“Aunt Libby, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you believe in vampires?”
She laughed. “I thought you were going to ask about sex.”
But I was serious. “Do you?”
“I once dated a guy who kept a vial around his neck. He claimed it was blood, but it smelled like strawberry Kool-Aid.”
“Did he creep you out?”
“Actually the ones who claimed they weren’t vampires scared me more,” she teased. “We should get some sleep. We’ve both had a long day,” she said, blowing the votives out and putting the carrots away. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, giving me a squeeze.
“Me, too.”
As soon as Aunt Libby went into her bedroom, I tiptoed through the apartment and turned the other lights back on, just to be safe. I climbed onto the futon, pulled the covers over me, and closed my eyes.
Suddenly I felt a shadow on me. I squeezed my eyes shut. I imagined Alexander standing over me with flowers, begging my forgiveness for leaving so abruptly. But then I realized it could be Jagger, about to plunge his fangs into my neck.
I opened my eyes slowly.
“Aunt Libby!” I shouted with relief.
“Still spooked?” she asked, standing over me. “You can leave the living room light on.”
Libby turned all the other lights off and returned to her bedroom, unaware I was trying to protect her from a tattooed teen of darkness. I pulled the covers back over my head, but still felt as if someone were watching me. I tried to calm myself by thinking of Alexander. I recalled lying in the grass with him, in the backyard of the Mansion, staring at the stars, our fingers intertwined.
I heard a scratching sound coming from the kitchen. I was probably the only girl in the world who hears a scratching sound and hopes it’s a mouse. I imagined myself back at the Mansion, the dark sky brightened by luminous clouds above us, the smell of Drakar cologne in the air, and Alexander kissing me. But when Alexander spoke into my ear, all I heard was that scratching sound.
I decided to confront it and walked toward the kitchen in my black socks. A white mouse running across my feet was the least of my issues.
I switched on the kitchen light. The sound seemed to be coming from outside.
I peeled back the curtain above the sink, expecting to see Jagger’s ghost-white face staring back. But it was only a tree branch swaying against the window in the wind.
Just to be safe, I opened my Tupperware container and placed a clove of garlic on the windowsill above the futon.
7
The Historical Society
The next morning, I was jarred awake by the music of the Doors. The bright sun beaming in through the open windows made my head pound. I was exhausted from the bus ride to Hipsterville, searching for Alexander, and my nocturnal meeting with the inhabitants of the Coffin Club. As I looked outside, the mortal world seemed the same. Jeeps parallel parked. Hipstervillians pushed chic strollers. Birds hung on telephone wires.
But the morning sun shed new light on last night’s events. Maybe my Coffin Club experience was just a dream and Jagger just a concoction of my nighttime imagination.
I rose from the futon with a gentle laugh, thinking about my overimaginative nocturnal dreams, when I spotted a charm on Aunt Libby’s wooden footlocker, next to my bracelets.
Jagger’s skeleton earring. It hadn’t been a dream.
I held it in my hand. The bony charm stared up at me. If Jagger was a vampire, I wondered what frights it had observed, dangling from his ear. Was it witness to late-night bites on unsuspecting girls? Had the tiny pewter bones seen Alexander?
I reminded myself that I was doing to Jagger what Trevor had done to Alexander. Trevor had started rumors that the Sterlings were vampires, not because he knew their true identity, but because he wanted to make them a town scandal. Now I was making judgments and jumping to my own conclusions about Jagger without having any facts. I had to spend my energies searching for what I had come to Hipsterville for—a real vampire instead of a wannabe.
I remembered my conversation with the Village Dracula. I had to get to the Historical Society as soon as it opened.
I found Aunt Libby in the kitchen cooking eggs.
“Good morning, honey,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby.”
“I’m surprised you did,” she said, cutting me off. “Something in the living room smells funny,” she said, turning off the stove and placing the skillet on another burner.
“My mom packed me some goodies for the bus ride,” I said, following her into the living room. “Maybe something spoiled.”
“It seems like it’s coming from over here,” she said, pointing toward the window above the futon.
She quickly pulled back a broken window shade before I could stop her.
“I found it on the floor last night when I went to the bathroom,” I improvised. “I thought it was a seashell.”
I paused, waiting for her response.
She looked at me skeptically.
“Well, after watching your show last night, I just couldn’t sleep,” I added.
“But I thought you liked vampires.”
“I do, but not at my window.”
“You remind me of your father when he was growing up. Loved scary movies, but must have slept with the light on until college,” she said.
“Then I guess it’s in my genes,” I said, retrieving the garlic from the windowsill and sticking it back in the Tupperware container.
“I can throw that away for you,” she offered, extending her hand.
“I want to keep it,” I said, as I put the container in my purse. “Until college.”
Aunt Libby laughed, and I followed her into the kitchen. “I have a list of things we can do,” she said, as we sat down to breakfast. “We can start by going to the art museum. There’s an exhibition on Edward Gorey I think you might enjoy. We can go to the Nifty Fifties diner for lunch; they make a great bacon cheeseburger. Of course, I’ve never had it, but that’s what I hear. After that, we can go antiquing in the neighborhood. Then I have my show. But you can hang backstage. I’m afraid it might be too scary for you to see again,” she teased. “Sound cool?”
