The Immortal Mr. Ballantyne

By Abigail Falanga

“By my reckoning, it will be fifty years before I pose a significant threat.”

The letter was signed by Eldred Ballantyne, dated November 24, 1952, and left with a firm of attorneys who’d mailed it as instructed fifty years later. The Singer Biotechnical Institute president at the time was curious enough to open it, and then had a good laugh with his colleagues. It became the stuff of departmental jokes, but was forgotten otherwise.

I knew every line by heart.

“The initial symptoms are inconsequential enough to be missed or dismissed: pain in the joints, sensitivity to sunlight, intense craving for uncooked meat or blood, heightened senses, improved healing. A vastly extended life is only observable after some years, by which time the infection has already matured enough to be transmissible.”

At first, I thought the letter mere ravings. But sentences stuck with me—details that didn’t sound like a paranoid, superstitious nut. In fact, the letter was reminiscent of my own field of study.

Specifically, parasitological case studies.

“There were rumors of manic and violent outbursts—attacks when the infection had become sufficiently advanced. Some mentioned extreme measures taken to curtail the worst.

“Nothing, however, prepared me for the horror of my own encounter. The utterly soulless eyes. The gruesome monster the victim had become…”

The similarities made me curious enough to investigate diseases in central Europe where Mr. Ballantyne claimed to have visited as a young man. I thought it might make an interesting footnote in an academic paper someday.

My study was far more successful than expected. Viewed in the light of parasitic infection, the region’s bizarre folklore suddenly made far too much sense.

“They were right to use the word ‘vampire’—that is what we are.”

Then the muggings near the Institute started.

People on the paths behind the campus came back bloodied and shaken, reporting a rabid, foul-smelling attacker wearing a dark hoodie. The guy never took anything, was never caught on security feeds, seemed to come from nowhere and go nowhere.

“This vampire infection is spread through the insatiable desire to drink blood. Though initially controllable, in the end the victim—the vampire—loses control and all sense of self. Nothing is left of the person who once was, and the husk, bloated and monstrous, seeks a water source near a populated area and allows the body to die—spreading the infection tenfold.”

A township near the Institute had a Mr. Ballantyne living in a rundown, fenced-off house far from anyone. Locals said he used to do odd outdoors jobs in the neighborhood. No one had seen him in a long time.

“There remains at the end nothing but instinct and evil. That is what I will become.

“Already I have experienced an unusually long life. I have enjoyed it and believe I will continue to do so for many years, contributing what I can to society I can no longer fully join.”

My research had reached the point where I needed to report my findings, whether or not anyone believed me. I decided to see Mr. Ballantyne for myself and confirm my conviction that he was the mugger. We now have methods to treat parasitic infections; maybe there was still hope for him—and for those he’d attacked.

I drove out earlier this afternoon only to find his house empty. The nearest neighbor said she’d seen an old truck leaving that morning.

“You are men of science. As such, you will impartially judge the case I have laid before you and passionlessly carry out the necessary task.

When you receive this letter, the time will have come when I am no longer in control of the monster. You must therefore kill me.”

I know the letter’s details. I’ve researched. I’m convinced.

Mr. Ballantyne hasn’t driven that truck in years. He’d only leave his self-imposed isolation if the parasite has taken over.

I drive to the water facilities of the nearest city. Modern sanitation might destroy the parasite, but it’s too dangerous to risk.

There’s a dusty blue truck parked near the entrance. Someone gets out.

I pursue on foot, praying hard, though I’ve never been a praying man. In a city this large, we’ll have an outbreak of pandemic proportions we’re unprepared to treat.

A swinging door leads me into a vast room with a fenced-off pool of treated water flowing by a concrete walkway. A man walks toward it—a form I recognize from when I was attacked while out jogging.

“Eldred Ballantyne!”

He stops.

At least he responds to his name. Maybe he’s not too far gone.

But when he turns, I nearly gag. The face is so bloated and red it’s not human anymore. As I near, I can almost see writhing movement under the skin.

It smiles and something stringlike threads across its lips. “Hungry. Blood!”

I swallow, horrified at my hungry salivation, and advance, trying to position myself between the water and the beast. “Mr. Ballantyne, I’m with the Institute—I read your letter. I’ve confirmed you were infected with a parasite. Let’s get back to the lab. We might be able to save your life.”

Its shoulders heave with a crackling crunch. My stomach turns. It’s far worse than I’d imagined: the parasite has eaten everything within Ballantyne’s skin. Everything but the bones. The eyes remain, but cloudy and red.

“Water,” it slurs.

The parasite spreads through water and blood.

It’s too late to help him.

I jump forward and shove the creature toward the wall. It staggers and reaches for me with clumsy movements. I’m faster. Drawing my gun, I shoot, missing at first but then hit it several times squarely in its chest. The creature contorts and collapses so suddenly that the skin bursts, releasing red goo squirming with long, thread-thin worms.

The facility can sterilize it.

I stagger back, trying not to think of my own slowly-growing hunger.

It was too late for Ballantyne. But maybe it won’t be too late for me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways – with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

---

More Stories | Author Website | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter