The Dead Countess

By Eba Martín Muñoz

The supernatural thriller that will catch you

A woman of the times married to a bloodthirsty Count. A strange murder in a hotel in Naples, which will be the start of a spiral of mysterious murders. Two plots, apparently unconnected, which will be revealed to be one. Mystery, surprise and supernatural fiction will join in this fast paced, black novel which will captivate you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jul 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781507178157

Book preview

Eba Martín Muñoz

Original Title: La condesa muerta

1st edition: December 2016

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© Eba Martín Muñoz, 2016

Layout design, edition and correction: Eba Martín Muñoz

Cover design: Juan Manuel Martín (Serves team)

Translation: Raúl López Martínez (Serves team)

ISBN-13: 978-1540701589

ISBN-10: 1540701581

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All rights reserved. Under penalties established by law, it is strictly forbidden, without written authorization by the copyright holders, the partial or total reproduction of this work by any means or procedure, including reprography and informatic treatment, as well as the distribution of units through rental or public leasing.

THE

DEAD

COUNTESS

Eba Martín Muñoz

Dedication

For you. Always for you.

My little one, my life, my everything.

My Leo.

Special Thanks

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To my favorite lycanthrope, Juanma Martín,

for being an awesomesauce tester and exceptional

0 reader.

You started out as a client for me to correct one of your novels, then a great reader of my Damned Beings, a companion in literary craziness, a partner in Serves... and, now, a FRIEND. I love you, you shitty little wolf.

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To three little wonderful, awesome, dedicated and literacy lover people.

Without knowing me at all, they read my works with enthusiasm and love, reviewed them in their blogs, recommended and promoted me.

And, as of today, I cannot let the day go by without reading them, and give them their good mornings and nights. Yes, I’m talking about you, witches:

Thelma García, Dolors López, and Jose Luis Losada. I hope you like this novel just as much.

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To Raúl López, who is another wonder I have had the luck of crossing paths with.

My favorite Mexican, my super awesome and wonderful translator.

My friend.

Don’t ever change!

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To my 0 readers, whom I love and who share the love for the written word with me. Some, as avid readers: others, as writers.

Thank you to my four aces in the deck:

Benjamín Ruiz. What can I say that I haven’t told you before! Good friend, great client, best companion...

Laura Chans. I’m starting to include you in several of my special thanks in books. Run!!

That means I’m going to ask something of you soon.

Marah Villaverde. Bwah, my child. You’re just so great, funny and annoying. I needed you in my group and my life, hehehe.

and Mari Carmen P.O. Thank you very much for your trust in me, for your support and for embarking in this adventure with me.

You’re all fantastic!

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"The wind gibbers with Their voices, and the earth mutters with Their consciousness.

They bend the forest and crush the city, tey may not forest of city behold the hand that smites."

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Go then, there are other worlds than these...

Roland Deschain of Gilead, The Dark Tower

Stephen King

Truth is stranger than fiction.

Edgar Allan Poe

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Index

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

About the author

Chapter 1

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Cowland (England). Saturday, April 2nd, 1707.

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Hurry up before I cool down! she urged him with her voice tinged with desire.

Madam Countess, I’ve never taken off a piece like this... the young man confessed, full of shame, as he contemplated the complex lacings of the corset on her back.

The countess turned to him, with confusion swimming in her eyes. Then, she opened them wide with realization.

I’ll ask one of the maids how they do to hold their breasts and figures without these devices... Leave that, young man, and come here! she demanded, heading to the conjugal bed and lifting her skirt.

The young man went cross-eyed with the invitation and the vision of the white legs of the countess. He could not believe his good fortune. He, a simple gardener, in the chambers of the most beautiful, wealthy and desired woman on the whole county. All the hairs on his body stood on end after imagining the touch and taste of her skin, anticipating how it would be to lay with the most beautiful and inaccessible creature around. He swallowed a mixture of saliva and badly hidden nervousness, and walked up to her amidst shy trembling.

The Countess coiled her longing legs around his hips with a naughty smile.

You’re so beautiful...! he exclaimed, all desire and fascination.

The underwear, hurry! she rushed him as her hands explored his young pectorals.

The scream surprised them in that moment when they had not done anything but intended everything.

Devilish woman! You’re no woman, but an unfaithful bitch! the Count bellowed from the threshold of the matrimonial chambers.

She turned her head to the place where her husband stood, rifle in hand, and her eyes filled with fear as she guessed the plans of the recently arrived. The young gardener, who struggled to get his underwear back up, barely had time to stand straight. Or she to protect him. The Count shot at the boy’s right leg, which made him bend down immediately, kissing the floor among groans of pain and waves of blood.

William, nicknamed the Blood Count, smiled with satisfaction after seeing the shattered leg of the little worm who had dared touch his wife. The pain he felt in that instant, with his femoral broken through, would be nothing in comparison to the lewd plans he imagined for him.

