by J Bennett
Employment Interview With A Vampire
THE VAMPIRE’S HOUSEKEEPER CHRONICLES, #1
A SHORT STORY BY J BENNETT
THE VAMPIRE’S HOUSEKEEPER CHRONICLES
#1 EMPLOYMENT INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE
#2 THE VAMPIRE HUNTER COMES TO CALL
#3 DUEL WITH THE WEREFROG
# 4 WHEN NINJAS AND VAMPIRES COLLIDE
Copyright © 2012 by J Bennett, All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9910566-0-6
Cover by Jessica VanNostran
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
FOR KRISTIN
~
I’d always pictured vampires as evil, vicious creatures of the night, or, more lately, as sparkly emo romantics. That is, until I became a housekeeper for one. I realize now that my conception of vampires was woefully inadequate. They do age, albeit very slowly, and their minds and fashion sense don’t always keep up with the times Nathaniel, for example, wears his suspenders with pride, listens cheerfully to his gramophone each night, has voted for Eisenhower the past six election cycles and is still convinced that the Internet is witch magic. Being his housekeeper isn’t easy. He has particular notions of how a proper woman should act—notions I don’t really abide. This could be a problem, because, old or not, Nathaniel’s fangs are still sharp. Those that cross him once tend to end up in a shallow grave near the mulberry bushes in the backyard. It’s not the best gig in the world, but to be honest, I need the paycheck. My name is Deidre, and I guess for the foreseeable future, I’m a vampire’s housekeeper.
This is how I got there…
~
I studied journalism in college, because…well, I have no excuse really. After I graduated, it was politely brought to my attention that newspapers were, in fact, extinct. I guess even a philosophy major would have been a better bet. At least then I could have enjoyed my lack of competitive edge in a deeper, more meaningful manner.
Eventually, I got a job working in customer service for a company that made orthopedic socks. How in the world can you make socks orthopedic? Well, let me just say that I was kept very busy being a complaint landfill. The job was slightly better than a virulent case of toe fungus, but not by much.
So naturally I stuck it out for two years. Sure I had dreams. Still do. I’m just not really the dream-following type. Knowing me, I’d start following my dream, step into a bear trap and have to gnaw my own leg off.
Which is my way of saying that I’m not lucky and never have been. Hence the outdated major, the orthopedic sock job that was only slightly better than virulent toe fungus and my future starring role as the housekeeper for a misanthropic vampire who gets murderous if his prune juice runs out.
But I’ll get to Nathaniel in a moment.
With the boatload of money I was making listening to old people detail their varicose vein horror stories, I snagged a rundown one-bedroom apartment and decorated it with exactly one poster, given to me by my stepmother. The poster shows a woman running up an impossibly long set of stairs with the word PERSERVERANCE in big letters below. I’ve seen a lot of these types of posters around (mostly in elementary school classrooms and dentist offices), and they say things like INTEGRITY, IMAGINATION, SUCCESS, INDIVIDUALITY. The one that my stepmother picked for me? PERSERVERANCE. Like it’s no big secret that my life is something to be endured, not celebrated.
But I hung the poster anyway, because at least it’s got some nice colors in it. Something I don’t exactly have much of living right next to the train tracks in this urban armpit of Dayton, Ohio.
So that was my life. The American Dream on Nyquil.
And then, shock of shocks, it was realized in the upper echelons of my company that our socks were in no way orthopedic. In fact, they were just plain old socks with a $200 markup. My company laid off everyone. I found myself on the street – actually it was just the parking lot outside the sock factory – with a degree in a non-existent industry, two years of experience explaining the intricacies of socks, absolutely no clue how I was going to keep my luxurious apartment, and, of course, my shining personality.
This lovely set of circumstances eventually brought me to the desk of Betsy Riddle at the Bullseye Employment Agency.
To say that Betsy is a large woman would be an understatement. To say that she could operate as a more than adequate beach umbrella would be closer to accurate. She also has an unfortunate fondness for polka dots, which only glues the word round into your brain until you envision her as a big, smiling polka dot covered in many smaller polka dots.
Betsy is a cheerful soul. The kind of person who can call you a loser in such a nice way that you almost feel good about it. For instance, she looks at my skeleton of a resume and tells me helpfully that “it looks like you’re in the starter phase of your career.” This is so much better than the truth, which is that I’m still in the “never started” phase of my career.
We have a nice little interview, which includes me repeating the phrase “no, but I’m sure I could learn,” several dozen times. I expect Betsy to tell me to get lost in a very pleasant and supportive way. Instead, she leans back, looks me over doubtfully and asks if I have any housekeeping skills.
I think about the Leaning Tower of Dirty Dishes currently on display in my sink as well as my three pet cockroaches, and assure Betsy that I could be a fantastic housekeeper. She inquires about my cooking skills, and assuming that the word “cook” is synonymous with “microwave” and “Toaster Strudels”, I affirm.
Betsy nods and sighs. Her polka dots quiver. “I have one position that might be suitable for you,” she says with a peculiar hitch in her voice.
