The Youthful Mr. Young
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It wasn't too late. It was still November 8th and still a good hour or so before midnight. There was still time. The cemetery lay just ahead, and inside awaited the prize and the one who would give it to him.
For days now he had roamed the small town of Dulfer, Ohio. Walking the streets like a pilgrim of old, exploring the newness of a town that changes not at all, except out of necessity. There was Miller's Mercantile on the corner of Main and Grant with its bright new awning, and the Dairy Queen across from the First Presbyterian with its new sign-- both of which but replaced the ones carried off by last June's tornado. Mr. Burgess at Dulfer Hardware still swept the front walk five times a day, his son still wrestling with him over the broom. The women at Miss Ruby's Salon still whispered behind their hands and shook their heads at poor Mrs. Indira...
But not much really changed in Dulfer, which was good, but it wasn't the most compelling of reasons for why he returned every November. Anyone who met him sensed a strangeness that clung to him like ticks on a dog-- but then most strangers were strange in a small town's mind.
Hamby's barbershop was where he went first, each year without fail, upon arriving by train down at Dulfer Station. He'd get himself a trim and a shave, and Mr. Hamby, poised with a razor at his throat, would ask once again...
The answer was always the same... No.
Each year he gave a different name. Sometimes choosing a name from the local telephone directory, which always elicited the same inquiries as to whether or not he might be related to such and such, and still the same simple answer... No.
But it was festival time in Dulfer and normally that would be as good a reason as any to come to their sleepy little town, if he wasn't who he was. There were certainly enough strange faces in town to blend in with, and always that one special person that would help him finish what he came for. Most often those select few would be out-of-towners, but the last few years saw the development of a new trend-- Dissatisfied lifers wistfully looking beyond Dulfer's city limit. Come to think of it, that’s exactly what he had been, when he left Dulfer.
He was Darin Young. At least, that was the name he was using this year. He liked the name 'Young;' it was a name filled with vigor. It was certainly apropos; especially in light of what he was, and why he returned each and every year... It was a curse to be young; but curse or not, he enjoyed the game.
And it was a game, and all the more challenging for the shortness of time in which to play and win; the Fall Festival lasted only eight days, and considering what was at stake if he lost... well he had till midnight to do what needed doing.
There were two possibilities to winning this year: The first was young Mr. Harbert. At nineteen, Jim Harbert was the best choice simply because of his youth, if not his naiveté. So desperate to leave the town of his birth, he'd do what needed doing for money alone. But the youth of this day are not as innocent as those even one generation ago; there was a cold cynicism in their minds. Couple that with a hardened heart and behold! A generation of skeptics! But Dulfer was a small town, and while the youth of Dulfer knew all about MTV and Metallica they were still culturally and socially inexperienced. Jim Harbert was easy pickings, yes, but no challenge at all.
John Henry Bullock, on the other hand, was the proverbial nut in a shell and more difficult to crack by far. Here was a man who had seen a little of the world and was just the kind of challenge Mr. Young needed. John Henry had served in the military during the Gulf War and again in Haiti. He had seen death and it haunted him, though he hid it well. He had seen burned bodies bloating in the hot desert sun and the glassy eyes of men blown clean out of their shoes. He kept pictures in his small apartment over the garage where he worked rebuilding carburetors and starters by day. But at night Mr. Bullock wrote in his journal; four years of writing in hopes of reconciling in his own mind the only casualty of war he was ever personally responsible for... John Bullock wanted redemption.
He looked at his watch... Thirty-five minutes to win or lose. Which meant there was still time, and Darin Young had little doubt of winning. And what of the prize? Another year of life; fewer wrinkles, slightly altered features, a stronger libido; which was perhaps as much a curse as living itself. Ah, but, you can't have it all. Yet in the last eighty-two years Darin Young had at least seen it all.
Still, there was a lot that was good about the prize too: Never getting old, seeing the world, learning new languages, and living lavishly in style. But every first of November it was 'Hello, Dulfer!' That was the price of immortality... Virtual slavery to the one ritual that ultimately kept him among the living.
