“What's that supposed to mean?”
“If you knew anything about living, you wouldn't be sitting in the cemetery trying to die.”
I stood up, feeling woozy. The razor blade, slick with my blood, slipped through my fingers and fell in the grass. “You don't know me,” I said, but without any conviction.
“I know enough to know you are unhappy, and I know you would rather live a different life than no life at all.”
“Fine,” I said. “You know so much, what kind of life you think I could have?”
“Whatever kind you want.”
“That ain't gonna happen,” I said. “Nobody will let me.”
“It's not up to ‘them’ to let you do anything,” he said. “It's up to you. If you're unhappy, you have only yourself to blame.”
The cut in my wrist was burning. I pressed down on it and tried to think about what he'd said. “Oh yeah? Well, if you're so smart, how do I fix it?”
“You open yourself up to new possibilities,” he said, “to new ways of living.”
Blood oozed between my fingers. I knew then I didn't really want to die. I just needed someone to show me a way out of this mess. Maybe him. Maybe now.
Except letting boys “help” me was what brought me here in the first place. All those backseat promises. They made me feel good for an hour. After that, I learned how little they meant. I'd already had one abortion. Now I was giving myself another, only I was the one being aborted. Seven-teen years of suffering was long enough.
“I don't want to live,” I told him. “I don't know how.”
“Few people do.” His voice was soft, almost kind. “Why not let me take your life—and give you a new one?” As he stepped into the candlelight, his lips turned from a smirk into a smile. A smile that held two sharp white fangs and the promise of soul-cutting kisses. Kisses that burned better than razor blades.
His strong hands fastened around me, holding me so tight I couldn't move, and the way his eyes trapped mine, I didn't want to. The smiling mouth came closer.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispered. “One little word can unlock so many doors.”
“Yes.” I couldn't believe I said it. It was almost as if it wasn't my voice at all, so I said it again just to be sure. “Yes!”
The vampire didn't say anything, but his smile twitched wider, and then his lips were on mine. I met them eagerly, desperately, as if each kiss were my last. Then his mouth was moving lower, the hot breath warming my flesh, whispering things that sounded like love and life and blood and death.
I moaned and arched my neck, waiting for his fangs to fill me, to drink deep and never let go. We sank down into the dirt. Down, into the empty grave. Down, into eternal darkness and beyond…
Chapter 2: OLD BLOOD FOR NEW LIFE
I woke in the cemetery alone. It was just before dawn and I lay in the empty grave, clawing feebly at the dirt. I must have passed out from losing so much blood. But from my wrist or from my neck?
Had I dreamed the whole thing?
My wrist had crusted over. I could barely move. Every inch of me felt cold, numb, drained—except my mouth, tongue, and throat. They felt strange, swollen, tingly. There was a coppery taste in my mouth.
Blood! But was it mine—or his? I reached for my throat, found two scabby holes, and knew it was no dream. Vampires were real. My hand came away sticky and red.
Birds sang in the trees and the sky grew gray.
I couldn't lie here any longer. I had to get up, get out.
The sun… if it touched me… would I burn? Was I undead or merely half-dead?
I climbed, fighting for every inch of ground, slithering over the top and through the dewy grass on my belly like a snake. The effort almost made me pass out and I had to stop several times to catch my breath. Or what I thought of as my breath until I realized I wasn't breathing. The thought sent fear racing through me. I gulped in great lungfuls of air. It didn't help, it only seemed to blow me up like a balloon. So I stopped and focused on squeezing the air back out of my lungs. It made a horrible wheezing, moaning sound.
I crawled forward again, then remembered my purse. I'd left it next to the grave. Stupid. My money, ID, and cell phone were inside… But who would I need to call now? My dad? My friends? A cab? No, they'd freak if they saw me like this. They'd call the cops or an ambulance and then there'd be questions and all kinds of tests, and I didn't want to deal with any of that.
I tried to stand, but was too weak. I sank back to the grass and stared at the pre-dawn sky.
Didn't even get his number, I thought to myself. He got what he wanted and left, like all the boys do. I laughed, but it came out awful—a dry, croaking rasp. But there was another sound…
Someone was singing and it wasn't the birds. It also wasn't very good. Like maybe whoever was doing it was drunk.
