He knew that’s how it would’ve gone, and he knew how proud his grandpa would’ve been of him.
He knew.
Sometime in the middle of an actual muggy August afternoon an emaciated, malnourished Tony stood at the kitchen sink. Dirty dishes were as high as they could be stacked and the smell of old, rotting food pervaded. The kitchen would never smell like his nana’s cooking again. He ran his fingers along his hard, exposed ribs and watched the side of the shed.
His nana could reach one side of the outbuilding, and for weeks now she had been punching the same spots over and over. Like a cyst beneath the skin bulges pushed out where she’d hit the metal. Rounded mounds of deformed wall shook and vibrated as she banged on the side.
He imagined her. Arms still kept in check by the tape and bungee cords, legs the same. Forced to stand for months now, trapped in the pervasive darkness of the shed his grandpa bought at a hardware store. His grandpa had never intended for this. Tony had never intended for this.
He knew that.
Struck by a moment of questionable inspiration, Tony searched the house for the sickle and found it where he’d dropped it. He walked out of the house, naked and unafraid and walked around the pale yellow siding until he reached the shed.
PONG. PONG. PONG.
“Nana. I’m gonna come in, Nana,” he croaked. He was so thirsty. Not thirsty enough to drink the juice he’d gotten. No, that had to be saved so he could survive.
He walked to the door and lifted the bolt, then threw it to the side. The act took more effort than it should’ve but then again, he was skin and bones now. A husk of the boy that came to help his nana in June. He pulled the doors open and allowed the scene to sink in.
The movement of his dead grandmother drew his eyes first. Not out of fear, not to ensure that she was still restrained by the cords and tape, but because he recognized her face, and wanted to see that same love he’d experienced his entire childhood. It wasn’t gone. The only thing Nana had for Tony now was malice, and hunger. She pulled at the bindings he’d applied and struggled with her endless strength to get free, to get him.
He cried, and looked at her feet.
She hadn’t eaten anything. Not one meal he’d given her during her time in prison. The sheepdog, the collie, the Persian cat, both guinea pigs and every other neighborhood pet he’d captured lay dead on the floor. Some he’d killed and thrown to her in the hopes she’d eat a dead animal, and some he’d choked out to make her eating them easier. A few of the pets had probably starved or died of thirst in the baking heat of the shed but all of them were intact; no bites anywhere he could see, and no blood ran from places she’d feasted.
She didn’t want their flesh; she wanted his. His and anyone else’s who came too close to her manufactured teeth.
“Nana. I think I should’ve killed you,” he said just far enough away from the charnel house to escape most of the wrath of its smell. “I couldn’t have before, I don’t think, but I know now I should’ve. I thought you deserved to live, but now… I see that you aren’t alive. You haven’t been alive for a long time, and this is no way to treat you.”
He broke down crying. His feeble legs folded at the knees and he collapsed into the tall grass, untouched all summer long. He closed his eyes and cried thick tears into his normal hand, and the swollen ruined hand that had gone dark green on him. When he opened his eyes he saw a tick on his knee, and left it there.
It didn’t matter.
He stood up, and that took time and a lot of effort.
“Nana, I wish I could’ve been smarter. More brave, or whatever. I wish I could’ve been a better grandson. I wish you had gone before all this happened so you could’ve been with grandpa, but now, I’m not sure how it all works. If you’re okay with it, I’m gonna kill you now.”
Tony lifted his hand and stepped forward, but realized he had dropped the sickle. He sighed, and bent his achy, infected body over and felt through the grass until he cut his finger on the sharp, hooked blade. The sting of the cut was a reward; knowledge the blade could do its last deed well.
Before he could change his mind, or think of what his mother would say or do in that moment, Tony stepped up into the shed, and swung the sickle at his nana’s head.
*****
It made sense to Tony that Nana deserved a burial, but he didn’t have the strength to move her. He’d buried the man that tried to kill him in the driveway already, and that had cost him days of soreness and he still felt it now. He was too weak to bury her, and if he had any strength to cry because of that, he would’ve.
Instead, he gave her a shrine.
Her favorite animals went at her feet, and on her legs like she would’ve wanted, and the other animals he found went somewhere around her. He arranged them in a pattern that made sense to him, and when he was satisfied that the arrangement paid her enough respect, he exited the shed, and threw the sickle into the woods.
It didn’t make sense to have the weapon that killed her in the shed with her body.
Tony went back into the building and pulled the doors shut until the blackness covered the whole scene like a body bag. He sat cross legged on the plywood floor and felt the sharp jab of a splinter pierce his butt cheek. He breathed through his mouth so he didn’t gag, and he sat there, covered in a thin film of sweat. He would’ve dripped with sweat, but he had nothing inside him left to push out the pores.
The husk of Antonio picked up his grandpa’s buck knife and found the groove on the side of the blade. He plucked at it with a filthy fingernail that hadn’t been cut in weeks and pulled the blade open until he felt it lock in place.
He didn’t have the courage from it anymore. The knife didn’t protect him like the talisman he thought it was. It was a sharp piece of metal, no more and no less. It would do the job too, if he could get it done right.
Tony leaned back until his back met the floor and he took a deep breath through his mouth. He could taste the rot. He could hear the maggots and flies. He was already dead.
The boy rolled over onto his stomach and propped the knife up so the handle was against the floor and blade pointed to the ceiling. Breathing hard and feeling lightheaded in the heat, he pushed his abdomen and chest up until he reached what might’ve been a pushup position. He wiggled forward, one hand holding the knife upright until his chin and throat were directly above his grandpa’s blade.
Tony remained in the dark, unafraid until his arms shook from fatigue, and gave out one last time.
The Vampire of Menlo Park
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.
“Very good, Geoffrey,” Edison said and leaned back in his plush, high backed leather chair smiling. “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 world 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. The
re’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.
The Shed Page 6
