Mr. Smith Isn't Afraid of the Dark

By "Jacob" "Cox"

No one ever suspects the quiet ones…

Billy Smith is just an ordinary guy. He has a house, a car, a job, and even an ex-wife. He’s the neighbor you would invite to a barbecue; the boss you would share a few drinks with after work.

Too bad he’s a vampire.

Until this week, Billy thought he had things under wraps, but events quickly spiral out of his control when too many people learn his secret.

Now Billy must face the ghosts of his past while battling the megalomaniacs of his present, all while asking himself the most important question of all:

IS MR. SMITH AFRAID OF THE DARK?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribl
• Release date: Aug 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781633480353

"Jacob" "Cox"

Jacob Cox is an author, cosplay enthusiast, amateur robot builder and mad scientist, crafter, and and stay at home dad. He enjoys spending time with his wife, Anna, and their young son, Thomas. -What are your favorite genres to read?- "I really enjoy reading science fiction, fantasy, and thrillers. Thrillers have such engaging plots, while science fiction and fantasy have always provided a little bit of wish fulfillment fantasies for me. Even in my thirties, there's something appealing about the idea of being able to harness magical powers!" -What's your favorite book?- "Oh jeez, I have to pick one? I guess I'd have to say 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' by Douglas Adams. The way he mixed off-beat humor with a story filled with believable characters has been a huge influence on how I write!" -What advice would you give authors who are just starting out?- "That I'm not qualified to give them advice! On a serious note, I'd tell them to just write. It doesn't matter how bad it is at first. You'll start finding your voice as an author, and as you grow more comfortable with writing you'll see your work improve."

Book preview

Prelude: In which Mr. Smith kills Jezebel Whiteley

Silver Oaks Retirement Home was very nearly the sixth nursing home to evict Mrs. Jezebel Whiteley. The paperwork to make this happen was sitting on the head nurse’s desk, and Mrs. Whiteley would have been evicted within the week had it not been for one unsightly detail: Mrs. Jezebel Whiteley would be dead before sunrise.

Had our killer been bolder, his victim would have never stirred from her peaceful slumber that fateful night. As a woman of great determination, she had been married twice, given birth to seven children, helped raise countless grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and, above all else, had learned to sleep through almost any raucous. She never heard her killer break the window, curse when he realized it had been unlocked all along, trip over the humidifier, or trip over the humidifier a second time. Instead, she awoke when some strange sixth-sense, unique to old women the world around, told her someone was touching her collection of porcelain kittens.

Jezebel sprang from bed, and yelled, Get your dirty little fingers offa my kittens!

Her would-be attacker, a certain Mr. Billy Smith we will get to know better later on, turned around and heaved a sigh. I really wish you hadn’t woken up. This is going to make this so much more unpleasant. For both of us.

Jezebel flipped on the lamp by her bed and smiled. Billy was shocked to see her in the light. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and read over it. You’re Jezebel Whiteley, right? Widow of the late Professor Arthur Whiteley?

Yes. Arthur was my husband after my sainted Gregory passed on. What’s it to you?

Well, it’s only, Billy hesitated, then said boldly, It’s just that I did not expect a woman in her late nineties to be as tall as you. What are you? Six feet?

Five eleven, said Jezebel. I used to be taller, but the doctors say I shrunk on account of the osteo-whatsit.

Ah, said Billy, Osteo-whatsit. I hear it’s a scourge among the elderly. Billy paused, tapping the paper and making a hmming noise. Also, my paper didn’t say anything about a peg leg.

Oh this? said Jezebel as she bent over to give her wooden leg a rap. My eldest son carved it from a branch of the very tree that killed his Pappy. Damn tree took my husband and my leg all at once.

Which one? asked Billy.

Jezebel raised an eyebrow. The left one. You need glasses, boy?

The left one? Oh! No, no... Not the leg, said Billy with an uneasy laugh. Which husband did the tree kill?

Ask what you mean, you damn fool! The tree killed Gregory. Why would an English professor like Arthur get killed by a tree? There’s no sense in a thing like that, Jezebel said haughtily.

And Arthur? What killed him? Billy asked.

Arthur crashed while racing his motorbike. My Arthur loved his motorbikes.

Suddenly, it occurred to Billy that he was that losing control of the situation. He was here to kill this woman. Mrs. Whiteley, I really think I ought to...

Jezebel, boy. Call me Jezebel. If you’re here to kill me, at least act like a man about it! Honestly, you’re not what I expected. I thought you’d be taller, and wearing a cloak. Blue jeans and a jacket, you got on! I deserve better. Jezebel scowled at Billy, then said, Excuse me, boy as she walked past him and began to rummage in an open closet.

Jezebel, how did you know I was here to kill you? asked Billy, even more intrigued by this woman than he had been before.