I strained my ears, trying to find the source. It was coming from my right, behind a row of tombstones. I changed direction and slithered toward it. Maybe whoever it was could get me to shelter before the sun came up.
I tried to say, “Hello,” but the best I could get was “Heh!”
The singing stopped. I heard rustling coming from behind the tombstones just ahead of me. A grimy male head poked over the top of one. “Whozat?” the bum said. “What you doin' sneaking up on me?”
I tried to say, “Help,” but still couldn't get past the first syllable. “Heh… Heh!”
“Don't you laugh at me!” the drunk said. “S'not funny! I—hey!” His eyes got wide. “You OK, honey? You hurt?”
I stared at him, hoping he'd get the hint and come over to me. He smelled horrible, but underneath, it was like I could sense something else. Something hot and red and delicious.
I had to get it out of him. Into me.
I smiled and he began creeping closer. Just another few feet and… Something crunched through my upper gums, tearing the flesh, making me snarl and moan. Saliva filled my mouth, spilling over my lips, and other parts of me came alive, including my legs. A shivering thrill sped through me.
Bloodlust.
That's when the bum lost it. He took one look at whatever my mouth had done and ran. I rose on unsteady legs and staggered after him. A horrible, hungry wail was in my throat. The bum was getting away and taking the red stuff with him. I had to make him stop.
Fortunately, I didn't have to. He tripped over a tombstone and went sprawling onto the grass. I was on him in seconds, clawing at his neck, his face, his hands. I'd had nails before, but never like this. They ripped and scratched and tore. He screamed and tried to fight back, but I was too strong.
The bum's eyes bulged as I drooled over his bearded face. Then my mouth was on his throat, teeth tearing, tasting unwashed flesh and the sweet blood that flowed beneath. I'd never known anything like it. It was hot and salty and I couldn't get enough.
As I took his life inside me, I felt the numbness fade, the cold retreat. I began to feel more like my old self—no, better than my old self. I was weak and stupid before, but now I was fast and powerful.
And I was going to live forever!
I didn't stop drinking until I felt the first rays of sun on my skin. They burned, and I bolted for the shadows leaving a trail of oily smoke behind me.
I took shelter in an old mausoleum. There was a coffin that would provide extra hiding in case the cops decided to check inside. I dumped the former occupant out and stomped her bones to dust, leaving no trace of what I'd done. Then I climbed inside and shut the lid.
Waiting for night. Waiting for blood.
I closed my eyes, but couldn't sleep. If only I'd had time to move the bum's corpse. If only I hadn't been so thirsty… What I needed was a steady supply of victims and a place to keep them. Maybe I could find an abandoned house with a nice basement. That'd be one way. What was another?
I could try to trick people, get them alone, starting with the ones I hated most: the boys who used me, the girls who tortured me. To them, I was nothing but a worthless
slut. But what was I to myself?
Crawling on my belly like a worm to feed on disgusting bums was not how I'd pictured my new life. Dracula didn't do that, at least not in any movie I ever saw. Where was the glamor? Had I traded my soul, my humanity, to become a monster? I wasn't sure. But as night fell, I knew I was about to find out…
THE OLD GODS
In the dark, the Old Gods lie dreaming,
hungry minds and hungry souls
that consume our desire
for love,
for power,
for the wisdom and magic
of a million lost years.
Beyond space,
beyond time,
they wait,
they call,
hoping
we'll hear.
Hoping we'll
summon
them
to
the
Feast.
WHO'S AFRAID OF LORDY MURCH?
The swamp has always been a place of mystery and fear. Half–land, half–water, full of hidden things. Like the ocean, it has a nasty habit of swallowing the unwary. This last story combines H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos with Mark Twain and a deadly dose of bayou noir.
Chapter 1: A BODY'S WORTH OF WORK
Some folk say there's a curse on us Swampers. That the Devil himself brought it down for our lyin', thievin' ways. But we know better. We know the curse come down from the Old Gods. From somethin' we done to them, and they done to us. It's the kind of wrong what don't wash clean, not in a million years.
