FOR SALE: ONE VAMPIRE - Chapter Two: Whispers in the dark
Chapter Two of the blockbuster new horror novel, FOR SALE: ONE VAMPIRE by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
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FOR SALE: ONE VAMPIRE
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
Chapter Two: Whispers in the dark
Jervis John awoke with a violent start, his chest heaving. The black silk sheets damp with sweat. His body convulsed as though he had been drowning in some unseen tide, but the scream bubbling at the back of his throat never escaped. He sat up abruptly, his hands clawing at his face, dragging against clammy skin as if trying to scrub away something unseen.
For a moment, the room felt impossibly quiet. Jervis stared into the suffocating darkness, his pupils wide, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might bruise his ribs. He could remember nothing; no dream, no vision, no thread of narrative to explain his terror. His waking mind was a blank slate, eerily calm, devoid of the inner monologue that plagued most people. And yet, he knew the truth in his bones: the man he was in his waking life was not the same as the one who lived in his sleep.
The huge room around him seemed alive in the dim, flickering glow of the cameras that monitored his every move. Their cold, unblinking eyes were positioned at every angle, watching him. Jervis had installed them for a single purpose: to capture the whispers, screams, and shadows that plagued him in the dead of night. They were his tools, his proof, his protection—and, in a way, his curse.
Because everything in this room, from the creaking floorboards to the very air itself, was cursed.
The walls were adorned with tapestries so old they seemed to exhale decay, their fibers woven with violent histories of blood and betrayal. They were said to have been looted from a witch’s home, the images on them shifting ever so subtly in the corner of one’s vision. Chairs were arranged haphazardly in the corners, but not just any chairs; these were death chairs, the ones people had died in, their final breaths staining the wood and upholstery like invisible scars. The most haunted and deadly of these chairs were nailed to the roof so nobody could accidentally sit in them. Each chair was occupied by a cursed doll, their glassy eyes reflecting the dim light of the cameras, their painted faces frozen in expressions of eerie glee.
And then there was the bed.
Jervis slept in an antique four-poster bed, its dark wood so polished it gleamed even in the faint light. It had belonged to a mad duke who had strangled his lovers in it, their nails leaving bloody scratches along the posts as they tried to claw themselves free. The duvet was embroidered with symbols no one could decipher, and the mattress sagged in places that didn’t correspond to Jervis’s weight, as if it remembered the bodies that had lain there before him.
But the worst was the pillow.
It seemed ordinary at first glance, an unassuming rectangle of white, but its history dripped with malice. The pillow had belonged to a spiritualist, a woman infamous for her attempts to summon the devil himself. She had failed, of course, and in a final act of cruelty, the very pillow she had used to commune with the beyond was pressed to her face, smothering her until her body went limp and her eyes went glassy. It was said that the pillow retained the residue of her desperate final breaths and the fractured echoes of the realm she had tried to reach.
And every night, Jervis laid his head upon it.
He hadn’t always lived like this but fascination had turned to obsession, and obsession had turned to something darker. He had spent his life and fortune hunting objects steeped in death, madness, and mystery. The haunted. The cursed. The profane.
He was not a collector in the ordinary sense. No, Jervis believed these things were the key to his power, his wealth. He believed they fed him, gave him purpose. He needed them. And so, he surrounded himself with objects that should never have seen the light of day, let alone the intimacy of his bedroom.
The air in the room was thick and metallic, saturated with the overwhelming stench of blood. It clung to his nostrils and tongue, so strong it was as though the room itself bled unseen rivers beneath its surface. Jervis’s hand trembled as he reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, only to stop short when he saw the faintest impression of a handprint in the condensation, a hand far smaller than his own.
The cameras clicked softly, their lenses adjusting, recording his every move. Somewhere in the warehouse beneath him, servers stored terabytes of footage—footage of shadows flickering where there should have been none, whispers in languages no human could speak, and faint outlines of hands pressing against his chest as he slept.
Jervis John didn’t remember his dreams. He never had, not even the most vivid ones. While others spoke of fantastical journeys or incomprehensible nightmares, his mornings were always blank slates, the hours spent unconscious wiped clean as if by design. But that didn’t mean his dreams weren’t significant. In fact, they were the cornerstone of his extraordinary wealth.
The key lay in the recordings. From the moment he started amassing his collection of haunted and cursed objects, Jervis had outfitted his bedroom with an elaborate network of cameras and microphones. At first, it had been nothing more than a precaution, a way to monitor for anything unusual in the night. He’d convinced himself he was capturing proof of the paranormal, documenting objects shifting on their own, ghostly whispers, or fleeting shadows.
What he discovered, however, was far more unsettling.
