Exeter Bites: The Vampire's Promise

By R. Wayne Emerson

People are dying in the town of Exeter, Rhode Island. Teenagers Kurt Carpenter and Clay Banderson are responsible for the chaos. But the townspeople aren’t really dead, at least not in the traditional sense.

After helping to unearth an unmarked grave in an abandoned cemetery, the teens have unintentionally released a two-hundred-year-old vampire determined to have her revenge on Exeter. Thanks to their actions, she is now free from her eternal sleep and hell-bent on turning the entire town into creatures of the night, forcing Kurt, his girlfriend, Penny, and Clay to hunt their friends and neighbors during the day. Unfortunately for every vampire they destroy, two take its place. As their crusade to end the threat becomes increasingly impossible, their chance to succeed begins slipping through their fingers. With only one option left, the teens make a bold and dangerous decision that will either lead them to salvation or eternal damnation.

In this exciting horror tale, three teens take it upon themselves to find and destroy a vampire or die trying as the future of their Rhode Island town hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532064937

R. Wayne Emerson

R. Wayne Emerson is a police officer from Central Florida, where he makes his home with his wife and two children. When he is not writing, he spends his free time chasing snakes through the woods, playing with his dogs, and relaxing by his backyard pool. Emerson, a self-professed supernatural aficionado, is the author of the novels, Jersey Devil and Fear the Reaper.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T he taste of blood is sweet. It overwhelms the creature holding the teenage girl in her arms, and by the time she realizes she’s been discovered, it’s too late.

The man holding the crucifix while chanting a prayer to the Lord, isn’t alone. Several men are with him. Each of them carries a stake or a hammer. She is trapped.

In the time it takes to release her hold on the young girl and initiate the transformation from human to bat, she realizes that the men are upon her. The crucifix has been pressed against her face, and it burns with the fury of the Almighty’s anger, attempting to cleanse her of the taint.

Her screams are unholy. They echo off the walls of the barn before traveling deep into the darkness as she struggles against the strong hands that restrain her. Without the crucifix that weakens her, the men would stand no chance, but the man of God is strong as is his faith. His will is like iron. The gifts she’d been given on the night of her rebirth, strength and cunning, the ability to change her shape, and the power to influence the human mind are failing her. The blood that warms her has begun to cool. She will never taste its sweetness again. Above all else, that makes her struggle harder. The blood is the life. The thought of never tasting it again is maddening.

A cloud filled sky blocks out the stars. The full moon occasionally escapes the curtain of gray and black to shine its ominous light on the town of Exeter, Rhode Island. The year is 1884, and the casualties from the Civil War have taken their toll on what is referred to by many as a border town.

The ground in this farming community is barely fertile, and rows of corn, which must swerve around boulders in their path in order to thrive, are Exeter’s major crop. Tumbledown walls made of stone are mostly in disrepair.

The barn and farmhouse that burn in the distance belong to Danville and Margaret Redding. For months they have been claiming that their daughter is ill, taken to bed rest after contracting a disease. The reports from people who claimed to have seen her in the small hours of the morning, white as a sheet as she walked down Main Street or the dirt road back to her parents’ farm, are no longer scrutinized or ignored. The truth has been discovered. The reporters are vindicated.

Turning their backs to the flames, the rabid mob that formed after the discovery at the Redding farm feels righteous. The flames will cleanse the land. The parents who kept the secret will be run out of town by morning. Justice has been served.

The man leading the mob is Francis Potter, a Baptist minister and self-appointed moral leader for the town that boasts a hearty 970 souls in need of saving. He has uncovered a terrible truth that assaults his sense of morality. It’s the kind of thing that could make another man doubt his religion, but Potter has no doubt. Potter has never been one to give evil a face or a name. Evil comes in all forms. From the midwife you pass on the sidewalk to the twelve-year-old boy with the freckles around his nose who lives next door, it takes many forms and hides where you least expect to find it. The pastor knows that evil is neither dumb nor ignorant. For many it’s just a four-letter word, but for Francis Potter it’s the eternal enemy, and tonight he’s found it in the heart of his community hiding behind a lovely face and blonde hair.

