Blood Kin

by Ronald Kelly

  We arrived at the town of Nameless just before dusk. Bentley had been right. The place was completely deserted. The buildings that stood along its solitary and empty street had been abandoned for many years. Weather had scrubbed any paint away from the structures, leaving the wood coarse and faded a pale gray hue. The windows were devoid of glass, but oddly enough had been boarded up—from the inside. Debris lay scattered upon the dirt of the street; broken barrels, rusty food tins, a wagon that had collapsed upon its wheels. There was a smell of oldness in the air, of things that had been left unattended for a long while, to molder and decay from disuse and abandonment.

  As the long shadows of evening stretched and thickened, I tied Winnie at a hitching post in front of a two-story building that looked as though it had once been a hotel, although no sign declared it as such. She lowered her head and munched at dry weeds at the edge of the boardwalk. I entered the structure and found that I had been correct. A long counter stood at one side of the lobby with a tarnished brass bell on the dusty surface and a honeycomb of pigeonholes for correspondence and invoices adorned the wall behind it. Lavish divans and plush chairs stood around a large fireplace, their cushions black with mold and the shellac on their woodwork gummy and equally dark. I considered going upstairs and exploring the place, but the staircase had collapsed and was in shambles.

  Taking old newspapers—dated twenty years ago—and kindling from a bucket nearby, I built a fire in the hearth. I then ate the remainder of my jerky and cornbread, wishing that I had bought provisions in Miller’s Creek, no matter how inhospitable the folks might have seen. I had no inkling that it would be the last meal of that kind that I would ever ingest or find enjoyment in.

  The sun set and darkness descended quickly. There was no moon to speak of that night and the only illumination in the lobby of the hotel was the flickering glow of my fire. I sat and read my Bible. It stank of puke from my encounter with Ike Loftis and his men. I listened for the sound of crickets or tree frogs, but I heard nothing. Stark silence blanketed the abandoned town of Nameless. The only noises that came to my ears were the nervous blowing and shuffling of Winnie outside, and the crackling of the flames in the fireplace.

  Then, as the hours drew toward midnight, someone began to sing.

  It was a beautiful, melodious tune, although melancholy and forlorn. I had enjoyed congregational singing at many a mountain church, but I had never heard anyone sing in such a fashion. The voice—female in nature—seemed not only to please and entertain, but reach deep down into one’s soul, laying hooks into its very substance, ensnaring it, laying it open and bare.

  Enchanted, I left my place before the fire and walked to the open door of the hotel. I saw her immediately. She was tall, lean, and beautiful beyond words. Her hair was long and raven black and her skin was unnervingly pale. She was clad in a long, white gown, silky and shimmering, but her feet were bare and she wore no shoes. Seeing me in the doorway, she stopped her singing and walked toward the hotel. I trembled in her presence; no woman I had ever met during my journeys had affected me in such a way. And, from that night forward, no woman ever would.

  “The Wanderer,” I said out loud.

  She laughed. It was a peculiar sound, a mixture of crystal clinking one against the other and a resounding echo that not only teased the ears, but also the mind. “I am called such,” she admitted, “mostly by superstitious fools with no understanding of me or my kind.”

  “Your kind?” I inquired, although I couldn’t, for the life of me, interpret what she was referring to. My thoughts were cloudy. I could remember someone speaking of her—perhaps in warning—but the details of our conversation were muddled and hard to recall. Red eyes… teeth like a wolf’s, someone had claimed, but it was a lie. The woman before me was as lovely as an angel. Her violet-blue eyes sparkled in the light from the doorway and her teeth were femininely small and perfect, wreathed by lips that were naturally red, with nary a hint of cosmetic enhancement.

  Then she was standing upon the boardwalk, seemingly having reached that point without stepping upward. “Will you invite me in, Josiah Craven?” she asked me. There was an expression in her eyes—an anxious yearning—which I mistook for lust. It wouldn’t be long before I discovered that, indeed, lust it was… but of a much different kind that I was accustomed to.

  “How do you know of me?” I asked. “Have we met before?”

  She ignored my question. “May I come in?” she asked once again, more urgently.

  “Of course,” I said. “Most certainly.”

  She took a step forward, then hesitated. “First, put away your…” The word seemed to lodge uncomfortably in her throat. “That book. Conceal it in your saddlebags.”

  I should have considered her request odd, but I thought nothing of it. Honestly, I thought of nothing except the woman before me… of her wants and needs. I went back to my bedroll before the hearth and quickly stowed my Bible away and fastened the buckle of the pouch securely. When I turned around, she was already inside the room, no more than six feet away. I had heard no footfalls upon the boards of the floor.

  “Lay with me, Josiah,” she whispered. I felt my loins stir at the sound of her voice, like a sleeping cobra brought erect by a snake-charmer’s flute. She untied the strings of her gown and let it slide along the curves and planes of her pale body. It pooled about her ankles and she stood naked before me. Her nipples were not pink or brown, but a muted blue in the firelight. She lay upon my blankets, seemingly unashamed, and offered herself. “Disrobe and come unto me.”

  Although I was normally the aggressor in matters of passion, I submitted and did what she said. Soon, my garments too were on the floor and I entered her forcefully, nearly lifting her bodily from the floor with my first thrust. I was shocked at how very cold she was, inside and out. Our copulation was like plunging into a deep, icy pool again and again. Somewhere, my mind balked, protesting that this was not right. But the languid violet and blue kaleidoscopes of her eyes stifled those thoughts and I continued without halt or hesitation.

  As my pleasure reached its pinnacle and my seed threatened to burst forth, the Wanderer embraced me, wrapping her pale arms and legs around my back and hips. She buried her face into the side of my neck and I felt her tongue slide across my skin, like a worm in the grave. Then her pearly teeth, blunt and normal, began to lengthen, the points sharpening until they were as keen as daggers. Her jaw seemed to unhinge—much wider than was humanly possible—and she sank her fangs into the arteries of my throat. A great coldness engulfed my entire body as she began to suckle like a baby at the teat. I fought… tried to pull away… but she had become a part of me. Her cold, dead flesh had melded with mine, and her hands and feet were inside me, invading muscle and tissue. I felt her fingers began to spasm, impaling my lungs, merging with the flats of my ribs. I was trapped. There was no escaping her.

  A dreadful weakness overtook me as my life’s blood drained from every artery, every vein, and coursed down her gullet, into her belly and bowels. The flickering glow of the hearth faded and darkness blanketed me until that was all I knew. I am dead, I told myself.

  Thinking back, I must laugh at my ignorance. That final thought was the greatest and most lasting truth I have ever known.

  I awoke and found myself standing in the hotel lobby. I was fully dressed in my white shirt and black suit. I no longer felt the weakness I had felt before. I was strong and steady and without the aches and pains of advancing old age. The windows were barricaded and the door securely closed, but it was daylight. I could see sunshine peeking through the cracks of the boards. Slashes of light intruded from the outside, with motes of dust drifting lazily within them.

  So it was all a dream, I told myself. Some hellish nightmare!

  I took a step forward… and that was when she spoke.

  “Come away, dear,” she called. “Come back, before you are harmed.”

  I turned and looked toward the center of the lobby. There, in front of the s
tone hearth, boards had been ripped from the jousts of the floors. Within the dark hole, lying upon the dank earth underneath, was the Wanderer. She was dressed in her white gown and her countenance was rosy and pink; no longer holding the pallor of death. She extended a slender hand. “Rest beside me, Josiah,” she beckoned. “We must prepare ourselves for nightfall.”

  Confused, I walked across the lobby and turned to look into a large, oval mirror of ornate design that hung on a wall near the hotel desk. I was puzzled at first, then shocked, to discover that the remainder of the room was reflected, but that my image was absent. “What devilry is this?” I demanded.

  The Wanderer laughed. “You do have a way with words, sir!” she said, almost mockingly.

