Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep335: Episode 335: Vampires and Churches

Episode Date: May 5, 2026

Tonight’s feature-length tale of vampiric terror is all seven chapters of ‘I Am a Priest, and my Parishioners are Vampires’, a wonderful story by Jrubas, kindly shared with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/Jrubas/

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To Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Vampires have long existed as a dark mirror to religious belief, embodying both the fear of damnation and the perversion of sacred ritual. Perilition offers salvation, eternal life, and moral order. The vampire presents a corrupted inversion. Immortality without grace, sustained not by divine blessing, but by blood. Symbols of faith, crosses, holy water, consecrated grounds, become weapons against them. reinforcing the idea that they are fundamentally at odds with the sacred.

This tension creates a powerful juxtaposition. The vampire is a fallen parasitic echo of spiritual longing, eternally excluded from the redemption that religion promises, as we shall see in tonight's feature-length story. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution, tonight's story may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing.

And let's begin. I am a priest and my parishioners of vampires by Jay Rubus. Part 1. They came an hour before sundown. Two boys and a girl in a van with an intricate mural painted on the side. I was walking along Main Street with a backpack slung over my shoulder and a wooden mallet shoved into the waistband of my jeans. Dry wind moaned between the wrecked facades of the buildings lining the sidewalks, and trash blue like tumbleweeds in an old western,

catching here and there on overturned trash cans, bent metal poles and abandoned cars. The stoplight over the intersection of Mainum Pines swung back and forth in the breeze like a pendulum, and the dead trees placed every six feet rustled like skeletal hands reaching from unmarked graves. I was deep in thought, like I always was when I made my rounds. I didn't hear the engine and over the eerie whistle of the wind. Maybe if I hadn't been stuck in the clouds, I would have heard them. Sound travels far when everything around you is dead and gone. I went across Maine and caught a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye.

All at once the van stopped in front of me, its windshield glinting in the sunlight like a jovial eye. I came to a halt and just stood there, frozen like a deer in the headlights. In my defence, we don't get many visitors in Pine Creek anymore. You can say the highway missed us. The driver's sight window buzzed down, and a boy of about 18 stuck his head out. Hey, he said. The wind shows that moment to slacken, and his voice echoed in the silence. What happened here?

He jerked his chin to the side, indicating the dead village around us. Windows were broken or boarded up. A car sat half on the sidewalk, its trunk kissing the exterior wall of the bank. front lawns were overgrown and teeming with bugs and animals. It looked like the apocalypse had come to Pine Creek, but only because it had. The town is sinking, I lied. The boy blinked in surprise.

Sinking. It's the mines, caving in, and the gas fire, that's part of it too. He stared at me incredulously. I couldn't blame him for his skepticism. If a guy with scraggly hair and a bushy beard, dressed like Paul Bunyan, told you what I just told him, would you buy it? What do you mean gas fire? The kid finally asked. I walked up to the car and he shied away like maybe I was going to hurt him.

I put on my biggest, most friendly smile and said, There's a lot of natural gas underground. While back it started burning. The earth turned into ashes under our feet. I stopped my foot on the pavement, but... No jets of flame shot up. Too bad. I really would have helped my case. Same thing that happened in that one town, the boy in the passenger seat said. That place in Pennsylvania. My smile faltered a little. I was counting on them not knowing about Centralia.

That's where I got the story about gas fires and sinking towns. Yeah, that's right, I said. It's our sister city. I glanced over my shoulder at the rapidly setting sun. It was perched just over. over the rooftops, it's light, rich, and golden. My stomach knotted, and I swallowed. There was still time. Do you live here? The girl asked from the back. She was tall and slim with a dirty blonde hair, blue eyes and an oval face. She wore shorts and a top with spaghetti straps. She looked younger than her companions, maybe as young as 15 or 16. No, just passing through. With those? The driver nodded to the sharpened stakes poking from the top of my back.

Yeah, with these, I said. They had to mark weak spots in the earth. I glanced at the sun again. You guys should get going. This place is dangerous. That's a $500 fine for just driving through. Why hasn't the road blocked out? The passenger asked, genuinely curious.

That's a state road, I said. They can close it, but... There should be a detour sign. Didn't see it? Both boys shook their heads. Strange, anyway. I'm going to get back to work. You drive safe.

The driver nodded and the passenger lifted his hand. The van pulled off and I watched it until it was gone. Well, back to it, I thought, grimly. Since it was so late, I didn't have time to visit many of the parishioners. Walking fast, I set a course for a particular house on a particular street. cold dread beginning to roil in my stomach. I already knew I wouldn't find her there, and maybe that's why I chose that house out of all the others in Pine Creek.

The house was a pale yellow Victorian, situated on the quiet corner. A wrought iron fence separated it from the sidewalk, and tall grass pressed against the flagstone walk, leading up to the door where someone had made a big red X with paint. Who would do such a thing? Oh, probably the kind of guy who walked around with a hammering's hands. The gate shrieked when I pushed it open. I went up the steps and paused at the door, heart racing. Part of me wanted to find her, but another part didn't. Inside the house was neat but

dusty. Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows and the pent-up heat washed over me like a slap to the face. I started in the root cellar and made my way to the top floor. I found signs that someone had been there recently. Footprints in the dust. and ghostly handprints on grimy windows. Was it here? Had she come home? Or was it one of the others? Well, they slept wherever, under beds and closets,

shoved into kitchen cabinets and old refrigerators, Indiana Jones style. They had their own little nests, but if dawn caught them out, they go to the first dark, quiet place. Well, if any of them really had been here, they weren't any more. On the way out, I did my own.

best to ignore the photos hanging on the yellow walls. It hurt too much to see her face. It hurt too much to remember. In the daylight once more I walked next to the post office. I found one in the broom closet. It hung upside down from the ceiling, its arms crossed over its chest. Its eyes were closed. Its face was gaunt and grey, its cheeks sunken, his fingernails long and dirty. His hair had rotted away And its clothes had turned to filthy rags I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman Not that it mattered

It was one of mine A child of God Setting the bag aside I took out my stole Kissed it And draped it over my shoulders Next I took out the Bible And gave the creature the last rites

I spoke normally With no fear of waking it They were undead Well, at night they were on, but during the day they were just dead. When I finished, I took the mallet out of my waistband, withdrew one of the stakes from the backpack, and tacked it over the thing's heart. I raised the mallet, hesitated like I always did, and then brought it down. The stake drove into the vampire's heart, and his eyes and mouth flew open.

Its withered yellow orbs fixed me, and an unearthly hiss, escaped its mouth. I brought the mallet down again, and the steak sank deeper. The thing had already gone, limp. The evil inside of it returned to hell or New Jersey, wherever evil went when you vanquished it. Its grip slipped, and it fell to the floor with a thud.

I checked my watch and realized that I didn't have time to bury it. Tomorrow. Slipping the mallet back into my waistband, I grabbed the bag and rushed to head. long shadows crept across the ground and crickets chirped from the tall grass bordering the sidewalk the sky cooled to pink and then purple st anthony's sat in the center of town its spires rising into the heavens like a beacon to lost travelers i reached it just as evening turned to twilight inside i locked the door and let myself relax they couldn't come inside if they tried they burst into flames

Well, saying that out loud, so to speak, makes me laugh. If you don't believe it, that's okay. I wouldn't either if I hadn't seen them with my own eyes. I tossed the bag aside, lit a candle, and went into the rectory. There was no electricity in Pine Creek anymore. It gets hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but, well, I manage. After changing back into my Roman collar, I opened a can of beans and ate it at the kitchen table with a pack of jacksling's jerky.

"'Terrible whales reverberated through the night, but I ignored them. "'Done, I went back into the rectory and took my usual station by the front window. "'Shadows moved in the street, and I caught glimpses of dead white faces watching me, "'but none of them were her. "'Well, she came sometimes. "'She'd stand on the sidewalk and smile at me. "'Even in death she was beautiful. "'Her hair golden, her body is feminine,

as shapely as ever. I could almost forget that she was one of them, but then I'd force myself to look at her eyes. They were no longer sweet and kind, but cold and hungry. It wasn't her, but it was close enough to pretend, at least for a little while.

I sat down and waited for nearly an hour, but eventually decided she wasn't coming, just as well, I thought, with a burdened sigh. I prayed for a while in the chapel, watched over by Christ on his cross. His eyes were filled with reproach, and I begged forgiveness for my sins. Later I climbed between the sheets and listened to the terrible moans and screeches of the living dead. And then, finally, I slept. I don't know how long I was out before I sat bolt up right in bed, my heart thundering in my chest.

I've been dreaming of her, of course, and for a moment I thought that the same thing. scream lingering my head had come from the dream. Then it sounded again, high and frenzied. I knew at once that it wasn't one of them. You can tell the screams of the living from the dead, and this came from living vocal cords. Jumping out of bed, I grabbed the crucifix from my nightstand and rushed out into the church, the wind of my passage making the candles dance and sway. He unbolted the door and threw it open just as a scream came again, off to my right. It was to the same. It was one of primal, heart-stopping fear, not of pain. In my heart, I knew who it was before my feet even left the top step. The girl. I ran into the street, and there I saw her in the pallid

moonlight, hunched over and stumbling toward me, her eyes wide. Behind her, an army of vampires advanced, a rank of grey and rot reaching out with clutching talons. My heart jumping. My heart jumping, I bumped into my chest and I ran to her, not caring about my own safety. She collapsed against me, her breath ragged and her body shaking with fright. I slipped my arm around her shoulders and guided her to the church. The vampires were fifteen feet behind, now ten, their movements stiff and dead. Their faces were twisted in dark hunger and their eyes glowed with the fires of hell. Come on, I urged, trying to get it to go faster.

they can't come into the church. A vampire jumped out of the bushes at the bottom step, and I thrust the cross at him. He hissed, muled, and batted at it, trying to knock it from my hand, but not daring to touch it. The others were close enough that I could smell them, and my heart slammed.

I pushed the girl forward, and she staggered to the door, sobbing now. I spun, and a thousand hands reached from me. I held up the cross, and a chorus of pain in me. misery burst from their throats. I back slowly up the stairs, never letting the cross falter, and the vampires watch me whereof it.

One, old Matt Connor, the owner of the feed store, gave in to his black thirst and threw himself at me. The moment his foot touched the stairs, his leg went up in flames. He screamed and fell back, wildly kicking and trying to pat out the fire. I didn't turn my back to them until I was in sight. I slammed the door, bolted it, and pressed my back against it. The girl was on the floor in a heap, weeping desolately. I recovered and went to her, kneeling.

I ran my fingers through her pale blonde hair and tried to shush her. I told you to leave, was all that I could think to say. Later she sat on the couch in the rectory, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders. She clutched a steaming cup of hot. cock her hands and stared into space. Who were they? she asked, breaking the silence that it rained since her crying had tapered off. Her voice sounded hollow, slurred, the voice of a shell-shocked soldier who had seen too much, done too much.

