The footprints ended at the water's edge. Marvin stood there for a while, looking out over the moonlit ocean. His eyes were focused on nothing nearer than the invisible horizon. His toes tapped out a crunchy rhythm on the wet sand.
He took a step forward.
Up at the top of the bluff, sitting on a big rock, the Indian kid from Antonio's said, "There he goes."
Beside him his grandfather grunted softly. "How long's it been?"
"Since she went in?" The kid checked his cheap digital watch. The little bulb was broken but the moonlight was plenty strong. "Hour and a half. About."
"Hm. Didn't think he was that much bigger than her."
"She had small bones."
"Uh huh." The old man grinned. "I saw you when she took off her dress. Thought you were going to fall off the bluff."
"She did have a good shape," the kid said. "For a woman her age."
They watched as Marvin Bradshaw walked steadily into the sea. By now the water was up to his waist, but he kept going.
"Guess he can't swim," the kid remarked.
"Wouldn't do him much good if he could. Come on, son. Time we were leaving."
As they walked back to the truck the kid said, "Will you teach me to make that medicine?"
"Some day. When you're ready."
"Does it have a name? You know, what we – you – did, back there. What do you call it?"
"A start."
The kid began laughing. A moment later the old man joined in with his dry wispy chuckle. They were still laughing as they drove away, up the coast road and toward the distant glow of the main highway.
Behind them the sea stretched away flat and shining in the moonlight, its surface broken only by the small dark spot that was the head and shoulders of Marvin Bradshaw, wading toward Europe.
A Halloween Like Any Other
Michael Arsenault
I was out on Halloween, as I always am, doing what I always do.
I was hunting vampires.
I'd waited until just after it grew dark, when the last rays of life-affirming sunshine had finally faded away, and then I'd headed out. No point in leaving before that, while they were still at home, sleeping their unholy sleep of the undead.
Those accursed creatures! How they'd pay!
I wandered the streets, searching and searching, knowing they were out there, knowing only I could find them, knowing only I could destroy them.
I paused under a streetlight, checked my weapons, rechecked my gear. I was ready. I'm always ready.
I smiled. Vampires get cocky around Halloween. They let their guard down. They think they can just blend in with us, that we won't notice them, that they won't be spotted. But they're wrong. They try to slip into the crowds, to hide among the trick-or-treaters, the costumed candy seekers, but they still stand out. I can spot them.
I was two hours into my patrol when I finally found one. He was nestled among a group of loud and obnoxious partyers, trying in vain to camouflage himself. But I saw through his disguise almost immediately. I approached the group from behind, careful not to make my presence known, and I followed and studied them until I was positive. They continued on their way down the block, oblivious to me, laughing and flinging empty beer cans, all the while unaware that a demon was among them.
I got sufficiently close and made my move.
"Freeze, hellspawn!" I shouted.
They all stopped then and turned, obviously wondering how to proceed. There was a pause as they tried to size me up. I wondered whether they could sense my righteous aura, or if they'd already fallen under the vampire's hypnotic influence. Either way, their lives would never be the same.
"Sorry," said a chubby man dressed as a clown. "But we don't have any change for you."
"I'm no beggar!" I said. "I'm out destroying evil. Donations welcome."
"Beat it," said the clown's transvestite friend. "You're creepin' us out."
They obviously had no idea that I was their only salvation. They were completely blind to the fact that I and only I could save their worthless necks. All save one. The demon, of course. He knew who I was. I could read it in his cold, cold eyes. I could also see fear settling in. I knew he'd be begging soon. I could hear it already, like music in my ears. The centuries-old game of hunter versus depraved satanic vermin would soon be played out.
"Don't you realize? That's no man! That's a vampire! Straight from the seventh level of Hell!"
"Yeah . . . and I'm Batman," the one in gray leotards replied, in what I felt was a rather Renfieldish sort of way.
"No." They were such blind fools. "I mean he's really a vampire. A real vampire. He'll drain you fools like a cheap bottle of wine!"
The cretins began to laugh then, laugh like the hand puppets of Lucifer that they had become. It was sad really, seeing them all bewitched so easily. I locked eyes with the beast, and he laughed too, thinking all too smugly that he was safe now.
I knew it was time to act. I reached into my coat for the vial in my pocket, brought it out, and removed the cork.
"This should make believers out of you," I said, holding my hand high. "It's holy water. The one true test for a vampire." I wound back my arm and let loose with the vial, flinging it in his direction.
Bullseye. It shattered against him, dousing his chest and sending droplets along his arms and across his face.
He laughed harder then, and the others joined him. They chuckled and slapped their knees. They kept doing it and doing it. Until, that is, the smoke started to rise.
The vampire's skin steamed and blistered and burned, and he let out a howl like the savage beast he was.
