Upon arriving, they parked and started up the walk. The house was dark.
"Either no one’s home or . . .," Harmon began.
"Or they’re playing Tickle Me in the dark," Jeffers whispered.
"Oh, please," Harmon begged. "Let me be the one to shout, "Police! Freeze!"
Jeffers snorted, "You’re such a child. Okay, you take the front. I’ll take the back."
Jeffers found the back door ajar. Pushing it slowly open, he saw clothing, that of a man and a woman, strewn across the floor. Obviously, Marlow and his sweetie had been in too much of a hurry to lock up. Drawing his weapon, Jeffers continued into the house. Then, to his surprise, found himself face-to-face with Harmon.
"Doesn’t anyone lock their doors any more?"
The sounds of giggling and squeaking bed springs came from upstairs. The two crept silently up the carpeted staircase. When they reached the bedroom door, Harmon gave Jeffers a pleading look.
Jeffers nodded and Harmon burst into the bedroom, shouting, "Police! Freeze!" Marlow and his girlfriend, both naked, stared up at the detectives.
"Close your mouth! You’re letting flies in," Jeffers snapped.
"Get your scanties on," Harmon grinned. "We’re taking you two in for questioning in the death of Lynn Marlow."
"I had nothing to do with any murder!" Marlow snarled. "Haven’t been home all night."
As soon as Joe and Marsha had been handcuffed and stuffed into the car, Harmon said, "That parrot needs questioning. We need to visit the Kelly woman." Jeffers gave him a weird look and then swung the car in the direction of the Kelly house.
When they arrived, Harmon insisted upon dragging their two suspects inside. Mrs. Kelly was surprised to see the four of them, but brought out the two pets as requested. Gandolph took one look at Marlow and shouted in the man’s voice, "I’m going to bash your head in!" At this, Marlow turned white.
The parrot shrieked, in what the detectives took to be the wife’s voice, "Stop! You’re killing me!" Then the bird faced the girlfriend and imitated her shrill voice, "Kill her, Joe! So we can be together!"
Jeffers shouted, "Was this the way it was, Marlow? The parrot’s ratting you both out!"
Marsha started to sob and Marlow’s knees gave way. He tumbled onto the sofa.
"I never wanted that damn, noisy parrot! It repeated everything! Never shut up!"
"There won’t be any parrots where you’re going, I promise you," Jeffers told him.
They started toward the door, the parrot following, demanding, "Gandolph wants a cracker!"
"It was the husband all along, in the living room, with the candlestick," Harmon muttered. Turning to Mrs. Kelly, he smiled. "Big Bird broke the case. He’s earned his cracker."
And Gandolph fluttered eagerly forward as Harmon reached for the box of treats.
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NIGHT CRAWLERS
A suburban community - Long Island – present day
It would have been a routine evening at the Serbanescue home, except for Uncle Vladimir’s visit. That had been a week ago and now Mariana feared her little family would never be the same.
Her son, Cezar, having just turned two, had recently learned how to turn a doorknob. While Mariana was tossing a salad and broiling burgers, the boy toddled off to the broom closet and rotated the knob. The door swung slowly open to reveal his father, inside the closet, hanging upside down like a bat.
Startled at the intrusion, the man’s eyes angrily snapped open and his taloned fingers shot out to grab the child’ throat. Mariana reacted instantly, whirling around and slamming her husband in the temple with the hot, frying pan.
"Oooowwww!" he howled, recoiling from the blow.
Mariana snatched Cezar to safety and slammed the closet door. "What were you thinking, Lucian?" she snapped. "He’s your son!"
"He surprised me out of a sound sleep," the man complained, crawling out of his cubby hole. "I’m too new at this to be in control. The kid just has to be more careful."
"He’s only two years old," Mariana retorted. "You can’t possibly expect Cezar to understand that you’ve become something scary." Turning to the child, she instructed, "Watch out for Daddy. He’s a monster now." The boy giggled and scampered off in search of his toys. "You see," she insisted. "Now are you going to help me get these children off to bed?"
