The Churchyard

“Oh wow... It’s a church....”

I ignore her sarcasm, trying to focus on getting the door open. There’s a question-mark over whether I should be here right now, but I am not sure that I care too much about that. I was invited, so I came. Yes, I was invited to come during the day when the vicar was around and you didn’t need a set of lock-picks to get in, but I wasn’t ready until now.

“Just... we should get inside before someone sees...” I tell her.

“Oh no, you might get caught going to church!”

I swallow a few choice retorts, unsure if swearing in a church is considered blasphemy. My rational mind is an atheist, but I’ve always been a little paranoid in these places in spite of myself. I tell myself that there’s no grumpy bearded man watching my every move, that it’s just as likely to be Odin or Zeus as it is God, but it doesn’t help; childhood visits to Sunday School messed me up in ways that a whole team of psychiatrists will never fix, even if they don’t consider it a normal part of the British psyche.

“Look... I am not planning to stay here, I just need to pick something up.”

The girl rolls her eyes and takes up position by the door. I am not sure if she is keeping watch or just doesn’t want to know what I am up to, but I’m quite happy not to have her hanging around while I search the pews. I start to suspect it’s the latter when she starts to sing tunelessly, almost inviting someone to come and investigate.

I don’t care right now. If I get caught, I get caught. I mean, what will they charge me with?

Actually, I suppose I did just break in and now I am trespassing. Doesn’t the Lord’s Prayer say something about forgiving trespassers? Or was it just the trespassing? Once I find the right pew, I will technically be stealing, but it’s not from the church per se and I was told I could have it...

I need to concentrate. Five rows back, dead-centre of the pew, reach under and... My hands brush against a hard wooden box; that must be it. I carefully twist it and it finally drops into my hand.

The box is heavy, from both the solid workmanship and the contents inside. It also bears the weight of its own importance. This box will have been handed down from hand to hand for centuries if the stories are true. Not that I believe they are, but the case looks old enough.

“Hey, stop praying with yourself!”

I nearly drop the box with shock at the sound of her voice and coarse laughter drifts in from outside as the girl congratulates herself on the joke.

Not wanting to risk a repeat of that heart-stopping moment, I lay the box carefully on the pew and insert a tiny metal key into the lock. I half expect it not to fit, but it does. With a gentle click, tiny springs force the clasp open and I swing back the lid.

Six glass vials sit at one edge, each one sealed with wax and still filled almost to the top with their clear liquid. They are the least valuable of the items within for my purposes, but the workmanship is exquisite. The glass is etched with tiny letters and images, Latin phrases that I cannot decipher.

Above the vials is a long metal cylinder, a gun-barrel which meets the wooden grip of a flint-lock pistol as it crosses the wooden case. The end of the grip tapers to a sharp point, reinforced with silver. I can tell by the way that it has tarnished to black in the years since it was last used.

Finally, the bottom of the case holds one more wax-sealed glass container, this one larger and the sealed to keep the moisture away from the dark powder within, and four tarnished-silver balls. I am not sure that the powder will ignite, any more than I can be sure that the balls will do their job.

“Okay, I’m coming...” I say, loading the weapon.

My hands remember the techniques I have so often rehearsed with the replica my father left me. Powder in the pan the final touch and I c**k the hammer back. I am not sure that it will work, but it is my best chance.

At the door, the girl is waiting, but her eyes turn cruel as she sees the tools of destruction in my hands.

“What kind of vampire are you?” she asks.

I do not know how to answer, so I shoot her instead. The smoke blinds me momentarily, but when it clears, I see the hole in her chest burning with a deep green light. The weapon works as the legend had promised. Next, I test the vial of water, careful not to let it touch my skin. As with the gun, it performs its duty, stripping her flesh like acid where it touches, but trickling harmlessly through the grass beneath her.

I look at the blinded, thrashing creature and feel a moment of pity. The third test is the stake, a coup de gras to end her suffering. Almost as soon the point breaks her skin, the body beneath me falls away. The final part of the legend is confirmed.

“What kind of vampire am I?” I muse.

After tonight, I hope to be the last...

Author's Note

Prompted by an image of a distorted churchyard, I decided to see what came out...

I'm not sure I like it, but I wrote it, so I'll accept responsibility for it.