Vampire Untitled (Vampire Untitled Trilogy Book 1)

by Lee McGeorge

  Ildico rolled her head and purred a soft sleepy moan. The sound was sexual, alluring, and it jolted his thinking away from self pity and on to more primal ideas.

  If this had been any other night he would have woken her with kisses. The plan formulated in his mind to lift her vest and stroke fingers across her abdomen and kiss her at the same time. It was a plan. If she didn’t resist as she woke, and if she kissed him back, he would slide her vest up and kiss her nipples.

  He squeezed his eyes closed knowing the plan wouldn’t be brought to fruition. It would damage the safety zone he was in. This place right now was comfortable. It had felt safe until he thought of doing that. With those thoughts came anguish and frustration. It was unfair, it was all unfair. Why was this happening to him?

  Just go to sleep.

  Try. Try and sleep.

  He closed his eyes and tried to purge the barrage of negative emotions and stress that had just hit him, but sleep wasn’t coming. Instead his mind switched from psychoanalysis of his personal vampire to thoughts of Nealla beating him. It was an odd form of lucid dreaming, similar to his regular creative process where ideas unfolded on a movie screen; but this time it was more like a defence mechanism that was trying to calm him down. Nealla had hurt him physically. In the real world Paul felt sad, stressed, upset and anxious, but in his creative imagination he could be anything, in here he was stronger.

  He saw himself facing off against Nealla in the lobby, but this time he had powerful muscles and lightening fast reflexes. He stood naked, with marble white skin and eyes made of deep red glass. Nealla tried to attack him much as he did earlier, but in this version of the event Paul punched him with supernatural strength and ferocity. He beat him to the floor, knelt down to straddle him, then smashed Nealla’s head repeatedly against the concrete until his skull caved-in and went soft. The positive resolution to this encounter was calming. The scene changed to being in the forest. They were in almost the same pose. Nealla was on his back, Paul was naked, straddling him and holding his head. Beneath them the snow gave way and they fell the few inches into the stream. Paul held Nealla’s head under the water and watched him panic as he drowned. This killing was deeply satisfying, probably because he could see Nealla’s face in absolute panic. The dream changed again and this time they were in the forest but Nealla was dying because Paul’s fingers were so tight around his larynx that he was turning red, then blue. Even better than the drowning because this killing had pain as well as panic.

  Then Paul was alone at the shrine. He spent a moment looking at the cruciform of Christ above the entrance and wished he had Nealla like this, nailed to a cross, ready to be brutalised.

  No sooner it was thought, it was done.

  They were in the basement. Nealla was naked except for a loincloth, his feet stood on the ground but his hands were nailed to a cross against the wall. In his fear he was trying to tear his hands over the nails. Like a frightened fox that chews through its own leg when caught in a hunter’s trap, Nealla was more afraid of Paul than he was of even dying and would do anything to get away. Seeing this brought a sensation of tranquillity and completeness. This is what was supposed to be happening.

  Nealla was screaming, wrenching his hands against the nails. If he continued he would escape in twenty or thirty seconds. This couldn’t be permitted. Paul realised he was holding the large kitchen knife; he put the blade behind Nealla’s knees. Nealla screamed for him to stop, but vampires don’t care for the screams of misbehaved peasants. He sliced the tendons behind Nealla’s knees. Nealla shrieked in fear and pain as his body slumped, incapable of supporting itself. Even if he escaped the cross he couldn’t run, he was slumped in agony as his nailed hands took the strain. From there Paul carefully used the knife to cut off Nealla’s bottom lip, then one of his ears and finally very slowly gouged out one of his eyes. It seemed a fitting reprisal for the split lip Paul had received during the lobby attack.

  “Are you practicing?” Ildico said in his dream. “Is this a rehearsal?”

  Paul, being the vampire, said nothing.

  Ildico came from nowhere. She walked around him, trailing her hand across his body, his chest, feeling the size and substance of his biceps. She was wearing the same clothes as in bed, the jeans and black vest. Paul pulled her forward by the vest, put the knife underneath and sliced the fabric up to her neck cutting it away in one easy motion to expose her breasts.