“I’d like to check out the Historical Society,” I requested.
“All that talk about mansions last night with Marshall?” she guessed.
“I think I’ll do a report on one for history class.”
“During spring break? I figured you’d rather have a picnic in the cemetery,” she said, putting down her coffee.
“Great idea! Let’s do that afterward.”
“I was joking,” she responded.
By the time Aunt Libby got ready and I showered and dressed, the morning hours were dwindling. Libby was everything my dad wasn’t—while he was an uptight type-A personality, she was a laid-back type-ZZZ. He was fifteen minutes early to a movie, and she was lucky to make it before the credits rolled.
I couldn’t convince Aunt Libby to pack a basket of tortilla-wrapped tofu sandwiches and sit by empty graves, but I was able to trade in the art museum for the Historical Society. I grabbed my Olivia Outcast journal from my suitcase and put it in my backpack, and we finally headed out the door.
Dullsville’s Historical Society was in an unhaunted late-nineteenth-century church. I had visited it only once on a school field trip and spent most of the time exploring the three tombstones in the cemetery until a teacher discovered my whereabouts and threatened to call my parents.
Hipsterville’s Historical Society proved to be more interesting, located in two Pullman railway cars at the old train station.
Inside, I rummaged through pictures of Victorian houses, original menus from Joe’s Eats, and letters from early residents. From the second car emerged a woman wearing a lime green pantsuit with matching sandals and a red-hair That Girl do.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“My n
iece is visiting and would like to do a report on our historical mansions,” Aunt Libby said, peering at black-and-white photos of streetcars that hung next to the emergency brake.
“Well, you came to the right place,” she said, and pulled a book from a shelf.
“I’m interested in an abandoned estate near a cemetery.”
The woman looked at me as if I were a ghost. “Strange. A man was in here the other day asking about the very same thing!”
“Really?” I asked, surprised.
“Was it Marshall Kenner?” Aunt Libby inquired. “He’s starring in Dracula.”
“No, Marshall was in earlier in the month. This was a gentleman who was new to town.”
My ears perked up.
She pulled out several more books and leafed through them as Aunt Libby explored the museum.
“Here’s the Landford Mansion,” the woman pointed out. “It’s in the far north part of town. And the Kensley Estate, toward the east.”
I studied all the pictures, imagining which one Jameson would have selected. Nothing remotely resembled the Mansion on Benson Hill.
“Which one was the man interested in?” I whispered.
She looked at me strangely. “You should do your report on what you like.”
I looked again at all the mansions, each one statelier than the last. I wrote down their names and addresses on the back of the Historical Society’s brochure and realized it would take me several spring breaks to visit them all.
As I was ready to close the book, I noticed the edge of a bookmark peeking out toward the back. When I turned to the noted page, I lost my breath. A black-and-white photo of a gloomy nineteenth-century grand estate stared back at me. A wrought-iron gate surrounded the towering house, and at the top of the mansion was a tiny attic window. I envisioned ghosts hiding behind the curtains, too shy to be photographed.
Underneath, the picture read “Coswell Manor House.”
“What’s this?” I asked the woman, who was organizing the bookshelf.
She glanced at the picture. “I didn’t think to mention that one because it’s on the outskirts of town. It’s been abandoned for years.”
“It’s perfect,” I said.
“Weird. That’s what that gentleman said, too.”
The woman jotted down an address and handed it to me. “It’s on Lennox Hill at the far end of the road.”
I dropped a donation in the “Friendly Funds” jar as we left the museum.
“That was nice of you,” my aunt said, as we walked through the parking lot to the Nifty Fifties diner.
“I’d have given her my college fund if I could’ve.”
8
In a Manor of Speaking
While Aunt Libby gathered her belongings for the theater and the sun made its final descent, I sat cross-legged on her futon and made notes in my journal.
My investigation was almost complete. In only a few hours, I would be reunited with Alexander. Once he understood I loved him no matter who or what he was, we could go back to Dullsville and we’d be able to be together.
Then I wondered what exactly that would mean. Would he want me to be like him in every way I could? And if faced with the choice, would I really want to choose the lifestyle I’d always dreamed of?
To quiet my mind, I made more notes:
Positives of Being a Vampire
Save on electric bills.
Could always sleep in late—very late.
Wouldn’t have to worry about keeping a low-carb diet.
“Are you sure you want to stay alone?” Aunt Libby asked, holding her makeup bag.
“I am sixteen.”
“Your parents let you stay by yourself?”
“I could have been babysitting at twelve, if anyone in Dullsville would have hired me.”
“Well, there’s plenty of food in the fridge,” she offered, heading for the door. “I’ll call at intermission to check in.”
Aunt Libby may have been laid back when it came to her own lifestyle, but when I was under her roof she was just like my dad. I guess she would have been like my father and left her hippie days behind if she had had kids, too.
I quickly changed into my Hot Gothics fashion merch—black-and-white-striped tights and a torn black minidress revealing a blood-red chemise. I applied my standard black lipstick and dark eye shadow. I barely had enough time to put a red rose body tattoo on my neck.
