Stories

Bedtime

The sky has lightened to a soft blue-grey. The birds begin their pre-morning trilling. I stand still, not wanting to frighten them into silence as more and more join the chorus. Their music so sweet, filled with joy as they greet the approaching dawn.

The trees are still night black, silhouetted against the soft glow now tinged pink. Time pulls at me, pulls me toward the sunrise. I turn and walk slowly through the dew glistened grass toward the tomb. The grey granite is almost the same color as the sky, but one is hard, the other soft.

I stand in the doorway, peering into the cold protective blackness within. I glance longingly over my shoulder. "I don’t want to go to bed." The remembered vision of my much younger self’s hesitant journey, full of backward glances, stalling as long as possible. My father standing stern.

"But I’m afraid of the dark," I whisper. "The monsters might get me."

"There are no such thing as monsters," he tells me. "It is bedtime."

The bird chorus heightens, dawn is only moments away. I step inside and slowly pull the door shut. I stand in the inky blackness, that not even my eyes, well accustomed to the dark, can pierce. It is by feel that I make my way toward my resting place and compose myself to sleep. There is no one to read me a story, no one to tuck me in. No mother to comfort and hold me, no father to protect me with his strong arms from the fears of the dark. But there is no need. My father was right. There are no monsters in the dark. I smile as sleep steals over me.

Identity Crisis

Who was she? The list of names scrolled through time.

She picked up Emily's frail wrist from the hospital bed, her teeth sunk into the papery skin at the pulse point, the blood surged into her mouth. The pain shadowing Emily's face smoothed into ecstasy.

Emily's washed out blue eyes opened. "Will I live?" she asked in a hoarse whisper that ended in a dry laugh.

"There's a chance you will," she hesitated at the word live. "Survive."

"Which ever way, I'm ready. Do it."

She drank until she felt the dying flutter of Emily's heart. She waited as she had promised until she knew the soul was long gone, never to return before she disposed of the body.

Who was she?

"You're looking well today, Emily."

She smiled. "I feel like a new person."

In the vapor white streetlight

In the vapor white streetlight, his smile gleamed. Long pointed fangs. Fear came with a surge of adrenaline, fear of the darkness and of the stranger, welcomed as a sign of life. Walking forward. A willing sacrifice. Suicide. Pain. Blood smeared throat. "Oh, did I tell you, I have AIDS," whispered, with a dying sigh.

The Dawn

He lay naked, spread eagled upon the cold, hard ground. He strained against the chains, but the iron stakes driven deep into bedrock remained immobile. He thought of her betrayal, teeth gnashed, fangs cutting deep until he tasted his own blood. She had teased him, tempted him with her lush body and sweet smelling blood, until he had followed her into the trap. Now he was to be judged. The priest had ordered. If he was a vampire, he would die with the sun’s rising. Even now the sky grew lighter and began to flame. He watched the eastern hills silhouetted darkly against golden orange sky streaked with pink red. The dawn’s beauty was lost to him as his terror overwhelmed him. A sliver of bright light crested the horizon. He screamed his death agony, his eyes mesmerized by a sight he had not seen in 792 years.

The Worst Thing

Dirt embedded his fingernails from clawing his way out of the grave. He tried to scrape away the filth, one nail against another, with little success. He started toward the village, but the rocks in his boots hurt his feet. Limping to the riverbank, he stripped his clothes, shaking himself like a dog. Clods of dirt flew. He stepped into the slow moving river. Shivering and cold, he scrubbed hard, trying to feel clean. Done, he used the stained white shirt to dry his body and dressed, grimacing at the black suit, always hated, only worn for funerals. Carefully he shook the stones from his shoes. Being dead was so difficult. He had a few hours before the irresistible urge drew him back to his grave beneath the ground. He hated dirt, how he hated dirt. It was the worst thing about being dead.

By Moonlight

The sheet once white, now crimson, shrouded the still form. Open doors framed the just risen moon. A trick of autumn atmosphere made it appeared unbelievably huge, deep orange against twilight’s lingering blue. The moon’s light inched across the floor to the makeshift bier. He crept from the shadows where he had crouched for long hours. Terror rose at the continuing stillness and he prayed to a god he no longer had any right to pray to. Impatient, he tore the sheet away. Blood besmirched her face and matted the golden hair, which had always reminded him of sunlight. The moonlight touched her face. Delicate shudders raced through her, growing in strength until the body convulsed, as the battle to claim the soul trapped within raged. Then it was over. She sat up. "Oh, my immortal beloved. " His joy warmed a heart grown cold with long years of waiting.