Each morning, when he reviewed the recordings, he would see himself tossing and turning, sometimes writhing as if in pain, other times muttering feverishly into the darkness. His voice, strained and rasping, spoke in riddles, strange phrases and dead languages that made little sense at first. Numbers. Names. Locations. At times, he would scream, his face twisted into an expression of unimaginable terror. Other times, his voice would lower to a chilling whisper, his tone almost reverent, like a supplicant speaking directly to something unseen.
The breakthrough came when he wrote one of these ramblings down out of curiosity. It had been a string of seemingly random numbers. Intrigued, Jervis entered them into a stock-trading application, and to his astonishment, they aligned perfectly with an obscure stock ticker. The next day, the stock surged inexplicably, and Jervis made his first substantial profit.
From that point on, the recordings became his holy grail. Each morning, he would sift through hours of footage and audio, carefully transcribing every word, every groan, every strained syllable. He began to notice patterns: warnings embedded in his frantic mutterings, cryptic instructions disguised as nonsensical phrases. The cursed objects in his room—each with its own grim history—seemed to be working together, their energies converging in his subconscious to deliver messages from somewhere beyond the veil of understanding.
The messages were not always straightforward. Some nights, his ramblings led him to rare artifacts hidden in forgotten attics or listed in obscure estate auctions. On other occasions, he would whisper the name of a buyer willing to pay outrageous sums for an object he already owned. The dreams never failed him, and their predictions always proved accurate, as if the objects themselves wanted him to grow wealthier, more powerful. Perhaps so he could gather even more of them.
The room itself became his sanctum, a dark shrine to his obsession. The possessed dolls on the cursed chairs. The blackened tapestry that wept tears of crimson if left in the light for too long. A huge black mirror, his first cursed acquisition, always positioned to reflect the four-poster bed. Each object seemed to hum with an invisible presence, their energies feeding into the dark rituals of Jervis’s sleep.
But this symbiosis came at a price. The dreams themselves, though forgotten, left their mark. Jervis would wake with deep shadows under his eyes, his body aching as if he had spent the night wrestling with something unseen. There were mornings when blood would drip from his nose, or his hands would tremble uncontrollably. Once, he awoke with long scratches down his back, as though claws had raked across his skin. The recordings from that night showed him thrashing violently, screaming incoherently.
Despite the toll, Jervis could not stop. The wealth he amassed through the dreams was staggering. He bought mansions, yachts, entire companies, all while continuing to hunt for more objects to add to his collection. He came to see himself as a kind of prophet. A dark prophet, not of divine visions, but of the shadowy forces that moved unseen in the world.
It had all begun when Jervis was much younger, during a time when childhood was still laced with simplicity but tinged with isolation. An art teacher had assigned the class homework: to draw a self-portrait. It seemed harmless enough, a creative exercise to fill the gaps between lessons. But for Jervis, it would mark the beginning of something far darker.
Jervis’ parents worked long hours, often leaving him in the care of his grandparents. They were kind in their way but rigid in their expectations, particularly when it came to his education. Homework was not something to be left undone or rushed through—it was sacred, a duty. His grandmother, with her sharp eyes and iron will, would brook no nonsense. "Go upstairs, do your work, and don’t come down until it’s done," she had said, her voice a mixture of command and encouragement.
The upstairs room was the coldest part of the house, a neglected space where drafts whispered through the thin windowpanes and the faint smell of mothballs lingered in the air. It was quiet, though, and that was what Jervis liked most about it. Peace and solitude. He had chosen it as his makeshift studio, dragging a chair to a small desk tucked against the wall.
He rummaged through his grandmother’s drawers for a mirror—something to use as a guide. Most of the mirrors in the house were too large or fixed to walls, but he found a small, ornate one buried beneath scarves and old photographs. Its frame was heavy, wrought in tarnished bronze, and decorated with intricate floral patterns that seemed to twist and coil like living vines. He carried it carefully upstairs and propped it up on a stack of old books, angling it just right so that he could see his face clearly.
Armed with paper and a pencil, Jervis began to sketch. At first, it was fun—simple lines and shapes, the satisfaction of seeing his reflection take form on the page. The resemblance pleased him, and he found himself smiling as he worked, switching his gaze back and forth between the mirror and the drawing. The quiet of the room wrapped around him like a cocoon, broken only by the faint scratch of his pencil against the paper.
But as the minutes ticked by, something shifted.
The cold in the room seemed to deepen, sinking into his bones. Jervis paused, rubbing his hands together to warm them before returning to his sketch. The mirror caught his attention again, and this time, he noticed something strange. The room reflected in its surface seemed darker than the one he sat in, the shadows stretching longer, the corners veiled in murk. His own face looked the same—or did it?
