Strigoi: The Blood Bond

By Ron D. Voigts

Before The Vampire...Before The Werewolf...Was The Strgoi.

On the verge of suicide after his wife left him, Alex Regal learns he has inherited property located in a small town deep within the Appalachian Mountains. Putting things on hold, he heads to Glade, hoping for something positive in his life. Getting there is easy but leaving proves to be impossible. A spell exists, keeping everyone captive, and the place is run by a Shapeshifter called the Strigoi.

Romanian folklore tells of the Strigoi, a creature who once was a man that died and rose again to become the undead. The Strigoi is a shapeshifter, capable of taking on the form of another man or animal, a favorite being the wolf. This being needs to drink human blood to survive. The Strigoi became the basis of vampire and werewolf tales, including the most famous one--Dracula by Bram Stoker.

In 1792, Nikola Choroleeva emigrated from the city of Sighetu Marmației near the Carpathian Mountains to the Americas and founded a secret colony, hidden in the mountains of Appalachia, comprised of followers who offered their blood for his nourishment, and he in return gave them eternal life. Being infected with the malady as him, they became the living Strigoi.

Impervious to old age and disease, the members of this society from time to time die by accident or murder. By Lord Nikola’s edict, they are staked through the heart and buried to keep them from coming back as the dead Strigoi. When a citizen is lost, a replacement must be found. To this hidden world an unwilling Alex Regal was brought as a replacement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron D. Voigts
• Release date: Aug 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311074850

Ron D. Voigts

Originally from the Midwest, Ron D. Voigts now calls North Carolina home where he and his wife have a home off the Neuse River. Ideas for his stories comes from the rural areas where he has lived, places he has visited, his love of the paranormal, and an overactive imagination. Ron considers his writing to be a literary fusion of mystery, thriller, paranormal, and any genre that suits the moment. When not plunking out a novel at the keyboard, he spends his time sharpening his culinary skills, watching gritty movies, and eating cookies with chocolate chips.

Book preview

Prologue

The Anglican priest clutched the small black book as if he were trying to strangle it. His stiff white collar pressed against his chin. Currents of air whipped the tails of his black coat. But his eyes remained locked on the pages as he read.

We now commit the body of Jonathon Hubble to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in the sure and certain hope of— A low rumble of thunder shook the ground. The priest paused and looked at the gray clouds hanging low in the sky. —the resurrection to eternal life. He bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt from the excavation, and tossed it on the casket.

The breeze blew Sally Barker’s hair across her face, for a moment blocking her view. She pushed back the loose strands and sobbed. Her hands shook as she unlatched the clasp of her purse, removed a lace hankie, and dabbed her eyes. A gust ripped it from her fingers. She watched the cloth tumble between gravestones, catch for a moment on a monument shaped like an angel, and then vanish behind another marker.

The man standing next to her placed his hand atop a broad-brimmed hat to keep the wind from taking it. The air stirred the scent of tobacco and leather that enveloped him. She shivered, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a protective hug.

A stocky man stood on the other side of the casket, leaning on a cane. He looked over his shoulder at an oak tree just beyond the cemetery’s entrance. The man removed a pocket watch and checked the time. He glanced again over his shoulder and pushed the watch back in his pocket.

Two workers with shovels stood farther away, near a weathered monument in the shape of a cross. The larger of the two, wearing bib overalls and a straw hat, took a long drag on a cigarette, tossed the butt to the ground, and crushed it with the toe of his boot. The thinner man, dressed in worn jeans, leaned on the handle of his shovel and tapped his foot.

Only these six people stood inside the stone wall that surrounded the cemetery behind the Church of Saint Cyprian.

The clouds darkened, and a large drop of rain plopped onto the coffin. The wind shifted as a second drop splashed on the box’s wooden surface. The priest turned and walked back to the path that passed through the cemetery’s center and led to the rectory. Sally and the other participants fell in with him, heading toward the road in front of the church. The workers moved closer to the casket and adjusted the ropes to drop the coffin into the earth.

Sally glanced toward the oak tree near the cemetery’s entrance. A gaunt man in a long coat stood near it. Lightning flashed, illuminating his white hair, accentuating the angles of his face. His icy stare lingered on her. She closed her eyes and prayed she could be anywhere else but here. Wind gusted around her, and rain pelted her face. She knew there’d be no answer to her prayer.

For they were the damned.

Chapter One

The box cutter my wife gave me for my birthday lay on the dining room table. What kind of a gift was a box cutter? She said it was the best one on the market. The blade, extending from the handle, was as sharp as any surgeon’s scalpel. I wondered how deep I’d have to cut to be certain I’d bleed to death.

