by Eddie Jones
Dad, passing the butter to Mom: “I think we should let Nick go, if he wants to.”
“Frank!”
“You serious, Dad?”
“Why not? You already said your heart isn’t really into watching your sister’s performance. Think your company will foot the bill for the airfare?”
“I … ah …”
“Call your editor and find out. Then we’ll see how hot they are about this story.”
Wendy complained, “I knew you’d find a way to make this all about you, Nick.”
“It’s Dad who’s pushing me to do this. I’d be happy riding the Tower of Terror another day.”
“Yes, Frank, why are you so anxious to let Nick do something like this?”
“Two words: Aunt Vivian.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Who’s Aunt Vivian?” I asked.
“Dad’s scatterbrained aunt,” Wendy said. “The one who still thinks you’re a girl.”
“I thought that was Aunt Effie.”
“No, Effie is my aunt,” Mom said to me.
“Aunt Vivian makes the best sugar cakes,” Dad said. “And every Christmas when she sends us her card, she reminds me that I haven’t seen her since Mom died. Family is everything, son. May not seem that way now, but it will when you get older.”
“What do you say, son? Want to spend a couple of days with your great-aunt?”
“I think you’re doing this because you’re jealous,” Wendy said to me.
“Of what, cheerleading? It’s not even recognized as a sport, Wendy.”
“Should be,” Mom said.
“We could pick you up on our drive home,” Dad was saying. “It’d be a little out of our way, but not too much. This Cool Ghoul story could be great on your résumé, assuming you don’t really uncover a vampire.”
“Funny one, Dad.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Frank. Our little boy, flying on a plane all by himself?” Mom reached her hand across the table and squeezed mine. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.”
“And that you’ll phone as you board the plane. And when you land. And when your aunt gets you.”
“Yes, Mom. I promise.”
“I’m still not comfortable with this,” Mom said to Dad. “What if something happens?”
“Come on, Sylvia. How much trouble can he get into?”
“With Nick anything is possible.”
CHAPTER TWO
RANDOLPH MANOR
Do like your mom said and call as soon as you land. This is your one shot at proving you can be responsible. Don’t blow it.”
“Sure, Dad. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
We stood at the end of the security line inside Orlando’s International Airport, chitchatting in that awkward way fathers and sons do when neither is sure how to say good-bye. Dad had taken a huge risk letting me fly to Asheville alone, and I knew it. It was one of those “growing up” moments that left Mom worried and Wendy pouting.
“Here’s Aunt Vivian’s number and address.” Dad passed me his business card with her information written on the back. “Doubt you’ll need it. When I asked her to pick you up at the airport, she sounded excited. Went on and on about how she was finally going to get to meet her Nicky.”
“You reminded her I’m a guy, right?”
“She remembered. Asked how your arm was healing.”
“But I broke it when I was three.”
“The older you get the harder it is to keep track of things, like time and names. One day you’ll understand.”
The security line moved forward. It was nearly my turn to place my backpack on the belt. Dad pressed a twenty into my hand.
“We’ll start driving up first thing Friday morning. That’ll give you a couple of days with your great-aunt and, hopefully, plenty of time to write your article.” Dad gave me an awkward hug. “Be careful, Nick. I’d be lost without you, buddy.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
An hour later I phoned Mom from my departure gate to let her know we were boarding. Then I called again just before the air steward told us to power off all electronic devices. Dad was right: flying to North Carolina on my own was a big deal. Especially since the owner of the Cool Ghoul Gazette had paid for my ticket. I knew it must have cost him a lot to buy a ticket on short notice, but Calvin said not to worry, that the owner had used frequent flyer miles. “And besides, he needs the tax write-off for business. The guy’s loaded.”
A little after ten o’clock our plane touched down in Asheville. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I walked outside into the cool Smoky Mountain air and found a blue Chrysler minivan with a dented back fender and a taxi sign on the roof parked near the curb. A pear-shaped woman with white beehive hair struggled to exit the front passenger seat. She wore a loose-fitting blue overcoat, beneath which hung the hem of a bold plaid skirt and white arch-support sneakers. An emerald brooch pinned to the coat’s lapel shimmered in the curbside lighting. Sagging off one shoulder was a furry scarf that looked like some flattened roadside fatality.