Townies claim it's inbreedin' what gives us our famous looks: scaly skin, wall–eye, webbed fingers 'n' toes, and that's just to name a few. Some Swampers get it worse'n others. I even seen one poor fella growed a tail. The Worst Ones don't leave the swamp, not ever. They send someone like me to run their errands. I look almost normal with my clothes on. Sure, I got a lazy eye, but the rest of me ain't. I do a body's worth of work and then some.
Like today, old “Catfish” LaRue sent me to collect on his account at the Howphil General Store. Catfish makes gator– and snake–skin boots 'n' belts. He sells 'em on consignment to “Honest” Jeb Malone, who marks 'em up for tourists and locals alike. Some townies wonder why Catfish ain't called “Gator” or “Snake,” but he got named on account of his whiskers: great big gray ones that stick outta his face like wet needles. Just more proof us Swampers come in all shapes and sizes.
The Okefenokee was foggy that morn, the air moist and heavy. I took my pappy's raft and poled toward town. The sun hadn't quite risen, which was fine by me. I like to do my polin' before it gets too hot.
Glidin' through the fog, I almost believe I'm floatin' into another world. One where I ain't got to live in no swamp, one where I can be free to go where I want and do what I please without bein' stared at or thought down of. I might meet some nice feller that way, maybe a rich one, though that don't matter much so long as he loves me.
Good ol' Pappy says “Love's worth more'n all the tea in China,” and I believe him. That's the way he felt about Ma (rest her soul), and the way he feels about me. Pappy's love is good, it wraps around you real tight, but it ain't the same as the kind I got a hankerin' for. Been that way a few years now, ever since I growed into my womanly ways. This need, it's like an itch I can't scratch, but I know better'n to truck with no townie boys. Ain't gonna find no love–match there, just some one–off what won't mean nothin'.
Maybe a tourist… a stranger. Foreign, exotic, with big city looks and big city ways. Just like in a magazine.
I gotta admit, that's one of the reasons I'm always helpin' the others out. I got this fantasy some tourist might gimme the nod. Wouldn't that be fine? Wouldn't have to pole no more, wouldn't have to do nothin'. Like I told you, I ain't lazy, but sometimes I get to wonderin' what it might be like. All that sittin' in luxury, eating chocolates. I know it wouldn't be like that, but pushin' a broom 'round a house ain't like pushin' a pole—a house ain't big 'n' dangerous like a swamp, and that's a fact!
Speakin' of dangerous, there's a splash in the blackwater to my right. I see Big Gertie slidin' along. She's a gator mean as they come, and twice as big. I wave to her and Gertie shows me her teeth. When I show her mine, she decides to hunt her breakfast somewhere else.
Chapter 2: A DAMN FOOL
I drift into town, sailin' toward the dock outside the General Store. Howphil ain't much to look at: a few muddy streets and clapboard houses, There ain't but two businesses: the Daggone Tavern and General Store.
Before you ask, Howphil didn't get its name because it rhymes with “awful.” It got it's name from two brothers, Howard and Philip Derleth. They settled here in the 1880s, but soon commenced to fightin'. First, over the town's name, which they compromised on, then over money—which they didn't.
To make a long story short, Howard Derleth horse–whipped his brother out of town into the Okefenokee, where Philip met an old Creek Indian woman worshippin' the Old Gods in one of them weird burial mounds. Some reckon her a witch, others a shaman. Whatever she was, she granted Philip some strange power to get revenge on his brother in exchange for his soul. Philip got his revenge, all right, but he betrayed the witch and refused the Old Gods his soul, so she cursed him and all his kin.
The townies didn't want no poor cursed devils dwelling amongst 'em, so they drove the Derleths into the swamp, where they mingled with the Murches and the LaRues and all the other poor white trash who call the Okefenokee home. The story gets convoluted from there, but supposedly, that's where us Swampers come from…
A curse.
That was fifty–some years ago, and 'Merica's changed. It's the roarin' Twenties now. The age of flappers and speakeasies. We've had a world war and a peck of science, but nothin' changes here. Every once in a while, some city slicker gets it in his head to clearcut the cypress or build a canal, but they always fail. This place belongs to the Old Gods, and woe to them what don't believe!