I checked to make sure the container of garlic was tightly sealed, as I didn’t want to expose Alexander to the two-inch weapon I’d use to ward off any lurking vampires. I must have brushed my hair and rearranged my red extensions a million times before I rushed out the door and waited at the bus stop for the number seven.
With every passing number eleven or sixteen, I paced the bus stop. I was considering returning to my aunt’s apartment and calling a cab when I saw the number seven turn onto the street and slowly lumber toward me. Anxiously, I boarded the crowded bus, a mixture of granola heads and urbanites, slipped my cash into the change receptacle, and grabbed the slippery aluminum pole. I held on to the pole for dear life, trying to keep my balance and avoid bumping into the other passengers as the bus jolted with every acceleration. As soon as the number seven lurched forward and reached the speed limit, it began to slow down again, stopping at every bus stop in town. I checked my watch. It would have been quicker if I’d walked.
After letting off a few dozen passengers and picking up a few more, the bus driver turned the corner and passed my destination—Lennox Hill Road.
I ran toward the front of the bus.
“You passed Lennox Hill Road!” I called in a panic as the bus driver continued accelerating.
“There is no bus stop there,” he said to me, looking in his rearview mirror.
“But that’s my destination,” I argued.
“I only stop at bus stops,” he recited, continuing to drive.
“If it’s a dollar fifty to get on the bus, how much is it to get off?”
I heard a few of the passengers laugh behind me.
“Pull the cord,” the woman said, pointing to a white wire that ran above the bus windows.
I reached across her and pulled the wire hard.
A few seconds later, the bus driver slowed down and pulled over.
“See that?” he asked, pointing to a square sign on a pole with the number seven next to the curb. “That’s a bus stop.”
I gave him a dirty look and jumped off the bus, dodging an elderly couple trying to board. I ran down the road the bus had just driven up until I reached Lennox Hill Road. I turned the corner and walked past gigantic pristine estates with lush green lawns and purple and yellow flowers until I found an unkempt, overgrown weed-filled lawn. A decaying house sat on it at the end of a cold and ominous cul-de-sac. It looked as if a storm cloud were hovering over it. I had finally arrived at the stately gothic manor house.
Gargoyles sat on top of the jagged wrought-iron gates. Untamed bushes lined the front of the manor. The dead grass crunched beneath my boots. A broken birdbath sat in the center of the lawn. Moss and ivy grew on the roof like a gothic Chia Pet. I skipped along a fractured rock path, which led to an arched wooden front door.
I grabbed the dragon-shaped knocker, and it came off the door and fell into my hand. Embarrassed, I quickly hid the knocker underneath a bush.
I rapped the door again. I wondered if Alexander was standing on the other side, ready to greet me with a colossal kiss. But there was no answer. I banged my fist against the door until my hand began to throb.
I turned the rusty handle and tried to push against the wooden entrance, but it was locked.
I snuck behind the dead bushes alongside the front of the manor. The windows were boarded up, but I spotted a slender crack. The ceilings in the manor house were so high, I was surprised that there were no clouds wafting through the rafters—plenty of room for a ghost to fly around in without even being noticed. From what I could see, the walls in the living room were as
bare as the room itself.
Frustrated, I walked around to the side of the manor house and discovered a butler’s entrance. I twisted the iron knob on the skinny oak door, but that, too, was bolted shut.
My heart pulsing hard, I ran to the back of the house. A few broken steps led down to a lone dingy window. It wasn’t boarded up, so I eagerly pressed my face to the glass.
Nothing unusual. I saw a few cardboard boxes, a dusty tool rack, and an old sewing machine.
I tried to open the window, but it was stuck. I ran back up the broken steps and stood on the lawn.
“Hello?” I called. “Jameson? Alexander?”
But my words were answered only by the barking of a neighbor’s dog.
I stared up at a single attic window. A tree starved of leaves leaned toward the manor house, one of its branches reaching out just below the window. The huge oak must have been centuries old—its trunk was as wide as a house, and its roots clutched the ground like a spider’s legs. I was used to climbing, whether it was over the Mansion’s wrought-iron gate or up apple trees in Becky’s backyard. But scaling this tree seemed like ascending Mt. Everest in the dark. Clad in combat boots and a minidress, I stuck my heel onto the lowest branch and pulled myself up. I continued to climb at a steady rate, slowing down only to catch my breath or when I needed to feel above me for a limb hiding away from the moonlight. Weary but determined, I scooted along a heavy branch stretching underneath the attic window.
A dark curtain hid most of the room from view, but I managed to peek inside. I could make out an empty box and a wooden chair. Then, I saw the most amazing sight staring back at me—resting in the corner was the portrait Alexander had painted of me dressed for the Snow Ball. A pumpkin basket hung over one arm. A two-dimensional Raven grinned, flashing fake vampire teeth.
“Alexander!” I called. I tried to tap against the window, but my fingers were just out of reach.
“Alexander!” I called again.
I could hear the dog’s bark getting louder.
Kissing Coffins Page 5
