Brides of Dracul by Newton Webb
A Contemporary Horror Comedy Short Story: When a loutish biker ignores the fine print on a fetish profile, his dream Halloween hookup spirals into a deadly nightmare.
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Horror Story Compilations
Brides of Dracul
By Newton Webb
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Trev hunched over his keyboard, cigarette burning down between two nicotine stained fingers. He scrolled through the profiles on FetLife, nodding along to Helloween’s album Walls of Jericho and drummed ash into an empty Megadeth mug.
He stopped scrolling.
Brides_Of_Dracul_PLS_READ_PROFILE.
The profile picture showed two women, both pale and in corsets. The cleavage was scaled to Kaiju proportions.
“Jesus Christ.”
Epic. Mega. Breasts.
What he saw of the bio was a generic slab of goth nonsense. He scrolled past it to the rest of the photos. The girls had red eyes in every single one. He winced.
Bloody Goths and their filter obsession. I bet they’re into The Cure.
He clicked on the private message icon, cracked his knuckles, and typed.
[Trev_Biker: Hey dudes, saw your profile and thought you looked real cool.]
Grinning, he sat back and took a contented puff on his cigarette.
They were offline, so he waited two songs’ worth just in case, then when his cigarette had burned down to the filter, disconnected. With a grumble, he disappeared into the kitchen to microwave a burger and a box of chips.
Friday, 26 October 2007
Closing the door behind him, Trev pulled off his bike jacket, revealing his crumpled work, white polyester shirt underneath and a tie that probably, at some point in the day, had been straight. Removing his boots, he hung up his equipment and pressed the power button on the sun faded beige PC. It creaked with age, and he went to the fridge to find a beer while it ran through its boot-up sequence.
Logging on to FetLife, Trev found a message waiting for him. He fist-pumped the air when he saw who it was from, causing his beer to froth. He sucked it down before it spilled.
[Brides_Of_Dracul: Did you read and understand our profile?]
He stared at it.
That’s it? Mega lame, man.
And the timestamp was 03:17, on a Friday.
Well, they don’t have a job then.
Noting they were online, he lit a cigarette and typed back.
[Trev_Biker: Yeah man, I said. Really cool profile.]
Puffing on his cigarette, Trev decided to up the ante. He attached a photo of his penis. He was particularly proud of this one. Trev had brought two Polaroids into work one Friday, then waited for everyone to go home so he could use the office photocopier to scan it. He’d deliberately chosen a Friday so he wouldn’t have to wait as long.
Then he’d cut out a picture of his snakeskin cowboy hat and glued it to the Polaroid of his proudly erect member nestled between his lion’s mane of pubic hair.
[Trev_Biker: This is my Fireblade, you are welcome to ride it. Any time ;)]
Then, just in case they didn’t get his double entendre, he attached 29 photos of his motorbike, a Honda Fireblade CBR900RR.
He clicked ‘Send’.
They replied almost immediately. He scowled.
There is no way they looked at all the pictures of my bike in that time.
[Brides_Of_Dracul: Your vehicle is impressive. If you agree, truly agree, with the conditions on our profile, we would like to meet.]
Trev took a deep drink from his beer. [Cool man, let me know where and when.]
[Brides_Of_Dracul: Thursday? On the 31st of October? St Mary’s Church has been consecrated by the order for our use. Old town, Hemel Hempstead. One hour before midnight.]
What the fuck?
[Trev_Biker: Church? Are you kidding me? I’m not going to church, that’s mental.]
[Brides_Of_Dracul: It’ll be just us. Did you read our profile?]
Trev winced.
Church orgy. Mega lame. They better put out.
Thursday, 31 October 2007
The Flame by W.A.S.P boomed through Trev’s speakers as he wet shaved. A few squirts of Hugo Boss followed. He flexed his jaw and posed in front of the mirror, practicing his most aggressive grimace.
Banging.
He still had a few hours until his date. He banged his head as he ran through his wardrobe, looking at his collection of cowboy boots, choosing the crocodile ones, to go with his snakeskin hat. Leather jacket. KISS boxer shorts and a Poison t-shirt. Picking up the landline, he dialled his local taxi firm for a lift.
Trev waited by the road for his taxi with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand.
The driver looked surprised as he clambered into the front passenger seat rather than the rear seat.
“16 Sunshine Drive, please, mate.” Trev turned off the car radio, silencing Amy Winehouse.
There was a drawn-out pause.
Trev turned to the driver, who was watching him. “Quickest route is Adeyfield Road, Windmill Road, Lower Yott.”
“Sure.”
Trev took a swig from the bottle as they moved off. “I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t drink and drive. Got hit by a drunk driver once on my bike.”
“That’s fine. I don’t drink.”
“Don’t drink?” Trev screwed up his eyes. “Why? Are you Muslim?”
“No, I just don’t drink.”
Trev took another swig. “Fair enough.”
They travelled in mutual silence until they arrived outside Owen’s house. Trev passed a tenner to the driver and clambered out. “Look, mate, you’re solid. Can you return in an hour? I have to go to some church thing in the old town.”
“One hour, so ten fiftyish?”
“Yeah, mate. That’s about right.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll see you then.”
Trev closed the door, slapped the car roof, and waved the driver off.
Striding down the carefully curated path, he knocked on the front door.
Mrs Palmer, Owen’s mother, answered. Her hair was in a classic pixie cut. “Trevor, it’s so good to see you looking so healthy.”
“Yeah, thanks, Mrs Palmer. Very nice to see you. Is Owen here?”
She ushered him in. “He’s upstairs listening to his tunes. Here, let me take your jacket.”
“No, no. I’m fine with the jacket, thanks.” Trev shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Very well. Do you want a drink?”
“Ah, a Pepsi would be great, thanks. I’ve got my Jack here.” He raised the bottle.
She tutted. “You’d better be careful with that, Trevor. Strong liquor can send people funny.”
Trev glanced at the stairs, eyeing up his escape. “It’s okay, Mrs Palmer. I’m the legend of the real hardcore. It doesn’t affect me.”
She patted him on the arm. “Well, that’s lovely. You’re a good boy. You’d best go see Owen then. I’ll bring up your fizzy drink in a minute.”
As she turned to walk to the kitchen, Trev made a break for it up the stairs to Owen’s bedroom, easily identified by the sound of Emperor booming through the door.
Opening the door and quickly closing it behind him, Trev shook his head at Owen. “Dude. You have got to move out. You are thirty years old. You are far too old to live with your mother.”
Owen sat in an armchair, strumming his guitar. “Hey, Trev, good to see you too.”
“I mean it, man, this is epic mega not brütal.”
Owen played a swift riff. “Yeah, yeah, man. I’m moving out this year. My new band is really taking off. We’ve got some gigs booked already. Would have moved out last year, but Andy, our drummer, quit and became an accountant.”
Trev sat down on the single bed. It lurched under the weight of the combined leather and man. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Owen called out.
His mother entered with two glasses of Pepsi and a plate of chocolate biscuits. “I’ll just put that on the side.”
“Thank you, Mrs Palmer.” Trev took the glass and a biscuit.
“You boys just call if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Mrs Palmer.” Trev flashed an annoyed look at Owen.
When the door shut, he munched angrily on his biscuit. “This is not the legend of the real hardcore.” He took a swig of Pepsi, refilling it with Jack Daniel’s. “I came here to get an hour of banter in before my orgy not to chill out with your mum.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “I can’t even smoke in here, man.”
Owen looked up, stopping the strings with his hand. “You’re going to an orgy?”
“Yeah, man, at the church.”
“A church orgy?”
“Yeah, they are like foreign goth women or something. But really cool birds.” Trev sipped his drink defensively. “Anyway, you got any blow?”
Owen walked over to the side table and, using a razor blade, racked up two lines of cocaine on a mirror under the supervision of a large poster of Slash. Rolling up a ten-pound note, he snorted the first line, then passed it to Trev.
Pulling his money clip out of his jacket, Trev peeled off a tenner, rolled it up, and snorted the remaining line.
“Heavy metal hardcore!” The two of them flicked the horns at each other and performed an emergency headbang. The moment was undermined when they both helped themselves to a chocolate biscuit.
“So where did you meet the birds?” Owen started racking up another two lines.
“FetLife, mate. Lots of talent on there. Just remember to skip any girl with purple hair. They are always mental.”
Owen nodded at the sage advice, hoovering up a line.
Trev retrieved two skull-shaped shot glasses from the drawer under the side table and poured two shots of Jack Daniel’s. Quickly snorting his line, he raised a glass to Owen. “Jack attack!”
They clinked and downed the whiskey.
Owen put the guitar down as the drinking began in earnest.
“Shit.” Trev glanced at his watch. It was five to eleven. “Gotta go, man. The taxi will be outside.”
“Quick Mandy before you go?”
“Super mega quick.” Trev gestured for Owen to hurry. “Go, go, go.”
Owen rapidly cut up two lines of MDMA. They picked up their respective ten-pound notes and started to snort until the notes touched each other.
“What the hell?” Trev raised his head, glaring at Owen. “Don’t snort my line, that’s like super gay, man.”
“It was my line.” Owen glowered back at Trev. “It was the one closest to me.”
