The Vampire's tooth by Laszlo Kugler (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📖

The Vampire's tooth

The Anemic Vampire

 

 

He was a ragged old sort. All bushy and all. Gray whiskers, long as half a yard stick, and salt and pepper hair tied Willy Nelson style running down the back of dusty lumber jack's shirt. I had visions of an old coot with a mule, panning for gold deep in the blue mountains. Yep, he looked like some prospector who just stepped out of a Humphrey Bogart silver screen motion picture.

 

He looked my way. I saw the devil’s gleam in those light gray eyes. I also noticed his glass was about done empty.

 

Not too sure why I rose and went over to sit across the tired wooden table where he sat. As I motioned to the barmaid to send over a couple of brews, he just looked at me in a curious manner...not saying a word.

He nodded a mere thanks when the pleasantly curved maid laid down our tall glasses with beads of condensation trickling down their glassy sides. Sometimes words needn’t be exchanged to show one’s gratitude.

 

As we sat there he noticed that my eye caught a curiosity...something strange...something not quite actual. It was a tooth-like object set in silver, and hanging on a leather string around this oldster’s bare chest, just neath his pronounced Adam’s apple. It looked like a tiger canine tooth; about three or more inches long. Deadly.

 

Without me asking, he volunteered some information.

 

“You might perchance be thinking ‘What is that thing just under his throat?’, and since you’se bought this thirsty old fart a wet one, I’ll tells you the tale of how I got this vampire’s tooth.” His voice was all crackled, not unlike the multitude of track-marks on his weather-beaten mug.

 

I nodded, and sat back, as he continued. I knew this will be some yarn. Everyone knows stories of vampires or werewolves are just plain old myths. Wife's tales to hush little children. Or stories to spin around some August campfire.

 

These old timers sure know how to concoct them tales...tall tales. I had nothing better to do this July summer’s evening than to enjoy a great yarn. Wife’s gone to visit her sister in Yuma, and I got the week-end totally to myself.

 

The air was warm, but the ale they served was ice cold in this out of the way country bar. Outside, I can almost hear the Pacific and smell the salty air.  And to the west, the hushed sounds of the tall trees with their secrets, in the heart of the ancient forest. A friendly house fly came by and lit on this stranger’s shoulder. I reckoned it wanted to listen  in on too.

 

“Well, last Saturday evening, or maybe it was last month, not too sure, ” he started in a slow low pitch, “I just finished a fine meal at Widow Brown’s. She always fancied me, since I told her that my dear Emily died 'bout ten years ago. This was a bold face lie...I was never married; not the marrying sort, but I figured women pitied those who once loved and lost, to those who have never committed. She was a kindly widow who was a great cook...so why should I make things complicated?

 

Once a month Gertrude invited me over for dinner and a few drinks...rum being our favorite. She mixes her, but I love mine neat.”

 

Sam, that was his name, stopped to reminisce and take a long sip of his beer. Then after a satisfying pause he droned on merrily.

 

“Gertie loved to try all kinds of international dishes. She belong or subscribed to a cooking channel or internet site...whatever. She told me it was gonna be Greek that night. Well, not too sure what that entailed, but I knew well 'nough it was gonna be a treat. She never failed me yet. What a darling cook!”

 

For the next ten or fifteen minutes, who was counting. he went on about the different meals he had enjoyed over the last couple of years at her home. That night the food was spiced lamb with garlic mashed potatoes. A side order of something called tzatziki, not sure if the spelling is correct. There was toasted French bread, which was to be dipped in a yogurt sauce that was mixed with finely sliced or grated cucumber, a hint of mild onions, lemon...and laced with deadly minced garlic...lots of it. The way old Sam described it made my mouth water...and my eyes too.

 

"The meal and drinks were so satisfying that I nearly proposed to this lovely lady...I say, nearly.

 

About ten pm I near stumbled out of her place and headed home to my small motel-like pad across town. Not too far, as the crow flies...that is if I take a shortcut through Harold’s Woods...also cruelly nicknamed Dead Man’s Path. The story goes that Harold Barker left his wife and disappeared into the forest near his home and was never seen or heard of again. I believe he just went into a permanent hiding from his woman.”

 

At this point Sam excused himself. He needed to go...as he most visually put it...to go drain the lizard. After some time he returned looking mighty satisfied. I ordered two more cold brews.

 

“So, where was I? Oh yes, the short cut through them woods. Well, I’m no coward. Nor am I a believer in the un-dead and skin transformer. I, with some rum under my belt, proceeded to follow that moonlit path.

 

I believe most fear comes from within and from the unknown...and not based on reality. I heard there are some who drop dead just from fear alone. Yep, fear and stress are mighty grim reapers, or at least his sidekicks.

 

The moon was one quarter shy. So, the other three parts were bright 'nough, as clouds played hide and go seek in the sky between spooked shaking trees. I’ve been through these woods many times afore ...but not during the dark hours.”

