Undeath

As I opened my eyes for the first time in my undeath, I felt the stirrings of hunger. I suppose I should use a different word, for it wasn't like any hunger a mortal could know. It was a needing �" a compulsory demand for something to fill my body, something that no longer flowed through my veins; blood. Fresh blood. The fresher, the better. So fresh that I would gladly rip out throats to be able to sate the urge that made my body shake and shiver.

I was bloated in my death, as bodies are apt to do once the spirit has left them. The coffin I laid in stank of rot. My eyes were sunken in on their way to decomposition, and my fingernails and toenails had grown long and yellowed. My hair, too, was long and dry and stringy, brushed back and gelled from what I assumed was my viewing.

The dank smell of the dead was overwhelming. My scent had not gone in my death. In fact, I could smell everything around me; the wet smell of the surrounding earth, the resin from the wood of my coffin, even the faint odor of fecal matter that hadn't been properly eliminated.

And the sound, oh the sound. I could hear muffled voices above me, a car horn in the distance, the movement of meal worms and ants that had penetrated the coffin to feast on my remains. I felt their skittering legs and fat bodies trekking across my eyelids, my legs, my stomach, my tongue.

All my senses were amplified in my death, so much so that it took me several days lying in the damp darkness to fully comprehend what I was feeling, what I was smelling, what I was hearing. On the fourth day I pried my dried tongue from the roof of my mouth and tried speaking, My voice was hollow and raspy without the benefit of saliva, sounding like sand blowing against the side of a house. I lifted a bloated hand and pushed on the coffin's cover.

Gods, I was strong. Stronger than I had ever been in life, even when I was a strapping young lad. Even against the packed earth I was able to lift away the cover, allowing clumps of dirt to fall like what felt like boulders against my face. I was claustrophobic when I was living, but not any longer. I dug and drove my way upwards, feeling the dirt, grainy and wet, push up under my fingernails. When I could hear the sound of life close above me, I stopped and waited. Waiting was easy; I needed no breath, and I could occupy myself with listening to the goings on of the living above me.

When the noise had died down and I was confident that night had fallen, I continued up, eagerly grabbing and pulling at handfuls of dirt and rocks and roots until my fist broke the surface. The air tickled my skin. I felt... new. Like a babe must feel when leaving it's comforting womb, feeling the world around it for the first time. I licked my dirt-caked lips, reveling in the strong taste of grime. I smelled the death that permeated the air around me in the graveyard, but I also could smell human on the breaths of wind that blew by.

That is when the hunt began.

I smelled the pulsing blood like a hound does a fox. The nightlife of the town -what town again?- was booming. The graveyard sat in the darkness surrounded by water, but on the horizon, humans bustled through the streets, coming and going, unaware of the presence that watched them hungrily. New York. It had finally come to me after several minutes of thought. The town was not a town at all. It was a city, a grand one at that. I couldn't remember exactly why I was here, nor what I was when I was human. My memory was a gray fog of nothing, and only he remained...

He never said his name, nor where he had come from, nor if he was, in fact, a he. He said nothing at all. He was a feeling. He was the hunger that had crippled me upon waking. He was a presence that laughed at me when I tried to remember the other life. I don't remember when he entered �" just that he was already there when I awoke.

My body shivered violently. I needed to eat soon. To feed. The hunger was reaching a crescendo, and I couldn't be without a feast when it hit the final note. I splashed into the shallows, eying myself in the reflection that greeted me. I was a mess; the bloating had gone down, but my body was gray and my eyes clouded in death. Dirt clumps hung from my mussed hair, and my smile was coated in half-dead ants and beetles. My hands were curled forward into claws, and I grimly thought of the old monster stories I was told as a child. The presence in me flared in anger at the conjured memory.

I slapped at the image in my own anger, scattering the reflection into droplets. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. Dead is dead, there isn't any returning. The spirit leaves and all that's left is a husk. Maybe that's all I was now. A husk with a demon inside.

I began to swim, but my body sank as sure as a rock. No air filled my lungs, and the presence inside me felt... heavy, that's the only way I could describe it. As if it's anger and hunger were physically weighing me down. I walked across the sea floor easily, marveling at the phenomenon that was myself. It was dark and cold, but I didn't feel cold. I felt numb, like leaving my hand in a bowl of ice for too long.

The moon was high when I made it to the opposite shore, wet and disheveled. As luck would have it, the shore lead into a darkened park. I shuffled to the nearest bush, huffing for breath but not needing to. Not breathing was hard to get used to.

The hunger was a pain now, deep in my abdomen. I surveyed the park with eyes that could see as if it were daylight, and my prey was targeted. He was an old man, a bum sleeping on a park bench with newspapers covering his sleeping form. He was turned to his side and snoring loudly. The sound was an uproar in my ears. I shuffled clumsily toward the bench, hands reaching forward to clamp eagerly around the bum's throat. My fingernails drew pinpoints of blood, and I almost couldn't finish the job, anxious I was to fill my belly.

The old man's scream died in his throat, and I squeezed so tightly -forgetting my own strength- that his windpipe crushed and his neck snapped. I gave the dead eyes a sheepish grin before impatiently slashing at the throat with both fingernails and teeth. The blood was... how do I describe it? It was old and tasted rusty instead of fresh and full of iron. I tasted a sickness I couldn't place, and it caused me to look away and dry heave onto the grass. The demon would not let me retch up the blood, no matter how hard I tried. The hunger would not allow blood to go wasted.

I closed myself off to the frenzy. It sickened me to finish, to rip open the hanging skin of the old man's throat further and to suck the sickness from the man's veins. I couldn't deny the warmth that filled my belly afterwards when the bum was nothing more than a husk. The hunger that followed my every step backed away and even if it wasn't gone completely, it was no longer driving me into a heated, frantic killing machine.

Stalking off into the bushes, I collapsed and slept.

I was a different person when I awoke. I felt vibrant and almost alive again. The hunger was gone, sated from a night of drinking, but I knew it would return. And soon. I needed younger blood to survive the hunger for longer. The presence inside me wasn't as strong when I wasn't hungering, and I felt... good. I felt... human. At least, what I thought was human. Was I even human in my past life? Was I something, a dog or cat, perhaps, that was reincarnated into this sad, empty shell of a thing?

I shrugged stiff shoulders and stood, stretching muscles that didn't need to be stretched, again out of habit and not necessity. The park was relatively empty today, and I spotted an outdoor bathroom structure at the far end of it. Looking dead, I didn't think I'd have much of a chance making it to the safety of the bathroom, but, fortunately, the couple of people I passed didn't seem to give me a second glance. While passing the cracked and graffitied mirror, I glimpsed myself and realized why I wasn't given more than a fleeting look.

I was handsome. No longer was I a distended wreck. My eyes had regained their green hue, and my hair, though still mussed, looked healthy and devil-may-care. My cheekbones looked higher and my teeth straighter and pearly white which gave me a sort of charismatic charm that I didn't remember having in the other life. I sighed and entered a stall, slamming my back against the closed door.

What was I supposed to do now? I didn't know what I was, let alone who I was and what had happened to me. I glanced down at my garb; dress pants, dress shoes, a wrinkled, stained white shirt and a black overcoat. I thrust my hands in frustration deep into the pockets of the overcoat and was surprised when I felt something there. I pulled out a still-damp business card. The ink was running, but I was still able to make out the name and address:

Redden's Funeral Home Inc.

325 West 14^th Street, New York

Smiling for the first time since my death, I walked out of the bathroom with a spring in my step. Thankfully, I remembered about taxi cabs. I hailed one and jumped into the back seat.

“325 West 14^th Street,” I told the driver, awed at how melodious and pleasing my voice sounded.

I covered my ears as we pulled into traffic, the cacophony of horns and tire screeches proving too much for my sensitive hearing. My stomach growled. I was already getting hungry again, my belly knotting in anticipation.

The cab stopped. The driver looked at me expectantly in the rear view mirror, tapping the device at his side that read: $12.45. I was happy to admit some remorse as I jumped out of the cab and ran, happy that I hadn't shed all of the human emotions that linked me to being a civilized person. I scratched my hand absently as I ducked into a narrow alley, the smell of vomit and stale beer assaulting my nose. When I was sure I was safe -what was I expecting, the driver to leave his car?- I stepped out into the light again.

