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Van Helsing slumped against the wall. His arm jutted out to the side, chain stretched and jangling in protest. He gummed his lower lip, staring into the dirt floor.

“Then I must be the last one.”

Colin was getting anxious. He needed some smack, and this old relic was wasting precious time. In Colin’s pocket rested a boning knife he kept for protection. Colin’d never killed anybody before, but he figured he could manage. A quick poke-poke, and then they’d be on their way.

“I thought vampires had fangs.” Butts approached Van Helsing, his head cocked to the side like a curious dog.

“I threw them in the dirt, about where you are presently standing. Knocked them out by ramming my mouth rather forcefully into this iron weight I am chained to.”

“So you’re really a vampire?”

Colin almost told Butts to shut the hell up, but decided it was smarter to keep the old man talking. He fingered the knife handle and took a casual step forward.

“Unfortunately, I am. After Seward and Morris destroyed the Monster, we thought there were no more. Foolish.”

Van Helsing’s eyes looked beyond Colin and Butts.

“Morris passed on. Jonathan and Mina named their son after him. Quincey. He was destined to be a great man of science; that was the sort of mind the boy had. Logical and quick to question. But on his sixth birthday, they came.”

“Who came?” Butts asked.

“Keep him talking,” Colin thought. He took another step forward, the knife clutched tight.

“The vampiri. Unholy children of the fiend, Dracula. They found us. My wife, Dr. Seward, Jonathan, Mina… all slaughtered. But poor, dear Quincey, his fate proved even worse. They turned him.”

“You mean, they bit him on the neck and made him a vampire?”

“Indeed they did, Mr. Butts. I should have ended his torment, but he was so small. An innocent lamb. I decided that perhaps, with a combination of religion and science, I might be able to cure him.”

Butts squatted on his haunches, less than a yard from the old man. “I’ll wager he’s the one that got you, isn’t he?”

Van Helsing nodded, glumly.

“I kept him down here. Performed my experiments during the day, while he slept. But one afternoon, distracted by a chemistry problem, I stayed too late, and he awoke from his undead slumber and administered the venom into my hand.”

“Keep talking, old man,” Colin whispered under his breath. He pulled the knife from his pocket and held it at his side, hidden up the sleeve of his coat.

“I developed the sickness. While drifting in and out of consciousness, I realized I was being tended to. Quincey, dear, innocent Quincey, had brought others of his kind back to my house.”

“They the ones that chained you to the wall?”

“Indeed they did, Mr. Butts. This is the ultimate punishment for one of their kind. Existing with this terrible, gnawing hunger, with no way to relieve the ache. The pain has been quite excruciating, throughout the years. Starvation combined with a sickening craving. Like narcotic withdrawal.”

“We know what that’s like,” Butts offered.

“I tried drinking my own blood, but it is sour and offers no relief. Occasionally, a small insect or rodent wanders into the cellar, and much as I try to resist it, the hunger forces me to commit horrible acts.” Van Helsing shook his head. “Renfield would have been amused.”

“So you been living on bugs and vermin all this time? You can’t survive on that.”

“That is my problem, Mr. Butts. I do survive. As I am already dead, I shall exist forever unless extraordinary means are applied.”

Butts laughed, giving his knees a smack. “It’s a bloody wicked tale, old man. But we both know there ain’t no such things as vampires.”

“Do either of you have a mirror? Or a crucifix, perhaps? I believe there is one in the jewelry box, on the night stand in the upstairs bedroom. I suggest you bring it here.”

Now they were getting somewhere. Jewelry was easy to carry, and easier to pawn. Colin’s veins twitched in anticipation.

“Go get it, Butts. Bring the whole box down.”

Butts nodded, quickly disappearing up the ladder.

Colin studied Van Helsing, puzzling about the best way to end him. The old man was so frail, one quick jab in the chest and he should be done with it.

“That small knife you clutch in your hand, that may not be enough, Mr. Willoughby.”

Colin was surprised that Van Helsing had noticed, but it didn’t matter at this point. He held the boning knife out before him.

“I think it’ll do just fine.”

“I have tried to end my own life many times. On many nights, I would pound my head against this steel block until bones cracked. When I still had teeth, I tried gnawing off my own arm to escape into the sunlight. Yet every time the sun set again, I awoke fully healed.”

