The Jewett City Vampires
“I’m going blind,” I told my wife when we moved to our new gothic-style home in Griswold on a breezy day in early April. It was a wedding gift from my estranged father —a beautiful two-story structure with pointed arches, board-and-batten siding, large stained-glass windows, and a steep-pitched roof that gave the illusion of a medieval tower. Before my gradual onset of blindness, Samantha and I loved looking at homes from this era. Now, our beautiful new home was a blur, another milestone I couldn’t see. “I feel dizzy.” “You have contacts, silly,” Samantha said, lifting a small box from our SUV. “Of course you’re blind. You’d better sit down. Hey…are you okay?” “You’re right. I need to sit down.” For the past few months, I wasn’t just growing blinder but wearier by the day. The simplest tasks tired me quickly. Samantha attributed my blindness and fatigue to the confrontation with my childhood abuser a few months prior. She assured me it was a condition she learned about in her psychology class called Conversion Disorder, otherwise known as hysterical blindness related to traumatic situations. I desperately wanted to believe her, but I knew better. In elementary school, I met my uncle Cain and cousin Christopher for the first and only time at their “going away” party. My father hosted the party for his beloved brother and nephew and told me they would be “moving to a special place that would help treat their blindness.” When I asked how they became blind, my father changed the subject. When I wondered out loud about meeting them again, he walked into the other room. Samantha connected the months of silence to the confrontation. Like any good spouse, she supported me and encouraged me to “seek help when I was ready.” I appreciated the support, but I never corrected her. The more I started bumping into objects around the house or falling asleep at random hours during the day and night shifts at the warehouse, the more I remembered details from the party. While my father, his friends, and family drank red wine in an ornate dining room with a long table, Cain and Christopher sat quietly in the library, staring into the embers of a fireplace. The more I recalled the details of their solemn faces and the vast rooms of the house, the more I came to realize that this house from my childhood, this distant memory, would soon be mine. If this house were a family heirloom, why had I only visited as a child? Why were my memories growing clearer while the world around me dissolved into blurriness? I sat down on the driveway as a few hired movers passed us, carrying boxes of all sizes. Samantha sat down beside me, leaning into my shoulder. She kissed me on the cheek and sighed as I tousled her hair. “The master bedroom is almost set up if you’d like to lie down.” “No. That’s okay. I’d just like to sit down for a bit.” “Stubborn like your old man,” a voice said beside us. I turned to see my tall, lanky father crushing a cigarette against his ripped jeans. Even though I had seen him a few times since the wedding, I couldn’t get over how much he looked like me, only paler with streaks of gray in his flaxen hair. His skin looked almost gaunt, making him seem sicker than a typical mid-fifties male. “That’s how I was when your mother and I first got this place.” “Did… we ever live here?” He laughed, tossing the cigarette on the pavement. “We tried to, but your grandfather was too stubborn to move out! We used the place for family functions and worship, but that’s about it.” “Oh. Wait…worship?” My father knelt beside me, wrapping a meaty arm around my shoulder. “This is why I’m so glad you’re home, son. Worship has always been a big part of our family. Now, I know your mom raised you Baptist or something, but…” Samantha and I stared at him blankly as he closed his eyes, grinning widely. “But…what, Dad?” “No, that’s fine. Our family is Christian, too, but a much more intimate sect. Look, I know this might seem a little too soon, but Chaplain Dave is coming over to bless the house in a bit. I told him all about the bad stuff you went through, too. He can help you with that.” “What?” I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. I shot a wide glance at Samantha, whose eyes darted off to the distance. In all of our conversations and meetings leading up to the move, I never once mentioned what happened to me. He also never mentioned anything about his religion. “How did you…” “Ah, shit. That’s Chaplain Dave now,” he said, pulling a cell phone from his flannel shirt pocket. He walked swiftly toward the house. Samantha’s eyes were still lost in the distance, her hands trembling, as I continued to glare. “Chaplain? Yeah. The house should be ready for blessing by the evening…” “What the fuck, Sam?” “I’m sorry. I know. I know. It’s just…I thought I would tell him before he found out about it in the news or the Courant or…” “Let him find out about it. Christ. We don’t even fucking know him. I don’t even fucking know Eduard Saunders. He came into our lives two months ago, offering this house as a gift when he didn’t even go to our wedding. He came into my life after years of silence, and you tell him this?” “What happened to you and all those Scouts was awful, honey. I wanted to prepare him. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry…” “It wasn’t your right to tell, Sam,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “And he wasn’t there for me when it happened. Why should I tell him now?” “I didn’t mean to hurt you…” Samantha’s deep blue eyes made it hard to be angry at her, but their vapid state sent me over the edge. She was the only one I confided in about it. She was the only one I wanted to confide in. Conversations with my mom, the detectives, and other former Scouts, including my best friend Benji, were short and to the point. They didn’t know what to say to me, and I didn’t have the words to tell them. Perhaps growing blind wouldn’t be a bad thing if I no longer had to see their clueless expressions. Perhaps I would grow deaf and not hear about how sorry they thought they were. “I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” I said, rising to my feet. “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit.” “Okay…” she said weakly. “Please know how sorry I am.” I nodded, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, as I stumbled my way into the house. Making my way into the foyer, I almost bumped into a couple of movers as they laid boxes down by the sweeping marble staircase. I suddenly recalled running up the stairs with a couple of weird-looking kids at that party long ago. Why did I think they were “weird looking”? I sat down on a tread and closed my eyes. The flickering lights from the low-hanging chandelier made it hard to concentrate. All I could remember was the peculiar bulbous, almost melon-shaped of their heads. “Those boxes go in the kitchen, boys,” my father’s voice bounced off the vast stone walls. “Caleb, honey, Samantha said you weren’t feeling well.” I shrugged. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.” “That goes in the living room!” my dad said to the two men as they lifted a burgundy couch with claw feet and leather upholstery. “You’re probably wondering about the couch. I know, I know. It’s a bit much, but your grandfather, being from Eastern Europe, had such peculiar taste.” “Oh. That makes sense. Where’s the master bedroom?” “Straight upstairs. I think you are going to love it.” As I made my way toward the master bedroom, more random memories flooded my thoughts, memories of my parents’ divorce. My parents were arguing about the type of school I should attend. I remember my dad wanting to homeschool me, while my mom wanted me in the Griswold Public School system. My mom angrily stormed off, which surprisingly didn’t faze my father one bit. When he caught me eavesdropping from the stairwell, he smiled and explained that “parents fight sometimes.” He took me into the kitchen and offered me this new “juice he had made.” It had a shiny crimson texture and tasted metallic. For some reason, it made me feel drowsy. As I reached the top of the stairs, I felt as drowsy as I did years ago. When I opened the door to the master bedroom, I stumbled to the draped canopy bed. As soon as my head hit the silk sheets, I fell into a deep, miserable sleep. For most of my life, I never remembered my dreams. My mom found it strange and thought I needed a therapist. All of her friends’ kids had dreams. I didn’t know what that was like. I would simply fall asleep around ten o’clock and wake up at dawn, remembering nothing in between. The day after I confronted my abuser, however, I dreamt about it every time I slipped into unconsciousness. Every dream played out the same way, starting with me confronting him on his motorized fishing boat in the middle of a lake and ending with him pushing me overboard. In real life, my friend rescued me, and my abuser fell off the boat and drowned after attempting to attack us, or at least that’s how I remembered it. My dreams never reflected this reality or provided any clarity. Aside from providing statements to the police, the events were unclear. I went through life not knowing where my dreams ended and reality began. This particular dream felt as real as all the rest, only I knew I was in a dream. “Why did you do it?!” I screamed, clenching my fists. In this dream, I could see myself in my torn tuxedo, but I looked older than twenty-seven, much older, with deep, dark circles under my eyes and patches of hair missing from my head. My abuser looked older, too, in his tattered three-piece suit. “I don’t care how many times I dream about you. I’m going to find out.” He gritted his teeth, wiping the blood from his lower lip. “You got me. You were different than the other kids. I liked that, I guess. Your mom said you were sensitive to ultraviolet light. It made activities difficult for you.” “What the fuck do you mean?” I was violently shaking, ready to strike at any moment, not caring that I had never been in a fight. He cackled, his soulless grey eyes glaring into mine. “She never told you, huh? It’s in your blood. You were a weak boy. I liked that.” “Why don’t you die already?!” “I already did!” he said with a menacing smile. “You keep bringing me back.” “What…what did you mean, it’s in my blood?” From the pocket of his sports jacket, he drew a switchblade. Before I could contemplate moving, the blade slit my wrist. I wailed, attempting to clot the wound with anything I could find, including the shirt tails of my tuxedo. “Don’t you remember what I taught you?” he sneered. “Put the cloth over the wound and push down forcefully with both hands until the bleeding stops.” “I’m trying,” I said. He began to cackle again as the blood sprouted from my arm like a geyser. “Why can’t I clot this?! Why can’t I wake up?” His cackle grew increasingly louder as the amount of blood morphed from a small geyser into a giant river with endless waves of crimson flowing from the wound into the lake. For some reason, I didn’t feel pain, just pure panic as the force of the river propelled my body into the bitter winter atmosphere. From atop the vertical river, I could still hear my abuser cackling as he marveled at the lake as its transformation into a deep crimson shade was completed. Once the last wave of blood left my arm, my body dangled helplessly in the air for a mere moment before slamming beneath the crimson waters. ` I was familiar with the drowning portion of my dream. I drowned every night, but never in a river of my blood, and my abuser never admitted to his intentions. If the metallic taste of blood wasn’t so horrifyingly awful, I would