“Yeah, but it was the biggest line, and I’m the guest. Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to go to church.”
Trev barrelled out of Owen’s bedroom, leaving his empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s behind.
“Leaving so soon, Trevor?” Mrs Palmer emerged as he opened the front door.
“Yes, Mrs Palmer.” He waved politely at her as he walked towards the waiting taxi. “Thank you for having me, Mrs Palmer.”
Emerging from the taxi, Trev rubbed his hands together with glee as he strutted down the steps into the churchyard.
“Oh my God, look what the Trev dragged in,” he muttered musically. “Livin’ his life, sin after sin.”
He circled the church, puffing on a pre-orgy cigarette. He could see the lights were on, but none of the doors were open. With a huff, he stubbed out his ciggy and banged on the atrium door.
It was opened by the largest pair of breasts he had ever seen, held together in a vintage whalebone and silk corset. “You are late.”
“Nah, man, it’s about the right time.”
It was at this point that he noticed that the music playing was, as he had feared, The Cure.
Another pair of breasts appeared next to him, wearing a purple and black corset. “Do you come to us pure as promised?”
“Yeah, yeah. Mega pure.” He flipped the horns at her.
The church had a medical bed set up facing the altar.
“That’s not very comfy.” Trev walked towards the bed. “We’re really going to do it on this?”
“It is adequate to our needs.” The breasts seemed to glide rather than walk next to him. “You will divest yourself of all garments. Flesh must taste the air.”
“Bit nippy in the church, isn’t it? I’ll keep the jacket on.” He laboured to remove his boots. One of the ladies assisted him with the second one, pulling it off with a savage tug. “Dude! Careful, those are from America!”
“False, you must be fully exposed.” The girls assisted him in stripping.
“Aren’t you going to strip?” His gaze moved from one pair to another.
“Do our outfits not please you?”
“Yeah, man, they are proper cool.” Trev was now completely naked. “Right, okay, black corset, you get on the bed, then purple—”
“You must lie on the bed.” The woman in the black corset gestured.
Fine.
Trev clambered onto the gurney, which rattled under his weight. “I’m not sure how this is going to work, physically. One of you should—Hey!”
A pair of handcuffs clipped him to the gurney.
He pulled his hand away as the woman in the purple corset clipped it around his other wrist. “Don’t we need safe words?”
The women looked at each other.
“Safe words?” the one in black asked.
“Yeah, dude. I’ve done loads of this BDSM shit.” Trev tugged on his restrained arm. “You have to have a safe word.”
“Do you have a safe word?”
“Yeah, Nelson.” Trev grimaced.
“Nelson?”
“Yeah, I hate Nelson. They’re a joke. I would never, ever say Nelson in conversation.” Trev leaned back, making himself comfortable.
“The admiral offends you?” Purple corset asked.
“The band! Admiral Nelson was a total dude.” Trev held out his other hand to get cuffed.
Fully restrained now, Trev started to tap his fingers on the gurney, trying to block out the sound of Robert Smith’s vocals in The Cure. As the track changed, it flicked onto another Cure song.
Fuuuuuck. It’s a full album. Kill me now.
Annoyed, he looked around to see black corset bringing over an empty blood bag on a rig.
“Kindly remain still.”
“No, no! That’s enough. I absolutely draw the line at blood play.” Trev pulled at the handcuffs. “Don’t make me use the safe word. I really hate that word.”
Black corset stroked his brow. “We require but a small draught and our gratitude will be eternal. You read this, surely, on our profile?”
“Well, yeah, of course I read your profile. I read all of it, mostly.” Trev’s eyes fixated on her chest. “Okay, you can have a little bit. Don’t take loads.”
“We are most pleased by your compliance.” She slid in the valve and started to extract blood through a tube into a blood bag. “Your blood will complete the covenant.” She turned to her partner. “The hour draws close. We must make haste, Cici.”
Cici? Oh, purple corset.
It was then that he noticed Cici had purple hair.
This is not going to end well.
“So should we get on with it then?” Trev was lying prone on the gurney, the cold air gusting across his chest. He noted happily that he was fully erect. He swayed his penis suggestively.
From the other end of the church, he heard chanting. They were out of sight now. Anger coursed through him, and his previously erect penis collapsed into a flaccid sack of flesh. He didn’t recognise the language, but assumed it was Latin. Goth’s love Latin.
Looking at his wrist, he saw the time was four minutes to midnight.
He had been in this church for nearly half an hour and still had not so much as touched a breast. Silently, Trev stewed, waiting for them to stop their gothic faffing and get on with the threesome.
A bestial howl echoed from the bottom of the church.
Those girls can really wail.
