Pale Immortal Read online

  Other Books by Anne Frasier

  Hush

  Sleep Tight

  Play Dead

  Before I Wake

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  for Martha

  From the Author

  On a road trip from St. Paul, Minnesota, to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I stopped for breakfast in a Black River Falls cafe and happened upon a conversation between two men about the Wisconsin town of Tuonela, where they claimed a vampire once roamed the streets.

  I introduced myself and asked if they'd mind telling me more. They fell silent, looked at each other, then grudgingly continued. The story they told was so outrageous I decided they must be having fun at my expense. They'd probably meant for me to overhear their conversation; I was their entertainment for the day. Tuonela didn't exist, and we all know vampires don't exist.

  In the car, I pulled out an atlas and was surprised to find a town called Tuonela on the map. If you were to draw a triangle by connecting Wausau to La Crosse to Portage, Tuonela would be somewhere in the center on the Wisconsin River. That area of Wisconsin was settled by Finns, and if you're up on your Finnish mythology and the Kalevala, you'll know that Tuonela means "land of the dead" in Finnish.

  That left me to ponder about the men and our conversation, and about the vampire they'd referred to as the Pale Immortal. Had they been telling the truth after all? Was I now included in a secret only a handful of people knew? I have no answers to these questions. All I know is that day in the Black River Falls cafe the men told me the town often vanishes, and many don't believe it even exists. In case you think I'm making this up, dig out a map of Wisconsin and try to find Tuonela. Ninety percent of the time it won't be there.

  Anne Frasier

  Plenty have got there

  few have come from there

  from Tuonela's dwellings, from

  The Dead Land's ageless abodes.

  —The Kalevala, Elias Lonnrot

  Or liker still to one who should take leave

  Of pale immortal death . .

  —John Keats

  Chapter 1

  The car moved through the night, the two occupants staring silently out the windshield as the road unfolded before them.

  They'd been traveling for over twenty-four hours, with only a few stops for gas and a bathroom. Food amounted to what packaged snacks could be grabbed while waiting in line to pay.

  What had begun as desert and interstate had given way to narrow two-lanes that twisted through rural Midwest woodland and pasture unveiled in the yellow headlight beams. The landscape looked foreign.

  At least to Graham Yates, who was used to millions of stars and a sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. His eyes couldn't get used to hills that blocked the sky, a curved road that hid what was ahead, and fog that clung to low areas.

  The passenger window was open a crack, and the smell that came in reminded him of the tropical forest he'd once visited at a science museum. Or the compost bin at one of the schools he'd gone to. Like rotting plants and wet dirt.

  How much longer?

  Were they almost there?

  He wanted to ask, but she wouldn't answer anyway She hadn't said anything to him since they'd left Arizona. That was okay. Silence was better than yelling.

  A second after she turned off the wipers, the windshield became covered with mist that he'd finally figured out was dew. She couldn't get rid of it. So weird It just kept reappearing.

  Graham had a plan He'd had a lot of time to think—once he'd come down from a fairly major high. When they got there, he would run away.

  What kind of plan is that? That's no plan.

  Knocking her out and stealing the car—that was a plan. But he wasn't a violent person Even after all she'd done to him, he couldn't hit her. And knowing her, being hit would just send her into a rage. She'd come at him spitting and hissing, adding a new element to an already bad situation.

  Never make the situation worse than it already is ....

  He wasn't afraid, he told himself, heart pounding. He wasn't afraid of anything. Not even death, which he'd been thinking about a lot lately, even before she'd dragged him into the car. What kid a few days away from his sixteenth birthday didn't think about death?

  The thought of dying was one of the only things that gave him comfort. It meant there was a way out. And as long as you knew death was waiting, you knew this could end.

  At four fifteen a.m., they arrived in the town of Tuonela, Wisconsin.

  Their car was the only one on the street. House shades and curtains were pulled tight. Everyone was asleep, unaware of the drama just outside their doors.

  So quiet.

  And still. Almost as if nobody really lived there.

  Tuonela was a place Graham had been threatened with ever since he could remember.

  If you aren't good, I'll send you to Tuonela. You don't want to go to Tuonela, do you?

  The threat was always delivered in a tone that implied the worst. Tuonela was a bad place. Tuonela was a horrible place. Tuonela was the troll under the bridge.

  Last year Graham had seen a car wreck. A really bad car wreck. The man inside had been impaled by the steering column. Graham hadn't been able to stop staring. Just before he died, the guy had opened his eyes and looked directly at Graham.

  That's how Tuonela had always seemed. Like looking at something terrifying. But now that they were here, the place didn't live up to the image of horror in Graham's head. This is Tuonela? he wanted to ask.

  It was what some old lady might call quaint. Old-fashioned, maybe. It reminded Graham of a toy train village he'd played with as a little kid. Not his village, but a neighbor's. Some kooky guy who wore an engineer cap and had his basement set up with all sorts of train stuff.

  They pulled to a stop in front of a dark house with a straight sidewalk that led to a porch and front door. Two faint streetlights gave off a blue haze. He could barely make out tree branches spread above the roof, and what looked like black, misshapen bushes littering a yard surrounded by a short fence.

  He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of tears. He wouldn't even look at her, because that's what she wanted. She wanted him to cry and beg and tell her he'd be good. That he was sorry.

  They'd played this game before, and he was done playing.

  He grabbed the handles of his giant backpack, opened the passenger door, and tumbled out, slamming the door behind him. From somewhere a dog barked. It was a hollow, distant cry, given with only half a heart and coming from another worl
d.

  Before she could come after him, he walked down the sidewalk in the direction of the house.

  Behind him the car was thrown into gear, the gas pedal tromped to the floor.

  He could feel her anger radiating from the confinement of the car. She was pissed that he hadn't begged.

  He looked.

  He couldn't stop himself.

  A slow turn of the head; then he was watching the ancient Oldsmobile chug away from the curb, watching it lumber down the street. Red brake lights appeared as the car squealed around the corner and disappeared from view.

  Graham listened until the sound faded.

  Would she come back?

  She always came back.

  Run! Hide!

  He looked at the house again.

  Now that he was closer, now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see that it sat low and kind of spread out. He didn't know shit about houses, but this was nothing like the houses in Arizona. This one was rough stucco and dark wood beams, two small windows up above in what looked like an attic.

  Run! Run away! What happened to your plan? Remember your plan?

  Where would he go? He didn't have any money. He was hungry. He'd hardly slept in forty-eight hours. He was cold.

  It was his fault. He'd broken the rules. He'd stayed out all night drinking and smoking pot. He deserved to be punished.

  Not like this. He was finally old enough to understand that no kid deserved this.

  All his life he'd been accused of exaggeration, even lying. But he always told it like he saw it. If that was lying, then he was a liar.

  He approached the house. He walked up the bowed wooden steps, his footfalls echoing. The air was thick, like breathing water. He was aware of the smells again: damp earth and green plants.

  He raised his hand, then paused, his finger an inch from the button, his heart pounding in his chest and head. Hell had doors. He knew that. And if you left one hell, what was to stop you from stepping into another?

  What else could he do? He was a thousand miles from anybody who might help him.

  His brain wasn't working. He couldn't think. Couldn't decide what to do. He was past the point of tears and drama. All he wanted was a bed.

  Get some sleep. Get some food. See what happens here first. See if it's as bad as she always said it would be; then decide.

  An image of the car wreck popped into his head again. There had been terror in the man's eyes. The guy had seen the other side.

  Graham rang the bell. When nobody answered, he knocked. Softly at first, then harder. Two minutes later he walked to a window, cupped his hands to the glass, and tried to see inside.

  Chapter 2

  The narrow redbrick streets were shiny with dew as Evan Stroud made his way home, hands clenched deep in the pockets of his coat, collar flipped up to deflect the damp wind. Above him the sky was black, without a single star or sliver of moon.

  He was used to taking long strolls in the middle of the night. Night was the only time he came close to feeling normal.

  He checked his watch and was surprised to find that morning would be arriving soon. This had happened before, his inability to account for a large block of time. Were the occurrences getting more frequent?

  Evan continued his climb up the steep sidewalk out of the river valley.

  The town of Tuonela was perched on a hillside, the tall Victorian homes clinging to rocks and outcroppings as if afraid to commit to a deeper foundation.

  He'd been reluctant to leave his house ever since the break-in, but in the end he'd refused to give up these few hours of freedom just because someone was morbidly curious about him.

  Sometimes he thought he should move from Tuonela. But where would he go? Here everybody was used to him. He didn't have to explain anything, and for the most part people accepted him. He might be a freak, but he was their freak.

  At first he hadn't noticed anything missing after the burglary. Then, little by little, he realized some odd items were not simply misplaced, but gone. He couldn't locate his hairbrush. His favorite black T-shirt was nowhere to be found. The coffee mug he used every day? Gone too.

  They were stealing pieces of him. The intruder or intruders hadn't been caught, and no suspicious fingerprints had been found.

  He'd lived in Tuonela his whole life, but suddenly everyone seemed to have the same idea: Let's stalk Evan Stroud.

  The publication of his books usually brought about a small flurry of interest that quickly whimpered and died. But the last one, a collection of history, tales, and speculation about Old Tuonela, seemed to have stirred up an extra helping of crazies.

  Some people actually knocked on his door asking to come in and visit. Or would he sign their book? Could they take a photo with him? But others snooped, and some even took digital images that they later posted online with ridiculous captions like, Stroud shopping in a dark grocery store. Stroud in his backyard at three a.m.!

  The backyard shot had been a blur, with some unrecognizable person stepping forward and looking behind him with the famous Bigfoot stride and pose. Evan supposed it could have been him, but it was impossible to tell, so why bother? Just some blob taking a stroll. But the very ambiguity seemed to give it credibility.

  The photos were bad enough, until some of his uninvited guests, like the ones from the other night, broke in. They wanted proof that he was what some said he was. A vampire.

  Evan rounded the turn that would take him to his front door. The soles of his shoes rang hollowly. With his house in sight he stepped from the sidewalk to the grassy area near the curb. What a concept: having to sneak up on your own damn house. But often thieves returned. He wanted to catch them in the act.

  He heard a sound. Someone was on the porch, bent at the waist, tampering with a window.

  Evan unbuttoned his long coat and reached inside, his fingers coming in contact with the butt of the handgun he'd taken to carrying since the break-in. At first he'd thought the weapon was an overre-action, but now he was glad he had it.

  The lights on his street were different from the lights on the other streets in Tuonela. These lights were incandescent blue, and didn't contain harmful UV rays. In the glow of those blue lights Evan saw a kid, a teenager with gold, wildly curly hair straightening away from the window, turning to look at Evan with dismay.

  The kid put up his hand as if to deflect a blow. Or a bullet.

  Evan remembered the gun and sighed. He returned the Smith & Wesson to the shoulder holster, but didn't close the snap.

  A vampire wannabe.

  "Are you back for more?" Evan demanded.

  This was a violation of his sanctuary, the only place he felt safe. But what could he do? Put up a twelve-foot razor-wire fence? He felt alienated enough from the world as it was. "Are you the idiot who broke in here the other night? Did you forget something?"

  The kid didn't answer Or maybe Evan didn't give him a chance Later, when Evan replayed the incident in his head, he would wonder.

  "Not very good at this, are you?" Evan demanded. "You should have come during the day When I was asleep in my coffin Don't you know anything about vampires?"

  The kid pivoted, ducked, and leaped off the porch. Three strides took him through a stand of shrubs and beyond the scope of the streetlights.

  Evan wasn't letting him off that easy He switched from visual to audio, listening to the kid crashing through shrubbery and underbrush, following the sound of movement through the darkness.

  Evan had the advantage; he knew the terrain And he could see pretty damn well at night, proof that people could adapt and make up for other physical limitations. He would at least have the satisfaction of scaring the hell out of the asshole.

  Evan catapulted himself over the low fence, coat-tails flying. He paused for a direction check. From the right came the sound of someone moving through dead leaves in the wooded area to the east of his house. Evan sprinted after him.

  It had been raining off and on for days. The ground was s
oggy, and tried to suck the boots off his feet. In the distance he heard a splash.

  Evan could just make out the kid struggling from the stream He slipped and slid, finally dashing up an embankment to disappear from view. A second later Evan heard him let out a cry of alarm, followed by the sound of a body falling and tumbling, accented by snapping twigs and rustling brush.

  Evan waded through the water, then climbed the steep terrain.

  The kid was shoving himself to his feet. Before he could get fully upright, Evan quickly covered the short distance and tackled him. Breathing hard, Evan pressed the kid to the ground, a knee to his back, one of the kid's hands twisted between his shoulder blades.

  "I could kill you right now," Evan said. "Is that what you want? I could drain every drop of blood from you." And grind your bones to make my bread

  No answer.

  Evan pressed harder. "Are you a member of the Pale Immortals? Did they send you? Is this some kind of initiation?"

  The Pale Immortals were a gang of kids whose name paid homage to a previous resident named Richard Manchester, aka the Pale Immortal, who'd terrorized the town and slaughtered its residents. Some claimed Manchester had killed as many as a hundred victims, drinking and bathing in their blood. In the panic of the time, in the mass exodus from what was now called Old Tuonela, records had been lost, so no one really knew the death tally.

  "What're you talking about, you weird-ass?"

  The kid was shaking with fear. But he'd called him a weird-ass. Had to give him credit for guts. Or stupidity.

  Evan relaxed his grip.

  Was that a sob? Was the kid crying?

  He released the boy's wrist and removed his knee from his spine. "Come on. You're okay."

  "Fuck you."

  The teenager looked up, his face splattered with mud, his eyes haunted while he tried his best to sound defiant. Even though the boy had run like hell and put up a strong fight, he looked fragile.

  Now Evan felt bad. As if he was the one who'd done something wrong.

  Here the kid had been prowling around his house, getting ready to break in—probably for the second time—and Evan was the one who suddenly felt like shit.