C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation

by Dustin J. Palmer

  Mr. Orwell continued his lesson on the Roman Empire. Even though Jake was grateful for him standing up for him, he didn’t hear a single word. Even after the terrible beating he received at the hands of Paul, his mind was still fixed on the beast locked in the basement.

  It went on like that for nearly a month. He saw no one other than the evil old man, Paul, and Mr. Orwell. Other than the tutor’s lessons, very few words were spoken to him, which Jake honestly preferred. He didn’t have anything to say to them. They had imprisoned him in a hell where his biggest fear lived beneath his feet. Terror was his new companion, fear was his new best friend.

  On several different occasions he got up the courage to search the house for a phone, but always staying as far from the basement door as possible. Only two rooms remained that he had not dare to search, Riker’s study and bedroom.

  He was pretty sure there would be one at the guard bunkhouse about fifty yards away from the main house, but there was no way he could traverse that much area without being spotted by the guards.

  Time was running out. Jake could feel it. Soon he would either be gift wrapped by his own grandfather as some sick offering to the vampires, or he would be fed on by the one locked in the basement. That’s if Paul didn’t beat him to death first.

  He couldn’t take it anymore. He had to do something, anything to improve his situation. On May third, while dining on his peanut butter sandwich at lunch, he made up his mind to confront the Maker. He couldn’t stand the fear any longer. He knew in his heart that neither his dad nor grandpa would sit around and just wait to die. They would charge in headfirst, as Bishop men always had.

  Again, he waited until all in the house were asleep then crept quietly downstairs. Luckily, Riker was so concerned with outside security that he never bothered to post guards in the house. He was so confident in his fortress that he'd never bothered to consider what would happen if a vampire actually did make it into the house. Jake wasn't about to complain. It gave him the perfect opportunity to do what he wanted after the sun set.

  Step by step he soundlessly tiptoed through the house to the door leading to what he'd deemed the dungeon. It opened with a loud almost deafening creak, causing him to cringe inwardly. He paused for nearly a minute waiting to see if anyone had heard. When Paul didn’t appear, he figured it was safe to continue. Very slowly, he began to descend the long dark staircase. He was half way there when the Maker's voice called out to him nearly causing him to pee in his pants. "Do not be afraid my little adventurer. You are the only one awake."

  His heart pounding in his chest, it took everything he had to make it to the bottom of the stairs. Pressing his back against the opposite wall, Jake felt as if he were a gazelle that had just willfully pranced into a lion’s den. He didn’t dare look through the hole in the wall.

  "How did you know it was me?" Jake asked, his voice shaking.

  "I heard your heart rate and I smelled your scent. Both are very distinct in the house of a half-dead corpse. That disgusting wretch has the stench of death about him. At times, it nearly gags me. I keep hoping he will die but his soul is too evil to perish,” the vampire said coldly. “Besides, the old fool would not be able to traverse these stairs without the help of his slave, and he only comes when the sun is high in the sky and its rays filter into my room."

  “His slave? Do you mean Paul?”

  “I never cared to learn his name,” the vampire said, with a chuckle.

  Jake swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. “If he’s afraid of you why does he come down here at all then?” Jake asked standing like a statue against the opposite wall.

  “He brings me a taste of blood each day but never enough to restore my strength just enough to let me keep my sanity.”

  “Sanity?”

  “Yes. If I do not feed daily, I can become quite insane. Though in my current weakened state I doubt I would be much of a threat to anyone. I have been merely surviving for more years than I like to think about. A tiny shell of what I once was I am afraid.”

  Jake pushed himself even closer to the wall, ready to leap up the stairs in half a heartbeat if the Maker tried to reach him.

  “Come, come my lad. Let me have a good look at you!” The Maker said, his eyes peering through the small hole. “Step away from that wall. I could not harm you even if I wanted to.”

  "You don’t seem very surprised to see me." Jake found his inner courage and stepped a few feet closer to the hole in the wall, but still well out of arm’s reach.

