Are you shitting me? Abe frowned, and spoke before his brain could stop him from doing so, "Are you shitting me?"
Mr. Doyle frowned in a sad fashion. "No, my dear Abraham, I am not 'shitting you.' Swallow your disappointment and get to work, my son. You do your part and I will do mine. Run to the Star Market and fetch yourself one of your energy drinks, and perhaps one of those bags of ranch-flavored corn chips you savor so. Bah. American snacks. We are in for a very long stretch, my apprentice." Mr. Doyle got to his feet with a slight creak to his motion. Abe thought he looked a little older today than yesterday.
"Sorry, Mr. Doyle. I just thought that with all that is happening, I'd play a larger role in the magical side of things. I am apprenticing under you to learn, and this seems like a learning opportunity to me. There isn't much else I can learn about the internet."
Mr. Doyle nodded like a grandfather might and adjusted the waistband on his slate gray slacks. "Abraham, this is a new day, filled with new questions and answers even I can't guess. What I can tell you is that your help with the computer and modern media will be far more effective than you helping me to operate a crystal ball that even at the height of magic and in the hands of an experienced wizard was imprecise at best. You wouldn't want me teaching you how to operate a trebuchet when an assault rifle was available, would you?"
Abe had his own frown now. "No, I guess not."
"Then please go get your snacks and load your assault rifle, young man. We're storming the trenches of knowledge tonight, and hopefully, we'll rout the Krauts soon and find out what has sparked this resurgence in magical activity."
And with that, the old British sorcerer walked away.
"Fuck me," Abe murmured under his breath as he stood up and headed to the stairs.
I'm totally getting a six-pack of Red Bull.
The Vampire of Menlo Park
This one was heart breaking for me. I consider this to be some of my finest short story work, and the anthology I wrote it for was never made. But such is the way when you're a writer. I'm thankful that I was able to have a reason to be inspired to write it though, and that's no small thing.
The Vampire of Menlo Park is a re-imagining of Thomas Edision. If he were a vampire. Certainly would give a powerful motivation to someone to create artificial light now, wouldn't it?
I'd like to do more with this story, or something in the… vein of it, but I don't have a real plan for it at all as of yet. The humor and concept appealed to me, and I feel like it has enough oomph to be more than just this story… somehow. For now, you'll be the first people to read it, and hopefully, you'll see why I thought so highly of it. Make sure you let me know what you thought somehow.
Enjoy.
Thomas Alva Edison 1910: Nature is what we know. We do not know the gods of religions. And nature is not kind, or merciful, or loving. If God made me — the fabled God of the three qualities of which I spoke: mercy, kindness, love — He also made the fish I catch and eat. And where do His mercy, kindness, and love for that fish come in? No; nature made us — nature did it all — not the gods of the religions.
January 10th, 1883
Menlo Park, New Jersey
It was early evening, and a heavy snowfall that deadened the world had just begun outside. A frightfully young intern wearing the best set of clothes his family could afford approached the intricately carved cherry door that marked the entrance to the office of one of the 19th century's greatest minds. His family had sacrificed much for Geoffrey to get this after school job, but in his mind, it was all worth it. The great door was ajar a few inches, and the young man rapped his knuckles hesitantly and adjusted his spectacles before speaking. The door emitted a bit of a creak as he spoke, "Mr. Edison sir?"
The Wizard of Menlo Park was always at work. No matter the hour of the day or night, Thomas Edison was shut into his office, or into one of his basement level laboratories, working on the next scientific achievement that would make the American life better.
"Geoffrey, you may enter," Edison responded.
The pre college intern took a deep breath and pushed the ornate door in, stepping a few feet into the wide and deep office. He stopped ten paces from the massive desk where Edison sat, sipping on a crystal goblet filled with blood red wine. The man was flanked on either side by tall windows that had been shuttered firmly against the light and cold. The room was cool, lit by several of the electric lamps Edison had invented himself, and it reminded Geoffrey of a mausoleum. Edison was only in his mid thirties, with a long, powerful face, bold chin, porcelain skin, and a thick head of dark hair, parted strongly to the left side. Presently he wore a pinstriped vest and a fine cotton blouse, buttoned straight to the neck. He was handsome, and unforgettable. Geoffrey looked in many ways the same as the inventor, though he was sickly. A childhood bout with typhoid fever had stunted his growth, but left his mind untouched. Geoffrey aspired to be a scientist like his idol, Thomas Edison.
