Stunned by all that had happened, the old man checked his watch as usual when leaving the house, but failed to see the time. He opened the front door and hastily went out. As he crossed the front porch, Martin nearly bumped into him.
The young man ran past him enthusiastically and breathlessly. It was as if he were a different person, too. First Christina, now Martin. The old man pondered, and a worried look crossed his face while he contemplated Martin’s galloping figure as he disappeared into the house. His world was changing too swiftly. He thought, “It’s all Martin’s fault.” His life had been peaceful, undisturbed before Nosferatu had entered it. “Something has to be done,” he thought, as he started down the street, tapping his walking stick before him like a blindman.
Martin ran up the stairs and rushed into his bedroom. He immediately turned on its only other occupant—the radio. The familiar talk show was on the air.
A man was arguing with the announcer about a date.
“I was there, I should know,” the caller said belligerently. “I was sweating my ass off in July of 1943 when the Allies invaded France!”
“Well, I sure hope some caller can give us that information. It’s seventeen after seven here on the big double T . . .” the announcer sang out in his big booming voice. In the next room, Christina sniffled as she wiped her nose and continued to pack. Her drawers and her closet were emptied of their contents, and she spread her things around the room, trying to stuff everything into two small suitcases. She decided that she’d only take the necessities and send for the rest—remnants of her life with Cuda—later. She paused in her packing to wipe the hair from her reddened eyes and listened to the droning conversation.
“Hello, you’re on the line with the Big Bear.”
“Yes. I think that man was wrong about that date,” a small voice answered the announcer.
“Yes, sir, and when do you think it was?”
“It was 1944 . . . and it was June, not July when the Allies invaded,” the meek voice replied.
“And are you sure about that, friend?” the announcer queried in his best commercial manner. He loved dissension among his callers. It meant higher ratings for him. “You sound a little young to have been there . . . ha, ha, ha . . . pick it up in school?” he egged the caller on.
“I’m older than I sound,” the voice answered steadfastly. “I was there.”
The entire time the conversation took place, Christina had stood frozen, her hand poised with a half-folded sweater. The voice was vaguely familiar to her, and she had moved closer to the radio, even turning it up to help her recognize it.
“Martin?” she mouthed silently.
She shrugged her shoulders. Her mind was so shattered that she couldn’t even trust her own thoughts. And besides, the voice was terribly garbled over the telephone hookup. It could have been a million people. And Martin was so much in her mind these days anyway. She chalked it up to her imagination and to her emotional state. Then she returned to her packing, getting more excited over the prospect of leaving than before.
“I’m finally out of this hellhole,” she thought happily as she stuffed the rest of her clothes into the suitcase and sat on the top to close it.
“Indianapolis, here I come!”
• • •
A rollicking, fine time was being had by all down at Betty’s. As usual, the town regulars were in their favorite inebriated state, the noise was at an ear-shattering level, and the room was filled with a smoky haze. The old juke box belched out a popular polka, and the men sang and danced as they shot pool on the rickety old table.
Arthur Bolanis was definitely the center of attention, almost as if he were a soldier returning home from battle. He commiserated with several of his buddies who would remain behind in the dying town. He would miss his friends, but he sure as hell was glad he was leaving.
Tati Cuda sat on his bar stool, a sour expression streaking his face. Suddenly he slammed down his empty glass on the bar, straightened himself up, and stood.
The old man was tired of all the festivities and confused and upset by Christina’s behavior. He decided to return home and see if he might talk some sense into her before morning.
A shadow by the doorway flickered, and Martin stepped out. He had observed the party with his nose pressed against the window—always the outsider. He was dressed all in black, from head to toe, and as Cuda left the bar, Martin fell in silently behind him.
The old man walked home through the late night shadows that littered the deserted streets. It was silent except for the sound of a distant motorcyclist downshifting. As he passed the old church, Cuda looked up toward the rosette window and crossed himself solemnly. The church seemed so peaceful and quiet, and Cuda yearned to enter it as if its door held the secrets of eternity, an eternity which the old man hoped would steal him away from the worries and pains of his life. He continued down an alleyway, listening to his echoing footsteps. He loved his town best when it was asleep. The drooping buildings and dirty streets looked better at night. As he turned the corner and was about to pass under an arching grape arbor, something caught his eye.
Silhouetted against the street lights, a spectral figure in a long flowing cape loomed through the slight mist which rose from a sewer grate. Cuda was transfixed by the leering apparition that emerged from the other end of the arbor tunnel. As the shape moved forward, the old man’s face gradually registered his ancestral fear.
Cuda stumbled backward, tripping on a little curb and almost losing his walking stick. He turned to run but took one look backward, like Lot’s wife, and saw that the specter had reached the mouth of the arbor. Its appendages had spread the cape so that it seemed like a gigantic condor about to swoop down on the old man and devour him. Cuda swerved quickly and scurried away, but the figure followed in hot pursuit.
Cuda’s breathing was becoming labored, and he scrambled down the narrow, empty streets in a panic. He hoped and prayed that someone would pass—a patrol car, a neighbor, but he knew that it was a vain hope. There would be no one to hear his anguished cries.