Vampires, I answered honestly. Vampires, she asked. I nodded. Bloodsuckers, not to be confused with tax collectors. She stared down at her feet Oh, that was supposed to be funny, I said I guess it wasn't How? She asked, ignoring my last comment

I mean, vampires aren't real Yeah, that's what I said I lifted my hands and let them fall to my lap With a meaty thwack But here we are How? she asked again I sighed Ah, long story.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just past 1 a.m. Well, I guess we have time if you want to hear it. The girl didn't answer, but I started to talk anyway. I needed someone to tell. I needed someone to listen. Well, it happened a year ago. I began.

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Hallelujah, amen. I've had a lot of time to think and reflect, and I realize now that I was vain. I treated my secret duty as a chance to feel superior to everyone else. That was my first sin. My second was losing my fate. As a young man, I was filled with a calling. I thirsted for God the way an alcoholic thirst for his drink of choice,

and from an early age the church was the only place I saw myself going. Over time, however, the light inside of me dimmed. Right before the end, it had gone out entirely. I wasn't caught up by the fact that God let many bad things happen the way many others are, no. I knew why, and I accepted it. My problem was that the Bible didn't stand up to criticism, or at least I thought he didn't. I went from believing in God's words with the faith of a child to doubting everything. talking snakes magic apples

hmm sadly kind of suss I also grappled with the idea of sin the Bible tells us we're made in God's image we're capable of great good but also great bad we're petty jealous spiteful how can a loving God give us these traits and then send us to hell for them when he himself indulges in them

how can he imbue us with discernment and skepticism, and then banish us from his presence if we don't believe in his word, especially in all proof we have points in the opposite direction. If we look at biblical record, and then at science and history, and conclude that God isn't real, would he really spite us for that? No, I thought. He'd understand. Those thoughts and many others led me to the realization that God was not real, or likely not real.

Maybe I didn't bound all the way into atheism, but I was closer than a priest should ever be. If I had any ethics at all, I would step down and let someone else take my place. The people of Pine Creek, all of whom I loved, deserved better. They deserved someone who actually believed. And instead, they got me. A vain glory as burn out who like being front and centre, who like being respected and celebrated as a man of God, a creature who walked a higher plane of existence than everyone else.

Unfortunately for them, I had no ethics, so I stayed. I had a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a captive audience who thought I was great. What else can a man in the twenties ask for? My third sin and perhaps my greatest, was loving a woman. On the Sunday all of this started, a pair of altar boys in white robes help me into my vestments. I was running late in a foul mood because of it. Being late was embarrassing, and for a man who cared too much what other people thought of him, embarrassment was

unacceptable. Done, I sent the auto boys off, and went out into the pulpit. The pews were packed with well-dressed townspeople, come to pay their weekly tribute to the Almighty. I scanned their faces, looking for her. I spotted her in the first row, between other people. The people, mother and father. Sarah Gillespie. A tall, thin creature with vivid hazel eyes, dirty blonde hair and pouty pink lips. Sarah was the daughter of John Gillespie, the owner of the town bank. Well, I hate to say it, but she wasn't exactly right in the head. She was slow, not severely, but just enough that she came across more as a girl than a woman of 25. She was always upbeat, always smiling, so kind and sweet and innocent that you could hardly think of her as human at all.

She was something else, something better, an angel maybe. I was ashamed of myself for loving her, first because a priest isn't supposed to be in love that way, and second because she was so childlike. That word doesn't really describe her, but it's the one I always came back to. It made me sick. I guess it's true what they say about priests.

I said during one prayer session, and laughed until I cried. though it wasn't funny. In hindsight, my love for her wasn't physical. It was spiritual, emotional. I didn't dream of making love to her. I dreamed of being with her, hearing her, seeing her, being granted the holy honor of basking the warm glow of her presence.

I wouldn't look at her and think of all the things I'd do with her, rather, I'd look at her and feel the sick, heaving sensation in my gut that only a boy with a crush can feel. It was beautiful at the same time. It was maddening. Sometimes I would think of her until my head hurt, and I wanted to scream. I prayed over it, but the great I am turned out to be the not-so-great wasn't, and I had to battle these feelings on my own.

All that morning, Sarah offered me a radiant smile, and I smiled too. For the whole mass I felt almost like my old self, crackling with energy and enthusiasm for the Lord. When it was all over and I had given benediction, I stood by the door and thanked me. I thanked everyone for coming one at a time. When Sarah and her family came, my throat went dry and I swallowed.

Oh, father, that was wonderful, Mr. Gillespie said, and pumped my hand. Oh, glory goes to God, I said, even though I did all the work. Well, you did some of it, Sarah said coyly. I grinned. Ah, just a little. I wish she would stay, but she didn't.

Couldn't. I thank God for that. Once everyone had cleared out, I changed into my Roman collar, I sought of some work in my office. It was a warm May afternoon. The sun was shining, a warm breeze swept through the open window, and being cooped up in a dark, musky church appealed to me about as much as swimming inaccessible. I shoved some paperwork into a leather case and left St. Antonies in favour of the park down the street. People were out and about enjoying the day,

and each one of them nodded to me or offered a word of greeting. I nodded back and spoke when spoken to. I was almost to the park when a green and white police car came rolling down the street. It poured an illegal U-turn in the street and pulled to the curb beside me. I stopped, and the driver-side window rolled down. "'Morning, father,' Sheriff Russ Hackett said. "'Good morning, Sheriff,' I said. "'Miss you at Mass today.'

"'Trary of Hackett laughed, a beefy man in his mid-fifties, "'with thinning iron-grey hair and blue eyes, "'he always reminded me of the skipper from Gilligan's Island, "'only not as lovable. "'He was a fair man, but hard, maybe too hard sometimes. "'I was busy,' he said. "'Fact, that's why I'm here.' "'Oh,' I asked and raised a curious brow.

"'Yes, sir,' he said. "'He leaned in a little and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, whisper. You haven't heard nothing weird around you, have you? Weird, I asked, confused. No, why? I was just out to Gene Donovan's place. Gene Donovan owned a farm outside of town where he raised cattle. Someone gilded a few of his cows. Sheriff Hackett told me that Gene had found three of his cows lying dead in the pasture that morning. Their lorries laid open and their guts missing. Each one was surrounded by a circle of stones and each had a pentagram carved into its forehead. Well, except for the third one, its head was missing entirely.

Jeez, I muttered. Sheriff Hackett nodded. Ah, looks like saying this to me. Gotta be outsiders. No one here would do that. I figured they'd stick out, see. Well, I haven't seen anything, I said. They're too busy with mass that I haven't left the church indeed. I'm sure I've had sighed, but seemed to accept my stupe. Well, see anything finally call me, okay? That's goddamn thing we need. He's one cause in trouble. He realized what he'd said and dawned a sheepish smile.

Oh, ah, no offense, father. It's not me you should apologize to. He gave a lopsided grin and drove off. There's no one you should be apologizing to. I said to myself, it's just a word. I continued onto the park and sat on a bench overlooking a duck pond. I tried to finish the paperwork, but my mind kept drifting away. First to Sarah, and then again to Gene Donovan's cattle.

I finally put my papers away, draped my arm over the back of the bench, and decided to enjoy the day. The sun was warm against my face, and the breeze felt good every time it blew over me. The scent of flowers perfumed the air and the sound of children's happy laughter found my ears. I took in a deep breath and let it go out This is the life, I thought That was part of the reason I was reluctant to leave the church I was happy in Pine Creek

I felt comfortable here I liked the people and had fallen in love with this small town charm Where would I go if I left the church? What would I do? Better to stay And be treated like a rockster I caught a flicker of movement from the corner of my my eye and turned just as Sarah Galasby sat down beside me.

I blinked in surprise and sat up straighter like a soldier who'd been caught slacking by his superior. She laid out a heavy sigh and looked at me with a pounce. It's really hot out here. My eyes flickered to her long silken legs. She changed out of her church clothes into a light summery dress with a floral print and a pair of sandums. My throat tightened and my stomach twisted.

It's warm, I said. and looked away from her. It could be worse. Well, like winter, she said. The snow's pretty and it's not hot. She karate chopped the air for emphasis. I laughed at her enthusiasm. Yeah, winter's nice, but it has its drawbacks too, like shoveling snow.

I shuddered. Yeah, that's the worst. Daddy pays someone to do that, Sarah said. It looks fun. Oh, trust me, I said. It's not. "'Building snowmen's fun,' she said, "'and then scrunched her lips to the side in thought.

"'Not when they fall over and bury you.' "'Well, that threw me for a loop. "'Is that happened to you?' I asked. "'Sarah's head bopped up and down. "'Lots of times. "'I always make the bottom wrong. "'I don't know why. "'She kicked her legs back and forth like a bore girl,

"'and guilt shot through me. "'I turned away again and stared off into the distance, "'hating myself. "'Oh, maybe settled for you. the snow angels, I said. Oh, I make those too, she said. Draw little faces on them. Her childlike conversation was charming in small doses, but too much of it brought home the fact that she was different. I hate to call her slow, I really do, but I don't know what other word to use. She had the body of a woman but the soul of a child, and I loved her.

My stomach churned and suddenly I wanted to get away. I stood. and grabbed my case. It was nice talking to you, but I have to get going. I have things to do. I flashed a friendly smile to soften the blow. Yes, I was running away, but I didn't want her to feel like I was running away.

She took it in stride, and she took everything else, and a knife twisted again in my guts. A small part of me wanted her to be, I don't know, disappointed. And that would mean that she liked me. Okay, she changed. I got stuff to do.

She smiled proudly. I'm doing the grocery shopping today. No candy, I said. She pouted. Mama said the same thing. Leaving her to it, I hurried off at a power walk and resisted the urge to look over my shoulder at her. Her voice, her clean scent,

and a warm smile followed me like ghosts of Christmas, and, try as I might, I couldn't outpace them. Not wanting to go back to the, church, I walked aimlessly around before winding up at Lucy Harker's boarding house. A white frame structure with a covered front porch level to the street. It's still behind a weathered picket fence, painted sky blue. Old Bill Shipe and his pal Joe Connor sat side by side on the porch, beers in their hands and a transistor radio on the table between them.

I could just make out the faint sounds of oldies. It was a popular song from the 60s or 70s, but I didn't know the name. Bill was one of my parishioners, but rarely came to Mass. I decided to pay him a visit. Pushing the gate open, I went up the walk. He and Joe saw me coming and hurriedly hid their beer like two teenagers. I planted one foot on the bottom step and leaned over, a knowing smile touching my lips.