  Dismayed, I ran to my saddlebags and fumbled with the buckle. Seeking comfort from the scriptures, I laid my hand upon the Bible… and withdrew it just as quickly. Agony wracked my entire being as the flesh of my palm was seared at the very touch of the Holy Word. I held my flaming hand aloft and watched, horrified, as the fire guttered, the blackened flesh slowly faded, and my flesh, pale and bloodless, healed itself.

  “You have no need of that accursed tome,” the woman told me with a sneer. “You serve a different master now. One of depravity and evil, rather than goodness and light.” Again, she beckoned. “Come, my love. Lie in the darkness and rest. Much will be revealed to you when blessed night ascends.”

  Numbed by the realization of my predicament, I did as she said. I climbed down through the jagged hole in the hotel floor and reclined upon the earth. As I did so, my alarm drained away and I found myself comforted by the odor of raw earth in my nostrils and the feel of her hand, pink but still like sculptured ice, entwined in mine.

  March 16th

  “It is time.”

  Her voice awakened me and I opened my eyes. We rose together from our earthen chamber, like a mist rather than solid beings. Soon we were opening the hotel door and standing upon the porch out front.

  The first thing I saw was my mule laying upon the ground, her head hanging at an awkward angle where it was still tethered to the hitching post. A dozen or so people were gathered around Winnie, their mouths fastened upon her, draining her of blood. I didn’t need to ask who they were; I already knew. They were the Wanderer’s followers… the unfortunate folks of the town of Nameless.

  The lady smiled at me, teeth gleaming. “We shall go now. Follow my lead.”

  Together, we transformed. Flesh, bone, clothing, everything… all changed as our bodies darkened and shrank. We took the shapes of crows and took to the night air, winging our way over the treetops of Twilight Mountain.

  Soon, we found ourselves over the township of Miller’s Creek. I unleashed a haughty caw and the Wanderer answered accordingly. We were to leave them alone. They knew of us—knew precisely what we were—and had taken precautions. To descend upon them for our needs would only prove frustrating and potentially fatal.

  For miles we flew over the hill country of Eastern Kentucky. Finally, we descended and regained our natural forms. I was surprised, but pleased, to find ourselves standing outside of Sanderson’s Tavern.

  A fine rain began to fall. Tiny drops collected on the Wanderer’s face and arms. They glistened in the light of the tavern windows. “Look,” she said. “I’m sparkling!” She threw back her head and laughed as though she had just indulged in some absurd joke.

  The Wanderer nodded to me and I stepped up to the closed door of the roadhouse. I knocked loudly upon the oaken panel. No one answered at first, then it swung inward with a squeal of unoiled hinges.

  Clementine stood there, startled to see me. “Josiah?”

  I nodded politely. “How are you, my dear? May we come in?”

  She regarded me with concern. “Are you alright? You look sickly.” Then she turned her attention to the black-haired woman beside me. Jealously flashed in her Irish eyes. “And who is she?”

  “A companion,” I said truthfully. “Now… may we come in?”

  “Do you think that wise, Josiah?” she said, glancing worriedly over her shoulder. “Ike Loftis is here with that ornery riff-raff of his.”

  I stared her squarely in the eyes, imposing my will. Clementine’s gaze dulled and she took a step or two backward. “Invite us in,” I commanded. “Now.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Please, come in.”

  With the barrier broken, we entered the establishment. I passed Clementine and took in the smoke-filled room. Sanderson was behind the bar, while Loftis and his men sat in their usual spot at the table near the kitchen doorway. When he saw me, Ike grinned cruelly. “Well, look what the cat dragged in!”

  I stood in the center of the tavern floor as he got up and walked slowly around the table. “I thought I told you to keep your ass outta here, preacherman.” He drew the Arkansas toothpick from the leather sheath on his belt. Its blade was wickedly long and as sharp as a shaving razor. “I beat the shit out of you before. Now I’m gonna kill you.”

  “I came back… for you,” I said, smiling just as cruelly as he.

