A Vampire's Desire & Walking Away

By Jo Ann Atcheson Gray

Two epic novels in one book! Dark Vampire tales unlike you've ever read!

Desires of a Vampire ( A Southern Tale) A Novel

She Walked Away ( A Vampire's Tragedy) A Novel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Ann Gray
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223550891

Book preview

A Vampire’s Desire

& Walking Away

By: Jo Ann Atcheson Gray

Copyright 2023 Jo Ann Atcheson Gray

Published by Jo Ann Gray

ANNA PEARL

My tale is not for the weary heart. I’m Anna Pearl. I am immortal. I was slavishly turned at the age of twenty, but not by choice. I’ve lived for many decades and seen several interesting things. I’ve learned many lessons within this undead life. One experience taught me that ‘love’ can be a cruel word. Lust can confuse you to believe that it’s a type of love. Heated passion can make one’s heart believe any lies. Friendship is a word that should be cherished. Eternity is unending, and the pain, guilt, and torments of it can remain within one’s undead life without any restraint. As an immortal, I’ve had to face many of my ‘demons’ over the century. This is my story as best as I can remember it. My memories, as an immortal, come and go throughout time. Some memories, I will cherish to the end of eternity, while other ones seem vague.

I was ‘sheltered’ at home since I was the ‘baby girl’ in our family. I never experienced dating, and I was not allowed to even like a boy. I couldn’t even express any interest in the opposite sex, or my mother would ‘preach’ at me about fornication and how I should be married before I lusted after a boy. I was always playing some type of sport with my siblings in our spacious backyard, but I knew this lifestyle wasn’t meant for me. I craved ‘art’ and new adventures. Our  nearest neighbors were five miles away, so I had no close friends. The only families with children were several miles from our closest neighbor. Besides, they didn’t have any young girls my age. The boys in these homes were much older than me and my brothers. It wasn’t until I was twenty years old that I experienced my first ‘taste’ of lust.

An intriguing story I once read when I was sixteen years old added to my passion for the fantasies of mysterious vampires and dark, mythical tales. My aunt visited one summer weekend and had a documentary about the vampire myths and legends in New Orleans, a book she had purchased as she toured the French Quarter. She allowed me to borrow her book for the duration of her stay. After reading about the tale of Jacque St. Germain, I was hooked on such mystery and fantasy. It was the story of a man, or what was believed to be a type of demon or vampire that was accused of being immortal and murdering innocent women throughout the French Quarter of New Orleans. I never would’ve guessed I would meet a ‘vampire’ that reminded me of this mystical tale, and how he would change my entire life.

My aunt was amazing in my young eyes! I wanted to be like her. My mother’s younger sister had lovely black hair that resembled silk and passionate blue eyes and fair skin. She was a petite woman and always dressed in a classy way, completely different from my mother’s appearance. Her makeup was perfect, and her fingernails were always painted as she wore too many silver rings on her fingers. My mother told me that I was named after her. My mother explained to me that my aunt was a strange one, especially since she would rather drink her tea unsweetened, hot with a lemon, and in a cup. My aunt would tell me tales of the places she would visit, especially in Louisiana. She had distant relatives, related to her husband, who lived throughout the state, so she frequently traveled there regularly. Her former husband had passed away and left her a considerable amount of money to last a lifetime. The deceased man was nearly ninety-eight years old, but my aunt faithfully cared for him until he passed.

My aunt told me about the plantation homes she’d visited and how beautiful and mysterious they were. She would express to me how some of the places were considered ‘haunted’ and had terrifying stories attached to them. I was instantly mesmerized by her tales. My aunt was so lucky to get to travel so often. So, it was my aunt who inspired me to be so intrigued with the dark fantasy world, but I knew my mother would strongly disapprove.

One instance, my aunt and I pleaded and begged my mother to let me go along with her to Louisiana, but my mother rejected and said that I was too young to be roaming about all over God’s creation and that it was sinful to chase after the paranormal stuff. She needed me to stay at home and help her with household duties, especially since my father wasn’t here anymore, and I needed to keep such evil imaginations clear of my mind. The subject of traveling with my aunt was never brought up again.

