And to All a Good Bite:
5 FREE Vampire Holiday Poems & Stories
By Rusty Fischer, author of Vamplayers
Copyright © 2011 by Rusty Fischer
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © Catalin Petolea – Fotolia.com
Author’s Note
The following is a collection of FREE holiday vampire poems and short stories.
Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the fault of the vampires. (They’re not very patient with the editorial process!)
Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find; enjoy!
Table of Contents
Introduction
The Count’s Halloween: A Vampire Trick or Treat Poem
Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving: A Vampire Thanksgiving Story
A Very Vampire Holiday: A Vampire Christmas Story
The Vampire’s Night Before Christmas: A Vampire Christmas Poem
The Vampire’s Valentine: A Vampire’s Valentine’s Day Story
About the Author: Rusty Fischer
Introduction
“Happy Holidays!” (I love saying that!)
Whether it’s October or February, Thanksgiving or Christmas, this FREE collection of vampire holiday stories will have something for you:
Trick or treat, smell my... fangs?!!? In The Count’s Halloween, Count Dracula gets a big surprise when trick or treaters knock on his door, but an even bigger “treat” when they fend off lethal vampire hunters!
Next up is a very creepy Thanksgiving story, in which we discover Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving.
Then there’s A Very Vampire Holiday. It’s Christmas Eve and Santa’s in a fix; all his elves have food poisoning, so who will help him load his sleigh? Sure, there’s a vampire coven just over the ridge, but... is he really *that* desperate?
And what collection of holiday vampire stories would be complete without our next poem, a bloodsucking twist on The Night Before Christmas? Mine’s called, appropriately enough, A Vampire’s “Bite” Before Christmas.
And, finally, in The Vampire’s Valentine, it’s Chester’s first valentine! But what should he give back to the girl who has... nothing?
So carve a pumpkin or a turkey, trim a tree or put a stamp on your Valentine, because if you love the holidays – and vampires – (and who doesn’t?) you’re in for a very special treat!
The Count’s Halloween:
A Vampire Trick or Treat Poem
The vampire woke
To a pounding surprise:
A knock at his door
And the prying of eyes.
He blinked in the moonlight
And shook his sore head.
His non-beating heart
Filled at once with dread.
“Is it vampire hunters?”
He thought with alarm.
But no, he’d been careful
To stay far from harm.
So who could it be
Knocking at his front door?
Until the rapping and pounding
He could no longer ignore.
He rose from his coffin
And walked ‘cross the floor;
His head fairly pounding
As he reached for the door.
And there, on the stoop
Stood a trio of kids.
Cheering and leering
And blowing their lids.
“Trick or treat,” cried the ghost.
“Trick or treat,” shouted the witch.
The vamp was so hungry
His fangs started to twitch.
The vamp was confused.
Why were the kids here?
And there they stood smiling
From ear straight to ear.
The vamp was suspicious,
But hungry as well.
And while in poor taste
Kid blood sure tasted… swell!
He looked past the children
To find spying eyes.
But found that instead
He got a surprise.
For all ‘round the street
Each house was alight;
With pumpkins and skulls
And witches in sight.
And other dear children
Walked to and walked fro;
As from house to house
They merrily did go.
And now, the Count knew
Why the kids had appeared.
It was the one night of the year
That HE wasn’t feared.
Indeed, on this one day
Vamps came in quite handy.
At least just as long
As they handed out… candy!
Thank goodness he’d shopped
Before his long nap.
Or these little dressed tykes
Would be preparing his trap.
“Of course,” the Count nodded
As he reached for a plate;
Of the most scrumptious candy
These kids ever ate.
“Imported from Rome,”
He cooed as he dragged
A dark chocolate egg
In the first child’s bag.
“An egg?” asked the child.
As a frown he did hide.
“Not just any egg,” said the Count.
“For this one hides… a diamond inside!”
The kids face lit up
As he drooled with glee.
And the friend closest to him
Said, “Me next! Pick me!”
And so that old Vamp
Slid right off his dish;
The answer to every
Trick or treater’s wish:
A caramel apple
Smothered in gold.
A tempting taste treat
That never got old.
“Oh boy,” said the child
As it weighed down his sack.
“When the other kids see this
They’ll have a heart attack!”
One last child remained
With her hands outstretched;
As from the fine plate
A last treat the Count fetched.
A tiny gold chain
A pendant did adorn;
As from the necklace dangled
A platinum… candy corn!
The children sang a chorus
Of huzzahs and cries;
When a horrifying sight
Soon filled their eyes.
A cluster of hunters
Sprang straight from the brush;
As old Count Dracula
They tried hard to rush!
It was vampire hunters!
They had tracked him down!
To this wonderful, peaceful
Quaint Halloween town!
And now they stood poised
For a violent attack!
That was suddenly thwarted
By… a trick or treat sack?
“Oh no!” cried the children
Springing to action;
As they pummeled and punched
Those poor thugs into traction!
The vampire hunters
Limped bloodied and dazed;
From the porch as their faces
Looked rather… amazed.
“But children?” Drac asked
As the fiends slipped from sight.
“Why did you drive off my killers
On Halloween night?”
“Why Count,” they did say
As they savored their sweets.
“How could we not defend you,
When you gave such great… treats?!?
Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving:
A Vampire Thanksgiving Story
She appears out of nowhere.
