CHAPTER SEVEN

The absolute stillness in the car was disturbed only when Ms. Lawry shifted the gear of her car. Robyn's eyes flickered back and forth between Mark and Ms. Lawry hesitantly as she sat in the back seat, subconsciously cracking her knuckles in apprehension. Mark was next to Ms. Lawry, slumped down in his seat with his shoulders drooping. With his eyes glazed over as he stared out the window, snow-covered trees and street lamps reflected in his deep brown eyes, he radiated an unapproachable state of meditation.

As the road beneath them started to get steeper, Mark grew increasingly antsy. He rubbed his sweaty palms together, and he fidgeted around in his seat disjointedly. When the house came into sight, he reached down and started to buckle and unbuckle his seatbelt sporadically, glancing nervously out the window at the building that loomed before them.

Ms. Lawry pulled the car up in front of the stairs. "Well, here we are…" She started to get out.

At the last moment, Mark hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "You can't go in there."

She pulled her arm back towards her, her eyes narrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about? We just drove up here for you…"

"Not now." He pointed to the long black car that sat, hidden away, among the brush outside the house. "You go in now, and you're just begging for trouble." He paused, watching the other car. "We could hide out." Ms. Lawry sighed. "We could come back tomorrow! We just can'tgo in there while he's in there," he said desperately. He stared at her, his breathing intense and labored. His wide eyes were glassy but focused.

Robyn leaned forward towards Ms. Lawry. "Maybe you should go in by yourself. I'll stay here with him." She glanced back at Mark, whose face glistened as rivers of sweat poured down his face. Ms. Lawry nodded.

"No…wait…" Mark said frantically, his eyes following her.

She turned back, a reassuring yet quizzical smile on her lips. "Mark, I'll be back in five minutes, you'll see," she told him in a patronizing tone. "I'll be fine!" she called over her shoulder as she ascended the front porch.

Robyn watched Mark as he stared after Ms. Lawry, the back of his shirt soaked with perspiration. She didn't say anything, only nervously pulling at her hair. Seeing Mark in such an alarming state of anxiety scared her.

It seemed to Mark that they had sat in the car for hours before anything happened. The digital clock in front of him had to be wrong; the minutes ticked by so slowly that time seemed to stand still.

The late afternoon sun passed behind the clouds, as if foretelling doom. The shadows that were passing across Mark's eyes grew larger and larger until they encompassed his entire face. A wind blew outside the car, creating a high-pitched shrieking sound that whistled through the cracked windows. Robyn shuddered and gathered her jack around her shoulders.

Mark turned his gaze to the front of the Marsten house. For a moment, he thought he could almost hear voices coming from inside, whispering heatedly in uneven tones.

"Tonight…do it tonight…"

He stared through the yellow-stained window above the heavy oak door, the sat up with a jolt. Someone was staring back.

The eyes were shiny, unnaturally so, wide and furious. They could not have been human, glowing eerily without any light, but they appeared more animal than man. No, more devil than man. The door opened the timing so menacingly slow, and Mark realized that it wasn't a white-eyed demon inside. He was mortal, and his gray eyes burned with a fire hotter than any flames in Hell. And suddenly, Mark wished it had been a vampire standing on the porch.

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The deep, resonating creak of old stairs echoed hollowly through the covered porch. Ms. Lawry hesitated in front of the door, leaning towards the seemingly windows that lined the wooden panel. A faint, shrill screech cut the air around her…or perhaps it was only in her mind…

"Straker?… Let's get out of here! Come on, Mike!" The sound of heavy footsteps vibrated the walls around Ms. Lawry. She looked inside the house, eyes wide, but saw only an empty foyer. And yet the footsteps grew louder, and she heard the distinct thud of a door slamming shut.

She closed her eyes tightly, and the noise faded away. Ms. Lawry shook herself mentally. What would the board say if they knew she was entertaining ideas about the supernatural? It had taken her years to earn their trust, having come from a background that was…

Ms. Lawry took a hold of the heavy, ornate bronze door knocker. The metal was heavy and cold…so cold that she withdrew her hand quickly, as though she had been burned. She glanced back at the car. Robyn's figure was distinguishable in the backseat through the tinted glass, but Mark must have been huddled down in the shadows that were enveloping the front half of the car in darkness.

