Of the Undead: A Six-Story Bundle: Story Bundles, #1

By Dean Shearer

In Of the Undead, a vampire haunts a high school kid, threatening to take everything he loves from him; a vampire explains what it is like to be a vampire, and gives various tips and warnings; Jaspar Bloodstar, a vampire perhaps a little in over his head, seeks to feast on a kid, but look out, October Vampires, for Jarrett Smith may look completely ordinary, but he may have a trick or two up his sleeve; and on and on and on. This, and more stories of the undead!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Shearer
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201861902

Dean Shearer

Dean Shearer is the author of many fictitious works such as The Cat, The World is Magic, and the short stories series Selah, the Universe. He wishes there was more to say about himself (he likes studying religions and walking barefoot and reading and writing in multiple genres and reading and writing a lot) but there's just too much to say.

Book preview

Of the Undead

A Six-Story Bundle

Dean Shearer

Contents

Hurt

Rattlebone

Bloodstar

The Corpse

Only A Phase, Ma

After the Snow

Oh, the Mountains I Would Climb For You

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Also by Dean Shearer

About the Author

Hurt

First of all, you can't tell anyone what you are, because they'd pick up a wood chip from the floor of the playground, sharped it with anything they could find—perhaps a rock, if they could find one, or their teeth, if they could not—and, once the wood chip was sharp as a nail, they would chase you, tackle you to the ground, and, in the end, they would stab you through the heart, because that's what people do to people like us.

Second of all, you don't end up actually going to school very often, because suddenly, while waiting at the bus stop, you become very hungry, and your eyes stare at the other children's necks, and you tell yourself you can't bite them, not here, not now; but you're so hungry for blood that your mouth begins to water and your stomach begins to growl, and, knowing that there's no possible way you could go through a whole day at school without biting into someone—and therefore getting yourself into big, big trouble—most of the time you resolve to walking away from the bus stop, running to a park, finding a drainage tunnel, and you just sit there, in the cold, in the dark, starving, not knowing what you're going to tell your mom when the school calls and asks her why you were not at school.

People like us never know what to do, not in a world like this.

If you ever meet a vampire, remember how their life is, but never forget what they do, and keep your distance. A sharpened wood chip tucked away in your pocket wouldn't hurt, but think much before you decide to use it. Because a stab through another's heart is a stab through your own, and you, a human being, not a vampire, do not die from wood to the heart—not if you have a good doctor—but instead live on, and with every heartbeat, you remember, and sometimes—almost always—it hurts.

Rattlebone

On Center Street in Douglas, Wyoming there is an inn.

The inn (the College Inn, reads the faded sign above the door) is two stories tall and is built of bricks the color of your tongue. Inside are only four sleeping-rooms. There is a wide window on the second floor, over the entrance.

Douglas is not usually a misty town, but on September 3rd, 2020, at midnight, it was very misty indeed.

So misty that, if you were there, you would not have seen the two skeletons scuttling up the face of the College Inn.

You would not have seen one bony hand reach up and push on the window, to see if it was locked.

You would not have seen the window creak open, nor the skeletons crawl inside.

And you most certainly would not have seen what happened within.

Lucy and Ray paused on the other side of the window. They were in a commons sort of area, with one armchair to their left and one to their right, in the corners. The room was dimly lit by a lamp behind the chair on the left. Warm air hissed through the air ducts. The carpet was vivid green and patterned. Ahead was a hallway.

Lucy and Ray were standing on a coffee table. When they stepped off, it creaked loudly, and they winced. Wisps of fog came in through the window, drifting between the skeletons’ ribs. Lucy shivered, rattling musically. The coldness of the fog reminded her of the cemetery—the cold, silent coffin. She quickly pushed the window shut, though she made sure not to make a sound. Then she rubbed her arms to warm herself and said:

I don’t ever wanna go back there, Ray. Never.

Quit your yappin, dear.

I don’t wanna go back.

I know.

"Ever."

Ray lay his hands on her shoulders, peered into her eyeless eyes, and nearly said, "I like it, Lucy. Don’t you ever think about me?" but she trembled at just the right moment. He hugged her tight. You’ll never see that cemetery again, Lucy-dear. Never. He pecked her atop the head, then pulled away. Now, he said, starting toward the hallway, I believe we have a man to find.

Lucy ran up beside him, smooched him on the cheek. Let’s go get em! she said.

But where to start? They paused, looking left down the hall, right down the hall. On the left were two doors. On the right were two doors. Ray sniffed. He smelled cigarettes. He peered down the right side of the hall, sniffing. It came from there. What’s the fella's name again? he asked.

Mr. Prangle. Oliver Prangle.

Ray tasted the name in his mouth. Prangle. It tasted vaguely English. He imagined Prangle had a handlebar mustache, wore a top hat, and smoked either a pipe or a cigar, maybe a cigarette. He sniffed once again. That was cigarette smoke, no doubt. You think our Mr. Prangle smokes cigarettes?

"He does, silly."

How do you know?

Lucy looked at him. "Mr. Vanderwalker told