My name don’t sound right when you say it. Maybe you best call me Mrs. Whiteley after all, said Jezebel, still rummaging through the closet.

Um, Billy hesitated, the moment drawing into an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional crash as Jezebel continued rifling through the closet. Billy mustered himself, then asked again, Mrs. Whiteley, how did you know I was here to kill you?

I knew you was coming for me, and I figured you’d come in the night like the coward you are. Hoped to catch me unawares, but you messed up there. Yes, you did, said Jezebel before she let out a squeal of delight as she began tugging at some object buried in a pile of clutter.

You think I’m Dea... Billy hesitated. Yes! I’m Death! Fear me, Jezebel Whiteley!

Fear me, Death! shouted Jezebel as she pulled a softball bat free of the mess in her closet and tried to hit Billy’s head into the stands.

***

In the morning, Jezebel’s body was found on her floor, drained of blood. She had a softball bat clutched so tightly in her hand the coroner had to break her fingers to free it. The police went room to room in Silver Oaks taking statements, but the only lead came from Jezebel’s next door neighbor, a 72-year-old infomercial addict named Edith.

An excerpt from Edith’s Statement:

Well, I think old Jezebel had a young gentleman caller. I always said that that mean old Jezebel Whiteley was the devil with breasts, I did, so it didn’t surprise me at all to hear a bunch of thumps a-comin’ from her room and a young man yowling like a cat in heat. Then old Jezebel starts in moaning too. Soon as anything, she screams and I hear the young man let out a yell o’ victory. Now you tell me Jezebel’s dead! Mr. Officer, if you find that young man, don’t arrest him. He did a good thing for us, and I suppose he’s done right by Jezebel too. Maybe he’ll visit me 'fore I get too old to enjoy it, because dying in the throes of passion with a young man sure beats getting old. I suppose that mean old Jezebel Whiteley is up in Heaven now with Jesus. She’d have to be in Heaven, on account of Hell would be afraid a woman like Jezebel might take over the place!

Jezebel did not go to Heaven, nor did she go to Hell. After she died, she realized that Billy Smith was not, in fact, Death, and she vowed her spirit would not rest until she could get even.

Chapter 1: In which Mr. Smith reveals a secret

Billy woke up an hour before his alarm went off. Walking into his living room to watch TV, he grabbed a convenient pair of sunglasses after noticing sunlight still peeking through the closed blinds.

After watching TV in his boxers and sunglasses, he showered, then checked his reflection to make sure he didn’t need to touch up the grey streaks he had dyed in his dark blond hair. Using makeup, he gave himself crow’s feet and bags under his eyes, then dressed, choosing the basics from a wardrobe that consisted almost entirely of blue jeans and plain black t-shirts. Deciding to spice up the outfit, he grabbed a gray jacket as he was leaving for work. It was December, and, even though California winters are mild, he might look odd venturing outdoors without a jacket. Billy couldn't feel the cold, but he had made a habit of remembering the small details.

The sun was still setting as Billy walked the six blocks to the industrial district where he worked. The dark tinted lenses of his sunglasses did little to prevent the sunlight from stinging his eyes, but he didn’t mind. It was one of the few times he still felt pain.

He punched in at Warehouse Number Seven where he was in charge of the Night Shift. Standing by the door, he doled out work orders to each of the employees on his shift as they punched in. Jim, Phil, John, Roy, Bob, and Pete were all on time. Billy smiled as he handed out the work orders. All of these men would frighten children. They were all tattooed, and some were pierced, but they were also some of the kindest people Billy had ever worked with. He smiled, because he was the most unassuming looking person working in this warehouse, and he was the only one who was a monster.

It’s Thursday. One more day till the weekend! Billy announced. The crew cheered loudly. Jim, Roy, Billy shouted, You guys are on the MetalTech order again tonight. Make sure you remember to send along an entire crate of X-22s for every two crates of PG-46s you send, okay? Janine down on the factory floor said you guys didn’t send enough last time.

Screw Janine! Roy laughed as he started up a forklift.

Jim laughed and said, I would!

Billy smiled despite himself. Yeah, we’d all screw Janine if we got the chance, but seriously, guys, send the X-22s.

Got it, boss! said Jim as he hopped up onto the forklift’s running board and punched Roy in the arm. The two drove off to start filling their orders.

Okay, the rest of you are on general stock tonight, so it’s no big thing. Just try to keep the messing around to a minimum and no paper footballs tonight guys. Big Ben over in General Assembly gives me hell every time he finds a paper football in with the parts, okay?

Everyone nodded except Pete. No footballs at all? asked Pete.

No footballs in the crates, at least, Billy said with mock sternness.

Pete replied with a salute and an emphatic, Yes, sir, Mr. Billy, sir!

Bob, you’re in charge of these yahoos tonight, okay? Billy said scratching his head. I’ll be in my office catching up on paperwork, but when DJ shows up, send him my way.

