Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

ask you to agree to before opening this package:
First, understand that it is not a gift, but a loan. I will, at a time of my choosing, ask you to return these items. On that point, I need your solemn promise that you will protect them at all cost, and treat them with the same care and respect you would afford any item of tremendous value.
Second, the contents of this package are of an extremely sensitive nature. I must ask that you not share or discuss them with anyone other than myself and the eleven individuals listed opposite until you have received my permission to do so.
Third, these items are being lent to you with the expectation that you will write a manuscript about them, of, let us say, substantial length, and subject to my approval. You may take as much time as you wish. Upon the satisfactory completion of this manuscript, you will be fairly compensated.
If you cannot meet any of these conditions for any reason, please stop and wait to be contacted by me. However, if you agree, then you may proceed.
I believe it is your purpose to do so.
—H
Well, shit… there was no way I wasn’t opening it now.
I tore the paper off, uncovering a bundle of letters held tightly by a red rubber band, and ten leather-bound books. I opened the book at the top of the pile. As I did, a lock of blonde hair fell onto the desk. I picked it up, studied it, and twirled it in my fingers as I read a random sliver from the pages it’d been pressed between:
… wish I could but vanish from this earth, for there is no love left in it. She has been taken from me, and with her, all hope of a…
I skimmed through the rest of the first book, spellbound. Somewhere upstairs, a woman was listing off the names of counties. Pages and pages—every inch filled with tightly packed handwriting. With dates like November 6th, 1835; June 3rd, 1841. With drawings and lists. With names like Speed, Berry, and Salem. With a word that kept showing up, over and over:
Vampire.
The other books were the same. Only the dates and penmanship changed. I skimmed them all.
… there that I saw, for the first time, men and children sold as… precautions, for we knew that Baltimore was teeming with… was a sin I could not forgive. I was forced to demote the…
Two things were obvious: they were all written by the same person, and they were all very, very old. Beyond that, I had no idea what they were, or what would’ve compelled Henry to lend them to me. And then I came across the first page of the first book, and those seven absurd words: This is the Journal of Abraham Lincoln. I laughed out loud.
It all made sense. I was amazed. Completely, kicked-in-the-teeth amazed. Not because I was holding the Great Emancipator’s long-lost journal in my hands, but because I had so thoroughly misjudged a man. I’d taken Henry’s quietness to mean he was reclusive. I’d taken his fleeting interest in my life to mean he was outgoing. But now it was obvious. The dude was clearly out of his mind. Either that, or messing with mine. Playing some kind of hoax—the kind that rich guys with too much time on their hands play. But then, it couldn’t be a hoax, could it? Who would go through this much trouble? Or was it—was this Henry’s own abandoned novel? An elaborately packaged writing project? Now I felt terrible. Yes. Yes, of course that’s what it was. I looked through the books again, expecting to see little hints of the twenty-first century. Little cracks in the armor. There weren’t any—at least as far as I could tell on first glance. Besides, something kept nagging at me: if this was a pet writing project, why the eleven names and addresses? Why had Henry asked me to write about the books, instead of asking me to rewrite them? The needle began to lean toward “crazy” again. Was it possible? Did he really believe that these ten little books were the—no, he couldn’t possibly believe that. Right?
I couldn’t wait to tell my wife. Couldn’t wait to share the sheer insanity of this with someone else. In a long line of small town psychos, this guy took the cake. I stood, gathered the books and letters, crushed the cigarette under my heel, and turned to—
Something was standing six inches from me.
I staggered backward and tripped over the folding chair, falling and banging the back of my head against the corner of the old tanker desk. My eyes were thrown out of focus. I could already feel the warmth of the blood running through my hair. Something leaned