The Passing

“Will it hurt?”

Barlow turned from the window where he’d been watching the moon rise. The vampire sitting in the throne-like chair was young—painfully young, Barlow thought, wincing. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, maybe less. A pity the one who turned him hadn’t chosen a more mature victim.

“Some,” he said, and the vampire shuddered.

“I don’t want it to hurt.” He shifted in the chair, ran his fingers through his auburn hair. He was dressed like a dandy, all ruffles and velvet, a beautiful young man in the first flush of youth. Closer inspection revealed dark circles beneath the blue eyes, a down-turning to the merry red lips, slumping shoulders.

“You won’t suffer,” Barlow assured the vampire. “I’ll prepare the draught.” It only took a moment to combine the herbs with the holy water. Opening a leather pouch, he withdrew a round wafer, clenching his teeth at the burning in his fingertips. Working quickly but carefully, he dropped the wafer into a goblet and heated the herbs and water on a small brazier. When it was hot, he poured the mixture into the goblet and stirred it with a tin spoon.

The vampire watched all with an expression of curiosity mixed with fear.

“I want to tell you why I’m doing this,” he said, voice shaking. Barlow turned to him, an expression of mild interest on his unlined face.

“That isn’t necessary,” Barlow replied, setting the goblet down on the table. "That you desire peace is all I need to know."

“Someone told me you write names down, for….for later.”

“Yes. I’ll fetch the Book now.” Barlow hurried into his sleeping chamber, chiding himself. It wasn’t like him to forget the Book. He opened a worn chest at the foot of his pallet and lifted out the Book, purposely averting his eyes from the other things inside.

When he returned to the main room, the young vampire was standing beside the table, gazing into the goblet. He snatched back his hand when Barlow bustled in.

“I’m supposed to drink that?”

Barlow narrowed his eyes. “You came here seeking solace. I am prepared to give it. You must be prepared to receive it. Are you?”

The vampire shrugged. “I just want to know what I’m going to drink,” he persisted. Barlow resisted the urge to rip the vampire’s head off and counted to ten instead.

“Please have a seat,” he said soothingly. The vampire was agitated, which was no good. If he drank the draught now, his passing would be even more painful. “I will of course explain all to you.”

Dubiously, the vampire sat back in the chair. Barlow caressed the leather cover a moment, relishing the smoothness against his skin. He opened it slowly, turning each delicate page with care, until he reached the passage he sought. As usual the irony of the situation was not lost on him. To think he’d spent his mortal life cursing this Book and its followers, only to realize the truth when that life ended.

“ ‘For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.’”

Barlow looked up into the puzzled face of the vampire. “Do you realize there’s a punishment awaiting those who die in their sins?”

The vampire bowed his head, gripping the armrests with white fingers.

“Even for us, the so-called damned…tell me your name so I may write it here in the Book.” Barlow turned to the blank pages in back. So many, so many names, he mused, running his fingers down the elegant script. Who will write my name?

“I am Lucius,” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Am I truly damned? Is there no forgiveness for even one such as I who longs to repent?”

Barlow nodded. “Yes, Lucius, there is forgiveness; the Book says that whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be given eternal life.”

The boy shook his head. “Eternal life I have, old man! I want eternal peace. I want to be free from the bloodlust. It calls to me, even whilst I sleep. I dream of it, the crimson flow, the tearing of flesh, the sweet goodness—” He made a strangled noise, eyes flaring red.

“How long, Lucius, since you last fed?” Barlow watched the young vampire struggle for composure. His torment was great—why else had he come to Barlow for solace?

“A full day. Please,” he begged, falling to his knees beside Barlow’s chair. “Please, end my torment lest I go mad.”

“Of course, my son,” Barlow said, laying his hand on Lucius’s head. “ ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”

“Can it be true? Can there be peace, even forgiveness for me? I—” He faltered. “I’ve done such terrible things. Surely God has turned His face away from me.”

“Never, Lucius. God holds us all in the palm of His hand.” Barlow reached for the goblet. “Surely as a child you were taught the dogma of Christ, that He turns no one away.”

“I…it’s been so long. I’m not sure…” Lucius’s face twisted and he shook his fist at the ceiling. “God in Heaven! Why do You torture me so? Give me relief, give me peace.”

Barlow gripped the vampire’s thin shoulders. “It is not God who tortures you, Lucius, but another who stalks about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” He held out the warm goblet. “Drink, Lucius. Drink and enter the joy of the Lord.”

Hesitantly, Lucius took the offered cup in both hands, eyes wide with hope. “Truly? When again I open my eyes I will be in Paradise?”

Barlow gazed into the vampire’s face. “Truly, my son. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He could see the indecision and fear in the boy’s face. “Do you fear death so very much?” he asked softly.

Lucius blanched. “I am unworthy. My faith is weak.”

“Then drink, Lucius. In order to have faith, you must first embrace it.”

Lucius raised the cup to his lips and began to drink. After the first swallow his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Smoke curled from between his lips and he clawed at his throat, stretching out a beseeching hand toward the older vampire.

“I am sorry,” Barlow murmured, turning away. Behind him the vampire’s agonies continued, guttural screams and thumping he couldn’t bear to watch. Barlow’s nostrils flared as the odor of burning flesh and hair permeated the air and the sudden silence made his shoulders slump.

Always, always it was like this. If only there was some way to ease the passing, to make that last journey easier. Guilt pricked when he recalled the hope on the boy’s face when assured there would be no pain.

The sounds stopped abruptly. Barlow fetched a whisk broom and tin dustpan, steeled himself, and walked over to the remains of Lucius. Such a waste.

“Bravo, Master Barlow,” a low voice said from behind him. Barlow whirled and saw a black-cloaked figure standing in the shadows. “You nearly had me convinced.”

The figure gave a dry chuckle. “Until the poor sod burst into flames, that is.” The cloak was flung back, revealing a tall, thin man dressed in somber clothes. Although well-cut and of fine cloth, the shirt and trousers said the man wasn’t one of the nobility, but rather a well-off peasant.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Barlow demanded. “And how is it you know my name?” He peered at the man, trying to discern features. He took the candelabra from the table and held it up.

“Who I am is of no importance, Master Barlow, although I am certain you know of me.” The candle glow illuminated an aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones.

“Vlad,” Barlow murmured, nearly choking. The Impaler. What did he want?

“As for how I know your name, why, do not the very walls whisper of the solace offered by Master Barlow and his draught of peace?” Vlad chuckled again. “Although the reality is somewhat different, no?”

“I…I mean no harm,” Barlow stammered, nearly dropping the candelabra.

“Of course not. You merely offer what solace you can to the tormented fools who actually believe they are not damned.” Vlad’s lips parted, revealing shiny white fangs. “I have been frequently amused, I admit, at the stories that reach me during my travels. Did you know, Master Barlow, that even in the far Orient your service is known?” He walked over to the table and fingered the herbs lying there. His hand paused above the leather bag.

“This, though…this is most disturbing.” He turned pupil-less black eyes upon Barlow. “The Host is not meant for our kind. And yet…I can sense it on you. In you.” Disgust cured the vampire’s lip. He let his hand drop to his side. “I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” Barlow admitted. “I tried many things before this. Things that left those who trusted me howling in pain, or worse.” He shuddered. “Despite what you saw, the passing is relatively painless. And I am only honoring their desire.”

“Relatively painless compared to what? A wooden stake to the heart?” Vlad sneered. “You need not justify yourself to me, Master Barlow. I know what you are, and you are a sham.” He swept his hand across the table, sending herbs, the leather bag and various bottles crashing to the stone floor.

“You offer what you cannot deliver, as that pile of ashes learned to his everlasting sorrow. Think you he is singing with the angels? You are a fool. He is screaming with the demons, and you sent him there.”

“I—I did not—”

“Better had you taught him to control the bloodlust.” Vlad pointed a black-tipped finger at the cowering vampire. “How many, Master Barlow? How many have you sent to the abyss in the name of God?”

Barlow sagged to the floor amongst his herbs, sick at heart. The truth stabbed like a wooden stake. His faith disintegrated like Lucius’s ashes.

“There is no god of the Bible for our kind,” Vlad said quietly. “There is only the god of blood, who lives inside every one of us. To serve him is to live.”

Long after Vlad had left as silently as he had arrived, Barlow lay on the floor, trying in vain to recapture his belief.

Gone. All gone. His eyes fell upon the leather bag. Stretching out his fingers, he pulled it close and undid the drawstring. Only two Hosts remained. Barlow reached inside and withdrew a pale disc.

His skin began to smoke as it began burning through his skin. Grimacing, he raised it to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.



(c)2007 WS Ribelin

Let Them Eat Cake

A rather sick story from 2004, published in Nocturnal Ooze Magazine (now defunct)

          It was October 30, our father’s birthday. Traditionally, all of us kids gathered at the family mansion to celebrate the day, birthday cake and all. It was something I had always dreaded, especially since Mother had passed on. Father had become even harder to deal with. But now, God rot him, he was dead as well, and today was the reading of the will.

Missy hadn’t wanted to read the will on that day, saying something about bad luck. She always was the nervous one. Not that he didn’t make me nervous. On the contrary, I think I walked around with a permanent hunch to my shoulders, anticipating a blow or sharp word.

Anyway, James and I managed to convince our sister that Father’s birthday was the logical choice, as it would be exactly a year since he departed and also, he’d set it up with his lawyer that way, so it didn’t really matter what any of us wanted.

I arrived last, as befitting my position as the youngest, parking my late model clunker next to the others in the driveway. Father had been firm in his belief that his children make it on their own with no help from him or his money. Selfish bastard.

Rain pelted the top of my head, plastering my hair to my skull. I couldn’t help glancing over at the family cemetery, my eyes drawn to the last stone on the end. Strange. The grave looked disturbed…I shook the thought right out of my head. That was such impossibility it did not even deserve attention. The rain was playing a trick, that was all.

Inside I handed my dripping coat to the butler whose name I could never remember, and walked down the hallway, my heels loud on the polished floor.

The library door opened beneath my hand, and the familiar smells of cigars and old leather filled my nostrils.

James and Missy were there, standing in opposite corners, unhappy looks on their round faces.

“What the hell took you so long?” James demanded, raking a hand through his thinning hair. He looked the business man in his three piece suit.

“I’m here now, so let’s get started,” I said, and took a seat. Missy gave me a horrified look.

“What are you doing? You can’t sit in that chair,” she hissed, eyes almost popping out of her head.

“Sure I can. Who’s going to stop me? Father doesn’t need it anymore.” I grinned, and my sister made a noise and covered her face.

“L…leave her alone,” James said, and I shrugged. I stroked the smooth leather of the armrest, thinking I might have to take it with me. I could use a chair like that in my office.

“Ahem.” Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “If we could get started now?” Mr. Jennings had been my father’s lawyer for the last thirty years, and he was one cold S.O.B.

My sibling pulled out chairs as far away from me as possible, and Mr. Jennings stood by the fireplace and opened a folder.

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, shall we? You three are here because of your inheritance.”

“Of course we are,” James said, leaning forward. “So let’s get on with it.” He rested his palms on his thighs and waited.

“Very well,” Jennings said, placing a pair of reading glasses on his patrician nose.

“As you know, I’ve been your father’s legal advisor for a very long time. And, if I may take the liberty, I have also been his main confidant.” I rolled my eyes, trying to look bored. My shoulders were tight, though, because I knew my father wouldn’t pass up one last chance to screw us over.

“His last request to me was… how shall I put it?” Jennings paused and looked at each of us in turn. His eyes were so black the pupil wasn’t visible. Creepy.

“Come on, Jennings,” I interrupted, tired of the melodrama. “Out with it. What do we have to do to get our hands on the cash?”

Jennings wrinkled his nose at my crudeness. “Simply eat a birthday cake,” he said, and motioned behind him. The butler hurried in carrying a large silver tray. On the tray was a cake. A cake covered with blood-red frosting.

“Eat that cake? That’s it?” Missy sounded amazed, and relieved. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and actually smiled at me. I didn’t return it

“That’s it,” Jennings said, smiling unpleasantly. “Although there is one thing you should know about this particular cake.”

“What’s that?” James asked warily. He, too, suspected something. Our father was fond of practical jokes, the malicious kind that made people cry.

“Your father insisted on being a part of the cake, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Jennings laughed, and James grabbed his arm, wrinkling the elegant black suit.

“Quit playing games, old man, and tell us.” Jennings narrowed his eyes and yanked back his arm. James didn’t back down, though, and I felt a moment of admiration for my brother. There was a backbone in there somewhere after all.

“Very well. In order for the three of you to receive the money, you must consume the entire cake--every single crumb.”

“And if we don’t?” Missy asked, eyes darting nervously. She twisted a strand of her mousy brown hair around a finger, a childhood habit our father had tried in vain to break. One of the only times he’d ever failed.

“Then your share will be divided between the remaining siblings, provided they meet the terms.”

“So there’s a chance one of us could get all 50 million,” I said slowly, and Jennings nodded.

“Minus my fees, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and there is just one more thing,” Jennings said, and he was really enjoying this. “As I said before, your father wanted to be a part of this, and he is. He’s at the center of the cake.”

“At the center….you don’t mean….” James stuttered, face white.

“Yes, I do mean. The cake was baked with your father’s head in the center.”

Missy screamed, fingers tangled in her hair. James’s mouth was an O of disgusted surprise. Me? It didn’t surprise me. Or at least not much. It was just the kind of nasty, tasteless joke my father had always enjoyed playing on his children.

Fascinated, I went closer, unable to take my eyes off of it. Even Missy crept closer, hand pressed to her mouth.

Across the top of the cake, piped in white frosting, was a message: Love, Daddy. I wondered who had actually dug up the grave and baked this nauseating dessert.

“He can’t do this, can he?” Missy pleaded, tugging on Jennings’ sleeve.

“Madam, he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“I hope its chocolate,” I said, feeling a grin playing around my mouth.

“I can’t do this,” Missy whispered desperately, digging at her face with her lacquered fingernails.

I picked up the knife the butler had provided and brought it down right through the center of the cake. The blade made a loud clunk and Missy moaned and swayed.

James looked at me grimly. “Let’s get to it.”

“Righto, brother. One piece of birthday cake coming up.” I sliced him a thick piece and tossed it on one of my mother’s antique china plates. James picked up the plate and stared at it. Chocolate had never been his favorite.

“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Jennings commented, and Missy did faint then, falling to the carpet with a muffled thump. Neither of us looked around.

“I’m going to win,” James told me, eating his piece in two bites. I ate mine in one and dug into the cake with my hands, stuffing my mouth. The cake had a funny taste, but I’d eat anything for fifty million dollars. Hell, I’d lick the plate clean for that kind of money.

“You haven’t the balls,” I said, and he tore off half the cake, exposing part of the head. Rotted skin, now cooked through and through, clung in places to the forehead. The bone shone wetly in the dim light and I heard James swallow hard.

“What’s the matter? Gonna toss your cookies?”

“Bite me.” My brother grabbed another handful, and this time what was left of our father’s face stared out at us. Yellowing teeth grinned through bits of chocolate, and I laughed.

“Hey, look! Dad’s enjoying the cake, too!”

“You’re disgusting,” James said, nostrils flaring. He kept swallowing, choking down the vomit I knew rose in his throat every time he took a bite.

I have to give my brother credit, though. It wasn’t until a long, grey hair got caught in his teeth that he gave in and puked all over the priceless Persian rug. But I didn’t mind; you can buy a lot of rugs with fifty million dollars.

Now my father’s skull sits in the center of my desk in the library. It is very shiny and very smooth. And when I take it in my hands and lovingly run my tongue over the coolness, it tastes ever so slightly of chocolate.

         

         

          (c)2004 WS Ribelin

Feline Fatale

Sunset.


