The vampire club, p.1
The Vampire Club, page 1
THE VAMPIRE CLUB
by
J.R. Rain &
Scott Nicholson
The Vampire Club Series #1
THE VAMPIRE CLUB
Published by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson
Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson
Dedication
To vampire lovers everywhere.
The Vampire Club
“I can walk like a man but I’m not one.”
—Angel, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Vampire: “Slayer.”
Buffy Summers: “Slayee.”
—Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Welcome
The vampire dropped from above.
The girl recoiled in shock, then let loose with an ear-shattering screech. The vampire stepped back, seemingly impressed by the set of lungs on his soon-to-be victim. As she screamed away, he waved his hands slowly like a maestro.
And then those human lungs faltered and the scream turned into a gurgle. The concert was over.
Staring hypnotically with his obsidian eyes, the vampire approached the helpless girl. She began whimpering. He eased up alongside her, peered down at her exposed neck, and frowned. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away a bit of something.
His tongue slithered out as if summoned by a flute-playing Indian snake charmer. A shudder ran through the girl. He opened his mouth and stretched back his lips, revealing his long and slender teeth. He gripped her shoulders like a lover and sank his teeth deep into her neck—
And I could no longer control myself. Quivering, I leaped from my seat in the movie theater and, waving my fist for needed emphasis, shouted: “God, yes!”
Next to me, Buddy burst from his seat. “Suck it, baby, suck!”
And then Juan further down: “You know you like it! You can’t hide it, baby!”
Janice still further: “Suck like there’s no tomorrow!”
And then finally the professor, with his old and gritty voice, boomed: “Suck until you urinate blood!”
Which was, for me, a new one.
We are The Vampire Club.
Welcome.
Chapter One
My name is Andy Barthamoo, leader of The Vampire Club, which meets every Tuesday night at 7 p.m. in a small room in the basement of Western Virginia University’s library.
There are five of us, and we have one thing in common: we love vampires. We love them from the tip of their pointed teeth to the tip of their leathery batwings, devoting much of our pre-adolescent, high school, and college years in search of them.
You see, we want to become vampires.
However, we have yet to come across any documented proof that vampires truly exist. Until now....
* * *
On this particular Tuesday night, as I stood before the other four members of the group, I had some interesting news to share. Once all the members had assembled before me, I began the meeting. “Now friends and colleagues, I have asked you this question before and I will ask you again: what is the purpose behind our club?”
Four hands shot up. I would have expected no less. “Buddy,” I said, pointing to the blond football player in our group.
Buddy stood, all 215 pounds of him. “To gather evidence to prove the existence of vampires.”
“Very good, Buddy,” I said, and then paused for dramatic effect. “I believe I have found such evidence.”
There was a gasp or two. Probably Janice, though she’d never admit it. She had a way of hiding her true feelings, which is why she resisted her no-doubt undying love for me.
“This past week while doing research in the Virginia Times Library, I came across a newspaper article from the 1820s.” I opened my DayRunner and removed the photocopied article. I cleared my throat and read: “ ‘Stranger Shot Eleven Times, Dies Two Hours Later—Old man Andrews says he’d never seen anything like that in all his life. ‘Course I’m blind as a bat,’ says Andrews.’”
“Interesting,” said Juan, pulling at the goat hair on his chin.
“Now, as you will soon discover, this stranger behaved very much like a vampire.” I looked each member in the eye, stopping a bit longer with Janice and, of course, adding a wink. “And if so, there’s a chance he’s alive today. And I know where to find him.”
“Where did you get this article?” asked Juan.
“A weekly newspaper called The Inquireth.”
“A tabloid!”
“My assignment didn’t specify what newspaper I had to use—”
“A tabloid story about a mythical creature. Sure you didn’t confuse it with the Incredible Bat Boy? We can’t accept it as fact, Andy, or anywhere close to the truth,” Juan said.
“I thought the same thing, until I read between the lines and discovered the writer could not have made this up. He hit too close to vampiric truth. And it was before Bram Stoker, back when vampires were legend and not yet mainstream fiction.”
“Just read the article,” said Professor L. He smiled and nodded his gray head at me. “And we’ll see what exactly you’ve stumbled upon.”
Professor L was not only head of the Vampire Studies department, he was its only teacher. This was the only university in the nation that offered Vampire Studies as a major, and it attracted the devout, which was pretty much us four. You couldn’t just spout lines from Buffy the Vampire Slayer to get in. You had to know about Carmilla, Varney the Vampire, Vlad Dracul, and Nosferatu.
I cleared my throat dramatically, gazed at a promotional poster for The Lost Boys on the far wall to help me focus—Corey Haim had been my hero when I was a kid—then read the article aloud:
“It is common knowledge that evil is brewing in our Pennsylvania. Folk have been disappearing across the state for the last year. Most thought it was Indians, yet there have been reports of a pale-faced demon haunting an area right before a person is discovered missing.