I was a nice-looking young lady with long black hair, like a raven. My eyes were brown and green, hazel eyes. I was petite compared to my brothers and I have a pale skin tone, favoring my father quite a lot. I was a silent child most of the time, never verbally expressing my opinion on things. I was much like my father, who was a mild-mannered man and polite in character.

I remember, one Saturday afternoon, it was hot and humid outside, and my father decided to take me fishing while my brothers were at football practice and my mother was at the neighbor’s house learning how to sew a quilt. It was my first-time going fishing, although my father would take my brothers regularly. Once we got to the pond, my father baited my hook as I held tightly to the pole. Watching with much curiosity as he placed the earthworm on the sharp, pointed hook. It squirmed about trying to break free. I felt my stomach grow nauseated. 

My father grabbed the pole from me, tilting it over his head casting the line and bait far into the pond. He handed me the pole back explaining how to rotate the reel on the pole. As I stood on the grassy bank of the pond, I waited anxiously for a fish to bite my hook and take the bait. After a few minutes, I felt a tug, then the pole jerked hard, almost pulling it from my hands. Nervously, I screamed for my father to help me and take the pole, but he insisted that I turn the reel as fast as I could and hold the pole straight up. Doing as he instructed, I tried to be brave as I reeled with all the strength I had, firmly holding my grip on the handle. Finally, reeling a small fish to the bank, I smiled as if I had received an extravagant gift.

My father reached down and removed the poor creature from the hook, as I stood extremely still holding the pole. With the worm still in the fish’s mouth, it started flopping on the ground like it couldn’t breathe. In my childish mind, I thought this fish was going insane! The moment it crossed my bare foot, I threw my fishing pole in the air and ran behind my father as I peeked over his shoulder. He was kneeling in front of me in the grass trying to catch this crazed little fish. After he finished laughing at me, he gripped the fish tossing it back into the water. I watched as it darted away under the green moss. I was only seven years old, so this experience thrilled me, yet frightened me at the same time. This was a special part of my childhood that I will always hold dear to my heart, or should I say my ‘undead’ heart.

My father passed away while working offshore on an oil rig some years after our little fishing trip. He suffered a massive heart attack. My mother was never the same after that. The joy she once showed no longer remained within her. She wouldn’t leave the house, only remaining in her room watching sad movies as she cried holding my father’s portrait in her hand. Most nights I could even hear her crying quietly to herself. She would venture out of her bed only to shower or to eat, yet it was on a rare occasion. She was a petite woman of simple character. Her faded black hair was now gray, and her reflection was of an older person who had been through too much sorrow.

My mother always burned scented candles throughout the house before my father died. Her favorite scent was ‘strawberry’ and now she still likes it for one to be burning next to her bed on the fragile bedside table. She says it would soothe her, helping her to sleep better, more peacefully at night. She became so fragile after my father went away.  So, I felt obligated to stay at home, now that I am of age, and continue to take care of her. I had cared for her since I was very young along with my brothers helping when they could.  During school hours, the neighbor from down the street would sit with our mother until we returned home.

After some months past my father’s death, my mother seemed to be improving but only vaguely. She would prepare my brothers and me dinner after school but that was it; and told us to make sure we got our baths and do our homework before bed. Mother seemed to be ‘far away’ and couldn’t focus on taking care of us, nothing like her spirited, smiling character she had when Father was alive. This was difficult, being just children, but my brothers and I managed to survive.

My brothers moved away to pursue their college football scholarships at the university some months ago, only visiting on major holidays. Freedom to do what I wanted to do with my life just wasn’t an option during that time frame.

It was a simple unpleasant phone call that changed my entire life and set my path to new adventures and places unknown. I wouldn’t be the same ‘country girl’ that I had always been. I would become something I’d never imagined I could be, a creature of the night.

This is where I’d like to begin my tale of love, lust, loss, and cruel fate...

Chapter 1: My Raising

It was a beautiful sunshine day as I finished my routine of caring for my mother. A few weeks ago, she suffered a massive stroke and became immobile, yet she kept a saddened smile across her face. With tears in her eyes most days, she seemed to manage to grin every so often. I knew she was trying to be in good spirits, but she was not happy.

