The Vampire of Plainfield

by Kristopher Rufty

  The

  Vampire

  of Plainfield

  Kristopher Rufty

  Sinister Grin Press

  MMXV

  Austin, Texas

  Sinister Grin Press

  Austin, TX

  www.sinistergrinpress.com

  October 2015

  “The Vampire of Plainfield” © 2015 Kristopher Rufty

  This is a work of collected Fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the publisher’s written consent, except for the purposes of review.

  Cover Art by Jim Agpalza

  Book Design by Frank Walls

  Text Design by Travis Tarpley

  For Malfi.

  Acknowledgements

  This book was a fun, yet difficult journey. Since I tried to be as respectful as possible, I needed some facts to make the story work. I thank Steve Golla for his input. Being a Plainfield native (and a great friend), his help and input for accuracy is very much appreciated. I also want to thank my wife, who always makes sure I have the opportunity to write my bizarre stories. Mega thanks goes to Paul Goblirsch and Tristan Thorne, for saying yes when I pitched this book—an idea that’s been slogging around my head for a long time, with many false starts, probably would have never been written without their positivity. I also want to thank Ronald Malfi for his endless encouragement over the last several months. He’s been this story’s biggest fan from the get-go. And more thanks goes to my pre-reader, Tod Clark—the man who takes my jumbled first drafts and helps me fashion them into something coherent.

  Author’s Note

  Make no mistake, Ed Gein was a genuine monster. There’s no denying the terror and shame he inflicted on the small, family-oriented town of Plainfield, Wisconsin. This story is a complete work of fiction from the peculiar mind of a writer who enjoys ghost stories and tales of things that go bump in the night. This book is not meant to glorify Ed Gein, his sins, or his crimes. Some names have been altered. Many institutions, businesses, and street names from that time have also been changed. So, please, just take this book for what it is meant to be: a (with any luck) scary and thrilling story about a human monster that clashes with a supernatural monster and the drama of those stuck in the middle.

  Plainfield is a real town; however, I would not recommend visiting for a Gein ghost walk. They do not take kindly to trespassing strangers, and would like—with good reason—for us to leave them be.

  The Weirdees

  Geiner:

  “There once was a man named Ed

  Who wouldn’t take a woman to bed.

  When he wanted to diddle,

  He cut out the middle,

  And hung the rest in the shed.”

  -1-

  The shovel stabbed into the earth. The ground was hardened from the cold which made the noise as loud as a rifle blast in the silence of the night.

  Ed winced.

  Making enough racket to wake the dead.

  Pausing, he peered down at the slanted headstone. In the moonlight, the old marker was a pale grin. The hair on his neck stiffened.

  Don’t get spooked.

  Though Ed felt more at peace in them than almost anywhere else, graveyards could be creepy places. Sometimes he let his imagination get the best of him. Mama said it was one of his weaknesses.

  And even in his forties, Ed had an imagination that sometimes went rampant.

  Chuckling to himself, he shook his head. He should feel at home in this minute graveyard.

  Nobody here to bother you.

  He was with friends.

  Nodding, Ed clapped his glove-covered hands together. He put the tip of the blade on the ground and stamped it in with the bottom of his boot. He hefted out a mound of compacted soil. Wisps of grass poked out like little green hairs. It was good seeing green again after so many months of harsh cold. Spring was near, and he was ready to welcome it.

  He tossed the clump of hardened dirt aside, starting a pile that would be a minor hillock by the time he was done. There hadn’t been a fresh fall of snow in nearly a week, but the strips of what still lingered had frozen into sparkling cement. The lantern, hanging from a tree limb, threw down an orange shimmer across the solid white crust. With the sickle moon sitting crooked above him like a toenail clipping and the lantern below, he had enough for light, but not so much he should worry about being spotted. This graveyard was small, tucked off the road in the woods. No caretaker to worry about unless he was here during daylight hours.

