A Vampire Cult Broke Into Their Home… Then the Screaming Started

Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life? Live?

“Join me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Dr. Nose Leap Podcast YouTube channel,”

where I narrate fresh, never before heard stories in real time.

Just search Dr. Nose Leap Podcast on YouTube, and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. How 'bout this one? Wayne asked from the driver's seat of the 10 year old 1997 Volvo 850. Mark, sitting in the front seat next to Wayne, leaned forward,

and peered out the driver's side window at the house with the long driveway. Lars and I, both sitting in the back, also studied the house from the idling car. The two story structures sat on a large lot at the top of a low hill, separated from its neighbors by stretches of well-tended grass, tall, privacy trees,

and brick fence. In the early morning darkness, the front porch lights shown down on perfectly square evergreen hedges flanking the brick steps. The driveway curved to a garage around back. It was just what we were looking for.

"Looks good to me," Mark said, "lancing back at me with a smile." The 18 year old had thin black hair and a high forehead dotted with acne. A whisper of a mustache clung to his upper lip,

which always seemed to be lifted,

“resulting in something halfway between a smile and a sneer.”

Taking my cue from him, I looked back at the house, fucking rich bricks, probably plenty of jewelry in there, maybe even a flat screen TV. Wayne looked at me in the rear view mirror. His light brown hair was buzzed close.

His pale face, greasy in the car's warmth. I met his gaze. I wish I could say that I saw evil in those pale blue eyes, but that would be a lie. Ever since meeting Wayne a year before,

I'd known something was a little off about him, but at 17, I didn't pay too much attention to anything but my own urges. When I gave the outside world a thought at all, it was one of seeding hatred. I felt like all four of us were a little off anyway.

It was why we were such a tight group. Wayne was the oldest at 19, and the leader of the group. Mark was the second oldest at 18. Lars and I were both 17. I had been friends with Lars for several years,

“and I was the one who'd brought him into the group”

that Wayne now called the drinkers of death. One of Wayne's peculiarities was his obsession with vampire lore. He often insisted he was a 300-year-old vampire, and that he regularly killed animals to drink their blood. I didn't believe him at the time.

I thought he was just being what people these days call edgy. All the signs were there, but I didn't see them. Not until it was too late. Were really going to do this?

Lars asked. I immediately felt embarrassed. I could hear the fear in his voice. My own stomach was uncomfortably tight with what I told myself was excitement.

Only now, years later, can I recognize it for what it truly was? My conscience, telling me to stop, to get out, to do anything but go into that house.

The mood in the car shifted, and all eyes fixed on Lars. I shoved the plastic pint of cheap vodka I'd been drinking into his head. Drink up.

We're doing this. Don't you want to be an official member of the drinkers of death? Wayne said, "Turning in a seat toward Lars."

Don't you want to make some fucking money? Mark asked. Lars hesitated before taking a swing of vodka. He grimaced.

His freckled face flushing. His shook his head. Shaggy brown red hair, swinging. Fuck it. That's fucking do this.

Wayne grinned, turning back around. He flipped the headlights off and directed the car up the driveway. As we approached the house, Mark took the bottle from Lars

and gulped some liquor down. He offered it to Wayne, whose shook his head.

I'd never seen Wayne drink or do any drugs.

Another of his peculiarities. Mark handed the vodka back to me and bounced on his seat with excitement. Eat the rich. Eat the rich.

Eat the fucking rich. Give it down. Wayne commanded. Mark stopped shouting. But he continued bouncing.

As we followed the driveway around at the garage,

shining directly on us. My stomach clenched. Shit. Lars hissed. They were awake.

Let's get out of here. It's a motion sensor. Wayne said. Unfazed.

The garage door was closed,

“but the building blocked the car from view,”

so no one passing on the street would see it. Thanks to the privacy trees, the neighbor's house wasn't visible from here. Wayne parked and turned the engine off. Remember, shut the doors quietly

and don't forget your gloves. How are we gonna get in? Lars asked. Let me worry about that. Mark pulled on cheap winter gloves.

I chugged the rest of the vodka and tossed the bottle onto the trashed room floor as the warm numbness spread from my stomach. We exited the vehicle into the October chill. I felt exposed in the bright light,

but neither Mark nor Wayne seemed to mind. So I pretended like I didn't either. Although I couldn't help but stare at the dark windows of the house. While Lars and I pulled our gloves on,

Mark and Wayne dug in the trunk.

When they were done, Wayne slipped on a backpack with one hand, a large hunting knife in the other. Mark had a machete and a crowbar. When we had discussed robbing a house

“as part of our official initiation into the drinkers of death,”

no one had mentioned bringing weapons. My stomach clenched again, but I said nothing. Did nothing. Aside door at the top of three steps

overlooked the area in front of the garage. Mark and Wayne went over to it. Mark put down his machete and began working with the crowbar. Lars grabbed me by the arm and leaned in. What's with the blades?

