Ed stared, unable to speak.
“Things that…turn you on are considered wicked and obscene to the likes of Plainfield.” She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “Mr. Gein, how do you think these credulous people would respond if they knew you get a thrill out of digging up the dead bodies of their loved ones so you can dress in their skin?”
Ed could hardly breathe, and it had nothing to do with Dorothy’s weight on his chest. “How…how do you know that?”
“Oh, Mr. Gein. We know everything about the darker side of the night. There’s a whole other realm below the darkness. It’s where we get to play. You dwell down there with us. When you’re out on one of your graveyard jaunts, we’re with you, supporting you as you crack open the caskets to rifle around the sleeping dead inside.”
“You’re not Dorothy…you’re something else.”
“Oh, Mr. Gein. Again, you show how perceptive you truly are.” Smiling, she shook her head again. “It’s not going to give me any great release to kill you. At least, not right away. However, I’m positive once I taste your blood, I’ll forget all about my qualms.”
Dorothy’s face came at Ed, mouth wide. Her throaty hiss shot coyote blood on his face. As her mouth made for his throat, her rump lifted off Ed’s stomach.
He thrust his hips, threw his knees high into her back.
Dorothy’s snarl changed to confusion before she tumbled upward. Her stomach slid across his face. When her legs came up, Ed reached under the bottom of her dress, clutched her knees and flung her higher.
The little girl with the ancient mind hit the floor above his head, rolling.
Ed flipped onto his stomach, looking up. Dorothy, on all fours, rear turned to Ed, looked back at him. Mouth wide, she roared.
“Oh, shit…” Ed looked around, his head whipping this way and that. He spotted what he was looking for. Laughing wildly, he dove for his hat as Dorothy lunged for him. When her chest pounded the floor where his head had just been, his hand snatched the hat. Landing on his side, Ed rolled away, putting distance between him and Dorothy.
Slamming her fists on the floor, she let out a roar more enraged than the first.
Ed got onto his knees, put on his hat, and tugged it down to his eyebrows. He let out a long, quivery breath, feeling whole, once again.
Now he was ready.
Dorothy hopped onto her feet, legs bent and spread like a grasshopper. She jumped again, springing forward, arms outstretched.
Ed caught her under the arms, fell onto his back, and shoved his knee into her stomach. Dorothy let out a grunt as Ed pushed his knee up, bringing her over his head. Dorothy flipped, crashing onto the debris of the table Ed broke.
A jagged piece of wood the width of a baseball bat burst through her stomach, coated in dark blood. Screaming, Dorothy grabbed the hunk of wood.
Momentarily stunned by the accidental injury he’d caused, Ed watched as Dorothy gripped the spikey tip. Blood had made the wood slippery. Her fingers slid off whenever she tried to grab it.
Dorothy groaned. Ed figured it was partly from pain, but mostly aggravation. Giving up on removing the lodged hunk of wood, Dorothy sat up. The flat end of a table leg jutted from her back.
Ed got to his feet, groaning as well. Pain was his only reason. His body throbbed with each footstep toward Bernice’s scimitar. It lay on the floor a few feet from Bernice’s head. Crouching, he grabbed the knife. Before standing, he gave Bernice a quick inspection. Though the lump on her head had stopped bleeding, it looked as if a baseball had been inserted under her skin. Dark smudges of bruising ran down her cheek and across her brow.
Beaten, not dead.
With the scimitar clutched in his hand, the curl of blade pointing out, Ed faced Dorothy. Her back to him, she had gotten on her knees while he wasn’t looking. He needed to get this over with before her shock wore off.
Ed strolled over to the busted table.
“Where are they heading, Dorothy?” he asked.
Her shoulders lifted, held a moment, then dropped. “You know where they’re going.”
“To the grave?”
“Again, Mr. Gein, you prove your intelligence. Since the master cannot cross the boundary to where his love rests, he will use one of them, the boy probably, to finish the task you were sent to do.”
Just as I figured.
