The Curse of the Vampire (Cursed Book 6) Read online

  The Curse of the

  Vampire

  Written by

  Dean m. drinkel

  Hersham Horror Books

  Hersham Horror Books

  Logo by Daniel S Boucher

  Cover Design by Mark West 2015

  Copyright 2015 © Hersham Horror Books

  Story copyright Dean M. Drinkel 2015

  All rights belong to the original artists, and writers for their contributed works.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Cursed Series No. 6

  First Edition.

  First published in 2015

  Also from

  Hersham Horror Books:

  Alt-Series

  Alt-Dead

  Alt-Zombie

  PentAnth-Series

  Fogbound From 5

  Siblings

  Anatomy of Death

  Demons & Devilry

  Dead Water

  The Cursed Series

  The Curse of the Mummy

  The Curse of the Wolf

  The Curse of the Ghost

  The Curse of the Zombie

  The Curse of the Monster

  Series Foreword

  I love monsters. There I’ve said it. As an author, editor and publisher I love a good story with a monster in it. I’m not saying I don’t like other types of horror, but the fear of something under your bed; in the wardrobe, or shuffling across a misty graveyard fills me with equal measures of fear and glee.

  Where did this love spring from? Firstly from old horror films, before I got heavily into reading at twelve. I feel sorry for my boys who don’t know the names Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney Jr, Elsa Lancaster and James Whale. I used to stay up to the wee hours with my portable telly turned down, so my mother would not hear it. Waiting for a double bill of horror, headed by the RKO Radio Picture logo.

  This is where my love began, before moving onto the colour pleasures of Hammer films.

  This series of six little books will take you back to the time of the mummy, werewolf, ghost, zombie, monster and vampire. Where nothing sparkled in black and white, and the odd child got thrown into a lake. The local villagers had a bountiful supply of pitchforks and flaming brands, and the vampires never came out until after dusk.

  The graves are empty, the tombs open wide, and the moon is full and high. Prepare to shiver.

  And so the series comes to an end with a bumper vampire tale. I hope you have enjoyed the series.

  Peter Mark May

  Series Editor

  September 2015

  Prologue

  One

  Interlude

  Two

  Interlude

  One

  Interlude

  Two

  Interlude

  Three

  Interlude

  Four

  Interlude

  Five

  Interlude

  Six

  Interlude

  Seven

  Interlude

  Eight

  Interlude

  Nine

  Interlude

  Ten

  One

  Biographies & Story Notes

  The Curse of the vampire

  For: Romain and Vincent

  “Remembering is only a new form of suffering.” Charles Baudelaire

  “Please do not understand me too quickly.” André Gide

  “The day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.”

  Jean Cocteau

  Prologue

  There was blood everywhere.

  It was on the ceiling, it dripped down the walls even the floor was saturated in the stuff.

  What had happened here was pure carnage.

  The old man lay in the bed, his head propped up by several cushions. He was naked. His skin ancient, his flesh corpulent, his hair lank, his nails long. He lifted a weary and bandaged arm then let it drop down by his side. He was spent.

  A dog in its basket snored lightly; there were clumps of flesh lying nearby – teeth marks evident (and not only the animal’s!).

  “Water,” the Creator whispered, his accent almost foreign.

  From the shadows, those areas where the candlelight didn’t reach, someone stepped forward. Whoever this being was, they were dressed from head to toe in white. Everything they wore was white, their gloves, and their shoes. Even their mask...

  “Creator?” a muffled voice asked the old man.

  “Water, I demand water,” was the reply. It seemed such an effort for him to speak.

  “As you command.” The white dressed man (though there was no absolute proof he was a man) went to a cabinet against the far wall, poured a small glass from a jug, returned to the bed, put it to the old man’s lips, tipped the contents into his mouth.

  “Enough...I said ENOUGH...are you trying to drown me?”

  The glass was removed and the white dressed being retreated into the shadows.

  The Creator closed his eyes, allowed his thoughts to drift away to the next room - there a gramophone was entertaining his other guests, the record was scratchy, the needle jumped in several places, not that it mattered, it seemed to add a certain frisson to the proceedings and anyway, he knew the music by heart – he didn’t need a vinyl disc to remind him who he was.

  “Der Vampyr...” he muttered and added: “Marschner.” Was anybody listening to him...in fact, was there anybody alive in this room to either hear him or the music? He couldn’t be sure...for now he was lost in...

  ...someone coughed.

  His penis hardened.

  Someone was alive.

  The Creator’s eyes sprung open. Those long, thin fingers of his unfurled, those elongated nails scratched the skin on his thighs as they revealed their unfettered sharpness.

  “Who is it? Who is it?” he asked excitingly.

