Suburban Vampire: A Tale of the Human Condition—With Vampires

by Franklin Posner

“Well…I didn’t really understand it myself until I talked to the doctors. And I got to admit, I took it kind of hard when they told me about it. That’s probably why I’ve been so down lately.” The lies were coming easily to him. Yes, the lies were easy, especially when the truth was so inconvenient.

  “I understand now, I think. Oh, sweetie, I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Scott would have asked her to turn him back into a real man once more, but that was a skill set he knew she didn’t have. “Naw, Mom, it’s all good.” He looked at the antique pendulum clock on the wall. “And besides, I’ve got to run again. Tim wants to hang out tonight over at his place.”

  “Well, okay. I promise I’ll stop worrying about you for tonight. Just promise me you’ll drive carefully, and don’t drink too much. Okay?”

  “I promise,” Scott said as he walked out the door. He once again borrowed her Prius and drove away into the wet evening, leaving Irene to deal with the multiple phone calls she started receiving not only from friends and fellow church members but also members of the media looking for exclusive interviews. Knowing Scott’s humility and introversion, she politely declined each and every request for more knowledge about the hero of Clackatonic Faire.

  Tim O’Neill lived in a small two-story colonial with his wife, Ellen, and a sometimes overly affectionate Great Dane named Gunnar. Their Wood Village neighborhood was not much different from Scott’s, with the same cookie-cutter homes housing middle-class families. Tim worked in the warehouse of an automobile tire distribution center; he bragged about the great deals he could get on steel-belted radials. He often allowed Scott to take advantage of his employee discount, for which Scott was always grateful. “Just remember, because you used my discount, that means I own you. Now go wash my windows!” Tim would joke. (At least, Scott thought it was a joke. He never did wash Tim’s windows.) Scott valued Tim’s jovial company, especially in the wake of his failed marriage. Many a weekend night at Tim’s, along with Tim’s typically faux-macho humorous jabs (always at Scott’s expense), had helped him through some tough times. That, and Tim’s wide-screen plasma TV and his extensive collection of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror films. Tim’s generous supply of quality adult beverages didn’t hurt, either.

  Scott parked in the street in front of the pale-yellow colonial as was his usual practice and got out of the small car, lifting his jacket to shield himself from the incessant drizzle. He skipped up the short brick staircase leading to the front porch of Tim’s house. It was time to blow off some steam now and just relax. And time to forget.

  Forget that Scott was now a vampire. He froze before the front door. He had forgotten that vampires had to be invited into a person’s home. He probably could not depend on the standing invitation that existed before his conversion. What would happen if he wasn’t invited in? Scott felt fear, mainly the fear of discovery but also the fear of quite possibly bursting into flames if he simply stepped through the doorway without permission.

  Scott heard Tim’s plodding footsteps as he opened the door. He stood in the doorway and looked at Scott, just waiting for him to enter.

  “Well?” Tim asked.

  The rain’s intensity increased. Scott reached for the opening. As his hand approached the threshold, he felt pressure, heat. He was not welcome here. I can’t enter! Oh crap! What do I do now?

  Tim just watched Scott’s awkward struggle as he stood on his porch in the rain. He was quite aware of Scott’s awkwardness, and Tim more often than not poked gentle fun at it. He smirked, trying not to laugh. “Well? You gonna come in or just stand out there and get wet?” he asked.

  There was only one way Scott could enter the home of the O’Neill family. He didn’t know how to phrase the request without coming across as, well, weird. Oh well. He had to do what he had to do.

  “Invite me in.”

  “Say what?”

  “Invite me in. May I come in?”

  “Well, of course, you can, dude.”

  “Say it. Say you invite me in.”

  “La de da de da,” Tim sang. “I invite you in, milord” came the mocking tone Scott fully expected. With that, Scott was free to enter, and he stepped across the threshold. Thank you for the invitation, he thought. Hope I don’t murder you sometime.

  “Dude! What’s up with that? Since when do you need an invitation? And what’s up with the new emo look?”

