I Thought My Uncle Was A Vampire, But He Was Just A Creep

by Richard Cassone

  “Do you...do you, work all of the time?”

  “Not always, no.” Her presence was suddenly all-consuming. It rose up before his intense concentration and swelled to the girth and height of the room. She had shifted somewhere from antagonist to protagonist and he conversely from leader to follower, from king to servant; or, he thought, have I not been the servant all the while? Nicolai realized that he finally knew instead of what.

  “If you are lonely, perhaps you and I might do something sometime?” It was a whisper.

  “How about now?” Boing. “I think I might close today, no business.” Nicolai nodded, struck dumb by her proposal. “Ten minutes, OK? I get ready.” With that she disappeared into the back. Elizabeth, I love you. He checked the status of his mustache. I hope it lasts. I never truly expected it to have to endure an evening of love-making. He crossed himself and ten minutes later, she closed and locked the door, calling to the card players, saying good-night and that she wouldn’t return, they mumbled in response and it was up to Nicolai to lead the way. As they walked, she kept her eyes toward the pavement until at one point she suddenly looked up, “You have been here before, no?”

  “No, I’m sorry, but you must certainly have me mixed up with somebody else.” He raised a tentative finger to his mustache.

  “I suppose. Far to go?”

  “Just up here, on Tenth.”

  She stopped walking. Nicolai continued a moment before noticing. “What is it?”

  “I am nervous. You must not think me bad. I love my husband very much.”

  He approached her slowly and hesitantly placed his arms on her shoulders and then pulled her into an embrace. Enticing odor of woman! “Never, but you must be true to yourself. Forget your doubts and come, it is not far. I’ll get you something to drink, OK?” She nodded and they continued. A fine performance I must say, he complimented himself. She brings up a good point though. Will she not someday leave me, deceive me as she isand probably many times hashim? Never, with these good looks and European charm. In any case, I shall definitely grow a real mustache and that will tame her.

  As they cleared the corner of Tenth St., Nicolai stopped before a flash of immediately familiar color dashing into the front door of his building.

  “Why have we stopped?” He did not wish to alarm her, nor of course lose her, but this was something that required investigation. He vacillated for a moment and decided that she was more expendable than his sanity. The thought of some rogue listening to him, watching him making love to her robbed the affair of its magic, even of its fidelity. He desperately needed to investigate whatever leads came along.

  “Wait here for one second. I’ll be right back. I need to...to make sure everything is...clean. One second, yes?” She agreed. Nicolai followed the rainbow. Gone. No, there at the end of the hall. The roundness of a full derriere caught his eye, turning to the right. He edged toward it cautiously and then heard a door slam. The hallway was empty. Three doors lined each side and garnished the end. To each one he placed an ear. Nothing here, next. Nothing here, next. Nothing here, nextwait, he returned to the second door on the left hand side. A muffled groan leaked through it. He put his eye to the small hole, but saw only its reflection. What’s that? In the crack that separated door and frame, several dark hairs were stuck. He pulled on one and a sharp squeal was the reply. He listened some more. For a moment, the pained noise was prolonged then the door shook and the previously caught bristles floated gently to the ground. He knelt to examine them and the door swung open.

  “Yes?” An unusual woman looked down at him.

  “I’m sorry,” Nicolai told her, “I thought you were somebody else.”

  “That is quite all right. The biggest problem,” she said, “with one of these,” she indicated a dark beard on her face, “is the shedding. But you must have that problem yourself.”

  Nicolai smiled proudly having fooled two women into believing that his mustache was real. Quite an achievement for someone with only very limited experience in the theatrical arts. He stood up. Yes, two women (pregnant pause of the mind) two women? Elizabeth! Good Lord, he’d forgotten. He rushed through the hall and down the corridor and when he arrived once again out front, she was gone. Oh woman, ficklest creature of the earth, finest weaver of ache, gaily traipsing through the day to day aspects, leading fools into temptation, and crushing sweetest maudlin thoughts. Nicolai fell on weakened knees, head sunk, source of tears, and hummed, then spoke, then gently sang a childhood song: I’d rather have a paper doll to call my own, than have a fickle-minded, real, live girl. Doo. Doo.

