by Matt Hayward
I hung a sandwich board outside reading: VAMPIRES! WE'VE GOT JUST WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR: YOU! COME INSIDE AND SEE YOUR REFLECTION FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME! NO CHARGE!
The customers would have to pass by the Oddities stand to get to the back room, you see. So by the time they came out of the Vampire room, giggling and shaking their heads, they'd pause at the freak show items, and why not grab a souvenir? They were already in the shop, after all. Location, location, location, folks.
And it all went fine until the first undead sonofabitch showed up.
His name was Patrick Kennedy. Looked to be nothing more than a mid-thirties junkie. This was Seattle, after all. I'm used to the stoners, junkies and freaks.
Patrick asked to see the mirror, and I pointed him to the back room with a smile. When he returned, a couple of minutes later, he'd aged a few decades. I can tell you, I nearly passed out from fright. The small wrinkles around his eyes, mouth, and on his forehead had deepened. His hair had gone from a deep, rich brown to streaky grey. He looked old.
Patrick slowly approached the counter, reaching into the inside pocket of his overcoat. As he did, I reached for the pistol I kept for protection beneath the counter. I stopped when he removed a letter and handed it to me with a sad grin.
He asked me to post it to the address written on it for him when the job was done. I didn't know what he meant, but something in his eyes made me take it. That's something else I forgot to mention: His type are very persuasive. I still don't know if that's a technique they acquire on account of their transformation, or it's just how sad and vulnerable they always seem. Either way, I took the note and told him that I'd post it when the job was done.
Patrick told me that he'd be back when he felt ready, perhaps before Sunday. I'd no idea what he meant by that, but I'd said, “fine”, and watched him leave.
I wanted to open that letter, badly. But instead, I waited until Sunday. As I said, I deal in oddities. And Patrick Kennedy had to be the biggest oddity to ever enter my shop.
On Sunday, he arrived. In the middle of finishing off a BLT, I welcomed him with a smile. He asked if the mirror still sat in the back room and if I'd kept the letter. I answered yes to both. He thanked me and nodded. He also called me Doc.
Patrick entered the old storeroom and closed the door behind him. Silence followed. I waited. I'd lost my appetite so I packed away my sandwich and listened. A couple of minutes passed, then five, then ten. After that, I decided to check on him.
I knocked on the door cautiously, but to no answer. With a deep breath, I told him I was coming in.
I opened the door and stopped on the threshold, my head reeling. In all my fifty-six years on this earth, I thought I'd seen everything. I'd seen a dead body, belonging to a homeless person who didn't make it through a particularly cold night. I'd been through a divorce, and I'd lost a best friend to cancer. I'd worked shitty job after shitty job to make ends meet until I started my own business. I thought I'd had it all figured out until that moment.
On the floor lay a pile of ashes. The room stunk of singed hair and burnt flesh. I made for the front door like a man in a dream and locked it, the room spinning around me. Turning over my sign on the window from open to closed, I stood there, trying to think.
I have no idea how much time passed, but it had begun to rain outside and had gotten dark. I remember moving like a zombie, grabbing a sweeping brush and an old coffee jar. I went back to the room and swept up Patrick Kennedy's remains. After that, I tore a page from my notebook on the counter and taped it to the jar. I took a pen and wrote VAMPIRE REMAINS on it, and then I laughed. Hysterically. I couldn't stop.
When I finally got myself under control, I tore open the letter he'd given me. I couldn't help it. I decided I'd copy down the address on the front of the envelope and buy a new one to post later. Let me tell you, I must have read that letter three or four times. A suicide note. As I'd expected.
It had all the usual stuff— I'm sorry. I hope you understand. I couldn't live with myself anymore. I'm sorry for what I did to Poppy, the dog.
Well, to be honest, the last part threw me. I figured he must have lost control and sucked the poor canine dry of its blood, but still, I couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity. I don't think anyone would want their last words to be I'm sorry for what I did to the dog.
