Night Things: The Monster Collection

by West, Terry M.

  "Well, the scientists are saying that you can be around half a dozen before it gets dangerous. We are working to change that law. Did they issue you a red card?"

  "Yeah, but I hate the picture on it. One eye was closed and my hair was a mess," Michael joked, despite his misery.

  I gave him a soft chuckle of encouragement, but he bobbed back down in his depression.

  "I thought about the R.I.P. process," Michael admitted dourly. "You can just walk and lights out."

  "It's an option. But you should give yourself more time before doing that. You can bunk here tonight. We haven't booked any zombies today. I'll send you out tomorrow with as many rat stamps as I am allowed. You'll get through this, Michael."

  I looked past Michael and noticed Abraham Janvier, the Medicine Man. My cheek still ached from the punch he had landed the night before. He stood on the sidewalk across the street. He had on his bomber jacket and dark shades. He stared at me through my window.

  "Can you excuse me for a second?" I said, leaving Michael.

  I walked out of my office and started across the street. A bus blared its horn and rumbled past me, hiding Abraham. I expected him to be gone when it passed, seen it in movies too many times, but he was still there, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets.

  "You back for round two?" I asked, standing in front of him.

  He shook his head softly. "I am here to apologize. I hope I didn't hurt you."

  I scoffed. "Please. You hit as hard as an anemic Goth girl."

  "My name is…"

  "I know who you are," I said.

  "And I am familiar with you, Carol. I did my research on you this morning. I know you are a good person who is doing what she thinks is right. We will never agree on certain things, but you must know I am not a monster," he said.

  "I think you’re a wannabe monster buster. And you know what usually happens with those type. You're a vigilante and you need to stop."

  "I am a deputized agent of the NYPD," he clarified. "I have the blessing of the police commissioner to do what I do. Hunt as I hunt."

  "You would have killed Woody if I hadn't have stopped you," I said.

  "No. I merely wanted to scare him. I wanted information."

  "Woody will give you his soul for a fancy coffee. The ghouls love caffeine. Try something different next time. And don't use my shelter as a scouting ground. The Night Things that come here are looking for help. I won't let you fuck that up."

  "You were a pro fighter," Abraham said. "I watched your bouts on the Internet. You are a student of Shaolin Kempo Karate. You are well-schooled in the five animals. You must have studied from a very young age."

  "Yep. I was temple boxing while my girlfriends were playing with dolls. It was my passion."

  "You were very good. But you left so early. You had a two and one record when you retired."

  "Well, Rhonda is a tough one to beat."

  "You gave it up. Why?"

  "You can only solve so many problems with your fists. It wasn't who I was. So, I told you mine. You tell me yours. Why do you do what you do?"

  "It is the calling of my bloodline. My mother was killed by a vampire when I was a boy. My Granpapa trained me to defend this world against the monsters. When the magic came, I squandered a great deal of time selling gris-gris bags on street corners. I felt I wasn't big enough to stand against the Night Things. But now I know I am capable."

  I nodded respectfully.

  "I will let you get back to your office."

  Abraham turned and walked away.

  "I heard you won't stay dead," I called after him.

  "You'll have to kill me to find out," he said over his shoulder.

  "It's a date," I replied, before he turned the corner.

  ***

  I used my lunch break to see my shrink on Madison. Henry was older, in his fifties. He was extremely well-conditioned and groomed to the nines. He had very short dark hair and a narrow, objective face. He talked a lot. More than I during these sessions. He dispensed plenty of course book advice to justify that high bill of his. But he listened, when it was important. I needed an ear more than a mouth most of the time.

  He was the fourth psychiatrist I had hired since Z Day. This was only my third session, but I had high hopes. Henry seemed to understand my dark solitude.

  "So, let's pick up the thread from the last appointment," Henry said. "We were discussing your work and the anxiety caused by current events."

  "I just wish the world weren't so apprehensive," I said. "I wish they saw the Night Things the way I see them. People are so afraid."

