Post by Black Sakura on Sept 2, 2006 10:51:26 GMT -5
Father's Worries
My father, the sheriff, was getting worried. Ever since the day I returned home from England like the prodigal daughter I was, he had been worried.
It wasn't the fact that I annoyed him. On the contrary, when I suddenly showed up on the doorstep of our family home that day, suitcase in hand, back after two long years of wandering about Europe, it was probably the happiest moment he was to have for quite a while.
It wasn't the fact that I had changed, either, that worried him. When I left home in a rage after a fierce argument, I had been a tanned blonde 20-year-old, rather plump, and absolutely immature. Upon my return, at age 22, my hair was black, my frame elegantly thin, my skin was almost as pale as parchment, and I had gained the maturity of a thousand men. So, of course, I had not changed for the worse at all and there was no reason for my father to worry about me.
It wasn't money that was any concern to him either. Being the sheriff of the town we lived in did not come without its advantages. My father's salary was perfectly sufficient for sustaining two adult girls and their aging father. (Mother had died years ago, but that is of no consequence.)
And it wasn't Elsie either. Elsie is my fraternal twin sister, but we are nothing alike. Where I am dark, she is light; where I am imperfect, she is the epitome of flawless. She had always been my parent's favorite, even though they never said as much. Her nature was always kind and good. Never was there a day when she was unhealthy. Plus, she was more than beautiful--she was gorgeous. {The blonde hair we both had been born with didn't work on me, but nevertheless, her hair was divine.) Never had she caused any especial concern from our parents, even though it was flagrantly obvious that they simply fawned over her. She might have been spoiled, but she wasn't. She was too good.
What WAS the problem with my father, then? Well, truth be told, it was just really all part of his job, which is why I never really understood why he so worried. You see, there was a series of odd murders in the town, and my father was in charge of the case. I still remember when the news of the first murder came round.
..........
It was a few hours past sundown on a Sunday evening, barely an hour after I had come home. Elsie was setting out a magnificent dinner she had volunteered to prepare in celebration of my arrival, and my father was already seated at the table. He was talking animatedly about what had transpired in the small neighborhood since I had left. Personally, I wasn't at all interested in what he was saying about Mrs. McGillicuddy's dog, or Mr. Schilling's finally joining the men's league, or the Timothy family's new interest in attempting to grow sugar cane in their backyard. Just to be polite, though, I bit my tongue and said nothing to him; sometimes I did him a great favor by even paying attention.
Just as Elsie was dishing out baked beans, griddlecakes, hash-browns, and salt-pork, a raucous pounding came from the back door. Father jumped to his feet, painfully because of his arthritis, and threw open the door.
Our close neighbor, Ben Gridley, was standing there. He was a small lad of about thirteen, and he was very pale. Apparently, he had run all the way here, and he was panting.
"Sheriff," he gasped to Father.
"What's wrong, son?" Father put his hand in a paternal fashion on Ben's shoulder.
Ben looked most shaken. "It's Annabelle Marks, sir," he said exasperatedly.
"What's wrong with Annabelle?"
Ben suddenly tucked his face under his hand to hide a sob. "She's bin....she's bin killed!" he said groggily through his concealed tears.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Father, astounded. His face grew grim. "What happened? Who killed her?"
"We...we dunno, sir. She went missin' las' night, and no 'un could scarce find her. Then this mornin', Bob older Marks, her brother ya know, found her, stone dead, under the school-'ouse, not 'alf an 'our ago. They sent me ter fetch ya, sir..." But here Ben choked on his own saliva and the sentence died. I was aware that he and Annabelle had been sweethearts for years before I left town. I suppose they still must have been at that time, also.
Father patted Ben's shoulder. "It'll be all right, son," he remarked softly. With that, he reached for his double-holster, which was draped over the back of his chair at the table, and put it on with a snap. "Sorry dears," he said to Elsie and I, "I'd best be going'. Don't wait for me; you'll never know when I'll be back." With that, he kissed both of us on our foreheads and strode out the open door.
Elsie stooped next to Ben and hugged him tightly, as though he were her little brother. And, like a little brother, Ben clasped onto her and simply cried. The simple tragic beauty of the situation was sickening.
Father didn't come home until late that night. He came in very late, near midnight. Elsie and I were awake and waiting with some warm milk and leftovers for him. Well, rather, I was quite awake, but Elsie was half-asleep, her knitting unfinished on her lap. I was content to cross-stitch quietly. Elsie was talking to me in muffled tones.
"...So you did enjoy dinner, then?"
I blinked in irritation. This was the third time she had asked in the past ten minutes. "Yes, I did," I replied, trying not to show my impatience with my sister.
"You sure? It looked to me like you barely ever put any food in your--" (she yawned) "--mouth."
I shrugged, even though she was staring blandly at the ceiling in drowsiness, and had been doing so for the past half hour. "In England, one learns eventually to not eat so much."
She paused a moment. Then, placidly, almost reverently, she put in a further question. "Are all the ladies in England...for the most part...with beautiful figures like yours?"
This was interesting; she never had complimented me before in such a way. I shrugged again. "It depends. Some women--"
But I was interrupted by the door surreptitiously opening. Father almost tiptoed in, a forlorn look on his face.