  He was surprised he’d found it. He’d driven past the narrow path that etched through the woods many times. Never had any idea what was at the end of the trail until this morning.

  Hadn’t popped that tire, I still wouldn’t know.

  Probably the oldest graveyard around. And he’d found it by accident.

  Did anybody else know it was back here?

  Doubt it.

  What had made him wander the trail, he couldn’t say. Just a feeling inside had told him to start walking. He’d obliged, whistling as he’d strolled along with his hands in the pockets of his coat. Deep in the woods, the set of three graves sat on a small section of land that was devoid of grass. The olden headstones were blank, packed together and jutted from coffee dark soil the ice didn’t cover. Even the trees surrounding the plot looked dead. Their frail, skeletal limbs looked ready to break apart. The trunks were hollowed out shells, what was inside melted away.

  The graves were inside a fence. There were two gates: one in front, the other in back. Both were taller than him and bolted to the rusted iron enclosure. The front entry squeaked when Ed had opened it just enough to squeeze through. After one quick look around, Ed had decided then he would come back tonight and explore.

  His tools were displayed on the flattened duffel bag in a row like a doctor’s instruments—the pickax, another smaller shovel, and a woodsaw. He’d picked this grave because of the unnatural shape of the headstone. Narrowed at the top, it reminded him of a giant blade of rock stabbing up from the earth.

  Ed took a break from digging. He backhanded the sweat off his brow. His gloves felt stiff and itchy on his damp skin.

  He was down to his knees in the hole.

  A rush of mild wind howled through the trees, shoving against his heavy coat and whipping his pants against his sore legs. Every muscle in his body ached. Even the marrow of his bones hurt. Wisconsin’s bitter breezes always nipped with nasty teeth, but here in the graveyard, it felt as if it had fangs.

  He tugged his checkered hunter’s cap down. The wool did little to keep his head warm, but it was better than having nothing at all.

  He resumed digging, letting his mind focus on the blade burrowing into the dirt. He flung the shovel to the side, launching the compacted soil. When it bespattered against the pile, he was able to count each clod that rolled down.

  The next time he paused to check his progress, the hole reached his hips. The soil was mushy like clay, yet hard and cold. His arms were tired. How long had he been digging? Felt like forever. Even in this nasty cold, sweat streamed down his face. He wanted to rest. But this close to the treasure awaiting him, he didn’t dare. And he knew there was a treasure below his feet, waiting.

  He kept working.

  With time, the hole developed into a tiny room with four walls of dirt that reached above his head. Any moment the tip of the shovel should strike something solid.

  And it did within two minutes—a deep, firm thump.

  Ed sighed with great relief.

  Flipping the shovel around, he u
sed its head to scrape away the powdery remains. Soon, an ancient toe-pincher coffin was unveiled. It looked pale and old under the gray moonlight. Built of wood, the top was wedge-shaped and narrowed as it reached the bottom. The cracked lid was coated in a slimy residue of mold and sludge.

  A tingle of excitement coursed through him. Goosebumps hardened the skin of his arms.

  Ed needed the lantern. Leaning the shovel against the dirt wall, he stepped across the coffin and reached up. His fingers gripped the hole’s rim and held him as he climbed out.

  Above ground, he brushed the dirt off his pants, then fetched the lantern from where it hung on the branch of a withered tree. Returning to the hole, he set the lantern close to the edge and carefully crawled back inside. Then he pulled the lantern down in with him.

  He set the lantern at the foot of the coffin. The lantern’s murky luster was like looking through a glass of piss. The smell of burning oil filled the tight space.

  He sauntered to the bowed head of the casket, grabbed the shovel, and sank to a crouch. He lodged the narrowed blade under the lip of the lid. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up.

  Strained.

  Pressure bulged in his forehead, causing his eyes to throb.

  The lid moved very little.

  Stopping, he wiped away sweat. Took several deep breaths. And tried again.

  The lid popped open with a splintered screech.