"Mr. Edison, sorry to intrude. I came up to tell you that Mr. Bradley asked me to let you know that he's gone home for the night. I've just come from the electric lamp factory. The snow is quite thick." Geoffrey's palms were clammy, and his breath the tiniest bit ragged. Being around Edison made him unreasonably nervous. He looked around to the fine wallpaper and tall bookcases to obscure his thoughts. The office felt cold, but was quite luxurious.
"Very good Geoffrey. Do you have time for me to ask you a few questions young man?" Edison took another small sip from his goblet, leaving a tiny trace of the thick red wine at each corner of his mouth.
"Of- of course Mr. Edison." Geoffrey smoothed out the front of his slacks nervously. It also served to dry the sweat on his palms.
Edison licked the corners of his lips in a strange manner. Geoffrey almost thought it was vaguely sexual. But that couldn't be. "Geoffrey when you stay up late at night, how do your faculties operate? Are you able to function in a scientifically sound manner?"
Geoffrey had to think carefully. He wasn't sure how to answer. "Well sir, I don't typically stay up past nine or ten at night. I've got school early in the morning, and then I come here immediately afterwards. I suppose I would say that if I were to have a task to focus on, I can stay up late and be useful. School studies, for example."
Edison's expression hardened, and he looked boldly at Geoffrey, making a powerful eye contact that Geoffrey couldn't break away from. He felt his heart quicken as Edison's eyes bored into him, evaluating him, rooting him still on the hardwood floor of the office. The power of the man!
Edison broke his eyes away after an eternity and lifted the goblet in his large hands once more. Geoffrey noticed for the first time how long and delicate the mastermind's pale white fingers were. Edison swirled the thick wine in the ornate crystal repeatedly. Geoffrey watched as the lush red liquid coated the smooth glass making the shape of a parabola over and over again. Finally Edison put the wine in his mouth and with a single swallow downed the glass's contents.
"I've made arrangements with your parents Geoffrey. Starting next Monday you will be removed from your school, and granted an early diploma. I have need for a late night lab assistant, and if you feel that you can follow my exact instructions, and respect my needs for complete privacy and secrecy, I would like to offer you that position." As Edison finished his statement he leaned forward on the desk, interlacing his long fingers together and resting his powerful chin atop them. His dark eyes—were they red?—leveled off at Geoffrey, and suddenly he felt as if he had no choice in the matter.
And he didn't.
"I would be more than delighted sir," Geoffrey said, his voice almost not his own. The young man could swear that Edison was mouthing the very same words along with him.
Edison leaned back in his plush, high backed leather chair and smiled, "Very good Geoffrey. Please take the rest of the week off, and spend some time with your family. Please arrive here at 5pm on Monday. Bring a dinner for yourself. From then on, you will be kept very busy helping me. We have a wor
ld to change, after all."
"Thank you Mr. Edison!" Geoffrey said with genuine glee. "I will do my best to prove my worth to you. I won't disappoint!"
Edison smiled again, "Beware my wrath Geoffrey. Other assistants of mine have later said that I am quite… bloodthirsty. Ravenous, in my needs."
Geoffrey could only manage a series of elated nods. He was beyond ecstatic, and Edison's vaguely sinister tone went entirely over his head.
"Close the door when you leave Geoffrey. Have an enjoyable night, and do be careful in the snow."
"Yes sir, Mr. Edison sir. Thank you again," Geoffrey said as he backed out, pulling the heavy cherry door shut. The sturdy lock caught with a metallic snap and Geoffrey turned around, leaning against the door, grinning ear to ear. He couldn’t be happier as he started to walk hurriedly down the hallway to head home. He was to be Thomas Edison's personal assistant!
His mind mercifully obliterated the memory of Edison's smile, and the two long fangs that had slipped out through it.