"Father!" Elsie was instantly awake and rose swiftly, knocking her knitting off her lap in the process. She didn't even notice, and strode across to embrace Father as he hung up his holster on the back of a kitchen chair. Father managed a smile for Elsie, and kissed her ear affectionately. I remained where I was, merely nodding a greeting.
"What happened?" Elsie asked, letting go of him and pulling out a chair for him to eat his supper.
At first, Father said nothing. "I hardly want to scare you girls," he said slowly, settling down and sipping his milk. "It's a beastly affair I don' want to get you involved in."
"Do tell us, Father!" Elsie pleaded.
I smirked. "It's not as though we weren't adults, now is it?"
Father sighed. I could tell that he didn't want to elaborate for us, but he gave in to our pleading. "There's not much to tell, actually. It's just that Annabelle's dead, and none of us--" (He was referring to himself and the other men of the town) "--know halfway who did the deed."
Elsie shook her head. "Poor little Annabelle. How did she die?"
Father sighed. "That's the other thing we don't know. There's not a mark on her 'ole little body, bless her, save two dark red punctures on her neck. But a child doesn't die from a mere scratch, now does she? They didn't even seem to have bled much."
Elsie shook her head again. "It might have been poison, you know."
Father nodded. "Doc Jenson took her home tonight' to have a look at her. Remember he used to be a coroner in New York? If he can't tell us what she died from, no 'un on this earth can."
But as we found out later, Annabelle didn't die of poison. Annabelle had died of the impossible--losing an extremely large amount of blood. The mysteries of who killed her, and how, still remained. No one, not even Father, who had been the Sheriff in the town for forty years, was able to shed any light on the situation. The case was filed as 'unsolved' and left there, even though the murder was all the town could talk or think about.
And Annabelle Marks was only the first of a long string of victims.
.........
I had become accustomed to sleeping a lot during the day in England, so when the news of the second murder came, I was in bed, "Sleeping like the dead," or so Elsie termed it. She said afterwards that she had tried to wake me up, but I was too deeply in dreamland to stir. She had given up and went out to the schoolhouse, where she taught all the young children to read and write, despite the second murder the town had experienced in a week.
Again, it was a similar circumstance, though this time it was a young boy by the name of Terry Kent, and he was found by a drunken man, located under the water trough by the saloon. The rest was all the same--he had almost no sign of how he could have died visible, besides two small wounds on his neck from a rat bite or some such incident, and the esteemed Doctor Jenson found no trace of poison. Again, the boy had died from losing over half of his blood in his body.
Father stayed out even later talking with the men folk of the town than he had two days before. When he finally came in at a quarter past one, he brought home no new light on the matter. His face looked more haggard than usual, I noted. As before, the case was filed away under 'unsolved'. No one knew what to make of it at all.
.................
The third murder can scarce be called a murder, really. Three days after Terry Kent, the town pastor, Matthew Partridge, came to our house to report that one of his sister's six sheep had been killed. Father investigated the matter, but decided that it was too trivial to dwell over when there had been two children killed not a week before. The case wasn't even filed officially; someone scribbled a few details on a torn sheet of blotting paper and stuffed it in an envelope marked 'interesting' in Father's desk at the jail. The entire circumstance was immediately forgotten. All I ever learned about it was that the cause of the ewe's death was, like the children, unexplained.
.............
The fourth murder was a great deal more spectacular, though, and it created much more of a sensation.
A young woman by the name of Francine Slate, just engaged, was found dead near a cactus patch almost a mile down the road out of town. Upon investigation, her death was caused, as in the other cases, by loss of blood, but her only wounds were some small scratches from the cactus, and the two punctures on her neck. She had been a very popular young woman, plus she was one of the most sought-over in the town. Her father was the saloon keeper, and was, consequently, quite a popular man himself. He raised such a ruckus over the indignity of the death of his daughter that he managed to get the town quite riled up. Before, they had been surprised and scared, but now they were angry. Many theories began to circulate.
One such hypothesis, by far the most likely, was that some sort of escaped criminal or lunatic was hiding in the hills that overlooked the town, and that he was responsible for the misdeeds. Of course, no one stopped to consider his motive; they all accepted the fact that he was insane, and that insane people were apt to do such things that no one understood.
Another idea, popular especially among the children, but also among some ignorant adults, was that a particular old hermit named George Grass, who lived on the outskirts of town, was the guilty one. There was no ground for the fact beyond what the people imagined about him. I recall many citizens coming to talk to Father over coffee after supper about what they had 'seen' this man doing. However, Father shook these people off, knowing that the old man was not to blame for the deaths. George had been living in his little shack ever since the town had been formed, and besides--he was blind. Most people did not know either, however, and they continued to talk about him as a prospective killer.
