The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Chapter 1



I was a beautiful woman once, a vibrant and vivacious nineteen year old. I had long, flowing locks of blonde hair, the greenest eyes any one had ever seen. Like emeralds, people tell me; and my face was a lovely pale color, with high cheekbones, my lips sometimes a pale pink-rosy, sometimes a luscious, deep red, and occasionally an icy blue. The shape of my face was long and only slightly pointed, angelic like. Like a vision of grace from above, people tell me that, too.

My body was proportionate, and though I thought I was rather plain, I am told that my slender arms held appeal to anyone, and that my long legs and torso were perfectly curved and full. The elegant dresses my father doted on me clung to my body in all the right places, and would flow down, ending in waves on the floor. I was tall for my age, but certainly shorter then most I knew. My Mother and Father, for example, were at least one and a half head taller then me. My feet were dainty, fairy feet I was often told as a child; and indeed, they implied the future for the shape of the rest of my body. Sleek, slender, elegant, dainty, everything a woman should be.

I was much different then my sisters and more like my brothers. My sisters were built more for childbirth, with wide hips and large breasts. True, I had hips and breasts, but my hips were rather small, and narrow, something my mother had said over and over tainted my perfect looks; and my breasts were, for lack of a better word, puny compared to every other woman I knew who hit puberty. My brothers, on the other hand, looked much like myself, only with more muscle. Not that they needed it. We were a wealthy family and had all the hired help we needed.

But this was long ago. All of this changed the day my chambermaid found me floating in the pond.

I had had trouble sleeping that night, and woke before dawn, shivering under my heavy blankets. My silk nightgown could not keep me warm, and the fire had gone out, leaving the fireplace cold and full of ash. After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I threw off the pile of covers and slide my small feet into my silk slippers, and wandered about our mansion.

The morning was starting out gray, although the sun was rising, there was hardly any sign of it. Finally, I decided to walk about the gardens outside; gliding out one of the glass side doors, I stepped onto the cool stonework. I admired it as I walked, the beauty of the old world design, something like large gray and red stones placed in no particular pattern and held together with an ancient form of cement. It fascinated me how something so old could survive for so long and still have its loveliness in tact. I remember meandering aimlessly for some time, smelling the roses and all the other flowers in bloom. The birds had barely begun their beautiful morning song; it was still too early for them.

And then I saw the pond, which I recalled losing myself in, claiming to be able to see the future within the soft ripples that caressed its surface. I walked over to the water and peered over the small stone wall, memories taking over and flooding my thoughts.

The next thing I remember, I heard a shriek near me, and I saw Lucy, my chambermaid, holding her stomach and calling for the household to come out quickly. She was pointing to the center of the pond, where a patch of bulrushes was growing. I was calling for her to stop screaming and tell me what was there, but she would not listen to me. When my Mother and Father came rushing out in their night garments, my Mother let out a louder shriek then Lucy and collapsed when she saw the pond. My Father and brothers waded quickly into the clear waters, which became at once murky with the disturbance. I was shouting for someone to tell me what was happening; and when no one answered me, I decided to look for myself. What I saw shook my wits as well as my soul.

There, caught and wrapped within the bulrushes, was me, floating with my face aimed at the sky, eyes closed, and only a pale blue color in my skin. My hair was tangled in the plant life, and it gave me the appearance of Medusa, a mythical gorgon sister I read about whose hair was live snakes and her look could turn anyone to stone. I had let out a cry of anguish, but it was swallowed by the cries of my family and the household staff.

It was then that I began to vomit, only dry heaves, until the water came. It was murky water, what I thought to be confirmation of my drowning. Tears burst forth from my eyes. They were not normal tears, though, but blood. My blood, streaming down my cheeks; I assume I cut a fearsome sight. I was dead, and it did not take long for me to realize it. I waited for the sky to open up and God’s angels to come down and escort me home. But for me, there was no white light to lead me to heaven to be with God. Only silence welcomed me as the sounds of the world faded, though the sights did not, and I came to understand that I would be trapped within my home, my prison, for all eternity.

Since that dreadful day, I have haunted my home, the Cromwell Estate, keeping it safe and in the family’s hands. No one lives there now, but no one other then a Cromwell would dare, lest they awaken my spite…





“The Cromwell Estate has been a part of this community since Lord Cromwell first built it for his young bride in the early 1690s, and is still owned by the Cromwell’s of today.” The tour guide, a woman in her forties with light brown with iron-gray hair told the group as they stood below the dwarfing and imposing black iron gates. A couple of teenagers who look like they needed something to vandalize leaned against the towering stone wall that encompassed the entire property.

“I heard it’s haunted.” Said one of them, a girl, with a heavy New York City accent. The tour guide sighed with the never ceasing repetition. Every time she takes a tour, the same thing always comes up. This time she decided to play along with the idea instead of beating it down as usual.