The cross that Potter wears around his neck swings back and forth. His gait is long and his face is red. On his right is the town doctor, and on his left is the father of the monster being carried by the seven and restrained by silver chains that carry the blessing of the Lord. Potter swats Danville’s hands away when they reach for the sleeve of his cassock.

For God’s sake, Reverend, she’s my daughter. I beg of you, don’t do this.

Potter refuses to look the man in the eye and ignores Margaret’s sobbing. In the reverend’s mind, Danville and Margaret are as much to blame for the deaths of the twelve children. Given the authority, he’d have seen them hanged in the barn before it was burned to the ground. Banishment from Exeter is a mercy the man and woman do not deserve. With every step Potter takes, he comes closer to his purpose.

Inside the cemetery, the town magistrate, Lorenzo Garret, waits with his head hung low. The Reddings are his closest friends. He cannot bear to see them in pain. What happens next is out of his hands. The mob would hang him in the Redding’s stead should he interfere with their justice. Garret values his life over friendship.

Dressed in trousers and his night shirt, the town’s Senior Selectman, Daniel Newberry, stands in the way of the reverend as he nears the gate at the entrance to the Chestnut Hill Cemetery.

This is insane, Francis. We’ve known Lacey her entire life.

Motioning to the woman restrained by the seven men, whose faces are taught, their teeth closed so tightly that they might shatter in their jaws, he adds, There is no such thing as vampirism. The girl is suffering from mental illness and disease. What she needs is a doctor, not your lynch mob justice.

Tall and thick, his chest like a whiskey barrel and his legs like small oaks, Potter glares into the face of the selectman standing in his way.

I have brought a doctor as you can see. Before the creature is destroyed, he shall check for a heartbeat. Absent of one, I suspect that no error has been made. I shall rid this town of the evil that plagues it.

You would condemn a lunatic to such an unnatural act, Reverend?

I shall do as the Bible dictates. I shall eradicate evil where I find it, and I find it in Lacey Redding.

Using the bulk of his body, Potter shoves past the man with a conscience. Following close behind him, Newberry wraps an arm around Margaret whose sobbing has turned into wails that would make a banshee proud. If he cannot persuade the reverend to put an end to this madness, perhaps he can bring comfort to a mother in distress.

The ground has been dug up. The casket, nothing more than a wooden box, rests at its edge.

Lacey’s struggles continue as she is laid in the box. They come to a painful end when the reverend places the crucifix against her cheek once more.

The sound of a shell being racked draws the attention of everyone gathered. Standing with shotgun in hand, the barrel pointed at the reverend’s chest, is Marshall Rundgren. There are tears running down his cheeks. He snorts to keep his nose from running before he speaks.

Release her this instant! he shouts. His hands are shaking and his voice quivers, but there is no doubt he means what he says.

Would you release the wolf back among the sheep? Potter asks innocently without judgment or malice. No one can know the suffering of the man betrothed to the woman who no longer resides inside Lacey’s body.

It has been over a month since he last saw his beloved fiancé. He had been told that she would die, but no one had prepared him for this. No one had prepared Marshall to see his bride-to-be this way, lovely, her face white as a sheet, her lips red like the berry on the vine. His eyes do not deceive him. The woman looks no different than any other in the cemetery. How can she be dead? It’s not possible that she’s become a monster.

Doctor Willis, would you please examine the woman? the reverend asks over his shoulder, so gently that Marshall holds his itchy trigger finger.

Pinching the toes and fingers, the doctor sees no blood rushing from the digits. Willis searches beneath Lacey’s nose for breath and finds none. Exaggerating his movement, Willis places the stethoscope against Lacey’s chest. He listens for almost a full minute before raising his head.