Hey there, Bill, I said. Joe, missed you at Mass. A short stooped man of seventy with a white moustache and a frail body hidden in the folds of a leather jacket. Bill wore a baseball cap that cast his face in shadows. Even so, his eyes were sharp and blue. "'You start too early for me, father,' he said. "'Make it noon. We'll talk. I need to sleep in.' "'Sleep in or sleep it off?' I asked, and nodded to his clumsily hidden beer. He rasped, laughter. "'I put the crack of dawn every day for forty-two years. I earned my right to sleep in.' "'Well, the Lord wants to see,' I countered.

"'I may have believed that at one point. "'May have even shamed someone like Bill into coming back. "'Now, though, I was just picking on him. "'Oh, I'll see him when I die,' Bill said. "'Won't be long now.' "'If you go to heaven,' I said. "'Joe grinned. "'Or he's not going to see God.

"'He's going to see the other guy.' "'Chubby with curly hair, his fat rose-stuffed into a plaid shirt. Joe was 20 or 21. He and Bill made an odd couple, but often people mistook for grandfather and grandson. They were neighbours, and Joe didn't have a father, so Bill sort of filled that role for him.

Bill, in turn, didn't have a son. Each one of them needed the other, and so they came together. They were Sweden away. They were as close as two men can be without being lovers. Hmm, like you saw the barber, Bill asked. Gave you that close cut, didn't he? They both cackled like madmen.

I was completely oblivious to why haircut should be funny, but every odd couple has its inside jokes, I suppose. Anyway, I said, I was just in the neighbourhood, and my voice trailed off as my eyes lit on the row of brass mailboxes by the door. There were five of them, one for Lucy Harker, and four for the tenants. All of the mailboxes had strips of white tape with names on them. The last I knew, Lucy was having trouble letting the room Jimbo's steel had died in last winter. Well, I scanned them all.

Spotted a name I didn't recognize. J. Carver. Hmm, I said. Lucy finally rendered Jimbo's old room. Bill, having given up on hiding his beer, took a drink and nodded. Yeah, so I'm tall, fella. Got in last night. I was sitting up in the living room when he came in.

The old man lowered his voice. There's something strange about him. What? I asked. Bill opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again and ticked his head from side to side as if trying to come up with an answer. I don't know rightly and just feeling I got. Room gets cold when he walks in. Just like the room gets old when you walk in.

Joe cracked. Off they went again, laughing madly. I laughed too, not at Joe's quip, but their evident love for another. I better be going, I said. I want to see you boys at mass next week. I made a V with my fingers, touched below my eyes, and pointed at them. Free wine, Joe said with a shrug. Hell, when you put it like that, I'll be there with bells on, Bill grinned.

I use grape juice, I corrected. They looked at me like I was crazy. "'To hell with mass, then,' Bill said. "'I took the long way back to St. Antonies, my mind wandering. "'Every time it tried to go to Sarah Gillespie, "'I yanked the leash and forced it onto something else. "'I remembered what Sheriff Hackett had said about an outsider "'lightly being responsible for what happened at Jean Donovan's farm,

"'and I wondered if Lucy Harker's new tenant might be that outsider. "'Well, probably not. "'Then again, didn't Bill say he was strange? "'The room gets cold when he walks in.' "'It was probably nothing. "'Bill was given to telling tall tales, "'and as for Jean's cattle, "'it's probably a group of edgy four-chan kids,

"'larping as devil-worshippers for the night. "'Well, that's what I thought at any rate. "'As it turned out, I was wrong. "'Later that night, after the village of Pine Creek had gone to sleep, "'I climbed into bed in the rectory "'and stared up at the ceiling, my mind replaying the events of the day. Thought of my faithless benediction,

Jean Donovan's cows, Jay Carver, and most of all about Sarah. Fell into a light and fitful slumber past midnight and was awoken by a loud crash sometime after two. I sat up in bed, heart exploding and listened. And that's when I heard it. The crunch of broken glass is if under the shoe of a creeping burglar. My blood turned to ice,

water and I sat there, rooted in place. I left the church open at all hours, so anyone could come in. Maybe it was just some poor schlab who'd accidentally knocked something over, and was trying to make a quick exit. That was it. Throwing on my robe, I left the room and crept into the nave. Shadows held congress in the pews, and the soft flicker of flashlight bathed the walls. I noticed at once that the giant cross on the altar had been disturbed. It was upside down. I came to a shuffling stop, certain that I was seeing things. That cross was so heavy that it took three strong mentums. There's no way that someone could have done that by himself.

Were they still here? I looked around, but the church was empty, save for one thing. A severed cow's head splattered in blood and wearing a wreath of hawthorn around its head, sat on the altar like a terrible offering to a demonic god. Its eyes were open and staring, and its mouth was open to reveal its teeth. A chunk of ice dropped into my stomach, and I warily approached the altar, fully expecting someone to jump out at me with a knife. No one did.

The head had been placed upon a pentagram drawn in blood. Staring down at that symbol, a shiver went down my spine, and just then an evil laugh rang through the church. I spun around in a swish of robe and hoarse. I almost lost my footing. I was just in time to see a long, distorted shadow slither across the wall. I swore that it was in the shape of a person, or, well, a grotesque parody of a person. I can't even say now what it was about that shadow that sent me crossing myself and praying,

but it wasn't right. There was something off about it, and even a little faithless old me could plainly tell that it didn't belong to a person at all, but rather to the devil himself. The laughter died out but lingered on the air like a whiff of sulphur. When I recovered enough to go in search of its source, I found nothing. There was no one here. Only me and the cow. I called Sheriff Hackett.

Fifteen minutes later he and his deputy, Ryan Norris, crouched in front of the cowhead while I stood off to the side, hugging myself a walk. Yep, that's jeans, Sheriff Hackett said. Whoever killed his cattle did this one too He got up and walked over Tell me what happened For the second time I told him the story

When I was done he asked Did you see any faces Anything at all I can use A memory came back to me I don't know if this is connected Lucy Harker has a new tenant An out of towner Bill of Shipes says he's

Strange A slimy smile crossed Sheriff Hackett's lips. Ah, that's our man. He clapped me hard on the back, and I almost fell over. That night, I dreamed of a tall man wearing a cowhead. I think he sacrificed me to Satan or maybe to someone else. Something else. Something worse.

Something with tea. Part three. If there's one thing that Sheriff Hackett loved, he was playing detective. The morning after I caught him about the cowhead I'd found on the altar of St. Antonies, he was up at dawn and guzzling cups of black coffee as he prepared for the task ahead. At 6.30, he drove out to Lucy Harker's boarding house. The sky was crimson and birds sang from lush treetop perches, greeting the new day the only way they knew how, with song.

Sheriff Hackett knocked on the door, and a minute later, an old black woman in a threadbare pink robe and fuzzy pink slippers appeared. Her sunken face brightened with a smile, and she seemed to stand up straighter. "'Hi there, Sheriff,' she said. "'Hackett was not a lovable man, or even a nice man, but he and Lucy had always gotten along well. There was talk that years ago they were lovers,

but no one, myself included, could see that being true. "'Morning, Lucy,' Sheriff Hackett said. "'Can I come in?' "'Sure you can. You are always welcome here.' They went into the kitchen where Lucy was cooking bacon and eggs. She offered him a cup of coffee and he took it with a nod of thanks, even though he was already peeing every five minutes.

I got to ask you something, Loose, he said. What's that? Lucy asked. She was at the stove now. About your new tenant, Carver. What about him? Lucy asked. Sheriff Hackett told her about what had happened at Gene Donovan's, even though the news had already spread through town and back again several times. and then about the break-in at the church.

I'm thinking maybe he has something to do with it. I wanted to talk to him. He's not here, Lucy said. The bacon grease popped and splattered the front of her robe. She cursed softly and dabbed it with a dish towel. Where is he? Sheriff Hackett asked. Lucy lifted and lowered one shoulder. I don't know.

Works at night and doesn't come back till the afternoon. Well, that's what he told me. That was what Hackett called a red flag. Hmm. What's he like? Tall, Lucy said. Got curly hair, blue on his kind of narrow face. Comes off real educated.

British? Sheriff Hackett asked. Lucy turned around and favoured him with a look one usually reserved for an especially stupid person. The British, aren't the only ones that can be educated. I have a degree in business management and he, he has a degree in business management and he's Here you are running a flop house. Heard it a thousand times, Lucy. Now, this is serious.

Takes one sick bastard to hack up cattle and put their heads in someone's church. Turn him back to the stove. Lucy shrugged. Maybe a Baptist? Sheriff Hackett's side. Can I go up to his room and take a look around? Again, Lucy looked at him, this time with something approaching shock, as if he'd made a dirty proposition without buying her dinner first.

No, you can't. He's rent in that room. It's his space. If you want to do that, you're going to need a warrant. Ah, come on, Looves, please. For me? Stuck out his bottom lip and put on his best puppy dog face. Roossey glared at him, but her expression gradually softened.

All right, just hurry up. Don't steal anything. Scouts honor, Sheriff Hackett said. Key in hand, he climbed the stairs and went to Carver's door. It was the last on the left. He unlocked it and poked his head in. Like all of the rooms at Lucy's, he was spartanly furnished,

with a twin bed, writing desk, and a wardrobe. Unlike the other rooms, however, this one contained an oblong box. At first Sheriff Hackett thought it was a coffin, but upon further inspection, decided it was a steamer trunk of some kind. Carver probably kept his things in there. Hackett searched the room for anything worth looking at,

but found nothing. The bed was neatly made and looked like it hadn't been slept in, and there wasn't so much as a single garment hanging up in the wardrobe. Finally, he came to the trunk. He lowered himself stiffly to one knee and reached for its lid, but Lucy's voice called out from below. You done up there, I got food waiting.

For a second there, Sheriff Hackett was caught between his two great loves, sleuthing and Lucy's cooking. Finally, he made his choice. He got up, popped his back, went downstairs. He never did find out what was in that oblong box that day. But he would soon enough. The whole town would.

All that morning I was restless. The memory of the previous night's events was still fresh in my mind, and every time I looked at the altar, I could still see that Steer's head watching me with dead eyes. The cross remained upside down, immovable even by five altar boys, and looking at it gave me a bad feeling. Just before noon I left the church and went to the park for fresh air I sat on the bench in the golden sunshine for over an hour collecting my thoughts

Who'd do such a thing? Who defile an altar? If there was anything that flew in the face of God any more than that I should have known about it And I was a priest for Christ's sake Well I thought you didn't believe in God Yeah well I don't not really but still I don't believe in Allah either but I wouldn't

dump bacon grease all over a carap. I told myself that I was outraged by the callous disrespect of the act, but, looking back, I think I was offended more on a spiritual level. When I got tired of the park, I walked across the street to the town diner. Business was slow, as it was between the breakfast rush and the lunch rush, and only a few people were in. Once I sat at the end of the counter staring at a book, her face propped against her upturned palm.

