AFTER DEATH
D. B. Douglas
Copyright 2011 D.B. Douglas
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 – Reflections
CHAPTER 2 – Jacqueline
CHAPTER 3 – Visions
CHAPTER 4 – Inspiration
CHAPTER 5 – The Position
CHAPTER 6 – Fernando’s Introductions
CHAPTER 7 – The Patients
CHAPTER 8 – Day of Reckoning
CHAPTER 9 – Revelations
CHAPTER 10 – Burt
CHAPTER 11 – The Story
CHAPTER 12 – Evidence
CHAPTER 13 – Reminders
CHAPTER 14 – Research
CHAPTER 15 – The Nail
CHAPTER 16 – A Night at the Hospital
CHAPTER 17 – Blood
CHAPTER 18 – Confessions
CHAPTER 19 – Perspective
CHAPTER 20 – Normalcy
CHAPTER 21 – Apartment Visit
CHAPTER 22 – The Cemetery
CHAPTER 23 – Proof
CHAPTER 24 – Despair
CHAPTER 25 – Devine Guidance
CHAPTER 26 – Conversion
CHAPTER 27 – Abduction
CHAPTER 28 – The Mangy Beast
CHAPTER 29 – The Map
CHAPTER 30 – The Lair
CHAPTER 31 – Detective Parks
CHAPTER 32 – The Other Side
CHAPTER 33 – Discovery
CHAPTER 34 – Family
CHAPTER 35 – The Descent
CHAPTER 36 – Lost and Found
CHAPTER 37 – Deflections
AFTERWORD ONE
AFTERWORD TWO
“How does anyone know when someone’s telling the truth, especially about themselves? Most things can’t be corroborated. Practically everyone that’s ever lived next to a serial murderer thought they were nice guys — until the bodies started turning up.”
Franklin Davis
CHAPTER 1 – Reflections
Franklin Davis had always had an active imagination. Even from his very earliest recollections, he’d always had a tendency to make up fanciful stories and, as it seemed to him, it made perfect sense that he wanted to be a writer right from the beginning.
It was also no surprise that when he envisioned a character, like his latest heroic vampire fighter, Sherwood Turrow, he saw himself in the starring role. In this case, the exercise was critical; he didn’t want Sherwood to too closely resemble that other famous vampire hunter from Dracula fame, Van Helsing, and what better way to accomplish this (as well as to have the character’s actions and reactions seem real) than by running through the story as the main character. Besides — he had always thought of himself as a genuinely good person — it was natural that he be the protector from evil in his stories…
Frank leaned back in his chair before the computer and closed his eyes. It was quiet in the modest and tidy room except for the twitching of Argus’ toenails as they scraped against the wall as he slept, the handsome German Shepherd no doubt dreaming of chasing a cat or some small creature and occasionally half-barking as he drew close to his quarry in his alternate reality.
Frank tried to block out the needles of desperation and the subconscious mantra that kept urging that this book must get published, that he had a mortgage for this fine suburban tract house to pay, a dog and wife to co-support, a future family to build…
He was good at this, he knew he was — So why had success been so elusive? Four horror manuscripts with nothing to show for it except countless rejection slips stuffed in assorted drawers. He needed to keep them out of sight. He needed to remain positive and focus on the fact that this latest story had possibilities, the market was there, he just needed to finish it.
But there were so many easy distractions, so many games his mind could play to create reasons to do something else. No, he could do this. He would do this…
His method was well practiced — all he needed to do was relax and project himself… Concentrate on the details, remember the back story he had already created… Literally get into character.
With one last great exhale, he was there at last.
He stood in his dapper suit, a silver-handled cane with a beautifully worked horse head in his hand. It took him only a second to get his bearings; Ah yes, the basement of the castle on the Belgian isle where he had last tracked the horrible monster.
He peered around in the half-light. The walls were made of huge ancient blocks of stone, grey like most everything else in the room. There were wooden crates covered in spider webs and dust, an oddly staring statue, also covered in grey dust, and antiquated furniture, first covered in cloth then covered in more grey dust. The overall effect was dreary and stagnant with decay; a fitting place for a showdown, he thought.
He strode towards a covered item that stood upright in the corner and dust surged into the air as he moved. It rose in undulating currents that were so thick he could barely breathe let alone see. When he reached the piece, he uncovered it slowly, trying not to further disturb the air.
The cloth slid away with an echoing rustle and a glimmer shone in his eyes that made him start backwards. It was only an old full height mirror, the light reflected from a tiny gap in the highest basement window as the morning sun began to rise.