I thought we were just robbing the place. We are. I said, Head feeling light and swimming thanks to the liquor. But if they wake up,

we'll need to make sure they don't fuck with us. As I spoke, I heard Wayne's words coming out of my mouth. It was the exact thing he would have said. Lars shook his head.

I don't know, man. This is fucked up. I don't like it. Then leave. I snapped, pointing down the driveway.

No one's making you do anything. You have a nice family to go home too.

“Your parents aren't psychos like my mom is,”

or like Wayne's dad or Mark's stepdad. So I wouldn't blame you if you just left now. My tone said I would blame him, but I didn't care then. I was angry.

And the strangers inside that house were the objects of my anger. I wanted to steal all their nice stuff to violate the sanctity of their home. To scare them. I wanted them to feel as shitty as I did all the time.

I wanted everyone to feel like that. It's like eight miles to my house. Lars said, "Come on, Boyd. Let's just stay in the car."

A loud crunch drew our attention. And we both looked at the door. Mark leaned into the crowbar. Apparently no longer worried about being quiet. He jerked the bar and growled.

Slamming his shoulder into the door. It opened with a crash. Mark grabbed his machete from the stupid rushed into the house. Wayne turned to us. Knife in one glove-dand and waved us in.

Do what you want. I set the Lars. Rushing after Wayne as he disappeared inside. I entered the warm house, passing through the mudroom and into the kitchen.

To my right, Wayne ran down the hall toward where I assumed the stairs would be. Thoughting footsteps told me that Mark was already on his way up the stairs. Why is he going upstairs? I thought.

The idea was to get in and get out with the goods before anyone knew we were there. In my altered state, I couldn't really account for the loud entrance. Sure, that it had awoke in the homeowners. Sensing movement behind me, I glanced back to see Lars coming into the house. I ran down the hall and into the foyer.

The front door was ahead. A dining room sat on my right and a living room on my left. As I stepped into the living room, scanning for any electronics I could steal. A little girl's scream erupted from upstairs. The noise cut through my drunkenness as chills racked my body.

I stepped back into the foyer, spotting Lars.

We both stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up toward the second floor.

Another scream, but this one was different. It was a woman's scream. Other noises floated to my ears. Thoughts. But not like someone walking around or banging on a wall.

These thoughts were different. They had a metallic undertone to them. And a wetness, almost like the sound of throwing a knife into damp soil. Thinking that something was happening to Wayne or Mark, I ran up the stairs. Now that I look back on it, I know that I wasn't just thinking something was happening to Wayne or Mark.

I was hoping that the sounds weren't what I thought they were. That my friends weren't doing what I suspected they were doing. Lars followed me up, although I don't know why. I wish so badly he hadn't. The first thing I saw when I reached the top of the stairs was Mark.

He was in the dark hallway, his back to me. He raised something above his head, and then whipped it down.

I knew what it was, but I didn't want to believe it.

“Seeing a light switch on the wall, I flipped it.”

Illuminating the bloody scene. My stomach turned into a fist, and I wrapped my arms around my midsection. A man dressed in boxers lay on his back in the hallway. Mark stood straddling him, his black shoes on either side of the man's waist. From my angle near the wall, I could see how badly the man was injured.

His chest had several gashes in it from where Mark had hidden with the machete. The man's forearms were also a mess of wounds. I could see exposed bone in one of them, but the man kept his hands up, trying to protect his head. Mark swung the machete, blocking off two of the man's fingers. The blade continued down, bouncing off the man's forehead, leaving a nasty gash.

The guy was utterly silent as Mark continued to attack him, but cries and wimpers came from a room down the hall. I was vaguely aware of large standing next to me, but I couldn't take my eyes off the attack to see my friends reaction. Mark swung the machete down again and again, chopping through the man's hands and into his face. Blood poured and spattered and filled the air with its headdy stench.

Finally, when it was clear the man was dead, Mark straightened.

Woo! He said, "Huffing." Fuck it! That feels good! He looked at the doorway to his left, where the whimpering came from. Smiling, he stepped inside. His next!

I thought of that little girl's scream, and I found myself walking down the hall as if in a dream. I glanced into a bedroom on my right, seeing an empty bed with a pink blanket. Another bedroom on my left was also empty, but its contents led me to believe it belonged to a boy. Distantly, I noticed the crowbar market used to break in, discarded on the hallway floor. Moments later, as I stepped around the dead man and peered into the master bedroom, I was proven right.

