Blood Is Not Enough

by Ellen Datlow

  The truth was, I thought, I didn’t know what we were all going to do about Mr. Vladisov. That was the long and short of it, and no urban myth Mrs. Dancey tempted me with was going to take my mind off that.

  Time. Things like Mr. Vladisov, they figured they had all the time in the world, so they usually seemed to take things easy. Given time, we’d figure something out. Cammie, Donnie, Angelique, and me. We could handle anything. Always had.

  “Shauna-Laurel?” It was Mrs. Dancey. Talking to me.

  I didn’t know what she had asked. “Ma’am?” I said. “Sorry.”

  But it was too late. I’d lost my chance. Too much daydreaming. I hoped it wouldn’t be too late tonight.

  Donnie’s twin red marks had started to fade when the four of us huddled in our room at the Center to talk.

  “So maybe they are zits,” said Cammie hopefully. Donnie irritably scratched at them. “They itch.”

  I sat on the edge of the bunk and swung my legs back and forth. “Don’t scratch. They’ll get infected.” “You sound like my mother.”

  “Good evening, my good kids.”Mr. Vladisov filled the doorway. He was all dark clothing and angular shadows. “I hope you are all feeling well tonight?”

  “Aren’t you a little early?” said Angelique.

  Mr. Vladisov made a show of consulting his watch. It was the old-fashioned kind, round and gold, on a chain. It had hands. I glanced out the window toward the street. The light had gone while we were talking. I wondered where Mr. Vladisov spent his days.

  “Early? No. Perhaps just a bit,” he corrected himself. “I find my position here at the Center so pleasant, I don’t wish to be late.” He smiled at us. We stared back at him. “What? You’re not all glad to see me?”

  “I have the flu,” said Donnie dully.

  “The rest of us will probably get it too,” Angelique said.

  Cammie and I nodded agreement.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Vladisov. “I see why this should trouble you. Perhaps I can obtain for you an elixir?” “Huh?”That was Cammie.

  “For your blood,” he said. “Something to strengthen your resistance. Tomato juice, perhaps? or V-8? Some other healthful beverage?”

  “No,” said Donnie. “No thank you. I don’t think so. No.” She hiccuped.

  “Oh, you poor child.” Mr. Vladisov started forward. Donnie drew back.

  “Is there something I can do?” he said, checking himself in midstride. “Perhaps I should call for a doctor?” His voice sounded so solicitous. “Your parent?”

  “No!” Donnie came close to shouting.

  “She’ll be okay,” said Cammie.

  Mr. Vladisov looked indecisive. “I don’t know …”

  “We do,” I said. “Everything will be fine. Donnie just needs a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’m sure she will get that,” said Mr. Vladisov. “The night is quiet.”Then he excused himself to fetch our milk and cookies. This time he didn’t ask for volunteer help.

  Cammie was stroking Donnie’s hair. “We’ll see nothin’ happens. You’ll be just fine.”

  “That’s right,” said Angelique. “We’ll all stay up.”

  “No need,” I said. “We can take turns. No use everybody killing themselves.”

  “Bad phrasing,” said Cammie. “Taking turns sounds good to me.” I volunteered, “I’ll take the first watch.”

  “Yeah.” Cammie grinned. “That way the rest of us got to stay up in the scariest part of the night.”

  “Okay, so you go first and wake me up later.” “Naw. Just kidding.”

  I liked being friends with Cammie and the others. But then we were so much alike. More than you might think.

  The daughter of a widowed Harlem mortician. The daughter of the divorced assistant French consul. The daughter of an ambitious off-Broadway director. The daughter of a divorced famous novelist.

  All of us denied latch-keys and dumped at Wick Pus. Handier than boarding school if a parent wanted us. But still out of their hair.

  One of us used to love drugs. One of us was thinking about loving God. Another was afraid of being the baby of the group. And another just wanted peace and a horse. I smiled.

  Donnie actually did look reassured.

  After a while, Mr. Vladisov came back with our nightly snacks. He seemed less exuberant. Maybe he was catching on to the fact that we were on to him. Maybe not. It’s hard to tell with adults.

