Read Melabeth the Vampire Online
Authors: E.B. Hood
Melabeth the Vampire
Melabeth
The
Vampire
By
E. B. Hood
This book is dedicated to my brother Nick Hood. Wish you were here bro. R.I.P 4-12-1978 to 11-18-2009.
Melabeth The Vampire (Melabeth Series, Book 1)
Copyright © 2012 by Eric B Hood.
ISBN 978-0-9884100-0-8
Kindle Edition V.2
Editing by: Bill Stanton
Cover: photography and design by Wendy Hood.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission
of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations in reviews and for academic purposes in accordance with copyright law and principles of Fair Use.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
I
was born on the West Coast, in Loma Linda, California, in 1975, and raised in Beaumont, CA – where some of my book takes place. I grew up with two brothers and one adopted sister. My parents were strong Christians and wonderful parents. They never fought, drank, or cursed; I had to visit my friend’s houses to see that. I was an Eagle Scout and loved to go camping with my family. We spent a lot of time off roading through the desert on ATC and dune buggies. I picked up my love of target shooting from Boy Scout camps. I still love to shoot, and, instead of riding the desert on my ATC, now I ride the waves on my wave runner.
I got married when I was 18, had two boys – Tyler in 1993, and Cory in 1996 – as a young father, I worked at Pizza Hut, until 1997; the same year my first wife and I were divorced.
I had the opportunity to help start a satellite plant in North Carolina for a micro connectors company, so I moved across the country to Salisbury. A year later I was offered a chance to become a tool and die apprentice, and worked as a tool and die maker for nearly nine years.
During these transitions I met the love of my life, Betsy, who is a school teacher. We were married 2003. We welcomed a baby girl, Sonja in 2007. I was unexpectedly laid off while my wife was pregnant. I then began working at a plastic company as a CNC programmer. Once again, after another lay-off in 2009, I decided to be a stay-at-home dad, and also started a computer repair business from home.
Another reason I didn’t return to work when I was laid off in 2009, was to help my parents with my brother, Nick, who was dying of a brain tumor. Nick was my baby brother, three years younger, and my best friend. It was always Nick’s dream to become a writer. I came up with a book idea for my brother to write years ago, but he became too sick, and the story was never written.
There have been a lot of changes in my life in the past five years – jobs, the loss of my brother, the birth of my daughter, and watching my sons grow up so, here I am trying to live out my brother’s dream, and it is to Nick whom I dedicate my first book. Nick was the model for one of my main characters. I do not consider myself to be a writer. I am, and always will be, a story teller. I have always made up stories in my head, and this is my first one that I wish to share with the world.
I am new to writing, but so far I love it and it has captured my attention completely. I love to read and never really thought that I would like writing as much as I do. Everything I write is from my head. I think out parts of the stories and make many revisions inside my head, so when I sit and write the story, it just comes out. The largest challenge for me has been the grammar, speed reading and emailing coworkers has not helped. Still, even with my challenges, I plan to finish writing three books. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them. I have finished my first novel in under a year. I have to give thanks to all my family and friends for all their ongoing support and encouragement.
Special Thanks, to my wife for putting up with another woman (Melabeth) who has become a big part of our daily lives. Also very special thanks to my test subjects –who have read every chapter after I had written it, and before they had been edited - they gave input and the motivation to keep writing. So, thank you Mom, Dad, Joyce and Bridget.
First to my oldest son Tyler, who will not read this "thank you" for some time. He is in boot camp right now. He joined the Army, and I am so proud, it’s beyond words of expression. I drove him crazy through his senior year with the telling of Melabeth, and to think, he only has two more years. I should be done with the series by then, maybe. So, thank you for all your support son.
To my second son Cory, who happens to be my biggest fan. Not only does he read his dad’s writing, but he has been my sounding board; he has allowed me to speak my story out loud for hours, refining the details of the story. I started writing this story Thanksgiving 2011, but I have been working on the characters' outlines and overall ideas for much longer. Cory has been a great inspiration for me to write this story down on paper; I am thankful for such great boys.
To Bill Stanton, who put countless hours editing my book. Very special thanks, and if anyone finds any grammar errors; let be known that it was a full time job to find them all. Bill's expert advice has been extremely educational, and as I begin the task of writing the next two books, I will be better prepared. Bill is my father-in-law, and a professor of English for Clemson University.
And to my sister in-law Wendy, and my brother Donny, who own and operate their photography studio;
Wendy photographed the model, and edited all of the book art. She is very talented in her skills and it is eye opening to see her work, from beginning to end. Wendy and my brother have brought a very personal touch, and face to my book, so thank you, for all your help.
Awake
I
'm awake…
My eyes open only to find more darkness. Something is not right. My hand temperature is cold, but I'm not cold. In front of me there is material that feels like silk.
I push my hands all around me. I am feeling for a way out. Pushing... shoving; like I am in a box. I'm looking for a way out.
I can't find anything. I realize that I'm in a coffin. Why am I in a coffin? I must have forgotten something. What is it that I am forgetting? And how did I get here? I must think.
My head feels like it’s splitting open, and I can hardly believe this is happening. I take a deep breath. The air tastes dirty and smells like earth. Then I freak out; I am not breathing. How the hell?
I am a vampire; I don’t need to breathe. Need to get a grip. Think back to the beginning, and try to remember how I got here.
* * *
First thing I remember is my name, Melanie Elizabeth Dare.
I guess this really starts with my lousy no good for nothing parents. Alright, maybe they were not always lousy and good for nothing; at one time they were sweet and fun. And what can I say? They were hippies.
My grandparents, Frank and Barbara Dare had a son they named Jack Dare, also known as my dad; he was born in 1944. In that same year, James Bergman and Norma Bergman had a daughter, Julian Bergman. Both my parents lived in the same city, Buffalo, NY. They went to the same schools and grew up together.
By the time they were 16, Julian was pregnant. Back in those days to be pregnant at 16 was a big thing. And so Jack and Julie were married. In 1960 a bouncing little girl was born. They named her Melanie Elizabeth Dare.
They say time goes by fast when you're happy; that must be true. The first 10 years of my life I flew by; I was extremely happy. I remember very little. You see my parents were good parents for two very good reasons: one, they loved me, and two they loved each other. They never had any other children. They were very happily married.
Now I grew up in the 60s, and my parents were living the hippie lifestyle. After being forced to be married at such a young age, they both took off right around 1963. Their parents put a lot of pressure on them to get jobs, stay married, and conform to society, especially since both my grandfathers were successful businessmen who ran factories during World War II, and they continued on with their tradition of making supplies for the military throughout the Vietnam conflict.
My life with my parents was pretty wild. We ran around inside colorful Volkswagen minivans, and it just seems like all we did was party and hang out, and talk
about love, peace and how bad the war was. My mom did not send me to school, but I was home educated by her.
The rest of the time my mother felt like I needed to know important things like how evil the Vietnam conflict was and social issues of the time. And she taught me other important things such as: women’s rights, how to pack a bong, and how to roll a joint. Yes, it was a good time for me, and I definitely got a lot of attention from adults, doing fun things, but fun things don't last. My parents’ recreational drug use was becoming a serious concern according to my grandparents.
Well I guess you can say it all started going downhill in the 70s; my parents were forced to actually get jobs. We lived in a small apartment south of Buffalo. We lived with snow or the threat of snow for 11.9 months of the year.
My parents started partying real bad, and there were always these characters around. Men and women hung around the house getting high. I woke up in the morning to find persons I've never met sleeping on the couch, the floor or even in my own bedroom.
I guess, if I thought about it, I can remember a lot of small terrible things that happened to me through those years, although they seemed insignificant to what happened to me in 1972.