Her bare legs were crossed at the knee, and the hem of her dress lay slack, across her thighs. My brain told me to walk away, but instead I sat next to Sarah Gillespie. What's your reading? I asked. She looked up at me and smiled. Oh, hi, she said. I'm reading zombies. She held out the book so I could see the cover. A teenage girl sat against a gravestone, clutching a book to her chest while the living dead closed in on her. Whoops, Oh, I woke the dead, I read. Sarah nodded eagerly. That's garbage.

You actually like that. A face fell and I was instantly sorry. Oh, I didn't mean it like that. It's just that I gesture with both of my hands. Well, it's full of dead people. I like dead people, Sarah blurted. I mean, fake dead people. It's stories and stuff.

You mean horror? Yeah, that, Sarah said. Spooky stuff's fun. I flashed back to the night before. The cow's head, the evil laughter, the disembodied shadow on the wall. Ah, speak for yourself, I says. You read a lot of books like that? Again, Sarah's head bobbed up and down.

I love books like this. Look, I have another one. She dug in her purse and pulled out a slim volume. The cover was black and boasted a hand in a black leather glove holding a knife. Night prowler, said the title. It was by the same. author who had written, Whoops, I Wug the Dead.

The writer sounds like a real dweeb, I teased. Sarah gasped. No, he's not. He's a nice guy and a really good writer, too. It's also kind of cute. I met him at a convention one time. It was super great. She showed me the author photo on the jacket,

and I shrugged. I'm not one to judge people's looks, but I had to admit, I was jealous. We ordered a hamburger and ate it while Sarah read. We didn't talk, but I enjoyed her nearness, nevertheless. When I was done, I paid up and got out. See you later, I announced.

I kind of hoped she'd asked me not to go. Okay, bye. Damn. Head hung, I left the diner and went back to the church. Why do I do this to myself, I wondered. What do I feel this way? It was wrong, it was sinful. It was plainly sick.

But it was also fact. I couldn't control how I felt. None of us can. We can only control how we act. Dejected, I threw myself into next week's mass. If I worked hard enough, I thought, I'd forget about Sarah. I wasn't the first lie I've ever told myself, and I'm sure it won't be the last. That night, Peter Morton, the town drunk, stumbled along Railroad Avenue.

A tall, rail-thin-man with bleary eyes and yellow teeth, Peter was on his way. back to Lucy's boarding house, where he'd lived since his wife had kicked him out seven years before. Peter was a good man, but he'd rather drink than do anything else. Peter was lost in a fog of booze, but became aware of something, someone following him. A tall, cadaverous figure walked in the shadows roughly fifty feet behind him. It passed under a street lamp, but Peter swore that the light didn't touch it. It remained black, void, as if ripped from the very night around him. Peter blinked and rubbed his eyes, then turned around and started to stagger away.

It was nothing, he told himself, but cold fear gripped his heart, and suddenly the atmosphere had changed, becoming cold, oppressive, dangerous. Peter looked over his shoulder, but the figure was still there, only closer now. Peter swallowed hard and began to lope like a wounded animal. He looked back over his shoulder once more, but the figure was gone. He faced forward and bumped into something. He jumped back and almost tripped over his own feet. The figure was somehow before him, towering over his head. In an errant beam of moonlight, Peter could just make out his face,

strong angular jaw, high aristocratic cheekbones, messy blonde hair. It wore a long piquet over a suit and tie, and an eerie chill radiated from it like cold from a block of ice. "'Good evening, Mr. Morton,' the man said in a high, unaccented voice. "'The figure sounded pleased. More he sounded downright delighted. "'Hi,' Peter said. "'Would you like a drink?' Peter blinked.

"'Yeah,' he said with a nervous chuckle. "'I always like a drink. "'You like the warm buzz, do you?' "'Well, yes, actually, Peter did. That was the best part. Sure as hell wasn't the taste. What if you could feel like that all the time? Peter thought,

I like that, he finally said. I can make it happen, the stranger offered. In the dark he smiled, Peter was certain that he or it had fangs. I can make your wildest dreams come true. Peter tried to flee, but the man grabbed him, from behind and dragged Peter's throat to his lips.

Peter felt a painful pinprick, and then nothing else. The last thing you remember before losing consciousness was the man's dark laughter. Peter Morton was the first to meet John Carver. But he would not be the last. Part four. I was having a bowl of cereal and reading the back of the box, trying to find all eight hidden four-leaf clovers. when the phone rang.

I just passed eight on a Tuesday morning, and not many people were hot to get in touch with a priest unless something was wrong, so I had a feeling even before I picked up the phone that negativity was afoot. Father? Stuck to Mathers at the clinic. Peter Morton's dying and he wants to see you.

I'll be there in 15 minutes, I said. Quickly dressing, I left the church and walked the six blocks to the Pine Creek Medical Center, a tiny one-story building surrounded by leafy trees and well-matched. I was mildly surprised that Peter Morton wanted to see me before shoving off this mortal coil. He'd never been to church, and, as far as I knew, wasn't even a Catholic. I'd only been in town for six years, having taken over from old Father Malone, so I didn't

exactly know Peter's history. Maybe he'd been a regular and fell off as his alcoholism got worse. Who knew? Inside, I talked to a receptionist, and within a few minutes, Dr. Mathers came out to greet me. A short bawling man with glasses. Dr. Mathers wore a crisp white lab coat and tan slacks one size too big. The cuff swished around his legs with every step he took and swallowed his brown loafers hole. Hmm, yeah, shoe leather.

I'm glad you could make it, he said with a nod, like the business at hand was no more pressing than signing a contract. I couldn't judge him for being so casual about death, since sickness and dying were his business. It's hard to do something, even something always. awful for a long time without becoming numb to it. Dr. Mathers led me to a small out-of-the-way room at the end of a long, quiet hallway. The smell of disinfectant assaulted my nose, and the sound of moaning found my ears.

Someone somewhere was hurt or ill, and my heart went out to them. The room was dim, sunlight falling through the slats in the drawn blinds. Peter Morton lay in bed, a blue cover pulled to his chest. His arms were crossed in his arms. breathing labored. He seemed smaller, thinner than he had been the last time I'd seen him. His skin was sallow and his cheeks sunken. Someone found him passed out on the sidewalk this morning, Dr. Mathers said in a low toe. There were no wounds on him except for a little tear on his neck and a bruise on his arm. What's wrong with him? I asked in an equal whisper.

Anemia, Dr. Mathers replied, and tuberculosis. I looked at him. Tief. Tee. BB, people still get that? Sometimes. The old man's head snapped up and his eyelids fluttered open. He looked around the room, dazed, and I went to him, taking his hand. His skin was cold. Hi, Peter, I said. Father?

He asked. His voice was a low, dry hiss. I'm here. Ah, saw him, Peter said, and licked his lips. My brow crinkled. in confusion. So who? Peter coughed deeply, his frail body shaking. He's here, just like the Bible said. Who? I asked again. I had attended to many sick and dying people over the years, and was a fairly good judge of when someone was delusional and when they weren't. Peter seemed

lucid enough, so I wasn't sure whether or not to ascribe what he was saying to the ramblings of a dying man. And someone attacked him. Dr. Mathers and mentioned a wound on his neck, perhaps someone had tried to cut his throat. My mind went back to the happenings of the past couple of days. Did someone try to cut his head off the way they'd done to Jean Donovan's cow? Peter took a series of deep breaths, and for a moment, I thought he was going to pass before he could reply. Wetting his lips, he fixed me with a clear and direct gaze that belied his deathly condition.

The devil, he said. Well, Dr. Mathers and I looked at each other. Then fits and starts, Peter told us his tale. He was walking home drunk when someone stepped out of the shadows ahead of him. He was hazy on the details, but he remembered being grabbed, and then falling to the ground. Dr. Mathers checked the bruise on his arm and hummed to himself. Ah, could have been left by a finger. He showed it to me, and I studied it for a moment.

Circular and purple, it did look like it could have come from someone grabbing him. "'You should probably call Sheriff Hackett,' I said. "'But it was too late. "'Peter died before the sheriff could arrive. "'I was just finishing giving him the last rites "'when the law waddled into the room. "'He stood over Peter's bedside and stared down at him, "'his hands on his hips.

"'There's a goddamn crime wave in this town,' he said. "'I'm sick of it.' "'He said he was attacked, I said, "'by the devil.' "'The devil needs to take his ass out of here,' "' Sheriff Haggitt said. "'I'm too old for this crap.' "'That's when he told me about his visit to Lucy's.

"'Since then he'd search for Jay Carver in the Vicarb database. "'John Carver, 35, came from Fredericksburg, Virginia, "'and had no criminal history to speak of. "'In fact, he had almost no history at all. "'He was a historian and college professor "'who specialized in colonial America. "'He'd authored several books, on the subject and that was all anyone knew sheriff Hackett couldn't even find a picture of the man

I'm gone by a later see if I can talk to him the old lawman said oh well if it's him I said he has help no one man alone could have turned that cross upside down Sheriff Hackett chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully I know he said and let out a burden sigh I'm a ordinary I'm a ordinary in an autopsy. He nodded to Peter's body. I want to know exactly what happened. There's a bruise on his arm, Dr. Mathers said. Looks like someone grabbed him. Oh, and this. He turned the corpse's head to expose the wound on his neck. Angry pink flesh rimmed a tiny slash. I knew a little bit about knife wounds from my time volunteering at an inner city hospital, and this did not look like one to me. Knives sliced fresh clean, but this wound was ragged.

torn. All right, Sheriff Hackett said and sighed again. We'll get to the bottom of this if it kills us. And, as it turns out, it did kill us. After leaving the hospital, I returned to the church and started by day. There are three confessions before lunch, one from a teenage girl who'd smoked weed with a boyfriend, ten our father's three Hail Marys,

one from an old man who smacked his wife. Ten-H-Hare-Mary's, ten-hour fathers, and a nervous and overly religious woman who had a dirty dream last night. Well, I didn't ask for the details, but she supplied them anyway. A tall man with curly hair climbed through a window, mounted her, and kissed her lips and throat. His hands explored her body, and his tongue tasted her flesh. I liked it, she said, and trembled with shame. What's wrong with me? You're human, I said.

temptation happens the sin isn't being tempted the sin is giving in to temptation i didn't comfort her much so i loaded her down with our father's hell marries and forward passes so that she felt thoroughly punished and therefore redeemed later on mrs gillespie sarah's mother came in with a plate of food for me she'd invited me to dinner with her family and i politely declined not wanting to be around sarah the sin as i'd said said, is giving into temptation, but knowingly flirting with it, courting it, letting it in, was pretty bad too. That's how you fall. I thanked her for her kindness and ate it after she left. Dun, I moved to the window and stared out at the street. The sun was beginning to set, and its final dying light soaked the world in rich hues of amber. And Sheriff Hackett talked to John Carver,

I wondered. Was something else going to happen tonight? first jean's cows then the vandal in the church and now peter morton the night brimmed with danger and dread and my stomach churned with inexplicable fear something was indeed wrong in pine creek and god help me i had the feeling that it was only going to get worse and as it turns out i was right after sundown the county coroner came to pine creek medical center to open open up Peter Morton. The old drunk was laid out on a metal slab in the basement morgue. A sheet pulled halfway up his sunken chest. His eyes were closed, his head lolling to one side. The coroner pulled on a pair of latex gloves, picked up a scalpel, and made an incision into Peach's chest.

