by John Moralee
Me: “What did you think of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer?”
Vlad: “A cheerleader can defeat my kind! Very unrealistic. I liked Spike. He’s a vampire’s vampire. Should I dye my hair white?”
Me: “You watched some of the spin-off show Angel. What’s your opinion on that?”
Vlad: “I don’t like Angel. He helps humans fight demons. He also lives in Los Angeles, which looks far too hot and crowded.”
Me: “What about Moonlight?”
Vlad: “I did not understand that vampire. Why does he live in Hawaii in full daylight solving crimes?”
Me: “That was not Moonlight. It was Hawaii 5-0.”
Vlad: “Do not correct me!”
Me: “Sorry.”
Vlad: “I apologise. I am really, really thirsty. I shall feed. Excuse me.”
(He disappeared for a few hours. He returned with blood on his face.)
Me: “Did you kill someone?”
(He mumbled something. I saw one of his fangs had been broken.)
Me: “What happened?”
Vlad: “Human females of this century become very angry when I try to hypnotise them. One sprayed something peppery in my eyes and punched me in the mouth. Then her boyfriend chased me down the street. There were some noisy flying machines in the sky looking for me. I had to run forty miles. I think I need a lie down …”
Vlad had recovered by the following night. He thanked me for my hospitality, telling me he would “friend” me on Facebook - once he was back in The Old Country.
After that, Vlad shipped himself out of England in a wooden crate. He’s living in Romania now under a fake name. He runs a small hotel and spa with his three wives. His Facebook profile shows him wearing a black leather jacket with his hair dyed white. He’s currently writing his autobiography, which he’s going to call Breaking Vlad.
He hopes it will be a huge bestseller.
The Final Tweet
“Guess who died today?” Alice said. “Go on – guess.”
Tom looked up from his tablet as Alice sat opposite him in the library’s reading room, where he had been accessing the free wi-fi. He had been busy working on his dissertation and did not like his girlfriend breaking his concentration – but he acted interested. Only a fool would ignore a beautiful girl. “Uh – I don’t know.”
He expected her to tell him, but she wanted to play a game. “I’ll give you some clues. He’s famous.”
“Elton John?”
“No.”
“David Bowie?”
“He’s not a musician. He’s a writer.”
“A famous writer?”
“Very.”
“What genre?”
“Horror.”
He had a sick feeling as he said the next words. “It’s not Stephen King?”
“No,” Alice said. “It’s not Stephen King.”
Tom felt relieved it wasn’t his favourite horror writer, but he did not like playing this stupid pointless game with Alice. “I give up. Just tell me.”
“Garrison Mortimer.”
“Oh,” he said. He had heard of Garrison Mortimer – but he had never read any of his work. Garrison Mortimer’s books always had his name splattered on the cover like a gush of artfully-directed blood. They were popular with readers of extreme horror. They did not appeal to Tom – but Alice was a fan. She had thirty of his novels and story collections on her shelves in her flat. Tom could see her waiting for a reaction to her news. Truthfully, he felt nothing, but he feigned shock. “Wow. He was young. I can’t believe he’s dead. That’s terrible.”
Alice sighed. “I loved reading his books. They were gory, but they were real, too. He didn’t write about vampires, werewolves and zombies. He wrote about things that could really happen, like stalking and serial killers. His fiction was so real some people believe it was based his real life experiences as an police officer. I’ll miss him.”
He nodded in sympathy. “How did he die?”
“That’s the terrible thing,” she said. “He killed himself during a question-and-answer session on Twitter.”
“Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Alice said. “It’s bizarre. It all seemed normal until his final message. It followed a tweet asking him what was the worst thing he had ever done. He tweeted back: Killed myself. Join me soon, fans. Then he posted a selfie as he cut his throat with a knife. His fans contacted the police – but they arrived too late to save him. Nobody has a clue why he killed himself.”
“It’s got people talking about him,” Tom said. “Maybe he faked it for publicity? Some writers will do anything to sell their books. Pretending you are dead is a great way to get free advertising. I wouldn’t be surprised if he posted that tweet just to create a twitter storm.”
“No. It would backfire once people realised he was alive. The picture is real, Tom. It’s a selfie of him dying. Look! I’ll show you!”
Alice showed Tom a picture on her phone. It showed Garrison Mortimer facing a bathroom mirror with his phone in his left hand and a sharp knife in his right one. A jet of crimson arterial blood from his sliced neck appeared to strike the mirror at the moment the selfie had been taken, half-blurring the image so that it was hard to see details.
“It’s not a great picture,” Tom said.
“I don’t think he cared about the quality,” Alice said. “He only did it to prove to everyone he had done it.”
“He must have been insane.”
“I suppose so,” Alice said. “He must have been to do it – but I don’t understand why he would write that other bit of the tweet saying, ‘Join me soon, fans.’ It’s like he’s inviting us to commit suicide. I hope nobody does it. If his tweet makes his fans kill themselves, it would be an act of pure evil.”