Don’t you move, you stupid animal! he threatened him, pointing at his head after the young man’s desperate attempt to crawl away.

For the love of God, do as he says! Don’t move! she begged with a thread of voice. And you, William...

You dare address me, you lousy wench, unfaithful whore? he roared, sinking his nails in his own hands with fury until he gave himself bleeding wounds.

The Countess lowered her eyes, desperately looking for something that could save their lives, both hers as well as that of the young man who was bleeding out slowly at his feet. Then, realizing that nothing she said could do it, she recovered her aplomb and bravado. She raised her eyes at him, defiant.

Unfaithful whore, you call me? No, I am not. And can you say it is so, indeed? she spat at him.

The Count was slightly surprised by his wife’s answer but, as the expert hunter he was, he knew full well the behavior of vermin when they knew they were in their final hour. They died attacking. Always.

You’re right, Elisabeth... he replied, lowering his gun. Technically, you didn’t get to be it, so I cannot impose on you the corresponding punishment when there hasn’t been such affront, don’t you think? What would you do in my place? Should I leave you with this rabble a half hour so it gives you enough time to finish the act and so I can sport my brand new horns? Hmm, but I don’t think he’ll last, my lady Countess. Look at him: he’s livid and doesn’t have a very good aspect...

The sadistic Count walked a couple steps towards the bed, stopping halfway so he could contemplate the image at his leisure. The pool of blood was spreading freely across the floor.

Since you’re asking me, my lord, Elisabeth spoke, raising her voice as she fixed her grey and spiteful eyes on him. I must give you the right of everything. I wish you’d come in a half hour later, but you couldn’t even give me that. Then you could have accused me of infidelity and, at least, I would have gone knowing what carnal pleasure is, dear William... Because the whole county knows our bedroom secrets. The prostitutes you lay with talk, my lord. And we all know what they do after their encounters with you: they cry. Some of them, out of disgust; others, out of pain because of the savagery you do to them; and, the most fortunate, out of laughter...

Stop! the Count yelled, red with rage. You’re my wife and I surprised you trying to copulate with this servant! I wouldn’t need any more to apply on you the punishment for infidelity! Nevertheless, I’m feeling magnanimous today and, for this time, you’ll receive a punishment in proportion to your actions.

William took a few steps back, without turning, until he stood beside a chest over which he rested the rifle. Then, he looked at his wife with a dirty and cruel smile which scratched at her skin. She waited.

What will you do to me? she babbled, exchanging looks between the beast she had for a husband and the young man bleeding out at her bedside.

Ohh, my dear... Always so impatient. For the moment you’ll be staying here, in your chambers, thinking about it until I get back...

Again that horrible smile on his face, which caused intense nausea in the young Countess. William caressed the resting rifle with veneration and sensuality, and turned towards the young man, who shivered as the life escaped him by the liter.

Get up, you twat. You’re staining the chambers of the Count! he exclaimed with a pretend fury which could barely hide his malicious smile.

The young man kept trembling, oblivious to his blood and the words from the Count. William gave him a moderate kick in the back, which provoked the gardener’s return to the world of the living. He raised his glassy eyes towards his executor and, unable to utter a word, brought his begging hands to his face. The eyes of the Count glowed with satisfaction, and he knelt beside the dying man.

You know what we’ll do, little gardener? the Blood Count asked with an unusually sweet voice, which terrified his wife more than any other thing he had done.

William took a cotton kerchief from his jacket pocket and enveloped the injured leg with it. The boy allowed it, with his eyes filled with absurd gratefulness.

What will you do to him? Elisabeth inquired, prey to the panic at the sudden change in the Count’s attitude.

I’m making a tourniquet to stop the blood loss and so he can stand, he explained. Hold on...

He got up from the pool of blood, with his legs dripping and stained in red, and headed for the shelf on the front wall. He grabbed the ewer and the gilded silver basin, smiling as he caressed the family shield engraved in the set, and went to the boy with them.

Drink. You’ve lost a lot of blood and the water will make you feel better.

WHAT WILL YOU DO TO HIM? Elisabeth repeated, hysterical, from the bed.

She had not seen her husband so tender and willing since the day of their wedding, the moment he abandoned his representation of gallant and loving man.

Me, dear? He answered, batting his eyelashes with pretend innocence. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I swear to you I won’t touch a hair from his head. Unlike you...

The room appeared suddenly cold, gelid. It stank of pain and death. The voice of the Count competed in cruelty with his predator stare. Both heralded intense suffering for her.

Elisabeth squirmed on the bed shyly, afraid that Death might grip her before time.

What will you do to him? she asked for one last time, in a whisper, as the tears fled in terror on her face.

The Count lowered his eyes towards the gardener, ignoring the stupid woman who cried in silence. He had drunk all the water.

Come now! Stand, gardener, we’re getting out of here... William encouraged him, grabbing him by the armpits and carrying him until he brought him to stand completely.

The young man let out a groan of pain, but managed to stand and walk to the exit, leaning on his killer for it.

