by Amy Cross
My mother is quietly furious that I was out all night again. She pulls me aside and demands to know where I was. I consider telling her the truth, but I decide that wouldn't go so well. "Relax," I say. "I was just out partying, taking drugs and having unprotected sex in inappropriate places." This shuts her up long enough for me to give her the slip and go to meet some of the people who have turned up for the funeral.
I talk to Sharon, my dad's girlfriend, and she tells me that my dad was always talking about how much he wanted to invite me out to LA to visit. That sounds pretty typical of my dad: always talking about things, but never quite managing to get around to doing anything about it. If he'd lived another ten years, he'd probably still have been always planning to invite me and arrange things, but would never have got around to actually organizing things.
"It's lovely here," says Sharon, looking around at the cemetery with its green grass and hillside view of the city. "Very spiritual."
"Do you really think my dad would want to be buried here?" I ask.
"Of course," says Sharon. "Why not? Look at it, it's beautiful."
"Hey," says a voice from behind. I turn to find that Shelley and Rob have turned up, with Shelley's friend Alice a short distance behind them. "I have no idea if it's appropriate for us to be here," Shelley says. She leans closer and whispers. "And I think we're still a bit drunk from last night. Does that matter?"
"I don't think so," I say, giving her a hug.
We walk across the cemetery to the spot where my father's ashes are going to be buried. I wanted to scatter them somewhere, but it's been decided to bury them, and no-one listens to my opinion anyway.
"Don't you think it's wrong to bury ashes?" I ask Shelley. This is something that's really bothering me. I just can't see that this is the kind of thing my father would ever have wanted.
"It's bollocks," Shelley says.
I turn to Rob. "What do you think?"
"It's a bit weird," he says.
"I'd hate to be buried," Alice adds. "I'd want to be scattered."
"Me too," I say quietly, staring at the urn.
The priest puts the urn on a small table and starts to speak. I nudge Shelley in the ribs and get her to follow me around the back of the crowd. With everyone focused on the priest, I grab the urn and we walk away quickly, breaking into a run as we head off. It's a little late, but I think I've finally found a way to show my father that I'm a good daughter. Sure, he's dead now, but at least I'm giving him what I know he would have wanted.
"What are we doing?" asks Shelley.
"We're staging an ash-napping," I say. "Come on!"
We start running, away from the cemetery and into the forest. They're all going to be so mad when they find out I've stolen my father's ashes, but the truth is: I knew my father as well as any of them ever did, if not better, and I know that he'd want his ashes scattered somewhere. In fact, I know exactly where.
There's no point trying to argue with my mother, or with Sharon. They want things to be done properly. They think it would be wrong to not bury my father formally in a cemetery, near his parents. They're completely deluded, and I'm not going to let my father be buried in a little box in a boring cemetery when I know exactly where he'd really want to be.
Shelley, Rob, Alice and I head down to the river. This is a place where my father used to bring me and my brother. He said it was where he used to play as a kid. As we reach the river bank, I turn to see that not only have Shelley, Rob and Alice followed me, but Adam and Todd have also come. Right about now, there's probably a huge fuss at the cemetery as they desperately try to find the ashes and realize with mounting shock that I've taken them. I can't help smiling at the thought of the look on my mother's face. Still, they won't be able to find us in time. None of them will know where to look.
"Who's that?" asks Shelley.
I turn to see Patrick standing a short distance away, watching us. He's keeping well back from the group, but he's here.
"He's a friend of mine," I say, unable to quite believe that he's shown up. I never expected to see him today. In fact, it didn't occur to me that he might make an appearance. I can't deny that it feels good to know that he cared enough to come.
"He's hot," Shelley whispers, clearly interested.
"He doesn't say much," I reply.
"Does he need to?" she asks. "Look at him. I wouldn't mind if he never said a word, as long as -" She stops. "Sorry," she says. "Bad moment. We'll talk later."
