The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires

by Grady Hendrix

  “You had more choice than me,” Mrs. Greene said.

  “I wound up in the hospital.”

  “That’s your own fault.”

  Patricia choked, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, then pressed her palm over her mouth. She had risked all her certainty, all her comfort, everything they’d carefully rebuilt over the last three years to come out here and all she had found was someone who hated her.

  “I’m sorry I came,” she said, standing, blind with tears, grabbing her purse, and then not knowing which way to go because Mrs. Greene’s legs blocked her passage to the front door. “I only came because Miss Mary stood behind my dining room door and told me to come, and I realize now how foolish that sounds, and I’m sorry. Please, I know you hate me but please don’t tell anyone I was here. I couldn’t bear for anyone to know I came out here and said these things. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Mrs. Greene stood up, turned her back on Patricia, and left the room. Patricia couldn’t believe Mrs. Greene hated her so much she wouldn’t even walk her to the door, but of course she did. Patricia and the book club had abandoned her. She stumbled to the door, knocking one hip into Mrs. Greene’s chair, and then she heard the voice behind her.

  “I didn’t steal it,” Mrs. Greene said.

  Patricia turned and saw Mrs. Greene holding out a glossy square of white paper.

  “It was on my coffee table one day,” Mrs. Greene said. “Maybe I brought it back here after Miss Mary passed and forgot I had it, but when I picked it up my hair stood on end. I could feel eyes staring into me from behind. I turned around and for a moment I saw the poor old lady standing behind that door there.”

  Their eyes met in the gloomy living room air, and the construction noises got very far away, and Patricia felt like she had taken off a pair of sunglasses after wearing them for a very long time. She took the photograph. It was old and cheaply printed, curling up around the edges. Two men stood in the center. One looked like a male version of Miss Mary but younger. He wore overalls and had his hands buried in his pockets. He wore a hat. Next to him stood James Harris.

  It wasn’t someone who looked like James Harris, or an ancestor, or a relative. Even though the haircut was slicked with Brylcreem and had a razor-edge part, it was James Harris. He wore a white three-piece suit and a wide tie.

  “Turn it over,” Mrs. Greene said.

  Patricia flipped the photograph with shaking fingers. On the back someone had written in fountain pen, 162 Wisteria Lane, Summer, 1928.

  “Sixty years,” Patricia said.

  James Harris looked exactly the same.

  “I didn’t know why Miss Mary gave me this photo,” Mrs. Greene said. “I don’t know why she didn’t give it to you direct. But she wanted you to come here, and that must mean something. If she still cares about you, then maybe I can put up with you, too.”

  Patricia felt scared. Miss Mary had come to both of them. James Harris didn’t age. Neither of these things could possibly be true, but they were and that terrified her. Vampires didn’t age, either. She shook her head. She couldn’t start thinking that way again. That kind of thinking could ruin everything. She wanted to live in the same world as Kitty, and Slick, and Carter, and Sadie Funche, not over here on her own with Mrs. Greene. She looked at the photo again. She couldn’t stop looking at it.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  Mrs. Greene went to her bookshelf and took a green folder off the top. It had been used and reused and had different headings written on it and scratched out. She laid it open on the coffee table and she and Patricia sat back down.

  “I want my babies to come home,” Mrs. Greene said, showing Patricia what was inside. “But you see what he does.”

  Patricia paged through the folder, clipping after clipping, and she got cold.

  “It’s all him?” she asked.

  “Who else?” Mrs. Greene said. “My service cleans his house twice a month. One of his regular girls is gone. I volunteered to fill in this week.”

  Patricia’s heart slowed to a crawl.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh gave me a box of those murder books y’all read. She said she didn’t want them in her house anymore. Whatever Mr. Harris is, he’s not natural, but I think he’s got something in common with those evil men from your books. They always take a souvenir. They like to hold on to a little something when they hurt someone. I only met the man a few times but I could tell he was real full of himself. I bet he keeps something from each of them in his house so he can pull them out and feel like a bigshot all over again.”

