Chapter Ten
“Why did you send me there?”
Ben stood in the backyard of Titus’s house. He’d come there directly from the old cemetery. Titus was standing by his hives, preparing to remove the top from one of them.
“Let’s go inside,” Titus said. “This isn’t the place.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Ben demanded. “Why did you send me to that funeral? And why is Wallace Blackwood’s name on that gravestone?”
“Please,” said Titus. “Inside.”
Ben hesitated. He was angry, and afraid, and he did not want to be alone with Titus inside his house. He didn’t know what to think, or what to believe.
Ignoring Ben’s hesitation, Titus walked toward the door. After a moment, Ben followed him. They entered the house’s kitchen, where Titus sat down at the table. Ben remained standing.
“I didn’t want any of this to happen,” said Titus.
“Any of what?” asked Ben. “Sleeping with me? What?”
Titus looked at him. His eyes looked tired. “What do you know of vampires?” he asked.
Ben shrugged. “They suck blood. Who the fuck cares?”
“Wallace Blackwood was a vampire,” said Titus.
Ben stared at him. “A vampire,” he repeated.
Titus nodded. “That was his grave that you saw. His first grave. His most recent one is not marked.”
“I saw his name on that stone,” Ben said. “But that wasn’t the same Wallace Blackwood. That’s not possible.”
“It is possible,” replied Titus. “And yes, that was the very Wallace Blackwood who formerly occupied your position.”
Ben laughed. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be leaving now. Because you are nuts. I don’t know what happened here the other night, but it’s over now. So let’s just both forget about it, okay? I’ll be seeing you.”
He turned to leave, one hand on the handle of the door.
“He’s come back,” Titus said. “That’s who you saw swimming in the pond the other night, not me.”
Ben froze.
“Wallace Blackwood. He’s come back. Not in the same form, but he’s back. He killed that boy. He’ll come for you.”
Ben turned. “What kind of sick game is this?” he asked, growing angry. He walked toward the table. “Do you get off on this? Is that it? You like seducing guys and then playing with their heads?”
“I wish I were playing,” said Titus. “But this is no game. It’s very real. Wallace Blackwood killed that boy.”
“How do you know that?” Ben asked.
“Because he killed me once,” Titus answered.
Ben said nothing, looking at Titus’s face. The man seemed perfectly ordinary. Not at all like a crazy person, Ben thought. But what he was saying was completely unbelievable. Surely he must be mad.
“In 1832, Wallace Blackwood died for the first time,” said Titus. “He rose again several nights later when the virus in his blood grew strong enough to revive him. Half mad, he lived in the hills, feeding on whatever came his way. The Creaverton Demon they called him, and they weren’t much mistaken. No one but his victims ever saw him, but he claimed many lives. These deaths were blamed on many things: bears, Indians, accidents, even witchcraft. Yet no witch could do what Wallace Blackwood did. Nor could any demon. Only the living dead could kill like that, draining his catch of their blood and casting them aside like empty husks for the earth to reclaim.”
Titus’s voice had taken on a weary quality to it, as if he were telling a story he had long ago tired of. Although Ben still thought he was delusional, or worse, he sat in the chair opposite him and listened as Titus continued.
“After a time, he came again to reside among the living. He made his home among them, and none of them knew what he really was. He’d learned to fill their heads with memories, with remembrances of things that had never happened, people who had never lived. They believed he’d always been among them. And when he took from them, they looked elsewhere for explanations.”
Titus looked at Ben. “You asked Martha Abraham about him, didn’t you?”
Ben nodded.
“And what did she say?”
“She said Wally came here during the Depression,” he said.
Titus nodded. “Still he clouds their minds,” he said. “His power is very strong. No doubt they remember little of the events of that summer.”
“1932?” Ben asked.
“Yes,” answered Titus. “That summer, Blackwood grew hungry. The sickness in him had grown stronger, and he sought to quench it with the blood of children.”
“Blackwood?” said Ben. “What about John Rullins?”
Titus gave a small laugh. “John Rullins knew nothing of it,” he said. “Blackwood made them all think it was the tinker who did his work.”
“How do you know all of this?” Ben asked.
“Because I helped him,” said Titus softly. “I helped him kill.”
“You couldn’t have,” said Ben. “You weren’t even alive then.”
“No,” Titus said. “I wasn’t alive. Blackwood killed me seven years before. Nonetheless, I was walking the earth, and I helped him murder those children.”
Ben rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Maybe I’m the one going crazy,” he said. “I need to get out of here.”
He started to rise, but Titus caught his wrist. His grip was stronger than Ben remembered it, and no matter how hard he tried to pull away, Titus’s grip remained firm.
“Let me go,” Ben said, growing fearful.
“It won’t matter,” Titus told him. “You can’t run now. All you can do is listen.”
Ben struggled for another moment. Then, realizing that he would never be able to pull away, he sat. Titus released his wrist and Ben rubbed it, soothing the burning skin.
“There is much about the world that you don’t know,” said Titus. “The sickness that keeps Blackwood and myself alive is one of them. I pray that you never know it.”
“What is this sickness you keep talking about?” Ben asked. “You said Blackwood was a vampire.”
“Yes,” said Titus. “He is. As am I.”
“You?” repeated Ben. “You’re a vampire?”
“Yes,” Titus said. “I have the sickness.”
“Then why can you walk around in the sunshine?” Ben asked. “Vampires can’t do that.”
Titus smiled. “Neither can we tolerate the touch of holy water or the sign of the cross, right?”
“Right,” Ben said decisively.
“Superstitions,” said Titus. “Lies, most of them created by the old ones to make their prey think they could protect themselves. But none of it is true.”
“Of course not,” Ben said. “Just like none of this bullshit you’re feeding me is.”
“What would you have me do to prove myself to you?” asked Titus. “Drain your blood and make you like me? Would that satisfy you?”
Ben looked at him nervously. He didn’t know how to reply. Every ounce of common sense he had was telling him that Titus was lying. Yet another part of him believed, or at least wanted to believe, that he was speaking the truth.
“I had my chance to infect you,” said Titus. “Last night. I could have done it then.”
“Last night?” Ben said. “What, when you were fucking me?”
Titus nodded. “I was tempted,” he said. “It would have allowed us to be together, much as Wallace wanted me to be with him forever.”
“You and Wallace were lovers?” Ben asked him.
“Why do you think I helped him kill?” answered Titus. “I loved him. I believed his lies. But I was young. I didn’t understand then what the sickness could do. When I saw what he was truly made of, I destroyed him.”
“You killed him? But Martha said he died of—” He paused. He couldn’t remember what Martha had said was the cause of Wally’s death.
“She didn’t say how he died, did she?” asked Titus.
Ben searched his memory, trying to recall any explanation Martha might have given him. Finally, he shook his head in defeat. “No,” he said. “She didn’t. She just said he died after his book came out.”
“Yes, the book,” Titus said. “His masterpiece. If only I’d known about it beforehand, I might have stopped him.”
“Stopped him?” said Ben. “From what? Publishing it?”
“Reviving the lies,” Titus said. “Planting the seed of doubt in the minds of the town once more.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ben.
“He was planning on trying again,” said Titus. “He thought enough time had passed. The book was meant to rekindle the sparks of fear, so that when the killings began again people would remember John Rullins and once again find someone to blame.”
“But the book claimed that Rullins was innocent,” Ben said. “Blackwood blamed his death on mob hysteria.”
“That was Wallace’s vanity,” said Titus. “He could never stand that Rullins got the credit for the killings, even though it spared him. Still, he knew that people would be looking for a human explanation for what he had planned, and that the memory of Rullins would lead them to another monster.”
“They’d think that someone read the book and decided to recreate the crimes,” said Ben, understanding.
“Yes,” Titus replied. “It was a good plan.”
“But you stopped him?” said Ben. “How?”
“There are ways of killing the undead,” Titus explained. “I used one of them. But my work was not complete, because now he’s returned.”
“How do you know that?” asked Ben.
“I can sense him in the world,” Titus said. “And I know his hand when I see it.”
“Paul Mickerley,” Ben said. “Why did he leave his body where it could be found?”
“Again, vanity,” said Titus. “To announce his return. To stir up fear. He feeds on that as much as on the blood of those he takes.”
Ben hesitated before speaking. “Let’s assume I believe any of this,” he said finally. “Let’s assume I actually believe that you and Wallace Blackwood are both vampires. If he killed so many people, why should I believe you haven’t?”
“I have,” answered Titus. “Before I understood what I am, I killed too. But not in many years.”
“How is that possible?” Ben asked. “Don’t you need blood to live?”
“Only to stay young,” said Titus. “I no longer wish to be young at that price. I have found a way to fight the sickness.”
“How?” Ben asked, curious despite his skepticism.
Titus stood up. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”