The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

A warm and lovely breeze danced its way down the street, leaving the scent of fresh cut grass, honeysuckle, and a hint of freshly baked cookies in its wake. It was the kind of day that made you want to throw open your windows, take a deep breath of that sweet air, and maybe even hum a little tune while you hung your laundry out on the line.

Mr. Jenkins, a man in his late sixties with a head full of snow-white hair and a smile that could charm the birds right out of the trees, was just such a man. He had been up since the crack of dawn, tending to his garden with the same devotion he gave to his morning crossword puzzle. His wife, Helen, a spry woman with a penchant for gardening herself and a voice like honey, had just put a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.

The neighborhood, if you could even call it that, was a quiet little pocket of suburban bliss nestled just on the outskirts of town. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but it wasn’t the kind of place that drew a lot of attention either. Just a few blocks of well-kept homes, friendly neighbors, and the kind of peace and quiet that seemed almost impossible to find in these modern times.

But as the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the neat lawns and flower beds, a subtle shift took place in the atmosphere. It was almost imperceptible, like the first whisper of a storm on the horizon. The breeze picked up just a little, carrying with it a faint, almost metallic tang that seemed to clash with the sweet scents of earlier.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, along with their neighbors, began to close their windows, drawing their curtains tight. The sound of lawnmowers and children’s laughter faded away, replaced by an almost oppressive silence. It was as if the entire neighborhood was holding its breath, waiting for something.

And then, just as the last sliver of sunlight disappeared beneath the horizon, it started. A low, pulsing hum seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was a sound that vibrated deep in the chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

The residents of the neighborhood, all seasoned veterans of these nightly occurrences, moved with practiced efficiency. They double-checked the locks on their doors, made sure every window was securely fastened, and retreated to the safest parts of their homes.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins settled into their basement, surrounded by the comforting clutter of a lifetime of memories. They had a small television down there, an old thing that probably should have been replaced years ago, but it still worked well enough. They kept the volume low, more for the comforting sound than any real interest in what was on.

The humming grew louder, more insistent, and with it came the first faint scratches at the windows. They were light at first, almost tentative, but they quickly grew in intensity and frequency. Whatever was out there was persistent, that much was certain.

Mrs. Jenkins shuddered a little and moved closer to her husband. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight against his side. “It’s alright, dear,” he said softly. “We’ve been through this before. It will pass.”

But despite his reassuring words, there was a tremor in his voice that betrayed his own fear. They both knew what was out there, in the darkness. They had lived in this neighborhood for over forty years, had seen it all. The first time it had happened, they had been young, full of questions and a determination to uncover the truth behind the strange occurrences.

They had tried everything: contacting local authorities, reaching out to paranormal investigators, even attempting their own amateur sleuthing. But no one seemed to take them seriously, and their own efforts had yielded nothing but more questions and a growing sense of dread.

Over time, they had learned to accept it, to adapt. They, along with their neighbors, had formed an unspoken pact to endure, to protect their homes and their way of life as best they could. They never spoke of it to outsiders, never tried to explain the unexplainable.

As the night wore on, the sounds outside grew more intense. The scratching at the windows became a steady, maddening rhythm. There were thuds against the walls of the house, like something large was trying to force its way in. And over it all, that incessant, pulsing hum that seemed to seep into their very bones.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins sat together in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. They had long ago stopped wondering what could be causing all of this, stopped trying to find a logical explanation for the illogical. Now, they simply endured, drawing strength from each other and from the familiar comforts of their home.

As suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped. The humming ceased, the scratching and thudding fell silent. The sudden absence of noise was almost as jarring as the noise itself had been.

Mr. Jenkins glanced at his watch. 3:07 AM. Right on schedule. He let out a long, shaky breath and tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. “It’s over,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “We made it through another one.”

Mrs. Jenkins nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet. They sat there for a few more minutes, savoring the silence, the safety. Then, slowly, they made their way back upstairs.

The house was just as they had left it, maybe a little disheveled from the shaking, but otherwise intact. Mr. Jenkins went to check the locks one more time while his wife started a pot of coffee. They would be tired today, but that was nothing new.

As the first rays of sunlight began to peek over the horizon, they stepped out onto their front porch. The air was crisp and clean, with just a hint of the previous night’s strange, metallic scent lingering. But already, the neighborhood was coming back to life.

Mr. Peterson from across the street waved as he retrieved his newspaper. The Watsons, who lived two doors down, were already out walking their dog. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

And in a way, that was true. For the residents of this quiet little neighborhood, this was their ordinary. This was their life. And as they went about their day, tending to their gardens, chatting over fences, and enjoying the simple pleasures of their community, they did so with a quiet strength and resilience that only comes from facing the unknown and enduring.

They were just settling in for the night when the knock came at the door. It was soft, almost hesitant, but in the silence of the evening, it sounded as loud as a gunshot.

Mr. Jenkins frowned, glancing at the clock. It was well after dark, long past the time when anyone would normally be out and about in their neighborhood. He exchanged a look with his wife, a silent question passing between them, and then he made his way to the door.

He approached cautiously, peering through the peephole before he even thought about unlocking it. What he saw made his heart sink a little.

On his porch stood a young couple, probably in their early thirties. They were both dressed in what Mr. Jenkins thought of as “city clothes” – the man in a crisp button-down shirt and dark jeans, the woman in a stylish sundress. They looked out of place on his quiet street, but it was the large suitcase at their feet and the bewildered look on their faces that told the real story.

