Cimpulung, Romania
July 13, 1737.
It happened again.
The boy jerked his head around. Once again he had heard the sounds of the wild. His mother had let out another awful shriek from her bedroom next door.
“...father forgive me, have mercy on my soul who giveth life, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name...,” the boy heard his mother uttering somewhere within the darkness of the room as he ran inside. He couldn't see her, nor could he understand her. He could hear her voice, but recognized nothing of her panicked ramblings.
The young boy listened beyond his mother; however, there was nothing else to hear. And suddenly, he felt cold. He looked up from the dirt floor, trying to see if he could find his mother.
The boy shuffled his feet forward.
From somewhere below, his mother let out a whimper as he stepped accidentally upon her hand. Yet, she didn't pull it away, nor did she falter in her incessant muttering. She hadn't even felt it.
Secure that she was safe, although quite out of her mind by the sound of it, the boy continued forward through the dark for the window. Having found his mother, he now wondered where his father was, although he didn't stop to look for him. He was sure that he was near. He seemed to feel him.
“B-b-boy!”
The boy stopped immediately at the sound of his father's voice. His first impulse was to breathe a sigh of relief; however, now that he had, he was even more afraid. Something was wrong. His father's strong, proud voice was gone. What he now heard was weak and broken and almost…defeated.
“Father?” he cried. He knew better than to sound afraid; Father didn't like to see weakness. He wouldn’t allow it, in fact. A slap always accompanied weakness. Yet, his vocal cords failed him and the plea came out pitifully, much like a small child’s; much like his own would.
“Stay back!” his father cried out, ignoring his own credo of strength. In fact, he had very little strength at all. He could barely speak. It was almost beyond him now.
“Father!” the boy screamed, stepping forward, sensing what he could not see.
Two large red eyes were there to greet him; red with bloodlust.
The wild dogs! The boy immediately made a move to flee. The original panic had returned as well, however, the fear holding him unable to move.
“You would do well to obey your father, lad!” the eyes spoke to him suddenly.
The boy fell backwards as if a strong wind had just flown into the bedroom, assaulting him through the open windows. He tripped over his mother's outstretched leg and hit his head and shoulders hard on the dirt floor. She didn't feel that either. She wasn't dead. Not yet. She was still muttering prayers to herself, but madness had almost completely wrapped itself around her. A moment or two later and she would be.
The vampire came out from behind the drapes of darkness and stood over the boy. The boy witnessed the attack as shadow suddenly hovered over him, blocking out the open window before him. Fear grabbed his heart in a good tight grip and slowly began yanking it out of his throat an inch at a time. He was hyperventilating, a sensation much misunderstood then. Hands of cold steel suddenly had his wrists. Drops of crimson warmth began raining upon his face and neck as the shadow engulfed him.
The boy had no idea then that it had been all that was left of his father's life.
5:47 a.m.
Michael sighed in the shower as he reached down and turned the hot water off. It was cold without the water. Although Barbara kept the house fairly warm because of the twins, he could still tell that it was only mid-May. Yet, he was more tired than anything else. He yawned and lifted his wet arms and hands high above his head for a good, long stretch. Reaching for his towel, the thought crossed his mind to call in sick and go back to bed. The rule of thumb, however, was to save valuable sick time for days when it was worth it like Monday nights when the Cowboys were playing, or for during the summer when the Cubs were in the state, but never for a day when he was actually sick. That would be inexcusable, a perversion of what the founding fathers intended when they first devised of the notion of sick time. Besides, there was the minor matter of finding out what the hell had happened to two of Kingsburg's finest officers.
When Michael opened the shower door and stepped onto the bathroom carpet, his nostrils were met with the fine scent of fresh brewed coffee. It worked to awaken his senses just like soap commercials claimed their products would do. Fresh coffee. He could taste it already.
Perhaps today won't be so bad after all.
Michael's heart sank with the first ring of the telephone.
Damn!
His shoulders drooped at the thought of coffee he would never taste. He waited silently, listening for the faintest hint of bad news. Seconds passed and nothing. Another second and still nothing. Slowly and deliberately, still listening, Michael finished drying off.
There was a light knock on the bathroom door, followed by the door opening behind him.
“Sweetheart, it's Mark.”