She turned back to the door…only to find it open. A gust of wind blew across the porch, breaking her skin out in goosebumps. Ms. Lawry paused for a moment, weighing her options, before taking a tentative step inside.

It was the overwhelmingly strong smell that hit her first; a heavy, putrid odor to which she couldn't find a comparison. Ms. Lawry stumbled backwards a few steps, almost out the door, when she caught herself. "Hello?" she choked out. A disturbing silence answered back. "Mr. Pierson?" She walked carefully through the hallway, studying the strange architecture of the building with a mixture of awe and increasing fear.

The décor of the wooden walls was like nothing she had ever seen. The dark beauty was staggering. But what truly frightened her were the flowers. Roses. Everywhere. Spread out on the mantle, in ancient vases lined up along the table, even scattered on the floor. None had any petals. They were all bare except for a small, wilted bud with wrinkled brown petals. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, the bitter-sweet hum of music filled the air. Then all was quiet.

She strained her ears, listening to the complete silence, and she heard it again: the distinct sound of a violin. Quickening her pace, Ms. Lawry took a few hastening steps, following the sound towards the end of a long corridor to her left. She found herself standing in front of a door with a wavering light gleaming from through the crack. The glow grew stronger and diminished before her eyes. Slowly, she pushed the door open.

Two candelabras stood on either side of the door, with smaller fragrant candles lit along the bookshelves that lined both walls. An ancient record player rested on top of an end table a few yards away. The room was strangely shaped, very narrow in width but extraordinarily long in length. A large chair, almost like a throne, sat on the far end of the room. Ms. Lawry could see the top of a person's head above the back of the seat. "Mr. Pierson?" she whispered, her voice sounding strained. The chair swung around menacingly.

For a moment, she believed. She believed everything Mark had told her about vampires and the town. Ulric Pierson sat regally in the throne, his dark hair combed straight back, seemingly plastered to his skull. His hands were clasped in front of his face, and he watched her over his long, skeletal fingers. It was his eyes that caught Ms. Lawry's attention. They were sharp, intelligent, and they appeared to glow from some internal sinister light. He stood and she took a step backwards. Her reaction seemed to amuse him, and he strode slowly over to her, holding his hand out lazily.

"Ulric Pierson, city councilman. How may I be of assistance?" Any doubt Ms. Lawry had about Pierson vanished as soon as his words left his lips. His voice was deep and rich, accented by a foreign intonation. She took his hand, all the while staring into his eyes as if drawn to him…

"This is a little embarrassing, Mr. Pierson. I was sent here by Mark Petrie. He has raised a few concerns about…about the town. You see…"

Pierson held up his hand. "Ms. Lawry," he began. She stopped, not even noticing that he knew her name without ever being introduced to her. "I have already spoken with Mr. Petrie. He seems to be a little…frustrated, if you will. He is upset with me, personally, because I drew up the plans for this town. Perhaps it was a mistake to model it after the original…" Pierson's face did not suggest that he took the blame. On the contrary, he appeared quite amused, a dark pleasure lining his face.

"I understand completely," she said tonelessly, gazing into his dark, soulless eyes. "Mark is out in my car as we speak. Would you like me to…?" The low groan of a floorboard behind Ms. Lawry snapped her out of Pierson's trance. She turned around just in time to see a large figure swing something down at her, and then she knew no more.

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The blood that ran through Mark's veins turned to ice. Alan stood on the porch, a long, double-barreled shotgun clutched in one of his gigantic hands. Mark gaped, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Robyn followed his gaze. "Mark, who is…?" she began.

A bullet whizzed past the car right outside her window. Mark didn't hesitate; he jumped into the driver's seat, turned the key that Ms. Lawry left in the ignition, and pressed the gas pedal. He swung the car around, tires squealing, making a U-turn in the driveway of the Marsten House. A deafening bang rang through the air. Less than half a second later, the back windshield exploded in a sheet of flying glass. Robyn screamed, and Mark suddenly felt a shooting pain at his right shoulder. 'I've been shot…' he thought mutely, eyes wide. He slumped to the side, clawing at his arm. The car began swerving to the left. Robyn leaned over the headrest of the front seat and took control of the wheel, watching Mark out of the corner of her eye.

