The Vanishing Vampire

 

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For Joelle, because she can see the magic

 

Contents

      
Title Page

      
Copyright Notice

      
Dedication

      
Author's Note

  1.
A Pain in the Neck

  2.
Back Home

      
Illustration

  3.
What's the Difference?

  4.
Reflections

      
Illustration

      
Illustration

  5.
I Rise

  6.
Feel the Burn

  7.
A Friend Indeed

      
Illustration

  8.
Creature Comforts

      
Illustration

  9.
Sick Day

10.
Net Results

      
Illustration

11.
Back to School

      
Illustration

12.
This Won't Hurt a Bit

13.
Trapped

14.
The Vampire Killer

      
Illustration

15.
A Pleasant Chat

16.
Interlude

      
Illustration

17.
Same Old Routine

18.
An Acceptable Steak

19.
Losing the Grip

      
Illustration

20.
Kitchen Chemistry

      
Illustration

21.
A Little Gift

      
Illustration

22.
A Decision

      
Excerpt from
The Unwilling Witch

      
Starscape Books by David Lubar

      
About the Author

      
Copyright

 

Author's Note

I've always been a fan of monsters. As a kid, I watched monster movies, read monster magazines, built monster models, and even tried my hand at monster makeup for Halloween. Basically, I was a creepy little kid. It's no surprise that, when I grew up and became a writer, I would tell monster stories. I've written a lot of them over the years. My short-story collections, such as
Attack of the Vampire Weenies and Other Warped and Creepy Tales,
are full of vampires, werewolves, ghosts, witches, giant insects, and other classic creatures. The book you hold in your hands is also about a monster. But it is different from my short stories in a wonderful way. Let me explain.

Years ago, I decided I wanted to tell a tale through the eyes of a monster. That idea excited me, but it didn't feel special enough by itself. Then I had a second idea that went perfectly with the first one. What if a kid became a monster? Even better—what if the kid had to decide whether to remain a monster, or to become human again? The result of these ideas was not one book, but six. It seems the town of Lewington attracts a monsteriffic amount of trouble. To find out more, read on.

 

One

A PAIN IN THE NECK

I was on my way home from a movie when the dark thing fell on me. I'd been walking quickly, hurrying to the safety of home. Lewington isn't a dangerous place to live, but I'd just watched the late showing of
Creepers from the Crypt
. I couldn't fight the urge to rush through the empty streets. Images from the film chased me as I went, threatening to leap from my mind and become real.

Just one block back, I'd split up with my friend Norman. He headed left on Maple. I stayed on Spruce, walking past that huge oak whose roots were slowly breaking up the sidewalk by the vacant lot.

I heard nothing. I saw very little. Later, thinking back, I remembered the eyes and the teeth. At the time, I just knew darkness was dropping toward me. And the darkness wasn't only in the night; it filled my mind and took me away.

The darkness inside me lifted as I woke, leaving me wondering why I wasn't in bed. I was somewhere hard and cold. There was dirty concrete beneath my fingers. I sat up slowly, feeling the world spin. I held very still, waiting for it to stop.

I stood. The world spun again, but with less force. I put one hand out and touched the rough bark of the tree.

The tree. Something dark? Something falling? I couldn't quite remember.

I turned toward home, unsure of what had happened. I'd passed out or fainted. No. “Guys don't faint,” I mumbled to myself.

Behind, I heard the scraping slap of sneakers on the sidewalk. Someone was calling a name. Someone was calling me. I turned, moving cautiously, afraid that the world would follow my motion and start to spin again.

It was Norman. He was running toward me, one finger pushing up the glasses that were always sliding down his nose. “Splat, hey, Splat, you okay?”

They call me Splat. It's a long, stupid story. My name's Sebastian. Sebastian Claypool. That name is a short, stupid story. Before I was born, Mom and Dad were listening to a lot of music written by Johann Sebastian Bach. Dad thought Johann would be a strange name for a kid. So,
blam,
they hang Sebastian on me. Thanks, Dad.

It could have been worse. They also liked the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Norman reached me and stood there, taking deep breaths like a catfish dragged onto shore. Running was not a big part of his life. The night had grown chilly, and the air turned to swirls of fog as it left Norman's nostrils. “I looked back and you were on the ground,” he said. “Did you trip?”

“I don't know.” I tried to remember. “Don't tell anyone, but I think I passed out.”

