The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  When no invisible beast from the beyond leapt out, Gabe shook off the fit, if not his apprehension. He was sensibly afraid of what he might find here.

  And more afraid that he might not find it.

  He had to know what had happened in December, the why behind his very quiet trip to this lonely place, what had happened to the girl, what had happened to his driver…

  And who put the bullet in my head.

  He trudged toward the cabin, mounting an ice-coated wood step to the shallow porch. A small, uncurtained window on one side of the door gave a limited view of the interior. Nothing fancy, plank floor, some basic furnishings, no electricity or plumbing, but once upon a time it might have been someone’s idea of a good place to live.

  Gabe pushed the door open. It had no lock, just an old metal latch to hold the panel shut. After a moment, he went in.

  His night vision was such that the ambient glow from outside was enough to see by. Even so, he made use of a candle stub shoved in a holder on a shelf across from the door, using his new silver lighter to bring it to life. The action reminded him of lighting Sonny’s cigar, leaning in to the old bastard’s ravaged face, smelling his breath, and hearing the creak of his finger joints. Gabriel had felt uncomfortable being so physically close, but he’d taken care not to show it.

  He pushed away the memory and turned his attention on the rest of the cabin. It was depressingly plain. A sagging bed leaned in a corner next to a rusting potbellied stove, a narrow table, and two simple benches made from planks took up space under the front window. More planking formed a waist-high shelf that held battered cooking gear—and a dusty white fedora.

  He looked it over carefully before picking it up. It was his size, and the label matched that of identical ones in his closet back in New York. No doubt of it now, Whitey Kroun had been here. This was the source of his nickname and a damn-fool thing to wear at any time of the year. The bold white made him a walking target in a crowd. Maybe that was part of his bravado: Whitey Kroun, afraid of nothing and nobody, just try starting something.

  Clearly someone had, or the hat wouldn’t still be here. He put it back.

  I must have been an idiot. He touched the dark brim of his new hat, reassuring himself that he’d grown more sensible in the last couple months.

  Shelves above the counter had a store of canned goods so old the labels had faded gray. Below was a stash of wood for the stove and several booze bottles, empty or nearly so.

  All very innocuous—except for the splashes of dried blood on the floor by the bed. A rumpled and moldy blanket on top was also stained with the stuff.

  He first took it for black paint that some vandal had splattered there; breathing in, he caught the thick, rusty scent.

  After a long, long time of staring, he realized the stains were also from his bad dreams. In the dreams the stuff was fresh, red, and he’d been laughing for some insane reason.

  He felt his throat tighten again.

  Was that his blood? His head wound would have bled…

  He felt physically sick as possibilities slithered through his mind. He’d seen blood before, damn it. He drank the stuff, for God’s sake.

  He still wanted to vomit.

  Or had it come from the girl? What had happened to her?

  The left side of his head throbbed wearily. He swept off his fedora and gently touched the ridge in his skull. The nascent pain bloomed into something truly awful, as though his brain had swollen too large for the surrounding bone.

  Gabriel stumbled outside, slipping on the steps, grabbing at a support post to stop his fall. He forced his legs not to buckle.

  He clawed for a handful of snow and pressed it against his scalp, biting off a cry. The agony was so bad that for a long, terrible moment he couldn’t see. He held hard to the post and waited for the torture either to fade on its own or kill him.

  Such vulnerability was foreign to him. He shouldn’t be like this. It wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t allow it. He blinked until the black veil dissipated.

  The compress of snow helped, really helped, but it was slow. Minutes crawled by, then bit by bit the pain reluctantly ebbed.

  Breathing in icy river-tainted air helped, too. He made his lungs pump until his guts settled. It took longer for his brain to clear. Speculation about what had happened in the cabin could wait until he was calmer. He shut that part away for the moment, like closing a door. Out of sight, out of mind; he was good at forgetting, after all.

  Gabe straightened, brushing snow from his hand. His fingers looked blue, but didn’t feel cold. He cautiously put on his hat. No internal explosions sparked. He should have bought earmuffs at that store; fedoras weren’t right for woodland expeditions.

  Once he was sure his legs could manage the labor, he made another slow circuit of the area, this time facing outward.

  He struck off, moving away from the river. No conscious memory prompted him, only some wisp of dream that made him think the area was familiar. The snow confused and concealed things, though. The place would look very different after the thaw in a couple months; he should come back then…

  Like hell. He couldn’t live with the not-knowing for that long. He had to get this over with—

  The wind started up again, making the surrounding pines sing louder. He paused and knew he was close to something important. Looking back, he judged himself to be about fifty feet from the cabin. The candle glow through a side window seemed about right. Oh, yeah. Very close.

  The glow flared and died, and he had to work to keep from twitching.

  The nearly spent stub had finally guttered, that was all. No one had blown it out. He’d have heard company long before seeing them.

  Unless Fleming followed me.

  Not likely, but not impossible. The loon might have somehow managed to tag along; his ability to vanish was damned handy. He could have hidden in the trunk and—

  Gabe held still and waited, but no ghostly gray shapeless thing floated between the trees. That was how Fleming looked while in that form, though Gabe had the understanding that regular humans couldn’t see it. Just as well, too; it was hellishly creepy.

  He wondered what it felt like: being bodiless, able to go through walls, instantly heal. Damned useful, all of it.

  The snow layer thinned. The pine branches above had prevented serious drifts from forming. He picked out animal tracks: deer and rabbit, and several kinds of paw prints. He couldn’t tell wildcat from wolf, but took for granted that four-footed observers might be lurking in the silent woods. Those he didn’t mind so much.

  An unevenness of the ground, a mound hidden by the snow, nearly tripped him. He backed off and studied things. The snow lay smooth, softening the irregular surface beneath. He crouched and brushed until reaching old leaves and earth. Nothing to get excited about, probably just a covered-over garbage pit dug for whatever wasn’t burned or tossed in the river.

  But the mound was grave-shaped.

  And leaning against a pine trunk, only a few paces away, was a shovel.

  Its wood handle was aging fast in the weather, the metal rusted. Someone had left it there, but had he simply forgotten it, or was it to mark a special place?

  Gabe’s hands closed on it, and that felt familiar. He dragged it free and used the blade to clear the snow away.

  The pine tree…he looked up, hoping for a clue, but nothing came to him. Still, this had to be the place. The wind in the branches sounded the same.

  He began to dig.

  The frozen ground was not as solid as it should have been, but he had to work at it. His improved strength was a great help, though a few times he had to go easy as the handle threatened to break if he applied too much pressure. He slammed the blade in, cut deep, loosened, then cleared, his movements machinelike, giving him to understand that he was used to such labor. He felt like he was accomplishing something.

  About three feet down, the shovel hit something that was not dirt, and he stopped.

  By now
he was sure of what would be there. The scent of the turned earth had done the trick, had merged what lay before him with what he’d dreamed.

  He hated it, but continued, slowly.

  The stink of decay rose and mixed with the pine, snow, and river air.

  Soon he uncovered the man’s face. There was enough left to recognize features, but Gabe’s patchy memory failed him again. He had to dig farther to reach the rest of the body to check the pockets, finding a wallet. It held a few hundred in twenties, the tough paper still intact as legal tender. A New York state driving license was readable, identifying one Henry Ramsey, born July 15, 1912. Date of death? Sometime in December, 1937. Just a kid. His friends probably called him Hank.

  Cause of death? Less certain, though Gabe thought the damage and stains on the front of the clothes might have been caused by bullets. There was a leather shoulder rig similar to his own on the body, but no gun in it. That lay in what remained of the corpse’s right hand, fingers curled around the grip, index finger against the trigger. It was a .32 revolver, rusted and caked with dirt.

  Gabe carefully worked it clear of the dead man’s grasp. Four bullets were still in the cylinder. He wondered if one of the two missing slugs was lodged in his brain. Where had the other gone? Since Ramsey was holding a gun, chances were good he’d not been caught unawares. He might have gotten one shot off before dropping. Then what? The killer had dug a long hole and rolled him in?

  The grave was too shallow. Come the spring thaw, animals would find, dig up, and scavenge the remains for food. Sooner or later a passing hunter, curious about the cabin, might discover it. It was a miracle that hadn’t already happened. Was the hole deeper…yes…someone had dug a much deeper grave.

  Mine.

  Instinct, not memory, provided that conclusion.

  With a bullet in his skull and all signs of life gone, someone had buried Gabriel Kroun a few yards from the foot of the pine. The first shovelful of wet earth had covered his face and, quickly after, the rest of him.

  And at some point along the way, Ramsey had been dropped in as well.

  Did we die together? Or was I first, then Ramsey?

  In the dream-memory, Gabe had clawed his way toward the sky, pushing aside some heavy obstacle that lay on him. The rounded thing he’d touched, recognized, and recoiled from had been Ramsey’s head. What happened afterward Gabe could not recall. His resurrection was a hazy, disjointed, painful event. The agony in his skull from the bullet wound had kept him thoroughly distracted. After dragging free from the grave, he must have reburied Ramsey before moving on. That didn’t seem too likely, though.

  Gabe straightened, the wallet and its contents in hand. He put the license back and, after a moment, the cash as well. It made little sense not to keep and use the money, but with some surprise he discovered within a profound loathing for robbing the dead. He returned the wallet to its pocket and went to work with the shovel, burying the man again.

  The sky had changed by the time Gabe finished. He’d not be able to make it to that town before the dawn overtook him but had allowed for the possibility.

  He was exhausted and half-frozen when he returned to the car and folded himself into the backseat. The four heavy blankets wrapped around him would block the weak winter sun and keep in his remaining body warmth. He chose not to worry about anyone finding him during the day. No one had been out to the cabin in months, after all.

  He lay still, eyes closed, listening to the wind beyond the rolled-up windows. It whirred between the pine needles and hissed through the bare branches of other trees. Rather than being at peace, he felt lonely…and afraid.

  Gabe sensed the sun, the change it forced upon his body, the slowing of his perceptions and thought as conscious control slipped away. This day’s bout of dream torture might be the worst yet. He’d have to get through it somehow; he had to know.

  He shifted to a more comfortable position, arms and shoulders stiff from the recent exercise. It didn’t work. He’d be creaking around like an old man when he woke. He should have ordered up a small panel truck. He could have stretched out in the back…

  Why hadn’t he dropped off yet?

  He should be out by now, not grousing to himself for picking the wrong kind of vehicle. What the hell…?

  He sat up, pushing off the blankets.

  Yes, he was sore and cold and creaked, his muscles cramped from staying in one position for far too long—the whole damned day as it happened. One sniff of the damp air, one glance at the painfully bright sky with its last gilding of sunset, and he understood he’d slept right through the day, no dreams, no memories at all.

  He’d been cheated.

  He needed that internal hell. With the things he’d just learned, he had to dream again to find out what had happened. Awful as they were—

  Damn it. God damn it.

  He pitched from the car, looking around as though to find someone to blame. The woods were as empty as before and silent; the wind had died.

  How was it that, after all this time, he’d finally—

  Gabe looked down. His shoes and pant legs were caked with dried-out mud from his grave, enough to do the job. He knew from his talks with Gordy that Fleming kept packets of his home earth in his sleeping areas. He even carried some in a money belt should he get caught away from those shelters. Until now Gabe had been dubious about the idea of the stuff providing true rest during the day. It struck him as just being another kind of superstition associated with his condition. The sight of a cross and the touch of holy water didn’t bother him, so why should grave dirt have such an effect? What a damned stupid thing that was. It had robbed him of that day’s progress toward what had gotten him killed in the first place.

  He grumbled and stretched out the kinks, which weren’t too bad, considering. He did feel rested, far more energetic than he’d been in weeks. Okay, there was a good side to his mistake.

  Gabe followed his tracks back to the cabin, wanting another, much more thorough search before leaving.

  The dried blood still very much in place, he lit another candle and checked every corner, every stick of furniture, tapped each board, looking for anything resembling an explanation.

  He soon found a six-shot .22 revolver, bullets spent, blood-smeared, rust creeping over its surface. It was behind one of the benches, not hidden, just not in plain sight. Perhaps the shooter had dropped or thrown it there. The numbers were filed away, and it had the kind of checkerboard grip that didn’t hold fingerprints. A feeble weapon for some, but mob soldiers who favored the caliber liked the gun’s small size and low level of noise. Fold a pillow around it or hold it directly against a target and it sounded like a balloon popping, if that much.

  Gabe didn’t know how he knew that, but was not surprised such details lurked in his mind.

  Maybe Nelly had brought the gun, unless a fourth person had crashed the party.

  Complications, he thought. They annoyed the hell out of him, but Gabe had to keep them in mind.

  He left the bed for last. Gingerly, with thumb and forefinger, he pulled the top blanket off and spread it out on the floor. There was no pattern to the bloodstains; it was a mess. Someone had bled there.

  A mildew-eaten gray sheet beneath was also bloody, most of it in the middle. He recalled what Lettie had said about Nelly Cabot’s injuries and fought past a bout of nausea. He lifted the sheet to reveal an ancient stained mattress that also stank of mildew. The stuff was all over, dormant from the cold, but still disgusting. Touching as little as possible, he dragged the mattress away from the bed, which was made from simple planks nailed across a box frame, nothing store-bought about that operation.

  In the spaces between the planks, the floor beneath was visible, and something shiny caught the light.

  He tore a plank away and got it. Got them.

  Should have looked there first.

  He closely examined a small, empty amber vial and a syringe. Whatever had been inside them was long dried and gone.
>
  Michael.

  The fourth person.

  A complication. A damned big one.

  Maybe he’d hurt the girl.

  And maybe he killed me. Or had Ramsey do it, then killed him to keep him quiet. But when I came back Mike thought the job had been botched and that I didn’t suspect him. No wonder he didn’t want me up here.

  Upon his return to New York, Gabe had been very careful not to let on about his loss of memory. It was easier to do than he’d hoped. He was in a position where no one questioned him. You could get away with a lot using a stern look and not saying much.

  Michael had been out of the country at the time, or so he said. Distracted by his own problems, Gabe hadn’t thought to check.

  He peered through the side window into a very silent night. The woman weeping in his dream-memory—had it been from terror instead of grief? While Ramsey filled in the grave, Mike could have been in the cabin with her, doing God knows what to ensure she would keep quiet.

  Then I get the blame since she was last seen with me.

  He put away the items. They clinked against the rusted revolver. He shifted the gun to a different pocket and found that his hands were shaking.

  Rage. Yeah, he had plenty of that.

  Soon as I see Mike again…

  He pinched out the candle flame.

  Grabbing the white fedora, he let the latch fall on the door and walked to the pump. Its works were frozen for the winter. The bucket next to it meant to hold priming water was topped with snow. He went down to the riverbank, loaded the inside of the hat with a few rocks, using a handkerchief to tie the brim tightly over them to keep them in place. He flung the hat far out over the water. It splashed once and vanished in the black flow.

  Next he scooped sand and icy water and scrubbed his hands until the mildew smell went away, all the time regarding the dark cabin and what was inside.