He paused and looked at his reflection and was pleased. He was a boyish thirty-two but the goatee and tailored clothes helped a great deal and he felt he appeared more than adequate for this part. He admired the cut of the dark coat, the suppleness of the leather gloves over his fingers. He cocked his head slightly at a thought; a top hat — Should Turrow sport a top hat or would that be going too far? The hat was suddenly there and he turned and checked his reflection from another angle and slid his fingers along the brim with his gloved hand. Yes, it was perfect. It completed the impression. He met his own eyes then and scowled. You — I — must not keep referring to this character in the third person for this to work properly — I am Sherwood Turrow, great vampire hunter. I am Sherwood Turrow, I have been chasing this hellish demon all over Europe and I have now cornered him in his lair. He is here somewhere and I will destroy him for the betterment of all humankind.
A soft chuckle behind him made him turn, though there was nothing reflected in the mirror.
Standing not two feet away was a tall, thin man in immaculate dark clothing that starkly contrasted with his pale, ageless face. Handsome and arrogant, the man continued to smile at Franklin, the white tips of his sharp incisors barely noticeable stretching the corners of his mouth. His black eyes gleamed, and when he spoke it was with a deep and fluid voice, the register and resonance almost hypnotic.
“So you have found me. I congratulate you — though I think you will soon regret your own persistence.”
Franklin withdrew the razor-sharp sword from its cane-sheath in one swift motion.
“I come prepared.”
He balanced it in hand, readying for the swift thrust to come.
The dapper pale man showed no fear, rather, anger at such an insult in his own abode.
“Have you?” he taunted. “Have you indeed?”
Franklin glanced at the high basement windows. If he could only break one or two, sunlight would pour in and there would be no where for this beast to go. But after only a se
conds pause, another thought answered the first: It’s been done too many times before — There’s no originality in that. And then a quicker response of reproach: Stay in character! Enough of this commentary or you will completely ruin things!
As it was, he had been distracted for too long. A cyclone of dust rose of itself from the floor between them and wrapped around Franklin in an obscuring cloud. The tempest was aggressive — He wiped at his eyes and covered his mouth, the filth almost over-powering. He stepped through it, blade forward.
But the man was no longer there — instead a loud sloppy flapping filled the air.
It sounded like wings, large and powerful. Franklin spun, Where was it coming from? Which direction?
It was amazingly fast, one moment at his left, another at his right. He continually changed directions to be less easy prey, peered through the murk at his surroundings for something small enough to hurtle at a window. There, a small vase with wilted flowers! He snatched it up, whirled, and let it fly.
The projectile was right on target, turning in the air, inches from the high basement glass.
A dark, shapeless form intersected its path and knocked it harmlessly to the ground.
And now a quickly shifting laugh sounded all around him in the thick air and, despite himself, he felt chilled to the bone, the hair on the back of his neck rising in a quiver.
He continued to swivel, cane-sword drawn. A cold sweat ran down his back with the new knowledge that daylight was not going to save him — He had underestimated his foe and was now in the gravest danger.
Abruptly, a deafening screech tore across the room as the creature attacked from behind. He pivoted — Just in time to see its twisted black features and large toothy mouth swooping down to engulf him.
He ducked, a talon raking his coat apart at the shoulder and spun again to defend himself as it made a lightening fast turn in the air.
His foot caught on an uneven floor stone and he went down awkwardly, his back thumping against a coffin in the corner. He was trapped.
The creature closed the distance with supernatural speed, its glaring merciless eyes enough to send fear through even an experienced vampire hunter like himself.
In one last frenzied move, Franklin pulled the fallen cane-sword from beneath him and swiftly raised it — And the huge creature came to a bone-jarring halt inches from his face, impaled to the hilt on his blade.
Black ooze streamed to the ground and across Franklin as it screamed and gnashed, the borrowed life pouring out, its talons spasmodically flexing and unflexing as its facial features rapidly changed — first to that of the pale young man, screaming, twisting, a hideous smoke billowing, then rapidly deteriorating, the flesh sloughing off, tissue and bone exposed, and finally withering further, decaying, blackening — until there was finally only ash that separated into dust — and fell harmlessly to the floor.
Franklin lay still, recovering from the horror of this awful encounter.
The confrontation was finally finished, he had prevailed. But more than that, the finale seemed to work — He really was finished. He smiled and exhaled once again — a long, satisfied emptying of his lungs —
And he was home again.
He looked at the computer screen before him, his fingers sitting lightly on the keyboard keys. He read the last part of the page.
“Sherwood Turrow wiped the dusty perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief and tilted his head heavenward. He quietly murmured to himself in the growing light in the stone basement. “Let light consume the darkness and dispel the memories of the evil that has hidden here.” He took one last glance around the dismal place and made for the stairs. His job here was finished but somehow he knew there would be more ahead. Perhaps many more”.
Franklin smiled, pleased at the text and pressed the print key.
He collected the pages in a neat pile and prepared them for his toughest critic —
His wife.