Lucian made sure the girls ate their supper, then after Anca and Diona showered, brushed their teeth, and donned bunny pajamas, he tucked them in with a story. He next captured Cezar, locked him into the high chair, and began spooning food into the tiny mouth.
"Your uncle made another one of his threatening phone calls while you were upstairs," Mariana told Lucian.
Lucian expression became stormy. "Vladimir thinks just because he sired me, I no longer have a choice. Well, I don’t give a damn how far back Serbanescue family traditions go. No way am I joining his freak show." Lucian patiently wiped the food from Cezar’s face and hands, then he ran water in the kitchen sink to bathe his son. "I just hope that information you got from the Net is correct." Bath over, he wrapped Cezar in a fluffy towel.
Mariana nodded. "Yes, it said the same thing on several sites. As long as you haven’t tasted blood, you can’t become a full-fledged vampire."
"But now that he did this to me, I can’t go back to being human either. I can’t go out during the day or hold a job. And I can’t put my boss off any longer."
Mariana threw her arms around her two men. "I found an option today. A hematologist, Dr. Charmers, in the town of Holyrode, about 75 miles from here." They took their son upstairs and struggled to fit the wriggling child into his nightwear. "The site said as long as the subject hasn’t fed, the blood of the vampire sire can be drained off and replaced by human blood."
"Expensive?" Lucian inquired, frowning.
"It’s $50,000. Don’t look at me like that! It will make you normal again. It will be worth it." She laid the boy in his crib and tucked him in. "I’ve already been to the bank. Cashed in all our CD’s. We took a loss. And my parents agreed to take the kids for a couple of days." Mariana switched on the musical mobile over the crib. As the device began to slowly turn, tinkling musical notes filled the room. Cezar gave this his full attention.
"Close your eyes," his father whispered.
Husband and wife tiptoed out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. She said, "Tomorrow, when daylight is stealing upon us, don’t take refuge in the broom closet. Go to the garage and crawl into the trunk instead. That way I can take us up to Holyrode. Dr. Charmers has arranged for me to drive right into his garage so you needn’t worry about sunlight."
"How long does the treatment take?"
"We’ll be back home by tomorrow night," she promised. "Safe and well. And free of your uncle!"
"Hey, it can’t happen soon enough," he muttered. "This craving is awful."
On the morrow, the two made the trip with hope in their hearts. Dr. Charmers appeared competent and, shortly after their arrival, the procedure was carried out. By the following day, Mariana and Lucian arrived home again, $50,000 poorer, but totally human. By the day after that, Lucian had his old job back and it seemed Vladimir was out of their lives.
It was almost a month later when their tormentor reappeared. Lucian arrived home from work, only to discover the house dark, his family missing, and supper hadn’t been started. As he took up the big kitchen knife to make a sandwich, he spotted a cereal box upended on the kitchen floor. Lucian opened the broom closet, intending to sweep up the mess.
To his surprise, Mariana was asleep in the closet, hanging upside down. A horrified gasp sprang from his throat and, as if on cue, Vladimir and his henchman, Dimitrie, crept out of the darkened living room, gliding toward him.
Vladimir sneered. "You would not join me willingly so I brought your precious family over. And now you have no choice."
Lucian stared as Mariana crept ou
t of the closet and his girls, Anca and Diona, crawled out from under the kitchen cabinets. There were flecks of blood on their lips and pajama tops. "We’re going to need a larger utility closet," his wife remarked.
"Where is Cezar?" demanded Lucian.
Vladimir appeared regretful. "He was just too small to be converted, but he did serve an important purpose."
"We couldn’t truly become vampires until we fed," Mariana explained.
"And so, we shared Cezar," Anca chortled, while Diona scuttled about, lapping at the dried blood.
"My son!" Lucian howled, whirling around, slashing the knife across Vladimir’s throat. Dimitrie was next to fall under the blade. At this, Mariana and the girls leapt forward, shrieking and biting, but Lucian took them down as well.