“Why, yes, there have been several reports stating that people have seen everything from small objects moving to full body apparitions of several long dead family members. But there are none more common or popular, then the infamous Poppy Cromwell.” She had them hooked, and she knew it.

“Does anyone live here now?” a young man who sounded as if he had been educated in Europe asked as the two teenagers nudged each other in a joking manner.

“No, no one has lived here in forty years; it is open to the public now.” Before the man could ask, the other teenager, a boy, spoke in a heavier New Yorker accent then the girl.

“No one’s lived here because it’s haunted by this Poppy dame and her dead relatives.”

“Why, I beg your pardon! Miss Poppy was a wonderful young lady who died well before her time, and has guarded this house since! And I highly doubt that she needs your wise cracks, you little hoodlum!” an old woman, doubled over with age, threatened the teenagers with a frail yet menacing fist.

“Whoa! Easy grandma! We didn’t mean no harm by it!” the boy held back a laugh as the tour guide quickly stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on the wrinkled fist.

“Well, don’t apologize to me, apologize to Miss Cromwell!” the old woman dug into her pocket and pulled out a set of giant black iron keys that matched the gate. She then slowly but surely wobbled over to the lock and placed the largest key inside and turned it once. It clicked loudly as she then pushed the door open with seeming ease and motioned for the group to follow her.

“Mrs. Castivachea, this really isn’t necessary-” the tour guide began, but the old woman held up a hand to stop her.

“Nonsense. These young ones need a lesson in manners, and I know just the way for them to learn. Step lively then, and follow me.” The old woman then hobbled along at an alarming rate as the group did their best to follow her up the stone pathway. The young man who had wondered if anyone lived there still stayed back, if only for a few seconds, to examine the gate. Jack Keat had moved to this community after his father’s London-based blacksmith shop was set on fire; and it was safe to say he knew pretty much everything there was to know about anything metal. And one thing he learned was that a small amount of iron was fairly heavy; and a large amount like, say, an ancient iron gate was far more heavy then an old woman could manage to push open. But just to be sure it wasn’t so old it lost most of its weight with the years, he tried to push it open.

And he tried to push it open. And he tried to push it open. But even when he put all his strength into it, he couldn’t make it move an inch. And he was a strong man in his twenties; how had that frail old woman pushed it open with ease?

“Come now, Mr. Keat! We don’t have all day!” the old woman shouted down at him as she stopped to allow the group to catch up with her. He waved to her, showing her he heard and was coming. As he ran to rejoin the group, a thought ran through his mind.

How does she know my name? I haven’t told anyone my last name since I got here. It appeared that Mrs. Castivachea’s secrets, as well as many others, would be revealed within the house that loomed over them all.

And it would seem that the young blonde woman watching them from one of the upper story windows would have a major part to play.



The energy the living people that Mrs. Castivachea was bringing into her home was flowing throughout the mansion on a plain that was invisible to the mortal eye. Poppy was soaking it in, letting a few of her memories and emotions rise. She looked down at her transparent hand and saw that it was beginning to look whole once more. She really should thank Mrs. Castivachea; without her Poppy would have no fun as a trapped spirit. It is a rule, as she learned from the other previous dead ones, that you cannot leave your haunting; that didn’t bother her so much, though, because she wouldn’t want to be seen in public in the silk nightgown she had drown in.

That was something she was not quite sure of, how exactly she died. If she had drown, wouldn’t she remember falling in the pond? And all the other spirits often return to the place of death, so why, she wandered aimlessly, did she not arrive at the pond? Not even Maria Castivachea, Mrs. Castivachea’s daughter could answer that one.

Maria was only sixteen when she died, but she was really into ghosts and the dead when she was living. What had she called Poppy story? Deliciously morbid, that was it. Twenty years ago, Maria had been abducted and brought to Poppy’s mansion, where she was maliciously murdered as a sacrifice by some cult. Mrs. Castivachea was heartbroken, to be sure, but she had a strong connection with the house and its history, and she asked Poppy to watch over her daughter.

Where was Maria? Poppy thought as she took her eyes away from her guests and made her way to the old oak staircase. She smiled wearily at the determination of her friend’s mother to keep the archaic house clean. Not once since Mrs. Castivachea signed on seventy years ago has Poppy seen even a speck of dust floating in the air.

As Poppy glided down the steps, she materialized fully, until her feet touched the ground and she was no longer transparent. Her silk nightgown looked more like an elegant dress and less like a sleeping garment, but her feet still made no sound as she walked, even on the squeaking stairway.

Mrs. Castivachea led the group into the downstairs sitting room and motioned for them to sit down. Jack looked around, and then sat down in a comfortable, overstuffed lounge chair from the 1800s. The teenagers flopped down onto the matching loveseat, and two women and another man sat down on the final piece of the set, a three-person couch. The tour guide preferred to stand, while Mrs. Castivachea pulled up a stool and promptly rested on the seat. After a few moments of silence, one of the women on the couch addressed their host.

“Excuse me, Mrs. ?”

“Castivachea.” Mrs. Castivachea nodded as she kept looking towards the entrance to the room.

“Mrs. Castivachea. Who is Poppy Cromwell?” the woman, a Ms. Joyce Roche, asked as she gazed about the room.

“Mss. Cromwell was the youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Claudius Cromwell, who lived in this house from 1780 to 1830. Poppy, a few months after her nineteenth birthday, was found to have drowned in the pond in the center of the gardens early in the morning. Her chambermaid, Lucy, found her, and her screams are said to have awakened the entire household, who then ran out and tried to retrieve their daughter.” Mrs. Castivachea informed them.

“So why is she still here?” the boy teenager spat as he and the girl began playing foot tag.

“She didn’t know she was dead until she saw her body, and she never saw the light to take her to God.” Mrs. Castivachea snapped back. Jack fiddled in his pocket for something, and then pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes and a lighter. He took on of the cigarettes and made sure there was not a filter, then held the lighter to his lips. The lighter was in the shape of a playing card; it was white and had a flip up striker, and on the front was a joker and the word “Joker” was written in red ink. He struck a flame and held it to the cigarette, then stopped to look at Mrs. Castivachea.

“Can I smoke in here?” she just smiled and raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t ask me. Ask her.” She them motioned to a woman who had enter the room. She was wearing a creamy colored silk gown and slippers, her blonde hair was up in an elegant bun, and her green eyes sparkled like emeralds. She smiled at him.

“May I smoke?” he held his pack and lighter up in question to her. After a short pause, she nodded, then handed him a green colored glass ashtray from off the center coffee table. He took it from her and nodded his thanks.

“Thank you.” Her eyes were bewitching.

“And just who, may I ask, are you?” the tour guild asked as if she were intimidated by the mysterious woman.

“This is Ms. Cromwell.” Mrs. Castivachea nodded and stood up, offering her seat; but the woman respectfully declined without saying a word.

“Are you the owner of this home?” the other woman, Joyce’s sister Abigail, spoke up, taking her husband’s hand.

The woman smiled ruefully before she nodded. Mrs. Castivachea giggled, and then regained control and looked at Ms. Cromwell.

“I was hoping to give them a tour of the house; maybe even let them stay the night to make them believers of its history. Is that alright?” the woman paused again, then nodded and made a move for the door, when she stopped. She then turned to look at the last man sitting on the couch with his wife and sister-in-law.

“If that is your opinion, sir, I hope you will be surprised.” She had finally spoken.

“I didn’t say anything.” Hank Williams retorted accusingly.

“The ghosts of this house come out to play at night. I suggest you stick together in at least groups of two; any less and I cannot guarantee your survival. Not all who reside here are as good-natured as Poppy. I bid you good day.” And with that, and a twirl of her dress, she left the group to their bewilderment.

“How did she know?” Hank looked around, and then at Mrs. Castivachea.

“Know what, love?” Abigail took both of her husband’s hands.

“I was thinking that I doubted the truth of this whole ghost thing. All this time we have been here, we haven’t seen anything. But how did she know that’s what I was thinking?” Everyone looked at the door the woman had entered and left through and wondered. Jack took a long drag and then stamped out his cigarette, thinking about the woman’s beauty. After sitting in silence for a few moments, Mrs. Castivachea heaved herself to her feet.

“Well, come on then, best unlock and open up the guest bedrooms.” She then began hobbling out of the room and toward the stairs located in the main entrance all.

“Rooms? As in, more then one?” Joyce asked as the party stood up to follow her. At the question, the old woman turned about and raised a wrinkled eyebrow.

“Of course as in more than one! The Cromwell’s were wealthy, and they refused to live like paupers.” And with that, she turned again, left the room and expected the rest to follow her. Everyone followed suit, not quite as confident as Mrs. Castivachea was, or as fast. She was already about half way up the stairway when the group entered the hall.

It was there that Jack saw them.

Portraits, dozens of them, maybe more, of the Cromwell family hanging on the walls. All of them, including the tour guild, stopped where they stood, and stared at the paintings and photographs. The room was full of fair people, with light eyes, light complexions, and light hair; the oldest of all was placed ceremonially in the center of all the paintings, with the date of 300 B.C. The style was Roman, and the subject was a flaxen young man in his mid-twenties.

The other portraits around his were rather similar to him, fair children, a few family portraits, but mostly single people. The dates underneath each one ranged from 289 B.C., to 1999; but there was one that stood out. Everyone gathered around the painting in wonder.

