The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  “I’m old, I’m old, I’m ever so old,” Maddie crooned to herself. She freed her hair from its inevitable pink ribbon, and brushed it sleekly over her shoulders. Then she took off her lacy bed-jacket and the white winceyette nightie beneath it. Finally she slid into the garment that the invaluable Elsie had found for her (Heaven knew where, although Maddie had a shrewd suspicion it might have been stolen from another of Elsie’s clients – perhaps the naughty Mrs Monkton). It was a nightdress made of layers of black and red chiffon, just a little too large for Maddie, but the way it tended to slide from her shoulders could have, she felt, its own attraction.

  All these preparations had taken quite a long time, especially as Maddie had had to stop every so often to catch her breath and once to take one of her tablets . . . but she was ready just before sunset. She slipped out of bed, crossed the room, and sat in a chair beside the window. So. The trap was almost set. (But was she the trap or only the bait . . . ?) Only one thing remained to be done.

  Maddie took out her embroidery scissors, and, clenching her teeth, ran the tiny sharp points into her wrist . . .

  The bus was late and crowded. Margaret struggled off, trying to balance her load of packages and parcels and hurried down the road, past the churchyard wall, past Mrs Monkton’s red-brick villa, past the post-box – and hesitated. For a moment she thought she had seen something – Maddie’s strange man with the beautiful skull-like face? But no, there were two white faces there in the shadows – no . . . there was nothing. A trick of the dark . . . She dropped her parcels in the hall and hurried up the stairs.

  “Here I am, darling! I’m so sorry I’m late . . . Oh, Maddie . . . Maddie darling – whatever are you doing in the dark?”

  She switched on the light.

  “Maddie. Maddie, where are you?” she whispered. “What have you done?”

  F. PAUL WILSON

  Midnight Mass

  OVER SEVEN MILLION COPIES of F. Paul Wilson’s books are in print around the world and he is the author of such best-selling novels as The Keep (filmed in 1983) and The Tomb. In 1998 he resurrected his popular anti-hero Repairman Jack and recently published the seventh in the series, Gateways. Beacon Films is presently developing Jack into a franchise character.

  In 2003 a micro-budget independent film adaptation of “Midnight Mass” (with a cameo by the author in the opening sequence) was released straight to video by Lions Gate. “Reviews were mixed, ranging from bad to just plain awful,” reveals Wilson. More recently he combined the story with its two prequels, “The Lord’s Work” and “Good Friday”, and expanded them into an aggressive full-length novel that takes the battle to the undead.

  In the following novella, which is a fast-moving thriller with echoes of Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend and Stephen King’s ‘Salem’s Lot, Wilson comes up with a new twist on the theme while keeping his bloodsuckers strictly in the traditional vein . . .

  I

  IT HAD BEEN ALMOST a full minute since he’d slammed the brass knocker against the heavy oak door. That should have been proof enough. After all, wasn’t the knocker in the shape of a cross? But no, they had to squint through their peephole and peer through the sidelights that framed the door.

  Rabbi Zev Wolpin sighed and resigned himself to the scrutiny. He couldn’t blame people for being cautious, but this seemed a bit overly so. The sun was in the west and shining full on his back; he was all but silhouetted in it. What more did they want?

  I should maybe take off my clothes and dance naked?

  He gave a mental shrug and savored the damp sea air. At least it was cool here. He’d bicycled from Lakewood, which was only ten miles inland from this same ocean but at least twenty degrees warmer. The bulk of the huge Tudor retreat house stood between him and the Atlantic, but the ocean’s briny scent and rhythmic rumble were everywhere.

  Spring Lake. An Irish Catholic seaside resort since before the turn of the century. He looked around at its carefully restored Victorian houses, the huge mansions arrayed here along the beach front, the smaller homes set in neat rows running straight back from the ocean. Many of them were still occupied. Not like Lakewood. Lakewood was an empty shell.

  Not such a bad place for a retreat, he thought. He wondered how many houses like this the Catholic Church owned.