Needing to clear my mind, I made my way to the old tire swing underneath the magnolia tree in the front yard placing my bottom in the center. Swinging back and forth I imagined my life as if I was in college pretending to have a major degree in arts and theater. Dreaming of having my paintings, that I haven’t painted yet, displayed in an art gallery somewhere fancy like New York City. People would stroll around gazing upon my ‘nature’ masterpieces with champagne glasses in their hands wearing expensive clothing and extravagant jewelry.

Quickly shaking those absurd thoughts from my mind, I remembered that I had to be content and happy in my present circumstances. Stopping the tire swing, I stared at the unique house thinking back about my childhood and growing up with my two older brothers. Only a few years older than me, my brothers were always so protective of me and very tough toward me. My eldest brother was called Dale. He was a tall, strong, and straightforward guy with broad shoulders and a nice muscle tone. He never minded giving his opinion on any situation. My other brother was Charlie. He was also tall and smaller framed compared to Dale. Charlie was a quiet guy most of the time and seemed to be more of a charmer with the ladies. They were into football a great deal all through high school. Dale played the position of ‘quarterback’ while Charlie was a ‘running back.’ It was the only sport I really knew about because of them. Our neighbor would take them to their games every Friday night, yet I only got the privilege of attending on a few occasions.

My mother was stricter with me than my brothers. She made me go with her to the local Baptist Church service every Sunday morning, but that ceased after my father’s death. She never insisted for my brothers to go to church with her, but I was obligated since I was a girl. She drilled religion in us and proper morals. She taught us ‘respect’ for our elders and to always be polite.

I remember being seated upon the church pew during a Sunday service, which was uncomfortable, feeling restless and ready to go home. The preaching service seemed to drag on for hours as the preacher screamed and shouted about our sinful souls, and he looked like a raged animal as the blood vessels popped from his forehead. I knew better than to complain or my mother would ‘tan’ my bottom. Although, I enjoyed the singing service, where everyone would sing a hymn from the songbook, and it would sound out of tune while the pianist played in the wrong key.

My ‘raising’ was simple... I had to always be a ‘lady’ with proper attire and a decent attitude toward everyone. I had to love my family even in the toughest of circumstances. No matter if anger or frustration existed, the family was important and necessary to remain happy in this life. I remember one late night as my brothers and I were pretending we were ‘camping’ in the woods, but we were hiding under blankets and sheets in the living room. With the lights off and holding our flashlights to our faces, we tried our best to frighten each other. Dale would tell scary stories about ghosts, demons, and dead animals as he made strange sounds with his deep voice. As he spoke, Dale kept looking behind Charlie and me trying to spook us. At that moment, the lights in the room came on and all three of us screamed in terror as if something had attacked us. Crawling from under our fake tent, we realized we were in trouble.

It was our mother standing next to the light switch with a belt in her hand. She wasn’t thrilled with us being up so late on a school night. Afraid, Dale began explaining and giving excuses as he placed the entire blame for the situation on Charlie. I started to cry like I was fragile and saddened so our mother showed mercy on me sending me to my room with strict orders to go straight to bed. My brothers were unfortunately punished and sent to bed. Our mother gave us a stern speech the next morning about how we are to never stroll her linens and blankets all over the living room again, and she insisted that we never speak about spirits and demons or such things in her house. She assured us that it was a great ‘evil’ and a ‘sin’ to talk of such nonsense. 

My brothers showed me ways to be strong and stand up for myself. They helped me learn to be fearless and they tried to help me be more outspoken. They told me in many instances that I needed to know how to defend myself since I was a fragile girl. I honestly loved my family, but something was missing in my life... ‘Love.’

I needed someone to confide in and to call my own. I wanted, no, longed for a life that was different than my own in this vast world of people. There was so much I needed to experience, yet here I was still at home at the age of twenty, caring for my sick mother and my daily household duties. I never complained but deep inside I wanted to scream!

