by Philip Henry
‘Are you all right?’ Hal asked flatly.
‘I must have got up too quickly. I just…’ The room was spinning. Sarah put out her hand and tried to steady herself on the wall, but found the wall was an illusion. ‘I’m a… I’m a dhampir.’
Hal looked at her without emotion. ‘I know you are.’
She fell forwards and knocked over the wine bottle. The red liquid rushed from the bottle. She was on her hands and knees. She took long blinks, trying to right the churning world before her eyes. She looked over at Hal. He hadn’t moved. Why wasn’t he trying to help her? Had he said he knew what she was? With all her remaining strength she pushed herself to her feet again and staggered towards the door. She only made three steps before she dropped onto the ground and blackness enveloped her.
Hal walked over and kneeled before her. She was lying face-down. He rolled her over onto her back. He ran a finger down her face and pushed a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear. He ran the finger down her neck, across her breasts, down her stomach and on to her knee. He ran his finger back up her leg under her skirt and up the inside of her thigh. He looked at her. This is where she usually grabbed his hand and relocated it to her waist. She wasn’t saying anything tonight, though. He cupped the soft skin of her upper leg in his hand. He looked at her face again. Her eyes closed, her face still looked pained, even in unconsciousness. He pulled his hand out from under her skirt. He sat looking at her for a long time, but as soon as he heard the first weak groan from her, he got the syringe from the fridge and injected the contents into her veins. She was silent again. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
Hal had crept into Sarah’s room on occasion. She and her mum lived in a bungalow so it was fairly easy. The house was dark as he let the car roll silently down the last hundred yards of the lane. It wasn’t much of a hill but it was enough to carry the car along. He knew this from past experience. Sarah’s mum was pretty cool and didn’t wait up to interrogate her about what she had done while she was out. Her bedroom was at the other end of the house too, so as long as he didn’t set off any fireworks, he should be able to get Sarah inside undetected.
He laid her down on her bed and took her shoes off. The devil sitting on his right shoulder told him he should take all her clothes off. Let’s face it, after tonight it was something he’d probably never get to see. He lifted the duvet and covered her up. He kneeled down at her bedside and leaned in close to her.
‘I really do love you, Sarah.’ He kissed her forehead and left.
From the outside everyone would assume the house was empty. The windows were boarded up, the garden overgrown and the paintwork in dire need of redoing. In fact the only thing that was pristine were the locks. The house might look like a strong gust of wind would knock it over, but it was in fact a fortress. Hal walked up the driveway and brought out a key. He looked around the deserted streets before letting himself in.
He still hadn’t got used to that smell. He stood in the hall waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
‘Welcome back, Harold.’ The low voice made him jump. He saw something move in the darkness. Then the voice was to his right. ‘I can feel your anger and sorrow. Why don’t you tell me what happened this evening. Though I must first ask, does the dhampir sleep?’
‘Yeah. I gave her the stuff. She’ll be out until morning.’ Hal debated whether or not to share his humiliation and decided that it could only ingratiate him further. ‘You were right about her.’
‘So she was deceiving you? I’m so sorry. With Tom Ford?’
‘Yes. He’s coming back to town tomorrow.’
‘Excellent news. We’ll make them both pay for their betrayal, Harold.’
utv
Blackness.
Fade in.
Morning. The shot consists of the dilapidated house in background right, with the female presenter, Imogen Collins, in foreground left.
‘Three. Two. Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s show. I’m standing here on Millenium Terrace where… what? Oh, shit. Go again.
‘Three. Two. Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s show. I’m standing here on Millenium Close where residents have…’ A car horn beeped loudly followed by raucous shouts. ‘Fuckin’ wankers! Go again, Terry.
‘Three. Two. Good evening and welcome to a very special edition of Ghosts of Ulster. We’re not in a castle this week, or a graveyard. I’m standing on Millenium Close. It’s a quiet suburb of Portrush that has been here just over twenty years, but the building we’re interested in, the one behind me, number twenty-nine, has been here less than ten years. In that short time, it has become known as one of the most haunted buildings in the UK.’ She smiles into the camera.
‘Cut.’
Blackness.
Morning. The shot is showing the boarded up windows of the house. The tips of the overgrown grass are just creeping into the shot at the bottom. A head and shoulders shot of Imogen Collins stands to the right, a middle-aged man in a smart suit stands opposite looking nervous.
‘You getting my tits in Terry?’
The camera zooms back slightly. The shot now shows Imogen Collins and her interview subject from the waist up.
‘OK, Imogen. Got the tits.’
‘I paid enough for them, may as well let the public see them.’ She smiles and slaps the man opposite, who nervously smiles back at her.
‘We ready for a take, Terry?’
‘When you are.’
‘Three. Two. I’m here with Martin McCaw, a local estate agent. What can you tell us about the history of this house?’
‘Thehousewasbuilttenyearsagothefirstcouplewholived…’
‘Whoa, whoa. Slow down there, Martin.’ Martin takes a deep breath. ‘Ready?’ Martin nods. ‘Still rolling? Three. Two. Martin, your firm has been letting this house since it was completed. What can you tell us about its gruesome history?’
