The Vampires of St. Vincent
Two Horror Stories for My Bloodthirsty Creatures of the Night
NOTE: These two stories were originally published on my long-defunct Patreon and were intended to be the first of a cycle of stories. If the response to them is good here, maybe I’ll write more of them. I’ll keep the first one free, and the paywall break will be before the second. Let me know what you think.
Also, there is an animal death in the first story. I go back and forth on the efficacy and necessity of content warnings, but some of the most desensitized readers I know have a hard time with anything involving animals, so I figured I’d mention it up front.
With those prefatory matters out of the way, let’s get into it.
Enjoy.
1
“Who gives a shit about holy water?” Myron said.
His face was screwed up in some ugly hybrid of confusion and exasperation. He looked insulted that his older brother had brought him something so lame. He had just turned thirteen and had just as recently stopped thinking of seventeen-year-old George as his idol. Without a father figure, George was the closest thing Myron had to a man in his life. In some ways, George was almost like a parent after their mother went back to work. Maybe that was why Myron didn’t like George as much as before. He had just entered his rebellious stage, a phase George had never really gone through. George never had the chance. He had to become a man long before any of his peers. It made him an outsider.
“It’s not what it is,” George said. “It’s where it’s from.”
“Yeah? Where’s that?”
George grinned and proffered the vial again. Myron took it and looked it over. It had no identifying marks. It was a small, test-tube like vial filled with a clear substance. Smudges of dirt covered the glass exterior. A cork kept the vial sealed. Myron looked up again, this time only showing confusion. Curiosity had dampened his offense.
“Saint Vincent.”
“No fucking way. You’re too much of a pussy to go there.”
“Turns out I’m not. And don’t call me a pussy again, or I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll be shitting out your mouth for weeks.”
“Yeah, sure.” Myron looked over the vial once more. “Why’d you give me this?”
“I don’t know. You like all that weird horror shit. Thought you’d think it was cool.”
“If it’s what you say it is, it’s definitely cool.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Myron paused to consider.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”
“You like it?”
Now, Myron grinned. He looked like a little boy again, which made George’s chest ache.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Cool. You probably shouldn’t drink it though.”
“Why not?”
“Come on, man. It’s old as fuck. Who knows what’s living inside it? Probably has parasites or something.”
Myron tugged on the cork, reddening from strain.
“Not like I could pop it open anyway.”
“Wine openers, dumbass.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But seriously. Don’t.”
“Okay, okay.”
George went to bed but didn’t sleep. He thought about earlier that night when Carlotta convinced him to enter the old abbey with her. Unlike him, but very much like his kid brother, she loved spooky stuff. She’d even claimed to have gone to Saint Vincent’s before. Probably with an old boyfriend, but she didn’t confirm this when George asked.
It was located near the Chavez ravine. It had closed in the late nineties, but no one bothered to have it demolished. No one bothered to deem it a historic site either. It just stood there decaying a brick at a time. Its Gothic arches remained intact, but murals of angels and devils had crumbled long ago. All the stained-glass windows had been smashed out and subsequently boarded up, but no one could quite tell who had done it. George had once heard the reason no one demolished it had to do with superstition. Everyone in this town, godless as it was, had insane beliefs about fucking around with the infinite. At least that was what he’d heard most of his life.
Carlotta had no such scruples. She not only loved all that weird horror shit; she also had the soul of a thrill-seeker. She liked tempting fate, especially when the possibility of paranormal forces was involved. She’d spent much of her early and mid-teenage years reading tarot cards and playing with Ouija boards. She’d stayed nights in houses purported to be haunted, usually telling her parents she was staying with friends. Only Saint Vincent’s was the real deal, she’d asserted.
There’s something there, she’d said. I feel it with every fiber of my being. Maybe ghosts. Maybe demons. I don’t know what, but I know there’s something.
Though her enthusiasm and unshakeable faith made him all the more apprehensive, he also didn’t want her to think he was pussy. Her pussy was fucking magical and the idea of someone else getting inside it because he was too lame to join her in her spooky escapades scared him more than any ghosts or demons. That shit wasn’t real. The prospect of not getting laid was a tangible fear. Jealousy was a tangible demon.
It didn’t help that he already thought her out of his league. She was five-foot-eight, red-haired, and slim. She could be in movies if she wanted, and not just because they lived so close to Hollywood. Carlotta carried herself like a star. For some inexplicable reason, she deemed him not just fuckable, but relationship material. Eight months later and sometimes, it still felt like a dream.
So, he went with her. Down into the dark. The haunted dark.
He saw no ghosts, and while the place did give him an uneasy feeling, he attributed it to the floor, which felt like it could cave in any given moment. He also worried some methed out homeless guy might pop out of one of the shadowy halls, stick a knife in his throat, and a pustule-studded cock in Carlotta’s pussy.