Tom agreed. “How many followers does – did - he have?”
“700,000.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of people reading that message. It’s highly irresponsible. Someone should shut down his Twitter account.”
“They probably will,” Alice said. “Can I use your tablet for a sec? I’d like to show you his Twitter page.”
“Okay.”
Alice signed on to her Twitter account. Tom read Garrison Mortimer’s final message. Killed myself. Join me soon, fans. There was one part of it that Alice had not mentioned before – the hashtag attached to the tweet.
#icurseuall2dieafterreadingthis
Tom shuddered as he read it aloud. “I curse you all to die after reading this. That’s a sick hashtag. I hope Twitter closes down his account before it upsets a lot of people. Some people might really believe he’s cursed them. What do you think?”
Alice did not reply. She was sitting very quietly with her head down on the table like she was sleeping, but she could not have been tired. She had been awake only a minute ago.
“Alice?” he said.
She did not answer. He could not see her breathing. He shook her shoulder, saying her name again. “Alice, are you all right? Alice, what’s wrong?”
She responded by slumping off her chair. Tom raced around to her side and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
“Help! My girlfriend’s collapsed! I think she could be dead!”
Tom heard someone scream then. Looking around, he saw it was a librarian kneeling next to her collapsed colleague. She was shaking the man and weeping because he appeared dead too. Tom noticed more people had fallen down. They were all dead.
“What’s happening?” a man said.
“They’re dead!” someone shouted. “Everyone is dead!”
There was nothing Tom could do.
The curse had worked.
He saw a new Twitter message on his tablet.
Thanks for following me #garrisonmortimer.
The Beachcombers
Soon after we arrived at Mulltawny Cove for our romantic picnic, a young boy started playing loudly in a rock pool close to the shoreline. His whoops and yells ruined the romantic mood I wanted to create for our lunc
h – but I tried ignoring them. I continued unpacking the wicker basket filled with luxurious foods and champagne to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. I laid them out on a tartan blanket, tasting a juicy strawberry from a punnet bought in the farmers’ market in the small town up the coast. I wanted my husband to get in the mood for romance – but he was too distracted by the noisy child. The boy was splashing around in the rock pool, yelling at gulls in the sky. He looked like he was having a great time. For a moment I envied the boy’s innocent fun. These days – with my job sucking the life out of me – I had barely time to breathe. Being an adult was no fun at all. I dipped a second strawberry in fresh whipped cream and tried to feed it to my husband in a sexy way – but he batted my hand away.
“I can’t believe this,” Steve said. “I thought we’d be completely alone. What is that kid doing on this beach?”
It was a decent question. Mulltawny Cove was not a popular tourist resort. Most people didn’t even know it had a beautiful sandy beach. I only knew about it because I had grown up in the local area and recalled visiting it often as a child.
“It’s a public beach,” I said. “We can still have a good time … even if we have to keep our clothes on.”
“Yeah, right.”
I knew Steve had been wanted to fool around naked among the sand dunes as soon as we had eaten our lunch – but his plan had been ruined now. Steve frowned and glared at the child. “Where’s that kid’s parents?”
I shrugged. “They won’t be far.”
“I don’t see anyone.”
I looked around. My husband was right. The little boy appeared to be alone. After what had happened to my little sister when I was eleven, I always worried when I saw unsupervised children. Somebody evil could come along and kidnap them – just like what had happened to Karen. She had gone missing when she was outside playing in our garden by herself. No trace of her had ever been found.
“We should keep an eye on him,” I said. “He could get hurt playing on those rocks. I once stepped on a jellyfish that made my foot swell to twice its normal size.”
“Relax. I’m sure his parents are nearby keeping an eye out. They could be watching their little horror from the other side of those big rocks.”
I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted, staring at the distant rocks under the overhanging limestone cliff. I used to visit the beach when I was a little girl, but things had changed a lot. I could not remember so many jagged black rocks on the far side of the cove. They looked dangerous. I saw no adults watching the child. “Maybe his parents are over there - but I don’t like him playing without an adult nearby. Steve, why don’t you go over and ask him where his parents are?”
“Me? Are you crazy? That’s the sort of thing the police arrest men for these days. I can’t do it. You do it if you care so much. You’re a woman. It wouldn’t be weird if you did it.”
Steve didn’t understand how much I was worried. “Okay! I’ll do it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes!” I stood up somewhat unsteadily on the soft warm sand. My bare feet sank deep into it.
Steve lay back on the blanket shaking his head. He grabbed his sunglasses and iPod and lay back on the blanket with a folded beach towel as a pillow.
“Wake me when you come back,” he said.
I was only dressed in my navy-blue bikini – so I grabbed Steve’s white T-shirt before heading towards the rock pool, which was about a hundred yards away. It looked like our romantic picnic was going to never happen – at least until I had made sure the child was not alone.
