Night Things: The Monster Collection

by West, Terry M.

"I feel I know very little," Abraham said. "That there is much more to learn. I fear you have forgotten more than I know."

  Granpapa chuckled and clutched Abraham's hand. "You have all you need. The rest will come with experience."

  "How will I go on without you?" Abraham said sadly.

  "You will endure. The bloodline must always continue. You will pass the legacy on to your heir."

  "But what if I die before I am able to father a child?"

  Granpapa thought about it. "I don't think that is allowed."

  ***

  Abraham burst awake, his lungs snatching air greedily. He was drenched with sweat. The last thing he remembered was his death at Dracula's hands. He looked to his tattooed chest. There was no indication of the wound Dracula had inflicted upon him.

  He glanced around the dark room. He was confused and scared. He smelled cigar smoke before Johnny Stücke stepped out of the shadows.

  "We defeated Dracula," he explained. "I brought you back to my building and was going to give you a decent burial. But as we were preparing you, we noticed that your wounds were healing. It was a slow but fascinating process."

  Abraham hugged himself. "What am I?"

  "You are a returner, Mr. Janvier. In layman's terms, you can't be killed. Not permanently. I suspect a bloodline conundrum."

  "What do you want with me?" Abraham asked suspiciously.

  "I have a proposition," Johnny said with a grin. "And I am pretty sure you want to hear it."

  Epilogue

  Dracula's mind stirred, but his burned husk lay still in human waste. It was offensive, and he wished now that the lingering ember of life in him would simply depart and that this suffering would end. Primul had won. The living had won. And here he lay, mortal sewage flowing over him.

  He felt no connection to the Night Things. They were either too far or too few left to feel him. He knew his kin would be dealing with the consequences of the conflict and the chaos he had unleashed on the city streets. He imagined the humans hunting down and destroying the few children that had survived the battle. He prayed one would continue to exist and raise another army and take the planet in his name.

  He heard feet splash slowly in the dirty water and feared his remains had been discovered by Johnny Stücke's agents. Whatever he heard bearing down on him, he hoped it held a stake to end this damnation.

  A figure knelt down toward Dracula's face. A monstrous fish-faced being stared into his eye. It said only one word.

  "Master."

  Night Things:

  Undead and Kicking

  Praise for Night Things: Undead and Kicking

  "The story is brilliant and the universe [West] has created is absolutely amazing."-Horror Society

  "In terms of sheer spectacle, the climax here may be the strongest in the series. If you're new to the series, do yourself and favor and start from the beginning, but if you're already a fan, you'll be thoroughly satisfied with West's latest."-Beauty in Ruins

  For Tracy (NercoStein) Crockett. A horror artist, writer, filmmaker, reviewer. And he was never ashamed to call himself a horror fan. Tracy was outspoken but kind. He was unique and his enthusiasm for the genre was infectious. Thanks, Tracy, for being my friend and championing my work long before others.

  I miss you, brother. Rest in peace.

  Special Thanks to:

  The Usual Suspects

  My family

  Sensei Blaine Carter

  “Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.”

  H.P. Lovecraft

  "How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games."

  from the Dear Boss letter, Jack the Ripper

  Welcome to the Magic Now…

  Imagine a world just like yours with one startling difference: every creature of legend has stepped forward from the shadow and they now exist shoulder to shoulder with humankind! New York City has become a macabre melting pot. Vampires, werewolves, zombies and ghouls are now the new immigrants and they are chasing the American dream. The Night Things have become part of the system. But many humans feel the creatures are dangerous ticking time bombs.

  Carol Haddon is a former professional fighter living in New York City. Now a social worker, she has devoted her career and life to assisting the Night Things. She is killed after a senseless and brutal attack on her office. Carol is reanimated by the mad genius, Herbert West. West discovers that Carol carries a very unique DNA that could change things dramatically for the zombie population of the world. Johnny Stücke, the mysterious leader of the Night Things who has emerged in the media after Z Day, a citywide zombie attack a few months prior, takes Carol under his wing after her life as a mortal is stripped away. Carol's creation has also attracted the attention of Herbert West's greatest enemy, Edmund Wraight. An experiment of Herbert West's gone horribly awry, Wraight is an ageless, violent, and hungry creature who was once known as the infamous Jack the Ripper.

