by Matt Drabble
Jackson Moon watched as Ghost was dragged into the church, one more blasphemous desecration of the once sacred building. He tried to swallow one more indignation and a stomach full of righteous anger and found that he was almost out of room.
He skulked in the shadows as his growing hope for a salvation was bound and slumped in a chair. He held little hope in his own abilities to carve out his own exit, and he needed help to extricate himself from this hell. He knew that after his unwilling betrayal of both Jimmy and Ghost, he could not turn to either of them for help, but he was short of options.
He reached out of the back door with a broom handle and attempted to hook the backpack that Ghost had left behind. He carefully fished over and over again without success, sighing he steeled himself with what courage he possessed.
As he had never fed on human blood he was weaker than his brothers, but it also meant that his weaknesses were not as strong. His tolerance for the sun was better, but he could still not take an afternoon stroll, his skin smoked and blistered, but it was bearable in short bursts.
He darted out into the dying sunlight and grabbed the bag quickly darting back inside, he wept softly over the pain whilst cursing his own failings.
Ghost drifted back slowly into the world, it was a world of spinning nauseous pain, and his head rang with bells and a few whistles. He went to reach for his head, only to find his arms bound tightly behind him and the chair on which he sat felt hard and metallic.
He looked around the dark room that held him, the walls were painted black, and there was no other furniture present. In the gloom he could just pick out a painted window on the wall in front of him. In his recent experience, dark rooms and blacked out windows could only be bad news.
A figure swept behind him the darkness, the brush of a hand stroked his neck, and he jerked involuntarily, afraid despite himself. It was a parlour trick at best, a spook in the night with cobweb fingers. Ghost flicked his head from side to side with as much movement as his captive position would allow.
A hand suddenly darted out of the black and struck him hard across the face, the stinging blow watered his eyes and a thin trickle of blood ran free. A soft low chuckle rumbled from behind as Ghost strained against his binds. His fists clenched and his forearms bulged as he desperately struggled to free himself. His impotence grew, and his frustration raged as he bucked back and forth in the chair, “Face me” he demanded with soft menace.
The same mocking laugh was his only reply.
A hard boot flew out unseen from behind, Ghost felt the painful impact as his chair pitched forward, and he fell heavily onto his face with no protection. The previous head wound roared into life again, disturbed from its welcome slumber. Ghost now lay on his face, his arms still securely bound behind him and still attached to the chair. Blood ran freely from his nose which felt as though it may be broken, he gagged on the coppery taste as it violated his throat.
“How does it feel?” the voice from the darkness teased, “How does it feel to be at the bottom of the food chain?”
“Kofi?” Ghost responded, “That you?” He spoke through his pained position as his mind raced playing for time. “I should have guessed that you’d be here, did you even need turning?”
Abruptly his chair was airborne, as both he and it were lifted off the ground with the greatest of ease. He was held above the ground for what seemed like a deliberate age before slamming back down with a crotch jangling crunch.
Kofi leered at him, his face contorted in full plume; he was a vampire peacock displaying all of his dark splendour. His skin was blue and thin, his hands twisted into vicious talons and his veins bulged in greedy glory. His jaws were elongated, stretched beyond human endurance, and his fangs dripped with anticipation. His eyes were eager and ravenous; he gripped Ghost under the chin slicing bloody wounds open.
Ghost refused to show his fear, Kofi was performing, and his insecurities had apparently followed him beyond the grave. He knew that if his instant death was required, then he would be already dead. Kofi was obviously limited in just what damage he was allowed to inflict, Ghost held his real emotions in check.
“You're still nothing more than a mindless psycho Kofi” he taunted.
The blow was hard and uncensored, as he flew backwards, chair and all; he cursed himself for the miscalculation. Kofi may well have his orders, but he was nutty enough to ignore them if pushed. He had danced around Kofi’s nature and overstepped the mark; his blunder could cost him his life, or worse.
He landed on his back, his tied hands crushed painfully beneath his heavy body, Kofi landed on his chest in a flash.
“You will fear me Ghost” Kofi’s black tongue snaked out grotesquely, “You will beg me for your life, you will beg before I taste your blood salted by tears of your weeping”
Ghost squirmed under the raging monster, he was helpless and hopeless, the room was secret and his location unknown.
“This world will be mine you insect” Kofi’s eyes gleamed with dark intent, “I am a God and I will conquer with an army that shall make the planet tremble”
Ghost saw the same madness in Kofi’s eyes that he had often witnessed in Jimmy’s; they were animals of the same malevolent spawning.
“I will turn you, and you will drink from putrid rats at my feet” Kofi continued, “You will fall before me and worship, you will…”
His voice strained and gargled caught in a choking strangle, a splintered wooden tip emerged from his chest. The bloodless wound expanded as the stake forced its way through destroying what had passed for Kofi’s heart. Ghost watched stunned, as Kofi’s eyes cleared and the mad dancing light was replaced by incomprehension and dread. The body lurched off to the side and the crushing weight was lifted, as the vision of Kofi was replaced with one of Jackson Moon. The accountant pushed his thick glasses up his nose, his face was sweaty and overwrought, and he shook with adrenaline and shock.