  There was movement, the white dressed being reappeared, he fell to his knees, searched around the bed, in and amongst the corpses that lay there. There were so many. It had been an excellent crop. They had done their job well, carried out to perfection.

  “Who is it?” the Creator repeated. His chest rose and fell in anticipation. He was surprised that someone lived, but he put that down to his age, if he had been a few decades younger then he would never allowed someone to survive, but the recent years hadn’t been exactly kind to him and he couldn’t move as quickly as he once did...

  “...found him,” the man said. His white suit was now soiled in blood, shit, gore and other visceral matter. He moaned as he pulled the (un)lucky survivor from under the pudgy carcass that lay on top of him.

  “Are you deaf? I asked, who is it?” the Creator was angry, rabid fury in his voice, he was regaining strength. The flesh that he had consumed, the blood that was smeared all over his body, was working its magic and not just on that instrument of sin standing proud between his legs.

  His heart...his heart was pumping again.

  He was resurrected.

  “It is...it is...” The gore was being cleaned away.

  “Yes...yes?!” the Creator tried to get a better look. “Why can’t I see you, wh
at are you hiding from me?”

  From the end of the bed, the being stood, he held the body in his arms. It was a young man...probably no more than a teenager in fact. He was naked also - in fact, everyone (bar this white clad creature) in the room was as naked as the day they were born.

  The stench of death and sex and blood was overpowering, nauseating in fact.

  “It is Lucien,” the man stated.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it was Lucien, Creator.”

  “Lucien?! My Lord...my Lucien...he breathes still?” He fell back, wiped the grime from his face, colour was returning to him, but he still appeared to be in such agonizing pain. Not all the blood had worked its spell.

  “Yes, I’ve checked his pulse, it’s weak...but he lives.” He pulled a knife (with great difficulty obviously) from the sheath on his belt (yes, the handle was white – that was the rule here). “Shall I finish it?”

  The Creator began to sob. “Lucien...oh my darling Lucien...I am so sorry…” Suddenly he flew up, off the bed, almost slipping in a pile of steaming entrails, lying on the floor. His eyes were on fire, spittle flew from his mouth. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

  “Nothing Creator, my apologies, my mistake.” He took a step backwards, bowed, dropping the knife to the floor.

  The dog stirred...

  Neither men spoke, neither moved – but one of them would have to back down quickly because if the boy was going to endure then they would have to patch him up and get him to the hospital as swiftly as possible. After all there was a massive gash to the side of his neck which had been pouring blood at an alarming rate and that didn’t take into account the many other wounds to his torso, his legs, his genitals...

  The Creator lay back down. “The opera...the opera has ceased, please attend to it at once, I cannot stand the silence...please...I must hear it...hurry...hurry...”

  “The boy...?”

  Lucien made a noise in the back of his throat, blood leaked from the side of his mouth, something like vomit exited his nose, his eyes flickered open, he tried to fight, to kick out but the man held him too tightly and he was weak, so weak. He had almost been emptied of blood and what was left was swiftly departing – along with his soul.

  “Dead meat,” the Creator stated. “That’s all you are Lucien, my beautiful boy, my beautiful Lucien. Dead meat...I wonder if that was the Transformation you were looking for...”

  In the other room, the music started up again. Someone must have attended to it.

  The Creator’s eyes closed, his breathing slowed, until several moments later he was either asleep or dead, it didn’t matter to him, and both states were welcome.

  The white clad ghost waited then when he felt it was time, he found a discarded sheet and he wrapped the boy in it and slowly, ever so slowly, not wanting to disturb the Creator, he exited the room.

  As he left, the candles were extinguished one by one and this sickening scene was plunged into blackness...

  Romain came back from his sleep-over ratty, exhausted and not in a good mood. He’d enjoyed himself, there was no doubting that but sometimes when he was tired he was a nightmare to live with.

  His mother had told him to take his vitamins (because she doubted he had eaten properly) and then to get upstairs for a shower (Christ, he stank!) followed by a couple of hours shut-eye. She hoped that by then, early evening, he would have cheered up a bit.

  She stood by the window, a cup of hot-chocolate in one hand, a cigarette in the other. The back door was open slightly so she could feel the breeze on the skin of her face and arms. From somewhere within the house she could hear a telephone ringing. She checked her pockets (but that was just habit as she knew the phone was elsewhere) and then on the table nearby – but no, it wasn’t there either.

  Still the phone continued to ring; she stubbed the cigarette out in the nearest ash-tray and then went hunting for it. She wondered if it was Romain’s phone but didn’t believe it was – actually she wondered whose phone it was because the ring-tone was unfamiliar (it sounded like an aria from an opera?).

  Of course that didn’t mean it wasn’t hers – she could never remember what her tone was and anyway, didn’t she usually have it on silent / vibrate? Knowing her – and Romain had often scolded her for this – she’d probably changed it and hadn’t even realised what she’d done.