  After taking a moment to catch his breath, he set the shovel off to his side. He gazed at the casket. The closure hung halfway open like the top of a lunchbox.

  Ed waddled back into a narrow gutter of space beside the coffin. Crouched, he flung the lid high. Immediately, he was hit with an unbearable odor that gagged him. It felt like invisible dank hands had shoved their way down his throat, and squeezed his lungs.

  “Ugh…” Ed coughed.

  Trapped inside the casket with the corpse rot was another repugnant odor.

  Garlic?

  Brittle bulbs were spread inside the coffin. More were in piles pressed against the casket’s inner walls. Though they were rotted and old and black, they were still intact and identifiable.

  Elbows on his knees, Ed used his hand to fan away the fumes. He knuckled tears out of his eyes and stared back into the coffin.

  The shriveled body of a woman lay amongst the garlic.

  She had long hair the color of straw. Her eye sockets were hollow black chasms, her cheeks sunken back and cracking down to the jawline like mossy vines. Hints of cheek and jaw bones could be seen through the ragged gashes. Lips were gnarled back in a ghastly grin, exposing rotting teeth, and flaccid gums.

  Two of her front teeth narrowed into points.

  Like fangs.

  Ed went tight and sick inside.

  The pointed teeth weren’t the only thing making his skin feel as if it were shrinking. Her head was in the wrong place. Instead of being the crown of her body, it was between her legs, pressed into the folds of the silky white gown she wore. The impressions of her scrawny thighs could be seen through the dirty garment. Where her head should be was a wrinkled nub between two boney shoulders.

  Her head was chopped off!

  A clean cut, by the looks of the neck. There was no tatty gradient, just a flat stump of old skin and bone.

  The white gown bedecking the headless corpse was fancy and glossy, with noodle-thin straps over her leathery skin. The nails on her hands and toes had curled over the tops of each digit like talons.

  He’d dug up many decrepit bodies. None had ever looked like this. Usually they withered down to nothing but some bedraggled clothes, and bones. She still had most of her skin, albeit decayed and shriveled. He could tell just by what was left of her that she had once been beautiful.

  But the teeth…

  He’d never seen teeth so sharp on a person. Looked like the teeth of a lion had been stuffed inside her rubbery mouth.

  Ed removed his gloves, sitting them on her stomach. He inspected the rest of her. Her collarbone had started to show. He counted four visible ribs.

  Touching the dress, the material felt smooth under his fingers. He moved his hand to her chest. She had two pruned lumps for breasts that felt hard as walnuts in his kneading hands.

  The back of his head went numb. He rubbed drool from the corners of his mouth, then used a sleeve to dry the gelid sweat on his face.

  Entwining his fingers in the bland, golden hair, he lifted the head. It was surprisingly light, like a small hollowed-out melon with hair. He held her face close to his own. She slowly swayed from one side to the other as if presenting herself to him. As if showing him her fangs that looked sharp enough to cut glass.

  The head slowly swayed back, exhibiting the pantyhose-thin flesh of her cheek, her skull evident through the wispy flesh.

  Shrink her. Hang her with the others.

  Smiling, Ed stood. Holding the head by a hank of hair in one hand, he grabbed the shovel with the other. He used the tip of the blade to close the lid. Then he chucked the shovel over the top of the hole. He held the head up to look at her emaciated face one more time. His eyes returned to the fangs.

  Were they real? He thought they looked it.

  Didn’t really matter to Ed. He’d found something special, he knew that much. And there were three more graves for him to play around in. Just not tonight. He’d spent too much on this one.

  Ed tossed the head up top, then started to climb.

  He’d be back soon to explore the rest.

  -2-

  “Why are we going this way, Timmy?”

  Timmy Worden stopped pedaling his Schwinn Cruiser and looked over his shoulder. Peter was much farther back. His pudgy body struggled to stay upright as his legs spun with an astonishing speed. No matter how hard he worked, though, the bike still moved slower than a cow in mud. Even from where Timmy was, he could see the dark stains of sweat spreading down the sides of Peter’s striped shirt.