  At any rate, he bid us all a good evening and that was the last we saw of him until he came around to deliver a soft, “Lights out, girls. Sleep well. Sleep well, indeed.”

  We listened for his footsteps, didn’t hear any, heard him repeating his message to the boys down the hall. Finally we started to relax just a little.

  Through the darkness, Cammie whispered, “Three hours, SL. That’s it. Don’t knock yourself out, okay? Wake me up in three hours.”

  “Okay.”

  I heard Donnie’s younger, softer whisper. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you’re all here. I’m even going to try to sleep.”

  “Want a ghost story first?” That was Angelique. “No!” Donnie giggled. We were all silent.

  I listened for steady, regular breathing. I waited for anything strange. I eventually heard the sounds of the others sleeping.

  I guess I really hadn’t expected them to drift off like that. And then I went to sleep. I hadn’t expected that either.

  I woke up sweaty, dreaming someone was slapping me with big slabs of lunch meat. Someone was slapping me. Cammie. “Wake up, you gink! She’s gone!”

  “Who’s gone?” The lamp was on and I tried to focus on Cammie’s angry face.

  “Donnie! The honky blood-sucker stole her.”

  I struggled free of the tangled sheet. I didn’t remember lying down in my bed. The last thing I recalled was sitting bolt upright, listening for anything that sounded like Mr. Vladisov skulking around. “I think he—he put me to sleep.” I felt terrible.

  “He put us all to sleep,” said Angelique. “No time to worry about that. We’ve got to find Donnie before he drains her down to those cute little slippers.” Donnie had been wearing a pair of plush Felix the Cat foot warmers.

  “Where we gonna look?” Cammie looked about ready to pull Mr. Vladisov apart with her bare fingers with their crimson painted nails.

  “Follow running blood downhill,” I said.

  “Jeez,” Cammie said disgustedly.

  “I mean it. Try the basement. I bet he’s got his coffin down there.” “Traditionalist, huh?”

  “Maybe. I hope so.”I pulled on one Adidas, wound the laces around my ankle, reached for the other. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Not quite midnight. Sucker didn’t even wait for the witching hour.” I stood up. “Come on.”

  “What about the others?” Angelique paused by the door to the hall.

  I quickly thought about that. We’d always been pretty self-sufficient. But this wasn’t your ordinary situation. “Wake ’em up,” I said. “We can use the help.” Cammie started for the door “But be quiet. Don’t wake up the supervisors.”

  On the way to the door, I grabbed two Oreos I’d saved from my bedtime snack. I figured I’d need the energy.

  I realized there were thirty or thirty-five kids trailing just behind as my roommates and I found one of Donnie’s Felix slippers on the landing in the fire stairs. It was just before the final flight down to the dark rooms where the furnace and all the pipes were. The white eyes stared up at me. The whiskers didn’t twitch.

  “Okay,” I said unnecessarily, “come on. Hurry!”

  Both of them were in a storage room, just up the corridor from the place where the furnace roared like some giant dinosaur. Mr. Vladisov sat on a case of toilet paper. It was like he was waiting for us. He expected us. He sat there with Donnie cradled in his arms and was already looking up at the doorway when we burst through.

  “SL …” Donnie’s voice was weak. She tried to reach out toward me, but Mr.
Vladisov held her tightly. “I don’t want to be here.”

  “Me neither,” muttered Cammie from beside me.

  “Ah, my good kids,” said Mr. Vladisov. “My lambs, my fat little calves. I am sorry that you found me.”

  It didn’t sound like he was sorry. I had the feeling he’d expected it, maybe even wanted it to happen. I began to wonder if this one was totally crazy. A psychotic. “Let Donnie go,” I said, trying for a firmness I don’t think was really showing in my voice.

  “No.” That was simple enough.

  “Let her go,” I repeated.

  “I’m not… done,” he said, baring his fangs in a jolly grin. I said, “Please?”

  “You really don’t understand.” Mr. Vladisov sighed theatrically. “There are two dozen or more of you and only one of me; but I am a man of some power. When I finish snacking on this one, I will kill most of the rest of you. Perhaps all. I’ll kill you and I will drink you.”