‘It was… it just… the, the house, the house was…’
Imogen flaps her hand at the camera.
Martin says, ‘Shit, I nearly had it that time.’
Imogen pushes the camera down but it is still rolling. The shot is of the grass. ‘What do you need, Martin? I’ve got some Valium in the car, or if you want a wee nip of something I have a bottle in my bag.’
The camera angle creeps up surreptitiously and shows Martin lean in to Imogen, clear his throat and say, ‘What we were talking about earlier.’
‘What, now?’
Martin nods with a nervous smile. ‘Guaranteed.’
Imogen looks at the camera. ‘Cut, Terry.’
Blackness.
Morning. The shot is of Martin coming out the front door of the house. He is smiling broadly and is relaxed and swaggering confidently. He checks his zipper is up. Imogen comes out the door behind him wiping the dirt from her knees. She looks at the camera. ‘Oh, wait, Terry. Cut. I need to brush my teeth first.’
Blackness.
Morning. The shot is the same as before. Imogen and Martin from the waist up. Boarded windows behind, overgrown garden below.
‘Three. Two. Martin McCaw is the estate agent who has been representing this house since it was completed. Martin, what can you tell us about this house’s sordid past?’
‘Well, Imogen, as you said the house is barely ten years old. I had the dubious duty of leasing the house to the first occupiers. They were a young couple that had only been married a few months. On the few occasions I met them prior to signing the lease I got the impression of two young people, very much in love.’
‘But after they moved into number twenty-nine, that all changed.’
‘Indeed it did. When I called to collect the first month’s rent I hardly recognized them. They looked gaunt, almost ghostlike. I expressed my concern and they said they were both suffering from near-constant headaches, which in turn was depriving them of a good night’s sleep. Well, I’ve been in this game long enough to know the symptoms of a gas leak when I see them. I called in the gas bo
ard immediately and had the whole house checked.’
‘But they found nothing?’
‘No. The gas main in the house was perfectly safe. But it was only three days after that that the tragedy occurred.’
Imogen turns to face the camera. ‘That tragedy was the murder and suicide of these two newlyweds. From what police can piece together, it appears Georgina Maitland bludgeoned her husband, Gerald, to death in the kitchen with a sledgehammer, then went down into the basement and had some kind of psychotic fit. She scraped at the walls of the basement until she had broken all her fingernails off. Then, in perhaps a moment of sanity, she hung herself from the basement stairs.’ Imogen turns back to Martin. ‘How many tenants have you had since then?’
‘Three. The first were a ghoulish couple that seemed fascinated by the deaths. You know the type; dress all in black, black eyeliner, black lipstick, listen to rock music. They lasted four days before running, screaming from the place in the middle of the night.
‘Then there was a family on benefits. We couldn’t get professionals so we decided to open the property up to DHSS tenants. There was a mother and three children; two girls and a boy. The eldest girl was only eight, but she was still strong enough to hold the other two down and cut off their fingers with a hammer and chisel.’
Imogen is noticeably shaken. ‘Where did that happen?’
‘In the basement.’
‘And the third? The last tenants?’
‘A group of parapsychologists. They gave me one month’s rent in advance. They’d heard all the stories and wanted to investigate the claims of ghostly activity. They had all sorts of electronic monitoring equipment. There were four of them. They planned to take it in pairs, twelve hours on, then the other pair would relieve them for twelve hours.’
‘And what happened to them?’
‘The first night, when the second pair came to relieve them, they found one of their colleagues, a woman, mumbling incoherently. She had blood all over her. They never found her partner. To this day. Though tests determined the blood on her clothing was his. I don’t think she ever remembered what exactly happened that night. She was convicted of his murder but found Not Of Sound Mind. To the best of my knowledge she’s still in Sycamore Acres.’
‘The local asylum,’ Imogen Collins says dryly. She turns to the camera. The colour has gone from her cheeks. She holds up her flattened hand and cuts it across her throat.
Blackness.
‘That’s it?’ the producer cried.
His young assistant puffed out his chest as best he could. After all, it wasn’t his fault. ‘Yes, sir. It was the first day’s shooting. The tape was messengered to us that evening so we could start editing it.’
‘That was four fuckin’ days ago! What have they been doing since then?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You don’t know!’ It seemed like all the furniture in the small office was shaking. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. That show’s supposed to air in two days and we only have enough footage for three minutes. Call her.’
‘I’ve tried calling her, sir. There’s no answer. I’ve also tried calling the cameraman and the soundman. Neither of them are picking up either and both their wives have called in worried about them because they haven’t phoned home.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sir, you don’t think…’
‘What don’t I think?’
‘Well. It’s just. The estate agent. The story he told sounded pretty convincing to me. I even checked what he said online. Those stories were reported in local papers and that woman is still in Sycamore Acres. I’m just wondering if maybe…’
The producer roared with laughter. When he got himself under control he wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘You think we’ve actually found a real haunted house? Son, how long have you been working on this show?’