He leaned in closer, studying his reflection. His eyes looked off somehow, the pupils darker, deeper. The longer he stared, the more certain he became that the mirror wasn’t just reflecting him—it was watching him.
A chill ran down his spine, and he glanced away, shaking his head. It’s just a mirror, he told himself, forcing a nervous laugh. He returned to his drawing, adding details to his face, shading the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw. But the feeling of being watched wouldn’t leave him.
When he looked back at the mirror, his reflection hadn’t moved—but there was something wrong with the background. The room behind him wasn’t his grandmother’s cold upstairs space anymore. It was darker, emptier, and the shadows writhed like smoke. He froze, his pencil slipping from his hand and rolling onto the floor.
The mirror’s surface seemed to ripple, as though it were water instead of glass. Jervis couldn’t tear his eyes away as a faint outline began to form behind his reflection—something tall and indistinct, with long, spindly limbs and a face that wasn’t a face at all, just a hollow void where eyes and a mouth should have been.
Jervis gasped, stumbling back and knocking the stack of books to the floor. The mirror clattered down with them, shattering the illusion—or maybe breaking the connection. He didn’t know. All he knew was that the reflection was gone, the glass once again showing nothing but his pale, frightened face and the dim, empty room around him.
He ran downstairs to his grandmother, babbling about what he had seen. She shushed him, attributing it to his imagination. But Jervis couldn’t forget it. That night, as he lay in bed, the image of the mirror and the thing within it replayed in his mind over and over again.
It was the first time Jervis had encountered something he couldn’t explain, something that didn’t belong in the rational world he thought he lived in. And though he tried to bury the memory, it stayed with him, growing like a seed planted deep in the soil of his mind.
Years later, when he began collecting haunted objects, it was that memory he would return to. That small, ornate mirror, with its twisting floral patterns and dark, shifting reflections, was the first item in his growing obsession with the paranormal. He never found it again—his grandmother claimed she had thrown it out—but a part of him wondered if it had simply vanished, returning to wherever it had come from.
Last night he had dreamed of the mirror again. It had been years since it last haunted him—years since that peculiar moment in his grandmother's attic when the mirror’s reflection had shifted and shown him something impossible. Yet now it was back, vivid and unrelenting, as though it had been waiting for the right moment to resurface.
In the dream, the mirror stood on a pedestal in the middle of a vast, cavernous hall. The chamber’s walls were cloaked in darkness, and the air was thick, humming with a strange, electric energy. A faint red light glowed from above, but its source was obscured, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone floor. Jervis felt drawn to the mirror as though invisible strings were pulling him closer. Every step he took echoed, the sound sharp and hollow, as if the ground beneath him was fragile, on the verge of collapsing.
The mirror was just as he remembered it: its ornate bronze frame twisting into intricate patterns of vines and roses, each petal so finely detailed it seemed almost alive. But the glass itself was no longer a smooth, reflective surface. It shimmered like molten silver, rippling with a life of its own, and as he stepped closer, the glass began to solidify. A figure took shape in its depths.
At first, Jervis thought it was his reflection—but no, it wasn’t. The image in the mirror was something far older, far more grotesque. A vampire, ancient and decayed, its form barely clinging to the remnants of life. It was little more than a skeleton wrapped in papery, mottled skin, its body covered in cobwebs and dust. Yet despite its decrepit appearance, it radiated a power that made the air around it hum with intensity. Its empty eye sockets seemed to burn with a faint, malevolent glow, and when it moved, its gestures were deliberate, as though conserving the last traces of its strength.
Jervis’s breath hitched as the vampire’s skeletal hand reached out, its claw-like fingers brushing the inner surface of the mirror. Frost spread from its touch, veins of ice tracing their way across the glass in intricate, spiderweb-like patterns. The creature’s mouth opened, revealing jagged, brittle teeth that looked ready to crumble, but when it spoke, its voice was commanding—resonant despite its rasping, dry tone.
“You have awakened me,” it said, its hollow gaze fixed on him.
Jervis tried to step back, but his feet were rooted to the ground. He couldn’t look away from the vampire’s face, couldn’t escape the weight of its gaze. “I didn’t awaken anything,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I don’t know you.”
The vampire tilted its head slightly, as if amused by his denial. “You hold the key,” it said, its voice soft but insistent, like a whisper that cuts through a storm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jervis said, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren’t true.
The vampire’s grin widened, a grotesque mockery of life. “You feel it, don’t you?” it said. “The hunger. The yearning. You have tasted the edge of power, and now it consumes you. But you are nothing, mortal—nothing without me.”