Barbara held out the wireless phone for him to take. She did not avert her eyes at the sight of his naked form, nor did her husband attempt to hide behind the towel. Sex was the furthest thing from either one of their minds.
Michael clumsily wrapped himself in the towel, though still dripping as he stood in the middle of the carpeted bathroom floor. He took the phone and answered as Barbara returned down the hall.
“Yeah, Jacks.”
“Mikey, we got another one,” Mark answered.
“Another what?” he asked, knowing full-well what his partner meant, but finding himself disbelieving.
“Homicide. This time a jogger.”
“Where?” he asked, putting his left hand to his forehead and wiping away some moisture.
“Rafer Johnson. East side soccer field off of 14th.”
“On my way.”
Barbara returned as Michael ended the call and set the phone down on the white tile countertop.
“What is it?” she asked, bracing herself, although she could not have guessed.
“Another homicide,” he said calmly, although inside he was anything but.
“Oh, my God!” she whispered. The notion stopped her approach. She stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror, as if she was not really seeing him before her. Finally, her attention returned to the coffee. It was still swirling from when she had stirred the contents of cream and sugar. The motion of the drink seemed to bring her back and so she quickly set it down beside him.
“Here, at least have a sip of this before you go.”
6:11 a.m.
As Michael headed north on 14th Avenue, the view before him appeared just as the scene the day before had. There was no reason why it should have been different, just because it wasn't a cop this time; a homicide was still a homicide. To the detective, though, it was just that this was obviously a renaissance year for murder in Kingsburg in just two days, and he wasn't used to it. This made three dead in twenty four hours. He didn't realize then, but one more homicide and it would set a new one year record in just five months for the nearly one-hundred year old city.
He applied his brakes and brought his unmarked vehicle to a stop just behind a cluster of black and whites. As he pulled on the lever to open his car door, his stomach kicked in as if anticipating the worst.
Jesus, he thought, climbing out of the car, attempting to use will power alone to hold back the wave of nausea that was building deep inside of him. Not again!
“Mike!” a voice called out to him as he headed for the crime scene. “Over here.”
It was Mark. He stood behind the fence, holding a large plastic Zip-Lock bag in gloved hands. Something was inside, but he could not yet see what it was. Mark waved him over. Michael walked quickly over to an access point which got him inside the field. The body lay in the field twenty feet behind the fence that encircled the school. It was covered by a blanket.
Caution was staked around the area, and no one was admitted any closer than ten feet in any direction.
“We have the late Mr. William Benton,” Jackson began as they walked to the crime scene. “Boys in blue found him almost an hour ago. He had his head caved in.”
“What?” Michael asked, grimacing. Fresh waves crashed down upon the existing ones.
“We’ve got something else, too.”
“What’s that?” Not entirely sure that he wanted to know more.
“A note written in blood.” Jackson handed his partner the bag. The paper was folded inside, revealing the bloody words.
“You’re kidding,” Michael said, stunned.
“‘Hello Nathaniel’,” Michael read aloud. More quietly this time he mouthed the words three times before looking back toward his partner. “Any ideas?” he asked him.
“Well,” Jackson began, kneeling down and glancing at the note once again. “With the absence of punctuation, I think either our killer is signing his latest work or he is saying hello to someone named Nathaniel. Hello-comma-Nathaniel, or hello from Nathaniel.”
Michael glanced back at the note and then over the covered human remains there in the short grass. “What do we know about Mr. Benton here?” he asked.
“Ah, let's see,” Jackson mumbled to himself, pulling out his notepad. “William Harry Benton, sixty-two years old. He lived around the corner on Wilson Way. I sent a black and white over there to see if anybody was home.”
“Good.” Michael sat down in a catcher's position before the blanket covered corpse, preparing himself, most-notably his stomach, to look upon the body.
“How bad is it?” he asked, reaching out and taking a hold of the blanket.
“We’ve seen worse.”
Michael swore.
8:30 a.m.
“I want to thank everyone for getting down here as quickly as you did,” the mayor said as she entered the private conference room and not the regular City Council chambers which were visible from the street. All four members of the council were seated and waiting upon her. “I know that it wasn’t much notice.”