In the picture, there was a young woman sitting on a small stonewall that encompassed a pond, at her feet were multicolored gladiolas and day-lilies, all in full bloom. Her hands were folded in her lap, and underneath them lay a small bouquet of the blossoms at her feet. Her head was turned slightly away from the artist, her vivid green eyes told you she was smiling, even though her mouth was not. Her blonde hair was pulled back in an elegant bun with a single loose curl in the back, and she had small pearl earrings.

Her dress was a fitting shade of lavender, styled the silk gown the woman they met in the sitting room was wearing, and you could not see her feet. She looked exactly like the Ms. Cromwell they had met.

“Isn’t that…?” Abigail pointed at the painting with uncertainty.

“It is.” Jack said flatly. But that was impossible. The date underneath the portrait was 1815, and the lady they had met couldn’t be any older then twenty three. It was simply impossible. But there was no other painting or photograph who looked like her.

“Mrs. Castivachea, who is the woman in this painting?” Joyce turned to the old woman, who had just hauled herself up to the top step. Upon hearing the question, Mrs. Castivachea squinted down the stairs, then mumbled something as she pulled out a pair of glasses and placed them on the bridge of her nose. She then squinted down again, and smiled.

“That, my dear, is Ms. Poppy Cromwell. Now, hurry up! The doors don’t unlock themselves! And I can’t leave without you. Wouldn’t want you getting lost…” she then turned, and everyone slowly left the room and followed Mrs. Castivachea up the stairs.



Chapter 2



“You two, you be married, right?” Mrs. Castivachea turned to Abigail and Hank after she unlocked the first door they came to.

“Yes, we’ve been happily married for six years.” Hank took his wife by the waist as Joyce smiled.

“Then you two can have this room. You there, Ms. Fitzpatrick, you, and Ms. Andrews and Ms…ah, my dear, I seem to have to learned your name.” Mrs. Castivachea pointed to Ms. Eleanor Fitzpatrick - the tour guide - Joyce Andrews, and the teenager.

“Kat.” The girl raised a rebellious eyebrow.

“Yes, Kat, you three shall share this next room. Follow me, please.” The group left Mr. and Mrs. Williams to there room, and came to another locked door down the hall. She then unlocked it, showed them the room, and took the boy and Jack outside to show the last room.

“Now, Mr. Keat, you and, oh, for heaven’s sake, I didn’t learn your name either!” Mrs. Castivachea threw up her arms in frustration.

“The names’ Spike.” The teen replied from under the hood of his jacket.

“Spike. You and Jack will share this room. Bathrooms are down the hall three doors and on your right. Dinner will be served in one hour, breakfast at seven. Have a wonderful evening.” And with that, Mrs. Castivachea left the room, presumably to tell the other what she had told them, and was gone.

“So, your name is Spike. What kinda bad-boy name is Spike?” Jack tried to make conversation.

“What kinda loser name is Jack?” Spike shot back, then sat down on the bed and pulled out some weed from his pocket.

“What are you doing with that?”

“I’m gonna put it in my shoes and use it for arch support.” As if on cue, Kat walked in, lighter in one hand and paper in the other.

“It’s 4:20 somewhere.” She smiled and joined Spike on the bed. Jack just shook his head and made a move for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Kat coughed a puff of smoked out her mouth and nose as she sent a dirty look at Jack.

“I’m going to check out the mansion before it gets dark.” Jack explained as he opened the door and was leaving, he heard Spike start coughing.

“Does he actually think we care?”



Jack had wandered down the halls, sometimes turning left, sometimes turning right, hardly ever going straight. Finally, he admitted that he was lost, and actually looked at his surroundings, when he saw a door.

It was a simple glass doorway that lead out into the garden; there was still light out, and the sight had an appearance of blood. That’s when he saw her.

The young woman identified as both Ms. Cromwell and Poppy Cromwell, was standing by pond, staring directly at him. As if under a spell, he opened the door, and walked out to meet her.

“You are in danger.” She said eerily.

“What?” he had come back to reality and was watching her intently.

“Not everyone is in as a high spirit as me.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“You will find out tonight…and sooner then you think.” And with that, the woman walked toward the bushes of roses and watched him over her shoulder. Then, as if she were made of sand, blew away swiftly. Jack stumbled backward, tripped over his foot, and hit the back of his head on the stone wall surrounding the pond. He heard a woman’s soft laughter as he watched his world grow dark.

When Jack awoke, he felt as if his head was splitting open from the inside. He touched the back of his head, and felt no blood, but there was a massive bump the size of a goose egg. Standing up shakily, he attempted to make his way back to the room he shared with the punk, and found his way to the dinning room. Mrs. Castivachea was there, setting the table, and nearly dropped her load from laughter. She then led him to a chair and had him sit down, still laughing.

“Let me guess, you met Ms. Poppy?” she laughed harder still as she ran into the kitchen and retrieved a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

“How did you know?” Jack smiled as his placed the pack on his head.

“All the rather attractive male guests that come here, meets her.” After a moment of silence, Jack looked at Mrs. Castivachea and raised an eyebrow, reflecting on her words that he was good looking.

“Does she also speak to all the attractive male guests?”

“No. Just what did she say to you?” Mrs. Castivachea was intrigued. Her mistress usually drains the guests energy and leaves them for the others; she doesn’t speak to them.

“She said that I was in danger…and that not everyone was in as high spirits as her.” Jack struggled at first to remember what the ghost had said, but it soon came back.

“Aye, I think she has formed some sort of connection with you. May I suggest, Mr. Keat, that you get to your room straight after dinner, and leave a single candle burning. Although light doesn’t completely keep you safe, it can help.” Mrs. Castivachea had lost all of her good humor and became serious. Jack just looked at her confused.

“Why?” he was finally able to ask.

“Are you afraid of the dark, Mr. Keat?” Mrs. Castivachea’s voice had become dark and heavy. Somewhere in a nearby room, a grandfather clock was tolling eight.

“No.” the old woman was silent for a moment, perhaps listening to the clock, perhaps something else. Then she chuckled dryly.

“Very soon, Mr. Keat, you will be.”



Dinner was silent; the only sound was of the silverware and the chewing. All Jack could think about was Poppy’s words, all Abigail and Hank could think about was each other, Eleanor and Joyce were wrapped up in the beauty of the house, Mrs. Castivachea was telling her self, next time not so much mayonnaise in the pasta salad. As for Spike and Kat, they really couldn’t think; they were too high…on life.

“Whoa! When did we get in the ocean?” Spike was swaying back and forth, occasionally blowing out air as if it was water. Kat just stared off into space, giggling every once and a while. Polite conversation passed as the meal progressed, sometimes the topic was over the meat, sometimes the weather.

“Will there be any paranormal activity tonight?” Joyce finally asked Mrs. Castivachea as she dished herself up some more mashed potatoes.

“There’s always activity in this house. Good evening Miss Julie.” Mrs. Castivachea seemed to be talking to no one in the room, when a young woman with pale eyes and skin walked into the room.

“Evening Rosalind.” She then eyed everyone at the table, and smiled knowingly. “Night’s fallen. Better send the kiddies off to bed before the boogieman comes to get ‘em.” She then pulled out a black cigarette and felt around for a lighter.

“Anyone got a light?” Jack pulled out his lighter, and she chuckled to herself when she saw what it looked like as she struck a flame and lit the cigarette.

“Julie, have you seen Maria?” Mrs. Castivachea asked as she began picking up the dishes.

“Last time I checked, she was in the you-know-what.” Julie pointed a finger to the ceiling, and Mrs. Castivachea sighed.

“I’ll go and see her after I’m done. Julie, dear, you’re leaking.” Julie looked down and saw that her mouth wasn’t the only place the smoke from her cigarette was coming out. Most of it was leaving her body by way of a deep gash across her throat.

“Damn, not again.” She breathed as she took a long drag and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Everyone was in a state of shock; well almost everyone. Mrs. Castivachea was used to that sort of thing, and Jack was still reeling from his last ghostly encounter.

“Was she a…” Abigail was the first one to speak.

“A ghost? Yes, Julie has been dead for, God, sixty years.” Mrs. Castivachea said as if it was no big deal. She then bustled into the kitchen, holding a tall stack of dirty plates. A few seconds later, she came back out again, brushing out the wrinkles in her dress.

“But she is not one of them, the ones you have to fear when you’re with me.” Mrs. Castivachea’s tone grew dark.

“Who are the ones we have to fear?” Joyce was starting to buy into the ghost talk.

“Actually, all of them.”

“All of ‘em!” Hank nearly fell out of his chair.

“Even…Poppy?” Jack asked as he took out a cigarette.

“Oh yes, especially Poppy.” Mrs. Castivachea smiled as she lit a candle and placed it in a holder. After seeing the looks her guests were giving off, she began to explain.

“All of the spirits here hold a grudge against most of the living for whatever reason, even Miss Poppy. If you are caught without me, whether you are in a group or not, you will most certainly be killed.”

“So, why won’t they kill you?” Abigail wasn’t believing Mrs. Castivachea’s story.

“Because, they like me. But, they don’t like you, now, come with me. If you want to survive, you had best get to bed.” The old woman led the group out and towards their rooms. It wasn’t until they were half way up the stairs that Kat spoke.

“Whoa….who lit Mrs. C. on fire?” she was leaning so far forward, Jack had to hold her shoulders to stop her from falling on her face.

After Mrs. Castivachea had safely escorted everyone to their rooms, Jack stopped her before entering his room.

