found a house that looked abandoned and stumbled through the back doorway as the lynch mob emerged into the street to search for the soldier.
*
The downstairs rooms were bloodstained and wrecked by signs of violence, but there were no bodies. Outside, men with makeshift weapons – bludgeons, cudgels, blades and axes – appeared in the streets.
“Upstairs,” whispered Pete. They helped the soldier up the stairway, moving carefully and quietly, dreadfully aware they could be walking into a nest of vampires.
Raised voices outside. Staccato bursts of anger and frustration. Trampling boots in the back garden.
Once they reached the top of stairs they halted on the landing and listened for any footfalls inside the house.
Pete looked up at the thin cord hanging from the attic hatch. Then he looked at Mason.
Footsteps approached the front door.
CHAPTER TWENT Y ONE
Mason swung the torch around the attic and tensed himself for something awful to emerge from the dark; but instead the light revealed VHS tapes of action films from the Eighties in cardboard boxes, and bin bags of baby toys. There were thick books in dusty stacks. Trinkets and old ornaments. Halloween masks and paper plates. Forgotten things. A large mound of musty old blankets and cloth sacks rose from the middle of the floor.
Pete helped the soldier sit down. He winced as he laid out his leg then rolled back the trouser leg to his shin and gently pawed at the swollen, reddened skin around his ankle.
Mason and Pete sat opposite the soldier and watched him. The floorboards muffled the clatter and thumping of the men searching the house. Mumbled voices. Scrapes and bumps, creaks and knocks. Footsteps ascended the stairs and wandered through the rooms below them.
“He couldn’t have got far,” a man’s voice said right beneath them on the landing. “Not with an injured ankle. Bastard squaddie.”
Mason hoped they didn’t notice the attic hatch; or thought it unworthy of investigation if they did. He switched off the torch, and the three of them waited in the silent dark while the men returned outside to search other places.
“Thank fuck for that,” Pete whispered, sighing.
Mason flicked on his torch. Pete did the same. The sudden light stung Mason’s eyes. In the colliding beams the soldier’s face was sickly white as he stared at the large mound of blankets and sacks.
Mason followed his gaze with the torch. The mound was trembling and rustling.
“What the hell…?”
A naked old man emerged crawling from within the mound, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. His face contorted into a snarl; sharp teeth jutted from the bloodstained horror of his mouth. His body was sagging and withered.
“You’ve come to play with me,” the old man said, grinning. “You’ve come to play with me on my birthday.”
“Oh fuck,” said Pete. “It’s Uncle Fester.”
*
They fought at close-quarters in the semi-darkness, the old man swiping his clawed hands at them and hissing like a lizard. Torch beams swayed and fell. Scrambling movements and grunted breaths.
They finally dispatched the vampire when Pete pulled a blanket over his head and dragged him to the floor. And while the old man kicked and thrashed and tried to break free, Mason knelt beside him, and with Pete’s knife stabbed the old man in the head multiple times until he stopped struggling and dark blood began to bleed through the gouges in the blanket.
The soldier watched them without emotion. “Good work.”
*
They waited in silence until Pete thought it was safe to climb down from the attic. Despite his reluctance to leave the comparative safety of the attic, Mason was glad to leave behind the stinking remains of the undead old man.
They descended to the upstairs landing. Mason glanced out
*
The downstairs rooms were bloodstained and wrecked by signs of violence, but there were no bodies. Outside, men with makeshift weapons – bludgeons, cudgels, blades and axes – appeared in the streets.
“Upstairs,” whispered Pete. They helped the soldier up the stairway, moving carefully and quietly, dreadfully aware they could be walking into a nest of vampires.
Raised voices outside. Staccato bursts of anger and frustration. Trampling boots in the back garden.
Once they reached the top of stairs they halted on the landing and listened for any footfalls inside the house.
Pete looked up at the thin cord hanging from the attic hatch. Then he looked at Mason.
Footsteps approached the front door.
CHAPTER TWENT Y ONE
Mason swung the torch around the attic and tensed himself for something awful to emerge from the dark; but instead the light revealed VHS tapes of action films from the Eighties in cardboard boxes, and bin bags of baby toys. There were thick books in dusty stacks. Trinkets and old ornaments. Halloween masks and paper plates. Forgotten things. A large mound of musty old blankets and cloth sacks rose from the middle of the floor.
Pete helped the soldier sit down. He winced as he laid out his leg then rolled back the trouser leg to his shin and gently pawed at the swollen, reddened skin around his ankle.
Mason and Pete sat opposite the soldier and watched him. The floorboards muffled the clatter and thumping of the men searching the house. Mumbled voices. Scrapes and bumps, creaks and knocks. Footsteps ascended the stairs and wandered through the rooms below them.
“He couldn’t have got far,” a man’s voice said right beneath them on the landing. “Not with an injured ankle. Bastard squaddie.”
Mason hoped they didn’t notice the attic hatch; or thought it unworthy of investigation if they did. He switched off the torch, and the three of them waited in the silent dark while the men returned outside to search other places.
“Thank fuck for that,” Pete whispered, sighing.
Mason flicked on his torch. Pete did the same. The sudden light stung Mason’s eyes. In the colliding beams the soldier’s face was sickly white as he stared at the large mound of blankets and sacks.
Mason followed his gaze with the torch. The mound was trembling and rustling.
“What the hell…?”
A naked old man emerged crawling from within the mound, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight. His face contorted into a snarl; sharp teeth jutted from the bloodstained horror of his mouth. His body was sagging and withered.
“You’ve come to play with me,” the old man said, grinning. “You’ve come to play with me on my birthday.”
“Oh fuck,” said Pete. “It’s Uncle Fester.”
*
They fought at close-quarters in the semi-darkness, the old man swiping his clawed hands at them and hissing like a lizard. Torch beams swayed and fell. Scrambling movements and grunted breaths.
They finally dispatched the vampire when Pete pulled a blanket over his head and dragged him to the floor. And while the old man kicked and thrashed and tried to break free, Mason knelt beside him, and with Pete’s knife stabbed the old man in the head multiple times until he stopped struggling and dark blood began to bleed through the gouges in the blanket.
The soldier watched them without emotion. “Good work.”
*
They waited in silence until Pete thought it was safe to climb down from the attic. Despite his reluctance to leave the comparative safety of the attic, Mason was glad to leave behind the stinking remains of the undead old man.
They descended to the upstairs landing. Mason glanced out
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