Immortality: Tales of the Undead- Camp Blood

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Note- This is the twentieth story of an original and vampire anthology series.

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Immortality: Tales of the Undead- Camp Blood

"I'm telling you, it's the truth, I say, it's the darn truth." The old geezer stopped, and was baking marshmallows over the fire. The rest of the young campers laughed at him. They thought the old man was crazy. But the old man had said that it was entirely true. Campfire tales were meant to scare people to wits. But not like this. They just laughed.

"You don't know anything," the old man said. "You might think I'm crazy. But I'll tell you what. You'll be sorry if you don't listen to me. Oh yes, you'll be sorry. I won't blame myself."

The kids stopped laughing. At this point, they didn't know what to say. But what was said, it had been done. The old man coughed, and coughed. He finally spat on the dirty ground. The kid sitting beside him look disgusted.

"Sorry about that, kid," the old man said, "My habit. But you know what they say? Old habits die hard." He gave another spat. The kid wanted to get away from him. The others wanted to puke.

"Well, let's see..." The old man continued cooking the marshmallows. He wasn't aware they were getting burned. The little girl began to giggle.

"So, where was I?" The old man said. "Oh yes, John Randall. You know who he was. He was a great writer. Wrote stories all day long. Scary stuff. But get this. He wrote a story that you wouldn't believe it." He looked at the marshmallows, and finally noticed they were getting burned. He chucked them away.

"As I was saying, John Randall wrote great stories." He coughed and spat. "But there is a hard truth to all this. John had committed serious crimes. I'm sure you boys and girls heard the story."

They all nodded. One of them, was a huge fan of John's novels. But now, he stopped reading them, because his mother told him not to read the books of a deranged killer.

"Yes, sir," the old man continued. "He had killed a lot of people. "I'm not sure why. But I can tell you something. He was a... VAMPIRE!"

The kids laughed out loud. The older kid, who was the leader of the camp group, shook his head.

"Jesus Christ! He was! I'm telling you. Why do you think he killed those people? He wanted to write good stories. He was getting inspiration. A lot of folks have said this to me. I have never taught of that." He coughed again, but didn't spit.

"Anyways, John Randall was a vampire. Enough said." He took a bottle of hard liquor, and drank the half of it. The kids looked at him, as if the story didn't end there.

"That's crazy talk," Joe, the leader of the camp said. "You know there are no such thing as vampires." The kids agreed with him.

"Joe, my man," the old man said. "I know you don't believe me. But you should have seen him. I was there, young as a happy camper. I was pissing off over there at the rock side, and saw John sucking the blood out of his victims. They were my friends." He drank the rest of the bottle, and threw it away.

Joe started to laugh. The kids didn't laugh with him because they ran out of laughing gas. The old man stared at him, as if he was about to get angry.

"Joe, John was a vampire," the old man said. "I won't say it again. I know what I saw." He searched for another bottle. "Now where is that liquor?" He stared at the nearby kid, and asked him. The kid only shook his head.

"Whatever you say, old man," Joe said. He stopped laughing, as he stared at the old man, still looking for more liquor. The old man sighed. He came back to the log, looking at the kids. He remembered those young faces from his past. They were dead. John Randall was a cold-hearted killer.

"It's time to sleep, folks," Joe said, feeling tired. But before everyone left, the old man said, "Camp Blood."

"Pardon?" Joe looked back at the old man. The old man said "Camp Blood" again.

"Camp Blood was name of the novel, written by John himself. Yeah, he came out here, got the inspiration, and sold the books into millions of dollars. That's what happened. Does anyone here read that novel?"

Nobody had read the novel, except for one kid whose mother rejected it.

"You see, Camp Blood was about a man, whose hunger for blood drove him mad that he killed his own happy campers. The story was however set in the 1940s. At the time, the soldiers were living on separate camps. This soldier for some reason, had the hunger for blood. No explanation, whatsoever. He tried eating normal food, just like everyone else. But it didn't work. He puked the food out, as if his system rejected it. It was bad for him. So, he felt drinking something. He wasn't sure what it was. Then the shooting came out of nowhere. The Germans infiltrated their camps. Lots of happy campers got killed, except for the soldier, who was hungry for blood. I don't remember his name, but he never got killed. People say he wasn't human. He drank the blood from the soldiers. He couldn't drink the blood from the dead. That was another nasty thing for him. So, off he went on drinking blood. Like a bat flying through the night. It was scary as hell."

The kids only looked at him. One of them, pissed his pants.

"Anyways, the soldier has never been found. Through this day, he didn't age a bit. There was no telling how long he was doing the killing. But it had been done. That's how John got the inspiration."

"John was a human being," Joe said. "He probably imagined himself as a vampire. Right, guys?" The kids didn't say anything, not even uttering a single sound. Some of them started to shiver.

The old man looked at the kids, then back at Joe. "You see, Joe? They started to believe me. John Randall was a vampire."

"Okay, that's enough," Joe said angrily. "We're going to sleep. Goodnight, old man." Joe and the kids went back to their tents. The old man was alone.

I don't care if Joe doesn't believe me. He will soon know the truth. Like if that will ever happen. It was a nightmare for the old man, because he was there. He saw what John did to the kids, his friends. Dear God, what have I seen? Was it real? The old man felt it was real. The look on John Randall's eyes...

The old man removed the bad thought away. He decided to go to sleep. Sleep had never come to him much, since he was a kid. At times, he used to stay awake, thinking that John will come for him. So far, nobody came. Not even John Randall.

He slept peacefully in his tent. Then, several footsteps have been heard. The old man woke up. He peeked through the tent, and saw a dark figure roaming around the camp.

The old man felt his heart beating faster. He tried to calm himself. Oh no, this can't happen again. I must be dreaming. But it was no dream. John came back. He was supposed to be dead. He was executed for the crimes of humanity. Now, he came back.

Step by step, John slowly looked around the camp. He came closer to the old man's tent. The old man's heart grew faster...faster...and faster. Then, the heart stopped. The old man screamed.

The next day, the police have arrived at the camp. The old man was found dead in his tent. The young campers were now sad to hear that he died of a heart attack. Even Joe became sad. He never thought of the old man, crazy enough to tell a crazy story. Craziness had killed him.

But somewhere around the corner of the forest. A man stood there, looking from beyond the cave. He was this close. For some reason, he couldn't shake off his fading hunger. He must have drunk a lot of blood in the past few weeks. But when the time comes...the happy campers will soon be dead. Camp Blood.

The End

Next Story- Stakes.

Continued in Immortality: Tales of the Undead, Volume 3.