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Cult Of The Nosferatu

Cult Of The Nosferatu

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Cult Of The Nosferatu

281 pages
3 hours
Jul 21, 2021


Bertram Welles, vampire hunter.

Christmas in Manhattan.

Tammy Greevly, a police cadet from Denver, travels to New York to find her brother and
bring him home. Fearing that he is the victim of a religious cult, Greevly uses her budding
detective skills to track her younger sibling down. Bertram Welles, who has been tracking
a series of murders reported in the news and through his police contacts, and believing that
they are connected to each other, soon crosses paths with Tammy Greevly. Welles is on his
own, as he has given his agents off for the holidays, and so he must take Greevly into his
world of secrets as together they investigate and infiltrate a CULT OF THE NOSFERATU.
Jul 21, 2021

About the author

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Cult Of The Nosferatu - Mark Redfield



The huge thumb slid over the tablet surface, flipping the internet news pages. Occasionally the thumb would stop and click on a news item, the man’s dark brown eyes would scan it, and then with another couple of clicks, the man would email the news item to himself. As he quickly worked, the man exhaled softly. He missed the touch of physical newspapers and saving articles by cutting them out with scissors. He was old-fashioned that way. He was brought up circling the toys he wanted for Christmas in the Montgomery-Ward Wish Book catalogue, not clicking and saving pictures on a computer. However, the big man wouldn’t give this computer tablet up for the world. It was second nature now. Another indispensable tool for his work. His thumb froze and hovered over a story from his favorite New York news site…

While he read, the train rocked as it came out of a curve and picked up a little speed on a straight-away, the sunlight flashing past the homes, buildings, and signs. The Metropolitan, the Amtrak train that took thousands of people up the North East corridor daily, had left Philadelphia only a few minutes ago. That’s where the man got on. The man’s eyes were brimming with renewed alertness and they widened as they scrutinized the ‘truths’ laid out on the screen in front of him.

Gang Violence Kills 3 in Battery Park

Separate victims were viciously killed by anti-homeless gangs in Battery Park within hours of each other, police said yesterday. At 5 a.m. Tuesday, a homeless man and woman were attacked off West Thames Street, police said.  Both victims, still unidentified, died at the scene from multiple knife wounds to the torso.

One moment they’re rummaging through garbage cans, one witness said. Next thing you know they’re swimming in their own blood. No witnesses saw the attack, which police suspect was gang related.

Punks getting their kicks out of killing the homeless, said one police officer who requested to remain anonymous. Hey, because these people have no families, no friends, they think they can get away with killing them off. Cheap thrills, huh?

About six hours earlier an unidentified homeless man was attacked in Rector Park. He died from similar knife wounds to the chest. 

The man clicked open a file and scrolled to find an article he had stored. The folder was filled with news items clicked, copied and saved from the New York newspapers. He held the tablet up and slightly away, allowing his eyes to focus. Damn, it was true, he was thinking to himself. Most people over forty-five needed reading glasses and damn if he didn’t lose his favorite pair just hours before in The City of Brotherly Love. The man’s eyes squinted as he reviewed an article from April:

Tunnel Worker Disappearance Puzzle

A welder’s torch may have sparked the fire beneath the abandoned subway tunnels under Grand Central Station. No one was hurt and damage was minimal. Police are still searching for Mario Fuentes, a city employee, who had been working at the site. Police fear Fuentes left the scene after he accidentally started the fire with a blowtorch. Fuentes’ mother, Mrs. Maria Fuentes, told police that her son had not returned home since he left for work the morning of the fire.

Other stories flipped before the sharp brown eyes flecked with green and gold. The thumb scrolled and then paused at a story from December of last year.

Missing Priest Feared Drowned in Hudson River

Police were still searching for the body of Father Jeremy Calligari, who left a suicide note at The Church of Ascending Souls on W. 44th St. and abandoned a car and clothes near Pier 83 off of the West Side Highway.

Rescue workers and local police have been searching the Hudson River off Pier 83 since the car was discovered on Christmas Day.

Father Calligari had been the pastor at The Church of Ascending Souls for the past twenty-seven years.

The big man pulled a worn leather case up off the floor and his thumbs flipped the two metal latches to open the case. A flap concealed one side, while a variety of clothes openly packed the other side. A woman’s floral patterned dress was visible on top. He meant to throw that away before getting on the train. Odd and ballsy choice for a disguise, especially for a man his size, but it worked only hours ago in Philadel–

Nice pattern.

The man looked up and received the gift of an attractive smile from a beautiful brunette who was dressed in a sharp business suit and who was sitting in the seat across the aisle from him. You have great taste, she said.

Thank you. The big man smiled and brushed his trim black mustache with the back of his right index finger. He placed the suitcase on the open seat and propped the clothes end against the seat arm hoping to block the view of the contents from his attractive neighbor.

He swiveled the two brass latches and lifted the flap from the concealed compartment in which was displayed a wide selection of religious jewelry, including a dozen crosses of various sizes and religions; a Star of David, and an Ankh. Two wooden mallets, an array of wooden stakes, and several plastic water bottles filled the compartment uncovered by the flap. He secured his iPad in a pocket designed to hold it snugly. He looked at the floral pattern on the dress and wondered to himself, does she really think I have good taste in women’s clothes?

Business or pleasure? the woman asked.

The big man in his handsome midnight blue three-piece arched an eyebrow at the slender brunette.

Pardon me? he said, in his deep voice with a warm vein of Brooklyn in it. He decided he was finished with work. Time to play.

Is your trip to New York for business or are you taking a weekend getaway to enjoy the holiday sights?

Both, you might say, he replied with a coy smile and a chuckle. I was visiting family in Philadelphia. The dress, a Christmas gift for my mother—but the wrong size. I’m exchanging it while I have time. I live and work in New York. He was babbling, and he knew it.


Actually, I was born in Brooklyn, but have been in Manhattan for the last ten years or so. And you are contemplating a move to the city yourself?

Excuse me? She looked at him with slight surprise.

Well I thought since you have two interviews this afternoon—at least one is a job interview for a financial institution. Your final interview, I mean. And you’re pretty positive you’ve secured the job. I think you have it, if I’m reading you right. And I am. The other interview is with a real estate agent to look at property in Manhattan.

How did you know all that? She couldn’t help but smile at the accuracy of the information the man recapped.

It’s my job to know. I have trained myself to notice what I see.

Wow, are you clairvoyant? A mind reader? Or my stalker finally revealing himself? She smiled to let him know he didn’t have to work so hard.

He smiled back at her.

He liked this woman very much, and while he was talking he realized that he’d been working so hard in recent months, that he really missed female companionship. He wanted to just cut to the chase and blurt everything out: I’m an operative for a world-wide organization that hunts and destroys vampires and I run the New York office and I have several agents under me and I’ve let them all off for Christmas vacation like my secretary Becky O’Hara who I can’t find my keys without her and my top agent, Tom Henderson, helluva good man in a tight spot and my driver Delilah who’s practically supernatural you wanna talk about knowing The City and I just was sent by the company, The Organization, to Philly where I decapitated a particularly loathsome undead sonafabitch murdered and drained the blood of fourteen–

He opted for the safe route and instead shared a half-truth:

I’m a private detective.

Really? She slid over to the empty seat at the aisle, getting closer and turning her body toward him. He moved the suitcase to the floor and shifted to his aisle seat. She swiveled toward him a bit more and smiled. A flash of thigh broke from the slit in her skirt. A black lace bra peaked at him from her blouse. She noticed his warm brown eyes appreciating her body.

You obviously have the eyes for the business. Please, tell me how you knew so much.

During this train trip which, of course, takes us to Penn Station, you have read a magazine and a newspaper. In the magazine, you blocked various ads in red ink. The ads refer to apartments for sale. All located in Lower Manhattan, the financial district. When you read the newspaper, you tossed away Sports and Entertainment. You briefly scanned the front section and Metro and then spent twenty-five minutes reading the financial pages, taking copious notes.


Like me, you like the tactile. The touch and feel of a newspaper or book in your hands, even though you can’t live without your iPad and your laptop. Am I correct?

I don’t know if I should slap you or compliment you.