*****
Geoffrey knew that time didn't dilate. It was scientifically impossible for a minute to take longer than sixty seconds, and the same theorem held true for the length of a weekend. However, the remainder of the week that Thomas Edison offered him the job as lab assistant, and the weekend he spent with his family felt like the longest stretch of days that had ever passed on this blue and green Earth.
When Geoffrey entered the building everyone else was leaving for the night. Only the managers and senior staff remained, and they were bundling up against the cold as Geoffrey stripped off his layers. Mr. Bradley, the hawkish, bearded man who worked as one of Edison's manufacturing managers was tightening a scarf around his neck as Geoffrey unbuttoned his sweater.
"You're going to want to leave that on," Bradley said gruffly, fishing around in a tall, pressed copper bin for his walking cane.
"What sir?" Geoffrey asked, his fingers hovering over a brown button.
"Your sweater. Mr. Edison keeps the basement laboratory quite chilly. The colder temperatures serve the experiments he performs down there," Mr. Bradley responded. He pulled an ornate cane from the bin, topped with a carved brass head of a bird of prey. It was beautiful, but had a darkness to it that Geoffrey couldn't quite place.
"What research does Mr. Edison do down there, if you don't mind my asking?"
Mr. Bradley put the tip of the cane to the floor and leaned hard on the brass bird. He searched for an answer for some time, long enough for Geoffrey to button his sweater all the way back up.
"I don't know Geoff. No one really knows. He only brings down a single assistant at a time, and when they are let go, they are sent away to boarding schools, or universities far abroad. Their secrecy is bought with an education, or a bribe. In fact, I've never seen or heard from any of his assistants once they've left his employ in that basement."
Geoffrey swallowed with a very dry mouth. He felt silly for being scared.
"I will say this Geoff, I will not work with Mr. Edison at night. Not since he took ill a few years ago. He's changed. Harsher, colder. Obsessed with lighting the night, fearful of candles in an irrational way. Fire in any form, truthfully. Where are the stoves on this side of the building I ask you? And I couldn't tell you when he last took a meal. He's quite strange now. Be wary boy. Very wary."
"Wary of what? Do you think he's gone mad? Thomas Edison, genius of our age, mad?" Geoffrey was half frightened, and half shocked.
Mr. Bradley leaned in close to Geoffrey. The teenager could smell the coffee on the businessman's breath as he spoke, "I won't be with him at night, and I had this made. Just in case." Mr. Bradley lifted his cane and gave the brass head a twist. The top of the cane came free, and he lifted it, revealing a slender, foot long wooden spike. The tip was as sharp as a pencil's.
"Mr. Bradley that's quite strange."
The older businessman shrugged, and examined his odd tool, "It's made of ash. Ash is a good wood Geoffrey. There's a power in it. Science hasn't shown us why, but many cultures have recognized that. Call me superstitious, but I feel better knowing I have this. Be careful Geoff. You've a bright future ahead of you. I would hate to see it lost. Good evening."
And with that, Mr. Bradley left the warm confines of the building, trudging out in the packed New Jersey snow.
Geoffrey didn't feel much warmer after the door swung shut. A chill had set into his bones that would take a good long time to fade away. He picked up the small black lunch tin his mother had filled for him, and he set off down the hallway to Mr. Edison's office.
*****
The time with Mr. Edison passed quickly. The vast majority of it was mundane when compared to Mr. Bradley's odd paranoia, and soaked through and through with the science that Geoffrey wanted so badly to learn. One sunless night turned over to the next, and one week into another, and before he knew it, the New Jersey winter had given way for the burgeoning warmth of spring.
Geoffrey thought it odd when Mr. Edison asked him to come in later and later as time progressed. First it was half past five for a week, then six, then half past six. It wasn't until Geoffrey realized that his arrival times to the basement lab were only scant minutes after the sunset each day that he felt something was amiss. It couldn't be a coincidence.
It didn't help that in three months of working with Mr. Edison, nine or more hours at a stretch, all he consumed was glass after glass of thick red wine, all from the same locked cabinet. Not one meal, nor bite of food.
His curiosity could take no more.
"Mr. Edison?" Geoffrey asked in a moment of solitude. The two men had just completed a round of esoteric experiments on filament composition. Thomas was trying to find a bulb filament that would illuminate longer. The search had consumed them of late.