The last speculation was not farfetched if one was ardently religious. However, besides the Pastor Matthew and his sister, the only one in the town who really fit that requirement was a middle-aged woman named Nancy Beth Gordon. Nancy Beth was a religious fanatic, and a Roman Catholic to boot, which was hard for her when every other woman in town was a Baptist. Anyhow, she went about declaring that the deaths were the result of God Almighty's wrath, that those in town who sinned were being killed off one by one. Nancy Beth was confidant that she would, in the end, be the only person left. Most people laughed this entire supposition off entirely; if God had an entire world to look after, why would he just want to kill off the sinners in merely one town? Nancy Beth's reply to this was that the judgment days had come, and that God would go about killing all the sinners in the world. He was, in her ideals, only starting off with this town. But almost no one cared at all about Nancy Beth Gordon's biased suppositions, and no one argued with her. Let the crazy woman believe what she wished, they said, and left it at that. A few of the more gossipy women of town suggested that perhaps Nancy Beth was to blame for the events, that possibly Nancy Beth decided that God wanted her to kill all the Baptists in town. Almost no one paid attention to even that, though.
Father began to have nightly meetings with the men of the town, every night ending later than the night before, and every night Father came back with no new developments. The most rational members of town were at a loss as to what to think, say, or do, and the meetings were merely evidence of that.
.................
If I were to go on naming every killing that occurred afterwards for the next three months, this story would be very long indeed. I shall shorten it for you by simply saying that many, many more died. In total, twelve children were killed, in addition to eight young women and uncountable sheep, horses, cows, and even pigs. The town was terrified, and many packed up and just left. They didn't want their loved ones to die.
But then, one night, Elsie died at the hands of the monster.
I awoke from my nap at twilight to notice that the house was strangely quiet. Elsie should have been home from the schoolhouse, by then...
Puzzled, I rose and walked into Elsie's room. There I found her, perfectly dead, with the characteristic punctures at her throat. She looked like she had been dead for some time...perhaps even all day! Thus, she must have died last night!
At that point, I ran out of the house, screaming. The killer had been in Elsie's room, so close to my own!
I met Father at his office, where he was talking with Pastor Partridge. Father hadn't been home yet that day, since the men's meeting in the saloon had ended at daybreak. "Father, come quick," I declared as I almost slid into the room. "Elsie's dead."
Father stood, his eyes ablaze. "What? You're not being untruthful, now are you?"
Pastor Matthew stood also, a dim light coming into his lackluster eyes. He'd been sick often, lately, for no apparent reason, as had several other townspeople. Doctor Jenson had diagnosed them all as having lost a great deal of blood, and he ordered new transfusions of the substance from non-inflicted people almost daily. I myself had donated blood to a little girl of five.
"Why would I joke?" I exclaimed exasperatedly. With that, Father sat down with a sigh.
"I'm too old for this, Matthew; would you go and see after Elsie? I just need a moment..."
The pastor nodded. "Of course, Sheriff," he said, already donning his hat. Soon he had left.
I sat down next to Father and patted his shoulder. He turned to look at me.
"What's on your lip?" he asked suddenly, almost sickly.
My hand flew to my mouth. As I drew it away, my fingers were red.
"Is that blood?" Father looked at me, a kind of fear in his eyes.
Quickly, I answered, "Of course. I cut my lip; that can happen to anyone."
Father nodded, seemingly assuaged. He changed the subject. "Your teeth are a lot sharper than how I remember them years back."
"Really?" I said in almost an amused tone.
"Really," he said stubbornly.
"Well, they should be," I said, raising my eyebrows at him, "The dentists in England sharpen one's teeth that one may eat easier."
But by the look that Father gave me, I felt that for some reason, he didn't believe me. Why he should not believe me I had no idea, but, then, I am not him, so I would not know.
We walked back to the house together. I held his hand and guided him along. The poor man was feeling Elsie's death very horribly, even though he didn't speak of her at all. He alternately brooded and chatted about trivial things. I understood that under his austere features, a storm was raging.
.................
That night just wasn't the same without Elsie. Father and I didn't talk at all; I prepared his supper and retired to my room. He ate alone.
Later, just past midnight, I heard sobbing coming from Elsie's room. Curious, I rose and strode out of my room to hers.
Father was in there, crying to himself in front of Elsie's prostrate body, which was hidden beneath a sheet. His tears fell on the plywood floors beneath us. In naught but my flowing nightdress, I knelt next to him. He didn't seem to notice me.
Tenderly, I leaned in to kiss him on the neck. I do believe that I must have accidentally grazed him with my teeth, for he gave a yelp and spun around to face me.
"What were you doing'?" he asked of me, astonished.
I shrugged nonchalantly. "Might a girl kiss her father if she wants to?" I replied.
He shook his head. "You know what I meant."
I nodded my head no. "I assure you, I'm completely oblivious."
He stared at me, as though he didn't know what to make of me. I waited patiently for him to say something...anything...
Finally, he remarked, "You are a vampire, aren't you?"
It was my turn to stare. "What in heaven's name are you talking about?"
"It's fairly obvious," he replied. "You've changed so much since you left two years ago. Your skin is white as butter. Your teeth are unnaturally sharp. Your lips are thicker and redder--even when they aren't coated in blood. Your ears are more pointed than is natural for a normal human being...ah, yes, I noticed, even though you dyed your hair and always arranged it to help hide the fact. You sleep during the day in a sleep that none can wake you from, and you are too alert at night than is healthy. You don't eat, either, though you do pretend! Besides all this, people have thought you look frightening, "corpselike," as even Pastor Matthew has called you."
I sat and mulled over this for a while.
"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" Father looked calm, but I could tell that he was irate.
I sighed. "I have a story to tell you," I said slowly.
"Go on," Father replied.
"Well," I began, "When I went to England, I found that it was a very wonderful place indeed. Especially at night. I spent every night I could in London, roaming the streets, attending shows, going to the best restaurants and such. One night, at a very high-class restaurant, I noticed a very peculiar man sitting at the table closest to me. Neither of us had any company, and we kept glancing at each other very frequently. Finally, when I had finished my meal, he carried his cup of coffee over to my table and asked permission to sit with me."
Father didn't say anything. He watched me quietly, expectantly, certainly.
"Anyhow," I went on, "I let him; he seemed kind enough. We chatted for a while about trivial things, but then eventually we got into a deep discussion on philosophy and books. All too soon, it was late, and it was past our time to be going. The gentleman offered to escort me home. I let him; he was pleasant company. The cab let me out, and I went up and prepared reluctantly for bed. As I was just about to turn out my lights an hour later, the bell of my flat rang. I opened my door to discover him outside. He was extremely pleased to see I hadn't retired yet, and asked if he could come inside. I agreed, and apologized for the fact that I wanted to sleep. He said that it was all right with him. I didn't need to ask him what he had come for; I knew, or, rather, I thought I knew, quite well. I got into bed, and soon he followed suit. We lay next to each other for a long time, not doing anything at all, and I was puzzled to say the least. I then let my eyelids droop and my head fall against the cool pillow. It was then that I felt him move towards me, and I expected...well, I needn't say what I expected. Instead, however, I felt his cool lips on my neck, then, suddenly, the excruciating pain of his teeth piercing my skin. I sat up, a mix of emotions--angry, startled, and confused...but mostly angry. He let go of me, then, and began to actually cry. He declared that he had fallen in love with me while we talked in the restaurant. He had, however, a small problem--he was a vampire. He wanted to turn me into a vampire too, that he might be safe for me. I sat a moment, contemplating his confession, then bid him proceed with the vampirizing process, however he was to do it. He was so joyous that I fancied him enough (and I did, mind you) that I would let him transform me, and went about his fiendish work with a new vigor. I won't say that it did not hurt, for it did, but I managed to bear it tolerably."
I took a breath here. Father's eyes prodded me on, though.
"After a few weeks, I was finally a vampire. He and I were completely happy together. Every day I would sleep in my stone-like trance, and every night at twilight he would come into my flat, and we would go about the city as it slept, choosing the choicest subjects for our own pleasure. I really came to love my fellow monster, and I imagined that we would spend the rest of our existences in such a manner, together."
I sighed sadly here.
"However, one night, after we had been 'courting,' if you can call it that, for a year, he didn't come. I became worried, and went to his flat to inquire after him. He wasn't there, but all of his belongings remained. I became frantic, and searched for him everywhere. I never found him again."
Father stared at me. It seemed as though he himself had fallen into a trance. I simply stared back at him. Finally, he tore his gaze away from me.
"So, what are you going to do with me?" I asked him.
"I don't know. I really don't," he said sadly. "I don't want to harm you, since you are my only daughter now, but you've killed so many people that I have no choice but to kill you."
I looked at him. There were tears in his eyes. I shrugged. "To all purposes and intents, I'm dead already. If you so want to kill me, go ahead. I'll even tell you how to do it."
Father was astounded. "What, you want to die?"
I nodded. "Now that I no longer have a partner, being a vampire is very tedious. I'd prefer to either find another man, but death is the second-best option."
Father, at this, stood. "If you are so willing, why don't you kill yourself?"
I shuddered. "I can't stand garlic, much less am I able to stuff it in my own mouth."
Father looked at me strangely. "All right then. What do I need?"
I shrugged. "A sharp stake, a hammer probably, and lots of garlic."
Father nodded. "I shall get those." With that, he rose and stepped out of the room, murmuring, "Don't leave."
"Where would I go?" I asked him. He was, however, halfway down the hallway already, so he didn't hear me.
With this, then, I sprung into action. I leaped to my feet and raced into my room, just a door away. I frantically searched through my belongings and bric-a-brac for something I knew would help me. Finding it, I slipped it into my sleeve and dashed back into the room with the dead Elsie in it. I was waiting in the exact same position as Father had left me once he returned.
"What do I do with these?" he asked, holding his findings in his hands. I rose and stepped towards him. In turn, he took a step backwards. I smiled, knowingly displaying my heinous teeth.
"I'm not going to bite you again," I assured him. He seemed relieved somewhat, yet distrusting. I knew he was probably in mental anguish right now, considering the fact that his favorite daughter had been killed by his other daughter, and now he had to kill her too. However, if he was, he didn't show it. What an impassive man Father was; his continual calm was one quality I really admired in him.
I continued to smile as I felt the long wooden stick in my sleeve. With a flash of movement, I whipped it out and had it pointed at my father.
He didn't have time to even look surprised. With a wordless spell, a stream of angry yellow light streamed forth from the magic stick, and I had petrified Father. He was now stone dead.
I stepped over his body as I prepared to disappear from this humble town forever. "You know," I said shyly, speaking to the room and the two dead corpses within it, "I never did get the chance to tell him about that one sorcerer I courted before my vampire-man, while I was in England..."
