Cider Mill Vampires (The Caleb Anthony Paranormal Series #1)

by Alan Spencer

  He looked over the table stocked with packs of cigarettes, mostly “Backwoods Smokes,” “Goodwin & Co.,” and “Allen and Ginter Tobacco Company”—another poster for “Allen and Ginter” read: “How can anything that looks so wild taste so mild?” Beside the four packs of cigarettes, he noticed the cards with baseball players on them, namely from the Louisville Colonels.

  Eddie gave his commentary, “Smokes used to include cigarette cards. Companies used to make smoking interesting, but they were banned. Made kids too interested in lighting up.”

  The last table was strewn with random items. An entire legion of Troll figurines with multi-colored hair stared back at him with painted on smiles. Pogs and slammers were stacked on top of one another, hundreds upon hundreds of them. Behind the table, a white Rhinestone jacket was displayed beside a picture of Elvis hunched over a microphone. His dad was a fan of Elvis, but he couldn’t see the fascination. He believed if the icons fell hard, it attracted an audience for many years if not decades—a true James Dean experience—whether they were talented or not.

  The tour was short, Eddie hanging back to let them browse at will. He snapped pictures, and Eddie didn’t mind—or maybe he didn’t understand what he was doing, Caleb supposed.

  “I don’t get many visitors,” Eddie said when Caleb was finished playing journalist. “People would rather go to Dale Birchum’s cider mill or get drunk in town than take a trip down nostalgia lane. Whatever happened to good ol’ clean fun?”

  “It makes you think what will somebody fifty years down the line have in a similar set-up like this. It’d all be on the Internet through websites. It wouldn’t be a museum set up, that’s for sure. I guess there’s a limited appreciation for this stuff.”

  “It takes a war to bring about love for these items,” Eddie sighed. “Everybody’s at a heightened awareness. Fear of having an atom bomb dropped on us, fear of our families coming back from WW II dead or disabled, it makes something as trivial as popcorn and music so damn important.”

  He shook Eddie’s hand. “Thanks for showing us your things, Eddie.”

  The man heartily accepted the gesture. “Make sure you tell your friends about me. I love visitors.”

  They were ushered back up the stairs after they were finished checking out the time capsule. Exiting back outside, the garage door was closed, and the show was concluded.

  She looked at Caleb for a reaction. “Well, what did you think?”

  “How did he get all that stuff?”

  “I guess when you’re old and you’ve had a lot of friends, you inherit things.”

  They piled into the car and returned to the main road. He couldn’t help but notice how comfortable she had become around him. She was treating him like she was a girl with a high school crush, specifically holding his arm down the stairs and pretending to be his girlfriend.

  She’s being nice, nothing more. She knows you’re leaving in two weeks. That’s why she’s not embarrassed or apologetic. Plus, you’ve seen her naked, and you haven’t taken advantage of her. She probably trusts you.

  He was more concerned about how she was being treated at home. Her family didn’t treat her with respect, especially Travis who didn't protect his sister at all. Loogie’s attempted rape and the fact Shannon didn’t think to report it also alarmed him. She’d built a reputation in Smithville, and he believed from what she revealed last night that the label wasn’t completely deserved—not completely.

  He couldn’t help but speak his mind, “You should leave town with me when I’m done with Smithville.”

  “What?” A sparkle lit up her eyes, though she was startled too. “I don’t know what you mean, Caleb.”

  He wanted to empower her. “I’m your friend, okay. You said so yourself you wanted to get out of this town. I’ll let you stay with me until you decide what to do, whether that entails renting an apartment somewhere else and starting a new job, or whatever. You’ll make money from our work together, and then you can escape. I don’t like the way your family treats you. Last night, what you said was true—you do remember what you said, right?”

  “You were listening?” She was taken back. “Yeah, every word was true. I was drunk, but it wasn’t a lie.”

  “Alcohol can be a truth serum. If you meant what you told me, then I’ll help you. You’re a good person. You’re basically supporting your family on your own, so you’re independent enough to make it without their help. After what Loogie tried to do to you, it scares me to think you’d stay here—no offense, I think you’re really cool. Don’t let your family trap you. They’re big boys. They can handle themselves.”