  "We are all trained to fear. The moment a parent tells a child not to talk to a stranger, the conditioning begins," he said.

  "Things were smoothing out a bit. And then Z Day happened," I said.

  "Z Day furthered hate in some, created it in others," Henry observed. "You see a bond to them based on your own life experiences. It is difficult for most to connect with them in a sympathetic way. Many perceive monsters that we have been told in fables exist only to test our faith. To corrupt and devour."

  "But we have no more to fear from them than human terrorists," I said. "Most monsters and Muslims are not our enemy."

  "You can't fault the fear, only the response it creates. We all have inherent prejudices. We need villains. We crave them. They are meant to allow us to face our fears. But they are often also scapegoats. We are comfortable only with the villains that we have created. The Night Things affect us on theological levels that cause distress."

  "It is just so very, very hard to see the cross they bear," I said.

  "Carol, you know that you are not meant to take it from them. Your job is to give them the tools they need to handle the weight. It is easy to be affected by transference. You must be able to disconnect. You are not a sin eater. You are a sympathetic ear who helps develop strategies for a healthy lifestyle."

  "That's why I am here," I said. "I need your help to stay clear of the quicksand."

  "I would like to take the focus away from your work and discuss you now," Henry said. "We touched very briefly on your mother last session. Tell me about her. Sum her up in a word or two."

  "Intolerant narcissist," I replied quickly. "I'm not that fast a thinker. I've been asked that one before."

  "She is a psychologist?"

  "Yes. A clinical psychologist. Though I am shocked that someone who is clearly insane is allowed to practice. She works with the penal system. Visits prisoners. I worry constantly that she'll get caught in a riot. Or maybe I hope for it."

  "What bothers you most about her?"

  "Laura Haddon has no filter and she is incapable of fostering a healthy relationship. She excommunicated our family years ago, which meant I did, too. She has no one."

  "Except her daughter."

  I scoffed. "She doesn't want a daughter. She wants a clone."

  "Your father?"

  "A drunk sperm donor. My mom will take his name to her grave."

  "Do you see your extended family?"

  "No. I tried to when I was a teen. I had my grandparents, an uncle. Cousins."

  "But you didn't maintain a relationship with them?"

  "No. They were just slightly different shades of my mother. The Haddon clan is a cold, mean-spirited and judgmental one. They talked about her. Horribly."

  "Were these assessments accurate?"

  "Didn't matter. She was my mother. I was her daughter. They had no right."

  "How was it growing up with your mother?"

  "Hey, a wacky person can be pretty fun when you are a child. You don't see that fine line between eccentric and mad. But when I hit my teens and had my first differing opinion, the wedge began to form. She made me feel stupid and weak. Like I couldn't exist without her."

  "She made you feel weak. Is this why you pursued martial arts?"

  "Yes. And, thankfully, my mother agreed that it was a suitable hobby. I was a chubby kid and she thought it would build discipline."r />
  "And confidence."

  "Confidence she could give two shits about."

  "When you fought on the professional circuit, was this a way to show her that you could fend for yourself?"

  "Yeah. I guess. But I enjoyed it, too."

  "Why did you step away?"

  I had to take a breath before I fielded that one. "It brought out a dark side that scared me."

  "We all have a shadow self. And it needs to come out and play on occasion."

  "I don't want to hurt anyone, Henry. That is what it boiled down to."

  "How are things with your mother now?"

  I sighed. "There are no things. I was disowned last year. She is currently globe-hopping and I haven't spoken to her in a very long time. She loves to travel, and has enough money now to do it as often as she likes."

  "What is the current issue?"

  "My work with the Night Things. She hates it. Hates them. We are Jewish. And that she can't scrape even a tea spoon of sympathy boggles my mind. To Mom, I am wasting my life. Her life."

  "Does this separation bother you?"

  "Yes, though maybe it shouldn't. We are all either has, and we just cannot co-exist. But she is Mother, and when she finally speaks to me again, I will bow and apologize and try to keep the relationship going until the next fight."