As I’ve mentioned, Betsy is not one to say a mean thing about anybody, so what she tells me is that an “older gentleman” is currently seeking a housekeeper for his “fixer upper” on the other side of town. She also mentions that this older gentleman is quite particular.
“Nathaniel has certain predilections,” Betsey says oh-so-carefully, which she follows with a nervous laugh, “but don’t we all?”
She never gets around to telling me what these ‘predilections’ are, and I’m too giddy at the prospect of a job to ask.
Stupid, stupid me.
Never in the conversation does the word “vampire” come up. I’m absolutely sure of this. Neither do the following potentially helpful warnings - ‘occasionally likes to drain the life essence out of others,’ ‘is prone to turning into a bat when angry’, ‘wears a cape that is hand wash only’.
Rather, Betsy makes it abundantly clear in her sweet-as-honey way that this job is possibly my only hope of steady employment outside the fast food sector. So, on the appointed day, I throw on a nice pair of slacks, dig my best blouse out of the laundry basket, and shove my feet into the too-small heels that I got on sale at Payless. The mirror still shows a short and chubby girl with untamable orange hair and too many freckles on her face.
Mirrors suck.
With this peppy thought, I’m off to an interview with a vampire…I just have no clue about that vampire part.
***
Betsy’s notion of a “fixer upper” is actually a dilapidated mansion that might have been an especially nice country estate about 50 years ago. Now the paint is peeling, the window shutters are crooked, and the place looks—in three words—spooky as hell.
And this is before I search in vain for a doorbell and am forced to use the heavy brass gargoyle knocker. I hear its echo reverberate inside the house, and a chill runs all the way through me. My unconscious mind is starting to have some doubts, but my conscious mind is all too aware of the stack of bills sitting on my kitchen counter.
“Come in,” a deep, sonorous voice calls from inside.
I push open the door, and yep, it gives out a nice, lusty creak.
“Mr. Hayward?” I venture. “This is Deidre from the Bullseye…employment….agency.”
My voice trails off as I look around the foyer, which seems to be functioning as some sort
of spider web sanctuary. Then there are the dust bunnies, which are actually just about big enough to qualify as dust German Shepherds.
“Come into the sitting room child,” that spooky voice speaks up.
Betsy never mentioned how much this job paid, but I’d already made up my mind to hold out for at least $12.00 an hour. Now I wonder if maybe I should crank it up to $12.50 an hour. My feet hesitantly shuffle into the living room, and this is where I get my first official eyeful of my potential boss.
A cape.
Nathaniel is actually wearing a black cape.
I will learn later that Nathaniel feels very strongly about wearing the cape for houseguests, but in this moment I am completely flabbergasted.
I guess it’s also time to deflate another long-held vampire myth. Not all of them are incredibly attractive. Or even mildly attractive. And they definitely don’t stay young forever.
When Nathaniel sees me in the doorway, he throws back his cape dramatically revealing a bow tie, suspenders, and a pair of pants cinched up around his belly button. He also has a pencil mustache on his upper lip, bushy black eyebrows and a white poof of hair on his head.
“You’re late,” Nathaniel says.
I look down at my cell phone. 9:03 AM.
“What kind of watch is that?” Nathaniel asks accusingly.
I’m not wearing a watch, and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s talking about.
“It’s a phone,” I tell him.
Nathaniel waves a pale hand in disgust. “Everyone is so excited about those damn phones. Give me a telegraph any day of the week.”
Nathanial lowers himself into a ratty, wing-backed chair with stuffing coming out of several holes. In the grate, a large fire blazes and throws shadows wildly across the room.
“Yeah, telegraph, those were the best,” I mumble. I wonder if I should sit down, but since he hasn’t invited me, I just keep standing in the doorway.
Nathaniel’s piercing blue eyes give me the once over.
“I see you chose to wear pants.” His bushy black eyebrows crunch together in disappointment. “How very improper for a woman.”
I look down at my nice navy slacks. “Sorry?” I venture.
“And you seem quite old to be seeking independent employment.”
“I’m 24,” I tell him, though I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to discuss age in a job interview.
“Surely you are married and have born your first child.”
Okay, this part is definitely illegal, but I answer him anyway. “Nope, it’s just me.”
“A spinster then,” Nathaniel clucks his tongue with reproach. “Perhaps if you didn’t dress yourself in such disgraceful garb you could make yourself more desirable.” He waves a hand. “Though, perhaps it doesn’t matter. At your advanced age, your chances of finding a good marriage are exceedingly low.”
At first I’m too shocked to even be offended or angry, but then his words sink in, and I feel a hot flush jump to my cheeks.
“These pants are just fine,” I huff. Yep, this is the best comeback I can muster on short notice. “I think…I think I’ll just go.”
I turn to leave when a sound fills the room.
It is the Macarena.
“Ah,” Nathanial says, “the telegraph.”
He stands up, walks over to the mantel, lifts the lid of an ornate box and pulls out a cell phone. He stares at it, obviously confused.
“Here, let me.” The phone is on its last chord of the Macarena when I take it from his hand and accept the call. Turns out that Nathaniel’s blood pressure medication is ready for
pickup at the local WalGreens pharmacy.
