The Vampiric Housewife
By Kristen Marquette
Copyright © 2009 by Kristen Marquette
Published by FireLight Books
ISBN 978-0-615-33006-8
Chapter One
The Rise of the Undead
The sun set over the green hills of Sangre Valley, the orange sunlight rapidly retreating across the manicured lawns of the identical, suburban houses with their trimmed palm trees and white picket fences. White stars began to twinkle in the navy velvet sky, the crescent moon, a sliver in the cloudless heavens. Street lights flickered on as night settled comfortably down upon the sleepy town and the houses slowly stirred to life, stretching and yawning, alarm clocks ringing and kitchen lights switching on. Wives dressed and prepared breakfast for their families while their husbands snatched the newspaper off the front porch and sat down at the kitchen table in their suits and ties prepared for the office.
Inside the bungalow at 2024 Lestat Road, housewife Valerie Murray turned off the wind-up alarm clock as her husband stirred in the twin coffin on the other side of the nightstand. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, she flipped on the florescent light and quickly closed the door so not to wake her husband. He had a few more minutes of sleep left. She, however, was not as fortunate. In front of the bathroom vanity mirror, Valerie immediately began her work for the day.
With a brush she powdered her already pallor, flawless complexion. She was thirty-four years old, but there was not a blemish on her porcelain skin, nor a wrinkle around her rare, shimming violet eyes or bow of a mouth. Though her violet, doe eyes required no aid to attract attention, she dutifully lined them in black pencil, added a pale lilac over the shade, then black mascara on her long, endless lashes. The only cosmetics that truly enhanced her appearance were the bright red lipstick on her lips and the fake flush of blush that enlivened her cheekbones. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, her teeth long and white, a perfect smile to go with a perfect face.
One by one she removed the curlers from her reddish brown hair and pinned the soft curls to frame her painted face. She shed her nightgown and robe and replaced them with an unneeded girdle and bra. Her body was long and lithe, fragile in its thinness, but flawless in its strength. There were no bulges for the girdle to hold in, no wobbles of flab to keep still. Even her small, round breasts required little support despite the birth of her three beautiful children. Next came the silk stockings and the belted shirtdress, a dark blue with tiny white polka dots—Valerie was fond of polka dots. She stepped into the stiletto heels that stood her at nearly six feet tall. She slipped on her silver wedding band and the modest but beautiful engagement ring on her long, graceful finger then clipped on the finishing touch—her pearl earrings which she was never without.
Valerie looked at her created self in the mirror but did not smile this time. She traced the delicate line of her jaw and ran her hand down her swan-esque neck. She was beautiful, glamorous even . . . and sad. Beneath the layers of makeup and clothes, the uniform she wore daily, there was a person she did not recognize, a stranger, one who was melancholy. Valerie had a wonderful life. A loving husband with a good job. Bright, healthy children. This lovely house. She was happy. But then why was she seeing this sadness in the mirror? Who was that stranger?
She abruptly looked away from the reflection as if a spell had been broken. There was too much work to be done. She couldn’t dawdle in front of the mirror all night long indulging her vanity. The smile came back. That looked better. At least it was familiar.
In the bedroom she drew back the heavy curtains and went to wake her darling husband.
“Charlie, sweetheart, time to wake up.” She lightly kissed his cheek and switched on the lamp by the coffin.
In each of the children’s room she performed a similar ritual, first entering the boys’ room, a small shake and kiss for each boy—eleven year old Harry with his cowboy sheets and sixteen year old John with all his sports trophies proudly displayed on a shelf above his coffin. She always made sure to turn on the light so they didn’t fall back to sleep. In her fifteen year old daughter’s pink room, Amelia rolled over and smiled up at her. “Goodnight Mom.”
Valerie smiled down at her daughter. “Goodnight sweetheart.”
In the spick and span kitchen of black and white tile and aqua appliances, she prepared a hearty breakfast for her family. After all, it was the most important meal of the day. Humming Frank Sinatra’s Young at Heart, she removed a large slab of beef from the refrigerator and slapped it down on a lime green cutting board. She began to tenderize it with a small hammer, a little violently perhaps, a bit of blood splattering on her cheek, but she mindlessly brushed it away. It was a good stress reliever. She removed a butcher’s knife from the drawer and cut the meat into large chunks then arranged them on a serving platter. She placed the plate of raw animal flesh on the table then licked the metallic blood off her fingers, its smell intoxicating, awakening an aching hunger inside of her. But her family would have to be fed first.
Charlie walked in, his black pants perfectly pressed, his shoes polished to a high shine, the top two buttons of his white shirt not yet buttoned, a green tie that the children had bought him last Father’s Day loose around his neck. He hung his suit jacket on the back of the kitchen chair and set his briefcase down. He was a handsome man, but he hadn’t looked well in months. Six foot and always on the slender side, he looked decidedly unfed recently. His long face was tired and stressed, his black eyes anxious with circles beneath them. The fact that he had recently traded his traditional crew cut for what they were crassly calling a “duck butt” only accentuated the newfound creases in his high forehead. It was no wonder he looked so worn out. The poor man worked virtually every single night at the hospital, and he was so exhausted when he came home in the morning that she could barely get any nutrients through those thin lips of his. The only time he looked well was after his hunting trips with the guys. But lately, even after his weekend trips . . . the stress wasn’t released. Valerie worried about his health.