With that, I was gone.
My father, the sheriff, was getting worried. Ever since the day I returned home from England like the prodigal daughter I was, he had been worried.
It wasn't the fact that I annoyed him. On the contrary, when I suddenly showed up on the doorstep of our family home that day, suitcase in hand, back after two long years of wandering about Europe, it was probably the happiest moment he was to have for quite a while.
It wasn't the fact that I had changed, either, that worried him. When I left home in a rage after a fierce argument, I had been a tanned blonde 20-year-old, rather plump, and absolutely immature. Upon my return, at age 22, my hair was black, my frame elegantly thin, my skin was almost as pale as parchment, and I had gained the maturity of a thousand men. So, of course, I had not changed for the worse at all and there was no reason for my father to worry about me.
It wasn't money that was any concern to him either. Being the sheriff of the town we lived in did not come without its advantages. My father's salary was perfectly sufficient for sustaining two adult girls and their aging father. (Mother had died years ago, but that is of no consequence.)
And it wasn't Elsie either. Elsie is my fraternal twin sister, but we are nothing alike. Where I am dark, she is light; where I am imperfect, she is the epitome of flawless. She had always been my parent's favorite, even though they never said as much. Her nature was always kind and good. Never was there a day when she was unhealthy. Plus, she was more than beautiful--she was gorgeous. {The blonde hair we both had been born with didn't work on me, but nevertheless, her hair was divine.) Never had she caused any especial concern from our parents, even though it was flagrantly obvious that they simply fawned over her. She might have been spoiled, but she wasn't. She was too good.
What WAS the problem with my father, then? Well, truth be told, it was just really all part of his job, which is why I never really understood why he so worried. You see, there was a series of odd murders in the town, and my father was in charge of the case. I still remember when the news of the first murder came round.
..........
It was a few hours past sundown on a Sunday evening, barely an hour after I had come home. Elsie was setting out a magnificent dinner she had volunteered to prepare in celebration of my arrival, and my father was already seated at the table. He was talking animatedly about what had transpired in the small neighborhood since I had left. Personally, I wasn't at all interested in what he was saying about Mrs. McGillicuddy's dog, or Mr. Schilling's finally joining the men's league, or the Timothy family's new interest in attempting to grow sugar cane in their backyard. Just to be polite, though, I bit my tongue and said nothing to him; sometimes I did him a great favor by even paying attention.
Just as Elsie was dishing out baked beans, griddlecakes, hash-browns, and salt-pork, a raucous pounding came from the back door. Father jumped to his feet, painfully because of his arthritis, and threw open the door.
Our close neighbor, Ben Gridley, was standing there. He was a small lad of about thirteen, and he was very pale. Apparently, he had run all the way here, and he was panting.
"Sheriff," he gasped to Father.
"What's wrong, son?" Father put his hand in a paternal fashion on Ben's shoulder.
Ben looked most shaken. "It's Annabelle Marks, sir," he said exasperatedly.
"What's wrong with Annabelle?"
Ben suddenly tucked his face under his hand to hide a sob. "She's bin....she's bin killed!" he said groggily through his concealed tears.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Father, astounded. His face grew grim. "What happened? Who killed her?"
"We...we dunno, sir. She went missin' las' night, and no 'un could scarce find her. Then this mornin', Bob older Marks, her brother ya know, found her, stone dead, under the school-'ouse, not 'alf an 'our ago. They sent me ter fetch ya, sir..." But here Ben choked on his own saliva and the sentence died. I was aware that he and Annabelle had been sweethearts for years before I left town. I suppose they still must have been at that time, also.
Father patted Ben's shoulder. "It'll be all right, son," he remarked softly. With that, he reached for his double-holster, which was draped over the back of his chair at the table, and put it on with a snap. "Sorry dears," he said to Elsie and I, "I'd best be going'. Don't wait for me; you'll never know when I'll be back." With that, he kissed both of us on our foreheads and strode out the open door.
Elsie stooped next to Ben and hugged him tightly, as though he were her little brother. And, like a little brother, Ben clasped onto her and simply cried. The simple tragic beauty of the situation was sickening.
Father didn't come home until late that night. He came in very late, near midnight. Elsie and I were awake and waiting with some warm milk and leftovers for him. Well, rather, I was quite awake, but Elsie was half-asleep, her knitting unfinished on her lap. I was content to cross-stitch quietly. Elsie was talking to me in muffled tones.
"...So you did enjoy dinner, then?"
I blinked in irritation. This was the third time she had asked in the past ten minutes. "Yes, I did," I replied, trying not to show my impatience with my sister.
"You sure? It looked to me like you barely ever put any food in your--" (she yawned) "--mouth."
I shrugged, even though she was staring blandly at the ceiling in drowsiness, and had been doing so for the past half hour. "In England, one learns eventually to not eat so much."
She paused a moment. Then, placidly, almost reverently, she put in a further question. "Are all the ladies in England...for the most part...with beautiful figures like yours?"
This was interesting; she never had complimented me before in such a way. I shrugged again. "It depends. Some women--"
But I was interrupted by the door surreptitiously opening. Father almost tiptoed in, a forlorn look on his face.