  "She was a forceful parent, no doubt. Our parents try to make us the person they want and when we wizen, we try to make our parents the people we long for. It is an often unproductive exercise with minimal successes at best."

  As if a timer rang in his head, Henry reached for his recorder and clicked it off. "That is where we will need to end."

  "Just like sex," I joked. "When I am getting close, it is over."

  Henry laughed at this, his stone face giving a small glimpse of the doctor with his hair down. "We will resume next week."

  ***

  I paused at the reception window to schedule my next session. When it was done, the receptionist gave me an appointment card.

  "Dr. Jekyll will see you then."

  4.

  We Now Join Woody the Ghoul…

  Woody watched as the bewildered zombie paused on the dark sidewalk outside of the Children of the Full Moon shelter. The rotter was still wearing his burial suit.

  Noob, Woody thought, wiping drool from his lips.

  He peeked out of the alley. "Hey, fella. Whatcha doing standing out there?"

  The zombie looked to Woody. "I'm- I was told to come here."

  "No buddy. You don't want to go in there," Woody whispered loudly. "They'll detain you and then ship you off to Z Station on Staten Island. You'll be held in a camp until you are issued your Red Card. And some zombies never make it out of that hellhole. Come over here. Get off the sidewalk before the Spook Division hassles you for papers."

  The zombie looked hesitant.

  "Come on. I know a guy who can make you a phony ID."

  The zombie took a last look at the shelter, and then he slinked in to the alley.

  "I'm Woody," the hungry ghoul said, extending his stubby hand.

  The zombie shook it. "I'm Fred."

  "How long you been missing a pulse?" Woody asked, but he had a fair idea.

  "I rose today. I dug out from my grave at Trinity Church Cemetery."

  Woody nodded approvingly. "Nice place. What did you do before this?"

  "I was a day trader."

  "Wife? Kids?"

  "No. I wanted to wait," Fred said, regretfully.

  "Ah, you're better off. There's nothing worse for a zombie than leaving a family he can never hold again. It'll lighten your load."

  Woody gently took Fred's arm and steered him toward the shadow of the alley.

  "Now, what you need to do is find a few friends and acclimate."

  "This is a nightmare," Fred said, the despair animating his face. "I didn't want this. I was going to file an R.I.P. order. I thought I had time. I didn't expect this so soon."

  "Well, that's the reaper for you. He comes when he pleases. Rings the doorbell as supper is served. Do you know how you bought it?"

  "No. Things just turned off."

  "Judging by that drooping eyelid of yours, I'd bet brain aneurysm. This is a whole new life. You are just lucky you have old Woody to show you the ropes."

  "Why are you helping me?"

  Woody looked around, as if about to impart a huge secret, and then he leaned in close to Fred. "Because I am fucking starving, Fred."

  Woody leapt at the startled zombie and clamped on. His razor teeth went to work on the rotter's neck. He burrowed, as Fred shook and tried to grab at him. Woody got in deep enough to bend and snap the zombie's neck bone.

  As Fred sank to his knees, Woody twisted and pulled Fred's head from his shoulders. Streamers of purple gore followed. Woody stared into the zombie's uncomprehending eyes.

  "Welcome to the new food chain, Fred," he quipped.

  He walked Fred's head to the dumpster. "You don't want to watch this," he said, tossing it in the empty dispenser. It thudded loudly to the bottom.

  Woody made his back to the twitching headless zombie corpse and he feasted like a ravenous wolverine.

  "Am I interrupting dinner?"

  Woody looked up, drunk from his meal. Abraham Janvier stood before him. The ghoul gasped, a bubble of dead blood popping on his lips. He tried to run to the back of the alley.

  "Don't run, Woody. I will catch you," Abraham said calmly.

  Woody huddled against the dumpster. "Please, please don't hurt me Mr. Janvier. I'm weak. Not worth your troubles. Harmless, even."

  Abraham motioned to the zombie. Despite being partially devoured, Fred's arms searched for his head.

