Work Text:
You were in the local church of your town in Clarksdale, Mississippi, studying a petition you were asked to read on Sunday, which was tomorrow. Mass was held at 9 AM, per usual, but this petition had you up at nearly 9 PM, which doesn't sound too bad, right? This would be the case if it weren't such a long excerpt you were reading, and that equals more studying. You were known as one of the best readers in Clarksdale, so of course, you were the one for the job. You're not one to pass up a request like this, especially from your father. Only now had you begun to regret it.
♱⃓
About half an hour passes, and you hear a knock at the door, the sudden, sharp noise startling you a little bit. Figuring it was probably your father, you calmed down.
"Come in!" you shout, turning back to the book in your lap and continuing the reading, "...so I kindly ask you to pray, in the name of the Father, and of the Son-"
"And of the Holy Spirit, Amen," an unfamiliar voice interrupts after the creaking of the wooden doors, cutting you off, the sound seemingly bouncing off the walls. You turn around, standing up from the pew with a gasp.
In the doorway stands a man with blood all over his mouth and clothes. Blood that didn't seem to be his own.
"Who are you?" you exclaim, eyes wide with fear.
"Name's Remmick," he starts, walking towards you slowly, "but that's not important. I'm here for you." He clarifies, pointing at you with a sharp nail. Too sharp and claw-like to be human.
As he inches closer, you grab the rosary around your neck, shutting your eyes tight and reciting the most protective prayer you know.
"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil..."
"May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O prince of the heavenly hosts," Remmick follows along, and you open your eyes to see him standing in front of you way sooner than you'd expect him to, as if he moved at an inhuman pace. He continues to move in, effectively trapping you against the wall. You tighten your grip around the crucifix, the sides piercing into your hand as he leans in.
"Don't be scared, darlin'. 'm only here to take you away from all this… I am your way out." His voice is soft, gentle as he caresses your face. No bite behind it. It almost seems... genuine. Like he doesn't wanna hurt you.
You look up at him with tears streaming down your face. You see that he is not looking directly into your eyes, but at your neck, licking his lips hungrily, and you get a glimpse of his fangs, gleaming under the dim lighting of the church. You look up again, to see that his eyes aren't your normal pair, but are a deep crimson color. They shine the way an animal's eyes would. Except you knew by now that this was no animal. You were dealing with a vampire—nasty haints that live off human blood.
"What do you want?" you finally ask, your voice shaky.
"Oh, I think it's clear what I want," he says with a wry chuckle. Maybe there was a joke behind it. One that you didn't get.
"You know, I've been holdin' back a bit too long for my liking,” he admits, his eyes darkening. And with that, he grips your jaw, his pointed nails digging into your skin as he forcefully turns your head to face away from him, exposing more of your neck, the gesture making you yelp.
"Don't fight it. I'll make it better... I'll make you better. You will taste the sweet pain of death." He says, like it makes you any more comfortable, his accent becoming foreign.
You let out a cry as he suddenly sinks his teeth into the side of your neck, the stabbing pain slowly easing into a burning, tingly feeling. You can feel blood flowing from your neck as he feeds, the sensation surreal, making you feel lightheaded. Your whole body is warm, bordering on boiling hot.
After what seems like a lifetime, he unlatches from your neck with a wicked grin on his face. You don’t miss the way the warm, dark liquid drips down his chin, coating the old, dried-up blood from what you can only imagine to be his last victim. He watches you slide down the wall with a satisfied look on his face, your trembling hand coming up to hold your neck as you whimper and sob, the area now a mangled mess of blood and flesh.
"By the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen." He finishes that damned “protective” prayer, pivoting on his feet and leaving as you begin to turn. You’re all alone, save for the creatures of the night that buzz and chirp outside, the nocturnal noises of the Deep South idyllic in this time of turmoil, your vision finally going black.