IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT

A vampire story I wrote thirty years ago, and rewrote today, 16 July 2025

MURDERS GO UNPUNISHED! Paul Davies, Merridale Evening Standard, Monday, July 19, 2010

Last night, while walking home from the shoe store where she was employed, Jennifer Mossman, an attractive blonde teenager (see photo below), was viciously murdered. The attack occurred at the Merridale Promenade, only a few hundred metres from the civic bandstand, where an open-air rock concert was being performed.

Although hundreds of teenagers were watching the concert, no witnesses have yet been found to the killing, which occurred sometime around 8:30 PM.

This is the eleventh in a series of murders, which has spread from Glen Hartwell to Merridale over the last nine months. The other victims were (see photos page 2) Debra Tennant (aged 42), Mary Agnew (17), Samantha Johnson (30), Petra Bennett (19), Sophie Maloney (approx. 50), Lizabeth Brigham (mid 30s), William Bartholomew (35), Samuel Davis (29), Davinia Bailey (62), and Hector Batlow (43).

Despite the mounting death toll, it seems that the police are unable to stop the murderer, known locally as the Glen Hartwell Slasher (where three of the murders have occurred), due to his habit of decapitating his victims with an axe.

As if not bad enough by itself, this latest murder comes only days after the shocking news of the early release from prison of “Mr. Pongy”.

The Merridale Evening Standard demands to know what Sergeant Bell is doing ...?


“Mr. Pongy?” asked Police Sergeant Paul Bell, a tall, wiry, raven-haired man in his early fifties, tossing the newspaper into the dust bin in disgust. “What the hell has he got to do with anything? Mr. Pongy was a child molester; the Slasher’s victims are all adults!”

“Still, Mr. Pongy is as good a bogeyman as any for them to toss up at you,” replied Sergeant Bertrand Rankins.

Bell looked up to where the younger man stood poring over the large-scale map, which was draped across the small desk. A twenty-year veteran, Rankins had entered the Australian Armed Forces in his late twenties, just in time to join the Australian troops sent to the Gulf War in the early 1990s. Now in the new century, he was in charge of training young troops to help out in peace-keeping forces throughout the Middle East.

“What puzzles me is the fact that the Slasher doesn’t even rape the women, only mutilates and kills them,” said Rankins. “If he raped them, the whole thing would make some kind of sense.”

Paul looked up at Rankins sharply, startled by the comment. In the eleven months since the army training barracks had been erected in Frazer’s Paddock (actually a five-hundred-hectare allotment), Bertrand Rankins had never been seen in the company of any of the local women, which had led to rumours that he was gay. However, in that time, the two sergeants had become close drinking companions in their off-duty hours, and Paul Bell had come to suspect the truth was that, like many military men, Rankins had little time for women other than as an outlet for sex.

A notion which bothered the policeman almost as much as his suspicion that Rankins regularly frequented several local brothels, operating mainly in LePage. Although prostitution had been legal in Victoria since 1986, Bell had worked hand-in-hand with the local council to ensure that no brothels operated in Merridale or East Merridale. Yet, prostitution abounded in LePage and other nearby towns.

“He’s probably impotent,” suggested Paul; this time, Rankins looked up, startled. “Probably the pleasure he derives from hurting and killing women is as close to sex as he can manage.”

“Then why does he also kill men?”

“He doesn’t,” said Bell, making Rankins stare gape-mouthed at him.

“Look, this is strictly off the record, all right?” said the cop, receiving a nod from his friend. “But the official theory is that two killers are operating in the area. One who kills women, one who kills men.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, for one thing, there is a five-kilometre jump from Glen Hartwell, where the three men were all killed, to Percival, where the first of the women was killed eight and a half months ago.”

“And no one has yet been killed in Wilhelmina, the town between Glen Hartwell and Percival,” pointed out Rankins, looking down at the map, which had red dots indicating where each murder had taken place.

“Also, the Glen Hartwell killings have all occurred in the last two weeks, in the same area, while the eight other killings have been spread out over nearly nine months and seem to follow a pattern.”

He traced his nail along the railway line, moving left-to-right away from Glen Hartwell, and said:

“The first occurred in Percival, the next two in Lenoak, then one in LePage, two in quick succession in Merridale, none in East Merridale -- possibly because there’s no station and the train doesn’t stop there --, one in Pettiwood, then the latest in Merridale again.”

“So the killer seems to range from Percival to Pettiwood, with a preference for Merridale,” Rankins said.

“Right,” Paul Bell agreed. “Which seems to rule out the three murders in the Glen, which are probably copycat murders. We had considered that they might be the work of a lunatic escaped from Queen’s Grove Sanatorium in Westmoreland, but none of their inmates are missing. So, unless someone knows how to get out and sneak back in again, that theory is shot to pieces.”

“But the eleven victims were all killed by having their throats cut with an axe?” asked Rankins.

