Deceased Dora

by Claire Chilton

  She listened closely and realised he was right. It was muffled and grossly out of tune, but it was singing, and it was coming from the grave.

  “Kieron!” she cried. It must be Kieron. Who else would be singing in a grave.

  She leapt into the hole and began digging with her hands again.

  “Hey, stop doing that!” the chief cried.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see him drawing his gun again.

  “No, listen. There’s someone in here.”

  The police chief holstered the weapon and drummed his fingers on the handle of it, appearing deep in thought. After a few minutes of contemplation, he turned to the crowd of townspeople.

  “She’s right. There is someone singing in there. Hal, go fetch some spades. We need to dig this guy out of here.”

  Hal turned out to be the overweight groundskeeper of the graveyard. He nodded before dashing towards his hut behind the family crypts.

  “Step out of there, little lady. We’ll sort this out.” The chief told her, offering her his hand and stepping towards the grave.

  “Don’t go running off anywhere though. We still need to shoot you in the head,” he added sternly.

  She took the offered hand, allowing the chief pull her out of the pit. She stood near the edge of it, nodding in awe of ridiculousness of the situation.

  These people are fucking idiots.

  Hal came back panting, and both he and the chief jumped down into the pit, brandishing spades. The chief took off his jacket, rolling his sleeves up his muscular arms before beginning to dig up the singing coffin below them.

  She peered around. Everyone was staring into the pit.

  I could just make a run for it, but what if it is Kieron inside the coffin.

  She realised she would have to wait to find out, shaking her head at her own stupidity.

  The deeper the two men dug, the clearer it became that the singer was not Kieron. The voice was high-pitched.

  “Come into the garden, Maud.” The voice trilled. It sounded like an old music hall song.

  Even Kieron isn’t that old.

  After several minutes, the unearthed grave revealed an ancient-looking coffin. The casket was made of smooth dark wood, which had begun to rot. A symbol of a fang was carved into the top of it.

  “I don’t think you should open that,” Dora said.

  “Don’t be foolish, girl! There’s a man trapped in there.” The chief snapped at her before turning and calling out to the occupant of the coffin. “Don’t worry. We’re here to help.”

  “Oh, that’d be lovely.” A cheerful British accent called out from within the coffin.

  She knew she should take this opportunity to escape, but she couldn’t. She really wanted to know what was in the coffin. Also, her father was here. If the coffin held what she thought it did, someone had to save his dumb ass.

  The police chief used his spade to smash through the lid of the coffin. He and Hal ripped it open to reveal a pale man wearing a Victorian-style velvet suit.

  The man sat up and languidly stretched.

  “Oh, that’s so much better. It’s a tight fit in there.”

  Dora studied him. His skin was pale even in the dimly lit graveyard. His ebony hair was slicked back, and his lips were blood red.

  The chief offered him a hand to help him out of the coffin.

  “Don’t!” She shouted on instinct.

  The man’s head snapped scarily fast in her direction, and his black eyes glittered over her for a moment before his glare softened with surprise.

  “Mon amour, mon désir, ma Carissa!” he cried.

  “What?” She glanced behind her to try to find the person the coffin-guy was talking to.

  The old man standing behind her in flannel dressing gown shrugged at her. “I think he means you.”

  She turned back towards the coffin as the pale man stood up in it.

  “My love, my desire, my Carissa. Sweetie, I knew you’d wait for me.” He repeated his words in English to her.

  He clambered out of the grave, heading towards her with glint of love in his eyes and his arms outstretched.

  “Oh fuck!” She backed up and bumped into the man behind her, trying to avoid the imminent hug.

  The man in the velvet suit tightly hugged her against him.

  “It’s Terrance. Don’t you remember me? It’s been so long, my love, but I’d recognise those glossy ringlets anywhere, my sweet, sweet passion.”

  “Oh fuck, get off me!” She struggled to push Terrance away from her.

  “My name is Dora, not Carissa.”

  He released her as quickly as he’d embraced her, and he stepped back with a bow.

  “Of course. Forgive me, my dear. I forgot myself in a moment of tumultuous passion. Please forgive my deviant behaviour. I did not mean to defile you with my touch so soon.” He stared at her for a moment, but then a glint of amusement lit up his dark eyes. “Ah ha! You play with my emotions as always, my virginal vixen. For what would Paris have been without your dark passionate embrace? You don’t fool me, my snookums. We’ll be so happy together in this new world, daring to go beyond villainous kisses and to break in new horizons.” He hugged her to his chest, and she smelled something musty and old.

  She scowled before kicking him in the shins as hard as she could.

  “Okay, Pepe Le Pew, back the fuck off before I break you.”

  He backed off a little, but judging by the dopey grin on his face, it was clear he wasn’t listening to a word she said.

  “You know I love it when you break me, my little love bug.” He winked at her, nervously placing an arm around her waist.

  She tried to remove the arm, but it was like trying to bend iron. His grip was scarily solid and immovable.

  “Isn’t he a dream?” The pre-pubescent girl breathed, staring at Terrance with adoration.