Dorothy turned her head, as if trying to watch him from over her shoulder. On the side of her face Ed could see, he noticed thin crimson tails hanging from her eyes. Tears? The dark lines reached her jawline, dripping onto her dress.
She seemed to know what was coming.
And Ed didn’t hesitate.
The scimitar’s blade bit through Dorothy’s neck with a sharp whack. Dorothy’s head plopped off, bouncing away from her shoulders as the ragged neck ejaculated gloppy black fluid. The headless body fell forward. Instead of landing flat, the wood protruding from her stomach hit the floor. Dorothy’s body rested at an incline, neck spurting.
Other than that, nothing happened. Ed waited for some kind of triumphant response to the death. Frowning, he was disappointed by the lackluster repercussion. In the books and comics, the undead either burst into flames or exploded into clouds of ash, some kind of extravagant demise.
Sighing, Ed used the bottom of Dorothy’s grimy dress to wipe the blade. He stood up, twirled the handle in his hand, and sighed again.
What a mess.
The Vampire of Plainfield
Geiner:
What did Ed say to the cop who arrested him?
“Have a heart!”
-34-
Ed nearly sped past his own driveway. Stamping the brakes, he jerked the wheel hard to the left and aimed the front of the truck between the trees. The truck bounced hard when it hit the dip between the road and his driveway.
Bernice jumped in the seat. Her head bonked the window.
Wincing, Ed expected her to sit up shouting. She didn’t. Bernice was still out cold.
He stomped the gas. The tires scraped the gravel, throwing out a cloud of dust and rock behind them.
Please be all right.
The condition the vampire’s maw had left Bernice’s arm in was hard to look at. Deep rips in her flesh showed tendon and bone. He wished he knew if Bernice was in danger of turning into a vampire herself. He didn’t think so, but Ed’s knowledge on vampire lore came from the little Bernice had told him and what he’d read in made-up stories.
All those stories agreed on one thing—if the head vampire was killed, everything would be fine.
Almost everything. As Bernice had said, it was too late for Dorothy and Peter.
Don’t have to worry about Dorothy anymore.
He’d taken care of her. He’d hated to do it, but felt no remorse that it had been done. Plus, she knew things about him. After she’d become a vampire, she seemed to know all of Ed’s secrets.
Would Bernice know those things?
Ed hoped not. Kill the vampire, and Bernice would be fine.
The summer kitchen came into view, quickly growing in size as they got closer. He slammed both feet on the brake pedal. The wheels locked, but the truck kept sliding, scraping the dirt underneath, and throwing up walls of dust outside the windows.
Ed spotted Bernice’s car where she’d parked it earlier. For a terrifying moment, he thought the truck was going to wham into its back end. He managed to maneuver the truck just enough to lightly scrape the car’s rear. It made a soft squeak as they went by.
The truck came to a rocky halt.
Ed carried Bernice inside first. The house was dark and quiet. There was no time to light a lamp. Making his way through darkness, Ed entered the living room. He wanted to take her upstairs, but knew his back wouldn’t handle it. So he dropped her down in his favorite chair, folding her hands on her lap.
“Sorry Bernice,” he said. “Wish I had time to take care of you like you did me, but I don’t.”
“E…Ed?” Bernice said in a weak and tired voice.
“Bernice?” Ed ran to the side of the chair, crouching.
“Wha…? Ed?”
Shushing her, he pulled the afghan down from the top of the chair. The blanket was one of his favorites. Mama had made it herself. He unfolded it over Bernice, covering her to her shoulders. “Just sit tight. Get some rest.”
“My…head…”
“I know,” he said. “I know. I’ll be back soon as I can.”
Bernice’s eyes were closed. He just now noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She looked odd without them. Her face somehow seemed bigger, though her shut eyes looked much smaller. “Where are you going?” she said, smacking her lips.
Ed stood up. “I’m going to get ready.”