"Father!" Elsie was instantly awake and rose swiftly, knocking her knitting off her lap in the process. She didn't even notice, and strode across to embrace Father as he hung up his holster on the back of a kitchen chair. Father managed a smile for Elsie, and kissed her ear affectionately. I remained where I was, merely nodding a greeting.
"What happened?" Elsie asked, letting go of him and pulling out a chair for him to eat his supper.
At first, Father said nothing. "I hardly want to scare you girls," he said slowly, settling down and sipping his milk. "It's a beastly affair I don' want to get you involved in."
"Do tell us, Father!" Elsie pleaded.
I smirked. "It's not as though we weren't adults, now is it?"
Father sighed. I could tell that he didn't want to elaborate for us, but he gave in to our pleading. "There's not much to tell, actually. It's just that Annabelle's dead, and none of us--" (He was referring to himself and the other men of the town) "--know halfway who did the deed."
Elsie shook her head. "Poor little Annabelle. How did she die?"
Father sighed. "That's the other thing we don't know. There's not a mark on her 'ole little body, bless her, save two dark red punctures on her neck. But a child doesn't die from a mere scratch, now does she? They didn't even seem to have bled much."
Elsie shook her head again. "It might have been poison, you know."
Father nodded. "Doc Jenson took her home tonight' to have a look at her. Remember he used to be a coroner in New York? If he can't tell us what she died from, no 'un on this earth can."
But as we found out later, Annabelle didn't die of poison. Annabelle had died of the impossible--losing an extremely large amount of blood. The mysteries of who killed her, and how, still remained. No one, not even Father, who had been the Sheriff in the town for forty years, was able to shed any light on the situation. The case was filed as 'unsolved' and left there, even though the murder was all the town could talk or think about.
And Annabelle Marks was only the first of a long string of victims.
.........
I had become accustomed to sleeping a lot during the day in England, so when the news of the second murder came, I was in bed, "Sleeping like the dead," or so Elsie termed it. She said afterwards that she had tried to wake me up, but I was too deeply in dreamland to stir. She had given up and went out to the schoolhouse, where she taught all the young children to read and write, despite the second murder the town had experienced in a week.
Again, it was a similar circumstance, though this time it was a young boy by the name of Terry Kent, and he was found by a drunken man, located under the water trough by the saloon. The rest was all the same--he had almost no sign of how he could have died visible, besides two small wounds on his neck from a rat bite or some such incident, and the esteemed Doctor Jenson found no trace of poison. Again, the boy had died from losing over half of his blood in his body.
Father stayed out even later talking with the men folk of the town than he had two days before. When he finally came in at a quarter past one, he brought home no new light on the matter. His face looked more haggard than usual, I noted. As before, the case was filed away under 'unsolved'. No one knew what to make of it at all.
.................
The third murder can scarce be called a murder, really. Three days after Terry Kent, the town pastor, Matthew Partridge, came to our house to report that one of his sister's six sheep had been killed. Father investigated the matter, but decided that it was too trivial to dwell over when there had been two children killed not a week before. The case wasn't even filed officially; someone scribbled a few details on a torn sheet of blotting paper and stuffed it in an envelope marked 'interesting' in Father's desk at the jail. The entire circumstance was immediately forgotten. All I ever learned about it was that the cause of the ewe's death was, like the children, unexplained.
.............
The fourth murder was a great deal more spectacular, though, and it created much more of a sensation.
A young woman by the name of Francine Slate, just engaged, was found dead near a cactus patch almost a mile down the road out of town. Upon investigation, her death was caused, as in the other cases, by loss of blood, but her only wounds were some small scratches from the cactus, and the two punctures on her neck. She had been a very popular young woman, plus she was one of the most sought-over in the town. Her father was the saloon keeper, and was, consequently, quite a popular man himself. He raised such a ruckus over the indignity of the death of his daughter that he managed to get the town quite riled up. Before, they had been surprised and scared, but now they were angry. Many theories began to circulate.
One such hypothesis, by far the most likely, was that some sort of escaped criminal or lunatic was hiding in the hills that overlooked the town, and that he was responsible for the misdeeds. Of course, no one stopped to consider his motive; they all accepted the fact that he was insane, and that insane people were apt to do such things that no one understood.
Another idea, popular especially among the children, but also among some ignorant adults, was that a particular old hermit named George Grass, who lived on the outskirts of town, was the guilty one. There was no ground for the fact beyond what the people imagined about him. I recall many citizens coming to talk to Father over coffee after supper about what they had 'seen' this man doing. However, Father shook these people off, knowing that the old man was not to blame for the deaths. George had been living in his little shack ever since the town had been formed, and besides--he was blind. Most people did not know either, however, and they continued to talk about him as a prospective killer.
The last speculation was not farfetched if one was ardently religious. However, besides the Pastor Matthew and his sister, the only one in the town who really fit that requirement was a middle-aged woman named Nancy Beth Gordon. Nancy Beth was a religious fanatic, and a Roman Catholic to boot, which was hard for her when every other woman in town was a Baptist. Anyhow, she went about declaring that the deaths were the result of God Almighty's wrath, that those in town who sinned were being killed off one by one. Nancy Beth was confidant that she would, in the end, be the only person left. Most people laughed this entire supposition off entirely; if God had an entire world to look after, why would he just want to kill off the sinners in merely one town? Nancy Beth's reply to this was that the judgment days had come, and that God would go about killing all the sinners in the world. He was, in her ideals, only starting off with this town. But almost no one cared at all about Nancy Beth Gordon's biased suppositions, and no one argued with her. Let the crazy woman believe what she wished, they said, and left it at that. A few of the more gossipy women of town suggested that perhaps Nancy Beth was to blame for the events, that possibly Nancy Beth decided that God wanted her to kill all the Baptists in town. Almost no one paid attention to even that, though.
Father began to have nightly meetings with the men of the town, every night ending later than the night before, and every night Father came back with no new developments. The most rational members of town were at a loss as to what to think, say, or do, and the meetings were merely evidence of that.
.................
If I were to go on naming every killing that occurred afterwards for the next three months, this story would be very long indeed. I shall shorten it for you by simply saying that many, many more died. In total, twelve children were killed, in addition to eight young women and uncountable sheep, horses, cows, and even pigs. The town was terrified, and many packed up and just left. They didn't want their loved ones to die.
But then, one night, Elsie died at the hands of the monster.
I awoke from my nap at twilight to notice that the house was strangely quiet. Elsie should have been home from the schoolhouse, by then...
Puzzled, I rose and walked into Elsie's room. There I found her, perfectly dead, with the characteristic punctures at her throat. She looked like she had been dead for some time...perhaps even all day! Thus, she must have died last night!
At that point, I ran out of the house, screaming. The killer had been in Elsie's room, so close to my own!
I met Father at his office, where he was talking with Pastor Partridge. Father hadn't been home yet that day, since the men's meeting in the saloon had ended at daybreak. "Father, come quick," I declared as I almost slid into the room. "Elsie's dead."
Father stood, his eyes ablaze. "What? You're not being untruthful, now are you?"
Pastor Matthew stood also, a dim light coming into his lackluster eyes. He'd been sick often, lately, for no apparent reason, as had several other townspeople. Doctor Jenson had diagnosed them all as having lost a great deal of blood, and he ordered new transfusions of the substance from non-inflicted people almost daily. I myself had donated blood to a little girl of five.
"Why would I joke?" I exclaimed exasperatedly. With that, Father sat down with a sigh.
"I'm too old for this, Matthew; would you go and see after Elsie? I just need a moment..."
The pastor nodded. "Of course, Sheriff," he said, already donning his hat. Soon he had left.
I sat down next to Father and patted his shoulder. He turned to look at me.
"What's on your lip?" he asked suddenly, almost sickly.
My hand flew to my mouth. As I drew it away, my fingers were red.
"Is that blood?" Father looked at me, a kind of fear in his eyes.
Quickly, I answered, "Of course. I cut my lip; that can happen to anyone."
Father nodded, seemingly assuaged. He changed the subject. "Your teeth are a lot sharper than how I remember them years back."
"Really?" I said in almost an amused tone.
"Really," he said stubbornly.
"Well, they should be," I said, raising my eyebrows at him, "The dentists in England sharpen one's teeth that one may eat easier."
But by the look that Father gave me, I felt that for some reason, he didn't believe me. Why he should not believe me I had no idea, but, then, I am not him, so I would not know.
We walked back to the house together. I held his hand and guided him along. The poor man was feeling Elsie's death very horribly, even though he didn't speak of her at all. He alternately brooded and chatted about trivial things. I understood that under his austere features, a storm was raging.
.................
That night just wasn't the same without Elsie. Father and I didn't talk at all; I prepared his supper and retired to my room. He ate alone.
Later, just past midnight, I heard sobbing coming from Elsie's room. Curious, I rose and strode out of my room to hers.
Father was in there, crying to himself in front of Elsie's prostrate body, which was hidden beneath a sheet. His tears fell on the plywood floors beneath us. In naught but my flowing nightdress, I knelt next to him. He didn't seem to notice me.
Tenderly, I leaned in to kiss him on the neck. I do believe that I must have accidentally grazed him with my teeth, for he gave a yelp and spun around to face me.
"What were you doing'?" he asked of me, astonished.
I shrugged nonchalantly. "Might a girl kiss her father if she wants to?" I replied.
He shook his head. "You know what I meant."
I nodded my head no. "I assure you, I'm completely oblivious."
He stared at me, as though he didn't know what to make of me. I waited patiently for him to say something...anything...
Finally, he remarked, "You are a vampire, aren't you?"
It was my turn to stare. "What in heaven's name are you talking about?"
"It's fairly obvious," he replied. "You've changed so much since you left two years ago. Your skin is white as butter. Your teeth are unnaturally sharp. Your lips are thicker and redder--even when they aren't coated in blood. Your ears are more pointed than is natural for a normal human being...ah, yes, I noticed, even though you dyed your hair and always arranged it to help hide the fact. You sleep during the day in a sleep that none can wake you from, and you are too alert at night than is healthy. You don't eat, either, though you do pretend! Besides all this, people have thought you look frightening, "corpselike," as even Pastor Matthew has called you."
I sat and mulled over this for a while.
"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" Father looked calm, but I could tell that he was irate.
I sighed. "I have a story to tell you," I said slowly.
