by David Wood
“Invincible,” the vampire scoffed. “You are nothing. You have nothing.”
Dracula smashed into Wagner, forcing his back against the low parapet wall. The drop below him was to the roof of the castle, but it was still a very long way down to the moon-illuminated roofline. The Count had both of his hands wrapped around Wagner’s throat. Instead of feeding on him, Wagner suspected Dracula meant to simply throttle him.
“I have two things,” Wagner told him defiantly, with a croaking voice.
He brought his hands up to the front of his shirt and took hold of both sides of it, one on either side of the placket with the buttons. Grasping the fabric with the last of his strength, he tugged, ripping the fabric of the shirt asunder.
Dracula stepped back from the noise, then gasped in horror. The moonlight fell directly on Wagner’s chest. The priest had spent their long hours in the room together tattooing a large cross on Wagner’s chest, and the inks he used had been mixed with holy water. The moonlight made the ink gleam, and the rough, raised red bumping that had swollen around the edges of the giant tattoo looked like raw red gums around shattered teeth. The cross stretched from the top of Wagner’s chest down to his navel, and the horizontal strut of the cross went just under his nipples. His chest was freshly shaved of hair, and his pale white skin served in the moonlight to emphasize the dark bluish-black of the cross pattern all the more.
Dracula cringed away, but his eyes were fixated on the cross, as if he expected it to leap off of Wagner’s chest and attack him.
“I have faith,” Wagner said.
Dracula’s head snapped up to look at Wagner with raw hatred, as he retreated backward across the top of the tower.
Then a point on his dark suit, just over his chest pocket erupted outward, the tip of the wooden stake puncturing him from the inside. Blood gushed out of the wound and a small spatter of it landed on Wagner’s bare chest. The drops that touched the holy tattoo hissed and sizzled until they were burned away. Anneli stepped from behind Dracula where she had shoved the stake through the creature’s back and into its heart, forcing the wood far enough that it came out through his chest, the creature’s own backward momentum assisting her thrust. Dracula looked down at the fatal wound, his eyes round and filled with surprise.
“And I have love,” Wagner said softly.
Anneli crossed to him and helped him up with her small, outstretched hand, gently pulling him closer to her. They both stood and watched the life leave Dracula’s face, as his body drooped and fell over onto the stone floor of the tower’s rooftop. When his back hit the stones, the impact drove the stake all the way into the beast’s back, and the shaft came through his chest in another gush of thick, dark blood.
Epilogue
The priest stood over the grave he had dug and then filled. It was not marked with a stone, for fear that there might one day be someone that would attempt to bring the undone vampire back to the world. Instead, the grave was situated at the foot of a massive ash tree. The Dutch-born priest thought the tree fitting. He would love to return to Holland, now that he was certain the Count was finished once and for all, but instead he planned to come back to this lone tree in the field for the rest of his life to ensure the creature did not again rise.
The battle must have been quite something, to hear Wagner tell it, and the priest was shocked to learn that the small, petite wife had been the one to administer the final blow. He was well pleased to discover that his ingenious tattoo had saved Wagner’s life. The cross would be with the man for the rest of his days, so the priest was glad it had been useful. Wagner planned to extricate the dead Count’s gold and then fill the lower levels of the castle with quick-drying concrete. The fire had destroyed much of the upper reaches of the building, but still the structure stood. Wagner would make it as inhospitable as he could before he and his wife departed the area, to return to Germany.
Good, the old man thought. Good. We need no more nonsense from the undead.
The grave was only a few days old, and the priest came to its side every day to ensure it remained unmolested. Already he was noticing the leaves on the tree were shriveling and dropping to the ground. Turning black like the grass around the grave. As if the Earth herself were revolting against the vampire’s placement in the soil.
The priest had poured a flask of holy water on the grave each day, and he would do so again today. He had spoken the words over the soil, and planted garlic bulbs around it. He had chosen a lonely hill far from normal foot traffic, and picked the ash as a landmark so he could find his way back to it. But hopefully no one else would ever locate the unobtrusive grave.
“Well,” the priest spoke aloud, in his characteristic clipped German accent. Although Dutch, he had learned to speak at the hands of a German nanny, and the dialect had stuck with him throughout his life. “We have had some times together, have we not, Count Dracula? But your days are at an end. I promised I would end you, but age and injury prevented me from doing so myself. I thought you were gone for good, but then that unsuspecting young man arrived, with his charming wife. They were looking only for a new start in life, but instead they found nothing but horror and death, because of you.”
The priest paused to spit on the grave.
“You have been like a plague on the people of this land, and I swore, that as sure as my name is Abraham Van Helsing, you would one day be done. That day is today, sir.”
The priest upended his flask of holy water, and poured the liquid in a steady stream onto the fresh soil of the grave. It sank into the thirsty soil immediately, leaving the surface as dry as it had appeared before.
He turned to leave and something rushed at him with darkness and screeching. He was knocked onto his back across the grave. Again a darkness blotted out the sun, as something swept at his face. He tried to hit at the thing, but it was persistent. He could feel small teeth and claws drawing blood at his neck. Then he felt his eyes being plucked out, and he began to scream.