Panic ensued as the others broke out of the spell the vampire had woven.
The group began running about in circles, arms flailing and heads shaking, all in disbelief of what they were seeing. These people who only seconds before had considered this fiend to be a friend were now seeing him as he truly was. It was an awakening.
"Good God!" screamed the clown. "It's true! It's true! He's really a vampire!"
That's when it was my turn to laugh. Telling them it was "holy water" always made them let their guard down. Every good vampire hunter knows that that religious crap doesn't work for shit. For a proper reaction, you have to resort to a good undiluted dose of hydrochloric acid.
Understandably, none of them knew how to proceed. Luckily, I was there. They might have been falling into a state of shock, but I knew how to proceed. I knew how to end it.
I pulled the sharpened length of wood from under my coat and tossed it to the clown. "Stake him! Through the heart!"
He held the stake loosely in his hand, staring down at it, a look of horror on his face.
"Now!" I yelled. "It's our only chance!"
The clown raised his weapon, determination coming over his features, and he plunged forward. The stake met its mark, and a jet of preternatural blood spurted out of the creature's chest.
Chalk one up for the good guys.
My work done, I headed down the block before they started to lavish me with gratitude and praise. As an afterthought, I yelled back, "Remember to cut off the head and stuff it with garlic. Then burn it and the body separately!"
I turned the corner, leaving them to deal with the cleanup and the local authorities. I figured they owed me that much, after all I'd done for them. Besides, the night was still young, there were plenty of other unholy creatures to dispatch and plenty of candy around for the taking.
The Lights of Armageddon
William Browning Spencer
The light bulb died with a small pop that scared Mrs. Ward. She was sixty-seven years old, so it wasn't the first time a light bulb had died in her presence. But it was always an unsettling thing. At first, one was apt to think the pop and the world's sudden dimming were internal, as though a brain cell had overexerted itself and suddenly burst.
She was delighted to discover that she was not having a stroke, and, dropping her knitting into her lap, she shouted fo
r her husband.
"What is it Marge?" he asked, coming up from the basement.
"This lamp blew out," she said.
Her husband walked over to the lamp, unscrewed the bulb, and walked off into the kitchen without saying a word. He returned with a new bulb. "Now we'll see if this sucker works," he said.
"Why shouldn't it work?" Marge asked. Her husband was an exasperating man.
"This is one of those light bulbs you made me buy from that odd fellow come round here yesterday. You remember. He said the money would go to good works and I said, 'What good works?' and he said – and not right away, but like he was making it up – he said, 'The blind.' "
"I remember that you were rude, Harry Ward, and that's why I had to make you buy a box. Sometimes you act like you were raised by apes."
"I couldn't help laughing," Harry said. " 'Light bulbs for the blind is kind of like earplugs for the deaf, ain't it?' I says. Now that was damned funny, but he didn't laugh. And I bought his box of light bulbs, didn't I? Two dozen to a box, Marge!" Harry held the light bulb up and regarded it with narrowed eyes. "Looks okay – which is more than you can say for that fellow hawking them. Here it is, maybe ninety degrees in the shade, and he's got on an overcoat, and his face is as white as plaster and his lips are red – that had to be lipstick, Marge – and he's got a scarf pulled up to his chin like he's freezing."
"The poor man was probably sick, Harry." Marge sighed. Her husband wasn't a sensitive man. He had his good points, of course, but sometimes she was hard pressed to say just what they were. Forty years ago, he had looked good with a mustache, and he had had a kind of haunted, poetic intensity. Now the mustache was gone, and the intensity was a sort of worried, pinched look, like a spinster who's convinced there is a gas leak on the premises.
"I need to get on with this knitting," Marge said.
"Okay," Harry said. "You always were an impatient woman."
Harry leaned over the lamp and screwed the bulb in. The room brightened.
"Well, it works," Harry said.
"Of course it works," Marge said.
Harry went back down into the basement, and Marge returned to her knitting. She dozed off for awhile, waking at around ten that evening when Harry came back upstairs.
"I'm going to bed," he said.
"I think I'll read a bit," Marge said. "I'm not the least bit sleepy."
She watched her husband march upstairs. She waited until the bedroom door closed, and then she went into the kitchen. She found the box of light bulbs in a cupboard. Then she got the stepladder out and placed it in the middle of the floor and climbed up and unscrewed the ceiling light fixture and replaced all three bulbs. She threw the old bulbs in the trash and moved on to the dining room.
By the time she had carried the stepladder upstairs and was unscrewing the light in the bathroom, she was worn out. You never gave a thought to how many light bulbs a house contained until you replaced the lot of them all at once.