  A series of clicks and clacks drew his attention back to the door as numerous bolts were pulled in rapid succession. The door swung inward revealing a nervous-looking young man in a long black cassock. As he looked at Zev his mouth twisted and he rubbed the back of his wrist across it to hide a smile.

  “And what should be so funny?” Zev asked.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just—”

  “I know,” Zev said, waving off any explanation as he glanced down at the wooden cross slung on a cord around his neck. “I know.”

  A bearded Jew in a baggy black serge suit wearing a yarmulke and a cross. Hilarious, no?

  So, nu? This was what the times demanded, this was what it had come to if he wanted to survive. And Zev did want to survive. Someone had to live to carry on the traditions of the Talmud and the Torah, even if there were hardly any Jews left alive in the world.

  Zev stood on the sunny porch, waiting. The priest watched him in silence.

  Finally Zev said, “Well, may a wandering Jew come in?”

  “I won’t stop you,” the priest said, “but surely you don’t expect me to invite you.”

  Ah, yes. Another precaution. The vampire couldn’t cross the threshold of a home unless he was invited in, so don’t invite. A good habit to cultivate, he supposed.

  He stepped inside and the priest immediately closed the door behind him, relatching all the locks one by one. When he turned around Zev held out his hand.

  “Rabbi Zev Wolpin, Father. I thank you for allowing me in.”

  “Brother Christopher, sir,” he said, smiling and shaking Zev’s hand. His suspicions seemed to have been completely allayed. “I’m not a priest yet. We can’t offer you much here, but—”

  “Oh, I won’t be staying long. I just came to talk to Father Joseph Cahill.”

  Brother Christopher frowned. “Father Cahill isn’t here at the moment.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I – I’m not sure. You see—”

  “Father Cahill is on another bender,” said a stentorian voice behind Zev.

  He turned to see an elderly priest facing him from the far end of the foyer. White-haired, heavy set, wearing a black cassock.

  “I’m Rabbi Wolpin.”

  “Father Adams,” the priest said, stepping forward and extending his hand.

  As they shook Zev said, “Did you say he was on ‘another’ bender? I never knew Father Cahill to be much of a drinker.”

  “Apparently there was a lot we never knew about Father Cahill,” the priest said stiffly.

  “If you’re referring to that nastiness last year,” Zev said, feeling the old anger rise in him, “I for one never believed it for a minute. I’m surprised anyone gave it the slightest credence.”

  “The veracity of the accusation was irrelevant in the final analysis. The damage to Father Cahill’s reputation was a fait accompli. Father Palmeri was forced to request his removal for the good of St Anthony’s parish.”

  Zev was sure that sort of attitude had something to do with Father Joe being on “another bender.”

  “Where can I find Father Cahill?”

  “He’s in town somewhere, I suppose, making a spectacle of himself. If there’s any way you can talk some sense into him, please do. Not only is he killing himself with drink but he’s become quite an embarrassment to the priesthood and to the Church.”

  Which bothers you more? Zev wanted to ask but held his tongue.

  “I’ll try.”

  He waited for Brother Christopher to undo all the locks, then stepped toward the sunlight.

  “Try Morton’s down on Seventy-one,” the younger man whispered as Zev passed.

  Zev rode his bicyc
le south on 71. It was almost strange to see people on the streets. Not many, but more than he’d ever see in Lakewood again. Yet he knew that as the vampires consolidated their grip on the world and infiltrated the Catholic communities, there’d be fewer and fewer day people here as well.

  He thought he remembered passing a place named Morton’s on his way to Spring Lake. And then up ahead he saw it, by the railroad track crossing, a white stucco one-story box of a building with “Morton’s Liquors” painted in big black letters along the side.

  Father Adams’ words echoed back to him: . . . on another bender. . .

  Zev pushed his bicycle to the front door and tried the knob. Locked up tight. A look inside showed a litter of trash and empty shelves. The windows were barred; the back door was steel and locked as securely as the front. So where was Father Joe?