The bat feasted on the priest’s face and throat for long minutes. When it sated its gut, it flapped upward and away to the branches of the tree. Its clawed feet scrambled for a branch high in the tree’s boughs, then it swung upside down and wrapped its two-foot wings around its body like a warming cloak. It shrieked once, loudly, and the forty or so other large bats hanging in the tree chittered and squeaked back at it.
As it hung, a steady drip of blood drops fell from its maw, and down to the head of the grave. The old man lay across the raw dirt of the grave, and as his body twitched and spasmed, his neck’s blood ran from his ravaged Adam’s apple to his shoulder and down into the ground.
The hungry earth ate the blood, and sucked it down to the waiting coffin.
The End
If you enjoyed The Crypt of Dracula, try Resurrect by Kane Gilmour.
Kane Gilmour is the international bestselling author of The Crypt of Dracula. He has co-authored several titles with Jeremy Robinson and also writes his own thriller novels. In addition to his work in novels, Kane has had short stories appear in several anthologies and magazines, and he worked on artist Scott P. Vaughn’s sci-fi noir webcomic, Warbirds of Mars as well as on Jeremy Robinson’s comic book adaptation of the novel Island 731. He lives with his significant other, his kids, her kids, and three dogs in Vermont. He’s thinking of buying a farm to house them all. Visit him online at: kanegilmour.com.
ELDREN-THE BOOK OF THE DARK
By William Meikle
Two boys in the West of Scotland awaken an ancient vampire. And the only way to stop it is in the power of a book--a bible detailing the dark religion of the Eldren. But time is running out, and the sun is getting low. Are you afraid of the dark? You will be.
Prologue
Jim Kerr knew it was a bad idea to isolate themselves so much when it was so near her time but it had been years since their last holiday and besides, the doctor had assured them that she was at least three weeks away from the birth. It wasn’t planned...not at all. They had
settled for a couple of weeks of rest and he’d booked a three-month sabbatical from the office, hoping to get some work done on the house.
Then they won the competition: one week, anywhere in Britain of their choosing…as long as they took the holiday in the next month. He wasn’t sure at first. He wanted to be near a hospital just in case of emergencies, but she insisted. It would be their last holiday alone for a while, she was fit and healthy and she wanted to do it.
One day they were in their flat in Glasgow, surrounded by half-finished building work, noise, dust and general aggravation. The next they were all alone, on the west coast of Scotland, in a cottage by the shore on Jura...just them, the seals and the view over the sea to Argyll.
The nearest house was five miles south...the nearest doctor twice that distance. To the north and west there were only the rugged hills and the deer.
They didn’t even have a boat. At least there was a road...a single-track lane with passing places. But it had recently been resurfaced and they had been provided with a new Range Rover for the duration. He felt confident that they could reach the doctors’ house in less than twenty minutes in event of an emergency...which was quicker than he could have managed it in Glasgow. He had talked himself round to the idea and he wasn’t worried.
He should have been.
They arrived late...Jura is not the easiest place to get to. Once on the island it was a single-track road all the way. There is only one road...twenty miles of it...with Craighouse, the only town, half way along. They were going right to the far end.
They stopped in the hotel for a meal but were too late to pick up any other provisions...they would have to wait till the morning. It was dark when they arrived and Sandra was too tired to do anything other than fall into bed and sleep. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the sea on the rocks only ten yards from the cottages’ front door. Occasionally there would be the forlorn cry of a gull or the croaking of a crow but apart from that it was silent and dark and strangely disquieting.
It was very late by the time he snuggled into bed, taking advantage of the radiating heat from his pregnant wife beside him. He slept soundly...he didn’t remember any dreams and nothing disturbed him during the night.
She woke him the next morning with a whisper.
“Get up. Hurry. You’ve got to see this.”
He still felt groggy with sleep when he raised his head to see her leaving the room. He got out of bed, wincing at the cold seeping through the floorboards, and joined her at the window in the front room.
“Look”, she said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
It was very early morning...the sun was just coming up over the hills of Argyll, spreading a pink glow across the wispy clouds.
The sea was being slightly ruffled by a small breeze and, there in the foreground, just at the edge of the small lawn in front of the house, sat three otters...obviously a mother and two smaller young. As they watched, the creatures trotted along the shore then slipped into the water.
Jim crept out, still naked, and watched the otters cavorting among the huge fronds of seaweed until he slipped on the wet grass and the sudden movement caused the animals to dive, resurfacing again much farther out.
Sandra came over and squeezed him, her full belly pressing its heat against his flesh.
“Thanks for bringing us here sweetheart. I love it.”
They kissed and he marveled again at how hot and alive and heavy with life she had become.