The mayor was the least senior of the group. The two other members that had been elected with her during the last election half a year ago were all serving at least their third term in office. She found herself worrying about every simple detail because of this, especially now. She sat down and mulled around some papers while she ordered her thoughts.
“As you all know there has been yet another murder in our once-quiet town.” No one made the least remark at this note. They all knew. “Can anyone tell me the last time there were two murders on consecutive days?”
A couple of the men glanced around, but that had been an easy question. There had never been consecutive murders in Kingsburg, before now. Some wondered what it was exactly they were doing there.
The mayor continued: “Can anyone tell me the last time there has been a murder in Kingsburg, period?” No one moved. “Can anyone tell me…?”
“Katherine,” Councilman Roger Price interrupted. The mayor quickly faced him, but allowed him to speak. “Why are we here?”
“We’re here because this is getting out of control.”
“And you don’t think the police can handle it?”
“I don’t know whether I am worried about that so much as I just cannot sit around City Hall doing nothing.” She glanced over the faces present there in the chambers, her hands palms open as if asking them whether they could either.
“What do you want us to do, Your Honor?” Councilman Johnson asked. He looked petrified. His store was open for business once again, but that full day that he had lost was going to hurt for a while.
It was just this point that the mayor used to pound her point home. “Let me ask you, Bill. Are you going to sit in that empty store all week, waiting for the police? I’m not saying KPD is over its head with this. I’m asking how long you are willing to wait. I’ve been getting phone calls already. Do you know how many times I have been asked whether we’re canceling next week? Many. A great many. The vendors have been calling as well. They’re getting nervous. I don’t have to tell you how far some are driving to get here. If they don’t think they can afford to break even, or worse, they’re not coming. It’s as simple as that.”
Now the members of the council were looking at each other, nervously. They didn’t like the faces that were looking back at them. When they looked back in the mayor’s direction, she was ready for them. And they were ready to be led.
“That’s what I thought,” she said simply.
2:36 p.m.
Barbara grabbed the last few pieces of silverware from the counter and dropped them into the soapy-water side of the sink; the other side was filled with warm, clear water for rinsing. She used to hate doing the dishes. At least then she had been able to simply rinse them off and set them in the dishwasher, but not any longer. Barbara hadn't run the dishwasher this late in the afternoon since the day she brought fraternal twins into the house some nearly nine months before. Now, whenever she found herself standing over the kitchen sink with her hands submerged in dishwater, it meant that the twins were taking their late-afternoon nap and that Jerod wasn't home from school yet. It had become her quiet time, a moment to catch up on her thoughts, her dreams. Even though she still didn't care for doing the dishes, beggars couldn't be choosers; a mother had to learn to enjoy all the quiet time she could get. There wasn't much.
Barbara took a quick peek over her left shoulder while she reached into the soapy water for another item to wash. The digital clock in the middle of the gas stove read, 2:38 p.m. That meant that Jerod would be home soon. Her husband, however, would not. Not that he was supposed to, of course. Her thoughts just suddenly went to him. He rarely came home for lunch. Typically, he and Mark spent their entire days together. She had no problem with it because she understood it, spending as much time with Mark’s wife, Vanessa as she could. They met a couple of times a week at Barbara’s house for coffee and fellowship.
The two families were so close that one might think they were all one family, were it not for the different skin color. Barbara was Caucasian, Michael was Hispanic, and Mark and Vanessa were African-American. However, Vanessa even told her that she was closer to her than she actually was to her own sisters. It was a great regret for Vanessa, but something that she just had not been able to rectify. The years were to blame. She had been two months shy of graduation from junior high school when her mother broke the embarrassing news to her that there had been an accident. Months later it was discovered that the accident had further surprises in store. Vanessa loved her twin sisters, but was a grown woman by the time Elizabeth and Alexandria had begun to flower, themselves. She spoke to them often, but just could not seem to get through the fact that they hardly knew one another. Their mother no longer living, they already had plans for the first week in July where she, Liz and Alex would spend the week with their dad in Sacramento at the family home, and she looked forward to the time with great anticipation.
Barbara wondered what Michael was doing just now, and perhaps more importantly, wondered how he was doing. A murder in Kingsburg was unheard of, she knew, so two dead policemen was extraordinary. What the pressure must be she could hardly fathom. She found herself feeling pressure just thinking about it. He had come home incredibly late the night before. She sighed, wondering when it would be that she would actually get to spend time with him during the day.
Luckily, Barbara didn't need anything from town. The previous day had been so bad that she had spent today steering clear of the news, be it television or radio, so she did not know of the revised murder statistic for Kingsburg. She realized full well, however, what the town would be like. She was grateful that she had had no reason to leave the house. It would be the talk of the town. Her being known for her husband's occupation, if she did happen
to venture out to the grocery store or local pharmacy, she would probably find herself attacked from all sides for the latest piece of information. But I don't know anything, she would tell them, which would be true. Michael very rarely discussed cases with her. It was for no other reason other than not wanting to bring work home with him.
“It’s bad enough that I’m on call at the drop of a hat,” he had said one time before the twins had arrived to spice things up. “I don’t take you guys to work, and I’m certainly not going to bring work home for you guys.”
Although this case was quite different from others, due to its nature, that trend had continued, probably because they had hardly seen each other since it first happened.
As she retrieved a pink baby spoon from the soapy water, the last item that needed washing, a loud noise through the slightly open window above her kitchen sink caught her attention. Stepping to the right of the sink, she was able to catch a glimpse of the next door neighbor’s driveway. The Rosen’s were leaving for a vacation, apparently. Steve hadn’t said anything about going on a trip. They had bumped into each other Saturday afternoon at the mailbox that the entire neighborhood shared, which was situated on the sidewalk between their two houses. They had exchanged the usual pleasantries, but that had been all. In the past, many of the families in the neighborhood had been quick to let them know whenever they might be leaving town for a while, hoping for that extra police protection. And yet, here they were. It didn’t take very long being married to a police detective to quickly deduce what it meant when one saw an idling family sized car being loaded with suitcases. Considering both the husband and wife were smiling, happily sharing in the work, it could not mean that someone was making room inside their house for a lover by moving out the current spouse.
Barbara smiled at the thought and shook her head, not wanting to let the sinful notion linger inside her.
She liked the Rosen’s, although Michael had never cared much for Mr. Rosen. Steve was always talking excessively about his sales firm in Fresno and trying to get Michael to go golfing with him, a sport that Michael detested. She had never let that bother her friendship with Angie, of course. Her eccentric ways always made her laugh. Before the twins arrived, they had volunteered together down at the local thrift store, a task that in itself was not necessarily odd. Instead, it was during this time together that Barbara began to know the woman within.
She had referred to herself as a lifelong Catholic, but did not attend Mass, not even on Christmas or Easter, and could not tell you the exact date of her last Mass or confession for that matter. She hated sports, she would say, but was frequently seen wearing the colors of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish during football season. One time, as a test to see what she might say, Barbara asked her whether the team had won some big game. Her reply, a typical Angie-ism: “We always win! The games are nothing for us,” she added. “They’re big for the other guys!”
Another thing was how she loved to spend time alone, cleaning the house. It wasn’t the house-cleaning that she liked so much as it was that she was free to blast her music while she did so. The Doors, the Airplane, Janis, Dylan; all screaming their tunes at ear-splitting volume. She just threw on her old tie-dyed and went about her work. If she was in a particularly melancholy mood she might just lie on her bed and listen to Joni or Baez, but absolutely no Beatles. Barbara had attempted to get her to listen to them once, but Angie just replied, “The Beatles didn’t get good until they started taking drugs, but by then I could listen to a band that everybody on the planet could agree on!”
She watched as Steve Rosen waved at somebody that Barbara couldn’t see, then turned and climbed into the driver’s seat of the family car, an inferno red 2008 Chrysler PT Cruiser that they’d just picked out at Christmas. It had been a gift to each other. He wanted something luxurious, something that shouted to everyone within earshot how successful he was in sales, but in the end Angie’s free-spirited leanings won the day and they went with the cruiser.
As the car began to pull out of the drive, Barbara thought for a moment that maybe Steve was leaving her after all, but soon she came into view as the car turned left and headed past her view. Barbara frowned suddenly. She had counted but two heads in the car. It was then that Tiffany Rosen, the couples’ seventeen year old daughter came into view, walking toward the street, waving her parents goodbye.
What! she thought, studying the young woman as she lowered her hand and slowly turned and headed back toward the house. It was incredible to believe that a parent might entrust an empty house to any teenager, either boy or girl. Then again, considering how strange Angie Rosen often behaved, perhaps it wasn’t so out of character after all.
She knew that Jerod was growing into a wonderful and trustworthy boy, so far. But she remembered being that young, and knew what could and very often did happen. Barbara had been lavished with comments from friends and family alike at how beautiful and blushing a bride she had made during her wedding. However, by the time that she and Michael had finally gotten around to making it legal, there was very little blush left between them.
Had she thought about it any longer, it would have bothered her all day. So, fighting her curiosity, she quickly rinsed that last spoon and set it in the drying rack on the counter to her far right. She drained the sink, rinsing all of the excess soapy bubbles and dried her hands on a clean dishtowel. Then, she made a mental note to check in on Tiffany soon, using some ruse of needing to ask her mother for a favor or something, anything, to discover the whereabouts of her parents. She needed to discover exactly how long she would have to be concerned that a fire might be breaking out next door, or whether the Kingsburg Varsity basketball team might be celebrating some win by helping themselves to the Varsity Cheerleading squad, of which Tiffany was a well-known member.
Poienari Fortress
October 7, 1738
High atop a canyon formed by the Arges River Valley, five kilometers north of the village of Arefu, in a castle that had been fortified by Dracula himself, Vlad Tepes, a young boy awoke and cried out suddenly: “Momma!”
He had been a captive now for over a year, not that time meant much to him anymore. The sound carried no weight and did little to phase the heavy stone walls that surrounded him. Immediately, the boy threw his grubby hands over his mouth in hopes of suffocating anything else that might come rushing out of it, improperly supervised. He did not need to be reminded that his mother was no longer available to him; he only prayed that the one who was wouldn’t be as well.
The boy turned and faced the west corner. There, a door had once stood. Why there was nothing now but pieces of exposed stone and metal, he did not know; or why much of the fortress stood in ruins. All that he knew was that he had been warned of unspeakable punishment should he ever decide to venture past the walls of this room, unattended.
He had been napping, but had obviously fallen deeper asleep than he intended. He had been back in his father’s house on that fateful night that everything had changed. Fresh feelings of abandonment in his head, the boy covered his mouth tighter still. Yet, deep down, he knew that his parents hadn't abandoned him. They weren't coming to get him because they couldn't, not because they didn't want to.
It wasn't much of a consolation.
“Stop that sobbing!” a voice commanded.
The boy recognized it and obeyed immediately. It could have been no one else. A shudder traveled up the length of his fragile young spine, squeezing off the cries within his throat.
It wasn't the words or the command. It was that voice.
He could have surprised the young boy with “Good morning” and it would not have made any difference. The effect would have been exactly the same, frightening, paralyzing him into silence.
The boy curled up into a ball, bringing his knees as close to his chin as was possible. His hair, much longer now than his father ever would have allowed in another life, fell onto both knees. It gave him a tickling sensation, but
he did not seem to notice.
“Enough!” the voice lashed out at him again. “Come here!”
The boy jumped begrudgingly to his feet and approached the direction of the faceless voice. He had been through this routine before. He knew, therefore, that it would be better for him if he obeyed. He didn't want to, he only wanted to cry, but what choice did he have?
Head down, now able to finally see the vampire because he had stepped from the shadows, the boy went immediately to his side. Tears streamed down the young boy's pink cheeks as vivid recollections of his parents, especially those regarding his mother, began to flood his memory again. Beside him, standing in the shadows, was the monster responsible. He wondered whether it was now time for him to join his parents in death. Most days it was the only thing he hoped for. Escape never seemed like a viable option for him.
“I should simply make you my dinner and be done with it,” the vampire spoke, almost as if he had read the child's mind. It was an old taunt. He stared down upon the boy. In the dark, he could see him trembling in the awful anticipation. The vampire grinned. “What do you have to say about that, hmm?”
The boy's trembling worsened with the monster's goading and he began to whimper. Tears continued to roll down his face where they spilled quickly off of his chin and onto his musty old clothes.
“Stop that! I'll have no more!”
