The priest sensed a profound change of atmosphere the moment someone entered the darkened confessional.  Gripping his pectoral cross, he blessed himself, and mumbled prayers of protection in Latin.  He’d encountered dreadful phenomena during his forty years as a missionary in the Haitian jungle, but none darker than this.

Opening the sliding panel to expose the metal grill that separated their faces, he noticed a peculiar odor.  The stink of Hell, he thought, blessing himself again.  Another dark entity sent to harass me. He quickly unscrewed the top on a small bottle of holy water.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m so happy, I could burst,” said a woman’s voice.  “I just wanted to tell somebody.”

“This is not a place of levity.  This is a confessional.  A place where evil is purged.”

“I thought priests were bound to listen to anybody in a confessional, no matter what they had to say.”

“You heard wrong.  Tell me what you have to say.  Make it quick.”

“Suppose I buy your time.  Say, five minutes worth.  For that, I’ll put $1,000 in the poor box before I leave.”

“Don’t bother to lie.  Evil can do nothing good.”

“Evil is good fun,” she said.  “More than you could ever imagine.”

“Your mind is foul.”

“How true.  Do you know what I am?”

“Vampire.”

“Verrry good.  How did you know?”

“I can smell it on you.”

“Ah.  A holy man who can discern essences.  Let me ask you, Holy Man, have you ever bitten into a neck and drunk your fill?”

“It’s a stupid question,” he said.

“Hardly.  It’s a life changing experience.  It’s so erotically satisfying, nothing else approaches it.  You may be celibate, but I’ll bet you deeply crave erotic adventures.”

“We’re not here to talk about me.  Get to the point.”

“I just wanted to tell you how happy I am.  I can barely contain myself.”

“How many victims fell into your clutches tonight?” he asked.

“Fifteen.  Five an hour.  I’ve achieved a record.  I know the Master will richly reward me for being so wickedly industrious.  Would you like to be the sixteenth?”

“One false move, and you’ll regret coming here,” he said, gripping the bottle of holy water.  “Listen, don’t wait until Judgment Day.  Confess everything now and ask for the Almighty’s forgiveness.  The fact that you were able to enter this holy place without bursting into flames shows you can yet be saved.  Confess your foul murders.  Ask forgiveness.  Amend your life.  Do it quickly.”

“No!  I love my existence.  I feel bliss throughout my waking hours, and even more so at night.  But you have to wait until you’re dead, and then hope you’ll attain the bliss of Heaven—a place my Master assures me doesn’t exist.  Even if it did, why wait?  Join me now.  I could use a priest for an ally.  You’d make a good decoy to ensnare trusting souls.”

The priest hurled holy water through the screen.

She didn’t even have time to scream.

Using his cell phone, the priest called the housekeeper and asked her to put a fresh bag into the vacuum cleaner and bring it to the confessional.

Later, when opening the bag and examining the deceased’s dust, he found it bright red.  He carefully poured her dust into an empty Coke bottle.  Sealing it with wax, he said prayers of exorcism.

Carrying the bottle to the cellar, he stored it in a safe next to others containing werewolf, ghoul, and zombie dust.  Then he called an all-night radio talk show that focused on the uncanny and macabre.

“I just killed a vampire,” he told the host.

“Sure you did.  And I guess you see black helicopters, shape-shifters, and were abducted by aliens.”

“You must listen to me very carefully.  The only reason I’m telling you this is to warn everyone.  Beware!  This kind is particularly vicious.  Like nothing seen for hundreds of years.”

“Oh?  How can you tell?” asked the host.

“She turned to red dust.”

“Really?  And what color dust is there when you kill vampires that aren’t as nasty?”

“Grey.”

“I see.  So, what did you do with the red dust?”

“I vacuumed it.  Then I poured it into a Coke bottle.”

“Hear that folks? Here’s a guy who kills vampires, and stuffs them into Coke bottles.  What about zombies?  Kill any of those lately?”

“As a matter of fact I did.  But that was in Haiti, a few months ago.”

“Oh my.  Aren’t you the nasty serial monster killer.  How about telling us what color zombie dust is.”

“It depends on how they were zombified.  But most are pale yellow.”

“Get the hell off the phone, you freakin’ loon, and go take your meds!”

Later that night before returning to his coffin, the talk show host took inventory—just in case the goofy caller had actually killed a vampire.  Checking the seventeen coffins hidden beneath his Beverly Hills mansion, he found one empty.  One of his newest female recruits hadn’t returned from her nightly hunt, and dawn was near.   There was no time to search for her remains and perform a resurrection ritual.   He raged and pounded the walls.

With only minutes left before the accursed sunrise, he summoned rats, lizards, lice, beetles, leaches, and cockroaches.  He ordered them to scour every nook and cranny of the city for a sealed Coke bottle containing red dust.  Whoever found the bottle would be awarded a dozen putrefied corpses on which to snack.  An even richer reward awaited the one who found the priest.

