The Blind Vampire Hunter

by Tim Forder

  “In her mind they did. Anyway, Vampire folklore has it that if you consume blood of the living while alive, when you die you become a Vampire. By the way, this historical Elizabeth Báthory was also a distant relative of the real historical Dracula. He is believed to have become a real vampire at his death because of his practice of cannibalism and the drinking of blood from his victims while he lived.”

  “But you said this blood countess only bathed in blood?” I interrupted.

  “At first, yes. But history reports that eventually she started to drink the blood when the blood baths started to fail.”

  “And historically this blood countess never got caught?”

  “Oh, no. Eventually she did get caught, and there was a private trial. The result was that all her helpers were put to death in the traditional way a vampire was put to death. They were staked, decapitated and then the two parts of the body were burned separately with the ashes buried in separate areas. BUT, not the blood countess.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that this crazed mass-murderer was not put to death,” I interrupted, incredulous of the possibility.

  “You got it,” Eric announced starting to get excited again.

  “You got to be kidding me. This mass-murdering blood countess was not put to death?” I asked unbelieving.

  “Remember she was a countess, and the court was made of her exceptionally influential relatives; not to mention that she had a relative who was a king. So yes, they did not put her to death. History tells that she was locked in her own bedchamber in her castle with the door sealed with only an opening large enough to slip in food. This in itself would indicate a possible fear that this blood countess might have the ability to enthrall her prison guards if a larger opening was permitted.”

  “So eventually she did die, right?” I asked totally enthralled in this gross history lesson.

  “History reports that eventually the food trays failed to be slid back out, and this gave way to the assumption that Elizabeth Báthory, the Blood Countess, was dead. As per court order, the castle was sealed and left to decay. But what if Elizabeth Báthory after her human death, revived as a vampire? If Vampires exist, then what else is true of the vampire lore? Could the vampire Elizabeth Báthory have left the castle by transforming into a bat and flying out a window? Could she have turned herself to mist and floated out the food slot of her prison door and again floated out of her sealed castle doors?”

  “So, Eric, you believe my boarder, the woman living in my house with my family is this Elizabeth Báthory, the Blood Countess, turned Vampire?”

  “Jack, you supplied the tool that provided the proof. Your boarder has no reflection. In fact, now that I think back on it, her hand, when she took my hand was unusually cold, dare I say deathly cold, to the touch.”

  “So now what?” I asked, starting to think the worst.

  “Well, I don’t think you have to worry about your family. You don’t shit where you live.”

  “And what does that blasphemous bit of wisdom mean?”

  “As long as she is happy where she’s living ... staying, she’s not going to kill the residents. In other words, as long as she’s happy and nobody is threatening her, she will not bring undue notice to herself by killing her landlord or anyone else in the house. ... with one possible exception.”

  “And who would that exception be?”

  “You, my man, the blind guy. By not seeing her magical self, you may be the one blind man who could feasibly see past her disguise, and in not seeing, actually see her real self.”

  “Just great,” I announced, “Just bloody great.”

  “I’d strongly suggest that you make a point of keeping out of her way and change your attitude so that you seem totally bluffed into thinking there is nothing strange about your never connecting with your boarder. I have another question. What do you know of her background?”

  “Di did mention that she came from New Orleans. She mentioned it only because I have family that live near New Orleans.”

  “And before that?” Eric asked.

  “There was some mention of her coming from somewhere in Europe, then moving to New Orleans. You even mentioned her travels to me, her boldness in traveling alone, from Europe .... remember?

  “Yes, Diana mentioned it once while telling me all about your new boarder ...” Eric interrupted.

  I don’t know anything more than that, suppose I should question Di for more information on our boarder’s past?”

  “Definitely not. You had better start getting into the habit of living a low profile when it pertains to your boarder, the vampire.”

  Jack mused, out loud, “Our local news out of D.C. does seem to start out with the nightly death toll for the day. In fact, they seem to be having a murder spree in the area where Isabella Báthory works. She is adamant about not letting us go see her at work.”

  “I have been meaning to ask, Eric said, changing the subject, “how is it that it is too dangerous for any of us to visit her at work, but it is alright for her to work in such a dangerous area?”

  “As Di explained to me, from midnight to whenever the shows end for the night, the theatre shows martial art imports. Now, not only is the area known to be risky , but the audience for such shows tend to get out of hand, even downright dodgy, so Isabella Báthory had to prove her claims that she is a Kung Fu Master and can handle any trouble that could arise within the theatre during a show. According to Di, the whole graveyard staff has to have the same training to work this particular shift. Di has mentioned that Isabella does comes home bloodied and looking like she has been in a fight or two, all too often.”

  “I bet she does,” Eric interjected. “I bet she does.”

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  “For now, stay out of her way. Don’t let her even suspect you know anything strange about her.”

  “But Eric, if she’s a vampire then she’s a killer; she must be killing every night to continue her unnatural existence.”

  “So what are you going to do, sneak into her room and push a stake in her heart? Afterward, how are you going to explain a dead body in your house that you killed. Are you really going to tell the authorities that you killed a bloodsucker that is hundreds of years old? One who only looks to be in her twenties?”

  “But if she dies won’t her magic also die with her, letting everyone see who and what she really is? In Vampire lore don’t vampires turn to dust once killed?”

  “As to her magic, who knows? What if you’re wrong about her magic dying at her death? As to her turning to dust, I’m pretty sure that is a “Buffy” invention so Buffy the Vampire Slayer and her Scooby gang did not have dead vampire issues to deal with during the shows. [Buffy’s assistants/friends nicknamed her/the Scooby gang, after Scooby Doo’s assistants/friends.] For now, I’d just stay out of her way. Don’t do or say anything to make her suspect a thing. Just play dumb. You can do that easily enough.”

  “Hardy, har har,” I replied. “Eric, you are telling me to just let a mass murderer, a woman who kills nightly, to continue her nightly massacres? It’s not right. I feel I really have to do something. Possibly get her into the sunlight, punch a stake in her heart, something.”

  “Listen to you ... the blind vampire hunter.”

  “Blind or not, I have always been a fighter for what’s right and for the women of my family. Now you’re suggesting I just play dumb and let a monster killer, keep killing? Eric, that’s just not me.”

  “It is if you wish no harm to come to your women and yourself.”

  “Wait, I got the answer: At least as it pertains to my family. I’ll come up with some reason to have Di break the contract with our vampiric boarder. It won’t rid the world of this vampire, but it will rid use of her possible dangers.”

  After a thoughtful pause, “Nope, I see to problems with that; one, if you succeed what’s to keep your now ex-boarder for having you all as dinner? Second, I don’t think you have a vampire’s
chance in daylight of succeeding. From what you said earlier about using Diana to keep you two apart, Isabella almost certainly has your wife enthralled to her vampiric will. No-way, would she even consider throwing Isabella out. Odds-on you’ll just have one butt-ugly husband/wife fight. And what if, afterward, Diana mentions the husband/wife fight to Isabella?”

  Later, when I got back home, I placed my low vision watch with the shields on the table beside the front door to be put away when I went upstairs for the night; these days I was using a talking watch.

  Later that night, as my wife snored on, I just laid in bed wrestling with my thoughts. I have a vampire living in my house. And I’m expected to do nothing. She must be killing to exist. Does that make me an accomplice to murder, to multiple murders? How can I do nothing about a vampire living ... existing in my house? Is Eric really correct that my wife, sister-in-law and the baby are safe? Make sense; she can’t be staying here and killing off the residents. So what happens when she’s ready to move? Could I possibly think of some way to end Isabella’s existence and make it look like an accident? Jack, do you realize you are talking about killing? But she’s a vampire. She’s already dead. You are not killing, as long as you can make it look like you did not kill... Isabella or Elizabeth Báthory, the Blood Countess? If she is this Blood Countess, I have a crazed, mass-murdering vampire in my own house! How can I, in good conscience, allow this bloodsucking fiend to exist?