  Chapter 3

  Where are you? “Where are you?” Nicolai looked around. “Uncle?” He would have gone straight back to the house only Uncle Rooka had taken them through so many twisty, turny, labyrinthine growths in the woods that Nicolai doubted if even he (Rooka) could find the way home; if he could find him in the first place. The lake upon which shore he stood looked dark and viscous. The whole environment seemed dead; nothing living. Even the multitude of snails he thought infested the shoreline turned out to be empty shells, abandoned for a newer fashion no doubt. No ecosystem here, he thought, only a Nico-system. Looks like winter, quite inappropriate with it being summer and all. Dead tree-skeletons rose from the ground looking more like pipes, black pipes, even in the light. Oh good, what was that? Sounded like a howling wolf. Well, I’m for it. The lake-top was black and still. The forest floor was black and still. “Everything here is black and still!” His complaint didn’t even echo, but died among the not-rustling branches. I suppose I may have a chance to use those fencing skills after all, ahe could not figure out whycompulsory class at university. He picked up a thin stick and parried against the wind, the wind, that was not still, not quiet, and quite strongstrong enough, in fact, to counter his thrust and loose the lance from his hand. Even my limited knowledge of phenomenology tells me that that wind should be rippling that water, rustling those branches. He touched the waterI’ll regret this; thick as tar, there you are.

  “I vant to show you something,” he’d said. “Come. Come. Follow me,” he’d said. “Stand there, vait. Now close your eyes.” No audible pop, no tornado of smoke, but when Nicolai opened his eyes Uncle Rooka had vanished. That wasdamn, no watchsome time ago surely. Fine holiday this turned out to be. When Rooka had invited him to come for the summer, Nicolai was elated. London was dirty and the air barely breathable in the hot season. He envisioned the open plains of Eastern Europe ripe with summer fruit, fresh water lakes (hah!) to swim in and frolic, and lazy days forgetting the lessons learned in his first year at university. Instead he spent his days sitting alone in Rooka’s dim castleRooka always slept during the dayand his nights investigating the books in the library (the proper one, upstairs). Sometimes the old man would sit with him and spin yarns about old Russia, but usually he’d arise from his nap, announce that he’d some party or other to go to and leave with several beautiful women on his arm or nibbling on his neck or ear. And now, and now this! I’d prefer the stink and stench of the city to this, and the air is actually better in the city; here it was thick and musty and the wind carried odors of unknown creation. “Uncle Rooka!”

  Something rustled on the opposite shore of the lake (pit). It stoppedno there, still far away but closer, rounding the right hub of the lake. In this manner the sound worked its way toward him, first a rustling, then quiet, then some more, closer. Nicolai followed it aurally. At times the silence was so long that he would give up, then it would come again. Finally when the activity was approximately fifty yards away to his right it stopped indefinitely. “Uncle,” he whispered. It was apparently gone, dashed off in some other direction probably. No, there it was again, coming straight at him from the sound of it. Sounds large, a wolf perhaps? Nicolai hid behind one of the trees. They were slimy to the touch; something lived on them, something invisible and gooey. Louder, louder, faster, faster. There it is. What is it? It was still indistinguishable amo
ngst the brambles. It is big though. Nicolai pulled himself farther behind the tree. Bang, out it shot, into the clearing, a large, hairy jack-rabbit ears trailing and disappeared again into the woods behind him. Jack-rabbit, darnedest thing. He relaxed his shoulders and something barreled into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. I’m for it. He clenched his eyes and curled to protect his mid-section from the claws he felt digging into his back. The thing was laughing. Not a wolf at all, a hyena cackling before it consumes me. Time passed and nothing happened. The creature was still there, but it wasn’t eating him. Why? He relaxed enough to open an eye. Something black (how appropriate) was rolling in the dirt laughing hysterically. “Uncle?” It was. He rolled for a few seconds more and then rose.

  “Almost had him! Almost.”

  “What are you doing, Uncle Rooka?”

  “Shhh boy. Be qviet. I am rabbit hunting.” He fell to the Earth in cajoling laughter.

  “Uncle, please can we go home?”

