Sam

by Iain Rob Wright

  Angela ignored his words; they were just noise in her head. “Frank! Sammie wasn’t possessed – I mean, he was, but not in the way we thought. It was an angel inside him, trying to help. The evil came from Sammie. He has no soul. No soul whatsoever”

  Frank stood up and looked at her with concern. “Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about?”

  “Sammie is…God, I can hardly say it. Sammie is the antichrist. It all makes sense. If he takes over Black Remedy one day he will be powerful enough to rule the world. All the signs were there, I just missed them.”

  Frank laughed. “Are you saying that Sammie is the Devil?”

  Angela nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, he is.”

  “But he’s been fine since the exorcism. Everything worked out.”

  Angela shook her head in frustration. “The Devil deceives. He’s pretending.”

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “We need to find the dagger and kill him, but the dagger is gone. I think Sammie has done something with it.”

  “Sammie hasn’t done anything with the dagger,” Frank said matter-of-factly.

  “Frank, you’re not listening to me.”

  “I hear you well enough,” he said, and then produced the dagger from beneath his jacket. He drove it deep into her chest. “I know Sammie didn’t take the dagger, because I did.” Then he pushed her already dying body through the gap in the railing and watched her hit the marble below.

  The last thing Angela saw before her vision went permanently black was the sight of Frank leaning over the balcony two floors above and mouthing the words, “I’m sorry.”

  ***

  Frank headed for Sammie’s room feeling sick at what he’d done. It was unfortunate that Angela had insisted on staying behind to support him. It was only going to be a matter of time before she figured it all out. She was smart. It only made Frank even more aware of his own stupidity. It was insane to think that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of his face.

  Sammie had confessed his true nature the evening after the exorcism and Frank had been stunned – and a little incredulous at first – but somewhere deep in his heart he knew that Samuel Raymeady was the Devil. Yet, when he had tried to contemplate killing the boy and putting an end to his wicked intentions, he found himself unable. He loved the Raymeady family and he loved Sammie. He had failed the boy so much already and there was nothing else that mattered to him anymore but keeping him safe – he had made a promise to Jessica. Besides, there was already Hell on Earth; he’d seen that from his days in the army and pretty much every day since. Frank’s eyes had been opened years ago and he was not against the changes that Sammie’s existence might bring. Surely things could not be any worse.

  When Sammie had asked for Frank to look after him, to be his protector until he was old enough to take the reins of the vehicle that would steer him to world domination – Black Remedy Corporation – Frank had hesitantly agreed. He knew it would be an unsavoury job with lots of questionable responsibilities (killing Angela had just proved it), but he had made his decision. Protecting Samuel Raymeady would be the last job he ever took, and he was going to see it through to the end.

  Frank entered the boy’s room. Sammie was watching South Park, but pressed pause when he saw Frank coming. He knew now why the boy loved that particular show so much – it highlighted all of the darker parts of humanity, all of their weaknesses – the parts that the boy would one day take full advantage of.

  “Everything okay, Frank?”

  Frank nodded. “There was a little bit of an issue, but I…dealt with it.”

  Sammie smiled and nodded. “Shame, I’ll surely miss her. Still, there will be little need for priests in time. The world will have a new God to worship.”

  Frank swallowed a lump in his throat and sat down on a chair beside the boy who would soon become his adopted son, head of the world’s largest corporation, and the future prince of demons. The world wasn’t going to know what hit it.

  FANGS FOR DINNER

  Annabelle couldn’t wait. The hairs on the back of her neck stood rigid like platoons of tiny soldiers.

  He’ll be here any minute. I’ve waited so long, and finally he’s about to arrive.

  Annabelle had met the one who called himself Masters about a month ago; albeit it via Internet chats only. It had seemed that out of nowhere her life had suddenly become consumed by her new and mysterious friend. They chatted every day and most of the night. They exchanged pictures, some safe for work while others definitely not.

  She met Masters on the dating website she had joined: Children Of The Night. It was an online meeting place for the lonely and broken; for those looking to connect with other damaged souls such as themselves. Annabelle didn’t necessarily have a damaged soul, but she was indeed lonely. Sometimes she felt like she was the only one alive; some sort of different species, different from everyone else. Her job at the supermarket was unfulfilling and anti-social with the fact that she worked throughout the night. She never managed to meet anyone.

  That was until she found Children Of The Night.

  The website had spoken to her, had whispered in her ear that she was not alone and that there were people out in the world ready to love her and accept her; fetishes and all.

  The website catered to the ‘alternative’ lifestyle and that certainly described Annabelle. Whilst all outward appearances may have labelled her as simply odd, her dark desires would have sent most people running. Whips and chains were her comfort blankets, leather and plastic her norm. Most of all, she liked to bit and to be bitten.

  That’s why when she had seen Masters’ online dating profile he had seemed the perfect match. Because Masters stated himself to be a Vampire.

  Annabelle had made contact immediately, asking questions and spilling fantasies. Her relationship with him had begun without boundaries and it was not long before she yearned to see him. To be bitten by him as he had promised her countless times.

  Annabelle poured two glasses of red wine in anticipation. The Chianti was thick and slippery and she could not wait to taste it. But she must wait. Once Masters arrived they would sip wine together and indulge in their darkest fantasies.

  The leather bodice bit at her curves, squeezing her ample bosom forward. She imagined Masters’ teeth sinking into them, tugging at the nipples and drawing blood. She could not wait.

  The doorbell rang. Annabelle tried to draw a breath but couldn’t.

  He’s here. Thank Satan he’s here.

  Annabelle clomped across her apartment towards her front door. There had been only a single knock, but she knew Masters was standing just the other side of the wood.

  Annabelle placed a slender hand around the door knob. It seemed to vibrate with electricity. She turned it. Opened the door.

  Standing before her was a thing of beauty. A being of both feminine and masculine perfection.

  “Annabelle?” the stranger asked in a hissing whisper.

  Annabelle smiled. “Please, just call me Anna. Are you Masters?”

  “Indeed I am, my sweet.” He ginned a wide, toothy smile and Annabelle immediately saw his fangs glinting either side of his mouth. “May I come in? You must invite me, my dear.”

  Annabelle stood aside and opened the door wider. “Please, be my guest.”

  Masters cross the threshold to her apartment. “Thank you.”

  Annabelle looked her guest up and down. He wore a heavy, black overcoat with a plain, red t-shirt beneath. His dark trousers led down to an immaculately-shined pair of loafers.

  “Please, sit down,” she said. “I have a glass of wine waiting for you.”

  Masters spoke with an accented lisp. “Excellent. I hope that it is red.”

  “Of course.”

  Annabelle led her guest over to the dining room table and seated him at one of the chairs. She went and brought over their wine and placed herself down opposite him. Then she gazed at him.

  His eyes were the colour of was
ps; flecks of yellow battling against black. His skin was the same shade of grey as old bone.

  Masters’ eyes narrowed as he looked back at her. “Are you taking me in, my dear? What is it, you are thinking?”

  Annabelle shrugged shyly. “I’m not sure yet. Guess I’m wondering if you’re the real deal. Are you really a Vampire.”

  “But of course, my dear. How may I convince you?”

  “Do you have a reflection?”

  Masters huffed. “Yes. Such nonsense is the realm of movies and books. All things have a reflection. It is nature and I am just another part of it. I am just as tied to this world as you are, my dear.”

  Annabelle was disappointed. “Okay,” she said. “So I take it you can’t turn into a bat?”

  Masters smiled. “Alas, no. Now, what feast do you have for me this evening, my sweet?”

  Annabelle stood up. “I hope you like roast pork?”

  Masters licked his lips, his tongue darting like a serpent’s. “Swine flesh. My favourite; nothing is quite so succulent…almost nothing.”