  “Horseshit,” said Cammie.

  “You will be first,” said Mr. Vladisov, “after your friend.” He stared directly at me, his eyes shining like rubies.

  “Get fucked.” I surprised myself by saying that. I don’t usually talk that way.

  Mr. Vladisov looked shocked. “Shauna-Laurel, my dear, you are not a child of my generation.”

  I definitely wasn’t. “Let. Her. Loose,” I said distinctly.

  “Don’t be tiresome, my child. Now be patient. I’ll be with you in just a moment.” He lowered his mouth toward Donnie’s throat.

  “You’re dead,’T told him.

  He paused, smiling horribly. “No news to me.”

  “I mean really dead. For keeps.”

  “I doubt that. Others have tried. Rather more mature specimens than all of you.” He returned his attention to Donnie’s neck.

  Though I didn’t turn away from Mr. Vladisov, I sensed the presence of the other kids behind me. We had all crowded into the storage room, and now the thirty-odd of us spread in a sort of semicircle. If Mr. Vladisov wondered why none of us was trying to run away, he didn’t show it. I guess maybe like most adults, he figured he controlled us all.

  I took Cammie’s hand with my right, Angelique’s with my left. All our fingers felt very warm. I could sense us starting to relax into that fuzzy-feeling receptive state that we usually only feel when we’re asleep. I knew we were teaming up with the other kids in the room.

  It’s funny sometimes about old folktales (we’d finally come up in class with a nonsexist term). Like the one forbidding adults to sleep in the same room with a child. They had it right. They just had it backwards. It’s us who suck up the energy like batteries charging …

  Mr. Vladisov must have felt it start. He hesitated, teeth just a little ways from Donnie’s skin. He looked at us from the corners of his eyes without raising his head. “I feel …” he started to say, and then trailed off. “You’re taking something. You’re feeding—”

  “Let her go.” I shouldn’t even have said that. It was too late for making bargains.

  “My … blood?” Mr. Vladisov whispered.

  “Don’t be gross,” said Cammie.

  I thought I could see Donnie smile wanly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Angelique. “I thought you were going to work out okay. We wouldn’t have taken much. Just enough. You wouldn’t have suspected a thing. Finally you would have moved on and someone else would have taken your place.”

  Mr. Vladisov didn’t look well. “Perhaps—” he started to say. He looked like he was struggling against quicksand. Weakly. “No,” I said. “Not on your life.” And then we fed.

  There’s a story I’ve wanted to write for years. It’s about the nasty allegation that cats left alone in a nursery with an infant will suck the breath right from the little tyke’s lungs. Twice now I’ve tried to adapt that aleurophobic slander into a story. Twice I’ve veered away from the original concept and done something else entirely. Fortunately, both those tangential tales have worked out fine.

  The first time was with a story that eventually came to be called “The Baku."That ended up as a script for the CBS series, The Twilight Zone. The finished script was at first rejected; then it was heavily rewritten (by me) just in time for the news of the series’ cancellation. What’s a writer to do? I turned the unproduced script into a novelette for my collection of original fiction in Night Visions 4.

  Then I decided to use the kitty cat terror angle for a story aimed at the book you hold in your hands, Ellen Datlow’s vampirism collection. It didn’t take long before the cats in “Good Kids” assumed a rather minimal role.

  Maybe the third time’ll be a charm.

  I hope so. I think cats make terrific characters; and I’m excited about the cutting edge of contemporary dark fantasy that seems to be slicing away the middling paunch of traditional horror.

  In the meantime, thanks to the cats who never did appear on stage in “Good Kids,” I got acquainted with SL, Donnie, Cammie, and Angelique. I rather like them and suspect they’ll return in at least another story. Maybe one of them’ll get a cat.

  Ed Bryant

  THE GIRL WITH THE HUNGRY EYES

  Fritz Leiber

  “The Girl with the Hungry Eyes,”published in 1949, is a classic and will probably never become dated. The advertising industry is still searching for “The Look” to sell products to the great American maw. And with new technology continually being developed, the industry becomes more and more adept at insinuating itself into our lives.

