Diary of an Incubus

by Diary of an Incubus (lit)

  Diary of an Incubus

  By

  Tracey H. Kitts

  © copyright by Tracey H. Kitts, June 2009

  Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, June2009

  ISBN 978-1-60394-319-2

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Chapter One

  Mankind is an extremely odd word. I can’t remember the last time I associated the word “kind” with man or even with woman for that matter. People on the whole are absolutely terrible to one another. Every job I’ve ever had has forced me to deal with the public to a certain extent. People look down on you if you’re in a position to help them in some way. Even if that’s just helping them purchase some new jeans. They seem to think that you’re there to serve them and therefore you’re beneath them in some way.

  I’ve done everything from working as a secretary to working in a shoe store. It’s all the same. The holidays in particular bring out the worst in people. It was fall and I was already dreading Christmas. At the time I was working in a video store. Half the people I worked with were completely out of their minds. I don’t know if they had a legitimate disorder like being bi-polar or if they were just fishing for attention. If they fished any harder they might as well wear bait attached to their shirts. I swear if I wanted drama I’d go to the fucking theatre. That is if I could afford it.

  All I have ever wanted to do is be a writer. That’s been my dream since I was a very small child. When we were asked in kindergarten what we wanted to be when we grew up I said “a storyteller.” The teacher misunderstood and said, “You mean you want to tell lies?”

  “No, I want to tell the stories in books,” I replied.

  “Oh, so you want to be a writer.”

  I was fortunate to have a mom and dad who believed in bedtime stories. I was also fortunate that my mom loved fantasy and my dad loved science fiction. As you can imagine, I got to hear some pretty wild tales just before bed. The first time I heard an epic saga of good verses evil I knew that’s what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to be the hero--I wanted to be the one to tell his story.

  So what the hell was I doing in a video store? Well, it’s like this. I was broke. I don’t mean that in the sense of the word that a lot of people do. When I say broke that doesn’t mean that I couldn’t afford a few luxuries in life. It means that I could barely afford to put gas in my car to drive to the damn video store.

  I just couldn’t get over this feeling that I was meant for so much more than this. Like I said, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve stayed awake so many nights writing stories in my head, my heart swelling with emotion at the thoughts of sharing it with the world. My first book was published almost a year ago and it had even been a best seller. I was thrilled with that, but it wasn’t enough.

  A lot of folks have the impression that a best seller means you’re rich. Wrong. It means that you’ve written one decent book. The trick is to follow it up with something else that readers will enjoy before everyone who actually remembers your name forgets you ever existed.

  About the time my first novel got accepted, I lost my last job, as a secretary for a junior college. Well, I was forced to quit is more accurate really. I was so thrilled to have a publisher even considering my work that I told some of the people I worked with about it. I didn’t say it to brag. I said it like, “Isn’t this fantastic? I can’t believe it!”

  Boy, was that ever a mistake. One of the twerps in the IT department got jealous and set things up to make it look like I’d been downloading porn on my computer. Okay, I barely had time to pee on this job, let alone look up pornography. Besides, I’ve got a computer at home for that crap. I was never allowed to see the supposed “evidence,” but told that my only options were to be fired or quit. I didn’t want my reputation ruined so I quit.

  I had to spend the three thousand dollar advance on my contract just to live and still I lost my apartment. Thank God my car was already paid for. One year later, I was living with my uncle just outside Savannah, Georgia. He was good enough to put me up in his guest house. I will be eternally grateful, especially since it took me almost a year to even find the job I had then. Years ago when I first started looking for employment all I ever heard was “You don’t have enough experience.” Well, now I hear, “You’re overqualified.”

  The only thing I really had going for me was my imagination and lately that had been on the fritz. There’s a clause in my publishing contract that had been on my mind a lot over the past week or so. See the editor believed in my work so much (at least that’s how I interpreted the clause) that I was obligated for three more books. It wasn’t that I didn’t have more ideas. My life had been in such turmoil for the past year that I hadn’t had time to bring any of those ideas into fruition. I didn’t even have a decent outline going. To make matters worse, I needed to produce at least a rough draft for my editor within the next four months or I would be in breach of contract.

  As I walked into the empty guest house that night I tossed down my keys and said, “Honey, I’m home.” I took a beer out of the fridge. “From another shitty pointless day at work.”

  My big orange cat, Tang leapt onto the back of the sofa and stared at me for a moment. Then he stretched out his fat rolls and made himself comfortable while I opened my beer.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit,” I said to the cat. “I’m twenty seven years old and I work in a video store for Pete’s sake. I should have done so much more with my life by now. It’s not that I’m old or anything … but I don’t want to be thirty years old and still be nobody.”

  “You’re not nobody,” my uncle called from the doorway. “And you should learn to lock your doors.”