Just, one minute I’m driving, trying to find something – anything – other than Christmas music on the radio and, the next, POOF… she’s there.
I swerve to avoid her but, then I think, “She’s sitting there. Right there. How do I avoid that?”
“Eyes on the road,” she says in a deep voice.
Not masculine, exactly, but not quite seductive either.
“W-w-where did you come from?” I blather, ridiculously, sounding like the dumbest coed in the dumbest slasher movie ever made.
“I’ve been here all along,” she explains, hands resting gently in her lap. “We can do a lot of things, Hector, but… we’re not ghosts. We can’t just slip through glass windows and rusty truck doors when you’re not looking.”
“H-h-how did you know my name?”
She snickers and with one pale, cold finger points to my chest. “It’s on your nametag, silly.”
I look down and, sure enough, there it is.
The road is mostly deserted this time of day, but even if it wasn’t this time of day, it would still be deserted on this particular day.
The bends of Route 1 sag and stretch along the hilly countryside of Patchwork, West Virginia.
The countryside is brittle and yellow with the afternoon’s early frost.
I can still feel it in my fingers after the long hours spent hosing down the factory floor, my joints creaky and cold despite the gloves already mildewing in my employee locker.
“So you’re not a ghost,” I find the stones to say just as we pass the Patchwork Funeral Home, its parking lot empty. “And yet, you pop up out of thin air. So… what are you?”
“I already told you, I didn’t ‘pop’ out of anywhere. I’ve been sitting here the entire time. Don’t you listen?”
Her voice is impatient, tired, almost bordering on a sneer.
I like it even less than her raven hair and grave marker pale skin.
“Sorry, it’s a little hard to focus when I’m freaking out, you know?”
She smirks, black lipstick curling into half a smile.
“And you still haven’t answered my question.”
The truck sails along, heavy under my hand. With last week’s paycheck in the bank, I finally have a full tank of gas. Plenty to race up to speed and sail through the fence on old Man Potter’s farm, sailing just over the property line to crash, passenger side first, into his biggest pecan tree.
Take that, snarky Goth suddenly appearing girl!
“I’ve been sitting here your entire shift,” she explains as I gradually begin to accelerate. “I knew you wouldn’t start the truck, let alone pull out of the parking lot, if you’d seen me so I waited until you were halfway down the road before allowing you to see me.”
“You can… do that?”
“Of course we can,” she snaps. “But, that’s not what you really want to know, is it Hector?”
Her voice is cold; colder than the November countryside, colder than my still-thawing fingers after eight hours on the factory floor.
I hate it.
I hate her.
I don’t care who she is, or what she is, or where she came from.
“Slow down,” she says through barely parted lips.
I glance at the speedometer and see I’ve sped up to nearly 60 miles per hour.
Not bad for an LA freeway but, here in Bum Stuck, West Virginia, I might as well be daring a cop to pull me over.
Even if it is Thanksgiving.
“Sorry,” I grumble, stepping slightly off the gas.
Then I think: “Why should I be the one to apologize? I mean, it’s my car.”
She settles back, thin as a rail and sharply angry in her black jeans and matching hoodie.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she oozes in that cold, unlikable voice. “Speed up, aim the car at the nearest tree, hope the crash is less painful than what I have in store for you.”
“What, you’re a ghost and a mind reader?”
“Slow. Down. Hector.”
Her voice is like steel; cold steel.
I do as I’m told.
I mean, what if she can read my mind?
“I can’t, you know,” she says, a smooth smile oozing across her frosty face. “Read minds. It’s just, you’re speeding up, you haven’t taken your eyes off that row of trees up in the distance, so… a girl can put two and two together, you know?”
I nod, biting my lower lip.
I do that when I’m nervous.
Or, you know, about to face certain death by unidentified stranger.
“So what can you do?” I ask, throat dry, eyes still on that row of trees up in the distance.
I wish the factory wasn’t so far from town.
There’s nothing out here but pecan trees and rusty barbed wire and hills and dales and miles and miles of open, empty road.
“Well, I can see myself in your rearview mirror, for one. I can become invisible, for another. And I can tear your windpipe out with my fangs if you keep giving me the attitude, how’s that for starters?”
“So… you’re a vampire?”
She nods, quietly, then hisses around two wicked, yellow, curved fangs.
Kind of like vampire show and tell.
I shake my head, grit my teeth and drive.
“So what now?”
“Well, I thought you’d be more impressed, Hector. I mean, it’s not every day a vampire shows up riding shotgun.”
“I am impressed. I’m just… more shocked… is all.”
“Shock would be the appropriate response, Hector.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s not every day a vampire shows up riding shotgun. Sheesh, I thought we just covered this…”
“I mean, why are you here?” I ask. “Why are you sitting here? Today?”
“I’m glad you asked,” she smiles, almost… purring.
With no other traffic in sight and the road clear for miles, I risk a second look her way.
She looks young, maybe 17 or 18?
My age, at least.
But there is an air of wisdom about her.
Or maybe just superiority.
She is thin but I can tell, even from the veins in her wrist and the set of her jaw that she’s wiry, strong… powerful.
“Today is a very special day for vampires, Hector.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Absolutely. It’s the one day of the year we can feel guilt-free about dining on humans. Well, certain humans, anyway.”
“What, like you feel guilt?”
I hear the hard edge to my voice and see my knuckles, white on the wheel.
She turns her head and cuts me an icy glare. “Just because I’m undead doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings, Hector.”
“Okay,” I snap, a little too quickly. “You’re going to tell me you’re one of those beatnik vampires who feasts on rats and cows and not people?”
“Actually, 364 days a year, yes… I don’t eat people. But you’re lucky; today’s my one exception.”
After a long, deliberate pause she adds icily, “You’re my one exception.”
I speed up again.
Screw her.
I gun it!
She sighs, and doesn’t move a muscle.
“Go ahead, Hector. Crash your car into the nearest tree. Who do you think it’s going to hurt? Me? Who’s been alive for the last 200 years? Or you?”
“If I’m going to die, I’d rather die on my own terms.”
“No you wouldn’t, Hector. And besides, who said anything about dying?”
“You did, lady. You just said you were going to eat me.”
“No I didn’t. And I’m no lady, Hector. My name is Isabelle. My friends call me ‘Izzy.’”
“Huh, how about your victims? What do they call you?”
“Gurgle, Gurgle Scream?” she jokes. “No, but… seriously. You can call me Izzy, too.”
“Okay, Izzy, well… you just said I was going to be your one human victim of the year. So if you’re not going to eat me, what are you going to do?”
“Give you a choice, that’s what.”
“A choice?”
“Yes, Hector. You can live or die.”
“Live! I choose to live. See ya!”
“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Hector.”
“Oh, I am. It’s just, like you said, not every day a vampire pops up riding shotgun for no reason.”
Her head snaps around. “You think I’m here for no reason, Hector? You think I showed up in that parking lot back there, in your truck, for no reason? Think again, friend.”
“Then what reason, huh? What could I have possibly done to clock out of work and find a vampire sitting in my truck?”
“You just answered yourself, Hector; you clocked out.”
I shoot her a glance as I zip past another pecan tree and she adds, “What do you do for a living, Hector?”
“Go to school. I’m a senior at Patchwork High.”
“For work, Hector?” she asks, unimpressed. “What do you do for work?”
“What, back there? That’s… that’s my winter job. I took it to help out the family for the holidays. Dad’s on disability since the accident, Mom works nights at the mall but they cut her hours to make way for all the seasonal part-timers, so… I took the job at the factory, why?”
“You consider the slaughter of innocents a job?”
I look at her, then smirk.
“Innocents? You mean, the frickin’ turkeys?”
“Yeah, the turkeys. Did you ever think of them before?”
“No, Izzy. Wanna know why? ‘Cause they’re turkeys – ouch! What the hell?”
I look down to find her hand resting on my thigh, and not in a frisky-cheerleader-after-the-football-game way, either.
From the tips of her fingers stretch long, black claws; sharp, and one of them has blood dripping it off of them onto my torn work pants.
Then she moves her hand and I feel the blood trickle down my leg; slowly, at first, then thicker, faster, like grape jelly oozing over the crust of a double-decker PB & J.
I look down and see the perfect slice across my inner thigh; clean and neat, the torn work pants revealing a glistening, oozing flesh wound.
“Turkeys have feelings too, you know?”
“No, I don’t Izzy. Know why? Because I don’t work with the turkeys, you witch!”
“What? What do you mean? You work at the plant, do you not?”
“Yeah, in custodial! I clean up turkey crap and feathers all day, hose the bloody walls and belts on the line. I’m 17 years old, you freak! You think they’re gonna let me slaughter turkeys at my age? Jesus, you really cut me!”
“Well, I mean…” she’s blathering now, stammering, looking uncertain for the first time since she appeared out of thin air. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was trying to when you practically sliced my leg in half.”
“Pull over!”
“No way! I’m going to a hospital to get this—”
She reaches over and, with one hand, lifts my leg off the gas pedal and, with the other, yanks the wheel hard to the right.
We hit the ditch, go up and over and land, embedded, in a long swatch of barbed wire surrounding Mr. Butterson’s squash farm.
Steam rises from the punctured radiator and hisses green, brackish water all over the shattered windshield.
“What was that for?” I ask, tasting blood on my tongue.
“Your choice,” she gasps, inching over. “I promised you a choice; you have to make it. Now, before it’s too late!”
“What choice?”
“Live or die, Hector? Now or never!”
“How about none of the above?”
“Your thigh, Hector; look at it. I’ve severed your femoral artery, stupid. You have about two minutes before you pass out and never wake up again.”
“Well, what’d you do that for?”
“Hector! Because, I thought you spent all day getting your jollies slaughtering Thanksgiving turkeys.”
“What?
I could… I’d never… I don’t even eat
turkeys, Izzy! I’m a vegetarian.”
“That’s it,” she
grunts, leaning over. “I’m choosing for you!”
Suddenly, she pierces my throat with those grody yellow fangs.
They slide in, not quite like butter, but smoothly, no doubt.
There is a warm sensation, kind of like the tickle you get between your toes when you feel that annual rash of athlete’s foot halfway through every football season; then… nice.
Just… nice.
“I’m sorry,” she is saying, over and over, as she pulls back from me, wiping blood – wiping my blood – off her thick, black painted lips and onto her thin black sleeve. “I thought you were one of those turkey killers! Oh dear. Well, at least you won’t die now.”
“I won’t?” I ask, my voice sounding far away.
