Maybe they’ve put the whammy on me, because there is a gap in my memory, and when I wake up I am on my bed in my bedroom. The first thing I do is put my hand to my throat to see if I feel warm, and I do. That calms me a little, but I get up woozily and only gradually discover, to my increasing rage, that the door to my room has been nailed shut, and there are boards nailed over all the windows.
My little prison consists of the bedroom and the adjoining bathroom. Someone or something (probably Max, who seems to have razor-sharp teeth these days) has gnawed a bit of the bottom of the door away, enough to make a slot where food can be slid in to the prisoner.
There’s a bowl of soggy Cheerios on a plate, but there’s a bug swimming in it and I push it back out.
So that’s how it is.
Yes, it is. I can’t go to college anymore. I can’t go anywhere. I am held prisoner, starving, occasionally able to nibble on the less disgusting things Max provides. (The lunch meat isn’t too bad. I can even manage the stale doughnuts.)
Every evening I hear my parents rise from their coffins. I hear everything. I think my senses are heightened beyond what is normal. The lids creak, I think, because they like it that way. They could oil the hinges, but it would be against proper vampire style. They go out. They come in a little before dawn, exchanging a few pleasantries. “Did you have a good time, Morris?” “Yes, Honey Love.” Sometimes I overhear a few words about “What are we going to do with our daughter? What can we do?” followed by assurances (from Poppa) that all parents go through this with teenaged daughters and things will work out.
Yes, they will. Thank God for the Internet. Max is too addled and I don’t think my parents ever quite understood what computers are for, particularly a wireless connection through a laptop. (They’ve ripped out my phone.) If I am typing away, they think I am doing my homework.
(“Could we let her go back to school?” Poppa asks. “She’s still working so hard.” Momma just hisses like a snake and that settles that.)
I type away, day and night. By day, idiot Max the hunchback is there to make sure I don’t escape. At night, my old friend Sylvie still hovers outside the window like a Halloween version of Tinkerbell in a trailing shroud, tapping her skeletal fingers on the windows, asking me to let her in. I don’t, but she’s still out there, certain to make sure I can’t go out.
Where did she get the shroud, anyway? She was wearing jeans and a top when we buried her. But I can’t bring myself to care anymore.
I type and type. I find Heinrich again, and we exchange
e-mails fast and furious.
I too am a creature of darkness, he types. You might not be happy with me. I have a terrible secret.
Yeah, yeah. I DON’T CARE!
You sure?
YES I AM SURE. COME AND GET ME!
I shall rescue you, then, as a knight would rescue a maiden imprisoned in a tower. It’s very romantic, really.
Yes, it is, and I spend my days and nights dreaming of him, imagining that I am with him, that he is in my bed, doing things a nice girl like me doesn’t talk about. I spend hours before my mirror trying to make myself presentable for him. We talk over the Internet every day, sometimes all day, but the one thing I can’t understand is why I have to wait. Why can’t he come and get me right now?
These things have to be done right, for the sake of romance, he types.
I don’t care!
But you should, my sweet. There is, too, the matter that my power will not be at its greatest until the end of the month.
I have experienced enough of his power to last me a lifetime and I want more, but I do, ultimately, have to wait. The routine goes on. I listen to what Mom and Dad say to each other every morning after they come back from terrorizing the countryside. I can even hear the soundtrack of the movies Poppa plays inside his coffin.
I cross the days off the calendar.
28th, 29th, 30th.
And then, just after sundown, the front door explodes like it’s been dynamited, and I hear Max yelping and then such screams and snarls as you’ve never heard before, like there’s a rabies outbreak at the zoo, and furniture is crashing.
Then Max is whimpering outside my door.
“It might hurt the Master and Mistress! It might hurt them!”
Crash! Smash! Howl.
It?
I pound on the door.
“Max, can you hear me?”
He whimpers and whines and slobbers. I hope I have his attention.
“Max! Let me out!”
“Can’t!”