  My uncle Randolph is around six feet tall with short black hair that’s started to gray at the temples. He says it makes him look older, but I say it makes him look dignified. He’s divorced and doesn’t seem interested in getting married again. He got a bad dose the first time around and seems content now to be by himself. Well, he was by himself until I moved in the guest house.

  “I suppose there’s no point in asking how your day went?” he asked as he lowered his lean frame onto the couch beside me.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Honey, you’re drinking and talking to your cat. You’re not fine.”

  I decided not to argue the point. He was right.

  “I’m depressed,” I admitted.

  “More like afraid,” he said softly.

  He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind my ear. He’d been doing that ever since I was little and it made me smile. No amount of straightening in the world could tame my wild hair without a flat iron and even that took effort.

  “You’re right.” Emotion filled my voice and I found it hard to speak as I confessed, “I’m afraid of living and dying … and no one ever really knowing that I existed. I don’t want to live and die in mediocrity.” I sighed. “And I can’t seem to shake this funk I’ve settled into.”

  He leaned forward and picked up my book from the coffee table, lightly tracing his thumb across the raised letters on the front.

  “Dreams of the Vampire,” he said, “by Jewel Mathers. How great is it to see your name in print?”

  “Wonderful, but it’s starting to wear off.”

  “Don’t let it,” he said firmly. “You could finish unpacking if you need to get your mind off things. You’ve been here three months and there are still boxes stacked in the hallway.” He stood back
up. “I won’t tell you not to drink, because I drink too. But I will tell you that whatever you’re wrestling with today will still be here when you sober up tomorrow.”

  Wise words I should have listened to. But I was depressed and in the mood to drink. After my uncle left I finished my beer and decided I wanted to go out for a change. I stripped out of my uniform on the way down the hall. Blue shirt with the company logo across my left breast and khaki pants. I fucking hate khaki pants. They’re so pretentious, especially the ones with pleats.

  The hot shower was a welcome relief. As the water fell over me I felt it begin to plaster my long hair against my back. My hair is a bright auburn and naturally full of waves. It isn’t frizzy like you might expect from natural curl. When I let it dry on its own it hangs in little ringlets. But tonight I wouldn’t have time for that. So, I decided that when I got out I needed to plug up my flat iron.

  While I tried my best to wash away the sins of the day my mind kept drifting to the incubus who had inspired my first novel. Well, that’s what I called him anyway. I had no idea who he really was. I had always been fascinated with vampires, werewolves and other creatures of the night. My uncle knew this and picked up things for me here and there. Macabre little tidbits from his travels. He traveled a lot for his job, but he also took one big vacation a year, usually to a foreign country.

  He had been in London shortly before my eighteenth birthday and as a graduation present he purchased some journals for me at an estate sale. I had never finished reading them. They were too real somehow. However, I had scanned them and there was no date, no author mentioned, nothing. They were written like a journal, but no dates were listed for the entries. I could tell by the look of them that they were old. I had wondered often enough who wrote them. Whoever they were, I’m sure they were long since dead. I had finally decided that the journals were an unpublished work of fiction. After all, vampires don’t exist.

  The story was told in first person and I had read enough to get a feel for the main character, about twenty pages or so. He never once described himself, but he was so real to me. His name was Vincent Marcellus and he was positively ravishing. The only reason I even knew his name is that as he recounted the story of his life, he mentioned it only once in the few pages I read. If I knew the journals were real then I’d say that he was the author. But Vincent had to be the character, not the author. The brief glimpse I had gotten simply had to be fiction.

  I put the first journal down after reading those few pages. My heart was beating so fast I thought I might faint. My face was flushed and images of a man who had never been described filled my mind. When I finally slept that night he also filled my dreams. He touched me in ways no one ever had, not just with his hands, but with his voice. There was no part of me he did not touch that night, including my heart. That was almost ten years ago and to this day when I close my eyes I can still see his face and feel his long dark hair spilling across my skin. If I concentrate, I can remember the touch of the softest, most luscious lips I’ve ever kissed, and recall the look in the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes which held me like no one’s arms ever could.

  It was the memory of this man, this vampire, which had inspired my novel. It was also the reason I had never picked up the journals again after that night. I had never experienced anything like that before. Although I’m fascinated by the paranormal, I wasn’t entirely sure I believed in it. The next morning I had checked myself repeatedly for bite marks, but then I remembered he didn’t bite me. There were no marks on my body of any kind, but I could still smell his cologne on my pillow. Thinking about it almost ten years later both aroused and frightened me. And as I stepped out of the shower I decided to put my mind back on my present situation.

  I had moved to Savannah from Florida three months ago. I just couldn’t stand to be a failure in front of the people I grew up with. My uncle understood me better than most of my relatives and I never felt like he was judging me. That’s why I’d accepted his kind offer to let me live in his guest house.