I’ll accept both.

She laughed. Deep and throaty. We’ll see… But you didn’t explain how you knew I would be meeting with a real estate agent.

Are you?

Yes, but how did you know?

Apartments are as difficult to secure in Manhattan as… well, let’s just say an intelligent woman would use a knowledgeable agent. You are the type that if you don’t know something, you get the people who do in your orbit. You’re a natural leader.

She laughed again. She liked this man. It began to bug her that he reminded her of someone. Perhaps someone from the movies or television…

One needs all the help one can get finding a place in New York. Rents are through the damned roof anymore.

So, are you currently working on any cases?

Oh, not at the moment – Just wrapped up a case in Philly. It looks like it’ll be a quiet Christmas for a change. I’ll be ‘at liberty’, as they say. He hoped she got the hint.

It was then that she realized who he reminded her of—a young, handsome Jackie Gleason. The serious, charming Gleason of The Hustler with Paul Newman, not the comedian, not the Ralph Kramden Gleason.

But I’m sorry to say, I can’t discuss my cases. Only with my close associates.

Well we may have to associate more closely, Mr.—

Bertram Welles.

She welcomed his large outstretched hand and melted when his hand quickly engulfed hers.

Elizabeth Sterling, she said, smiling.

Penn Station, the conductor’s voice blurted over the intercom. Next stop— New York City— Penn Station. Penn Station— next stop.

Do you have a business card, Mr. Welles? After all, if my real estate agent fails, I may need an expert detective who knows New York to find me an apartment.

Here he patted his suit coat. Here you are— He withdrew a card and handed it to her.

The Welles Detective Agency

I’ll be calling you, she said, noting the second number on the card was designated as private.

Please do. Ms. Sterling.

My number is good 24-7, she said, handing Welles her card. She rose from her seat. Mr. Welles, it’s certainly been a pleasure.

With that she grabbed her briefcase and overnight bag, her newspaper and magazine, and her coat and hurried off with the other passengers. 

The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Sterling. And my best wishes with the job interview.

She turned, giving him a view of a radiant profile and a bright smile. She mouthed Thank you. Did he imagine it, or did she blow him a kiss?

Welcome to New York thought Bertram Welles. Maybe Christmas won’t be so quiet and lonesome after-all.



Dead men’s hands, Joey thought. A bone-chilling breeze licked the back of his neck. Joey smiled and kept the jacket collar turned down. He filled both lungs with the frozen air, held it until his heart pounded in his ears, then, through the tight circle formed by his lips, he slowly blew out the warm breath, creating strands of white that circled, weaved, turned about and chased their tails like cotton candy.

Joey stood at Columbus Circle and looked at the trees of Central Park. The trees had lost their battle with winter and stood war-weary, stripped of their fall brilliance and warmth. All that remained were twisted hands reaching for the sky.

The first seasonal snow played havoc with the Thanksgiving Day parade. Joey watched it on television. He watched the musical acts from Broadway. The singers and dancers would stop in front of Macy’s and, using the snowy street as a stage, perform for the crowd. Joey thought the singing was sissy. Joey thought the dancing was stupid. What was great was the anticipation of waiting for one of them to slip on the wet cement and fall on her ass. Man, it had to be cold. All those people marching in the snow. Especially those baton-twirlers in the marching bands who only had one layer of nylon between their legs and winter’s freezing embrace.

The first day of winter and the trees had already lost their battle.

He stared at the trees until he could see them come to life in his mind. Ice on the tops of the branches made the tree-hands old and gnarled.

Dead men’s hands.

His lips parted but only the wisps of moist air formed the words.

They would pull it down, he thought. He could picture the fingers grasping the tablecloth night sky. Slowly they tug it down and grab for more and yank, sending the china stars and silver-plated moon shattering and crashing to the earth.

The trees mesmerized Joey. Like death mesmerized Joey. Strange for a kid of thirteen.

