It was a dark and stormy night.
Well, it had to happen occasionally.
Father Brennan looked out of his window and smiled. It was June – that obstreperous month which English people, in denial of all prior experience, always expected to be dry and calm. And which usually contrived to be anything but.
In fairness, the morning had been sunny and blue-skied, with that cool, hopeful ambiance that so often followed sunrise. The priest, who had been paying attention to the weather forecast, had ridden to the reservoir. There, he had extracted his tartan blanket from his bicycle’s basket, along with a large thermos flask of tea, and settled down to a morning of enthusiastic prayer.
It had been rather lovely. He’d even had time to enjoy a slice of lemon drizzle cake.
By midday, clouds had begun to dim the sky. Not rain, not yet, but the air had lost its earlier clarity and become heavy and muggy. Clouds of tiny, black insects appeared as if from nowhere and were clustering around his head, leaving him with the uncomfortable fear that he might be unwillingly inhaling their tiny bodies.
Father Brennan packed up his things and made for home.
This time of year, of course, the days were long and the nights short, but the storm clouds had darkened the sky early and ensured there was neither moon or starlight. By eleven pm, it was black as velvet across the land at the back of the rectory. There weren’t even streetlights, here. Not that those would bother them.
They had been a nuisance, lately. Father Brennan wasn’t sure if his little experiment would work, but if it didn’t, well, it had only cost him a morning by the reservoir. Hardly a high price to pay.
He pulled a chair over to the window and touched the heavy, silver crucifix he wore around his neck. At that moment, the sky flashed. Not a filmic fork of lightning, rather a simple second of brightness, followed two beats later by a thick rumble that hit deep in his gut.
Heavy drops of rain began to splatter against the windows. The priest sat down in the chair and sipped from his cup of tea. The vampires tended to pass this way on their way out of the crypt. Not every night, but these conditions would, he thought, appeal to their sense of drama.
In the past they’d had a sort of agreement. An armistice, you might say. He didn’t bother them, and they didn’t bother the town. They didn’t really need human blood. They didn’t need much of anything, actually. They were, at the end of it all, immortal.
Well, mostly.
Some of the younger ones had been getting ideas lately, though, and things had become… messy. A strong message needed to be sent.
Lightning flashed again, and this time he saw, just for a second, figures in the darkness. Not moving with their usual lithe, unnatural grace, but rather hunched, contorted – as though in pain. And it was hard to be entirely certain, but… was that steam?
Father Brennan sipped his tea and sat back. Well, well. He really hadn’t been sure. If water evaporates in one place, is the same water likely to fall as rain nearby? And then there were really quite considerable dilution factors to consider. Astonishing, really.
He hummed to himself. It was truly a dark and stormy night, and there was a great deal of very blessed rain.
Author’s notes
It’s the last day of May as I write this, and flaming June looms ahead. Maybe it will not be quite so obstreperous this year. But if it is, perhaps it will at least take out a few vampires as it passes through.
Something caught Ari’s attention as he washed his hands in the en suite bathroom of the Cornish holiday home his parents had rented for the week. The white door to the right, which had definitely been locked, was open.
I usually post a short story at the end of the month but, as the March Hare says, ‘I have an excellent idea! Let’s change the subject!’ (That is to say, I ran out of time.)
The vampire rang my doorbell at the new moon, when the sky was dark save for a scattering of bright points of light. There was the taste of ice in the air, the faint sounds of music and life in the distance, and Mars hovered on the horizon; its orange glow betraying its identity.
I feel a click as my skull comes back together.
I’m not much of an early riser, usually, but today I’m walking in the early morning light. Colours seem a little too vivid, shadows a little too dark, and the air has a crystalline feel – as though it might cut me if I inhale it too quickly.
There is a certain look to which we say, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” We say it when someone has the appearance of a mouse that has escaped the cat – something small and warm that’s managed to evade something much larger, and with much sharper teeth. Shivering and pale. But alive.
Something a little different this month: there’s no story here, but there is one at PseudoPod! Follow the link below to read, or listen to, When I Was Young I Did Not Need Magic written, and narrated, by me. And while you’re there, make sure you also check out Yes, Mother by H.B. Diaz and How to Make Homemade Marshmallows with Grandmother by Taylor Rae. What a fantastic line-up to be a part of!
I looked up from picking my way down the steep, concrete steps that lead from the car park to the back of Basingstoke station, and was amazed to see that, today, the kiosk was there.
Garlic: Friend or Foe?
the fiction phial 