She has no heartbeat. I can find no pulse or breath, nor does she show any signs of capillary refill.

Looking into the eyes of the man holding the shotgun, he adds, I pronounce Lacey Redding dead.

No! Marshall shouts before laying the shotgun at his feet. He brushes past the reverend and takes the stethoscope from the hands of the doctor. Pressing its head against Lacey’s chest, he sobs. No, it cannot be, he cries out while pressing the stethoscope so hard against her breast that it should cause the woman pain. Lacey does not cry out. She is as unfeeling as the medical apparatus in the hand of her betrothed.

Broken and in tears, Marshall is led away by the doctor. There are no more to speak out against what is to come. As the lovesick man is escorted through the gates, the stake is hammered into Lacey’s heart before the roses are stuffed into her mouth and the silver coins are placed over her eyes.

After the crowd has dispersed, the reverend orders the hole filled in without the wooden box. A blank headstone will be set in place over the grave where the body does not reside. Instead, the wooden box is buried below the ground over the top of an unsuspecting corpse that will neither complain nor care. There, the body of the vampire will stay for eternity. While holding hands, the three men who will forever keep the secret, pray.

CHAPTER

1

N ancy Tate prefers to be called Mina. The gothic teen in the sleeveless black and red top that boasts a skull pattern in the front, exhales. The aroma of her clove cigarette clings to her. Her lips are painted black to match her mascara and the heavy eye liner surrounding her misshapen brown eyes. Shaved on one side, her long hair is raven. A patch of pink dye accents her bangs which have been cut with a razor so that they fall sharply over her face. Covering her feet are black combat boots that lace on the sides, and the pants she wears, the ones with the safety pins running down the entire left leg, are tucked neatly into them. She is the epitome of antiestablishment. She is free.

Standing over a broken headstone in the Chestnut Hill Cemetery, she scoffs at the words carved into the granite. She can only make out a few of them, and when she reads them out loud, her voice is filled with contempt for the dead.

Get a load of this shit, she shouts so that the three boys, who are busy kicking over the remains of nearby grave markers, can hear her clearly. An Angel, she reads off the headstone. Give me a fucking break. Who the hell would bury an angel in a shithole like this?

Kurt’s mother. That’s who, Lonnie Pelletier laughs as he spits the words out. The death of Kurt’s father had been hard on him.

The gangly teen in the black overcoat and combat boots doesn’t care about Kurt’s feelings. He knows how angry it will make the boy to his left. The harsher the insult, the more points he will score with the rest of the misguided teens surrounding him. Kurt and his feelings can go to hell for all Lonnie cares.

Your mother’s a whore, Kurt shouts back.

Wearing a T-shirt depicting Mickey Mouse as a skeleton, with Mickey holding a bloody knife in one hand and Goofy’s severed head in the other, Kurt quickly recovers. He isn’t amused.

At least I still have a mother, he shoots back at Lonnie who lights a joint. He inhales deeply, unaffected by what the younger teen says.

Taking the joint from Lonnie, Clay Banderson takes a long drag before passing it on to Mina.

That’s some good shit, Clay says, doing his best to sound cool as the smoke exhaled from his lungs spirals around his head in thick gray tendrils. Don’t let Kurt get to you, Skull Crusher. You know he can’t help himself. His nuts haven’t dropped yet. Maybe when they do, he’ll finally get laid.

Laughter erupts from all around Kurt. He is used to it by now.

Unable to stop, coughing in-between the fits of laughter that won’t seem to come to an end, Mina rips what’s left of the headstone she was reading out of the ground. Less than a quarter of the grave marker is left. Even so, she struggles to heave it in Kurt’s direction. Chasing after it, intending to chuck it again, the boys follow her. She is holding the joint after all.

