Clara lay fast asleep while Jack, immersed in an eerie silence, stood motionless beside the window. No wolves, no bats, no pitter pats; whilst moonlit leaves cast shadows made of stone. A quietness so macabre that Jack’s stoic skepticism had nowhere to go but slipping through his fingers. Then, from out of nowhere, came the sound of velvet footsteps treading softly on his ears. That it grew closer was easily discerned; but from whence it came it was impossible to tell. Suddenly, the creak of an opening door admitted its entrance to the room below. And quiet as the ghost who walks amongst the tombs, it made its way across the floor.
She slithered out the window, and on finger tips and tippy toe—quite like a gargantuan, four-legged spider—down the side of the house she crawled. In horrified revulsion Jack recoiled, whereupon Clara’s eyes sprang open. She flew to the window in time to see this nightmare born of the devil’s mind finish its descent. And unable to tear her eyes away, watched it—now walking upright like a woman—as it vanished, like the sun-swept mists just after dawn, right before her eyes.
“Jack?” She said, turning from the window. And fainted dead away.
When Clara came to, she and Jack were seated on the floor. His arms, tightly wrapped around her, were swaying her, comfortingly, from side to side.
“I swear to you,” he said, in an attempt to calm the screaming terror in her eyes. “At this time tomorrow you’re going to be sound asleep in your own bed.”
Not yet able to utter a word, she nodded; though whether or not she believed a word of it was highly debatable.
Clara slept, while at her side Jack busily worked out their escape plan. He gave a begrudged thanks to the vampire, for it was she who had given him the clue. Contingent upon pulling it off, however, was one not-so-minor detail—they had to make it through the night.
He stood up to stretch his legs; a decent breath of air was found by leaning out the window; and when he’d finished prying the clawing evil from his flesh, he turned back toward the room. There he found Clara, on her feet, and staring at him in a most peculiar manner.
“What?—” he began—and then he heard it too. How beautiful, he thought, as the strains of distant music fell enchantingly upon his ears. How strangely, hauntingly beautiful.
“Sweetheart,” Clara said. An endearing term she’d hardly, if indeed she’d ever, used before. “I think I’d like to take a walk; explore the house a little bit. Do you mind terribly?”
“I don’t mind; just as long as you’re back by dawn.”
She went to him; she draped her arms about his neck; she kissed him. After which she slid the bolt aside, opened the door, and smiling the sweetest she knew how, shut it tight behind her.
For some minutes, how many he’d never be able to say, Jack stared blankly at the door. Something’s wrong began digging its way out. That confounded music was making it so difficult to think; to concentrate. Something’s wrong, dammit! Hard, he whacked himself across the face. And came to his senses.
Instantly he was outside the room, a soldier deep in enemy territory. The music no longer merely beckoned, but tore at him, mind, body, soul, threatening to drag him into a raging torrent that would sweep him forever and away. Consumed with concentration, his mind teetering on the brink, Jack made use of a will-power trained to withstand mind-bending torture, enabling him to keep his wits while allowing the music to lead him on. Across the balcony, down the hallway, his panther-like footsteps flew. At the far end, a door. He eased it open to reveal a flight of stairs; and silent as death, Jack became the night.
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If you’ll go to rembrandtpublishing.com, you’ll find the start of what’s been called one of the finest vampire novels since Dracula. You’ll also find the location of the next chapter posted there.
Brought to you by Jim Humble‘s Miracle Mineral Solution. For without it I doubt I’d have stuck around long enough to tell the tale.
