Dark Moonlighting

by Scott Haworth

This is a work of fiction. All characters in
this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or
dead is purely coincidental.

DARK MOONLIGHTING

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2013 by Scott Haworth

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by Humblenations.com

This book is protected under the copyright
laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other
unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited
without the express written permission of the author.

First edition: February 2013.

For me,

because without you

I never would have been able to write this book

Thank you for your modesty,

your selflessness

and your complete lack of narcissism

Prologue: My End and the Beginning

“Never start a story with dialogue!”

I stand from my cot and cover the short
distance to the other man in three steps. I slide my arms through
two of the gaps in the iron bars, which have been specifically
reinforced for my presence, and lean closer to the man who is
reading this very manuscript. Despite the added security
precautions put in place by his superiors, my captor is not at all
concerned that my hands are now easily within striking distance of
his throat.

“Why not?” I ask.

“It’s one of the few rules I remember from
seventh grade language arts,” Jason Ferraro responds.

“It must have been pretty important for you
to remember it so many years later. Did your teacher explain why
it’s bad to start a story with dialogue?”

“When there’s an angry nun standing over you
with a ruler you learn not to question her expertise,” Jason
answers with a smile. “And don’t use so many exclamation points!
Sister Margaret always said that exclamation points should be used
sparingly!”

I thank Jason for his feedback, and return to
my cot to add the new pointers to my list of grammar rules. I have
no idea if what the fifty-year-old prison guard said was accurate,
but I am thankful for any advice I can get. The powers that be
decided I am not worthy of the same library privileges as the other
inmates at the Ronald Reagan Memorial State Penitentiary. My cell
is bare aside from a cot, an old typewriter, three pens and a stack
of legal pads that I use to scribble my tale. I was a master of
three professions, but I never took the time to study English
composition. If I only had access to a
Chicago Manual of
Style
, I would be far more confident about my writing.
Hopefully a professional will edit this manuscript after I am dead.
I would hate it if the seriousness of my story was diminished by a
bunch of tyops.

You did not pick up this book to read about
my creative insecurities though. To give you some perspective, I am
writing this introduction a mere twelve days before the scheduled
date of my execution. I am mostly done with the book. I have to
write my concluding chapter and, obviously, this introduction. The
only important part I have not started yet is the chapter I have
been avoiding for the last month… the chapter where she dies. I
will have to force myself to write it soon. I have no doubt that my
execution will go forward as planned, despite the lengthy time
inmates usually spend on death row. My quick execution will be the
last in a line of legal oddities surrounding my trial and
conviction. My attorney, Caleb Hass, has been quite adamant that I
should at least try to appeal the verdict. I admit getting stabbed
through the heart with a wooden stake does seem like it would fall
under cruel and unusual punishment, but I have no desire to
lengthen the time until my demise. Hopefully my death will bring
some comfort to the friends and family of the woman I was falsely
convicted of murdering. Since her passing, I have found that my
previously intense desire for self-preservation has been greatly
diminished. In addition to all this, I know Caleb Hass only wants
to appeal in order to further his own career. I will not give that
insufferable prick the satisfaction.

Jason Ferraro is a genuinely nice man. I
enjoy his company even more than his lackluster proofreading
skills. He is finishing up the first chapter, which I suppose will
be the second in the book once I am done with this introduction,
and is eager to offer advice. I am a monster, both metaphorically
and literally. Jason shows me kindness and respect that seem
completely out of place in his profession. He is interested in me
and talkative, but clearly is not impressed with my celebrity
status. I am not sure what he really thinks about guarding such a
unique criminal. I would guess that he finds me no more exciting
than any other convict. Of the 150 cells in this particular wing of
Reagan Memorial, I am the only resident. The unnecessary precaution
gives us plenty of time during the day to talk. Jason usually sits
in front of my cell unless I ask for privacy. His friendship, if
that is even the right word for our relationship, makes my day
almost tolerable.

“Well, my wife’s terrible cooking isn’t going
to eat itself,” Jason says at the end of his shift.

I smile as I stand to take the stack of legal
pads from the prison guard. I always find his use of clichés to be
amusing, although I do not know if he uses them intentionally or if
it is just the way he talks. My pleasure is short lived as I know
his departure means the start of eight hours of torment.

“Nathan,” Jason says with a curt nod in the
direction of his relief.

“Jason,” the new guard acknowledges.

Nathan Smalley stops in front of my cell and
stares at Jason’s back as the latter man’s footsteps echo through
the east wing of the prison. He stands excitedly, his hands tightly
gripping the Styrofoam tray he is holding in front of his chest.
The footsteps are barely audible when Nathan finally turns towards
me.

“I vant to suck your blood!” he yells at me,
doing a terrible imitation of Dracula.

I know he wants me to act like the television
and movie vampires to which he is accustomed. He wants me to get
angry, lunge at the bars of my cell and show him my fangs. Instead
I sit on my cot, stare him down and slowly extend my middle
finger.

Nathan flicks his tongue against the roof of
his mouth a few times and shakes his head. “That’s not very nice at
all. Are we getting lots of good writing done today?” he asks
condescendingly.

“
We
would be having a lot more success
if
we
had access to pencils. You can’t imagine how difficult
it is to make corrections to a book this size without an eraser,” I
respond.