When she inhales, the end of the marijuana cigarette burns brightly like a firefly looking for a mate. While holding in her breath, wanting the full extent of the THC within the white paper to take hold, she mindlessly hands the joint to Kurt. She walks past him, her eyes focused on the dirt beneath the piece of gravestone she’s just tossed. At first, she thinks the darkness is playing tricks on her eyes. It is not. Bending down, she sweeps some of the dirt into the widening hole with her hand, the one with the skull ring on her pointer finger.

The first thing Clay notices when he looks Mina’s way is the crease between the waistband of her pants and her shirt. Bare skin exposes her tramp stamp. The pair of small dragons that has been tattooed just above the crack in her ass, the one that makes the front of his pants get tight every time he sees it, is showing. Fearing that someone else might see him staring, his eyes follow the curve of her backside down her thighs and then to her feet where her hand still rests, the ruby red eyes of the skull on her finger giving off illumination thanks to the beam from Kurt’s flashlight. It’s then that he notices what she’s crowing about.

Damn. That’s one strong bitch, Clay laughs. Pointing to the collapsing soil, he shouts, She broke the ground. How is that possible?

Moving closer to see what Mina and Clay are talking about, Kurt surveys the damage before saying, Hey, Spinal Tap, the nickname Clay has chosen so that he can appear dark and seedy, Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that thing might even be deeper than your mom’s vagina.

Impossible, Lonnie roars. Nothing is deeper than Mrs. Banderson’s vagina. I had to tie a house to my waist the last time I tagged her so I wouldn’t get sucked in.

Kurt and Lonnie’s eyes meet. Together they have scored major points.

Dressed in black jeans which have had the knees cut out of them, Clay raises the middle finger from his right hand. Wearing his favorite shirt, a long sleeve black concert T portraying a skull bearing ram’s horns, he is bending next to Mina now. The logo on his shirt is for the band Cradle of Filth. The band members are his prophets, and the words to their songs are his Gospel. His feet are covered in the clichéd black combat boots favored by his chosen click. The fronts are scuffed, and the heels show signs of wearing through. He has no intention of replacing them.

On one knee, he claws at the ground. The black nail polish on his fingers begins to chip. As he digs, an idea comes to him. No fucking way, he tells himself before changing his mind. Why not, look at where I’m standing. Examining the soil under his nails, he grins.

Dudes, he says, unable to hide the excitement he feels. After wiping some of the soil on his pants, he adds, I think this is an actual grave. I say we dig it up.

Clay shrugs it off when Kurt attempts to hand him the joint. Nah, man. I don’t wanna be stoned when we rip the top off the coffin.

Whoa. Hold on a second, Kurt says. His voice is barely more than a whisper, though everyone hears him. You’re not seriously going to dig it up, are you? I don’t mind smashing shit, but come on, dudes, this ain’t cool. You can’t be serious.

Why the hell not? Lonnie asks. It’s just a pile of bones in the box. This cemetery ain’t been used in fifty years. How bad could it be?

On his knees, he begins to help Clay dig. It isn’t long before a pile of dirt and rocks begins to grow behind them.

As he watches them dig, Kurt stands, arms folded across his chest. A sense of despair fills him. His skin is covered in goose pimples.

The moon is shining brightly overhead. The cool spring breeze he has been enjoying all night is suddenly unbearably cold. For some reason, he feels like he should be running. This isn’t the first time he and his friends have spent their Friday night in the old cemetery smashing headstones and throwing rocks at each other, but tonight it feels different. Tonight, he has the sense that he’s doing something wrong. It’s the first time he’s felt that way since he was ten years old, and he’s sixteen now.

Hey, guys, I don’t like this. Something doesn’t feel right about it, he says loud enough to be heard over the wind which has suddenly begun to blow his hair into his face while biting at him through his clothing.

Turning from the digging, Mina frowns while giving the teen a disapproving look. And though he’s seen the look plenty of times before, tonight it has real power behind it.

