Vampire Breath (3 page)

I’ve got to plug up the bottle, I decided. If I close the bottle, this
disgusting mist will stop spurting up.

I dropped to my knees and my flashlight clattered to the floor. I felt
blindly along the floor till I found the bottle. Then I swept my other hand in a
circle till my fingers curled around the stopper.

Struggling not to gag, I shoved the stopper into the top of the bottle.

I jumped to my feet and held the bottle up so that Cara could see that I
closed it.

She didn’t see me. She had both hands over her face. Her shoulders were
heaving up and down.

As I set the bottle down, I started to gag. I swallowed hard. Again. Again. I
couldn’t get the disgusting taste from my mouth.

The sour fog swirled around us for a few seconds more. Then it lowered itself
to the floor, fading away.

“Cara—?” I finally choked out. “Cara—are you okay?”

She slowly lowered her hands from her face. She blinked several times, then
turned to me. “Yuck,” she murmured. “It was so gross! Why did you grab the
bottle like that? That was all your fault.”

“Huh?” I gasped. “My fault? My fault?”

She nodded. “Yes. If you hadn’t grabbed at the bottle, I never would have
dropped it. And—”

“But
you’re
the one who wanted to open it!” I shrieked. “Remember? You
were pulling off the top!”

“Oh.” She remembered.

She brushed at her sweater and jeans with both hands. She tried to wipe the
awful smell away. “Freddy, let’s get out of here,” she demanded.

“Yeah. Let’s go.” For once we agreed on something.

I followed her to the door. Halfway across the room, I turned back.

Gazed at the coffin.

And gasped.

“Cara—look!” I whispered.

Someone was lying in the coffin.

Cara screamed. She grabbed my arm and squeezed it so hard, I cried out.

We huddled together in the doorway, staring back into the dark room.

Staring at the pale form in the coffin.

“Are you scared?” Cara whispered.

“Who—me?” I choked out.

I had to show her I wasn’t scared. I took a step toward the coffin. Then
another. She stayed close by my side. The beams of light from our flashlights
darted shakily ahead of us.

My heart started to pound. My mouth suddenly felt dry. It was impossible to
hold the flashlight steady.

“It’s an old man,” I whispered.

“But how did he get there?” Cara whispered back. “He wasn’t there a second
ago.” She squeezed my arm again.

But I didn’t really feel the pain. I was too excited, too amazed, too
confused
to feel anything.

How
did
he get there?

Who
was
he?

“Is he dead?” Cara asked.

I didn’t answer. I crept up to the coffin and shone my light in.

The man was old and completely bald. His skin stretched tight against his
skull, smooth as a lightbulb.

His eyes were shut. His lips were as pale as his skin, drawn tightly
together.

He had tiny, white hands. Thin as bones. They were crossed over his chest.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo. Very old-fashioned-looking. The stiff
collar of his white shirt pressed up against his pale cheeks. His shiny black
shoes were buttoned instead of laced.

“Is he dead?” Cara repeated.

“I guess so,” I choked out. I had never seen a dead person before.

Again, I felt Cara’s hand on my arm. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “Let’s get
out
of here!”

“Okay.”

I wanted to leave. I wanted to get away from there as fast as I could.

But something held me there. Something froze me in place, staring at the
pale, old face. At the old man lying so still, so silent in the purple coffin.

And as I stared, the old man opened his eyes.

Blinked.

And started to sit up.

I gasped and stumbled backward. If I hadn’t hit the wall, I think I would
have fallen over.

The flashlight fell from my hand. It clattered loudly to the floor.

The sound made the old man turn in our direction.

In the trembling beam from Cara’s flashlight, he blinked several times. Then
his tiny pale hands rubbed his eyes, as if rubbing the sleep from them.

He groaned softly. And tried to focus on us, squinting and rubbing his eyes.

My heart pounded so hard I thought it was about to explode through my shirt.
My temples throbbed, and I let out sharp, wheezing breaths.

“I—I—” Cara stammered. I could see her whole body shaking as she stood in
front of me, training the light on the old man in the coffin.

“Where am I?” the old man croaked. He shook his head. He appeared dazed. “Where am I? What am I doing here?” He squinted
in the flashlight beam.

His pale, bald head glowed in the light. Even his eyes were pale, sort of
silvery.

He licked his white lips. His mouth made a dry, smacking sound.

“I’m so thirsty,” he moaned in a hoarse whisper. “I’m so terribly—thirsty.”

He sat up slowly, with a loud groan. As he pulled himself up, I saw that he
wore a cape, a silky, purple cape that matched the purple of the coffin.

He licked his pale lips again. “So thirsty…”

And then he saw Cara and me.

He blinked again. And squinted at us. “Where am I?” he asked, staring hard at
me with those eerie, silver eyes. “What room is this?”

“It’s my house,” I replied. But the words tumbled out in a weak whisper.

“So thirsty…” he murmured again. Groaning and muttering to himself, he
lifted one leg over the coffin, then the other.

He slid out onto the floor. He didn’t make a sound when he landed. He seemed
so light, as if he didn’t weigh anything at all.

A chill of fear froze the back of my neck. I tried to back up. But I was
already pressed against the wall.

I glanced to the open doorway. It seemed a hundred miles away.

The old man licked his dry lips. Still squinting hard, he took a step toward
Cara and me. He smoothed his cape with both hands as he walked.

“Who—are—you?” Cara managed to choke out.

“How did you get here?” I cried, finding my voice. “What are you doing in my
basement? How did you get in that coffin?” The questions burst out of me. “Who
are you?”

He stopped and scratched his bald head. For a moment, he appeared to be
struggling to remember who he was.

Then he replied, “I am Count Nightwing.” He nodded, as if reminding himself.
“Yes. I am Count Nightwing.”

Cara and I both uttered gasps. Then we started talking at the same time.

“How did you get here?”

“What do you want?”

“Are you—are you—a vampire?”

He covered his ears with his hands. He shut his eyes. “The noise…” he
complained. “Please, speak softly. I’ve been asleep for so long.”

“Are you a vampire?” I asked softly.

“Yes. A vampire. Count Nightwing.” He nodded. And opened his eyes. He gazed
at Cara, then at me, as if seeing us for the first time.

“Yessss,” he hissed. He raised his arms and began to move toward us.

“And I’m so thirsty. So very thirsty. I’ve been asleep for so long. And now
I’m thirsty. And I must drink now.”

The count raised his arms and gripped the purple cape. The cape spread out
behind him like wings, and he rose up into the air.

“So thirsty…” he murmured, licking his dry lips. “So thirsty.” His silvery
eyes locked onto Cara, as if trying to hypnotize her and hold her in place.

I was never so frightened in all my life. I admit it.

I don’t scare easily. And neither does Cara.

We’ve watched a hundred vampire movies on TV. We laugh at them. We think the
idea of a guy with fangs who flies around drinking human blood is funny.

We have never been the least bit scared.

But that was movies. This was
real life
!

We had just watched this guy—who called himself Count Nightwing—rise up
from a coffin. A coffin practically in my basement!

And now, he had his arms spread out and he was floating across the room toward us. Muttering about how thirsty he was.
Narrowing his weird, frightening eyes at Cara’s throat!

So, yes—I admit I was scared. But not too scared to move.

“Hey—!” I gasped and grabbed Cara’s arm. “Come on!” I cried. “Let’s
go
!”

She didn’t budge.

“Cara—come
on
!” I screamed, tugging her.

She stared up at the pale face of the vampire.

She didn’t move. She didn’t blink.

I grabbed her arm with both hands. I tried to drag her away. But she stood
rooted to the floor. As frozen as a statue.

“So thirsty…” the old man croaked. “I must drink now!”

“Cara—snap out of it!” I cried. “Snap out of it! Please!”

I pulled with all my strength—and dragged her to the door.

As we reached the tunnel, Cara blinked and shook her head. Letting out a
startled cry, she tugged her arm free and started to run.

We both burst out of the little room and ran through the curving tunnel. Our
shoes clapped loudly on the hard stone floor. The noise echoed off the walls. It
sounded as if a
thousand
kids were running from the vampire!

My legs felt rubbery and weak. But I forced myself to run.

We ran through the dark tunnel, following the curve of the stone walls. Cara
leaned forward, her arms stretched in front of her as she ran.

She gripped the flashlight tightly in one hand. The light bounced all over.
But we didn’t need it. We knew where we were running.

Cara is a very fast runner—faster than me. As we turned again, her long
legs were pumping hard, and she was pretty far ahead of me.

I glanced back.

Was the vampire following us?

Yes.

He was close behind, floating near the ceiling, his cape flapping behind him.

“Cara—wait up!” I called breathlessly.

A yellow rectangle of light came into view up ahead.

The door! The door to my basement!

If we can just get to the door, I thought.

If we can get to my basement, we can slam the door behind us. And trap Count
Nightwing in the tunnel.

If we can get to the basement, we’ll be safe.

Mom and Dad must be home by now, I decided.
Please be home! Please!

Up ahead, the rectangle of light from the open doorway grew larger.

Cara was running hard, uttering a low gasp with each step. I was several feet
behind her now. Running as fast as I could. Struggling to catch up.

I didn’t turn around. But I could hear the flap of the vampire’s cape close
behind me.

Cara had nearly reached the door.

Go, Cara, go!
I thought. My chest felt about to burst. But I ran harder,
desperate to catch up. To reach the door. To leap into the basement to safety.

“Ohhhh!” I cried out as I saw the rectangle of light start to grow smaller.
“The door—it’s closing!” I shrieked.

“Nooooooo!” Cara and I both wailed.

The door slammed shut with a crash.

Cara couldn’t stop in time. She hit the door. And bounced off, stunned.

I grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes went to the closed door. She grabbed for the
doorknob.

“Freddy—” she murmured. “Look!”

No doorknob! There
was
no knob on this side of the door.

With a frantic cry, I lowered my shoulder to the wooden door—and heaved my
body against it. Again. Again.

Nothing happened.

My shoulder throbbed with pain. But the door didn’t budge.

“Help!” I shouted. “Somebody—help! Let us out!”

Too late.

Count Nightwing had us trapped.

He landed silently, his cape lowering around him. A thin smile spread over
his pale face. His silvery eyes opened wide with excitement. His tongue darted
back and forth over his caked, dry lips.

“Run past him,” Cara whispered in my ear. “Run back into the tunnel. Maybe we
can keep him chasing after us and wear him out.”

But the vampire raised his cape to block our way.

Could he read our minds?

Holding his cape high, he stepped up to Cara. “So thirsty…” he murmured.
“So thirsty.”

Then he lowered his face to Cara’s throat.

“Let her go! Let her go!” I screamed.

I grasped at his waist, desperate to pull him away.

But I grabbed only cape.

“Let her go! Stop!” I pleaded, tugging on the cape.

I couldn’t see Cara at all. I could see only the vampire’s cape and shoulders
as he lowered his head to drink her blood.

“Please—!” I begged. “I’ll get you something
else
to drink! Please—let Cara go!”

To my surprise, Count Nightwing raised his head. He stood up straight and
took a step back from Cara.

Cara raised her hand to her throat. She rubbed her neck. Her eyes were wide
with fear, and her chin was quivering.

“Something is wrong,” Count Nightwing said, shaking his head. He frowned.
“Something is terribly wrong.”

I turned to Cara. “Did he bite you?” I choked out.

Cara rubbed her neck. “No,” she whispered.

“Something is wrong,” the vampire repeated softly. He raised a hand to his
mouth.

I watched him open his mouth and stick a finger inside. He shut his eyes and
poked around in there.

“My fangs!” he cried finally. His strange eyes bulged and his mouth dropped
open. “My fangs! They’re gone!”

He turned away and started examining his mouth again.

I saw my chance. I pounded on the door to the basement with both fists. “Mom!
Dad! Can you hear me?” I shouted.

Count Nightwing paid no attention to me. I heard him moan behind me. “My
beautiful fangs!” he cried. “Gone. Gone. I’ll
starve
to death without my
fangs!”