The House At The Top Of Briggs Road

A friend of mine said something like, "Why not vampires?" And it occurred to me that there was no good reason...

Julia was the very first protagonist in the very first erotic story I ever wrote, A New Running Partner, and has made occasional returns since. She dates bad boys, werewolves and the like. As for Felix? He made his first appearance at a brothel on the original Valentine's Day, in a story I wrote some time ago, where he learned how NOT to win the next bet.

I hope y'all enjoy this little contribution. Make sure you read all the Halloween Contest stories and vote up your favorites!

* * *

I.

Praeparatio

* * *

The engine roared as I piloted my car through the spooky moonlit hills out on the north edge of town. That's one thing that's always been perfect about my car: the sound it makes when I rev it.

Of course, pretty much everything else about it is dogshit.

I was studying the road ahead, partly because it twists a lot but mostly just to avoid my passenger's worried eyes. She swallowed; I could hear it, her throat totally dry. "But, like, who

are

they?"

I sighed hard and let her hear it. "Baby. I've told you fifteen thousand times: they're clients. Like every other client. They want something, we want something, just like always." I hesitated, but couldn't help adding, "Don't make me tell you all this again, or I'll kick your ass." I felt like that was something a pimp should say, but of course Andrea knew me too well to believe I'd actually hurt her. They all knew me too well.

"So, just fucking?" she pressed, and I looked out the side window as the big old houses whipped past; she knew something was wrong. I grimaced.

"Like every other client," I grated. "They want it, they can pay for it, they get it. Right?"

"But, like you told them I don't like anal?" she whined.

"Yes," I lied, "but don't get all squeamish and shit. You don't get to dictate how this goes, honey. You gave up that right." Again, I felt like it was something a pimp should say, only this time I had a point. She frowned deeply, deeply enough that even the corner of my eye could catch it as we motored out toward Glenview. "They usually don't say anything about anal," I added, my voice a growl, and that was true enough as far as it went.

They never said much at all, at least not to me. That's part of what made them so spooky.

She tried again. "But it's a threesome?"

"It's a foursome, baby."

"You said three guys!" she bleated.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes. Three guys, plus you. That's four. A foursome."

She thought about that. "Oh," she said at last, in a tiny voice. She'd never done three guys. She was going to have a lot of

firsts

tonight, I thought bleakly, and then one big

last

. But then I stopped thinking much, because I didn't like pondering that. It made me feel like a horrible person.

Which I am, obviously. But not irredeemably bad, I liked to think. What I was doing that night, though, just a couple months shy of Halloween, really

was

irredeemable. "They seem like nice guys," I added dully. "None of the other girls has told me there's anything wrong with them." Which was technically true.

"Well," she sniped, "except that there's three of them."

I finally stared over at her now, incredulous. Andrea looked absolutely fucking gorgeous, her minidress tight over a tiny, compact body; she was small everywhere but her ass, which swayed like palm trees in a breeze. Her makeup looked great, not too much and not too little; she was always a top-notch girl, appearance-wise. I was sorry I'd be losing her. Forever. "You're a whore," I finally coughed. "Three men want to pay you. That's all that matters."

"No," she corrected after a sullen moment, "they want to pay

you

, Ricky."

"Yeah," I snapped, letting her hear the bitterness about the choice she'd forced me to make, "because you didn't." She shut her fucking mouth at that, jaws clamping like those plastic hippos in that stupid game, the one with the marbles. I went on, my voice savage. "It's like I always tell you girls: you're late with my cut? You pay some other way." I shrugged. "In this case? Three other ways."

"Shit," she sighed.

"Yep." I wanted to say more, but held my tongue. She was going to pay in more ways, too. In every way she possibly could, and then some. I glanced once more at her, thinking how weird it was that I'd never see her again after tonight. But I couldn't tell her that. "You'll be fine," I said instead.

"Are they old? Ugly?" She was intrigued, at least. "Gay? Why three guys living alone together?"

"They're not old, really," I mused. "You'll see. They seem about forty? Handsome. One of them is a doctor." I reflected, thinking about what I'd seen them doing to Erin before I'd been urged out of the house: not gay. Not gay at all, and I told her so. Though, they

did

seem older than they looked. Once again, I looked away. I had no idea what the three mysterious guys who lived at the top of Briggs Road did with the women I brought them. I thought I could guess. I didn't want to think about it.