The chaos downstairs continues. It doesn’t sound as if Mom and Dad are getting the best of it. The whole house begins to shake and sway. If this goes on much longer, the place may be ripped off its foundations.
“Max! I can help them!”
Max stops whimpering, and, in a voice that sounds almost like his old self, asks a surprisingly intelligent question. “But why should you help them after what they’ve done to you?”
“Max! They’re my parents! Can’t you understand that?”
Then he’s tearing away the boards nailed to the door, and in a moment, I’m walking downstairs into what used to be the living room, with Max shambling somewhere behind me.
There isn’t much of the downstairs left. The walls are out. The TV is smashed to bits and smoldering. Most of the furniture is in splinters. Wading through what used to be the dining room, a huge, hairy Thing faces off against my parents, circling as they do. Momma’s dress is in tatters. Poppa’s cape is gone, and his vest and starched shirt are shredded, and everybody’s claws are covered with I-don’t-want-to-know-what. Everybody’s eyes are blazing like furnaces. They lunge at one another, jump out of the way, parry, and thrust with their whole bodies like fencers.
“Stop it! All of you!” I scream at the top of my lungs, and somehow, like my hearing and my sense of smell, my voice has become something it didn’t used to be, and the whole house shakes with the sound of it, and they all stop and turn toward me, their eyes still blazing, fangs gleaming.
Quickly I reach into one of the few surviving pieces of furniture, a little sideboard cabinet, and take out two of the long silver nails I had carefully placed there when we opened my parents’ coffins for the first time.
It’s trite, I know, and not what you’d expect from someone of my background, but I actually hold up the two long nails like a cross as I say, “Now everybody back off.”
They do, equally recoiling from the silver nails.
“Mom, Dad … is that you, Heinrich?” The Big Hairy Thing nods, breathing heavily. “Mom, Dad, you have to learn to let go. I’m grown-up now. You have your life—or unlife or whatever it is—and I have mine. I’m not a minion. I’m your daughter. I ask you to respect that. Do you think you actually can? Do you?”
The fire fades from their eyes, and their fangs retract. Heinrich, a.k.a. the Hairy Thing, just stands there, panting.
Before anyone can say anything, I continue.
“Mom, Dad, I’ve got an announcement to make. I’m not the same as I once was. I’ve been … bitten.”
For an instant I can see Momma’s eyes beam with pride, in the sense of our little girl has grown up, but then she seems just confused, because she knows it isn’t what she thought.
I turn to show her the bruise on my neck, which I’ve had for a month now. “That ain’t a hickey, Momma.”
She just looks stupefied.
“Momma, I want you to meet Heinrich. I love him.”
The Hairy Thing leans over, as if to lick my face the way a dog would, but then whines and draws away from the silver.
That is when I realize my hands are smoking and the silver nails are burning me. I let them drop to the floor, and before anyone can react, I rush over to the window, tear aside the drapes, and let the light of the full moon flood what is left of the dining room.
I begin to change then. Fur grows on my arms and legs. I feel my whole body melting, falling down, hardening into somethin
g else. My senses are much sharper than they’ve ever been before. It’s as if I can hear a cloud passing across the face of the moon, like silk wiped across glass, and I can hear every sound of the night. I can see in ways that I’ve never seen before, through things, sensing heat and life. Were I so inclined I could tell Max where every bug in the whole damn house is hiding.
But I am not so inclined. Heinrich nuzzles me behind the ear. We play. I try to say something more to my parents, and I think I actually do manage to say, “His middle name is Wolfgang.”
And my mother sputters, “But he’s not Jewish!” and she is sobbing in Poppa’s arms. “We’ve lost our daughter!”
“No,” Poppa says, “It’ll be all right, Honey Love, as long as the … er … cubs are brought up Jewish.”
Howling, Heinrich Wolfgang Schroeder and I leap through the window, out into the night.
What beautiful music we make.