have been relieved to have an ounce of understanding. As I sank deeper and deeper, I didn’t bother to wake myself up. I thought perhaps drowning would lead me to understand what “in your blood” meant. Instead, the deeper I drowned, the less I understood. Beneath my blood swam two boys with bulbous heads. They looked like the boys I saw years ago, a spitting image down to their overalls. I attempted to wave at them. This gesture caused the boys to snap their heads like a hammerhead shark snaps toward its prey. Their bodies bolted toward me at full force, opening their mouths to reveal rows of pointed, serrated teeth. Every time they snapped their jaws, they roared, a deep, loud, resonating sound that overwhelmed my senses. I flailed helplessly as their jaws engulfed my head and clamped down. I awoke screaming, hyperventilating, and sobbing all at once as my wife wrapped her arms around me. She stood at my bedside and held me as I struggled to regain my breathing. She whispered, “It’s okay,” multiple times as I regained my sense of awareness. My sense of hearing returned in tandem with my sense of smell as my senses were infiltrated by the odor of cobwebs and the echoing voices outside the bedroom. My vision was still blurry, though. Inches away from me, Samantha still looked more like a fuzzy figure from a Monet painting than an actual person. Her soft touch was unmistakable, eventually calming me to a normal breathing rate. “I’m sorry, Sam. I had an awful dream.” “You must have, honey. Are you okay? I-I’ve never seen you like this.” “Yeah…the funny thing is, I can’t remember it,” I lied. “But I remember the feeling.” “It’s probably a good thing you don’t remember! You’re never like this. You’ve been through hell, though. I’m so sorry, and I’m sorry for what I said earlier.” “It’s okay. I barely remember.” Those words were the truth. The horrifying events from my dream replaced any feeling of anger in my body. As I scanned the room to become more grounded, I only felt more dread. Everything about this room was unsettling, down to the warped-face pattern of flowers and snakes imprinting the walls. “How long was I asleep?” “Too long?” “Do you remember anything?” “Does it matter?” “I’m just trying to help.” “You’re always trying to help, Sam. Sometimes, you just have to leave things as they are.” She sighed and gestured. “Okay, then. Look, your father is here with Chaplain Dave for the house’s blessing. I know it’s weird, but you might as well see what it’s about. He’s trying to help in his way.” “Where are they?” “In the dining room.” “We have a dining room?” Samantha burst out laughing. “A huge one! I-I’m sorry. When we looked at the house last month, did you go with me?” “Yes…” “This house has so many wonderful things!” she said with her arms open. “We have a library. You love to read, I thought.” “I do…” “You have to admit, for our first house, this place is spectacular! It has four bedrooms, a large foyer, enormous walk-in closets, and some type of medical room downstairs with old equipment. This house has that old charm like Gone With The Wind.” “That’s not the film I was thinking of…” As we made our way down the marble staircase, we heard the echoes of the Chaplain’s prayer: “Lord, bless this house and make it pure, pure from sin, pure from evil…” “Here we go.” I sighed as each tread creaked and squeaked. “I didn’t realize my dad was such a religious nut.” “Where’s this coming from?” Sam groaned as we re-entered the foyer, unsure of which hallway led to the dining room. I pointed to the long and narrow one to our left, lined with stained glass windows and ornate moldings of black rosettes spanning the lower portion of the walls. For some reason, as I squinted these patterns into focus, I felt lightheaded, maybe even hypnotized by their intricacy. “What are you staring at?” “Nothing. Maybe you’re right. This house is pretty spectacular. But I stand by what I said- my dad is a religious nut. He wanted to homeschool me as a kid and held strange parties with strange, deformed people he called family, made me drink this weird metallic juice, and said all that stuff about family functions and worship.” “Nothing’s wrong with homeschooling.” She stopped midway down the hall as the prayer continued in the background, her arms crossed tightly to her chest. I could only make out the words “bathed in the blood of our lord” above her seething. “Nothing is wrong with deformed people either, or worship. We used to go to church together. We used to sing in the choir. Now, it’s only me. What’s gotten into you?” “How quickly you’ve forgotten what happened.” My hushed tone caught Samantha off guard, and her lower lip quivered. “How quickly you’ve forgotten what the officiating pastor at my wedding did to me and all those guys.” “I haven’t forgotten. You won’t tell me about it.” “You want to know what I dreamt about?” Sam blinked, lower lip still quivering, and nodded. “I dreamt I saw him face-to-face on that boat again. I-I asked him why he chose me. He said I was a weak boy. He said there’s something wrong with me that’s in my blood. I’m not sure what he meant, but being in this place and remembering all those weird things from my childhood, I think I know what he means.” “It was only a dream.” Before we could utter another word, we were interrupted by the loud creaking and clang of the dining room’s wooden doors. From behind the doors stepped my father and a bald man in wire-framed glasses wearing dark frock coats and charcoal trousers. Although my father towered over the man, his narrowed, glossy eyes made him seem much more intimidating. “It’s nice to finally meet the lovely Caleb and Samantha Saunders,” the man said, extending a pale hand. He gripped mine tightly and kissed Samantha’s, which caused her to take a step back. “How rude of me. I’m Chaplain Dave, but formalities