Bebo

Scene from a vampire series...

www.bebo.com/ChicagoNin

1.




The old, black Volkswagen crawled slowly along Oak Lane, stopping outside number twenty two. Three dark, figures alighted, all dressed in black suits, complete with black shirts and ties, the driver and companion in the passenger seat stayed in the car. The glare of the street light outside number twenty two was suddenly and inexplicably extinguished as they approached the front door. The garden was thrown into a murky gloom, in which only vague silhouettes could be seen.
One of the figures rapped the door, loud enough to wake the occupants of the house. A few moments later, a blond woman, clad in a dressing gown and slippers appeared at the door. One of them appeared to show her some sort of credentials, and she opened the door wider to allow them access. Suddenly, the one with the credentials grabbed the woman, clasping a hand over her mouth and dragging her inside, followed by the two colleagues.
Muffled screams ensued, the short, sharp crack of what may have been a gunshot, then, silence.
A few minutes later, they exited number twenty two, carrying something between them in a large mesh sack. The driver and passenger20left their positions in order to help the others place the sack in the trunk. They entered the Volkswagen, and drove away slowly, with the headlights off. Shortly after, the extinguished street light fizzled, and blinked back on.

Agnes Bingham watched the events in confusion, peering through the slats in her Venetian blinds. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, but she was sure that whatever it was wasn’t good. A few minutes prior, she had phoned the police, expecting a quick response, she should have known better.
Agnes glanced at the digital clock on her old VCR, a quarter to one in the morning. She was having trouble sleeping lately, since Henry had died. A combination of grief and not feeling safe without his bulky form lying next to her as she slept.
Henry had only been fifty eight, five years her junior. And after thirty years of marriage, she had still loved him the day he died as much as she did the day they had met. And now, she longed to be with him, to the point where she had actually considered an overdose of sleeping pills, enough to ensure an eternal sleep. The hole left by Henry's passing could never be filled.
Agnes checked the time again. More than ten minutes had passed since she had called the police. She shook her head in despair. The events that had gone on over at the Matheson's, had clearly finished.
Agnes snatched her night robe from the hook on the bedroom door and donned her slippers. The Matheson's were good people, a nice family, and she wasn’t about to leave them in the lurch after a possibly traumatic experience. It was her Christian duty to help Alice, Stan, and young David in their hour of need. And she would not be deterred by the authorities' obvious lack of interest.
She marched out of her house as quickly as her stumpy legs would carry her, slamming the door shut but not locking it. Making a beeline for the Matheson house, she passed beneath the lamppost opposite her abode, the stark glare almost blinding her. Was it brighter than before, or just her imagination?
A dim light flickered behind the closed laced blinds of number twenty two. Were Stan and Alice watching TV? What would she say if she reached the door only to find everything fine? Apologize and go home? No, she was sure something was awry. She had seen that man putting his hand over Alice's mouth, she had distinctly heard screams.
As she approached the front door, Agnes realized it was slightly ajar. Shifting her bulk, she craned her neck round the edge. "Stan, Alice." she whispered at first, then louder, "David, Alice? Is there anybody in?
Receiving no reply, Agnes crept down the darkened hallway, tentatively listening for any sound.
Near the entrance of the large sitting room, she slipped on a slick patch of something on the laminate floor, gasping for air, a

"I'm not boasting or anything." the big guy boasted, "But I'm a big guy.". He reeked of alcohol, exuding form every pore in his rank body. His pungent breath was nothing short of sickening. Standing far too close for my liking, he invaded my personal space, blasting me with his drip-tray-breath philosophy.
I had been listening to this bullshit for a full half hour now, and all I knew about this supercillious fucker thus far, that he was an asshole.
He continued his plethora of violent anecdotes. A mindless inventory of how many people he had, 'knocked out', who he had injured and how.
Really, I could tell that this idiot, flippant though he appeared, was fishing for my acceptance, my envy and possibly even my friendship. He would never have it.