The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  Eternal spoke to her, “Let me in! Let me comfort you.”

  Eternal thought long and hard, concentrating on flashing images of her immediate past scattered like a jigsaw puzzle in her rambling mind. Her mind placed the pieces of her past into a semblance of order she could understand. In her desperation to find her true love, she had escaped her nemesis, The Count, four days ago.

  Yes! That’s it! It all started with The Count. That’s who was after her, who she ran from, who stalked her this very moment. Always The Count.

  Chapter 8

  1st June (4 days earlier)

  LUCIEN DUPONT BREATHED in his own stench of death that tainted the cool evening air. His tall statuesque frame stood before a large gabled house. He looked up to the pale moon to see his mistress of the underworld not yet in full bloom as she reflected the dying sun’s rays. Bathed in her opalescence with arms outstretched, his long dark coat flapped in the gentle summer breeze. With sinister intent the door relinquished its hold on its inner sanctum. He faltered, catching his breath as a creak shattered the silence before slipping over the threshold, entering the house. His powerful evil side – The Count commanded an audience.

  “You must not fail me, Lucien … my destiny is a mere beat of the heart away!”

  Lucien smirked as he unbuttoned his black leather trousers. He combed his long raven-black hair with his fingers while massaging his cock with his left hand. He removed his black silk shirt and stared at the opal luminescence from the attic window covered with bars. The flickering light from a single candle was swallowed up by pervading shadows.

  “Only a few more days to go my young host and then the night will be mine forever,” The Count whispered hoarsely into Lucien’s mind.

  His tall, wiry frame towered over the naked female lying upon the four-poster bed. He watched her as she moaned in her sleep. His left hand strayed to his erection, smirking at her obvious frailty.

  Her silky white skin contrasted with the black satin sheets. Her eyes flew open. She gasped in shock and backed up to the wall in obvious fear. Her bright red hair cascaded across her trembling shoulders and her pale skin reflected the moon’s essence. “Please no ... please don’t. I’ll scream.”

  He advanced with malicious intent. “You have little choice. I am The Count.” He gripped her legs and pulled her to his twitching member. “I know you will love me forever.” He stared into her almond-shaped brown eyes with a manic intensity as he spread her legs apart. He entered her with a powerful thrust. “Say it! Say you love me!” He was thrilled as she gasped in the pain of penetration.

  “Oh very well, Lucien, if it pleases you that much ... I love you for eternity.” She laughed with derision.

  He snarled with anger. “I am The Count, you fucking bitch.” Tricked by a worthless female, he slipped from her and slapped her across the face. “Never say that name ever again.”

  “What can you do about it, Lucien?” She glared into his brooding face. “I know you are hiding in there somewhere like a frightened little boy.”

  “I am The Count!” He screamed his rage and clamped her delicate neck in his strong hands. He squeezed. Her defiant look dared him to end her miserable existence. “I need your music, damn you bitch. I must have it!” He saw tears well up in black eyes and the faintest hint of her sweet lullaby, ancient and alluring soothed his rage. He released his grasp. The music drifted away. Her eyes faded to brown once more.

  For a brief moment, Lucien reached out and touched her hair. He stroked away the tears flowing down her alabaster cheeks. “I ... I do love you, my Delicate Rose.”

  Lucien was berated by The Count.

  “Be a man! Show her what you’re made of!”

  He sprang from the bed and picked up his shirt. He slipped it back on and buttoned it, his back to her, admiring his other mistress – the moon.

  She sobbed pathetically. He whirled around. His piercing pale blue eyes watched his mistress partially illuminated by the flickering candle. She sat trembling on the bed. He grinned with malice as she hid her less than perfect skin with a heavy brocade nightgown. She angrily snatched a gold comb from a side table and raked her hair with vicious downward strokes. Clumps of hair became trapped in the comb.

  He was momentarily caught off guard as his mistress leapt to her feet and shoved him aside. He gently stroked where the moon caressed her wonderfully contoured cheek bones, now more prominent with her enforced captivity these last few weeks.

  Her beauty always made him breathless and for that he hated her. He knew she had to feed soon. She had become so gaunt. Her black eyes had sunk into sockets ringed with dark smudges. She trembled with the blood craving as yet not satisfied even once. His cruelty knew no bounds and he was proud of it. And he depended on it, living for nothing more than to inflict his superiority on those he deemed weak – everyone else.

  “If I don’t feed soon ....” she pleaded with almost breathless urgency, “.... I will die.” She turned to face him with a terrible desire. “Then you will never become Eternal.”

  “Would you bet your life on it?” he said with relish.

  The Count laughed, pushing her to the floor as he walked past her.

  He unlocked the door and exited the attic room. With a childish giggle he locked the door from the outside and leaned against it. And how gratifying was the sound of her slam against the door. He could feel the vibrations made by her nails scratching the wood.

  “Yes … I am supreme,” The Count screamed inside Lucien’s deranged mind.

  Time for some fun! Paris at night offered so many outlets for The Count’s dark needs.

  Chapter 9

  COUNT LUCIEN STOOD amongst the evening shadows dressed as before. He glanced up at the three-quarter moon that lovingly watched over his large Gothic villa brooding in its little niche in the Montmartre district of Paris. For a brief moment he worshipped his opalescence above. He slammed the heavy oak front door before locking it. A gentle breeze ruffled his long hair that hung loose over his broad, straight-as-a-coat hanger shoulders.

  He heard crying from above and with devilish delight gave a cursory glance at his Petite Fleur’s anguished face reflecting the moon. He waved to her and blew her a kiss, laughing as he walked through his front garden of dead roses.

  “Lucien ... please take me with you! I need to see Ellise. I promise I won’t try to escape this time.”

  The Count sniggered. Never again will you fool my host! He shuddered with demonic rapture at his mistress’ suffering.

  He walked with a brisk pace through dark alleyways and bustling streets until he came upon his favorite hunting ground – Place Du Tertre in Montmartre.

  Count Lucien spotted a suitable vantage point and sat amongst the shadows of an enticing street café. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. His long coat looked oddly stiff on his right side. He flinched as her sweet music caressed his black soul.

  The Count screamed, “Get out of my head, bitch.”

  There was nothing he could do to stop her probing his mind. It was now her only release from captivity, but it annoyed him to know she looked over his shoulder all the time. He clicked his fingers. A waiter soon hovered over him.

  “A bottle of du Pape,” Lucien said with a superior wave of his hand.

  The waiter nodded before rushing away with his order.

  He gazed upon the café’s well-dressed clientele, searching for his next victim, when he noticed something rather strange. Two patrons stood out like wolves among the sheep. He admired the somewhat feminine beauty of a tall, muscular Negro with spiky hair in scruffy seafaring attire sitting next to a stunning brunette with fashionable bobbed hair but in a rather tatty dress.

  “Hmm, this could be interesting,” he said to himself while assessing the two.

  Lucien’s keen eye noticed the way the woman bumped into a gentleman enjoying a glass of wine, all the while profusely apologizing as the Negro slipped a powder of some design into the man’s drink. They left thei
r mark and sat nearby to watch him closely. Lucien glanced at his gold Cartier wristwatch, eight in the evening.

  The Count insisted, “I must have that powder!”

  He had to find out what was in their sachet.

  The waiter dropped off Lucien’s order and opened the bottle. He poured a mouthful for approval. Lucien concentrated on his watch.

  After two minutes, the mark seemed no longer in control of his faculties as he sat quite rigid and unblinking, but none-the-less appeared alive and well to other patrons of the café.

  Lucien sipped his red wine and watched with utter delight as the woman rushed up to the mark and quickly rifled his pockets. Finished, she sat back down with her companion to share out their ill-gotten gains.

  Lucien nodded his satisfaction and deliberately tipped the waiter with a hundred Franc note.

  The waiter’s eyes bulged at the incredible tip. “Merci, Monsieur!” He bowed to Lucien and scampered away.

  This had the desired effect of attracting the thieves’ attention. How positively delicious thought Lucien, as the pair of pickpockets sauntered his way.

  And like clockwork, the woman bumped into him.

