Nocturnes (2004)

by John Connolly

  “Remember,” she said. “Right up to the elbows, and don’t neglect your face and neck. You’ll feel better for it.”

  Once she had left the room, Edward removed his shirt and cleaned himself scrupulously. The soap smelled a little funny, he thought, rather like a hospital floor after it has been disinfected. Nevertheless, it was undoubtedly effective, for Edward believed that he had never been cleaner once he had finished drying himself off. There came a knock at the door and a hand appeared, at the end of which hung a crisp white shirt.

  “Wear this,” said Miss Froom. “No point in being clean in a dirty shirt. I’ll let the other soak while we eat.”

  Edward took the garment and put it on. It felt a little rough against his skin, and there were small rust-colored stains upon the sleeve and the shoulders, but compared to his own shirt it was spotless. Truth be told, Edward’s shirt had not been entirely fresh before he began his labors on behalf of Miss Froom, and he rather hoped that the lady in question would ascribe its unfortunate state to his exertions in her garden and not to any lapse in personal hygiene on his own part.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Edward saw that there was an array of cheeses and cold meats displayed upon the table. There were also assorted pastries and biscuits, and finally there was a large fruitcake that still steamed slightly from the oven.

  “Were you expecting someone?” Edward asked.

  Actually, it looked to Edward as if Miss Froom was expecting a whole team of someones, and that he had seen less lavish spreads at the end of village cricket games.

  “Oh,” said Miss Froom. “You never know when company will drop by.”

  She poured him some tea and Edward, famished, began to eat. He was finishing his third sandwich before he noticed that the woman on the other side of the table was not joining him.

  “Aren’t you eating?” he asked.

  “I have a disorder,” said Miss Froom. “It limits what I can eat.”

  Edward didn’t press the lady further. He was largely ignorant about the female body, but he had learned from his father that such ignorance was only right and proper. There was, he gathered, nothing worse for a man than to inadvertently set foot in the minefield marked “Women’s Troubles.” Edward decided to make for less dangerous territory.

  “You have a nice house,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Miss Froom.

  There was another lull in their discourse. Edward, unused to taking tea with strange ladies in their kitchens while wearing unfamiliar shirts, was struggling to keep the conversation going.

  “You’re not, er…?” he began. “Um, I mean, is there a—”

  “No,” said Miss Froom, cutting him off at the pass. “I’m not married.”

  “Oh,” said Edward. “Right.”

  Miss Froom smiled at him. The temperature in the kitchen appeared to Edward to rise a couple of degrees.

  “Have a bun,” said Miss Froom.

  She extended the plate of pastries toward him. Edward opted for a lemon tart. It disintegrated as soon as he bit into it, showering him with crumbs. Miss Froom, who had stood to pour him some more tea, placed the teapot back on its stand and brushed softly at Edward’s shirtfront with the palm of her hand.

  Edward nearly choked on his tart.

  “Let me get you some water,” said Miss Froom, but as she turned she staggered slightly, apparently about to fall. Edward rose swiftly and held her shoulders, then helped her back to her seat. She looked even paler than before, he thought, although her lips were redder yet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been feeling a little weak lately. The winter was hard.”

  Edward inquired if she needed a doctor, but Miss Froom told him that she did not. Instead, she asked him to go to the refrigerator and retrieve from it the bottle that stood beside the milk. Edward did as he was told, noting as he opened the door that the interior of the fridge was very cold indeed, and returned with a red wine bottle.

  “Pour me some, please,” said Miss Froom.

  Edward poured the liquid into a cup. It was more viscous than wine, and had a faint but decidedly unpleasant smell. It reminded Edward of the inside of a butcher’s shop.

  “What is it?” he asked, as Miss Froom took a long mouthful.

  “Rat’s blood,” said Miss Froom, wiping a little dribble from her chin with a napkin.

  Edward felt certain that he had misheard, but the stench from the cup told him that he had not.

  “Rat’s blood?” he asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. “Why are you drinking rat’s blood?”

  “Because it is all that I have,” said Miss Froom, as though the answer were obvious. “If I had anything of higher quality, then I would be drinking that instead.”

  Edward wondered how hard it could be to acquire something tastier than rodent’s blood, and decided that it couldn’t be very difficult at all.

  “What about, er, wine?” he suggested.

  “Well, wine isn’t blood, is it, dear?” said Miss Froom gently, in the tone teachers are accustomed to use with the slower children in the class, the kind who sup from ink pots and misjudge the time it takes to get to the toilet.

  “But why blood at all?” asked Edward. “I mean, you know, it’s not what people usually drink.”

  Miss Froom was now sipping delicately, if distastefully, at her glass.

  “I suppose you’re right, but it is all that I can drink. It’s all that gives me sustenance. Without it, I would die. Any blood will do, really, although I don’t care much for goat’s blood. It tastes a little strong. And rat’s blood, naturally, is a last resort.”

  Edward sat down heavily.

  “All a bit much for you, is it?” asked Miss Froom. She patted his hand lightly. Her skin was almost translucent. Edward thought he could see bones through it.

  “What kind of person drinks blood?” asked Edward. He shook his head at the awfulness of it.