  “Uh, well…I was dead earlier this week. It affects your brain, you know. Lack of oxygen and all that. And it’s not emo. It’s just a leather jacket. It’s supposed to be sexy, I guess.”

  “Uh-huh. Sexy? Not on you. Anyway, you’ve always been kinda slow, but I just chalk that up to all those paint chips you ate when you were a kid. And what’s this I hear all over the news? Scott Campbell, the big hero? Really?”

  “Naw, it’s nothing.” Scott’s humility was expected. After all, it was Tim’s buddy Scott Campbell. He was nothing if not humble. Scott was pleased that he could feel humble in spite of what he had become. He may have been a vampire, but at least he was a humble vampire.

  “Nothing, my ass!”

  Tim’s mild profanity brought unwanted attention from the kitchen as Ellen stepped out. Ellen was a usually pleasant, slightly heavyset brunette who could trade barbs with Tim any time. “Language!” she screeched. Then she noticed Scott. “Oh, hi, Scott! What a crazy week you’ve had! I’m glad you survived!”

  “I know, right?” Scott said.

  “Ellen, it’s not every day we have an honest-to-God hero here in our home, so why don’t you get us some beers?” Tim asked.

  “I’ll get one for our hero,” she said. “But you can get your own darn beer.”

  Tim shook his head as Ellen went back to the kitchen. “No respect. No respect at all. I tell you, Scott, sometimes I envy you bachelors.”

  “You better not have meant that!” Ellen cried from the kitchen.

  “I love you, honey!” Tim shouted, hoping to soothe any possible emotional injury, but there was no response. Scott heard the sliding back door open and the familiar tapping of wet paws on hardwood floors. Obviously, Ellen had let Gunnar in out of the weather.

  “And I love you, boy!” Ellen cooed, obviously referring to the dog. “Hey, Scott! Someone wants to see the big hero!” Scott was glad to hear it; he loved the O’Neills’ large but friendly Great Dane.

  The dog came bounding around the corner into the living room, where he saw Scott. Now, Gunnar’s usual reaction to Scott was enthusiastic, to say the least. He would jump on Scott and attempt to lick his face. Scott allowed this, appreciating the attention (“Dang, Scott, you’re getting more action from that dog than you’ve ever had from any woman!” Tim would say). But not today. Gunnar stopped in his tracks and sniffed the air. He took a low stance, canine eyes fixed on Scott. Aggressive growls soon gave way to aggressive barks. The dog’s loud, deep voice reverberated through the house. This was completely unlike Gunnar. Tim often remarked that, unlike your usual Great Dane, his would make a lousy guard dog and would actually welcome intruders with his typical affection. He was sure the aggression had been bred out of him.

  “Gunnar! What’s wrong with you? Ellen! Get this dog to shut up!”

  Ellen approached the barking dog. “What’s wrong, bubba? Why are you barking?”

  Tim looked over at Scott. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “It’s not anything! Ellen, get him out of here. Bad dog, Gunnar! Bad dog!”

  Ellen grabbed hold of Gunnar’s collar. She had to drag him back across the hardwood floors of the kitchen and eventually out the back door.

  “Geez, that’s really weird. He’s never like that,” Tim said.

  “Like I said, I’m sure it’s nothing. How about that beer?” Scott asked, changing the subject as soon as he could. He was dejected by the dog’s odd behavior but did not want to pursue the issue, for he feared it would go places Scott
was not ready to go. Soon enough, Gunnar’s reaction was temporarily forgotten as Tim and Scott retired to the basement, cold bottles of Black Butte Porter in their hands. They entered the room that Tim considered his man cave and settled in for a marathon of cheesy science fiction films.

  A few hours of mindless entertainment went by when Scott noticed his cell phone was ringing. He looked at the caller ID: unknown number. He apologized to Tim and excused himself to the nearby bathroom. He hoped to God that this was not some annoying reporter.

  “Hello?” Scott said.

  The voice that responded made him wish it had been a reporter. “Hello, Scott,” Jack drawled.

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Please, Scott, it’s important. After the stunt you pulled today, I think you could be in great danger.”

  “Explain. And make it snappy.”

