Forrest Wollinsky: Vampire Hunter [Book One] Read online

  Forrest Wollinsky: Vampire Hunter

  Volume One

  By

  Leonard D. Hilley II

  Copyright 2016 by Leonard D. Hilley II

  Nocturnal Trinity Press

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author.

  For Christal, as always.

  “Folks might consider this my autobiography, but it’s actually my resume.”

  —Forrest Wollinsky, Vampire Hunter

  Forrest Wollinsky, Vampire Hunter

  Chapter One

  The Beginning

  Bucharest, 1888

  The wind howled like an awakening banshee as it swirled and lashed around our snow-covered cottage nestled in the barren trees at the edge of the forest. I was only eight years old, but it was the harshest winter in my one hundred and thirty-odd year memory.

  My father had been gone for several days, which wasn’t unusual. Mother had said that he was hunting and should return soon, but the blizzard had set in with a fury, burying the roads, fields, and the forest floor beneath several feet of snow. Wherever he was, he’d be stuck for quite some time.

  Snowdrifts lined three sides of our meager cottage and the snowstorm had barely started. The outside layers of snow helped insulate our rugged home. The warmth of the fire felt like the heat of summer, making it almost easy to forget about the freezing howling winds outside.

  The hearth fire crackled softly under a black bubbling pot of rabbit stew. Garlic cloves were strung together above a basket of dried yams. We had enough food to last out the week, which made me wonder why my father had chosen to hunt during the worst of the blizzard.

  My mother sat in her creaky rocker and was sewing a new coat for me from rabbit hides. Only eight, I was as husky and tall as a young man in his teens. It seemed that I outgrew my clothes about as quickly as she could make new ones.

  While she sewed, I sat near the fire and sharpened a long curved dagger my father had given me. He had traded fox hides for the blade, and I expected to soon use it whenever my father returned with his kill.

  A slight pause in the winds caused my mother to stop rocking. She leaned slightly forward and cocked her head to the side. The curious frown on her face caught my attention. I set down the whetstone and rose to my feet.

  A gentle rapping at the door was faintly noticeable since the winds had quieted, and probably would have gone completely unnoticed had they continued to whistle. But there it was again.

  Rap-rap-rap.

  A bit bolder, but not overly pronounced or with desperation.

  With my dagger gripped in my hand I eased toward the door. Confusion furrowed my mother’s brow. She set her quilt aside and held her scissors to her side, ready to help fend off whatever danger awaited outside that door.

  Stepping to the side of the door, I lifted the metal latch that secured the door and eased it against the door panel, careful to be silent.

  Rap-rap-rap.

  Without fear, I grabbed the large oval handle and yanked open the door. A whoosh of cold air sprang forward, sucking out our much-treasured heat.

  On the path directly outside the door, the snow was stained crimson beneath the gray overcast sky. A trail of blood cut farther down the path into the forest. Large heavy snowflakes dropped, steadily trying to erase the blood path. No other tracks were in the snow. No bandits or attackers were visible amongst the snowy tree trunks. The bloody path ended at the door where the body lay.

  A desperate weak hand shook, reaching up for me.

  “John!” my mother shouted, running across the room to the door.

  In terror I stared down into my father’s haunted eyes, barely recognizing him. His face was battered, and his eyes were swollen nearly shut. Blood caked in his graying beard. His useless legs twisted behind him. How far he had crawled or how he had managed to do so with the amount of blood he had lost? It was a mystery then, and remains so even to this day. By every means he should have been dead, long before he got to the door, but his stubborn determination enabled him to ignore his pain and fight to pull himself back home.

  I sheathed my dagger and grabbed his nearly frozen hand, heaving him out of the snow and across the threshold. Mother quickly closed and secured the door when we were safely inside.

  My father’s cold hand fell from my grip and a huge sigh gushed from his mouth as he lost consciousness.

  “Father?” I asked, dropping to my knees in front of him. Blood trickled from his nose. I glanced toward Momma. “What happened to him?”

  “Get him to the bed,” she said, wiping away tears.

  Placing my hands beneath his underarms, I lifted, pulling him up enough to wrap my arms around his chest until he was upright. His body was cold, but the heat of his leaking wounds stuck to me. I cringed. So much blood. I fought tears. He was dying. Had to be. Nothing lost so much blood and survived.

  My father wasn’t a massive man, like he and my mother always insisted I would become. He actually weighed less than I and was several inches shorter. In spite of his stature, he was a crafty fighter, capable of defending himself against men twice his size. Stout and thinly muscular, he had incredible strength and feared no one.

  For once, I was proud of my abnormally large size and his lack thereof. I hefted him and walked toward the bed, his boots scraping the wooden floor as I moved. Gurgling sounds rumbled in his throat.

  “A bear?” I asked, looking at her. “Was he attacked by a bear?”

  Mother brought a pail of lukewarm water and set it by the bed. She shook her head and tore strips of cloth.