It was only as they turned back to the house that he noticed the mound. It had been too dark the night before to see any details of the surrounding area but now he could see that the cottage was built on a raised piece of land between two arms of a river. Behind the cottage, just where the rivers split, there was a huge stone cairn, standing eight to ten feet high and topped off with a cross which looked to be the same height again as the cairn and made of solid iron. Around the cairn there was a wrought iron fence with spiked railings jutting up towards the sky. They had come across a small bridge in front of it last night but in the dark he had failed to notice it.
“Why would they put something like that out here?” she asked. “I thought that cairns were usually built on top of hills?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s for someone who died either here or at sea near here. We can ask in town if you like?” He turned towards her, noticing the goose pimples which had been raised on her arms. “Get yourself inside and put some clothes on...we don’t want you to catch a chill. By the time we get going and get to the town the shop will be open.”
When they eventually got to the shop it was ten o’clock...there had just been too many things to see on the drive down, what with scenery, wildlife, wide-open spaces and stunning vistas of sea and sky.
The shop held only basic foods...eggs, bacon, cheese, nothing too fancy...but Sandra had got over her craving for exotica and they would be able to stock up with most of their needs for the week.
Sandra was the focus of much of the talk and was in danger of excessive mothering from some of the women they met. They turned down several offers of a warmer room closer to town and the shop owner took their list, promising that she would make it up and they could collect it later.
Luckily for them the hotel served late breakfast. The pace of life on the island moved slowly and it was possible to run breakfast into lunch into evening meal into supper without leaving the hotel grounds.
They finally managed to escape at one in the afternoon, weighed down by bacon and sausages and swilling with coffee.
It was only when they stopped by the shop to pick up the supplies that he remembered the cairn.
The shopkeeper tried to hide her movement but he caught it...the sign against the evil eye, two pronged fingers stabbing as she spoke. “You don’t have to worry about that sir. It’s only an old memorial. Some say there used to be a plaque fixed to it but no one can remember what it’s there for.”
He noticed that the rest of the customers in the shop had fallen silent. He supposed that the cairn was the focus for some old superstition...that didn’t bother him but he had already decided not to tell Sandra.
Unlike him, she held a fascination for the supernatural. Anything that went bump in the night or was out of the ordinary...she fell for it. He could never understand the fascination with scaring yourself half to death, but he knew that if she found out that there was something weird about the cairn she would not stop until she had teased out the story. In the car on the way to the cottage he told her it was a war memorial and then let the subject drop. She didn’t ask any questions.
They finally got back to their cottage in late afternoon having made numerous stops to marvel once more at the stunning variety of life around them. Sandra made a big show of hand washing the traveling clothes and hanging them on clothesline at the back of the house.
The rest of the day passed lazily as they sat on the lawn, drinking long drinks, watching the scenery and making happy plans for their future. They took food out onto the grassy area, sitting on an old rug and throwing occasional morsels to an inquisitive red squirrel. That evening was the closest to heaven he had ever been.
They were finally forced indoors by a chill wind that brought the clouds down from the hills as the sun disappeared and a fine gray mist spread over the sea.
It wasn’t long before they adjourned to the bedroom and made tender careful love as the darkness closed in around them. Later, just as they fell asleep, he could hear that the wind was rising, whistling through the chimney and causing the trees to rustle and crack.
He woke early and squeezed away from Sandra, taking care not to wake her. After boiling some water in the kettle he ventured out to see what the weather was like but the first thing he noticed was the effect of the wind. The washing was gone from the line, torn off the rope during the night. He found a shirt in the left-hand stream, a pair of underpants halfway up a tree and he could see Sandra’s blouse hanging from one arm of the cross on the cairn.
&nbs
p; He retrieved everything else he could see before moving to the mound of stones. He stepped over the railing, just missing doing himself an injury on the spikes and clambered up the rocks, dislodging a few in the process and giving himself several bruises on his knees.
The blouse was wrapped around the rusted spar and, by straining and stretching he could just about reach it. Catching hold of the blouse he pulled, just as his footing gave way.
He fell, pulling the blouse with him and felt the material tear before something solid and heavy hit him on the head forcing him down onto the rocks, rolling amongst dislodged stones until he stopped against the railings.
He heard a loud creaking and looked up to see the cross, now with a spar missing, swaying from side to side in the breeze. When he looked down he found the missing piece, lying by his side with Sandra’s blouse still wrapped around it. He left it there as he hauled himself over the railings and hobbled back to the house.
That was it for the rest of the day. He was dazed, bleeding from a head wound and bruised over much of his body. Sandra wanted to fetch the doctor but he talked her out of it...he didn’t want anybody to know that he had defaced the memorial, not yet anyway, not until he had the chance to try to repair some of the damage. He spent the day in bed, most of the time with
Sandra beside him, nursing his wounds and wondering what the islanders’ reaction would be. As darkness filled the room Sandra fell asleep but he lay awake, listening to the creaking of the cross, the rasping of iron against stone as it swayed back and forth in the wind.
At some point he fell asleep.
He woke when a cold draft hit him on the back of the neck. He rolled over, hoping to snuggle against his wife’s warm body, but he met only more empty space. It took several seconds for him to realize that she wasn’t in the bed.