  “I am not. A young boy’s curiosity often outweighs his fear. Do not fret; you have nothing to fear from me."

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth? My Grandpa said I should never trust a vampire.”

  “Sound advice. He must be a very smart man. However, the fact that you know what I am at all surprises me greatly. I am told my people still take great lengths to keep our existence secret from outsiders.”

  "Who are you?” Jake asked sitting down on the concrete floor. “Why are you locked down here?”

  "Who are any of us? I have gone by countless names in my years. I have marched entire armies into battle. I have ruled over the greatest nation to ever grace this planet, I have worked in the pits of the deepest darkest mines in all of Persia for nothing more than the experience of such a thing, I have stalked the streets of London and Baghdad feeding on any that I saw fit to. I have watched nations rise and fall. I have tasted the blood of Kings and Queens. I have done it all with a smile on my face.” The vampire’s voice faded back into the room. “As for your second question, I, like you, am a prisoner here.”

  "I’m not a prisoner here,” Jake lied.

  “But of course not,” the vampire said, sarcastically. Jake could almost hear him smiling.

  “So what do I call you?”

  "Call me Immortal for that is what I am. Or call me vampire, though many of my kind hate that word. Or perhaps demon is more fitting. Honestly, I care not. What is a name other than a brand? Tell me young one, what shall I call you?"

  "My name is my own, vampire. I will keep it to myself." Jake said, crossing his arms over his knees.

  "Indeed. You are a smart lad. A name is a powerful thing. Much can be learned from such a thing. Are you by chance a Riker, a child of the old corpse above?"

  "No. I'm not a Riker." Jake said, coldly. "He is my grandfather but not by choice. He is . . . was my mom’s dad. I hate him. He’s the most evil man I’ve ever met. And considering the fact that I’m talking to a vampire . . . that’s saying something."

  The vampire laughed heartily. "Ah, on that we agree. In all my years, I have encountered some foul beings, but none as foul as that creature. Your mother . . . I have not smelled the scent of a woman in this house in a very long time. Might I ask where she is now?"

  Against his better judgment, Jake opened up to him. "I don't know where she is. No one does. She disappeared one night almost a year ago.”

  "I am sorry to hear that. Loss is never easy, especially that of a loved one. In my many years, I have lost many loves. And it has never grown easier, the pain any less dull.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jake nodded. “It’s been nearly a year, and I swear sometimes right before I wake up, I swear I can almost hear her calling my name.”

  “Please, tell me your tale. For I have nothing but time on my hands and I must admit that it is rather nice to have someone to talk to."

  What could it hurt? Jake thought to himself slowly letting his fear slowly slide away and so he told him the story of the vampire in his room, his mom's disappearance and dad's obsession. The Maker sat quietly through it all.

  "What you call grunts, we call slaves.” The Maker said when Jake was done. “They are little more than mindless servants to their creators. If such a creature was in your presence for such a long period and did not instantly fall upon you, then he was not there to kill you."

  "What?" Jake asked shocked. "Why else would he be in there?"

  "I do not kn
ow. I do know that such a creature is incapable of such actions unless otherwise instructed. They cannot resist an order given by their creator. It is impossible. So if the slave did not instantly fall upon you, he was sent there for other purposes."

  "Like what? What other reasons would a vampire have then to kill me?”

  "That is a very good question. Only the one that turned him would know."

  Jake sat there thinking that over for several long minutes. Why would a vampire go into my room and not kill me, but try so hard to kill my Dad?

  "Young man?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you be as kind as to tell me what year it is?"

  "The year? It's 1995. Why? How long have you been down here?"

  The vampire let out a deep sigh, "Much longer than I thought apparently. I was moved here in; I believe it was 1980 . . ."

  "You've been locked up for fifteen years!"

  "Oh Gods no. I was moved here in 1980 . . . I believe it was. I have been imprisoned since nineteen twenty-three or was it twenty-four? It has been a long time to say the least!"

