Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales of the Vampire

by Michael Thomas Ford

  The next day the rain came.

  It was the first rain since summer had arrived, and they were caught by surprise. At first they looked up at the sky, startled. Then, as the drops came more quickly, dotting the ground with dark circles, they had run for the safety of the tents. Unused to wetness, it was as if they feared that remaining too long in the storm would cause them to dissolve.

  Fortunately, it was a takedown day. Most of the rides had already been disassembled and loaded onto the trucks. The tents, too, were folded and stored. Only a few odds and ends remained to be packed before the overnight haul to the next town.

  Having checked that the last of the carousel horses was safely in its place, Joe now sat in the trailer that served as his living quarters. There he had a bed and several boxes containing his clothes and the few memories he chose to carry with him. It was neither grand nor particularly inviting, but it suited him and he liked it.

  He sat on the bed, the door to the trailer closed, and listened to the sound of the rain on the roof. He hadn’t heard it in a very long time, and he realized that he’d missed it. The drumming of the raindrops filled the small space with its whispers. Normally Joe would have been surrounded by the noise of the carnival, but now all that was silenced by the rain. He knew that around the fairgrounds the others were in their own tents and trailers, perhaps looking out and wondering when the sun would chase the rain away, or, like himself, enjoying the unexpected visit.

  He wasn’t worried about getting to the next destination. There was time. Eventually the rain would stop, and Harley would give the command to move out. They would drive through the night, and when the curtain of dawn rose, it would be on a new stage. For now, though, there was time to rest.

  Joe had said nothing to anyone about the events of the previous night. After some thought, he wasn’t even sure what had occurred. He’d been frightened, that was all, and there had been no reason to be. Whatever had occurred in the tent did not concern him.

  He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. But beneath the sound of the rain he heard a voice rising up.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”

  It was the singsong voice he’d heard emanating from within the black tent. Only now it was directed at him. He knew it, somehow, could feel it drawing him in.

  “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

  He wanted to give in to it. He wanted to sleep. The voice seemed to promise him dreams beyond end, sleep without waking. He suddenly felt unbearably tired.

  “And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…”

  The words floated around him, weaving a cocoon of warmth. He was safe inside, while outside, the world turned to water and washed away.

  “And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass…”

  Joe was on the edge of sleep, staring out into a sea of endless stars. He longed to dive into them, to be cradled in the arms of she who sang to him.

  A crash like the breaking of a thousand dishes broke through his thoughts, startling him awake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and confused. Had he slept? For how long? His small room felt alien, unfamiliar and unwelcoming.

  The crash came again, and he realized that it was thunder. The trailer shook with the force of it, as if the weather were deliberately trying to rouse him. Joe rubbed his eyes and stood. He had to get out of the trailer.

  Opening the door, he stepped outside and into the rain. The coldness of it on his face immediately revived him. He stood there for a minute, letting it soak into his hair and clothes. The thunder rumbled again, this time followed by lightning strikes off to the east. Joe shook himself like a dog and walked as quickly as he could in the direction of Harley’s trailer. When he got there, he knocked on the door, waited for Harley’s call to come in, and entered.

  Harley was seated at his desk, a cigarette in his mouth and a bottle of beer in his hand. Across from him was Madame Sylvie. Ostensibly a gypsy fortune-teller from the forests of Rumania, Sylvie was really Sylvie Ruskin of Weary, Arkansas. A thin, beautiful girl of twenty-three, she’d left her husband after one too many beatings and, with no family to take her in, had seen in the passing carnival her opportunity for escape. She had a talent for palm reading, Tarot cards, and clairvoyance, and these she offered to the public for a small sum.

  Between Sylvie and Harley were a series of cards. Some were turned faceup, revealing images that Sylvie studied closely. The others remained facedown.

  “Sylvie’s reading my cards,” Harley said effusively. From his tone, Joe could tell that the beer in his hand was not his first.

