Cuentos

By Edwin Stark

A doomed vampire hunter. A kid trapped in the sewers with an undead thing. A town that could be yours... but hides a terrible, dark secret. A scary cosmic balance. A dead brother and his revenge beyond the grave. An unspeakable future and three eerie girls: all these elements lurk within Cuentos, this collection of eight short stories and two short novellas that may make you reconsider how you contemplate darkness... after you’re finished reading it.
Four of these tales are science fiction bordering the scary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin Stark
• Release date: Jan 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458038586

Edwin Stark

Hello, my name's Edwin Stark, and I was born in Caracas, Venezuela. That's South America for the few geographically-challenged ones out there. I suppose that somehow the stork had just stumbled out from a pub while it was delivering me, (it was confused to say the least) and mishandled my humble persona, leaving me stranded in this unlikely place. Having German ancestry, I spoke that language as a toddler, but my Mom had the misconception that I'd fit better here if I spoke Spanish, so that tongue was lost during my growing years. I grew up dreaming crazy tales and was my teacher's pet when it came to composition class—but not in deportment: that was for certain—and as I grew up I tried to get noticed as a writer by submitting to every magazine and writing contest available in my home country. No such luck; the publishing market in Venezuela is utterly locked out: you can only see your words in print if you're already a notorious politician or a TV celebrity. Since I wasn't in the inclination of becoming a serial murderer to achieve notoriousness and get published, the need to rethink the approach to my writing career became a must. Eventually, I decided to switch languages and start writing in English. I was already proficient in that language... but was I good enough to tell stories in that fashion? I then started to write short stories, effectively dumping my native language. I wrote nearly 200 short stories during a period of about eighteen months, slowly learning the nuances of story-telling in another language than your own. I already had the benefit of having the knack of telling a tale; I only had to adjust. 190 of them short tales certainly sucked; 10 were really neat, but the important thing was the learning process. These ten tales eventually made it into Cuentos, the short story collection which became my third book. I succeeded so well in tearing myself apart from Spanish, that almost everyone I meet online says: "I CAN'T BELIEVE ENGLISH ISN'T YOUR FIRST LANGUAGE!" So far, I wrote four books: AI Rebellion, a rather preachy cyberpunk thriller that still shows the struggle of switching languages (and I only recommend people to read it if they're on an archeological mood, as in if they're interested in seeing my progress as a writer), Eco Station One, a very bizarre and funny satire, the aforementioned Cuentos, and The Clayton Chronicles, a rather cookie-cut vampire tale. All these are available for the Kindle reader on Amazon, in paperbacks and all e-book formats in Smashwords.

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CUENTOS

By Edwin Stark

Copyright 2010

Smashwords Edition

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FOREWORD

PART ONE: VAMPIRES!

THE HUNTER

The Recycling Kid

OLD FRIENDS KEEP TABS

A WINDOW IN TIME

PART TWO: PLAIN TERROR

REVENANT

HATE THE FUTURE

PART THREE: SCIENCE FICTION

BRIEF ENCOUNTER IN ASTANILE

SEND IN THE TRIAD CLONES

JUNGLE MIND

REFORGING

AUTHOR'S NOTE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

FOREWORD

The ten short stories contained within are small milestones in my writing career. Most of them are about 2000 – 3000 words long, which shall provide you with a quick read, but at least two of them reach short novella status; The Recycling Kid is just five hundred words short of being 10 K words long, to be specific. Initially I tried to put them in chronological order, attempting to show the way my writing had evolved, but it was a very disheartening task. So, I decided it was for the best to put them in related theme groups. This lends the tales inside quite a distinct flavor and helped to provide this book a semblance of order. I added small insights to the beginning of each short story, hoping to convey some extra information about each one.

PART ONE: VAMPIRES!

This is actually the first story I wrote, which is a very fortunate omen. Of course, it was also the first one to be rejected by a horror magazine. The rejection e-mail kindly informed me that vampires were passé and out of vogue and not commercial anymore. I sneered while I filed this piece of information for later perusal. A year later, the vampire craze related to a certain series of books and movies boomed as it hit the market back with a vengeance.

Curiously, the horror mag that rejected this tale folded six months before this vampire renaissance. Perhaps they should have paid more attention.

THE HUNTER

Robert Callahan felt weaker as sunrise approached. There were two clear cut reasons for it. The first one was that he had fought Browning—if that was the creature’s name—to death. Browning’s corpse lay down a couple of floors below, inside the Scottish castle tower that Callahan was now climbing. It had been one hell of a fight, Robert thought, but at last he had managed to pierce the foul creature’s heart with a wooden stake. Callahan raised his head in a weary move and noticed that he only had to climb another flight of stairs before reaching the battlement above.

The second reason for Robert’s tiredness was that Browning had infected him. Although he was still breathing and moving, Robert Callahan had died.

He had become a vampire.

* * *

It was doom for Robert, who had been hunting Browning and his kind for the past thirty years. And yet, he savored the small irony locked inside: it was a terrible fate for a vampire hunter. He collapsed to the first step of the final flight and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Robert lit one and tried to draw a few puffs of smoke, but a powerful burst of nausea unraveled in his guts. He dropped the burning cigarette to the floor and put it out with the tip of his shoe.

There was no use in smoking. No use in eating, either. All he felt was a driving, unfulfilled thirst. An unspeakable hunger. Robert closed his eyes and remembered.

* * *

Callahan had come to this ruined Scottish fortress, following the faint traces of Browning’s whereabouts. Savvy on the ways of his chosen trade, Robert suspected that the vampire would be drawn to this castle, the same as a moth is inevitably attracted to flame. The creature in question, as Browning’s speech hinted, had allegedly become undead sometime around the Victorian Era England. A child of his time, nurtured by romances and the early horror tales, the vampire would feel a penchant for dark, foreboding places. A hunter didn’t care a bit for his prey’s origin, but this small tidbit of information had given him the necessary edge to track it – the dead thing in the levels below must have changed its name more than a few times throughout the centuries – but the one thing it couldn’t scourge was its proclivity for the medieval.

Callahan, however, now realized that this bit of cleverness had made him overconfident, and he had entered the building without being really prepared for the encounter: his senses at the time had been acutely alert… but he had overlooked the simple trap that had been his downfall. He had been knocked unconscious from behind and a dark maelstrom of nothingness had engulfed him.

When he regained consciousness, it was the worst thing he had ever experienced in his entire life. Once, during a boxing match in a Scholar Championship, an unexpected left hook had taken him out of commission. When he awakened from that one, he had felt like this—but never this bad.

The first thing he noticed was that he lay on the wooden floor of a circular room and that the valise where he kept his hunting tools was sitting close by. Next to it, sat Browning on a wooden chair. There was a feral smile on his features.

No use in fighting, Callahan, the creature said, I’m your master now.

While Browning sat smug and arrogant, Robert propped up on his elbow, but that simple action sent him into a dizzying swoon he hardly managed to control. Despite this, he slowly rose to his full height.

What do you mean, bastard? Robert growled as he finally staggered on his feet. What have you done?

Browning’s sadistic grin was his only answer. The creature seemed to be enjoying the situation immensely, thinking itself very smart by maintaining a pokerfaced charade. Robert’s mind stumbled on a horrid notion, triggered by a certain keyword in Browning’s first and only words. Master?

Callahan quickly glanced around the room. Evidently, they were at the base of one of the ruined castle’s towers. He saw a circular staircase, made out of solid oak planks, climbing into darkness over his head. There were no handrails nor any rests along its way up. In a few sconces, instead of lit torches, were a handful of 100-watt light bulbs that looked terribly anachronistic in this place. Among the scarce furniture, which included a dresser and some chairs, was a draped object leaning against the wall.

Callahan shambled toward the item, knowing exactly what he’d find beneath the black silk cloth that covered it, since its rectangular shape clearly suggested what it was.

A mirror.

The hunter uncovered it with a strong pull. Browning turned his head, trying to avoid the sight of the glass but still managing to witness the scene from the corner of his eyes. The vampire really was enjoying all this.

The mirror was a beautiful thing, framed in beveled wood with tiny, elaborate bas-relief carvings. Possibly from the Belle Époque. The topmost carving represented Poseidon surrounded by an entourage of nubile, lustful mermaids and assorted courtiers. The rest of the frame evoked the remnant Gods of the Olympus. Along the years, some stupid person had paid indifferent maintenance to the frame, and had applied an excessively thick coat of lacquer, effectively muting the delicate carvings. For a fleeting moment, the carved wood reminded Callahan of the Mad Magazine head titles of yore.

However, the main source of Robert’s worries wasn’t the mirror’s frame but the shiny surface itself. It was of modern manufacture; somebody, perhaps the same stupid person who had wrongly done such a pitifully poor job of preserving the wood, must have broken it—seven years, seven years, Callahan’s mind whispered in a faint echo—and replaced it. He noticed his brain’s effort to avoid the horror of what he saw reflected in the mirror.

The mirror, he thought, keep clearheaded over the mirror.

The glass reflected every object present in the room—save two entities. One of them was Browning; his chair looked empty, although Robert knew the creature was sitting on it, with a disdainful smile chiseled on its pale, thin lips. The other unseen entity was Robert himself. From his current position in front of the mirror, most of his body ought to block his line of sight into the mirror’s parallel dimension.

There was nothing there to hinder the clear image of an empty circular room.

Robert screamed in terror. Browning laughed, echoing the screams.

Yes, vampire hunter, it chuckled. You have a new occupation. You have dropped the ‘hunter’ part of your title, and have become a plain vampire… and my servant.

Browning rose from his seat, ready to complete the submission protocol that followed after each time a new vampire was fashioned. However, to his surprise, Callahan remained glued to the mirrored glass in an unusual way. A disquieting feeling began to grow inside Browning’s guts: he had never witnessed before, in his lengthy existence, that a newly created vampire could stare into a mirror so intensely. The vampire hunter ought to be kneeling in front of his new master, groveling and begging for his next command.

Instead, Robert turned toward Browning. His face now showed a bulging forehead, textured with horny creases and the cheekbones were cruelly sculpted, while two razor sharp fangs protruded from his snarling mouth. The trademarks of a completely angered vampire.

I’m still a Vampire Hunter! Callahan shouted in a blood-curdling growl.

Browning stood paralyzed with a new realization, startled by the concept that he might have made an essential mistake. An old forgotten emotion flooded his dark and shriveled soul. It was old and forgotten, indeed. Browning recalled this feeling from the time his own Master had created him. Then, he had first huddled in a gloomy corner to escape sunlight. As years passed, and Browning had gained more and more confidence about his new condition, along with the necessary power to emancipate himself from his cruel Master, he had let that emotion go until it dissolved into eventual oblivion. Now it was back—and he recognized it immediately. It was fear.

With his new vampire strength, Robert leapt in the direction of his valise. Fiery anger seemed to fill his now empty veins, lending him a vehement decisiveness. He pulled from the case a wooden stake made out of ash.

A classic.

Soon, it was Browning’s turn to scream.

* * *

Pulled out from his brief reverie, Robert rose to his feet and climbed another five steps, before feeling faint once more and leaning on the wall for support. He let himself slide down the bumpy wall, feeling each jutting stone block on his back. In his new resting place, he sighed tiredly, fully aware he was only one third of the way along this flight of stairs.

His mind raced through all the possibilities. His recent vampiric nature urged him to forget this madness—to go and have a nice slumber inside a coffin or dark hole.

Callahan ordered it to shut up.

He had found that Browning hadn’t been such a powerful foe. As a mortal, Robert would have never considered confronting a vampire face to face, in single handed combat. His new strength, coupled with Browning’s stunned surprise, had allowed him to finish the foul thing with terrifying ease.

He merely closed in on Browning and, with a powerful swipe that obliterated the little defense the vampire had mustered in his startled state, he had plunged the sharp end of the stake between the creature’s ribs. Callahan heard them snap as the piece of ash dug deeper and deeper into Browning’s dark heart. The vampire made a big exhalation, his lips shaped into a silent ‘NO!’ he could no longer utter. Then he crumpled lifeless to the ground.

Well, there was a practical side in being a creature of the night, Callahan thought with a bitter smile. However, he now had another dark creature to deal with.

Once more, his vampire self tried to cajole him into survival, arguing about what a boon being an undead Vampire Hunter could be—to easily hunt down and dispatch the abominations, with the same powers that their own dark natures bestowed upon them. Callahan silenced it again, recognizing this line of reasoning as the trap it was: there was no need of such an unlikely endeavor, since there no longer existed many vampires nowadays, as far as he knew. The only remaining vampire in existence was Williams, and that one had been active for so long, that he had learned to thrive just by siphoning only a bit of life from his victims without killing—he even managed to do it without actually drawing blood. Remarkable. Robert was mildly amazed at how easily he had promoted that lone vampire from an ‘it’ to a ‘he’, allowing the creature an almost human condition. He sneered when he realized that he had done it again. Let Williams exist in peace, then.

Robert knew he had to hurry up, for his intended task would be harder and harder to perform as sunrise drew nearer, and impossible to execute once the sun was high in the sky. He clambered the last ten steps and reached the tower’s top, emerging from the stairwell like a tired tongue.

The cool dawn air hit Callahan’s body for the last time. With difficulty he drew himself nearer to the battlement’s half wall and sat on one of the wide embrasures, his feet hanging in the void beyond the outer wall as a feeling of eternity struck him. The strong sensation that once someone, standing in this same spot, had poured boiling oil onto a phalanx of invading warriors, nearly overwhelmed him. So, this was what is like to be a vampire? A stronger connection to the past and the Universe?

A dim, rosy shade on the horizon insinuated the proximity of sunrise. Robert Callahan rose from the cut in the wall, and stood with his arms wide open to embrace his final destiny. Finally, the sun flashed violently over the hills as it finally emerged from behind them, tinting the top of the castle tower with a golden pink light. Hit squarely by the sunbeams, the exposed skin in Robert’s body began to smolder.

He reeled, but not from pain. Never before in his life had he noticed so distinctly the physical presence of light as during this moment. He felt it pushing him back, almost as if the light itself was somehow rejecting him.

He required all his strength to counteract the preservation instinct of his vampire side, which would have entirely prevented him from exposure to the strong sunlight, so he had compromised for a gradual exposition at the edge of sunrise. Yes, this was better—less strain as he faced his own destruction, almost as if he had gone to sleep. The vehement way his human side held him strongly in place, as an unfelt eldritch fire engulfed him, would have been another thing that would have held the late Browning in thrall.

His skin turned to ash, exposing the burning muscle tissue beneath. In turn, his muscles began to fade away, allowing his