“Mrs. Castivachea, if Poppy kills everyone, why did she let me live? More importantly, why did she warn me?”

“I believe she warned you because you look so much like her fiancée. Ronan McNeal.”

“Her…fiancée?”

“Yes, I believe she is trying to make closure, because Ronan disappeared after Poppy was found dead, and was never heard from again.”

“But Mrs. Castivachea-” Jack started, but Mrs. Castivachea pushed him into his room.

“I suggest you go to bed now, Mr. Keat.” And shut the door in his face.



10:15 pm. Kat awoke with a start, and a need. She needed weed, and she needed her boyfriend. She threw off the covers with sloppy care, making sure she didn’t wake Eleanor or Joyce. She then slid out of bed and tip toed toward the door, when she stopped.

What was it the old woman told her? Something about wandering around alone? A second later, Kat realized it didn’t matter, and slowly but surely made her way into the hall, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She stopped for only a second, when she heard a scrapping noise. It sounded like…like fingernails scrapping the wall.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Kat heard a little girl’s voice behind her. She spun around, but saw nothing.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.” This time, the voice was coming from behind her again. Kat turned; her lighter struck with a flame. There was nothing there. The scrapping noise continued. She started to run down the hall, and heard little footsteps right behind her. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and she was on the verge of crying.

“Here kitty!” the voice was right on her now. She stopped running and threw herself against the wall. Her breathing was rasped and she was struggling to hear over the sound of her heartbeat. She closed her eyes in relief.

“Found you.” Kat’s eyes shot open, and she thought she saw a little girl. As Kat’s eyes grew more adjusted to the darkness, she saw what was really standing in front of her.

The little girl was badly mutilated; her left eye hung uselessly on her cheek, and part of her head was ripped off, and not so cleanly. She was wearing a uniform that Kat recognized as the school uniform she used to wear when she went to a private, all girls school. The girl’s chest was slashed, her clothes more like rags. She was covered in blood; and her fingers were split and cracked, as if she had been scraping on a stone floor.

Kat didn’t even have time to scream.





10:20 pm. Abigail’s eyes snapped open, and, feeling her dinner rise up in her throat, made a dash for the bathroom that connected to the guest room. Ever since her and her husband found out they were pregnant, her emotions were a mix of joy, and nausea.

When she was done, she flushed the toilet, lit a candle and turned on the faucet, washing her face in the cool water. Her face was hot, and she swore she saw steam rise off when the water made contact. She stood up, felt her stomach and smiled. She was now a little over sixteen weeks, a little bulge of a stomach, and she felt her child kick.

Abigail was pulled from her maternal fantasy by the sound of the bath water running. Shooting a glance into the mirror over the sink, she saw within the darkness, that the bath was indeed filling, but not with water. Something thicker was running through the pipes, something darker.

Turning around to fully face the bathtub, she was surprised to see that it was empty. But she heard the water running; how is it that nothing was actually happening? She looked into the mirror again, and the sight she saw nearly made her heart stop.

An arm slid out of the bath and seductively ran its hand along the rim; much like one lover caresses another. Then, a second hand came out, and both held the edge of the bath, and hoisted the body out and into the open.

First came the head, a woman’s, with pale eyes and pale skin. She was drenched in blood, and when her mouth came into view, she choked blood out as if it were water she had drown in. Abigail was suddenly and violently thrown backwards, into the wall as a burning pain shot through her stomach. When the woman heaved herself halfway out of the bathtub, Abigail saw that she was naked, and her breasts had been cut out. Abigail tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth, blood poured out, just as the bath overflowed and the blood spilled out onto the floor.

The pain in her grew more intense as Abigail found she couldn’t move, and the woman sprawled out on the tile, and slowly crawled towards her. The movements were sluggish, as if she were in a movie and placed on slow motion. Her fingernails were scraping the floor, embedding themselves so she could inch forward. Another pain traveled through Abigail’s legs as the woman grabbed her feet, and, looking up at her, twisted her head in such a manner that it surely would have snapped her neck had she been alive.

As the pain in her stomach grew more powerful, Abigail was sure she couldn’t survive it any longer, when suddenly, something inside her started tearing, ripping, chewing away at the flesh inside her belly. It tore free, and Abigail saw that it was a child, her child, that had freed itself from her. Abigail let out one final, blood-choked scream as the candle flame blew out and she was sucked swiftly and viciously into the bathtub, and disappeared into a tormented realm. The bathtub was empty, the floor clean and dry. The wick of the candle had never been burnt.

Hank slept on, unaware of his wife’s demise, oblivious to the ghoulish slaughter that had taken place in the bathroom. Perhaps, it would be better if he never knew what had truly happened to his love, Abigail Rose, and their unborn child.