"Go on," Father replied.
"Well," I began, "When I went to England, I found that it was a very wonderful place indeed. Especially at night. I spent every night I could in London, roaming the streets, attending shows, going to the best restaurants and such. One night, at a very high-class restaurant, I noticed a very peculiar man sitting at the table closest to me. Neither of us had any company, and we kept glancing at each other very frequently. Finally, when I had finished my meal, he carried his cup of coffee over to my table and asked permission to sit with me."
Father didn't say anything. He watched me quietly, expectantly, certainly.
"Anyhow," I went on, "I let him; he seemed kind enough. We chatted for a while about trivial things, but then eventually we got into a deep discussion on philosophy and books. All too soon, it was late, and it was past our time to be going. The gentleman offered to escort me home. I let him; he was pleasant company. The cab let me out, and I went up and prepared reluctantly for bed. As I was just about to turn out my lights an hour later, the bell of my flat rang. I opened my door to discover him outside. He was extremely pleased to see I hadn't retired yet, and asked if he could come inside. I agreed, and apologized for the fact that I wanted to sleep. He said that it was all right with him. I didn't need to ask him what he had come for; I knew, or, rather, I thought I knew, quite well. I got into bed, and soon he followed suit. We lay next to each other for a long time, not doing anything at all, and I was puzzled to say the least. I then let my eyelids droop and my head fall against the cool pillow. It was then that I felt him move towards me, and I expected...well, I needn't say what I expected. Instead, however, I felt his cool lips on my neck, then, suddenly, the excruciating pain of his teeth piercing my skin. I sat up, a mix of emotions--angry, startled, and confused...but mostly angry. He let go of me, then, and began to actually cry. He declared that he had fallen in love with me while we talked in the restaurant. He had, however, a small problem--he was a vampire. He wanted to turn me into a vampire too, that he might be safe for me. I sat a moment, contemplating his confession, then bid him proceed with the vampirizing process, however he was to do it. He was so joyous that I fancied him enough (and I did, mind you) that I would let him transform me, and went about his fiendish work with a new vigor. I won't say that it did not hurt, for it did, but I managed to bear it tolerably."
I took a breath here. Father's eyes prodded me on, though.
"After a few weeks, I was finally a vampire. He and I were completely happy together. Every day I would sleep in my stone-like trance, and every night at twilight he would come into my flat, and we would go about the city as it slept, choosing the choicest subjects for our own pleasure. I really came to love my fellow monster, and I imagined that we would spend the rest of our existences in such a manner, together."
I sighed sadly here.
"However, one night, after we had been 'courting,' if you can call it that, for a year, he didn't come. I became worried, and went to his flat to inquire after him. He wasn't there, but all of his belongings remained. I became frantic, and searched for him everywhere. I never found him again."
Father stared at me. It seemed as though he himself had fallen into a trance. I simply stared back at him. Finally, he tore his gaze away from me.
"So, what are you going to do with me?" I asked him.
"I don't know. I really don't," he said sadly. "I don't want to harm you, since you are my only daughter now, but you've killed so many people that I have no choice but to kill you."
I looked at him. There were tears in his eyes. I shrugged. "To all purposes and intents, I'm dead already. If you so want to kill me, go ahead. I'll even tell you how to do it."
Father was astounded. "What, you want to die?"
I nodded. "Now that I no longer have a partner, being a vampire is very tedious. I'd prefer to either find another man, but death is the second-best option."
Father, at this, stood. "If you are so willing, why don't you kill yourself?"
I shuddered. "I can't stand garlic, much less am I able to stuff it in my own mouth."
Father looked at me strangely. "All right then. What do I need?"
I shrugged. "A sharp stake, a hammer probably, and lots of garlic."
Father nodded. "I shall get those." With that, he rose and stepped out of the room, murmuring, "Don't leave."
"Where would I go?" I asked him. He was, however, halfway down the hallway already, so he didn't hear me.
With this, then, I sprung into action. I leaped to my feet and raced into my room, just a door away. I frantically searched through my belongings and bric-a-brac for something I knew would help me. Finding it, I slipped it into my sleeve and dashed back into the room with the dead Elsie in it. I was waiting in the exact same position as Father had left me once he returned.
"What do I do with these?" he asked, holding his findings in his hands. I rose and stepped towards him. In turn, he took a step backwards. I smiled, knowingly displaying my heinous teeth.
"I'm not going to bite you again," I assured him. He seemed relieved somewhat, yet distrusting. I knew he was probably in mental anguish right now, considering the fact that his favorite daughter had been killed by his other daughter, and now he had to kill her too. However, if he was, he didn't show it. What an impassive man Father was; his continual calm was one quality I really admired in him.
I continued to smile as I felt the long wooden stick in my sleeve. With a flash of movement, I whipped it out and had it pointed at my father.
He didn't have time to even look surprised. With a wordless spell, a stream of angry yellow light streamed forth from the magic stick, and I had petrified Father. He was now stone dead.
I stepped over his body as I prepared to disappear from this humble town forever. "You know," I said shyly, speaking to the room and the two dead corpses within it, "I never did get the chance to tell him about that one sorcerer I courted before my vampire-man, while I was in England..."
With that, I was gone.