The sun shone through a side window, accenting the grimy layer covering the table. The half glass of bourbon cast an amber shadow and made the dust-scape look like the surface of Mars.

My wife Melinda never did much housework. Cooking either. Our bed had become a place for sleeping only. Most days we didn’t even exchange a word. What the car salesman from Charlotte saw in her was beyond me.

Next to the knife was a bottle of sleeping pills. They had expired about a year ago. Melinda had gotten them when she became depressed and couldn’t sleep, but she never took more than one or two. She said I was the cause of her depression. Smothering her. Not giving her space. I unscrewed the cap and dumped blue capsules out on the table. They rolled around, and I gathered them into a pile. Perhaps I should have cleaned a spot first. Now I’d have to swallow them covered in dust. Would there be enough pills to do it? I didn’t want to end up hanging over the toilet, puking, or having my stomach pumped.

A light tapping came from the front door. Who’d be bothering me now? I stepped around a half-dead potted palm and peeked out the front room window. A man in a dirty windbreaker jacket and narrow brimmed fedora waved at me. I waved back. He held up an envelope, flashed a cheesy smile, and pointed to the door.

Divorce papers. That’s the only thing a shady character like him would be delivering. But it didn’t matter. Soon I’d be dead, and a divorce would not be needed. I motioned for him to go away. He shook his head. I drew the curtain and went back to the dining room.

Heavy pounding came from the front door. The guy sounded as if he meant to come in. But suicide is a private matter. Ignore him, and he’d go away.

A revolver lay on the dining room table. Chrome barrel. Imitation wood grip. The cylinder was loaded. I’d found the gun the week before Melinda left me, on a closet shelf, in a box marked Scrapping Materials. I confronted her about it. She said it was for protection. She’d heard about some recent home invasions. I spent a few sleepless nights wondering if she’d considered shooting me. Now the gun seemed the best way to end my life. No prolonged bleeding. No throwing up pills. A single bang and endless sleep. Let the car salesman have Melinda.

I raised the gun, pushed the muzzle into my mouth, and wrapped my lips around it. I’d have to pull the trigger with my thumb, which would be a bit awkward.

Should I aim high or low?

Too low and I’d take out the back of my throat. Do it wrong, and instead of dead I’d be paralyzed. No, this had to be done right.

The pounding stopped. The guy with the divorce papers had given up. Good! Last laugh would be on Melinda.

I closed my eyes, ready to pull the trigger.

Now someone was banging on the dining room window. It was him. He waved at me again and shook his head. I stared at him with my mouth still sucking the gun’s barrel as if it were a fine Cuban cigar. He formed a pretend pistol with his hand, poked his index finger into his mouth, and shook his head.

Ignore him. If he wanted to watch, then let him. Teach him for nosing around where he’s not wanted.

I closed my eyes again, chomped down, and took a deep breath.

The window exploded. Glass flew everywhere. Dammit! I almost pulled the trigger by accident.

What the hell are you doing? The man shouted.

A rock sat on the dining room table. Shards of glass lay everywhere. A scratch marred the tabletop. The piece had been in my family for three generations, and he had ruined it.

I laid the gun down. I’m trying to kill myself, and you’re not helping.

Are you Alex Regal?

So what if I am?

I got to deliver this to you. He poked the envelope halfway through the jagged hole in the window.

Why? I’m not going to divorce Melinda. So you can keep the papers.

They ain’t divorce papers, you dickhead. It’s a letter from some lawyer.

Divorce papers are letters from lawyers, letters with unhappy endings.

He wiggled the envelope. I said they ain’t divorce papers. Supposed to be good news, only I’m not sure what. Last time I delivered one of these, the man read it, screamed, and hugged me. Guys aren’t supposed to hug other guys.

I stood and reached for it, but stopped. Have you delivered many of these before?

Just the one, like I said. An envelope appears on my doorstep one morning. After it’s delivered, another one shows up the next morning. Lots of cash in it for my services. He pushed the envelope farther inside, pinching just a corner to keep from dropping it. Come on! Take it and read it.

I snatched the envelope. Maybe I’ll read it later.

You gots to read it now. That’s part of the deal.

What if I don’t?

The guy who pays me will know. Trust me. He folded his hands as if he would pray and eyed me with puppy-dog eyes. Just read it, and I can go.

The whole thing seemed silly. I’d been in the middle of something important and now I had some mysterious letter. I tore a corner and paused. What if the thing is a letter bomb or maybe filled with white powder that the police will later determine to be anthrax. I’d be sick in the hospital, dying.

Good grief! You were going to whack yourself a few minutes ago. The guy outside pushed back his hat and glowered at me.

Just not sure if this is on the up and up. That’s all.

Open it, you dickhead, he shouted.

