by Greg Herren
But of course we don’t have William Powell or David Niven, we have Winifred, who can, you must agree, be rather dour. When she came in with a vase of roses—so red, like drops of—no, I can’t even write it, you know how I am about that particular substance—she looked insufferably censorious when she handed me the card. And there wasn’t even a message; it was just a business card for a Dr. Vanessa Pearce that said: Newly undead? I can help. Well, I had no idea what to make of it, especially since I hadn’t had any caffeine or carbohydrates. “What does this mean, Winifred?” I asked, handing her the card.
“It means, Miss Laura, that you’ve really gone and done it now,” she replied. “And I’ll not be helpin’ you with your despicable, sinful prayin’ activities.” Well, of course that confused me even more. You know I’m not religious except for the occasional Beltane celebration.
I managed to sit up and noticed my pillow was stained with—that horrible red stuff. I thought Cleopatra might have scratched me while I slept; you know she deigns to share her pillow—which is in fact my pillow—with me. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and there were streaks of—I don’t need to spell it out for you, do I, dear? Knowing me so well, I am sure you can envision the scene: I put my hand to my neck, looked at my fingers, and fainted, as I usually do when confronted with—that-which-I-do-not-want-to-even-think-about-much-less-name.
When I came to I was propped up in bed. Winifred must have carried me there. She’d also bandaged my neck. Then she came back into the room with a breakfast tray.
As I was drinking my tea I became aware of some soreness and burning in a certain sensitive place—that is more than enough information for you, I am sure. And I had a flash of memory—it was no more than a flash, if it was indeed a memory and not a hallucination—of thinking how lifelike Marty’s cock felt in my hand. Then the memory was gone. “Focus, Laura,” I told myself. “You must focus.” I was rewarded with another flash—a memory of hair. A lot of it. On a flat chest. I went through a checklist of places women might have hair: head, arms, under arms, legs, between legs. I said, “In general, Winifred, women don’t have hair on their chests, do they?”
And she replied, a bit tartly, “No, Miss Laura, in general, they do not.” I had to ask myself the question: Had I, without meaning to, slept with—a man? There came another memory, of a scratchy cheek. I’m sure you can appreciate my perturbation! I’m on the host committee of the Womyn-Born-Womyn with Womyn-Born-Womyn (WBW2) ball this year. Not for political reasons, dear, you know I’m not a separatist, but I have my eye on the caterer. She’s from Georgia, and she is, indeed, a peach.
Later that day I found myself in the office of Dr. Vanessa Pearce. It looked like an ordinary therapists’ office, except for the open coffin in the corner. I opted to sit on the couch. I do hope I won’t have to sleep in a coffin now; you know how I love to sprawl out in my queen-sized bed and make angels on the satin sheets.
I got right to the point: “Do you mean to tell me that I’m a vampire now?” Dr. Pearce said denial was the first stage I would have to work through. “But I’m hemaphobic!” I said. (Do note the “e” and “a” vowels, darling! They make such a difference; I wouldn’t want any confusion with that other horrible word.)
I thought perhaps I could just buy some of what I would need to drink in a sweet little container like those 187ml Pommery POP champagne bottles with straws I’ve seen young women drinking. I mean, almost no one—at least, no one we know—hunts and kills their own meat these days, so why should fanged folk have to attack someone for their liquid sustenance? The whole thing should be more civilized. Surely there must be some sort of artificial liquid that would have the same effect as the real thing? I must set up a foundation for research immediately.
Dr. Pearce recommended a support group for the newly undead, “Suck Buddies.” I’ve already been to my first meeting. The idea is for your “Suck Buddy” to offer you support and encouragement during your first bite. It’s a very nice group of people; we should have them over for dinner sometime. Or maybe not; I don’t know if Uncle Percy could cope. I think his poetic sensibilities only extend so far.
At the meeting, they paired us up. My assigned “Suck Buddy” is Sunny Goldstein, an elementary school teacher. I feel so badly for her, because what on earth is she going to do about her fangs? Children do notice these things. At least Professor Lupin only changed into a werewolf once a month and that was at night, not during school hours.