  "What, a man has to eat," Woody said defensively.

  "You are not a man. You are a grinning hyena. Always looking for the weak straggler of the herd to bring down," Abraham said.

  "It's the natural order. Population control. My kind is encouraged. Do you want another Z Day?"

  Abraham beckoned with his fingers. "Come here. I won't hurt you."

  Woody crept to him slowly. He stepped over Fred and presented himself meekly to the Medicine Man. The ghoul was close enough to see that Abraham held a brown paper bag in his hand.

  "I need an informant. I know your kind is good at getting information. You are going to work for me," Abraham informed him.

  "They'll kill me if they find out I work for you," Woody said.

  "I won't tell if you won't. And there will be benefits."

  Abraham handed Woody the bag. His small shaking hands accepted it. "What's this?"

  "A large frappuccino mocha," Abraham replied.

  Woody pulled the cup from the bag and his eyes grew. He gulped the drink down greedily. When the cup was empty he turned his eyes back to the ground.

  "Thank you, Mr. Janvier!"

  But Abraham was gone.

  5.

  Carol Woke Up Early The Day She Died

  I didn't sleep well. Talking to Dr. Jekyll had kicked up some bad memories of my mother. I gave up the ghost two hours before dusk and hit the gym. I had a Danish roll on the way to work, realizing that I would have to double down at the gym the next day. Had I known it would be my last meal as a human, I would have gleefully devoured the entire bakery. Don't bother wrapping it, I'll just eat it here.

  I arrived at my office building and pressed open the glass door with a sign that pointed to a buzzer and cautioned that only three zombies were allowed in the shelter at one time.

  Erin Maher was in the break room again (surprise) reading a trashy novel and waiting on her eleven pm. She was heavily enthralled and barely gave me a hello as I loaded my coffee cup. Three other recently hired counselors were holding sessions in the back rooms. I stepped into my office and Brad Sandoval was waiting for me.

  Brad was a vamp. Fairly new to the game. He had gone to night registration at Staten Island and was eager to get his Red Card. Vamps and shifters had it much easier than zombies at the processin
g station. If you were a zombie, it was a nightmare.

  Brad smiled his fangs at me, then he covered his mouth with his hand. "Sorry."

  "Don't be ashamed," I said, taking my desk seat. "Your fangs are beautiful."

  "Yeah, but they freak people out. They take it the wrong way when I flash them."

  "Remind me. You took the black blood willingly?" I said, whipping open Brad's case file.

  "Yes. I wanted this very badly," he admitted.

  "Not happy as a human?" I said.

  Brad sighed. "My life was boring. Soul sucking job in data entry. No romantic prospects. I wanted excitement. Intrigue. Hot sex."

  "And you have that now?"

  Brad grimaced and shook his head. "No. About the only difference now is that I can't tan at the beach."

  "A lot of people assume the vampire lifestyle will be a cure all for their problems. But it has its setbacks. The grass is always greener on the other side of the grave."

  "There are so many good looking vamps. Women have their pick now," Brad complained. He wasn't unattractive, but nothing about him screamed for attention.

  "Do you have a blood buddy?"

  "Yes. Her name is Cassandra. It isn't a romance thing. More of a friends with benefits."

  "And you are practicing safe feeding?"

  "Absolutely. I wear my fangs dam every time. I don't want blood diseases."

  "They won't affect you, but you can transmit them to partners. What is in it for Cassandra? Does she want to transform?"

  "No. She just gets off on the feeding bit. It excites her."

  "Last we talked, you were still adjusting to your abilities," I said, referring to the notes. "How is the misting working out for you?"

  "I suck at it still," Brad admitted. "I don't know if I will ever get the hang of it."

  "It is the hardest skill to learn. But you'll get there."

  "I am still getting used to the whole no reflection thing," Brad said. "I mean, Jesus, I thought that my clothes would at least show in the mirror."

  "It is an innate cloaking ability that vampires have. Your clothes don't register because they are on you. Experts think it has to do with the energy around your body."