Sam: A Novel Of Suspense (35 page)

Masters
huffed.  “Yes.  Such nonsense is the realm of movies and books.  All things
have a reflection.  It is nature and I am just another part of it.  I am just
as tied to this world as you are, my dear.”

Annabelle
was disappointed.  “Okay,” she said.  “So I take it you can’t turn into a bat?”

Masters
smiled.  “Alas, no.  Now, what feast do you have for me this evening, my
sweet?”

Annabelle
stood up.  “I hope you like roast pork?”

Masters
licked his lips, his tongue darting like a serpent’s.  “Swine flesh.  My
favourite; nothing is quite so succulent…almost nothing.”

Annabelle
grinned.  “I’ll go check on it now.”

She
stepped through into the kitchen with a smile on her face but deep inside she
was unsure about her visitor.  Masters was a sexy, dark featured man – a
Vampire – but there was just something about him that was so…

Cliché.

Inside
the oven, the pork was done.  Annabelle placed on an oven meat and pulled out
the roasting tray.  The vegetables had already been plated up, so she quickly
got to work carving the pork and placing the strips of cooked flesh onto the
plate.  She finished it all off with lashing of hot, mint gravy.

Masters
had taken off his overcoat by the time Annabelle re-entered the dining room. 
His pasty arms were heavily tattooed with symbols of the occult: inverted
crosses mingling with Celtic runes and Tibetan charms.  Annabelle recognised
them all, yet she had never desired a tattoo of her own; didn’t see the point.

She
placed down Masters’ plate in front of him and retook her seat opposite.  The
two of them began eating.  Masters had finished his wine so she topped him up
with the wine on the table.

“So,
my dear,” Masters said between mouthfuls of pork.  “Are you prepared to submit
yourself to me for the rest of this evening?”

Annabelle
nodded.  “Yes.  I want you to show me what you are.  I want to see your teeth
against my flesh.”

Masters
grinned like a well-fed cat.  “Excellent.  I must insist that you give yourself
to me entirely.  Anything I ask, you must provide.”

Annabelle
bit at her bottom lip and tasted a fleck of blood in her mouth.  “Okay,” she
said.  “Did you want to get started?”

Masters
shook his head, chewing on another mouthful of pork.  “Be not so eager.  The
night is ours and we must enjoy it.  First we eat, then we drink, then we
indulge in the sins of the flesh.”

Masters
went back to eating.  Annabelle watched him as he shovelled helpings into his
mouth and guzzled wine.  He seemed uninterested in her right now; an animal
with a fresh carcass.

When
there was no more pork on his plate, Masters asked for more.  Annabelle obliged
and went back into the kitchen.  She carved another serving from the roast and
went to take the plate back out, but she paused first.  Something still wasn’t
right about Masters.  She wanted him to be what he said he was, but she had to
be sure.  She reached into the cupboard and pulled out the garlic.

A
few minutes later she re-emerged into the dining room and set down Masters’
plate.  Her own meal was only half-eaten so she made a start on finishing it.

“This
is excellent,” Masters commented.  “But it tastes different now.  Have you
added something?”

Annabelle
nodded.  “Can’t you tell what?”

Masters
shook his head.  “Games do not interest me, my dear.  What is it I am eating? 
Tell me?”

“Garlic.”

Masters’
eyes went wide and he spat out a mouthful of pork onto the table.  He coughed,
choked, and spluttered.  “W-what game are you playing, harlot?”

“I’m
not the one playing games,” Annabelle said defiantly.  “You are.”

Masters
wiped spittle from his chin.  “What are you talking about?”

“You’re
no Vampire.  You’re a fake.  You didn’t even react to the garlic until I told
you about it.”

Masters
looked confused.  When he spoke, his accent was plain.  “Well, of course I’m a
fake.  You didn’t
actually
think I was a Vampire did you?  They don’t
exist?”

Annabelle
shook her head.  “Then why pretend to be one.  Why talk to me on the Children
Of The Night website?”

