The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The walls began to bleed, and Travis knew what it meant to be afraid. It was a cold shower of sweat that tapped every drop of moisture in his body. His mouth was dry, his tongue cracking with every gasping breath he took. As cold sweat ran across his back like bites of melted ice, his body trembled. Then, he heard him again, but not as before, not cheerful, not happy, but sad. He was crying, and if not for his moisture sapped eyes, Travis might have joined. More, the walls continued to bleed.



Like a thunder came the roar of shouting; a man middle in his years no doubt. Just as the boy, the voice came with no face to be seen, no sign as to the identity of such a violent entity. Then, their was the beatings, the sloping sound of flesh against flesh, as hands callous by years of labor and abuse, met with skin soft and pampered. It was a distinct sound, like over ripened fruit pummeled again and again by a spot of wood. The blood flowed like a rain. It poured in droplets from ever possible orifice, nails cracks in the wood, the ceiling, and the floor all flooded like a massive typhoon.



A third voice joined, this more feminine, more mature then the boys. The mother perhaps? Its voice cried and wavered in this chorus macabre. It too with not a face and clue to it's identity. Travis looked the room over, frantic in his efforts to place the pieces to this horrible puzzle. The furniture was still in place, the walls still stood, yet some force invisible to the eye had pricked a wound in the sides of the nineteen by twenty-four space. Travis was awed.



Then came the last voice to the choir, its pitch high as a door in need of oil. It was that of a girl, and somehow, amidst the blood and the cries, she was laughing. It was dissidence in such a macabre of tune they sang with tears. It was light and dancey, against their deep somber cries. Then, she began to sing, her him's and lah's to the rhythms of the beating executed on barren flesh.



As the screams beckoned their loudest, the beatings their hardest, and the hims the lightest, all went silent. The walls no longer bleed, and looked as if nothing had ever happened. All was as it should, or so it seemed. The room, was still. If all was fine, why was Travis sweating?

Man was it a shitty day. The boss in Toby's face, yelling and screaming, and right in front of everyone! On the sales floor no less. Mr. Dilbert was so close, as he ranted and raved, that spit and steam hit his glasses like bugs on a windshield. The nerve about that man, going on and on about their tardy policies, like it was all that important. The customers didn't care if he was fifteen minutes late everyday, and besides, the bus was late once last week! True he didn't set his alarm, nor did he exactly rush out the door any other day, and maybe once or twice this week he just didn't feel like getting up at all, but still. Toby did his work didn't?



Mr. Dilbert had gotten Toby so worked up, he had to tinkle, and wouldn't you know it, the bathroom was busy! Of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? Things were always bad for Toby; nothing could ever go right for Toby. He stood in the cold tile room, shinny and bright with blue and white tiles, twitching his legs he had to go so bad. Mother wouldn't stand for this; she'd have her talk with that Mr. Dilbert! Who was he to talk her 25 year old baby that way? And why wouldn't the guy in the stall hurry up?



As Toby hopped and huffed in the men's room, a lock of hair fell astray. He couldn't just brush it aside, if he'd tied his body in just the right such knot as to keep his bladed tightly sealed, moving now would jeopardize his good work pants! But now the hair tickled between his sharply nose and cheek. Sweat began to build, his private zone ached from pressure and building fluid.



Toby look at the stalls beside him. There were no walls like most public bathrooms he'd seen, so anyone could look and stair at his privates! That and the green gook built up around the brim of the handle was just unsanitary. How dare that genitor even consider this room clean? And hanging on the other door to the next cubicle over was a sing that plainly read, "Out of order" How those words taunted him. How he wished for this terrible day to end!



As Toby scorned the signing, a sing of life came from the cubical beside it. It was the sound of running faucets. Finally, the horrible was almost over. Not a few second later, the man inside opened the door, and walked on by. Toby had little time to act. He pushed the man aside and rushed in, only to be in further horror.



There was a third man, sitting on the toilet. A dead man. His face had been left disfigured, as his lips were pealed back by hooks that pulled stretched far behind his skull and neck. His teeth were missing, and in their place were thin slivers of glass, pushed right through the gum line. Both shoulders had been dislocated, and were sown behind his back to his feet by thin wire. Blood had been spilled across the bathroom like a fancy mosaic of modern art. It colors lighter in it's edges from a sort of pink, to an almost black were it pooled around the base of the toilet were his body had been tied with strands of rope.



Suddenly, the room stank of urine, as Toby relieved himself right where he stood. Tears and sweat ran along his face, stiff like a scared doe. Somehow, the day didn't seem all that trivial, and his troubles seemed almost childish. As Toby met eyes with the dead man on the toilet, all we wished was for some new pants. If only he could have seen the other mans face, just before he left.