  Annabelle grinned. “I’ll go check on it now.”

  She stepped through into the kitchen with a smile on her face but deep inside she was unsure about her visitor. Masters was a sexy, dark featured man – a Vampire – but there was just something about him that was so…

  Cliché.

  Inside the oven, the pork was done. Annabelle placed on an oven meat and pulled out the roasting tray. The vegetables had already been plated up, so she quickly got to work carving the pork and placing the strips of cooked flesh onto the plate. She finished it all off with lashing of hot, mint gravy.

  Masters had taken off his overcoat by the time Annabelle re-entered the dining room. His pasty arms were heavily tattooed with symbols of the occult: inverted crosses mingling with Celtic runes and Tibetan charms. Annabelle recognised them all, yet she had never desired a tattoo of her own; didn’t see the point.

  She placed down Masters’ plate in front of him and retook her seat opposite. The two of them began eating. Masters had finished his wine so she topped him up with the wine on the table.

  “So, my dear,” Masters said between mouthfuls of pork. “Are you prepared to submit yourself to me for the rest of this evening?”

  Annabelle nodded. “Yes. I want you to show me what you are. I want to see your teeth against my flesh.”

  Masters grinned like a well-fed cat. “Excellent. I must insist that you give yourself to me entirely. Anything I ask, you must provide.”

  Annabelle bit at her bottom lip and tasted a fleck of blood in her mouth. “Okay,” she said. “Did you want to get started?”

  Masters shook his head, chewing on another mouthful of pork. “Be not so eager. The night is ours and we must enjoy it. First we eat, then we drink, then we indulge in the sins of the flesh.”

  Masters went back to eating. Annabelle watched him as he shovelled helpings into his mouth and guzzled wine. He seemed uninterested in her right now; an animal with a fresh carcass.

  When there was no more pork on his plate, Masters asked for more. Annabelle obliged and went back into the kitchen. She carved another serving from the roast and went to take the plate back out, but she paused first. Something still wasn’t right about Masters. She wanted him to be what he said he was, but she had to be sure. She reached into the cupboard and pulled out the garlic.

  A few minutes later she re-emerged into the dining room and set down Masters’ plate. Her own meal was only half-eaten so she made a start on finishing it.

  “This is excellent,” Masters commented. “But it tastes different now. Have you added something?”

  Annabelle nodded. “Can’t you tell what?”

  Masters shook his head. “Games do not interest me, my dear. What is it I am eating? Tell me?”

  “Garlic.”

  Masters’ eyes went wide and he spat out a mouthful of pork onto the table. He coughed, choked, and spluttered. “W-what game are you playing, harlot?”

  “I’m not the one playing games,” Annabelle said defiantly. “You are.”

  Masters wiped spittle from his chin. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re no Vampire. You’re a fake. You didn’t even react to the garlic until I told you about it.”

  Masters looked confused. When he spoke, his accent was plain. “Well, of course I’m a fake. You didn’t actually think I was a Vampire did you? They don’t exist?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “Then why pretend to be one. Why talk to me on the Children Of The Night website?”

  “It’s fantasy. Everybody on there is just playing a role. You don’t actually want some guy to come and bite you do you? I thought we were just going to have sex, do a little roleplaying.”

  Annabelle sighed. “I can’t believe I even wasted my time on you. You’re not even convincing. You’re just here to eat my food and get your end away.”

  “Oh, come on, love. I made the effort. What’s wrong with me? I think I’m pretty convincing.”

  “You’re not,” said Annabelle. “Not at all.”

  Masters sighed, seemed a little grumpy. “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, garlic hurting Vampires is just a myth. You were acting like a fool when you started choking on it. But that’s not why I knew you were a fake. I knew before then.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes,” said Annabelle, looking down at the meat on her plate and feeling like she might cry. She was so alone. “Real Vampires you see, they don’t have fangs like the silly plastic ones like you’re wearing.”