  “You’re right. I might take your offer. You know, Caleb, you’re the only guy I’ve met that hasn’t tried to fuck me over in every way.”

  "You barely know me. You better think about it for a second. I’m not trying to pressure you, but I support whatever you decide.”

  Wanting to break any chance of awkwardness setting in, he then asked, “Anyway, so are we going to the cider mill now? Is Eddie’s competition pretty stiff?”

  “I don’t know." She pointed at the fork in the road, motioning for him to make a right. “Have you ever had an apple donut before?”

  19

  Edgar Lampman was always touched after people visited his museum—a telling of his personal history shared with people less than half his age—but that feeling was pre-empted when a sharp knock rattled against the garage door. The connection was more of a punch than an actual knock. The arthritis in his knees prevented him from moving faster, so he decided not to hop on the mower to greet the unknown visitor.

  He called through the door, “Are you here to see the exhibit?”

  The words on the other end were soft and barely audible. “Please.”

  He worked the garage door opener from his jeans and sat on the Wilson 42X riding lawn mower, getting back into the spirit.

  Let’s show them a good time.

  The garage door opened, punctuated by the shaking of a motor. He drove onto the front driveway, eager, but equally as disappointed when there was no car or tourists waiting for him.

  He scratched his head, puzzled. “Is anyone there? Don’t be afraid. It’s only me.”

  The engine’s whine covered the skitter from on top of the roof. A shadow overhead swooped over him, and instantly, with a bone-to-back connection, as if speared, Eddie was thrown from his lawn mower and collapsed against his well-kept grass. He cried out when his knees bent against their points of flexion. He’d also twisted his left ankle and the jolt of literally being clothes-lined induced a concussion.

  Through hard breathing, he demanded of his attacker, “What the hell is the meaning of this?”

  The culprit was Billy Thorne, the punk thirteen year old kid who lived two miles from his house. Billy broke into his basement and attempted to steal his stock of vintage Hustler, Sir!, and Swank magazines. But it wasn’t the same Billy who’d assaulted him now. Blood stained his face and chest in random spatters.

  “I asked you what’s the meaning of this, boy?” He demanded from his vulnerable position, electric conflagrations diminishing his patience and turning him into a feeble and terrified old man. “What do you want, son?—I’ll give it to you, anything!”

  The kid shook his head, showing his teeth pink stained with blood. “I didn’t come for your shitty stuff.” He tilted his head back, releasing a hawk’s schwa, “I want your blood!”

  The boy unfolded two butterfly knives from his pockets, and leaping over Eddie, he drove them through both palms. Pinioned by agony, bleeding from both hands, he couldn’t shift to kick or squirm free without triggering deeper realms of pain. Billy cackled and stepped from him, sensing his anguish, watching him writhe with a sick pride etched on his face.

  “W-w-where are you g-going, Billy,” he managed to ask, battling the war in his body.

  “You’ll see,” he whistled under his breath, walking towards the edge of the lawn. “Remember when you told my parents
that I broke into your house several months back? You made me mow your lawn the entire summer for free. You were right to do that, Eddie.” A facinorous expression took shape on his face. “I thought I’d return the favor, Pops. I owe you. This job’s free.”

  Edgar’s chest clenched, his heart pounding to the point it would stop beating, and he’d die of fright. “I won’t press charges, okay? You can walk away from this. Forget it. I’m sorry, Billy. Now let’s be friends—let’s be friends, Billy!”

  He cupped his hands around his ear, “Ehh? I can’t hear you over the lawn mower, old man. You’ll have to speak up!”

  Eddie was paralyzed after losing so much blood, and he watched in helpless shock as Billy steered the lawn mower over his face.

  20

  Ruden swept the cornfields for his cohort who was hours later returning to the bunker than he said he would be tonight. His tardiness sparked the fear that Joseph Finkle had been caught by the police, or worse, slaughtered. And that could lead an investigation team back to the bunker. But he sensed the man was alive, and he wasn’t too far away.

