The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Silence washed upon the old farm house; worn and jaded by it's former residence. It suffered deep scars that made criss-cross designs on its greyed stucco. Mahogany shingles rippled from water damage, convulsing due to the weathers torment. There was a mosaic fountain placed beneath a sky of shady oaks and vines, screaming out to it from under a blanket of slime and decay. Beyond the fountain laid an ebony door, plated by cast iron accessories and crested by an ancient family name.



The interior was streaked with walnut and mahogany, newly renovated by the existing family. Rich woods sat in planks on the floor; crawling up the walls and reaching for the ceiling, but only touching half way. Vertical surfaces were brushed with reds and gold; textured with plaster and rich glazes. Edging the room was a leather love seat, dazzled with studs and dark wood. Adjacent to it sat a large crimson chair. On the floor laid a golden colored rug, cascaded with a black and red pattern and a fringe that teased its borders. A large statue stared motionless to the sky, its stone hands groping the stillness, surrounded by silence.



In the far left corner laid a long passage that led to a wrap around kitchen. It glowed with black granite counter tops, lined with expensive silver and gold. A large crystal chandelier hovered above a sleek black table topped with crimson candles and roses. The floor was plated with planks of walnut and the walls glimmered with golden paint.



A dark stairway lead to and upper floor where a large hallway separated into three rooms; a bathroom, a bedroom and a master bedroom.



The bathroom was composed of sparkling whites and glass blocks, shaped to form a shower. Silver faucets and mirrors lined the snowy aura, while a large pedastal sink stood tall against the far wall.



The master suite was kept safely under lock and key, but when opened, revealed cool blues decorated by an expensive black toile beadspread with matching pillows. There was a large set of french doors, dressed with white sheers, that faced the southern direction.



At the far end of the hallway was a girls bedroom dressed in red and silver. Fire colored paint was flattered by sheets of metal, tacked in place. On the silvery surfaces were many pictures and notes held by trendy heart magnets. The bed held a black spread with silver and red pillows, while the floor sprouted black carpet with a large, snowy shag rug. In the far corner stood a long, lean silver lamp.



Perched on the end of the bed sat a teenage girl of seventeen. She wore long black hair that cascaded about her oval face. Her eyes blazed an icy blue, lips formed a pout and her nose was sharp and small. She had a small scar that fell upon her eyebrow and reached upwards to her forehead. She focused on a picture of a model, gently rubbing her face, hoping the pale skin she wore would darken to a golden tan. Continuously she tugged at her shady locks, wishing for blonde tangles to curl around her. Anything was better than the darkness that shadowed her small face.



Tera was always an outcast. Jaded and alone she shyed away from people. Those who came near, searched her cheerful parents and then frowned upon her shady figure; the dead aura that tagged along. Of course they were happy. Always travelling the globe, always meeting people and certainly always comparing their fortune with others. If they weren't away on some escapade, then they were finding new ways to spend their cash. Stock-market or black-market. It never matter, it was money.



Tera, to them, was the least of their worries. They never asked about the bruises she encountered at school or the bloody pools that formed on her ankles and arms. Their biggest worry was the outfits they needed to purchase to attend the next party. Tera rarely went school anymore, and when she did, she was late or unprepared. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to need some trivial piece if paper saying she could go to college or university. She could just pay her way in.



Her black nails, cut in points, scraped the magazine. If only she could be like that. If only she were the one who could turn heads, the one who could get anyone, the one who was loved. The happy one. "It's to late for that stupid" was something she thought on a regular basis.



Tired of feeling sorry for herself, she threw the magazine against the wall, stood and quietly navigated down the hallway. When she reached the top of the steps she heard the familiar slam of the front door. "Damn, the doors broken again. Another stupid waste of time and money. It doesn't even close properly!" Hesitant, she slowly took the first step, then the second. She stopped and listened. "No voices...It must be the door." Casually she plunged the rest of the way down, stopping at the last step. She stood frozen at the sight that held her. Muddy tracks paced the room, trailing past the kitchen and down the passageway. There were no lights on down there, after all, that room was seldomly used. "Stupid! Did I forget to lock the door? Damn," she thought. She tip-toed to the door, gently closed and locked it and then turned to face the black hallway.



As she walked through the kitchen, she picked up the butcher knife that lay on the counter, already soiled with her lunch. She took small, robotic steps, each causing her stomach to lurch as she neared the light switch. What will I find? Who's hiding in the dark? She inched nearer until her hand rested upon the gold plate. She flicked.



Horror tore at her insides. She took a few steps and then vomited at the gore that lay spilled before her. Her neighbors dog lay lifeless at the end of the hallway, barb wire strangling its body, lacerating its skin so that the meat showed. "Oh god! It must have wandered in while the door was open." She put her shirt over her nose and lunged forward, stalling only moments before reaching the dead dog. A large black torso stood planted before her, dressed in a trench coat. She slowly looked upward, catching only a glimpse of his pale features and blonde hair, before her had her in his hands, constricting them around her throat. She gasped, feeling darkness sweep across her eyes. "No..wait..." she mumbled as her limbs numbed. The man looked blank. He's probably done this before...



She felt anger wash over her. "Father, why?" She heard her past self cry. She remembered. It was so familiar. She had been downstairs, attempting to cook supper by herself. She was no older than eight, but determined to conquer the frying pan. She had eggs in one, bacon in the other and toast. Forgetting about the food, when she spotted a lady bug, one of the pans caught fire. It began to blaze as she frantically screamed for help. Her Father raced into the kitchen, Mother trailing. "What the hell!" He screamed. He swiped the dish towel and smothered the flames, a furrow forming in his brow. He turned, sweat dripping into his eyes. "What were you thinking? Do you know what you could have done?" She stood blank, unable to defend herself. He stepped forward and planted a left fist into her cheek. She fell and knocked her head on the cupboard door as he cursed. She cried as her Mother frowned on her; no sorrow; no sympathy. Her Mother just ordered her to her room and began cleaning up. Purples and black formed on her face as a slowly dragged herself to her bedroom. She just kept wimpering "why....daddy..."



Tearing herself from the past, she screamed, vomit gurgling in her throat. The man, frightened, loosened his grip for a moment. She swore and dug her nails into his neck, scratching the blood out of his skin. She kept desperately reminded herself of that one incident; kept fueling the hatred. No ones going to hurt me again.



She stood crying, the knife she once held now laying on the floor. The've abandoned me again; left me for the wolves. With sudden realization, she knew that to survive, she must hunt. She straightened. A malicious look crawled across her face as she bent to pick the blade up. She brought it to her mouth and gently kissed the tip, allowing it to draw blood. The crooked smile dissolved as she became one of hate.



She walked towards the man, who was cowardly stumbling backwards. He pleaded, explaining that he only wanted the expensive items, that he meant her no harm. The lights flickered and in that instant she was upon him, swinging wildy. The man dodged and darted back to the entrance. She sprinted catching him in the lime light, fumbling with locks. Ha. Look whos laughing now. She whipped his shoulders around, making him face her before he died. He cried, begged and fell to the floor. She casually stepped backward and began explaining.



"You see, sir. I can tell a professional, from a rookie. I have had my fair share of robberies, especially since the estate was left to me after my parents "tragic" death. I killed them you know. Now everything is mine. I own it all." She paused briefly looking the man over. "You know. It's been a while since someone has had me this upset. Normally I can contain myself and allow the victim some slack. But you. Yes. You. You had to go and do the one thing that makes me very angry." She grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet. "My father always choked me. Thought it was funny." She wrapped her hands around his neck and laughed. Slowly adding more pressure. He gagged and began shaking his head wildly. He cried "I didn't mean it. Honest I only wanted..."



The lights blacked out, only allowing the moon to glaze the night. There was a scream as the lights flickered on again. She stood, blood smeared on her t-shirt, the blade plunged into his neck.



She just smiled.

Its been nine Novembers since that winter of dreadful snow storms. Shards of ice and snow peeled across the barren fields surrounding our battered house. Winter had come early this year, layering the surroundings like thick frosting on a cake.



Nicolas and I watched wistfully as most of this years crops drowned beneath the sheets of wind and sleet. It's not as if the harvest would have amounted to much, afterall, the years have been dry and relentless; the winters harsh and grueling. But what was not wasted , could have amounted to a few more meals and perhaps some medicine for our dying daughter.



"She's a fighter," he had said to me the night she had been diagnosed. He gently set his weathered, black bag down and reached into his coat pocket for a limp hankerchief. Quickly he dabbed the beads of sweat protruding from his lustrous head, now balding with age.



"Surely there's something we can do! There must be a way to -



"I'm afraid there is only one solution; highly effective, however, it leaves your account empty," he stated bluntly.



She stared vacantly around the room, her eyes stumbling across the various objects, awkardly searching everything to find some morsel of hope. She glanced at the furniture, it was worn, the cushions lumpy and it had random bumps and scrapes; the lamp had no shade nor the table a cloth. The window was small and barricaded the light while the door had no lock to protect them. And now, she stared lifeless, corrupt by the hopelessness in his voice.



"Mrs. Stallone, I may be of some service if perhaps the price is too high," he mused. "I'm sure a woman like you would have no difficulty pleasing a lonely, hard working man. Right?"



She gasped, dumbstruck with anger and humiliation, adrenaline pumped, throbbing in her ears. Slowly she caught his gaze, fear enveloping his eyes, while the rest of him surged with evil. His face began to mutate with a crooked grin, revealing teeth yellowed with age and tobbacco. His torso held an awful stomach suspended in a disgusting manner, massive and round.



She looked him over in distaste, her face twisted in apparent unsatisfaction. "Mr. Jenkins, I have a shotgun that would kindly approve of your 'up close and personal' offer." She retorted flatly.