He was just beginning to peel back the flaps of skin to reveal Peter's insides when the phone in the office rang. Setting the scalpel down with a metallic clink, he peeled the gloves off and went to answer. the phone. It was a state crime lab inquiring about another case. Five minutes in, a loud metal crash rang out from the morgue, startling the coroner so badly that he dropped the phone. He told the lab tick on the other end to hold on, I went to see what had happened. The metal slab lay on its side, its locked wheels spinning. Medical instruments littered the floor and the sheet that had covered Peter's

body lay in a heap. But the body, well, the body was gone. Just then the sound of bare feet slapping tiles came from behind him. The coroner spun around in time to see the door to the corridor fall shut. He raced to it, threw it open and ran out into the hall. Ahead, someone disappeared around a corner. The coroner ran after him, reaching the T-shaped junction barely a second later. But impossibly, the body snatcher was gone. Back in the office, spooked and shaken, he picked up the phone. I have to call you back, he said, voice-breaking. Something just happened. Hanging up, he called Sheriff Hackett. His goddamn crime wave was getting worse. Bart five. In the days after Peter Morton's body disappeared from the morgue,

strange things happened in Pine Creek. An unnamed illness began to spread, its symptoms closely resembling tuberculosis, and several of the older and weaker residents succumbed. Three of my parishioners died that week, and a half-dozen others came down with what had come to be known as the Sixth Street flu, after the first known victim, Elise Parker, who lived and died on Sixth Street.

I visited my flock in their sickbeds and saw firsthand that the flu was no flu at all. It started small, with fatigue, and quickly became severe. Victims became lethargic, weak and dehydrated. Some, but not all, complained of nightmares. At first, Dr. Mathers thought it was TB, but determined that it was something else. It's close, he told me one day, but it's different. I just, I don't know. I was visiting one of the parishioners who was actively dying at the medical centre

and had sought Mathers out specifically to ask about the disease. What about the nightmares? I asked. What kind of symptom is that? I'll admit that I was afraid and was reverting back to believing in God. As the saying goes, there are no atheists in the foxholes, and in this time of crisis I needed something to hold on to. Dr. Mathers shrugged one shoulder. It happens.

I'm not overly concerned with the nightmares. It's the anemia that worries me. me. Around this time, Sheriff Hackett drove out to Lucy's boarding house again. Joe and Bill were sitting on the porch and drinking beer when they showed up. Bill, who talked with Lucy almost as much as he did Joe, knew why the sheriff was there. Here, for the new fellow, Bill asked. Ah, sure I am, Sheriff Hackett says. Too late, Bill said. He left last night, took his barks with him. Sheriff Hackett looked deflated. Where'd he go?

Bill shrugged. Well, if I know, say something about New England. Ah, shit, Bill hissed. Carver was his only suspect in the string of attacks that had preceded the coming of the Sixth Street flu. If he lost track of him, it was over. The case was slipped through his fingers and he'd lose the game. How the hell can a man in 2019 have such little info?

No one knew anything. about this guy, not even his goddamn social security number. Sighing in frustration, he went in through the screen door and talked to Lucy, who confirmed that John Carver had indeed gone. Ah, damn it, Luce, he said disappointedly. Why didn't you say something? They were in the sun-washed kitchen where Lucy seemed to live. When she wasn't cooking or baking, she was sitting at the table on her laptop or reading a trashy romance paperback with shirtless men and bodice ripping women on the copper. If I called you when it happened, you'd bite my head off for waking you up. She poured a cup of coffee and took a sip. You never did like mornings. Sheriff Hockey put his

hands on his hips and shook his head. And it was true, he would have bitched and moaned if she'd woken him up at midnight. Ah, this is just great. Only lead I got walked out the door and I can't find nothing else on him. Did you see through him? Because I'm convinced this guy's a ghost. "'Oh, he looks solid to me,' Lucy said. "'Back at the station, he phoned the state police, "'and, swallowing his pride, put in a request for assistance. "'All during this time, I was busy seeing to my parishioners, "'and the strange events of the previous week had receded to the back of my mind.

"'Something was deeply wrong here. "'I felt that in my bones. "'But I all but forgot about Jean Donovan's cows, "'and the head upon the altar. "'Hell, I even forgot about the murder of people. to Morton. From the moment I woke up in the morning to the moment I dropped exhausted into bed at night. I was racing from home to home, family to family, like an old timely doctor making house calls. If I wasn't doing that, I was burying someone, visiting someone in the hospital,

or comforting old wives who'd heard too many of the dark rumours making the circuit and believed that evil was afoot. The people of Pine Creek changed during week zero, week of the plague. They stopped talking to one another, stopped coming outside at night. The small town friendliness that had always characterized the village, evaporated like a puddle on a hot day,

and fear and paranoia took its place. People wore medical masks and avoided one another, and diner and the roadhouse outside of town, the two hubs of Pine Creek's once healthy social life, stood deserted after sundown. There was fear in the air, as oppressive as a cloud of smoke, and it crept into every heart, every half, and every mind. On Thursday evening, an old woman whose husband had died Friday and was buried Tuesday

swore to me that he was coming to her at night. Lying in bed, weak with sickness, she smiled and said he floated in through the window. The next day, she was gone. She wasn't the only one with a strange story. Tales of bizarre happenings, fed by the disappearance of Peter Morton's body, swept through Pine Creek like the flu itself. Several people told me directly that they'd seen things in the night, ghostly faces peering through windows,

unexplainable lights in the forest, friends and relatives who'd passed in recent days. One man swore he saw his brother walking up and down Elm Street in his burial suit, looking dazed, another herd pounding on the side of her house, like someone was beating their fist against the siding. She said it moved too fast, too far and too high, even to the roof, to be a person.

I believe these stories. Part of me did and part of me didn't. Maybe I was in denial. Maybe I was too afraid to confront reality. I could never have imagined what was really happening, but even so there were too many stories, all with a stubborn and damnable consistency to reject them out of hand.

I threw myself into my work so that I wouldn't have to think about it, but it was always there, festering like a cancer in the back of my mind. On Friday, Sarah Gillespie called to say that her father was sick. Her voice was filled with panic and the raw quality of it pierced me. Is he bad off? I asked. No, she said. Well, he says he's not.

He doesn't want to go to the hospital, but he has the flu. I just know it. What should I do? Where's your mother? I asked. She's here, but she thinks I'm overreacting. Can you, can you? She trailed off then, but.

perhaps realising that she was talking to a priest and not a doctor. What could I do? Read him a bedtime story. And then God smote them all, the end. Can you help me? I knew, in an instant, that I would. I'd do anything for her. Twenty minutes later, I stood in Mr. Gillespie's bedroom.

He was propped up in bed by a bank of pillows and wearing silky PJs. He looked tired, but otherwise hell. healthy. I'm fine, father, he said, just a little drained as all. Sarah's worried about you. I didn't have to look behind me to know that she was standing worriedly at the door. Mr. Gillespie's features softened and he looked over my shoulder. Addressing his daughter, he said, I'm fine, honey, I promise. It's not hidden me as hard as everyone else. I'm too strong for it. He laughed, but it turned into a cough. He hacked into his hand. He hacked into his hand. and then quickly hit it, but not so quickly that I missed the sheen of blood on his fingers.

You really should go to the clinic, I advised. I said nothing of the blood because I didn't want to upset Sarah, but I looked into Mr. Gillespie's eyes and consciously communicated to him that I'd seen the blood and knew the problem was more serious than he was letting on. I'm fine, he repeated. I just need to rest. The old man's mind was made up. I tried to persuade him to go to the clinic, but he was.

He wouldn't hear of it, and there was nothing more I could do. Sarah walked me to the front door. I wish you would listen to me, she said. He thinks I'm a baby. No, he doesn't, I said. He just thinks he knows best. Oh, boomers do. She sighed.

I'm really scared. The flu's making everyone sick, and people are dying. The pain in her eyes broke me, and I looked away. What about you? I asked, changing the subject. "'How are you feeling?' "'She shrugged. "'Okay, I guess.

"'No nightmares.' "'She opened her mouth to reply, "'but then her eyes seemed to cloud over with thought. "'Well, kind of.' "'My heart skipped a beat. "'What about?' I pressed. "'A shadow flickered across Sarah's face, "'and she looked away.

"'Nothing,' she mumbled. "'Sarah.' "'I have a little. to go, she blurted. Before I could stop her, she turned tail and ran up the stairs, disappearing. A moment later, the slamming of her bedroom door resounded through the house. I hesitated, wondering if I should go after her, but decided to respect her privacy. Clearly she was having nightmares. Was she afraid to admit it, or was she ashamed of what they were about? I soon lost myself in scene to my flock and had to put Sarah Gillespie on the back burner. To

someone else, however, she was front and centre. As the sun set over Pine Creek, shops closed, people rushed home, and a siege-like atmosphere threaded its way through the houses hunkered like fortresses against the coming night. Sarah Gillespie sat Indian-style on her bed and tried to lose herself in a romance paperback. She liked scary stuff, but there was lots of scary stuff happening in town lately, so she chose something not scary instead. Her mind kept wandering, however, to the dreams that she'd been having. It started weeks ago, long before the flu, long before the deaths. In them a dark shadow came to her window, floating and beckoning.

Come to me, Sarah. Come to me. She never saw his face, but he was a tall man with broad shoulders and an angular chin. His face was always lost in darkness, but she was sure. that she recognised him. The dreams were super scary, but not because a guy was floating around and trying to get into a room. He couldn't

enter unless she invited him anyway. No, what was scary was this. She wanted to open the window. She wanted to let him in, to see his face at long last, to hear his low, rattling voice in her ear, to feel his body pressed against hers.

Whoever he was, he exerted a strong and terrifying pull on her, and every dream, her resistance crumbled a little more. One day she would throw the window open, and he'd take her into his arms. His kiss would be dark, his love, deadly. No, she didn't want that. Only, she did.

She was so conflicted that her brain started to hurt. She was just about to get up when she became aware of a soft sound. Her forehead crinkled in confusion, and she cocked her head. to one side to listen. It came again, and when she realised what it was, her heart blasted against her ribs. Someone was knocking on her window. Her second-story window.

