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    Vampire Children
    Vampire Children
    Vampire Children
    Ebook48 pages49 minutes

    Vampire Children

    By Lenka Dusek

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Frank can't believe his ears when he hears the voice of a little child calling out in the darkness. That's not the sort of thing one expects to hear in the middle of the night from the depths of the local coal mine.

    As a constable he is duty bound to help. He switches on his torch and enters the long, dark, filthy shaft. But there's much more to this night than he could ever have imagined.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLenka Dusek
    Release dateSep 2, 2013
    ISBN9781301109357
    Vampire Children
    Author

    Lenka Dusek

    Lenka Dusek was born in the Czech Republic. She immigrated with her family to the UK in 2002. Having studied English literature at university (Masaryk University, Czech Republic) she decided to take up writing, and became a freelance ghost writer for a number of UK authors. She has had a lifelong interest in mythology. As a teenager she and a group of like-minded students were privileged enough to be able to stay overnight at some of the most notorious haunted castles in Europe, including Moosham Castle in Unternberg, Austria, and Predjama Castle In Slovenia. She has been all over Europe searching for evidence of paranormal activity, and has undertaken extensive research into vampire folklore. Her fascination for the supernatural has never waned. Most of the characters in her works are modeled on the real people, particularly those people she traveled with and who shared her interest in the occult.

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      Book preview

      Vampire Children - Lenka Dusek

      The Vampire Children

      Lenka Dusek

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © 2013, Lenka Dusek

      All Rights Reserved.

      ISBN: 9781301109357

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      The Tunnel

      The night air was particularly frosty. Thick white mist hugged the valleys of the undulating hills like wet wintry blankets. Coldness and dampness seeped into everything.

      It was mid autumn, 1942.

      The wavering lamp-light of a bicycle lit up a patch of lonely road with its shaky yellow beam. Frank, the rider of that bike, was approaching the main service buildings of a large commercial coal mine. The front wheel of his bike squeaked and creaked noisily as he rode; an attention-seeking racket that pierced the night air.

      He abhorred that sound. The squeaking was embarrassing. He’d done everything to trace the source of it but for the life of him couldn’t find it. He’d had the bike upside down in his garage a dozen times but to no avail. The offending noise was definitely coming from the front wheel; he was fairly certain of that much. But what was it exactly? The brakes weren’t rubbing – he was sure of that – and the tire rim wasn’t buckled and the metal mudguard comfortably cleared the wheel rubber at every point. So what was left?

      The reason he had so much trouble trying to trace the source of the racket was because the squeaking and squealing only occurred when he rode the bike… when he put his full weight on it and notched up a good speed. When the bike was upside down and the wheel was spinning freely that cursed squeaking was conspicuously missing. Not a peep. Not a tweet. Blasted thing. It seemed to him that the only thing it could possibly be – the only thing left - was the axle in the centre of the wheel. But he’d oiled that over and over.

      The bike was groaning with every pedal stroke now, the sound ringing out into the cold night air as if to mock his mechanical ineptitude. Squeak creak; squeak creak.

      Sure, he could have taken it into a repair shop a month ago when it first started happening, but that would have been a new low point for him. He was a poor mechanic as it was, and definitely no good with automobiles. He was one of the few men in town who didn’t know how to grind down the valves of a motor car’s combustion engine. So how would it look if he had to take his bike into a repair shop to find the source of a squeak in the front wheel? Not terrifically manly. A fellow with no motor car had to maintain some semblance of dignity.

      He pulled up at the coal mine and placed his bike against a wooden fence at the end of the car park. It was a relief for him to finally hear the noisy wheel fall silent. It was probably a relief for the little wide-eyed woodland creatures too.

      He blew hot air into his hands, rubbed them vigorously to warm them against the cold, and then set off along the footpath into the mine entrance. The thick leather boots he wore on his feet crunched softly over the loose metal of the roughly laid path. He pulled a nickel-plated tubular flashlight out of his woollen coat, clenched it in five numb, bloodless fingers, and flicked it on. Patches of pine forest lit up in front it its wavering

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