Vampire Rain and Other Stories (Includes Samantha Moon's Blog)

by J. R. Rain

  Monique prays like crazy that he, in fact, won’t find anything. She is suddenly getting a very bad feeling about all of this. And her mum always told her to trust her feelings.

  As Clifton searches the room, she sees that it is littered with crates and boxes and some old church relics. Her cousin is now moving aside some brass sculptures and focuses his attention on the smooth, curved wall. He uses his free hand to touch the wall; the other holds the torch high.

  Monique watches him from the entrance, shaking her head ever so much. Her American cousin...so brave...and so stupid.

  Since she has no choice but to wait, she begins following suit, moving her hands over the curved wall, as well. Part of her knows that the sooner Clifton’s curiosity is satisfied, the sooner they can go back. Another part of her—a part that made her nervous—is starting to catch her cousin’s sense of adventure. Damn Clifton and his infectious curiosity!

  Suddenly, her cousin makes a sound. “Look, Mon, there’s a door here. I can feel it.”

  She moves over to his side, picking her way around the junk that litters the room. He holds the torch high. Yes, she can see it now, too: an arched opening. Except, of course, directly behind the opening is more of the stone wall.

  “Unless you can walk through walls, I think we better go back—”

  “Look for a lever. Something that will open the door.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m being serious. This is exactly the type of thing that was in ‘The Mummy’s Tomb.’ The archaeologists found a lever of some sort.”

  “Well, there’s no lever here.”

  “Just help me look, will ya?”

  She sighs and scans the room again. The light in here is better, thanks to the mysterious torches that crackle on the curved walls, casting their flickering light everywhere.

  No, not quite everywhere, she thinks. There’s a hole in the wall. A hole not far from her. She moves over to it. The hole isn’t very big. About as wide as her forearm. Or, as wide as...

  “Give me the torch, Clifton.”

  “Why?”

  “Just give it to me, will ya?”

  He hands her the torch and Monique promptly holds it over the hole, sizing it up. Indeed, it’s just as she thought: the metallic tip of the torch would fit inside perfectly. Which is exactly what she does now, sliding it in, nearly burning herself in the process.

  “Okay, what now, hot shot?” he asks, although he sounds impressed.

  Monique, of course, felt something that Clifton hadn’t: she had felt the torch click into place. Into what, she doesn’t know, but she is beginning to think that this hole isn’t just a hole, and this torch isn’t just a torch.

  It is a lever.

  Feeling a growing sense of excitement, knowing she might be doing something she will regret later—she grins and says, “Watch.”

  She grips the wooden torch about halfway down, well away from the snapping flame, and pulls down.

  Hard.

  Heart hammering, she hears Clifton gasp next to her. She waits, sure that something amazing is going to happen. But it doesn’t. Nothing. She exhales. Perhaps it is better that nothing has happened.

  “Looks like I was wrong. Now maybe we can go—”

  They hear it together. A low rumbling, coming from seemingly everywhere. And then it happens:

  The floor begins to rotate.

  * * *

  In the sanctuary above, the older, dark-haired boy continues to examine the altar, running his hands over the cool stone...until he finds the same hidden panel.

  Smiling, he pushes it. Nothing. He pushes harder, grunting, until it suddenly gives way.

  The dark-haired boy looks up and sees that he’s all alone. He also sees a nearby box of matches near a row of votive candles. He grabs the box and, at the secret entrance into the altar, pauses only briefly before ducking down and crawling in.

  * * *

  The cousins steady themselves as the floor and surrounding, circular wall rotates slowly. As it does, the tunnel entrance into the room disappears.

  Now, they are trapped, and it’s all Monique’s fault.

  Such an idiot, she thinks.

  Just as she thinks those words, something amazing happens: another doorway opens, revealed behind the arch that Clifton had found. Beyond is a dark opening, although an unearthly glow emanates from within.

  Clifton takes her hand...and also takes hold of the torch, pulling it free from the hole in the wall. Together, they step into the dark room.

  * * *

  The room is cavernous and gloomy.

  It is also filled with many ancient artifacts. No, not just artifacts, but weapons. Hanging from the walls are medieval swords, maces and lances.

  “What is this place?” asks Clifton, his voice filled with awe.

  It should be filled with fear, thinks Monique glumly. They were, after all, trapped in this room, and it was all her fault.

  They move deeper within, staying close together. Clifton holds the torch before him, but it soon became evident that it wouldn’t be needed. After all, a ring of flickering candles surround a stone sarcophagus, which siys in the middle of the room.

  Clifton heads straight over to the coffin, which is inlaid with strange and mysterious markings. He holds the torch over the lid, careful of the candles that form a ring along the floor.

  “I wonder who lit these candles,” says Clifton.

  “Probably whoever lit those torches.”

  “Yeah, right. Hey, do you know what these markings say?”

  She sighs and, despite feeling sick with worry, steps over to him. “It’s Latin, although I’m not sure what these other markings are,” she reports.

  “Please tell me you know Latin.”

  “Of course, Father taught it to me. He is, after all, a professor of paleo-linguistics.” She leans in closer and, after a few false starts, translates, “It says: ’Here lies the great wizard’.”

