This story is a further development from a short story I wrote earlier, Nursing Home, that was originally meant to be a stand alone gothic vignette. After some discussion with a fan, the suggestion that there could be a follow on story line took shape. The story that follows is the result. For those of you who have let me know my writing tends to a little (actually a lot) too dark, here is my attempt at a more traditional gothic theme to try and “lighten up” a little, though I fear my style will always reside on the darker side. With apologies in advance to Mulder, Scully and Carl Kolchak, and of course, Bram Stoker...
Things That Go Hump in the Night
Chapter One
The old man sat in the chair as the police inspector walked in and sat down at the desk. He picked up the manila case folder and opened it, studying the contents of the file for several minutes without speaking. He glanced up at the old man, then back down at the folder. Finally, he closed it and set it back down on the desk. He looked up at him again, taking in the figure seated in front of him.
“Sir, I have reviewed the arresting officer’s report, and now need get some more information from you. Can you verify your full name for my report?” he asked in a neutral tone. The old man shook his head as he chuckled. “Is there some problem?” The inspector asked. The old man shook his head again before he spoke.
“No, there’s no problem. But I believe you have my name on the papers in that folder already,” he finally answered. The policeman remained expressionless as he spoke.
“I have the name Harold Weller listed on the preliminary report form.”
The old man nodded his head. “Then you have my name correctly recorded, sir.” It was the inspector’s turn to shake his head before continuing.
“Mister, in addition to the name Harold Weller, I also have information taken from the New York driver’s license that was in your possession in the report.” The old man nodded but didn’t say anything. “And according to that information, you were born on March 26, 1982.” The old man nodded again.
The old man sighed before he spoke. “That’s correct. I was born on March 26, 1982 in Queens, New York.”
The inspector leaned back in his chair and stared at the old man. “Which would make you 24 years old.” The old man shook his head.
“Actually, I don’t turn 24 until next month,” he corrected.
The inspector sat back up and placed both hands on the desk in front of him. He spoke in a deliberately calm voice perfected after years of dealing with “Look, old fella, I don’t know where found that license you showed the arresting officer, but do you really expect me to sit here and believe you are 23 years old? What kind of idiot do you take me for?” Frustration crept into his voice as he spoke. “Look at yourself, man, you can’t be a day under 70!” He reached into his desk drawer and took out a shaving mirror, holding it out to the oldster.
The old man waved his hand at the mirror and smiled before he answered. “I get to see this face every morning when I shave. Guess you can chalk it up to hard living,” he answered. The smile slowly faded from his wrinkled face as he continued. “But to answer your first question, no I don’t take you to be an idiot. I also don’t expect you to believe much of anything I tell you.”
The policeman relaxed visibly. “And what makes you think I won’t believe you if you tell me the truth?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
The old man sighed again, loudly. “To steal a quote, you can’t handle the truth. And because I still don’t believe it myself,” he answered. The things I’ve lived through and what I’ve seen the last six months are straight out of some Hollywood B-movie, not real life.”
The inspector looked him in the eyes as he spoke. “Well why don’t you let me decide that for myself, okay...Harold?” He turned to the computer keyboard on his desk and called up the program for the booking report on the screen. “Let’s get started filling out this thing.” He typed quickly, entering the name and date. “What do you do for a living, Harold?” he asked. The old man looked away momentarily, cocking his head slightly to one side before he answered.
“Here we go,” he muttered to no one in particular. He turned back to face the officer. “I guess you could call me a vampire hunter,” he said in a slightly louder voice.
The inspector took his hands away from the keyboard and looked at the old man. “A what?” he asked. A wry grin slowly formed on the old man’s face.
“I told you so,” he said. “I’m a vampire hunter.”
It was the inspector’s turn to sigh out loud. He returned to the keyboard and slowly typed in the words. “Okay, so you’re a vampire hunter. So what brings you all the way from New York to Texas?”
“I’ve been following a trail, and this is where it led me.” Harold responded.
“The trail of a vampire?” the inspector ventured. The old man nodded.
“Exactly. I’ve been following it across the country, and I think it’s here now. Or at least it was three days ago.”
“You think there’s a vampire here in Killeen?” He typed a few more lines. “And just what makes you think that we have a vampire in our fair city? I haven’t heard any reports of anyone dying with suspicious bite marks on their throat. Nothing about a blood bank being robbed.” He stopped himself before he began to ramble. The old man looked at him with a sour expression.
“Of course not,” he almost snorted. “It’s not that kind of vampire.”
The inspector’s eyebrows arched. “Oh, well, please forgive me,” the sarcasm dripped from his voice. “My knowledge of vampires is kind of limited to the Bela Lugosi and John Carpenter versions. Exactly what kind of vampire are we dealing with here?”
Harold sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling before he answered. “This thing feeds off other people’s life force, just like the traditional vampire. But not in the commonly accepted way vampires are suppose to. Not by drinking their blood.” He paused, seemingly lost in thought.
“Go on,” the inspector prompted.
“This particular kind of vampire literally drains the very life force out of its victims, causing them to age at an incredible rate. It physically drains youth from them.” His voice grew raspy as he finished speaking. The policeman looked at him patiently, resisting the urge to laugh, waiting for Harold to continue his story.
“And just exactly how does this kind of vampire drain the life force out of its victims?” he asked.
“Through sexual intercourse,” came the abrupt reply.
The inspector sat there, fighting hard to stifle a laugh. “You mean this vampire steals by sucking something besides blood?”
The old man sat up and leaned forward. His brow furrowed as he spoke. “No, I mean the bastard thing literally fucks the life force from people!” His voice grew louder and more agitated as he spoke. “All the while it’s fucking you, it gets younger and younger, and the victim gets older!”