If you are going to be a pussy about it, then leave, Ripper. After calling him by his goth name, she says, But you’re never going to get into my pants acting like a frightened sissy. After turning back to the diggers, she says over her shoulder, Ain’t that right, Skull Crusher?

Lost in his digging, Lonnie doesn’t hear her. The mound of dirt behind him is high and wide. His fingers hurt and he’s tired, but he has no plans to stop digging. The coffin is down there. It can’t be long now.

Screw you, she spits at the seventeen-year-old who doesn’t respond. It will be a long while before you get your dick wet again.

Pulling deeply on the last of the joint, Mina holds her breath and hopes that one of the others is holding out on her. Unlike Clay, she wants to be good and stoned when the lid is ripped from the coffin. Unless one of her friends is hiding another joint in their pocket, she might lose her nerve.

Shrugging away the chill that runs down her spine, she isn’t as brave as she seems. She might be a slut with a father who visits her in her bedroom twice a week and a mother who is passed out drunk on the couch when it happens, but she’s not the evil bitch she portrays herself to be. She’s just a girl who wants to live a life that’s anything other than the one she was born into. Being goth allows her to fit in. She desperately wants to fit in.

Mina looks up into the sky as she moves to stand next to the teen who can’t shake the cold from his bones.

Seriously, Kurt, she calls him by his given name.

The teen is positively shaking. His feet are restless and he is wringing his hands. For all she knows, he’s about to faint. The concern she feels for him is real.

Are you okay?

The fear in his eyes is unmistakable. He puts his hands behind his back to hide them from her. His brave act is in vain. Mina isn’t fooled. She yanks his sleeve.

Kurt?

I’m not sure, Kurt replies as if he’s been startled. Unable to look Mina in the eye, afraid of what she might see if he does, he looks toward the heavens. Is it just me, or does it seem darker than before?

Staring upwards, losing herself in the grandeur of the night, Mina wonders if Kurt belongs with them. He has the look and talks the talk, but there are times when she sees him differently. Handsome and on the verge of a growth spurt, the teen with the sensitive side is an enigma to her. If things were different and she was allowed to be happy, she might have asked him to be her boyfriend. Yeah, and my father would kill him, she thinks, imagining her father’s face when he learns he isn’t the only one screwing his daughter.

Keeping her eyes on the heavens, Mina notices the lack of stars and the disappearance of the moon. She hadn’t noticed it until Kurt brought it up, but the sky does look darker now. A chill runs down her spine.

Her cold hands wrap around her body, pinning her arms to her sides, holding her still for some unseen horror. Mina swallows hard knowing that it’s all in her head, but she can’t help the feeling that something bad is about to happen. Wiggling her fingers, she works the same magic up the entire length of her arms until she’s free.

Nah, you’re imagining things, she answers the teen. Unable to show any weakness, she doesn’t tell him the truth. It’s easier to lie.

I found it! Clay shouts, excited as ever. He is caked with dirt and his arms are like two lead weights, but he’s done it.

With Kurt keeping his distance, Mina shuffles forward until she’s standing at the edge of the hole staring at a dirt covered coffin.

A booming wave of thunder shakes the ground beneath her feet and the skies above her head. The trees outside of the cemetery are moving in time with one another, their trunks leaning left and then right and then back again. At the entrance, a lamppost shakes violently, its light flickering, threatening to hide along with the small animals that are missing from the field across the street.

Wondering if anyone else has heard it, she steals a quick peek at Kurt. The teen is absolutely frozen with fear. Like an omen of terrible things to come, the chilly hand on her spine tightens its grip and she finds herself shaking like the teen she had sought to comfort only moments before.

Maybe Kurt’s right. She can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. Maybe we should leave it alone, cover it up and forget about it.

Kurt’s a fag. We should be calling him Gutless instead of Ripper, Clay says loudly over the rising wind, a wind that is absolutely howling now.

Come on, Lonnie, let’s get this thing open.

