Bathory Lives & Other Bizarre Tales

       Colton D. Epperson / Thrillers & Crime

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Bathory Lives, and Other Stories

Colton D. Epperson

Copyright 2016 Colton D. Epperson

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents
Title Page 1
Copyright Page 2
Bathory Lives 3
As The Music Drowns Out 6
Rooftops & Crosswalks 9
About The Author 14

Bathory Lives

Sleeping in with a hangover never seems to be easy. Even if you drink booze like a fish, it is still poison, and like any poison, it’s hazardous to your health. But what Ulrich was doing to his body by intoxicating it with chemical substance was all for good reason; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from his times in the 75th Ranger Regiment. When the visions of bodies falling and brains flying would break his train of thought, he sought the remedy at the bottom of a Jameson Bottle. He’d pound that drink down, go to sleep, lather, rinse, and repeat. But when he’d awaken, it wouldn’t be in his bed.

“Rise and shine, Sergeant Ulrich.” The voice of a female had said his name: soft, seductive, yet hostile and intimidating. “Poor dear. You must be so tired after everything you’ve been through.”

Ulrich opened his eyes at the command she made, seeing a figure standing over him with a knife in her hand, pressing the tip against her lips. As her lovely voice would imply, she was beyond beautiful. Her hair was long and glossy with a deep red hue, and her skin was unfathomably pale. She must have been at least five feet and seven inches tall, just a few inches shorter than him. But what stood out the most in her appearance were her eyes. They were void of any color at all, as if they were a dead white.

“Who the hell are you?” Ulrich asked, wheezing out the air in my words.

“Oh, Sergeant Ulrich…” She cooed as she got down on one knee. “I am nothing more than your humble host. My name is Elizabeth Bathory, The Demon Countess of Hungary.”

Elizabeth Bathory? That name was oddly familiar to him, as he recalled hearing it in a song played by some Goth Band in the late 2000’s. Surely this girl was just a lunatic fan of the band and wanted to take on the persona. Ulrich was too tired to think up any more theories, so I simply stood right up.

“I wouldn’t move too fast if I were you.”

Ulrich didn’t listen to her, and stood right up. If there were any moments of Syncope, He’d just fight it off right there. Ulrich tried to take a step forward, but Elizabeth stopped him from moving at all, as she pressed the tip of the knife up into his jugular. “Was she insane?” He thought to himself. Ulrich was a former Army Ranger, trained to survive any situation at all costs. But to him, it would seem rather cruel to destroy such a small and beautiful woman. Instead, he took the moment to ask her why he was even here, in order to delay enough time to assess his surroundings.

“Why am I doing this?” Elizabeth asked back. “Have you not heard the legends? I need blood, blood from the strongest and the weakest to maintain my youth and beauty. Peasants, Soldiers, Homeless, Aristocrats, it doesn’t matter. I need blood. But I’ve grown so bored of preying on the weak. So bored that I desire the thrill of killing someone as strong as you.”

As she rambled on in her tangent of bloodlust, Ulrich took the time to observe his surroundings. The space he was in was large, made up of steel rafters and concrete walls. There were several chains dangling from the rafters above, giving him the indication that he was in some sort of abandoned warehouse. It made sense as to why Elizabeth had chosen this area. No one would dare enter, and by the time they did, if he was dead, his corpse would have long rotted away.

“How do you know so much about me?” he asked, “Surely you didn’t just randomly select me.”

“I enjoy stalking my prey, Sergeant Ulrich,” She whispered in his ear, sending chills down his spine. “I know you were once a Ranger, that you’ve been drowning your demons in alcohol, and that you long for those nightmares to flutter away. Am I lying, Sergeant Ulrich?”

The latter fact was no doubt true. Ulrich had longed for his nightmares to dissipate, just so he could catch a wink of normal sleep. There was no way out for him, as he always felt suicide was the coward’s way out. But at this point, was letting someone else decide his fate all that worth it? His Warrior Ethos stated that he would never accept defeat, not even in death.

“Do I have a choice in whether I want to live or not?” He asked her, slowly beginning to reconsider his possibility of a way out.

“Well, Sergeant, it just wouldn’t be any fun for me if I killed you right now.” Elizabeth confessed. “I love to give my victims the illusion of survival, let them feel like they have a chance. You are the strongest of all my peasants, and I want to hear your sigh of relief when I end you, so by all means, there’s the door.”

She was not lying, for just behind her was the door to civilization. Ulrich’s mind was set and he wasn’t going to disobey his Ethos. Without even thinking, Ulrich sprinted for the open door, darting past the women who claimed she would be able to take his life. What a joke it was to him. Out of all the hostile forces he had fought against, she was by no means a threat. Once Ulrich crossed the threshold, the air grew cold, and freedom felt as if it were just a few hundred meters out. But as she said, it was nothing more than an illusion. A loud clank of metal was heard, and his ankle felt as if it had fallen off.

“A trap?” He asked himself as he grabbed at his leg, screaming in pain.

“You disappoint me sergeant.” The seductive voice of Elizabeth cooed.

As her gentle hands caressed his face, he knew it was over.

As The Music Drowns Out

There isn’t a musician on the planet that doesn’t know how to appreciate sound. Although we favor music, there are some moments where we prefer the long drawn out silence or clatter of everyday noises. Being in a coffee shop seems to have the best to offer. There’s the clicking of keys from the hipster and his MacBook, the barista who purees the ice and coffee grounds, and every now and then there’s the calling of a name for whatever drink was ordered. These sounds numb my brain in the best way possible. In here, the sound helps me concentrate on what I need to do when I write the lyrics to my songs. Sometimes us musicians need more than music to help us weave the words we sing. Just the clashing of metal coffee makers and discussions between strangers are what we need to find those perfect words.

Every time I go to the dump, there is always the foul, pungent odor of God only knows what. It’s invading to my nasal passages, and really has no place in our world. If I could have it my way, I’d blast the entire landfill with Febreeze and call it a day. But, no, that’s not an option. As I unload the mess my family made throughout the month from my truck and onto the concrete slab, the odors continue to molest my nostrils. There are so many disgusting things in these bags that I am glad to be rid of. The rotting foods and liquids that ferment over time and give life to vile bacteria who stink the whole place up don’t deserve to live on this planet. I’d burn all of them, but the only thing nastier than garbage is burning garbage. So have fun at the dump you filthy sacks of crap.

Taste, sometimes you are just so useless. Everyday I taste my own mouth and grow sick of it. But when I get that masterpiece from Taco Bell, known only as the Waffle Taco, I am immediately taken to heaven. Every bite is like ecstasy in my mouth. That fluffy waffle, the mouth-watering sausage, the savory cheese, (I’d say something nice about eggs but I find them gross either way.) You are the reason I wake up in the morning, Taco Bell’s Waffle Taco. The taste you leave in my mouth is as addictive as cigarettes (Which don’t taste too bad either aside, from the cancer.) You are well worth the tastes you give me. You need to lower your fats though, Waffle Taco, because I just want to taste you, not get fat off you.

Much like Lenny from Of Mice & Men, there is love of soft things for everything. The way it feels against my skin is rather odd. I simply feel it, and then I end up enjoying it. The feeling of my fingers on my own fingers though is rather annoying though. There is this dragging sensation that makes my skin feel as if it were being scraped by smoothed out sand paper. Corse sand paper is fine, but smoothed out is irritating. The traction from my fingerprints is to blame, because of their gripping surface. I can’t stand how you feel, and for now, I’m going back to feeling soft things. Soft is better, because it is pleasing to my nerves.

If I
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