  “Not a person,” said Miss Froom. “I don’t think I can call myself that any longer. There is another word for what I am, although I don’t like to hear it used. It has such…negative connotations.”

  It took Edward a moment to figure out the word for himself. He wasn’t very smart, but then Miss Froom liked that about him.

  “Is the word va—?” Edward began, but Miss Froom interrupted him before he could speak it, flinching slightly as she did so.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s the one.”

  Edward quickly moved away from Miss Froom, putting as much distance between them as he could, until he realized that he had backed himself into a corner.

  “Stay away from me,” he said. He rummaged under his shirt and removed a small silver cross. It was about half an inch long, and he had trouble holding it between his thumb and forefinger without hiding it altogether.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Miss Froom. “I’m not going to hurt you. And put that away: it doesn’t work anyway.”

  Edward kept the cross outstretched for a moment or two more, then, rather sheepishly, put it back inside the shirt. Nevertheless, he stayed as far away as possible from the now faintly threatening woman at the table. His eyes cast around for possible weapons to use in the event of an attack, but the only heavy object he could see was the fruitcake.

  “So it’s not true, then, about crosses and suchlike?” he said.

  “No,” said Miss Froom. She sounded a little offended.

  “What about only being able to come out at night?”

  “Edward,” she said, patiently. “We’ve just spent an afternoon working in the garden.”

  “Oh,” said Edward. “Right. Stake through the heart?”

  “That’ll work,” said Miss Froom. “But then, it would work on anybody, wouldn’t it? I expect the same would go for cutting my head off, but I can’t say I’ve tried that either.”

  “What about swift-flowing water?”

  “I have swimming medals,” said Miss Froom. “From when I was a girl.”

/>   “Garlic?” asked Edward hopefully.

  “Never cared for it,” said Miss Froom, “except in casseroles.”

  “Sleeping in a coffin?”

  “Be serious,” said Miss Froom.

  Edward thought for a moment.

  “Look,” he said, “apart from the drinking blood thing, are you sure you’re a, well, a you-know-what?”

  “Well,” said Miss Froom, “the ‘drinking blood thing,’ as you put it, is rather a large part of being a ‘you know what.’ In addition, I’m very old, older than I look, older even than this village. I am what I am, and have been for a very long time.”

  “But, er, your kind attack people, don’t they?”

  “Not me,” said Miss Froom. “I like a quiet life. You start biting people and drinking their blood and, frankly, someone is going to notice after a while. It’s easier to prey on forest animals, the odd cat, maybe even sip from the neck of a cow or two, although it’s not very hygienic.”

  She sighed loudly.

  “Unfortunately, my scruples about preying on people mean that my strength has been gradually failing over these last decades. I’m not sure I could even hold on to a cow any longer, so now I’m reduced to rats. You know, it takes about fifty rats to equal the nutritional value of even one pint of human blood. Do you know how hard it is to trap fifty rats?”

  Edward opined that it was probably very hard indeed.

  “But I can live for a few months on a pint, if I’m careful,” she said. “At least, I could in the past, but I am weaker now than I have ever been. Soon I will begin to age, and then…”

  She fell silent. As Edward watched, a single tear trickled down her pale cheek. It left only a trace of moisture behind it, like a diamond slowly sliding across a patch of ice.

  “Thank you for your help with my garden,” she said softly. “Perhaps you’d better leave now.”

  Edward stared at her, unsure of how to respond.

  “And Edward?” she added. “I beg of you to say nothing of this to anyone. I felt that I could trust you, but it was weak and unfair of me to do so. All I can hope is that you are as honorable as you are handsome, and as decent as you are kind.”

  And with that she buried her head in her hands and spoke no more.

  Edward left his corner and walked to her. He laid a hand gently on Miss Froom’s shoulder. She felt very cold.

  “A pint?” he said at last.

  Miss Froom slowly stopped sobbing.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You said that a pint of blood could keep you going for months.”

  His voice was very soft, and a little hesitant.

  “A pint’s not much, is it?” he said.

  Miss Froom looked at him, and he drowned in her eyes.

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” she said.

  “You didn’t ask,” said Edward. “I offered.”

  Miss Froom didn’t speak. Instead, she ran a cold hand across Edward’s face and touched his lips with her fingers.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Perhaps there’s something I can offer you in return.”

  Her hand touched her chest and a button on her shirt popped open, exposing a little more of the fabled bosom that had kept many a frustrated rose grower awake at night. Edward swallowed hard as, gently, she made him sit down once again on the kitchen chair.

  “Would you mind if I drank a little now?” she asked.

  “No, not at all,” said Edward, although his voice trembled slightly. “Where do you want to take it from?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Miss Froom. “The neck is good, but I don’t want to leave a visible mark. Perhaps…your wrist?”

  And she rolled up his sleeve, revealing his clean, freckled arm.

  Edward nodded.

  “Will it hurt?” he asked.

  “Just a sting at first,” said Miss Froom. “Then you won’t feel anything else.”