 

Old Sam stopped to focus on some distant thought..and to swallow a mouthful of ale. While he did this, I took the opportunity to look around this club. The place wasn’t jumping. And the few clientele, mostly men, were not ragged looking like my new friend here. The jukebox played songs from the eighties. Personally, I preferred classic rock or hard blues, but for a change this was alright...I guess. I was tempted to put some coins into the machine and resurrect Janis, Jimi or Jim Morrison, but I didn’t wish to upset anyone here.

 

Sam wiped his mustache on his sleeve and took off again where he stopped before. “ So there I was soldiering through the pines, when suddenly I heard a noise behind me. Say, tell me why it’s always a noise ‘behind’ and not in front or on the side? Well, my first instinct was to either whistle a happy tune, or run like hell. Instead I turned slowly. I wish I could say it was just the wind snapping some decrepit branch...but no. Was not to be...not this hallowed night.”

 

Sam stopped and stared at me. I motioned with my head and shoulders, as if to say or ask, 'what'? He then quite politely asked if I would care to buy him a double shot of rum. I obliged, and when the curvatious barmaids set down our drinks, he continued as before...low and slow.

 

“As I turned, I saw a fairly tall dark figure some dozen feet from me. Long scraggly raven hair, overcoat down to his knees, and military type of boots. Although his bulk wasn’t threatening, his appearance was. I backed up a bit, but a large tree prevented my retreat. It was like the ancient myth, the Scylla and Charybdis...I was between a rock (tree) and a hard place (this ominous fellow). Let’s see...my first instincts were to reason with him, like introduce myself to him, or get down on my knees and pray, or cry like a baby who needs to be nursed or changed. I did neither of these things. He came closer. Now, when he was a mere six feet from me, I had a better look at his face...no thanks to the moon, which gave him more of a ghostly appearance. He was shorter than me, even in his combat boots. Skinny too. I’m guessing about one hundred pounds or less. Don’t get me wrong, I was still ready to lose composure...if you know what I mean. Those eyes of his were haunting. They sat on a pale face...a face which looked anemic like the rest of him. But those eyes...the whites were whiter than white. His iris were blood red with a faint glow to them. As for the pupils, they were as dark as onyx, and deeper than a blackhole in our  grand and mysterious universe.

 

I was not a believer in vampires, and I wished this was a dream that I wasn't enjoying while snoozing on Gertrude’s living room couch. Let me point out a fact...I, yes, I, Sam Grandville, became a true believer there and then. Yes sir, that I did!”

 

Now Sam had me. Had my total attention. I leaned in to listen more intently. Not wanting to miss a syllable. I told him to continue. He did.

 

“As if that wasn’t frightening enough to make my blood rush to my shoes and put up permenant residency there, he let out a wailing scream. His teeth were as bright as the whites of his eyes. No teeth missing on this dude from hell. In fact, he seemed to sport extra ones which included four as long as a tiger's. Sharp as a fifth grader.

 

He lunged. I put up my best defense, which was to cover my eyes with my hands. I hate to witness a slaughter...specially mine. And I had a terrible allergy to bleeding. OK, yes, I was chicken shit. As I heard his swift approach, I yelled out a huge loud “NO!!!”.

 

After what seemed like eternity, I braved a peek. He wasn’t there. The moon shone down on me with a certain snugness...and obvious pity. All I could see, down the path from where I came, was nothing but a rocky road lined with families of trees. It was a dream...or it seemed, till I took a step forward and tripped over something that resembled a large dark sack. It was our anemic blood sucker! I wasn’t dreaming after all...darn!

What has just happened, I mused?”

 

Now, although this was really intriguing, I was in dire need to visit the 'can’. I made Sam promise to be right here when I get back, and not leave this place. He nodded.

 

I got back real quick. I also noticed that he ordered another couple of shots of rum while I was taking care of business. I honestly didn’t mind.

 

Sam continued, “I scratched my beard, my head and butt, in that order, it helped me to think as I was trying to make sense of it all. Then, like a flash of light, I had me a revelation. And this was it, since this no-good-nick was in bad shape to begin with; being a runt of the litter, and evidently undernourished, he succumbed to the almighty powers of garlic. More precisely, my deadly breath, enhanced by Gertrude’s overbearing garlic dishes...and of course the rum helped too. We are told that vampire shun garlic, so when I shouted into his face, it was my breath that saved my poor old skin. God bless Gertrude and her cooking. I, now, will have to think seriously about proposing to that dear lady. Oh my!

 

As I bent down to get a better view, I saw blood...his blood, thankfully not mine. It seems as he passed out, he knocked himself out cold on a rock. I tried to feel for a pulse, but couldn’t find one. Then I remember that these creatures of the twilight were already deceased...dead...walking dead.

 

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