And Bob’s Your Uncle
CHELSEA QUINN YARBRO
Sometimes when it was night and Uncle Bob and Mom were fighting, Jake would go to the park and sit on the swings, listening to the rush of traffic on Franklin Boulevard and enjoying the dark. Everyone said the park was dangerous at night, but Jake had never had any trouble there, in spite of all the rumors of bad things happening. Jake thought it was far more dangerous to remain at home when the adults were fighting: Uncle Bob was using his fists and Mom was throwing things. Just last week she’d smashed his PlayStation by accident; Uncle Bob thought it was funny.
Uncle Bob wasn’t Jake’s real uncle, or so his mother had explained a year or so ago. “But, Jake, he’s like family. He takes care of us, not like the rest of our relatives; you know what they’re like …” She stopped and went on in a more subdued but injured tone, “Since your father died …”
Jake couldn’t remember his father, not really: the man had vanished when he was four, and that was more than half his lifetime ago. He relied on his mother to keep his father’s memory alive, but the things Mom said about his father changed over time; Jake could still remember when Mom had said it was a good thing he wasn’t alive anymore—that was shortly before she met Bob. “I get it that you want to have a guy around.” He shifted awkwardly in his slightly-too-large running shoes. Jake was small for his age and was often mistaken for being younger than nine, and it didn’t help that, being undersized, his clothes made him look like a kid since he wore younger children’s apparel because it fit, a constant reminder about how dissimilar he was to his classmates; he hated the teasing he endured. Along with that, he also hated it when his mom got down on one knee to look him in the eye, and he knew from Mom’s voice what was coming next. “But does it have to be him? Uncle Bob?”
She dropped down on one knee, so that she had to look up into his face. “Listen, Jake, you’re almost ten, and you can understand things very well. You’re really mature for your age, and you’ve always been a bastion for me. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.” She often called him a bastion when she was about to ask him to do something unpleasant. “If you can just try to get along with him. Just a little.”
“I do try. He’s the one who picks the fights.” He rarely let himself be dragged into Uncle Bob’s ranting, but for the last six months, the verbal barrage had increased and had been punctuated with vigorous slaps which Uncle Bob justified by blaming Jake for making him angry. Jake’s mom always tried to make Jake understand that Uncle Bob didn’t mean it—it was just that work was so hard and he thought it was unfair to be denied another promotion, or that he had had a bad week at poker, or that he was really tired and didn’t want anything noisy around him.
“Well, Jake, I need you to try harder. If you aren’t willing to help improve the family, then I think you may need an extra two hours in your room.” It was her usual threat, one she never actually followed through on: Jake would have loved more time in his room, even if it wasn’t very big and at the opposite end of the L-shaped house from the bathroom. At least his room was quiet, and it had two windows, either of which he could leave through if he wanted to.
“That would be okay with me,” said Jake, disheartened to have his mother take Uncle Bob’s side again. “I can do homework, and read.”
Esther Sparges frowned. “Don’t you have anyone you’d like to study with? You have friends at school—everyone does. Wouldn’t one of your friends like to have you over to play games or work on projects together?” She had that wheedling note in her voice, as if she were offering him a treat rather than trying to get rid of him.
“Not really,” he said, not wanting to admit that he had no friends at school, just a couple of geeks he hung around with occasionally, who had the same taste as he did for spooky video games; he was especially fond of Shape Shifter.
Shaking her head, Esther got to her feet and began to pace. “I wish I knew what to do with you, Jacob Edwin Sparges, I really do. You’re a good kid, but you get up Bob’s nose every time you open your mouth. I hate being put in the middle of you two.” She clutched her elbows, her hands working. “It’s never easy when you have to blend a family. I wish you could make just a little more effort.”
Only we aren’t a family, thought Jake, and we aren’t blending. “Yeah.”
“If I could work something out with your Aunt Judy, but she believes everything Denny and Jennine tell her. They’re all against him, my whole family, and won’t give him a break,” Esther said aloud to herself. “Judy’s very closed-minded; she just doesn’t listen to reason about Bob.”
Jake went very still. “What do you mean?” He tried not to hope.