“Jackson?” Ghost asked unsure.
Jackson Moon stared through him; his eyes were glassy in disbelief, “I, I” he stammered, “Is he dead? I mean properly dead”
“Kind of hard to tell from down here” Ghost replied, “Do you think that you could…” he nodded towards his bound arms.
“Of course, sorry” Moon answered politely.
Ghost tilted to one side as the accountant struggled with the thick rope before efficiently digging out a small penknife from his pocket.
“Just the ticket” Moon muttered under his breath.
As soon as Ghost’s arms were free, he leapt to his feet and stepped away from a surprised Moon, his left knee ached badly from when he’d fallen full weight forward.
“You’re in no danger from me Mr Kane” he said with wounded feelings, “I can assure you”
“You’ll forgive me Jackson if I don’t quite take your word for that, after all, look at the company that you keep”
“None of this was ever my choice” Moon answered sadly, he lifted the chair up off of the floor and sat down heavily on it, smoothing out his trousers as he crossed his legs demurely.
“When were you turned?” Ghost enquired.
“Uh, it was 1999, a party for someone or other, we were in Drake’s old house when he showed up”
“Drake” Ghost sighed heavily.
“Yes, Mr Drake was most irate” he rhymed.
Ghost looked up at the accountant; he’d been a grounded man, tethered to the earth with unbreakable bonds. His face was now shot, and his mind drifted, this taste of dark power was obviously not suited to everyone. “How is any of this possible Jackson?”
“I really have no idea Mr Kane, all I know, is that none of this makes any sense to me and I lack the courage to, shall we say retire”
“You appear to have more courage than you think” Ghost nodded toward Kofi’s still body.
“Yes, that was rather unexpected I must say”
Ghost took off his hooded top and tore the sleeve to use as a cloth to mop the clotting blood from h
is face. “Have you seen my bag? There’s some water…” his voice caught in his throat as he looked up at Jackson.
The accountant’s face was twisted into the same monstrous mask that Kofi had worn, his mouth salivated at the sight of the blood, but his eyes were miserable instead of eager.
“Easy Jackson” Ghost backed up, his hands out in front.
“It gets harder and harder to resist” Moon replied unhappily.
Ghost walked towards Kofi’s body and the weapon sticking out of it, as the accountant doubled over as though racked with stomach cramps. His feet touched the corpse, and he gently reached down and felt for the stake, his fingers clasped at thin air. They brushed and passed the sharpened wooden tool before he clutched it firmly. “Just take it easy, Jackson, just relax” he pleaded.
Moon staggered towards him, “It’s too late” he rumbled, his voice loaded with pain and hunger as he walked.
Ghost snatched up the stake just as Moon rushed him; he just managed to get the weapon up in front of him to greet the incoming. Jackson Moon ran on to the stake with arms opened wide and Ghost felt the sharp tip pierce his chest. The accountant sagged against him, his eyes looked up, they were clear and relieved.
“Thank you” he whispered as he died for the second and final time.
Drake rose from his heavy sound sleep like a kid on Christmas, his presents were downstairs and waiting to be opened. His master bedroom, in all senses of the word, was separate from the rest of the sleeping quarters in the basement. His was located at the top of the house and stuffed with luxurious softness. His covering of choice was velvet, and the room was encased in it, the plush red carpet was thick and softly caressed his bare feet. His taste in the boudoir ran to the feminine, but he was comfortable with his choices. Since his rebirth and the long years that he had spent in the filthy underworld beneath sight, he was pathologically opposed to squalor. He would bathe several times a day and never quite felt clean. The grime of his sewer dwelling had never washed off, and he feared that it never would.
His shower was long, hot, and soapy; he scrubbed himself raw and towelled himself rigorously. He dressed smartly in a new handmade three piece suit in blue serge as he had to look his very best for the finale. He accessorised his clothing with a diamond Rolex and platinum cufflinks. He wore Italian leather shoes that would have shown his reflection, if he’d had one. Once satisfied, he marched confidently towards the door; he twisted the handle and stepped out to finish his master plan only to be greeted by darkness and screams.
Ghost had left the two bodies and found his backpack in the hallway outside, he crept out and grabbed the bag. He ducked back inside and opened his provisions; he took out the pack of party balloons and the water bottle. He emptied the white garlic mixture into several of the balloons and tied the tops off; he hefted the weapons to check that they were full enough to be able to throw. He took the super soaker from the bag, filled it, and pumped the air into it via the slide, feeling foolish and hopeful at the same time. He swung the backpack over his shoulder and eased out into the corridor.
The hallway was deserted and long, there was no natural light and only a dim glow from very low wattage lights that showed him a gloomy path. There were many doors along the hallway and he crept quietly past them all, at the end of the corridor there was a staircase leading up. He eased his way towards the stairs, praying silently that the steps would not creak in protest and reveal him.
He noticed the main fuse box under the staircase and also a glint of light underneath it on the floor that made him stoop to check. He found two new looking jerry cans were secreted there next to an emergency generator. He lifted the first one and shook it, it was empty, but the second was heavier and sloshed with liquid. He unscrewed the top and immediately smelled the gasoline inside; he took the can and returned back down the hallway retracing his steps. He tipped the can and dribbled a trail of petrol along the corridor and up the stairs about half way to the top. He opened the fuse box as he passed and turned off the mains switch.