  “Oh, yeah?” said Joe, shutting the door and running a hand through his wet hair to rid it of some of the rain. “And what does she see?”

  “Pretty ladies and more money than I can spend before I die,” replied Harley, laughing. “Right, Sylvie?”

  Sylvie didn’t look at him as she turned over another card. “The cards aren’t something to joke about,” she said.

  “Right, right,” said Harley, winking at Joe over Sylvie’s bowed head. “We don’t want to get the spirits angry or nothing. Joe, why don’t you have Sylvie tell your fortune? Come on.”

  Sylvie turned and looked at Joe. She was a beautiful girl, with long dark hair she let fall wildly around her shoulders, and a face that, while not pretty, reflected an unearthly beauty. Despite the rain, she wore a thin cotton dress of pale blue, and her feet were bare. She regarded Joe coolly, then swept the cards up and began to shuffle them.

  “Okay,” Joe said, coming to take the chair beside Sylvie. He’d come to Harley’s trailer to tell him about the strange happenings of the night before, but now that he was here, he found that the memory of them was once more fading and that they didn’t seem so important after all. Still, he was happy for the company, and if allowing Sylvie to tell his fortune kept him from being alone, he welcomed it, even if he didn’t believe in such things.

  Sylvie pushed the stacked cards toward him. “Cut the deck,” she said.

  Joe picked up half the cards and set them aside. Sylvie once more stacked them and began to lay them out on the table in a pattern.

  “Sure you want her to tell you what’s going to happen to you?” asked Harley, grinning. “You might find out you’re going to die.”

  “We’re all going to die,” said Sylvie as she set the unused cards to the side. “The cards don’t waste time with inevitabilities.”

  She turned over the first card and looked at it. “The Queen of Cups,” she said. “A woman of mystery and sadness.”

  “Got a lady friend you’re keeping to yourself, Joe?” asked Harley, laughing.

  Joe ignored his friend, watching as Sylvie went to the next card. “The Knight of Pentacles. A hardworking man who is useful to those he serves.”

  “Sounds just like you, Joe,” Harley teased.

  “The Eight of Swords,” Sylvie continued as the third card was revealed. “Inability to get out of a difficult situation.”

  Harley whistled. “Uh-oh, buddy. I hope you didn’t knock nobody up.” He took another swig on his beer and, when nothing came out, tossed it into the garbage and reached for another in the chest behind his desk.

  The fourth card was turned. “The Lovers,” Sylvie said, smiling slightly.

  “I told you!” crowed Harley triumphantly.

  Sylvie shook her head. “The card is about making choices,” she said. “Choosing between different attractions.”

  “So there are two women,” Harley said. “That’s even better. Joe, you’ve been hiding a lot from your old friend. I’m hurt.”

  Sylvie took the final card and looked at it. “The Devil,” she said softly. She glanced quickly at Joe, and for a moment he saw something troubling in her eyes. Before he could tell if it was fear or pity, it was gone, and Sylvie regarded the card with her usual detachment.

  “What’s that one mean?” asked Joe.

  “It means you’re going to he
ll for your sins,” said Harley. “So you might as well enjoy them as much as you can.”

  “The Devil is the representation of our most depraved selves,” Sylvie told Joe. “See the people chained to him? They’re his puppets, doing as he commands. The card symbolizes the loss of our souls.”

  “So what does all this say?” Joe asked her, indicating the five cards spread before them.

  “It can mean many things,” she answered. “What do you see here?”

  “Isn’t that your job?” said Joe.

  Sylvie shook her head. “The cards reflect the influences surrounding you,” she replied. “I can tell you what these influences are, but only you know who or what might be behind them.”

  “Then what do you see?”

  Sylvie looked at him. “Pain,” she said. “And love. That’s all.”

  “Can you believe the rubes pay her two bits to hear this stuff?” said Harley.