aside, you can call me Uncle Dave.” We both turned to my father, who was nodding enthusiastically. “He’s my brother and now, our new Chaplain.” “Why were you so-” “Formal?” They both laughed as my father continued. “It’s a sign of respect, and after your grandfather passed, we welcomed him with open arms to our role. He ran a church for a while in Mystic before returning to our flock.” None of this made sense. I didn’t remember having an Uncle Dave, much less anything about my late grandfather. Even as a child, I never recalled hearing any words like “Chaplain” or “flock.” “I’m sorry,” I said, tossing my arms in the air. “This is all very weird. I don’t even know what religion you guys are.” “Caleb, stop,” Samantha whispered, nudging me. “You mean, what religion are we?” my father said firmly. “We are Generationists, dear boy,” the Chaplain said, taking a step toward the door. He took one look at my clenched fists and nodded. “I was just like you once, Caleb, jaded and confused. If you two don’t mind waiting outside for a moment, I’d like to speak to Caleb alone. Shall we?” I shrugged as he led me inside the dining room and shut the doors. My heart fluttered as I took in the enormous stone-walled room lit by dozens of hanging candelabras, the long mahogany table that stretched the length of the room with dozens of chairs to match, and the oil paintings of stern-faced men from long ago. “You’ve dreamt of drowning my son.” The Chaplain placed a hand on my shoulder, bowing his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” “It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve never told anybody.” “You don’t need to. You and I are a lot alike.” “I doubt that…” “That is your right, child, but just like you, I left the Generationists when I was a young, though a young adult by that time. My mother wanted us to start a new life. I did, and I even started my own church and went on missions around the world. Like you, I was betrayed by men of faith I trusted. Like you, my foolish beliefs and naivety caused me to almost drown. I had nothing, and my dear brother, your selfless father, let me back into his flock. We’re a lot alike.” I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t find the words to say other than, “I guess you’re right.” At that moment, the Chaplain, my uncle, saw right through me on a deeper level than my wife, father, or even myself could. At that moment, I saw my surroundings more clearly than I had in months. “It’s not our fault, dear boy. Our family has been cursed.” “Cursed?” “Look above you, dear boy. What do you see?” “I see a bunch of oil paintings…” “These are all Saunders men from the mid-1800s. In the blue suit is your Great Uncle Cristian, in the red suit with the pipe, your Great Grandpa Anton, and in the grey one, your Great Uncle Adam. They lived with their families in this very house after emigrating from Romania. They lived next to a cursed family called the Rays. You may not…” The uncles looked were spitting images of my father and the Chaplain. “What’s wrong?” “You may not believe this next part.” “Try me…” The Chaplain swallowed, exhaling deeply through his nostrils. “Around this time, the Rays were dropping like flies to a disease called consumption, known as tuberculosis today. They believed their family members were coming back from the dead to take them one by one. They disinterred their dead relatives and burned them to protect themselves from the undead and-” “Wait. You…expect me to believe vampires were taking their family members?” He sighed and smiled. “That’s what they believed. Scientists now know tuberculosis can spread through the air when a person coughs, drinks, or even sings. Still, your father believes some sort of curse happened. He’s unlike you and me, who need evidence for these claims.” I smiled and shrugged. “So, what does this have to do with our family or there being a “curse”? The Chaplain grinned, shifting his eyes once more to the portraits. “There were other people in the neighborhood who suffered the same affliction, the Walter and Barber family if I remember correctly. The disease spread like a plague. Our family, the Saunders, was the only one who survived.” “Why?” I said, thumbing my chin. “They were genetically pure.” “Oh god…” I said, averting my gaze. “Do you mean like incest?” The Chaplain let out a loud, belly laugh, gesturing to the sky, his voice booming. “Foolish child! What you call “incest” was a tried and true method in our family for many years. It’s only incest if it’s not calculated, and the genes aren’t pure to begin with.” “All of our family is genetically pure?” I said, scratching my head. “What about those kids I saw when I was little with melon-shaped heads? Isn’t that a consequence of incest?” “You’re so naive,” he scoffed. “You’re so smart, yet so naive. Our family has carried on this tradition for centuries, and yet, it was only after that wretched family brought its plague that we were cursed. The Rays were angered that their plague couldn’t affect our pure blood, so they cursed us. This is why we are here tonight. This is why we pray. You two may enter!” My father entered the room with his eyes gleaming and head held high. Samantha followed behind him, tightly gripping one arm. My father nodded to the Chaplain, bowing his head. He pulled a small steel blade from his pants pocket and laid it on the table. The blade looked unusual with its squared edges and rusty exterior, especially its casing with a symbol of two upside-down droplets. “I was telling Samantha of our proud heritage and creed,” my father loudly proclaimed. I wondered what Samantha was thinking with her head cast down, still tightly gripping her arm. She looked confused and scared. I knew I was as my father traced his fingers over the blade. “As Generationists, we have a proud family tradition