“Well, if you could stay with her for a while, until Bob and I work a few things out, it would be a lot easier on all of us, and that means for you as well as Bob and me. You’ve been one of her favorites, and it isn’t as if she has kids of her own.” She flung her arms wide in exasperation, then grabbed her elbows again. “You’d like to spend time with her, wouldn’t you?”
“Prob’ly,” Jake said, not wanting to sound too willing.
“But she says she won’t help me until I get rid of Bob. She says Bob’s bad for me—as if she knows.” She touched the livid smudge on her jaw and scowled. “It’s not as if men grow on trees.”
“Sure, Mom,” said Jake, wishing he had some excuse to get out of the dining room and have some time for himself, so that he could think.
There was a sound of the front door opening. Esther said, “Run along and do your homework. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
Glad for this opportunity, Jake bolted from the dining room and headed to his own place where he could read in peace.
Later that night, when Mom and Uncle Bob were starting to shout again, Jake slipped out the window and hurried off to the park. It was chilly so he had put on his anorak and pulled up the hood, but he wasn’t really warm as he sat on the swing, not moving, and stared out into the darkness beyond the lights on the four tall poles around the playground, casting more glare than illumination. He figured he would remain for another hour and then head home; the yelling should have stopped, and the two of them would be in their bedroom, making up for all the bad things they’d said. At least his homework was done and he would probably be able to get some sleep before he had to be up again. It felt better here alone than it felt in his bedroom right now. He had been scratching in the sand with a long, thin branch, making patterns at his feet when he noticed shining eyes at the edge of the light.
“Who’s there?” he called out. His question was met with silence. Jake felt a moment of fear, but then he realized it wasn’t a person looking at him; it was a big, black dog, with a long muzzle and a thick coat. As Jake stared at the creature, it gave a tentative wave of its tail. Jake got off the swing and started toward it, going slowly so as not to frighten the animal.
The black dog sat down and waited for the boy.
“Hey, fella,” said Jake, coming up to the side of the dog and holding out his hand to be sniffed, all the while being carefu
l not to do anything sudden or to look the dog directly in the eyes. “You’re a big guy, aren’t you?” He noticed the dog was well-groomed, but lacked a collar and instead had a peculiar kind of cloth with strange marks on it knotted around his neck, which seemed unusual. There was no license, no tags, nothing on the cloth. “You have a chip, boy? So they can find you if you get lost?”
The long head nudged Jake’s hand, its black nose deep in Jake’s palm.
Jake closed his eyes and swallowed hard. This little gesture of friendship nearly overwhelmed him and he felt his throat tighten. Most of the time he didn’t think about being lonely, but now it was all he could do to keep from crying. He bent his head to the dog’s ruff and felt the soft fur touch his face, and waited until he could speak without sounding like a little kid. “I wish I could take you home with me, fella, but I can’t. Mom would have a fit, and Uncle Bob would probably go through the roof.” He couldn’t stand the thought of this splendid dog getting hurt, especially if Uncle Bob did the hurting. “I’m sorry. I’d like to take you home, I really would.” It would be great to have someone at home who was on his side, even if it were only a dog.
The dog nuzzled Jake’s face, then gave him a swipe with his long, red tongue.
Jake laughed to keep from sobbing. “It isn’t fair, fella,” he stated. “If you want to come with me, and I want you to come with me, there shouldn’t be any problem about it. But there is.”
As he rested his jaw on Jake’s shoulder, the dog made a musical kind of whine.
“I know, fella, I know,” said Jake, ruffling the fur behind his ears. “You got to belong to someone, anyway, I guess, so you have an owner. You’re too neat and well-fed to be a stray.”
The dog made a groaning sound and flattened his ears in pleasure as Jake continued to scratch around the base of his ears; he took another swipe at Jake with his tongue.
“I like you, too, fella,” Jake said, and thought as he stroked the dense, soft fur, But sometimes things don’t work out the way we’d like. He was quoting Mom now, and he sighed. “Looks like we both have people at home. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” He thought of the many warnings Mom had given him about strange animals and the many dangers they represented. He decided she was wrong about this dog, cloth collar or not.
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