Finished with the note, I placed Patrick Kennedy's remains onto my Oddities shelf and went home. I didn't know what else to do. No sleep came to me that night.
Did I consider the police? Of course. I stood by the phone for at least an hour, contemplating what to say. But what could I say? That someone turned to ash in my storeroom? Sure I had a note written by him, but besides giving it to whoever Patrick intended, what use could it be in an investigation? I decided not to call them. Instead, I went back to work the next day.
I sent the letter on the following Tuesday. That Friday, another freak came by.
The bell chimed over the door and I looked up to see a woman in the store. Just like Patrick, she had that young-but-tragic air about her. Her beautiful, dark eyes gave her away as one of them.
She asked about the mirror.
I stopped her there, asked her what this all meant. I couldn't take it anymore, and besides, what did I have to lose? She knew about the mirror, so she had to know more. If she didn't believe me, and I'd been wrong about her, fine, it would make me a senile old man who ran an antique store, big deal. But I took a gamble and told her everything. I told her about the mirror, and about what I'd seen. I told her about the ashes and the note. I asked her if I could be losing my mind, or if that man, Patrick Kennedy, really was a vampire. That's when she told me about the suicide rate among the recently turned. My mirror, she said, was a vampire in itself.
She told me that legend of the mirror, in their community, became reality when Riccardo brought it to American soil. After all, imagine somebody offering you a vision of yourself for the first time in god knows how long. Wouldn't you be curious? All that time, forever youthful, but never knowing how you look. Then, out of the blue comes a magic mirror. But there's a price. There's always a price.
I realize now that the longer these beautiful creatures stare into the thing in my storeroom, the more years it takes from them. How much of your youth would you be willing to sacrifice to look yourself in the eye again? From what I've seen, apparently a lot. They know the mirror will eat them alive. They know it will drain them until there's nothing but a pile of ash on the floor. All of their legends tell them so. And still, they come. They come to see the vampire in my storeroom.
I allowed the young lady to go and see for herself. She left no note for me to send. As with Patrick, I locked the door to the shop, and then I waited. After five minutes, I knocked. She never opened. Entering the room, I once again found nothing but a pile of ash on the floor.
A second coffee jar was purchased, and a second label made. It also read VAMPIRE REMAINS. It too went on my Oddities shelf. I didn't know where else to put them.
A young couple came by that afternoon and had a laugh at my two jars. They opened one and sniffed the contents, laughing and pretending to throw it at one another. I watched them, interested, feeling as if the whole world had gone crazy. Then the lady asked me how much I wanted for it. That's when an idea struck. I told her twenty. She said they'd take it. Then she asked where I'd found teeth to mix in with the ash, and what animal they came from. I told her the truth. They were vampire teeth, I said, and the ashes belonged to a burned-up vampire. I told her about the mirror, about its power. She laughed, amused. Her boyfriend laughed.
I laughed.
I sold the second jar of remains to a preppy young guy who had a great time looking at himself in the mirror. He listened to my story of the vampires with great enthusiasm. I realized people would always be amused by my tale, but none would believe it. Hell, would you? What else could I do besides go with the flow? With the forty bucks I made from those remains, I went and bought some containers that lo
oked like urns. Found them in a Save N' Shop for five a piece. Nice ones, black and slim.
One time, when an off-duty police officer came by to browse the store, he saw my three new urns on the Oddities shelf. They had all come in that week. The officer chuckled and said he should have me arrested for selling the remains of the dead. He looked in the mirror and thanked God he wasn't a vampire. I told him the story about the mirror, and what it did to vampires and how I got the ashes. Then he bought an urn.
So far, my vampire suicide booth has earned me a solid five hundred and thirty dollars. The shelf has a good stock of new remains, and it continues to grow every week. They sell like hot cakes. I tell everybody who comes the truth. They all laugh. And some even buy ashes.
Most of the vampires pay no attention to the urns on the Oddities shelf when they come by. They're too lost in their own world at the prospect of ending it all. They usually drift by the shelf without a word, but one or two stop and have a giggle. It seems everybody laughs at my shelf.