  "Over seventy years?!” Jake had heard of life sentences, but this was ridiculous. “You must be joking."

  "I’ve been locked away far longer than that. The twenties was simply the last time that I was captured. I escaped in 1889 and was not captured again until then.”

  "Why? Who?” Jake stammered. “I don't even know where to begin . . ."

  "Well it is a very long story. I'm sure one as young as yourself is not interested in such things."

  Jake shrugged. "I don't have anything else to do. Riker won't let me out, won't let me talk to anyone. He has Paul beat me if I even look at him funny.” Jake lowered his head to his knees. “You were right, you know. I'm as much a prisoner as you are."

  "Well then. Perhaps we do have time. But not this night. I hear the old corpse's slave moving about. You should return to your quarters before you are discovered. If he finds you down here I am not sure what he would do to you."

  “Slave? Paul isn’t a slave.”

  “Interesting. He serves such a vile creature willingly? Things really have changed.”

  "Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow then?" Jake asked unsure why he felt such a need to see a monster who just hours before he had been terrified of.

  "I will look forward to it. Thank you for the company."

  "No problem.” Jake said, “Anyway, it beats sitting in my room playing video games all afternoon."

  "What is a ‘video game’?" he asked with a touch of wonder in his voice.

  "It's not important. I'll be back tomorrow night."

  "Until then my new young friend."

  The next day went as the one before except for one major detail. The fear that had been his constant companion for the past month was little more than annoyance. He still had to watch every move he made around Paul, but his fear of the monster in the basement was greatly reduced. Jake sat through that morning’s lessons in a daze, his mind wandering to the fierce but seemingly curious creature trapped beneath his feet. He couldn’t help but wonder who he was. How had he been trapped for so long? Seventy years was just an unbelievable amount of time to be locked in such a tiny cage. Three weeks had been hell for Jake and he had plenty of things to keep himself occupied.

  "Jacob? Jacob?” Mr. Orwell’s voice asked breaking him from his train of thought. "What was I just talking about?"

  "Uh . . .” Jake said, looking down at the textbook in front of him. “You were talking about . . . the second emperor of Rome. Tiberius something . . ." he trailed off waving his hand around.

  "Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus." he said, “And that was well over an hour ago. Where is your head at today young man?”

  "Sorry.” Jake said, lowering his head. He really did feel sorry, the tutor wasn’t that bad. He was just a teacher trying to do his job.

  “Pay attention lad.” He said, gently. “Nothing can equal a good education.”

  He continued his lesson but Jake couldn’t help the daydreaming. He wondered what his grandpa Cort was doing. Had he gotten out of jail yet? Jake doubted it; otherwise, he would have lead some kind of rescue mission to get Jake away from Riker.

  Soon it was dinnertime again and again Jake sat in front of what he was beginning to call ‘the old corpse’, as the Maker did. He hated this man. If the hunters knew, what he was holding in his dungeon they would have some serious questions for him to answer.

  The two didn’t speak, which didn’t bother Jake much. However, the old corpse’s constant dead eyed stare and brutal hacking coughs were beginning to weigh on him. Jake scarfed his bloody steak down as fast as he could, knowing it wouldn’t take Riker long to finish gumming the piece in his mouth.

  After dinner, Jake was back in his room with the door shut. He lay back on the bed and waited to make his move. As he lay there waiting his eyes grew heavy. He hadn’t slept at all the night before. Glancing at his clock, he saw that it was barely 9:20pm. Just a short nap, he thought to himself yawning. Just an hour or two then I’ll go downstairs.

  When next he opened his eyes, Paul was hammering on the door. Jake looked over at the clock on his nightstand to see it was now five AM. He had missed his chance.