The agile figure had no trouble keeping up with the limping old man. Cuda turned the corner and entered an alleyway. His footing was unsure, and he stumbled over some overturned garbage cans. They clattered against each other, shattering the stillness of the night. The old man fell among them and crouched, quivering and unable to rise or even open his eyes. An odd but familiar sound, like a human giggle, emanated from the specter.
Cuda opened his eyes and looked up. The ghostly figure reached into its mouth and popped out a set of plastic novelty-store teeth. He held them up to the light for the old man to see. His giggle turned into a laugh, and the old man could tell that the face belonged to Martin and that the pale white apparition was only the result of theatrical makeup. An old tablecloth fell from the boy’s shoulders.
In an instant, the old man was on his feet. He grabbed his walking stick and rushed at Martin, pounding the boy’s shoulders with the stick, trying to silence the laughter.
“You . . . devil!” he shrieked, bringing his stick across the boy’s smiling face. “You are the devil!”
Stunned by the severity of the blows, Martin swallowed his laughter. His face became set in a grimace. He watched as the stick came down for a third time, and then quickly grabbed it at the hilt. They faced each other in a standoff. All four hands clutched the stick. Their faces were contorted in hatred and anger. Martin knew that his strength was equal to the old man’s. They pushed against each other in a deadly tug o’ war. Each tried to force the other to the ground. Neither one was willing to give in. Finally, Martin could see the old man’s grasp weakening. In a flash, he gave an extra shove and sent the old man tumbling against the wall. Cuda cowered in fear—grabbing the stick for support—this time convinced that Martin would attack. But the boy’s rage slowly evaporated and gradually a grin spread across his face.
“It’s only a costume. Only a costume,” he said as he suddenly let go of the walk
ing stick and deftly stepped back into the alley, snatching up his props. He turned swiftly, his slender shadow bouncing off the brick wall like a beam of light.
Tati Cuda leaned against the wall and caught his breath. With shaking hands, he made the sign of the cross. Then, with his remaining meager strength, he started home—but his mind was made up: Something had to be done about Martin immediately.
Chapter Eight
Martin was the first to arrive at the quiet house. The silence was punctuated occasionally by the shutting of a suitcase or the opening and closing of a drawer in Christina’s room. The slender boy glided up the staircase effortlessly. He hurried into his room and neatly folded and replaced his costume in the bottom drawer of his dresser. “Cuda’s reaction was more than I had bargained for,” Martin thought. He had hoped the old man would see the foolishness of his superstitions with the example of the cheap, Halloween costume. Even a child of six could see that it was a disguise.
The young man suddenly felt drained of energy. He lay down on his hard, unmade bed and flipped on the radio show. His eyes lit up with an idea, and he reached for the phone. He dialed the number he had heard so often that it was almost imbedded in his brain. There was a low buzzing on the other end and then the familiar voice, more muffled but still recognizable, came on the other end. Martin cleared his throat and began his long tale. The faint echo in the room was the delayed signal of the radio announcer’s voice as he greeted the caller. Martin’s own voice reverberated off the walls.
“It’s hard to prove things to people,” he said softly into the mouthpiece. “Especially about things that scare ’em.” He shifted around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. “It’s hard to show people that they shouldn’t be scared of something that scares them.”
“Uh huh,” said the radio talk show host, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “Well, I guess . . . I guess that’s always been true.”
“I guess,” repeated Martin. “I dunno.”
“So you’re not a scary vampire? You don’t . . . jump out from the shadows in the moonlight? Heart-failure time, type of thing?” The man on the other end was not sure of this caller. He wasn’t the typical kind who just wanted to sound off on an issue or discuss some pet peeve. This one was a real live wire.
“I’m not a vampire at all,” Martin stated simply, as if talking to a child. “I mean . . . not the ghost kind . . . not like in the movies. I just need to have blood sometimes . . . It’s a sickness.”
After the incident with Tati Cuda in the alleyway, Martin felt the need to confess. Not that he felt guilty, but he wanted to hear another human voice, even a disembodied one. He wanted to explain to someone—to be understood. The radio had truly become his only companion since arriving in Braddock. He was tired of thinking all the time and wanted to hear his voice as a physical presence, not an interior monologue.
“You just need to have blood sometimes, right?” the announcer asked, unsure whether or not to take the guy seriously. His station manager indicated that the call-in wires were hot. He signaled that the announcer should try to keep the present caller on the line.
“Well, that’s not scary at all, right?”
“It’s a sickness. It’s just a sickness,” Martin was tiring of explaining. He was getting bored with the talk show host and wished he had never called. No one would ever understand. Why should he try to enlighten them at all?
“OK,” the announcer said, sensing that he was losing the caller. “And how often do you . . . have the need?”
“I dunno . . . I lost track . . . not all the time. That’s not like in the movies either. I saw a movie once where it was every night. That’s crazy. Those movies are crazy.”
The announcer could tell that the voice was tiring. That was his job—to pick up these things across the sound waves. He needed a little more controversy and decided to take a different tack.