He stood for a moment, a cold wind blowing through his mind, dissapointment shrouding his eyes and then reluctantly he sauntered towards the door. He stopped before the entrance and gazed over his shoulder, thick rolls forming under his chin, "If ever you reconsider-



"Leave."



Quietly he closed the door and fled home through the thick blanket of night.



She sobbed uncontrollably for an hour or so, before she stared, catatonic, at her daughters motionless body. Her skin was pale and dull, her eyes streaked with red. She coughed horendously, usually resulting in severe vomiting. During the day she was fine it seemed; she was cheerful and full of energy. However, in the morning and evening her fever worsened and the illness that drugged her seemed nearly fatal.



She rested her hand gently on the childs face, reeling her fingers softly over the delicate lips, stalking up her velvet cheeks, feeling the warmth of the fever. Gazing affectionately upon the doll faced child, she watched the beauty shivering beneath layers upon layers of thick blankets. She felt at a loss, suddenly a victim of remorse and helplessness. Passionately she bent forth and kissed the fragile eyelids, feeling the thick auburn lashes convulse lightly on her lips. And then she began to weep.



* * *



The next morning she awoke in her daughters empty bed, stunned and confused. Frantically she jumped up calling the childs name. She tripped clumsily over a teddy on the floor, but managed to steady herself against the door frame.



Her eyes blurred with tears as she watched the young girl, curled up on the couch, quietly trying to comprehend one of Daddy's novels. The sea foam eyes gazed bewildered at her from behind auburn curls, the freckles colliding with each other as a warm smile spead, revealing stunning dimples. Wildly she flung herself at the girl, sweeping her up into a bear hug and kissing her porcelain face, tears invading her cheeks.



"Mommy, why are you crying?"



"What? Oh darling, I'm sorry. I was just so worried!" She cried. "Honey, what are you doing with Daddy's book?"



"I was re...remmm...reminding myself to tell you that Daddy had to go to Grandpa's to help fix a fence for the horses" she stated shyly.



"Well, why don't you go get one of your own story books, and bring it to Mommy, so I can read it to you." She smiled nervously. The young girl stared curiously up at her, studying her face and then a bright smile unleashed.



"I Love you Mommy," and then she turned and quickly ran to her bedroom in search of a fairytale.



She stared towards the open door for a moment, and then stood and proceeded tightly towards the window. The cool morning was calm, but black swirls of terror hovered in the horizon leaving trails of chaos and ink stains as its darkness caged the earth. This fightened her. She shivered as she remembered something her husband Nicolas had said to her.



"It is calm now, but soon enough there will be the storm of all storms, the one to stop this reckless cycle of hunger and poverty. It will be the wicked end."



Half hour later, her daughter lay on the couch, often convulsing in a dream or fighting a terrible cough. The storm had already begun to pick up, hastily howling, torrents of snow rising and falling.



A knock came abruptly at the door, and for a minute she thought it to be her husband, returning from from his trip. He would sometimes go and stay for weeks at his fathers, helping him with chores that he was incapable of; she never really knew how long he would be gone. She raced for the door and whipped it open to reveal Mr. Jenkins shivering from the frigid weather.



"Mr. Jenkins! Oh dear. Come inside, I'll make tea." she cried.



He nervously approached, silently removing his black coat and mittens, then his cap. She added wood to the stove and set a kettle on to boil.



"What brings you about?" she questioned.



"Well. I thought alot about my offer to you...and frankly Mrs. Stallone...I apologize sincerely."



"Nonsense. I too have thought about it, nearly every minute actually. I see my daughter, and she is getting worse; constantly coughing and vomiting. I'm beginning to think I'd do anything to make her better. I know that hope won't do the trick, so perhaps medical methods will."



"But Mrs. Stallone! I know, amoung everyone else, that you have not the funds for her treatment!"



"Mr. Jenkins. I have no difficulty pleasing a hard working man."



* * *



It's been nine Novembers since that winter passed and spring blessed the land with infinite amounts of rain. Farmers cried and families rejoiced. The drought had ended.



Nicolas was radiant with happiness as he watched the rejuvenation of not only his fields but his daughter, Gabriel. He took her out on the horses and let her help him prepare for the planting season. He showed her the different kinds of seeds and tried to teach her about crop rotation. He even allowed her to join him on his weekly round abouts at his fathers.



However, his wife was a different subject. She was alive, but barely. She smiled, but it was empty. She was teetering into madness, being consumed by her guilty conscience. Nothing was the same. She could no longer hold her husbands stare or even stand to be in the same room with him for more than an hour. She would spend time with Gabriel, but it wasn't as exciting. Her daughter simply reminded her dishonest act. Loneliness creeped about, companion to her forgetfulness. Sometimes she would forget about the laundry or even something routine, like dinner. She simple could not function.



Now as she sits alone at her kitchen table, abandoned by her husband and daughter, she wonders...



Was it really worth it?