  And he must stop West before the scientist unlocks the secret hidden in Carol's blood.

  Prologue

  Yours Truly, Edmund Wraight

  August 31st, 1888

  Buck's Row, Whitechapel

  Edmund Wraight approached the drunk whore. She was leaning her unsteady body against a dirty wall that smelled of piss and misery. The woman's face was hard and plain, but it was the inside of her that counted. The lamps had run dry here. This was a good place to do his business.

  "Good evening," he said warmly, tipping his top hat.

  "Oh, you gave me a start," the whore said, covering her heart.

  "It has been said I have the stealth of a jungle beast," Edmund mused.

  "I'd agree," she said, adjusting her bonnet and preening herself. "You looking for some company, then?"

  "Indeed," Edmund said. "I am Edmund Wraight."

  "Mary Ann Nichols," she said, presenting a hand.

  Edmund gripped the fingers gently and lowered his lips to the top of her hand. "Charmed."

  Mary Ann giggled and blushed. "A finely groomed gentleman. Not many of those in these parts. Most of the blokes around here wear their flags of distress proudly."

  Edmund could tell by the way she studied him, in his fine suit and top hat and cape, that she saw a drink, a meal and perhaps even lodging for the night depending on the depth of his gratitude. His face was that of an experienced and kind man who still held a great degree of vitality and had money to spend.

  "Where you from, Edmund?"

  "Nowhere and everywhere," Edmund replied. "I am a true nomad. I never linger in a place long enough to dub it home."

  "You've seen the world, then?"

  "Every inch of it."

  Mary Ann noticed an expensive gold crucifix around the man's neck. But it appeared to be upside-down. "Think you got your holy cross in a twist there."

  "No. That is the way I prefer to wear it."

  "You a religious man, Edmund?" Mary Ann continued, the symbolism of an inverted cross lost on her.

  "Deeply. And you?"

  "I'm the worst kind of believer. I only call upon our good lord when I need help with something. Sure he'll be turning a blind eye to me eventually. If he hasn't hardened on me already. But I ain't an Orangie, right. I don't think God would take offense to us wetting our loins. Gave 'em to us for the very practice. Don't think what I do is a sin."

  "Do you know why people sin?" Edmund asked.

  "Got something to do with a serpent in the garden, right?"

  "We sin because sins are delicious. And speaking of religion and sinning, there is a great secret that many are not aware of. For centuries it has been guarded by an old society. But, no. No, I shouldn't tell you. It is not something that should get out."

  "Come on! I'll take it to my earth bath. I swear!" Mary Ann said, stumbling and catching herself. "You can't tease a girl like that. 'Sides, who'd trust such a revelation from the lips of a tired old streetwalker?"

  H
e held up a finger of caution. "You must understand. What I am about to share could change things for you to a great degree. I have no reason to impress you with anything more than coins and spirits. This is a rare gift I am about to bestow. Something people have died to keep secreted."

  Mary Ann's drunken eyes grew with amused curiosity. "So let's have it then, yeah? You'd better not be having me on, with that build and all."

  "Do you know the part of the Bible that states God created everything in six days and rested on the seventh?"

  Mary Ann shrugged, impatient suddenly for a drink. "Yeah. Don't everyone? That was a shit ton of work he did. Making everything. Take a lot out of any bloke."

  "Well, you see, God didn't rest on the seventh day," Edmund revealed. "He died. The effort killed him. And we are the maggots that hatched in his corpse. We are merely nourishing ourselves on his dead meat. And when the carcass has been gnawed to the bone, everything will be done. So enjoy your meal, Mary Ann Nichols. Have your fill before God's body crumbles to dust."