When it came time to choose the one who would be my first, my initial thought was one of the supermodels, but I realized there’s so little to them it’s really not fair to drain them of any of the life-giving liquid that they have. And really, they look undead as it is, don’t you agree? The Republican presidential candidates were an obvious choice, but I didn’t think I could get close enough. Nor did I particularly want to. Then I saw that dreadful woman from the ninth floor of our building; the one with the stiff bouffant white hair and the perennially pink face, parading her miniscule yapping excuse for a dog. And I thought, “I could bite her.”
That night I dressed in black—sneakers, socks, jeans, turtleneck, leather jacket, and a watch cap. So unglamorous, but Sunny said, “You just have to get through that first bite, Laura; then you can make the whole thing your own. In fact, let’s go shopping tomorrow to celebrate!”
I waited across the street from the apartment, in the shadows close to the entrance to the park. She walked into the park with the dog and I followed her, taking care not to step on any leaves, sticks, pebbles, or discarded trash. When she sat down on a bench while her dog was lifting one of its stick-like legs in the direction of a nearby tree, I waved one of Uncle Percy’s linen handkerchiefs dampened with a dab of chloroform under her nose with my left hand and bent down. Sunny, who was watching from the wall alongside the park, whispered to me through the transmitter in my ear, “Laura honey, just close your eyes and pretend you’re sipping tomato juice through a straw.” And I did—I shut my eyes, chomped, and then sucked away. It was a nasty business; she wasn’t tender at all. Still, I like to think you would have been proud of me. Is there anyone you would like me to bite, dearest? That dreadful man who keeps stealing antiquities? An ex, perhaps? We might as well get something good out of this.
I’m heading out soon to go shopping with Sunny, and will drop this letter in the mail on the way to my hat designer. I’m picturing something with a wide brim and a black lace veil.
The next time you see me, try not to be too horrified by the change in my appearance when I smile at you. I do hope you will still love me, as I am, and will always remain,
Your loving sister,
Laura
P.S. I am considering embellishing my new dental additions with what I believe is referred to as “bling.” In the words of Lorelei Lee in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, “I just LOVE finding new places to wear diamonds.”
All the Pretty Boys
Michael Rowe
Dale saw the kid leaning up against a wall on Maitland, just in from Church Street. His first thought was, Pretty boy. Very pretty. Dale locked his motorcycle. He sat on the edge of the seat and lit a cigarette.
The kid looked about nineteen. High cheekbones, dark hair. Strong jaw. Blue eyes and long black lashes. There was a light spray of acne on the kid’s forehead and some sort of scar—a sports injury? a fight?—on his chin, but otherwise his complexion was clear. The scar saved the kid from looking too completely delicate, or even girlish. Good body, lean and rangy. Coyote muscles. When he noticed Dale watching him, he ventured a tentative smile, then immediately looked away. He shuffled his feet nervously, then stood up a little straighter.
Across the street, Church was thronged with people, a riot of noise and color as it always was on Halloween night. Leathermen, drag queens, twinks, news crews from local television stations, and tourists from the suburbs jockeyed for available space with the most dramatically costumed revelers. The spectacle was entirely impossible to igno
re. It called to the whole city like a siren. And yet the kid held back, just out of the light.
Vulnerable, Dale thought. He smiled. New to the city? Maybe a hustler, or maybe just thinking about it. The kid’s jeans and boots were mall-cheap, and even from a distance Dale’s expert eye detected that the jacket was vinyl. His hair was unfashionably cut, probably in some small town a long way from here. Definitely Derek’s type, too. Yes, he thought, he’s the one.
Dale pulled himself up to his full height of six foot four. He straightened his shoulders and walked over to where the kid was staring at him. The young ones always wanted to feel seduced, romanced, swept off their feet. Dale could do that. No sweat. Looking up, he smiled brilliantly, and the kid melted like they always did.