“Nicky!”
Aunt Vivian?
Layers of mauve eye shadow coated her lids. Scarlet lipstick painted her large lips. She kissed my cheek and hugged me hard. A noxious cloud of perfume engulfed me.
Stepping back, she said, “My, my. Look at you, all grown up. Why, you look just like my sister when she was your age.” Terrific. She still thinks I’m a girl. Ruffling my hair, she asked, “How old are you now? Sixteen?”
“Fourteen,” I answered, pitching my voice as low as possible.
“Your father has told me all about you. Said you are an investigative journalist with an online media company. Sounds important.”
“Not really.”
“Why, I bet you’re the best reporter they have. Come on, let’s get started.” She took my hand and pulled me along. “I can’t wait.”
You can’t wait? Her grip was firm and warm and for the first time since leaving Dad in Orlando, I relaxed. Dad had told me some about his aunt, but not much. I hadn’t seen her since I was three years old. Dad called her a classic southern lady who “will talk your ears off and love on you so hard you’ll come home with raw cheeks from where she kissed you so much.”
I rolled the door open and crawled into the middle seat.
Aunt Vivian, still chatting about how much I resembled Grandmother Caden — “God rest her soul, I miss her every day” — hoisted herself into the front passenger seat and said to the driver, “Hold on a moment. Here I am carrying on and I haven’t even asked you if you needed to use the restroom. We can wait.”
I told her I was fine. But just to be safe I asked, “How long is the drive to your house?”
“Oh, that’s right. I plumb forgot to tell your father. Knew there was something nagging at me, but I couldn’t remember what it was. I was just so excited about having company. That happens when you get old; you forget things. Lately I’ve started writing stuff down for that very reason. But sometimes there isn’t a pen or paper handy and by the time I’ve found something to write with, whatever I was trying to remember has gone right out of my head.” She frowned at me. “Oh dear. Now I’ve forgotten what you asked me.”
“About how long before we get to your house?”
“Pumpkin, there’s something you need to know about your Aunt Vivian — which, by the way, is what your father calls me and what I want you to call me. Aunt Vivian, or Aunt Viv. If you call me your great-aunt, I’ll box your ears. ‘Great’ or ‘grand’ anything makes me sound old. And I guess I am to some, but when I look in the mirror I still see the same little girl I remember from that farm in South Carolina. Did your grandmother ever tell you about the time the two of us borrowed your great-grandfather’s pickup and drove from Sumter to Charleston for the day?”
“I don’t remember Grandma Caden ever mentioning a farm.”
“That’d be just like her, acting too big for her britches and forgetting
where she came from. Like there’s something wrong with priming tobacco and getting your hands dirty. Remind me later, I want to show you a picture of your grandmother standing in Battery Park.”
“Your house, how long a drive is it?”
“See? Lost track again. Well, child, until they can get my meds regulated, my doctor doesn’t want me staying by myself, so I’m living in a retirement center.”
“So … I don’t have a place to stay?”
“Oh yes, darlin’. I made a reservation for you at a lovely little bed-and-breakfast. Our wellness director helped me find it online. He’s such a nice man. If he wasn’t married I would invite him to sit with me on movie night.”
I told her thanks and settled into my seat, resting my head against the window. The last thing I remembered hearing was the click-click of the turn signal as we left the airport.
The same clicking sound awoke me. I sat up just as the van turned off a two-lane highway and onto a gravel road. The van’s headlights washed over a covered bridge and seconds later loose timbers rumbled beneath the wheels. We pulled into a small parking pad and stopped. In the glare of headlights, a mossy, gray-stone home sat on a small bluff. Low-wattage lighting from the first floor illuminated a pair of drawn shades, and the chimney burped smoke.
I stared at the drab house and suddenly felt ill. “This … is where I’m staying?”