  Anyway, she checked the whole of downstairs but nothing doing. The house had fallen quiet, so she went back towards the kitchen, she had some time to start the preparation for dinner…but then the ringing began again.

  She went to the bottom of the stairs; yes, it was definitely coming from the floor above somewhere – which was strange because she didn’t remember taking it up there.

  Perhaps then Romain was responsible, perhaps he had seen that it needed charging and he was being kind or in his cranky mood he was playing tricks on her – when he was bushed he was liable to do anything if he knew it would annoy her.

  Mother hurried up the stairs. She checked each of the rooms in turn: her bedroom (not there), a quick look in Lucien’s old room (not that he’d been there in a long while), their bathrooms (again nothing), the hallway linen cupboards (not their either). Whoever it was, they were most insistent. The dirge was annoying now.

  She stood outside Romain’s room. The carpet was wet, footprints from his bathroom led into the bedroom. He was so much like his brother in that respect, neither of them knew how to tidy up after themselves either. She poked her head in his bathroom – yep, clothes and wet towels all over the place – shower curtain sopping, stuck to the screen. Water soaking the floor. Normally she’d moan at him and tell him to tidy up but she could deal with that later once he’d cheered up, for now, she wanted to answer that damn phone.

  It had to be Romain’s - perhaps he had altered the tone after all. Maybe he’d even changed his phone – what did she know? It was so hard keeping up with teenagers nowadays and when it suited him, Romain could be so damn secretive.

  Mother could hear other music too and that was definitely coming from him. He always liked to fall asleep to either the TV or a CD – it wasn’t particularly loud anyway – she thought about knocking but if he was asleep already she didn’t want to risk waking him up but she also didn’t want to just walk in – Romain was at that age now when – she could actually feel herself redden at this thought – boys would be boys.

  And that fucking phone – it was ringing again! Best leave it then, she took a step backwards, her fingers were wet from holding the handle…a handprint on the wall too.

  “Jesus!” she stopped herself screaming, something had been knocked over downstairs, the noise had startled her.

  She ran along the hallway, down the stairs. It was so cold all of a sudden. She flew into the dining room; the back door was wide open; it was pouring with rain outside, the drapes billowing inwards.

  “What the hell?”

  Lying there in pieces on the floor was a vase her mother had given her as a wedding gift. It was one of the last things she been given before she passed away. Bloody ugly thing it was (Jesus Christ Conquers etched on one side). She picked up the shards, lay them on the table. She wasn’t particularly bothered that it was broken, though that wasn’t entirely the point – it had sat there all those years.

  Mother went to the back door, grabbed it, and dragged it closed. Then had to re-open it slightly as the drape had got caught up. She wiped the rain from her face, her hair. Amazing how wet she had become in such a short space of time, even her blouse clung to her skin.

  On the table (odd she hadn’t particularly noticed this when she’d put the pieces of broken vase there) the ash-tray was upended. Wow that was a strong wind! She began to brush the ash and the butts into the ash-tray when a loud noise came from upstairs: a banging, crashing sound. A cry too! Her heart raced, something must have happened to her boy, had he rolled out of bed whilst asleep?

  “Roro!” she yelled as she bolted back up the stairs. “Wake up Rom
ain!” She didn’t get an answer, but she could hear arguing, crying, screaming.

  “Romain!” mother shouted again. She rushed to his bedroom door, tried the handle, it wouldn’t turn (probably locked). She banged hard on the wood – sounded like a fist-fight was raging in the bedroom.

  “ROMAIN!” she cried. She was beside herself, the tears were flowing, the adrenalin pumped. She pounded on the door, tried barging it with her shoulder. It budged a little - okay, so it wasn’t locked after all but something was blocking it from opening wider. She couldn’t get enough purchase to force it further…

  “Mother!” a garbled shout.

  That was all the encouragement she needed – she wasn’t going to let anything happen to her son. She wasn’t going to let history repeat itself, not if she had anything to do with it.

  Another crash – sounded like the computer monitor or television that time. Enough was fucking enough. She shoulder charged the door again. The wood and hinges strained, she beat it again and again and again.

  Ever so slightly, the door began to shift. So what if it bent and buckled too – even the frame splintered. She pummelled it repeatedly, she panted, her breathing shallow. Her knuckles bruised. She was using every ounce of energy her body housed and then some! Her shoulder was killing her, it fucking smarted. If she wasn’t careful she was going to do more damage to herself but she had to stay positive – her son needed her! She shifted shoulders and launched another attack.

  The door moved again. She got her foot behind it, then her whole leg, yes there had been something blocking it, but with one almighty thrust and the door finally gave way.

  “What the fuck?!” was all she managed to blurt out as she crashed into Romain’s bedroom. Her eyes were wide in terror.