The sun. Of course. If I had turned into a monster, this was obviously going to happen. So many vampire movies watched as a kid... all came back to me as I stepped out into the light and began scratching any part of my body that was not being covered by my burial suit. The skin burned. Not a terrible burn, but a slow one �" like I had stayed too long in the sun during a beach trip. My skin itched as well, and I was horrified to look down and see that my nails had scored deep gashes into my wrists. I eyed the marks, cursing under my breath as I saw blood well up towards the surface of the scratches.

I ducked into the nearest building, using the cuff of my jacket to wipe away the blood. An old man greeted me with a smile, his hands outward in welcome.

“Hello there. Can I help you, sir?”

“I'm looking for Redden's Funeral Home,” I said. I caught a glimpse of his heartbeat throbbing in his neck, but glanced away quickly to stop the hunger that threatened to consume me again.

“You are standing in it. What can I do for you today?”

I shifted uncomfortably as a long pause stopped our dialogue. I hadn't thought this far ahead, and I wondered what I could say to not make the funeral director suspicious.

“I'm looking for the name of a man buried recently. Do you have records that I may look through?”

“Of course, of course. Right this way.”

The well dressed man lead me to a parlor room and then to a wide, oak desk.

“We don't keep records on paper anymore. It's all digital now,” he informed me, “So I'll have to read off who we have buried recently. I'm sorry for the inconvenience.”

“None at all,” I assured him. I sat down in the complimentary chair, closed my eyes, and steepled my fingers in front of my lips in thought as I waited for the names. There were perhaps twenty names altogether, however one struck so heavily on my ears that I almost toppled over, chair and all.

“Baker. Charlie Baker. How did he die?”

“I'm afraid I don't have that information, but I can tell you he is buried on Hart Island. Normally that cemetery is reserved for unclaimed bodies and stillborns, but it looks like his family requested he be buried there. Are you a family member?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, “I am him brother.”

“Ah, I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Baker.”

“Thank you. I've been away for quite some time, do you perhaps have an address so that I may visit my sister in law and offer my condolences?”

“Indeed. Looks like the address is 457 Rivington Street, here in New York. It's not far �" you should be able to walk it.”

I nodded, thanked the man, and showed myself out. My skin began to burn again, that nagging itch like the one I'd had when I was nine and had the chickenpox. I tried to ignore it as I ran to find cover under a tree next to the street. The shade helped, but didn't completely remedy the incessant itch.

This area of the neighborhood felt so familiar now... The trees lining the avenue, the skid-marked sidewalk, even the pothole in the center of the street. The feeling moved me. The demon awoke, and told my body which way to move. It gave me glimpses of memory; turn here, walk down the sidewalk there, take this street... Eventually, I came upon Rivington Street. The creature inside me felt triumphant, which left me feeling more than a bit unsettled.

457... 457. 455... 456... Ah-ha, 457. The memories were strong now. The sidewalk led to a little gated courtyard, which I carefully entered. The smell of flowers and being so close to the ferns and shrubs that decorated the courtyard sent shivers up my spine, and the demon drew back momentarily in revulsion.

What now? My 'family' thought I was dead. They would never open their door to me without shrieks of horror and a call to the police.

But then it dawned on me; I looked different. Subtle differences, yes, but just enough to...

I knocked on the door hard and fast �" I needed to get in, to see who it was that my memory so missed and longed for. I felt a knot of anxiousness begin in my throat and swallowed dryly.

The woman who answered the door was fair and full of freckles. Her nose was tilted upward at the very tip, giving her a very pixie look. Her red hair helped the image; cropped short, it should have been man-ish, but it fit her perfectly. She was lean and almost delicate, giving off the impression that she needed to be protected. I would protect her, I realized, I wanted to keep her safe from anything, be it living or... well, me. This was a mistake. There was nothing happy for me here. The hunger was too powerful, and I couldn't bear for it to set its sights on my wife, who stood with her mouth open, staring at me.

“Who... who are you?” she asked in a stammer.

“I'm Jacob; Robert's brother.”

She looked suspicious, closing the door a bit more and peeking behind it.

“Robert never mentioned having a brother...”

I saw it then, in the face. I saw her recognize how close we looked, and she knew I couldn't be lying. Her face broke into a smile then. A genuine one. God, she was beautiful, her lips curled up in that elven visage of hers.