“It’s
fantasy.  Everybody on there is just playing a role.  You don’t actually want
some guy to come and bite you do you?  I thought we were just going to have
sex, do a little roleplaying.”

Annabelle
sighed.  “I can’t believe I even wasted my time on you.  You’re not even
convincing.  You’re just here to eat my food and get your end away.”

“Oh,
come on, love.  I made the effort.  What’s wrong with me?  I think I’m pretty
convincing.”

“You’re
not,” said Annabelle.  “Not at all.”

Masters
sighed, seemed a little grumpy.  “Why not?”

“Well,
for one thing, garlic hurting Vampires is just a myth.  You were acting like a
fool when you started choking on it.  But that’s not why I knew you were a
fake.  I knew before then.”

“Oh,
really?”

“Yes,”
said Annabelle, looking down at the meat on her plate and feeling like she
might cry.  She was so alone.  “Real Vampires you see, they don’t have fangs
like the silly plastic ones like you’re wearing.”

Masters
was smiling now, as if the whole conversation was utterly amusing.   He reached
into his mouth and pulled free the plastic incisors he was wearing.  Clumps of
pork strands hung from them.  “So, tell me, Anna – Mrs Expert – what are a
Vampire’s teeth really like.”

Annabelle
looked up at him.  “Well, for one thing, their fangs are at the bottom.”  She
opened her mouth wide, revealing the dagger like teeth jutting up from her
lower jaws.  Masters’ eyes went wide with panic but he was too stunned to do
anything as she leapt across the table and devoured him in the same rabid
fashion that he had devoured her pork roast.

When
she was done, she began to weep.  Her search for a mate would have to continue.

BLEEDING
ON THE RUG

By
Ryan C. Thomas

“He’s
bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”

Two
days of lifting heavy boxes for the move to the new house had sucked the
ever-loving life out of Dane. He should have been able to sleep through an
elephant stampede. But the sound of Matti’s frantic whispering shocked him out
of his dream like a hooked fish yanked from a pond. There was something about
his wife’s voice that had the power to weave through his fatigues and mental
blocks and grasp him.

“…bleeding
on the rug on the rug…”

Sleeptalking
was not uncommon for Matti; it was in fact a trait of hers Dane found
endearing. On several occasions over the years he’d listened with a smile as
she conversed with the denizens of her dream worlds. Sometimes a conversation
with him, sometimes a chat with friends, sometimes just pure nonsense that made
him giggle. But from the sound of her voice now, she was engaged in a
nightmare. He decided he would give her a reassuring squeeze and tell her she
was just dreaming.

“…on
the rug, on the rug…”

“Roll
over.” He rubbed her side

Shadows
hung heavy in front of him as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of
the bedroom. The clock beside the bed threw sanguine light onto the nightstand
in the form of digital numbers. One rule Dane had while sleeping was to never
look at the time; counting the hours until work always gave him anxiety.

Too
late. He saw it was 3:45 and compulsively did the math until he had to get up.

“Matti,”
he grumbled again. 

“...bleeding
on the rug on the rug on the rug…”

His
wife lay on her back, auburn hair in waves across her face, not a typical
sleeping position for her. She was a fetal sleeper, often cradling one of the
many teddy bears Dane had given her on birthdays and anniversaries. This
position looked too rigid, almost forced, like she’d been tied to a board. And there
was something about the way she was repeating the words that didn’t feel right.
Her voice was hushed, the words fast and sharp, like she was trying to say it
as many times as she could in under a minute.

“Honey,
wake up, you’re dreaming.” He grabbed her upper arm and gave it a little shake.
Usually, this method resulted in angry instructions not to wake her up for no
good reason. He’d recount the episode to her in the morning, like he always
did, and she’d tell him he was crazy and out to sabotage her sleep. Such was
their little joke.

But
she didn’t stir as he touched her, just kept on repeating the sentence, which
was beginning to creep Dane out. Who in her dream was bleeding on the rug?

“Honey,
you’re having a nightmare. C’mon, roll over.”