  Joe ignored him. There was something Sylvie wasn’t telling him, something he knew she saw in the cards but didn’t want to reveal. He was tempted to try to get her to tell him more, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it, and was even less sure that he believed any of it anyway. After all, there was no woman in his life. There was no love, no difficult choice to make. Perhaps, he thought, the entire reading meant nothing at all.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I guess I’ll be going now.”

  “What?” cried Harley. “No. No. Stay and have a cold one.”

  Joe held up a hand. “That’s okay,” he said. “I have some things I need to do.”

  He left the trailer, thankful that Harley was drunk enough that he hadn’t asked why Joe had come to see him in the first place. It was still raining, harder now, and he walked quickly through the deserted fairgrounds, back toward his own trailer. Already he was pushing Sylvie’s Tarot card reading from his mind.

  As he neared his trailer, he caught sight of someone else walking ahead of him. Whoever it was moved quickly, with purpose. Through the rain it was impossible to tell who it might be, and Joe wondered who would be out in such weather if he didn’t need to be.

  He followed the figure as it moved past the last of the trailers and headed out into the empty plains that surrounded the encampment. Here the rain was swept in sheets by the wind. Joe bowed his head against the storm and soldiered on, determined to find out who was walking ahead of him and why he would venture into the teeth of the storm.

  After some minutes, the quarry came to a stop. Joe paused, ducking behind some scrub and watching as a bundle was lowered to the ground. He saw then that the person also carried a shovel. The spade was thrust into the earth, and a clump was turned over. As the figure turned, Joe realized with surprise that it was Derry.

  He watched as the young man dug a hole, seemingly oblivious to the rain that fell around him and turned the normally dry ground into thick mud. Again and again the shovel bit into the plain, until a small mound was built up at Derry’s side. Joe, cold and confused, could only stare and wonder.

  Derry stopped and dropped to his knees in the mud. He was tired, Joe could tell, exhausted from digging. The young man knelt for a minute before reaching for the bundle at his side. Without picking it up, he slid it through the mud and shoved it into the hole. Then, using his hands, he began pushing the dirt over it. The earth had turned to mud, and Derry scooped it up in his hands, pouring it over the bundle in dripping handfuls.

  Joe was tempted to go to him, to offer his help. Derry seemed weary, defeated. Whatever he was burying beneath the prairie’s skin, it was something he wanted very much to be rid of. Why else, Joe thought, would he come out in such a storm? What could be so hateful to him that he would want to bury it with his hands?

  Derry was finished, the last of the dirt smoothed into place. Using the shovel to help him, he rose to his feet and stood looking down at the ground as rain dripped from his face. His clothes clung to him, stained the deep red of the prairie. Above him the sky grumbled and spit out bursts of lightning.

  Joe ducked low as the boy turned and made his way back to the carnival. As he passed by the scrub, Joe saw that his eyes were empty. Life appeared to have been drained from him, and he walked with the slow purposelessness of a man with nowhere to go and no reason to get there. Then he was swallowed up by the rain, a shadow growing fainter and fainter until Joe could no longer distinguish him from the storm.

  Joe stood and went to the spot where Derry had been. The rain had pounded his handiwork down, erasing the seams of the hole so that it was difficult to see where it was. But there were still some irregularities in the earth, and when Joe plunged his fingers into the dirt, it came away easily.

  He didn’t have to dig very far. Derry had gone just deep enough to ensure that the bundle and its contents were hidden from view. Within minutes Joe was able to grab hold of the cloth. He pulled at it, trying to lift it from the ground, but the mud resisted him, sucking it back down. Finally he contented himself with working at the knot that held the material closed. His fingers were cold, and the wetness of the cloth drew the knot tighter, but eventually he loosened it and pulled the bundle apart.

  Looking up at him was a skull. It sat atop a pile of bones, a grotesque egg cradled in a nest of human remains. Joe stared at it, disgust rising up in him as he became aware of the blood and bits of skin clinging to some of the bones. Even the teeth were still there, grinning at him as if rejoicing in some great joke.

