hours prior to this newscast he had been dispatched to repair a malfunctioning excavator. The excavator was be
ing used on the infamous Oak Island.

  The anchor interrupted the man, clarifying for the audience that Oak Island was home to the legendary money pit. The place where treasure hunters had been searching, unsuccessfully, since the late seventeen hundreds.

  The witness resumed, explaining that there had been a buzz around the island in recent days, and the equipment had been used heavily. The team conducting the search had continued working later than normal on the evening in question, after making contact with a large underground structure some seventy feet below the surface. As the supposed treasure was carefully exhumed, the buzz about the island swelled to shouts of joy. Grown men were acting like kids at a little league game. At long last something significant had been discovered on the island, after hundreds of years of efforts, fortunes squandered, and multiple lives lost. Finally something tangible had been exhumed. Something apparently intact and undamaged.

  But it was not chests of pirate gold that they unearthed. Rather, a large wooden structure. Something like a shipping crate. The outer layers of this box were rotting and crumbling, but being highly overbuilt, the inner layers of planking were still remarkably solid.

  The witness hesitated.

  “And then what?” the anchor pressed.

  “It was awful,” the witness muttered, shaking his head and drawing in a long breath.

  “I know you’ve had a rough night,” the anchor said. “But can you tell us what the searchers found in that box?”

  “They pried it open,” said the witness. “There were big work lights set up everywhere, aimed at the dig site and at the box. I could see everything clearly. And they finally pried it open. And … I saw … There was someone in there.”

  “Someone?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Buried in the box?”

  “Yeah, it was like a man,” answered the witness.

  “Like a man?”

  “Like a very old and shriveled man. All leathery. Skin and bones. But not exactly like a mummy. He looked like he’d been down there a while. But not too long.”

  “How could that be?” asked the anchor.

  “I don’t know. All I’m saying is that’s what I saw. It was a little like seeing those old photos of people in concentration camps.”

  “So, you’re there working,” said the anchor. “There’s a buzz around the island. The thrill of anticipation.”