Bring us only such women as you don't need to see again,

they'd said.

Only tasty little morsels, please.

They were as good as their word, too; I'd never again seen any of the other four girls I'd brought to the top of Briggs. And they paid half a million in cash each time, so...

Yeah. I thought I could guess. But I preferred not to think about it, about what the three guys had in store for Andrea tonight. I drummed the steering wheel. "You just shouldn't have been late with my cut, baby," I muttered.

"I told you," she whined, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't do it," I groused, and it didn't. Not when you needed money the way I did.

"Rita's been late with her money before too," she pointed out viciously.

"Rita's a better whore than you are," I told her bluntly, but of course she was right; Rita stiffed me routinely. Which was making me mad, now; I had a soft spot for Rita (more accurately, I had a hard dick for her), but she was about to leave me with no choice. Eventually, the three weirdos at the top of Briggs would want another girl, and I knew it would have to be Rita next. No matter how many enthusiastic blowjobs she gave me. "Mind your business," I went on, needlessly, because it hardly mattered now: the road was ending, and so was Andrea's time here.

She'd no longer benefit from anything I said.

Mind your business.

It meant nothing tonight, or wouldn't soon enough.

"Now then," I began, low-voiced in the close, foggy night; I'd just pulled over at the base of their long, winding driveway, "here's the thing. The other girls I've brought up here all say the same thing: that it's important to follow instructions once you get in there. These guys don't like to repeat themselves." This wasn't strictly true: the other girls hadn't said anything to me. But the guys had, and it was their words I was saying to Andrea now.

The other girls. Monica, late with my share of her whoring. Erin, who'd stolen from a client. The other Andrea, The First Andrea, who'd never done anything wrong; I'd had to pick someone when the top of Briggs Road had called urgently one night, last Halloween in fact. And then Mia, back in March; she'd been late with my share, too. Since then I'd heard not a whisper from Briggs, until now: they wanted another one tonight. And fortunately I happened to have another late girl... but I didn't want to give up Andrea.

I was sure there'd be another call, probably another urgent one, come October 31

st

. I'd lose Rita then, but the men had paid extra for the other Andrea, so I'd make them do the same for Rita. An extra hundred grand, at least, and I needed every penny. "You'll go inside. I'll be with you; just follow me. Just inside the front door is, like, a little room with a coat rack; you'll take your clothes off and there'll be, like, a robe there."

"A bathrobe?"

"More like a gown," I shrugged, still looking carefully away from her.

"Where do I put my clothes?"

"Baby, don't I always take care of you?" I made myself smile at her. "I'll take your clothes." It mattered for nothing. Her clothes would be completely meaningless in a few more minutes, a dead woman's clothes. "I'll even get them dry-cleaned," I added, my guts seizing up a little when she smiled gratefully. "But here's the thing. From that point on, say nothing. Just follow me wherever I go, with your hands clasped in front of you.

Say nothing,

got it?"

"Got it."

"Nothing at all. That's what the others said," I ended lamely. "Then I'll step aside and introduce you, and then it's all you." I reached out to caress her cheek. "And you always know what to do, honey."

"Three men." She still looked hesitant. "I hope they don't fuck my ass. How much are they paying you, Ricky?"

"Ten grand," I lied, but her eyes widened. "You see? This isn't just a punishment for you; it's a nice chunk of change, too. I'll give you a little bit, obviously, but do your part. Right?" I leaned over toward her, the mens' instructions clear in my mind. "Say nothing. Follow directions."

"Should I, like, call them

sir?"

She made herself chuckle. "Master? My lord?"

"You should call them whatever the fuck they tell you to call them," I muttered shortly. Above us stood their house, tall and spindly against the summer moon, at the end of the driveway. "They've got, like, rituals. Probably strange kinks. You'll even hear me say some weird shit. Got all that? I don't want to be late."

"No, it's fine." She ran a hand through her lustrous black curls. "Thanks, Ricky. For the chance to make it up to you. I promise, I'll never be late again."

"That's my girl," I managed. It was true: she'd never again be late with my cut. I smiled, fakely, and even gave her a peck on the cheek. She smelled good, all perfume and hairspray, her curls brushing my forehead. "Okay. Let's do this."

"Ten grand," she marveled, stepping out of my Dodge. The passenger door creaked as she knocked it closed with her formidable ass. " After tonight, I'll be able to call my self a ten-thousand-dollar hooker. I'll make you proud, Ricky." She waited while I came around the front of the car and led her between the tall stone gateposts at the base of the drive.

"Aww." One syllable, all I could produce now with the fear starting in my gut. I didn't like this house, nor the people in it, and I certainly didn't like what was going to happen to my girl. But I liked being in debt to the tune of almost two million dollars even less, and I still had a business to open if I wanted to go legit. We walked up the broad steps, the night misty all around us, before the big old door opened noiselessly to my push.

"They don't even latch the door?" Andrea's voice sounded unnaturally loud to me. "What's up with that?"

I paused on the threshold, the fear spiking suddenly as I swung around toward her. I towered over her short, sexy frame. "Did you not listen, you dumbass?" I hissed. "Say nothing!"

"Sorry." She almost mouthed it, her head dropping to her chest, and I reckoned that was the last thing I'd ever hear her say. I glanced fearfully into a tall, gloomy front hall lit by sconces down low, the kind that had dim little bulbs to resemble old gaslights. The air smelled as musty as it had last time, when I'd brought Mia here. I laid my hand on Andrea's lower back, pushing her roughly toward the little corner of the vestibule where the black robes hung.

She glanced back at me once, the front door closing soundlessly. This time, it did latch, the little snikking noise loud and precise in the gloomy vestibule with its weird shadows. I leaned against the big carved doorway, ill at ease in my best suit and one of my many old Jerry Garcia ties, watching as Andrea quicky disassembled her clothes.

I'd seen her naked many times, obviously: I was her pimp. It goes with the territory. Andrea's skin was completely unmarked, still young and supple, for the girl was only twenty. She'd let her pubes grow out a bit, on my orders, and now they curled tightly in a dark strip above her strong thighs. Even I, jaded creep that I am, gave a slight gasp when she turned to reach for one of the robes. The ass on her!

That ass was my best one. I'd need to start looking for another, I realized, adjusting my cock.

She shrugged into one of the gowns, wrinkling her cute little nose. I saw her open her mouth to say something, but my glance must have given her enough warning that she remembered to keep her trap shut. The robe billowed a bit, gaping slightly in the front, her skin a caramel-colored strip fanning from a small jeweled brooch at her throat.

Swallowing, mindful of my own orders from the mysterious men who lived in this house, I shuffled forward. Her whole body trembled slightly under my palms as I took her shoulders, rubbing them once before I pulled the hood over her marvelous hair and then stepped back. "Follow," I told her shortly, and that was the very last order I ever gave her as her pimp.

My dress shoes clicked loudly on the old hardwood floors as I led Andrea into the dining room off to the right of the hall, the low muttering glow of firelight glinting through the arched passage. As I stepped from the hardwood to the old checkerboard tiling of the high dining room, I opened my mouth as I'd been taught.

"Your servant comes, my lords." I always felt self-conscious, saying that, but when you pay me $500,000 I'll say whatever the fuck you want, with feeling. "I bring you a gift."

"Who comes?" The voices, three of them, spoke at once. They blended into a weirdly spectral chorus, twisting oddly through my mind. Behind me I heard Andrea's bare feet falter, then keep up with me. It was always like that, when you heard their voices.

They stopped you.

"It is I, Richard Turco," I called, the three figures at the head of the wide table gaining definition as I advanced. The fire was behind me, casting our shadows ahead, the room suffocating in a close, even heat. "My gift is Andrea Gutierrez."

"You already brought us an Andrea," one of them pointed out. His face shimmered into view as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, dark and square, framed by a short-trimmed beard.

"She was delicious," the middle one intoned. His face tapered sharply to a chin like a needle, offset by a high forehead. This was Zondervan, who usually did most of the talking. The one who'd negotiated my prices with me. "A tasty meal. I look forward to another, Mr Turco." He nodded grandly. "She is pleasing to us."

The third one, short and grim, said nothing. The third one often said nothing, and when he did speak his voice was gravel spread across the road. I licked my lips, stepped aside, and bowed. "Ms Gutierrez," I said formally, sweeping my arm toward the distant seats and naming them one by one, starting with the silent one, "these are Mr Felix, Dr Zondervan, and Mr Millow."