A woman sat on the bed with her arms wrapped around a girl of six or seven. She had one hand over the girl's eyes, but the woman's gaze was fixed on Wayne, who stood to one side. He wasn't alone. He held his hunting knife to a boy's throat. He couldn't have been older than ten. Mark stood nearby, machete dripping blood onto the carpet as he looked between the hostages.

I got one, you get one. Mark said, "Pus is gonna be." Wayne held a fistful of the boy's hair with his free hand. His eyes were on the boy's mother.

“I think we should save the kids for last. I want to drink their blood.”

Wayne's eyes shifted to me. There you are, boy. Come on in. As far as out there too. Lars, come on in. You need to see this. I entered the room. Not a clear thought in my head.

I was in denial. When Lars stepped into the room, I finally looked at him.

He seemed to have aged 20 years. His once boyish face was now heavily lined, and his freckles stood out against his deathly pale skin. This isn't right. Lars whispered, looking at me. Speaking the words, seemed to take great effort.

But he said them louder the second time, directing them to Wayne and Mark. This isn't right. I'm out of part of this. I don't want this. My friend turned and left the bedroom. He made it just a few feet down the hallway before Mark darted after him. I knew what was going to happen.

I knew it beyond any doubt, but I still didn't think. I could have stuck a foot out in trip to Mark. I could have tried to wrestle the machete from him. I could have done any number of things. But I didn't.

Blately, I've been trying to wear things that feel great.

“Look clean and actually last. That's why I've been loving quints.”

They use premium fabrics and make everyday basics feel luxurious without the huge markup. I recently tried their mesh performance training tea, and it quickly became a favorite. It's soft, comfortable and breathable, perfect for my daily workouts. It feels like one of those premium performance shirts you'd expect to have an $80 price tag, but quints has them for just $30.

For this level of quality, it's unbeatable. Same goes for their 100% European linen shorts, starting at just $34. Relaxed, comfortable, and polished enough to wear anywhere. Everything is priced 50 to 80% less than typical luxury brands, but the quality is actually the same or even better.

Refresh your everyday with luxury you'll actually use. Head to quints.com/dns for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada too. That's q-u-i-n-c-e.com/dns for free shipping and 365 day returns.

Quints.com/dns. I flinched and shut my eyes at the sound of large screaming as Mark attacked him. All the anger at the world I'd been nursing for years are evaporated in an instant. I didn't know what anger was. I realized that now, I felt like an empty, useless shell shuddering with fear.

but I heard them come back into the room.

“Lars was screaming and Mark was cursing at him.”

I opened my eyes to see that Lars's right hand barely hung from his wrist by a strip of muscle. Blood poured from the injury. He cratled his forearm with his other hand, crying from the pain. Mark shoved him to his knees and stood behind him. Michelley played against the side of his neck.

The woman and her sobbing daughter suddenly moved. I didn't know what they were trying to do, but Wayne had managed them before they could even make it off the bed. Wayne pressed the knife harder against the boy's throat, causing the kid to whimper.

Stay there, or I could have his throat. Detairified woman, a brunette with a plump face, leaned back against the headboard, pressing her daughter's face into her chest. "Why are you doing this to us?"

She sobbed. Wayne ignored her, looking at me. "You with us, boy, or against us?" "What?" I said, truly not understanding what he was asking.

"Are you like Lars?" "Are you like us?" Wayne asked.

I looked at my friend severed hand at the blood and seen you in bone.

"I'm like you," I said blankly. "Good. The fishmoth." "Who?" I asked. "Don't play dumb."

"Lars. Finish him off." "I shift my head." "I'll just watch."

“"You don't leave here alive unless you get your hands dirty."”

Wayne said. "I hesitated, staring at Lars' wound." He peered up at me with such pain. I could feel it, even without looking at his face. "I told you he's a bitch."

Mark said. "No." Wayne replied with a smile in his voice. "Deep down, he's one of us." "He just needs a little help getting there."

A moment to think with anticipation passed. "Well, what's he gonna be, boy?" Wayne asked. "Are you going to walk out of here denied a drinker of death?" "Or not at all."

"I'll do it." "I whispered, looking at my shoes." "What? I'll do it." I said louder. "I stepped closer to Lars."

"His pain filled, pleading eyes followed me." "I avoided them as I held my hand out for the machete." "I'm not giving you my machete." "Mark's golfed." "Go get the crowbar."

"Actually, you stay here. I'll get it." "Don't want you running out on this like your little bitch friend here." "Mark moved into the hallway." "Please don't do this." " Lars said, "Please, man."

"You're not like them."

“"Mark came back in and handed me the crowbar."”

"He stepped back, holding his machete at the ready." "Just in case I tried something." "But the thought of fighting didn't occur to me then." "I was so terrified, so shocked. I didn't even think about it." "All I knew was that I wanted to live."

