We’d thought we were alone, Daddy and I.
Alone except for the dead, slumbering peacefully in their eternal beds. They pay us no mind, I can scream and thrash and crash from tomb to tomb and all returns to peaceful quiet when Daddy has had his fill. No amount of blood spilled on this sacred ground has raised a single zombie, not a ghost or ghoul or creature from beyond the grave. Not once.
It is our peaceful playground, slipping past the wrought iron gates illuminated by the moon we are free to roam.
Sometimes when Daddy has loved me he carries my broken body in his arms and reads me a story, weaves me tales of each of the folk that sleep there. Reciting stories from their headstones with extravagant elaborations. Rich plots of adventures and trials, each one with a clever Daddy twist. The double-cross that resulted in the brutal death of Anne under the tree, the demon that stole away the baby buried closest to the church.
It’s no surprise that we didn’t see her at first. Shrouded in black against the still of the night. It was the whimpering of the boy at her feet that gave her away. He felt the sharp end of her boot then, driven into his ribs as punishment for his indiscretion.
She looks comfortable in her perch upon a high grave, her smile unwavering as we stop in our tracks. I see the confusion on Daddy’s face as he takes her in. I read his expression and the questions mirrored in our minds. How long has she been watching? Who is she?
She is different to the others.
Her smile remains as we drink her in; she doesn’t recoil from the eyes upon her, remaining sat upright with a powerful confidence. The gagged pet on all fours looks from us to her, back to us again, the chain of his leash jangling with his movements.
I begin to replay the night in my mind. What has she seen? Did she watch as Daddy rained his love down in unrelenting strikes on my battered body? Did she hear as I screamed his name and begged him to let me climax, “Please Daddy, please, please may I?” Did she see Daddy tear at my flesh with bared teeth and a rampant fury? Does she smell the blood now?
“Well, aren’t you two just the cutest?” she chuckles, hopping down from her perch and kicking the boy out of the way. He hobbles on hands and knees but stays close to her side. She idly trails down a hand to stroke his back, long strokes that finish at his tail and tug on it slightly. The amusement of his gagged moaning flickers across her face but doesn’t distract her attention away.
She keeps her watchful attention on us, as we watch her back. I realise I’m practically holding my breath, waiting for Daddy to respond.
“Your girl…?” she directs her question to Daddy whilst gesturing at me. His confirming nod prompts her to continue “She’s quite delicious.” Her smile grows wider as she ventures forwards.
The moonlight hits her face, highlighting the hunger in her eyes. She continues, “So well behaved…such a delight.” She nods approvingly and reprimands her pup again, “You’d do well to learn…,” another swift kick to his side for emphasis.
I’m quite taken aback. Where is the usual fear? Daddy and I are not well understood by people in the world, they do not approve of our love, how we show our affection, of Daddy’s lessons. It’s why they are the stupid fucking sheep and we are the wolves, the superior predators.
Is she a wolf too?
Right on cue she turns her face up to the moonlight and begins to howl.
The sound is haunting and beautiful, it rolls from her in waves, heartfelt and deep from her soul. I turn to Daddy and whisper, “She’s breath-taking… what is she?”
“Kindred.” Daddy whispers back.