We all know we all got sort of a start when a pale-faced stranger turned up in our town last week, staying at Buford’s Boarding House. He called himself ‘Laumer,’ and never said whether it was his first name or last. We all kept a suspicious eye on the stranger, but he seemed harmless enough; indeed, he was very charming, though rarely seen except at night.
But when old Al Hockborough disappeared, we knew we were in the presence of evil, perhaps Satan himself. A committee was formed, addressing the issue of the stranger and what to do about him. Four of the ten in the committee, including yours truly, wanted to burn him. Sure, give him a trial, and then burn him. Al was a great guy. He didn’t deserve to die by the hands of Satan. The others in the committee, led by Ed Royce, wanted to search his residence; maybe we’d find old Al.
At Buford’s Boarding House, we confronted the stranger at noon, though he was somewhat bedraggled. He was once again all charm, and let us search his residence at will. Nothing unordinary. He expressed his extreme concern over the disappearance of Al, and that times were indeed hard enough for a traveling man without people disappearing and heaping suspicion on innocent strangers.
It was pretty much back to the drawing board, though some of us didn’t like it, especially Ed Royce. ‘Fire’ could be the only word to describe our town’s blacksmith. He really had it in for the stranger, though most of us accepted the fact that his presence was purely coincidental to the disappearing of Al.
We were not surprised then when two days later gunfire shattered the night like fine crystal in the hands of a newborn. Roused from their sleep, most folks stumbled out of their beds to find the stranger dying in the streets. Ed and his gang stood by explaining, while the stranger lay gasping in the street. “He tried to kill Edith! We caught him just in time.” That’s when Edith answered curtly, crying. “He just offered to carry my bags home!
“Then why did he attack us?” demanded Ed.
“Maybe because you bullies cornered him with your guns.”
“Look at Billy, Sheriff, the stranger done him in good.” And Billy was a terrible mess.
“He also just disappeared on us,” said Hank. “When we looked again, he was behind us somehow. We shot at him,” Hank went on, “I knows I hit him a few times, and the others did, too, but he kept on running.”
“And that’s when he ran into me,” said Ed Royce. “One shot was all I needed.” The stranger died two hours later.
The sheriff investigated further, and it was agreed it was in self-defense that the stranger had to die.
If he was an innocent man, God forgive us. And if he was the killer, may God deal with him appropriately.”
They were silent, mulling over what they had just heard. I gave them a moment to reflect before spurring them into a conclusion. “Now, Buddy, who and what was that article really talking about?”
“A vampire, of course!”
“Indeed. The clues are all there. But I have another question: Who is this Edward Royce, and how did he and his gang kill our vampire?”
“The answer,” said Janice, “was the bullet. A silver bullet.”
“Exactly!” I stepped from behind the podium and circled the room. “Fact: we have researched vampires extensively. Fact: we have read all the vampire fiction, and though usually it’s a good read, most of it should be burned. Fact: we know more about vampires than anyone else alive. Question: can a silver bullet kill a vampire?”
As expected, four hands shot up in unison. “Juan,” I said.
Juan stood. “In our studies, we have uncovered voluminous accounts of vampires. The trouble is that most vary as to
“Simply put, we have uncovered the truths and dispelled the fallacies; and, unbeknownst to most folks, a silver bullet can wound a vampire but not kill a vampire. Our vampire is not dead.”
Chapter Two
Buddy, not missing a beat, asked: “So how did this Eddie Royce dude know to use a silver bullet on the vampire?”
“Professor L, though I know you’ve taught and lectured and enlightened our young minds all day long, I think we need your expertise,” I said. “Though we know more about vampires than the vampires themselves, I, for one, have never come across the name ‘Edward Royce.’ Please tell me you’ve heard of this Edward Royce chap.”
The professor made his way to the podium—this being a rather formal club—and began with his usual grunt, then cough, then the replacing of the stuff from his nose into his handkerchief, then on into his pocket. I tried not to notice the wet spot forming on his chest.
“I love vampires more than sex,” he began, an intro we could have done without. “I have studied them longer than you kids have lived. Yes, I have come across the name Edward Royce. From the time period and the description of the man, I am sure he was a relative of mine. And as you guys and gal might have already guessed, it appears, and this is a first for me, that he was a vampire hunter.”
I felt my anger and disgust welling in me. “Sir,” I said, standing from my folding chair. “You mean to tell me you are related to a...a vampire hunter?” The words were like bile in my mouth.
The others nodded in agreement, faces convulsing equally between shock and horror.
“I am not pleased, my students, and I am most ashamed. I have tried to keep this bit o’ fact from you, for it is not something to be proud of.”
“Indeed!”
“But now is the time for truth, and I’ll begin by saying that my great granddad to the fifth generation was rumored to be rather odd. He was said to have an uncommon fear of vampires, for the kin in question would have his house layered in garlic and other false vampire warders. He has been the target of many a family joke over the ages, even though he’s quite dead and can’t defend himself. Thus is the way of my sadistic family. But that was about the extent of it: just a little nuts, and unnaturally afraid of vampires. But now, I see he took his fear a step further and actually hunted them down.”
“But why would someone want to kill a vampire?” asked Janice, her pretty face scrunched into confusion.
Professor L said, “It was a senseless, mindless, cruel act that was perpetrated upon the Vampire Laumer, but you must remember that Royce’s foul deed was ultimately to our benefit, for the vampire is not dead—he is alive today!”
And, though our numbers were small, a cheer shook the very walls of our small meeting room.
“But not only that, Janice,” I said, a wicked gleam in my eye. “We can revive the vampire.”
Professor L continued, “In those days, only a handful of people truly believed in vampires, much like now, unfortunately. I did my doctoral thesis on vampire hunters, and basically they had no idea how to kill a vampire. They did, however, use the silver bullet, and that worked almost as well, for the vampires were dysfunctional to the point of extreme immobility, sort of like the president of the United States.”
“And as we discussed so often, there are undoubtedly many vampires buried in unmarked graves around the world,” Juan said. “Indeed, we have quite by chance come across an incredible find.”
I was beginning to understand the professor’s grandfather to the fifth generation a little better. “Edward Royce must have heard of the report of demon possession, and after getting more details, he must have realized they were actually dealing with a vampire.”
“Which scared the hell out of him,” said Buddy.
“So what did he do?” I asked.
“He faced his fears,” said Janice. “He sought the vampire.”
“And where others have failed, for the article clearly states he’d been shot before, Edward Royce didn’t. He shot the vampire with a silver bullet, and the town was saved from its demon.”
“And he knew otherwise,” said Juan.
“Exactly.”
“And the demon-possessed man, our vampire, was buried in their town cemetery.” Janice’s eyes held either a gleam of hope or a tear of sympathetic pain. “Left there for us to free him.”
Would he be there still after all these years? Had somebody else read the article and dug him up? Had perhaps another vampire sought out his comatose companion?
Something scraped across the wooden floor, and I looked up at the podium where the professor still stood. And I realized he’d been clearing his throat.
“Another bit o’ fact that you folks might find interesting is that, according to my family’s lore, Ed was even killed by a vampire. When I looked up his official death notice, I discovered the official cause of death was multiple dart wounds to the neck. I’m afraid my ancestor was both the hunter and the hunted. Perhaps it had been a darting accident, or perhaps it was a very ironic and appropriate death. Who can ever know?”
“Perhaps the vampire,” said Juan, standing. “He could tell us.”
“Indeed he could.”
“But, sir,” said Buddy, looking a bit confused, “Colonial America was not a haven for vampires. The hot spot was Europe. If a vampire was any vampire with self-respect, he was found in Southeastern Europe. You think maybe it was demon possession after all?”
“You are advocating for the devil himself,” I said, standing. “There are multitudes of reason why a vampire could have been in Colonial America. Janice, one reason.”
“He was fleeing other vampires. On the run.”
“Juan, give another.”
“He was looking for someone.”
“Professor, a third.”
“Fresh kill, where vampires would never be suspected.”
“Colonial Americans were certainly not the first to come to the Land of Opportunity, nor the last. And as far as demon possession, we can only go with what’s given, obviously. A stranger comes to a small town and people start dying. Being overly superstitious and quite religious in those days, folks figured he was the cause. And one thing led to another and he was shot eleven times for God knows what reason. Except he didn’t die. From this evidence alone, the stranger could have indeed been possessed by a demon, or whatever. But there’s one reason and one reason alone I believe he was a vampire—he was killed with a single bullet by Ed Royce, just after eleven had failed. This evidence, I believe, warrants a formal investigation by the Vampire Club.”
“Jesus, Andy,” said Buddy. “It was just a question.”
The professor sat down and I once again stood behind the podium. “We must put this to the vote, for democracy reigns in The Vampire Club. The question: Do we search for the vampire, Yea or Nay?”
All: “Yea!”
I wouldn’t have expected anything less.
Chapter Three
After setting a tentative departure date to Pennsylvania to search for our vampire the next weekend, we all left the meeting in rather high spirits.
“Hey, Juan, let’s go get drunker than your mom usually is at any given moment of the day,” shouted Buddy, whose voice boomed down the long hall of the student union, causing heads to turn, and no doubt minds to wonder: His own mother? What a shame. I wonder what she drinks? And is she hot?
“Sure, but not too much. I have a test tomorrow in my Legal Rights and Customs/Historic Finger-Paintings of Ancient Chad.”
“Finger-painting and legal rights in the same class?” I asked.
“The legal rights are in finger paint.”
“Absolute children,” said absolutely the sweetest voice my ears had ever had the pleasure of hearing.
“I agree, Janice.” And her expression told me I somehow was not grasping the whole meaning.