  To say the least, I did not sleep well that night.

  Chapter Ten

  Death for Two Dollars

  End of another shift managing the theater: These triple movie nights do not give me a lot of time for hunting up some breakfast. I should plan on hunting tomorrow night when we have only the double billing. I guess for now I’ll just lock up and wait for Metro to wake up and get me home.

  With the theatre doors locked, I turned to consider going over to IHOP; not for pancakes or waffles, but for Celeste, a fellow foreigner of this New World who figured out my true breakfast favorite, and is quite willing to be a breakfast donor, with the unspoken agreement that while I don’t overfeed, she will be available for additional snack-size feedings. She probably hopes I’ll turn her or she has that foolish belief that after a number of feedings, she will turn automatically. Wrong. But who am I to dash her young, foolish dreams.

  As I pondered this, a voice in the alleyway shadows announced, “Hey, bitch! You shorted me out of two dollars. Now I’m going to get my two dollars from you one way or another.”

  I did not have to see the speaker. He was a big bear of a man who smelled as badly as he looked, and looked as bad as any ghoul I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Earlier in the shift, he gave me a twenty for a two-dollar ticket, and swore when I gave him back his change, that I shorted him two dollars. He said this after he walked away and came back. When he returned to give me a hard time over the two dollars, he shoved another paying customer out of his way in his boisterous rage, all over the mythical two dollars. He almost started a fight right there in front of the ticket office with the customer he shoved. He most likely would have started a fight if a constable was not standing right there—how rare is that?

  “Thought you heard the last of me I bet, bitch,” the boldly obtuse voice announced from the safety of the shadows. Who was it who said, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

  I was as coquettish as possible, and I can be very coquettish with hundreds of years of practice, “What do you have in mind, my big hunk of a man?” Taking the bait, the big lug came forth out of the shadows, with one hand over his manhood, and said, “So it’s like that, bitch. Yeah, I got something for you ... if you think you can handle it.”

  I did not want him to come out any farther from the shadows. For one, I did not want to have to stomach that big, ugly maul of a face, and two, I wanted to give us more privacy for what was coming next. I quickly moved up to this big troll and gently forced myself against him. I slipped a hand down between his hand and his quickly bulging pants. I had years of practice at this. I moved up and inward enough to gently brush my lips against his lips which smelled like cheap beer. Using just the feathery brush of flesh on flesh, I moved up to his ear and with a gentle bite to his earlobe, I whispered, “I want you, all of you big man.”

  As his manhood jumped and grew at my touch, I so gently maneuvered him back into the total privacy of the shadows, the whole time moving my tongue down from his earlobe to his neck. Then, quickly, I shoved him back into the alley, pinning him against the brick wall like a fly in a web. I sunk my hungry fangs deep into the side of his neck with such force that he never got a sound off before I started feeding and bleeding him to death. Dinner is served. That first gush of blood forcing its way into and down my throat can be so orgasmic at times, but this pirate’s blood attested to his fat build. I almost choked on the fat within his blood—almost.

  Not being a great feast, I stopped feeding and moved the still bleeding body against a corner of the alleyway. I took a folded knife from my purse and slit his throat to hide my feeding bite marks. Just to give the cops something to think about, I removed his wallet and emptied the contents around, but I took both the money and the credit cards. I tossed the cards in a trashcan on the way to the underground—subway, remember in American it is called, subway, not underground. So much for worrying about dinner.

  Later, as I was approaching the Metro station for home, two young men came out of the shadows. One announced himself, with “Hey bitch.” What is American men’s fascination with female dog?. I just kept walking, until the two walked out into the middle of the walkway, obviously to block my progress into the Metro station. The young man continued, “I said, hey, bitch. You trying to diss me woman? You better not be dissing me.”