The door at the top of the stairs was dark; he searched feeling for a handle. His hands slipped across a lever and he pulled it downwards, the door opened easily and he hoped that his luck was finally on the change. He stepped out into a library, amused despite the situation to find himself emerging through a secret door hidden behind a bookcase. It reminded him of his own Batcave exit at his now destroyed home. It would appear that he and Drake shared at least part of a kindred spirit.
The house was dark without the electricity, he checked his watch, the sun would be setting now and they would be waking. He could run, the exit door at the end of this hallway was unobstructed in plain sight. But he thought of those that had already been lost, if he ran, then Jimmy, Rybeck and Jess would all be in danger. These monsters would be let loose tonight, and by morning, they would all be dead, in one way or another, he made his choice.
He slid the hidden door shut behind him and watched for the book lever to move on the shelf. He spotted the book in question, it was Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and he couldn’t help but be amused again.
He pulled the book and opened the door again, he flipped open the lighter from his pocket and dropped it onto the liquid trail a few steps down. The flames leapt up eagerly devouring the wooden staircase and rushing downwards. He heard doors crashing open and shouts from below as the sleeping quarters emptied and monsters charged forth.
Using the palm of his hand, he thumped the book back into place and beyond, to close the door. He snatched up a heavy looking lamp from a nearby desk and used the sturdy base to pound the book in further, jamming the opening mechanism and the sealing the door shut.
He could hear rushing, pounding footsteps tearing towards him from behind, somewhere inside the main house. He pointed the soaker out with his left hand and took a balloon into his right aimed the other way. He walked slowly and carefully out of the library, he kept his head darting from side to side awaiting his greeters.
One suddenly appeared to his right and flew at him; he flicked his right wrist and loosed the balloon. The weapon exploded on impact and the water soaked the vampire's face destroying most of it and he collapsed screaming to the floor. Ghost reached into the bag and reloaded another balloon, he inched his way along towards the main atrium of the house.
There was a large sweeping double staircase that dominated the area, a figure suddenly leapt from the darkness. He was snatched around the throat and driven back hard into the wall behind him, the impact reigniting the baseball bat wound on his head. The hand holding the balloon was crushed at the wrist, and he dropped the weapon. Rancid foul breath filled his face as the vampire leaned in close. His chest was held as was his right hand, but his left holding the water gun was free. As the monster roared he jammed the super soaked into the gaping chasm mouth, he pulled the trigger unleashing a potent deadly stream.
The vampire staggered back clutching and clawing violently at his throat as the garlic water ran down its throat, it choked and gagged as it fell backwards. The vampire thrashed fiercely on the floor bucking and spasming as though filled with a million volts. Ghost watched on in disgust, as the garlic water filled the vampire’s veins as it worked its way viciously through his body. His skin began to split open and blister from the inside, his face knotted in screaming agony. Ghost left him quickly as the noise would not doubt soon be attracting an audience.
Drake stepped back into his bedroom, his body frozen with fear; his flesh crawled at the sounds and screams below, and the stench of death rose to meet him. Anger with himself, wasn’t enough to propel him forward, dear God, it’s gotten loose was all he could think. He chased around the room frantically, cursing himself for his arrogant nature. He’d sworn that he would never find himself wanting ever again and yet, here he was, terrorized in his own home once again.
He drew up his not insubstantial courage and prepared to face death again, he grabbed the long bladed machete that was sheathed under his bed. He stepped out onto the
dark landing, the oak banister ran the length of the hallway, and he leaned on it for support as he crept.
He reached the third door, his face crinkled in surprise as the door appeared closed and unharmed. He reached out quietly in the dark and tried the handle; he jiggled it carefully and found it still locked. He removed the chain from around his neck that held a small key; he inserted it into the lock and opened the door. A loud violent struggle emanated from the bottom of the main staircase, and Drake hurried. He pushed open the door, the cruel blade of the machete held out before him ready to swing. He peered inside in hope, rather than expectation, surely the beast was loose and wreaking down stairs. He was shocked to find the room occupied, it still hung securely from chains suspended from the ceiling, his head was down, and his body limp. But if it’s was still here, thought Drake, then who the hell’s downstairs?
The smoke from the basement was growing, pushing its way dangerously under the door, and invading the house. The screams had now stopped, and the pounding on the door had dwindled to soft brushes of despair.
Ghost knew that the fire on the lower level would consume the whole house before too long, home for home, he thought, thinking of his own destroyed property.
“DRAKE!” He roared limping into the open atrium, his right hand hung useless, and his wrist felt broken and loose. His breathing was hitched and awkward through his broken nose, the cut on his face stung and leaked, and his senses still rung from the head wound. His left knee throbbed and felt swollen through his trousers stretching the fabric tight against the injury. “DRAKE!” He roared again, “I’VE TAKEN ALL OF YOUR PETS, NOW ITS JUST YOU AND ME LEFT!”