He mulled over the thought of introducing them to Owen as guest vocalists when the screaming started.
What now?
Cici ran over to Trev’s gurney. “Something is wrong, the Master, he is not himself.” Tears ran down her face. “He’s murdered Sorina. I don’t understand.”
“He? Is there another dude here?” Trev scowled. “Not cool, purple corset.”
“You are pure? You are sure?” Cici persisted.
“Yeah dude. Pure metal.” Trev did his utmost to flash the horns while still cuffed.
“Oh no… the Master. He has consumed tainted blood.” She curled her hands into fists. “What have you done?”
“What? How is this my fault.”
“We explained in our profile.”
“Yeah, but it was mega long.” Another bellow sounded. The deep noise vibrated in Trev’s stomach. The sound of a beast eating echoed through the eaves. “Look, if he is being a spanner, just uncuff me and I’ll boot him out.” What sounded like the splintering of pews reached his ears.
“You can stop the dark lord?”
“Yeah man, I’ll batter him. Just uncuff me.”
Cici looked sceptically at Trev.
“What? Just bloody uncuff me, before he comes over here.”
Cici glanced behind Trev in horror and then reluctantly uncuffed him. “You will need this.” She gave him a short carved wooden stake and retreated into the chancel. “You are most courageous. You will be remembered by the Order.”
The hell is this? Do they want me to set up a small picket fence?
Trev ignored the stake, rubbed his wrists, and hopped down off the gurney. “Oi mate, hide your shame.” He turned to face the rear of the church and saw a statue of a giant, winged demon.
“Someone ate black corset, that’s—”
He had to look upwards to lock eyes with it. It must have been twelve feet tall. As it stomped forwards, the ancient stone slabs shook under its implacable advance. The rolling coppery scent of the demon hit his nostrils.
It was not a statue.
Shit.
Trev turned to the side and ran, leapt up onto a table, then spun to present his back to the window and exploded through the stained glass, extending both his middle fingers at the dark lord.
“Fuck yo—” He landed on the stone slabs outside, glass shards slicing into his back. “Motherfucker!” In great pain he rolled over and raced up the churchyard steps.
Behind him, the 11th-century church roof exploded as the dark lord flew straight up into the night sky.
Friday, 1 November 2007
“And you’re sticking to that story?”
“Yeah man. Big fucking demon. Why else would I jump through a window?” Trev was handcuffed again, this time not by a chesty woman in a corset, but by PC Anderson, a dour, middle-aged, bald man. He was stuck in an interview room. The hangover was kicking in and he was thirsty, so very thirsty.
The police officer looked up from his notebook. “The problem, Trevor, is that we have multiple witnesses who all have the same story and it doesn’t involve corsets, demons, or consumed women.”
“Yeah, well they are lying. Look, can I get a cuppa tea or something? I’m parched.”
“So, I’ll tell you what we have so far.” PC Anderson levelled his stony gaze at Trev. “There was an explosion at the church, then you were found running naked, with shards of glass in your back, down the old town high street. Upon being arrested you were taken for medical treatment and your blood was found to contain dangerous levels of cocaine, MDMA, and alcohol.” He slapped his notebook down on the table. “So help me here, because if you are lying in your statement, then we will find out the truth and then you will find the law to be very unsympathetic.”
Trev scowled. “Dude. I told you everything. It isn’t my fault that you didn’t find any evidence. How could nobody see a massive demon? This is a cover up.”
PC Anderson stood up in disgust, turning to go.
“And why was I taken to Hatfield Police Station, instead of Hemel?” Trev shouted at PC Anderson’s retreating back. “It’s going to cost a bomb getting a taxi home.”
He growled in frustration.
“And I want my clothes!”
As he was left alone, stewing in his police clothing, he contemplated that he had left one part of the story out. His neck itched under the gauze from the bite.
As he looked down at his hands, he saw his nails lengthen.
Cool, won’t need a plectrum ever again.
His senses deepened. He could hear the heartbeats of the people in the room next to him. With one hand on the table, Trev pulled at the handcuffs. The chain distorted before snapping.
Dude! Awesome.
Trev walked to the door, finding it locked. He lashed out with his foot at the lock. The door exploded outwards. He smirked as he stalked down the corridor. A policeman came out of a doorway and he backhanded him. Something thudded into his back, but failed to slow him down. He booted through another door, entering the reception area. Someone tried to get him in a chokehold from behind. They dangled from his back as he marched inexorably to the main door, pushing it open and walking into the morning sunlight.
Argh man, that’s bright.
Trev’s head pounded as the sunlight sliced into his eyes. The worst hangover he’d ever had hit him like a hammer.
Oh fu—
Then he erupted into flame.
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