He was right. Minutes ago, I was ready to spray my brains on the dining room walls. If this were a trick to get me to take divorce papers, so what? I finished tearing the envelope open.

The letter inside had been printed on expensive paper and looked like someone had typed it with an old fashioned typewriter. The letterhead referred to someone named Arthur C. Westfield. I read a few lines. Apparently a distant cousin, Jonathon Hubble, a name I didn’t recall in the family history, had died. I, being his closest relative, had inherited his estate. The exact dollar amount could not be put in the letter, but the value would be substantial. It gave directions to the attorney’s office with a date and time, and an admonishment. Under no circumstances should you mention the contents of the letter to anyone. Once said property has been conveyed and the necessary papers signed, you can do as you wish.

I folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope.

So what does it say? The guy outside the window flashed a toothy grin.

I can’t say.

Exactly my point. He poked a finger in my direction. My job is finished here. You can kill yourself now.

I put the knife back in the kitchen drawer, threw the pills out, and returned the gun to the box in the closet. My brain raced over the events. I wondered what a substantial amount might add up to. But the name, Jonathon Hubble, meant nothing to me. I had to find out.

Maybe today was not a good day to kill myself.

++++

Krebs slept fitfully. As a boy, he hated waiting for Christmas. Just thinking about Santa Claus coming was enough to keep him awake all night. This was no different. The thought of five thousand dollars in an envelope appearing on his door stoop by morning made Christmas seem paltry.

He didn’t make much from his detective business. Following wayward husbands and cheating wives made up the bulk of his work. Sometimes he pulled a job catching a dishonest employee. Much of the time, he supplemented his income working as a bouncer at a local club, working late hours and taking on sparring drunks.

Yesterday had been the second time he’d delivered the letter to someone. A few years back, he presented one to a young guy in his twenties. Krebs had stopped back a week later at the auto garage where the kid worked to see how he was doing, but he was gone. No good-bye. No two week notice. Krebs wondered what had happened to the guy.

Krebs peeked at the clock radio. 5:58 a.m. The original instructions had been not to check for any communications before sunrise. Doing so may void any agreements. For that much money, he’d sleep hanging by his feet from the ceiling.

Good morning! the clock radio blared. It’s a wet morning. Weatherman says for today rain, rain, and more rain.

Krebs slammed his fist on the off button and jumped out of bed. Rain. His precious money would be turning into a sponge. He yanked open the front door, not caring who’d see him in his boxer shorts. A spray of water pelted him. The envelope lay on the stoop as promised. He scooped it up and slammed the door shut.

The envelope dripped as he carried it to the kitchen. He dropped it on the table, letting it fall with a soft plop. Water oozed from it and made a puddle. He should dry it out somehow. A hairdryer would work, but he didn’t own one. Not enough hair. Maybe the oven. But he didn’t want to set it on fire and burn up his money. He picked at the edges of the soggy envelope, dropping pieces of it onto the table. If his money fell apart the same way, he’d be pissed.

But the bills were only damp. They peeled apart, like separating thin slices of cheese. He laid them out on the kitchen table and dabbed them with a dishtowel. The process took time, but for five grand, he’d work all day to dry out his money.

Something else had been in the envelope. A note, written in ornate red script on vellum paper, had been sandwiched between the layers. Water soaked the paper, and the writing blurred, like a smear of blood. But the words were legible.

Another one saved. Another one sacrificed.

Chapter Two

I had unfolded and refolded the letter so many times that the creases threatened to split the page into three strips. The paper itself was out of a former century, not white and smooth, like the cheap stuff bought in an office supply store. The letterhead also resembled that of a bygone era, and appeared ancient and dated. The crisp font read Arthur C. Westfield, Counsel, Solicitor, and Practitioner of Jurisprudence.

My 2009 Camry was the only car on what appeared to be the main street, although I had not been through the entire town. I pulled into an open space in front of Westfield’s office. Brown brick comprised most of the building’s structure. Moss covered the roof, and the eaves came low enough to touch. Two narrow windows with diagonal cut panes of glass flanked a green door. A placard hung from the crosspiece of a post, announcing the lawyer’s name and titles, similar to his letterhead.

A chill passed through me. Days ago I had been ready to end my life over a cheating spouse. Melinda and I had been like oil and water. I was predictable, constant, and stable. She followed no guideline, being impulsive, shifting with wherever the breeze took her. Yet here I was venturing into the unknown.

I opened the green door. A rush of cold air poured out, mingled with an odor reminiscent of an attic that had been closed a long time. Inside a brass lamp cast a yellow halo across the wood surface of a mahogany desk. I assumed this was where a receptionist would sit, but a fine layer of dust had collected on its surface and made me think no one had occupied it in a long time.