The air seemed to have weight. It always did, and I never seemed to notice it until I'd named them. It felt suddenly as though the room around me was pressing on my head, my shoulders, bearing me down. As if I was being buried.

But I had to say the words. I cleared my throat and looked at the three weirdos. "She belongs to you now, my lords."

A sign from Dr Zondervan motioned me off to the side; I was no longer needed. He'd explained this to me first time, with placid little Monica. "This part is important, Mr Turco," he'd said. He had a distinctive voice, sort of neutral in its affect, as though he had no accent at all. Or all the accents; whichever. It was not a pleasant voice. "Like at a wedding, when the father gives the bride to the bridegroom. She leaves the protection of the one, in favor of protection from the other." He'd smiled at Monica then, and it hadn't been a warm smile. "You, my dear girl, have now left Mr Turco's protection. Come to ours."

He watched now as Andrea stood uncertainly in her velvet robe, nodding as he got to his feet. All three of them moved strangely fast; when he got out of the chair, he didn't get up like a normal person. He just seemed to be sitting one moment, on his feet the next. And when he took a step forward, long-nailed fingers extended toward her, he almost seemed to glide. Andrea looked nervously over at me, but she stayed where she was. Dr Zondervan halted within her arm's reach, his hand still outstretched.

"You no longer need Mr Turco, dear Andrea," he said calmly. Deeply. His voice seemed visible in the heavy air, like tendrils whirling into her ear. "Come to us."

And she did, licking her lips, her eyes already huge as they stared out from underneath the outlandish hood. I watched as Zondervan took her hand, the other two men rising now and watching in solemn silence in that heavy old room as Andrea, suddenly gliding like Zondervan, moved to stand in between the three, whose eyes seemed to smoulder. Just like with my other four girls, I couldn't tell how they got the brooch unfastened, but the heavy robe slipped from her nude young body in a sudden swirl of dust.

She stood, her coffee-colored skin seeming to shine in the firelight, as the three studied her gravely, and then Millow nodded. When he spoke, his voice was much more vibrant than Zondervan's. "She'll do nicely, Mr Turco." He smiled at me, his teeth very unpleasant in a way that was hard to define. "Your payment is in the basket by the front door."

"You may leave now," the doctor added, close enough to Andrea that his breath as he spoke stirred her hair. "Go in peace." I stayed just a moment longer as Andrea cast her eyes my way; I'd told her, when I persuaded her to get into my car, that I'd wait for her and make sure she was safe. I'd been lying then, and her eyes told me she knew it now. But when short, silent Felix stepped forward, his arm low to cup her pussy, her eyes fluttered shut and she stopped thinking much about me.

So I fled. Her clothes, cast off in the vestibule, I left where they were. I didn't need the reminder of what I'd done.

* * *

Obviously, the three weirdos were vampires.

I don't really mean I thought they were, not then. I thought

they thought

they were vampires, the way wiccans think they can control the harvest: in their minds, the magic is there. Even if it's not, they believe it is.

That's what I thought then. My rational mind told me that Zondervan, Felix, and Millow were just mysterious gentlemen, maybe from Europe, with a lot of money and a weird sense that they were special in a Bram Stoker sort of way. Or that they'd seen

Lost Boys

a couple times too many.

Sure, they lived in a creepy house. Sure, the air in there felt like the grave. Sure, they seemed to live in a permanent fog and move with amazing speed. Sure, it looked like their teeth might be a little fucked up (understandable, if they were Europeans, I reasoned). Sure, they paid wicked good money for my girls. And then made them disappear forever.

That was all odd. No doubt. But my mind still wouldn't make that last leap, that move into acceptance: that I was dealing with undead people. Taking vast sums of money from demon spawn. Selling my girls to hellish spirits of the underworld: no. I couldn't be. Because I lived in the real world, and in the real world there's no such thing as vampires.

There is, however, such a thing as compensatory damage judgments when you fuck up. My lawyer, as she usually did, raised an eyebrow when I showed up with $500,000 in cash. "Do I want to know where this came from?" she asked flatly.

"No." I sat across from her in her stuffy little law office and pretended not to look at her chest. "Just put it toward the judgment. I think this brings it down to 1.5 million."