The sound of the monster's voice, although meant to be soothing, still scared the wits out of the boy. His very pronunciation frightened him, causing a momentary wetness within his trousers. Unfortunately, his clothes had just begun to dry from the time before. The vampire's keen sense of smell noticed it immediately. He started to explode in anger again, but somehow caught himself. The smell of human waste was revolting to his senses. Knowing that he did not intend to kill the boy just yet helped him to bide his raving temper. Snapping at the boy would no doubt just make it worse.
“Come,” he beckoned in a tone just above a whisper, having grown weary of the game. “I have brought you new clothes. Are you hungry?” the vampire asked as they walked through the ragged doorway and into the corridor beyond.
“Yes.” The boy knew better than to antagonize the monster. Their conversations were few, but they were nearly always the same.
“Yes, what?” the vampire asked impatiently.
“I'm hungry.”
The vampire turned on his heels, surprising the boy. A whimper escaped his lips. “No, you little fool!” he shouted. “I mean, 'yes, what?'”
The boy stood frozen. This was new. He did not understand what was being asked of him. The monster quickly moved from calm to storming, often with no provocation or warning. This was one of those times.
The vampire waited, but never very long. Ahead, a sliver of moonlight shone through the partial roof. The boy did not have time to analyze its origin. “Yes, what? What is my name?”
“Vincent,” the boy admitted, too intimidated to look at anything other than his own bare feet.
Sudden anger, sweeping like wildfire through an old forest, the vampire sprung. The monster's movement near-invisible, the boy jumped back with a start.
“Why?” the vampire shouted at the boy, standing menacingly over him, just inches from his tiny head. “Why must you continue with this pitiful mourning?”
No answer.
“Why must you act in such a way?”
The boy, eyes aimed nervously toward the floor, said nothing.
“Answer me!”
The boy let out another cry as the vampire grabbed his arms and raised him high into the air, his head snapping back in surprise. The absolute cold of the monster's flesh around his arms made his lungs tight, forcing them to work harder to get him the proper amount of oxygen. Although musty and dank, it was still the only kind of air available within the dark old place where he was forced to live.
“Why won't you answer me?” the vampire shouted. Spittle hung from the pearly white teeth of his upper jaw and stretched to the incisors of his lower jaws as his fury grew. Some that had become too heavy to remain attached to his teeth gathered at the corners of his mouth and then dripped past his purple lips.
“Why do you anger me so?” the vampire continued with his verbal assault. “I made a meal of your family: yes! Have I done likewise with you? No! Surely that must mean something!” The vampire gave the boy a mild shake. “Well?”
“Momma!” the boy cried out. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he could hold it no longer.
“You want your mother?” he shouted in the boy’s contorted face. “Do you? Do You? Because I can give her to you! As far as I am aware she is still lying there in that house! Whatever is left of her-whatever the carrion and the worm have not taken—I can bring to you, if that be your wish! Is it? Is it?” The vampire was enraged. The boy had never seen him this way since becoming his prisoner. “Is it? Damn you!”
The boy was more scared than he had ever been since the night of the attack. Picturing the vampire bringing him back his mother in a spade should have made him inconsolable with grief and horror; however, something caused the boy to stifle his crying. In doing so, the vampire stopped his assault.
“I thought we had settled this,” the vampire finally spoke again. Discouraged but no longer angry, he set the young boy down. “Your mother is not coming back.” He looked away and sighed. Glancing back to the boy, he said, “You would do well to forget her.”
Catching his breath, the boy sniffled and wiped some of the tears from his numb, tear-stained little face. He knew that this was not another one of the monster's games. His mother really was not coming back to him.
The vampire turned away from the boy and began to walk down the corridor toward the promised clothing, which the boy needed now more than ever. His voice was no longer filled with the rage of his heart.
“I have prepared your dinner,” he said calmly, walking away. “I will collect your clothes and bring them to you there. Then I must take leave of you momentarily and prepare mine.”
The boy could no longer see the vampire, but continued to feel his evil presence. Though both hungry and desperate to be out of his soiled clothes, the boy did not dare move just yet. Finally, the vampire spoke again. As long as Nathaniel lived, he would never forget it, nor forgive.
You must realize that I am your mother now.