“Looked different on the website,” Aunt Vivian said under her breath.
She hopped out (well, to be honest, she slid out. I couldn’t imagine she’d hopped in years) and opened my door. I remained in the van.
“I don’t understand. Trip Advisor gave it five stars.”
Seriously? Five stars for this dump?
“You go check and make sure someone is still up,” said Aunt Vivian. “I’ll wait here.”
I clutched the strap of my backpack and slowly made my way up a short flight of cracked cement steps. Standing on the front porch, I peeked under the window shade and spied a white-haired man sleeping in a leather chair, mouth open wide, eyeglasses in his lap. A lone tallow candle on a nightstand illuminated his bearded face. I rapped my knuckles on the window. With a jerk he opened his eyes, lifted a hand, and pointed at the door.
Hurrying back to the taxi van, I motioned for Aunt Vivian to roll down her window.
“You sure this isn’t a joke?” I asked. “Like maybe something Dad put you up to?”
“Don’t you worry, I’m sure everything will be fine. I’ll pick you up in the morning and we’ll get breakfast.”
Yeah, right. Unless you forget.
The van pulled away and I trudged back up the steps, turned the brass knob, and peeked around the door.
“Lock it behind you,” the man called to me. “Had a bit of trouble lately with vagrants.”
I pushed the door shut and slid the dead bolt into place. To my right was a small dining room, its floor worn, scarred, and uneven. On one wall was a serving counter made of dark wood. Next to the bar was a rack of dusty wine bottles. A chandelier with two bulbs burned out hung over a dining room table. No place settings or any signs of other guests.
“I, ah, have a reservation.”
The man lifted his chin to study me. He wore a tan and brown plaid flannel shirt, dark pants, and brown work boots, unlaced. Gray wool socks peeked out from the tongue. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat up in the chair.
“You must be the new vampire slayer, I reckon. Heard there’s one on the way.”
“Vampire slayer? No, sir. I’m a reporter for …” The idea of announcing that I worked for an online publication called the Cool Ghoul Gazette seemed silly. “I’m, ah, here, sort of, to investigate a possible murder?”
He hooked the horns of the wire-rim glasses around his large, pink ears. His nose had the broken-vein look of the homeless man who hangs around across the street from our school begging money. Small, dark eyes peered at me from behind the thick lenses.
Stroking his wiry beard, he announced, “Murder, my foot. Suppose some might call it that. More like a mercy killing if you ask me. Sit, boy, you’re making me nervous.”
I dropped my backpack on the floor and entered the small study, taking a seat across from him. Logs in the fireplace smoldered, their embers glowing orange.
He jabbed them with a poker and said, “Name’s Dr. Barlow. Professional pathologist and an expert in vampires. I’m the caretaker of the old Randolph Manor. And you are?”
“Nick Caden. My great-aunt, she made a reservation for me at a B&B, but …” I glanced around the dirty room. “I’m not sure this was the place she had in mind.”
“This is just the guesthouse. Used to be a B&B. Didn’t pan out. You’ll be staying up the mountain in the manor. Now then, you said you’re looking into a murder. Odd. Poor fellow who’s dead had a similar tale. Showed up in the middle of the night some months back, same as you. Kept carrying on about bodies rising from graves. Spoke of vampires and such. I warned him to take his foolishness elsewhere. Told him nothing good would come of digging up graves and poking around in old crypts. But he couldn’t let it go, and now look at him.”
“Speaking of that, what are the chances of me seeing the victim? I mean, who would I speak to about that?”
“County coroner, I suspect. I can’t speak as to what’s become of the body. I was in Waynesville at the Frankenmuth Festival when I heard. So you have a reservation, do you? Well, sir, you won’t find better accommodations than the Randolph Manor, no, sir. I’ll take you up there straightaway. But first there are some things you need to know about hunting vampires.”
“Hunting vampires?”
“You need any special tools, or did you bring your own?”