*
The kid’s slender arms were wrapped tightly around Dale’s waist, fingers digging into his leather motorcycle jacket. The black October wind screamed past as they hurtled down the Lakeshore on Dale’s 2002 Harley Fat Boy. In the distance, the low caul of clouds glowed with the first fingers of moonlight, and the harsher metallic smack of neon lit the black torrent of highway like phosphorus.
When you ride a Fat Boy you feel like God created asphalt just for you to glide over, Dale thought with familiar ecstasy. It could take ice, or heavy rain, and keep the pavement. Its engine roared like a mating cry. Whenever he started it up, it sounded to Dale like the guttural bellow of a powerful guy just before he shot. To Dale, riding was almost as good as sex. There was no bitch bar behind the seat, and Dale felt the kid’s groin tight against his backside, his legs almost tucked under Dale’s. He deliberately hit a couple of rough patches on the highway just to feel the kid’s crotch vibrating against his back. Dale smiled beneath the visor of his helmet and revved the throttle. The bike shot forward into the night and the kid tightened his grip on Dale’s waist.
“Nice bike,” the kid had said back on Maitland, indicating Dale’s motorcycle where it was parked. He had just arrived in Toronto from North Bay, was named Todd, and hoped to become a model—three facts Dale immediately discarded.
The kid had reached over and run his fingers across Dale’s leather motorcycle chaps. “You always wear these? When you ride?”
“Are you into the bike, or into the chaps?”
“Both.” The kid smiled winsomely. “I’m into older guys, too.”
“I’m thirty,” Dale said with mock outrage. “That’s not old.”
“You have a hot body.” This time Dale could hear the lust beneath what the kid clearly thought was a sophisticated seduction on his part. He squeezed Dale’s biceps, tentatively first, then with clear hunger. “Nice muscles.” He reached up and touched Dale’s thick, tanned neck. Reaching higher, he ran his fingers through Dale’s black crewcut. Dale stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto the kid’s, and let the inevitable occur.
“You look like a cop,” the kid said.
“You like that?” Dale said in a low voice. “You like that I look like a cop?”
“I don’t like cops, but I like guys who look like cops. You’re not a cop, are you?”
This time he sounded worried. Dale laughed, full and warm, and he felt the kid relax in response to the sound of his laughter.
“No, I’m not a cop.” Then Dale threw out the bait. He paused. “I have a lover,” he said. “He looks like a cop, too. You want to play with two cops?”
The kid barely hesitated. He put his palm on Dale’s leathered thigh. “Will you leave the chaps on? And the jacket?” His breathing quickened with desire.
Dale smiled. “Always,” he said. “My lover wears leather, too. We never play without it.”
“Cool,” the kid said with studied casualness, his voice suddenly tighter and an octave higher. “Where do you live? Nearby?”
Dale indicated the bike with a backward nod of his head. “Hop on. I’ll show you.”
When the kid hesitated, small-town admonitions about the big bad city at night likely echoing in his relatively empty nineteen-year-old head, Dale wrapped his arms around him and kissed him roughly and possessively on the mouth. When he felt the kid melt into his body, pressing closer, forcing his tongue clumsily into Dale’s mouth, he knew the kid was his for the taking.
*
The house was dark when they pulled into the driveway. Dale cut the engine and dismounted. He removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. He turned and took the kid’s helmet from him. The kid’s face was pale, his hair askew. But he looked euphoric.
“What’d you think?” Dale asked. “Did you like it?”
“Loved it,” the kid replied. Then, shyly: “It was my first time. I’d love to go again sometime.” The streetwise veneer was momentarily abandoned, and Dale saw softness. This was somebody’s son a long way from home. He felt a sudden stab of guilt, sharp as a shard of glass. He dug his nails brutally into his inner palm and focused on the pain. When he thought he could barely take it, he squeezed again, harder, till white supernovas exploded behind his eyes and he felt sticky blood in his palm when he pulled his fingers away.
Then he was back in control, and the kid had seen none of it. Dale winked at the kid, dead sexy again. “I’ll take you home,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. You’ll be able to see the sun rise over the lake.”