“No. We let the papers report that to throw the killer off, and also in case we got any cranks confessing to the killings. The three men were decapitated with the edge of a shovel, and the women were all killed with some kind of large blade. Possibly a butcher’s knife, or some kind of sword.”

Despite himself, Sergeant Rankins looked down toward the lethal bayonet which he wore in the scabbard at the belt of his khaki uniform.

Noting the soldier’s glance, Paul sat back in his swivel chair and said, “Yes, yes, it could be a bayonet.”

Rankins looked up, startled as his friend put his thoughts into words.

“The first murder occurred shortly after your training barracks opened up.”

“Are you serious?” asked Rankins, uncertain whether he should be angry, shocked, or amazed at the accusation.

“Anything is possible,” said the policeman noncommittally.

Yawning into one hand, Rankins straightened up. He stretched wide to relieve a crick in his back, then said:

“Anyway, how about joining me for a few drinks at Bateman’s Hotel after you knock off tonight?”

“I can’t tonight, we’re starting a series of all-night patrols from tonight, in the hope of catching the bastard.”

“All night ... What, just you and Stanlee Dempsey?”

“No, me, Stan, and fifty or so officers from Glen Hartwell, LePage, BeauLarkin, and other towns all the way to Sale,” Bell explained. Then, sounding a little annoyed, “The whole thing is being coordinated by a CID big bug from Russell Street, Melbourne. Some guy named Ken Fisher. He’s got a record for tracking down serial killers; built up his repo after stopping the notorious Carlton Ripper back in 1996.”


Sergeant Rankins stepped out onto Patrick Street, a small cul-de-sac with branches of the Commonwealth, Westpac, NatWest, and other banks lining both sides and the small police station at the end of the street, as though to protect the banks against hold-ups. (Although normally the police station was shut after 8:30 at night and all day Sunday.)

After walking into Rochester Road, Rankins crossed over to the built-up promenade down the centre of the road. He walked up along the short grass for a few hundred metres until meeting up with Constable Stanlee Dempsey, a tall, muscular, twenty-five-year-old man, with long, stringy, black hair.

Dempsey was bent over looking at the grass in the glare of his flashlight, twenty-five metres or so from the large, white, ornate-metal bandstand, which was the centre-piece of the promenade. As Rankins approached, the constable looked up and grimaced when he saw who it was. The soldier knew that young Stanlee didn’t hold him in the same high regard as did his sergeant.

“So, this is where it happened?” asked Rankins. When the teenager failed to answer, Rankins continued, “Surely you don’t expect to find anything now? Anything you missed this morning will be hidden in the dark.”

“Yes, you’re right,” conceded the constable. “It’s just ...” He hesitated for a moment. “It’s just that I feel sort of responsible for this latest murder. Paul let me off early last night so I could attend the free rock concert. I was standing over there,” pointing to a spot a few metres from the bandstand, “when Miss Mossman was killed.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that. There were hundreds of others at the concert last night. None of them saw anything either.”

“But I’m a cop, I should have kept my wits about me, even when off duty. Instead, I was too busy listening to the Vamps.”

“The Vamps?” Rankins asked.

“The rock group playing last night.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.”

“They’re an all-girl group from LePage.”

“I’m not really into all-girl rock groups,” admitted Rankins.

When Stanlee failed to answer, the soldier said good night and continued on his way.

Rankins walked along the promenade for another five minutes before reaching the metal gate leading into Frazer’s Paddock. Two young privates on guard duty nodded to the sergeant as he walked past, both knew Rankins and knew better than to insist on seeing his pass.

The “paddock” was studded for as far as the eye could see with four-man tents. To one side were two khaki-coloured Nissen huts, a large hut which the officers shared, and a much smaller hut which the sergeant had to himself.

After making sure to lock the outer office behind him, Rankins walked through to his sleeping quarters in the back of the hut. Taking a small key ring from a coat pocket, he walked across to a three-drawer dressing cabinet. He unlocked the bottom drawer, lifted out a large cardboard box, and placed the box onto his bunk.

Sitting on the edge of the bunk, Rankins opened the flaps of the box and began rifling through its contents of women’s clothing. Petticoats, bras, lace panties, pantyhose, and even a short skirt filled the box. Never more than one garment from any one woman, these were souvenirs of his conquests over the last eleven months, since being stationed in Merridale.

It’s a good thing Paul Bell can’t see me now, he’d think I was the Glen Hartwell Slasher! Rankins thought: I wonder if it’s true that he’s one of the men at these barracks?

For a moment, he tried to think who the Slasher could be, but he was quickly distracted by the silk and cotton garments. His flesh began to tingle with excitement, his breathing to come in slow, panting gasps.