  “Oooooh,” Ildico purred. “Are you going to fuck me?”

  Paul, being the vampire, said nothing. But Paul, lucid dreaming in bed, felt his penis swell.

  “When you kill Nealla, I will let you use me however you want. But I want you to kill him first. Let me watch you kill him.”

  Paul the vampire sliced Nealla across the beltline of the loincloth cutting both the skin across his hip and the garment. The fabric fell away. Paul took hold of Nealla’s penis and pulled him away from the cross by it. The cut with the knife was sure and firm. Nealla screamed so high it barely registered as audible. Paul tossed the useless sausage of flesh aside and wrapped his man grip around Nealla’s scrotum pulling him away from the cross by his balls. Jarring crimson blood was spurting from the remaining root of his penis across Paul’s hand as he cut off the testicles and threw them away too.

  “Oh my,” Ildico purred. “Do we have some latent homosexuality? Or do we despise Nealla in a sexual way?

  Ildico took Paul’s blood stained hand and pressed it against her breast to leave a bloody handprint on her chest. “Very nice, lover,” she said. She raised the vampire’s hand a little higher and used his finger to wipe blood around her mouth. “I will love you so much when you kill him,” she mouthed. “I love you now, Paul, but I will love you so deeply when you kill him, please kill him for me, kill him. Please...”

  No second invitation was required.

  It didn’t really matter anyway. After all, this was only a dream and Paul was somehow consciously aware that it was a dream.

  But the reality was slightly more intense than that.

  It wasn’t ‘just’ a dream.

  It was a rehearsal, preparation, mental conditioning. By the morning it would be complete. By the morning, he would have all the mental prerequisites to do this in real life.

  These were dark things he was imagining; dark things he could make true should he choose. They were the dark things he wanted.

  ----- X -----

  “I’m going back to London,” Paul said sipping coffee. “I’m going into Brasov today, I’ll get my return ticket validated and booked on a flight, then I’m going home to see my doctor.”

  “Do you still think you are sick with strigoi?” Ildico asked.

  “I am sick.” Paul struggled to find the vocabulary, it was all so misery inducing. “I don’t know what it is. I’m not right, mentally not right. I’m thinking things and imagining things that are very wrong.” He thought for a second as he tried to bring some logic to his thoughts. “Things won’t work out if I stay here. I mean, look at me!” The bruises from yesterday’s beating had ripened to plum-like blackened welts around his cheek and eye socket and his lip had a thick crusty scab to it. “I’m smashed up. I can’t sleep and when I do sleep I’m consumed with nightmares.”

  Ildico made a delicate nod in agreement. “What about your book?”

  “I’ll write it somewhere else. That’s not a consideration. The money is more important, I’ve spent money on this place and I’m not going to use it. My health and wellbeing are now the issue. Mentally, I’m in no state to try and write anything. I need to remove myself from the situation.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is not how things are supposed to be. I think...” she paused, her shoulders sinking and her face dipped away. “I think perhaps I am some cause of this.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “But I am. If you didn’t meet me and be my friend then Nealla doesn’t care. If you don’t meet me then you can make your work without problem. This all happen
because me.”

  “No,” Paul interjected. “This happens because Nealla makes it happen. It has nothing to do with you.”

  Ildico shrugged.

  It wasn’t her fault but he could sense it would be impossible to reason with her, even if he had the strength to argue, which he didn’t, it would be redundant.

  “Will you come with me?” Paul asked.

  “Come with you, where?”

  “To Brasov. My plane ticket. It’s an open return, I need to go to a travel agents to reserve the flight home. It would be a big help for me in case I need to understand Romanian.”

  Ildico nodded dejectedly.

  “Come with me,” Paul said. “I would love you to come with me. Let me take you out to lunch before I go home.”

  ----- X -----

  As they stepped from the apartment block Paul was hit by how hot he felt. The sun was high and the sky was clear; the winter air should have kept him cool, but he was suddenly sweating around the eyes and brow.