  I had no choice but to stop my progress or plow through them. Movement to the side momentarily distracted me. A woman was with the two young men. Looks like a hooker, but does not smell like a hooker. Interesting. Play this right and she could be a delightful second course. Returning my attentions to the young men, I said, “I am sorry. I don’t understand this “diss.” Would you mind explaining?”

  “Do I look like a word book to you, bitch?” the supposed leader of the threesome responded.

  “Man, let’s just have our fun with this shapely little toy,” the other walkway blockade announced. “Let’s just do her and walk, man. It’s getting late.”

  To emphasize his point, he pulled out a long pocketknife, and with an audible click, a long, nasty-looking blade almost magically appeared. Before the leader could respond, I made my move...

  With one hand, I put my fingers together and hardened them into a long, nailed blade. I charged forward, digging my nails into the throat of the leader just as effectively as any knife blade they had on them. His blood gushed out, making a mess of the sidewalk. I got my other hand into position and charged the second one so fast that I was out from under the crimson gush of the leader before any blood could get on me to tell a tale. Grabbing the second foe’s knife-wielding hand before he could do anything more than look shocked, I bent his arm with ease, forcing the young man to cut his own throat. As I admired his life fluids draining all down the front of him, a female scream reminded me that I was dealing with a threesome, as well performing for the sake of the female. I had not completely forgotten her, though. After all, this gorish performance was for her benefit—and mine.

  As the two young men sunk to the walkway, gurgling out their lives, I moved quickly up behind the young lady dressed like a hooker, who was not a hooker, and inhaled the enticing aroma of fear wafting off her so delightfully. After all, this is why the two foes died the way they did. I could now enjoy a nice adrenaline-laced dessert to my dinner, but this dessert was just not quite ready...

  In my best, unnatural, demonic voice I screeched, “Are you ready to die, my dear?”

  With the enticing aroma building so delightfully, she whimpered, “No, please. I’m too young to die. Please, pretty lady
. Don’t kill me.” As she pleaded for her life, her knees started to weaken, but a well-placed hand under her armpit prevented even that small avenue of escape. She started to wet her pants. What a shame. She would ruin the delightful smell of my dinner with the disgusting aroma of piss. So, with my fangs nearly throbbing with the anticipation of this meal, I sunk my fangs into her delightfully soft neck and totally enjoyed this night’s properly seasoned dessert.

  Afterwards, I searched the leader for a knife. When I found one, I positioned the two foes so that it would look as if they killed each other. The scene now appeared as if one of the men killed the other for revenge for killing the girl.

  On the following night, completing my paperwork was interrupted with, “Excuse me, boss, there are some dicks here and they would like to see you” My floor manager stood in front of me, nervous about interrupting my paperwork with his announcement.

  “Dicks?” I asked, not familiar with the term, except being someone’s name.

  “Dicks, detectives, in this case, D.C. homicide. Seems we have a dead body in the alleyway next to the theatre. They would like to question you about it.”

  Knowing from experience that constables don’t like to be kept waiting and assuming this included “Dicks,” I followed my floor manager out of the office and into the theatre lobby. I found two men in cheap suits and two uniformed constables closely watching my arrival. Someone with less experience in deceiving uniformed fools would probably be feeling intimidated right now. I was not feeling anything less than confident in my coming performance. As I walked up toward the awaiting party, my floor manager discreetly separated, walking into one of the theatres, even though there were already ushers in the only theatre of the three used during the graveyard shift. As I approached, one of the suits starts with, “Miss Isabella Báthory, presently a resident in Maryland?”

  “Yes, sir. And you two are?”

  “Officera Dickson and Jones, presently assigned to homicide. Would you mind coming with us, just outside to the alleyway next to this theatre?” They did not have to show their badges, as they were hanging outside the breast pockets of their cheap suits.