  Miss Froom’s mouth opened, and he saw that her canines were a little longer than a normal person’s. Her tongue flicked at them, and Edward felt a surge of fear. Her mouth descended on him and twin needles of pain shot through his forearm. He gasped, but then the pain faded and he felt a kind of warmth, and a sleepy pleasure. His eyes closed and beautiful images came to him. He dreamed that he was with Miss Froom, together in a wonderful intimacy, and that she loved him dearly, even as he drifted into a deep, shadowy redness.

  When Edward was dead, Miss Froom, her strength now restored, carried him to the cellar. There she worked on him, removing the major organs before placing his body in a large wine press. When he was fully drained, she removed what was left of him, separated the bones, and put them through a grinder. She took the fine powder and placed it in jars, so that she could mix it into the soil over the coming weeks, assuring herself of another fine crop of vegetables and roses for the coming year. Lastly, she disposed of Edward’s bicycle by tossing it into a patch of marshland a short distance from her home. When all was done, she treated herself to a little tipple from her new stock, her fingers lingering at her neck as she remembered the first taste of the young man.

  Men, thought Miss Froom to herself: they really were the sweetest of creatures.

  Nocturne

  I don’t know why I feel that I must confess this thing to you. Perhaps it is because I do not know you, and you do not know me. You have no preconceptions about me. We have not spoken before, and it may be that we will never speak again. For now, we have nothing in common except words and silence.

  Lately, I have been thinking a lot about silence, about the spaces in my life. I am, I suppose, a contemplative man by nature. I can only write when there is quiet. Any sound, even music, is an unwelcome distraction, and I speak as one who loves music.

  No, let me rephrase that. I speak as one who loved music. I cannot listen to it now, and the quiet that has taken its place brings me no peace. There is an edge to it, a constant threat of disruption. I keep waiting to hear those sounds again: the lifting of the piano lid, the notes rising from the vibration of the strings, the muffled echo of a false key being struck. I find myself waking in the darkest spell of the night just to listen, but there is only the threatening stillness.

  It was not always this way.

  Audrey and Jason died on August 25. It was a sunny day, so the last time I saw them alive Audrey was wearing a light yellow summer dress and Jason was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was yellow too. Audrey was taking Jason to swimming class. I kissed Audrey good-bye and ruffled Jason’s hair, and she promised to bring back something for lunch. Audrey was thirty-five. Jason was eight, just one year older than his brother, David. They died because a truck driver swerved to avoid a fox while he was coming around a bend, only a mile or two from our home. It was a stupid thing to do but, looking back, almost understandable. He ran straight into their car, and they were killed instantly.

  About a month ago, shortly after the second anniversary of their deaths, a job was offered to me. A council far to the north had received an unexpected boost to its arts funding, in that it had gone from having no arts funding to having a little. Fearing that even this small allowance might not materialize the following year if it were not used in this one, the wise burghers advertised for someone to teach their citizens the rudiments of creative writing, to speak at local schools, and to edit, in the course of the year, a volume of work reflecting the talents that the presence of a writer in the town would undoubtedly uncover and nurture. I applied for the post, and was duly accepted. I thought that it might help us. Every day, on his way to school, David had to pass the place where his mother and brother had died. I had to pass it too, whenever I was required to leave the house. I thought that taking a break from it all might be good for us both.

  But it wasn’t, of course.

  Our troubles began about two weeks after we arrived at the new house; or, rather, at the old house, for it was a little dilapidated. The cost of its rental was to be paid in addition to my salary, an
d a local man was engaged to take care of some basic refurbishments. It had been sourced for us by an estate agent back in the city, who assured us that it was a fine property at a price that would not exceed the council’s budget. The laborer, a man named Frank Harris, had already commenced his renovations before we arrived, but it was still a work-in-progress. It was built of gray stone on two levels, with a kitchen, living room, and small toilet downstairs, and three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Most of the walls remained unpainted, and some of the floors were still sticky with varnish. We brought some furniture with us, but it looked lost and uncomfortable in this unfamiliar setting, like guests who had somehow wandered into the wrong party.

  Yet, in the beginning, David seemed to enjoy the experience of moving to a new place. Children are so very adaptable in that way. He explored, made friends, decorated his room with paintings and posters, and climbed the great trees at the bottom of the garden. I, by contrast, was seized with a terrible loneliness, for I found that the absence of Audrey and Jason was exacerbated rather than reduced by the strangeness of my surroundings. I took to writing in the garden, in the hope that sunlight might dissipate my mood. It worked, sometimes.

  I can remember clearly the first night that it occurred. I woke in darkness to hear the piano being played in the living room. It was one of only a few pieces left by the house’s previous owner, along with the great oak table in the kitchen and a pair of handsome mahogany bookshelves that occupied twin alcoves in the living room. I arose, my head fuzzy with sleep and the noise of the out-of-tune piano hammering at my nerves, and went downstairs to find David standing in the room alone. I thought that he might have been sleepwalking, but he was awake.

  He was always awake when it happened.

  I’d heard him talking to himself as I descended, but he stopped as I reached the room, and so too did the piano music. Still, I caught snatches of his conversation as I descended, mainly “Yes” and “No,” as if somebody were asking him questions and he were giving out reluctant answers in return. He talked the way he talked to people he didn’t know very well, or of whom he was shy, or wary.