  “More like a nightmare.” Dora tried to push him away from her and struggled to escape his iron grip, but he didn’t appear to notice as he turned to face the group of townspeople.

  “My good friends, I am so grateful to you. You have not only freed me on this night, but you have brought my love back to me too. A debt I may never be able to repay, but for which I offer my hand of friendship for a lifetime, perhaps even two,” he declared, beaming happily at the crowd.

  “No, she’s not your love. She’s a putrid, skanky, vampire whore.” One of the ramblers pointed out.

  “Ah, she is both, and so much more.” Terrence smiled. “Farewell, my new-found friends.” He bowed at the group and then snapped his fingers.

  The graveyard spun around her, and all she could feel was Terrence’s hand around her waist. After some sickening spinning, the world blurred and reformed before her eyes.

  She was no longer in a graveyard. They had been transported inside of what appeared to be a stately mansion.

  She blinked several times to gain some focus before shoving Terrance away from her, which only worked because he was releasing his grip on her anyway.

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  “I brought you home, my love. After all, no matter how long I have slept for, time will never change the fact that the peasants are always revolting in some way or another. The view is much more pleasant here.”

  “Where are we?” She scanned the room. It was a large parlour decorated with Victorian chic, including a grand piano and chaise longue.

  “This is my townhouse, my love.” He attempted to stroke her hair, and she slapped his hand away as she backed up.

  She studied him. He stood almost to attention under her gaze, one hand resting on a grand piano and the other smoothing back his dark hair. He appeared to be around twenty years old, but she was certain he was much older.

  He winked at her, and she rolled her eyes in reply before glancing around the room and pausing at the large bay window.

  She ran to the window, thinking only of escaping. She sighed with relief when she recognised the streets outside.
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br />   For a while there, she thought he’d transported her back in time. She breathed easy when she saw Main Street through the window. They were still in modern Berkville, in one of the older gothic houses on the outskirts of town by the looks of it.

  “Do you care to take a turn around the gardens, my dear?” he asked her.

  She turned to face him, thinking only of escape. “Sure, why not?”

  Dora shot a sideways glance at Terrence. He was smiling while gazing across his vast garden. He appeared completely oblivious to the fact that the garden was a barren landscape of dead weeds and rubbish.

  “Beautiful isn’t it?” he asked, turning to face her.

  She grimaced as she stared at the twisted old oak tree, which was a hollow husk now and quite dead. “Yeah, if you like dead things …”

  He let out a loud laugh, and then kissed her on the forehead. “You know I do, my love.”

  She rubbed the Terrance-spit off her forehead while scowling at him.

  “Did you just call me dead?”

  “Oh, don’t be so coy. Dead, undead or whatever term you use nowadays. I know I’m behind the times, but there’s no need to be sensitive, my dear.” He condescendingly patted her on the head before turning on his heel and walking over to the dried-out pond in the middle of the garden.

  She frowned as she watched him cross the overgrown lawn.

  Am I fucking dead?

  In some ways, it made sense. She didn’t breathe normally, and her senses were super-sensitive now. She’d begun to notice improved hearing, eyesight and ugh—a stronger sense of smell.

  I’m not a fucking vampire. I just can’t be!

  “Are you coming, dear?” He called out behind him as he paused at a dead rose bush.

  She reluctantly walked over to him. She needed information, and unfortunately, he was the only available source she had right now.

  “We need to talk,” she said when she reached his side.

  “Of course, my love.”

  “Let’s start with that. Who do you think I am?”

  “My Carissa.” He beamed at her, and she scowled back.

  His smile faltered for a moment. “My Dora?”

  Her scowl deepened.

  “Just Dora?” He tried again.

  She smiled at him. “Good. Now tell me who Carissa is.”

  “You are,” he said. “I like this game.”

  She punched him in the shoulder. “No, dumbass! I’m not. I’m just Dora.”

  “You look like Carissa.” He leaned over her, and his hot breath warmed her neck. He inhaled deeply. “You smell like her.”

  She idly wondered what she smelled like.

  Mud and hell-dust?

  She shook her head and pushed him away again.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter what I smell like. I’m not Carissa.”

  “You have her hair.” He played with one of her ringlets, and she slapped his hand away. “So does orphan Annie.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” She sighed. “Lots of people have ringlets.”

  “Lots of people aren’t creatures of the night with ringlets.” He tried to play with her hair again, but she was onto his moves by now and swiftly smacked his hand away.

  “I’m not undead!” she snapped, shaking her head.

  “Well you’re dead and still walking around,” he said. “You have supernatural powers, and …” He sniffed her hair again. “You smell as if you’ve danced with a demon.”

  “I’m not dead! What powers? And the demon thing—well, that’s because I’m sort of dating one.”

  His eyes widened as a look of pure horror appeared on his face.

  “Tragedy befalls my blackened heart. Woe is me for loving such a devious temptress. Betrayed!” he wailed as his face fell in anguish. “Betrayed by my eternal love. I must end this pain, and take thy final kiss as my final breath.” He reached for her in a dramatic stance while ripping a branch off a nearby tree and holding it to his chest like a stake.

