Molly Webster, up-and-coming
reporter at The Claiborne Herald, didn’t know what to make of the old man’s weird
story. The tale of Eli McMorn killing a vampire inside a mysterious cave when
he was only 11 years old was too hard to believe. Was he senile? Was he pulling
her leg?
“Claiborne police and rescue
workers just gave up the search for your two friends?” Webster asked.
“That’s right,” McMorn said.
“The mouth of the cave was too far in the thick woods, inaccessible by road.
They couldn’t get any heavy equipment in there to clear all that debris.”
“So your friends are still
buried down there, under all that rubble?”
McMorn looked out across his
back yard where two crows pecked at an unlucky grasshopper beneath a concrete bird
bath. “No doubt about it, Miss Webster,” he said. “They’re still down there,
along with what’s left of the bloodsucker.”
“It’s a wonder they gave up
the search, knowing the bodies were still there,” Webster said.
McMorn took another swallow of
beer. “That was a different time,” he said. “Folks didn’t believe my story,
especially Adam and Chuck’s parents. They never believed we found a secret
chamber or a coffin, much less a vampire.”
“What about the police?”
“They weren’t so sure,” he
said. “Even after I passed a polygraph. They thought I passed because I was
confused and had convinced myself that I’d seen a vampire. They chalked it up
to the overactive imagination of a boy who had been through a traumatic
experience and had seen too many horror movies.”
“Can you blame them?”
“Not really. I’d be the same
way. Exceptional claims require exceptional evidence, right?”
Webster nodded. It was hard
to disagree with common sense.
“Claiborne then was a lot
like Claiborne now,” McMorn said. “There have always been a lot of unexplained
disappearances. Adam and Chuck just made two more.”
“If you only had some type of
proof, something to back up your story,” Webster said.
“What if I told you I do?”
“Then I’d tell you that I’d
like to hear it.”
“More like see it.”
The old man rose from his
chair and disappeared inside the house. The screen door screeched shut behind
him. He was gone for what seemed like a long time. When he returned, he had a
fresh can of beer in one hand and what looked like a black trumpet case in the
other.
He set the case down between
us. “Have a look,” he said.
Webster reached down, picked
up the case and rested it across her knees. The brass catches were rusty, but
they snapped open with ease.
Webster lifted the
lid and a brief hint of garlic, not unpleasant, emanated from the case. At
first, Webster thought she was looking at a clarinet or flute wrapped in a dark
red cloth. She removed the object as McMorn moved the case out of the way.
McMorn grinned. “Go
ahead. Unwrap it.”
Webster pinched the
cloth by one corner and pulled it back to unveil the unexpected. There, wrapped
in cloth, resting on her two knees, was a long piece of sharpened wood. It had an
ornate, carved handle, and she could see faded blood stains up and down its
shaft. Weird runes had been carved into portions of the stake.
“What is this,
McMorn?”
“It’s the wooden
stake from the cave all those years ago.”
Webster examined the
shard of wood closely. She saw that notches had been carved into its shaft. They
reminded her of how a gunslinger would scratch marks into his pistol grip to mark
his kills. “There’s got to be a dozen notches cut into this thing,” she said.
“Thirteen to be
exact, Miss Webster.”
(All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or
locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.)
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