  “Home?” He paused dramatically, staring into space quixotically. “I have no home.” Nicolai was really tired (and wet and muddy) of Rooka’s foolish games and told him so in no uncertain terms. “Vait! There is something I vant to show you. Come. Come here. Nicolai. Nicolai Vicoff. Never forget the Vicoff. It means a great many things. Now. Now there is a scourge on the beautiful Russia. She consumes it and all that she touches. Even here it turns the vater to tar and the vood to steel. It has not yet touched me, you are vondering how? I have vays of keeping my existence a secret to all but those I vish to knowov these things you shall learn in time. Vicoff, vhat does it mean? It means power, it means blood. Look at these hands. These hands have rubbed the feet ov a thousand vomen; wrinkled they are. These lips have kissed two thousand lips; pale they are. Nicolai Vicoff, I vish you to see me as I am, see vhat I am. Behold!” Rooka thereupon dropped his cape and stripped off his suit truly revealing himself to the world. Nicolai gazed on his naked body. “Boy, I am the vind!” He began to circle the clearing, arms outspread, making occasional swooping sounds by blowing large gusts of air through his mouth.

  Nicolai did not think of this as he ran naked around his apartment chasing a black creature which had flown in through the window and swatting at it with yesterday’s Post. It had inexhaustible energy, but he was able to keep up with it by quickly pivoting on his heel at the corners. Together they enacted the choreography of some intricately planned modern dance. One, two first, then one, two, three. Then one, two more, then three and four; over and over again. The bat eventually lighted in a corner over his bed. Nicolai posed before it, paper at the ready. He considered smashing it and then thought of the crushing bones and oozing bat-blood and could not stand the idea of a large red blot marring the white plateau to which he awoke every morning. This decision was made with the knowledge that if he missed he would be subjected to the piercing power of two white fangs or another relentless chase; the last of which presently left him breathless. Then a solution presented itself. Without warning, nor prior notice, the thing simply fell, plop, right onto the bed. It was still alive, its ebony eyes blinking were proof enough of that. Playing possum are we? He prodded it and it did not move. He approached it like a woman: gently, cautiously, nervously, and stroked its soft fur-born belly, down its thigh, over its knee, tiny tri-pronged feet, long claws, and grasped a claw and lifted it, arm outstretched, by that claw. From there he inched toward the window. Now the difficult part, the window was open, but only the top half, unlatched and slid down. With his free hand, he pulled a chair closer and then climbed on top of it. He held the bat outside and at last let it free. Like an unsuccessful first experiment in aviation it dropped; a speeding black rocket it was as it fell. Nicolai’s focus followed it and surprisingly surpassed it, landing on some newly present courtyard tenants. Below on the ground, soon to be the last resting place of Mr. Bernie Bat was a scattering of store fixtures, a cracked shelving unit, a display stand obviously wrestled from a bolted base, a few toilet fixtures, and at the head of all, the great mast for that funeral pyre: a long awning which read Lenore Pharmacy. Atop one of the cabinets and really, Nicolai now noticed, over the whole mess lay thousands of tiny pills spilling from open bottles, at that height looking like little goose bumps, the steel’s reaction to the cold. Toward these the bat hurried and just as it should have crashed into or bounced off of a metal shelf, it snatched up a pill in its mouth (vitamin C no doubt) and widened its wings and flew off and upwards into the sky. As it made its way it looked back at Nicolai as if to speak and in its arrogant ignorance smashed head on into a particularly clear and clean pane of glass and there met its end. Bat-brain, to be brought down in the end by a household cleaner. Nicolai closed the window and did not open it again.

  Before coming to America he had promised himself that he would make every effort to contact what family he could, for that is what Rooka would have wished. Aunt Rifka was the only person he could locate. The thought of her aging frightened him, he would always think of her as the sexy young woman she once was. Now, he thought, I’ll be lucky if I recognize her. She’ll have a family that I do not know, children, &c. That resistance is what prevented him, at first, from seeking her out. Eventually he relented. The desire for a familiar face, no matter how unfamiliar, overwhelmed him. Particularly in the wake of last night’s Betan, and this morning’s bat-kin, adventures. He called and an unknown male voice answered, husband? son? certainly friendly enough and forthcoming with directions. Their conversation was brief, yet amenable, but the surprise of this unexpected man convinced him to delay his visit, if only a day. Originally he’d desperately wanted to travel that minute, but fear quelled his anxiety and so he put it off.