Colin hesitated. The knife handle was sweaty, uncomfortable. He wondered where Butts was.

“My death must come from a wooden stake through my heart, or, in lieu of that, you must sever my head and separate it from my shoulders.” Van Helsing wiped away a long line of drool that leaked down his chin. “Do not be afraid. I am hungry, yes, but I am still strong enough to fight the urge. I will not resist.”

The old man knelt, lifting his chin. Colin brought the blade to his throat. Van Helsing’s neck was thin, dry, like rice paper. One good slice would do it.

“I want to die, Mr. Willoughby. Please.”

Hand trembling, Colin set his jaw and sucked in air through his teeth.

But he couldn’t do it.

“Sorry, mate. I —”

“Then I shall!”

Van Helsing sprung to his feet, tearing the knife away from Colin. With animal ferocity he began to hack at his own neck, slashing through tissue and artery, blood pumping down his translucent chest in pulsing waterfalls.

Colin took a step back, the gorge rising.

Van Helsing screamed, an inhuman cry that made Colin go rigid with fear. The old man’s head cocked at a funny angle, tilting to the side. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, exposing the whites. But still he continued, slashing away at the neck vertebrae, buried deep within his bleeding flesh like a white peach pit.

Colin vomited, unable to pull his eyes away.

“He’s going to make it,” Colin thought, incredulous. “He’s going to cut off his own head.”

But it wasn’t to be. Just as the knife plunged into the bone of his spine, Van Helsing went limp, sprawling face first onto the dirt.

Colin stared, amazed. The horror, the violence of what he just witnessed, pressed down upon him like a great weight. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed to normal, and he found his mind again.

Colin reached tentatively for the knife, still clutched in Van Helsing’s hand. The gore gave him pause.

“Go ahead and keep it,” Colin decided. “I’ll buy another one when —”

Alarm jolted through Colin. He realized, all at once, that Butts hadn’t returned. Had the bugger run off with the jewelry box?

Colin sped up the ladder, panicked.

“Butts!”

No answer.

Using the torch, he followed Butts’s tracks in the dust, into the bedroom, and then back out the front door. Colin swung it open.

“Butts! Butts, you son of a whore!”

No reply.

Colin sprinted into the night. He ran fast as he could, hoping that his direction was true, screaming and cursing Butts between labored breaths.

His foot caught on a protruding root and Colin went sprawling forward, skidding on his chin, his torch flying off into the woods and sizzling out in a bog.

Blackness.

The dark was complete, penetrating. Not even the moon and stars were visible.

It felt like being in the grave.

Colin, wracked by claustrophobia, once again called out for Butts.

The forest swallowed up his voice.

Fear set in. Without a torch, Colin would never find his way back to Heysham. Wandering around the woods without fire or shelter, he could easily die of exposure.

Colin got back on his feet, but walking was impossible. On the rough terrain, without being able to see, he had no sense of direction. He tried to head back to the house, but couldn’t manage a straight line.

After falling twice more, Colin gave up. Exhausted, frightened, and wracked with the pain of withdrawal, he curled up at the base of large tree and let sleep overtake him.

“This better be it, Butts.”

“We’re almost there. I swear on it.”

Colin opened his crusty eyes, attempted to find his bearings.

He was surrounded by high grass, next to a giant elm. The sun peeked through the canopy at an angle; it was either early morning or late afternoon.

“You’ve been saying that for three hours, you little wank. You need a little more encouragement to find this place?”

“I’m not holding out on you, Willie. Don’t hit me again.”

Colin squinted in the direction of the voices. Butts and two others. They weren’t street people, either. Both wore clean clothes, good shoes. The smaller one, Willie, had a bowler hat and a matching black vest. The larger sported a beard, along with a chest big as a whiskey barrel.

Butts had taken on some partners.

Colin tried to stand, but felt weak and dizzy. He knelt for a moment, trying to clear his head. When the cobwebs dissipated, he began to trail the trio.

“Tell us again, Butts, how much loot there is in this place.”

“It’s crammed full, Jake. All that old, antiquey stuff. I’m telling you, that jewelry box was just a taste.”