  “I can’t. Just be aware that not every vampire in this city is as cool as me, and some of them may take your little escapade, shall we say, the wrong way.”

  “Jack, I don’t wish to speak with you. Now or ever. Leave me alone.”

  “No, Scott, this is serious. We’ve got to discuss this before some serious shit starts going down.”

  Scott didn’t want to hear it. Jack had ruined his life or at least had made it a lot more difficult, so why give the jerk another second of thought?

  Scott hit the Disconnect button, ending the conversation.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Well, I’m taking off,” Mason Bearclaw announced. “I’m worn out. Damn crazy-assed son of a bitch made me miss my youngest boy’s Pop Warner game. And he was so proud about it, too. My wife said he even scored a touchdown. Couldn’t that asshole have chosen a better day to go shoot up a mall?”

  Grace Montoya looked up from her computer screen. The CSI guys had just uploaded tons of pictures and some video footage onto the sheriff’s reports database, and she was perusing multiple pictures. Lots of broken glass. A couple holes in walls. A picture of the ex-police M4 carbine lying on the mall floor. But no blood. Mason told Grace that, all things considered, this was a good day.

  Grace’s partner Kevin Ellis had already left for the evening, complaining that his fiancée had made reservations at an upscale steak house to celebrate the anniversary of their engagement, which caused Grace to poke fun at Kevin’s reluctance for marriage, saying, “Anniversary of your engagement? And this is, what, how many years now?”

  “Yeah, Sarge, you have a good night. I want to make sure we’ve got our ducks in a row before submitting all this stuff to the DA on Monday.”

  Mason admired Grace’s dedication, which often resulted in official recognition from her own agency and several others. Her work investigating sex crimes was regarded as highly effective, with several arrests and successful prosecutions credited to her hard work and dogged pursuit of justice. She was a recent transfer to the Major Crimes Unit, where she had already proven herself a brilliant homicide detective. Her cases were airtight. Defense attorneys usually got their clients to plead out rather than face her, while the deputy district attorneys loved working the cases she presented, as they practically guaranteed them a smooth and pain-free prosecution.

  “Well, it’s your life,” Mason said, thinking that perhaps she didn’t actually have a life. Except here, doing what she was obviously meant to do. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “See you then, Sergeant,” she said as she clicked on a link that opened up a video feed. The video was of the first interview of Ralph Stevens. She skipped past the opening remarks and standard Miranda warnings (which Stevens had waived) to the meat of the conversation.

  “Noted for the record,” one of the arresting officers said, “that Mr. Stevens has waived his right against self-incrimination and is refusing an attorney. Okay, Mr. Stevens, you wish to accept sole responsibility for your actions at Clackatonic Mall this day?”

  Ralph shifted nervously in the chair, hands cuffed behind his back. He was still in the same clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested, for he had not yet been transferred into the custody of the county’s correctional facilities. “Y-yeah, I…wanna confess.”

  “Mr. Stevens, what made you—”

  “He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me.”

  “Who will kill you, and why?”

  “Those eyes…I saw the darkness. I saw the darkness! I confess! I’ll sign anything you want me to. Anything! Just, please, put me in jail. Put me in jail!”

  “Mr. Stevens, if you don’t calm down, we’ll have the deputies restrain you.”

  Grace paused the frame and then zeroed in on Ralph’s face. Despite the low resolution of the county holding facility’s camera, she knew what she was looking at. She considered herself good at reading people, even from a distance. And to her, the look on Ralph Steven’s face was unmistakable: terror. Visceral, raw, and very real. Not what she had been expecting; she had seen interviews of other active shooters who had somehow been taken alive. Some of them really didn’t have much of a reaction at all, their faces showing no emotion. Some seemed proud, even happy, about their accomplishment. Even anger would not have been unexpected. She might have accepted some level of fear at the possibility of being locked away in prison for an indeterminate but probably very long amount of time. But this was not that kind of fear. This was sheer terror, a look of complete horror, of a fate worse than death.