"Keep your foot on the gas, Mark. Stay with me. Stay with me, damn it!" she muttered desperately. She glanced into the rearview mirror as they disappeared over the hill. The last thing she saw was Ulric Pierson, the well-respected and admired city councilman of Jerusalem's Lot, grabbing the gun from the big man's hands and aiming it down at them, knowing full-well that they were too far away to be hit.

Once they reached the town, Robyn pulled the car to a stop in a field that overlooked a small red farmhouse. "We need to get you to a hospital," she said firmly. "That bullet…"

Mark shook his head grimly. "We can't be confined to a hospital. We tried that last time, and…" His voice trailed off, and he grimaced slightly. "You drive. We'll go to your house, make a plan from there." He opened the car door with his left hand and slid out. Robyn watched him carefully. Mark saw the guileless concern in her eyes and smiled half-heartedly. "It isn't that bad; I think the bullet fell out and the cut is fairly shallow."

Robyn nodded uncertainly, then averted her eyes, turning her gaze to the house in the meadow. A figure stepped out onto the porch, dressed in the strangest attire Robyn had ever seen. She couldn't even tell if they were a man or a woman. They were wearing a long black trench coat, thick gray mittens, perfectly round sunglasses, hip waders, and large baggy pants. Robyn felt the eyes, the accusing stare of a stranger. She shuddered before stepping inside the car.

The sun was getting its last look at the Lot as they pulled into the Evanoff's driveway. Robyn jumped out and rushed to the passenger side, opening the door for Mark. He looked at her quizzically, remaining in his seat. A small grin grazed his lips; Robyn's face remained stony.

"What about Ms. Lawry?"

Mark's smile faltered. "I don't know." He dropped his gaze to the ground. "I told her not to go in. I told her to wait, to see what would happen…" He glanced up at her, his eyes flashing in the moonlight. "Now she's gone. It's down to us." His tone was unnerving, like that of a hopeless man trying to sound light-hearted.

"I think we should get inside…it's getting dark…" Robyn said, tilting her head back and looking up at the sky, which was slowly turning an inky blue-black

Mark's eyes widened. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He got out of the car, wincing slightly as his forearm hit the side of the car. Robyn took him by the other arm and led him inside.

"Sit there for right now." She pointed to the couch on which he had slept two nights before. "I'll get some stuff out of the kitchen." Robyn started for the corridor. "I don't know how to treat injuries from…well, actually I don't know how to treat anything besides your basic paper cut…" she called. "I'll do what I can with the things I have, but without a doctor…"

"It's fine." He listened to the steady sounds of Robyn walking around the kitchen. "If you weren't here, I'd probably be sitting in my room at Eva's, scrubbing away with hot water and soap."

Robyn's rhythmic footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Mark turned to see her standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the living room, a bar of soap in one hand and a dripping washcloth in the other. He grinned good-naturedly at her, shaking his head.

"I told you I'm not too good at this…" She sat down on the edge of the couch. "I'm going to need you to take off your shirt, though." He hesitated. "Come on, hurry it up!"

Mark glanced at her, eyes wide. Slowly he stood up and pulled his ripped gray T-shirt over his head, his gaze unwavering from her face. He was about to sit back down when Robyn said, "Wait…" She leaned forward, peering around his waist. "Turn around."

He looked at her pleadingly, then sighed. Turning around obediently, he held his breath. "Oh my…" she started, staring at his muscled back. His skin was completely covered in unhealed bruises and jagged scars. Long, red scratches extended across the length of his broad shoulders, and a large welt pulsed beneath his left shoulder blade.

"That's why I didn't want to…" Mark began. He closed his eyes. "I just…"

"Who…?"

"My uncle. The man on the porch." Robyn nodded, not able to take her eyes off him. She was surprised to find his face not contorted with pain, but flushed with an innocent, childlike guilt.

"I thought so…by the way you looked at him…" Mark didn't reply. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't…"

"It's okay. I don't mind. It's just, seeing him here…" He met her gaze for a moment, then turned his eyes to the ground. Robyn dabbed the washcloth against his shoulder gingerly, and Mark winced. She felt his body tense as she carefully put a gauze on it, then taped it up with a bandage. Mark turned back to her, thanking her with his eyes, then reached down and squeezed her hand lightly. Robyn hesitated, then leaned towards him slowly…

…And in a flash, her face changed. Twisting, writhing, and suddenly it was Barlow who was advancing towards Mark's neck, fangs inconceivably long and sharp, a crimson-black liquid smeared on his lips.