He smiled as he walked. The cemetery was only a block further on the right. He had been born in this town one hundred and sixty-three years before. His father had been nobody Dulfer would remember, and his own face couldn't be found anywhere, except perhaps in some old spinsters attic, tucked away in an old travel-trunk where, perhaps, it had grown brittle and faded with time. Long years ago he had gone to the small community library, where quietly in the back corner of the old building, he tore a page from one very old book that held a picture of him. No, it was highly unlikely anyone would ever recognize him.
And who could ever believe that a man could live to be over a hundred and fifty and still look as young as he did, despite looking every day of sixty-five? No one. The youthful Mr. Young grinned and began to whistle softly as the cemetery came into view.
How was last year any different from this one? He couldn't remember-- each year seemed to bleed into the others. But he always managed to end up at this little graveyard. It used to be well outside town limits, but like many small midwestern communities it had moved inexorably toward towns edge until finally-- without anyone seeming to notice --it ended up somewhere close to town center. But there was nothing unusual about that; Death had always been central to Life, though very few seemed to recognize it...
Yes, that's it! It was the universal fear of being buried alive that won him the game last year. Buried alive... What a ghastly way to die! It was much more common in the old days but it still happened today-- much more often than people realized --but by the time a family matriarch awoke within the pitch black confines of her shiny new casket, it was too late. There would be no escape. Even if the lid wasn't locked to deter any would-be grave robbers, the weight of sixty or more cubic feet of raw earth kept the lid just as tightly shut.
If terror didn't stop the old woman’s heart she'd suffocate within an hour, crying out to God the whole while... And perhaps going insane with the horror of her predicament; her hands scrabbling at the satin covering of the lid, snapping off her newly manicured nails and bloodying her fingers. Absolutely ghastly! The only way to make absolutely certain one didn't wake up in such a fix, he mused, was to be an organ donor, and he laughed. Force them to cut you open and take what you've promised. In effect, ensuring you are truly dead. It’s the only way. Subconsciously, whether or not they cared to admit it, everyone fears being buried alive.
A light mist was rising, the product of moist air on a warm night. It wasn't at all like the mist in horror movies he'd seen, where you couldn't see the ground you walked on, the kind that lay like a carpet of cloud upon the ground. This was the soupy stuff, really damp and cool, and it wasn't near as thick as it would be come morning. But that didn't matter to him; morning would find Mr. Young a hundred miles away, or dead.
The gate was just ahead, and open-- Someone was already inside. Only an hour ago he had checked the gate and it had been shut.
"Who is going to be organ donor this year?" he mused. His voice was deep but not particularly remarkable. Anyone who heard him speak would know, without ever hearing a note, that he couldn't have carried a tune in a bucket. Melodious.. That's the word... His voice was not at all melodious. Oh, well. You can't have everything. But then again, perhaps you could, provided you can get one man to do as you ask, of his own free will.
The word vampire had leapt to mind more than once over the years, and in a way they were very much alike, without all that death-by-daylight business, and wooden stakes through the heart. But according to legend, a vampire must be invited into a home to take what he needs to survive. In essence, the victim has to open the door and welcome the vampire across the threshold. Which is exactly what Mr. Young needed to win the game. Like some macabre version of Simon Says... And Simon says,
It was that easy, the Taking. The hard part-- indeed the challenge --was to talk them into it, get them to lie down and say those words without ever knowing what they were really doing until it was too late. And before the first rays of sunlight shot over the horizon he would gather the bones of last years donor and dispose of them elsewhere.
An old sycamore stood not far from his own marker. It was an old stone, not at all like the modern stones that shine like mirrors in the sun. It was rough granite and worn from nine decades of weathering. Lichen grew close to its base and wore at the stone even more. Another couple hundred years and his name might not even be legible; a small blessing... Considering.
The grass was dew damp, and he made a mental note to dry his shoes when he got back to his room. You could always tell the kind of man someone was by how well he kept his shoes. He smiled at that, the cliché hardly fit him.
There was a dim shape up ahead. He could tell just from its size who it was, and he suddenly knew beyond any doubt, that he would win the game yet again. The man ahead would lie upon the grave of one Augustus Leopold Montgomery and say the magic words. The soil would grasp and hold him down, and the mystery that kept Mister "Young" among the living would pull him beneath the black, moist loam and into the old decaying coffin below.