  I eased my father onto the bed and laid him back. He gasped and groaned in pain, but his eyes never opened.

  “Strip off his coat,” she said. “His boots, too.”

  I quickly obeyed.

  She peeled back his shirt, revealing long gashes across his chest and abdomen. The lacerations were too narrow to be from bear claws, but the cuts were dark and deep. Older white scars were visible. On his chest above his heart was the singed outline of a cross. Two puncture marks near his shoulder were swollen, bruised. Two dark dots.

  “What did this?” I asked, pointing at the wound. My fingers almost touched the marks, and she slapped my hand away.

  “No!” she gasped.

  “What kind of animal could do this?”

  Her dark eyes were hollowed from fear. She was paler than normal and seemed more delicate.

  “Mother, please tell me what did this to Father?”

  She took a damp cloth and washed blood from his nose and beard. With another cloth, she washed his forehead. Tears heated her eyes. She spat out a word with complete contempt as she whispered, “Vampire.”

  My chest tightened. Anger rippled inside me. “A vampire attacked him while he was hunting game?”

  “No,” she replied. “He was hunting the vampire.”

  “Why?”

  “It is his calling, his duty. Magistrates and governors seek him out to kill vampires. They pay in gold and silver coins.”

  I stared at my father’s frail body. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “Why has he never told me?”

  “To protect you.”

  “Fro
m what?”

  “Them.”

  “Vampires?”

  She nodded.

  Frowning, I asked, “Why would they wish to harm me? My schoolmates tell tales that are quite scary. I’d never venture into one of their lairs.”

  “You’re like your father, but you’re too young. In time you’ll be as fearless as he.”

  “Too young for what, Mother?”

  “To train to hunt the vampires.”

  My eyes widened and fastened upon my father’s incapacitated body. He was barely alive. The possibility that he would die during the night was greater than the chance of him surviving his injuries. I didn’t think I was foolish enough to pursue the fanged demons of the night. Trained or not, hunting vampires was destined to become a short-lived profession.

  “His legs are broken,” I said.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  Tears streamed down my mother’s cheeks. She cried quietly without calling attention to herself. I took a damp cloth and pressed it against one of the lacerations across my father’s stomach. I hoped the pressure might stop the bleeding. Some of the cuts were scabbing, but the two puncture wounds pulsed softly, in rhythm with his faint heartbeat. It was unnerving to witness, as if the injuries were alive, feeding off of his body.

  While I held the cloth, her eyes widened. She rushed from the side of the bed and ran to black water pot near the hearth. She was back in seconds.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Momma was too frantic for words. She turned my father’s head to the side, pried open his mouth, and black blood oozed out. She took the damp cloth and inserted it into his mouth with her finger. She swirled her cloth-covered finger around the inside of his mouth like one washed a dish. When she pulled out the cloth, it was saturated with more of the dark blood.

  “Is he bleeding that badly?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s not his blood.”

  “What?”

  “Under the bed,” she said softly. “Get the box.”

  I lowered to my knees and peered under the bed. I grabbed the handle and pulled the heavy suitcase box out, scraping the floor loudly.

  I lifted the heavy box and set it on the edge of the bed.

  “Open it,” she said.

  I did.

  Inside of the box were several sharp wooden stakes, a wooden mallet, a silver cross, glass vials filled with powder, and more glass vials filled with clear liquid. My mother took one vial of the liquid, read the label, and popped the cork. She walked around to the other side of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “The puncture marks have to be purified and cleansed. Or your father will become a vampire.”

  “How?”

  “The bite somehow causes the victim to turn. Don’t ask me how. Your father would know but—” Her voice broke into sobs.

  I wanted to tell her that he was going to be okay, but I couldn’t tell a lie that convincingly. His condition was severe. No way to deny it.

  Then the revelation gripped me. I suddenly realized his injuries were intentionally far worse than I had imagined. The vampire who had inflicted the damage upon my father intended for him to die so that he, too, would become a vampire.

  “What’s in the vial?” I asked.

  “Holy water.”

  “That will cure him?”

  Mother replied, “If we can fully cleanse the wound, it’s possible that we can save him. But, it’s painful for him to endure. In his weakened condition, the cure might well kill him.”

  “And if that should happen?”

  “You will have to drive a stake through his heart. I can’t . . . I simply can’t do it.”

  Stunned, I looked into her eyes with uncertainty, questioning. She nodded solemnly. I knew the depth of her love for my father prevented her from killing him, even if he were to turn, but I wondered if I was capable. Could I drive a stake through the heart of my father? In the matter of age, I was still a boy, struggling with a problem that only an adult should have to consider. I had to shoulder the responsibility but how?

  Chapter Two

  My father struggled to breathe, to hold onto life, while my mother tended to his injuries. He was a proven fighter, having survived the war and carnage of twenty years before, and now a vampire had struck down his entire valor in a singular battle.