  He sat for a moment after putting down the receiver grasping the small belly which hung loosely over his genitals. Neither lack of food, nor money had rid him of the beast which so desperately clung to his lower abdomen, hanging on by two outstretched gelatinous arms to his lower ribs. He searched for his jacket and counted the money he had left: two dollars, a few cents. Money is now officially a problem. His wallet he found in a pair of slacksnever did get in the habit of actually keeping money in his walletand fished out a bulk of business cards and scraps of paper and shuffled through them. Barber shop in London, some cigarette receipts, a movie house (toss that one), a magic store he’d once patronized (definitely toss that onewell, never know), unknown scribbled address in Ipswitch (no, that’s a receipt for a Chipwich), cigarettes, cigarettes (must cut down), cigarettes, ah...he came upon a scrip of paper labeled only with a C. under which was written an Italian phone number. This is it. He dialed the international operator and put the call through. It rang three times and then someone picked up: “Buon giorno, no one is available to answer your call right now, please leave a message.” Nicolai did, with his phone number and address. Of course, the man must be on his way here already, at this very moment. Without my number though how could he be expected to contact me. I should have called weeks ago. I am a fool. Now it will only be a matter of days. In the meantime though I’ll have to borrow some money. I must eat if I’m going to be a rich man.

  He took his wallet, put it in the same pair of pants he’d worn yesterday, put on those pants and some other easily accessible clothes, and went out. The first bank he found was on Fourteenth street in Stuyvesant Town. He slipped his card in the slot and brought up his available credit. Could he have put that much on it already? He made a note (mental) to double-check his receipts (which he meticulously collected) and borrowed what it would let him: six hundred dollars. He had almost a month until rent was due again and figured this would hold him until then, but only just. Someone entered and got on line behind him. Hurry, hurry. The machine was certainly taking its time. Be patient, I’m lucky to be getting the money at all. Finally it counted his cash and spit it out along with his card. One hundred, two, four, six. Good. “All yours.” He stepped out of the way and politely shuffled past the other man accidentally bumping him on the way. “Pa
rdon.” He continued but the (he now noticed) large man blocked his path. “Sorry.” He eyed the door and quickly made for it, but somehow tripped on a misplaced foot and fell to the floor. The thief (for he certainly was) stood over him.

  “Give me the money!”

  Nicolai reached into his pocket and delivered, as requested, the two dollars and some cents that he had there. He smiled coyly. The thief began spouting explicatives and Nicolai deemed that he’d not been sated and so one by one turned over his six precious bills. The thief’s mouth stopped watering, but a gleam in his eye told Nicolai that he was as yet unsatisfied. He bent down over Nicolai’s lower body, a grin adorning his chin from ear to ear (panic will be the caricaturist). Oh lord, he’d heard of these perverts. The thief loosened Nicolai’s belt and freed it from its hoop-loops. Nicolai cringed and expected the worst (the absolute worst), but at once he was alone, left curled on the floor, covering his eyes. He immediately rose in pursuit, but lacking the filched belt his pants fell to his ankles and he hard to the ground. Rooka’s gems! Nicolai pulled his pants up and raced out the door shouting, “Thief! Thief! That thief has taken my family jewels!”

  An inhuman, piercing scream interrupted him and his eyes found its source. One block south on the corner stood a tremendous figure, head hooded and arms reaching high not in surrender, but in attack and from this robed creature arose the penetrating noise. Before him, back to Nicolai, kneeling, head buried, hands clasped, sweat beading on his bald, ebony head was the thief. Nicolai paused only a moment for an extended blink, but in that blink the shrieking stopped, the thief disappeared, and the man (it truly was) decloaked. He was an old man, very old, and in his new relaxed posture Nicolai couldn’t imagine what had led him to such a ridiculous postulate concerning his height. In short, he was short, and wrinkled, and whiskered, and wholly unintimidating. The old man approached him.