I stood outside the door, feeling odd... feeling that I wasn't allowed to enter, by some arcane law. Feeling that I would bleed out of every pore in my body until I was nothing. It frightened me, and even more, it frightened the beast inside of me. It gnashed and roiled, and I felt it wanting to claw away from the door.

I fought it, nodding past Rebecca -yes, that was her name, my dear Rebecca �" toward the living room. “May I come in?”

“I'm sorry. As I said, Robert never mentioned a brother in all the years I'd known him. Yes, yes... please come in.”

The demon quieted and went still.

“I was estranged from the family, I'm afraid. Some old argument �" meaningless now. Especially now.” I bowed my head grimly. My voice was small and whispered, “I can't believe he's gone.” I marveled at how well my acting was as I walked through the threshold.

I breathed a sigh of relied as the burning itch subsided.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please. I'm sorry to impose, but I don't have a place to stay while I'm here in New York. Do you perhaps have a spare bedroom? It'd just be for the night. I wanted to come to his home... to remember him.”

That look of suspicion again. Damn, perhaps I was too concerned over a brother I hadn't seen for decades.

“We were close as children,” I quickly added. Rebecca nodded and motioned to the couch. She vanished behind a wall, and I heard the clinking of coffee mugs.

“Mommy!” came a soft, lilting child's voice. There was a stamping of tiny feet on the stairs just behind the couch, and a red-haired little girl jumped out of the stairwell to stare at me.

“I heard the door... she said, voice trailing off and becoming softer. The carefree smile that had covered her face when she had thundered down the stairs was now gone, and she eyed me distrustfully.

The beast flared as soon as I laid eyes on her.

“Who are you?” she finally asked, bold as can be. She placed both hands on her hips, brazen.

“I'm your father's brother.”

“Nuh-uh. He didn't have a brother.”

“It's a long story.”

I could tell she wanted to doubt �" to throw it in my face that I was lying. But I looked so similar, almost exactly like her late father, if not a little handsomer.

She shrugged her shoulders and stomped out, red pig-tails bouncing along with her.

I did my part. I acted grief-stricken. I retold tales of Robert and I when we were young. Even the embarrassing ones that made Rebecca laugh through her tears. As the night ended, my daughter �" sweet, sweet Charlotte �" was fast asleep in her mother's lap.

“We'd better hit the hay,” she whispered, yawning.

I nodded, gratefully accepted a stack of blankets and sheets, and retired for the night. Except... I didn't sleep. I couldn't sleep. I didn't need sleep anymore. I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling with my fingers knotted behind my head.

I was hungry. I could sneak out, feed, and be back by morning �" before Rebecca would even notice. After I fed, I'd have a clearer mind to know what to do about the next day.

I opened the door and stepped into the dim hall; the moonlight shone in from a screened window down the hall. There was a noise. A thump against the wall that made me freeze.

“Ow..” came the sleepy, but irritated voice of my daughter. She had stumbled out of her room, probably to head for the bathroom. She hadn't seen me, but it was too late �" I had seen her. The hunger came with a fury that I had not known yet. It was like, I realized in horror, the demon had been subdued the entire time of my undeath, and now he was awake. Awake and hungry. I couldn't stop. I swallowed a cry of outrage as I rushed forward, inhumanly fast, to slap a hand over her mouth before a scream could escape.

“Shh,” I sobbed, trying with all of my mental might to back away �" to run and leave my daughter and family behind, to save them from the other me.

It wouldn't let me. All I was able to do was pause craning my neck for a moment. A small moment when I fooled myself into thinking I could beat this... this thing.

The beast mentally knocked me away, and with a final push he tore at the exposed neck like a hungry wolf. Charlotte was screaming under my hand, and my body sobbed dry tears as I drank and drank, feeling her lifeblood flow into me and out of her. The demon laughed at me in his triumph. Laughed at me as my self huddled in the corner of my mind, broken.

And then it was over. I felt the desire, the pure need. I knew what was happening before it happened. The creature was done with me. I was nothing now; a used up host that wasn't as young as the prey in front of it. I gave a muted cry one last time before I felt the presence leave me for it's new keeper, and then I quietly met the real death.

Reviews

[jbcleere]

Nice job, good descriptive writing!