Jervis swallowed hard, his throat dry. “What do you want?” he managed to ask, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
The vampire’s hollow eyes seemed to flare, the faint glow intensifying. “I want life,” it said simply. “True life. Not this prison of decay.” It leaned closer, its skeletal face pressing against the glass. “You can give it to me. You can break the chains that bind me.”
“How?” Jervis whispered, his voice barely audible.
The vampire’s voice softened, becoming almost seductive. “The coffin,” it said. “My body lies within, waiting for the blood that will awaken it. Feed me. Feed me blood.”
Jervis’s heart pounded, his mind racing. “And if I do?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “What happens then?”
The vampire’s grin widened, revealing more of its jagged teeth. “If you succeed, I will share my power with you,” it said. “Strength beyond imagination. Immortality. The ability to shape the world as you see fit. You will be more than human. You will be... eternal.”
The words sent a shiver down Jervis’s spine. The promise was intoxicating, yet the weight of its implications was suffocating. “And if I don’t?” he asked.
The vampire’s grin faded, replaced by a cold, hollow stare. “Then you will rot,” it said simply. “As all mortals do. Forgotten. Powerless. Your life will fade into nothingness, and the hunger that drives you will devour you from within.”
Jervis woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, his heart racing. He sat up in bed, the echoes of the vampire’s voice lingering in his mind. The dream felt more real than any he had ever experienced, and as he glanced around his room, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the vampire’s presence was still with him, watching, waiting.
Jervis sat frozen in his bed, the image of the vampire’s hollow, ancient face still burned into his mind. The dream had felt so vivid, so real, as though the vampire had truly spoken to him, its voice reverberating through his very bones. The hunger it had mentioned—he could feel it now, stirring within him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The temptation was so strong, so magnetic, that he couldn’t tear himself away from it. He had sought the paranormal his entire life, surrounded himself with objects imbued with dark, twisted histories. But this—this was different. This was real.
A true vampire. The very thing he had once dismissed as myth, as fantasy, was now within his reach. A creature of legend, of untold power and immortality, offering him a chance to be part of that very world he had spent so many years chasing, studying, and collecting. His mind raced as he thought of the possibilities. Power beyond imagination. Immortality. No more fleeting moments of success, no more chasing after ghosts, artifacts, or riches. He would become something more. Something eternal.
But there was a cost. The vampire had spoken of blood, of sacrifice. And as the temptation rose within him, so did the nagging doubt. What would I become if I follow this path?
Jervis rose from the bed, his feet heavy on the floor as though the weight of his decision already pressed down on him. The vampire’s promise echoed in his mind—immortality, strength, a life of power. And beneath it, something darker: the knowledge that the only way to acquire such power was to resurrect this creature, to release it from its prison.
Jervis’s obsession had led him here. The haunted objects, the rituals, the long nights poring over ancient texts and obscure auctions, all of it had prepared him for this moment. He had always been searching for something more, something beyond the ordinary world of men. And now that he stood on the precipice, the question lingered in the air like a dark cloud.
Was he ready?
Jervis laughed softly, a hollow sound that echoed through the empty room. He had spent his entire life yearning for the paranormal, studying the occult, and acquiring cursed objects that whispered secrets from the beyond. He had felt the pull of these things before—the rush of energy when he made a successful acquisition, the chill down his spine when he encountered something truly unexplainable. But nothing had ever compared to the gravity of the vampire’s offer.
He paced the room, his thoughts a whirl of conflicting desires. The wealth he had amassed over the years through the whispers of his dreams—it was nothing compared to the power the vampire could offer. A vampire. A true creature of darkness, with abilities beyond mortal comprehension. Jervis could almost feel the heat of that power as though it were something tangible, something just out of reach, waiting for him to claim it.
But what would it cost him?
He thought of the cursed objects surrounding him—the dolls, the tapestries, the bed with its long history of violence. He had been a collector, a man driven by obsession, but now, standing at the edge of the abyss, he wondered if this was the culmination of all his pursuits. He had always known that there was something more, something deeper to be discovered, but now that it was within his grasp, it terrified him. What kind of man would he become if he followed this path? Could he truly control the power the vampire promised, or would it consume him as it had consumed so many before?
A deep, primal hunger stirred within him—he had to know. It was the same hunger he had felt for years as he scoured ancient tombs, sought out the most dangerous artifacts, and listened to whispers in the dark. But now it was different. It wasn’t just an intellectual curiosity anymore. It was a burning desire to possess something that had never been within his reach before. The vampire. The power.
Jervis turned away from the mirror, his mind a battleground of conflicting impulses. He had spent so long trying to understand the mysteries of the world, the forces beyond the veil of the ordinary. Now, the answer was clear. The answer lay in the ancient creature waiting to be awakened, its promises of power echoing in his ears.
He couldn’t resist.
END OF CHAPTER TWO
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