  What could cause this kind of reaction? And who was he talking about? Who would kill him? And what was this darkness he saw? The questions flooded her exhausted mind. Oh, come on, Grace, the guy’s a nutcase. He was going to murder a bunch of people. He’s been on so many mind-altering drugs that his brain is probably fried. Nothing he says is going to make any sense. Hell, I’ll bet they find him insane and lock him in the state hospital until he’s older than dirt.

  Grace clicked out of the video browser, saved her work, shut off the computer, and headed out of the sheriff’s office for a quick bite to eat and then home.

  “Wake up, lazybones!” Irene cried. “Sunday morning! You need to be up in time for church!”

  Irene did not usually invade her son’s personal space unbidden, but she did so now and began aggressively shaking the sleeping vampire in his bed. “Wake up! Oh, you’re not dead again, are you?”

  “Yeah. I’m dead. Can’t go to church when you’re dead.”

  “Oh, you’re not getting out of it so easily, Scott Campbell! You are taking me to church this morning. No excuses!”

  Scott rolled over to face his mother. “You mean, being dead is not a good excuse?”

  “Not funny, Mr. Comedian. What’s wrong with you? You usually look forward to church! You know, all those people there are just waiting to see you.”

  “They can wait longer. I need my rest.”

  “Okay, that’s it. I’m getting a pan of water. You can’t lay around in your bed when it’s soaked!”

  “Okay, okay! I’m getting up! Gee whiz.”

  Church for Scott this morning was, to put it mildly, an awkward experience. He used to look forward to attending the small Presbyterian church every Sunday. It was one of the highlights of his week, which spoke to how boring Scott thought his life was. But he felt most spiritual, most uplifted, whenever he attended. He even found the most convicting sermons to be uplifting, in their way; Scott considered himself merely a sinner in need of conviction at times. But mainly, he liked the people, as this was one of his few social outlets. Yes, he was an introvert, but among these people, he felt at ease and accepted despite his usual shyness. They were simple, loving folks, many of whom would bend over backward to help their friends. They seemed not to succumb to the hypocrisy and judgmental attitudes so often (and unfairly, in Scott’s opinion) associated with religious types. They had come to Scott’s aid during his divorce, offering him much-needed moral support, and he had appreciated them for it. He would help them, too, as m
uch as he could. But Scott always thought they gave more than he gave them.

  Tim and Ellen O’Neill were fellow attendees. And this Sunday, they were all out to greet the hero of Clackatonic Faire. The man who almost died twice that week. Surely God was smiling upon that guy. This could only be seen as proof of the miraculous: our brother Scott was lost. Now he is found! They gathered around their newfound hero, showering him with affection and congratulations, asking him how it felt to survive against such odds, asking him what it felt like to die, asking why he wasn’t wearing glasses, pelting him with questions that caused him to quickly think up reasonable-sounding answers, something Scott wasn’t used to, especially on early Sunday mornings. He just couldn’t think all that fast before his morning dose of coffee.

  One thing to know about the congregation at Argyll Presbyterian was that they were a very affectionate group. Most of them would openly embrace one another without fear of ridicule or rejection. It was common for Scott to get one or two hugs a week, especially from Pastor Larry Parker, who was a well-known hugger. Scott would graciously accept hugs from the men, despite his personal-space issues. But now he had more on his mind than matters of personal boundaries. Darkness and confusion over his new lifestyle (poor choice of words, perhaps, but that’s what Scott called it) were double distractions for him. That, and the naturally expected religious trappings—the large wooden cross next to the altar, especially—really didn’t help much. Plus, there was the old holy ground idea Scott was familiar with from vampire lore. Vampires weren’t supposed to enter sacred buildings. He was somehow still able to enter the church, but he did not feel welcome. He felt like a burglar in this house of God and that God was going to bust out a twelve-gauge on his ass.

  The dark thoughts hammered in Scott’s skull as only a hammer could: I don’t belong here. This is holy ground, and I am unholy. I’m a freaking vampire! I shouldn’t be here, in a church! What am I doing?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, a real live hero, Scott Campbell!” Larry announced to the congregation, which burst into applause. “Yes, indeed, and a nice guy to boot. Despite the fact he’s got this emo thing going on. What’s up with the leather, Scott?”