Got it, Billy. I bet DJ just decided to party before work again. He’s gonna come in here and make the whole place reek of pot and hooker, said Bob.

Billy grinned. It’s okay. Every time Evelyn drops files off for me, my office smells like lavender and cat for days. Maybe a little pot and hooker stink is just what it needs.

Billy, you’re a sick man, John said, I bet when you get off of work, you beat up old ladies!

You know it! Billy turned and clapped John on the shoulder before turning to Bob. Anyway, make sure DJ heads my way, said Billy as he walked away to his office.

Billy’s office was simply an empty shipping container in the corner of the warehouse. It was fairly bare, containing only a desk, a chair, a computer, a printer, two filing cabinets, and a potted palm that had been dead for at least the four years Billy had occupied this office. He had been meaning to throw the dead plant away for as long as he had worked at the warehouse but had continued to put off the task because he enjoyed Evelyn’s attempts to revive the long dead plant during each of her weekly visits to his office. He had amassed an entire desk drawer full of products Evelyn had promised would perk that little old palm tree right up!

Marveling once more at how the fluorescent lights managed to make the already ugly carpet on the floor of the container even worse, Billy sat down to fill out his paperwork. He opened up a small, wooden box on his desk and produced from it an antique-looking reservoir pen and began furtively writing figures in a flourished cursive that no one younger than 35 seemed to be able to read. Billy had never felt comfortable writing in print letters, and, although the district office had generously provided him a computer to solve this, he continued to fill out his forms by hand.

Billy glanced at his computer balefully. After turning it on once, he had immediately mistrusted it, recalling a movie he had seen once in which the computers had risen up and killed the human race. As far as Billy was concerned, the less the computers knew about him the better. Once a quarter, he would send a requisition to the district office asking for a typewriter. District usually responded with a letter starting along the lines of, Mr. Smith, you don’t need a typewriter, and ending with something like, Billy, just use the damn computer!

***

Around midnight, Bob walked in.

Bob, seen DJ yet? asked Billy.

Nah, Billy, he ain’t showed up yet. I tried his cell at about 10, but it went straight to voicemail, responded Bob.

Damn! Billy cursed as he tossed a wadded up sheet of paper in the trash. DJ’s gonna mess up any chances he has in life if he keeps this up. He’d do all right if he just got his head on straight.

Yeah, Bob agreed. But you know, ten years ago I was just like him, and I cleaned up and turned my life around. I’ll talk to DJ, if you like. Bob shrugged.

It might help if you had a heart-to-heart with DJ, but I want to talk to him first, okay? Billy said.

No prob, Billy, Bob replied, nodding. After a pause, Bob smiled. Oh! I forgot to tell you, I got elected deacon at my church. Helen and I couldn’t be happier.

Hey, congrats on getting elected deacon. Does Father Richardson know about the Hail Satan tattoo on your arm? Billy asked with a sly grin.

Bob rolled up his sleeve to reveal an elaborate tattoo of a crucifix. Got it redone at the Ink Boutique at the mall. There’s a gal down there who works miracles. You should go see her if you decide to get some ink done, Billy.

Billy was about to respond when Roy walked in.

Bob, we still headed to O’Malley’s Pub for lunch? You wanna come too, Billy? Roy asked.

Billy shook his head. I’d better stay here in case DJ shows up. Maybe next time.

Okay, man. Your loss, said Roy as he walked out.

Bob, you better head out too. Somebody’s gotta make sure nobody has more than two beers at the pub. None for Roy if he’s gonna be on forklift after lunch, okay?

Bob nodded and headed out.

Billy pulled a small radio from his desk, plugged it in, and turned it on. He leaned back in his chair as a Hip-Hop song started playing.

You know you want it, want it. You know you want my jug-a-lugs, sang a woman. Then a man began chanting, S to the E to the triple X to the Y. Baby, you so sexy!

S to the E to the triple X to the Y... When did exponents become a part of music? Billy mused aloud.

His musings were interrupted by a crash somewhere in the warehouse. Leaping out of his chair, Billy darted from his office and found a giggling DJ aimlessly driving the forklift.

Dammit, Billy muttered, then yelled, DJ! Turn off that damn forklift! You know you don’t get to drive that thing! Especially not when you’re stoned!

DJ laughed and started to drive the forklift toward Billy.

DJ! I swear, if I have to pull you off of that forklift, you’re going to regret it! Billy yelled.

DJ just laughed, so Billy ran at the forklift, jumped up onto the forks, and leaped into the cab, grabbing DJ by the collar.

Get offa me, bro! DJ screamed as he brought a leg up, managing to plant into Billy’s chest and heave him off with a kick.

Billy lost his grip on DJ’s shirt, falling out of the side of the cab and hitting the concrete floor. He sat up and started to speak, "Wow, DJ, you’re stronger than