I looked around for his parents as I walked along the shore. Maybe they had gone off to explore the caves or something. I was hoping to see them so I would not have to go over to the rocks – but I saw nobody else on the beach. I followed the curve of the shore, staying on the hot dry sand close to the water’s edge. Gentle waves lapped near my feet, tingling my toes. The sea was calm, with just the gentlest of waves lapping on the smooth white sand. I could see how clean and shallow the water was all the way to the edge of the cove, which was protected from the more dangerous currents of the deeper water. The sun beat down on my head, making sweat run down my back.
The sandy part of the beach stopped near the dark rocky area ahead where the boy was playing. He had lank blonde hair and looked aged about five. It didn’t look like he was wearing a bathing suit – but it was hard to tell as he was splashing around in the pool. He ignored me until I was about ten feet away – then he suddenly fell quiet and dashed out of sight behind a long oval-shaped rock covered in dark-green seaweed. No! I’d scared him off. What was I going to do now? Chase after him? No.
I turned to look back at Steve – but my husband was not even looking my way. He was lying on the blanket with his hands behind his head, wearing sunglasses and his iPod, listening to music while tanning his body in the sun.
I was very tempted to head back – but if the child started making noise again Steve would somehow blame me. And I didn’t like going back without finding out where his parents were. Knowing that would ease my worries.
I reached the rocks and stepped off the warm sand onto cold slippery stone. This part of the beach was significantly colder than the other side because there was a long shadow over it from the overhanging cliff. I shivered despite the sun still warming my skin. My bare feet were cold. I wished I’d slipped on my flip-flops. I climbed over the rocks to the pool the boy had been playing in. The water was murky brown with dead seaweed. Slimy molluscs clung to the edge of the disgusting pool, which smelled of salt and ammonia and something rotten, the stench of something long dead. The boy had been playing in that water just a minute earlier. That thought made me feel sick.
“Hello?” I called out, hoping the boy would answer me so I would not have to go after him.
I heard sinister chuckling among the rocks. A chill went through me. There was something wrong about this whole situation. I didn’t know what was bothering me exactly – but the fine hairs on the back of my arms were standing up and my skin was prickling. I felt like I had been tricked somehow. That the boy had lured me there for some reason.
Just then something grey flashed in my peripheral vision. I flinched in response – but it was too late. That something hit me hard in the side of my head, causing an intense blinding pain as it knocked me sideways.
I fell down stunned and confused, my head bleeding. Part of my brain was awake – but another part had been knocked senseless. I didn’t know where I was. I tried standing – but my legs wobbled. I felt sleepy, though I wasn’t tired. I was concussed. I was suddenly violently sick – but being sick was good. It cleared my head. What had happened? Where was I? Why was I lying down on a grey rock looking into a pool of dirty water? I raised my head and saw I was on the edge of a rock pool and remembered I was at the beach with Steve.
And then, with a cold shock, I realised I had been attacked.
A ripple of cold laughter alerted me to the presence of others. Two bigger children had emerged from behind a big rock. A boy aged about eleven and a girl of a similar age, possibly twelve or thirteen. They had big sharp stones in their small not-so-innocent hands. I could barely believe my eyes. One of them had thrown a stone at my head! They were smiling and creeping towards me with the stones raised to smash in my skull. The sadistic expressions on their small faces were monstrous. The little boy stood behind them, grinning. He held a sharp stick as long as his body. They did not look like ordinary children – but evil little monsters determined to kill me. Each wore pale leathery rags like savages washed up on an island. Their feral, cunning eyes shone with the delight of having hurt me.
“STEVE!” I called out. Steve didn’t hear me. His iPod’s music was blocking out my call for help. He was blissfully unaware I needed him. He was probably dozing already. Steve didn’t have a clue the children were going to murder me.
In a panic I fled from them, scrambling over the rocks, ducking and dodging the stones they hurled at me.
“STEVE!” I screamed again just as I was struck painfully in the leg and in my back – but I blocked a lethal throw at my head with my right arm. A vicious pain shuddered up to my shoulder, making me cry out. My heart was hammering in my chest as I half-ran and half-crawled away from the little monsters. I had to find somewhere to hide from their stones because I was weakening with every heartbeat. My hot blood was running down my face. I had two choices – either run to the sea or run for the higher ground closer to the cliff where it was dark. I was a strong swimmer – but could I swim with a wounded arm? I stood no chance on the dry land unless I could hide – but the kids would find me quickly even in the gloomy shadow of the cliff.
I had to take a chance on the sea.
I dashed along the rocks with the children chasing me, jumping over the rock pools with casual ease. They were not even trying too hard to hit me. To them, it was a game. I was their plaything.
“STEVE!” I shouted again so loud my throat hurt afterwards – before slipping on an angular stone that shot a new sharp pain up my leg. Tripping saved my life because a stone aimed at the back of my skull missed, landing harmlessly in the sea. Getting up again, I dived into the water before they aimed again. I kicked out and swam away from the beach expecting to be knocked unconscious at any moment – but the children missed me with their stones. I swam until I was out of their range – then turned around to see if the children were swimming after me.