  “The great wizard, as in...Merlin?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, King Arthur? Lancelot? Excalibur?”

  “Oh, Merlin,” she says, pronouncing it in her thick French accent. “Do you think it’s really him?”

  Clifton shrugs. “Dunno.”

  Monique next examines the candles, her curiosity once again getting the better of her. She says, “How long do you suppose these candles have been burning?”

  “A long time, would be my guess. Like I said, maybe they’re magic.”

  Monique takes a step back. “I don’t like this. I think we should leave. In fact, we need to leave now. I’m getting really, really scared.”

  “And face the wrath of Uncle Gerard? No thank you. I would rather be down here in this stuffy old crypt.”

  Something suddenly occurs to her, and she heads back to the sarcophagus lid, motioning for Clifton to give her some light. He does so, and she examines the markings more closely.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I just realized what these other markings are. They’re runes.”

  “What’re those?”

  “Ancient Celtic writing.”

  “Let me guess: you can read those, too?”

  “Good guess.”

  “So what do they say?”

  She frowns. “I can’t read all of it.”

  “Well, what does some of it say?”

  Monique runs her now-dirty forefinger over the engravings, leaning down closely. “It’s some type of spell.”

  “A spell? Like a magic spell?”

  “Yeah.” She stands back. “This is isn’t a crypt, Clifton.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s a prison.”

  * * *

  The dark haired boy makes his way cautiously down the narrow flight of stairs, holding a single wooden match before him. After a God-awful length of time—and many more matches—he finally reaches the bottom. He peers cautiously into the long hallway, wondering what lay ahead
. He also wonders where the two younger kids have gone.

  Unmindful, the match burns his fingers and he yelps. All goes black. He feels around in the box...and produces his last match. He swallows hard, lights it, and follows the tunnel...

  * * *

  “An eternal prison,” Monique is saying, reading the runes. She looks up. “But I don’t understand.”

  “I do,” says Clifton. “Merlin can’t die. He’s immortal. Like a vampire or something. He lives forever. And all of these candles, and the spells and the hidden tomb...all of this is to keep him in his coffin.”

  “But I thought was a good wizard.”

  “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. No one really knows.”

  “Okay, now you’re really scaring me.”

  “I’m scaring myself, too.”

  As Monique backs away, her foot knocks over one of the candles. It falls to the stone floor...and winks out.

  “That can’t be good,” said Clifton.

  Indeed, in rapid succession, each of the candles begin going out, leaving only a hissing trail of black smoke. If not for Clifton’s torch, they would have been plunged into utter darkness.

  “Light them again,” urges Monique. “With the torch. Hurry!”

  Just as Clifton picks up one of the strange candles, hands fumbling, they both hear a strange noise.

  “What was that?” asks Monique. The color has drained from her face.

  “I don’t know.”

  They hear it again. Scraping...and it’s coming from within the sarcophagus.

  Clifton nearly drops his torch. “Holy crap!”

  “Merde!”

  And that’s when the lid to the sarcophagus moves, shifting slightly.

  No, not shifting, Monique realizes to her horror. It’s opening.

  * * *

  The final match has long since gone out.

  The dark-haired boy continues along in complete darkness, running his hand along the smooth stone wall, feeling his way. He knows that the two kids have gone on before him. He’s certain of it. Indeed, this is the only way they could have gone. If they can do it, then he can do it, too.

  He takes in a lot of cool air, then forges onward into the inky blackness.

  * * *

  To their horror, a long, dried-out, bony finger emerges from beneath the sarcophagus lid. It’s followed by three more...and a husk of a thumb. All curled out, gripping the heavy lid.

  That’s when Monique screams. She screams and screams and screams. In fact, she can’t stop screaming.

  Clifton grabs her hand, pulls his screaming cousin to the exit. And just as they reach the arched opening—an opening that leads back into the circular room, now a dead end—something heavy crashes to the stone floor.

  It is, they know, the sarcophagus lid.

  Whatever was inside is now free.

  Both kids pause, and, gasping and hyperventilating, turn to watch a white-haired man sit up.

  Not a man, thinks Clifton. A mummy!

  * * *

  The dark-haired boy hears the crash of something heavy falling, and picks up his pace as fast as he dares, stumbling in the darkness, running his hand along the tunnel wall...

  And there, far ahead of him, is his saving grace: a faint glow emanating in the tunnel.

  “Danke!” he whispers, and sprints forward.

  * * *

  The thing that sits up is not human.

  At least, not anymore. It has bleached-white skin, long gray hair and, remarkably, an elegant purple robe. As it sits up, it pauses briefly, and Monique thinks: It’s confused. It doesn’t know where it is.

  Then she sees something else, something that terrifies her even more than the the lid opening and a mummy appearing.

  Its eyes are glowing red.

  It’s a demon, she thinks. We are alone with a demon!

  Now she feels Clifton tugging her hard. Thank God for Clifton. Without him, she would have been incapable of moving. She stumbles and trips, falling to her knees. But her cousin holds her tight, never letting her go.