Picking up a pink lace bra, he held the skimpy garment up to his left cheek, enjoying the softness of the fabric, remembering the softness of the woman he had taken it from. After a moment, he returned the bra to the box, picked up a half-slip and rubbed it against his other cheek. He repeated the gesture with each garment in the box, enjoying the feel of the clothing, remembering the wearer: Debra Tennant, Mary Agnew, Samantha Johnson, Sophie Maloney, Lizabeth Brigham, Davinia Bailey.

His collection included garments from all of the Glen Hartwell Slasher’s female victims, except one. He didn’t yet have anything from Jennifer Mossman, who was still in the morgue. He would have to wait for his chance with her. But tonight he would add to his collection of souvenirs from another source, which he had stumbled onto recently during one of his late-night jaunts.

Yet, even as he considered going out again, Rankins remembered Paul Bell saying that there would be a major manhunt that night. Remembering the strange look his friend had given him, he wondered if Paul suspected him of being the Glen Hartwell Slasher.

You’re way off base if that’s what you think, Paul, he thought: Still, if you were to catch me at my business, you might think you’d caught the Slasher! But even as he hesitated, wondered whether to wait a few more days, his excitement mounted at the feel of the frilly silk panties in his hands, and he realised that he had no choice: He would have to go out again tonight, even at the risk of being wrongly charged as the Glen Hartwell Slasher.

As he changed into civvies to go out, Rankins took heart from the knowledge that the manhunt would be in Merridale, while he would be many kilometres away to the south, in Glen Hartwell.

After changing clothes, he went across to the cabinet and returned the box of souvenirs to its drawer. Then, opening a second drawer, he took out a short-handled shovel, which he wrapped in cloth, then placed into a green, plastic garbage bag.

Back in the front room, he turned off the light, then waited in the dark for a full minute before stepping outside. Then, rather than be seen leaving again by the sentries at the gate, he trekked across country for more than three kilometres before climbing the fence out of the field on the outskirts of LePage.

In LePage, Rankins waited at the railway station for three-quarters of an hour before a train arrived. Then, in Glen Hartwell, he spent a full hour circuiting around the outskirts of the town, until finally he arrived at a two-metre spiked metal fence, at the rear of the Shady Rest Cemetery.

He threw the shovel over, then carefully climbed the fence, wary of the lethal, spear-like spikes. Ten minutes later, he had located the grave that he sought and began to dig down through the hard earth, ignoring the chill wind which whistled ghostlike through the trees and headstones.

In his excitement, Rankins almost drove the square blade of the shovel through the top of the expensive blackwood casket. Cursing his stupidity, the soldier began to scrape away the last of the dirt with his bare hands before using the blade of the shovel to pry the lid off the coffin.

He tossed the lid up onto the mound of earth above the pit where he knelt, then stopped to gaze down at the woman who lay dead before him. She had been barely twenty years old, with long, flame red hair which hung down way past her shoulders, and full Cupid’s bow lips which cried out to be kissed.

And kissed they were, by the sexually aroused soldier. Kissed hard for nearly two minutes, before Rankins leant back so that he could lift up the bridal gown which she had been buried in, to expose the beautiful body of the corpse to the soldier’s gaze.

He gasped from pleasure at the sight of the full, round breasts, so smooth and pale. Leaning forward, he took one of the soft mounds into each of his hands to paw and pinch the flesh, while eagerly sucking and chewing upon first one large nipple, then the other. For more than five minutes, he pinched and nuzzled the sweet orbs before shifting his attention down to the triangle of short red hairs at the top of the soft, full thighs.

After hurriedly undressing, Rankins threw himself on top of the beautiful corpse. He roughly forced her shapely legs apart and began to batter at the entrance to her body with his rampant penis. After almost a full minute of grunting and groaning, the soldier finally managed to force his penis deep into the body of the redhead. He lay still for a moment, enjoying the way that her vagina gripped like a vice, then began to move himself in and out of. At first slowly, then more and more rapidly, he thrust himself in and out of the soft body, rapidly bringing himself closer and closer to the brink of climax.

It was only as his climax finally approached that, to Sergeant Rankins’ horror, the dead woman threw her legs up around his lower body and grasped his neck tightly with her cold, lifeless arms to pull him down to her. Rankins stared in terror at the woman’s face, where her emerald green eyes now sparkled with a strange kind of “life”. Her mouth opened to reveal long canine teeth. And, like the praying mantis which devours her lover while mating, the beautiful vampire tore out the soldier’s throat, so that while his manhood pumped into her, shooting a stream of sticky semen into her vagina, his jugular also pumped, shooting a steady stream of hot, sticky blood into her hungry mouth.

In moments, the necrophiliac was dead. The beautiful vampire carried the soldier’s body to the opposite end of town, then used Rankins’ shovel to decapitate his body to ensure that he would not return from the dead. Then, returning to the cemetery, she re-entered her casket and used her undead powers to seal the grave shut again. Closing her green eyes, she lay still, full and contented, patiently waiting for her next lover to answer her telepathic call and come visiting in the dead of the night.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia