Mother's Revenge

When she picked it out, he had no idea how it had gotten there. It was a rustic red color, with pearl reflective windows and chrome rims that looked like they had been polished with a green fungus. It had a price written on it in large bubbly numbers—$500. When she asked for a drive, the man scoured his pockets and told her he didn’t have the keys—that the car wasn’t his. But the girl was determined—it called to her. She walked to it and tried the handle, and to her prevail the door opened with a long, croaky whine. The man looked unwell, but as the girl got in he edged a bit closer. She found a key under the mat and pulled it free—how rusty it was, she thought. He gathered himself by the open door and peered inside with hesitation. The car smelled old, like musty leather and something floral, slightly earthy. The carvings in the wooden dash were reminiscent of roses with a gothic aesthetic, and as he delved his head further inside he suddenly caught the faint metallic tang of blood. She raised the key, almost getting it to the ignition, but before she could the engine turned over and started. A plume of dark smoke coughed from the exhaust and the body rattled, as if it hadn’t been started for years. The radio switched on, playing a haunting melody of classical music. The windshield wipers screeched across the glass in groaning laughter. And although it was daylight, the headlights could be heard flickering off and on in short snaps. The man looked at the girl, who was fully complacent, and found himself befuddled as she sat there grinning. 

“I’ll take it.” she said. 

She coasted to a stop in front of her family home where her father stood waiting. He signaled her to the garage and she parked it there. The drive home had been eerie, the fog settling low, encasing the roads in a thick dark haze. But the car was no trouble, seemingly enhanced with the ability to navigate through it with ease. It moved silently, as if it were gliding inches above the ground. The gadgets inside didn’t work properly—the radio spit out songs at random without the twist of a knob or press of a button; the vents pumped stale-cold air throughout the cabin with no way to warm it; and the window cranks held stiff without budging. The car was its own entity, she could feel it—soulless, yet living. 

The father and daughter inspected the car thoroughly. They checked along the rust-covered bumpers and doors, examined the undercarriage closely, and popped the hood to analyze its insides. But there was nothing. Her father crouched with a dampened rag and began scrubbing at the slimy green film among the chrome hubcaps. And when he finished he backed away and stood by his daughter. The two of them exchanged glances—the emblem staring back at them the silhouette of a bat. 

After dinner she gathered her things, which all fit within the confines of her jacket—the pockets riddled with all she’d need to survive. The goal was to be prepared by midnight, but at half past eleven the car could be heard grumbling to life in the garage. The girl walked to the kitchen where her father was washing dishes. He paused and listened with his daughter as they made out the rich orchestral arrangements of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, which conveyed a dark, somber allure. The engine revved in sputtering hiccups and again the wipers squeaked over and back in high-pitched frequencies—and this time the lights remained aglow. He followed her to the car's door, stopping her before she entered, and gave her a hug with his arms encircling her fully. Then she entered the car. In the man’s hand was a picture of her mother, his wife, for whom he’d known since childhood. And he gave it to his daughter as the door creaked shut, with dwelling tears in his eyes. 

The car reversed down the drive slowly, quietly, and the girl mouthed, “I love you,” to her father. Then he watched as the car faded down the lane amongst the black pine. 

The fog had come back worse than before, swallowing the car in a dense, gray blanket. Distant objects faded to vague shapes and shadows, and streetlights seemed to disappear from existence entirely. The wide expanse of dark pine narrowed around her as the car hummed anciently down unnamed road. The car vents piped frigid air, to the point where the girl could see her warm exhales turn cloudy. But she wasn’t nervous. Instead, she thought of her mother, who had been taken from her as a child. She felt for her pocket and produced the photo, and she stared at it for a moment. Then she thought of her father—how hard it must have been to raise a child without a mother, for he never remarried. 

These thoughts ceased as the car rolled to the beginnings of an old wooden bridge, and beyond it a large silhouette castle poking through the landscape high above the horizon. The old wood creaked as the car shifted over uneven planks and the wind whistled as it passed through the gaps. The girl inched closer to the window and pondered below at a large ravine of flowing water—the car suspended dangerously high above it. Then the trees came back and the car continued on through narrow patches of rocky terrain—now visible with the aid of bright moonlight. The car stopped, dying immediately, and the girl’s door opened. The hinges cried out against the silence of the mangled tree line. She got out slowly. She set her eyes on a towering stone wall with crawling ivy and patches of overgrown moss. And as she looked up noticed the sharp, jagged spires reaching skyward, while the arched windows glimmered like watchful eyes. 

Just then the heavy wooden door cracked open and held an orangey glow against the darkness. 

“Welcome, my dear guest,” a voice said smoothly, “Do come in.”  

The girl was met by a tall man with a bleach-white complexion, wearing a jet black suit and polished black shoes. His shadow towered high among the cold stone walls as the wood cracked and flickered gently in the fireplace. The girl inched her way forward, keeping her distance, but standing upright with no fear. She looked around. Darkness lurked from every corner, and the grand hall where they stood was complete with a long wooden table fit with a draped cloth and three-armed candelabras—five of them. The dining table was large enough for twenty and every chair seemed to be slanted or misplaced, as if they had just been used. The frames hanging along the walls were dusty, but depicted battles and myths from long before her time. Cobwebs caked the overhanging chandelier in thick silken threads and a draft could be felt throughout—the same eerie coldness as the vents of the car. 

“My dear child,” said the man, “Do sit down. Make yourself…comfortable.” 

But the girl remained standing, staring at the man with fierce blue eyes and said something—something the man didn’t expect. 

“I’m going to kill you,” she said calmly.

The man paused and stood up straighter, this time peering at the girl with greater intensity. He sensed bravery, her heartbeat thumping steadily, and then the jagged silver spike slid down her sleeve into her hand. He hissed mildly, the fire gleaming in his red eyes—his canines extending to a sharp point. The girl produced a faint grin. Then the man relaxed, and ran a hand through his oily black hair like a rake—he, too, grinned. 

“I admire your courage, young lady, but you are mistaken if you think you can kill me,” he said. 

“You see, I have already feasted and am really quite satisfied.”

He took a beat and then stepped backward, turning himself to the stark opening of a chamber. He raised a hand and snapped two long fingers, which echoed sharply in the girl’s ears. 

“But my children,” he continued, “have been famished for weeks. And what better to feed them than the courageous blood of such an erroneous child.” 

The girl stood without flinching, yet the cold, slapping footsteps could be heard coming from the chamber in groves—the patter growing nearer and nearer. 

The man raised his arm with his palm flat ahead, halting the cluster of scurrying footsteps, and stared hauntingly at the girl with his wide-set eyes. He took a long inhale through his nose, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, then popping open with a devilish gaze. 

“Yes,” he said faintly, “I’ve smelled your type before, how...familiar it is.” 

She became nervous. And just as she was about to charge, the man yelled out a name. 

“Oh, Mistress Sarah…” he said smoothly, “Come. Here.” 

He snapped his fingers again—the sound corkscrewed about the room. Then came the sound of faint, singular footsteps. 

A woman entered with pale, veiny skin and sunken eyes—glowing red with uncontrollable hunger. A gown hung from her skeleton-thin shoulders as if the weight were too much and the skirt-bottom cascaded to the floor in a ruffled heap of fabric—dirty and tattered. She looked about the room in panicked swivels, sniffing and hissing at the smell of the girl—who stared at the woman with profound bewilderment. 

“Mom?” the young girl mumbled, tears bubbling in her eyes with short breaths to follow. 

“Mom, is—is that you?” she said pleadingly, hoping the pale woman would identify her voice. 

Small sobs streamed down the girl’s cheeks and were cooled by the icy, lifeless air. Then she felt anger once more. 

“You see,” the man said, “She is not your mother anymore, my dear child. So please, do not test me. Do what you are told and join us, for a mother is not whole without her daughter.”

The girl gripped the spike tighter, her knuckles white with rage. And with one single motion took a drop step and cocked her arm. She ran at the man with a piercing scream, unleashing all the hurt and sorrow that had welled up so deeply over the years. But before she could plunge the spike, the pale woman cast herself fully, trampling her daughter to the carpet—pinning her arms and hissing furiously in her face. The girl tilted her head as her mother’s spit leaked grotesquely over her cheeks and neck. Her overgrown claws sank themselves into her wrists like tiny knives, and her vampire mother licked her lips euphorically as her daughter’s blood dribbled down her fingers. The man walked over gracefully and hovered above the commotion, looking directly into the girl’s eyes and began speaking in a tongue unknown by the living. But the girl paid no mind. She cried out to her mother in whimpering spurts, with frantic desperation in her lungs. 

“It’s me, Emily!” the girl screamed, “IT'S ME, EMILY!”

And she cried harder, louder. 

The woman stared back blankly, the shouts piercing her ears like petrified whistles. She looked at the girl, straight in her eyes, and stopped fussing. 

“Feast, my Mistress,” the man said hypnotically, “Feast on the blood of your daughter, for I bring her to you as sacrif—“ 

But before the man finished, a deep hollow thud was followed with a sound of ripping flesh. It happened quickly—so quickly the girl had no thoughts or ideas as to what happened. The man clutched at his chest tightly in seizure-like motions with her mother twisted upright above her. He stumbled back, hissing violently, swinging his serrated claws swiftly at the woman’s head. She bypassed his attacks and plunged the spike further into the man’s chest, twisting it as it sank deeper. He spit venom, and his hands turned black and flaky as he tried to remove the spike from his heart. His eyes changed from red to the solemn color of amber as his hands and feet began eroding to ash—followed by the man’s arms and legs, then finally his body. The last image of the man’s face was one of fear, before it drifted away as powder. The silver spike dropped to the ground with a sharp ring as the man’s ashes were swallowed by the enormity of his castle. 

The pale woman dismounted her daughter, her hand black from delivering the fatal spike, and she stepped away. The girl got to her feet, her eyes still streaming with tears, unable to produce the words of gratitude and love to the woman who’d birthed her sixteen years prior. But it was her mother that spoke, sounding as she once did, above the tearful sobs of her daughter’s sadness and said, “I love you, sweetheart.” And with that the woman faded to dust, as did the rest.