CHAPTER 2 – Jacqueline
Every time Frank looked at his wife, Jacqueline, he felt the same. He couldn’t imagine finding anyone that fit him so well and thanked the fates that had brought her into his life. It wasn’t just her looks — although she was exactly the physical type he’d always dreamt of; beautifully slim figure, long straight auburn hair that flowed lightly over her shoulders, and deep green gentle eyes. What was more incredible was her demeanor; kind and caring, and most important of all, dead honest.
The fact that she spoke her mind was something he adored — even when he wished her opinion about something in particular was more akin to his own — like now, when she had just finished reading the manuscript of his latest effort.
He had taken Argus for a very long walk, then gone and bought the weekly groceries at the store, then manically cleaned the house — all in the hopes of killing time and remaining distracted. Now, he waited, statue-like, subduing his final impatience as best he could as he sat in the easy chair across from her on the sofa and she finally set down the pages. She looked over at him with her big green eyes and a slight grin — followed by an actual chuckle — Not exactly the reaction he was hoping for...
He fought back the impulse to pepper her with questions. As difficult as it was, he knew it was better to wait — The judge would soon speak. And then, finally, she did.
“Hilarious…” She began and he could feel the lump instantly knot up in his throat — What is she talking about? — There’s nothing remotely hilarious in my story… She continued.
“A writer who can’t stand the sight of blood chooses to write about, of all things, vampires…” She stopped there, eyes laughing, torturing him. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“Enough about that — What’d you think?”
She winced. “You really want to know?”
The hollow dread of disappointment was already flooding through him. All that work..! He nodded and swallowed thickly, trying to prepare himself for what was to follow.
“Absolutely.”
She hesitated and frowned, it was obvious she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Still, her honesty would win out as it always did…
“Could I just get off with saying it sucked?” She asked.
He shook his head “No”. Prepare yourself, he thought. You’re not going to like this…
She exhaled as if to say; “Okay, you asked for it…” A deep breath and she began…
“Okay… Well, to begin with, it’s just another typical horror story… The distinguished hero, the Dracula-like villain. There’s nothing new here. But I guess what really bugged me was that there’s always some mechanism, some contrivance, that saves the hero in the end. Every horror story seems to pull this stuff. The silver bullet. Sunlight. In this case, the old stake through the heart in the form of the cane-sword. I don’t get it—if these monsters are dead, you can’t kill ‘em, right? So then the hero’s basically screwed and at the end he gets killed because he’s fighting something that can’t be stopped and that’s it. The End.”
Frank couldn’t believe it. For the first time in a very long time, he actually felt offended by his wife’s words. What she was saying was almost sacrilegious..!
“And what about the villain? What happens to him?”
Jackie pursed her lips and thought about this.
“Well… He’s already dead so I guess he just keeps cruising around… You know, doing whatever it is dead guys do…”
What an affront! How could she say such a thing?
“And what about tradition?” He blurted, voice rising. “Good over evil! What kind of story would it be if the hero’s just screwed?”
She was obviously tired of this discussion and could hear the aggravation in his voice. She spread her hands and lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.
“I don’t know. More realistic..?”
And with that she retreated to the kitchen to make some coffee.
Argus padded after her and Frank was left alone to wallow in his thoughts. She was ri
ght to end it there. It was less about her wanting to abandon the hero, more about the simple fact that she hadn’t liked his work. When she had said that it was too similar to other stories, his stomach had lurched. He literally felt in his gut that she was right — He had failed again.
A shame washed over him and he felt himself blush. She wouldn’t be patient much longer. The door was closing. If he didn’t prove himself soon, he’d have to return to his previous life.
He chewed at the loose skin of his gums inside his mouth. It wasn’t that teaching children was that bad, it had its rewards… It was the fact that he wasn’t taking full advantage of what he considered to be his real gift — Writing. Specifically writing horror stories.
He had to come up with an original break-through idea. Where Poe and Stoker and Shelly and the others had gone before him, he could follow. It was his calling — He knew it was.
But Jackie wouldn’t support him forever. If he were lucky, he’d have one more shot. If he were lucky.
CHAPTER 3 – Visions
Frank lay in bed, agitated and anxious. His jaw hurt, he’d been gnashing and clamping and unclamping his teeth all day and it had taken its toll. He glanced over and strained to peer through the darkness — Jackie was sound asleep, auburn hair a wild tussle across the pillow, mouth drooped open taking slow deep breaths.
He slid from under the covers as quietly as he could and tip-toed down the short hallway and into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him — He didn’t want any sound to wake her.
He rested his elbows on the cold tile counter and studied his haggard face in the mirror. He wasn’t a vain man — He rarely looked at himself in the mirror, but what he saw now looked decidedly less appealing than what he’d expected. His skin looked splotchy and pimply, his hair seemed like it had receded even further since the day before and his eyes looked rimmed in red, as though he’d been crying. The stress, he thought. I’ve got to get better at managing the stress...
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