-35-
With Dorothy draping his shoulder, Ed slammed the summer kitchen door, throwing the bolt in place to lock it. He turned around, stepping into the room. Carrying the little girl’s head by the hair, he underhand tossed it. The head smacked the wall, toppled down, and hit the table. It rocked back and forth, going still on its side. Her pale face, dark splotches for eyes, leered at him. Letting his shoulder sag, her body dropped. She made a sick thud when she hit the floor.
The flame in the lantern flickered, filling the room in a dim golden hue. Mary, on her back, was a few feet away. He’d brought her into the summer kitchen minutes ago. Dragged her since he didn’t have Bernice’s help to carry her. It had been rough work, but he’d finally gotten her inside.
Gazing at Mary’s large breasts pitched back on her chest, somehow making them look both flatter and larger at the same time, Ed took several deep breaths. They started off rapid, but soon slowed as he took air into his lungs, and slowly let it out.
A warm fog began to drift through his head, muting his thoughts, pacifying his emotions.
Stripping from his clothes, Ed left them where they fell.
Soon, he felt blank, unattached.
The ax whacked off Mary’s head in one easy swing.
His secret place, where he allowed himself to go while he worked—a void where Ed’s integrity slept as deeply as the dead.
Mary’s head was clamped in a vice on Ed’s workbench, the bar twisted until each thick side squeezed what remained of her neck. Ed kissed her forehead. Her flesh was cold and tasted slightly rotten.
Sometimes images broke through the mental blinder—
Mary’s ankles were bound with rope.
The rope was fed through the pulleys bolted into the ceiling beam, a length left dangling.
Ed gripped the length and pulled. Mary’s body lifted off the floor, feet first, as the pulleys whined and the ceiling beam groaned.
Mary’s arms rose last, fingers brushing the floor as she swayed.
With Mary suspended shoulders above the floor, the pointed crossbar above the beams was shoved through her feet.
Her body was secured.
—but they were only fractions, flashing glimpses of his incongruous activities.
The dressing knife stabbed into the side of Mary’s neck.
The blade slid easily up to her ear, making a perfect incision in the dead, tacky flesh.
The knife carved all the way around her face, to the first incision on the neck.
A hand palmed Mary’s face, pressing snug against her nose.
Slipping fingertips in her hair, the hand slowly twisted, as if turning a dial.
Thick, moist crackles came from the other side of her face.
Her face moved.
One by one, fingertips slipped behind the flimsy edges of skin.
Starting at her brow, the fingers pulled.
Her forehead stretched, creases in her skin flattening as the face peeled away from the head. Underneath were bumpy ridges, coated in crimson paste.
The thin sheet of skin wilted like wet newspaper.
The hump of her nose dipped when it popped loose.
The top lip plucked free, sagging low and hiding the teeth.
The bottom began to stretch like gum, the plump skin jiggling above the strong, cleft chin.
It pulled away with a juicy, slashing sound.
Only the cap of hair held it on the head, the face a rumpled curtain over the skull.
Mary’s body hung upside down—a colossal tower of flesh and bone.
The knife started at her crotch and ran down to the stub of her neck, making a T from shoulder to shoulder.
The cut was repeated from hip to hip to form an I. Blood-streaked hands parted the skin as if opening drapes. Innards sloughed out like gloppy rain, forming piles on the floor. The organs were ignored as the knife continued to whittle the skin.
Sewing needles fed thread through the flimsy edges of skin, putting the pieces together.
Mary’s saggy face watched from the vice, awaiting its turn, as the needles constructed a suit from her hulled skin.
Its turn came, added to the suit by the flabby neck skin, the edges sewed to the top of the chest.
Dorothy’s arms came off in quick, vicious strikes of the ax.
Her legs followed.
The arms and legs were gathered, carried to the workbench and dropped on top like logs for a fire.
Her arm was selected first.
The knife made a slit from the wrist to the elbow on both sides.
As if unwrapping a morbid present, the sleeve of skin was torn away. A glove of insipid flesh remained on the hand, but that was okay, only the forearm was needed.
