The Visitor

A family gathering takes a turn

Allen Thomas Slade was a detective for a town called New Vivian. Though he was young, his mind was keen and his attentiveness to his research made him a valued asset to the town. Sometimes his work was tedious and worrisome, he had his family to help put his mind at ease. His Father Amos was a carpenter and a fine one at that. His Mother Celeste was a housewife and the most loving Mother anyone could ever ask for. And of course his Brother Abel, who was his best friend and the only one that Allen ever truly trusted. It just so happens that on this particular day is Abel’s 18th birthday, s o Allen  headed over to his family's home for a celebration. Allen had on his best suit and top hat. Wrapped in fine paper was the gift he had purchased for him, and he was surely proud of himself. Though it was now officially spring, the sun still set early and the night was dark. As he traveled the familiar road, something felt strange to him. He constantly turned his back to see if someone was following. He heard no footsteps yet there was something lurking in the darkness. Finally he arrived at their home and he knocked on the door. His Father was the one to greet him and as Allen expected, he used the same joke as he always does when he visits.

“We’ve done nothing wrong officer!” Amos said with his hands over his head.

Allen smiled fondly and embraced his father.

“Good one! First I have heard of it.”

They shared a laugh as his Mother came and embraced him as well.

“How are you Mother?”

“Oh Allen don’t worry about me, you look as though you haven’t eaten in weeks!”

“No I have eaten Mother, it’s just not the same.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. He then took his hat off and placed it on the finely carved hat stand in the corner. Another fine creation by his Father. Then to Allen’s happiness, his Brother Abel Stepped into the room.

“Who allowed the swine in?” Abel said jokingly.

“Abel don’t speak of your Brother in such a way!”

“No worries Mother! We all know who was rescued from the farm, and it wasn’t I!” Allen responded with a smile. He then walked up to Abel and handed him his gift.

“Thank you very much Allen.”

Allen nodded and took a seat. The family spoke for a while until his Mother returned to the stove and continued on with the meal. 

“How is the detective life Allen?” His Father asked.

“It has its days. Some are better than others.” Allen responded.

“Don’t be coy Allen. Share the news.” Abel said suddenly.

“What news Allen?” Amos spoke curiously.

“It’s nothing.” Allen said, trying to hold back.

“No secrets Allen. Please share with me, son.”

Allen knew he couldn’t keep it a secret for long. Though it wasn’t too much of a big deal. 

“Well… I was promoted to chief detective yesterday.”

“Congratulations dear boy! I am proud of you. Did you hear that Celeste? Our Son is the chief of his agency!”

“My son… Chief? Yes I am so so proud of you!”

Allen felt a great deal of pride in hearing them speak such pleasantries but being the humble person that he was he knew to change the subject.

“We are here to celebrate Abel, not myself!”

“Yes Of course! My two sons have made me the happiest man on the earth!”

“It is for all of us that we celebrate Brother.”

Allen nodded at him and smiled. More time passed and the laughing barely ceased. At last dinner was finished.

“Come to the table boys! Dinner is served!”

“Now Celeste, this is a special day! Let us eat here and be loose!”

“Fine Amos but you’re cleaning up tonight!”

“Sure thing love.”

So she served dinner where they sat. It was of course Abel’s favorite meal. The four continued to speak fondly. They spoke of memories from the past and the new ones that would be made. As the evening passed Allen began to feel uneasy again. He looked to the open windows, curious as if we would see something staring at him. He tried his best to shake it off but alas nothing could. Of course it was Abel who turned the subject into one of dark things.

“What do you think of these rumors of the undead living among us Allen.”

“It’s all folly Abel. Don’t think too much into it.”

“Yes Abel! Please don’t bring such things up. Especially so late.”

“Now Celeste my love, don’t forget… we must always be cautious.”

“Allen doesn’t believe in the unnatural? That is what’s folly.”

“What do you mean cautious, Father?”