“Better be, Butts, or you’ll be wearing your yarbles around your filthy neck.”

“I swear, Willie. You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

Colin stayed ten yards back, keeping low, moving quiet. Several times he lost sight of them, but they were a loud bunch and easy to track. His rage grew with each step.

This house was his big break, his shot at a better life. He didn’t want to share it with anybody. He may have choked when trying to off Van Helsing, but when they arrived at the house, Colin vowed to kill them all.

“Hey, Willie. Some bloke is following us.”

“Eh?”

“In the woods. There.”

Colin froze. The man named Jake stared, pointing through the brush.

“Who’s there, then? Don’t make me run you down.”

“That’s Colin. He came here with me.”

Damned Butts.

“He knows about this place? Jake, go get the little bleeder!”

Colin ran, but Jake was fast. Within moments the bigger man caught Colin’s arm and threw him to the ground.

“Trying to run from me, eh?”

A swift kick caught Colin in the ribs, searing pain stealing his breath.

“I hate running. Hate it.”

Another kick. Colin groaned. Bright spots swirled in his vision.

“Get up, wanker. Let’s go talk to Willie.”

Jake grabbed Colin by the ear and tugged him along, dumping him at Willie’s feet.

“Why didn’t you tell us about your mate, Butts?”

“I thought he’d gone. I swear it.”

Jake let loose with another kick. Colin curled up fetal, began to cry.

“Should we kill him, Willie?”

“Not yet. We might need an extra body, help take back some of the loot. You hear me, you drug-addled bastard? We’re going to keep you around for awhile, as long as you’re helpful.”

Butts knelt next to Colin and smiled, brown teeth flashing. “Get up, Colin. They’re not going to kill you.” He helped Colin gain his footing, keeping a steady arm around his shoulders until they arrived at the house.

In the daylight, the house’s aristocratic appearance was overtaken by the many apparent flaws; peeling paint, cracked foundation, sunken roof. Even the stately iron work covering the windows looked drab and shabby.

“This place is a dump.” Willie placed a finger on one nostril and blew the contents of his nose onto a patch of clover.

“It’s better on the inside,” encouraged Butts. “You’ll see.”

Unfortunately, the inside was even less impressive. The dust-covered furniture Colin had pegged as antique was damaged and rotting.

“You call this treasure?” Willie punched Butts square in the nose.

Butts dropped to the floor, bleeding and hysterical.

“This is good stuff, Willie! It’ll clean up nice! Worth a couple thousand quid, I swear!”

Willie and Jake walked away from Butts, and he crawled behind them, babbling.

A moment later, Colin was alone.

The pain in his ribs sharpened with every intake of breath.

If he made a run for it, they’d catch him easily. But if he did nothing, he was a dead man.

He needed a weapon.

Colin crept into the kitchen, mindful of the creaking floorboards. Perhaps the drawers contained a weapon or some kind.

“What you doing in here, eh? Nicking silver?” Jake slapped him across the face.

Colin staggered back, his feet becoming rubber. Then the floor simply ceased to be there. He dropped, straight down, landing on his arse at the bottom of the root cellar.

Everything went fuzzy, and then black.

Colin awoke in darkness.

He felt around, noticed his leg bent at a funny angle.

The touch made him cry out.

Broken. Badly, from the size of the swelling.

Colin peeled his eyes wide, tried to see. There was no light at all. The trap door, leading to the kitchen, was closed. Not that it mattered; he couldn’t have climbed up the ladder anyway.

He sat up, tears erupting onto his cheeks. There was a creaking sound above him, and then a sudden burst of light.

“I see you’re still alive, eh?”

Colin squinted through the glare, made out the bowler hat.

“No worries, mate. We won’t let you starve to death down there. We’re not barbarians. Willie will be down shortly to finish you off. Promise it’ll be quick. Right Willie?”

Willie’s laugh was an evil thing.

“See you in a bit.”

The trap door closed.

Fear rippled through Colin, but it was overwhelmed by something greater.

Anger.

Colin had ever been the victim. From his boyhood days, being beaten by his alcoholic father, up to his nagging ex-wife, suing him into the recesses of poverty.

Well, if his miserable life was going to end here, in a foul smelling dirt cellar, then so be it.