  “What if we’re wrong?” Patricia said. “I thought I saw him doing something to Destiny Taylor years ago, but it was dark. What if I was wrong? What if her mother did have a boyfriend and lied about it? We both think we saw Miss Mary, we both believe this is a picture of James Harris, but what if it’s just someone who looks like him?”

  Mrs. Greene pulled the picture over to her with two fingers and looked at it again.

  “A no-good man will tell you he’s going to change,” she said. “He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, but you’re the fool if you don’t believe what you see. That’s him in this picture. That was Miss Mary who whispered to us. Everybody may be telling me different, but I know what I know.”

  “What if he doesn’t keep trophies?” Patricia asked, trying to slow things down.

  “Then there’s nothing there to find,” Mrs. Greene said.

  “You’ll get arrested,” Patricia said.

  “It’d go faster with two of us,” Mrs. Greene said.

  “It’s against the law,” Patricia said.

  “You turned your back on me once before,” Mrs. Greene said, and her eyes blazed. Patricia wanted to look anywhere else but she couldn’t move. “You turned your back on me and now he’s come for your children. You’re out of time. It’s too late to find excuses.”

  “I’m sorry,” Patricia said.

  “I don’t want your sorry,” Mrs. Greene said. “I want to know if you’ll come in his house and help me look.”

  Patricia couldn’t say yes. She had never broken a law in her life. It went against everything in her body. It went against everything she’d lived for forty years. If she got caught she would never be able to look Carter in the eye again, she’d lose Blue, and she’d lose Korey. How could she raise the children and tell them to obey the law if she didn’t?

  “When?” she asked.

  “This coming weekend he’s going to Tampa,” Mrs. Greene said. “I need to know if you’re serious or not.”

  “I’m sorry,” Patricia said.

  Mrs. Greene’s face screwed itself shut.

  “I need to get my sleep,” she said, starting to stand up.

  “No, wait, I’ll go,” Patricia said.

  “I don’t have time for you to play,” Mrs. Greene said.

  “I’ll go,” Patricia said.

  Mrs. Greene walked her to the front door. At the door, Patricia stopped.

  “How could we have seen Miss Mary?” she asked.

  “She’s burning in Hell,” Mrs. Greene said. “I asked my minister and he says that’s where ghosts come from. They burn in Hell and they can’t go into the cool, healing waters of the River Jordan until they let go of this world. Miss Mary suffers the torments of Hell because she wants to warn you. She burns because she loves her grandchildren.”

  Patricia’s blood felt heavy in her veins..

  “I think it’s her, too,” Patricia said, and she tried one last time to stop all this talk of ghosts, and men who didn’t age, and to erase the image of James Harris in the back of the van, that inhuman thing coming out of his mouth, hunched over Destiny Taylor. “Maybe we’re making this too difficult. Maybe if we go and ask him to stop…tell him what we know…”

  “Three things are
never satisfied,” Mrs. Greene said, and Patricia recognized the quotation from somewhere. “And four is never enough. He’ll eat up everyone in the world and keep on eating. The leech has two daughters and their names are Give and Give.”

  Patricia had an idea.

  “If two of us make it go faster,” she said, “it’ll go even faster with three.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Patricia!” Slick cried. “Thank goodness!”

  “I’m sorry to drop by without calling—” Patricia began.

  “You’re always welcome,” Slick said, pulling her in off the doorstep. “I’m brainstorming my Halloween party and maybe you can unstick my logjam. You’re so good at these things!”

  “You’re having a Halloween party?” Patricia asked, following Slick back to her kitchen.

  She held her purse close to her body, feeling the folder and photograph burning through its canvas sides.

  “I’m against Halloween in all its forms because of the Satanism,” Slick said, pulling open her stainless-steel refrigerator and taking out the half-and-half. “So this year, on All Hallows’ Eve, I will be holding a Reformation Party. I know it’s last minute, but it’s never too late to praise the Lord.”

  She poured coffee, added her half-and-half, and handed Patricia a black-and-gold Bob Jones University mug.

  “A what party?” Patricia asked.

  But Slick had already burst through the swinging door that led to the back addition. Patricia followed, mug in one hand, purse in the other. Slick sat on one of the sofas in what she called the “conversation area,” and Patricia sat across from her and looked for a place to set her mug. The coffee table between them was covered in photocopies, clipped-out magazine articles, three-ring binders, and pencils. The end table next to her was crowded with a collection of snuffboxes, several marble eggs, and a bowl of potpourri. Along with the dried flower petals, leaves, and wood shavings, Slick had added a few golf balls and tees to pay tribute to Leland’s passion for the sport. Patricia decided to just hold her mug in her lap.

  “You catch more flies with sugar than vinegar,” Slick said. “So on Sunday I’ll throw a party that will make everyone forget about Halloween: my Reformation Party. I’m going to present the idea to St. Joseph’s tomorrow. See, we’ll take the children to the Fellowship Hall—and of course Blue and Korey will be welcome—and we’ll make sure there are activities for the teenagers. They’re the ones most at risk, after all, but instead of monster costumes they dress up like heroes of the Reformation.”

  “The who?” Patricia asked.

  “You know,” Slick said. “Martin Luther, John Calvin. We’ll have medieval line dancing and German food, and I thought it would be fun to have themed snacks. What do you think? It’s a Diet of Worms cake.”

  Slick handed Patricia a picture she’d cut out of a magazine.

  “A worm cake?” Patricia asked.

  “A Diet of Worms cake,” Slick corrected. “When the Holy Roman Empire declared Martin Luther a fugitive for nailing his ninety-five theses to the church door? The Diet of Worms?”

  “Oh,” Patricia said.

  “You decorate it with gummy worms,” Slick said. “Isn’t that hilarious? You have to make these things entertaining and educational.” She plucked the clipping out of Patricia’s hand and studied it. “I don’t think it’s sacrilegious, do you? Maybe not enough people know who John Calvin is? We’re also going to try reverse trick-or-treating.”

  “Slick,” Patricia said. “I hate to change the subject, but I need help.”

  “What’s the matter?” Slick asked, putting down the clipping and scooting to the edge of her seat, eyes fastened on Patricia. “Is it about Blue?”

  “You’re a spiritual person?” Patricia asked.

  “I’m a Christian,” Slick said. “There’s a difference.”

  “But you believe there’s more to this world than what we can see?” Patricia asked.

  Slick’s smile got a little thin.

  “I’m worried about where all this is going,” she said.

  “What do you think about James Harris?” Patricia asked.

  “Oh,” Slick said, and she sounded genuinely disappointed. “We’ve been here before, Patricia.”

  “Something’s happened,” Patricia said.

  “Let’s not go back there again,” Slick said. “All that’s behind us now.”

  “I don’t want to do this again, either,” Patricia said. “But I’ve seen something, and I need your opinion.”

  She reached into her purse.

  “No!” Slick said. Patricia froze. “Think about what you’re doing. You made yourself very sick last time. You gave us all a scare.”

  “Help me, Slick,” Patricia said. “I genuinely don’t know what to think. Tell me I’m crazy and I’ll never mention it again. I promise.”

  “Just leave whatever it is in your purse,” Slick said. “Or give it to me and I’ll put it through Leland’s shredder. You and Carter are doing so well. Everyone’s so happy. It’s been three years. If anything bad was going to happen, it would have happened by now.”

  A feeling of futility washed over Patricia. Slick was right. The past three years had been forward progress, not a circle. If she showed Slick the photo she’d be right back where she started. Three years of her life reduced to running in place. The thought made her so exhausted she wanted to lie down and take a nap.

  “Don’t do it, Patricia,” Slick said, softly. “Stay here with me in reality. Things are so much better now than they were. Everyone’s happy. We’re all okay. The children are safe.”

  Inside her purse, Patricia’s fingers brushed the edge of Mrs. Greene’s folder, worn soft by handling.

  “I tried,” Patricia said. “I really did try for three years, Slick. But the children aren’t safe.”

  She pulled her hand out of her purse with the folder.

  “Don’t,” Slick moaned.

  “It’s too late,” Patricia said. “We’ve run out of time. Just look at this and tell me if I’m crazy.”

  She laid the folder on top of Slick’s papers and placed the photograph on it. Slick picked up the photo and Patricia saw her fingers tighten and her face get still. Then she laid it back, facedown.

  “It’s a cousin,” she said. “Or his brother.”

  “You know it’s him,” Patricia said. “Look at the back. 1928. He still looks the same.”

  Slick drew in one shuddering breath, then blew it out.

  “It’s a coincidence,” she said.

  “Miss Mary had that photograph,” Patricia said. “That’s her father. James Harris came through Kershaw when she was a little girl. He called himself Hoyt Pickens and he got them involved in a financial scheme that made them a lot of money, and then bankrupted the whole town. And he stole their children. When people turned on him he blamed a black man and they killed him, and he disappeared. I think it was so long ago, and Kershaw’s so far upstate, he didn’t imagine he’d be recognized if he came back.”

  “No, Patricia,” Slick said, pressing her lips together, shaking her head. “Don’t do this.”

  “Mrs. Greene put these together,” Patricia said, opening the green folder.

  “Mrs. Greene is strong in her faith,” Slick said. “But she doesn’t have the education we have. Her background is different. Her culture is different.”

  Patricia laid out four printed letters from the Town of Mt. Pleasant.

  “They found Francine’s car in the Kmart parking lot back in 1993,” she said. “Remember Francine? She did for James Harris when he moved here. I saw her go into his house, and apparently no one ever saw her again. They found her car abandoned in the Kmart parking lot a few days later. They sent her letters telling her to come pick it up from the towing company, but they just sat in her mailbox. That’s where Mrs. Greene found them.”
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  “Stealing the mail is a federal crime,” Slick said.

  “They had to break into her house to feed her cat,” Patricia said. “Her sister wound up declaring her dead and selling the house. They put the money in escrow. They say she has to be gone for five years before that money gets paid.”

  “Maybe she was carjacked,” Slick suggested.

  Patricia pulled out the sheaf of newspaper clippings and laid them out like playing cards, the way Mrs. Greene had done. “These are the children. You remember Orville Reed? He and his cousin Sean died right after Francine disappeared. Sean was killed and Orville stepped in front of a truck and killed himself.”

  “We did this before,” Slick said. “There was that other little girl—”

  “Destiny Taylor.”

  “And Jim’s van, and all the rest,” Slick gave her a sympathetic look. “Taking care of Miss Mary put you under a terrible strain.”

  “It didn’t stop,” Patricia said. “After Destiny Taylor came Chivas Ford, out in Six Mile. He was nine years old when he died in May 1994.”

  “Children die for all kinds of reasons,” Slick said.

  “Then came this one,” Patricia said, tapping a police blotter clipping. “One year after that, in 1995. A little girl named Latasha Burns in North Charleston cut her own neck with a butcher knife. How would a nine-year-old do that if there weren’t something terrible she was trying to get away from?”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” Slick said. “Is every child who passes in some terrible way Jim’s fault? Why stop at North Charleston? Why not go all the way to Summerville or Columbia?”

  “Everyone started leaving Six Mile because of the Gracious Cay development getting built,” Patricia said. “Maybe it wasn’t easy to find children who wouldn’t be missed anymore.”

  “Leland paid fair prices for those homes,” Slick said.

  “Then this year,” Patricia continued, “Carlton Borey up in Awendaw. Eleven years old. Mrs. Greene knows his aunt. She says they found him dead in the woods of exposure. Who freezes to death in the middle of April? She said he’d been sick for months, the same as the other children.”