Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

“some fifty feet up.” Something the size and shape of a man.
“It was a ghost. The way it flew above the earth. The way its white body rippled as it moved through the air. A Shawnee ghost, come to take our souls for trespassing.”
Thomas watched it soar toward them, too frightened to yell. Too frightened to warn his father that it was coming. Right above him. Right now.
“I saw a glint of white and heard a shriek that would’ve woke the dead a mile off. Old Ben spooked, threw me in the dirt, and took off running wild, the plow hanging on by one strap, bouncing around behind him. I looked up where Daddy’d been standing. He was gone.”
Thomas struggled to his feet with a head full of stars and (though he wouldn’t realize it for hours) a broken wrist. The ghost stood fifteen or twenty feet away with its back to him. Standing over his father, patient and calm. Glaring at him like a God. Reveling in his helplessness.
“He wasn’t no ghost. No Shawnee, either. Even from the back, I could tell this stranger wasn’t much more than a boy—no bigger than my brothers. His shirt looked like it’d been made for somebody twice his size. White as ivory. Half tucked into his striped gray trousers. His skin was damn near the same shade, and the back of his neck was crisscrossed with little blue lines. There he stood, with not a twitch or breath to set him apart from a statue.”
Abraham Sr. was barely forty-two years old. Good genes had made him tall and broad shouldered. Honest work had made him lean and muscular. He’d never seen the losing end of a fight, and he sure as hell wouldn’t see it now. He got to his feet (“slow, like his ribs were broke”), squared his body, and clenched his fists. He was hurt, but that could wait. First, he was going to knock this little son of a—
“Daddy’s jaw went slack when he got a look at the boy’s face. Whatever he saw scared the hell out of him.”
“What in the name of Chr—?”
The boy swung at Abraham’s head. It missed me. Abraham took a step back and lifted his fists, but stopped short of throwing a punch. It missed. He felt a stinging on the left side of his face. Didn’t it? A tingling under his eye. He lifted the tip of his index finger to his face… the slightest touch. Blood began to run down in sheets, pouring out of the razor-thin slice that ran from his ear to his mouth.
It didn’t miss.
These are the last seconds of my life.
Abraham felt his head snap backward. Felt his eye socket shatter. Light everywhere. He felt the blood running from his nostrils. Another blow. Another. His son screaming somewhere. Why doesn’t he run? His jaw broken. His teeth knocked loose. The fists and the screaming growing farther away. To sleep now… never to wake.
It held Abraham’s body by the hair, striking and striking until his forehead finally “caved in like an eggshell.”
“The stranger wrapped his hands around Daddy’s neck and lifted him in the air. I cried out again—sure he meant to strangle the last of him away. Instead he pushed those long thumbnails, those knives, through Daddy’s Adam’s apple and—pop—tore his neck open from the middle. He held his mouth underneath the hole, guzzling like a drunk with a whiskey bottle. Swallowing mouthfuls of blood. When it didn’t come quick enough, he wrapped an arm around Daddy’s chest and hugged him tight. Squeezed his heart till the last ounce was gone—then dropped him in the dirt and turned around. Looked dead at me. Now I understood. Now I knew why Daddy’d been so scared. It had eyes black as coal. Teeth as long and sharp as a wolf’s. The white face of a demon, God strike me down if I lie. My heart thumped away. My breath abandoned me. It stood there with its face covered in Daddy’s blood and it… I swear to you it clutched its hands to its chest and… sang to me.”
It had the earnest, pitch-perfect voice of a young man. An unmistakable English accent.
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress—
Then music, with her silver sound,
With speedy help doth lend redress. *
That such a sound could come from something so hideous—that its white face could wear such a warm smile—it was all a cruel joke. Its song concluded, the demon gave a long, low bow and ran into the woods. “Ran off till I couldn’t see a trace of white between the trees no more.” Eight-year-old Thomas knelt over his father’s crooked, empty corpse. Every inch of him shook.
“I