E M E R A L D  C I T Y  C H R O N I C L E S

J E T    C I T Y    N I G H T M A R E S

“Could you turn this up?” asked James as he motioned for Kate to get the remote.

A quick display of the victims photograph had stirred something inside of James. James felt as though he knew the victim but was uncertain with the mixed feelings of anxiety pouring out of his body. Something continued to stir.

“Sounds sad,” Kate added as they both set their attention on the television.

The news anchor continued speaking, “Nguyen found his body near the local dumpster that his restaurant and other businesses use. Carmichael’s body was sent to Lakewood National Hospital to determine the cause of death. Reports say that Carmichael was a homeless man who frequented the area of downtown Seattle. Not much was known about him.”

“Sad story, did you know him?” asked Kate as she turned to face James and lowered the volume of the television.

“I don’t know…I did meet a Phil the other day. I hope it wasn’t him.” No sooner had James finished speaking his sentence, a current picture of the man appeared on the television screen. James felt sick in his stomach as he tried to choke a response; the inevitable had come to pass.

“That’s him…”

- The Weak and Foolish Things of Seattle - Barry Irwin Brophy

E M E R A L D    C I T Y    E L Y S I AAt night, of course, Sforzesco Castle was completely closed to the public. Those who stood within its high-ceilinged galleries now were not “the public.” Any other night, several of Milan’s Kindred population might well be roaming these halls, feigning delight at the art and sculptures in order to impress their brethren with their taste and culture.  Sforzesco Castle was declared Elysium, one of several in Milan, a spot where Kindred could gather without fear of violence or hostilit at least of an overt nature. It wasn’t where Prince Giangaleazzo held court, but it was the city’s next most popular gathering spot for social-climbing vampires.Tonight, it was largely empty. Giangaleazzo had called a court gathering elsewhere to begin at midnight, and the city’s upper-crust Kindred were taking the early hours of the night to prepare themselves. That left Giangaleazzo time to travel to Sforzesco for a meeting of his own. He stood now in one of the smaller galleries, occupied largely with bustsand other small sculptures of Italy’s past, scattered throughout the room on pedestals that seemed almost randomly placed.Their presence interfered with his near-manic pacing, but he managed nonetheless, his footsteps ringing a regular beat against the floor.- Gehenna, The Final Night - Ari Marmell

T H E    I N L A N D    E M P I R E

The house itself looked toward town. It was huge and rambling and sagging, its windows haphazardly boarded shut, giving it that sinister look of all old houses that have been empty for a long time. The paint had been weathered away, giving the house a uniform gray look. Windstorms had ripped many of the shingles off, and a heavy snowfall had punched in the west corner of the main roof, giving it a slumped, hunched look. A tattered no-trespassing sign was nailed to the right-hand newel post. He felt a strong urge to walk up that overgrown path, past the crickets and hoppers that would jump around his shoes, climb the porch, peek between the haphazard boards into the hallway or the front room. Perhaps try the front door. If it was unlocked, go in. He swallowed and stared up at the house, almost hypnotized. It stared back at him with idiot indifference.

You walked down the hall, smelling wet plaster and rotting wallpaper, and mice would skitter in the walls. There would still be a lot of junk lying around, and you might pick something up, a paperweight maybe, and put it in your pocket. Then, at the end of the hall, instead of going through into the kitchen, you could turn left and go up the stairs, your feet gritting in the plaster dust which had sifted down from the ceiling over the years. There were fourteen steps, exactly fourteen. But the top one was smaller, out of proportion, as if it had been added to avoid the evil number.

- Salem's Lot - Stephen King

A M E R I C A N    H O R R O R    S T O R I E S

A few stops later, the automatic doors hissed open and he got off at Broadway in South Boston. While clueless pedestrians hurried past him to catch the train, Rigby walked to the edge of the station to a door with a sign: MBTA employees only. It was locked, so he waited until two subway service men exited, chatting about the Red Sox.

Rigby slipped through the door before it closed and walked through a narrow service tunnel that he imagined ran parallel to the train tracks. The whispers guided him as he meandered through a network of dimly lit passages until he found himself in an old subway tunnel covered with dust and cobwebs. Only the first few yards were lit from the pale light behind him. Straight ahead was an infinite blackness that beckoned.

As the darkness swallowed him, the voices grew louder and clearer. He heard footsteps and felt the presence of others. They welcomed him with pawing fingers and heated breath on his face. Then came the pain of a thousand needles.

“No, no!” he cried out.

Rex Rigby’s screams and their chittering voices echoed off the subway tunnel walls and traveled upward to the grate of a nearby street. But no one heard them except a homeless woman who was awakened by the calling of the darkness.

- The Vagrants - Brian Moreland

W O R L D S   O F   D A R K N E S S

“Hear, now, how it was,” Deda Vlastimir says, obliging us with high Balkan oratory. “In this village much was said about these vampires, and every once in a while there was something to be seen as well. It is 300 years since that vampire, that Petar Blagojević—and thus he is practically a legend—300 years since they found him fresh in his grave and he caused much grief here. And some people believe, and some people do not believe—but there was another vampire, this Baba Ruža, whom I myself met one night. I had been visiting a friend and was returning home when suddenly before me appeared a woman, a tiny little woman, whose face I did not see. She appeared before me, and I said, ‘Who is this?’ and she turned to me and vanished.”

I am disappointed that he does not say anything about pursuing Baba Ruža with a blackthorn stake, so I ask: “Did you believe?”

“Well, hear me,” he says. “I was afraid. My friend’s father had to take me home. And there is something in that belief, because three days later, in the house in front of which I saw her”—he taps the table with his knuckles as he says this—“there was a murder. A father killed his son-in-law. Three days later. And right away around the village it was said that these vampires were responsible.”

“Evil forces,” Mirko cuts in, “evil spirits. Things like that never happen on their own, we must accept that.” Deda Vlastimir agrees. “These beliefs,” he tells us, “are not written down—but this makes them stronger.”

- Téa Obreht - The Twilight of the Vampires