Sacrificial Lamb: Sacrifice Tales

Sacrificial Lamb:

Sacrifice Tales

Her life is in your blood , your desire is in her body

Mary Not Wollstonecraft

© Copyright 2020 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Sacrificial Lamb

—Lazarus by the Sea, Maine—

Ezekiel Lazarus founded Lazarus by the Sea in 1610, a community on the northernmost coast of Maine. The tiny fishing village of Lazarus hugged the Canadian border, just shy of being in the country. One side of town faced eastward to the Atlantic, while the remainder of the community lay in a cove to the northwest.

Ezekiel Lazarus brought with him over 200 souls. Four hundred more followed, and 300 hundred more, and finally, in 1615, 1229 people called Lazarus by the sea their home. The winters were merciless, the summers pleasant, and the nights often filled with terror.

For a dark presence traveled with the first ship. A being who hunted by night. Draining the blood of its victim while their husband slumbered next to them. Sometimes, a daughter taken to where no one knew. Once some disappeared, they never returned, and their bodies were never found.

But as some died, more came, for Ezekiel brought more. More laborers, more fishermen, more shipbuilders, more dock workers. He imported whole families to the little village. Husbands, wives, children, and parents, filled with joy at the opportunity of a new life in the new world. But Ezekiel Lazarus brought them to this place not for their skills but for their blood.

For Ezekiel, Lazarus was a centuries-old Nosferatu, one of the undead, feeding on the blood of the living. For life is in the blood.

They constructed a massive manor for Lazarus with a maze of tunnels honeycombed underneath. Over the centuries, those who disappeared found their final resting place in this labyrinth. Bodies were strewn about, with boxes of dirt stashed in this spot or that alcove. Fifty of them in all.

In the center of the tangle of dead ends, tunnels turning back to the main cavern or winding up to secret exits, sat an oblong box with a large L in the center of the lid.

In the fall of 1896, Lazarus was no more. Though no one in the village knew this.

Even a vampire can lose himself when the fires of lust mingle with love. Or at least what one believes is love. A deceitful woman, determined to end his reign of terror, held him in her arms until the sun, shrouded by the morning fog, hung high in the sky.

The creature who authored thousands of deaths, created many other undead monsters, and ruled over this tiny village for 286 years, incinerated by the cleansing rays of the sun. But Ezekiel Lazarus's blood, in her veins, turned her. And the vampire huntress became Nosferatu herself.

Life is in the blood.

The blood of others called to her. That gnawing necessitousness took its place in her body, mind, soul, and blood demanded more blood. The night she first awoke from death, Lacey Anderson called her father.

With the sun's setting, the urgent need nagged her soul, and she rose. A thirsty, constant, shameless requirement demanded satisfaction. With her urgent yearning eating away inside, she thought of her father.

"Papaw, come to me. Now!"

With her voice inside his mind, calling him, Jason Anderson went to his daughter without thinking of his need or considering what danger there might be. With mindless abandon, knowing full well what his daughter had become, Anderson wandered with quick steps to the manor. She wanted him, needed him, and he realized she'd be his death.

In the grand scheme of things, what a small sacrifice to give one's life to one's progeny.

Everyone wondered where the two prominent members of the community were. They assumed Lazarus killed them. They were utterly wrong. In a strange twist of fate, the murders Lacey Anderson sought to end continued. The only difference, men died rather than women.

For several months, the father guarded the daughter during the day, found the young men for her food, and kept watch while she played with them. After she satisfied her sexual and blood needs, she broke their necks. This perpetuated the myth that Lazarus still existed.

All the same, precautions taken. Once again, each victim had stakes driven through their hearts, their heads severed, and their bodies burned. The men's ashes carried far from shore on a ship and spread on the waves.

This, of course, didn't solve the real problem. The villagers pondered why Lazarus's desires changed, as if that were important. But no one suspected that Lacey Anderson was the vampire feeding on the young men.

Soon, she found a young man, a 19-year-old boy, to take her father's place. So, Lacey stopped giving Jason sips of her blood, feeding on his essence deeper, and, at last, drained him dry. He slept in death for two days. When he woke, undead, his daughter thrust a stake through his heart.