  As I stared at my unconscious father, I thought about what my mother had instructed. Could I do it? Being as he would no longer be my father, but instead a monster, I knew my answer. I could drive that stake through his heart to save my mother because I’d be killing a bloodthirsty monster. Not my father.

  As long as I was able to keep that in the forefront of my mind, I’d carry it out. But an instant of doubt could easily shatter my resolve, making me cower, hesitate, and that was enough of an opportunity for any vampire to capitalize upon.

  Growing up on Romania, the legend of vampires weren’t unknown. Exaggerated, yes oftentimes, that was true. But, every child my age knew the stories from the time of Count Vlad, the crazed blood-lusting and heartless ruler. We knew where not to go. The legends weren’t fables. Evidence portrayed that vampires existed and thrived upon the unfortunate that happened to enter the haunted forests after sunset. Dead bodies, with the same punctured wounds as my father’s, were victims by the kin of what my father had sought to kill. The bloody war had been a feasting ground for them.

  “Forrest,” my mother said softly, dislodging me from my mind wandering. “Place your hands upon your father’s chest. Hold him down while I pour the holy water into the wounds.”

  Walking to the edge of the bed, I didn’t see any reason to hold him down. His frail body held onto life by a single thread. He barely breathed. He had lost so much blood. In my brief moments of hesitation, her eyes grew fierce and her brow grew rigid. I knew if I waited another second, she’d smack the back of my head with her hand, so I placed my hands against his chest but didn’t apply a lot of force. He had suffered enough without me pressing my weight against him.

  Mother tipped the vial. A stream of holy water struck the left puncture mark. Steam rose and the hole bubbled. My father bolted upright with such force that I stumbled backwards, having to readjust my footing to keep him from knocking me down. Where had this incredible strength come from?

  He growled and gnashed his teeth. Foam frothed at the edges of his mouth. His wild eyes were dark like a wolf’s. I pressed my weight against him, but his stiff body resisted. His hands went for the bottle of holy water. My mother moved back, keeping herself out of his reach.

  “See?” she said with a scolding tone. “This is why I told you to hold him down.”

  I grabbed my father’s hands, pressed them against his chest, and leaned forward with my entire bodyweight, lying upon him until he was prostrate. She poured more holy water onto the same hole. The darkness of the bite mark drained until it was almost light pink. Then she poured more onto the right bite mark. Steam rose and liquid bubbled. My father stiffened slightly from the pain, but his strength was gone. He merely gritted his teeth with a small groan before finally becoming limp.

  After she emptied the one vial, she retrieved another one and repeated the procedure, even though there was no obvious reaction when the holy water seeped into the wounds. She took some salve, coated the bite marks, and pressed a cloth against it.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We wait.”

  “Do you think he will turn now?”

  Her eyes were saddened. “Doubtful. I believe the bite was the freshest wound on his body.”

  “And that’s good?”

  She nodded. “Less time prevents it from getting deeper.”

  “Prevents what?”

  “Whatever abomination that causes a man or woman to turn into a vampire.” She took her scissors and cut the sides of his pants legs. The leg bones were bent in multiple places. She cringed. “Son, go to the woodpile and gather some long narrow strips of wood, so I can splin
t your father’s legs. Make sure that they’re strong and sturdy. It’s doubtful that he will ever be able to walk again, but I must try.”

  I wrapped my heavy coat over my shoulders, took the wood ax from beside the door, and looked back at my father stretched back on the bed. Tears burned at the edges of my eyes. They did not brim from sadness, but from sudden growing rage.

  Easing open the door, a fierce wind hailed its greeting, flickering our candles. Sharp sleet stabbed at my face. I grabbed my scarf and tightened it around my neck. I stepped out into the blizzard and jerked the door closed behind me. The forest looked darker, like the sun had already set. Had we worked with my father until nightfall?

  I didn’t think so.

  Snow-covered trees usually made the forest brighter, even after sunset. Evil grew like a thickness. I sensed eyes watching me, immediately wondering if the vampire that had tried to kill my father was nearby. Any hungry vampire, or predator for that matter, could have easily followed the path of my father’s blood. The scent, unnoticed by me, probably still hung in the air directing bloodthirsty beasts toward our cottage.

  Heavy snowflakes continued to fall, making the bloody packed path to our door less visible. The forest was eerily quiet. No birds flittered or chirped. The sparrows and doves were most likely bedded inside the great firs where the needles protected them from the snowstorm. The only audible sound other than the wind was the rapid beating of my heart and my hampered breathing.

  Few things ever brought fear to me, even when I was eight years old, because I realized I had the protection of my parents. But with my father so near to death, that protection was on the brink of vanishing forever, and it would then be left to me to protect my mother and provide for our needs.

  My mother clung to the hope that she could patch him up, but knowing my father, if he lost the ability to walk, he’d die even if he survived the severity of his other injuries. He wasn’t a man capable of enduring confinement. He labored hard, was a hunter and provider, and often traveled on foot for days at a time to find work. He’d deteriorate quickly if all he could do was sit in a chair. His will to live would be snuffed.