"He killed my attendant, he can replace him…"

Mark stumbled backwards, eyes wide with shock. He tripped over the coffee table and fell onto his back, but no matter what, he refused to look at Barlow…nothing could make him look into that face…

"Mark?" Even her voice was beginning to sound like his, low and gravelly and filled with a taunting loathing. "Mark…?"

He shook his head, hands clamped over his ears, eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, the room stopped spinning and the unrelenting, incessant throbbing in his head diminished to a raw thud. He opened his eyes and saw that Robyn had backed up against the wall, her face contorted into an expression of alarm and fear. "Are you alright? I…I'm sorry if I…"

"No." He propped himself up on his elbows and stared at her. She walked over tentatively and helped him up, guiding him to the couch. He lay down, and she sat next to his head. "Don't apologize…it wasn't your fault. I…" He was interrupted by a soft tapping behind him. Simultaneously, they turned around to see Ms. Lawry standing at the screen door.

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Disbelief shot through Mark's body like a jolt of electricity, followed shortly by a burst of happiness in his chest. Then, the sinking, pessimistic confusion with which Mark had become so well acquainted. Ms. Lawry's face was long and gaunt, her eyes cloudy, mouth hanging slack. A bruise stood out prominently on the side of her head by the temple. "Can I come in?" she croaked in a low voice, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Sure…what happened up there? How…?" Ms. Lawry stepped inside slowly, hesitantly. Her eyes swiveled from side to side nervously, as if she would have done anything just to stay outside in the night. A moment later, Mark wished she would have, too.

Ulric Pierson followed her in, cloaked in a black cape, with his eyes covered by a dark, wide-brimmed hat. He held a small handgun, pointed at the small of Ms. Lawry's back. Alan Thornton shambled after him, his small, piggish eyes locked on Mark. A cruel, maddening smile crossed his lips.

Mark leapt to his feet, and Robyn uttered a silent scream. For a moment, no one moved. A second passed by, but it felt like an eternity. Then, Pierson spoke. "Your uncle has been worried sick about you, Mister Petrie. He's spoken of nothing else." Without warning, he swung the gun around to Mark and aimed it at his bare chest. He looked over at Robyn, and a leering grin appeared on his face. "You'll be coming with me now, Ms. Evanoff."

Robyn stood rooted to the spot, mouth gaping. A shot rang out, and Mark felt a surge of fire following the exact path of the first bullet, ripping the bandage from his skin. He dropped to one knee, clutching his shoulder. Pulling his hand down in front of his face, he found it warm, sticky, and dyed scarlet with blood. Robyn rushed to his side, but Pierson pointed the barrel at the center of her forehead. He jerked the gun to the right twice in Alan's direction. She stood up slowly, and Alan took one stride and caught her by the arm.

Mark looked up at Pierson, his stare narrowed dangerously. There was no need to speak; the hatred that burned in Mark's eyes said enough. Pierson returned his gaze steadily with a hint of dark amusement twinkling in his eyes. "I'm quite willing to make a trade, Mister Petrie." He roughly shoved Ms. Lawry at him. "You'll find that I'm a very reasonable person. After all, we have no use for a snitch anymore."

Robyn and Mark turned their eyes to Ms. Lawry. Pierson laughed coldly, his voice ringing in the silence. "We wouldn't have been able to find you both without her assistance."

Pierson's eyes swept over an enraged Mark, a cowering Ms. Lawry, and then Alan's gaze. Smirking, he nodded to him. Alan withdrew a concealed hand gun and aimed it at the ceiling. There was a clap of something like thunder, and the hanging light above them exploded. Shards of glass flew everywhere, and the room was thrown into complete, absolute darkness.

Mark took a few blind steps towards them, hands clenched in fists, knuckles ghost-white. In the blink of an eye, Pierson pointed the pistol at Mark's feet. A loud blast jolted Mark, and he momentarily froze before being knocked onto his back from the explosion. A small hole smoldered in the carpet not one inch away from where Mark's foot had been.