For Lacey Anderson, being a jealous mistress, more selective than Lazarus, and unwilling to share power or blood, freed herself of all family ties. Lacey would always free herself from the encumberment of family or love. Love has no place in her new world.

Life is in the blood.

First, Lacey enslaved the boy's father, and next, the son.

New Year's Eve, 1896

For a whole week, Jamison Williams heard a faint beating. He worried there was something amiss with his heart. The snow lay thick on the ground. The limbs of the ancient oaks covering his little estate had shrouds of ice and snow sticking to them. And the old man felt the icy winter cold deep in his bones.

Amidst all this, Jamison felt the fire in his loins for the first time in years as lust called him. As midnight approached, in his mind's eye, the figure, form, and face of Lacey Anderson stood before him. He imagined her completely naked. Try as he might, he couldn't press her from his mind.

The thoughts of her turned to desire, the desire burned into lust, and the pounding in his ears grew noisier. Her voice called to him under the beating, with its insistent lub-a-dub.

"Come to me, old man, and I'll warm your soul, feed you lust, and satisfy your wildest desires."

At ten minutes to eleven, Jamison made his way through his party guest, tapped his son on his shoulder, and whispered to him.

"Adam, I'm a bit off my feed. Going to bed, son."

"Are you sure you alight, Father?"

"Just tired."

With that, Mr. Williams walked out of the party. Dawned his great coat and strolled through the French doors of his study into the fridge at night. The snow crunched under each footfall. However, any sound, even the breeze or the waves crashing on the beach, disappeared, swallowed by the snow, dense winter air, and thick fog.

All at once, some wolves howled in the distance. But the sound, muted and dull, didn't frighten him. With his heart pounding at a different rhythm than in his ears, he realized he didn't have a heart problem, at least not with the organ. The thumping slowed as he neared a bright red figure shrouded in the fog.

At first, he believed she was an apparition, not something of substance. Not flesh and blood. He thought he must be dreaming when I saw the shadowy figure in the fog. All he could see of her face were piercing, almost red eyes. Those eyes, so sensual and demanding, drew him toward the figure. After a few steps, her great, wavy, red hair pulled him onward.

As the old man came closer, this ghost became quite substantial. He was not alone.

This apparition was, in fact, a lovely woman of twenty-some years. Yes, a young, well-formed lady stood only a few feet from him. Her facial features hid in the fog.

Despite this, the old man knew it was Lacey.

No longer feeling the cold, he peeled the coat off and folded it neatly over his right forearm. The tie around his neck bothered him, so he loosened it and opened his collar. The old man's flesh burned in fire. A blaze of longing consumed him. As he approached, the veil of fog swirled away, and there was Lacey Anderson, more stunning than he'd remembered.

"Kneel."

The word seemed to hit him like a hammer. Knocking him to his knees, the old man hung his head, almost ashamed. For some unknown reason, an unworthiness washed over him. He was told for such as her. Too feeble, far too used up for her to contemplate sexual desire for such a pathetic fool as him.

"Look at me, Jamison Williams," she leered.

Gazing at her lovely face and form, he understood she wanted him. He also realized whatever this was, it wouldn't be easy. This angel wasn't kind and loving, at least not to him.

"What now?" he mumbled.

"Follow me," she said. Raising her hand, she made a wild wave, and the mist parted slightly. She pointed.

Following where her finger pointed, Jamison caught sight of the old manner above the village. With some dreamy fear, he knew he'd taken part in some dreadful thing. But at that moment, he couldn't recollect what or when. There was blood and screaming. So much blood boiling from something, someone.

Oh, yes, Lazarus's lover. He'd driven a stake through her heart there.

"I don't want to go there."

"Follow me," Lacey said as she moved toward the imposing structure.

"I'm afraid." He stood, moved two steps, and stopped.

"Don't be afraid. Lazarus is gone, and I've taken his place."

With her words, his terror vanished and followed. He dared not lose her. Her footsteps left no print, her weight caused no crunching, and the fog threatened to obscure her once more. His cock throbbed from wanting her.

"You're a nasty old man," she said. It was as if she perceived his thoughts.

Something about her made him uneasy. Which caused a physical yearning while engendering some extreme dread simultaneously. Even so, deep in his heart, with a wicked, burning desire, he yearned to taste her kisses and feel the fire over his throat from her red lips.

Stopping turning, she looked at him and laughed. A fantastic, erotic, silvery, musical chuckle. A shiver ran through him. He pondered if human lips could produce such a sound? The fair woman shook her head coquettishly. Then her eyes, blue, not red, burned into him.

"I told you to not be afraid. You're not really afraid of me, are you, Jamison?"

"No," he croaked out in a hushed breath. "Not entirely, that is. But I'm old, and my heart might be too weak for whatever this is."

Gliding to him as if she floated in the air, she touched his throat. Her hand moved to his tie. She deftly untied it and tossed it away. She twisted the first few buttons of his shirt open. Pulled the greatcoat from him and threw it to the ground. She pulled his suit coat from him and added it to the pile.

In a couple of minutes, he stood before her naked in the freezing cold.

"Oh, darling, your heart is fine." She placed her delicate hand on his chest, slid down his chest, over his punchy belly, and finally touched his crotch. Lacey took his tiny, stiff cock in her fingers, squeezed, and whispered. "So is your manhood."

Guiding him to the pile of clothing, she stood over him. Slowly, Lacey stripped her dress and underthings from her body. Under his watchful stare, she straddled and lowered herself on him.

"Tell me to stop, and I'll let you take your clothes and go home."

"No, don't stop."

With a quick move, she engulfed his cock, lowering her lips to his. They kissed as she rode him. Then she kissed his throat, running her incisors over his tender flesh, searching for the right spot. With a hard thrust of her hips, she fucked into him, and at that moment, she dug her fangs into his neck.

For hours, they saw the new year in. Fucking the old man while she fed on him.

When the son couldn't find the father in the house in the morning, he searched for him. At around ten, he saw him, nearly frozen to death, lying on his clothes in the snow. Once awaked him, Adam redressed his father and helped him home.

The tiny scratches on his neck didn't seem to be a problem. For weeks, the father appeared to recover a bit through the day. But every morning, he seemed worse. After three weeks, the old man recovered and continued his daily routine. However, for a few days each month, he had no energy and lay in his bed, looking pale, worn, and older than his years.

May 1897

Darkness drew near, and a relentless palpitation called him to her. Gazing out the window, he wondered why she called him to her rather than her coming to him. Over the past week, the man grew frail, so extraordinarily weak in her service. The sun vanished, twilight fading, darkness approached, and she called.

'I must obey.'

Not because she needs him. Rather, because he must be with her. The yearning, desire, and covetous need of her saturated his essence. The necessity of her cold lips pressed to his in kisses, hot and burning with lust beyond life. The desire to have his body pressed together with hers crushed him. The promise of lovemaking, like an inferno, required him to go to her.

Lacey's voice, so clear, sensual, and demanding, called him, adding a new requirement.

"Bring your son."

No, this is far too much. Jamison William's mistress cannot take his child. Not his only son, Adam. This boy is only 19. The lovely, cruel Lacey mustn't do this to him, to his innocent son.

'I must obey.'

Jamison must obey despite his best selfish self-interest, his son's safety, life, and soul. Her enchanting, dominating cadence repeated the call, deep inside his mind, unmercifully unrelenting.

"Bring me your son."

'I must obey.'

"Adam," William said, "come to me. I need you."

****

As the two men made their way, a stillness in the air turned repressive. The crashing of waves could no longer be heard, and the silence was so deafening it frayed the older man's nerves. Clouds, once far out at sea, rolled over the land, blotting out the moonlight.

Anxiety took hold, and Jamison William worried about his boy's safety. Putting his hand on the young man's arm, he tugged as she stopped his journey.

"Perhaps we will check the Anderson house during the day tomorrow, son."

"Whatever you want, Pops."

In his mind, Jamison distinctly heard, "Bring the boy to me now."

"I must obey," Anderson said. "We shall continue,

A little later, with the house looming only two hundred feet before them, tiny flashes of light lit the landscape in short, violent bursts, and strange, faint, hollow, rolling thunder high overhead filled the night's air. Without warning, a downfall sent hard rain across the meadow.

Adam twisted his head to the north and searched for the lighthouse's beam. The rain fell so hard and fast even Lazarus Point Lighthouse's rolling illumination seemed to vanish. Turning to the south, a long, lean streak of lightning split the clouds, danced across the sky, and plunged to the ground. It momentarily provided enough brightness to see Lazarus Manor.

The wind picked up and drove the rain almost sideways.

"Hurry, Father," the son said.

Before reaching the covered entryway, the downpour soaked the two men to the bone. The younger man pounded on the door. With a brutal battering of his fist, he beat the door while his father took hold of the knocker and did likewise. In moments, the sweet voice of Lacey Anderson greeted them.

"Yes," she said from behind the massive oak entry.

"It is Jamison Williams and his son, Adam," the younger man said.

The door slowly opened. With a creak, it swung back, and an angel stood there to greet them. Her dress was blood red, with no other color, and her pale pallor suggested they'd scared her. The area behind her was nearly dark, with only a single candle lighting the hallway. A small light flickered to the left of the hall beyond some large pillars.

"Gentlemen, welcome to my home. Please, enter freely, as if my house is your own home." Lacey Anderson bowed in a courtly manner with a wave of her hand, indicting them to come inside.

As they passed through the opening, the air turned positively cold.

"Come, dear friends, let us go into the Drawing room. The two of you must warm yourselves and tell me why you have ventured out on such an ungodly night."

In moments, the two men huddled near the flames, stretching their arms near the fire, rubbing their hands together, and bathing in the warmth. While they tried to dry out, Lacey made her way about and lit a few more candles.

"Now, please enlighten me to the reason the two of you have sojourned amid nature's furry."

"We were only trying to find out if you and your father were well. For no one has seen or heard from you for such a long time," the younger Williams said.

"We are marvelous. Father and I have been in Bangor. In fact, father, and this is quite scandalous, father has met a woman. A woman no older than I, and they are quite smitten with one another."

"Mr. Williams, remember this. Father told you we were going out of town."

"I suppose I have reached the age when the mind turns to mush and memory fades," the old man said.

"It is quite alright, Mr. Williams." Lacey Anderson turned to the other man. "Now, Mr. Williams, the younger, please forgive me, but I have forgotten your Christian name if I've ever known it. And, truly, I don't wish to call you Mr. Williams, but your given name whenever I feel inclined."

"Miss Anderson, I'm Adam. And no, we have never spent much time in each other's company. But feel free to call me, Adam, anytime, anywhere, you desire."

"Adam, what a tall, handsome, curly-haired man you are. The rumors don't do you justice."

Jamison Williams's jealousy flared, and he wanted to strike his son. How dare he take her attention? His hands hung at his side and balled into fists, anger flashed in his heart. Emotion boiled and threatened to spill out. He rocked on his heels like he stood on a ship making its way through mildly rough seas.

The younger Williams' attraction to her grew, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, and his heartbeat quickened.

Lacey took in his reaction and amplified the desires inside him.

"You're all too kind."

"Not at all." Lacey turned to the elder once more. She raised her hand and flashed her own anger. "Old man, go home. Your son and I have much to talk about."

Outside, the wind howled, rain splatted and battered against the windows, flashes of lightning erupted, and ominous thunder rolled. Taking control of Jamison's emotions, he rose, hurt by her cruel order, bowed, and strolled on shaky legs toward the hall.

"My father can't walk home in this storm. He's sick and came here out of concern for you."

Lacey twisted her head in Adam's direction. With a wave of her hand, a snap of her fingers, the wind stopped, the rain likewise, and the last clap of thunder faded into nothingness.

"Pouf," she said, "the storm is over. And you aren't to even think of your father. Get out of your wet clothing while I'll see your father to the door."

Replacing the clattering of the storm, wolves, three or four of them, off in the distance, howled.

"Yes, ma'am," Adam said blankly. Undressing, the boy positioned himself on the floor facing the hearth.