  With a laugh, he stepped in quickly and ran the blade through me, from belly to back. I simply looked down at the weapon inside me and grinned. Then I lifted my hand and it sort of dissolved through the flesh of his throat. It didn’t tear open the skin or draw blood… it simply melded with his neck. I felt around inside, found his windpipe, and squeezed. It gave way with a wet pop and collapsed in my grasp. He staggered backward, gasping and snorting. I walked with him and reached forward a little further. I located his spinal column and crushed the vertebrae of his neck bones into splintery shards. As he collapsed, he withdrew the big knife from my abdomen. There was nary a drop of blood on the blade.

  “You get out of here!” hollered Sanderson from the bar. I looked around and saw the Wanderer advancing on him, a quiet smile on her pale face. It was apparent that he knew what she was—what we were—but it was much too late. He leveled a double-barreled shotgun at her and pulled both the triggers. A dozen holes the size of bottle corks opened up, spearing her from front to back. As she strolled calmly forward, they healed themselves immediately. Then she transformed once again; not as a crow this time, but as a sleek black panther. With a feline growl, she launched herself over the surface of the bar and tore the old man apart.

  “Shoot him, fellas!” yelled one of Ike’s men. I turned as all three drew their revolvers and began to fire. Blue gun smoke and thunder filled the room even as hot lead filled me, from collarbone to groin. I rocked on my heels a bit, but felt nothing. I stepped forward, rammed my hand through a gunman’s chest, and squeezed his heart until it burst asunder. The other two cussed as they fumbled to reload their pistols. I laughed wickedly, with all the joy of Satan unleashed, but it sounded in their heads and not their ears. I grabbed one and flung him bodily across the room. He hit the log wall at the far end of the saloon with such force that every bone in his body shattered. The last man attempted to run through the kitchen doorway, but his efforts were to no avail. I dissolved where I stood and reappeared—in a mist—directly before him. Startled, he cried out. He grew silent and fell a moment later as my hand entered his face, rupturing both of his eyes and then sinking deeply into his brain.

  The sound of the Wanderer’s feeding whetted my own appetite. I looked across the room and saw Clementine cowering a corner. She held the silver-plated Derringer in her trembling hand.

  “You… you stay away from me!” she warned, cocking the tiny gun’s hammer.

  One second I was twenty feet away, while in an instant I stood directly before her. My hand grasped the pistol, yanked it from her grasp, and flung it across the room. I reached up and ran my fingers through her auburn curls, then caressed the smooth, white column of her neck. “Do you trust me?” I asked.

  Eyes, brimming with tears, stared at me. The deeper she stared into my bloodshot orbs, the more willing she became. “Yes… I do,” she replied.

  “Do you want to live forever?”

&
nbsp; “Oh, yes!”

  Then I lowered my head and sank my teeth, now elongated and as sharp as quilting needles, into the side of her throat. The artery opened, providing the salty nectar that I sought. I drank hungrily, feeling the hot sustenance of her life’s blood flow down my gullet, satisfying my maddening appetite and filling me with renewed power. Sweet Clementine moaned softly and then grew limp in my arms. A bit saddened, I released her and laid her lank body atop a barroom table.

  The Wanderer was in her human—or inhuman—form once again. She licked a smear of blood from her lips and smiled. “Don’t fret… she’ll return. She has no choice.”

  No choice… just like me. But at that moment in time, with the power of the undead radiating through my being and the taste of Clementine in my mouth, I knew I would never be the same Josiah Craven again.

  And neither did I wish to be.

  March 19th

  Several nights later, I departed from the bosom of Twilight Mountain.

  The Wanderer and her followers gathered in the dark street of Nameless to bid me farewell. Clementine was there also, even more beautiful in death than in life. Her threadbare dress of gingham had been discarded for a long, black gown of fine silk and her curly red hair lay across her pale shoulders like a tangle of copper snakes. Her eyes—the pupils emerald green, the whites now a stark crimson red—regarded me with love and deep respect. She was grateful for this new phase of existence that I had introduced her into.

  No words were spoken between us. I slipped my journal—this account from which you now read—into the inner pocket of my broad coat, then embraced Clementine and the Wanderer. As I held the raven-haired queen of Twilight Mountain—both my destroyer and my creator—our minds mingled. What is your name? I asked her in thought. Your true name?