THE SINGER

Sometimes, something evil just oozes out of my being.  This is one of those times.  It falls under several categories, including horror, dark fiction and erotica.   This was originally published in the premier issue of "Vampires 2".

Please note that I did not set out to make this a "vampire" story and I'm not particularly fond of the genre, but I also have another in the works.

Shivering in the cold from the wind whipping off the lake and down the artificial canyon, she plied her trade on the corner of Randolph and Dearborn.  Obviously, more money could be made wearing a tight, short spandex skirt and impossibly high heels displaying three miles of leg encased in dark fishnet stockings.  She wasn’t foolish or desperate enough to be out, dressed like that in this hellaciously cold weather, “warmed” by nothing more than a little bolero jacket. 

Instead, the clothes worn were slightly tattered, second-hand purchases painstakingly mended and kept clean.  Her voice was clear and pure, even in the dead cold of winter as she panhandled for an existence.  She sang with the voice of an angel as she shivered in the cold, the small jar in front of her slowly filling with coins from passers-by.  An occasional kind soul would toss in a bill, but she rarely let them accumulate there, knowing that the sparser the take looked, the more she could rely on the pity of those that stopped to listen or noticed her in passing.  Most people, though, simply ignored her, staring ahead, straight-faced, as if she didn’t exist, lost in their own little world with no pity for anyone outside it.  And still she sang; each note as pure and clear as she could make them.

Some stopped to listen and wonder why she wasn’t in the venerable old building just a few blocks west, singing arias to appreciative wealth.  Others wondered why she didn’t sing in the “tunnel” connecting Randolph St station with Marshal Field’s and City Hall.  Most, though, were merely pleased to be privy to such a wonderful, powerful voice.

She noticed them all and greeted many regulars by name.  One young man always brought her a steamy mug of hot chocolate from the local Starbucks.  The two lesbians that worked at the bank always listened to an entire set and then clapped their appreciation after tossing a fiver into the cup.  One old man always had her sing a gospel hymn that he knew from his youth.  Then there were the watchers.

There was always a watcher.  They would stay far away from her, disassociating themselves from her presence, but they would watch.  They were always alone and many were as desperate as she.  They would look at her and wonder what she looked like under the straight bulky coat she wore.  They could see she was tall and that, despite the heavy wrapping of scarves, she was very beautiful.  She had the kind of face that needed only minimal makeup.  Her hands, when she pulled the mittens off to warm them around the cup of hot chocolate, revealed long, slender fingers that were more fitting on a pianist or harpist.  They also watched and counted the money she made each day.  They were the watchers.

At ten minutes to seven each evening, she would gather up her small supply of items and put them in her pack, underneath the heavy, tan, cashmere winter coat with the missing buttons off the double-breasted front.  She would wrap three or four scarves around her neck and tuck them in where the coat didn’t button and begin her journey to the bus stop; again, watching the watcher.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see he followed.  This brought a smile to her elegant features as if ruminating over an unspoken amusement.  She stopped, looked at her watch and, appearing to make a hasty decision, cut through a shadow-lined alleyway between two tall buildings.

It was a long, dark, dangerous walk this time of night.  With the noise of the street, the “L” and the fans of the building’s heaters, you could barely make out any footsteps until they were almost upon you.  This watcher was no different.  She heard his rushed steps as he ran up behind her.

“HEY!” he shouted, just a few feet away.  She stopped and then made off at an even faster pace. 

“HEY!” he shouted again, catching up to her and grabbing her arm.  The singer struggled, trying to pull away from his grip, but he held her tight.

“HEY bitch!  Don’t you stop when someone calls you?”  His grip became a bit more possessive and she tried again to pull away.

“God damn it!” he growled and pushed her hard against the stone wall of the building.  When she didn’t struggle, his hands let go of her arms, moving down to test the curves of her waist and hips as he pressed his bulk against her.  He brought his right cheek against her left one, the rotting foul smell of his breath made her gag.

“Hey babe, what’s the rush?” he whispered hoarsely to her as he lewdly pressed himself against her backside.  “I just wanted to get to know you a little better!”

She closed her eyes and felt his hands slowly reaching around the front to unbutton her coat.  Pulling it open, he was surprised to find such a lithe, thin frame supporting disproportionate breasts.  His hands slipped under the bib of the coveralls she wore and squeezed them as he talked to her.

“That’s it, hon, don’t fight it and I promise not to hurt you.  We’re just going to have ourselves a little bit of fun here before we both head home.”

She shuddered.  Sometimes it was the clean-cut ones that were watchers.  They weren’t so bad.  But this was one of the drunks or druggies.  He obviously hadn’t bathed for days, possibly weeks.  His breath smelled of stale cigarettes, grilled onions and cheap liquor.  His unshaven beard rasped against her cheek and neck as he unwound the scarves.  Everything about him, from his smell to his speech, was disgusting and filthy.

Unclasping the two straps that held up the overalls, he then undid the buttons at the side, letting the garment fall down around her ankles.  He seemed genuinely surprised that she wore only a shirt under this and nothing more.  His cold hands dove under the cotton singlet to the twin globes of her breasts and pinched her nipples until they hardened to two fine points.  One hand then moved south and stroked at the downy fur of her nest.

“Oh yes!” he whispered lustily into her ear, “Turn around bitch!”

She turned and he kicked her legs open, pressing her against the wall.  She did nothing and he could read little in her eyes.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you, slut?” he snickered, pulling up her shirt.

“Yes I have,” she replied dully.  He rapidly opened his clothing to expose himself.  His excitement was obvious as he dipped and then thrust the hardness of his sex upward, stabbing into her.  She smiled.

“What the-,” he looked at her strangely as he felt something cold and sharp against his turgid sex.  Looking down, he watched as she transformed.  Two sharp, hollow ivory points emerged from the indentations in her nipples.  With a quick move, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his torso and violently pulled his chest against hers, the fangs protruding from her breasts stabbing into him just as the teeth inside her lower orifice captured his organ and pierced the veins of the blood-engorged tube that had penetrated her.  He screamed in revulsion as the woman became this… this… thing! 

Mouth open in a silent scream and eyes wide with utter shock, he watched as she squeezed herself against him.  The sensual sucking noise slowly faded in his ears, replaced by the roaring-train sounds of shock that filled his mind as she gorged lustily on the very life-blood of his body.  His last terrified thought was that of horror as she threw back her head and screamed, open mouthed, with an unnatural sound.  Her eyes radiated a fiery glow of one in the throws of sexual fulfillment; even as his took on the dull lifelessness of one slowly dying. 

Sounds of laughter, cries of ecstasy and subsequent groans pealed from the dark confines of the alleyway.
A pedestrian smirked as he walked by; "Just another jerk getting a quickie!"