  “Are you alright?” Ildico asked.

  Paul unzipped his coat whilst sucking in some big gasps of air. He nodded a fake answer rather than speaking it and started walking towards the bus stop to duck the question.

  The last twenty four hours had felt like a week. This time yesterday he had got on a bus to Brasov and spent the day depressed. Since then his life had seemed to fall apart. As much as he wanted to stay and write, he knew it would be foolish. There was an element of failure to going home and there was the possibility that he would return to London, get checked out by the doctor and be fine and well in a few days. He still had the option to return if he wanted, but he doubted it. The way Paul reconciled it, getting better would be a good thing, but he couldn’t imagine getting better here. Something was wrong here; this place was broken and damaged but beyond his understanding as to why. Something about this place was unsettled.

  As they arrived at the bus stand, that unsettled feeling hit him square in the face. Further along the road he saw Big Man. He was simply standing, hovering where there seemed no reason to do so. There wasn’t a bus stop and it was an inconvenient place to be picked up with a car; then Boy appeared. It looked like he’d slipped through a hole in the fence. Big Man hooked one of his arms around Boy’s shoulders and led him across the road and into the forest.

  Paul looked to Ildico; she had seen as well as he had. “I don’t like the way that guy is with that kid,” he said.

  “It is for sex,” Ildico mumbled.

  “Sex? That guy and the little kid?”

  Ildico nodded. Paul’s mind ran a flashback of finding Boy amongst the garbage. He was holding his stomach, doubled over in pain and crying. Tears had streamed down his dirty face.

  “You know that kid is autistic or something,” Paul said.

  “He is only twelve years old,” Ildico replied. “But he looks older.”

  “He’s what? Twelve? And that guy is doing what to him?” Paul suddenly felt exasperated, unable to find words for what he was feeling. “But he’s... he’s... I don’t know it’s like he can’t decide mentally what’s right... Twelve? That big guy is sexually abusing a retarded twelve year old boy, is that what you’re telling me?”

  Ildico nodded but kept her eyes cast down.

  “Is this true or is it just some rumour? How do you know this for a fact?”

  “Everybody knows. He always has young boys.”

  “And Nealla?”

  “No,” Ildico said spitting each word with venom. “Nealla likes girls.”

  “But why does everybody know? Why don’t the police get involved? Why is he allowed to do this with impunity? What the fuck is wrong with this place?”

  “You don’t understand, Paul,” Ildico said quietly. “This place is different.”

  “Different? Different to where? Why can people take kids and abuse them?”

  “Before...” She struggled for the words. “Before Raul and Nealla were both in prison.”

  “Who is Raul?”

  “Raul.” She said it like he should know, then pointed down the street. So, Big Man had a name. “They were in prison, Paul. They were in prison for fighting with swords in gangs.”

  “Fighting with swords? Well, now he fights with a razor. What’s the difference? They should put him in prison again.”

  “With razor is white weapon, is not more than ten centimetres, but he was using sword, black weapon, illegal.”

  “What’s your point, Ildico?” Paul snapped, suddenly feeling a burst of rage spreading out from his heart. “What I asked is why don’t the police stop him?”

  “Because people are scared of him.”

  The conversation halted at this most simple statement and all of the complexities evaporated to a simple truth. People were afraid. This broken down backwards village where people were afraid of vampires and hooligans was populated by cowards; none of them had the spine to stand up to something being wrong. A grown man sexually abusing young boys? Don’t get involved. That seemed to be the silent mantra, bury your head, close your eyes and pretend it isn’t happening. Violent men terrorising others with a razor, just avoid them and don’t get involved. Killing people because you’re scared of vampires? Bury them and pretend it didn’t happen, it will go away eventually.

  “This place is shit,” Paul said.

  He looked along the street to see Big Man Raul and Boy slip into the forest on the other side of the road. Involuntarily, or at least only making the decision subconsciously, Paul was walking that way, following.

  Ildico grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?” She knew where, the question should have been to ask why he was going. Paul brushed her aside and continued. He didn’t have an answer, other than some form of militant curiosity that had to be satisfied. Just because Ildico believed the gossip that Big Man Raul sexually abused pre-teen boys didn’t mean he would believe it without evidence. That was why he was going, to get evidence, to see for himself, to hope it was true...

  He was cognizant of the thought for a moment. He hoped it was true. Why? So he could rage and unleash bloody hell? He put that thought away quickly.

  Then he had another thought; he recognised that he couldn’t possibly go up against Big Man Raul all by himself. Nealla had kicked the shit out of him yesterday and Big Man was twice the size of Nealla.

  Paul put that thought aside too. Don’t worry about such things. Just get there. See what the situation is. Don’t think in advance, don’t plan. Work on instinct. See what happens. Follow the Big Man to the forest and see what adventure awaits.

  That thought was enticing, tempting.

  It made Paul run; and he sneered whilst he ran.

  ----- X -----

  He felt as though he should be out of breath. He wasn’t. He was ready, primed for action. He’d gotten to the spot where Big Man Raul and Boy had stood on the road. There was a slender alley, no more than three feet wide, between a collection of small holdings. Boy must have come out here, but to where?

  Paul scanned the surroundings. On the opposite side of the road was a boundary of year-round bushes along the edge of the road. Directly opposite the pathway was a slight gap in the foliage. Paul crossed and slipped between the bushes to find a wide picnic area just inside the forest at the foot of the mountain. It was a surprise. There were six picnic benches placed sporadically amongst a handful of trees and some rusty old swings for children to play on in summer; at this time of year they had twelve inches of snow on each seat and deadly looking icicles hanging overhead.

  He saw movement. Big Man Raul perhaps. He thought it was him. Further up the mountain, to the far side of the picnic area. If Big Man hadn’t been so tall Paul would have missed him. There was a movement behind bushes. It was brief, half a second or so, but with nobody else here it had to be him.

  Paul jogged through the snow, desperate not to lose them, but the trek up the mountainside was physically difficult. He could see the upper edge of the picnic area, a row of bushes that made a
natural border at least one hundred and fifty yards steeply uphill from the road. He saw two sets of footprints in the snow and felt the surge of excitement. He was following them, tracking them. They weren’t trying to hide their tracks and following was easy, but the very act of stalking made him feel like a hunter, a predator and it energised and empowered him despite the exertion.

  When he made it to the top of the hill he knew he had to pause to catch his breath. He crouched low and eased around the bushes. Big Man Raul and the Boy were nowhere to be seen, but their footprints led off clearly as two roughly dragged trails through virgin snow. Paul allowed himself thirty seconds to get his breath back then moved on.

  What would he do if he saw them? Nothing, he thought. He just wanted to see, to know, not to confront. He told himself in soft spoken words, “Just observe. Don’t engage,” as though this affirmation of common sense was the red line not to be crossed. Only a week ago he would never have dared follow them. A week ago making eye-contact would have been the red line. Had he really changed so much in only a week? The strigoi, it would seem, is a powerful drug for boosting one’s confidence... or one’s stupidity.

  It didn’t take long to discover them, but it wasn’t entirely clear what was happening. If he was in an unforgiving mood he would say Boy had his hand inside Big Man’s trousers, holding his penis, masturbating him. The reality was he didn’t see it clearly and it seemed somehow odd and out of place that a paedophile could find nowhere more convenient to get his cock out than standing in twelve inches of snow in sub-zero temperatures.

  Boy saw him first. It sounded like he said, “Engleizoule.” That nickname again, English.

  Raul turned away to either zip up his jacket or his trousers.

  Who was Paul kidding, the guy was a fucking pervert and was forcing the kid. “Hey You!” Paul yelled as fiercely as he could. “What the fuck are you doing?” He was running to them; any thought of not getting involved had been forgotten. He was acting on impulse, on instinct, on a new found aggression that wouldn’t sit quiet.