He sank to his knees, in anguish, on the bloody linoleum. And then he heard it. Soft footsteps. A familiar voice. Coming closer. A small hand touched his. Lucian looked down to see his son’s face. A monster’s face! Vladimir’s mistake . . .
"Close your eyes," Lucian whispered. And he raised the knife.
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THE GRISLY SECRET OF HASTINGS HALL
England during WW II - 1943
They came again last night. Another murder attempt. The ghosts of Hastings Hall will not rest until I am mouldering in my grave. Until I have become one of their cursed band.
I pen this diary in the hope that, in case my escape attempts are unsuccessful, my family will learn the truth.
It has been but a week since I received word that I was the new Earl of Hastings, the heir of a distant uncle I’d never met. As there was a lull between German bombings, I immediately packed up the contents of my London flat and called my cat by patting my chest. Tiger flew into my arms and we hurried off to take possession of this estate.
My delight soon faded on the third morning, upon learning, to my horror, that a horde of ghostly inhabitants had killed my predecessor and were now intent upon murdering me.
The Hall is heated only by huge fireplaces and, in a few rooms, gas heat. Upon my making a fire the first night, blazing cinders escaped the screens, setting my bedclothes aflame as I dozed. Thinking this to be a freak accident, I moved to another room, one with gas.
That night, the pilot light was mysteriously turned off while I slept and only Tiger’s frantic nipping at my cheek woke me in time. Barely conscious, I saved myself by breaking one of the diamond window panes with my shoe. The following night, I woke to find one of my stocks stuffed into the frosted, broken pane, gas again filling the room.
Between these unhappy experiences and the Hall being gloomy even on sunny days, I decided to hop into the car at sunup, and head for the nearest town to consult someone about cleaning the fireplaces and replacing the gas fixtures. I threw on my greatcoat and scampered down to the front hall, but despite my tugging, the huge front portals refused to open. Upon trying the windows, I found them all stuck fast and barred.
As I turned back in frustration, my coat brushed a paper from a small table top. I bent to retrieve it and saw immediately that it had been written by my late uncle.
"I cannot get out!" the note began. "They’re coming for me! There is no escape."
With growing horror I read of his belief that each earl in turn had been murdered by our ancestors and that, once inside Hastings Hall, the new Earl was trapped until he, too, was slain and joined the ghostly horde:
"The living Earl cannot leave by door or window as long as the Hall lies in shadow."
I shot a glance out the window and saw, with sinking heart, that an unnatural shadow covered the structure. Wildly, I tore again at the sash and the knobs, scraping my knuckles, but to no avail. I was in the grip of this cursed house and it was just a question of time until they dispatched me. And so, I now pen my own diary.
I try not to stay in any room more than one night, making it harder for them to track me. At least there are numerous bed chambers to choose from. Since it is mid-winter, with rime coating the windows and the lake frozen solid, I must have heat in order to survive. And this is the chink in my armor.
I dare not go near staircases for the unseen dead have, on several occasions, tried to shove me down steep flights of stone steps. Since they are only active after nightfall, I try to sleep during the day, the better to keep watch. Most often, Tiger, my orange-striped cat, senses them before I do and howls his warning.
My poor beast! Warning me has become his undoing for, the next morning, I discover his body, cold and unmoving, twisted in an unnatural position. And now it is even worse than first feared as Tiger has returned, his ghostly form padding about the Hall each night.
I wrap Tiger’s pitiful remains in plastic bags and tote the bundle and its rotting contents with me as I move from room to room. If I should discover a way out, I mean not to doom my beloved pet’s ghost to this cursed house.
As my food stores diminish, my hope of escape wanes. I’ve begun to wonder if I will starve before they finish me. Will history record me as John Edward Stewart, the 43rd and final Earl of Hastings Hall?
There was a loud, whistling sound, followed by an explosion, and John was thrown to the floor. A few minutes later, amid smoke and rubble, the new Earl staggered to his feet, clutching the odiferous plastic bag. He watched as a German bomber roared overhead, through the rapidly growing daylight, on its way home. It was a full minute before the Earl realized what had happened.
"Adolph, you old bastard!" he howled with delight. "You’ve blown out the north wall!"
Hefting the bundle as if it were a football, John dashed madly at the fallen wall. He barreled over the rubble and got about 50 feet across the lawn before glancing back in fear of being followed. And then he saw it.
Inside the hall, a ghostly cat perched atop the fallen stones, yowling mournfully.
John thumped his chest, urging, "Tiger! Come on!"
The small phantom leapt down from the rubble, paws flying across the grass. It neared John and prepared to spring out of the darkness and into his arms. As daylight touched the cat, it began to fade in mid-leap, then disappeared completely. John’s arms closed in an embrace, but Tiger vanished.
As a tearful John stumbled to the car, he made a promise.
"I’ll bury you somewhere safe, little buddy. Somewhere far from here."
Then he made another promise. "And I’ll be back with dynamite. The family curse ends here!"
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THE CREEPING DOSE
The Catskills, New York - 1949
The Creeping Dose. That’s what they call it when a person becomes exposed to continuing, small doses of radiation, eventually ending in death. Early symptoms may include nausea, vomiting, headache, fatigue, weakness, fever, hair loss, infections, and wounds refuse to heal. It is common for a few symptom-free days to occur between initial exposure and death.
Ending in death was good enough for me. I closed the medical book and slipped it back into its spot on the shelf in my husband’s office.
Consider my husband of three years, Dr. Wayne Stewart-Campbell. He was so old, he seemed to be crumbling before my eyes. His breath stank and he farted like a goat. But he has six billion dollars. And I am Catherine, his trophy wife. The one who’d foolishly signed the prenup. If I left him now, I wouldn’t get a nickel. "There’s only one way out," I whispered. "You leave me no alternative."
Wayne had to die.
I waited until he dozed off over dinner, his face nearly touching his plate. I’d had the forethought to copy his set of keys some weeks ago and slipped back into his office. Going straight to the examining room with its X-ray machine in the corner, I bent down and removed a small wall panel near the lower molding. Tucking this away in the bottom of the closet, I planned to replace it after my hopes were realized.
Wayne’s office was on the other side of the wall, his desk chair closest to the opening. Next time his nurse took X-rays of a patient, she would be
standing safely in the hall, but Dr. Stewart-Campbell would be seated at his desk, exposed to the creeping dose. And so it was determined.
Wayne had to die.
He insisted upon continuing his medical practice, staggering off to his clinic each morning, determined to treat the few wealthy patients who still trusted in him. Because of his poor health, he’d moved his damn private office to our upstate, New York home.
"Campbell’s Castle," some called it because of its size and grandeur. He’d built me a solarium with a pool. And this was where I spent most of my time when I was home. Wayne couldn’t abide the smell of chlorine so he didn’t follow me out there.
We owned the mountain and our castle was on the top. From the solarium, there was a magnificent view of the countryside. But Wayne quickly ruined my retreat by building his home office on that side of the estate, the new structure partially obscuring my view.
I hated knowing, as I stretched out on the chaise lounge, that he was seated at his desk on the other side of that wall. Wrinkled and farting! As if I didn’t already have enough reasons to do what I planned to do.
Wayne must die.
In the meanwhile, I hid in the solarium, sunning myself on the chaise lounge. This couldn’t be rushed. The amount of exposure had to be slow, appearing to be an accidental leak. As time passed, I secretly congratulated myself that each use of that machine brought me closer to inheriting everything.
Forced to dine with my husband each evening, I watched him closely for any change. And each evening, he would gum his food and give off foul stenches until he eventually fell asleep with his nose plunked down in the mashed potatoes. I consoled myself by thoughts of the radiation poisoning coupling with his advanced age and ill health,
All this waiting, all this tension, all this wanting had tired me out. By the next day, I felt exhausted, with a sick headache. More determined than ever, I passed the afternoon planning what I’d wear for the funeral and chanted my mantra.
Wayne must die.
Tiny Tales of Terror Page 9