  Bless him, she thinks.

  She finds her feet, and soon they are racing back toward the arched opening which leads into the circular room...their only escape, even if it is a temporary reprieve.

  No, not temporary, thinks Clifton. We can pull the handle again!

  And just as they reach the doorway, the floor beneath them begins to rumble and shake. It is a familiar sound to the cousins. It meant, of course, that the circular room was rotating again.

  Indeed, the arched opening before them begins disappearing as the room within spins again. Where there was once an opening, a wall is appearing.

  The cousins pick up their speed...but not before the opening disappears completely, trapping them within.

  * * *

  The dark-haired boy reaches the end of the hallway and steps out of the darkness and into a circular room, which is lit, amazingly, by torches ensconced along the curved wall.

  What is this room?

  He doesn’t know, but he hears more muffled screaming coming from behind the wall. Where, exactly, he doesn’t know...but he’s going to find out.

  * * *

  Behind them, Merlin’s mummy rises supernaturally from the sarcophagus. As if his head and shoulders have been lifted by invisible, winged creatures.

  And now the ancient wizard is stepping down. As he does so, Monique is certain she is going to die of fright, if her hammering heart was any indication. In fact, she would rather die of fright, than face this...thing coming toward them.

  Merlin—or whatever it is—is hideous. The thing of nightmares. His skin is tattered and hangs from bones that she can see. Even his face is partially a skull, with some of the white bone gleaming through.

  This isn’t happening, thinks Monique, closing her eyes tight. I’m in bed, back in our country home. I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. Please God let this be a dream.

  * * *

  Clifton never wanted this.

  Yes, he had wanted adventure...but he never wanted this. He never wanted them to be in any real danger. And he especially didn’t want to put his cousin in any danger. Except that’s exactly what he has done.

  We are so busted, he thinks. But first things first.

  And first up was, of course, dealing with Merlin—and Clifton is certain that the thing ambling toward them is, indeed, the once-great magician, judging by the dead guy’s powerful tricks and old wizard robe.

  “Relax,” he says to his cousin. “We’re the ones who set him free, right? Why would he hurt us?”

  That line of reasoning seems to calm Monique down—and him, too, for that matter.

  That is, until Merlin raises his emaciated hands...then hurls a shaft of bright blue light at the two kids, knocking them off their feet, and slamming them back against the wall.

  “Geez,” grunted Clifton, as he picks himself up. “Now that’s gratitude for you.”

  Clifton turns in time to see another shaft of blue light appear from the reincarnated—and clearly pissed off—wizard. This time, the light is directed solely at Monique. Rather than blasting her, it envelopes her completely.

  “Cliff!”

  “Hang on, Mon!”

  He reaches for her, but the light is scalding to his touch. He recoils, gasping.

  Meanwhile, the wizard raises both hands...and Monique rises up with them, up off the ground and into the air, still surrounded by the blue light.

  “Cliff! Help!”

  The boy is momentarily at a loss. He gasps, looking for anything that can stop the old wizard, who seems to be regaining his power. Indeed, his dried-out skin is beginning to flesh out, while Monique’s own skin is beginning to crack.

  No, no, no! thinks Clifton. This isn’t happening!

  He desperately scans the room. There, on the wall opposite him, are all sorts of medieval weaponry. He dashes across the room and, gasping and stumbling, Clifton pulls a battle ax free from the wall. But it’s far too heavy for him
. He ditches it and next grabs a nearby sword. It was almost too heavy, but he uses both hands to control it.

  With Merlin’s attention focused solely on Monique, who is now rotating slowly in mid-air, her skin drying out at an alarming rate, Clifton rushes the wizard...and plunges the sword deep into the magician’s back.

  * * *

  The dark-haired boy frantically searches the circular room.

  Finally, his wildly scanning eyes fall upon the same hole that Monique had found earlier. A quick examination reveals fresh ash and silt around the opening. Thinking hard, his eyes next settle on one of the many torches embedded in the circular wall. He immediately grabs one, brings it over to the opening. Black smoke trails behind it.

  Just then, a hideous shriek erupts from behind the wall.

  The dark-haired boy gasps, then jams the torch inside the opening.

  * * *

  Merlin shrieks.

  The mummified wizard drops to his bony knees, grabbing the protruding point of the sword as he does so.

  Now, with his connection to Monique broken, she falls to the hard stone floor, landing hard. Immediately, Clifton is at her side.

  “Mon! Are you okay?”

  But she can’t speak. In fact, her withered face looks more like that of an old woman. Or a mummy.

  Oh God! “Monique!”

  A frantic Clifton turns in time to watch Merlin reach back and pull the sword free from his back.

  “Oh, shit!” he looks back at his cousin. “C’mon, Mon!”

  And just as he’s about to pick up his depleted cousin, Merlin the Great appears before him. The once-great wizard appears younger, fresher. After all, why shouldn’t he? He’s consumed Monqiue’s life-force.

  More disturbing is the blood that appears from the sword wound. Clifton is certain that this old bag of bones hadn’t bled in a long, long time. That, in fact, the blood belongs to none other than his cousin.