I turn and open the lid of the urn. I look inside and see a load of gray powder. Wow. So that's what they turned my dad into. It's so weird seeing him like this, part of me wants to hang onto the ashes, perhaps put them in my room. But no, that'd be totally macabre. The only people who do that are little old ladies who can't let go of the past.
I can let go of the past.
So, tipping the jar upside down, I watch as the ashes fall out and scatter on the breeze. It seems appropriate to do it like this, and it also seems appropriate that my mother and Sharon are probably squabbling like crazy back at the cemetery. Shit, I'm going to get into a lot of trouble for this, but who cares? It's not as if they can undo what I've done.
"Bye dad," I say quietly, under my breath, as the ashes settle on the surface of the river. I don't think anyone hears me. I take a deep breath, as the enormity of the moment hits me. My father's gone forever.
"So are you seeing the hot guy?" Shelley whispers suddenly. "Or can I have a go? 'Cause I don't want to step on any toes or get in the way of anything. Are you and Adam serious? I don't understand, are you seeing both of them?"
I open my mouth to reply -
"Never mind," says Shelley, sounding disappointed. "He's gone."
I turn to see that she's right. There's no sign of Patrick. But he was here, albeit briefly, and that means something. Slowly, I start walking back to the cemetery with the others. We have a lot of explaining to do, and a lot of pretty angry people to placate. But really, everyone should be happy. They didn't need the ashes for their little ceremony, and they can still bury the box if that's what they want. I just think my father would be happier knowing his ashes have been scattered into the world rather than put in a little box and buried underground. I know that's what I would've wanted. And I think my father and I were pretty similar.
I don't regret a thing.
Epilogue
The dinner table is set, and all the candles are lit throughout the house. The doormen have been put in position, and the maids have spent the past week cleaning. The smell of cooking is wafting through the house. Workmen are upstairs, making sure that there's no way anyone can open any of the wrong doors, and as darkness falls for the final time, I take one more tour through the banqueting hall until, finally, I reach the spot where I know I will one day die.
After all, everything has to be perfect for the arrival of our guests.
I walk over to the window overlooking the garden. In the pitch darkness outside, I see that the three lights have taken up their usual place, awaiting their chance to feed. Whether they will get that chance, however, remains to be seen. After all, our guests tonight are rather special. Nevertheless, I have reassured the lights that they will not go entirely hungry.
"Where shall I put these, miss?" asks a young maid who comes over to me with a large bunch of flowers. The stupid girl should not even be talking to me. She has no idea how etiquette works. I calmly take the flowers from her.
"I will arrange them myself," I say.
"Very good, miss," says the maid, bowing and turning to leave.
"Wait," I say. "What is your name?"
She turns back to me, fear etched across her face. "Muriel," she says timidly.
"Hello Muriel," I say. "I have a job for you." I glance out the window. The lights are watching. "I need you to go to the bottom of the garden and bring up some carrots for the pot."
"Yes, miss," she says, seemingly relieved. She steps out through the back door and heads down to the bottom of the garden, straight toward t
he lights. After a moment, I hear the faintest of screams.
I go through to the kitchen. Everything is coming along wonderfully. The chef has prepared a marvelous meal that is sure to provide the foundation for a wonderful evening, and the finest wines have been brought up from the cellar.
As I watch everybody scurrying about, preparing for the grand banquet, I cannot help but marvel at how wonderful the house looks. It has been so, so long since we had an event on this scale. Indeed, it has been many years since we had any visitors at all.
But now they are coming.
Finally, after all these years. I must put Gwendoline back down into the basement, and ensure that Astley's face is clean. I must also inform Wormwood; it's likely that he'll choose to leave before they arrive. He's not interested in Sophie, although from time to time he mutters the name Abigail in his sleep.
I can't help but smile. They're really coming; all four of them! And they will be here soon. In fact, their journey has already begun, on the long road that will bring them here, to us.
They are coming to Gothos.
Book 5
The Life, Death, Life, Life and Death of Martin Keller
Prologue
My eyes open.