Getting up, Mark pushed his way towards them, when a hand grasped his arm. He turned furiously to see Ms. Lawry, her eyes as round as quarters and pleading fearfully.

"Let me go," he said quietly, his voice low and dangerous.

"Killing yourself right now won't help anyone."

He glanced back at Pierson, despising every feature of him: his greased black hair; his spotless, pressed suit and polished shoes; his houndish, grinning face. "I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning," Mark murmured, his eyes glazed yet directly focused. "Daybreak."

Pierson smirked, then reached over and patted Robyn's head, much like what a grandmother would do to a small child. "Don't worry, Mister Petrie. Our leader is patient. We won't touch a hair on her head." He opened the door for Alan, who held Robyn by the arm.

For a moment, Mark met Robyn's wide eyes. "I won't let anything happed to you," he mouthed wordlessly to her. She glanced over at Pierson apprehensively, then she nodded.

Pierson pushed her out the door, then turned and said, "You have my word on that, Mister Petrie. We can't throw a party without the guest of honor…" He took off his hat and bowed deeply, not taking his eyes off of Mark. There was a swish of a cloak, and he was gone.

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Mark and Ms. Lawry sat at the kitchen table, not speaking, not moving, barely even breathing. Even though she did not believe in vampires, Ms. Lawry could no longer deny the ambiance of some sort of…dark, malevolent presence. Something was happening.

"Listen to me, Mark." He remained motionless, defiantly staring past her face, instead gazing through the window and out into the night. Somewhere, a dog barked. It began to snarl and growl angrily, menacingly. A squealing yelp, then all was silent. Mark's face remained hard and unflinching. "I couldn't help it! When I looked at him…it was almost like he could control…" Her voice trailed off, and she sighed irately, unable to explain.

Mark turned his eyes to her slowly. "Like he could control you? You heard him say things in your head, things that nobody else was supposed to know…?" he asked, horror dawning on his face.

Ms. Lawry nodded hesitantly, her brow narrowed with confusion. "How did you know?"

He didn't answer. Standing suddenly, the legs of his chair scraping the linoleum floor loudly, he whispered, "That isn't possible. He…he can't do that…" He backed up slowly, not taking his eyes off her. "Pierson's just a mortal…"

Ms. Lawry frowned deeply. "Mark, there are no such thing as vampires. Whatever is going on around here…"

Mark slammed his fist down on the table, causing the windows to rattle and Ms. Lawry to recoil. "We both the Lot isn't safe, but you think that's just because my uncle's here. Well, let me tell you something, Ms. Lawry." He leaned down towards her, his face inches from hers. "Alan's the least of our troubles." Mark dropped his gaze and his voice lowered. "I think you should give me the benefit of the doubt here, Ms. Lawry, being that it's your fault Robyn's being held captive up in that house."

Ms. Lawry flinched as if he had hit her. "Mark, I…"

He shook his head. "Don't bother." He strode out of the room, trying urgently to pay no attention to Ms. Lawry's unrelenting stare. Ascending the stairs, Mark's feet carried him subconsciously to his old room. He opened the door and stood in the entryway to his bedroom, swaying a little. And suddenly, Mark Petrie was home; his four-post bed was situated against the far wall, clothes were scattered across the floor, magazines lay littered on his bed. He staggered forward and fell onto his mattress, dry, hacking sobs escaping from his throat. Burying his head in his pillow, Mark lay in the darkness for what felt like an eternity, listening to the shrill sound of nothingness that was slowly engulfing him.

The low whispering below him broke the tranquility. Mark held his breath, straining his ears, terrified yet desperate to hear…

Then, the unmistakable click of a window latch. Mark sat bolt upright in his bed. The creak of floorboards echoed through the halls, followed by a murmuring chuckle, then the most petrifying sound of all: utter silence. For a moment, Mark thought he could hear something like a satisfied sucking sound, then a low moan. He crept out of bed, remembering suddenly to get his cross out of his pocket just as he reached the door. Quickly yet as silent as the dead, he made his way to the top of the stairs. Peering down over the banister into the living room below, Mark felt his heart stop for an instant, complete terror immobilizing him.

