Paul was satiated with Mardi Gras: the wild clamor of laughter, the jazz music, the heavy layers of gold, green, and purple beads swinging from bodies crowding the booby balconies, and, most of all, the vast portions of oysters, crayfish, gumbo, beer and Hurricanes he had forced into a rebellious stomach.
Paul slid from the bed and stumbled to the dresser. He looked down and found a flyer on the dresser’s slick top. Shelia, his biology lab partner at LSU and current roommate, had left a scribbled note under one corner of the flyer: “If you’re through puking, meet me here at midnight”
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Timothy C. Hobbs is a consummate horror writer and his stories are both horrific and beautifully crafted. The Pumpkin Seed published by Vamplit Publishing in 2009 was Timothy Hobbs first published novel and his second novel, The Smell of Ginger was published shortly thereafter. He is now working with his editor at Vamplit Publishing on a collection of stories based on popular fairytales.
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At the top of a steep cliff a derelict church serves its congregation of dust, cobwebs and birds roosting in the rafters. One human occupant lives there hidden in the cellar. He is cursed never walk in the tortuous sunlight, but to roam the woods on the cliff at night in the form of a hideous beast struggling with the violent desire to kill while striving to preserve remnants of his own humanity.
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Paul’s vision blurred for a moment before focusing on the red script NEW ORLEANS VAMPIER TOUR – FAMOUS MURDER SITES AND MOVIE LOCALES – GATHER AT MIDNIGHT ON THE STEPS OF ST. LOUIS CATHEDRAL ACROSS FROM JACKSON SQUARE – CAPES OPTIONAL.
Midnight was approaching when Paul came up to the cathedral. He saw a small group assembled on the bottom steps huddled against the late February chill. A hand shot up. “Paul! Over here,” he heard Shelia cry.
She ran to meet him.
“Wish you’d brought a jacket,” she kidded.
Shelia introduced the others braving the late hour, most of them college students like Paul and Shelia.
As the group exchanged pleasantries, another assemblage appeared from a swirling mist.
“I am Louis,” the first of the actor troupe announced.
There were three women and two men with him.
The women were dressed in heavily laced black garments. The men wore ensembles haunted with eighteenth century flair: dark suits, vests, and top hats.
Louis, the spokesman for the troupe, also donned a black cape lined in scarlet.
Louis bowed, announcing, “The Vampire Troupe welcomes you.” He grinned, revealing fangs.
Paul and Shelia, along with the other patrons, giggled and clapped at the theatrics.
Louis spread his arms and announced, “Now that the Witching Hour has arrived, please follow me.”
The crowd spread out behind Louis. Paul noticed the other members of the troupe stayed slightly behind.
Louis guided the entourage away from the cathedral. As they moved down dimly lit streets, he pointed out structures of historical and chilling significance: various buildings that housed scenes of ghastly crimes; stately homes rumored to be haunted by pitiful spirits and others by darker, spiteful ones.
The night fog and the chilly air added to the ambiance as the travelers passed beneath street lamps, and by the time the tour was nearing its last stop, the group was sufficiently thrilled and entertained.
“Before we make our final stop,” Louis announced. “Let me point out the house just across the street. It was one of the shooting locations used in the movie Interview with the Vampire.”
“Ahhh,” the crowd responded.
“It was near the end of the movie where Lestat was living in decrepit conditions,” Louis informed.
“Oh, I remember that part,” Paul heard one of the females say as Louis moved them on. “Lestat was in pathetic shape and drinking rats’ blood.”
Paul thought he saw just the hint of a smile crease Louis’s face at the woman’s comment before the group stood in front of an old bar whose doors were open wide with welcoming light and heat spreading out into the night, embracing the Vampire Tour and its clients standing under the vaporous glow of a solitary streetlamp.
Inside, the mood lightened. A special selection of appropriately themed drinks ranging from Bloody Mary’s to Paul and Shelia’s favorite, cranberry juice and gin, were served. The crowed mingled and talked, eventually some left while others, like Paul and Shelia, stuck around, talking with Louis.
“Been doing the tour long?” Paul asked.
“Oh yes,” Louis answered. “For many years now.”
“But what’s your day job?” Shelia asked, slurring her words under the influence of a third drink.
“Day job?” Louis asked and winked. “Vampires rest during the day, my dear.”
“Oh, you,” Shelia commented with a hiccup.
“Those are great fangs by the way,” Paul commented, beginning to feel a little tipsy himself.
“You can purchase some that look just like them,” Louis advised. “Down on Canal Street.”
Shelia stumbled forward and Paul caught her.
“Whoopsy,” Shelia said.
“Here,” Louis said and led Paul, still gripping Shelia, over to a booth toward the rear of the bar. “Let her sit here for awhile,” Louis suggested.
Paul eased Shelia down into the booth. She promptly sprawled across the seat.
Paul laughed. “I should probably get us back to the hotel,” he said.
“Listen,” Louis interrupted. “I believe all the other tourists have left. That leaves just you and your lovely companion. And since she seems quite comfortable at the moment, maybe I could interest you in a special part of the tour.”
“Really?” Paul asked. “There’s more?”
“Only for those who have remained,” Louis said. “Those whose fascination has been aroused. Someone like you, I’m guessing.”
The alcohol from his last gin and cranberry juice seemed to amplify its presence, embracing Paul like impending oblivion. He grabbed Louis’s shoulder for support against the sudden giddiness.
“Whoa!” Paul exclaimed. He looked around the room and focused on the booth where Shelia had been deposited. He noticed the five other members of Louis’ troupe were huddled there. The group resembled a flock of black and malevolent butterflies.
“Hey,” Paul said. “I better get Shelia.”
“My friends will see to her,” Louis advised. He directed Paul’s wobbly legs toward a pair of French doors. Louis opened them. Another room spread beyond.
Louis walked Paul toward a large coffin suspended at an angle from the floor.
Paul’s mind swirled as he focused on the casket. It was composed of darkly stained wood. Figures of humans writhing in torment were ornately carved along its sides. The inner lining was silk so deeply crimson it resembled blackened blood.
“The figures represent tortured souls from Dante’s poem,” Louis informed as he moved Paul closer to the coffin. “Please, climb in,” Louis invited.
Paul resisted. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Oh, it’s an honor actually. We only let the special, the chosen from our Vampire Tour, experience what it’s like to rest as we do.”
“No,” Paul insisted. “I want to leave now. I want Shelia. I . . .”
Louis shoved Paul inside the coffin and slammed the lid closed.
Inside, Paul strained, pushing against the top of the heavy lid, but it wouldn’t budge.
Panic seized Paul. He tried to calm himself. He took deep breaths and slowly began to feel the effects of the alcohol subside.
“This is just a joke,” Paul said to himself. “The lid will flip open and Shelia and Louis and his actors will be laughing and lifting me out of here any moment now.”
But Paul’s hopes vanished when he felt a pair of arms emerge from beneath the silk lining and grab him tightly around the waist. He shrieked as a face nudged itself into the nape of his neck and the words “Let me introduce myself” were whispered into his ear.
“My name is Lestat,” the voice said coldly, hungrily as fangs pierced the warm flesh of Paul’s neck.
© Copyright 2012 Timothy C. Hobbs
1185 words