“Can I help you?” Mr. Jenkins asked, opening the door just a crack. He kept the security chain in place, an old habit in this neighborhood.

The couple exchanged a quick glance. “Hi,” the woman said, her voice friendly but with an undercurrent of nervousness. “I’m so sorry to bother you so late, but we’re a bit… lost. We were told there was a house for rent on this street?”

Mr. Jenkins felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He knew exactly which house they meant – the old Victorian at the end of the block. It had been empty for months, ever since the Hendersons had… well, had left.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “There’s nothing available here.”

“But the realtor said—” the man began, but Mr. Jenkins cut him off gently.

“I assure you, there’s been a mistake. This neighborhood… it’s not the right fit for everyone. Maybe you should look elsewhere?” He tried to put as much meaning into his words as possible, hoping they would pick up on the implied warning.

The couple looked at each other again, this time with obvious confusion. “But we’ve already signed the lease,” the woman said. “We were supposed to move in tonight.”

Mr. Jenkins sighed inwardly. This was not good. Not good at all. He glanced over his shoulder, but his wife was nowhere to be seen. He knew she would be in the kitchen, listening, ready to call for help if needed.

“Look,” he said, softening his tone a bit. “Why don’t you come in for a moment? Let’s talk about this.”

As they stepped inside, Mr. Jenkins couldn’t help but notice the way the man kept looking around, a mix of curiosity and suspicion on his face. The woman seemed more open, smiling nervously as Mr. Jenkins led them into the living room.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the old but comfortable couch. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, perhaps?”

They both shook their heads, though the woman did flash him a grateful smile. Mr. Jenkins took a seat in his favorite armchair and leaned forward, his hands clasped together.

“Now, I think there may have been a misunderstanding,” he began. “You see, this neighborhood… we have certain rules. Certain ways of doing things.”

The couple exchanged another one of those glances. “Rules?” the man asked, skepticism evident in his tone.

Mr. Jenkins nodded. “Yes. For instance, it’s not safe to be out after dark. And we always keep our windows and doors locked at night.”

The woman laughed, a light, tinkling sound that seemed out of place in the heavy atmosphere. “I’m sorry, but that sounds a bit… old-fashioned, doesn’t it? We’re from the city. We’re used to a bit more… freedom.”

Mr. Jenkins felt a stab of frustration. Why wouldn’t they listen? Didn’t they understand? “I assure you,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level, “those rules are in place for a reason. This neighborhood isn’t like other places. There are… things here. Things you wouldn’t understand.”

Now the man was outright frowning. “What kind of things? Are you trying to tell us this place is dangerous or something?”

Mr. Jenkins hesitated. How could he explain without sounding like a raving lunatic? “It’s not… dangerous, exactly. It’s just… different. You see, every night, around dusk—”

But he was interrupted by the sound of his wife’s voice, sharp with warning, coming from the kitchen. “Henry, it’s starting.”

A cold chill ran down Mr. Jenkins’ spine. It couldn’t be. Not already. They still had hours, didn’t they? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard it. Faint at first, but growing steadily louder – the low, pulsing hum.

“Oh no,” he breathed, standing up so quickly he stumbled a little. “You have to go. Right now. It’s not safe here.”

The couple stared at him, confusion plain on their faces. “What’s going on?” the woman asked, starting to stand. “Why are you—”

But her words were cut off by a loud thud against the side of the house. It was followed quickly by another, and then another. The humming was growing louder by the second, until it filled the room with its oppressive sound.

“What was that?” the man yelled over the noise. He was on his feet now, looking alarmed.

Mr. Jenkins grabbed him by the arm. “Listen to me,” he shouted, his face inches from the younger man’s. “You need to get out of here. Now. Don’t stop for anything, just run. Get as far away from this neighborhood as you can.”

Another thud, this one so hard it made the lights flicker. The woman screamed, clutching at her husband’s arm. “What’s happening? What’s out there?”

Mr. Jenkins pushed them toward the door. “I don’t have time to explain. Just go. And whatever you do, don’t look back. Do you understand me? Don’t look back!”

He practically shoved them out onto the porch, slamming and locking the door behind them. Leaning against it, he tried to catch his breath as the sounds of whatever was out there grew even louder, more intense.

Through the peephole, he watched as the young couple stumbled down the porch steps. They hesitated at the bottom, looking back at the house with fear and confusion written across their faces. Mr. Jenkins pounded on the door, shouting at them to go, to run.

Finally, the man seemed to snap out of it. He grabbed his wife’s hand and they took off down the street at a sprint. Mr. Jenkins lost sight of them as they rounded the corner, but he didn’t stop pounding on the door, didn’t stop shouting until he was sure they were far away from the neighborhood.

Only then did he sag against the door, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst right out of his chest. He knew his wife would be in the basement, waiting for him, probably worried sick. He made his way down there on shaky legs, finding her pacing back and forth in front of the old television.

“Are they gone?” she asked as soon as she saw him. “Did they make it out in time?”

“I think so,” Mr. Jenkins replied, sinking into the worn couch beside her. “I hope so.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the sounds from outside – the humming, the thudding, the occasional high-pitched wail that seemed to come from all around them.

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
03:39 Jun 06 2025

excellent

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