“I told you, I’m here investigating a murder.” To prove it, I pulled out my investigation notebook. I bring it with me everywhere and am constantly scribbling down notes, facts, and figures. Pulling out a pen, I said, “What can you tell me about the victim? Let’s start with his name.”
“Barnabas Forester. He owns the manor and guesthouse. Or did. Now that he’s dead, not sure what’s to become of the estate. So I take it you don’t have tools. Not a problem. I’m certain we can find some for you.”
“Tools for what?”
“Killing vampires.”
“First off, there’s no such thing as vampires. And second, did my editor put you up to this?”
“Yes, sir. A lot like Forester, you are. Stubborn and brash. I warned him about digging into the town’s dark secrets, I did.” Barlow pushed himself from the chair and ambled toward the foyer. “Wait here. I’ll see what I can find in the barn.”
The fireplace and logs stacked on the hearth gave the room a warm, rustic feel. I wandered over to the bookshelves and browsed the titles on the spines. All seemed to deal with vampires, werewolves, witches, and mummies. A plaque nailed to the wall identified Dr. Ambrose Barlow as a certified member of the Professional Vampirologist Association. Moments later he returned carrying an old leather medical bag.
I closed a biography of wizards and their recipes for magic potions and said, “Do you really believe there are such things as vampires?”
“Don’t much matter what I think. Question is, do you?” He tossed a couple more logs on the fire. “You know, most folks think Lord Byron and Bram Stoker were the first to uncover the curse of the vampire, but others say the origins go back nearly two thousand years, to the time of Christ.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe you’ve heard this before: ‘Very truly I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.’ You remember how he was killed, don’t you? Come on, his symbol is everywhere.”
“On a cross?” I said hesitantly.
“Not just a cross but a wooden stake,” he cried. He stoked the fire and, still kneeling, pivoted to face me. The flame’s orange glow gave his face a crazed, demonic appearance.
“I’m not a biblical scholar, but I don’t think Jesus rea
lly meant we’re supposed to drink blood.”
“Well, of course not,” he said, turning back to the fire. “Anyway, you asked if I believed in vampires. I do. And you will, too, before you leave Transylvania. Now then, grab your backpack and take this medical bag. I need to get you up to the manor.”
“So I’m really not going to stay here?”
“First rule of vampire slaying is to begin your hunt where the monster lives. We’d better hurry. Moon will be up soon.”
CHAPTER THREE
DARK SHADOWS
Barlow retrieved a long black frock from a coatrack and I followed him out, waiting by the horse-drawn carriage while he pulled the door closed behind him. With a lot of grunting, the innkeeper pulled himself onto the driver’s seat and lit the coachman’s lantern.
“Well? You coming?”
I remained on the stoop, unsure if I should get in the carriage. The business in Deadwood and the Old West ghost town had forced me to examine certain aspects of the supernatural world, and what I found left me disturbed. Not because I believed in black magic and sorcery — I did not. But many of my friends did.
During my brief time at the Cool Ghoul, I’d learned that for every act of spiritual worship, there appeared to be a corresponding ceremony for the occult. It was as if those who practiced witchcraft and participated in séances believed they were tapping into demonic power. But could they really? Was it actually possible for people to give their souls away in exchange for paranormal power? And if so, had Forester?
I climbed into the carriage. Barlow cracked his whip and away we went up a rutted trail. Once we were in the forest, spindly limbs whacked the sides of the carriage and a wispy mist closed in around us. The road leading up the mountain seemed more like a trail than a real road. I’d barely settled into my seat when we crossed a stone bridge and rolled past a cascading waterfall that hissed and spit and left my cheeks and hair damp. In the thickening mist the coach’s lantern seemed small and weak.
There comes a point in any journey when you wonder if you’ve made a mistake, headed off in the wrong direction. For me that moment came as soon as Barlow began rambling about vampires and curses. Right then I should have called Dad and told him to find me a hotel room in Asheville. But I didn’t want him to know that Aunt Vivian was living in a nursing home. She’d seemed embarrassed when she’d told me where she was staying. The least I could do was stick it out for one evening.