"I have to decrobar in both hands." "Holding it over my head like a club." "Lars peered up at me pleading." "I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill my friend." "Come on."

"Mark shouted." "Do it." "I glanced over it, Wayne." "His expression had changed to one of disappointment." "I guess I was wrong."

"He said." "Go ahead, Mark." "Mark came toward me." "I brought the crowbar down." "Lars whipped his good arm up toward off the blow."

"I felt the impact break is forearm." "I hit him again. This time in the head." "Denting his skull and ripping a gash in his scalp." "I brought the crowbar back like a baseball bat and slammed it into his face." "Not realizing I'd accidentally turned the hooked and inward."

"The claw portion ripped through his cheek, shattering teeth." "He collapsed onto his side." "And I hit him again, cracking his skull." "I hit him once more and then straightened." "Upping from the effort."

"Lars twitched on the bloody carpet." "His head badly deformed." "His wrist still pouring blood." "I stared." "I'm able to get my mind around what I just done."

"I hadn't really killed Lars." "But I didn't seem possible." "This wasn't reality." "A moment passed." "The only sounds came from the sobbing and whimpering victims in the room."

"That's what they were." "Victems." "The word stuck in my brain is the sense of unreality left me." "I'd been a victim my whole life." "Abused by my mom and her various boyfriends."

"Abused by kids at school." "And now?" "Abused by the people I thought were my friends." "Forced to do something I hadn't wanted to do."

"Something I told myself I never would have done on my own."

"I hated it." "So fucking much." "I thought my anger had fled, but it hadn't." "It was still there." "And now it came rushing back into me."

"I fucking told you." "Wayne said with a laugh." "I know a black soul when I see one." "I spun toward him and marched over." "I want the boy next."

"Hold up." "Wayne said, shifting the boy so I couldn't get to him." "He's mine." "Let's." "I swung the crowbar one hand."

"Hitting Wayne above his left ear." "He stumbled and crashed into the wall." "The kid darted away, screaming." "Mark rushed toward me," jumping over Lars's body. "I spun through the crowbar, hitting him in the chest with a heavy tool."

"As he stumbled, I ran toward him and shoved him backward." "He tripped over Lars and hit the floor." "I hesitated, seeing the crowbar off to my right."

"The blade plunged into my stomach as I dropped my weight."

"The pain didn't hit me at first."

"Masked by adrenaline and rage."

“"I immediately went for his eyes, jamming my thumbs into the sockets."”

"He released the machete and grabbed my wrists." "But it was too late." "One of his eyeballs popped out of the socket." "Squelching against my palm as it hung from its optic nerve." "The other one collapsed under my thumb as I forced it deeper into his skull."

"Screams sounded behind me."

"I turned to see Wayne and the woman wrestling on the floor over the knife." "I stood, leaving Mark shrieking and squirming on the floor." "The machete bounced with my movement and then slid out of me."

“"I gasped and pain as the thing fell to the floor."”

"I glanced over to see that Wayne was winning the fight." "The woman was on her back and he was straddling her." "He found the knife and he was trying to drive it into her chest." "Her arms shook as she struggled to stop it." "Grimmising against the pain in my stomach, I bent over and grabbed the machete."

"I stepped over and swung the blade into the back of Wayne's neck." "It sliced easily through his skin and bounced off of vertebra." " Wayne cried out and straightened as he looked up at me, hate in his eyes. I slammed the machete into his face." "He collapsed, the blade embedded diagonally across his face."

"Mark was no longer shrieking but making a loud keening sound as he tried to crawl blindly out of the bedroom." "I picked up the crowbar and cracked his skull open with it." "He fell limp and went quiet." "Troping the crowbar, stumbled into a nearby wall and slid down to sit on the floor, clutching the stab wound in my stomach. Now the pain was really coming."

While the woman called 911, I stared at Lars's corpse. Regret pressed down on me hard enough to stifle my breathing.

“I'd had the crowbar. Why hadn't I attacked them with an instead of killing Lars?”

Why did I only fight back after that? But even as I asked myself the questions, I knew why. I didn't want to believe it, but the truth was right there. Wayne had been right. I was just like him. Well, maybe not just like him, but close enough. So as you consider granting me parole after these 10 years,

I find myself wondering if I'm ready to rejoin society. I don't think I am. I think I'm an evil person.

And I think that, after all these years, I can finally admit that I wasn't just afraid for my life that night.

I wanted to know what it felt like to kill someone. And now that I know, there's no turning back. From Boyd Greenfield's letter to the parole board, October 17, 2017, the board denied Greenfield's parole, and December of 2022, Greenfield murdered his cellmate, a convicted pedophile.

He is now serving an additional life sentence with no possibility of parole. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.