The Stark vampire

Hiya,
This is a collection of vampire tales I’m putting together.
Hope you like you, folks.
Crowfeeder

I slammed the oak door behind me. Throwing my weight against it I threw the bolts into their time worn holes and hoped they would be strong enough against what would be following me.
But outside the street was disturbed only by the wind blowing from the English Channel. I did not risk a peek through the lead glass mullions of the door.
I knew it would follow, and I asked myself how I had become its quarry.

Two months ago I moved into Brighton. An old, regency town on the coast of southern England that could trace its history back centuries through being a hideaway for royalty, a haven of scandal and even being razed to the ground by the French during the Middle Ages. My new home in the oldest part of the town was amongst a terrace of flint fronted old houses, their small windows set high to catch the early morning sunlight as fishermen would have been returning to waiting families, and slightly back from the road with small front gardens and stubby walls.
The street suited me wonderfully. Firstly, it was quiet, unassuming, and its dark shadows meant it was little traveled at night by tourists. Secondly, there was an old fashioned sense of community in the area and I quickly came to know all my neighbor’s.
Except one.
His was a dark and solitary house alongside mine. The sole occupant was an elderly man whose adverse appearance kept him indoors. So I was assured.
An ancient nameplate told me his name was Stark, but I could find out little more, and my curiosity was piqued.
On occasions, in the late evening, the only evidence of life in that old house was a wan light glimpsed through ancient and soot blackened windows on the upper floor.
A few days ago my curiosity was sated. I had been working in my rear garden, repairing some early spring storm damage, and unashamedly peering into into his garden. It was wild and unkempt and I had not noticed him, until, chilled by an unseen presence I looked up to find him staring at me. His hideous and pinched expression chilled me to the bone and I could not leave his baleful glare quick enough.

Since moving to this old town I had soon come into the habit of visiting the seafront, where I would walk along the shingle beaches in the pre-dusk before the pier lights transform the darkening old buildings with their history and secrets into a tourist haven.
Last night everything changed.
I was returning to my house when a slight movement drew my eye to Mr Stark’s house. I did not feel happy looking in case he returned by stare, but instead there was a stranger sitting close to the wall. Dressed well, though wet in a typical evening shower, he appeared to be watching the old house with the intention of burglary.
Despite my dislike and any misgivings of my neighbor I immediately strode across the street to where the young man sat crouching over an opened, old book.
‘Can I help?’ I had tried to sound helpful, yet I could hear the mistrust in my voice.
The man who looked up was surprised but pensive, his clear brown eyes seemed resolute, firm. Quickly he snapped shut the book.
‘If you don’t tell me what you’re doing I will call the police,’ I said taking a step forward.
As he looked about, I carried on, braver.
‘Don’t think about attacking me, there are a lot of witnesses about this evening.’ A car passed the mouth of the street, momentarily lighting us both.
In that light I saw an incredible array of emotions sweep over his face so suddenly that I was amazed.
‘You think me a burglar?’ His voice was quiet, compelling.
‘I-?’ It was my turn to be surprised as I realized there was also hurt in his accusation.
‘My name is Folie,’ he extended his hand. With some misgivings I shook it, then he saw something set onto the old brick gate behind me. His smile drew back into a grimace at an old black enamalled sign that read ‘Stark’.
Folie ran his hand over it, his fingertips pausing where rings of rust pushed through.
‘Stark. That is a fine change,’ Folie hissed. ‘I know him true. His hands are bloodier than any other’s this century.’
I heard his next words, but until now they had had no meaning.
‘Or the last.’ He said quietly.
‘How? Is he a war criminal?’
Despite trying to be open-minded, I could imagine that pinched and draconian face in a uniform.
‘If that were true, he could face a trial. But who could believe what he has done. Or what he is.’ Folie whispered.
Unconsciously I had begun to lead him away from where we stood infront of Stark’s house. The only pace available was my own brighter house, but his words preyed on me.
‘You’re losing me. I thought he was a nazi, or something.’
Folie stared at me clearly. I remember the blinking. He seemed to be struggling inside himself to reveal something to me. Then he began speaking slowly, carefully as he chose his words.
‘Stark is not his real name. It is Stariki, his first name I do not know. Many years ago when I was child, he had held a tyrannical rule over my home valley in Yugoslavia-’
‘So he worked for Caucescou!’ I had heard many terrible stories about the dictator and his rule. I opened the gate, pushing aside the growth of wild mint that had yet to be cultivated from the previous owners laziness.
Folie stopped, again he seemed to be struggling.
‘Stariki’s rule was not political. He took anyone he wanted and simply murdered them.’
‘Jesus!’
‘For their blood.’
He continued as I closed the front door. Now we were alone and away from prying eyes he began to speak faster.
‘Imagine a home where every cup, pan and vessel has been filled with warm blood, congealing slowly into a dark thick morass, white fat cells bobbing on the surface. Every wall has been splashed with blood, dried flecks resting in the most stubborn cracks. Each wall also muffled untold screams and pleas.’
‘What happened?’ I asked breathlessly.
‘Civil war. Freedom for an old country. It happened just as I had been taken by Stariki. I was young and foolish, and found myself in his mansion. Terrified. I can clearly remember my fear, the moment I was conscious I wet myself.
Folie shook momentarily.
‘Then came war and I escaped. And I have been tracking him down ever since. It has taken nearly twelve years, but I have.
He nodded then spoke. ‘He must have fled here immediately. Seeking others of his kind-’
‘Kind?’
‘Haven’t you guessed?’
He saw my countenance, and laughed.
I wish I were so innocent. Stariki is a vampire. He kept my home valley in a thrall like a farmer would raise choice pigs.’
‘Now-’
‘No! Listen. The only proof I can give you is my testament. If I had photos and pictures I would have been arrested long before now.’
‘But the police sh-’
Folie silenced me with a curt gesture. ‘Tonight I will kill Stariki, your neighbour, the Stark vampire, to avenge the generations of my home.’
‘I think you should leave.’
‘I will. But I think you should come with me.’
This stopped my rising dread cold.
‘We must go in tonight.’
‘Tonight? At night! But I thought they were weak only in daylight.’
He snorted. ‘A vampire is only weak when it is starved. Have their been many deaths of late? Unexplained deaths or assumed misadventures?’
I confessed that I had heard of none.
‘Then I doubt he is strong. There is one final proof…’
‘Which is?’ I remember now wanting to know the answer, but compelled to still discover it.
‘When we enter, he will know me.’
‘How?’
‘Remember I was his prisoner. A vampire NEVER forgets, he will know me. And he will be afraid.’
Reluctantly I nodded. I could tell that Folie would go ahead with or without me, if I was with him then I would either learn the truth or divert a tragedy.

Soon afterwards we entered Mr Starks house. It was the first time I had seen the inside and its dark, brooding furnishings filled me with an insurmountable dread. It was as if the house had been frozen in time. Everywhere there was a thick layer of dust, it hung across ancient furniture and dulled, finely cracked pottery. Each wall had a bookcase of one size or the other, the slumped shelves lined with old books speckled with black mould. There was a stench of earth and dust that once inside my head seemed to create vapours in my mind.
The Stark vampires’ garden had been a complex maze of wild growing irises and rose bushes. We climbed through the damaged fence, walking almost hunched so as to not be seen. We could not pass the roses, and the irises left indelible pollen all over us that twinkled unpleasantly in the moonlight, even brushing could not remove it. the rear of the house had an old Victorian orangery, which had a door to the garden, however, forcing the ancient lock had taken the effort of both of us and I was surprised by the iron doors strength.
Vampires, whispered Folie, are habitual. And suddenly I had the immense horror of the knowledge that Stark was not his first vampire encounter.
We crept through the house and ascended the stairs, carefully lifting aside stacks of old papers and empty tin cans. The journey up that single flight of stairs took nearly an hour.
I marveled at Folie patience, as after a few minutes I was ready to scream as loud as my taut nerves.
We made the landing, and I realised I knew where Stark would be.
Tugging on Folie elbow I pointed to the door which led to the room at the front of the house where I occasionally saw candlelight.
He nodded.
There was more rubbish lain carefully across the landing towards this door, and the idea of it escaped me. Did he turn into a bat and fly over all of this?
Folie leant close to my ear, his voice barely louder than his breathing.
‘His kind do not need stairs. All of this,’ he gestured to the carefully lain litter.’ Is for us to disturb and awaken him.’
We stole along the hall, slower and quieter than before. With every tin I moved I expected the door to suddenly tear open and be confronted by the Stark vampire. Sweat began stinging my eyes, but I noticed that Folie was calm, his face resolute.
We opened the door silently, and we stole around the vampires bed- I had expected a coffin, not a dirty old bed but still I stared in apprehension at Mr Stark.
Stark lay silently. His skin sepulchral, sallow cheeks rose over a thin face and I saw his eyes flutter at our intrusion.
‘Do it!’ I hissed, now I had no ear of diverting a tragedy. Folie had been right and I was mortally afraid of the creature.
Folie struggled to open his bag, its last buckle seemed as frozen as I was. From the half open bag Folie thrust a mallet at me.
I took it. It felt good in my sweaty hand.
The Stark vampire stirred. A low mumble escaping his draw lips.
The noise made me jump, my cry was bitten behind my white lips when I realised that Folie had drawn a stake from the bag and was now holding it over Stark’s chest.
‘Strike it!’
His hiss cut into me.
Me…?
‘Now.’
Stark’ eyes fluttered.
‘Now!’
Folie’s skin was wet with perspiration. His eyes bore into me as his trembling hand held the stake over the vampires’ chest.
Me, I had not thought it would be me. A sudden morbid doubt was creeping across me, my head that had been frozen with terror began to numb with what I had to do.
Then Stark’s eye opened.
He seemed to take in the whole scene in a second as if it had been predestined and managed to shriek a single word.
It was this sound. This word that decided my resolve.
As Stark cried out I lifted the mallet into his view, but his blood shot eyes were firmly fixed on Folie.
‘You!’ This shriek filled the house as he gazed upon his nemesis.
A clawed hand raised against the hunter and I momentarily saw the wisdom of handing the mallet to me. The Stark vampires’ concentration was totally against Folie, he did not even see me.
The hunter’s eyes were slits, expectant.
The vampires’ face converted into a rigid rictus of fear that had been forgotten long before.
In my hand the mallet could raise no higher and I had reached the moment of destiny.
‘YOU…’
I struck.

Moments later I fled the house, howling in mortal dread, screaming like a madman, back to my home where I threw the locks and bolts and hid.
Now, with my hands still dripping with blood and the furour of Mr Stark’s murder is still happening, that I realise what I have done…

Stark had risen upright. Nearly standing as he screamed, arms outstretched, eyes fixed on some unseeing blasphemy.
The stake rested in his chest for a moment- then was suddenly lost in a gout of blood. It erupted along the wooden haft, spraying sideways on splinters, splashing over Folie.
In mute horror I watched as he struggled to force the Stark vampire back onto the bed, gripping the stake. I did not know what to do, my body was no longer my own as I stood and watched the death of the Stark vampire.
Folie cast a glance at me, his face red with blood, before he ripped out the stake. The vampire managed a gutteral cry, he writhed in agony at the wound. Folie pulled at the sodden shirt, ripping away the material then leant forward to plunge his open mouth into the gaping cavity.
How can I describe the noise he made? What words are left inside for the dirty sucking that escaped the rent torso.
As if turned to stone I gaped.
Folie’s head was a blackened and bloodied mess. His white, glistening eyes rolled as he feasted. I heard his teeth rasp against ribs as he suckled and all the while Stark shivered and jolted as if more than blood, more than his life, were being consumed.
With a loud clash the mallet fell from my hands, and the noise caused Folie to look up at me.
Blood slid from his feral grin.
Long white teeth shone in a mouthful of blood.
Folie swallowed loudly before speaking.
‘One day you too will grow old,’ he hissed and it was these words drove me from the house.

Now I wait. How long will it be before Folie comes for me. A vampire never forgets, he said. He will one day seek me out, as a young man named Stariki had once helped him before.

FINIS.