  "That's a bloody dark and wicked thing to put in me head," Mary Ann said, mortified and sobering quickly.

  "It may seem cruel, but I am doing you a favor, my dear," Edmund insisted politely. "A maggot doesn't pray, you understand. The way your kind whittle away the only presence they'll ever have, with a child's trust that there will be a payoff if they behave themselves. Imagining a fat and benevolent old man sitting above and taking a full account of your suffering. Even if he did exist, why would such a being bother himself with such a worthless dollymop?"

  She was stricken deeply by his words and fear was beginning to awaken in her. She hesitated for a long time before uttering, "I'll pass on the drink, thank you. I've a bit of an itch down there. Maybe you should find another girl. Don't want to put the glim on you. It's been a… pleasure, Mr. Wraight."

  Mary Ann turned from him. Edmund grabbed her from behind. He held her mouth to subdue her scream. It was a short chore, for after his blade cut deep across her throat, a gurgle would be all she could manage. He ducked under her, his lower jaw stretching ahead further than humanly possible. Her blood filled his mouth, like a slaughterhouse trough. When she was done giving, he released her shuddering form to the slick stone. He closed his mouth and swallowed it all in one huge gulp.

  And then the dark promises and sweet music filled his head. He clenched his eyes shut and listened to the ancient song. His face relaxed to its true form. A cold and gray shade froze over the human tone of his skin and his eyes darkened and grew. That terrible mouth of his panted in the cold air and smiled as his hunger was driven down.

  He looked to Mary Ann's corpse. He knelt, hiked up her skirt, and began to use the filthy blade in his hand to open her stomach. After a suitable entrance had been made, he paused his black talons, which were poised to invade her.

  Humans were close. He had a way of knowing when not to linger. Just one of the many dark blessings he had been gifted. The blood would suffice, but he would need to take more next time. A uterus, perhaps.

  He stood, noticing the blood on his suit. Little had spilled, to the ground or his clothes. He needed to go back to his room. To pinch those red stains out of his garments before they set. The creature wrapped the disguise back tightly. He would continue this parade of Edmund Wraight, the mysterious philanthropist who inspired much gossip and speculation in the higher circles. He would occupy his time with literature and black sleep until the whispers and music returned. Until the hunger beckoned him once more.

  He regarded Mary Ann's dead form. “As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.

  They kill us for their sport," he said to her, though she was deaf to his words.

  Edmund wandered away, keeping his wet face to the shadows.

  1.

  Carol Haddon: After Death (Part One)

  I awoke violently. A massive spasm struck the entire length of my cold body and a birth cry escaped from my lungs.

  I had been hauled from oblivion and my blurry eyes swept a bright room. Adrenaline compelled my body to move; to burst away and run. But I was fastened by padded wrist and ankle cuffs to a hospital bed. They were the type of restraints reserved for the deranged and dangerous. My vision finally sharpened and I glanced down past my chin to my body. I was dressed in a filthy hospital gown. My blood burned and my legs pulled against the manacles. I cried out frantically in pain, but didn't recognize my own voice. Its resonance encouraged my alarm. My mind at that moment was one of a wounded and frightened animal that sought only a dark place to hide and heal.

  "Test subject 2455. Reanimation occurred at 9:14pm," a soft voice said.

  Suddenly, a light brighter than the overhead fluorescents hit my eyes. Without intellect or comprehension, I squinted and growled at it. My eyes finally adjusted and I could see a digital camera on a tripod, its view screen pulled open to the side. Next to it stood a short and thin man in a bloody white lab coat. He wore thick glasses and he had thinning blond hair. He wasn't what you would call handsome, but he still had an interesting and striking face. In my state at that time, however, the man inspired only a frightened fury in me. His eyes appraised me from shackled feet to head. He smiled excitedly and pressed open a folder in his hands. He read its contents to me.