And why – why do such a thing? If asked, if stopped by a concerned observer placing a hand on her shoulder, Marge would have said, "Why, I don't know. I can't really say just why." But there was no one to tender the question, and Marge's only thought was that it was a tiresome task. And the bedroom itself would have to wait until morning.
The odd fellow who had sold the light bulbs to the Wards was a magician named Ernest Jones. An accident while conjuring up certain demons had placed him in thrall to the Fair Ones, and he was now doing their bidding, distributing the light bulbs that would call them.
Despite the blazing Florida sun, he was freezing as he worked. He was cold right to the bone, cold clean through.
He was back at the caravan, packing a last light bulb into the box when his rival, a tall, smooth-talking magician named Blake, came into the trailer.
"I know what you are up to," Blake said. "You are lighting the world, so that the Fair Ones may find their way."
"Could be," Jones said. "I would advise you to mind your own business."
"Your advice comes too late," Blake said. "I followed you yesterday. I know what you are up to, and I'm not letting it happen."
"Look," Jones said, turning around. "I tell you what. I'll cut you in. You can be a Vanguard too. The Fair Ones can be quite generous to those who aid them."
Blake, a thin, haughty young man with an imperious air, chuckled. "I am afraid I have already negotiated a different contract. I have made a deal with the Immutable Abyss."
Blake produced a light bulb from his ample magician's pockets. "I have my own beacons," he said.
Jones growled low in his throat and rushed the taller man, who stumbled. The light bulb fell, smashing on the floor. A black, metallic lizardlike creature darted across the linoleum floor, barking sharply.
Jones and Blake wrestled on the floor. Blake suddenly went limp, and Jones stood up.
"You sonofabitch," Jones muttered. He began to intone the words that would summon the scavenger demons.
Blake, still lying on the floor, opened his eyes. He produced a small silver revolver and shot Jones in mid-incantation.
Blake summoned his own unholy crew to clean up the corpse. While they were munching on the mortal remains of his rival, Blake methodically destroyed the boxed light bulbs, crushing each spiderlike creature as it emerged from its shattered casing. Repacking the box with his Master's own beacons, he sang softly to himself. "That old black magic got me in its spell . . ."
Louise was new to country living, and she hated it. She was a young woman, twenty-two, in the prime of her life; she wasn't ready to retire to a screened-in porch, a rocking chair, and the conversation of about a jillion insects. Johnny had talked her into moving out here, saying, "I'll be the one who will have to drive fifty miles to work each day. All I'm asking is that you give it a try."
Where had her mind been? she wondered. "Louise Rivers," she said to the empty room, "a siren should go off in your mind when Johnny starts off, 'All I'm asking.' " All I'm asking is you go to one movie with me. All I'm asking is one kiss. All I'm asking is you take off your pantyhose so I can admire your knees. Yeah, sure.
So here she was stuck in the country and it was five miles to the miserable little fly-blown grocery store, and no car, and hot enough outside to melt the sunglasses she'd left on the lawn chair.
Louise walked up the dirt road to the Wards, feeling the midday sun breathing on the back of her neck like a rabid dog. The Wards lived in an old farmhouse squatting low in the Florida dust, palmettos flanking the door, a pickup truck under the single live oak tree.
Louise had the grocery list in her hand and the words in her mind: If you are going to the store, I wonder could you pick up a few things for me.
The Wards seemed nice enough, an old couple who had been married forever and even looked a bit alike, the way long-married couples will.
Louise knocked on the door. No one answered.
"Hello," Louise called. Maybe they were napping. The country inspired sleep.
Louise knocked louder. She turned the doorknob and pushed. The door swung inward, and an intense flickering light greeted her.
"Mrs. Ward?" Louise shouted. The living room was bathed in silver light that leeched color from the walls, the sofa, the patterned chairs. Mrs. Ward rose from the sofa. The strobelike flashes made her movements jerky, image superimposed on image.
"Come in, my dear," Mrs. Ward said.
Mrs. Ward took Louise's arm and led her to the sofa.
The room was cold, like being inside a meat freezer. Mrs. Ward was wearing several sweaters, and a woolen cap was pulled down over her head, hiding her hair.
Mrs. Ward turned and shouted. "Harry, look who's here. It's our neighbor."
Louise looked to the top of the stairs where Mr. Ward stood. He began to move down the stairs, somewhat awkwardly for he was clasping a large box in his arms.
"Hello, hello!" Mr. Ward shouted. He was smiling and, like his wife, he was bundled up against the cold.
Lou
ise had grown accustomed to the light. The brief moment of terror and dread had passed, and now the light seemed sweetly inquisitive, like the hands of children, shyly touching her face, sliding over her arms, gently stroking her mind.
"It's very bright," Louise said. She had forgotten why she had come.
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