Grant stood beside Ms. Lawry's crumpled body, his eyes tiny pinpricks in the darkened room. His skin, which in life had been unnaturally white, was now glowing from some concealed unholy flame.

Mark stumbled backwards, trying desperately not to make any noise, but he stepped on the top stair ('Damn that creaky step!') and a groan that, to Mark, sounded nothing less than deafening shattered the silence. Grant's eyes grew wide and, in one fluid movement, darted from Ms. Lawry up to Mark. A cruel little smile formed on his crimson-stained mouth.

"Come on down, Mark," Grant called. "It isn't so bad…actually, it's really quite fun." Grant licked the blood off his lips. Mark looked away, instead turning his gaze to Ms. Lawry. She was so pale, so drained of any color. Her eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling, glazed and unmoving.

Suddenly, Grant's body flickered and disappeared. A second later, he was at the base of the stairs, grinning up at Mark with shining white eyes. "Let's go flying, Mark. All around the town…" The corners of his mouth quivered, and he bared his needle-like fangs.

Mark glanced out the window behind Grant. An orange tint was slowly breaking the darkness, spilling across the Lot. "Time to go, Grant," he whispered hoarsely. The light peeked into the house through the window, and a pitched hissing filled the air, followed shortly by a puff of vapor that lifted itself from a small patch of burned red skin on Grant's arm. He shrieked and leapt backwards, turning wildly away from the sun. Grant lunged towards the retreating shadows, groping madly at the doorknob to the basement. Turning his head to Mark, he murmured, "Forgive me…" Then, he fell forwards, straight as a board, plummeting down into the darkness. The last look Mark got of him was of his eyes, rolled backwards into his head, bloodshot and glassy. There were a few loud thumps, then a disquieting stillness.

Hesitating, Mark edged down the stairs and stood in front of the heavy wooden door as it swung back and forth on its hinges. He searched the inside wall for a switch and, upon finding it, flicked it upright. Grant lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, his legs bent at impossible, grotesque angles, eyes closed. Mark grasped his cross tightly in his hand and shut the door.

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Alone. All alone. Mark stood in front of the door to the outside, watching the sun rise slowly. He held the sharpened leg of the kitchen table in one hand, his small gravestone cross in the other. The shadows drew back along the landscape up towards the Marsten House. The last of the darkness fled, and Jerusalem's Lot was once again asleep. Mark glanced back at Ms. Lawry's body, now covered with the Evanoff's lacy white tablecloth, and grimaced. Turning the large brass knob, he stepped out into the sunlight.

Mark walked down the driveway to the curb and stepped down onto the road. A moment later, he withdrew his foot quickly; the street was covered with four inches of water. He glanced down the countryside past the house and saw that the bank of the creak had been washed away, replaced by a mud-covered knoll. The snow had melted, thereby flooding the Lot a few inches. Mark continued down the sidewalk, shaking off his foot.

A red SUV roared around the corner, sending waves of water up onto the lawns. Without thinking, Mark flung himself out into the street in front of the car. "Stop! Stop, please…" he shouted, waving his arms frantically.

The driver stopped not a half foot away from his chest. Mark stepped around the car and peered into the front seat. A you man, probably in his early thirties, sat behind the wheel, his face long and unshaven. "Hey, mister, could you drive me up there?" Mark asked, pointing up at the Marsten House.

The man's eyes grew wide behind his large round glasses. He jerked his head around and stared at Mark. "My little girl died this morning. I found her in her room. She was so white…so white. My wife's been missing for three days. I called the sheriff's office, but there's no answer."

Mark waited hesitantly. "So…can you give me the ride?"

A loud booming cackle echoed through the street. The man laughed and laughed, his face growing steadily redder. The eyes behind the glasses, already magnified, were as big as half-dollars. He stopped suddenly, his breath accelerated, and turned slowly to Mark. "Hell, no," he whispered croakily. He pressed the gas pedal, and the tires spun in place for a moment, drenching Mark with a surge of water. The car sped off, and Mark was once again alone.

Glancing up at the Marsten House, Mark grew increasingly aware of a dull, low thumping sound. Louder and louder, the thuds became deafening in his ears. It took him a moment to realize it was his own heart that was banging painfully inside his chest. He started towards the center of town, his eyes locked on that house that loomed before him. The warm October sun had melted the snow, but Mark shivered and pulled his jacket closer to himself. A certain coldness radiated from him, and goosebumps ran up and down his arms. Water rushed past his ankles, carrying sticks, leaves, and garbage. Mark didn't notice.