  Masters was smiling now, as if the whole conversation was utterly amusing. He reached into his mouth and pulled free the plastic incisors he was wearing. Clumps of pork strands hung from them. “So, tell me, Anna – Mrs Expert – what are a Vampire’s teeth really like.”

  Annabelle looked up at him. “Well, for one thing, their fangs are at the bottom.” She opened her mouth wide, revealing the dagger like teeth jutting up from her lower jaws. Masters’ eyes went wide with panic but he was too stunned to do anything as she leapt across the table and devoured him in the same rabid fashion that he had devoured her pork roast.

  When she was done, she began to weep. Her search for a mate would have to continue.

  BLEEDING ON THE RUG

  By Ryan C. Thomas

  “He’s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”

  Two days of lifting heavy boxes for the move to the new house had sucked the ever-loving life out of Dane. He should have been able to sleep through an elephant stampede. But the sound of Matti’s frantic whispering shocked him out of his dream like a hooked fish yanked from a pond. There was something about his wife’s voice that had the power to weave through his fatigues and mental blocks and grasp him.

  “…bleeding on the rug on the rug…”

  Sleeptalking was not uncommon for Matti; it was in fact a trait of hers Dane found endearing. On several occasions over the years he’d listened with a smile as she conversed with the denizens of her dream worlds. Sometimes a conversation with him, sometimes a chat with friends, sometimes just pure nonsense that made him giggle. But from the sound of her voice now, she was engaged in a nightmare. He decided he would give her a reassuring squeeze and tell her she was just dreaming.

  “…on the rug, on the rug…”

  “Roll over.” He rubbed her side

  Shadows hung heavy in front of him as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom. The clock beside the bed threw sanguine light onto the nightstand in the form of digital numbers. One rule Dane had while sleeping was to never look at the time; counting the hours until work always gave him anxiety.

  Too late. He saw it was 3:45 and compulsively did the math until he had to get up.

  “Matti,” he grumbled again.

  “...bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…”

  His wife lay on her back, auburn hair in waves across her face, not a typical sleeping position
for her. She was a fetal sleeper, often cradling one of the many teddy bears Dane had given her on birthdays and anniversaries. This position looked too rigid, almost forced, like she’d been tied to a board. And there was something about the way she was repeating the words that didn’t feel right. Her voice was hushed, the words fast and sharp, like she was trying to say it as many times as she could in under a minute.

  “Honey, wake up, you’re dreaming.” He grabbed her upper arm and gave it a little shake. Usually, this method resulted in angry instructions not to wake her up for no good reason. He’d recount the episode to her in the morning, like he always did, and she’d tell him he was crazy and out to sabotage her sleep. Such was their little joke.

  But she didn’t stir as he touched her, just kept on repeating the sentence, which was beginning to creep Dane out. Who in her dream was bleeding on the rug?

  “Honey, you’re having a nightmare. C’mon, roll over.”

  “He’s bleeding on the rug bleeding on the rug…”

  He shook her again, this time harder, hoping some subliminal part of her mind would sense it and she’d at least roll over angrily.

  Still, Matti didn’t respond to his commanding nudge, which shook the hair from her face.

  With his mind inherently doing math problems—three hours until I get up, I’ll never get back to sleep at this rate—Dane gave it a second while his eyes adjusted. Finally, her face swam into view.

  He gasped.

  Her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. Her skin, pasty white, shined with sweat.

  The muscles in his body snapped to attention and he sat upright, a reserve of energy suddenly powering him. What the…?

  Her mouth moved quickly as she spoke, like a mouse chewing on a bread crumb: “He’s bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”

  “Matti, what’s going on? Talk to me. Matti? Matti?”

  Letting her go for a moment, he leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. The room jumped to life, the shadows retreating in the wake of navy blue curtains, a pale green comforter, lilac walls, and boxes of clothes and accessories that sat in piles near the closet, ready for the morning’s move. She did not respond to the light, remaining consistent in her rapid decree that someone was bleeding on the rug.