  I stood in front of the open closet while I dried my hair. I wasn’t really looking to impress anyone tonight. I just wanted to relax and unwind a bit. Maybe it would help me to come up with my next story. Finally, I selected a pair of torn jeans and a short green t-shirt. The emerald fabric was the exact same color as my eyes and went well with my hair.

  As I slid into the jeans I noticed they were looser than I remembered. Even though I was broke, my uncle made sure there was food in the cabinets. I just didn’t have an appetite lately. I’d always tried to exercise and stay in good shape, but I didn’t need to lose any weight. I put on a bra that was supposed to help minimize my large breasts before pulling on the t-shirt.

  Next, I put on a little bit of makeup before slipping on some sandals and heading toward the door. I almost picked up my cell phone before remembering I’d had to discontinue the service. Since I’d already been drinking I decided to walk into town. After all, we only lived about a mile out of the city limits and I could use the exercise. I didn’t have the strength or the patience for aerobics at the moment and exercise always helped to clear my head. So, I put my keys in my pocket and headed toward town.

  As usual after conjuring up images of the incubus, he was hard to put out of my mind. I had always read heavily about vampires and was convinced that this vampire was an incubus. It was the dream, more than the journal which convinced me of this. Like I said, at the time I wasn’t entirely sure that I believed in the paranormal. But after that night I began to reconsider. According to legend, an incubus is a much more sexual type of vampire who visits his victims in their dreams, feeding from their sexual energy as well as their blood. Did I believe I had been visited in such a way? I wasn’t really sure. But I did believe that whoever wrote those journals was trying to describe this type of vampire. I shook my head as if to clear him from my mind again and focused on the night around me.

  The evening was still muggy, but much improved from the blistering heat of the day. To me, Savannah was most beautiful at night. I loved the moss covered oak trees which were found all over the city, the old graveyards and the haunted houses. I finally made my way to the bar I was looking for, an Irish pub near River Street.

  Cool air hit me in the face when I opened the door and I breathed a sigh of relief. The place was fairly quiet, but then again it was a Monday night. Only hardcore alcoholics and a few random tourists were there on Monday. Since I’m a resident, I guess it’s clear which category I fell into.

  I had been to the pub a few times since moving to Savannah. There was a cute, blond bartender who always tried to talk to me when I stopped by. His name was Matthew and he spotted me when I came in the door. I’d never been unfriendly to him, I’d just never really felt like talking that much. If I was in the mood to drink, that normally meant I was in a bad mood. I didn’t believe in taking my bad moods out on other people, so I didn’t say much when I was upset. I figured that worked out best for everybody.

  But his smile was contagious and his accent made my heart flutter. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold out on him. He knew what I liked by now and when I sat down it was only a moment before he put a vodka tonic in front of me.

  “And how are ye today lass?” he asked playfully.

  “Not as good as I have been.” The answer was honest, though not overly friendly. I frowned when I heard my tone. I hadn’t meant to sound abrupt.

  He continued to wipe down the bar. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what exactly is it ye do?”

  “I’d rather not discuss what I do,” I said softly as I took a sip of my drink. “No offense,” I added.

  “None taken.” He shrugged and continued to wipe the bar. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get to know ye.”

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Are you really Irish?” I asked suddenly.

  I’m not sure what made me ask such a thing and for a moment I was embarrassed. I could feel myself starting to blush as
he answered, “No,” and all traces of accent were gone. “I’m an out of work actor,” he said bluntly.

  “Well, congratulations, Matthew, you’ve just met an out of work writer.”

  Chapter Two

  The bartender laughed and it did my ears good. His laughter was warm and genuine and so was his smile. He looked around as if to be sure no one was listening while he continued to speak without the accent.

  “What do you write?”

  “Novels.”

  “Ah,” he said thoughtfully. “What kind of novels?”

  I sighed as I considered his question. I had been dreading this. Not because I was ashamed of what I write, but because so many people didn’t understand it.

  “Paranormal Romance.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “But I’ll be man enough to admit I haven’t got a clue what it means.”

  I pushed my glass aside, smiling at him as I said, “It’s a difficult genre to write in my opinion. Not because of the writing itself, but because of the category. A lot of people don’t know what it means.”

  “Enlighten me,” he said.

  “For one thing, it’s not exactly romance. Sure, some of it can be romance, but most paranormals don’t fit the standard definition the industry sets. So, it’s hard sometimes to reach your intended audience.”

  Matthew refilled my drink. “Paranormal just means something out of the ordinary, right?”

  “Right, and romance just means that at some point a relationship is involved. It’s just that a lot of paranormals are really dark and some romance readers don’t like that.”

  “But some do,” he said. “My sister loves it.”

  I stirred my drink idly, trying to come up with a better explanation of what I write. I don’t think I’d ever sounded so vague before. Then again, I was drunk.

  “So, what is it to you then?” he asked softly. “The stories, I mean. What would you say that they are?”