I thought back about one hot summer’s day, my brothers and I were getting restless and bored, and watching them toss the football in the yard was getting intolerable. I suggested that we should go ‘exploring’ and they quickly agreed. With Dale leading the way, Charlie and I followed as we journeyed into the woods behind the house. After walking through thick brush, weeds, and briars, we came up on a small creek. The stream of water flowed swiftly in one direction as we stripped our shoes from our feet and began playing around in the cold water. Pretending to be lost in a jungle, we lost track of time and hours passed as the sun was beginning to set. Without a care in the world, we were not aware of the dangers around us. As the sun was fading away, we figured it was best to head home. Before we could exit the water, Dale yelled, Snake!

We bolted from the stream as a large water moccasin swim closer to us, grabbing our shoes as we ran barefoot straight through the woods. Arriving home, wet and exhausted, our mother was already standing in the backyard with a fly-flap in her hand. She had been calling our names for almost an hour. With scratched ankles and feet, we tried to rush past her, but no such luck. She commenced swinging the fly-flap at our legs as she scolded us for being in the woods so late. Dale and Charlie were ‘grounded’ for the rest of the weekend since they let their little sister get all ‘cut up’ in the woods. Sending me to my room for the remainder of the evening, my mother continued to drill my brothers about how they shouldn’t lead their little sister to behave in such a way. Dale and Charlie took the punishment and never revealed that it was my idea to go into the woods.

I lived in a small country town with trees and woods surrounding the edges of everyone’s yard between three major cities in Central Alabama. No matter where you wanted to go, it took at least forty-five minutes to get there. Where college football was a necessity every Saturday. It was shameful to miss a single game during the season. Our father had his favorite team and Dale and Charlie had theirs. They would gather around the wooden box television in the living room and shout at each other while watching the games. My mother and I would fix sandwiches and sweet tea so the guys would have snacks to eat while watching their sport.

My mother would always aggravate them by asking questions about how the game was played and what the rules were. I would laugh silently as my father would say to my mother, See, Hunny, the ones in the red jerseys are the team who has the football, and they must make a ‘touch down’ on the far end of the field. The other team is the defense. They must stop the red jerseys from scoring by blocking them and tackling the player who is running the ball.

My father would be so polite to my mother, but I could tell he was irritated having to answer her silly questions every time a game came on.

Some would say we lived in the ‘Bible belt’ of Alabama. Baptist churches were located on nearly every corner within the three surrounding cities. There were gossiping little ‘blue-haired’ ladies at every salon which was numerous in our small town. The older gentleman, called ‘old-timers’ would faithfully congregate at the local food diner every morning to discuss their latest ‘kill’ from their hunts. Most of the guys in this town would drive four-wheel drive trucks and wear camouflage all year round. The local girls would chase these young men dreaming of being married and raising babies creating happy homes. It all seemed ‘boring’ to me, but this was my ‘home’, born and raised, never knowing the outside world. Knowing nothing of other cultures and beliefs except what I learned through books and some vague television shows when my mother would allow me to view such movies.

As children, we were taught to say, ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’, or ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ to our elders. If an adult asked us to do an errand, we were supposed to do it right away, and if we didn’t, and we ‘talked back’ a belt to our behinds would follow.

My mother was a saintly lady within the community. She was always cooking some type of Southern dish to take to church when there would be a Sunday dinner. She attempted to teach me how to prepare such meals, but I never quite caught on. She drilled my brain about how it was the woman’s place to cook and care for the house while the man worked and provided for the family. Being stubborn, I would argue back about how I was never going to be a married woman and do all that crazy stuff. I assured my mother that I was going to live by myself and do what I wanted to do and eat out all the time. She would laugh and smile at me as she said, One day, my darling girl, the right gentleman will sweep you off your feet just like your father did to me. Then you will be willing to care for him.

Although I did try my best to learn how to cook Southern meals, making homemade biscuits was the worst. My mother would laugh out loud at me when she opened the oven to see that my biscuits were flat and burnt. I finally gave up and decided to never attempt making them again.

Another famous ‘Southern’ charm was our ‘sweet tea’ and how it was an amazing taste of sweet sensation when you added a lemon slice to it after pouring the tea into a glass with ice cubes. My mother would place a small boiler of water on the stove with a couple of gallon size teabags floating in the liquid. Once the water started boiling, she would let it boil for two minutes. Turning the stove off, she would remove the boiler and pour the contents into a gallon-sized tea pitcher. She added three cups of pure sugar to the dark brown liquid in the pitcher. She would take the pitcher to the sink and place it under the faucet, filling it with cold water, and stirring the tea until the sugar was dissolved. Once stirred properly, she would pour some into a glass with ice and add a lemon slice.