The inspector raised his hands in front of himself as if to ward off the old man. He was visibly struggling to keep from laughing out loud. “I’m sorry,” he finally was able to speak. “But that’s one I’ve never heard before.” He paused and composed himself, wiping a tear from the corner of his right eye. “And just how did you stumble on this sexual vampire?” he asked with a straight face.
The old man moved closer before he answered in a near stage whisper. “Because I’m one of its victims, you stupid son of a bitch.” He pounded his fist on the desk and stood up, leaning over the desk. “I really am Harold Weller! I really am 23 years old.” His voice broke and tears began to well up in his eyes. “And that god damned thing stole most of my life force and left me like this!” The old man sat back down, shaking noticeably.
The humor faded from the inspector’s face and he reached for the telephone on his desk. He said something in a low voice and then hung up. “Okay, Harold,” he said pleasantly. “I think I have all the information I need for right now.” He stood up. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a coke or something?”
“A coke would be good,” Harold answered staring at the floor. The policeman left the office and went out into the bullpen area. He walked over to the vending machine and stuck a dollar in the slot, punching the button for a coke. As he retrieved the plastic bottle, he turned to the desk sergeant. “Let me know as soon as the psycho squad shows up. I’ve got a real nut case in there.”
The desk sergeant looked up. “The old geezer they picked up trying to break into the morgue this evening?” He shook his head. “What the Hell was he looking for, anyway?”
“Would you believe he was looking for a vampire?” he answered. “And not just any old vampire, mind you. this is one that screws people to death?” He rolled his eyes and went back into the office. The desk sergeant turned to another cop out in the bullpen.
“Well that’s a new one on me,” he commented.
“Yeah, but I guess if you gotta go, might as well be in the saddle,” the other cop replied with a big grin.
“I reckon,” the desk sergeant muttered as he turned back to his crossword puzzle.
It was almost two hours later when the ambulance arrived and the men in the white suits took Harold away in a straight jacket. He was docile enough, not putting up any resistance when they brought the jacket out, and following between them to the waiting vehicle. He was taken to a psychiatric ward in a hospital in Austin for “observation.” They put Harold in a locked, padded room and then took the jacket off, after he promised not to do anything stupid. He got himself settled in and was lying on the bed, staring at a fly walking across the ceiling, figuring it would be morning before he saw anyone else. He began to doze off, when the sound of a key turning in the lock roused him and he slowly sat up. The door swung open, and a tall man in a white smock walked into the room, followed by one of the burly orderlies who had brought Harold in earlier. The man in the smock turned to the orderly.
“I’ll be okay by myself, George,” he said casually. “I’m just going to do an initial intake interview with Mister Weller.” The orderly looked at Harold, then back at the tall man.
“Okay, Doctor,” he turned to go and then stopped. “But I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.” The door closed with a hollow clang, followed by the rasping sound of the key again being turned in the lock. The tall man grabbed a chair and swung it around near the bed where Harold sat. He sat down and crossed his legs, opening a stenographers pad.
“Well, Harold,” he began. “I’m Doctor Michaels.” He looked at Harold and smiled. “I need to do an initial interview and assessment with you, if you feel up to it.” When he didn’t get any response, he continued. “Harold, can you tell me what exactly were you doing at the morgue tonight?”
Harold cocked his head slightly to one side but remained silent. “You know, I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate with me, Harold,” the doctor pursued. “Why were you trying to break into a morgue?” Harold looked straight into Michael’s eyes as he spoke. “I was checking on somebody who died,” he answered slowly and deliberately. “Isn’t that what you usually do at a morgue?”
Michaels nodded his head. “Well, yes, that’s a fact. But people usually do that when the morgue is open to the public. They don’t normally try to break in through a back window after it’s closed for the day.”
Harold raised one eyebrow as he spoke. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Actually I did visit the place earlier in the day, while they were open.”
It was Michaels’ turn to cock his head. “So why did you have to go back and break in later?”
“The bureaucrats working there didn’t give me the information I needed when I was there the first time.” Harold replied. “They gave me a standard line of crap and sent me on my merry way. You know, humored the crazy old fart and then got rid of him.” He stared at Michaels, his eyes boring into him. “Only I’m really not really old. And I’m pretty sure that I’m not crazy.”
The doctor swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He nodded at Harold. “That’s right on the age part, isn’t it?” He agreed looking down at his notebook. “You’re only 24, aren’t you?”
“I’m 23, I don’t turn 24 until next month,” Harold corrected him.
“I stand corrected,” Michaels made a note. “As far as your being crazy, well, that’s what we’re here to determine, aren’t we?” He looked at Harold and forced himself to smile. “Now where would you like to begin?”
Harold thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “I guess the best place to start is the night I met the bitch.”
“You mean the vampire?” Michaels asked. Harold nodded.
“Yeah, the vampire bitch that tried to drain the life out of me.” He looked down at his wrinkled hands. “I just don’t understand why she didn’t finish the job.” His voice tapered off.
Michaels could sense the old man’s thoughts were drifting to someplace outside of the room. “Okay, then Harold,” he chimed in briskly. “Why don’t you tell me all about the night you met your lady vampire, and what happened.”
The old man looked back up at the doctor and nodded. “It all began at this dance club in New York City. A couple of friends and I had been out bar hopping and it was late, that is to say early morning. My buddies had bailed, but I was still up for some action and decided to head for a dance club I knew. I hadn’t gone there often, but had scored once and since nothing else was working for me, I figured what the Hell. I had been there for for maybe twenty minutes or so, checking out the ladies in the sparse crowd and sizing them up, when I saw her sitting in the corner...”