that goes back centuries to our faraway homeland.” “Saunders doesn’t sound too Romanian…” I mumbled. “You have much to learn,” the Chaplain spat. “In the old country, our surname was Sandru, meaning defender of mankind. Our pure bloodline perfectly embodied this meaning and kept our family alive. It served our forefathers well when they escaped to America after the 1848 Revolution. To blend in with their new world, they changed their last name.” “That’s quite the story,” Samantha murmured. “What’s that blade for?” “I’m so glad you asked,” my father said, once more tracing his fingers over the blade. Before continuing, he furrowed his brow, glancing over his shoulder. “I fear that wretched family has returned. I know you think we’re crazy, Caleb, but hear me out. When I passed by the town cemetery this afternoon, I saw shadows looming near their plots. They know my son has returned, and his beautiful wife does not yet have his pure blood. I fear your blood, my son, may not carry the purity it needs. You may be cursed too, I fear. You never had the pure gifts your uncle and I were born with. I fear we are in danger unless we commence with this sacred tradition.” “What pure gifts?” Why am I cursed?” I stammered. “You will know after our tradition.” “What tradition?” we asked simultaneously, exchanging fleeting glances. “Dad?” “The Chaplain will begin.” “Thank you, dear brother.” The Chaplain plucked the blade from the table, laying it flat across his palms. “This fleam I hold has been passed down for many generations for this unique circumstance. It was originally planned for our dear Caleb to marry Ioana, but unfortunate circumstances have prevailed.” “Who is Ioana?”I asked. The Chaplain grumbled, flashing his furious eyes my way. “I’m sorry…” “Your first cousin. She passed young,” my father stated firmly, crossing his arms. “Don’t interrupt.” At that moment, a memory of a young girl in a sundress came to mind from long ago. I wasn’t sure if it was the going-away party or another day, but I remembered her being very friendly, but also unusually pale. We played together on the staircase until she broke into a coughing fit, and a tall woman, possibly her mother, whisked her away. “Thank you, brother. For her soul, let us pray. It is written in Genesis 6:9 that ‘Noah was a just man, and perfect in his generations, and Noah walked with God.’ Like Noah, our family is also perfect in its generations. This has shielded us from evil. Tonight, we continue this tradition and allow Samantha to partake in our rich heritage so that we can continue to be perfect, so that we continue to be shielded. Caleb, step forth.” I stood motionless, unsure of whether to run or try to fight. As he stroked the blade, it became painfully obvious what the Chaplain planned to do with that blade. Both my dad and the Chaplain towered over us, however, and I feared what would happen if I even stepped the wrong way. “Come on, son,” my dad whispered. From his other pocket, he withdrew a cylindrical container and handed it over to the Chaplain. “Step forth.” I cast my eyes down as I stood in front of the Chaplain. He brashly yanked my arm toward him, and I winced, remembering the first time my abuser touched me the same way. I couldn’t let him do this. I attempted to pull away, but his grip was too strong. “You will not mock us or our traditions! Caleb, while your blood’s not fully pure like ours, it’s pure enough to keep her safe,” the Chaplain snarled as he swiftly sliced my arm. I yowled as his grip tightened it, and twisted it until my blood filled the container. I felt lightheaded and started slipping in and out of consciousness as he tightened his grip once more. “That’s more like it!” I collapsed to my knees, breathing heavily, as the Chaplain passed the tube to Samantha. “Do I have to?” she stammered. They affirmed her statement with a cold “yes.” I rose to my feet and screamed, “Don’t!” With two palms outstretched, the Chaplain pushed me to the cold, hollow floor. “Caleb, it’s only-” Samantha said faintly. Every inch of my body ached as I rose to my feet again, attempting to charge the Chaplain. This time, my father wrapped his meaty arm around my neck and squeezed. “I’m sorry, son. This is for your own good. You will not stand in the way of our traditions.” The last thing I saw was Samantha’s quivering lips touching the cylinder before I slipped into total blackness. When I awoke, I was back in the master bedroom, snug beneath the bedsheets. I was light-headed, drooling even. My father, the Chaplain, and a pale-faced, visibly shaken Samantha stood before me. My heart started pounding heavily, its sensations rapidly rising and sinking in my throat. I grimaced as the Chaplain snarled and crossed his arms. “The ritual is done,” the Chaplain stated. “But it may not be enough…” “You’re insane,” I spat. “Why don’t you just leave. Both of you!” “Caleb,” Samantha whispered. “Not now. Please.” “We all must leave.” My father winced. “I heard rumblings down the street and felt a dark energy engulf this room moments before you awoke. But I, too, fear the ritual may not be enough. I fear Samantha may not be pure enough because your blood may be cursed and lacking purity. I am more certain now. I fear the Rays have risen from their plot. We must go to the cemetery at once and stop them.” “What the hell makes my blood cursed?” I asked again. My question rendered nothing more than silence. I sighed. “Fine. You and Uncle Dave, Chaplain, or whatever the hell I’m supposed to call you, can go. Samantha and I will stay here while you guys hunt vampires.” “Caleb…” Samantha repeated. “It’s too late.” “I’m afraid she’s right,” the Chaplain said. “If you stay, the Rays will come and take her during the night. She is not pure enough yet, and only breaking the curse will make you fully pure again.” “You are insane!” I