He smiled at her, kissed her cheek, both hands placed on her hips.
“Goodnight. Have you grabbed the paper yet?” he asked.
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll grab it.”
She set the table with five plates.
Harry came sprinting down the hall into the kitchen and jumped into his chair nearly knocking it over, his sandy brown hair bouncing over his violet eyes and boyish face. He was a boisterous, precocious little boy, small for his age but no less mischievous. Just last week she had been called to the school because he had gotten into a fist fight with another boy. Tried biting him on the neck. He had no excuse other than the boy’s heartbeat drove him to it. Valerie was a bit concerned about his adjustment, but the teacher assured her that all boys acted out, that it was just his age. John had never acted out like that though.
“It’s time to get you a hair cut,” she said ruffling his hair. He shook her hand off.
“I like it long. Meat? Don’t we have any fresh blood?”
“Right here buddy,” Charlie said with the paper folder under his arm carrying two glass bottles of the sticky red liquid left on the step by the bloodman. “And it’s still a little bit warm.”
Harry twisted in his chair to look at Valerie. “But I want fresh blood. Don’t we have any humans left?”
“No. You know a whole human is very expensive. Drink your blood and eat at least two pieces of meat,” she said strictly as Charlie poured blood in each glass before opening the Sangre Valley Gazette. Sulking, Harry picked up two pieces of raw meat and dropped them on his plate with a splat staring at them with resentment. Since he was a baby, Harry loved to feed. He loved all blo
od. But the older he grew, the pickier he became. First he rejected the packaged blood she put in his school lunches. They weren’t fresh enough. So she let him buy warm blood at school. And now it was animal meat. Next it would be animal blood. When they did have a fresh, living human in the pantry, she’d find little bite marks on its ankles where Harry had snuck a drink. He said he couldn’t help himself.
“Night Mom. Night Dad,” John said entering the kitchen. John was a strapping young man, long and slender like his father with the same gaunt face, but a healthier, better fed complexion. He kept his dark hair in a crew cut as was the popular style. He wore his Sangre Valley letterman jacket—red and white—with letters for basketball, football, and baseball. He was a good boy who excelled at all sports and was popular with both boys and girls as well as his teachers. He may not have been at the top of his class academically, but he did well. At parent-teacher conferences, all his teachers said what a pleasure he was to have in class.
He popped a piece of meat in his mouth as he sat down at the table. “Would it be alright if I took the car out Friday night, Dad?” he asked chewing.
“Date with Lisa?” Valerie asked. Lisa was his steady girlfriend, a sweet girl, cheerleader, blonde, well endowed in all the right places. It concerned her sometimes that he was so serious at such a young age. Lisa was his first real girlfriend. But Valerie married Charlie, her first boyfriend, when she was just eighteen herself. There wasn’t much she could say to him.
“We were going to go to the drive-in to see the new monster flick. Can I Dad?”
“I don’t know. Me and your mom are having a dinner party Friday night—" Harry’s ears perked up as John’s face fell. To Harry a dinner party meant a human to feast on and for John it meant a night of polite conversation with his father’s boss Dr. Venjamin and his colleagues. “But if you promise to be home by curfew—“ Charlie said, a sudden smile on his face.
Charlie could deny his eldest son nothing. Pride shone in his eyes every time he looked at his son. They were close, tossing the football on the lawn, shooting hoops in the driveway, playing chess in the parlor, discussing girls and cars. Besides, Charlie wasn’t overly fond of dinner parties either. He had to be subjected to them. His son did not. At least not yet. But Jett Wilson had one just last week and Dr. Venjamin had him brought in on a new, special project. Charlie couldn’t lose his edge at the hospital.
“Thanks Dad. I’ll be home by curfew. Not a minute later.”
“And not a scratch on the car,” he said still smiling.
“Amelia! Honey, your breakfast is getting cold!” Valerie called.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find my homework,” her daughter said coming down the hall. She was just a couple of inches shorter than her mother with a much more voluptuous body. Of course the conical bra under her sweaters helped accentuate what God had already given her. But she was a modest child, her books always folded against her chest, the hem of her skirt never above mid-calf where as her classmates’ skirts became shorter everyday—of course they tried to get away with that in Valerie’s day too. Her dark hair was in its traditional long ponytail, her full lips in a pout—also vintage Amelia—and her large, brown eyes a little sullen. She loved school but was not as popular as her brother. She got straight A’s, but had few friends, no boyfriends, and was more interested in art than sock hops. At least she had joined the drama club where she socialized a little as she painted the scenery. When Valerie suggested she audition for a role, Amelia exclaimed, “I’d rather die than be on stage and have everyone staring at me!” It saddened Valerie a little. She had been a lot like her daughter at that age, unsure of herself, self-conscious, but she had loved the stage. It freed her from her normal life. If her parents hadn’t died when she was eighteen, she may have tried to go to college to pursue her thespian dreams. But that’s not how things worked out. Instead she had this beautiful family. And if Amelia preferred painting to acting, so be it.