With a cry, Sarah jumped to her feet. The curtain was open, and there, beyond the sheen of light frosting the window pane, was the man from her dreams. As if on cue the lights flickered and went off, plunging the room into darkness. The man came into sharp relief, bat lit against the moon. His face was sharp and narrow, his cheekbones high in his eyes blazing yellow.

In the light of the moon, his pale skin glowed like that of a ghost, and his lips peeled back from his long needle-point fangs in a hungry sneer. Sarah, he whispered in a low graveyard voice. Sarah, my love, a cold lump of fear caught in Sarah's throat, and she fisted her hands to her chest. She was too scared to run, to cry out, to even think. She did indeed recognise the man, but it was clear to her,

though, that he was no man at all. He was something else. Sarah, let me in. My bride, my love, let me in. Sarah shook her head. Sarah. Go away, Sarah said through numb lips. The monster smiled and flicked his tongue at her.

Her voice burst from her in a loud throat-wrenching scream. Go away! I'll have you, the monster vowed. I will have you, Sarah. And in that instant he was gone as though he'd never been there. And Sarah passed out. Part six. I was called to the Gillespie House at eight the next morning.

morning. Not about Sarah's episode the night before, but about her father. Mrs. Gillespie had found him dead in bed, and in her panic, I was the first one she phoned. Throwing on her coat against the foggy early morning chill, I rushed out the door and down the sidewalk. On the way there, I noticed how eerily silent Pirate Creek was. Nothing moved, and aside from the soft hiss of the wind in the trees and the chug and gurgle of the fountain in the town park, everything was silent. the town was becoming a tomb At Sarah's house I found Mrs. Gillespie in a state of inconsolable grief.

Mr. Gillespie was slumped over in bed, his head lolling against his shoulder. I turned his head and laid eyes on the tiny tear in his neck which characterized the 6th Street flu. No one knew what it was. Dr. Mathers quipped that it was like a vampire bite, but I didn't take that seriously.

For one thing, vampires aren't real, and for another, everyone knows they leave two little puncture marks, not a jagged tear. A car, Mrs. Gillespie, the best I could, and sat her down in an armchair by the window, then called an ambulance. It arrived fifteen minutes late, and too haggard-looking men in white took Mr. Gillespie away. One of them told me that they'd been working all night, taking away the dead and the dying. The clinic was packed, they said, and a lot of people had gotten frustrated and gone home, presumably to die.

When Mr. Gillespie was gone, I went in to see Sarah, who was still asleep. I sat by her bedside for a while. A bar of sunshine falling through the window cast her in heavenly brilliance, but I was too preoccupied by the worsening situation to admire her beauty. That wasn't important now. My faithlessness wasn't important. It all seemed so trivial in the face of such devastation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sarah stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. "'How are you feeling?' I asked. "'Fine,' she muttered. "'Your mother said you had a bad dream last night.

"'For a second she stared at me uncomprehendingly. "'Then she shook her head. "'It wasn't a dream. "'It was real.' "'The conviction in her voice was total. "'What happened?' I asked. "'She told me everything as I've related it myself, "'and I listened in dark wonder.

"'When she was finished, she added, "'I know who it was. hearts. Oh, I pressed. Leading over, she took a book from the nightstand, flipped it over and showed it to me. It was, whoops, I woke the dead, the book she'd been reading in the diner that day. The author's photo was of a tall, broad-shouldered man with curly hair and light icy eyes. He wore a suit and sat against a backdrop of palm fronds. Him, I asked incredulously. Sarah nodded. "'It was him. I know it was.'

"'I studied the photo. "'When she showed it first to me back at the diner, "'I glanced at it but didn't register the subject. "'Who wants to look at the face of a man "'the woman their attracted to thinks he's cute? "'If I had, maybe I would have noted the resemblance "'to the descriptions of Carver. "'The name on the Carver was different,

"'which is probably what threw me off. "'Instead of John Carver, "'it was Jonathan Marston. "'Hum. a pen name, or if it was him at all. As much as I wanted to believe her, and as much as she seemed to believe herself, I simply couldn't accept her wild tale as fact. I mean, come on, a man floating outside a window, vangs, vampires. She mentioned having nightmares over the past few days, maybe this was another one of those, and not real at all. An idea came to me, and I asked Sarah

if I could borrow her book. I left the house and hurried to the police station downtown. Inside, Deputy Norris sat behind the counter, and an eerie silence rang through the building. The squadron stood empty, the desks abandoned, and Norris noticed my surprise. Everyone's sick, he explained, except me and the sheriff.

Is he in? I asked. No, he's out. I sat on a long bench along the wall and waited for him, my foot restlessly tapping on the floor. After nearly half an hour, Sheriff Hackett pushed through the entrance and came in. I jumped to my feet and walked over. Sheriff, I said. Father, he greeted curtly.

You got your work cut out for you today. Without preamble, I showed him the book. Is this John Carver? He took the book, examined the author's photo, and his eyebrows furrowed, which told me that the picture was, in fact, of John Carver. Looks like him, I guess. "'That's not his name on the cover, though. "'Where'd you get this?'

"'Sarah Gillespie,' I said. "'I told him about Sarah's dream, "'and Hackett listened intently, "'wetting his lips with his tongue. "'When I was finished, "'he slapped his hand with the book. "'You believe that story?' he asked. "'I started to reply, but stopped myself.

"'I am, don't know,' I said honestly. "'I don't know what to believe any more.' "'I want to talk to her,' he said. While it went off to do that, I returned to the church. As Sheriff Hackett predicted, I was extremely busy with funeral arrangements and grieving families. It wasn't until close to sundown that I was able to break away for some peace and quiet in the rectory. And it wasn't long before my phone rang. Hello.

Father, it's me, Bill. The old man's voice was excited, animated. Hello, Bill, I said. Father, you need to come here quick. "'What is it?' I asked. He hesitated. "'Just hurry, please.' And the line went dead. I looked at the phone a moment, then sat it down.

I glanced at the window where the light was fading. A twist of fear pinched my guts, and I swallowed hard. Grabbing my bag, I filled it with crosses and holy water, then slipped a crucifix around my neck. My power walked to the boarding house, try my best to outrun the coming night. I met no one on the way. Hollow wind moaned through the streets

and the only things moving were bits of trash. At the boarding-house Joe answered the door, his face pale and his eyes twinkling with fear. He led me upstairs and into a bedroom, lit by the soft glow of a lamp. Bill was waiting. I entered, turn my head, and saw it. My heart stopped.

Lucy lay in bed, her hands and feet lashed to the post, her black face had turned the colour of spoiled milk and her eyes were yellow. She tossed her head back and forth and pulled at the belt holding her to the bed. I walked tentatively to the footboard, and she stopped to look at me. She opened her mouth and issued a snake like hiss. Her teeth. Her fangs. Dear God, I muttered.

I turned to Joe and Bill, who stood together, Joe holding across and Bill. clutching a forgotten Bible under one arm. What's this? We found her like this, Bill said. She's under the covers with the curtains drawn. She tried to kill Joe, so we tied her up. Lucy strained against her bonds and snapped her jaw, trying in vain to bite me.

I pressed my hand to my forehead and fought a sudden dizzy spell. My mind was on the verge of collapse, and I sank into an armchair, my knees no longer able to support me. Look, Bill said. He nodded to Joe, who approached Lucy with the cross. A look of terror crossed her face, and she tried to get away, and any human shriek burst from her lungs,

and she whipped her head from side to side. To say that my world came crashing down around me would be an understatement. Everything I thought I knew about everything went up in smoke in a single second, and I felt like my whole life had been a lie. I realized what a fool I'd been to abandon my belief. God was the only certainty, and I'd forsaken him for my own. own petty vanity. I was going to be sick. What do we do, Father? Bill asked. These men, these

people in Pine Creek, all of them, were looking to me for guidance, and I didn't know how to give it to them. I was a doctor of spiritual matters, the sheriff of the soul, yet I was in over my head. In my defense, who wouldn't be? This wasn't a simple sin that could be prayed away. This was a cancer. It was malignant. It was evil. Father, call the sheriff, I said, nominally. Full night had fallen.

Joe tried the police station, but there was no answer. What now? Bill asked. I thought of Sarah, and my heart skipped a beat. We need to get out of here, I said. Out of danger, I'd be able to think. Everything would be fine. What about Luce?

At the mention of her night, name, the vampire snapped her jaws once more. I stared at her, mind working. In movies, people stake vampires willy-nilly, but this wasn't a movie, and again, I had no idea what to do. How does vampirism work? Was Lucy really dead, or temporarily possessed? Was there a chance of her coming out of her current state and returning to a normal life? I had none of those answers, and if I put a stake through our heart, it might very well be murder. Leaver, I say, said, we'll come back. After leaving the Gillespie house, Sheriff Hackett drove aimlessly through the dead village, his mind working. John Carver, the man from the back of the book, had not left

town, he decided. He'd simply gone underground. Where would a man who wanted to hide go in Pine Creek? An abandoned building. Ah, it was perfect. There were five of them in Pine Creek, and Sheriff Hackett checked each and every one of them, starting with the old mill on the river. Aside from dust and rats, it was deserted. He went from place to place looking for signs of habitation, but found nothing. The last place he checked was the old Harcrove homestead in the hills outside of town. It was a farm belonging to the Hartgrove family, who lost it to the bank three years ago. The house was buttoned up tight.

Then there was the barn. red paint peeled from the splintered walls and the rusted roof reflected the light of the sun the door should have been pat-logged but the lock was missing and the wood showed prime marks sheriff hackett's heart sped up and he went back to the car to fetch his shotgun he racked it and returned to the bar he took a deep breath and nudged the door open with the barrel of the gun inside it was dark too dark as though the windows had been blacked out He stepped inside and tripped a wire strung across the floor. A second later a pitchfork shot out of the darkness like a missile, its wickedly sharp prongs sparkling in the sunlight. Sheriff Hackett's eyes widened, but he had no time to move or duck. And the pitchfork punched into Sheriff Hackett's chest and shoved him back.

Blood gushed out around the prongs and his face twisted in agony. His finger spasmodically jerked the trigger of the shotgun, and pellets tore into his chest. to a wooden support column. He fell back against the doorframe, then spun around and dropped to his knees, the pitchfork sticking from his chest. Darkness came over him,

and he flopped onto his back, dead. And in the darkness, John Carver laughed. He took Bill's car, a battered 1998 neon, with bad brakes and a curious knock in the engine. The lights had all come on automatically, but most of the homes and buildings we passed were ominously dark.

Several times during the ride I was sure that I glimpsed figures moving in the shadows, and my stomach filled with dread. When we reached the Gillespie house, we parted in the driveway, got out and hurried up the walk in a group. We were all holding crosses and vials of holy water. We knocked, and Mrs. Gillespie led us in, looking confused. Back at back, I said. We are leaving.