  All right, I’ll tell you why the Girl gives me the creeps. Why I can’t stand to go downtown and see the mob slavering up at her on the tower, with that pop bottle or pack of cigarettes or whatever it is beside her. Why I hate to look at magazines any more because I know she’ll turn up somewhere in a brassiere or a bubble bath. Why I don’t like to think of millions of Americans drinking in that poisonous half-smile. It’s quite a story—more story than you’re expecting.

  No, I haven’t suddenly developed any long-haired indignation at the evils of advertising and the national glamour-girl complex. That’d be a laugh for a man in my racket, wouldn’t it? Though I think you’ll agree there’s something a little perverted about trying to capitalize on sex that way. But it’s okay with me. And I know we’ve had the Face and the Body and the Look and what not else, so why shouldn’t someone come along who sums it all up so completely, that we have to call her the Girl and blazon her on all the billboards from Times Square to Telegraph Hill?

  But the Girl isn’t like any of the others. She’s unnatural. She’s morbid. She’s unholy.

  Oh it’s 1948, is it, and the sort of thing I’m hinting at went out with witchcraft? But you see I’m not altogether sure myself what I’m hinting at, beyond a certain point. There are vampires and vampires, and not all of them suck blood.

  And there were the murders, if they were murders.

  Besides, let me ask you this. Why, when America is obsessed with the Girl, don’t we find out more about her? Why doesn’t she rate a Time cover with a droll biography inside? Why hasn’t there been a feature in Life or the Post? A Profile in The New Yorker?’Why hasn’t Charm or Mademoiselle done her career saga? Not ready for it? Nuts!

  Why haven’t the movies snapped her up? Why hasn’t she been on Information, Please? Why don’t we see her kissing candidates at political rallies? Why isn’t she chosen queen of some sort of junk or other at a convention?

  Why don’t we read about her tastes and hobbies, her views of the Russian situation? Why haven’t the columnists interviewed her in a kimono on the top floor of the tallest hotel in Manhattan and told us who her boyfriends are?

  Finally—and this is the real killer—why hasn’t she ever been drawn or painted?

  Oh, no she hasn’t. If you knew anything about commercial art you’d know that. Every blessed one of those pictures was worked up from a photograph. Expertly? Of course. They’ve got the top artists on it. But that’s how it’s done.

  And now
I’ll tell you the why of all that. It’s because from the top to the bottom of the whole world of advertising, news, and business, there isn’t a solitary soul who knows where the Girl came from, where she lives, what she does, who she is, even what her name is.

  You heard me. What’s more, not a single solitary soul ever sees her—except one poor damned photographer, who’s making more money off her than he ever hoped to in his life and who’s scared and miserable as hell every minute of the day.

  No, I haven’t the faintest idea who he is or where he has his studio. But I know there has to be such a man and I’m morally certain he feels just like I said.

  Yes, I might be able to find her, if I tried. I’m not sure though—by now she probably has other safeguards. Besides, I don’t want to.

  Oh, I’m off my rocker, am I? That sort of thing can’t happen in this Year of our Atom 1948? People can’t keep out of sight that way, not even Garbo?

  Well I happen to know they can, because last year I was that poor damned photographer I was telling you about. Yes, last year, in 1947, when the Girl made her first poisonous splash right here in this big little city of ours.

  Yes, I knew you weren’t here last year and you don’t know about it. Even the Girl had to start small. But if you hunted through the files of the local newspapers, you’d find some ads, and I might be able to locate you some of the old displays—I think Lovelybelt is still using one of them. I used to have a mountain of photos myself, until I burned them.

  Yes, I made my cut off her. Nothing like what that other photographer must be making, but enough so it still bought this whisky. She was funny about money. I’ll tell you about that.

  But first picture me in 1947.I had a fourth-floor studio in that rathole the Hauser Building, catty-corner from Ardleigh Park.

  I’d been working at the Marsh-Mason studios until I’d got my bellyful of it and decided to start in for myself. The Hauser Building was crummy—I’ll never forget how the stairs creaked—but it was cheap and there was a skylight.