“No, Hector; never. Not anymore.”
“Okay,” I sigh, blinking at her.
Her face grows blurry, then comes back into focus.
Before it goes blurry again she says, “Rest, Hector, and when you wake back up, we’ll be somewhere far, far away from here.”
“But I like it here,” I sigh, the barren West Virginia landscape yellow and frosty beyond my shattered windshield. “Wait, no; not really. I hate it here. But… my folks. The money; they’ll need it after I’m gone.”
“You’ll send them money, Hector; we both will. Just, rest for now…”
I look down at my shirt, see the blood gush down my throat and across my nametag.
The nametag that reads “Hector.”
Just below the name of the company I work for: Patchwork Poultry Factory.
Where I used to work, hosing down the turkey pens and shoveling turkey crap.
I feel the energy draining from me now, the life – my old life – bleeding out.
I blink my eyes open to find Izzy, smiling; smiling.
She looks almost pretty when she smiles.
You know, aside from my blood still drying on her fangs…
A Very Vampire Holiday:
A Vampire Christmas Story
“Let me get this straight,” I ask the fat man, standing – quite literally – with his fuzzy red cap in hand. “You want us to help you deliver your presents tonight?”
“Yes, Sheila, that’s right.”
His voice is louder than I thought it would be; firmer, too.
I’ve read too many kids’ books, I suppose.
Once upon a time, that is.
“What of your miraculous elves you’re always bragging about?” I ask, sitting up in my ice throne just the same.
“Well, you see…” He pauses to chuckle and, I must admit, even though my heart hasn’t beaten for over two centuries, it’s hard not to like the dude.
I mean, this is Santa Claus we’re talking about here, right?
“That’s the thing, you see, Madam Sasha. Mrs. Claus whipped up a batch of her favorite molasses and macadamia macaroni, you know, so the elves could carbo load for the big day. Well, apparently, the pasta had gone bad and now, you see, I have 6,000 elves all down with food poisoning.”
I chuckle, staring out the ice wall at Santa’s back to see the rest of my coven lingering closely as they eavesdrop through the sheer, crystalline walls of my inner sanctum.
You can take the heart out of the vampire but you can’t take out the gossip, let me tell you.
“I don’t see how we can help, you see; we’re such a small, humble coven.”
“Over 60 strong,” Santa boasts. “And, you’re vampires, aren’t you? That means you have the strength of 10 men each!”
“Aha! So you do know we exist.”
“Why, of course dear,” he sighs, fat hands anxiously wringing the life out of his cap. “I’m Santa Claus, you see.”
I nod, licking my lips. “If you say so. I mean, we were starting to wonder seeing as you haven’t dropped off a present in over 78 years!”
Santa blushes, three shades of crimson.
Now it’s impossible to tell where his neck starts and his red satin overcoat begins.
“Well, now, we talked about that Sasha, you see. I can’t have you draining my reindeer dry every time I stop by to drop off a few gifts for you and your… undead friends.”
“Hey, better we drain reindeer blood than elves’ blood!”
“Better neither, my dear,” Santa corrects and, looking closely, his nose really is red.
I shrug and admire one of my three-inch long, razor sharp claws. “Besides, I thought we were doing you a favor. Vampire reindeer could fly you around the word faster, stronger and sooner than those regular old reindeer.”
“Yes, Sasha, but… regular reindeer don’t try to eat the children at every stop, you see?”
I sigh. “Details, details…”
“I put you on the naughty list then, you see, and I haven’t seen fit to take you off yet.”
“And yet, here you are. On Christmas Eve, of all nights. So, which is it? Are we too naughty for gifts, but just naughty enough to help you deliver gifts? Is that it, St. Nick?”
Santa shakes his head irritably. “But you’re vampires, dear. Whatever would I give you anyway?”
At last I stand from my chilly throne and slink down the three shaved ice steps to the cavern floor, my thick-heeled boots providing both dramatic effect as well as much-needed traction.
It wouldn’t do to slip and fall at my finest moment, now, would it?
“Millions of things, as I see it Santa. Files for our fangs, crystal tumblers for our blood, a new cape… heck, a new coffin! You of all people know how far it is to the nearest town, and yet every year, you fly right on by without so much as a lump of coal, to say nothing of a clot of blood. How do you think that makes us feel?”
“Feel?” he asks, combing fat fingers through even fatter whiskers. “I, well dear… I never stopped to consider your feelings, I suppose.”
“That’s right,” I “aha” him, waving a long, dangerous finger in his face as I circle him, raggedy cape still managing to “hiss” dramatically along the pure ice floor beneath our feet.
“Every year we wait, and we wait, all Christmas long. And you fly right on by, and you fly back, and never even a nod as you sail across the sky over our heads. And there we sit, black stockings hanging from our ice chimney, red lights blinking on our dead fir tree, hoping just once that you’ll finally forgive us for that one little transgression lo these many years ago…”
“Little?” he gasps, stepping back in his own fancy black boots to issue one of his famous lectures. “Why, Donder and Blitzen were two of my best reindeer. Do you know how long it took me to find worthy replacements?”
“Okay, so we screwed up Santa, but… look how good we’ve been ever since. No more feasting on Arctic scientists, no more terrorizing documentary film crews, no more depleting the local polar bear population, now we ship our blood in, along with our capes and fang files and everything else you won’t bring us each December.”
Santa still scratches his beard, but now at least he’s nodding his head. “Yes, I suppose once we hunted down and trapped all the vampire polar bears, the North Pole has been a much more peaceful place. But dear, it took us nearly 50 years to catch them all!”
I grin, thinking of the dozen or so we still keep penned up beneath ground, pacing their ice prison with dripping fangs and dangerous claws.
You know, just in case.
I shake my head and purr, “Well, Santa, maybe we’ll need 50 years to consider your offer.”
“But I don’t have 50 years, Sasha; I barely have 50 minutes. Won’t you… won’t you fill my sleigh tonight? And, you know, avoid eating all my reindeer in the process?”
“What’s in it for us, Santa?”
“Why, you’d be saving Christmas for the entire world, Sasha; think of the goodwill it will mean for you and your coven when… oh, well, I suppose no one could ever find out, could they? It wouldn’t quite do for Santa to go boasting about his ‘undead helpers,’ now would it?”
“See what I mean? We get no presents, no press, not even any credit. I’m not feeling a lot of motivation at the moment, Nick. You’re going to have to do better than that.”
Santa Claus turns, scratching the back of his bald head as the vampires who’d been eavesdropping scatter into the various nooks and crannies of our not-so-secret – to Santa, anyway – lair.
Then he turns back, a sneaky smile on his face.
I lean in, almost expectantly, to hear his reply.
“What if, during my time in Transylvania tonight, I make a rather large withdrawal from their national blood bank? That would keep you and your coven in nourishment until Valentine’s Day at least.”
My fangs literally leap from my gums at the prospect of pure, Transylvanian blood.
Damn them!
How can you keep a poker face with six-inch road signs pointing out your every emotion?
“Tempting,” I lisp as the fangs gradually slide back in. “It would be nice to drink some pure blood for a change. And we’d be far less tempted to feast on fresh polar bar in the meantime.”
“Good,” Santa beams, extending a chubby pink hand. “Then it’s a deal.”
“Not quite, fat man. Who’s to say we won’t help you load that sleigh of yours and send you off into the night, only to have you renege on your part of the deal?”
“Why, I’m insulted you would even say such a thing. I’m Santa Claus, dear; my word is my bond.”
“Says you,” I smirk, slithering toward him. “But you promised us if we quit turning polar bears you’d bring us presents again and, well, look how that turned out?”
“What do you propose?” the fat man asks, cheery voice turning suddenly to steel.
“Only that I come along to make sure you keep your end of the bargain.”
“Out of the question.” His face fairly shudders at the very idea.
“Ditto!” I bark, whirling away from him and making the best use of my cape.
“Someone, Sasha, in fact many someone’s might see you.”
“How, Santa? No one ever sees you and, those that do, you simply snap your finger and they forget all about it. Can’t you do the same for one little old vampire?”
He looks me up and down, sniffing as if I offend his delicate senses, then concedes by saying, “Well, you can’t wear that.”
“Fine,” I snort, reaching inside my ice wardrobe to slither into a slinky red, white and green number I’ve been saving for just such an occasion.
“Why, my dear,” Santa says, admiring my getup as we saunter past the other vampires, who grunt and growl but get in line to help Santa just the same. “I never knew how much Christmas meant to you vampires.”
“More than you’ll ever know,” I gush, sliding my arm through his and steering him past the iron kitchen to our left, where the rest of the moldy pasta sits, buried behind a steel door, until we can dispose of it properly in the new year.
What, you thought I’d leave a trip on Santa’s sleigh up to chance?
A Vampire’s “Bite” Before Christmas:
A Vampire Christmas Poem
‘Twas the night before Christmas,
And
all through the coven
The air felt as cold
As an Eskimo’s oven!
The coffins were open
The vampires milling;
As this was the night
For some Santa blood spilling!
The vampire’s basement
Looked haunted and dusty;
The floors were quite damp
The walls rather… musty.
The air it was filled
With maximum dread;
As just up the stairs
The vampires fled.
The living room looked
Like a warm greeting card;
As to welcome dear Santa
The vamps had tried hard!
A tree it stood shining
The lights they did glitter;
As the vamps shook their heads
And started to twitter.
It wasn’t their nature
To get bright and sparkly;
For vampires preferred
To celebrate… darkly.
If they did have a tree
(Which was rather quite rare)
The vamps lit it sparsely
With black balls and devil’s hair.
Their vampire leader
Smiled wider than most;
His hair black as tar
His skin white as toast.
His name it was Chauncey
His legend quite vast;
For even among vampires
He was quite the badass.
One vamp asked him, “Chauncey,
“Do you think Santa knows…
Of our plan to attack him
And suck dry his toes?”
Chauncey nodded quite gravely
And said with a sigh,
“This isn’t the first time
We’ve tried to drain the big guy.”
Chauncey thought with a smile
Of the last 10 decades;
And how they’d tried to trap Santa
And his trusty elf aides.
For Santa had one thing
The vamps sure did not;
A magical bloodstream
That just would not clot!
If only the vamps
Could tap Santa’s vein;
Over all the immortals
Their species would reign!
So every year
On the 25th of December;
Vamps all cross the world
Tried Santa to dismember!
And now hooves were tramping
Up on the vamps’ ceiling;
As dread in his veins
Chaunce was suddenly feeling!
For now it was time,
To drain the jolly old elf;
Or bring another year of shame
Upon Chauncey’s old self.
He readied the vamps
As he put them in their places;
With fangs sticking out
Of their pancake pale faces.
“I don’t know what Santa
Has stuck up his sleeve,”
Chauncey said to his minions
Who could no longer breathe.
“But whatever you do,
Take care of yourselves.
And don’t fall into the trap
Set by Santa’s bad elves!”
Each vamp had a corner
Each vamp had his space;
As the chimney hole spat up
All over the place!
The first crucifix fell
And scattered the lot;
As the vamps ran away
Before they could rot!
The elves quickly followed
As onto the floor;
They rolled one by one
As more followed more.
They each grabbed a cross
And stood side by side;
As across the floor
They started to stride.
Only Chauncey remained
His vamps having scattered;
He had barely noticed
For nothing else mattered…
Save slaying dear Santa
On this Christmas Eve;
For elves or no elves
Santa just couldn’t leave.
They elves they did battle
They put up a fight;
But Chauncey prevailed
On this holiday night.
He slayed them quite soundly
Each pint-sized little elf;
Until he was triumphant
(And quite proud of himself!)
But the war wasn’t over
It had just begun;
For Santa brought vengeance
And all kinds of fun!
He landed quite squarely
In the fireplace grate;
And said, “Sorry Chauncey;
It appears I’m too late…”
“… to save my dear elves
From your living dead charm;
But have no fear, Chauncey –
Santa’s here to do you harm!”
And old Santa meant it
That lively old elf;
He snuffed and he snorted
In spite of himself!
He ripped off his sleeves
And flexed massive biceps;
Old Chaunce stood his ground
Fangs glistening like forceps.
“I see you’ve been lifting
Your loyal reindeer.
You’re mad if you think
You fill me with fear!”
Old Santa did wink
And the rumbling it grew;
As eight giant reindeer
Down the chimney they flew!
The reindeer were vicious
As they gathered around;
And knocked poor old Chauncey
Straight onto the ground.
They stomped as they hungered
For some prime vampire pain;
As poor Chauncey tried fighting
Them off quite in vain.
And as each massive paw print
Seared into his skin;
Chauncey’s face fairly burst
In a maniacal grin.
He slashed at their ankles
With his ragged, rough claws;
As each tiny reindeer
Fell straight to its paws!
They scattered and scampered
Away from his wrath;
As straight toward Santa
The vamp set a path!
The fat man was turning
To make his escape;
When Chauncey came at him
And chomped on his nape!
But Santa was lively
Quite spritely and quick;
And poor Chauncey got
No more than a lick!
And onto the rooftop
Old Santa did spring;
As into the night
His voice it did ring.
“On Dancer, On Dasher
Don’t care if you’re bleeding;
Away from this hellhole
We need to be speeding!”
Old Chauncey was wounded
And felt to one knee;
Landing in front
Of that old Christmas tree.
And there, wrapped up nicely
In ribbons and bows;
Was a sight that warmed Chauncey
Straight down to his toes.
A vial, you see
Filled with gooey red stuff;
A sight that filled Chauncey
Fully of holiday guff!
It was from Santa, you see
A gift straight from the heart;
For it was with one pint of blood
The fat man did part.
He’d given old Chauncey
His fondest gift yet;
A tube of his blood
The freshest he’d get!
His wish had come true
Santa’s blood was all his;
He poured it all down
But it started to… fizz?
The vampire did choke
On Santa’s gag gift!
Just when his spirits
Had started to lift!
It wasn’t elf blood
In that little glass tube;
Old Chaunce had been had;
He felt like… a boob!
It was candy Santa’d left him
Under the tree;
And now the fat man
Did cackle with glee.
“It would be too easy,”
Santa called from his sleigh.
“If I gave you my blood;
Just tossed it away.”
And then Santa drove
Quite far out of sight;
As his sleigh disappeared
On this cold Christmas night.
And Chauncey retired
To his coffin downstairs;
For some much needed
Old bloody vampire repairs.
And he thought as he nestled
Quite snug in his coffin;
How next year old Santa
He’d better be offin!
The Vampire’s Valentine:
A Vampire Valentine’s Day Story
I’m staring out the classroom window when the soft ruffle of paper, more like cardboard, clatters inside my empty mailbox.
Most days of the year I don’t have a “mailbox” on my desk, but this is Valentine’s Day, so… desk?
Meet mailbox.
I don’t turn right away because I can see her in the midday reflection of the window.
Tall, black hair, black sweater, black skirt, red and white stockings, black shoes; her Valentine’s getup.
Hilda McGregor?
She’s my valentine?
My first-ever, in 145 years, valentine?
I turn, at last, to see her fidgeting nervously in front of my desk.
“Hilda?” I ask, voice low as our classmates giggle and coo over their endless, towering, so-big-they’re-teetering-off-their-desk stacks of red and white and gold foil greeting cards.
“Hey Chester.”
She has that crooked smile I see so rarely but, sometimes, from across the room when I catch her looking at me.
“Did you… just… slip a Valentine into my box?”
She bites her lip and nods, looking around self-consciously.
The only thing worse than one loser drawing attention to herself is two losers enjoying themselves.
Nothing draws attention like that.
I’m no fool; either is she.
Time is running out before someone notices.
“Thank you.”