  He turned his head and retched, his stomach cramping and his mouth filling with the metallic taste of sickness. He couldn’t look at the bones again. He’d seen enough to know that they were not old, that the flesh had only recently been stripped away and the life drained out. The thought made him heave again, not just from the horror of such thoughts and the nearness of the bones, but also because Derry was somehow connected to them and because Joe was almost certain he knew who it was that had been buried in the hole, and when his death had come.

  Chapter five

  He said nothing. He didn’t know why, except that somehow he understood that no one would believe him. Even if he produced the bones, which he’d left in the hole, he knew that they would prove nothing. They were only bones, and bones were not an uncommon relic of the prairies. Men died, and what were the bones of one when across the oceans thousands of men were dying every day?

  Besides, there was Derry. Joe didn’t know what the young man’s role was in the events surrounding the bones, but he could not believe that the boy was capable of anything so sinister as murder. He’d met murderers in his life, and he knew that they carried within them a darkness that blotted out all feeling, allowing them to commit their acts with steady hands and detached amusement. He saw no such blackness in Derry.

  He carried the secret for three days, as the caravan outran the thunderstorms and left them behind for the farmlands of Nebraska. During this time he busied himself with his machines, talking to almost no one and avoiding everyone connected with the Tent of Wonders. The crowds were large in this part of the country, and he had much to do, so it was easy to keep his mind distracted until he almost began to think that he’d imagined the whole thing.

  If not for the dreams, he might eventually have forgotten entirely. But as soon as he closed his eyes at night, the voice came to him, singing.

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”

  It always began the same way, with the command to quiet. Then came the promises, the litany of rewards for his continued silence.

  “And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat…”

  It was from the voice that the dreams bloomed, nonsensical images that he could never recall in the light of morning. But always there was the voice, hanging over all like a fog. And as if in a fog, he wandered through his dreams, lost, looking for something to guide him to safety from whatever it was that pursued him. The voice, he knew, would only lead him deeper into danger. It was not to be trusted.

  It was when he found him
self humming the tune to himself while working on the machinery of the Ferris wheel that he knew something had to be done. The song had emerged into his waking life, and that was intolerable. It was time to unravel the mystery of Derry, the bones, and the voice that tied them all together.

  He found the boy in his trailer. He was seated at a small table, an open bottle before him and a half-filled glass in his hand. Joe entered the trailer and pulled the door shut behind him. He had never visited any of Star’s band in their homes before, had in fact stayed as far from them as he could. Now, standing before Derry, he felt his heart pounding.

  “What do you want?” Derry asked, looking up at him but remaining seated.

  “I know about the bones,” said Joe.

  Derry took a drink from his glass. “What bones?” he asked, wiping his mouth with his hand.

  “The ones you buried,” Joe explained. “Three days back. I saw you.”

  “You saw nothing,” answered Derry, pouring more whiskey into his glass.

  “I saw you,” repeated Joe. “And I held the bones in my hands.”

  Derry slammed his glass on the table and glared at Joe. “You saw nothing,” he said firmly.

  Joe darted forward and grabbed the young man by his T-shirt. Half lifting him, he pressed his face very close to Derry’s until he could smell the alcohol on the boy’s breath.

  “Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me where they came from.”

  Derry looked into his eyes. “They came from no one,” he answered. “They came from nowhere.”

  “Damn it,” Joe said, shaking Derry. “You’re going to tell me.”

  He pulled Derry up and pressed him against the wall of the trailer. Derry smiled drunkenly.

  “You don’t know anything,” he said, and began to laugh.

  Infuriated, Joe slapped the young man across the face hard, leaving a mark that quickly flamed to red. Derry glared at him for a moment; then his eyes softened. One of his hands slid up Joe’s back and came to rest on his neck. He pulled Joe closer.