I give Nathaniel the message, and this puts a sour expression on his face. “I need to stop eating so many obese humans,” he says.
Despite the cape and severe anachronisms, I still haven’t figured out that Nathaniel is a vampire, so I automatically assume he meant to say, “I need to stop eating with so many obese humans.” Of course, this doesn’t actually make any better sense, but I don’t give it much thought.
“Well?” Nathaniel demands.
“Well what?”
“Go on and pick it up.”
“I’m not your slave,” I reply before I can stop myself.
“Of course not,” he snaps back. “You are white, and this is a non-slavery state. I’ve considered moving to Tennessee for just that reason.”
We stare at each other. Two things hit me. First, Nathaniel is one hell of a misogynist and racist. Secondly, I think I just got the job.
“You want me to pick up your prescriptions?” I ask again just to make sure I’m clear.
“Are you deaf as well as barren?” He pulls out his wallet and places a dollar on the ornate table between us. “That should fully cover the costs.”
I don’t even argue. This place might be begging for the lead role as a haunted mansion in the next B-horror movie, and Nathaniel is swiftly on his way to earning a “World’s Worst Boss” mug, but my rent is past due, and as Betsy already hinted in her cheerful way, my employment prospects are dim at best.
I take that dollar, and I hurry out to WalGreens.
***
I hit a little snafu at the WalGreens pharmacy. On the plus side, the prescription is just $10 because Nathaniel has apparently been on Medicare since its inception, but the woman behind the counter informs me that some of Nathaniel’s information is wrong. His date of birth, for instance, is listed as 1746.
I take a big helping of initiative and tell her to change it to 1946. Wow, look at me, being such a great employee already.
When I get back to the gloomy mansion, I notice two bicycles leaning against the front porch.
Grandkids perhaps? I feel sorry for them already.
I knock and enter again upon Nathaniel’s cranky summons. He’s still in the sitting room, where the flames play across his pale face. Except I notice right away that his face isn’t as pale. In fact, he seems to be sitting up straighter.
I start toward his chair, meaning to hand over the prescription. That’s when I notice a red stain on Nathaniel’s chin.
“You’ve got a…” I tap my chin.
Nathaniel pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and daubs his chin. “How unseemly,” he mutters. I stare at the handkerchief. It’s got other red splotches on it. Lots of them, in fact.
“You’ll need to bring in the mop. It seems one of them has loosed his bladder. A common occurrence I’m afraid,” Nathaniel says.
This is when I notice an arm sticking out from behind Nathaniel’s chair. My legs keep moving even while my mind starts to rally the shriek that will soon reach my lips. I peer around the chair and see two very pale, very dead Mormons lying on the floor…both with deep puncture marks in their necks.
***
“I don’t see what you’re getting so testy about,” Nathaniel complains. “They’re just Mormons.”
“Back demon spawn of Satan. Back!” I screech at the top of my lungs. Not having the foresight to purchase a cross or garlic at WalGreens, I make a cross with my fingers and keep them held in front of me.
“Is this about the mopping? Urine comes right up. Trust me.” Nathaniel seems unaffected by my crossed fingers.
“Are you going to kill me?” I whimper. I’m watch
ing my life flash before my eyes, and, truth be told, it’s a pretty short film and more than a little boring. If I survive this day, I swear I’ll do something amazing and adventurous like climb Mt. Everest or maybe make myself chocolate chip pancakes.
“No,” Nathaniel says and puffs out his chest. “I made an agreement with the employment agency, and I am a vampire of my word.”
Nathaniel and I stare at each other. “Did you get the prescription?” he asks.
I point to the white bag lying on the floor.
Nathaniel leans down and picks it up. “You know, the longer you let that urine sit, the more it’s going to seep into the wood. And I suppose you’ve never buried a body before either.”
Without thinking, I leap to my feet and race out of the room. I expect to feel fangs sinking into my neck, but all I hear is Nathaniel’s fading voice, “You’re quitting? Just like all the others.”
I pull open the heavy front door and escape into the sunlight. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely get the key into the ignition of my car. Let’s just say I was not the most conscientious driver on the way home.
My shitty apartment building has never looked so inviting. Even the shrill train whistle is like the harmony of angels.
On shaky legs, I make my way up to the second floor and see a note taped to my door from Burt, the property manager. The note informs me that my rent is three days late. If I don’t pay it today, I’ll start incurring late charges and then I’ll incur an eviction. I add the note to the pile of bills on the kitchen counter.
I need a drink. I open the fridge, and there’s only a box of takeout and a carton of milk on the shelves. The milk is expired. Like those two Mormons. I slump against the wall and dial Betsy.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Betsy assures me when I inform her that Nathaniel is a vampire. “We had him sign an agreement not to harm any of the job candidates.” She flicks my concern away like it was a piece of lint on her polka dotted sweater. “Soooo, how did the interview go?”
“I went out to get him a prescription….”
“That’s great!”
“And when I got back he wanted me to bury two dead Mormons…and mop up pee.”
“Oh dear.” Betsy is silent for a moment but then rallies. “Well, no one likes every aspect of their job. You’ve just got to have a little perseverance to get through the tough parts.”