I awake. Not gradually, but all at once. Climbing to my feet, I stretch my muscles, warming them for the task ahead. Lightly, I jump out of the box and nudge open the closet door.

My pupils adjust to the brighter light painfully, although the room would seem dark to him. I cock my head, listening. Ah, he is in the kitchen, preparing my dinner, no doubt.

I pad down the hallway noiselessly, passing each familiar room. There are no pictures of me, and no mirrors hang in any room in this house. It was part of our original arrangement, that.

Pausing in the doorway, I watch him cutting the meat at the counter. It is always beef, freshly cut. I like it bloody. Saliva squirts in my mouth, and I yowl, startling him.

“Alexis, you scared me.” He smiles and reaches down to touch me. I arch my back beneath his strong hand, wind my body around his ankles.

“Are you hungry? Of course you are.” He sets the plate on the floor beside me and I can’t help it, I snatch the meat and begin to chew. He chuckles, but I don’t mind.

We have been together a long time, he and I. He rescued me one rainy night soon after I was transformed. He must have known what I was, for instead of offering me milk, he soaked a rag in his own blood and gave it to me to suck.

Many years have passed since that night. His hair, once black as ebony, reflects the snow, and his strong shoulders are stooped now. Still, he is strong, my human.

“My, what a hungry little lady,” he croons, going down on one knee beside me. I growl in warning, and he chuckles again.

“Not to worry, Alexis my love. I prefer my meat cooked.” I lick every last drop of blood from the plate and sit back on my haunches. Time for a bath.

“I’m getting old, Alexis,” he says, washing the plate in the sink. “Today I visited the doctor.” I turn one ear towards him while I finish my bath. “It doesn’t look good. It’s eating me alive.”

Disinterested, I sniff out the water bowl and lap it up. My human continues to talk, filling the air with a comfortable noise.

“And I’ve decided that I don’t want to sit around waiting to die.” Idly, I wander around the kitchen, meowing. He’s starting to bore me a bit. Usually we go for a ride in his vehicle, or I sit on his lap while he watches the box. Tonight is different, though. My human seems restless.

Soon I must hunt. The bloody meat suffices, but I crave fresh, hot blood. The choosing of each victim was something else I enjoyed. Pretending to be a mortal, I meowed and purred, allowing my potential victim to caress me. These humans never seemed to suspect one so beautiful as I. I never killed, though. Just a deep bite, a few sucks, and I let go, partially satisfied. Then I sought the next giver of blood, and the next, until my belly fairly groaned. Only then did I seek my box, my haven, my home.

“Alexis,” my human says, bringing me out of my reverie. “You have been the best thing in my life.” We are in his bedroom, only a few feet from my box. He sits on his bed; I leap up next to him. He strokes me absently with one hand while he fiddles with an object in the other. I look closer; the object is one I have seen only a few times. It is of black shiny metal, I do not know its name. My human sighs deeply, and a murmur of disquiet rolls through my body. My whiskers twitch; something is not right. I sense anxiety and fear, two emotions my human rarely exudes.

“Good bye, Alexis,” he says, rubbing my head where I like it best. “I love you.”

BAM! Shrieking, I jump off the bed and zip out the window he leaves open for me. I run until my breath is ragged, that horrible noise still ringing in my ears.

My human. What was the significance of the noise? I have to find out. I creep back stealthily, for flashing lights have surrounded my human’s abode.

I recognize none of these humans, and want to scratch them to death, sink my needle sharp teeth into their soft flesh. Instead, I creep around to the window and jump up on the sill.

My human lies on the floor, and the wondrous odor of fresh blood fills my nose. But something is wrong. The blood smell emanates from…my human. Several humans gather around him, yammering words I cannot understand. None notice me. My heart beats fiercely with an unknown emotion, my eyes burn.

I stay there, watching, until my human is taken away and the night begins to wane. Finally I leap to the floor, and circle the stain on the floor. I sniff, filling myself with the scent of the only thing I ever loved, the only thing that ever loved me. I realize there is one way my human will always be with me.

Licking my whiskers clean, I climb into my box and close my eyes.

**author's note: This was one of my first stories from 2003.