Leaving, the old old. woman asked. What do you mean? Why? I'll explain later. Sarah appeared on the stairs. Pack some things, I said. We've got to get out of here. With the faith of a child, the faith that I lacked, Sarah nodded and rushed off. Her mother led us into the kitchen, intent on finishing the tea she was making. I don't see where we have to leave, she said. We're in great danger, I said. Danger of what? She demanded. We sat at the table and I explained as best I could what was happening. Sarah had come in with a duffel bag, and when she heard the word vampire, the color drained from her face.

When I was finished, Mrs. Gillespie looked at me like I was crazy. That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard, she said. I know it's crazy, I replied, but it's all true. We have to get out of here. He's right, Bill said. Sorry with my own eyes. Mrs. Gillespie sighed. "'Please, Mother,' Sarah said. "'I told you what I saw. We have to go.' "'Just for the night,' I said.

The older woman threw her hands up. "'Fine, just let me pack.' I turned then to Bill and Joe. Pull the car up to the door. I want to make a quick getaway. Notting Bill rushed off with Joe in tow. Mrs. Gillespie got up, went to the stove, and took the whistle. tea kettle off the burner. I'm not happy about this,

she said over her shoulder. I understand, I replied, but please hurry, we have to be quick. Mrs. Gillespie poured the tea into a pitch and stuck it in the fridge. She started to speak, but her words turned into a scream when the window over the sink exploded.

Sarah jumped and I instinctively stepped in front of her, putting myself between her and the danger. Something hit the floor and rolled up to Mrs. Gillespie, Gillespie's foot. A blood splattered, severed head. Bill's blood splattered, severed head. Mrs. Gillespie shrieked,

and then the power flickered and went out. A strong cold wind sprung up out of nowhere and blew through the window, rustling the curtains. I turned to look just as a gaunt, pallid face appeared. Sarah screamed and I took her in my eyes. arms. Too long, spinly arms reached through and gripped the frame, and then a foot. John Carver squeezed himself through the window, like a spider, threw a hole in the wall. My blood turned to ice water, and the air left my lungs in a rush. The vampire floated in like a bad dream,

his back against the wall and his head skimming in the ceiling. He wore a long peacoat and black gloves, and his eyes flickered with infernal light. He dropped to the floor, grabbed Mrs. Gillespie in a chokehold, and flicked his thumb across her throat. Blood gushed out and spilled over his arm. Sarah screamed in horror, and Mrs. Gilles strangled, her knees giving out and her eyes rolling back in her head. He threw the woman aside and held out his hand. "'Come to me, Sarah,' he hissed. "'Come to me.'

Sarah clung to me, her tiny, body shaking. Come to me, my love, calm. Recovering myself, I stepped forward and thrust the cross out at him. He showed mild discomfort, but swatted it away from my hand. I am too powerful for that preacher. I was old when Christ was young. He grabbed the front of my shirt, spun me around, and threw me.

I flew through the air, screaming and kicking my legs, then crashed into the wall and fell to the floor in a heap. Upside down, I watched him approach Sarah, hand extended. She passed out and he took her in his arms like a groom with his bride. I tried to yell for him to put her down, but only a groan came out. Carver squeezed himself through the window again, and then he was gone. Sarah was gone. I don't know how long I laid there crying, but when I staggered outside later,

the street was full of vampires wandering like zombies through the night. When they saw me, they rushed me, arms out and mouths open. I slammed the door and ran up the stairs, needing to hide but not knowing where. I wound up passing the night in a linen closet, the holy water clutched in my hands like a magic talisman. The vampires pounded on the doors and windows, their high screams and ghostly moans filling the night, but they never came in, and they soon forgot about me and wandered off to find other victims. Throughout the nights I heard isolated cries of fear, sporadic gunshots and other sounds of judgment. I covered my ears but could not block out visions of what was happening in Pine Creek.

Murder, bloodletting, death. The apocalypse had come and tonight demons ran free. After what seemed like an eternity, I emerged into the sunlight. No birds sang and no breeze stood. It was a day that Pine Creek officially passed away. The final part. Tired, headachey and dazed, I wandered the sunny streets of Pine Creek on an aimless ramble.

With my rumpled frock, messy collar and a thousand yards stare, I must have looked like a shell-shock refugee from a third world country. Luckily for me there was no one around to sea. The streets all stood empty, cars abandoned here and there and giving grim test. to the unnatural fate that had befallen the village. I spotted a few broken windows and open doors. I could imagine vampires smashing through them to get to the people inside. I came to a stop in the middle of the street and looked around, my eyes squinting against the hot glare of the sun.

Aside from the few blemishes, everything looked so normal. Even then, after seeing John Carver with my own eyes, after seeing Lucy and the others crowding the moonlit street, I couldn't believe it. Our minds are very adept at shutting down horrible truths. The human survival instinct is the strongest thing on the face of the earth, and your brain will shut itself down before it'll allow you to go insane. Or maybe I was insane. At one point I staggered onto the park and sat on a bench across from the fountain. Water gurgled and splashed, and the coins littering the bottom, tossed in for good luck, shimmered beneath the surface. I tried to focus on them, but was thinking hard. Living was hard.

Must have curled up and gone to sleep because the next thing I knew, it was waking up, groggy and sore. The sun was higher, and from its position I figured that it must be afternoon. My face was hot and my skin stung when I touched it. I was able to think more clearly, and with that came cold fear. Last night Carver took Sarah and carried her off to what fate God alone knew. I had to find her. I had to save her. Where would I start?

what would I do? I was a priest, not Rambo. I didn't know the first thing about rescue operations. The most logical answer to my first question was the police station. I went inside, and after the hot brightness of the day, it was cool and dark, like a cave. There was no one at the desk or in the squad room. Chairs sat empty, waiting for butts that would never touch them again,

and all of the computers were dark. I called out, but no one answered. past a heavy steel door I came to the station's holding tank the cells were windowless concrete boxes with solid doors and little slots I peered through each one and saw nothing until I came to the last cell a man was curled up on the steel rack jutting from the wall I caught out to him but he didn't answer I tried him vain to wake him but he didn't so much as stir whoever he was he slept heavy Back in the squadron I searched the desks until I found a ring of keys. I returned to the cell, opened it, and went in. The man's back was to me, his arms wrapped around his chest like he needed a hug, and had no one to give him one. I knew the feeling.

Leaning over, I shook him when he rolled over onto his back in a flash, and I screamed. His eye shone sickly yellow and his sallow skin stretched tight across his skull. He opened his mouth and hissed at me like a cat. he had fangs screaming i ran from the cell and slammed through the door into the squad room i looked over my shoulder and the man was running after me i pushed myself faster and hit the exit door going a good ten miles an hour it hit the brick wall and shattered with a startling sound i went round just in time to see the man bolt out of the building and then it happened he cleared the shade of the overhang above the steps and the sunlight fell on him instantly he began to smoke and sizzle like a fatty side of bacon an agonized wail erupted from his throat and he scurried back into the building smouldering he just stood there watching me half of his face was burnt beyond recognition one eye was dark but he didn't seem to feel it what are you i asked breathlessly the vampire hissed i didn't think he could speak even if he wanted to That was the only vampire to ever wake up on me.

I don't know why. After my heart stopping encounter at the police station, I walked around Pine Creek, racking my brain for what to do. I had to save Sarah, but how? I was totally at a loss, so I went back to the Glesby House, hoping to find something,

anything, to help me in my quest. As it turns out, I did. In the kitchen I found muddy clumps of straw in the sink, on the counter, and on the linoleum floor. and there were also footprints, carver's footprints. I knelt down and picked up one of the dirt clumps. It crumbled in my hand.

Hmm, a farm. He'd been to a farm recently. Was that where he was hiding? There were dozens of farms in the hills surrounding Pine Creek. He could be in any one of them. I had to find him anyway. So standing, I set off on my mission. Before going anywhere, I returned to the church.

where I filled a backpack with crosses, vials of holy water, and Eucharist wavers. I broke one of my kitchen chairs and used a knife from the butcher's block to sharpen it. I grabbed a hammer from a toolbox in the garage and added those to the bag. I didn't have a car, so I went back to the police station and fetched Deputy Norris's squad car from the side of the building. I saw no signs of that vampire. Must have gone back to bed. I thought of him, and I shivered. Was he still in there?

I mean, the man, I mean, the soul. I never give much thought to things like vampires or even demons. Were the living dead evil spirits inhabiting one's living bodies? Or was there a person still in there? Either option sent a shiver down my spine. The first day I searched four farms before the sun began to sink behind the earth. At each of them I found vampires hidden in dark corners. A man in a chicken coop, an old woman with her feet sticking out from under the sofa,

grey-faced kids sleeping in dirt cellars. I didn't have the guts or the faith to kill any of them, so I let them be. Before nightfall, I went back to the church, closed all the shutters, and hunkered down until morning. I searched for Sarah and John Carver for nearly a week, and with each passing day my certainty that she was alive faded. At night I hug myself and tried not to think of her dead, or worse, undead, but visions of her in my memory. emaciated face plagued my dreams and haunted my days. One night, a Thursday, I think, I was jolted awake in my bed by the echoing clang of the church organ.

It rolled through the vaulted citadel like summer thunder and chilled my marrow. I threw the blanket, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and held my breath to listen. A second passed, and then ten, then the organ peeled once more. At first the noise was jumbled in my tired mind. and I realized it was a song. A high, toneless voice began to sing, faint with distance. There is a power. Power, wonder, working power in the blood of the lamb. My heart slammed against my chest as I was drawn to my feet.

I hadn't forgotten that Carver had come into the church once before. He was not bound by the same laws his offspring seemed to follow. How or why I didn't know, but I knew that he could. could come for me if he wanted, and I was glad he had. I put on a pair of pants on my frock, not bothering to button it over my naked chest. I grabbed the makeshift steak from the nightstand, shoved it into the waistband of my pants, and went out to confront him. The music rose, growing louder, closer, and the glow of candlelight, normally warm and comfortable, but now sinister, soaked the nave. I stopped at the last pew and looked toward the organ, which sat on a raised platform.

"'No one?' "'Carver,' I called. "'I know it's you, you bastard. Come out.' A dark chuckle echoed through the hall. I walked down the aisle, looking between the pews. Finally I reached the altar and turned around. Carver was standing by the holy water font near the entrance. One corner of his mouth turned up in a sharp grin.

A lump formed in my throat, and I cast about for something to say. Finally, I heard myself ask, rather timidly, How did you get in here? Well, Carver said, I reached out my hand, turned the knob, and walked in. He didn't make it very hard for me. You should be careful next time. A locked door goes a long way and keeping one safe.

I swallowed again. I felt naked, vulnerable. This is a church, I said weekly. "'A house of God,' Carthus said with disdain. "'Only God doesn't live here anymore. "'I am God now.' He cupped his hand, dipped it into the font, and slurped a mouthful of holy water.

