The Vampire in the Vampire Costume:
A YA Halloween Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of Vamplayers
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The Vampire in the Vampire Costume
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2013 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © 2008 – Hakimata Photography – Fotolia.com
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The Vampire in the Vampire Costume:
A YA Halloween Story
“You must be new.”
He’s leaning against the stairwell, talking to no one, holding a beer he hasn’t taken a sip of in forty minutes. And yes, I’ve been timing, down to the very last minute.
He’s wearing a vampire costume: flowing red cape with a high, stiff collar, crisp white shirt with the poofy, pirate sleeves, snug black pants, a cheesy plastic gold medallion hanging from a red ribbon around his neck.
It’s clever, his costume, considering he is one. A vampire, I mean. A real blood sucking, soul stealing, life taking, dream ruining vampire. I can see the fangs lurking deep within his gums, see the yellow flash of immortality in his cold, grim eyes and the thick, black blood snaking through his cold, dead veins.
No one else can, of course, or else they’d all run screaming at first glance. No, it’s just me with the creepy x-ray vision. Because I’m undead, too.
Though… not quite in the same way.
“Pardon?” he says, deep voice low and raspy. It would be sexy if I couldn’t see the vampire written all over him.
I inch a little closer, so the Normals won’t hear. “New, you know, to your… condition?”
He arches one eyebrow, soft and black against his smooth brown skin. “My condition?”
The costume party’s loud, bass music thumping so hard the floor seems to move beneath my feet, and the Normals are busy dancing, fighting or making out, like Normals do.
Like I used to do, I suppose, once upon a living time.
Still, I inch a little closer, just because I can. “You know, the whole vampire thing.”
He starts, standing stiffly, the blood slugs under his skin squirming faster than usual as his undead body registers alarm, or at least discomfort. I actually see the fangs slither out, just a little, from his gums. I could probably hear them, if it wasn’t for the DJ and the seventh stupid remix of “Monster Mash” he was playing at the speed of sound.
“The hell are you talking about?” he growls, breath cold against my cold skin, nostrils flaring, eyes a little more yellow suddenly, fangs a little more pointy.
I inch closer anyway, fists clenched low at my sides, and speak slowly so he’ll understand me, enunciating every word as I crack my knuckles in time with each syllable. “You’re. A. Stinkin’. Stupid. Bloody. Damn. Vampire.”
He looks around, quickly, head moving fluidly, unnaturally fast, the way they do, all blurry like, like they’re in fast forward while the rest of the world’s on pause. “Say that again.”
“Here?” I ask, spreading my cold, undead hand toward the dance floor, where the Normals ooze and sweat and grind and, you know, breathe and live and stuff. “In front of all these… mortals?”
He steps back, looking at me more carefully now. I watch his eyes, dark with just a hint of yellow as they admire my zombie costume. I have to admit, I went all out this year: bloody Army boots, torn jeans, rubber guts spilling out over the belt, flannel shirt torn and tattered, fake blood splatters all over my naturally gray skin, a rubber hatchet sticking out of the trucker cap on my head.
“Oh,” he nods, figuring I’m just another Normal commenting on his costume, playing with his undead head and maybe even flirting a little. (Well, he’s got that part right. I mean, the “little” part, that is.) “I get it. And. You’re. A. Zombie…”
He imitates my voice, down to the cold, clipped cadence, biting off each word with his own. But the anger is there, or maybe it’s just the fear, because I can see the fangs lingering just below the skin of his gums, quivering, ready to slide out any moment.
I chuckle, because he’s pretty funny, actually. For a vampire. My sworn enemy, or so I’ve been told since the day I was reanimated in the Third Zombie Outbreak of 2019. That’s when I learned I could see beneath a vampire’s skin, that becoming one of the living dead had given me powers of observation I’d lacked as a mortal.
Or a “Normal,” as I call them now.
“No, really,” I urge, reaching out to touch the arm that’s been holding his cup for so long. “Why don’t you go ahead and drink that beer, vampire. That is… if you can.”
He frowns, looking down at it, as if he’s forgotten how long he’s been holding his handy Halloween party “prop.” He could always drink it, of course, and prove me wrong, but it would be unpleasant for him now and for hours later, as the mortal drink wreaked havoc on his non-existent digestive system. I can see the flicker in his yellow eyes as he wonders if it’s worth the risk.
Finally he shrugs and goes to take a swig. I stop his arm in mid-air and, as he fights against me, I can see his yellow eyes widen with dismay. A girl’s not supposed to be this strong; not vampire strong, anyway.
“Trust me,” I say, putting my own half-full solo cup on one of the stairs we’ve been leaning against. “It’s not worth it. I tried a milkshake once, two years ago. Took two weeks to work its way through my system and I swear, every once in awhile, I can still taste it to this day.”
He looks at me, and follows suit, slipping his arm from my hand and sliding his lukewarm beer next to mine. And we stand, amidst the humans, the music thumping, orange and black streamers everywhere, sexy mummies and sexy witches and sexy Snow Whites leaning into each other, breathing all over each other, macking on each other, or trying to.
I sigh, and remember.
Then I turn and walk right through the front door.
No one watches, no one cares, no one even notices. Except the vampire, that is. He follows me out, and down the porch steps, and catches up to me three houses down.
“Where are we going?”
I ignore him, watching instead as a trio of little trick-or-treaters dash across the street to avoid passing us. One drops his trick or treat bag, half-empty, in the street. He starts to come back for it, to retrieve it, but I lurch forward, spooking him.
He makes a little kid’s “Aaarrrgghhh!” sound and keeps running, sprinting past his friends as they race to catch up, waving his arms like that little kid from “Home Alone” all the way down the street.
I pick up the bag, looking down into its guts and smiling in satisfaction. This will do.
This will do quite nicely.
“That was kind of rude,” he says, watching me smile down at my haul.
“I know,” I admit, shrugging, “but it’s better than ripping their heads open and snacking on their throbbing little brains, right?”
“Gheez,” he says, chuckling dryly as I sling the trick or treat bag over my fake blood splattered shoulder. “And you still haven’t told me where you’re taking me.”
“It’s simple,” I shrug, making those creepy little “jazz fingers” as I answer him. “I’m luring you to where the rest of my zombie friends live, where we’ll tear you limb from limb.”
But, of course, I’m lying. It’s just me here in Nightshade. Not another zombie around for miles and miles. Nor a vampire, for that matter. Until now, that is.
“He, he,”
he kind of chuckles, pausing in the middle of the street. I turn around and smirk. “I’m just kidding, Dracula. It’s just you and me around these parts, okay? No zombie flash mob waiting in the dark.”
He nods, looking around the street anyway. “And you?” I ask, both of us standing there, grown ass teens in our Halloween costumes, in the middle of the street, like maybe we own it or something. “You’re not just playing the vampire newbie to lure me to my death, are you?”
He wrinkles his nose, head shaking violently. “Hell no!”
I smile. I knew that already. If there were a pack of roving vampires following us around, blood-thirsty and out for zombie guts, I’d be able to see their telltale yellow eyes lurking in the dark.
That, and they reek like a graveyard. (But I don’t tell him that, because, you know, first impressions and all...)
Instead I veer off through the playground in the little park where Mason Street meets Mott Lane, and linger near the swing set. I turn, staring back at the streets of Nightshade, North Carolina.
It’s still early enough for the kids to be out, trick or treating, knocking on doors, getting candy in their fancy trick or
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