  Then he spotted the basement window at ground level by the overflowing trash dumpster. It wasn’t latched. Zev went down on his knees and pushed it open.

  Cool, damp, musty air wafted against his face as he peered into the Stygian blackness. It occurred to him that he might be asking for trouble by sticking his head inside, but he had to give it a try. If Father Cahill wasn’t here, Zev would begin the return trek to Lakewood and write this whole trip off as wasted effort.

  “Father Joe?” he called. “Father Cahill?”

  “That you again, Chris?” said a slightly slurred voice. “Go home, will you? I’ll be all right. I’ll be back later.”

  “It’s me, Joe. Zev. From Lakewood.”

  He heard shoes scraping on the floor and then a familiar face appeared in the shaft of light from the window.

  “Well I’ll be damned. It is you! Thought you were Brother Chris come to drag me back to the retreat house. Gets scared I’m gonna get stuck out after dark. So how ya doin’, Reb? Glad to see you’re still alive. Come on in!”

  Zev saw that Father Cahill’s eyes were glassy and he swayed ever so slightly, like a skyscraper in the wind. He wore faded jeans and a black Bruce Springsteen Tunnel of Love Tour sweatshirt.

  Zev’s heart twisted at the sight of his friend in such condition. Such a mensch like Father Joe shouldn’t be acting like a shikker. Maybe it was a mistake coming here. Zev didn’t like seeing him like this.

  “I don’t have that much time, Joe. I came to tell you—”

  “Get your bearded ass down here and have a drink or I’ll come up and drag you down.”

  “All right,” Zev said. “I’ll come in but I won’t have a drink.”

  He hid his bike behind the dumpster, then squeezed through the window. Father Joe helped him to the floor. They embraced, slapping each other on the back. Father Joe was a taller man, a giant from Zev’s perspective. At six-four he was ten inches taller, at thirty-five he was a quarter-century younger; he had a muscular frame, thick brown hair, and – on better days – clear blue eyes.

  “You’re grayer, Zev, and you’ve lost weight.”

  “Kosher food is not so easily come by these days.”

  “All kinds of food is getting scarce.” He touched the cross slung from Zev’s neck and smiled. “Nice touch. Goes well with your zizith.”

  Zev fingered the fringe protruding from under his shirt. Old habits didn’t die easily.

  “Actually, I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

  “So what can I pour you?” the priest said, waving an arm at the crates of liquor stacked around him. “My own private reserve. Name your poison.”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Come on, Reb. I’ve got some nice hundred-proof Stoly here. You’ve got to have at least one drink—”

  “Why? Because you think maybe you shouldn’t drink alone?”

  Father Joe smiled. “Touché.”

  “All right,” Zev said. “Bissel. I’ll have one drink on the condition that you don’t have one. Because I wish to talk to you.”

  The priest considered that a moment, then reached for the vodka bottle.

  “Deal.”

  He poured a generous amount into a paper cup and handed it over. Zev took a sip. He was not a drinker and when he did imbibe he preferred his vodka ice cold from a freezer. But this was tasty. Father Cahill sat back on a crate of Jack Daniel’s and folded his arms.

  “Nu?” the priest said with a Jackie Mason shrug.

  Zev had to laugh. “Joe, I still say that somewhere in your family tree is Jewish blood.”

  For a moment he felt light, almost happy. When was the last time he had laughed? Probably more than a year now, probably at their table near the back of Horovitz’s deli, shortly before the St Anthony’s nastiness began, well before the vampires came.

  Zev thought of the day they’d met. He’d been standing at the counter at Horovitz’s waiting for Yussel to wrap up the stuffed derma he had ordered when this young giant walked in. He towered over the other rabbis in the place, looked as Irish as Paddy’s pig, and wore a Roman collar. He said he’d heard this was the only place on the whole Jersey Shore where you could get a decent corned beef sandwich. He ordered one and cheerfully warned that it better be good. Yussel asked him what could he know about good corned beef and the priest replied that he grew up in Bensonhurst. Well, about half the people in Horovitz’s on that day – and on any other day for that matter – grew up in Bensonhurst and before you knew it they were all asking him if he knew such-and-such a store and so-and-so’s deli.