Closing his coffin lid, he fell asleep wondering why the killer chose a Coke bottle instead of Pepsi.

___

© 2009 Michael A. Kechula

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 124 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com. Paperback available at www.amazon.com.

A shiver runs down my spine as the carriage lumbers to a halt before me. It’s black, as are the horses pulling it. I heard they would be. I heard all of the rumors and ran them over again and again in my mind. I will myself to relax.

“Nikolett!” There’s no mistaking the shrill, musical pitch of Panni’s voice from inside the carriage. Her blonde head pops into view through the window.

“Panni!” I call as a dwarf-sized man loads my trunk onto the back of the carriage.

He comes around, opens the door and assists my entrance into the carriage. Small arms instantly envelope me. Dear, sweet Panni, always smiling and smelling of lavender. She’s a source of comfort for my nerves. My icy insides begin to melt.

“Aren’t you excited?” she asks, blue eyes blazing.

“I’m ready for an adventure,” I manage to reply.

“Nikolett, you’re always reserved and proper. You’ll do well learning social etiquette. Countess Bathory has a challenge ahead of her with me I’m afraid.” She laughs her bird twitter of a laugh.

“Are we the only two going to the castle by carriage?” I ask, wondering why we’re the only two aboard.

“No, the dwarf says there will be six of us in all.”

I can’t help the feeling of foreboding crawling up my neck like spiders. Just rumors, I keep telling myself.

*

The six of us stand in a straight line. Our trunks have been taken somewhere inside the castle. We’re receiving uniforms. They are white sheaths. We’re told to let our hair loose and turn in all hair ties and pins. My palms sweat and itch where the nerve endings prickle and make bumps.

We strip out of our clothes, don the white frocks and line up once more. I’m in front with Panni behind me. A tall, thick woman leads us through the damp, frigid castle. “The Countess will greet you now,” she tells us. Piroska trips and falls on the stairs. Krisztina turns to help her. “Straight ahead!” the woman bellows. “Nobody will help you and you do not help one another.” Panni’s eyes widen. My lips go numb. Rebeka whimpers and becomes the first to die.

The tall woman turns on her and brings her fist down across Rebeka’s shoulder and neck. Rebeka falls to the stone stairs. The woman kicks her over and over in the head. Blood runs red and sticky, pooling before overflowing to the next step, then the next. When Rebeka no longer struggles and lays motionless the woman climbs back to the front of our line and leads us forward once more. We don’t speak or look back. I hear Szabina’s feet scuffle over Rebeka’s body.

The dwarf stands at the top of the stairs before a doorway. “Ficzko,” the tall woman says to him, “one of them lies on the stairs. Collect the blood for the Countess.”

The tall woman opens the door and motions for us to enter. My stomach churns.

A woman sits in the middle of the room in an intricate gold chair. Her long black hair hangs in curls on her shoulders and falls onto her white bosom. Her skin is ghostly. Her lips blood red. The Countess stands and takes two steps forward. The netting under her rich gold and red brocade dress scratches the floor as she walks. I’m frozen in place.

A large hand shoves me forward. “Bow to the Countess,” the tall woman orders.

“Thank you Dorka,” the Countess says. Her voice is deep and throaty. Dorka bows and leaves the room. Countess Bathory runs her eyes over us. “And then there were five,” she says. “Approach me one at a time.”

She steels her eyes on mine. I’m walking forward but can’t feel my feet moving. It’s a terrible dream. I say a silent prayer to wake up. I’m standing in front of her. She twirls her finger, indicating for me to turn before her. I rotate. The room becomes a blur.

She takes my arm and smells the inside of my wrist. Horrified, I fight to remain stiff as her tongue traces my vein and her eyes meet mine. She lets go of my arm and it falls limp at my side. “My new favorite,” she says.

I swallow the bile that slips up my throat. She runs a finger down my cheek, then bends my head to the side and examines my neck. I close my eyes and feel her lips trace my collarbone. “Dorka, this one to my chambers tonight,” she says.

*

In the dungeon of the Blood Countess, the chill and certainty of darkness seeps through the walls. Dorka leads me to the chamber of the Countess. She sits in a deep bath of blood. It ebbs with every movement and splashes over the side of the white porcelain onto the stone floor as she turns and smiles upon my arrival. The stench is horrific. I gag and brace myself against the wall.

She summons me forward with her finger, her tongue running over her lips. As I approach, the sitting room to my right comes into view. Several corpses of dead girls lie, discarded, their skin gashed and blood drained. I falter. The room spins and goes black.

Excruciating pain brings me back. I hear my voice screaming out. Gaining lucency, realization sets in. The Countess has my nude body pressed tightly against her own. Her teeth have torn a gaping hole in my breast. She’s smearing my blood onto her face, licking her fingers, humming. She smiles and kisses me.

I see the welcome blackness approaching, like the horses that draw the carriage of the damned, and run forward into its embrace.

___
©2009 Jamie Blair
www.jamieblair.blogspot.com