“No biggie,” she adds, clutching her shoulders the way she does.
“I… I… don’t know what to say.”
“You just did,” she giggles.
And somewhere, deep in my cold, dead heart, the temperature rises just a little.
Not enough to matter, but a little just the same.
“I don’t have one for you,” I apologize.
She shrugs and says, “I didn’t expect you too, Chester. No one ever does. It’s cool. You can… can… get me back someday, okay?”
And she flees, quickly, without another word.
I flick my eyes left and see why: Char Brighthouse is shooting her daggers, all the way back to her desk.
She looks from Hilda back to me, then back to Hilda and sneers; I smile back.
Groaning, Char turns to her friends Brazen and Splenda and leans in for a monumental whisper-slash-bitch-fest.
I smile, wondering if I haven’t already just found a way to repay Hilda.
I lurk in the shadows for the rest of the afternoon after our midday Valentine’s party in Mrs. Hutcheson’s Home Ec class.
Hilda is easy to shadow, so tall and hulking in the halls, always dressed in black, that limp blond hair like straw as she twirls a single strand endlessly around one bitten-to-the-quick nail.
We don’t have many classes together, but now that she’s shown me a small ray of kindness in this mortal world, I shadow her from room to room just the same.
I stand outside her Biology class, ear to the wall, using the powers I’ve honed over nearly two centuries to eavesdrop through the cheap, cinderblock walls.
Aside from a boring lecture from Mr. Haines and a few catty asides about Hilda’s stockings from Char and her gang, not much happens.
Outside the gym during 7th period, though, everything changes.
There are windows here, and what I couldn’t see in Biology I can see clearly now.
Hilda, hang dog and hunched over in her brown-on-brown gym shorts and matching T-shirt, tube socks yanked up to her bruised knees and knotted shoestrings bunched around her battered hi-tops, standing awkwardly while Char and Brazen and Splenda circle her like sharks in a tank.
I can feel the fangs flicker at my gums, like wounds healing – or being torn open.
I can feel the claws itching to slip from my fingertips, and stow them deep in my jeans pockets just in case.
I turn, eyes closed in anger, and slip unnoticed into the girls locker room.
I ignore the showers, the heat, the naked bodies as they pass beyond my cloaked presence a few minutes later.
In my anger I feel the invisibility begin to wane, but manage to focus even as Char continues to taunt Hilda standing, half-naked, at her open locker.
“Fess up, Hilda,” Char spits. “You dig that Chester dude, don’t you?”
“Not like you think,” Hilda insists, and I can tell her voice is sincere.
“I think you’ve got the hots for the creep,” says Brazen, tossing her long, red locks as she shoves Hilda into the lockers.
The sound echoes off the slick, wet walls as the other girls – cowards, all of them – quickly dress and scramble out of sight.
“So what if I did?” Hilda squeaks, defiant – if hopeless – to the end.
The other girls laugh, harpish shrieks that grate on my ears.
And I’ve heard werewolves howl in the fresh moonlight, so I should know a thing or two about shrieking!
The air in front of my face sizzles to life as the power of invisibility threatens to tear apart in my rage.
And still the insults hurl, the abuse continues.
The girls taunt Hilda, and push her, paying no heed to the ringing bell or the empty hour.
They have all day, it would seem, to make Hilda their special project.
The locker door slams every time they shove Hilda into it, her pale, bare shoulders peppered with bruises; some recent, others long since trying to heal.
Her peach colored bra struggles to stay on from the constant abuse, even as her black skirt from earlier in the day hangs loosely around her pale, concave stomach.
And she never wavers, never gives an inch.
In her eyes I see not fear, but the revulsion – the rage – of a thousand vampires.
And I know, if only she had the powers that I possess, she would grind these girls under her boot and leave without a frown.
But she is too good to fight back, too hemmed in by the consequences of what might happen if she broke Char’s nose, yanked out Chaz’s earring or chipped one of Splenda’s perfect, white teeth.
Years of being outcast have ground her down and made her fear the repercussions both real and imagined.
Char raises an open hand to strike and I drift from my cloud, fully visible and stop her slap in mid-air.
She shrieks, but no more loudly than Brazen and Splenda.
Brazen tries to run to Char’s aid but, at last, Hilda is spurred to action, reaching out with one long, nearly endless arm and yanking the back of her bra until Brazen’s brassy red head yanks back, all the way back into the nearest locker.
She slumps, conscious but shamed, to the floor in a blithering heap.
Splenda rushes to her aid and, on the way past, Hilda extends one bare foot, sending the blond slipping across the wet locker room tiles, her head landing face first in an open locker full of damp, moldy socks.
She lies, semi-conscious, where she lands.
“You witch!” Char spits at Hilda when I finally release her.
Hilda is tugging on her black sweater, pulling her limp blond hair out the opening and across her shoulders.
“Me?” Hilda asks, keeping her distance. “You and your girls rushed me, Char. How am I the witch?”
“You planned this,” Char accuses, inching away from me and closer to Hilda. “The two of you, I saw you at the Valentine’s Party earlier, getting all chummy.”
“Nonsense,” I correct. “Hilda here was just giving me a Valentine.”
I smile at Hilda.
Uncertain, she smiles back.
Hesitantly at first and then, when it’s dawned on her that I’m here, really here, the smile at last gets bigger.