As I finish tyin' my raft to the dock, some of the locals—fishermen—see me and cross themselves. They wait 'til I'm off the pier so they won't have to pass me. Touchin' Swampers is s'posed to bring bad luck. Doin' more is even worse.
“I ain't contagious,” I mutter, and that's probably true. Part of me likes that these men are afraid. It's the only power I have, but it don't sit right with the rest of me—the parts that want to be loved.
The bell over the door rings as I walk into the General Store. Jeb Malone's behind the counter stocking the penny candy. My belly growls. I got a bit of a sweet tooth, I'll admit, and ain't had no breakfast besides.
“Lordy Murch!” Jeb says, and he's the only man in town who's cheerful 'bout sayin' my name. “Ain't seen you in a spell.”
“No, sir. I reckon not.” I look down, feelin' the color run into my cheeks. Jeb's a bit old for a beau, but pickins' is slim for a Swamper like me. I won't lie and say I ain't had carnal thoughts 'bout me and ol' Jeb. He's the richest man in Howphil and the only one who's ever been nice to me. I ain't sure if that's 'cause he really does cotton to me, or only 'cause I represent a goodly chunk of sales and the like… or that he might have to deal with someone even uglier than me. Like I said, we Swampers ain't known for our good looks or social graces, but I manage to get by.
But it pains me that Jeb and me ain't never gonna be more'n friends. The townies wouldn't do business with a man what took a Swamp Wife, and my kin would shun me for takin' up with a fella what weren't one of us.
That don't leave much room for what I want.
Pappy's been jawin' I should get married, raise him up some young'uns to dote on. He even named a few boys I might cotton to, but I'm particular 'bout such things. Most of 'em are too deformed to be much good at earnin' a livin', much less anythin' else. Then there's men like Catfish, who got a trade, but are getting' on in years. Only a matter of time 'fore the Sickness takes 'em. It comes for all us Swampers sooner or later.
Jeb leans across the counter and lights his corncob pipe. “How's y
er Pappy keepin'?”
“Respectable. He's still got the breath of the Lord flowin' through him, if'n that's what you mean.”
“Breathing's good,” Jeb agrees. “How you doin', Lordy? You're lookin' well today.”
That's as close as any man's ever come to complimentin' my looks, and when I blush, this time I don't look away. “I'm passable, thanks for askin'.” I wish he'd ask me somethin' else. Like to be his wife. I would, too. Just you see if I don't!
But Jeb don't ask nothing of the kind. In fact, he don't say nothin'. Just sucks on his pipe, real thoughtful–like.
“You sure got a nice store,” I say. “Must take a heap of work to run this place.”
Jeb sighs. “Ain't that the truth.”
“So,” I say, “it occurs to me ya might need some help 'round here. Stockin' shelves, sweepin' up, and anythin' else you need done… ”
Jeb blows smoke rings at the ceiling. “That's not a bad idea on the surface,” he says. “Yer a good girl, Lordy Murch, and I know you'd work real hard.”
“I can start today, if you want.” I can't believe I could be so bold, but there the words are, a–tumblin' out my mouth like a dadburn idjit. It's too late to take 'em back, and Jeb ain't answerin', so I imagine myself workin' here, maybe livin' here. With him. I got me a fancy apron on, and I'm showin' folks what they need, ringing 'em up, my hands touchin' all them coins, maybe even a dollar bill or too. Wouldn't that be somethin'!
And after the shop closes, I could cook Jeb a real nice supper. Hot damn, he might even let me sit at the table with him! We could make moon–eyes and play footsie and all them other sweet, silly things lovers do. Jeb would pick me up and carry me to his bedroom and then nobody could stop us from bein' man and wife.
Only we couldn't stay in Howphil.
I rearrange my fantasy, real quick–like before Jeb says somethin' to spoil it. In my new dream, we pick up stakes and move to a real town, the kind with automobiles and sidewalks made out of real cement, not creaky boards. We'd open a new shop, maybe one of them big city department stores. And I'd have dresses made out of silk, not held together with rope and mildew. I'd have all the nice, pretty things a girl could want. Them's would be fine days, and finer nights. Yep, mighty fine.
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