Dracula Mountain
By Craig Buchner
They called it Dracula Mountain. The stony peak—rock like metal in the hard sun—cresting clouds. The crows cawing from the shadows, and that smell of ammonia choking every sense.
Then Carter, up the trail, staggered toward us. Lost for how long now? Seventeen years old, but pale and skeletal. Back from the dead. Bit by the beast, the story went. Harmon Barley, my Lizzie’s brother, said he saw the whole thing. “A creature with six-foot wings. Flew right out from the tree, grabbing him by the shoulders. Yanked him out of his own shoes.” Carter’s body supposedly fell to the ground, his arms and chest bit up. Gasping for air. Harmon left him for dead, but here Carter was, alive as the day he was born.
Harmon Barley was known to lie when it served him, but his sister Lizzie said, “Nightwalkers been around for eons, and it was only a matter of time before they take this world back.” Dozens had disappeared before Carter, but only a few had come back to us. They all had the same bite marks, and they were quarantined. Incisors and canines extracted for safety.
Lizzie never lost hope that her boy was still out there. We searched the mountain for months. If the creatures didn’t have him, starvation certainly did. I never said this to Lizzie, because I liked her company, and now that she says she loves me, I owed it to her to keep looking.
In the beginning we were happy, mostly. Lizzie sold insurance, and I dreamed of sailing to Central America if I could ever save enough. She was on a work trip to Iowa when Carter went missing. Neighbors saw nothing but agreed one hundred percent she should have never left him alone. I stopped by once when she wasn’t home. Dark, deep pockets under his eyes. He blinked uncontrollably. “Allergies,” Carter lied. He was a mess who was always going to be a mess, but Lizzie was a good mom. If I’d have known I’d be searching for him night after night and her waking up screaming and crying out for him, I’d have handcuffed him in the basement with a bowl of water like a dog. Then he’d never break her heart.
Before the stories of monsters and before she said she loved me, the town had another problem. When the paper mill shuttered, people overloaded on uppers to work two or three part-time jobs to pay their mounting bills. They couldn’t afford the pace. They needed cheaper, stronger drugs, and a slew of underground concoctions were born. I heard stories of kids experimenting with their own recipes. The vilest of them burned through their veins like pure acid. Loose meat like slow-cooked brisket hanging off their bones.
The world got dark fast. And people quit living for any good future. Before we knew it, they were vanishing completely, including Lizzie’s boy.
When we found Carter, he could barely walk. Arms violent with pustules. I grabbed Lizzie from hugging him on the trail. “But he’s my baby,” she pleaded. I wrapped him in a blanket and carried him all the way downhill.
Before first light, Lizzie was finally asleep. Carter was in his own bed, moaning and babbling. He’ll be fine, I told myself, but I could hear him on the phone. I pushed my palms against my temples. That unbearable conversation. “I need it,” he repeated. “I’ll kill somebody, I don’t care.” If he didn’t tear us apart before, it was only a matter of time. The certainty of it helped me to my feet. I pushed open his door, said, “Get up.” Grabbing his face, his lips opened to speak, I forced all the cash I had saved for that sail boat and that bullshit dream into that black pit of a mouth. I said, “If you ever come back, I’ll live forever to make yours hell.” He gripped the cash and breathed out slowly—calm, proud. I was a monster, but to him I was nothing but a savior.
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About the Author:
Craig Buchner’s fiction and poetry have been featured in Tin House, The Baltimore Review, Hobart, The Cincinnati Review, and many other literary journals. He is also the recipient of the AWP Intro Journals Award for his fiction. Although he was born and raised in the Adirondacks of New York State, Craig calls Portland, OR, home, where he lives with his wife and daughter. To read his work, go to: www.craigbuchner.com
About Weekly Flash Prose and Poetry:
CutBank Online features one work of flash prose or prose poetry every Monday. Submissions are free and open year-round. Send us your best work of 750 words or less at https://cutbank.submittable.com/submit.