Domo de Sango; House of Blood

By Sean Patrick O'Mordha

The existence of vampire-like demons and spirits was known in the cultures of China, Mesopotamia, the Hebrews, Ancient Greeks, Northeast India, and the Romans for over a thousand years. In the early 1700s vampires became popularized in Western Europe thanks to mass hysteria in the Balkans and the Eastern European countries of Albania, Greece, and Romania. The English writer, John Polidori, established the charismatic and sophisticated vampire of modern fiction in 1819 with The Vampyre. This was followed by the Irish author, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, who published Carmilla (1872) and then Bram Stoker's Dracula (1897). These stories laid the distinctive foundation of the modern vampire genre.
Domo de Sango; House of Blood takes a slightly different path. Not a grotesque creature, a vampire could be standing next to you at the yearly neighborhood block party. This tale gives a plausible historical and medical basis for the existence of vampires as told by a most unlikely but reputable source. Nothing has changed. Vampires still require human blood to continue their existence. How they obtain and dispose of victims without drawing attention may keep you from wandering about alone at night and standing at your front window wondering about that person across the street.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Patrick O'Mordha
• Release date: Sep 20, 2021

Sean Patrick O'Mordha

Sean O'Mordha grew up riding horses through the mountains of SE Wyoming. Fresh out of high school and attending the University of Nebraska - Lincoln, he landed the job of cub reporter for a major newspaper there. During the next two years, he studied journalism and archaeology and came under the tutelage of writer, Rod Serling. That career path was interrupted upon receiving an all-expense, paid trip to Vietnam courtesy of Uncle Sam. Returning home, life took a decidedly different direction as he a Law Enforcement Officer, completing a career as a Federal officer and special prosecutor in his native Wyoming twenty-two years later. During this time he actively wrote for National and International police journals. Upon retirement, he continued writing non-fiction and short fiction until encouraged to write a novel. He has published a number of novels and many short stories. The father of three, he retired to southern Arizona to be near grandchildren when not traveling to the locations of the next novel under construction. He also is involved with operations at Celtic Publications of Arizona.

Book preview

OEBPS/images/image0001.png

A SMASHWORDS eBook Edition -- 2021

by

OEBPS/images/image0002.pngOEBPS/images/image0003.jpg

Produce by

OEBPS/images/image0004.png

Vail, Arizona

https://celtic-publications.com

Copyright: Sean Patrick O’Mordha 2015-2021

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. With the exception of familiar geographical locations and historical events, all names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, or events is purely coincidental or used according to US trademark and copyright law.

OEBPS/images/image0005.png

CHAPTER 1

Being a house, I don’t move around much. Still, interesting things happen within my walls—real interesting . . . and satisfying considering what humans did to me 150 years ago. That doesn’t mean that I am ignorant of what happens away from my sphere of awareness. Reading Simon’s journal relieves the boredom when things slow down. Take the latest entry, for instance.

Uncle Sterling surprised Virgil and me last evening by inviting us on a drive through the city. He said that the time had come for me to learn to hunt for myself. Also, it would not hurt Virgil to begin as well. This will not be a one-time lesson as there are many fine points to learn about finding the right lamb for our needs.

Uncle Sterling insisted Virgil undertake writing in a journal each day like Simon. He said such reflection could bring illumination to one’s life and, when necessary, cleanse the soul. Assured that no one would read his journal Simon penned his activities and inner-most thoughts. Sometimes a painful read.

Now, before you accuse me of violating the no-read clause, remember that it applies to those who could transmit the information to others. That is something I have been incapable of doing until recently. Besides, how would people react if told the information came from a house?

Before going any further, I should explain that Uncle Sterling is of the Amara family. His older brother, Gaspar, replaced Theodore Blood, a most narcissistic and despicable human being. A banker from New York, Blood delighted in deceiving and defrauding widows, orphans, and the poorly educated. He commissioned me built-in 1868 between Covey Swamp Road and the Napanoch River a mile south of the Terminer town square in the State of Massachusetts. Not far from where I savored my waning years. Blood’s wife played the role of shrew to Mr. Shakespeare’s loftiest imagination.

Their three children exemplified the epitome of spoiled, obnoxious, self-centered, impudent devils. They were the most contumelious brats to walk the earth. I did not like them, but please accept my sincere apologies for venting acrimonious language. I have read Webster’s marvelous masterpiece of the English language and could go on to describe these people. Suffice it to say, each was an abominable disgrace to human evolution. Positively disgusting. I shall try to control myself with further remarks in their regards.

I became a house because of Theodore Blood’s pompous aggrandizement. Being the builder and first occupant, he used the Esperanto language to give me the grand-sounding title, Domo de Sango, The House of Blood. Little did he or does anyone know how much truth lies in my name.

The Blood family crossing over my threshold for the first time had the sound of an apocalypse. In no time at all, the situation took on the feel that Armageddon had arrived. The next three years became a nightmare of fighting and raging from morning to night. I often wondered how that woman ever became pregnant once, let alone three times. The only reasonable conclusion would be by immaculate conception. It certainly did not occur within my walls.

To make up for eating at opposite ends of a long table and sleeping in separate rooms, Blood sought frequent, extracurricular entertainment. My timbers shivered with excitement when his amorous adventures were exposed, prompting the queen ogress to pack and storm out my door. It slamming behind her echoed the best of revival preachers, Praise the Lord! and good riddance. My foundation danced with euphoria the best it could beneath my ponderous weight.

Unhindered, Blood continued his philandering by entertaining young women in the bed his wife once occupied. The piercing shrieks of that woman and their spawn were replaced by incessant giggles and ancillary sounds, a cross between a dying duck and rooting hog. Although muted, they remained annoying until a sudden detonation disrupted my perusal of the adequate library. A brother seeking to reclaim family honor shot the adulterous Theodore Blood while in bed in the root of and at the very pinnacle of his debauchery.

Jubilation at their departure slowly faded as I sat vacant, feeling musty and alone, wondering what would come next. Relatively speaking, I did not have long to wait. Gaspar Amara arrived at the front door after seven years of blissful recovery. That he had two boys, felt worrisome, and I immediately began plotting ways to get rid of them. How wrong first impressions can be.

Mr. Amara quickly won my adoration. A kindly gentleman, he said glowing things about me as his lovely, young wife cooed and clapped with delight in each room. The boys proved respectful and quiet for the greater part so that their occasional bursts of child play were easily overlooked. That they were to become my forever family—quite literally—a house could not ask for more.

I find the one quirk these good people possess easily overlooked. After fifty years, Gaspar and his wife left me in the care of one of their sons, but only for a time. Upon returning thirty years later, they appeared as the day they first entered my front door. Shortly thereafter, their youngest son and his wife left, the older boy having moved away years before. And so the rotation continues.

How can that be, you ask? The answer is embedded in this tale. As a preface, it seems that long before I began growing, one of their family dabbled in alchemy and discovered a way to prolong human life. Something I am delighted that they keep secret. At present, Gaspar and his dear Elena are traveling with son number one and his wife leaving me with their youngest grandson son, Simon. About to enter adulthood, he is under the watchful care of Gaspar’s brother, Sterling. It is he who is now teaching Simon and his companion, Virgil, the finer points of hunting.

Uncle Sterling, acting the part of tour guide, drove Virgil and me the hour and a half to a neighborhood near the docks in Boston. There he pointed out various individuals standing on corners or mid-block, always under a working street light. He said that these are some of the best for our purpose.

Virgil pointed to a mid to late teen standing on one foot, the other pressed against the brick exterior of a building somewhat like a sprinter. With one foot in the starting block, he appeared ready to launch at the slightest provocation. Being a warm evening, he wore a thin, tank T-shirt, dark blue, short shorts, and cheap, plastic flip-flops. Virgil inquired if that was such a person we would seek.

Uncle Amara replied with a yes and no, saying that was obviously a street waif advertising himself as needing money and available. He was not someone we should consider until more thoroughly conversant in the intricacies of the hunt.

Continuing to drive down the street, he explained what we had observed was a police sting. As we drove through the next intersection, he had us look to the right, where we spotted a police car parked about halfway up the street beneath a darkened street light. Uncle Sterling drove a little further before making a U-turn. He would show us what he meant, but we should not under no circumstances attempt what he was about to demonstrate. Not until we had become better trained.

On this pass, he pointed out a dark-colored van across the street from the young man. Parking our car next to the