  Oh great, a suicidal vampire. That’s just perfect.

  She kicked him in the balls with all her strength. There was a loud clanging sound, and he didn’t react.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” He pulled an innocent expression.

  “That clinking noise in your er, pants.”

  “You mean my bond with my maker?” he asked.

  “If your bond with your maker clinks in your pants, then yes,” she said.

  “Well yes, it does on occasion.” He appeared uncomfortable talking about it.

  “Could you describe your bond with your maker?” she persisted.

  “It’s um, made of silver, and it protects my maker’s claim on me,” he evasively replied.

  “In what way does it protect their claim?”

  “Oh you know. Honour, loyalty, ahem-tity.” He coughed out the last word.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Chastity,” he muttered.

  She burst out laughing.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “It so is, man. You’ve got a silver chastity belt on your—” She burst out laughing again at the idea.

  “I assure you, it’s quite a terrible punishment. For one thing, it chafes.” He appeared appalled by her reaction.

  “Sorry, it’s just … bahahahaha!” She fought to control the laughter, eventually managing to gain control of herself.

  “Just take it off, and it won’t chafe.”

  “If only I could,” he said. “I can’t touch silver. It burns.”

  “Doesn’t it burn your er, bits?” She tried not to imagine burning vampire junk and failed.

  “No it’s silk lined,” he said. “I wonder if perhaps one of those nice peasants would assist me?”

  “Just don’t ask them when I’m around.” She laughed again.

  “Once it is removed, I can seduce my devious temptress once more.” He lunged at her, and she punched him in the face on instinct. He reeled backwards and fell onto his ass.

  “Woe is me! Bound to a heartless maker and punished by my love.” He held the stick up to his chest.

  “Dude! I’m not your devious temptress. I don’t even know who she is. And if you’re going to stake yourself, can you fucking do it after we’ve figured out why you think I’m dead?”

  “My heart cannot endure this.” He sobbed while peering down at the ground. “Why would love abandon me with such vicious intent?”

  “Maybe she got tired of hearing you whine and cry like a wet blanket?”

  He peered up at her. “Do you think so? Because I could resolve that and be the man she wants. But then, what if it is not enough? Perhaps I should end it now, once and for all. Perhaps I should remove myself from this world, so that my love can find a man worthy of her daunting beauty. Into the dark night I should go, bravely forward into the abyss of—”

  “Bullshit.” She interrupted his tirade of suicidal glorifying. “How did you end up in that coffin?”

  “Oh, her evil mother tore us apart and had me exiled there, and I vowed to wait there until my love came for me,” he said. “It was a cruel exile, but I would suffer it until she came. She was supposed to come find me when she had forgiven me. She was supposed to set me free when her heart was ripe with forgiveness, and we could love again.”

  “Did she know you were in the coffin?”

  “I sent her a note.”

  “A note, you mean a flimsy piece of paper? Are you sure she even got the note?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t she? There’s no postal service more reliable than the Royal Mail. With a Penny Red on my letter, it’s certain to have found my love.” He declared while twirling the stake between his fingers.

  “What the fuck is a Penny Red?” She wondered if it was a fish of some kind. It sounded like one.

  Please tell me he didn’t send a fish to Carissa with a love letter.

  “It’s a stamp. Surely, you still have postage stamps in this year?”

/>   “Yes, we have stamps and pennies still, but we also have dead letter offices. What if the letter got lost in the post?”

  He frowned for a moment. “No, but—” He stood up and dropped the stick from his hands. “But if she didn’t get the letter, then my years of exile were for nothing. If she didn’t get this note, does that mean she didn’t get the others either?”

  “How many notes did you send?”

  “One for every time I took my life in her name. She always came back for me, but not this time. I waited, but when she still did not come to me, I chose eternal exile.”

  “And how many times did you kill yourself over a girl you haven’t even had sex with?”

  “Only a few hundred times, I’m not that desperate a soul.” He shook his head and laughed.

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  “It’s not desperate!” He defended his actions with a pout on his rosy lips. “Only a few hundred is nothing in all my years.”

  “How old are you?”

  “What year is it?” he asked.

  “What year was it when you went into that coffin?”

  “Eighteen sixty-five.”

  “And what year were you born?” she asked.

  “That’s not relevant.” He shook his head.

  She just stared at him.

  “Fine! I’ll tell you if it will satisfy thy accusing eyes. I was born in eighteen forty-five.”

  “When did you become undead?” She realised that twenty years since birth didn’t give him much time to be a vampire.

  If that’s even what he is.

  “My journey into the dark realm of the undead began in the year eighteen sixty-three. I was but a young man of eighteen years when the dark kiss was bestowed upon me.”

  “And you killed yourself over a hundred times in two years?” She blinked. “What the fuck, man?”

  “There are three-hundred and sixty-five days in a year,” he said, appearing offended by her accusation as he turned away from her.

  “So, what happened? You woke up every morning and said; I feel like killing myself today. It must be Tuesday.”

  “You clearly have no concept of the darkness within.” He shook his head at her.

  “You clearly have no concept of overdoing it,” she muttered.