But James Lewis didn't laugh.
He went into the storeroom without asking if the mirror could be real or not, if I had any customers around, or if I had a particular way of doing things. He just wandered back there like a man in a dream, and five minutes later, he turned to ash. I swept him up about three hours ago.
A half-hour ago, I sold him.
Hunger Pains
Mary-Ann looked beautiful, even covered in blood. Blocking the glare of the high Memphis sun, Henry called her name.
Mary-Ann stumbled across the field that separated the family farms. The rough, dry dirt caused her to sway.
Wiping his forehead, Henry called again. “Mary-Ann, you all right?”
An aggravated crow cawed, taking flight from the line of trees out by the barn. Henry wanted to run to Mary-Ann, wanted to help, but his bad shape held him back.
Oh, come off it, He told himself. You're scared shitless. The girl's covered in blood!
He licked his lips. “I'm going to go call someone, all right, Mary-Ann? An ambulance, maybe. Do you think you need one?”
She got closer. Henry could make out more details now. The blood, dry and brown, looked as if it'd been there for some time. Her familiar smooth skin had turned colorless and waxy, her eyes the shade of curdled milk.
Her mouth fell open.
“You say something, Mary-Ann?”
A moment passed, then she let out a winded gasp. Henry's arm hair prickled and his crotch tightened.
“What in God's name is wrong?”
Mary-Ann's pace quickened. She fell forward, clomping her legs clumsily like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. She let out another clogged wheeze.
Henry whimpered and balled his fists. “Ah, fuck… I'm coming, hold on.”
Panting, he heaved his three hundred pounds across his father's field, cursing the old man for leaving him with nothing more than his mother to take care of. His mother, pretty much useless after the death of his father, had retired permanently on the living room couch. She got up to piss and shit, that's about it. Sometimes, not even then. But Henry wasn't going to let his father's farm go to waste. He wanted to keep things running smoothly. When Momma finally kicked the bucket, he'd have the place to himself. Then he'd get the house, too. He would find a nice gal like Mary-Ann, maybe even start a family.
But now Mary-Ann was, well, Henry didn't know what the hell she was.
Henry stopped swinging his weight to catch his breath, blind spots blooming in his vision. Planting his meaty hands onto his kneecaps, he sucked air. A stitch started gnawing at his side. He held up an index finger to Mary-Ann and wheezed. “One... Minute...”
Mary-Ann groaned. She raised her arms out, reaching for him, her hands dangling with each step.
Pushing himself upright, Henry began to jog again, his heart thrumming in his ears. He made it five steps before stopping dead in his tracks. Had Mary-Ann said...
“Brains… Brains.”
“What?” Fear licked Henry's spine. “Okay, I'm calling an ambulance.”
He'd left his phone in his jacket pocket in the loft. Turning, he heaved himself towards the barn. Fresh sweat oozed from every pore, dripping into his eyes. He scrunched his face in disgust. What the hell was wrong with Mary-Ann? Had she been hit by a car?
Looking back, he noticed the girl heading for the house. “My phone's in the barn, Annie,” he called. “Just sit down and let me bring you some water. Don't bother Momma. That dodgy step broke this morning, and I don't want you twisting your ankle.”
Mary-Ann ignored him, causing Henry's stomach to tighten. He didn't want her to see the state of the house, not with his mother nearly fused to the fabric of the couch. And that stench… Today, it was mostly bacon grease and piss. Mary-Ann could not go in there.
He called her name again but got no response. Instead, she began to climb the porch steps, the wood sagging beneath her waxy legs. Her yellow, stained sundress swayed as she briefly lost her balance, quickly correcting herself. Then she lurched towards the front door. A dull thump came as her face connected with the wood.
“Henry!”
“Momma!” The word, a ball of ice, caught in his throat. “It's Mary-Ann, Momma. Something's wrong. Don't let her inside, okay? I'm calling an ambulance. She's covered in blood.”
“Say what?”
“I said she's covered in blood!”
Reeling back, Mary-Ann slammed into the door again. She let out a noise, sounding as if her tongue had swollen from too many bee stings. As she came away, a splatter of brown stained the wood where her head had made contact.
Momma sounded panicked, her words hard to distinguish from inside the house.
Henry stomped his foot. “Mary-Ann, stop that!”
“What's she doing, Henry?”
Mary-Ann slogged forward again, and this time, the door gave. The rotted wood groaned as it fell open, and Mary-Ann flopped inside. A muted thump followed as she hit the hardwood floor, out of sight.
“Oh, sweet Jesus...”
Henry rushed forward, then stopped. He tried again. Stopped again.
“Oh, come on… You can do this.” He huffed a breath, planting his hands on his hips. His bladder threatened to let loose. “Just go. For God's sake, you pussy. Go.”
After a moment, he squealed with frustration. He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled, his scalp screaming. “Just fucking go!”
A shout from inside the house. “Henry! Help me!”
The peach fuzz on the back of Henry's neck stood and he slogged forward, the dry dirt crunching beneath his feet. He reached the porch and looked past the limp, hanging door into the hallway.
Too dark to see.
He shouted, “Momma? You okay?”
A shadow, darker than the rest of the hall, appeared at the doorway. Mary-Ann. Chewing something.
Henry backed away, his mouth moving soundlessly, the taste of bile filling his throat. “W-What's that in your hands, Mary-Ann? What're you holding?”
Standing on the porch, Mary-Ann's skin looked pale as a corpse's. Her eyes were dry and scabby. Fresh gore dripped down the front of her sundress, some catching on the material. The rest splattered on the wood by her feet. She took a bite of what she held, making wet, squelching sounds.
“Momma!” Henry screamed. “Momma! Speak to me!”
No reply.
Mary-Ann lowered her cupped hands and began lurching forward. The gooey crimson mess, wet and glistening, fell from her fingers.
“What have you done to Momma, Mary-Ann?”
The girl reached the porch steps— and fell.
Her left leg buckled on the top plank, sending her sprawling to the dirt. A sharp crack echoed out and Henry winced. Mary-Ann smacked to the ground with a wheeze, her hair spread around her in a cloud of dust. Bone jutted from the grey skin of her ankle.
“I'm calling for help,” Henry said, slogging towards the barn. He needed to call the hospital, the police, anybody.
; Behind him, Mary-Ann moaned.
Henry reached the double doors of the barn and forced them open. The rotting lumber groaned as it caught on some weeds. Cursing, he forced his weight against the door, pushing it over the tuft. It popped free with a creak and flew open.
The familiar scent of hay filled his nose, and the shade cooled his skin. Dust particles danced in the shafts of light. A wooden ladder to the loft stood on the far side and Henry forced his aching feet towards it. His shirt clung to his chest and he pulled at it, puffing a gust of heat towards his face.
Henry placed his foot on the lower step and heaved his himself up with a grunt. The wood creaked but held. He paused halfway to wipe the sweat from his brow.
The second floor wobbled on its support beams as Henry heaved himself up. He hadn't been to the loft since childhood, but the planks needed replacing so he'd gone up that morning to inspect the damage. Besides his father, no one had been in the loft for over a decade. Looking around, he remembered being up there as a kid. One summer, he'd tied a blue polypropylene rope from the loft to the door of the barn, then, wrapping a shirt around the rope, he'd leaped, gliding down and dropping midway onto a bale of hay. That same rope now sat in the far corner, curled up like a dead snake. Beside it lay his jacket and phone.
Henry snatched his phone and dialed emergency services. After a while, a robotic voice told him that all lines were currently busy. Whining, he tried again. No use.
Shards of light seeped through holes in the wall, and Henry ran to one, needing to see through to the yard. Pushing his eye against the wood, he squinted. He could make out the trees at the far side of the farm, but not much else. Moving around, he tried to get a better angle. Something clinked off his foot. Frowning, Henry peered down at a dirty metallic lunchbox.