At that moment Allen’s Father looked troubled. He pulled a pipe from his side and lit up the tobacco inside. Allen knew that his Father only smoked when his mind raced. What rabbit hole had they opened, he wondered.

“What I mean Allen is that if the righteous walk the earth, then the unrighteous must as well. I believe in these creatures. They walk the night hunting prey and they feast on the blood of the innocent. It is how they survive, though not in daylight. I’m sure there is a reason but I don’t know. Perhaps they find it easier that way.”

“Amos please! You’re frightening them!

“Nonsense! They need to know what is out there. Don’t worry boys, I keep a sharp wooden stake in the cupboard. It’s one of the few ways to kill them. Driving it straight through their wretched hearts.”

“What if they get to you? What happens then?” Abel asked curiously.

“Well if it’s a half-blood…”

“Enough Amos you old fool! Abel please open your gifts! It’s late and I'm sure Allen needs his rest.”

“Haha of course Mother!

As he was about to open his gifts, a loud knock on the door was heard. This of course startled the already uneasy party. Amos then walked over and opened it slowly. Strangely it was Amos’ Brother Peter. 

“Peter? It’s been too long.”

“Not long enough Amos.”

“Please come in. Celeste fetch Peter a drink.”

“WINE! If you have it!”

“Yes. Wine it is.”

He was carrying a large bible in his hand and a rosary in the other. He wore thick clothes on each one which was odd for anyone to see.

“We have much to discuss Amos. You as well Celeste. I’m sick of the dirty looks I receive when telling them my Brother is a…”

“Say it Peter. I am not ashamed.”

“A PROTESTANT!”

“Boys if you would step into the other room for a while. I would appreciate that.”

They both nodded in agreement and walked into Abel’s room. 

“What are your plans now Abel?”

“I wish to go to the University.”

“Excellent! Which?”

They spoke though the words from the other room were loud. They clearly heard the arguments over scriptures and their meanings. Allen, of course well versed in the word, knew that both were wrong in aspects though he was too polite to join in the argument.

“I’m hoping to go to Dwight University near Belladonna.”

“I’ve heard of Dwight but not Belladonna. I'm sure it won’t be important though.” 

“Ha! Yes there or perhaps Old Densmark College. I haven’t decided.”

“How boring. Go to Dwight, I’ve heard the women are exquisite.”

“The only women, a man like you would be interested in is one Father spoke of.”

“The undead? Not me I assure you. But then again if opportunity knocks…”

“You idiot! They would suck your blood dry before you got your socks off!”

“Then I shall keep my socks on!”

The two shared a quick laugh before Allen’s Mother let out a sharp sudden scream. They rushed into the living room and saw Peter on top of Amos on the floor. Allen could clearly see him biting into his neck. Abel tried to intervene but Peter threw him like a ragdoll against the wall. 

Allen then went to his Mother and tried to pull her away. But she didn’t want to leave her husband so she struggled but Peter then lunged and took her to the ground and bit into her neck. Allen froze for a moment when he saw blood trickling down his mouth. He too tried to pull him off but to no avail. Peter threw him as well though he did not crash as harshly. Allen stood up and caught himself before falling again. He remembered what his Father told him about the wooden stake so he quickly searched the cupboard for the tool. It took a few moments but he did find it. It was sharpened finely and Allen ran back to the room. Peter had finished with Celeste and was walking towards Abel who was still lying on the ground. Allen  again froze in fear but he knew what he had to do. As Peter kneeled and went for Abel’s neck, Allen drove the stake into his back. He screeched an awful screech and fell to the ground. He looked at his Mother and Father. Obviously dead or worse. But Abel showed some signs of life. 

“Speak to me Brother! Please speak.”

“I don’t… feel so good.. Allen. I think… I… might be… dying.”

“You’re fine! Don’t let go Abel. You’re going to Dwight University and you're going to… you’re going to… my God! Don’t go Brother! I need you!”

“I see them Allen… They’re coming… for me.”

“No! No! No!”

He let out his last breath and died as Allen cradled his body. Tears of painful sorrow flowed from his eyes. He didn’t move for a very long time until he regained his strength and stood to his feet. To his surprise his Mother and Father were standing. Allen froze and stared at them. 

“What is happening Amos?”

Without saying goodbye they rushed out of the home. Allen stepped outside and looked into the night. Unsure of exactly what had happened. What now he thought.

Reviews

[JayG]

• Allen Thomas Slade was a detective for a town called New Vivian.

Forgive me for being abrupt, but as the author, there are problems which are invisible to the author, but, which are significant enough that were this submitted to an agent or publisher, here is where the rejection would come, with no more read. And since you’ll not address the problem you don’t see as being one, I thought you might want to know.

This line is NOT the opening to a story, as publishers and readers see it. It’s the equivalent of your saying, “Once upon a time...”

1. Who cares what the town’s name is? It’s not real. And given that we don’t know the country, the year, or where in the country it is, the name, alone tells us nothing.
2. Telling the reader he's a detective says nothing meaningful, given that he could be brand new, or a 20 year vet. Bottom of the pecking order or the top. And, what department? In the end, won’t the reader know he’s a detective when he acts like one, and identifies himself as one, or, when someone calls him one?
3. You, someone not in the story or on the scene, are narrating. But, as the narrator, you place emotion into your voice that the reader can’t know to do. As storyteller your performance replaces that of the actors we have on film AND on the page. But...by providing a transcription of you telling the story, you’ve given the reader the role of storyteller, while giving them no clue of HOW to perform it.

• Though he was young, his mind was keen and his attentiveness to his research made him a valued asset to the town

1. I give up what’s “young?” Twenty-five? Thirty-five? To someone who’s sixty, forty seems young.
2. Why do we care how old he is? We can't see him, so dwelling on appearance wastes time. Provide the information that's needed WHEN it's needed, if for no other reason than that readers forget.
3. His mind was “keen?” What in the pluperfect hells does that mean? Brilliant? Exceptional? Decent? The reader has what the words suggest to them, based on THEIR life-experience, NOT your intent. So, instead of you, someone not in the story telling the reader that, make that reader say, "Hmmm... he's pretty sharp." Fiction doesn’t explain, lecture, or inform the reader. History books do that, and who buys them for as fun read?

Your reader expects you to entertain them by making it seem that THEY are living the story, as the protagonist, and, in real-time. As Sol Stein put it: “In sum, if you want to improve your chances of publication, keep your story visible on stage and yourself mum.”

Bottom line: You’re working hard. You have the story, the perseverance, and the desire. The problem is, that like most hopeful writers you’ve forgotten something critical: Fiction Writing is a profession. And like all professions, it has a body of specialized knowledge, tricks, and techniques that are neither optional nor provided in our school-days. Universities offer degree programs in Commercial Fiction Writing because the skills that the pros take for granted are NOT optional. You can acquire those skills via self-study, but to write fiction, even on a hobby level, they're necessary.

It’s not a matter of how well you write, or your talent:

We CANNOT tell the reader a story as we would to an audience because all the reader gets is a storyteller’s script with no clue of HOW to perform it. You, of course, do know how.

We CANNOT use the writing skills we were given in school because we learned only how to write reports, letters, and the other nonfiction applications that employers require.

The solution is simple: Add those missing skills and practice them by doing what you already are, writing. You’ll be amazed at how much more the act of writing feels like living the story when you use them. In fact, at times, it will feel as if the protagonist is whispering warnings and suggestions in your ear.

It can become so real, that once, when I was writing Necessity, and had to kill off a perfectly wonderful character—one I’d come to love— I was devastated, and felt like I’d lost a brother, for three days.

I love when it gets that real!

To help: Grab a copy of Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It’s the book that got me my first yes from a publisher, after wasting years writing novels that got only rejections. Maybe he can do that for you.

https://dokumen.pub/techniques-of-the-selling-writer-0806111917.html

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”
~ E. L. Doctorow

“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain