Still

PART ONE

The battering of rain on the window hadn’t stopped all night. The intense cold ate through Still’s bones despite the blazing fire on front of him. His thoughts were deep in nothingness, he just sat there looking at the yellow flames summon all their strength, rise up and then die out only to be replaced by another flame. His concentration was pulled towards the old oak door through which he had just entered only an hour ago, he looked at his wrinkled hands, he tried to keep his concentration on the receding lines but he couldn’t forget the night’s events. He looked at the clock on the mantle piece on front of him, twenty past twelve. The pool of blood had stopped gathering round his feet, and the wrinkles on his hands were holding position, no longer receding. It was time he went, went back out into the dark night to find his next victim...

Martin sat in the old rocking chair located in the living room of his restored cottage from the turn of the last century. The small house-in Martin’s opinion-had all the personal features modern designed houses lacked. He loved all the traditional things about the house, the open fire, the teak mantle piece, the old oak front door that was in the main room and not some plain, unwelcoming hall way.

He was after a hard days work and was now relaxing in his dimly lit living room, reading an original copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula which he had acquired earlier that day at considerable expense. His one passion in life was books, he did enjoy reading normal every day books but that was an every day thing. His passion was for originals, he loved the texture of the paper, the old, yet still fresh smell. He had been collecting such manuscripts since his grandfather had given him an original copy of Frankenstein for his 20th birthday. He had gone on to collect various books on various subjects after that but soon found he had enough money to specialise in a single subject and from that day on he only bought Horrors and books on the Occult. He loved the concept of an ancient race of superbeings: Masters, lost continents: Atlantis, Thule and Lemuria and had written several successful publications on the subject himself. But every so often he forgot about the occult and concentrated on the classic horrors. And not just reading them either, he loved studying their history. He wondered who over the years of writing-apparently 19 years in research-Bram Stoker had changed the original name of Dracole, after Vlad the impailer to Dracula. After days of thinking he had concluded that Bram Stoker just thought Dracula was a "cooler" name.

His concentration was broken by a loud thud on the front door, he looked at the clock, eleven twenty who he wondered could be calling at this hour? He slowly walked to the door, "Who’s there?". There was no reply but he did hear heavy breathing from the other side of the oak door, he repeated his question. This time there was a staggered response, as if the speaker had just rum the hundred metre dash, twice, "Help!, Please help me".

Martin opened the door cautiously, outside was a frail, grey hared man no younger than eighty. His head was bowed in exhaustion and his hair long and soaked in the dirty water of the constant rain, but even through this Martin could see a long gash running the length of the mans cheek and gushing blood.