I always found ‘sweet tea’ interesting, first, you heat it up, just to ice it down making it so refreshing and delicious once the lemon was added. My mother never understood how anyone would want to drink it in a cup while it was hot and steaming. ‘Sweet tea’ was the only thing I managed to master when it came to cooking on a stove.

One Sunday morning, after my mother and I came home from church, she started her normal routine of making dinner for my brothers and me since my father was away on the oil rig. As she was preparing the meal, we were playing cards on the living room floor. A knock came on the front door. Our mother answered the door, and it was the neighbor from down the road. This lady went to the same church that my mother went to. This little gray-haired woman was always asking my mother about how my father was getting along. My mother would sarcastically reply that he was doing just fine. This woman was standing in the doorway holding a pie with a dishtowel draped over it. The aroma of the pie smelled like apples and cinnamon. My mother graciously accepted the gift as the lady made her leave. Curious and hungry, my brothers and I hastily went into the kitchen only to see our mother toss the entire pie into the trashcan. Not understanding why, she had done this, Dale asked, Mother, why are you throwing away that sweet-smelling apple pie?

That’s when our mother told us to sit at the table and listen carefully. She seated herself across from us as she began to explain her actions after she removed her apron placing it next to her on the chair.

Listen, kids. Sometimes in the south when someone shows up at your door with a pie, it’s a simple gesture of rudeness. That nice lady was only being noisy. As you already know, Anna Pearl, that’s the same woman that always asks about your father when we are at church. It was her daughter that had a crush on your father when we were in school. Instead of marrying her, your father married me. So, that lady has been anxious to find out if me and your father are having any troubles in our marriage, which we aren’t. I accepted her pie and thanked her with ‘Bless your heart’, as I closed the front door. It simply means to mind her own business politely instead of using vulgar language. Do you understand, children?

Nodding our heads as if we understood, Charlie asked, Well, can we eat the pie anyway?

No, you cannot, sir. Our mother snapped. But I will make you one of my recipes today. Now, Charlie, pour me a glass of tea from the refrigerator with a lot of ice and get out of my kitchen while I prepare dinner.

All three of us smiled as our mother persisted for us to leave the kitchen and go play in the yard.

My family never traveled for any vacations like the other folks in this town would. Our summers consisted of occupying ourselves around the house or going along with my brothers to football practices. I usually stayed to myself reading or drawing while my brothers worked out at their practices, never really speaking, or mingling with the flirty girls. I had better dreams than to be stuck here in this place and become a housewife to a country boy.

My brothers tried convincing me that I needed to sign up for a sport or cheerleading, but I just wasn’t interested. Most weekends my brothers would build a campfire out back in the firepit inviting friends over and listening to loud music while sipping on a six-pack of beer after grilling some kind of food. My mother would yell at them to turn the music down and to stop making such noise so late in the night. That was when they usually loaded up in the truck, with Dale being the only teenager with a driver’s license, they would hit a dirt road to find the muddy areas to drive around in, which was called ‘mud riding’, only coming home when it was daylight. They would sleep all day the next day as my mother would purposely make noise to aggravate them in their hungover condition.

Most late nights I would use a flashlight under my bed covers and read my fantasy books about art and mystical creatures while everyone was sleeping. I knew my mother would disapprove of these types of books, so I kept them hidden under my mattress. My aunt would bring me titles and novels when she would come to visit and always made me promise not to reveal them to my mother. I enjoyed the tales of dark fantasy and faraway realms. I would imagine being swept off my feet by a dark prince with tattoos. A tall man with dark hair who would love only me and carry me far away from where I reside. I was fortunate enough to have the privacy of my bedroom. My mother would always say that since I was the only ‘girl’ I needed a room with privacy. My brothers had to share a bedroom, but they were content with that.

One late night, I was enjoying my privacy under my bedcovers, as