by Rick Reed
* * * *
Later, Sluggo awakened from a restless sleep, filled with shadowy images and strange beasts, unidentifiable, lurking around just this or that corner, waiting to pounce.
He sat up in bed, looking down at the silver slats created by his mini blinds and the full moon outside conspired together. He wiped a hand across his damp face, wondering what it was that had awakened him so abruptly.
Then he heard it.
Gong.
The sound was familiar but seemed to have no place in this restless landscape.
Gong. That chiming again.
And then Sluggo recognized the sound for what it was. He lay cautiously back down, thinking the noise had to be a fragment of dream lingering just past wakefulness. If there was such a thing as “lucid dreaming,” then perhaps dream images, aural or not, could be a little slower in dispersing than his waking mind could dispel them.
Gong.
And finally Sluggo realized he should have become aware of the sound long before, but the sound was so out of place in his little night-quiet apartment that his mind didn’t accept it. When the gong chimed again, Sluggo arose, putting sheet and blanket warmed feet to a chilled floor, and shivered.
The sound was so familiar because he heard it most every night. It was the sound alerting him that he had an instant message, as part of System Up’s online service.
“God, did I forget to turn off the computer?” Sluggo wondered, groggy, thinking with dread of how he would function at the bank the next day on so little sleep.
As he headed toward his den, he knew with a certainty beyond doubt that he had shut things down before retiring. Some sort of glitch maybe? But what sort of glitch would turn the computer back on and sign him on to the service once more?
The door to the den was open. Inside, Sluggo could see the pale glow from his monitor screen, and the memories of TepesAllure rushed back. He paused at the door, afraid to go inside, for fear of what might be waiting. Perhaps, he thought, anxiously gnawing at a nail that was already bitten down to the quick, someone had broken in and was using his computer.
Perhaps it was TepesAllure himself. After all, he knew Sluggo’s name, knew what he looked like. Was it really such a stretch to imagine that he knew where Sluggo lived and had come to call?
Briefly, Sluggo considered tiptoeing back to the living room, where he could dial 911 and report an intruder.
And then what? What if the authorities came out to find a lonely man who had forgotten to shut off his computer before going to bed?
Sluggo stepped inside the room.
The den was empty.
He sat, feeling weak and dizzy, in front of the computer, where a message flickered on the screen.
“Don’t sleep, Sluggo, the night is winding down, faster and faster, like water going down the drain. Dawn approaches.”
“Who are you?”
“I am TepesAllure, master of the night.”
“I thought I was… Oh never mind. What’s going on here? What do you want from me?” Sluggo’s eyelids burned. He needed sleep.
“I told you what I wanted, my dear. I’m simply waiting for you to give it to me.”
“My blood?”
“Yes, that hot, pumping life juice.”
“Well, let me slit my wrists to make you happy.”
“What a perfectly mundane idea. I have in mind a more sensual connection.”
“Look, it’s late and I don’t have time for this.” Sluggo pulled the plug from his computer, causing the monitor to go blank. He sighed with relief, or perhaps disappointment. But pulling the plug was the sensible thing to do and Sluggo always did the sensible thing. It had gotten him where he was today.
He headed back toward the bedroom.
And froze.
Gong.
Rushing back to his den, where the interior was once more warmed by the glow of the monitor, Sluggo froze in absolute terror, eyes moving from the glowing screen to the empty electrical socket in the wall, back and forth, back and forth.
“This has to be a dream,” he whispered, a pounding starting at his temples and his respiration coming more quickly. He sat heavily in the desk chair, because his legs would no longer support him.
“You’re not rid of me that easily.”
“What do you want?” Sluggo typed again, weary and nauseous.
“You.”
“Then take me,” Sluggo typed, fingers hitting the keyboard uncertainly. “Just come over here, waltz through the door, and take me. I’m tired.” He looked outside his den and made sure his front door was locked with both deadbolt and chain.
No instant message came, and Sluggo sat staring at the screen, wondering what had happened to TepesAllure. Perhaps Sluggo had been too direct. Perhaps Tepes had tired of the game.
Perhaps I’m going insane, he thought, uncomfortable with the feeling that his last thought was most on target.
Sluggo typed. “Where have you gone, my precious? TepesAllure, you’ve allured me and left me high and dry. Is that all there is?”
The screen remained blank, taunting him.
Isn’t this always the way? Sluggo thought, shivering and snatching together the collar of his pajamas in a futile attempt to keep warm. A weird sensation overcame him, as if something cold and dark were moving behind him, just out of sight.
But this time, the chill, the presence, seemed more real. Sluggo could have sworn he heard a whisper of movement behind him. Goosebumps formed; his heart began to pound. Part of him wanted to turn and look, and the other part wanted to remain frozen, staring at his unanswered message on the computer screen.
More whispering movement, then a chill ran up his spine, like a cold draft blowing in.
Sluggo gnawed his lower lip. “Please don’t make me look,” he whispered.
And then, he shuddered because he felt what he could swear was a touch on the back of his neck. Yet this touch—feathery and dry—did not seem human; its icy chill seemed so far removed from human that it could make him scream.
But Sluggo was not the type of person to scream. He was far too sensible for that.
He whirled in the chair, thinking that at last he would dispel this late night nonsense and return to bed. Everything would look different, laughably different, in the morning.
A gorgeous man stood behind him. Tall, pale, with a mane of coal black hair, the man looked as if he had been chiseled from alabaster, a frieze of male beauty so perfect that it appeared monstrous.
Sluggo froze, voice caught in his throat by an unseen hand, which squeezed, squeezed until all the air in the world vanished. Before the man came nearer, Sluggo knew he had seen him before. Had seen him every time he typed out a description of Sir Raven to some lonely soul out there in cyberspace, who wanted to believe so much that he did.
And then, with movement not even perceptible to Sluggo’s human gaze, the man was upon him, all fangs and wild, feral eyes, biting and ripping Sluggo’s flesh, drawing his blood from him so quickly Sluggo didn’t even have time to scream or raise a weak hand in defense.
He heard, though, the vampire’s passionate whisper, “You invited me in, my sweet. It was all I needed. I’ve waited so long.”
The last thing Sluggo saw was the impossibly beautiful ashen face rise up to his own, the vampire’s fangs glinting in the dull light from the computer, Sluggo’s own blood a crimson splash on the creature’s chin. The last thing he heard was the sound his own head made as it hit the hardwood floor—a dull squishing sound.
* * * *
He had never tried any of the chat rooms before. He likened them to personal ads and phone sex lines, ploys for the desperate, ploys for the unattractive who needed to hide behind a veil of electricity to attract a suitor.
But tonight, Heath was bored. And, as he ran his fingers through his spiky red hair, he knew—at the very least—this would be good for a laugh.
In the Chicago M4M chat room, he typed. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
A gong
sounded. Heath looked up to see an instant message, from someone called Sir Raven.
“I’ve been waiting for you. In fact, I’ve been waiting all my life.”
THE END
* * * *
ABOUT RICK R. REED
Rick R. Reed is all about exploring the romantic entanglements of gay men in contemporary, realistic settings. While his stories often contain elements of suspense, mystery, and the paranormal, his focus ultimately returns to the power of love.
He is the author of dozens of published novels, novellas, and short stories. He is a three-time EPIC eBook Award winner for Caregiver, Orientation, and The Blue Moon Cafe. His novel, Raining Men, won the Rainbow Award for Best Contemporary General Fiction. Lambda Literary Review has called him “a writer that doesn’t disappoint.”
Rick lives in Seattle with his husband and a very spoiled Boston terrier. He is forever “at work on another novel.”
For more information, visit rickrreed.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
