The Vampire's Treaty Read online

  Copyright © Matt Shaw 2009

  Van Helsing character based upon the character of the same name created by Bram Stoker.

  -

  Victor Frankenstein and Frankenstein’s monster based upon characters of the same name created by Mary Shelley.

  -

  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde based upon the character of the same name created by Robert Louis Stevenson

  -

  All other characters in this book are purely fictitious. Any similarities to people living, or six feet under, are purely coincidental.

  The author apologises for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made for future printings.

  A BRIEF LESSON IN HISTORY

  THE FIRST EVERYONE KNEW that something terrible was happening was when they discovered a severed arm. Not just any severed arm, but rather Mr Puniar’s severed arm. The townsfolk, of the small town situated near the Carpathian Mountains on the border of Transylvania and Moldavia, knew that it was Mr Puniar’s arm because it was placed next to Mr Puniar’s decapitated head – a look of sheer terror still frozen on his ugly, lifeless face.

  Mr Puniar, on the other hand, first knew that something terrible was afoot when, the night before his head and arm were found, he was showing ‘what-he-thought-to-be-a-very-nice’ Count around one of his properties.

  Historians (and I do not count myself as a historian) discovered that Mr Puniar had moved to Transylvania from India having made his fortune in property. Charging far too much for his trusting tenants to live in his ‘first-class’ properties meant that Mr Puniar made a very tidy sum in a short space of time. This ‘tidy sum’ allowed him to invest in bigger and better properties right here, in Transylvania, where he could, once again, charge people too much to live in them.

  Before Mr Puniar died a rather unpleasant, violent and exceedingly painful death (God rest his greedy soul), he had purchased a rather splendid castle at the foot of the mountains – and it was in this property that he met his fate, and The Count.

  To date there are still pointless arguments (for it doesn’t really matter) about where The Count came from. Some people believe he came from the fiery pits of Hell, some believe he was a ‘bad-egg’ that was cast from the paradise of Heaven and others believe he came from a small block of council flats in Essex.

  When Mr Puniar first saw The Count for what he really was – he simply believed he was a figment of his own overtired imagination playing cruel tricks on him. Evidently Mr Puniar’s beliefs were quickly shunned by everyone when he was promptly, and savagely, ripped apart by The Count who decided it would be far easier to kill the castle’s landlord (and claim it as his own property under Squatter’s Rights) than keep up with over-inflated monthly rental costs.

  Things didn’t stop there for the townsfolk (although they did stop there for Mr Puniar, God rest his greedy little soul) as, each night, more of the town’s ladies went missing. Well, I say they went ‘missing’ but they never stayed ‘missing’ for long as they soon turned up again – dead. Well, I say they turned up ‘dead’ but they never stayed ‘dead’ for long – and apologies if this begins to get confusing. After the ‘dead’ ladies were buried, they had a freaky habit of waking up again – as though they were bored of death.

  Old newspaper clippings that were handed down to me through the generations reported that the people put the first case of ‘Not Dead’ down to a fluke. When the second lady crawled out of her cramped coffin, it was (according to ‘The Transylvania Times’ printed on August 2nd, 1497) a coincidence. The third lady, again according to the paper, was buried by accident and a fourth lady went unnoticed for quite some time, having never been that popular when she was properly alive. It was the fifth lady that set alarm bells ringing that things were amiss and perhaps the murders (and ‘livings’) were linked although people were too busy trying to stop the ‘Not Dead’ ladies from biting them to put a proper investigation into what was going on and why they were alive again. It was a complicated time.

  With the death toll (and ‘living toll’) raising the remaining townsfolk started to flee. Some simply moved to another town (without realising the plague had a firm grip on their new home), others moved further afield (like Bognor Regis) and some even moved onto Ibiza – where they had heard about the good clubs and cheap alcohol.

  Meanwhile in the quaint little town where everything started, the empty houses remained on the market for a good number of months. News about the murders and non-murders had spread and no one wanted to move into the area for fear of dying (and promptly living again). The prices for the empty houses fell through the floor and some even went on to be offered ‘free to a good home’ which didn’t really make much sense – or work as a marketing ploy. On the flipside of the coin, property prices in Ibiza went through the roof but that’s not important to this particular history lesson.

  Since everything had kicked off, the townsfolk had learnt that they were only likely to wake up dead (or ‘Not Dead) if they went out at night so a self-appointed Judge, Judge Reiger, (who had no real qualifications by the way) introduced a curfew and, for a while, the curfew worked until the cheap house prices presented everyone with a new problem.

  When other ‘things’ (ghouls and monsters to you and me) got to hear about this near empty town where they could live in peace, they soon snapped up the remaining properties thus kick-starting all the problems again. Along with the rather pretty village ladies who wanted to bite them and The Count who wanted to drink their blood and, basically, snap them – the townsfolk also found they had to worry about other monsters; such as werewolves, poltergeists and ghosts. Even the new Doctor had to be approached with caution.