“He’s
bleeding on the rug bleeding on the rug…”

He
shook her again, this time harder, hoping some subliminal part of her mind
would sense it and she’d at least roll over angrily.

Still,
Matti didn’t respond to his commanding nudge, which shook the hair from her face.

With
his mind inherently doing math problems—three hours until I get up, I’ll never
get back to sleep at this rate—Dane gave it a second while his eyes adjusted.
Finally, her face swam into view.

He
gasped.

Her
eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. Her skin, pasty white, shined with
sweat.

The
muscles in his body snapped to attention and he sat upright, a reserve of
energy suddenly powering him. What the…?

Her
mouth moved quickly as she spoke, like a mouse chewing on a bread crumb: “He’s
bleeding on the rug, on the rug on the rug…”

“Matti,
what’s going on? Talk to me. Matti? Matti?”

Letting
her go for a moment, he leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. The room
jumped to life, the shadows retreating in the wake of navy blue curtains, a
pale green comforter, lilac walls, and boxes of clothes and accessories that
sat in piles near the closet, ready for the morning’s move. She did not respond
to the light, remaining consistent in her rapid decree that someone was
bleeding on the rug.

 Urgency
welled up in his chest; he grabbed her head and shook it, said, “You’re
freaking me out. Wake up! Baby, c’mon!”

“He’s
bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug…” Eyes still open. Staring through
Dane as if he were made of glass.

A
cold, crippling sense of helplessness rendered him immobile. What the hell was
going on? Was it a seizure? Did she need medical attention? Oh God, please
don’t let something be wrong, he thought. Not his wife. He’d have to be
committed if something happened to her. The depth of his co-dependence came
from left field and hit him hard. It was more than the feeling one gets when
they lose something they never knew they had. He
knew
what he had in
Matti; he just never figured he
could
lose it. Now he was flooded with
doubt, and the frailty of life and love and marriage became something tangible,
something breakable. Despite the fights and bickering, he loved her on a level
too complicated to explain. She was simply a part that completed him, and here
she was in a state of duress, scaring the living shit out of him.

Your
wife is having a breakdown, Dane. She’s non-responsive.  Just pick up the phone
and dial 911.
Yes, he thought, that’s something
he could do, that was a plan, a way to break the iron grip of fear that now
held him.

There
was a phone on the small desk near the wardrobe. Throwing the covers off of his
feet, he rushed to it and dialed 911. When he realized the only sound he could
hear was the persistent voice of his wife, he figured he’d misdialed. He hung
up and tried again. This time, he could tell the phone wasn’t working. The
phone company was set to turn off service in two days; had they jumped the
gun?  But 911 was supposed to be accessible regardless of account status. He
slammed the headset back in the carriage and swore.

“He’s
bleeding on the rug on the rug….” Matti was still on her back, still looking up
at something only she could see.

Try
the phone in the kitchen, he told himself. Hurry.

The
hallway was dark and crowded with packing materials but he didn’t waste time
with the lights; he knew this house by heart. Knew that just yesterday he and
Matti had made love on the top stair to break the stress of boxing up their
belongings. A pang of sentimentality hit him as he descended the steps and
maneuvered between the boxes at the bottom, realizing he’d be leaving this
place come morning. He and Matti had lived here since before they were married,
had even held their intimate reception in the backyard. How inappropriate that
he should be thinking of this as she lay upstairs in some type of mental
breakdown. Was it a survival instinct, he wondered, a way for his brain to keep
him focused on something?

He
rounded the corner into the kitchen, saw the phone as a black shadow on the
wall near the cabinets, and grabbed it. Apparently the dead line upstairs
wasn’t an isolated incident; either the phone lines were down or someone had
cut the wires outside the house. But then, that couldn’t be right, because
there was a noise coming from the phone after all. A hissing static, faint but
definitely there. And beyond it, at the edge of audibility, a woman’s voice
saying, “help me, he’s bleeding on the rug, he’s bleeding on the rug…”