  Zev then informed the priest – with all due respect to Yussel Horovitz behind the counter – that the best corned beef sandwich in the world was to be had at Shmuel Rosenberg’s Jerusalem Deli in Bensonhurst. Father Cahill said he’d been there and agreed one hundred per cent.

  Yussel served him his sandwich then. As he took a huge bite out of the corned beef on rye, the normal tummel of a deli at lunchtime died away until Horovitz’s was as quiet as a shoul on Sunday morning. Everyone watched him chew, watched him swallow. Then they waited. Suddenly his face broke into this big Irish grin.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to change my vote,” he said. “Horovitz’s of Lakewood makes the best corned beef sandwich in the world.”

  Amid cheers and warm laughter, Zev led Father Cahill to the rear table that would become theirs and sat with this canny and charming gentile who had so easily won over a roomful of strangers and provided such a mechaieh for Yussel. He learned that the young priest was the new assistant to Father Palmeri, the pastor at St Anthony’s Catholic church at the northern end of Lakewood. Father Palmeri had been there for years but Zev had never so much as seen his face. He asked Father Cahill – who wanted to be called Joe – about life in Brooklyn these days and they talked for an hour.

  During the following months they would run into each other so often at Horovitz’s that they decided to meet regularly for lunch, on Mondays and Thursdays. They did so for years, discussing religion – Oy, the religious discussions! – politics, economics, philosophy, life in general. During those lunchtimes they solved most of the world’s problems. Zev was sure they’d have solved them all if the scandal at St Anthony’s hadn’t resulted in Father Joe’s removal from the parish.

  But that was in another time, another world. The world before the vampires took over.

  Zev shook his head as he considered the current state of Father Joe in the dusty basement of Morton’s Liquors.

  “It’s about the vampires, Joe,” he said, taking another sip of the Stoly. “They’ve taken over St Anthony’s.”

  Father Joe snorted and shrugged.

  “They’re in the majority now, Zev, remember? They’ve taken over everything. Why should St Anthony’s be different from any other parish in the world?”

  “I didn’t mean the parish. I meant the church.”

  The priest’s eyes widened slightly. “The church? They’ve taken over the building itself?”

  “Every night,” Zev said. “Every night they are there.”

  “That’s a holy place. How do they manage that?”

  “They’ve de
secrated the altar, destroyed all the crosses. St Anthony’s is no longer a holy place.”

  “Too bad,” Father Joe said, looking down and shaking his head sadly. “It was a fine old church.” He looked up again, at Zev. “How do you know about what’s going on at St Anthony’s? It’s not exactly in your neighborhood.”

  “A neighborhood I don’t exactly have any more.”

  Father Joe reached over and gripped his shoulder with a huge hand.

  “I’m sorry, Zev. I heard how your people got hit pretty hard over there. Sitting ducks, huh? I’m really sorry.”

  Sitting ducks. An appropriate description. Oh, they’d been smart, those bloodsuckers. They knew their easiest targets. Whenever they swooped into an area they singled out Jews as their first victims, and among Jews they picked the Orthodox first of the first. Smart. Where else would they be less likely to run up against a cross? It worked for them in Brooklyn, and so when they came south into New Jersey, spreading like a plague, they headed straight for the town with one of the largest collections of yeshivas in North America.

  But after the Bensonhurst holocaust the people in the Lakewood communities did not take quite so long to figure out what was happening. The Reformed and Conservative synagogues started handing out crosses at Shabbes – too late for many but it saved a few. Did the Orthodox congregations follow suit? No. They hid in their homes and shules and yeshivas and read and prayed.

  And were liquidated.

  A cross, a crucifix – they held power over the vampires, drove them away. His fellow rabbis did not want to accept that simple fact because they could not face its devastating ramifications. To hold up a cross was to negate two thousand years of Jewish history, it was to say that the Messiah had come and they had missed him.