  “We’re going to swing by Eddie’s, see if he has any cold pop!”

  Peter made a face, and Timmy knew it wasn’t just caused by the struggle to pedal his bicycle, nor the unnatural hot day Plainfield was experiencing.

  Peter was scared of Eddie Gein.

  Scared of the Gein house, is more like it.

  Most kids their age were, but not Timmy. He was one thirteen-year-old who didn’t mind visiting the Gein house. Sure, it was a dump and Eddie seemed to collect his trash rather than dispose of it. And it probably hadn’t been cleaned since Ms. Gein was still alive. These details didn’t bother Timmy a bit. Besides, Eddie’s odd decorations and magazines and books intrigued Timmy more than frightened him.

  Peter, too, he knew, though his friend never wanted to admit it.

  Some of it’s a little weird, though.

  “Hurry up, Peter!”

  Peter moaned. “Can’t we just go into town for pop? I bet Buck will give us a root beer float since it’s so hot out.”

  “And what if he doesn’t?”

  “Then I’ll pay for it!”

  “Mine too?”

  “Yes!”

  That was a tempting offer, even though it stemmed from desperation, not kindness. Shaking his head, Timmy said, “Nah, we’re a lot closer to Eddie’s. It’ll take us a long time to ride to Buck’s.”

  “Yeah,” said Peter, agreeing, though by his voice not willingly.

  “We won’t stay long,” said Timmy.

  Peter came to a wobbly halt beside Timmy. His hair, which he usually tried to style with a stiff wave like most kids in 1954, was plastered to his scalp with sweat. Panting, he leaned back on the seat, staring up at the cloudless blue sky.

  “And its Saturday,” said Timmy.

  “So?”

  “So, Eddie probably has some new stuff to look at.”

  Peter smiled. A dab of sweat hung from his bottom lip. Timmy watched it drip off. “Think so?”

  “Doesn’t he always?”

  Peter shrugged. “I guess so. If Mama ever found out I read tho
se magazines at Eddie’s, she’d skin my ass.”

  “So would mine. Can’t read those at Buck’s, now can we?” Timmy tried not to smile as he watched his friend take the bait.

  “Nope!”

  “Let’s head over there.”

  “What if he’s not home?”

  Timmy hadn’t thought about that. Rarely was Eddie ever not at home, unless he was doing a job for somebody. He didn’t work anything steady. Mama said it was because Eddie lived off his inheritance, whatever that meant. But he still did odd jobs and favors around town—pumping gas for customers at the service station, repairing tractors, fixing roof leaks.

  Mama called it busy work, another expression Timmy didn’t quite understand.

  “If he’s not, I guess we’ll head over to Buck’s,” Timmy said.

  “Okay,” said Peter. His eyebrows lifted. “Never know, Robin Hicks might be there.”

  Timmy fluttered inside. “At Eddie’s?”

  “No, dink. At Buck’s.”

  It was possible. Just like everybody else, Robin liked going there. He’d seen her with her friends sitting at the bar, sipping a glass bottle of soda through a straw. He liked how her lips formed around the straw’s tip, slightly puckering as the skin of her upper lip wrinkled. Her eyes drifted up as if she were reading something on the wall.

  He could watch her without her knowing at Buck’s. When she used to sit with him, he never dared to try. She’d catch him for sure.

  Picturing her lips made Timmy feel squirmy inside. He was tempted to forget going to Eddie’s, and pedal all the way back to Buck’s just to see if she was there.

  But they weren’t far from the corner of Archer, where the Gein farm was. Might as well see if Eddie was home.

  And get something cold to drink.

  Eddie didn’t have any power in the house, so he had no use for a refrigerator. But on Saturdays, he kept a tub filled with ice and the necks of glass bottles poking out like frosted weeds.