  "Your name is Carol Haddon. You are thirty years old. Jewish. You graduated from the City College of New York with a PhD in counseling psychology. You are a social worker employed at the Children of the Moon shelter for Night Things on the East Side. You are single, which is quite hard to believe, if I may be so bold. You are also a martial arts enthusiast. You hold a fourth degree black belt. You were a mixed martial artist for a brief time with three professional fights to your credit," the man said, and he paused to look at me appreciatively. "You are a remarkable person, Miss Haddon. Very sound mentally and physically. A bit of a bleeding heart, perhaps. With any luck, we will find the old you in there somewhere."

  I shrieked at him, not understanding a calm word from his mouth. He merely nodded at this. "Yes, yes I know. This is all very traumatic for you, I am sure. I am going to communicate with you and I need you to calm down and try to comprehend my words."

  I stopped wailing but I continued to pant, my primal rage idling momentarily. My screams ceased only because my voice was exhausted, but he still took credit for it.

  "Good. Very good."

  He came closer to me, but not too close. "My name is Herbert West. I am a scientist. My field, a field that only I occupy, mind you, is the continuation of life when the chemical processes have given up on the body. The reanimation of dead tissue. This is my lab and you are restrained only because my serum often causes an initial violent reaction in test subjects. You were killed twelve hours ago at your office. Men in masks rushed into the shelter where you counsel and started shooting everyone or thing they saw. You were brought to my attention because you have no known next of kin and you fit the criteria I require for my experiments."

  The man leaned closer, tempting the fates for a dramatic posture. "Welcome back, Miss Haddon," he said, his thin lips curling up in a proud smile. "You exist again."

  I lurched upward, the restraints on my wrists coming loose. In my violent exercise, the bed fell over. With my freed hands, I found the leather straps that tethered the ankle cuffs and broke them with an unholy strength. My blood continued to bubble hot in my veins and my mind screamed.

  I stood on uneasy feet. The man dropped his file and backed away slowly, his arms prepared to ward me off. "Calm down, Carol."

  I stepped forward and struck the camera. It and the tripod went to the cold floor. I turned and tripped over my feet. I fell against a curtain and tore it down from the wall. I stood again, quickly, and I saw several dead faces pressed against a large observation window. They stared at me and howled from a large room with padded walls. They clawed at the glass and wet it with their dead mouths.

  "You must control yourself, Carol," the man said, and then he rushed toward a metal stand where several hypod
ermic needles rested.

  I caught him, before he reached his tools. He knocked the metal stand over as I tackled him. I wrapped my hands around his throat and squeezed with all the vigor of the mad and the damned.

  2.

  Carol Haddon: Before Death

  My name is Carol Haddon, and this is the age known as the Magic Now. The Magic Now is a term people use to describe our current society. Folks like to ask if you remember what you were doing when you discovered that magic existed. And most recall it very vividly.

  It started nearly ten years ago, when I was still chasing a PhD at the City College of New York. Monsters began to appear in the streets. We braced fearfully as vampires, zombies and their cousins grew in numbers too large to hide in the night. But once we understood that their shamble into our cities wasn't an onslaught, we opened our borders to them. Hesitantly at first. As always. They were just as scared as us, it turned out. As if prodded by an invisible force, the Night Things revealed themselves and huddled on to our shores. But of course, many religious zealots took their emergence as a sign of the end.

  Though the undead and monsters had been a part of life now for almost a decade, there had been very little political support thrown their way. There were very few laws that protected these lost souls, and that is why I took up their cause after I finished my education.

  I had spent five years at the Children of the Moon shelter and had made quite a few friends during my time there. When I wasn't handing out rat stamps to zombies (redeemable at any pet shop that sells feeder rats and mice), teaching vampires to use fang dams to maintain monogamous feeding/sexual relationships and equipping shifters with moon alert bracelets, I got to know these orphans of the night very well. I and the entire staff worked endlessly to change the public's perception of the Night Things.