*
“Where’s your lover?” The kid sounded like he was falling asleep. He lay back against the cushions of the couch. He took another swallow of the beer. He grimaced. Dale sat across from him, very still. The light from the hallway gleamed against the leather of his chaps. “You said he’d be here, and it’s been, like, half an hour.” The words were slurred. “What was his name again?” Wuhwush hish namagen?
“I told you. His name is Derek. He’s downstairs, changing,” Dale said. “He’ll be ready for you very soon.” Dale looked out the window at the dark lawn and the spreading moonlight. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”
Dale stood up and walked over to where the kid was sprawled and began to undress him. The kid’s eyelids fluttered as he tried to focus on Dale, then they closed. The beer bottle dropped from his hand and rolled across the floor, the dark amber liquid foaming, staining the rug. Dale leaned down and listened to the kid’s breathing. He wasn’t sleeping yet, but he was close. Dale finished undressing the kid and then lifted his naked body into his arms. He crossed the living room floor and entered the kitchen. The moonlight was growing brighter and he could see the floor very clearly. He kicked open the door to the cellar, feeling a gust of cold air wafting up from the room far below the cellar. He smelled dampness and mold, and something darker and sweeter underneath that. Dale shuddered and instinctively pulled the kid’s body closer as though to warm it, to protect it.
In the sky above the city, the full moon reached its zenith in the October sky, heavy purple and black clouds parting like stage curtains. He knew the moonlight would just now be shattering across the dark waters of Lake Ontario. Dale pictured it pouring down like molten metal.
In the basement below the basement, he knew Derek could more than imagine it, he knew Derek could feel it. After all these years as lovers they could practically hear each other’s thoughts. The cheap Mexican Rohypnol he’d slipped into the kid’s beer would have done its work by now and he’d be unconscious. Dale had learned, over the years, that it was always easier for the boys when they didn’t see what Derek finally looked like by the time he was ready to come up from the basement to meet them.
Most of the time, Derek did look like a cop. He was better-looking than Dale. All their friends said so. Much better. Usually.
Yeah, Dale thought. He’s changing all right. At least he’d told the kid one truth tonight.
“Happy Halloween,” he whispered. He kissed the kid’s forehead as he laid him on the cold basement floor near the trap door like an offering.
All the pretty boys, Dale thought. He could barely remember their faces. But in a way, he loved them all. They fed his love. What was his name? Todd? Tom? It hardly matters now.
It’s better that I don’t remember.
The sounds from the sub-basement became louder. Dale heard a frustrated, low whining, then, a roar of purest animal hunger, not unlike a mating cry, followed by a volley of blows that made the floor tremble. Dale backed away from the trap door. He thought he heard Derek’s voice for a moment, calling his name. Then it was gone, lost in the rising crescendo of bestial fury. The kid lay motionless where Dale had left him, sleeping deeply, oblivious to the sound of the trap door splintering. In a moment, the night would become unspeakable.
He was definitely Derek’s type.
The kid smiled in his sleep. His arms moved reflexively as though he were still holding tight to Dale’s waist, still on the bike and trusting. A thin sliver of drool trickled from the corner of his full bottom lip. To Dale, asleep, he suddenly looked much younger than nineteen.
Dale prayed it would be over quickly this time, for the kid’s sake. He didn’t even realize he was weeping. Sometimes love really did hurt. It hurt a lot.
The Roommate
Lisa Girolami
You have to get used to the noise. At first, it all sounds the same, like the constant droning of static that you might wake up to if you left the TV on in the middle of the night. But you can train your ears to listen past the white noise. As perfume becomes less noticeable the longer you’re around it, the static falls away and sounds begin to punch through.
The paranormal experts call it EVP, short for electronic voice phenomenon. The belief is that ghost voices, while sometimes not discernable to the human ear in real time, can be caught on audiotape and then played back and heard through the white noise. These voices are not humanly generated, but electronically produced when a spirit is using the energy around it to manifest sound.