shouted, frantically searching my pockets for my phone. “You…” “We couldn’t take the chance, honey.” My father waved my phone in front of me. I reached out to grab it, but my arms were too weak. My muscles felt like jelly. “You’re squinting. Is there something wrong with your sight?” “What’s the difference?” I spat. “What does it matter now if-” Before I could finish the sentence, a loud boom sounded from outside, followed by an elongated buzzing noise, and a sudden burst of darkness. My father and the Chaplain pulled out each phone and flipped on the flashlight, but at once, the battery and light drained as well. “They’re here…” he whispered harshly. My father’s meaty hand cupped mine. Reluctantly, I let him help me out of bed. I steadied my balance, focusing on the faint outline of each person. For some reason, they were more perceptible in the darkness. “Chaplain, give us the stakes.” I could hear a drawer creak open, some rummaging, and the same drawer creaking shut. The words “open your palms” preceded the placement of the foot-long wooden stakes in our hands. Its shaft and handle felt coarse and rough, almost uneven. Its sharpened end took the shape of a diamond. The last time I held something similar was during my summer roleplaying stint at a Renaissance Faire. This time, the weapon was real, real enough for me to consider using on the Chaplain or my father if they touched us again. A horrific feeling told me they were too trained to attempt attacking. I contemplated using them to make a diversion so that Samantha and I could drive off to the nearest police station. After finding my car keys missing from my pockets, I realized this attempt was futile, too. “Stay directly behind us as we head downstairs,” my father ordered. “Use your peripheral vision at all times to guide you.” “If they come at you from either side, you are to keep your necks astray and resist any of their attempts to bite or grab,” the Chaplain followed. “At first sight of their chests, drive the stakes directly into their hearts.” “You’ve got to be kidding-” Before I could finish that sentence, a large crash like the shattering of glass echoed from downstairs. “We are going downstairs now.” I gulped as my father opened the bedroom door. “If we walk in unison, they will be less likely to attack us.” “Do you still think this is a joke?” the Chaplain snarled. I shook my head and gulped as we proceeded toward the staircase. Then, the Chaplain started whispering in another language. The rhythmic, sing-song quality of the words resembled a prayer or chant. “Fie ca întunericul să umple această casă. Fie ca fereastra spartă să ne umple cărările cu și mai mult întuneric. Ne vom ospăta cu sângele dușmanului nostru în seara asta.” I could see Samantha’s outline shiver as the Chaplain repeated these words. “If, for whatever reason, we separate, you are to continue to the cemetery without us,” my father whispered. “They will come for your uncle and me before they come for-” Another boom and burst of darkness filled the interior, erasing the outline of any person or object in my sight. I reached out frantically, unable to hold onto anything or anyone. As I began to hyperventilate, I lost the feeling of the stairs beneath my feet. I screamed, but my screams were muffled by the utter blackness surrounding me. I dangled my legs, kicking them in a circular motion. It was like kicking a cloud. I was floating and drifting upward. Something jagged like claws or tendons dug into both sides of my back, piercing into my shoulder blades. I yelped, but my yelping disappeared into the void. As I drifted upward, frantically kicking my legs, high-pitched chirps and clicks rang out loud enough to pierce my eardrums. Realizing I still had the stake, I reached up to stab the curved tendons and the balloon-like texture of the feet that held them. This creature resembled and sounded like a bat, only much larger and more fearsome. With what little strength I could muster through the piercing pain, I frantically attempted to stab the creature’s knees to loosen the tendons. The beast unleashed an ever-higher-pitched chirp, an awful cross between a cricket chirping and a coyote crying, knocking my arms back to their sides and the stake into the abyss. “Dad! Sam! Uncle!” Each name I shouted instantly distorted, their intonations dying into the void. I couldn’t tell how high the creature was carrying me, but the tingling sensation in my feet and hands indicated that there were meters or miles of darkness above and below me. Suddenly, as the creature cried once more, a rift in the darkness unleashed many shades of colors into the sky like rainbow light escaping from a prism. I glanced above me as the rainbow rays illuminated the creature. It resembled a bat, only much more horrifying, with massive black wings that spanned twice the size of a wandering albatross, the world’s largest bird, and a body as black and wide as a panther, its fur soft and dense. Its face had enormous, pointed leathery ears, a dog-like snout, and a smashed-in face with wrinkled skin and beaming black eyes like coal. My mind could barely conceptualize this creature’s ghastly appearance. For the first time in months, I saw my surroundings as clearly as a magnified telescope lens. Another rift in the atmosphere opened, causing the lights to form countless moving images. As the images grew clearer, I realized I was looking into a canvas of miniature movies, footage from my life on repeat. Beneath me played footage from my childhood, interlocking like puzzle pieces, aligned chronologically. The bright footage revealed birthday parties, soccer practices, and roadtrips from when my mom and dad were still together. I smiled, unsure if it was okay to ever smile again, at the fleeting, happy memories. It was euphoric, numbing me to the piercing pain. The pain