Kurt’s legs are doing the thinking for him now. Moving him backwards slowly, away from the hole in the ground, away from what he knows is his death, Kurt doesn’t fight them. His sixth sense has kicked in. Like the zebra being hunted on the Savannah, he can feel it in his bones. He doesn’t need to smell it or see it. He knows that death is inside that coffin. He knows that when it is opened, death will come for him.

Through trembling lips, he manages the words. They are not loud, but they travel far. He can see the mist that follows them. The air in the cemetery has turned colder as well. Why does no one else notice it?

If only Mina and Clay would look at him. If they could only see his fear, they might be saved. But Mina and Clay are not looking at him. Completely engrossed in their discovery, they are looking into the darkness in the ground. Their friend and their lives are the last things on their minds.

Having done all he can, Kurt spins away from the three teenagers he fears he will never see again. Knowing that he is leaving them to die alone, he can’t find the courage to go back. Instead of being the hero he has always dreamed of being, Kurt runs … he runs for his life.

Avoiding grave markers on purpose, he makes a beeline for the front gates which are rusted and hang open on crumbling hinges. Evil is in the air. Alive and very real, it chases him.

When his feet fall on pavement, 12th Avenue to be exact, the terrified teen is certain that he feels a hand slide off the back of his shirt. Evil doesn’t give up so easily. He rounds the bend and cuts right onto Brentwood Street. One street over and then a quick dash through the Klein’s driveway and he will be in his front yard, taking the three steps leading to his front door in a single leap. His mother always leaves the front door unlocked for him. He prays that tonight’s not the night she forgets.

Far behind the teen who slams the front door shut with such force that it wakes up the neighbors, none of the others has noticed his departure.

CHAPTER

2

A pair of teens in dark clothing stands over a hole, their chests heaving in and out after having exerted so much energy digging up the gravesite. Covered in dirt, they stare into the hole, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. The wooden box is moldy. Worm holes dot its lid. A strong odor of death and decay rises to assault all three teens who have failed to heed Kurt’s warning. So strong is the odor that Mina must turn away.

Clay feels the bile rising in his throat and thinks, WTF. This thing has got to be a hundred years old at least. There shouldn’t be any smell.

Lightning flashes overhead. The thunder that follows is deafening, and again the world around the teenagers shakes. When the first drops of rain begin to fall, Mina huffs with disgust.

Well, are you gonna stare at it all day, or are you gonna open it?

The boys look at one another. Wide-eyed and fearful, each waits for the other to make the first move, but neither does. For several uncomfortable moments, they look from Mina then back to the coffin. They match one another’s stares. A stalemate has been formed.

It was less than an hour ago that they had discovered the grave, proclaiming their intent to rip the lid off and have a look inside, and now neither of them is so eager to jump into the hole and slide his fingers under the rotting wood. Fear has found each of them in turn.

The lightning flashing overhead and the thunder crashing all around them forewarns them of the danger. Suddenly and inexplicably, lifting the lid on the coffin is the last thing either of the boys intends to do.

Mina remains silent.

A piece of yellow paper, crisp and fragile, blows across Clay’s feet. Without a thought for what it is he’s doing, he reaches down and snags it before it blows away. Reading it, he feels every muscle in his body grow still with fear. The piece of paper is an old flier. It promises salvation for those who worship at the Church of the Sacred Wine.

Clay lets go of the paper and watches as it tumbles away and disappears into the darkness. The final straw has been broken, and just like Kurt before him, he begins to edge his way from the hole in the ground.

Hey, guys, I’m not so sure about this anymore. His voice is trembling when he speaks. It’s starting to rain and I got a bad feeling. I say we bounce.

He doesn’t see Mina as she comes up from behind him and wraps her arms around him. Hugging him tightly, she nuzzles his ear. Although the warmth of her body feels good against his, he finds little comfort in her embrace.

The show of affection was never meant for the shortest of the three teenage boys she’d come into the cemetery with that night.