  “Please excuse me, monsieur ... oh, how clumsy of me,” she said with a cheeky smile.

  Lucien smiled back at her, wiping his coat with an engraved silk handkerchief, allowing his glass of red wine to be spiked. He waited for them to sit nearby and pretended to drink his wine. By the mere touch of his lips, a fraction of a second, they were rendered numb.

  Potent stuff!

  He placed the glass on his table and mentally counted off two minutes before going rigid.

  The female sauntered over and slipped her fingers into Lucien’s coat. Snap! The trap was complete as Lucien gripped the woman’s wrist.

  “You pig ... you’re hurting me.” She cried out in pain.

  The Negro got up and rushed to the rescue as the waiter interrupted the proceedings. Many heads turned in their direction. A flurry of hushed voices amplified the situation.

  Lucien gave the waiter a look to go away, still gripping the woman’s wrist. He twisted hard, giving her no choice but to sit or her arm would surely break. Lucien nodded for the Negro to sit with them.

  The Negro looked anxious slowly sitting beside his female companion.

  Lucien released the woman. She rubbed her sore wrist. He took hold of her arm with the gentlest of touches and kissed the redness.

  She pulled her arm away from Lucien’s lips with a look of disgust.

  He laughed at his victims exchanging curious glances. His eyes located a waiter and with a click of his fingers, indicated three fresh glasses.

  Lucien pushed the spiked glass towards the Negro with a curious smile. “What did you put in this?”

  The Negro looked concerned at his companion, who shrugged indifferently to her fate.

  Lucien chuckled. “Don’t fret ... your secret is safe with me. But first, please introduce yourselves. Tell me how you met ... and leave nothing out ... I have a sense for these things ... and besides I love a good story.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes and shrugged.

  The man winked at her and began their sordid story. “I met this little cock-teaser, Claudette, at a seedy hotel in Port-au-Prince. She was drowning her sorrows in Pernod like there was no tomorrow, man.”

  Claudette punched him playfully. “Who the fuck are you calling a cock-teaser, Jacques?”

  “Why you, my sweet Claudette.” Jacques grabbed Claudette’s arm and pulled her up close, kissing her full on the lips. He allowed his long, pink tongue to be sucked like a cock. He pulled away. “Man ... she was so drunk she spewed her misery all over me. She wouldn’t shut up.” He grinned lasciviously at her.

  Claudette poked her tongue at Jacques.

  Lucien noticed the effect his new friends were having on several prudish patrons.

  “Kill them, kill them all!” The Count screamed to Lucien.

  He gave one stuffy couple a dangerous glare and blew them a kiss. He laughed when they left.

  “Don’t stop on my account.” Lucien returned his attention to Claudette and fixed her with his cold blue eyes. He was impressed by her unwavering come-on look and hoped she swallowed. By the looks of her, she could take it anyway he gave it to her.

  “I thought there was a hint of Caribbean ... do go on.” Lucien patted the seat next to him. He was gratified when Claudette scooted closer and continued her tale.

  “I lost my parents to head hunters ... they were missionaries sent to convert the heathens to Catholicism. No offence, Jacques.” She giggled.

  “None taken.” Jacques laughed as he sat closer to Claudette. “Damned fools should have known better than to mess with the hill people. Nasty fuckers! Do you know they take their victims heads and shrink them to this size?” Jacques used his hands to approximate the size of an orange.

  “Really! I thought that was all make believe to scare the tourists?” Lucien was intrigued, hooked on the dark secrets of voodoo.

  “It’s true ....” Claudette waited for Lucien to do the gentlemanly thing.

  “Where are my manners? Count Lucien Dupont, at your service.” Taking Claudette’s hand, he kissed it, tracing his tongue up the inside of her arm to the tender crook of her elbow. Her eyes glazed with sexual desire. He sat back and indicated for the story to continue.

  Claudette was curious. “I’ve never met a real Count before.”

  Lucien chuckled. “Neither have I.” He was amused at her perplexed expression. He nodded for her to continue.

