Read Online Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter by Seth Grahame-Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Seth Grahame-Smith
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his family’s farm in Madison, a thriving town on the banks over the Ohio River. Search parties were sent out. Ponds dredged. But no trace of the boy was found. Less than two weeks later, before the people of Madison had abandoned all hope of finding him alive, six-year-old Gertrude Wilcox vanished from her bed in the middle of the night. Now alarm turned to panic. Parents refused to let their children outdoors. Neighbors leveled accusations at neighbors, all while three weeks passed without incident. Then, on May 20th, the third child was taken—not from Madison, but from the town of Jeffersonville twenty miles downriver. This time the body was found in a matter of days—along with two others. A hunter had made the gruesome discovery, following his dogs to a shallow wooded ditch where the three twisted corpses lay, hastily covered with brush. Their bodies were unnaturally decomposed—almost completely devoid of color. Each of their faces locked in an open-eyed mask of fear.
Abe Lincoln was sixteen years old that summer, and his resolution to “kill every vampire in America” was off to an inauspicious start. His father’s fears had proved needless. No vampires ever came to avenge Jack Barts. In fact, in the four years since he’d staked Barts, Abe hadn’t so much as seen another vampire, though not for lack of trying. He’d spent countless nights chasing distant screams on the wind and keeping watch over freshly dug graves just in case, as folklore suggested, a vampire came to feast on the corpse. But with nothing more than old books and old myths to guide him, and a father unwilling to help, Abe spent those four years in a constant state of frustration. There was little to do but keep up with his training. He’d reached his full height of six feet four inches, every square centimeter of him lean muscle. He could outwrestle and outrun most men twice his age. He could bury the head of an ax in a tree from over thirty yards. He could pull a plow every bit as fast as a draft horse, and lift a 250-pound log clean over his head.
What he couldn’t do was sew. After spending weeks trying to fashion himself a long “hunting coat” only to see it fall to pieces after one or two wearings, he’d broken down and paid a seamstress to do the job (he hadn’t asked his stepmother, for fear of raising the obvious question of what he needed such a coat for). The long black coat was lined with thick material over his chest and stomach, and inside pockets to store all manner of knives, cloves of garlic, and a flask of holy water, which he’d blessed himself. He wore his quiver of stakes on his back, and a thick leather collar, one that he’d commissioned from an Elizabethtown tanner, around his neck.
When word of those twisted corpses reached Little Pigeon Creek, Abe set off for the river at once.
I told Father that I had found work on a flatboat bound for New Orleans, and that I would return with $20 pay in six weeks’ time. I did so in spite of having received no such offer of work, and despite having no idea where I would find the money. I could think of no other way that Father would have permitted such a long absence.
Contrary to his infallibly “honest” image, Abe wasn’t above lying so long as it served a noble purpose. This was the chance he’d ached for those four long years. The chance to test his skills. His tools. The chance to feel the exhilaration of watching a vampire fade away at his feet. Seeing the fear in its eyes.
There were far better trackers than Abraham Lincoln. Men with far more knowledge of the Ohio River. But there was nary a human being in Kentucky or Indiana with a more extensive knowledge of mysterious disappearances and unsolved murders.
When I heard a description of the bodies at Jeffersonville, I knew at once that a vampire was responsible, and I had a very good notion of where it was going. I remembered reading about a similar case in Dugre’s On the History of the Mississippi
Abe Lincoln was sixteen years old that summer, and his resolution to “kill every vampire in America” was off to an inauspicious start. His father’s fears had proved needless. No vampires ever came to avenge Jack Barts. In fact, in the four years since he’d staked Barts, Abe hadn’t so much as seen another vampire, though not for lack of trying. He’d spent countless nights chasing distant screams on the wind and keeping watch over freshly dug graves just in case, as folklore suggested, a vampire came to feast on the corpse. But with nothing more than old books and old myths to guide him, and a father unwilling to help, Abe spent those four years in a constant state of frustration. There was little to do but keep up with his training. He’d reached his full height of six feet four inches, every square centimeter of him lean muscle. He could outwrestle and outrun most men twice his age. He could bury the head of an ax in a tree from over thirty yards. He could pull a plow every bit as fast as a draft horse, and lift a 250-pound log clean over his head.
What he couldn’t do was sew. After spending weeks trying to fashion himself a long “hunting coat” only to see it fall to pieces after one or two wearings, he’d broken down and paid a seamstress to do the job (he hadn’t asked his stepmother, for fear of raising the obvious question of what he needed such a coat for). The long black coat was lined with thick material over his chest and stomach, and inside pockets to store all manner of knives, cloves of garlic, and a flask of holy water, which he’d blessed himself. He wore his quiver of stakes on his back, and a thick leather collar, one that he’d commissioned from an Elizabethtown tanner, around his neck.
When word of those twisted corpses reached Little Pigeon Creek, Abe set off for the river at once.
I told Father that I had found work on a flatboat bound for New Orleans, and that I would return with $20 pay in six weeks’ time. I did so in spite of having received no such offer of work, and despite having no idea where I would find the money. I could think of no other way that Father would have permitted such a long absence.
Contrary to his infallibly “honest” image, Abe wasn’t above lying so long as it served a noble purpose. This was the chance he’d ached for those four long years. The chance to test his skills. His tools. The chance to feel the exhilaration of watching a vampire fade away at his feet. Seeing the fear in its eyes.
There were far better trackers than Abraham Lincoln. Men with far more knowledge of the Ohio River. But there was nary a human being in Kentucky or Indiana with a more extensive knowledge of mysterious disappearances and unsolved murders.
When I heard a description of the bodies at Jeffersonville, I knew at once that a vampire was responsible, and I had a very good notion of where it was going. I remembered reading about a similar case in Dugre’s On the History of the Mississippi
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