Char looks suspicious, her pug nose turned up as she rifles two hands full of bright red fingernails through her raven black hair.
“Yeah, so… what are you doing here then, Chester?”
“I suppose,” I say, just now realizing what I am doing, “this is my valentine to Hilda.”
Hilda smiles, standing a smidge taller all of a sudden.
“Whatever,” Char spits. “You’re both a couple of freaks anyway.”
“So what?” Hilda barks, slipping into her candy cane striped tights before we get down to business. “So we’re freaks, big deal. Just… leave us alone. We’re not bothering anyone.”
Char snorts, an ugly sound; worse even than the sound zombies make when sucking brains from a fresh skull.
(And, yes, I’ve heard that too.)
“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hilda asks.
“Yeah, like after what’s happened here, I’m ever going to leave you two alone. Ever! You both just bought yourself a one way to ticket to Mean Girls Heaven.”
As Char and Hilda face off, I chuckle easily, the fangs sliding effortlessly from my gums.
Char is turning around slowly as Hilda shakes her head at me.
I make a quizzical gesture but close my mouth just the same.
Only then does Hilda smile.
“What’s so funny, sourpuss?” Char asks, finally looking me up and down.
I smile behind closed lips until my fangs retract and then ask Hilda, “Yeah, Hilda. What is so funny?”
“Just this!” Suddenly, Hilda grabs Char’s hand and yanks her backward onto the nearest bench.
Char’s head bounces off the varnished wood but Hilda leaps onto her waist, pinning her down with crab-like thighs that are obviously much stronger than they appear, all sickly and skinny like.
“Left or right?” Hilda asks, gripping Char’s hands to keep them from flailing.
“Left or right what, witch? Let me up or I swear I’m going straight to—”
“Left it is,” Hilda says, finding Char’s pinky and, with a crooked smile, bending it back until we both hear a sickening “snap” sound.
Char cries out in pain as Splenda and Brazen huddle together in a corner.
“Keep screaming,” Hilda hisses into Char’s ear, “and I’ll keep snapping.”
Choking back tears and swallowing snot, Char does as she’s told.
Hilda shoves her off the bench, onto the floor, and takes her spot, sliding out her battered hi-tops and slipping them on casually as she looks at Char, whimpering, snottily, on the wet locker room tiles.
“Don’t ever talk to me again, Char,” Hilda says, brass in her throat. “I mean it. For every word you say to me from this day forward, I’m going to break a finger. And if you say more than nine, I’ll start on your toes.”
Char whimpers, nodding nervously.
Hilda looks toward her two friends and says, “When I run out of your fingers and toes, I’ll start in on theirs.”
One of the girls shrieks.
Neither Hilda or I care which.
Hilda opens her mouth to say more, then shakes her head.
She looks at me. “It’s not even worth it,” she says, standing.
We walk out of the locker room together, pausing only so Hilda can turn at the door and, over her shoulder, wish the girls, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The commons is deserted; even the janitor has gone home for the day.
The walls are littered with paper hearts and red and pink streamers as we stroll by, together, not even bothering to stop by our lockers.
“Thanks,” she says a few blocks from the school.
It’s the first thing either of us has said to each other since we left the girls’ locker room.
“For what?” I ask, chuckling dryly in the mid-February chill. “You didn’t even let me use any of my vampire powers.”
“Why waste them on Char and her friends?” she asks seriously, as if she’s been plotting world domination for quite some time now. “I mean, then what would happen? They’d go tell their parents, and their parents would tell the town, and before you know it we’d all be coming after you with torches and pitchforks. It’s easier this way.”
“But why, Hilda?”
“They ticked me off one last time, Chester. It’s embarrassing, taking their crap all day long. I mean, that crap’s been going on for years. But… when they did it in front of you, well, that took the cake. I snapped, I guess.”
I chuckle.
She
says, “What’s so funny? That I snapped in my bra?”
“No, I
mean, yes, but… what I meant was, why
did you give me a valentine in the first place?”
“Oh, that?”
She smiles to herself, walking on those long, stringy legs for another few steps before finally admitting, “I was too shy to talk to you, and I’ve wanted to ever since you transferred here after Christmas, so… I figured I’d give you a card and see what happened.”
“Are you sorry you did?”
“Heck no!”
“I mean, that you gave a valentine to a… vampire?”
“Oh that? Who cares? I mean, as long as you don’t try to turn me, we’re cool…”
I nod, shuffling along at her side.
“You’re not? Going to try to turn me, I mean? Right Chester?”
I grab her hand; it’s so warm against my cold, cold skin.
“Not until you ask me to, Hilda. Not until you ask me to…”
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is a professional freelance writer who lives in sunny Florida with his beautiful wife, Martha. They enjoy riding bikes, long, leisurely walks on the beach, romantic dinners and vampire movies!
(Well, Rusty does, anyway!)
Rusty is the author of several YA supernatural novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press, 2011), Ushers, Inc. (Decadent Publishing, 2011), Detention of the Living Dead (Quake Books, 2012) and Vamplayers (Medallion Press, 2012).
Visit his blog, www.zombiesdontblog.blogspot.com, for news, reviews, cover leaks, writing and publishing advice, book excerpts and more!
And if you can’t wait for his next release, download his complete YA novel Vampires Drool! Zombies Rule! absolutely FREE at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/25988.