By this time my mother was shooting heroin. I remember her making a noise in her room; she was getting high, or whatever. Something was wrong; at first, it was the sounds coming out of her room, but then it was the quiet. It was too quiet.
I went in to check on my mother. I will never forget the image that was burned into my retinas. She lay there with no movement. Her skin was as white as a ghost with a needle sticking out of her arm. She lay next to her bed, the comforter of the bed underneath her. I knew without a word that she was dead.
I can't remember exactly what I did first, call 911 or ran to her yelling mommy, mommy. I don't remember. It's like somebody took a light switch in my brain and just turned it all off. And after that it's like a slideshow of images. My grandparents took me to their house to stay with them.
* * *
Having these memories while in a coffin is completely unsettling. I wish it was not so dark in here. My memories coming back to me is like being stuck in a theater tied to a seat, eyes forced open, and watching a really bad movie like Gone with the Wind which was my mother's favorite movie, one she forced me to go to one too many times. I think it became too many times for me the second time.
* * *
I lived with both of my grandparents back and forth for the next six months. They were both trying to keep me away from my father who was a complete wreck from my mother's death. Some people might learn from the experience, get off the drugs and the alcohol, but noooo, not my father. It sent him further down the rabbit hole.
My father came one day to pick me up for the weekend from his parents’ house. If my grandmother would've stood up to her son, if she would have told him that until he got his act together he could not have me on his own, I would be alive today. As they say, a mother's love is blind. Then so was hers; she let me go with him, and he never brought me back.
Instead, we ran off to California. At first it was no big deal. To me I was with my dad. I was used to his drug abuse. Growing up in this situation really twists your mind. I really believed it was my job to take care of my father. So I cleaned up behind him, and whatever else I needed to do.
Also at this time I was still not in school. So, lucky me; I didn't have any friends. Instead I got to hang around with my father's buddies, and whores. And a few times his friends tried to touch me and do things to me. Now that I look back on the situation, it was the first sign of things to come. I was pretty good at fending them off. I had learned that if I cannot protect myself that no one else would.
My dad stayed too high or too drunk to keep a job. So, to pay for his habit he started dealing. I will never forget the night it all came to an end. It was a warm night; I just turned 15. The year was 1975; nobody even knew it was my birthday; it came and went just like any other day. My birthday, what day was that on? I can't remember.
Oh yeah; March 6th, I remember now.
We lived in one of those apartment duplexes; in the backyard the renters before us had left an old swing set. It was all rusted and only one swing actually worked. I was sitting alone drawing and quietly singing to myself; I love to sing.
Not only do I love to sing, but also I'm a good singer; I remember that now. I always sang for everyone, and everyone thought it was so cute when I was little. I learned how to sing from my mom’s friend in the 60s. Her name was Star; I doubt that was her real name, but that's what I knew her as.
Swinging back and forth, singing and humming, I heard a fight break out, men yelling, and my father yelling back.
You know fear does crazy things to people, like make you freeze, run away, or fight. I wish I had the runaway reaction, but not me; I got mad. How dare they yell at my father in our house? I ran this house. I was the lady of the house; time to kick some jerks out.
I came into the house and said, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? IF YOU GUYS...” A man came up behind me and grabbed my hair, pulling it back hard; next thing I knew I was staring at the ceiling.
“Shut up bitch before I hurt you” a man said.
From this view I could see my father sitting in a chair with one of the bikers standing over him; the look on his face was scared.
My father and I looked a lot the same. We both had fair skin with blonde hair that was yellow as the sun and deep blue eyes that were the color of the sky. Dad's hair hung loose and straight down to his neck; my hair was blonde and straight as well. It was so long, it ran all the way down to my butt. My dad was not a large man, 5 foot 10, and about 180 pounds. My mom was only about 110 pounds and 5 foot four. So somehow I got some extra height from somewhere. I was 5 foot seven. I am thin and have a hard time putting on any weight; I'm just too skinny.
“Please… just let my daughter go” my father cried out.
