All You People Are Vampires
One Shot
The twenty witnesses stood facing the gallows, awaiting the arrival of Hickock, the first of the murderous duo to succumb to their fate. Many faces held sombre expressions, desperately trying to evoke some sympathy for the condemned man. However, when Hickock was finally revealed to his audience, many faces turned to stone as they were presented with a man who had committed a crime too terrible for their minds to comprehend.
Among the spectators was James Crowe; an experienced writer of horror fiction, who had been asked by the editor of ‘The Holcomb Herald’, to report on the long awaited demise of Smith and Hickock. It had been almost 6 years since he had indulged in any real life story, the last being the account of the discovery of the Clutters’ bodies, so he was eager to delve into the last moments of these infamous men.
His eyes followed Hickock hungrily as he approached the foot of the gallows, the clinking of his handcuffs an echo to the heavy rain drumming against the warehouse roof. He was then stopped by the warden and made to endure a speech concerning his execution. James could see the two pages grasped between the warden’s brawny hands and did not wish to take notice of information he had already uncovered during vigorous research. He let his attention wander to the crowd of voyeurs dispersed across the room; many were also reporters, although they appeared to be much more enthusiastic than him. Young twenty-something’s clutching brand new notebooks - bought specially for the occasion no doubt – and scribbling down every word of the warden’s lecture.
He directed his gaze back towards the main attraction, and was stunned to find Hickock staring right back at him. He soon turned back to face one of the guards and murmured a question in his ear, which James was too shocked to pick up on. One fleeting glance was enough to make his opinion of this man falter. Of course he could never condone the unspeakable act that he had performed, but his judgment of Hickock had now shifted from utter disdain to slight abhorrence.
He was abruptly snapped out of his thoughts by Hickock’s voice echoing around the otherwise silent warehouse. ‘Nice to see you,’ he said, optimistically after shaking hands with the four detectives responsible for his downfall. The priest began to read him his last rites, the opaque sack was pulled over his head and the noose fitted around his neck. It was not as frightful as James had been expecting, maybe that was due to Hickock’s lack of protest or the monotonous tone of the clergyman’s voice. But either way, when the trap door was opened and Hickock’s body writhed against the tie around his neck, James maintained the mind of a potent writer and merely reported the incident in his mind, ignoring the gasps of terror from the mediocre writers surrounding him.
James estimated that it was twenty minutes before Hickock finally hung still; his body looked eerily tranquil as though he were taking a nap in a rather awkward position. It was a further five minutes before Smith entered the compound; his confidence astonished James as he had been led to believe that Smith was the quieter of the two; more sensitive. However, the jaunty smile aimed towards his captor and the loud smacking of the gum he was chewing said otherwise.
Smith’s expression was almost immediately subdued by the warden’s request of his last words. His whole body seemed to go limp, as though he was preparing himself for his near future, and he lowered his gaze to his hands. Every reporter in the room was waiting on tenterhooks for Smith’s reply. Even James reached into his pocket for his flimsy, yellowing notebook, not wanting to misprint a man’s final words.
Smith took a deep breath and began. Firstly by condemning the judicial system for their decision, but soon trailed off, his voice barely audible as he uttered his last two words. ‘I apologise.’ The hangman and guards then repeated the actions that Hickock had suffered. Noose fastened, sack placed the man’s face, chewing gum spat out and trap door opened.
James could do nothing but watch, as a second man lost his life that night. When Smith’s head lolled forward James returned himself to reality, but did not engage in the hectic chit-chat enfolding around him, just fled the building and kept his mind on his work. Trying desperately to banish the faces of the two men from his mind.
Among the spectators was James Crowe; an experienced writer of horror fiction, who had been asked by the editor of ‘The Holcomb Herald’, to report on the long awaited demise of Smith and Hickock. It had been almost 6 years since he had indulged in any real life story, the last being the account of the discovery of the Clutters’ bodies, so he was eager to delve into the last moments of these infamous men.
His eyes followed Hickock hungrily as he approached the foot of the gallows, the clinking of his handcuffs an echo to the heavy rain drumming against the warehouse roof. He was then stopped by the warden and made to endure a speech concerning his execution. James could see the two pages grasped between the warden’s brawny hands and did not wish to take notice of information he had already uncovered during vigorous research. He let his attention wander to the crowd of voyeurs dispersed across the room; many were also reporters, although they appeared to be much more enthusiastic than him. Young twenty-something’s clutching brand new notebooks - bought specially for the occasion no doubt – and scribbling down every word of the warden’s lecture.
He directed his gaze back towards the main attraction, and was stunned to find Hickock staring right back at him. He soon turned back to face one of the guards and murmured a question in his ear, which James was too shocked to pick up on. One fleeting glance was enough to make his opinion of this man falter. Of course he could never condone the unspeakable act that he had performed, but his judgment of Hickock had now shifted from utter disdain to slight abhorrence.
He was abruptly snapped out of his thoughts by Hickock’s voice echoing around the otherwise silent warehouse. ‘Nice to see you,’ he said, optimistically after shaking hands with the four detectives responsible for his downfall. The priest began to read him his last rites, the opaque sack was pulled over his head and the noose fitted around his neck. It was not as frightful as James had been expecting, maybe that was due to Hickock’s lack of protest or the monotonous tone of the clergyman’s voice. But either way, when the trap door was opened and Hickock’s body writhed against the tie around his neck, James maintained the mind of a potent writer and merely reported the incident in his mind, ignoring the gasps of terror from the mediocre writers surrounding him.
James estimated that it was twenty minutes before Hickock finally hung still; his body looked eerily tranquil as though he were taking a nap in a rather awkward position. It was a further five minutes before Smith entered the compound; his confidence astonished James as he had been led to believe that Smith was the quieter of the two; more sensitive. However, the jaunty smile aimed towards his captor and the loud smacking of the gum he was chewing said otherwise.
Smith’s expression was almost immediately subdued by the warden’s request of his last words. His whole body seemed to go limp, as though he was preparing himself for his near future, and he lowered his gaze to his hands. Every reporter in the room was waiting on tenterhooks for Smith’s reply. Even James reached into his pocket for his flimsy, yellowing notebook, not wanting to misprint a man’s final words.
Smith took a deep breath and began. Firstly by condemning the judicial system for their decision, but soon trailed off, his voice barely audible as he uttered his last two words. ‘I apologise.’ The hangman and guards then repeated the actions that Hickock had suffered. Noose fastened, sack placed the man’s face, chewing gum spat out and trap door opened.
James could do nothing but watch, as a second man lost his life that night. When Smith’s head lolled forward James returned himself to reality, but did not engage in the hectic chit-chat enfolding around him, just fled the building and kept his mind on his work. Trying desperately to banish the faces of the two men from his mind.