  “I waited two weeks before involving the Haitian Militia.” She smiled at Jacques’ unease at the mention of those foul dogs. “As you may gather, Jacques isn’t particularly enamored with the Militia.”

  “Oh ... do tell.” Lucien eyed Jacques, noticing him fidget. “Come on Jacques, you can tell me anything.”

  “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” Jacques looked away from Lucien’s intense scrutiny.

  “That bad, hmm?” Lucien attracted a waiter. “A bottle of Armagnac and ....?”

  “Pernod and water!” Claudette said.

  “Beer!” Jacques said.

  The waiter rushed away.

  “Did they ever find your parents?” Lucien asked.

  Claudette looked sad for a moment. “C’est la vie ... that’s all the Militia would say.” She wrinkled her nose and squirmed on her chair. “The Captain opened a drawer, dropped two heads on his desk and laughed. He said they would make fine paper weights.” Claudette paused as the drinks were left on their table. “When I got back to my hotel I found my room had been ransacked. All the money I had was gone.”

  Jacques chuckled. “What an easy mark she made, but I couldn’t bring myself to add to her misery. So I spilled her drink. She was furious ... a real fire-breather is that one.” Jacques grabbed Claudette by the hair and kissed the nape of her neck. His tongue slithered down her cleavage and wriggled around an erect nipple.

  Claudette massaged Jacques’ massive erection. Her free hand found Lucien’s bulging groin and tried to undo the buttons keeping it at bay. She had her hands full, but managed them both expertly.

  The Count triggered Lucien’s imagination to run amok with vivid images. He could see himself at the hotel bar, humid and heavy with an impending tropical storm. The ceiling fan added to the effect as men in white cotton suits drenched in sweat, dragged prostitutes to their rooms. A place where dangerous Militia sought victims to torture. Oh how much he needed to know of Jacques’ pain.

  Jacques broke off the foreplay. He gulped some beer and smacked his lips loudly. “When Claudette realized I had spiked her drink she went full blown hurricane on me. I pointed out she was in no fit state to complain. She had no money. I knew that. You see, she had caught my eye and like a dog would follow a fine piece of meat, so I dogged her. Only she’s no piece of meat. No way man, she’s a rare delicacy, and Jacques Bonaparte was honored when she agreed to some fine winin
g and dining.” He grinned widely showing large white teeth.

  Claudette nudged Jacques with an elbow. “As you can imagine, I was at first repulsed by this gruff Haitian with no manners. But I was so hungry and decided to risk it.” She freed Lucien’s cock and gently toyed with it.

  She leaned towards Jacques and kissed him, leaving her tongue in his mouth which he dutifully sucked. She pulled away. “Jacques took me to the voodoo quarter at the docks.” She grimaced. “The place was teeming with cutthroats looking for their next victim. I was terrified, but thankfully this buffoon was there to protect me.” She punched Jacques in the shoulder. “And did the food stink! Not that you could call it food? It was so spicy I thought it would kill me before this one would have the chance.”

  Jacques smirked rakishly at Claudette. “Come on, man, you were so hungry you’d have eaten a dead rat ... and besides once you got used to the heat you couldn’t get enough. Remember that Jack Tar ... couldn’t keep his eyes off you. That Salty Dog just didn’t know when to stop. Gave him a good scar to remember me by.” Jacques removed a switchblade and flicked it open. He folded it and slipped it back home.

  Claudette kissed Jacques. “You are so romantic ... my hero! That’s not all you did with that knife.” She showed Lucien a faint scar across the palm of her hand. She laughed when Lucien gave Jacques a dangerous glare. “It wasn’t like that. Show him, Jacques.”

  Jacques removed the knife and made a small cut in his palm.

  Lucien’s heart skipped several beats then raced out of control as Jacques dripped his blood into his tall glass of beer, turning it a reddish-brown. Lucien snatched the glass and drank. He was pleasantly surprised. The beer tasted so divine. It had an indescribable heaviness to it and a salty aftertaste that begged him to drink more, but he handed the glass to Claudette.

  Claudette drank the rest of the beer in one go. She took the knife and sliced the base of her thumb, a place easy to heal. Her blood dripped into her Pernod.