"Yes Geoffrey?" Edison said dismissively as he penned immaculate notes into a leather bound journal.
Geoff sat his own notebook down on the lab counter and took a deep breath before continuing, "I've been your assistant here for several months now. I want you to know I'm thankful, but I have some questions. Personal questions I'd like to put forth, if you don’t mind." Geoffrey adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose.
Edison lowered his quill—he favored using an inkwell and quill late at night—and picked up his ever present goblet of red wine. "Previous assistants have asked personal questions Geoffrey. Many of them did not like the answers they received, leading to their resignation, or termination. Ask what you will, but be mindful that the answers you seek might only muddle your feelings." The genius sipped at his wine, and inclined his head, indicating for Geoffrey to speak.
Geoffrey swallowed down yet another dry mouth as his heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears. He steeled himself, and asked his first question, "Why do we only work at night?"
Edison was quick to answer, "I dislike the sun. Also, it amuses me that the research we do to eliminate the darkness of night is done at night. I find it fitting. Poetic."
Geoffrey nodded apprehensively. He didn't quite like that answer, but was scared to press the issue. "I also wondered about your diet sir. We've spent so long together these past few months, and I've never seen you eat so much as a single bite of food. All I've ever observed you eat or drink is that wine sir, and that worries me. How you stay well is mystifying."
Edison cracked another wry grin, revealing teeth stained pink from the wine, "I've found that my stomach has a gentle constitution since I took ill several years ago. I eat very little now, and my wine soothes my humors." He lifted the glass chalice and took another sip to emphasize the point.
"I see. I guess I just- well, I find it odd that we aren't using the larger laboratory upstairs, where the others work, and you avoid sunlight entirely, and you never eat. It's very odd, and I worry."
"Don’t fret Geoffrey. I am as healthy as an ox, and I plan on being around forever. If you play your cards right my son, I might just keep you around here for a good long time as well, and you will learn more science
than you can imagine. We will change the world! Now, fetch me another bottle of the red please. I seem to have run out." Edison downed the remainder of his glass and motioned for the sturdy wine cabinet in the corner of the low ceilinged room. Bolstered by the distraction of the small task, Geoffrey hopped up and retrieved the last heavy red bottle. He shut the stained glass door to the now empty cabinet, and started walking back to Edison.
"This is the last bottle sir," he said as he walked around one of the larger lab counters.
"Oh dear. I'll need to send for more tomorrow. This bottle should get me through tonight though. Do bring it here. Be careful," Edison snapped his fingers impatiently. Geoffrey thought it looked almost nervous, almost frantic.
Disaster struck. Geoffrey, lost in thought about Edison's near manic moment, cut the final corner near the lab counter too short, clipping the bottom of the bottle on the hard soapstone surface, shattering it. The red wine issued out the broken bottom in a flood, covering his best slacks and creating a substantial spill on the smooth tile floor. The cleanup would set them back the rest of the night.
"Oh no Mr. Edison! I'm so sorry!" Geoffrey said, looking down at the floor and the red spill. His foot was in the center of the mess, and he turned slightly, causing the foot to skid and slide on the wine. The consistency of it struck him as odd, and he knelt quickly, putting a knee and a finger in the dark red pool. He lifted the red fingertip to his nose, but before he even smelled the coppery, iron filled blood, he knew what it was. He stood, and saw a look that was beyond rage, and something entirely inhuman on the face of his mentor.
"Mr. Edison-" Geoffrey said, suddenly very frightened for his life.
Edison moved—no, Edison launched over the lab counter like an enormous predator cat. Geoffrey didn't have the time or sufficient reflexes to move, and literally before he knew it, his head was bouncing off the tile floor, and he was blacked out. When he came back to consciousness, Edison was crouched over his chest with one hand holding his neck against the floor in a grip that was vice-like. Edison looked positively feral, and radiant with rage. Long yellow-white fangs came down where the canines should have been in his mouth, and now for certain, Geoffrey knew Edison's eyes were red. They glowed not unlike the red embers from Edison's light bulbs.
At Least He's Not On Fire: A Tour of the Things That Escape My Head Page 9
