Vampire Horde by Michael Mulvihill

Monica wrestled with a sleep that refused to come. Guilt gnawed at her thoughts until at last drowsiness crept forward, slowing her breath. She buried her face in the pillow and finally drifted off—

A thunderous pounding jolted her awake. It sounded like a hammer striking the attic roof. She sat up, fumbling for the lamp switch. Nothing. The light was dead.

In darkness, she crawled out of bed and hurried into jeans and a jumper. No time for socks—just her white Nike runners.

Her phone rang. The caller ID read only one word: Picture. She frowned. No such contact existed. Still, she answered softly, “Hello?”

Click. Silence.

When she checked the call log, nothing was there. No Picture, no private number, no missed calls. The phone rang again. She answered faster this time—again, no connection, no record. By the third ring, Monica refused to pick up.

Another hammering blow shook the roof. This time it wasn’t the roof but the attic door itself.

Her stomach twisted. She had nothing to defend herself with—no knives nearby, no bats, no racket, nothing. Her sports were yoga and running, not ones that gave you weapons. She had only her own body.

Fine, she thought. Then I’ll use that.

The pounding came again, harder. Something—or someone—was on the roof, and another was testing the attic door. But why not smash the window and climb through?

Footsteps scraped above her, one slow, one running. Rain hammered the roof. The lights were still out. Her useless phone glowed in her palm.

“No network coverage,” the screen flashed when she dialled emergency services. She remembered now—her provider had scheduled repairs that weekend. Perfect timing.

She looked to the window. The moon lit the glass faintly. She saw nothing. But she heard them.

Her nerves burned. She wanted to climb up and look out, but her trembling body refused. The attic door was unlocked. If they wanted, they could walk right in.

Her instincts screamed. She ran, planting front kicks at the empty air in front of her as she descended the stairs—every step a defensive strike. In the dark, she kept one hand guarding her face, the other tracing the wall, her kicking foot scything in arcs to strike anything in front or behind.

Glass shattered upstairs. They were in. Voices hissed, cruel and excited. Monica’s breath caught.

Three flights of stairs later, she reached the front door. Two locks. And the heavy black gate. Her keys were in her pocket.

She twisted them desperately—only to find the padlock wasn’t hers. It had been replaced. No escape.

The back door—she sprinted for it. But footsteps thudded outside on a ladder. Someone climbing. A muffled girl’s cry cut the night. Monica dropped her keys. They vanished into the dark.

A crash shook the back door. Another padlock rattled open at the front. They were inside.

Cold fingers touched her shoulder. Monica spun, ready to strike—

But it wasn’t flesh. It was pale, wrinkled, translucent. A ghostly man in a straw hat and short-sleeved shirt stood before her. His face—familiar. The peasant she’d once called Arthur, from her favourite attic picture.

“Open the bookcase,” he whispered. “Push.”

She obeyed, shoving the tall bookcase aside to reveal a narrow hidden chamber. Heart hammering, she slipped inside.

Arthur’s hollow form stood beside her. “Stay quiet. They will not hear me. They will not find you.”

Through a concealed panel, Monica watched as the intruders entered her living room. Four of them, inhuman and strange, lit candles and placed them on her table. One of them—a tall, skeletal figure called Ordog—set down a DVD player.

The screen glowed: Questions on our nature.

Monica’s blood froze.

The television crackled as Ordog pressed play. A distorted voice filled the room:

             “Why do we hunger? What sustains us? We are more than blood. We are memory, myth, flesh that has outlived death. We are the children of Ethagoria, our master, whose name binds us to the dark.”

The horde murmured in unison, repeating fragments of the creed like a prayer. Their words twisted Monica’s stomach.

Arthur leaned close and whispered, “These are not just thieves, Monica. They are the Horde. They come not only for blood, but for souls.”

On the screen, images flashed—faces drained white, children held aloft by their hair, churches set aflame, bones arranged in symbols Monica didn’t understand.

She pressed a hand against her mouth to keep from screaming.

The candles flickered though there was no draft. The tallest vampire, Ordog, lifted his chin. His voice was sharp and ceremonial:

“Tonight we prepare the way. She comes.”

The air grew heavy, the temperature dropping as if the house itself recoiled. From outside came the creak of wheels. A carriage. The horde fell to their knees, whispering a name.

“Madhorn. The Queen.”

The front door, though locked, swung wide on its hinges. A woman entered—draped in black velvet, her crown gleaming faintly in candlelight. Her face was neither young nor old, but fixed in an expression of contempt.

The Horde prostrated themselves, foreheads pressed to the floor.

Monica’s pulse roared in her ears. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

The Queen stepped forward, surveying the room. Her voice was soft, but it cut through Monica like steel.

“You have gathered well. But the one I seek is here.”

Ordog bowed so low his face nearly touched the floor. “We obey, Your Majesty. The sacrifice is ready.”

Monica’s chest tightened. Were they speaking of her?

Arthur’s ghostly hand closed gently around hers. “Stay still. She cannot see you—not while you’re with me.”

But Monica doubted. The Queen’s eyes seemed to linger directly on the bookcase, as though she already knew.

The Queen raised her hands. The Horde began to chant, voices low at first, then swelling into a fevered roar. The sound reverberated through the floorboards, shaking the very bones of the house.

Monica pressed herself tighter against the wall of the hidden alcove. The sound made her teeth ache, as though the chant itself gnawed at her nerves.

A chalice of silver was brought forward. Ordog offered it with trembling reverence. The Queen’s pale fingers curled around it. She lifted it to her lips.

Blood. Thick, black, still steaming.

Her tongue traced the rim of the cup before she drank. A silence fell, sharp and absolute.

Then she spoke.

             “This night, the covenant deepens. The Horde spreads. Every city, every house, every heart will know us. The weak shall kneel. The strong shall perish.”

The Horde erupted, pounding fists into the floorboards, clawing at their own skin until blood ran.

Monica’s vision blurred. The sheer madness of it was unbearable. She gripped Arthur’s hand tighter. Don’t let them find me… please God, don’t let them find me.

The Queen turned suddenly, staring directly toward the bookcase. Monica’s lungs froze.

“Something stirs,” the Queen whispered. Her eyes narrowed. “A soul that resists.”

Ordog snapped his head toward the shelves. The Horde followed, their bodies twitching with hunger.

Arthur’s form flickered, his grip on Monica weakening. His voice was urgent now, barely more than breath:

“Do not make a sound. Do not move. If you do, all is lost.”

The Queen stepped closer, her shadow spilling across the wall. She raised her hand, palm outstretched toward the hidden alcove. The air grew hot, suffocating.

Monica bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Then—suddenly—the Queen stopped. Her hand trembled. A look of recognition, even fear, crossed her face.

She drew back. “Not tonight,” she murmured. “Her time will come.”

The Horde groaned in disappointment, their eyes rolling back, but none dared disobey.

The Queen turned, her cloak sweeping the floor, and walked out the door. The Horde followed, one by one, until the room was empty, the last candle sputtering into darkness.

Monica collapsed against the wood, shaking violently. Arthur’s ghost knelt beside her, his face pale with strain.

“You have seen them,” he said softly. “Now you cannot unsee. The Horde knows you. And they will not forget.”