Masters of Midnight: Erotic Tales of the Vampire

by Michael Thomas Ford

“Steven Settles is missing,” Ben told her. “I’m going to go help look for him.”

  Martha nodded. “Probably just playing with his friends,” she said.

  “That’s what I think,” said Ben. “I’ll let you know when we find him.”

  He returned to Darren and Mrs. Settles. They continued calling Steven’s name, and several other people joined them on the sidewalk. Ben recognized most of them from his walks through town, although he didn’t know their names.

  “Who was the last person to see the boy?” asked one of the men.

  “Frank did,” replied a woman.

  A man Ben recognized as the owner of the town’s small grocery store stepped forward. “He bought half a gallon of milk,” he said. “Told him to get it home to his ma soon as he could so’s it wouldn’t get warm. That was a couple of hours ago.”

  The first man nodded. “We’ll split up,” he said. “Groups of two. We can cover more ground that way.”

  The party broke into pairs, and Ben found himself standing with Darren Settles. The teenager looked at him with an expression indicating that he would have to take what he was stuck with. “Come on,” he said, walking away.

  Ben followed him. Darren marched ahead, calling out his brother’s name.

  “Maybe we should be a little more methodical about this,” Ben suggested.

  Darren turned and looked at him. “Huh?” he said.

  “Instead of just running around yelling, maybe we should try to figure out which way Steven would have walked home. Chances are, we’ll find him somewhere between the store and your house.”

  Darren stared at him for a moment, then nodded. He pointed to the corner. “Store’s there,” he said. “Our house is a couple of blocks the other direction.”

  Ben nodded and walked in the direction of the store. When they reached it, he waited for Darren to take the lead. But the boy hung back, as if he were suddenly afraid of going back to his house.

  “This way?” Ben asked, pointing.

  Darren nodded. Ben began walking. “Steven!” he called out. “Steven, can you hear me?”

  They walked for two blocks, calling out to the missing boy and receiving no answer. They could hear Steven’s name being shouted by the other groups, rising into the night sky and floating over the roofs of the houses.

  He’s got to be here somewhere, Ben thought. He couldn’t have just disappeared.

  They walked another block, pausing at each house to call out. When they were almost to the end, Darren suddenly pointed to one of the porches.

  “There he is!” he said excitedly. “Sitting on our steps!”

  Ben looked in the direction in which Darren was pointing. He saw a house set back from the street, and on its front steps the figure of a small boy sat.

  “Steven!” Darren cried out happily. “Mom! I found Stevie! He’s home!”

  Darren ran toward the steps, with Ben close behind him.

  “Stevie!” Darren said happily as they reached the steps. “Why didn’t you answer us?”

  Steven made no reply. Darren reached out for him. “Stevie?”

  As Darren’s fingers touched his brother’s chest, Stevie’s head rolled to the side. It tumbled to the porch and continued down the steps, coming to rest at Darren’s feet. The rest of Stevie’s body remained seated on the steps. Between his legs sat a bottle of milk. His hands were still resting on either side.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  Ben looked across the desk at Harris Finch. The police chief rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted.

  “I thought you guys brought Titus Durham in this morning,” said Ben.

  “We did bring him in,” Finch replied. “In fact, he’s still here. But not for long now.”

  Ben shook his head. “If he’s here, then who killed Steven Settles?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” the officer said. He looked at Ben with a tired expression.

  “What?” said Ben. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Mr. Hodge, what can you tell me about these?”

  Finch pushed something across the desk to Ben. It was a large envelope. Ben took it and opened it, emptying the contents out onto the desk. It was a pile of newspaper clippings. Ben recognized them immediately.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Someone mailed them to the station,” Finch answered. “They arrived this afternoon.”

  Ben stared at the clippings. It wasn’t possible that they were there. They were sitting in the shoebox in his bedroom. He was certain of it.

  “Is it true that you and Mr. Middleman were—partners?” asked the officer.