returned, however, when I spotted grainy footage of my life’s misery: my teenage self crying alone in a tent, my abuser smiling at my wedding as he shook hands with other former scouts, other victims, and an even a younger version of my mother crying in a doctor’s office. But what was she crying about? I watched the footage a few moments longer to see myself at five on a medical table, and the doctor handing her a document with several phrases and figures imprinted. The words “consanguinity” and “reduced biological fitness” stuck out in bold lettering. From above me, I heard noise, not only the creature crying, but people screaming. I looked up to see footage of the same creatures flying through a crowd of villagers from long ago, carrying torches. The frantic running caused them to drop the torches, setting fire to their fur-trimmed tunics and hemp dresses. They screamed as they burned and as the fire ignited their wooden dwellings. The creatures numbered in the dozens, feasting on the necks of each fallen villager before carrying the carcasses into the night. Another rift in the sky changed the footage to a cemetery scene with men in slightly more modern clothing carrying stakes and shovels. I recognized the stern-faced men from the oil paintings the Chaplain showed me. These men looked strikingly like my uncle and father, but with rougher features. They weren’t digging up the graves but burying something or someone within. For one last time, a rift in the sky changed the footage to the dining room. The Chaplain, my father, and a handful of melonheaded men, women, and children surrounded the long table with their heads cast down. They looked younger, maybe by a couple of decades, but their eyes seemed fiercer, especially my father’s eyes, the way they glared at the poor souls from the far corner of the room as the Chaplain raised a torch into the air. “For centuries, our blood was pure!” the Chaplain proclaimed. “As Cainites, we roamed the villages of our homeland and expanded our bloodline and feasted on the impure for sustenance. When we reached the new world, a family of shamans, known henceforth as the Rays, laid a curse on our family. Some of us were pure enough to escape the curse. Unfortunately, you, our dear loved ones, were not. Your blood is tainted, and you are no longer safe here.” “What does that mean for us?!” a melonheaded woman cried. “Years of inbreeding caused us to look like this!” a melon-headed man shouted. “And frankly, I’d rather be kind and disfigured than an awful Cainite like you!” “Silence!” The Chaplain’s echo ricocheted off the hollow walls. “You are impure, dear loved ones, and now you must go where the rest of the impure can live quietly.” “Where will we go?” A blond teenage boy stepped forth. He didn’t have a melonhead but used a white cane to guide him forward. He looked with a gait and stride as slow as mine, his eyes just as cloudy. As the Chaplain clenched his fists, my father stepped forth, raising his hand into the air. “In the quiet woods of our state’s surrounding counties are villages for our impure descendants. They are unknown to the general public. Those who know think they are myths or urban legends. No one will harm you. You will be safe.” With those words, the sky’s rift closed like a sweeping curtain over a stage, absorbing thousands of feet of footage back into rainbow light rays. Once the rays crossed the rift, only darkness remained. The creature unleashed another horrifying scream before descending into the abyss, digging its talons deeper into my shoulders. As the creature dropped into a vertical descent, I could feel my lips peeling back into my chin, my eyelids reversing into their sockets. The memories flashed by me once more-the melonheaded men and women at the party, Samantha drinking from the cylinder, my mother crying in the doctor’s office. I couldn’t tell if I saw them through my eyes or mind, but before I could ponder my sanity, the creature unclenched its tendons. I fell only a few feet before my body struck the earth. I felt the narrow, wet blades of grass beneath my fingers. My blurry vision discerned a group of granite gravestones in front of me with the names of the deceased Ray family in faded lettering: Henry B., Lucy H., Lemuel B., and Elisha H. To the right of the stones stood two men in painters’ overalls carried some type of rifles. They looked like brothers with similar hair and facial features. They pointed their rifles in front of them. I turned around to see my father and uncle gripping the stakes firmly, and Samantha cowering behind them. She seemed to be looking at my father’s back. I couldn’t tell if she was still holding her stake. “Leave at once,” the taller brother said, cocking his rifle. “You’ve caused our family enough trouble over the years.” “Dig up these plots and there will be no trouble,” the Chaplain scoffed. “Don’t pretend your family hasn’t risen and used its black magic on us. They’ve made us all see things, horrible things.” “Feeling guilty?” the shorter brother stepped forth and fingered the trigger. “One hundred sixty-one years ago, your lies cost our family their lives. If they’re making you see things now, you deserve it.” “I saw things…” I mumbled, but no one seemed to hear. “Dig up these plots,” my father echoed. “Our family had to lie to protect our truth. Your family’s magic cursed this town and unleashed a sickness upon us all.” “They were mere shaman who made an honest living telling fortunes,” the taller brother stepped in unison until the barrel pointed. “They were proud of their traditions. Your family was too cowardly to admit being Cainites. We have worn that false label for far too long. That reputation haunted us for many years. Dig up your own plots! Tell them what you really are.” “Dad…” I said weakly. “What do you mean?” My father cast his head