  Through the bend of stalks, he overheard Rush Creek flow. Making fast turns to find the creek, he crossed the icy waters, it being October in Kansas. Ruden restrained the urge to sneak into town and claim a victim for the fun of it—for the blood of it. He sensed circulating blood in sleeping bodies; it would be so easy to tear the blankets off an unsuspecting victim, smash in their throats so they couldn’t scream, and render every ounce of blood from their bodies.

  Removing the thoughts of pleasure from his mind, he snuck up on Joseph Finkle who stood at the edge of the creek where the source dipped into Silver Lake. He was surrounded by corpses with their throats exposed, their bodies hidden beneath the tightly wrapped packaging of trash bags, duct tape, and rope. He was tying bricks to their legs and around the neck so they’d sink and stay on the bottom.

  You’re wasting blood, Joseph.

  The police could find these.

  Ruden pictured a person swimming and their foot touching the edge of a body, and then the police dredging the lake and coming up with corpse after corpse. Evidence of throat tearing and bloodletting would be obvious. There'd be a manhunt for the perpetrator.

  You idiot, you’re going to get us caught.

  You’re killing for fun, aren’t you?

  You’ve grown careless.

  He sensed the joyous killer’s pride, watching Joseph’s grin increase—and that was another problem, he wasn’t wearing a stocking mask or dressed at all inconspicuously. The man wore only blue jeans, the rest of him bare skin and drenched in blood. Any random passer could catch him, whether it be a drifter or a group of drunk teenagers enjoying a bout of moonlighting, and view his mutated face.

  Ruden hunkered down and took short strides closer to him, hiding behind a rabid patch of weeds and stopping yards from Joseph. The man was lifting up another trash bag and throwing it into the water with a solid ker-plunk.

  He spied three bodies tied together, cast off from the rest of the group.

  I suppose he was going to take these back to the bunker and say these were his kill for the evening. These other bodies, they’re strictly recreational.

  Confident none of his cohorts would appreciate the risks Joseph was taking, Ruden crawled even closer. Holding his breath, steadying his hands, and choosing a brick out of the pile mere yards from the water’s edge, he leapt at the unsuspecting man and broke it over the back of Joseph’s head so hard, the brick turned to dust. Joseph’s skull shattered within, and Ruden could see it happen, his vision penetrating through flesh to the bone.

  Joseph was sent to the ground, and as he spun, he eyed Ruden in horror as blood mushroomed from his eyes and mouth in thickening gobs. He died within seconds, stomach-up.

  Satisfied the man was dead, Ruden used his mind to communicate with the other scientists. He’d need help transporting the bodies back to the bunker...

  21

  Get out of the hole.

  The sheriff’s looking for you.

  He wants to know what happened to all of your workers yesterday.

  Sensing Ruden’s concern, Dale dropped his shovel. Annie had fallen asleep, a mound of dirt her bed. He used his fingers to carve steps into the dirt wall and crawled up the nine feet to the top. Blood pumped and channeled strength into his body, reinvigorating him. Crags of yellow morning sun poked through the wooden slats of the cider mill walls. He’d been at work for eight hours non-stop.

  He asked to Ruden aloud, “What am I supposed to do about the sheriff?”

  There isn’t much we can do but to kill him—or use him. And I know you drank the blood from the barrel.

  He was relieved the madman wasn’t angry with him.

  I had to see what effect it would have on your body. I knew you’d drink from the barrel. You'll become stronger and experience heightened states of emotion soon. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, so you must do as I instruct before you end up killing yourself. Stay away from the blood. It’s dangerous to drink more so soon. I’ll hang you headless like your family if you dare not obey me! Now go outside and stall the sheriff. He's coming to the cider mill through the nursery.

  “What are you going to do to him? Don’t kill him, Ruden—DON’T KILL ANYBODY ELSE!”

  Ruden didn’t answer him; the mental voice was gone.

  He rushed to the nursery, keeping behind the trees to be unseen. He caught Sheriff Graham walking down the path scratching his head, stumped by the vacant property. “Dale, where are you? Are you here? Is anybody here, for God's sake?”

  He stepped on a twig, and it snapped. Sheriff Graham turned his direction, locating him. “Dale, thank God I found you.” He treaded a new path up to him. “I received call after call this morning. Do you know where your workers went last night after they punched out? Dale, the call’s we’ve been getting at the station...”

  He was staked in place, afraid to talk or to approach the man. The sheriff kept walking closer, perplexed at Dale’s silence. The sheriff sharpened his eyes and then widened them in shock. “My God, there’s blood all over you. You okay?" He placed his hand on his holster. “Is the perpetrator still here? Are you a hostage? Where's your family? Christ, say something to me, Dale."

  Ruden’s shape materialized from above darting from tree to tree. The creature finally stopped and was about to pounce from the thick branch, but then another form raced towards the sheriff. It was one he didn’t recognize.

  The sheriff whipped his head up at the sky in reaction to the sound of motion. “What in hell?—get down from there right now!”

  The sheriff lifted out his firearm when the second shape struck him down, spearing him in the midsection. The attacker pummeled him to the ground, sacking him. “Oooooooaaaaaf!”

  The second shape turned out to be a woman. The sunlight struck her body through swatches of light between the overhead branches. Her face was boiling with veins and pulsing with active arteries, all of it drawn across her skin in wild hatch marks. Ghostly white flesh, the drab complexion clashed with the vitality of lean muscular arms and a chiseled midsection: one-hundred and fifteen pounds of force. She was draped in a short black silk dress and fishnets on her arms and legs. A blood vessel popped in her left eye when it twitched. The eye itself bulged wider, being twice its original size.

  The sheriff flailed, pinned down between her legs. He twisted and cried out in terror when Ruden bared down upon him and wrestled the pistol from his grip and tossed it across the ground. He leveled his fists into the sheriff’s face until he was borderline unconscious.

  “I want to suck the blood straight from his throat!” The woman shrieked. “I want it now. Can I, Ruden? I'm so ready to feed."

  Ruden anchored the sheriff to the ground by the arms, and Dale took action, holding down the man’s legs.

  "No, I want you to infect him."

  She bent over the man’s face, obeying Ruden. She pried open the sheriff’s mouth. T
hen she began coughing, urging her throat to release its contents. Dale made the connection, realizing the monster’s plan.

  “Gaaaaaaaak!”

  Red foam spattered into the sheriff’s mouth, much like shaving cream. The woman closed his mouth for him, clamping it down tight so he'd swallow it. The sheriff shook his head and attempted to spit it out when Ruden cupped his hand over his nostrils; the sheriff would be snuffed unless he swallowed the blood. After thirty long seconds of battling with the choice, the sheriff forced the blood down his throat, the gulp sickly audible. His eyes were immediately deadlocked to sky. His limbs went limp at his sides. He was paralyzed.

  Ruden towered over his conquest. “He’ll be transfixed for awhile. When he wakes, he’ll come to us begging for more. They all will."

  He turned to Dale as if he’d forgotten he was standing there. Then he hugged the woman against him. “This is Lenora, a very special lady. You treat her with as much respect—if not more—than what you give to me.” He pointed at Dale. “This is the first one I turned on to my new blood. Call him Dale."

  Lenora eyed him with distaste—a double offense against the hideous face she wore, her eyes morbid white globes bloodshot to hell. “Is this what you were going to show me?—a fucking yokel?”

  “Follow me." Ruden dismissed her doubtful words. "There’s more inside the cider mill."

  Dale followed the two up the path. Sheriff Graham moaned in the background, rolling across the leaves and apples lost in a private fascination. He too would wake up a blood craving monster, and like Dale, his family and friends wouldn’t matter to him anymore. The next taste of blood was everything, and he understood firsthand what that meant.

  Ruden was the first to arrive at the cider mill, throwing open the main doors and letting Lenora pass. The waft of decaying and rotten bodies had become a sticky web on his skin. Lenora perked at the smell, her enlarged eyes glistening with anticipation. She pranced between the strewn body parts dumped about the floor, picking up heads and throwing them against the walls to see them split open. She clutched his wife’s head, the eyes sunken and half-liquid in the sockets. Lenora kissed the lips and traced her tongue along the neck’s opening; the layer broke audibly to soft muscle tissue and blood. “Mmmmmmm.” She continued the same process with seven more heads, her face sticky, dripping, and greasy by the time she was satiated.