Hands kept peeling and cutting, stripping the bones until the prospects were set aside. Some had hands still attached, a couple were tipped with rigid, elfin feet.
The meat cleaver came next.
Lifting the heavy instrument, a distorted reflection was glimpsed in the glowing blade, the reflection like a vampire himself—deep-socketed eyes, pale tint of skin, and wild oily hair.
Holding the arm by the nub, the cleaver came down. It chopped through the tiny wrist, pounding the table hard enough to rattle it. The hand bounced away and fell off the side of the workbench.
The cleaver chopped the rest, severing pieces that weren’t needed.
A file was used to sharpen the tips.
Finished, the hand picked up a bone stake, tapping the filed tip with a finger.
Then the stake was thrown at Mary’s hanging body.
The sharp end of the bone punched into what was left of her chest, sinking in deep. There was a meaty squelch of the tip puncturing her heart.
Bare, hairy legs slid into the skin leggings, hiking up the waist.
The upper half of the suit hung behind, attached to the leggings by thread. Like putting on a jacket, arms stuffed into the empty sleeves until the hands poked out the ends.
The skin was pulled together in front.
The suit felt cold and tacky and stiff against the naked flesh. It itched.
Mary’s crotch pressed snugly. The sticky touch made him shudder with pleasure.
The front, vest-like section was fringed with tatters of thread. Tying them together squeezed the suit against his body, making leathery sounds when the arms reached over his shoulders to grab the mask.
It was pulled over like a hood. Only a slight adjustment had to be made so it could be seen through.
Mary’s hands were pulled over his, fingers flexing as he worked to make them fit inside. Rope was used to tighten the gloves around his wrists.
Bernice’s garlic wreath was slung over the head. It draped the chest piece.
Bernice’s harness belt was fastened around the waist, covering a trellis of thread that held the two sections together.
The bone stakes were slipped through each leathery loop like bullets in an outlaw’s bandolier.
Bernice’s scimitar was dropped into the sheath, dangling against the stiff legging covering his left thigh.
The stake was wrenched from Mary’s heart, loaded into the crossbow. The chord snapped in place, readying the crossbow to fire.
Ed took a deep breath, relishing the feel of his skin armor.
He was ready to kill.
-36-
Timmy wished he were in his room right now, working on a story. The situation he was in was like something he’d have conceived for one of his characters. Laughing while he put him through unimaginable scenarios and pulling for them to make it through to the end. He could have written this scene—a boy his age that’d just been carried through the sky by a vampire and dropped on the ground deep in the dark woods behind a cemetery.
Had he read at night by his lamp, it probably would have prevented him from sleeping.
Timmy saw his bed, saw himself tucked under his blankets, sleeping. He longed to be there.
If only he hadn’t let Robin talk him into leaving home.
Hardly took much convincing to get him out of his room. Besides, she’d have gone to Goult’s without him. Come across Peter, and Timmy would have never known.
Maybe that would’ve been better.
No. He was glad he was with Robin.
Some help I’ve been.
What if he was in somebody else’s story? Maybe an ominously creative writer was sitting at his or her desk right now, allowing Timmy to guide his pencil through the plot. Maybe the writer already had a destination in mind, a happy ending.
Fat chance of that.
This was no story. Hard as it was to accept, this was reality. Timmy wouldn’t be able to write himself out of the predicament.
And he felt a hollow space open up in his heart when he realized he’d probably never get to write again.
He wondered what would happen to his stories. Would his parents keep them? Maybe read them from time to time as a way to reconnect with him after he was gone?
I’ll be fine.
Something inside told him he was wrong. Whether he lived or died, nothing would ever be the same again.
“Boy. Time is not plenty. Now, do as I say.” The vampire offered his hand. “Take my hand, and I will instruct you on what you must do next…for me.” Mouth stretching wide, purple lips pulled back over a cavern filled with teeth. The longer ones up front curved to points.
The Vampire of Plainfield Page 26