and stake down. “Who do you think dropped you here?” one of the brothers said to me. My vision was too blurry to tell which one, but still clear enough to see his hand pointing beyond the grave stones. “A few rows back, you will find the truth.” “Nicholas Ray, that’s quite enough.” As the shorter man placed the barrel on his forehead, my father lunged forward with his stake, only for the other brother to fire a shot into its knee. My father dropped to his knees for a moment without even yelping. He grabbed his leg as if he had not just been shot but bumped into a table before promptly springing back to his feet. “You know that won’t do anything. You should know better, especially you, Eric. We’ve been through this before. ” “Nor will the stakes be on our ancestors!” Eric shouted. “Use them on yourselves! Caleb, walk three rows behind these plots.” I hesitated. My father and uncle stood motionless as I stepped a few paces forward. Samantha was out of sight. “Not four. You’ve gone too far.” “I can’t see that well, and I think I know why that is!” When I shouted, the four men turned to me. I took one step back to a row of cracked, slightly greyer stones. “Dad, uncle, you did this to me. Your family, your tainted bloodline, did this to me, to all those poor family members I never saw again. I saw visions tonight, visions of what you did to them. I may be impure by your cult’s standards, I may be going blind, but for once in my life, I can see you clearly for what you are!” “Caleb…” my father spoke weakly. “You don’t understand.” “Kneel and look closely at the first two stones,” Eric said. “Read the names and dates out loud for all to hear.” My voice was shaky as I spoke. “David Sandru: 1800-1853. Eduard…Sandru: 1799-1854. Dad, uncle…I don’t even know what to…” “It was for your protection.” My father’s sad eyes narrowed and hardened as he chucked the stake like a javelin into Eric’s head.. The stake sliced through both ears, and he dropped to the ground immediately, his rifle firing one last feeble shot, blood and chunks of pinkish-gray brain matter oozing into the dirt. I projectile vomited onto my shoes as my father turned to Nick without even wincing. “You will dig up these plots or face the same fate.” “I’d rather die!” Nick screamed, firing another shot. The Chaplain cackled and leaned forward so far that his back split in half. From the slots in his back spawned massive black wings that whipped upright into the air. The chaplain’s face split in half as well. From its cracks sprouted a dog-like snout, and a smashed-in face with wrinkled skin, pointed leathery ears, and beaming black eyes like coal. Clothes tore from its body, revealing black fur and leathery skin down to its talons. The creature lunged toward Nick, smashing him through an already dilapidated stone wall. From the corner of my eye, I saw Samantha jump out from behind a tall marble stone onto the creature’s back. The creature flapped its wings and hollered as Samantha held on and stabbed the stake through its spine into its heart. “No!” my father screamed as the creature smashed into the earth, its body rapidly morphing back into the pale and naked Chaplain. Samantha was still pressing down on the stake as my father leaned forward, his back beginning to split as well. Thinking quickly, I dashed toward the corpse and pulled the stake from its oozing head, covering my nostrils as gray chunks and pink matter oozed onto my fingers. As my father’s wings began to sprout, I stabbed the stake into his back. His screams were otherworldly, distorting and echoing into the night. Samantha and Nick jumped onto my father’s wings, but the mass and force of the giant wings threw them high into the air as he levitated above the ground. I held on tight to the stake as we ascended high above the cemetery. I stabbed the stake deeper into his back as the clothes tore from his body, spawning black fear and leathery skin. My father’s face hadn’t changed yet as I attempted to twist the stake. “That’s not my heart,” his distorted voice said, cackling as his face formed the dog-like snout, pointed leathery ears, and black coal eyes. “I’m afraid you aren’t strong like me. You never were. Now, let go and embrace your destination.” “I’ll never let go!” I screamed. “You will die for what you’ve done!” As my father’s cackle morphed into high-pitched chirps and clicks, he ascended so high that the trees and roads resembled mere specs. With a violent force, he shook me into a rapid free fall. As I plunged too rapidly to the ground, I extended my arms in hopes of hitting the tree tops, attempting to control my body’s path. Within seconds, however, my father’s tendons pierced through my shoulders. This time, I didn’t scream, even though the pain was more immense than before. This time, I didn’t fight as we glided above treetops, houses, and roads for what seemed like several hours. The sky’s cruel wind and my father’s cries emaciated my skin and eardrums. My mind was blank, my body numb, dangling helplessly. As the night sky faded into a golden dawn, my father descended rapidly into an area with endless woods. My vision rapidly faded as he uncurled his tendons, dropping me a few yards into the leaf-covered forest floor. My body grew even more numb as it rolled over stones and twigs, stopping in front of a group of shadowy figures. I squinted hard enough to discern their melon-headed features but couldn’t make out much else. “You poor creature,” one of the heads said in a high-pitched voice. “He’s so young,” another head chimed in. “His eyes are so cloudy.” “You are safe here now. You are safe to live out the rest of your days,” a female voice said. “I feel dizzy,” I muttered weakly as the last ounce of my remaining vision drained into total blackness. Credit: Tristan Mason Facebook Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.