He gave a refreshed sign like a man in a Pepsi commercial. "'God is all around us,' I said. "'Indeed,' Carver asked. "'Then why, pray tell me, am I here? "'Why can I simply warts into your church?' If God really lived here, I'd be outside with the rabble. They're weak, you know, but I am not, I am strong. I go where I wish, and I take what I wish to take.

He put a special emphasis on that last statement. He was talking about Sarah. Where is she? I asked. She's with me now, preacher, Carver said. He started leisurely down the aisle like a man on a stroll through the park. Her innocence and her purity attracted me. You don't find very many women like her these days. In fact, you could never find many women like her.

She's special, and when I met her, I knew that I had to have her. He spread his hands, so here I am. She belongs to me now. She's my property, my dog, my whore. And you, her faithless shaman, will be my servant. The smile look on his face, the evil soul. set of his lips and the hateful twinkle in his eye all stowed the embers of my rage into a roaring inferno. My face flushed with heat and my hands bawled into fists. I pictured Sarah, dead yet alive,

the spark of her life's duffed out rudely, and I snapped, screaming I threw myself at the vampire. He easily sidesteped me and shoved me to the ground. I landed hard on my hands and knees, and he laughed. His fangs were out, if he had ever been in, and he flicked his tongue. You have to do better than that, preacher. I staggered to my feet and charged him again. He laughed and swatted me aside like a bothersome fly. I crashed shoulder first into a pew and pain streaked up my arm. Carver grabbed me by the back of my frock and dragged me to my feet. He snaked one arm around my neck from behind and pressed his lips to my ear. You're weak, he whispered, just like you're God. Surprising myself.

I ran my elbow into his stomach, and he was caught off guard. I spun and threw a punch that connected with his chin. His head whipped to one side, and I speared him. We fell back into a pew in a heap of limbs, and I grabbed him around the throat. I was lost in a frenzy of wrath, and I thought I was going to choke him. But he had other plans. Grabbing me under the shoulders, he propelled himself from the floor, and at once we were airborne, soaring high above the church.

My heart rocketed into my throat And I clung to him Like a stubborn monkey in a tree He tried to shake me loose To drop me on the hard Unforgiving pews below But I refused to let go My thrashing knocked him off course

And we hit one of the walls Then fell five or so feet to the floor I tried to get up But he grabbed me and sank his nails Into my arm And I reached a handful of his curly hair We rolled across the floor Hitting and kicking one another

At one point he was on top and I went for his jugular. My teeth closed on it, and I wrenched my head back. Cold and doughy flesh ripped from his neck and tepid blood gushed out. He uttered a cry of shock and alarm and shoved me back. I came loose, and he brought his fist down on my nose. It burst like an overripe tomato when he struggled to his feet. On my hands and knees, panting and covered in a mixture of my blood and his, I was an animal. My only thought, if a thought, can be called, was for vengeance.

Carva leaned against the wall, clutching at his throat and looking horrified. I got up, poured the stake from my waistband, and lunged at him. He sank into his side, and his entire body jerked. He threw his head back and led out an alien whale that rang through the church. Outside the vampire surrounding the church picked it up like wolves in a bad Dracula movie. Carver shot out his arm and hit me hard in the side of the head. I was thrown off balance, and he rushed me. I had a side table and he bent me over it, making the candles teeter and sway.

His eyes blazed with fury and his nails dug into the soft flesh of my throat. You've worn out my patience, preacher. Now you die. He opened his mouth to reveal his fangs. Instinct took over. Or maybe it was God, and I grabbed one of the candles. I touched it to his peacoat, and it went instantly up. his hiss of triumph turned into a screech of pain

he unhanded me and wheeled crazily around the flames racing up his coat and licking his flesh he bumped into one of the pews went down and then sprang back to his feet again completely engulfed now suddenly he took to the air and the stained glass window overlooking the nave exploded before I knew it he was gone

and I was alone in the church I sat down to the floor aching and sobbing and stayed there until dawn. Carver didn't come back. I kept up my search, hoping against hope that he'd been lying about Sarah. Hope springs eternal,

and it will lead to more gymnastics in the WWE match, only of the mental kind instead of the physical. I had to hope because I couldn't accept the truth, even though I knew it in my heart. Finally, I found them in a barn. I was driving past when I glared. limped a flicker of light from a hay bale. I pulled a U-turn,

follow the dirt driveway past the house and part next to the hay-pile. I got out and brushed some of it aside. What I'd seen was the rear bumper of a car. Sheriff Hackett's car. My hackles raised. Why was it here? And who put it here?

I checked the house first and found the family asleep in the attic, father, mother and two children. The children bothered me. Children are innocent, pure, and to see two of them like that, oh, it was too much for me. In a fit of rage and disgust, I ripped the curtain from a window, and the sunlight streamed in.

The vampires began to smoke and thrash, mules and hissies rising from their dead throats. They scrambled into darkened corners, but the little girl was too slow. As I watched the skin melted from her bones in her skeleton charred, and then crumbled to dine. The smell was powerful and made me sick. I rushed outside to vomit.

The last place I looked was the barn. Cross in front of me, I eased the door open. I don't know what possessed me to look down, maybe God, but I spotted an open bear trap on the floor. Now I knew I had the right place. Leaving the door wide open so that the sunlight spilled in, I walked around the musky space and found three more traps, and then, in the hayloff, I found the coffin.

It sat in the corner, oak and gleaming and so out of place that it made my head spin. Beside it was an oblong steamer trunk like Sheriff Hackett had seen at Lucy's boarding house. My heart sank. In my soul I already knew who was inside. Ignoring it, I went to the coffin and lifted the lid. John Carver lay within, his hands folded on his chest and his eyes closed. His face was lumpy with scar tissue in places, and a good portion of his hair was missing. It had only been two days since the fire, but he looked as if he'd already begun to heal.

In another week or so, it would be like it had never happened at all. Fresh blood coated his chin, and his nails were long and jagged. They'd almost ripped out my throat, I mused. They could probably cut diamond, too. His piquot was gone, presumably destroyed in the fire, and in its place he wore a Victorian-style waistcoat over a white shirt. His tie stuffed into his vest was covered in SpongeBob characters. Well, I guess he was a fan.

A mix of emotions flooded my chest. Hate, pity, revulsion. But no fear, not anymore. I swung the bag around, took out the sharpened chair-legged in the hammer, and knelt beside the coffin. I placed the stake over his heart and lifted the hammer. All at once his head whipped in my direction, and his eyes caught me in their glowing thrall.

I'm impressed, he said. His lips did not move, and his voice seemed to come from the centre of my head. Where is she? I asked out loud. Does it matter, preacher? She's mine. A lump whirled in my throat, and tears blurred my vision. "'Bastard,' I muttered. "'Visions of Sarah darts through my head. "'Her sweet, lovely face transformed into a grotesque parody of humanity.

"'Her teeth long, her eyes yellow, her flesh rotting. "'Carva laughed at me. "'He laughed. "'Letting out a cry of rage and frustration, I brought the hammer down. "'The stake drove deep into the monster's heart, "'and his eyes widened in shock. "'He opened his mouth and his long, forked tongue flickered obscenely. I brought the hammer down again and again, sobbing now.

Carver made no sound as he died, but he frantically clawed at the stake in an attempt to remove it. The fight slowly went out of him, and in minutes he turned to dust. I sat against the coffin and wept into my hands. Don't know how long I was there, but it was almost sundown when I gathered the courage to open the steamer trunk. As I'd feared, Sarah was inside, clad in a white dress and wearing a crown of garland. Her cheeks were ruddy and her skin pale. Her hands rested atop her chest and blood smeared her lips. Even in undearth, she was achingly beautiful. I took her hand in mine and the chill of her dead flesh soaked into my bones. I couldn't bring myself to stake her. I could stake anyone else but not her. So I left. I left her there. I didn't free her the way I would eventually free the others. I don't know if this all remains once undefathe is achieved,

but I do know that these people were my friends, my family, my flock. I owe it to them, they'll all get the last rights. I've staked a hundred or more of them now. I've also learned a lot about them over the past year. There are three types of vampires. The carver classes, I call it. the working class and the ferrels. The working class who were bitten directly by a member of the Carver class

can speak and possibly pass as human when need be. Well, the ferrels are those bitten by the working class. They are mindless spitting animals who's only thought it's for blood. Oh, the Carver class, the Counts and Barons of the vampire world. They're the originals. They've been here probably forever, and have outgrown most of the tropes you associate with the vampires if they ever possessed them at all.

They can walk on holy ground, touch crosses, and eat garlic dipped in holy water if they got hungry. The only thing that could kill them is a state of the heart and the light of the sun. How old was Carver?

Where did he come from? I don't know. I learned what little I know from Peter Morton, or rather, the demon inhabiting Peter Morton's corpse. I captured it and tied it up, and I pumped it for information.

I asked if Peter was in there, and it laughed in my face. He's in hell, the thing said. He has the DTs forever and ever. I don't know if it was telling the truth or not. That was the second vampire, I state. I got easier over time, but I don't know if I can stake Sarah.

Part of me wants to torch the whole town, and I'm seriously thinking about it now. It'd be easier that way. For me and the world. At first light, I drove the girl to the campsite she and her friends had pitched the night before. I was still driving Billy Norris' squad car. As far as anyone knows, I said, the town just withered up and died. There are missing persons cases and bank foreclosures.

Those are starting up, and it's going to be harder to hide what happened here. We found their van where they'd left it. But the campsite was destroyed and the boys were missing, probably with the others waiting for nightfall. The girl sat behind the steering wheel of the van and favoured me with a concerned look. What are you going to do? she asked. I don't know, I said. I just don't know anymore. As I watched her pull off, without her friends, I made up my mind. For the last year, I'd been so concerned with freeing the people of Pine Creek from their curse,

especially Sarah, that I'd lost sight of what matters. My obligation was to the living, not to the dead. and the longer I allowed Pine Creek to stand, the more people would be hurt. I drove back into town and gathered up enough gas to burn half of Manhattan to the ground. I walked through the village, dousing everything I could reach, every house, every store, every tree. I started a dozen fires, and the buildings went up quickly. By the time I reached the highest hill overlooking Pine Creek, the town had turned into a raging inferno. I made the sign of the cross and gave the last rites, one of the same.

final time. With that, my obligation to Pine Creek was over. Getting into the squad car, I drove away from that cursed place and never, ever look back. But sometimes I wonder if Sarah somehow survived, if maybe she's out there following me. Part of me hopes she's at rest now, but another part of more selfish part, hopes that she'll find me one day. I miss her so much. and if she ever does come

I might just go with her into the night and so once again we reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen now I'd ask one small favour of you wherever you get your podcast from

please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast that's it for this week but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.