  At times the Doctor, a Dr Jekyll, seemed to be very good at his job and could help them with most embarrassing ailments and, at other times, he seemed to be happier to ignore their problems and try to cut them up with a meat cleaver and feast on their brains (often accompanied by a little side dish of tomato sauce on the times that he succeeded).

  With the new ghouls moving in and making things a living nightmare, for the remaining normal people, it wasn’t long before the Normals put their houses and businesses on the market too – hoping to follow their old friends who had already run away. They sat in their houses, too scared to venture outside, planning where they’d like to live after the completion of the sale, until they noticed something strange happen.

  As the days went on they started to notice more and more strangers coming into their businesses for the goods they were selling; strangers on day trips here to see the ghouls that lived in this cursed town. Tourists!

  Tourists came from all over the world (some of them were even the same people that once lived in the town – make sense of that) but mainly they came from Japan. They went from business to business seeking unusual gifts to take back home.

  Yes, the spooks of the night brought much trouble with them but, now word had got out about them, they had also brought extra revenue in too. Within a few more months, the townsfolk that had remained had even set up stalls selling Monster Merchandise. Odd little souvenirs like a baseball cap that had plastic bat wings sticking from the sides of it; a little piece of string hanging from one of them that, when pulled, made the wings flap backwards and forwards. There was even a stall set up that allowed you to become part of a crime-scene. A tourist got to lie down in the middle of a pool of blood (made from a cow) while one of the Normals stood above them dressed up as a ghoul whilst a sketch artist drew the scenario as a keepsake. To be honest, that particular stall wasn’t quite the success its creators had imagined. Probably down to the fact that the sketch artist could only draw stick men.

  Whatever they were selling; the Normals noticed a sharp increa
se in profits and the creatures of the night were happy to leave them running their business in peace as they had strangers to eat and scare instead. After years of pain and suffering there were finally good times for everyone (apart from the tourists that periodically went missing from their relative parties).

  It was at this time, with all parties more or less happy, the town officials sat down with The Count and made him sign a Peace Treaty. A pact that each of them had to stick to that included a limit to the number of tourists they could eat in one month (to be monitored by a Normal named Van Helsing – who was promoted to Sheriff), a ‘safe-house’ where the ghouls were not permitted to venture and a special day where, for the night, all rules (apart from the ‘safe-house’) were thrown out of the window – Halloween.

  On Halloween it was every man for himself unless they were in the ‘safe-house’. The only people not to go to the safe house on Halloween were the town adrenaline junkies who enjoyed dangerous sports. On Halloween they made wagers with each other to see if they could survive the night – a fair few of them died each year so money was extremely good for the survivors.

  The creatures were happy as it meant they got to live without persecution and the Normals that lived there were happy because they got to avoid being eaten. It was a complicated way of living, admittedly, but, nevertheless, it was their way of living and after years of torture and hardship – everyone was finally content. However it was only ever going to be a matter of time before things went bump in the night again…

  MATT SHAW’S

  THE VAMPIRE’S TREATY

  CHAPTER ONE

  JEREMIAH SIMPKINS

  October 31st

  Ref: Annual Halloween ‘Survive the Night’ competition

  Dear Jeremiah Simpkins,

  Thank you for volunteering for the annual Halloween ‘Survive the Night’ competition – your entry has been duly noted. However, it has come to our attention that you have not yet signed the register to confirm that you will indeed be taking part in the festivities. Although a verbal entry is more than sufficient to join in – a valid signature is required for insurance purposes. It will also remind us to look for you the following day, should you not report back to the safe-house in the morning. More importantly, only those who sign the register are entitled to the pumpkin, should they win, or the all-expenses paid funeral should things go a little pear-shaped.

  Should you still wish to take part in the evening’s entertainment and put yourself forward for the pumpkin or funeral, please be sure to come to the Town Hall, before sun-down, to sign the required documents.

  Once again, the very best of luck to you and we look forward to welcoming you back to the safe-house tomorrow morning.

  Yours sincerely,

  ……………………….

  Judge Reiger

  COPY OF LETTER SENT TO JEREMIAH SIMPKINS REMINDING HIM TO SIGN THE REGISTER

  TODAY, WE HAVE SOMETHING called ‘The Sunday Times Rich List’ where we can read about the richest people in Britain (and Ireland). Unfortunately, I am not on this list as, being a humble book narrator, I am paid in peanuts (of the dry roast variety) – but this true story isn’t a platform for me to moan about my poor income. As previously stated, I’m simply the narrator – here to narrate this story for you which brings me to my point…

  Back in 1497, ‘The Transylvania Times’ didn’t bother including a list of rich people in their little newspaper but, if they had then Jeremiah Simpkins would have easily been at the top of the list having received a large inheritance from his late mother and father (‘late’ as in ‘dead’, not ‘late’ as in ‘running a little behind time’).

  Jeremiah’s mother and father died in an ‘unexpected shovel to head’ incident and left all their money and land to Jeremiah who didn’t want for anything ever again. Some people thought the deaths of Jeremiah’s parents were caused by a violent poltergeist. Others believed the murder was the act of a cruel, calculating son who saw that he could spend the rest of his life getting fat from his ill-gotten inheritance. And, by Jove, he did get fat.

  A decade passed since the signing of the Peace Treaty. For the first nine years, Jeremiah sat in the safe-house, on Halloween, telling all who would listen (not many) how he would have done things better if he were out there trying to survive the night.

  After nine years of listening to Jeremiah flap his gums year in, year out – the locals finally bullied him, on the tenth year, to enter the competition himself and put his money where his mouth was. Jeremiah hated the fact that the locals doubted him. He didn’t need to enter the competition to ‘win a pumpkin’. He needed to enter the competition to prove them wrong; to prove to them that he could survive the long, dangerous night.

  “He does have one advantage over the rest of us,” one of the townsfolk had said, after Jeremiah agreed to take part in the evening. “Can you imagine any creature who would want to chomp on his ass?”

  It was a comment that cut deep to Jeremiah. He had always been teased for his looks; short and fat with spotty skin and thick ginger hair (although he insisted it was ‘auburn’.) It was a comment that cut deep to him but one that caused much merriment amongst those that heard it. It was also a comment that was valid – what sort of creature would want to eat that?

  * * * * *

  Halloween.

  Ten years since the signing of the Peace Treaty.

  * * * * *

  A flash of lightening illuminated Jeremiah’s hiding place, by the bins in the darkened alleyway. Jeremiah couldn’t tell if he had been seen – but even with the clap of thunder helping to drown out the growls of the creature stalking him and the chattering noise of his own teeth, he couldn’t risk standing around to see if his hiding place had indeed been exposed. Instead, he did an about turn and continued to run as fast as his fat, knackered, little legs would carry him.

  He was just a few more alleyways away from the safe-house; just a few more alleyways away from safety. He knew the rules forbid him from going to the safe-house before sun up but he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he would be out of the competition and he cared less that people would mock him for not being able to survive the night despite the last nine years worth of claims that he could. Jeremiah also didn’t care that the sun would be up in just a mere matter of minutes, signalling the end of the competition and the re-enforcement of the Peace Treaty until next Halloween. With the heavy footsteps close behind him and the sound of a creature growling – Jeremiah knew that he didn’t have minutes left.

  Jeremiah’s plan to survive the evening was simple; stick to the alleyways that wound around the houses and businesses. Other competitors usually spent most of their time huddled around the street lamps hoping that the small flickering flames that burnt within would protect them from the pointed fangs and sharp claws of those that wanted to eat them / bite them / tear them apart (delete as appropriate). Instead the little light offered by the street lamps simply allowed the creatures to see their victims with more ease. In the alleyways there were no lights – just darkness. As such, Jeremiah had hoped that the creatures wouldn’t bother stalking the narrow corridors between the various wooden buildings. He thought why would they waste time in the alleyways when they could have easy pickings on the main streets? He thought wrong.

  Jeremiah’s pace slowed down as he legs began to wobble beneath him. He could feel muscles that he never knew existed screaming at him to stop; screaming at him to take a break. He tried to ignore them. He tried to focus on the task at hand.

  “You can make it,” he heaved with each breath out of his mouth. “You can make it, you can make it, you can make it…”

  As he turned down the next alleyway he felt, for the first time since the chase began, that he was going to make it. At the end of the alleyway he could see the main road and the welcoming doors to the safe-house at the other end of the street. The night’s light was also getting brighter as daylight slowly crept out of the shadows where it had been hiding from the ni
ght.

  His legs, however, didn’t like the thought of Jeremiah trying to mentally ignore them when they were in so much pain so decided to prove a point to him, which was that he must listen to them when they called out, by buckling from underneath him, sending him crashing to the hard, cold dirt.

  “PLEASE DON’T EAT ME!” screamed Jeremiah as he rolled onto his back – holding his hands in front of his face, with his eyes tightly closed as though that would protect him from the sharp teeth, or claws, of whatever wanted to end his miserable, little life. “I TASTE FOUL!”

  He lay there, on the dirty floor, quivering with fear, completely unprepared to die and yet nothing came. There were no teeth. There were no claws. There was no sound. There was no ripping of his sweaty flesh. There was nothing. Slowly he opened his left eye. The right eye soon opened when it realised that the left eye hadn’t been snatched from the comfy little socket that it sat in.

  There was nothing there; no creature looming above him. Jeremiah sat up and quickly looked all around him – half expecting “whatever-it-was” to suddenly appear and take his life but there was no one there. He couldn’t even see Death waiting in the wings to take him to the next life.