“Wow, that's bad. It could mean all kinds of things.” He pushed up his glasses again. “You should probably get a CAT scan. I wouldn't rule out a brain tumor, though of course blood sugar is generally a factor in these cases, and the glucose level by itself isn't always enough of an indicator to determine—”

“Norman.” I tried to stop him. Once he got going, he was like a bus rolling down a hill. If I caught him while he was just inching along, there was hope. But after he picked up some speed and really started barreling along the Highway of Fascinating Facts, there was no way to slow him down. “Hold on. I just got a little dizzy, that's all.”

“What'd you eat?” he asked.

I thought back. That part of my night was clear enough. I'd had my usual popcorn—the Tub-of-Fun size that lasts about a quarter of the way through the movie. I'd washed it down with a cherry cola. Then I'd had a pack or two of caramel chews and as many of Norman's gummy eyes as he'd let me steal. Nothing there to make a kid lose touch with the world. I told Norman the list of snacks.

He seemed to be in deep thought. I imagined him running some kind of chemical tests in his mind, looking for a reaction between the assorted snacks. This could take all night. I just wanted to get home. “Look, thanks for coming over, but I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. Except for the dizziness, which had almost totally faded, I felt perfectly normal. Actually, I felt pretty good. Everything was starting to look very sharp and clear. As I nodded, I noticed a slight tingling on the left side of my neck. The skin below my jaw felt numb. I rubbed the spot.

“You probably should see your doctor if it happens again.”

“Yes, Mother,” I kidded him. Having Norman for a friend was almost like having a third parent. I noticed that the tingling in my neck was going away.

“Okay.” He started to leave, then said, “See you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Maybe they got some new comics at the shop. We can check that out.” The tingling was completely gone. Everything felt fine.

“Great,” Norman said. “I'll see you then.” He turned and walked back toward Maple.

“Thanks,” I called after him. As he walked away, he seemed, for a moment, to stay in sharp focus. It was almost like my eyes were some kind of zoom lens. But as soon as I was aware of it, the illusion snapped away.

I headed home. Whatever had happened was weird,
really
weird. I took my hand from my neck, squinting as I walked into the glare of a streetlight.

My fingers felt like they were still sticky from the movie snacks. That was strange. I looked down at my hand. For a second, I couldn't tell what I was seeing. The light was so bright. Then I saw it.

There was blood on my fingers.

 

Two

BACK HOME

Blood.

Without thinking about it, I put my hand to my mouth. I froze as I realized what I was about to do. I'd almost licked my fingers, like the stain was leftover chocolate. Yuck. I shuddered at the thought, rubbed my fingers against my palm, and then rubbed my whole hand against my jacket. I touched my neck again, then looked at my fingers. Nothing.

Whatever it was—a cut or a scrape or a bug bite—it seemed to be healing quickly. Maybe I hit the tree when I fell. No big deal—it was over.

I walked along Spruce, then turned right onto Birch. Whoever built this part of town obviously had a thing for trees. All the streets had tree names. My house wasn't far from the corner—third house on the right. The porch light was on. It seemed pretty bright. I wondered if Dad had changed the bulb.

As I walked up the porch steps, my energy disappeared. I felt exhausted. I mean
really
drained. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed, get under the blankets, and sleep for a couple of hundred years. I stood still and held on to the railing, wondering if the strain of climbing the steps would make the dizziness return.

It didn't come back. I went inside. The warmth of the house felt good. I shivered, suddenly aware of how cold I'd been. For a moment, I just stood in the hallway, letting the heat sink into my body.

“Is that you, Sebastian?” my mom called from the living room.

“Yup.” I walked down the hall.

“How was the movie?” she asked.

Movie? The question confused me. Then I remembered. Back before the walk, before the darkness, there'd been the movie. “Great. It was really awesome. There was this guy who had this really huge ax and he—” I stopped. She wasn't going to want to hear the details of that particular film. “Where's Dad?”

“In his shop. He just got a large order for one of his new jewelry designs, and he wanted to get started on it.”

“Well, I'm pretty tired. I won't bother him if he's working. Just tell him I said good night.”

“I will. See you in the morning.”

“See ya.” I headed toward my room. Rory, my little brother, was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. It was way past his bedtime, but we sorta had this ritual.

“Tell me 'bout the movie,” he whispered.

“It was awful,” I said as we moved toward his room. “It was so scary, if I told you about it, you'd break out in goose bumps.”

We weaved our way across his floor, avoiding the toy soldiers, trucks, tanks, and jeeps that made up a large part of Rory's world. He was crazy about army gear. He even had a gas mask Dad had found at a garage sale, and a mess kit and a ton of other things. Sometimes, I'd play Martian-elephant-monster—chasing Rory around the house while I wore the gas mask.