At this point I figured out my mistake; there were four really rough bikers standing in my apartment, and I knew who they were. They were the Blue Dogs, a biker gang. My dad had been selling drugs for them, and, unlike his drug head buddies, these guys were scary as hell.
The leader standing in front of my Father was Alex; he was six foot tall, and full of tattoos. He had the Santa beard, only more gray thin white; his hair was kept up in a black dew rag with a red hat. All the bikers dressed the same: blue jeans with leather chaps and boots. They wore black T shirts with some beer commercial on them, and all of them were wearing black leather jackets. On the back of their jackets was a logo for Blue Dogs.
The big biker was Jason Black; he was a big man. He didn’t talk a lot, but he always scared me. He had long straight blonde hair that looked like mine only darker.
The other two men, Brandon and Randy, the Smith brothers. These two were screwed up at birth and were the fighters of the group; they both looked very similar in appearance black greasy brown hair that was shaggy; they both had black eyes. Both of them stood 5’10" and were overall, ugly.
“Well, Jack you do have one pretty little girl.” Randy said. He let out a hollow laugh. He and the other bikers were looking at me with a look of hunger in their eyes.
With tears sliding down my cheek, I said, “Let me and my Dad go.” Randy stared down at me with anger filling his eyes; I quickly added “please” with a weak scared voice. Randy responded with a swift kick to my side. All the air rushed out of my lungs, my side shot with pain. I let out a small noise followed by me gasping for air.
“Listen Jack” Alex bellowed “let us get right down to it. You owe us a shitload of money, you little shit, and I am guessing you don’t have any of it.”
“I was robbed… it wasn’t my fault. I am trying to get your money” my Dad said. I could see the fear in my father’s eyes. I could also tell he was high, and, worst of all, I don’t think he had any of the money.
“Well I have info that you were not robbed.” Alex retorted. “You have been smoking up all the drugs yourself with some help from your friends and whores.”
“That’s bullshit, dude…”Dad tried to reply, but then Alex put his hand up in front of my father’s face. With his pointer finger up, he added the shhhh noise to shut him up.
“It does not matter to me how. Or why you don’t have our money. I just want my cash… and I am not leaving without it” Alex said, with a low menacing voice.
“I don’t have any money.” My father replied, almost in tears.
“Well, breaking your legs and killing you will have the same results… no money.” Alex replied, while he slowly shook his head back and forth.
Randy was standing over me looking down at me with a strange look on his face. “Hey I have a way we could get our money back. This little blonde is cute; we could take her to Devon.”
Brandon added in his two cents. “Yeah, she is one pretty girl.” He was definitely the stupid brother.
And then Jason who had said nothing up to this point added. “Yeah, think what Devon would pay us for her to star in one of his movies.”
Randy standing over me, said. “What a waste; we should keep her for ourselves.”
Brandon piped in. “Think we could star in that movie with her?”
“I like that idea!” Jason said, as a cruel smile spread across his face.
Thank god my dad spoke up. “What do you mean? That is my daughter you’re talking about. I am not going to let you hurt her.”
Alex said, “Well hold on there a minute, Jack. What else do you have to pay us with?”
My Dad said. “But… I can’t give you my daughter...” his voice cracking from the stress.
Alex ignored him. He started to pace back in forth in front of my dad like he was a great thinker and not a thug. “It’s not just your debt that’s the problem, but your future.”
“What do you mean by that?” Dad said.
Alex continued on, “Well you’ll need fresh supplies of product in order to sell and make some money. Then you will be able to buy your daughter back. It's not like we will hurt her.”
Dad replied in a low and slow voice, “So, no debt, and some startup supplies?”
I started to say something, but Randy stood above me and said. “Say one word… I dare you.” I couldn’t believe what was happening.
* * *
As I lay in the coffin, anger was rolling through my body at the fresh memories. Tears started sliding down my cheek. Well, that answers one question; vampires can cry.