Chapter 3



10:22 pm. Mrs. Castivachea had made her way up to the attic, the ancient stairway creaking only slightly under her feet. The red candle she was holding gave off a soft, romantic light as it guided her towards her destination. She heard little footsteps and smiled.

“Hello, Ariana. Claim any new victims lately?” Mrs. Castivachea turned once she reached the top of the stairs, and saw the girl that had ravaged Kat only minutes before, smiling sweetly.

“Hello Mrs. Castivachea. Ah-uh, I found me a new kitty.” Her once innocent smile now twisted and wicked.

“That’s wonderful, sweetie. Do you know if Maria is still in the attic?” Mrs. Castivachea started rubbing the wrist that was holding the candle. Arthritis. With age comes wisdom, and also pain in the joints.

“Yea, she’s still there.” Mrs. Castivachea motioned for Ariana to run along, and the little girl did a cute curtsy, and then skipped off into the darkness.

Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow.

Mrs. Castivachea’s smile weakened as she remembered Maria at that age. She then turned and continued to make her way to the attic, picking up the hem of her dress. As she walked down the dark hallway, blackness engulfing her, she heard the sounds of screams and laughter erupting from the shadows. It only grew louder as she came to an ancient looking stairway that had the appearance that no one had set foot on its steps in years. As she made her way up the decrepit staircase, she pulled a brass key from the folds of her dress.

The top of the stairs ended abruptly with a door, the handle of which was a skull and the keyhole its mouth. Slowly and carefully, Mrs. Castivachea placed the head of the key in its place, and turned it skillfully. It stopped turning with a loud click, and the door creaked open, coming to a halt when it was only partly open.

Mrs. Castivachea peered her head through the opening, and smiled as she heard a familiar song. It seemed someone had found the old, old record disk player that had been in the attic since the late 1940s; and the records along with it.

“Jeepers, creepers, where’d you get those peepers? Jeepers, creepers, where’d you get those eyes?” She smiled as she remembered the sound of the click as the needle slid along the ruts of the vinyl, the bent grooves causing it to break contact, if only for a moment. She hadn’t heard this song since she was a girl.

“Maria?” The music stopped, and suddenly began again, this time a different song.

“You take the high road and I’ll take the low road and I’ll get to Scotland ‘afore ye. For me and my true love will never meet again on the bonny, bonny banks of Lochlomands.”

Mrs. Castivachea entered the room more confidently, and took a look around. Everything appeared as though it hadn’t been touch, except that it had all been cleared out of the center of the room. Cobwebs littered everything, and a thick blanket of dust covered all, turning it a light gray.

In the center of the room, candles were burning in a circle. The central point of the circle was a girl, sitting on her floor and holding her knees.

“Maria.” The girl turned and looked at her mother with a smile on her face. The black trench coat she was wearing had a tint of dark red, and the white blouse had a large hole over her heart. When she turned fully to face Mrs. Castivachea, her mother was painfully reminded of how viciously her daughter was murdered.

The hole over her heart wasn’t in just the shirt. The cult that had kidnapped, and in the end killed her, had held her down, gagged her, and cut out her heart, liver, and her kidneys. Mrs. Castivachea had nearly died after the loss of her daughter, not two months after the death of her husband of sixty-seven years.

“Mother. I can almost remember what the pain feels like.” Tears of blood cascaded down Maria’s cheeks, and her mother went to comfort her. But, just like every other time, her hands passed straight through Maria without a single effect. It didn’t matter how much the two missed one another; death was one barrier love could not break.

“Maria, where have you been?” Mrs. Castivachea kneeled down beside her daughter.

“Wandering the mansion. Mother, I spoke with Poppy today. Is it true that a young man in tonight’s group resembles Ronan?” the tears had stopped falling, and disappeared back into her skin.

“Yes, I had the pleasure of conversing with him. He is much like Ronan; it’s no wonder Poppy warned him the way she did.” Maria smiled at her mother’s words, but her smile soon faded as her eyes grew wide and she stood.

“Mother, get to bed. They are coming out to feed, and you know that we cannot protect the living from them, not even you are safe.” Mrs. Castivachea nodded, painfully got to her feet, and began to walk as fast as her sore joints could carry her. From the shadows cast by the candles, figures began taking shape and moving. Strange noises, cackling laughter, and wolves howling could be heard on the dead air.

The candles surrounding Maria blew out in one could gust of wind, and she screamed as her form was hit and scattered by a mysterious object. The walls began to shake violently, the things hanging threatening to fall and break.

Mrs. Castivachea ran faster as she came to the hallway that her room was in. She felt within the folds of her dress, and once again produced the brass key. Fumbling with it, she grabbed the door handle and shoved the key in the hole, ignoring the pain of the hot wax from the candle dripping onto her hand. She had been holding it in a weird position ever since she had taken out the key. The noises grew louder as she forced the door open; she had time to look into the hallway once before slamming it shut. The last thing she saw on the other side of the door scared her.