I won’t be long, dear. Wait for me... the Count told his wife, turning towards her for one last time before leaving the room. And you, boy, he addressed him, have you ever seen my four precious dogs? They’re some truly magnificent specimens! Excellent hunters!

Not the doooogs! Elisabeth claimed, tearful, as the door of her makeshift prison closed behind them and he head the double turn of the key.

Elisabeth slumped on the bed, praying for a quick death for the poor boy.

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«Henry, his name was Henry...», she thought senselessly, repeating the name over and over, as if she could save him from that horrible death in doing so.

She buried her head in the sheets and sobbed until she felt dry and empty inside.

Chapter 2

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Naples. Monday, July 11th, 2005. 8:30 a.m.

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The marmalade jar danced between his hands once more. The bastard was resisting him and he was clearly losing the battle. He looked at the grilled croissant the room service had just brought him. It was starting to grow cold, mocking him. He got back into the fray and grabbed it again with a «Now you’ll get it», but it slipped from his hands and fell to the floor, exploding in a rain of marmalade and crystal.

Marmalade 5 - Man 0.

He let out a curse, ignoring that was not, by far, the worst thing that would happen to him that day.

But let us go back to the terrible moment.

The white shirt, perfectly ironed, sported folkloric dots of strawberry marmalade, and the floor was a mess. Our tough man ran to the bathroom to apply one of the remedies of a typical forty something bachelor: hiding the filth. The strategy was clear. He would throw a towel over the big, crystal-ridden, pink stain and leave the hotel maid to fend for herself. And he was deep in that when a shrill yell pierced brick and wall, reaching the farthest corners of the hotel.

It was a horrifying scream, chilling, which hurt his eardrums and those of all the tourists housed there. For a few eternal seconds, the yell resounded in his ears, stabbing them. Then it died down until it became a mute death throe, barely audible.

The guests, moved in equal parts by curiosity and fright, began coming out of their rooms and peeking into the hallway, most of them half naked. They gave excited comments among them, more out of morbidity and gossip than real concern.

The yell came back, full of an anguishing panic and fury. Only a few seconds long this time and at a much lower volume.

The marmalade man turned his head and touched the wall which separated his room from that terrible scream. He got out of there, resolute and rushing, charging against the door of the adjoining room. Just his shoulder and brute force. The lock popped and the door opened, inviting him in, as he tried to ignore the dull pain coming out of his shoulder and spreading along his whole right arm.

He walked into the room, eager to aid the owner of such screaming, to defend her from a possible aggressor, but his body stopped short before the shocking spectacle.

On the bed, squirming desperately, lay a woman who flailed and bent in impossible ways, as if she was suffering from a grave epileptic crisis or a demonic possession. To that vision joined some grunting that came out of her throat, more fitting to an animal than a human being. Suddenly, all her body suffered a terrible convulsion and, after a couple more spasms, lay completely still.

The man imitated her, horrified in the center of the room, not knowing how to act. He had just seen that woman die and his brain refused to process what he had just witnessed.

«I’m getting the hell out of here», he thought, drowning in cowardice.

He backed away a few steps, without taking his eyes off the corpse or turning his back to it (just in case), and closed the unhinged door behind him, in a desperate attempt to hide the filth, as he had done moments before in the battle with the marmalade.

«Let the police handle it...»

Chapter 3

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Naples. Same day. 17:10 p.m.

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Let’s see... So, you declare that the victim was still alive when you brought down the door to her room. Correct? asked Segreto, the police inspector, as he scribbled on his worn notepad.

That’s right, the man confirmed, looking at the stains of marmalade on his shirt. When I went in, she was emitting inhuman sounds and twisted in a horrible way. It looked like..., like...

Like, what, Mr. Rodriguez? Segreto asked, arching one eyebrow in curiosity.

Our Marmalade Man, also known as Fernando Rodriguez, swallowed with effort, holding his breath. As if the words he was about to utter were tearing at his throat.

Well... I’d say like..., like she was being strangled. But that’s impossible, I’m afraid. There was no one else in that room. Only that woman and myself.

Do you understand how strange that sounds? Segreto interrogated him as he pointed at him with his pen. We’ll come back to that point later... Now, tell me, why is your shirt full of what seem to be blood stains? Mrs. Olivares doesn’t present any bleeding orifice...

By God! It can be clearly seen this isn’t blood! Smell it! the interrogated squirmed, angry and fearful. I had a mishap with a marmalade jar this morning. Then, I heard the scream and... you know. I haven’t had time to change, he added in shame, avoiding the sardonic stare of the policeman.

The thorax of the inspector agitated visibly. He loved his job.

Are you laughing at me? the Spaniard asked in astonishment.

The maid informed us thoroughly, don’t worry, the other one answered, holding back a cackle. I wanted to hear your version... And, tell me, what are you doing in Naples? Business? Pleasure?

Am I a suspect of something? Rodriguez said, giving a new start