‘Almost four months, sir.’
‘Well, I’ve been on this show since the beginning. Six years. And I’ve seen every piece of footage from every castle, farmhouse, graveyard, pub, stately home and abandoned hospital. I’ve never seen a ghost. What I have seen is those places’ takings go up by seventy percent after we’ve done a show on them.’
‘A graveyard’s takings went up? An abandoned hospital?’
‘Now don’t get lippy, son.’ The producer reclined in his chair. ‘We have to throw a couple of non-commercial premises in each series. I don’t want to get too obvious.’
‘You get kickbacks?’
‘Perks! Perks of the job. If people want to show their appreciation, who am I to argue? And I don’t want this gravy-train to end, so you’re going to get your arse down to Portrush tonight and find out what the hell is going on and bring me back something I can edit.’
‘But, sir, it’s a two hour drive and I was supposed to see my girlfriend tonight.’
‘Oh, really? Were you going to take her somewhere nice?’
‘Yes, actually. It’s sort of an anniversary for us. I was going to take her to her favourite restaurant and then to this little bed and breakfast we know where we…’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Would you be able to afford any of that shit without a job?’
The assistant exhaled and lowered his head. ‘No.’
‘Then we understand each other. Call me when you get there. I want to speak to Imogen. She better have a damn good explanation.’ The producer opened a file on his desk, then looked over the top of it. ‘Well, what are you still doing here?’
The assistant left.
The Sisterhood of the Kissed met on the roof of their founder, Danielle Rhodes’s building at this time every year. Every other week of the year they would take turns gathering at one of their houses. Danielle had heard some people call her a cult leader, but maybe she was just mis-hearing; she did spend almost all her time in the company of women. There was actually nothing sexual about her group. What they were was a collection of women who had been touched by immortals and lived to tell the tale. Bitten but not killed. Kissed.
They had seven members now. As each new member joined they would tell their story to the rest of the group, who then in turn would tell the story of their brush with death. Danielle’s was far and away the most dramatic story and always got left to the end. She told them of her fall into prostitution, then depression, and how, on the brink of suicide, a vampire had saved her from plummeting to her death. From that moment on she had changed her life for the better. She had been given a second chance. The two circular scars on her neck were a badge of honour and since then she had been campaigning for equal rights for vampires. They picketed the long-closed Ministry field office in Portstewart with placards saying STOP UTV! (Unequal Treatment of Vampires). For some reason, the local television station, Ulster Television, did not cover any of these protests so they largely went unnoticed. Danielle believed a vampire had saved her life, and if that were true, then vampires weren’t all bad, they were just misunderstood. And they had as much right to live on this planet as anyone else. In fact if longevity was a factor, they had probably more right.
The meetings of the sisterhood were a light-hearted affair most of the time, the women would drink cocktails and swap stories they had heard about local vampire activity, then they would mix more cocktails and watch a movie. That was how their weekly meeting usually went, but everyone noticed Danielle get very serious around this time of the year. She had found fragments of a book called the Vampyre Corpora on the Internet and one passage in particular obsessed her.
As the third moon rises, the dark is released. And they looked to the west and lo, the heartsblood guided the seven and they knew their path.
Danielle stared at the setting sun. She closed her eyes and the negative of the picture appeared on her eyelids. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and saw Esme. She was eighty-one years old and had been ‘kissed’ over fifty years ago.
‘Come on now, you’re going to melt your brain if you stare at it any longer.’
‘What am I looking for, Esme?’<
br />
Esme looked sternly at her. The school-teacher she had been for forty-four years surfaced and spoke with cold authority. ‘Your destiny. All our destinies. The heartsblood.’
‘What does that even mean?’
Esme smiled. ‘When it is time you will know.’
‘I really thought this year would be the year. I had this feeling. Like… I don’t know.’
‘Never mind.’ Esme put her arm around her friend. ‘Maybe next year, eh?’
Danielle forced a smile. ‘Yeah. Maybe next year.’
‘The good news is, Patty’s made up two jugs of Sex on the Beach and we’ve got Ghost and Dirty Dancing ready to play. Come on, we’re all freezing our tits off up here.’
Danielle couldn’t help but laugh. Esme led her towards the roof access door. Danielle gave the sunset one last glance over her shoulder. She stopped, jerking Esme to a stop as well. Danielle broke free of her embrace and ran to the edge of the building. The other women followed her over, each of them staring at the sky in awe.
‘Do you? Do the rest of you…?’ Danielle tried to ask.
‘Yes,’ Esme answered, ‘we see it, too.’
The seven women stood there for a few seconds more watching the unmistakable shape of a heart the clouds had made, and the column of smoke rising from a house not far away that made it look like the heart was bleeding. The smoke and clouds were all the same perfect shade of red in the glow of the setting sun.
Danielle could have watched it forever. This spectacle that she had imagined for years was finally happening. There were tears in her eyes. They had to hurry. When the sun set they wouldn’t be able to distinguish one column of smoke from another. She turned to the other women. ‘Sisters, this is what we’ve waited for. Let’s go.’