Protruding from the shadows were faces and the occasional almost-full body; all smiling and glaring. They were mere silhouettes of the people they had once been, each one a victim that had been claimed by the house and its inhabitants.

Mrs. Castivachea rested her head on the door, when she heard an evil cackle come from behind her. She turned and saw a large shadow cover over half the room. It loomed over and engulfed everything it touched; it was the same thing that had chased her down the hallway. The heads leaned in close to hers and laughed louder as the candle went out, and Mrs. Castivachea sighed fearfully.



10:31 pm. Hank awoke to a cold chill. His eyes opened, and he felt around under the covers for his wife. She wasn’t there. Once his sight had adjusted to the lack of light, he threw off his side of the covers to find that Abigail’s had also been thrown off.

“Abbey?” He looked towards the bathroom door, which was wide open. There was a dark figure standing at the sink. He sat up to try and get a better look.

“Abbey?” He asked again. The figure’s head snapped his way, and let out a cry. Hank couldn’t decipher whether it was his wife or not, and he didn’t have time. Shortly after the cry, the figure made a quick move for the door and started running into the hallway.

“Abbey!” Hank jumped out of bed and ran after her, just barely keeping up. The figure was fast, and he was starting to believe who he was following wasn’t his wife. Even when she wasn’t pregnant, Abigail could never move that quickly. He was just about to give up, when he saw a light just around the corner of the hallway he was in. Hank slowed to an almost crawling pace of walking, and carefully peered his head around the corner. There, sitting in the middle of the hallway, was Abigail. At least it looked like her from the back. She was squatting, with her knees pulled up to her chest, and she was rocking back and forth.

“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow.” She was chanting the lyrics as if it were a sacred text.

“Abbey? Abbey, is that you?” she kept rocking.

“Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went. Everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.” Hank held out his arm, and rested his hand on the woman’s shoulder. The woman turned, and Hank was scared almost senseless. It was his wife alright, but she had a huge, gaping hole in her lower abdomen, where a child would have been growing. Her eyes were blood shot, and the nightgown she was given was ripped and stained with blood and, for some strange reason, rust. Her skin was scratched, and her hair was messy and tangled.

“Abbey!” Hank backed away, and tripped. Feeling his way with his hands behind him, he kept his eyes on his wife.

“Help me.” She was crawling on all fours towards him, but slowly.

“Abbey, you’re….you’re…” Hank was starting to stand up. As soon as he was on his feet, she was up, too, and a few inches from his face.

“They took me, Hank. You have to help me.” She was getting closer, as if she wanted to kiss him. He took a step back.

“You’re dead!” he turned and started running.

“You can’t escape here, Hank! No one gets out alive!” he heard her shout as he ran down the dark hallway. As he made a left turn, he heard her scream, and then nothing.

Hank kept running until he thought his lungs would burst, and when he finally stopped to catch his breath, he found himself in the kitchen. Everything was quiet for a moment, and he thought he was safe. But the feeling didn’t last. The pots and pans hanging above the sink began to jingle, and the knifes in the wooden holding block started to shake. Hank barely had time to think as the movement became stronger and more violent.

The knives flew out of their holder, and aimed their points at Hank. One sliced his arm, another cut through his shirt and skimmed the top of his flesh. Several others slashed his legs, and one nicked his cheek right below his eye. As he was feeling his scrapes and wiped off the blood that started to flow, he heard a man’s voice come from behind him.

“The inner most pit of Hell is reserved for the worst of all Sinners.” The smell of heat filled Hank’s nostrils, and he turned slowly to look behind him. There, standing next to a fire-filled oven, was a man. He wore a priest’s collar, and his skin was burned and black.

“Christ.” Hank breathed, and in an instant, the man’s burnt out eyes were red hot, like the fire in the oven.

“Christ has turned his back on you! The only place you have before you is Hell!” Suddenly, Hank was swept off his feet and into the oven. Once his head had cleared the door, it was slammed shut, and the sickening scent of burning flesh was all around him. A searing pain shot all through his body, and he realized he was on fire. His screams echoed all around the kitchen, but no one heard him.

“Oh Heavenly Father! Forgive us, your humble and sinful children! We burn in Hell’s fire for the sake of You and Your Holy Son!” Hank heard the man’s voice from outside the oven, and something inside told him he was going to die. He tried to cry, but nothing came out as the skin on his face and arms, some charred, some bloody, began falling off. Smoke clouded not only his sight, but also his judgment.

In a panic, he tried to throw himself against the sides of the inferno, but only succeeded in catching his whole body on fire. By the fifth time he hurled himself against his holding cell, Hank Williams was dead.

The oven fire blew out, and the door opened. It was empty; everything was where it should have been. All was quiet.