Horror - Flash

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Sir Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

SIR

Darren recognized the man. He rubbed his temples, glitter nail polish sparkling garishly in the pale ochre room. The place was straight out of a classic Scorsese film, nothing but mold and dilapidation and water stains and a line of slim men in square-rimmed glasses standing beyond the two-way mirror.

“That’s him, number three. I think…what’s his name again?” Darren said, squinting, leaning his tired face closer to the glass. He got close enough to see a nose print, and for a moment, he wondered who it might belong to.

A bored-looking cop reached out to press a button on the aged intercom: boxy with vents for the speaker, red talk button, black listen button, the molded plastic light brown with dark brown accents. “Number three, state your name.” He cast a sideways glance at Darren, not at all masking his disgust.

“Miky Bolt,” the man said. His voice was gruff and drawling.

Darren recognized the voice immediately, but something was wrong, something was off. “Um,” he said, panic rising, “can you have number five tell me to eat my vegetables?”

The cop frowned deeply, fingers hovering at the intercom. “What, now you’re all of a sudden unsure?” The disgust in his eyes rumbled into his tone.

Darren straightened his back. “It was a traumatic experience; I only want to be certain. The man’s not even—”

The cop waved away Darren’s explanation. This cop was no detective, likely hadn’t been to the property where Darren had been kept in a bomb shelter, chained to a rail that traversed a rectangle of room decorated in 1980s’ chic.

“Number five, say, ‘eat your vegetables.’”

Number five cleared his throat and in a gruff, drawling voice said, “Eat your vegetables.”

It sounded exactly the same to Darren; his panic now bubbling toward a boil. “I meant number four,” he said, shaking his head in tight strokes.

The cop huffed. “Number four, say, ‘eat your vegetables.’”

Darren blinked at tears blooming at the corners of his eyes.

“Eat your vegetables.”

The man sounded the same, same, same. Darren rubbed his hands on his pant legs, the jingle of a silver bracelet accenting his motions. His mouth had gone dry and when he tried to speak, he emitted but a croak.

“What’s that?” the cop said, his voice now coming to sound kind of like…

Darren shook his head harder, eyes closed.

“What?” the cop said.

Darren stopped, took a deep, deep breath and exhaled slowly. His ears were playing tricks; he had to rely on his eyes, simple. He counted to three, then opened his eyes. It was him! Number one…and two…and three, four, five, six. Darren brought his hands up to his hair, entwining his fingers in the strands. He pulled, as if it might drag reality free. They all looked exactly like the man, the john who’d picked him up from the stroll out by the airport, drugged him, kept him chained in a bunker.

“Well?” the cop said.

Darren spun, the jingling of his bracelet louder now. The cop was him. Was…what was the name he’d used?

“Which one is it?”

Darren looked through the glass at the line of men.

“I ain’t got all day,” the cop said. “Which one is it?”

Breaths hitching, body shuttering, Darren reached out a shaking hand and pointed at the cop. It came to him then; he’d called himself Toby Milk. Toby had wanted a little companionship. Toby had poured wine that had chilled in a motel room sink. Toby had been there, smiling down at Darren when he awoke on the green shag rug on the cool cement floor. Toby had had to do all this because TV got it wrong: vampires were unexceptional in every admirable way.

“Toby Milk,” Darren whispered.

The cop shook his head…shaking away the old-timey station, the line-up, the world that was not the bunker. “Carne!” the cop cum Toby Milk shouted, pulling on Darren’s chain. “Now, which one do you want?”

Toby Milk, the vampire who wanted to be called, simply, Sir, stood in the bunker’s kitchen, holding two Hungry Man dinners: grilled turkey and Salisbury steak. Darren lowered his head before crumbling to the floor, his chain jangling on its track.

“Please,” Darren said, sobbing into his palms. “I just want to go home.”

Sir stepped to Darren and put a cool hand on his back. “Not this again. Come now, Carne, we’ve been over and over this. Put what’s out there,” he pointed vaguely to the hatch in the ceiling, “out of your mind.”

Darren, knowing it would cost him, looked directly at his master and said, “Your name is Toby Milk and I’m in a police station, picking you out of a line-up; vampires don’t exist and you’re just a man. Your name is Toby Milk and I’m in a police station, picking you out of a line-up; vampires don’t exist and you’re just a—

A great wave of blackness, then Darren smelled pennies as he fell sideways, only a moment after seeing the hammer flash an arc toward his head. Blood instantly pooled beneath his face. Distantly, he heard shouting that melted into the A-typical fodder of a police station. He pointed through the glass to the line-up of men. Number three, number three was the man named Toby Milk, the vampire who’d fed from his throat, his thigh, his penis, the vampire he’d called Sir for 998 days under forced captivity.

Back straight, shoulders firm, Darren said, “Thaat’s iim, umbah thre. Tow-Tobe Mik.”

The cop reached for the intercom. “Why’d you make me do it?” he said as he pressed the red button, slurping sounds bookending each word.

The light of the world flashed white, white, white, bending into a tunnel as the gamma waves in Darren’s brain gave one final surge. That light was wonderful, was freedom. Darren wanted to shout—Toby Milk couldn’t hold him forever!—but it suddenly didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to Darren Ryan Butler ever again.

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