How long have I been sleeping? It feels like an eternity has passed. Perhaps it has been even longer. I’m still not quite awake. I have to clear my mind; I have to remember where I’m supposed to be. Didn’t I leave myself a clue somewhere?
I turn to look across the room. That’s good: I can still move my body. I was scared that... Wait, what was I scared of? I remember now... I was scared that the operation would destroy my body, that I would wake up crippled or that I wouldn’t wake up at all. However, I seem to be alive.
The question is: was the operation a success?
I feel a powerful sensation rising up through my body. Something familiar. What is it? It’s a feeling I’ve known before, many times. It’s flooding my body, but I can’t remember what it is. Does it have a name? Yes, I remember now: pain. I’m feeling pain. The most intense, excruciating pain I could ever imagine, all through my body.
I’m alive...
I scream, and my voice is so loud that it scares me. It sounds as if there has been no noise in this room for so long. I keep screaming and screaming, aware that this is the only possible response to the agony that has taken hold of my entire body.
I look down at my arms. Where I was once a small, skinny man, now I have huge muscles, held together with metal clips and stitches.
What have they done to me?
I hear a noise nearby, the sound of someone running over to my bed. I stop screaming and look down, just in time to see a large syringe rammed into my arm. After a moment, the pain starts to subside. I look up at the nurse and see her back away in shock.
What do I look like? What have they done to me? Where the hell is Nimrod?
“Mr. Keller,” says a voice. I turn to see Dr. Graves standing by my bed. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions,” he continues. “The most important thing is that the operation was a complete success. You...” He pauses and looks at the rest of my body. “You have exactly what you wanted. I've already informed the Watchers that there's nothing to worry about”.
I try to speak, but I can only nod.
"The other experiment was something of a failure. I believe Comfortable has already been dismissed."
I take a deep breath. Comfortable was always doomed to die. It was always clear that I would be the one to rise and take on the last vampire.
“The wounds are healing,” Dr. Graves continues, “and there are no infections so far. I anticipate that you will be able to leave the facility within five or six weeks. Until then, you will need lots of rest, and some therapy to help you regain the use of your body. As we discussed previously, none of this is going to be easy. The pain will be extreme. Even morphine...” He seems nervous, almost scared. “Even morphine will not be able to hold it back for long. You will spend at least the next two weeks in unbearable agony. But you will survive”.
I nod again. I know all of this. We discussed the operation extensively for months before he agreed to start cutting me up. He insisted over and over again that he had ethical concerns with carrying out such a procedure, but Benjamin simply raised the price he was willing to pay him. One million dollars, then five million, then ten million. Eventually we offered him thirty million dollars and his ‘ethical concerns’ were miraculously eased. I was under his knife the very next day, just as soon as the money had cleared into his account.
All of that seems so long ago.
I feel the pain starting to come back, starting to fill my body once again. It’s like a wave heading for shore, ready to break at any moment.
“I can’t help you,” says Dr. Graves, clearly seeing that I'm starting to tense my body against the oncoming agony. “You’ll just have to accept the pain for the next couple of weeks. I spoke to Benjamin earlier today; he told me that you're more than strong enough to endure the agony. Someone is coming to keep an eye on you. Together, we’ll monitor you twenty-four hours a day, and then we can talk when you're ready”.
The pain is stronger than ever. Although I clench my teeth, eventually I have to scream. But as the scream fills the room and Dr. Graves retreats, my mind is filled with a single, clear image: the last vampire, Patrick, with his neck being crushed in my hands, before I sink my teeth into his veins and suck out every drop of blood in his body. I have waited so long for victory; I can wait a few more months. I finally have what I need: I finally have the weapons that will destroy him.
My name is Martin Keller. I have killed many vampires in the past. One more to go...
Sophie
“Who the hell is that guy?” Shelley asks, squinting at something out the window.
“Who?” I ask, turning to see a man sitting in a car on the other side of the road.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Someone sitting innocently in his car?”
Shelley shakes her head. She's always pretty paranoid, but this is worse than usual. “He was doing exactly the same thing when we were at the library earlier. He was sitting outside, watching us going in and out. And I saw him yesterday too, watching us in the park”. She turns to me. “I’m being followed!”
"Maybe it's me," I point out.
Shelley laughs. “You’re not the one who’s investigating a mystery”.
I give her a what-the-fuck look.
“You know that haunted house I was telling you about the other day?” she asks, staring out the window of the cafe at the man she believes is following her. “Someone lives there now”. She turns to me. “Someone moved in last week, and get this... Apparently it’s the person who used to live there years ago. Imagine that: moving back to a haunted house that you ran away from when you were younger. What kind of fucked up crazy kind of thing to do is that?”
“Very,” I say, not really paying attention.
“The lights are on, and people go in and out late at night,” she continues. “During the day it still looks abandoned, but there’s stuff going on after it gets dark, like -”
“Wait,” I say, “are you stalking this person?”
She looks slightly offended by the suggestion. “Not stalking,” she says, “investigating. I’m investigating, to see what’s going on. If I don’t, who will?”
I nod. “You’re right,” I say. “If you weren’t standing under a tree across the road, watching this house day in and day out, noting down details of even the most boring things... no-one would be doing it. Thank God for you, Shelley”.
She stirs her milkshake with a straw. “Don’t think I miss your sarcasm,” she says. “But crazy shit happens all the time, and they rely on the fact that no-one’s watching what they’re doing. They rely on the nonchalance of people like you, Sophie!”
“Well if only there were more crazy people like you,” I say.
“It’s not just me,” she says. “Rob helps”.
I open
my mouth to say something witty and incisive, but I decide to hold back. After all, some targets are just too easy. “Glad you’re keeping busy,” I say. The truth is, if all of this had happened a year ago, I’d have been right there with Shelley, helping her out. These days, however, I have other things on my mind. Real things, like vampires and werewolves and things that go bump in the night.
I glance out the window. The man is still sitting in his car. Shelley’s right about one thing: he does seem to appear wherever we are these days. In fact, I think I saw him near my house this morning...
“You want anything else?” asks the waitress, wandering over to our table
“No thanks,” I say, before Shelley can order another huge milkshake. “I have to get going. Just the bill, please”.
“The bill’s been paid for you,” says the waitress.
Shelley and I exchange a puzzled glance.
“By who?” I ask.
The waitress shrugs, and then she drops the receipt on the table. “Someone phoned it in,” she says. “No idea who. Wish they’d start picking up my tab”.
I take the receipt and look at it. Realizing that there’s something written on the back, I turn it over. Scrawled in barely legible handwriting is a simple phrase: "We need you." I stare at it for a moment. There’s only one person this could be. I crumple the receipt up and put it in my pocket.
“I’ve really got to go,” I say to Shelley, standing up. “Seeya tomorrow”. I grab my coat and rush out, half walking and half running along the street. After all, I’ve never been summoned by Vincent and Patrick like this before. This is the first time they’ve ever seemed to actually need me to turn up. Why didn’t they just come and find me like they usually do?
As I turn the corner and head toward the road that leads to the forest, my excitement dips a little and I can’t help wondering if something is terribly wrong. And there’s something else: I’m pretty sure I’m being followed. Once I head into the forest, however, I seem to lose the person who’s following me. I keep glancing over my shoulder, but there’s no sign of anyone. Nevertheless, it’s hard to shake the feeling that some set of unknown eyes is keeping watch over me. Being ultra-paranoid, I even keep glancing up at the sky, expecting to see a helicopter or a drone, but again - nothing. So I’m pretty sure that whoever’s following me is elsewhere for now, perhaps cursing himself for losing his target. I relax a little. Still, the mere fact that someone is on my trail means that something’s not right. It seems I've attracted some attention.