“Crazy. Well, are you gonna dispel any other myths for us, Count? Like getting back into the coffin before morning . . . garlic . . . crucifix . . . what else?”
“It’s all crazy,” Martin said despondently. He could tell that the announcer was making fun of him, and now he was growing disenchanted with his idea.
“Uh huh,” the radio voice countered. “So you don’t burn up to a crisp in the sunlight. Nothing like that, huh?”
“The sun hurts my eyes sometimes . . . especially when it’s almost time,” he said seriously. “When I start to get shaky . . .”
The station manager was waving his hands frantically, signaling for a commercial.
The announcer cut Martin off. “Right . . . well, listen, Count, I gotta take a break here. Nighttimers, we been talkin’ to the Count. Our nighttimer who calls every now and again. A real, honest-to-goodness vampire. If any of you have any questions you’d like to pass on to the Count, give us a call here at 333-9090. Count, you keep checking in with us. We’ll be back in a mo’.”
The announcer leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He’d been doing this show for years and this certainly was the weirdest guy he’d ever encountered. The caller had been dialing in for weeks. At first, the announcer thought he was a bratty teenager, trying to show off for his friends. But he had answered the question about World War II in such a funny way that the announcer almost believed that the kid had been there. Over the years, as a radio host, he considered himself a pretty good judge of people. It was almost as if he had developed a sixth sense about them. He could usually tell when they were putting him on and when they were for real. There had been many occasions when a very depressed caller might talk about suicide, and he had been able to get his number. Possibly he’d saved a few unwanted lives, although sometimes he wondered if it was worth the effort.
But this guy, with the funny little squeaky voice, certainly knew a lot about vampires. Could be a sicko hobby, the announcer mused, as the station manager signaled that he had two minutes before he was back on the air.
Suddenly, he had an idea and took the caller off hold. Over the commercial jingle that echoed through the receiver he said, “Hello?”
Martin, who still had the receiver to his ear while the commercial played, looked surprised to hear the off-air voice coming through the instrument.
“Hello,” the announcer repeated. “Count . . . whatever your name is.”
“Hello.”
“Yeah . . . hey, listen, this is too much, man. I mean this is really great. We get all kinds of calls about it. Lemme know where I can reach ya.”
Martin was dumfounded and merely stared at the telephone as if it were some strange talking animal.
“Maybe we can work something out,” the announcer went on. “Some kind of personal appearance stuff . . . promotional for the station . . . You got fans out there, Count.”
Martin froze at the sound of the announcer’s cheery voice, which was such a threat to his anonymity. He hung up the phone quickly and set it on his nightstand. The soft sound of the radio buzzed in the room. The commercial jingle ended, and the announcer came back on the air.
“All right, Nighttimers. We’ve been chatting with . . . the Count,” he said in a poor imitation of Bela Lugosi. “He’s out there . . . somewhere . . . and he’ll be callin’ in again. I know you Nighttimers like to hear from him. Keep the calls comin’ in . . .”
“This isn’t right,” thought Martin, as he walked downstairs for a drink of water. “This isn’t right that the voice thinks it’s a joke, that I’m some kind of circus animal.” He gulped the water down furiously. His throat was so dry, and his hands were shaking violently. He’d exposed too much of himself to the unfriendly, threatening outside world.
• • •
The next morning, Martin was blinded by the ray of light that seeped around the window shade. He heard scurrying noises next door in Christina’s room. He jumped into his shirt and slacks and padded out in bare feet, deciding to go downstairs and get a cold glass of juice before finishing getting dres
sed. His throat was still dry from all the talking he had done to the radio man the night before. The old man was eating his breakfast and barely acknowledged his presence. As he drained the juice from his glass, Martin walked to the front door and noticed Arthur’s car parked on the street. He could see the big man’s freshly shaven face through the window.
As he bounded up the stairs after drinking his juice, he nearly knocked over Christina rushing down the hallway with two heavy suitcases in her hands. She was startled by Martin’s sudden appearance. She had hoped to steal away before he got up. She was wary of a confrontation with either him or Cuda and was afraid of what she might do if pressured by either one of them to stay.
“Arthur is outside with his car,” Martin said accusingly. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving, Martin,” she stated simply. “Where’s Cuda?”
“In the kitchen.” He drew closer to her, scrutinizing her face. “You are . . . leaving? Really leaving? With Arthur?”
“I’m just riding with him to save the money,” she explained hurriedly. She was wearing a sleek gray linen traveling suit, which she had bought with her last paycheck. Her hair was combed stylishly, and she wore a light layer of makeup. Martin had never seen her look more lovely or radiant with her cheeks flushed from all her rushing.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Then you’re not . . . you’re not gonna get married or anything?”
“Not to Arthur, no. We’ve talked about that. He makes me feel bad, you know,” she said gently, afraid to hurt his delicate feelings. She knew it would be hard to say good-bye to him when he looked up at her with his sad childlike eyes.
“I know,” he said solemnly.
“Don’t worry, Martin.” She put a gloved hand on his shoulder and could feel him shaking through his thin shirt. “I’ll be sure to write to you and let you know where I’m staying as soon as I get settled.”
Martin Page 15