  Ben nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  Finch leaned forward. “One of my men said he spoke to you at the funeral of Paul Mickerley,” he said. “He said you asked him for directions to the old cemetery.”

  “I just asked him where it was,” Ben said wearily.

  The chief nodded. “That doesn’t explain why you were there in the first place,” he said. “You didn’t know the boy.”

  Ben sighed. “I told you,” he said. “Titus told me to go to the funeral. No, I didn’t know Paul Mickerley.”

  “You just went because this man you suspected of killing Wallace Blackwood told you to?” said the officer.

  “I didn’t suspect him then,” Ben said defensively. “It wasn’t until after I saw the name on the gravestone.”

  “Right,” Finch said. “The gravestone. I checked that out too. There’s no stone for anyone called Wallace Blackwood up there. The stone the Mickerley boy was found leaning against was too faded to read.”

  “No,” Ben said. “I saw it. I read the name. It was Wallace Pyle Blackwood. I read it plain as day.”

  The officer handed Ben another piece of paper.

  “What’s this?” asked Ben, looking at it.

  “The death certificate for Wallace Pyle Blackwood,” the chief informed him. “December 21, 1979. He died of congestive heart failure. He wasn’t murdered, by Mr. Durham or anyone else.”

  Ben read over the certificate. It confirmed what Finch had just told him.

  “Mr. Hodge, I’m going to ask you again, what do you know about the deaths of Paul Mickerley and Steven Settles?”

  “Just what I already told you,” replied Ben.

  Chief Finch looked at him for a long time, not speaking. Ben sat in his chair, staring at the pile of newspaper clippings and the death certificate for Wallace Blackwood.

  “You know what I think?” the officer said finally.

  Ben looked up. Finch was eyeing him coldly. “I think what happened to you and Mr. Middleman did something to you. I think you came here to run away from it, but instead of getting away you came face-to-face with your demons. Then I think you read Wallace Blackwood’s book and you got some funny ideas. That’s what I think.”

  “I would never do something like that,” Ben said.

  The chief nodded. “Sometimes we do things we never thought we would,” he said. “Especially when we’re not in our right minds.”

  Ben looked at him and laughed. “You think I’m crazy?” he said.

  “All I’m saying is that sometimes our minds do strange things to us,” answered Finch.

  “I didn’t kill Paul Mickerley and Steven Settles,” Ben told him. “For Christ’s sake, I’m the one who helped find Steven.”

  “I didn’t say you’re the one who did it,” the officer said. “I’m saying you seem to know an awful lot about it, and there are a lot of things that don’t make sense here.”

  “I told you what happened,” said Ben. “Titus Durham is the one you should be talking to.”

  “Maybe so,” Chief Finch said. “All the same, I’m going to keep you here tonight while we check a few details.”

  “What?” Ben exclaimed. “You can’t just keep me here.”

  “I could book you on suspicion of murder,” the office
r told him. “But I’d prefer not to. Now, you can stay here voluntarily or we can do it the hard way. It’s up to you.”

  Ben started to protest, then stopped. He knew that anything he said would just make him appear guilty. The best thing to do, he told himself, was to cooperate.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay.”

  Finch nodded. “Thank you,” he said, standing up. “Why don’t you come with me.”

  Ben stood up. The chief motioned for him to walk in front of him. He followed behind as Ben walked down a short hallway to another door. Finch took a key from the ring on his belt and slipped it into the lock. He turned the key and the door opened onto another hallway. This one contained cells, two on each side.

  “It’s not the Hilton,” said Finch as he opened one of the cells, “but I think you’ll be all right for the night. I’ll be in to check on you later.”

  Ben entered the cell and the officer slid the door shut again, locking it. When Finch had left, he turned and surveyed his accommodations for the night. The cell contained very little—a bed, a sink, and an exposed toilet. Ben went to the bed and sat down, the springs groaning wearily.

  How had this happened? How had he ended up in jail when Titus was free? All he’d done was try to stop the killings. But now Steven was dead too. In the rush of the night’s events, that realization hadn’t even had time to sink in. Now he thought about the little boy, his head torn from his body. What kind of monster could do such a thing?

  He began to cry. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe somehow he was responsible for everything that was happening. Harris Finch had looked at him the way he would look at a wild animal that couldn’t help itself. Was that what he had become?

  No, he told himself. No, it isn’t possible. He knew he hadn’t killed Paul Mickerley or Steven Settles. Someone else had. The same person who had sent the newspaper clippings to the police. Titus Durham. But how would Titus have known about the clippings to begin with?

  He must have gotten into the house, Ben thought. The same way he got into the library and left the jar of bees on your desk. He’s trying to make you believe you’re losing your mind.

  He stretched out on the bed. The mattress, thin and filled with hard lumps, did little to protect him from the springs poking into his back. He didn’t care, though. Despite his situation, he was tired. His mind ached with the effort of trying to find his way out of the maze he was wandering in. He just wanted to sleep, to forget about it all for a few hours.

  That didn’t seem possible. Although he closed his eyes, his thoughts continued at breakneck speed, jumping from one thing to the next. In addition, the harsh flourescent light of the cell glowed relentlessly, shining even through the protection of his eyelids. He placed his hands over his face, trying to block it out. But he couldn’t block out the scenes playing over and over in his head: Steven Settles’s head falling from his body, the look of anguish that passed over his mother’s face when she ran to her boy, the officer asking him to come to the station for what he thought would be routine questioning. They rolled in an endless loop, taunting him until finally, worn out, Ben faded into a kind of half sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Dance with me.”

  Ben opened his eyes. He was in darkness. Where was he? Jail. He was in jail. But someone had turned off the lights. The cell had been plunged into blackness. No, not quite blackness. There was light. Pale light. Silver light. It was coming from a window set high in the wall, a narrow sliver of window that revealed a tiny piece of the night sky.

  “Dance with me.”

  He sat up. Someone was in the cell with him. Not someone, he thought. Something. It was standing near the door, outlined by the moon. Its arms were raised above its head at an impossible angle, the hands dangling. Ben could see long-nailed fingers moving slowly in the shadows.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  He received a laugh in response. Then the figure moved toward him, lurching and swaying drunkenly. As it grew closer, he smelled a familiar scent—earth and leaves and rotting things—the smell of death. The figure stopped a few feet from the bed. Ben looked into its face and had to force himself not to scream.

  Its eyes were pale orbs in its withered face. Bits of its skin hung in tatters, and its mouth was filled with teeth like needles. Its hair hung loosely about its shoulders, tangled and snarled with twigs and small bones.

  “Won’t you dance with me?” it asked. It spun around, teetering precariously on its spindly legs, its arms flying out like broken wings. A horrible, thin laugh poured from its throat. When it came to a stop again it cocked its head. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Ben couldn’t take his eyes off the creature. “The Death Puppets,” he said, recalling the illustration he’d seen in one of Wallace’s books.

  The thing clapped its clawlike hands together like a child. “A quaint name, don’t you think?” it asked. “And really, it was they who were our puppets.”

  It waved its arms around and hopped from foot to foot, like a marionette moving on unseen strings. The sight filled Ben with fear, and he licked his lips, trying to muster the strength to call for help. Before he could, the thing was beside him, bending close to his face and holding one of its wicked nails to his lips.

  “It won’t do you any good,” it said. “They won’t hear you. No one would hear you.”

  Ben tried to avert his eyes. The creature pulled back. “You hurt me,” it said. “I thought you would be glad to see me again.”

  Ben looked at it, not understanding. The creature laughed. Then it began to spin again. As it did, its appearance changed. Its arms straightened, its hair grew short, and its faced transformed from that of a dead thing to the handsome, smiling face of Trey. The spinning stilled, and Trey stood before Ben.

  “Hello, lover,” he said.

  Ben shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not you.”

  Trey laughed, the creature’s voice coming from his lips. “I suppose you can’t be fooled twice,” he said. He stopped laughing and looked at Ben, who stared at him in wonder. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, especially after our tender reunion.”

  “What are you?” said Ben.

  “What are you? Who are you? So many questions,” Trey said. He turned his back on Ben. “It’s asking so many questions that got you into this mess, isn’t it?”

  “This is just a dream,” Ben told himself. “Just like the other night.”

  Trey whirled around, changing as he did back into the twisted form of the Death Puppet. “I’m afraid it’s not,” it said. “A nightmare, perhaps, but I assure you that you’re very much awake.”

  “Are you Titus?” Ben asked.

  The creature snarled. “You insult me,” it said. “Do you think that fool could take such forms as I take? Do you think he has such power?” It strode forward once more, standing full in the moonlight so that Ben could see it clearly. “Do you really not know me?” it asked.

  Ben stared at it for a moment, thinking. “Blackwood,” he said. “You’re Wallace Blackwood.”

  “Very good,” the thing said, its torn mouth twisting up in some semblance of a smile.

  “Then you are alive,” said Ben. “Titus was right.”

  “Hardly alive,” replied Blackwood. “But risen, yes. I’m afraid young Mr. Durham wasn’t as skilled as he thought he was.”

  “And it was you who came to me?” asked Ben.

  “One of my better glamours, I think,” Blackwood told him. “Even better than the one you saw at the pond.”

  “And you killed those boys?”

  “Questions, questions, questions,” said Blackwood impatiently. “Yes, I killed the boys. Delicious they were.” He paused, as if remembering the taste of an exquisite dinner. “The innocent are so sweet. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Titus didn’t lie then,” Ben said, more to himself than to Blackwood. “You did kill those children in 1932.”

  “Oh, yes. But not on my own. Did Titu
s tell you how he helped me? Did he tell you how he held them down while I drank? Did he tell you how he covered their mouths to muffle their screams?”

  “He said he didn’t understand what you were doing,” answered Ben.

  Blackwood laughed. “Did he? I’m afraid that isn’t quite true. He knew very well what he was doing, just as he knew what he was asking when he begged me to make him what I am.”

  “He’s not like you now,” said Ben.

  “No,” Blackwood said. “He’s not. He’s turned his back on his gifts, denied himself in a foolish attempt at redemption.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Ben asked.

  “Why?” repeated Blackwood in a mocking tone. “Why embrace eternity? Why live forever?”

  “You aren’t alive,” said Ben, surprised at his boldness.

  “What is life?” Blackwood asked him. “The filling of the lungs? The beating of the heart? No. Life is seeing the passing of centuries, the rise and fall of countries. Life is seeing something you desire and possessing it the next moment. Life is seeing the world come to an end. You have no conception of what life truly is.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to,” Ben told him.

  “I think perhaps you do,” Blackwood countered. He knelt by the side of the bed, his dead eyes looking into Ben’s. “I think you would welcome my gifts.”

  As Ben watched, Blackwood transformed once more into Trey. Gone were the shriveled skin and broken teeth, replaced by smooth flesh and Trey’s smiling eyes.

  “We could be together again,” he said gently as he reached up to touch Ben’s face.

  Ben flinched, but when he felt warm, soft skin caressing him, he found himself relaxing. He could feel Trey’s breath on his face.

  “I love you,” said Trey. “And I forgive you.”

  Ben felt tears forming in his eyes. How many nights had he lain awake, willing to trade everything just to hear those words? How often had he begged for another chance to hold Trey in his arms? He reached out with trembling hands and touched Trey’s face.

  “Let me give this to you,” said Trey, leaning in.

  Ben shut his eyes as Trey kissed him. Their lips met, and Ben felt himself surrounded by a familiar warmth, a security and safeness he hadn’t felt since Trey’s death.