  Cursing himself inwardly Jake rose to his feet and dragged himself to the door. “I’m up, I’m up.” He yawned deeply as he walked into the bathroom where he showered and dressed. He was furious with himself for falling asleep. Would the Maker be angry that he hadn’t shown? Fuming, he made it downstairs to the library where he met the tutor. Today's lessons were covering Great Britain during World War 2. Jake sat through the lesson until his lunch break. Taking his peanut butter sandwich in his hand Jake walked through the house nonchalantly as if just another teenage boy mindlessly wasting his time.

  When he was sure that no one was around, he made his way to the basement’s entrance. Popping the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, he pressed his right ear up against the door to make sure no one else was down there. Carefully he made his way down the stairs. A terrible burning smell filled his nostrils. It reminded him of burnt bacon with a strange sulfur smell mixed in. Jake covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes watered.

  At the bottom of the stairs Jake was more than a little surprised to see the room flooded with the midday’s sunlight. It poured in through small six-inch slits in the wall at the top of the ceiling. A tiny moan was coming from the Maker’s prison. Jake crept to the hole and peered in. The Maker was curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the room, his skin an ashy black. “My God.” Jake whispered his hand going to his mouth in shock.

  “Vampire?” he called out softly. The Maker didn’t respond. His body writhed in pain as chunks of flesh fell from his charred back, revealing large spots of black blood, which also turned to ash.

  “Vampire?” Jake called again slightly louder. Again, the Maker was unable to respond. Jake stepped away from the hole, his stomach threatening to give up his peanut butter sandwich. How could anyone torture another creature to this extent on a daily basis? Even a vampire deserves better than this.

  Feeling sick to his stomach, Jake ran back upstairs. He was shaken beyond words. The dismembered body of Marty White burning to ashes in front of him was bad enough, but to see a living creature writhing in so much pain as it was literally cooked from the outside in was more than Jake’s nerves could handle. Coming to the first open container he could find, a large antique vase, Jake emptied the contents of his stomach into it. The smell of that poor creature’s burning flesh wouldn’t leave his nostrils. He vomited again and again until only the taste of bile erupted into his mouth.

  Ten minutes later, he sat in the library his stomach empty and in knots. Mr. Orwell returned from his own lunch with a yellowed paperback in his hand. “Well then, let us continue . . . My Lord in heaven child what has happened to you!” He exclaimed. “You are white as a sheet!”

  “I don’t feel so good.” Jake said, meaning
every word of it.

  “I should say so!” he said, coming forward and placing his hand gently on Jake’s forehead. “You are clammy young man. Are you ill?”

  “Yeah.” Jake said, laying his head on the table.

  “Well that’s enough for today then. Return to your room, I will inform Paul.”

  “No!” Jake exclaimed sitting up. “Please don’t.”

  “I must young man. You are clearly ill.”

  “I’m okay really.” Jake said, gathering himself. Paul’s full attention was the last thing he needed. “Please Mr. Orwell! Don’t tell him!”

  His eyes went soft as he laid a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Very well lad. Get yourself upstairs and get some rest. I will tell Paul that your lessons ended early today.”

  “Thank you Mr. Orwell.” Jake stammered. Kindness was something he wasn’t used to expecting in his grandfather’s house. Slowly Jake traversed the stairs one by one.

  The rest of that afternoon, he sat alone in his room, the image of the burning body of the vampire running through his brain. At dinner, he barely even touched his food. For the first time since arriving, he didn’t notice the old man’s stare fixed squarely on him.

  Hours later, shortly after midnight, Jake once again made his journey downstairs. He crept back into the basement expecting to find a pile of blackened bones and ash just as Marty White had been when the sunlight ripped through his remains. Instead the Maker was whistling. Only a slight whiff of his charred flesh remained in the air.

  "Good evening my young friend." The vampire called out to him.

  Jake made it to the bottom of the stairs and glanced through the hole. The Maker sat cross-legged on the floor, his flesh completely restored. He smiled as Jake looked in at him. "You’re okay!” Jake exclaimed.

  “Well of course I am.” The vampire chuckled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I saw you!” Jake blurted out. “I felt bad for not coming last night so I came this afternoon and . . . and I saw you burning!”