A kid in the class below him was shot during lunch period. Dumb, really. The twelve-year-old gets a pair of sick, too-expensive Nike sneakers. Nike, the Greek Goddess of victory. The kid then parades the new shoes all around school. Look what I got! Some big, ugly kid gets whiff of the action and wants the shoes. This kid is real ugly. And real big. So what does he want with a pair of shoes that probably won’t fit? Anyway, he really wants these shoes. Man, he’d kill to have these shoes. But the twelve-year-old sure isn’t about to give away shoes his uncle just paid a hundred fifty dollars for. So he tells the big ugly kid to fuck off. How was he supposed to know that the big ugly kid also had a big ugly gun? Today, the big ugly kid’s on trial for murder and the Nikes are buried with the corpse of the twelve-year-old. Score one for the Greek Goddess of Victory..

And then there was Judy. Judy used to baby-sit Joey, but that was a long time ago. Two months ago, for some stupid reason, Judy opened her door to a stranger’s knock in the middle of the night. She screamed when the guy pushed his way inside.  But her screams were only heard by the ears of her much too eager intruder. She was raped and stabbed. Joey didn’t know which she got first. Either way, she was dead.

When don’t you think about death, that’s the scary thought.

He continued to walk down Seventh Avenue. Past Duffy Square and Broadway. Times Square blazing in front of him. A year ago this day? Another winter. Another cold. The last cold. His last runny-nose, drippy-throat, hacking-cough cold. He felt electricity surge through him, charging his already brisk steps. Fruitful memories washed out the stale and painful.

Joey passed the place where it all began. The Chock Full O’ Nuts Coffee Shop. This was where he met the only one who was true—true to her word. The Woman. The beautiful woman who provided all the answers in a world where his father didn’t give a damn and the mother was worried more about layers of clothing than the boy underneath.

He turned right on 45th Street and adjusted the ragged scarf that was chained around his neck.  If a thirteen-year-old is going to wander the streets at night, he better at least look like he’s taking care of himself. Cops could pop up from anywhere. The clothing was important to mother, Joey guessed. Her son was ripe with illness. Short, underweight. Pure white complexion, almost porcelain. The way Joey figured it, his blood just didn’t want to flow. And so he was always cold. Which always turned to colds. Flu. Creeping crud of all kinds.

Not anymore, The Woman promised him. The beautiful woman. And she’s always been right.

And then there were the mental illnesses, which never made any sense. The doctor insisted, in his distant way, that Joey’s illness was psychosomething. Something about not wanting to go to school.  Mentally, the doctor concluded, your son’s a bit off, shall we say.

Joey laughed. Sure, school was shit, but it beat staying home. 


Where the weather failed, those frigid words chilled Joey’s spine. He staggered a step, but intent on reaching his destination, kept walking. Nothing was going to stop Joey now, not even—

Hey guys, look, it’s a goddam ghost. The voice bit Joey’s ears. A gang of cackles erupted from across the street.

Just keep the eyes forward and down. Don’t acknowledge them. Let me just keep going. They’ll ignore me. They’ll leave me alone this time. He could see the gang out of the corner of his eye. Across the street all eight of them were keeping themselves warm with their cigarettes and hot-tempered remarks. The leader, Shawn, stepped forward.

It’s Casper the fucking ghost. This blow made Joey dizzy with rage. Hoots of approval followed. But it wasn’t Shawn. With the dull whinny of a voice, it had to be Pete this time. Pete tried hard, too hard, to be Shawn’s lieutenant. Joey was sure the Casper comment was a direct hit. Shawn hooted, slapped Pete on the back, and crossed the street. With a snap of his fingers the gang of eight surrounded Joey.

That ain’t a ghost. It’s the goddam walkin’ dead!, Shawn said. Hey, zombie!.

Joey didn’t stop walking. He could take the names, all he had to do was get past them.

The wolf pack kept pace, eyeing its prey.

Oh! Shit! A zombie! I’m so fuckin’ scared. Bled into further insults, boos and cackles among the eight delinquent vultures.

I have to do it, Joey screamed in his head. I have to show them.

Be patient. The time will come, she assured him. 

I can show them now, I know I can. Let me show them!

Patience.  We have to do it right. 

I want them to know!

When the time is right, she said, almost scolding, sounding like his mother. But this woman was definitely not Joey’s mother.

Shawn let out a short whistle that made Joey jerk

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