“Aims, you want to double with me and Lisa on Friday?” John asked chewing on another piece of meat. Valerie had grown up an only child. She was so happy that her two eldest had each other and were so close. “Drew Sanders told me he thinks you’re cute,” he teased.
Amelia almost choked on her blood. Valerie smiled. Amelia had had a crush on John’s friend Drew for a long time now. It was about time the boy took notice of her.
“John Charles Murray, if this is your idea of a joke—“ his sister threatened.
“Would I do that to you?”
“Yes!” Harry piped in.
“Shut it,” John told him.
“Hey, don’t talk to your brother like that,” Valerie said. “Why don’t you go out with John on Friday, Amelia? I know that you don’t really like the dinner parties.”
She looked down at her plate. “No. He would only be doing it as a favor to John. I don’t need pity.”
“That’s not true, Aims,” John said. “He brought it up. Not me.”
“No.”
“Think about it, Aims,” Charlie said.
She didn’t say anything.
“You better all get off to school before you’re late,” Valerie said. “And you to work. I have a million things to do to get ready for the party tomorrow.”
“Bye Mom. Bye Dad,” John said kissing them each on the cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Love you Mom,” Amelia said and hugged her. Then she kissed her father’s cheek. “Bye Daddy.”
“Bye pumpkin.”
Harry quickly finished everyone’s blood on the table leaving him with a little red mustache. “Hey! Wait for me!”
“Stop right there,” Valerie said preventing him from running after his siblings. She used a dish towel to wipe his cute little face. “There you go. Behave yourself today.”
“I will.”
“See you later, buddy,” Charlie said with a wink.
He grabbed his books and bolted out the door.
Soon as the children were gone, Valerie began clearing the table and cleaning the dishes.
“I better be off too,” Charlie said. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist holding her for a moment. He kissed her neck and she turned around in his arms smiling up at him. He kissed her lips, not the usual off-to-work peck, but a full on, passionate kiss, more appropriate for daytime as they went to bed than night as they had to get out the door. But she kissed him back loving the passion radiating from him. So rare was there passion in anything in their life. Everything was routine, obligation, responsibilities. Passion, feeling, emotion. That was what she longed for the most.
But she broke it off. Dr. Venjamin would not be happy if he was late, and she had shopping to do. Charlie looked down at her as if he had something important to tell her, but instead told her what she already knew. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” she said. She wiped her lipstick off his lips with the same towel that she had wiped the blood off her youngest son’s mouth. She buttoned his collar and straightened his tie. “Now off to work with you.”
He gave her a smile, but it was a fake smile. Charlie gave a lot of fake smiles. Maybe they all did. “See you tonight.”
She smiled at him. Her fake smiles were better than his.
After he left, she stood there for a moment, a white dish towel with its red stains in her hand, staring off into space, a blank expression on her face. She wondered if she loved Charlie. She knew she loved him. He had taken care of her when her parents died. He had married her, provided for her, given her the children. But had she ever been in love with him? That passion just then, that need, that want . . . his was real, hers wasn’t. She had just given into his so she could feel again. Really feel something.
But there was no time to think about that. Dishes had to be done, then house cleaning, some ironing and grocery shopping for the party.
Chapter Two
The Laboratory
Charlie worked at the St. Vladimir Hospital. It was a fi
fteen story building that sat on the edge of town atop a hill, the front was a sheet of windows that looked down and across the neighborhoods of the valley. In fact one had to pass the imposing, towering building to come in or out of Sangre Valley. Palm lined Redemption Road was the only road in or out of town. Every single day for the last ten years, Charlie fantasized about flooring the gas pedal of the green Ford Fairlane, speeding past the hospital, leaving the town in his rearview mirror, and never looking back. About a mile outside of town stood a guard station. They wouldn’t be able to stop him. They wouldn’t even try. But they would know that he left without permission, and he would never be allowed to come back. He’d never see his family again. He might even be hunted down and disposed of, his fate forever a mystery to his family. That was why Charlie dutifully pulled into the hospital and drove around back to the employee entrance like he did every Monday thru Friday. There, too, stood a guard station. Barbwire encircled the perimeter. Every time he flashed his work badge to enter, he felt as if he might never come out again.
Inside the sterile lobby the receptionist greeted him cheerfully. “Goodnight Mr. Murray,” she smiled. She was a human, middle aged and unattractive, no longer afraid of working with a different species, one that could easily separate her head from the rest of her body and enjoy the fountain of blood. He could hear her heart beating—steady, slow, calm. The scent of her sweet blood called to him. It was he who was frightened of her, this plump, elderly woman. He never knew fear of humans until he met Dr. Venjamin.
Charlie nodded at her and rushed into the elevator. He held a special, privileged position at the hospital which meant he worked directly with the revered Dr. Tobar Venjamin in the underground offices. Thankfully he rode the elevator down alone. As he descended into a whole new realm of Hell, he felt the weight of the dirt on top of him and anxiety filled him. By the time the doors opened, he thought he would have a full blown panic attack. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this.
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