He would scream, of course-- who wouldn't? --but he wouldn't escape. He'd struggle in the small confines of the box, unable to move or turn, and break apart the bones of the one who had last lost the game. Suffocation would occur in a matter of minutes-- there hasn't been any breathable air in there in almost a century --but not before the horror of his situation possibly robbed him of sanity or killed him with a heart attack.
It would take a few days before the people of Dulfer would notice that someone else had vanished without a trace, but no one would openly suggest there was anything sinister about it. Stories would certainly get around, but everyone would eventually agree that such and such had talked for years about leaving town and had simply chosen that particular time to go. They would all likewise look over the fact that this person left without packing a single stitch of clothing-- Nothing at all suspicious there! And 'so what' if someone seems to disappear each year at the end of Fall Festival? Nothing unusual at all.
Come Christmas it would be forgotten, almost as though it had never happened. Nothing really changed; people certainly didn't. Which was why he liked Dulfer... Not that he had much choice.
ELAshley
050800.014055.1
Compiled for web
090306.125526.1
It wasn't too late. It was still November 8th and still a good hour or so before midnight. There was still time. The cemetery lay just ahead, and inside awaited the prize and the one who would give it to him.
For days now he had roamed the small town of Dulfer, Ohio. Walking the streets like a pilgrim of old, exploring the newness of a town that changes not at all, except out of necessity. There was Miller's Mercantile on the corner of Main and Grant with its bright new awning, and the Dairy Queen across from the First Presbyterian with its new sign-- both of which but replaced the ones carried off by last June's tornado. Mr. Burgess at Dulfer Hardware still swept the front walk five times a day, his son still wrestling with him over the broom. The women at Miss Ruby's Salon still whispered behind their hands and shook their heads at poor Mrs. Indira...
"Isn't it a shame about young Matthew, hanging himself in Mr. Godby's barn? And Mr. Indira, God rest his soul, dying of cancer a month later?"
But not much really changed in Dulfer, which was good, but it wasn't the most compelling of reasons for why he returned every November. Anyone who met him sensed a strangeness that clung to him like ticks on a dog-- but then most strangers were strange in a small town's mind.
Hamby's barbershop was where he went first, each year without fail, upon arriving by train down at Dulfer Station. He'd get himself a trim and a shave, and Mr. Hamby, poised with a razor at his throat, would ask once again...
"Haven't I seen you in here before, Mister?"
The answer was always the same... No.
Each year he gave a different name. Sometimes choosing a name from the local telephone directory, which always elicited the same inquiries as to whether or not he might be related to such and such, and still the same simple answer... No.
But it was festival time in Dulfer and normally that would be as good a reason as any to come to their sleepy little town, if he wasn't who he was. There were certainly enough strange faces in town to blend in with, and always that one special person that would help him finish what he came for. Most often those select few would be out-of-towners, but the last few years saw the development of a new trend-- Dissatisfied lifers wistfully looking beyond Dulfer's city limit. Come to think of it, that’s exactly what he had been, when he left Dulfer.
He was Darin Young. At least, that was the name he was using this year. He liked the name 'Young;' it was a name filled with vigor. It was certainly apropos; especially in light of what he was, and why he returned each and every year... It was a curse to be young; but curse or not, he enjoyed the game.
And it was a game, and all the more challenging for the shortness of time in which to play and win; the Fall Festival lasted only eight days, and considering what was at stake if he lost... well he had till midnight to do what needed doing.
"There's plenty of time, yet."
There were two possibilities to winning this year: The first was young Mr. Harbert. At nineteen, Jim Harbert was the best choice simply because of his youth, if not his naiveté. So desperate to leave the town of his birth, he'd do what needed doing for money alone. But the youth of this day are not as innocent as those even one generation ago; there was a cold cynicism in their minds. Couple that with a hardened heart and behold! A generation of skeptics! But Dulfer was a small town, and while the youth of Dulfer knew all about MTV and Metallica they were still culturally and socially inexperienced. Jim Harbert was easy pickings, yes, but no challenge at all.
John Henry Bullock, on the other hand, was the proverbial nut in a shell and more difficult to crack by far. Here was a man who had seen a little of the world and was just the kind of challenge Mr. Young needed. John Henry had served in the military during the Gulf War and again in Haiti. He had seen death and it haunted him, though he hid it well. He had seen burned bodies bloating in the hot desert sun and the glassy eyes of men blown clean out of their shoes. He kept pictures in his small apartment over the garage where he worked rebuilding carburetors and starters by day. But at night Mr. Bullock wrote in his journal; four years of writing in hopes of reconciling in his own mind the only casualty of war he was ever personally responsible for... John Bullock wanted redemption.
He looked at his watch... Thirty-five minutes to win or lose. Which meant there was still time, and Darin Young had little doubt of winning. And what of the prize? Another year of life; fewer wrinkles, slightly altered features, a stronger libido; which was perhaps as much a curse as living itself. Ah, but, you can't have it all. Yet in the last eighty-two years Darin Young had at least seen it all.
Still, there was a lot that was good about the prize too: Never getting old, seeing the world, learning new languages, and living lavishly in style. But every first of November it was 'Hello, Dulfer!' That was the price of immortality... Virtual slavery to the one ritual that ultimately kept him among the living.
He smiled as he walked. The cemetery was only a block further on the right. He had been born in this town one hundred and sixty-three years before. His father had been nobody Dulfer would remember, and his own face couldn't be found anywhere, except perhaps in some old spinsters attic, tucked away in an old travel-trunk where, perhaps, it had grown brittle and faded with time. Long years ago he had gone to the small community library, where quietly in the back corner of the old building, he tore a page from one very old book that held a picture of him. No, it was highly unlikely anyone would ever recognize him.
And who could ever believe that a man could live to be over a hundred and fifty and still look as young as he did, despite looking every day of sixty-five? No one. The youthful Mr. Young grinned and began to whistle softly as the cemetery came into view.
How was last year any different from this one? He couldn't remember-- each year seemed to bleed into the others. But he always managed to end up at this little graveyard. It used to be well outside town limits, but like many small midwestern communities it had moved inexorably toward towns edge until finally-- without anyone seeming to notice --it ended up somewhere close to town center. But there was nothing unusual about that; Death had always been central to Life, though very few seemed to recognize it...
Yes, that's it! It was the universal fear of being buried alive that won him the game last year. Buried alive... What a ghastly way to die! It was much more common in the old days but it still happened today-- much more often than people realized --but by the time a family matriarch awoke within the pitch black confines of her shiny new casket, it was too late. There would be no escape. Even if the lid wasn't locked to deter any would-be grave robbers, the weight of sixty or more cubic feet of raw earth kept the lid just as tightly shut.
If terror didn't stop the old woman’s heart she'd suffocate within an hour, crying out to God the whole while... And perhaps going insane with the horror of her predicament; her hands scrabbling at the satin covering of the lid, snapping off her newly manicured nails and bloodying her fingers. Absolutely ghastly! The only way to make absolutely certain one didn't wake up in such a fix, he mused, was to be an organ donor, and he laughed. Force them to cut you open and take what you've promised. In effect, ensuring you are truly dead. It’s the only way. Subconsciously, whether or not they cared to admit it, everyone fears being buried alive.
A light mist was rising, the product of moist air on a warm night. It wasn't at all like the mist in horror movies he'd seen, where you couldn't see the ground you walked on, the kind that lay like a carpet of cloud upon the ground. This was the soupy stuff, really damp and cool, and it wasn't near as thick as it would be come morning. But that didn't matter to him; morning would find Mr. Young a hundred miles away, or dead.
The gate was just ahead, and open-- Someone was already inside. Only an hour ago he had checked the gate and it had been shut.
"Who is going to be organ donor this year?" he mused. His voice was deep but not particularly remarkable. Anyone who heard him speak would know, without ever hearing a note, that he couldn't have carried a tune in a bucket. Melodious.. That's the word... His voice was not at all melodious. Oh, well. You can't have everything. But then again, perhaps you could, provided you can get one man to do as you ask, of his own free will.
The word vampire had leapt to mind more than once over the years, and in a way they were very much alike, without all that death-by-daylight business, and wooden stakes through the heart. But according to legend, a vampire must be invited into a home to take what he needs to survive. In essence, the victim has to open the door and welcome the vampire across the threshold. Which is exactly what Mr. Young needed to win the game. Like some macabre version of Simon Says... And Simon says,
"Give me what life remains to you, by saying these four simple words. Words that allow me to accept what you freely give... 'My life for yours.' "
It was that easy, the Taking. The hard part-- indeed the challenge --was to talk them into it, get them to lie down and say those words without ever knowing what they were really doing until it was too late. And before the first rays of sunlight shot over the horizon he would gather the bones of last years donor and dispose of them elsewhere.
An old sycamore stood not far from his own marker. It was an old stone, not at all like the modern stones that shine like mirrors in the sun. It was rough granite and worn from nine decades of weathering. Lichen grew close to its base and wore at the stone even more. Another couple hundred years and his name might not even be legible; a small blessing... Considering.
The grass was dew damp, and he made a mental note to dry his shoes when he got back to his room. You could always tell the kind of man someone was by how well he kept his shoes. He smiled at that, the cliché hardly fit him.
There was a dim shape up ahead. He could tell just from its size who it was, and he suddenly knew beyond any doubt, that he would win the game yet again. The man ahead would lie upon the grave of one Augustus Leopold Montgomery and say the magic words. The soil would grasp and hold him down, and the mystery that kept Mister "Young" among the living would pull him beneath the black, moist loam and into the old decaying coffin below.
He would scream, of course-- who wouldn't? --but he wouldn't escape. He'd struggle in the small confines of the box, unable to move or turn, and break apart the bones of the one who had last lost the game. Suffocation would occur in a matter of minutes-- there hasn't been any breathable air in there in almost a century --but not before the horror of his situation possibly robbed him of sanity or killed him with a heart attack.
'My life for yours...'
It would take a few days before the people of Dulfer would notice that someone else had vanished without a trace, but no one would openly suggest there was anything sinister about it. Stories would certainly get around, but everyone would eventually agree that such and such had talked for years about leaving town and had simply chosen that particular time to go. They would all likewise look over the fact that this person left without packing a single stitch of clothing-- Nothing at all suspicious there! And 'so what' if someone seems to disappear each year at the end of Fall Festival? Nothing unusual at all.
Come Christmas it would be forgotten, almost as though it had never happened. Nothing really changed; people certainly didn't. Which was why he liked Dulfer... Not that he had much choice.
ELAshley
050800.014055.1
Compiled for web
090306.125526.1
from the mind of... Eric | 12:14 AM
4 Comments:
Moody, mysterious, creepy. I like it.
You do much of this sort of writing?
Thank you. My writing tends to the strange, yes... this was written during my Ray Branbury phase. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
So... How'd the transfer take place? The grave actually grabs the victim and sucks them into the ground?
How do you get people to say "my life for yours?" Is this one of them thar metaphors?
Questions notwithstanding, I truly dug this piece.
I would call it a curse. Within the soil, the aging coffin within, who knows, the story came in one sitting, despite several years of revision.
I imagine Mr. Young strikes up conversations with people he chooses based on long years of observation; picking those who have the look of vulnerability and low self-esteem. "My life for yours" is the verbal equivalent of trigger hairs in the jaws of a venus fly-trap.
What I do know, but never expressed in the story, is that Mr. Young only gets half of what his 'donor' had to give, which is why the donors are still alive when they settle into the "belly of the beast" -- so to speak. For example, a 20 year old could reasonably live another 50 years, half of which would go to Mr. Young.
Something else I know... Mr. Young was in the vicinity of 60 years old when he became what he is, the how and wherefore of which even I cannot say. So... 25 years pushes Mr. Young back to 35.
Sooner or later the coffin will collapse with age and rot, and Mr. Young will be doomed.
This was actually to be the first in a trilogy of alternate vampire shorts. The second story is tentatively titled, Leech. It too deals with the exploitation of human weakness.
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