THE VAMPIRE UNDERGROUND

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

The security guard was grateful for the miniscule amount of snowfall on Route 270. On this cold day in mid-January, roaring down the icy freeway at a respectively fast fifteen miles per hour, he was stoked knowing that he’d be able to make his rounds and be back to Bridgeport in time for dinner.

Ned Talon—small in stature but big on enthusiasm—only had to make the trip out to Bodie Ghost Town once a week, but it was an arduous sixteen-mile jaunt, especially when the snow was piled high and he had to man a snowmobile. He preferred his four-wheel-drive suburban, and he crossed his fingers, hoping he could get through the entire winter without having to resort to a snowmobile, or even his snowshoes. 

It was a thankless part-time job—he was expected to peruse the vacant ghost town for illegal squatters and non-paying tourists, yet this winter he hadn’t stumbled upon a single human being—and he knew now why the security guard position became newly available every year. The job required hours of time and determination, most annoyingly the drive to and from, yet all he received at the end of his efforts was a lousy paycheck, big enough only to pay for gas and a few groceries.

Ned made a right turn before climbing the long, steep hill. When he reached the top, he looked out over the white winter valley.

“Bodie Ghost Town,” he said, running his finger along his thickening mustache, “you always fail to take my breath away.”

He reached speeds of twenty miles per hour as he sped down the mountain, eventually passing the entrance and taking his vehicle all the way to the front of the Wheaton & Hollis hotel, where the two main roads—Green Street and Main Street—merged.

Ned started whistling as he put the car in park and stepped out into the numbing cold, so brutal that the wind cut through all five layers of his clothing. He rubbed his hands together, which were freezing even though he had a pair of gloves on, and he started making his way through the town.

All he could hear was the fierce wind, the whistling coming from his mouth, and the subtle but noticeable moaning coming from all the ghosts surrounding him. At least, Ned liked to think that he could hear ghosts—this was known as a ghost town after all, and he wanted to feel a part of the ominous community.

“Anyone out there?” he shouted, stepping toward the decrepit church at the end of the street. “Can anyone hear me? I’m feeling a little lonely out here, and I’d love some company!”

Alas, no answer.  He chuckled to himself, reached down into his pocket, and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and took two puffs, enjoying the sensation of the smoke and heat hitting his cold lungs.

“Guess I’m the only one here,” he whispered to himself before taking another puff.

When he heard the loud noise behind him, his first instinct was to scream. But he didn’t. He turned around, his gaze meeting the Miller House, which sat on the opposite side of the church. One of the few homes available for public walkthroughs, the Miller House had been prone to strange noises over the years.

But this noise had been different. This one hadn’t been his imagination; the sound of something heavy falling against the floorboards had been loud enough to echo across the town.

“Is someone in there?” Ned tiptoed toward the home and set his thumb against the tiny pistol in his right pocket. He’d never had to pull it out before. But part of him thought this could be the first time. “Hello?”

He entered the ancient home and raised up his gun. The floorboards beneath him squeaked so loud that part of him wanted to start shooting downward.

“I have a gun!”

He made his way past the broken bed and the spiky bedsprings, past the little green kitchen table and the bottles of spoiled wine.

When he reached the darkened bedroom, he heard it. A tap-tap-tap sound, like a child’s footsteps.

He turned to his right to see the cradle, still standing after one hundred and fifty years. A tiny figure was pushing it back and forth.

Ned lowered his gun. Before him was a four-year-old child.

“What the…”

The boy turned around. His eyes were bright red; his face, pasty white. He wore a dirtied black suit, with a pink bow tie, like was on his way to a funeral.

“What… who…”

“You shouldn’t be here,” the boy whispered.

The creak of the floorboards echoed behind him. Ned turned around and tried to fire, but the safety was still on.

“Damn it! Who’s there?”

He swung back around to the bedroom. The child was gone.

Ned turned the safety off and charged toward the front of the Miller House.

But he didn’t get far.

A hand broke through the floorboards beneath him and grabbed hold of his left leg.

“Noooo!” Ned screamed as the hand dragged him back. He turned around and fired a shot, the bullet striking not the assailant’s hand, but his own left foot.

Ned screamed again, this time in agonizing pain. He watched in terror as a second and third and fourth hand crashed through the floorboards and started pulling him down.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered to himself as four hands became eight. It was over. There was no way out. “I shouldn’t be here!”

Ned surrendered.

He lost his grip on the gun as a giant six-fingered hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down into blackness.