Vampire Junction by Somtow S. P

Author:Somtow, S. P. [Somtow, S. P.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi

*labyrinth*

Brian stepped into velvet darkness. There was a staircase with an ornate balustrade of carved mahogany. And music from far away; a record player, perhaps. . . the voice of a child against the tinkle of keyboards and light percussion. He listened for a moment.

I know the sun's going to set soon. If it's like in the movies, I'm doomed. It's suicide. But he didn't try to escape.

The voice, upstairs somewhere. . .

Clutching one of the cheap crucifixes and holding it out in front of him, he started up

the steps; they were pile carpeted, and he made no sound. On the landing he stopped to look at a curiously carved oriental bookcase inlaid with mother-of-pearl . . . he recognized it. He'd heard the voice once, for a few seconds, playing roulette with the TV channels. It was Timmy Valentine. He remembered the face, too: his pallid complexion, the billowing dark hair, the huge clear eyes, the half-smile, surly and seductive. . .

Where was the music coming from? He tried a few doors; locked. Here was an open one. . . a closet stocked with linens. Then another door, a steep walled stairway. He didn't stop to think. He went up.

Pattering of tiny paws—

He turned quickly. A cat prowling in the shadows of the floor below? He gripped the cross tighter. The plastic was clammy, the emaciated stainless steel Jesus slithering in the sweat of his fist.

He reached the top of the stairs and saw corridor after corridor. Room after room. He opened one and saw—

The sea, the smell of fresh kelp, a salt wind tousling his hair—

He slammed the door shut. The wuthering stopped. Memories, he thought. Plucked from my mind, trapped somehow, time-frozen.

He opened another door. An old room with see-through people . . . his brother, unshaven, lurching drunkenly over Lisa, the girl about to scream . . .

He retreated and kicked the memory shut. He'd never have known if he hadn't stumbled upon them that night . . .

He turned into another passageway. Darker now. He knew that he was beyond his own memories. Human arms with flaming hands stuck out of a wall. Here were funhouse mirrors. He saw himself fat and thin . . . then as an ancient man, rotting alive, in a rocking chair, his skin peeling away . . .

Left. Left again. "Lisa!" He called out the name and was answered by faint echoes. He walked faster now. He didn't want to look. More staircases, draped in cobwebs. An army of cockroaches trickled down a wall.

Where?

Something brushed his shoulder. He turned to see a skeleton on a string, leering, aping his every gesture. He began running upstairs, his feet slipping on cobwebs. The skeleton followed. He turned and waved the cross. It copied the gesture. He lashed it across the breastbone with his fist. His hand felt as if it were slicing living flesh, the skeleton shimmered, lap-dissolved into darkness . . . "Illusion!" he cried. "You're only an illusion!" He ran faster now, his steps creaking in rhythm with the pounding of his heart .

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