They found the holy water in the sacristy. Vials of it were lined up inside, some of them tipped over, but all of them corked shut. Almost as an afterthought, he snatched one. It made Carlotta giggle, which made him feel warm inside. His mom always said it was important to make girls laugh.
As he fell asleep, he wondered whether nuns shaved their legs and pubic hair, or if they stayed fuzzy, like that hippie chick Josie he used to crush on before he met Carlotta.
Someone banged on his door and snapped him out of sleep. His heart felt ready to explode. The knocker was saying something he couldn’t quite make out due to their shrillness, but he recognized the voice. Mom. He glanced around in the dark, found his pants and pulled them on. He fumbled for the light switch. He flung the door open right as he got the light on.
“What is it, Mom?”
Her features were drawn. Her eyes were wet.
“It’s Myron. He’s gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Missing.”
“Maybe he left for school early?”
“Three hours early?”
She shoved her cell phone in George’s face. Their flat-face shorthair Snuffles, named for his labored breathing, made figure eights between her legs. It was four-thirty. George rubbed his eyes.
“Okay, look, I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Fine? He’s thirteen!”
A wave of nauseous guilt washed over George’s reality. Sure, Myron thought he was too cool for his big brother’s protection now, but that didn’t make it true. If he was missing now, it was all George’s fault.
“Fuck,” George said and raced to Myron’s room.
He flung open the door to find the room empty.
“I already checked there. Should I call the police?”
“What? No. Absolutely not.”
“And why not?”
“Let’s call him first.”
“I tried,” she wailed like some kind of sick animal.
“I’ll try,” George said, returning to his room and dialing his little brother. The phone rang from Myron’s room. George flashed his mother a look. “You didn’t hear that before?”
“I was outside when I called.”
“Why would he leave his phone behind?”
“Oh, God...”
He hung up, put his arms around his mother, and shushed her.
“It will be okay. No one snatched him from his room. We’re on the second floor. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Her trembling sobs were the only reply.
School sucked. George wasn’t some delinquent who always felt that way, but after his crazy morning, he could not get his head in the game. Every class period crawled. Every lecture droned like a record played at half-speed. He fidgeted in his desk throughout the day and called Myron between classes. He never got an answer.
It didn’t help matters when Carlotta said she’d dreamed about Myron. When he asked what the dream had been about, she lowered her gaze and said he probably didn’t want to know.
“Yeah, you’re right. I probably don’t.”
Her assurance that he wouldn’t want to know told him all he needed. Probably detecting something in his face, Carlotta frowned.
“You don’t have anything to worry about. He’s a baby for fuck’s sake.”
“Yeah, I know. Still.”
“Still nothing,” she said. “I’m not going to cheat on you with a thirteen-year-old. Definitely not your brother. I may be a bit of a bitch, but I have some sense of morality.”
“You’re not a bitch,” he said and hugged her, and lunch passed too quickly, making the remainder of the day drag like a dying worm.
As he approached his apartment building after school, he heard an animal yowling in pain. Instinct told him to check down the nearest alleyway. If he could save a cat from a coyote, he might feel like he did something good. He’d already given up on the prospect of getting homework done. His brother’s disappearance disturbed him far too deeply, especially after learning Myron hadn’t shown up for school.
Though he began walking toward the alley, he got the distinct notion that the awful yowling was coming from somewhere inside.
He entered the lobby and sprinted to the stairs, which he took two at a time. When he reached his hallway, he saw several people standing outside his door. The crying sounded a lot louder. He could tell it was a cat. It was his cat. Snuffles. Unless some other cat had found its way into his apartment.
George rushed toward the door. Told the spectators to fuck off as he unlocked it. Entered and slammed the door before anyone could follow him inside. The cries of the tortured cat were so loud, he thought—hoped—they were coming from a loud television or something. But he knew better. They sounded all too real and they were coming from Myron’s room.
George pushed the already ajar door all the way open. The room was in disarray. Clothes and textbooks and video games were scattered across the floor. The TV was tipped over face-first. In the far corner, Myron crouched, holding something wet and furry in his hands.
The yowling had turned into a gurgle. The cat hung twitching but mostly motionless in Myron’s clawed grip. Blood glistened on Myron’s chin. His eyes gleamed jaundiced yellow. His skin had taken on a chalky texture in the short hours since George had seen him last.
Myron opened his mouth and took another bite into the cat. His teeth made a sickening squelch as they chewed flesh, but the slurping sound which followed was far worse. At his feet, beside a puddle of blood and fur, the vial of holy water lay uncorked and empty.