“Oh, cause I’m just some dumb prison guard,
huh? I couldn’t understand the difficulty of creative writing?
Please, you don’t think I could write a book if I sat down and
tried?”

“I don’t think you could
read
a book
if you sat down and tried,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, I don’t think you could
read
a book if you sat down and tried,” I shout back.

It is not usually wise to taunt one’s captor,
but I have grown weary of his bullshit and have no fear of
retribution. What is he going to do? Open my cell door and kick the
crap out of me? I am a friggin’ vampire! He is an idiot, but he is
not
that
stupid. Unfortunately, it has been my experience
over the last few months that men like Nathan are more fitted for
work at Reagan Memorial State Penitentiary than men like Jason. I
was literally a bloodthirsty killer, but even I am not as sadistic
as the average prison guard.

Nathan, obviously exerting great effort,
controls his temper and forces a wicked smile onto his face.
“Either way, I’m afraid the warden is still denying your request
for pencils. You’re on suicide watch after all. The state has big
plans for your execution. We can’t have you stabbing yourself with
a sharpened No. 2. Speaking of which, here’s your dinner.”

Nathan maintains his smile as he bends to the
floor, but he is not cocky enough to take his eyes off of me. He
slides the Styrofoam tray through a small opening in the bars at
the floor of the cell. Without another word, he begins whistling an
irritating song I do not recognize as he starts his patrol. Since I
am the only prisoner, his route consists of walking back and forth
on a ten foot path in front of my cell. It is an incredibly
irritating action, particularly when I am trying to sleep at night.
He was a fat bachelor when he started guarding me three months ago.
Regular eight hour shifts of power walking have allowed him to shed
at least thirty pounds since I met him. It annoys me that the
activity he started to bother me might actually be helping him to
get laid.

A quick glance at the Styrofoam tray tells me
that my “dinner” is the same as it has been every night since
shortly after my arrest. There are two pills dutifully placed in
separate sections of the dinner tray. The first is a small black
pill of ferrous sulfate, which is a form of iron. It is given to me
because the state of Illinois lacks a basic understanding of my
physiology. Iron is one of the primary nutrients needed by
hematophagous Americans, but it is not the only substance we
extract from blood. I am basically starving to death, but I do not
complain as that process takes much longer for a vampire than a
normal human. There will be splinters in my heart before the
starvation issue becomes a big deal. I also refuse to complain
because my appetite is lacking anyway. My captors are much more
familiar with the cause of this symptom, and they are convinced
they know the proper way to treat it.

The second pill on the tray is a little
yellow circle with an “s” printed on the front. I hide these pills
under my mattress as I have no interest in the cure they claim to
provide. Smiletrol™ is one of the newest brands of selective
serotonin reuptake inhibitors, or SSRIs, on the market. In
double-blind clinical trials, Smiletrol™ was fourteen percent more
effective at treating depression than its competitors Friendopax™
and Activepro™. It also had fewer reports of side effects including
nine percent less insomnia, seven percent less fatigue and twelve
percent fewer complaints of delayed ejaculation. A lot of you are
probably wondering how I know so much about Smiletrol™ since
psychiatry was not my field of expertise. Let me just say that I
was… close to someone who knew a lot about the drug. On second
thought, I hate foreshadowing. I ate a pharmaceutical sales
representative.

How can I be so cavalier about murdering
someone? Am I an inhuman monster like the pundits and papers would
have you believe? No. I have made mistakes in the past just like
every other person. But I am more of a victim than, for instance,
that pharmaceutical rep. She chose to be a horrible human being.
Any evil I did was because of the disease ravaging my body. Would
you blame an elderly dementia patient for walking naked through the
hallways? Would you scold someone with Parkinson’s disease for
involuntarily knocking over a lamp? I am by far the most prolific
serial killer in the history of the United States of America. I
hunted and killed in this country for over a century without being
caught. I was draining people of their blood here before the
thirtieth state was admitted to the Union. Police were
investigating the corpses I left behind at the same time they
searched for Abraham Lincoln’s assassin. The prosecutor at my trial
pointed to my years of experience as the reason why I could not be
pinned to all of the murders that everyone assumed I committed. The
perfection of my craft was not the reason I went undetected for so
long. I got away with it because I killed people who deserved to
die. I fed my addiction the most morally responsible way I could. I
made American society better by removing members who were damaging
it.

I am consumed by depression and guilt now
because of the death of the woman I loved. She did not die from my
fangs, but I am responsible for her demise nonetheless. The irony
of being convicted for a murder I did not commit after escaping
justice for the thousands I did is not lost on me. Make no mistake,
I am not quietly sitting back and accepting my punishment because I
secretly weep for those scores of victims. I deserve to die not for
my kills, but for the one who I could not save. I will not waste
time and money appealing within the justice system. God knows I
already wasted plenty of both in my years as a defense attorney. I
deserve to die regardless of what reason is on the record. I have
written this book to clarify some points only for historical
accuracy. I have not cleaned up the events of my life, but rather I
have presented a brutally honest account of my mistakes, murder and
mayhem. I do not apologize for the way I lived my life, and I hope
that sincerity will help to convince you, the reader, that I am
telling the truth. After all, I will be dead by the time you read
this. What would I have to gain by lying?