On the wall opposite the desk, a small table rested between two Victorian armchairs covered in indigo-colored fabric with a pattern of swirls. A tidy stack of the attorney’s business cards rested on the table, and a dog-eared magazine from 1962 about hunting lay on the cushion of one chair. I dragged my finger across the table’s surface and left a narrow line in the greasy film.

Ahead, a door stood a few inches ajar.

Hello. Anybody here? I listened and tried to detect the sounds of someone. Hello, I shouted again.

At first nothing. I took a step closer to the doorway, tipped my head, and heard a thud, followed by a dragging sound. Then a pause, followed by another deep thud and more dragging. I stepped back and considered a quick escape through the front door. The thudding and dragging noise grew louder, then stopped. The squeal of dry hinges filled the room as the door across from me opened.

In the doorway stood a squat man illuminated by the dim light from the desk lamp. He wore a wrinkled three-piece suit, a shirt with a buttoned collar that pushed his jowls up to his ears, and a wide yellow tie with a large knot. Wire-rimmed specs with shadowy glass hid his eyes. An unkempt rim of gray hair decorated his otherwise bald scalp.

The man took another step into the room. His cane thumped as it struck the floor, followed by the sound of his left leg sliding on the wood surface. He paused, transferred the handle of the cane to his left hand, and extended his right. You must be Mr. Regal.

I took hold of his hand. His plump fingers tightened around mine. Yes, I’m Alex Regal. You are Mr. Westfield?

I am.

I still held the letter at my left side.

He pointed to it. I see you’ve received my missive about your late cousin Jonathon Hubble.

Yes, but I didn’t know I had any relatives. I mean, I grew up in foster homes.

Yes, well, you were not easy to track down. I cannot tell you the lengths we explored to find you. Westfield passed the cane back to his right hand and adjusted his eyeglasses.

We?

I guess I’m used to using it in the plural pronoun sense, something attorneys are guilty of doing. For the first time he smiled. Rather than standing around and discussing matters here, would you like to see your cousin’s estate? It’s only a short walk. The time together will give us a chance to explain the circumstances. He laughed. "There I go again. Of course, I should have said, me."

Westfield’s meaty hand twisted the knob of the green door. As it opened, a draft of fresh air rushed inside. I inhaled deeply, clearing the must from my lungs, and turned to follow him. The light from outside bled into the room and hurt my eyes after being in such dim surroundings. I turned my head for a moment.

In the dark rectangle of the interior doorway, I glimpsed two red points, spaced close together. They flashed. Something moved in the darkness.

I turned towards the daylight and quickly followed Westfield out.

++++

Drab. Grimy. Archaic. The words came to me as I walked down the main street of the town of Glade. Identical brick buildings lined the street, like tired soldiers standing too long in formation. Black lacquer covered the doors, and haze clouded the glass in windows. Wisps of gray smoke drifted from slender chimneys. Simple plaques hung from posts above the doors. PUB. GROCERIES. HARDWARE. Everywhere I looked said gloom.

I pointed to a door with the sign BAKERY above it. That’s not too creative. With no large front window, how can I see what they’re selling?

Yes, well, Glade is an old town, founded in 1793. Our stores lack the flair and appeal of more modern establishments. Our buildings have historic significance. As for what’s inside, the best way to find out is to go in. Westfield motioned to the bakery.

Perhaps later. I had no intention of visiting any of the stores. My goal was to inspect my cousin’s home and make plans to sell it.

A comely woman stared out the window of the pub. I smiled and nodded. Her eyes grew wide, the frown on her face deepened, and she withdrew inside.

The narrow street lacked sidewalks, trees, and pedestrians. We followed along the road’s edge, the shops within an arm’s reach. I have not seen a car since my arrival here.

We’re a small community. Most things are within a short walk. Westfield kept his eyes focused ahead. His pace quickened despite his lame leg.

No one has a car?

Some members of our community drive. Westfield paused and pointed to a shop door. TOWN CLERK. Your cousin worked there. A handwritten note attached to the inside of the window read CLOSED.

Closed because of his death?

He was the only clerk.

So you’ll need to hire someone for the position.

Easily said. In a community like ours, unemployment is unheard of. I dare say finding someone for the position will be difficult. Westfield scratched the side of his nose. Would you care to apply?

No, I’m happily employed back in Jackson Creek. I have my life there.

Westfield flashed a thin smile. Living in a small town does take a certain temperament. He pointed to a street sign. Hallow Road. Your cousin’s home is about two blocks from here.

We walked without speaking until we arrived at a stone cottage. A white picket fence separated the yard from the street. A faded awning over the front window needed repair, and peeling paint hung from the front door. An oak with gnarled branches leaned away from the house.

I glanced at some of the other