A car sat in the street, slammed into a light pole. Smoke rose from the engine, and the sour smell of gasoline floated through the air. Mark walked around the front cautiously, and looked into the front seat. A woman sat inside, dead; her mouth stretched taught, two tiny red marks on the side of her neck. Her skin, tinted a sickening green, was callused with decomposing scars, and maggots squirmed from her empty eye sockets.

Mark stumbled backwards, his mouth clenched shut, fighting down the strong urge to vomit. He gave a few choking grunts, the wet odor of decay overwhelming him, and his eyes squeezed shut. Backing up against a building, he let his staggered breath go and opened his eyes and saw a face staring at him. Mark gasped out loud and turned to duck into the doorway. An old man, at least in his eighties, watched him through the window, grinning sinisterly. His eyes remained wide and shiny, when suddenly he tipped forward, his bald head hitting the glass with a soft thud. Mark blinked in surprise. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked.

Hesitating, Mark twisted the handle to the door and opened it slowly. He held his breath, hoping the hinges had been well-oiled. Creeeak. The screech of metal against metal echoed through the foyer, which reeked even worse than it had outside. Holding his hand over his mouth, he edged along the wall towards the window. The man still sat in front of the window, motionless, in a big easy chair. His back was smeared with blood, and sticking out of his back was…

A stake.

The man twitched, a muffled moan escaping his lips. Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he hissed like a snake, his tongue extending from his mouth. Without any uncertainty, Mark leapt over to him and pushed the stake down deeper into his heart. The man screeched and growled, the windows shaking with the deep resonating sound. He twisted and writhed, screaming in pain, before falling to the ground and convulsed as if he was having a seizure. Dark red-black streams poured from his eyes, as if the man cried blood. Then, as if a magnet pulled him, he shot up through the ceiling in a cloud of smoke, the stake falling back onto the ground. Mark let out the breath from his lungs through the corners of his mouth.

Then, above him, a door slammed. He froze, eyes wildly searching, but only a musty silence responded. Mark crossed the room quietly, heading towards the stairs. He kept glancing around, hunting for any sign of life. The hallway above him was dark, no sunlight…

"Hello?" he croaked. "Is someone up there?" A choked, muffled whimper responded, filled with fear. "I'm coming up…stay where you are." He reached the top of the staircase and stopped. A small boy, no more than ten, crawled out from the shadows. He had long, thin blonde hair, wide gray eyes, and chubby cheeks smeared with blood. They stared at each other for a moment, analyzing, when suddenly the boy leaped towards him, teeth bared, whipping out a miniature baseball bat that he had hidden behind his back.

Mark stumbled backwards, holding out his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you, kid!" The child hesitated, then dropped the bat. Mark took a few steps toward him. "Did you do that downstairs?"

"I had to," the boy whispered. "He was gonna bite me!" His voice was slowly rising with hysteria. "My mum is gone. Grandpa was staying with me, so I could take care of him, but he started acting all…different." The boy's face became scrunched in an effort to hold back tears. "But last night, he was so scary. His eyes…his eyes were white and shiny. And when he talked he sounded like a snake…" He shuddered. "I don't like snakes," he whispered. "So today, when he was sitting in his chair downstairs, the chair that never gets hit by the sun…Grandpa didn't like the sun much." He gave a small sniffle and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "I went out back to get a stick, like they do in the movies with the people who have pointy teeth like Grandpa's. And I made it sharp all by myself, see?"

The boy held out his hands, and Mark looked down at them. They were callused and scratched, small blisters formed at the base of each finger. "And then I pushed it in his back while he was sleeping. I thought it would fix him, but he looked at me, and I ran…" The boy's voice wavered, and large, fat tears rolled down his crimson-stained cheeks. "I didn't want to hurt him!" he wailed loudly. "I just wanted my Grandpa back…"

Mark knelt down next to the child awkwardly, not knowing what to do. But when he met his round gray eyes, Mark's defenses collapsed. He took him in his arms and hugged him tightly.