Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  Glasses. Hearing aids. You're falling apart, kiddo, I told myself. Sweet sixteen and already a senior citizen. Next comes the wheelchair, then the hospital bed, then....

  We drove through the cemetery gate. I imagined the sound of tires crunching over gravel as the car left the blacktop, anything to drive the morbid thoughts out of my head. Mom down-shifted then, but I couldn't hear the old Toyota complain even though I knew it always screamed when you shifted from third gear to second. An awful silence closed in on me and pounded in my ears, so empty that it made me think of Aaron Vincent.

  My hands trembled and I dropped the magazine. Fighting the silence was useless. I didn't want to remember Mr. Vincent, but I had to somehow. He was a part of me now. Forgetting him was impossible.

  Memories washed over me, and in a few moments the echoing silence was replaced by a cascade of sound. More than sound, really, because at the end sounds had become complex sensations when Aaron Vincent was near, somehow leeching into my other senses. (At least that's the way Mr. Vincent affected me; I can't speak for Rob.) I remembered the ticking clock in his apartment that made the slow passage of time smell of rosemary. I recalled the bloody scent of a velvet cape's whisper, and the memory made me shudder.

  I turned on my hearing aid. Mom asked if I were okay and I nodded, thankful for the sound of her perfectly average voice. We were parked in the shadow of a monument, a pair of marble hands clasped in prayer. I got out of the car before Mom could volunteer her help and shuffled across the freshly mown lawn toward Rob's grave.

  Mom shouted, "Jan, don't you want your coat?"

  "No!" I shivered, but not because of the winter wind. Just the idea of heavy cloth draped over my body was enough to make my stomach lurch.

  I hadn't attended Rob's funeral — my doctors advised against it— but I'd read in the newspaper that he was buried next to his dad, whose grave was near an old oak. Rob had always visited his dad's grave whenever we walked near the cemetery, and as I got closer I could almost imagine him standing in the shadow of the oak, looking down in peaceful silence as he remembered the good times.

  Maybe that was what I wanted to do now.

  Somebody was crying. I prodded my new glasses high on my nose and squinted into the amber sunlight. A chill capered up my spine. Someone was standing at Rob's grave, someone I recognized.

  Maggie was upon me in a second, her green eyes full of fire. "You get away from here!" she shouted. "You've got no right to be here!"

  I wanted to run more than anything. But my feet wouldn't work right. And the grass was damp, so I was fearful of slipping. And then Maggie stepped ahead of me and blocked my path. I wanted to tell her that I was leaving, but then I realized that wasn't what she wanted me to do, not really.

  She snatched Rob's photograph out of my hands and stared at it. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks. "Is this another one of your spells?" she asked. "Haven't you done enough to him?"

  "Maggie, it's the last thing I have of him. It was Rob's dream, and he should have it back. I want him to know that I'm sorry for what happened."

  Slowly, I reached for the picture.

  She jumped away, clutching the brass frame. "No. You're not sorry. You're trying to steal him away from me again." She shook the photo in front of my face. "It's witchcraft!"

  A car door slammed. I heard Mom's voice in the distance. Maggie glanced in the direction of the Toyota and then rushed past me, bumping my shoulder.

  I slipped on the wet grass and tripped backward.

  Maggie screamed.

  Then my head hit the trunk of the old oak, and I smelled the musky odor of rosemary and blood, and everything went black.

  Fangs glistening, the Vampyre sprang at the gray-haired man. They struggled, their arms locked in battle, and together they tripped over the stone parapet. The gray-haired man plunged into the crashing surf, but the Vampyre rose, a huge bat flapping toward us.

  Maggie screamed.

  Rob and I laughed, and then the credits rolled. VAMPYRE III. THE END.

  We left the theatre, munching handfuls of leftover popcorn. "You sure called that one right, Jan," Rob said. "I'll never understand how you figure out the plots of these sequels before we even see them."

  Maggie shook her head. "It's only because she's memorized every horror movie known to man, Robert. You've seen her video collection. Karloff, Lugosi, Chaney Junior, Chaney Senior...she's got them all. She even has footage of Vincent Carfax when he still wore training wings!"

  "I know, I know.” Rob said. "And she's got Carfax's first pacifier, too, complete with baby fang marks."

  "Okay, guys," I broke in. "Enough's enough. We all know the real reason is that I'm a creative genius. Remember, I'm going to write these movies someday, when I'm not busy knocking Stevie King off the best-seller list, that is. Maybe by the time they get around to making Vampyre IV they'll call me to do the script."

  "Just remember to write a part for moi!" Maggie punched my shoulder and ran ahead, imitating the histrionics of the gray-haired vampire hunter and his leading lady. Then she rearranged her imaginary cast and became the Vampyre, creeping around a hedge of oleanders and springing out at us as we passed by.

  "You'd better watch out," Rob cautioned. "There might be a werewolf in there with you."

  Maggie uncoiled her long black hair and tossed it seductively. "My deeeear yunk man," she whispered, "'tis not a full moon tonigggght...."

  We ignored Maggie, but she didn't seem to mind. She went on entertaining herself while Rob explained the special effects we'd seen. He called them F/X, and you'd have thought that he worked for Industrial Light and Magic the way he talked. But if you said so Rob would have blushed stoplight red, for that was his not-so-secret dream. At least it was not-so-secret to me.

  A cold wind came up just as we reached my house, rattling the branches of our old maple and freeing a bushel of dead leaves for their final dance. Though the air was sweet with the aroma of October, it wasn't a night for chatting beneath the stars. Besides, it was Friday, and I already felt like I was horning in on my best friends' date, and I had promised to do a favor for Mom before it got too late.

  The house was shrouded in tangled shadows. Really —I'm not exaggerating or being dramatic — three years had passed since the maple's last trimming, and the shadows cast by its bony branches looked pretty creepy. My parents' bedroom light shone through the upstairs window, and a dim light glowed in the garage apartment that we rented out.

  Dad had done the construction on the apartment —that's what had kept him from other chores like trimming the maple tree. The rent money was earmarked for my college fund, and our first tenant had moved in earlier in the day. Even though I didn't want to, I decided to cut the evening short, telling myself that a promise was a promise and I really did owe Mom a favor. "I hereby declare this meeting of the Hogan High Horror Society closed," I said. "Does the membership agree?"

  The membership — both of them—tried to look upset. Especially Maggie, but deep down I could tell that she was eager to be alone with Rob.

  "C’mon, Jan," Rob said. "Why don't you come up to the house? My folks are out tonight, and we can make some popcorn...."

  I shook my head and let the offer slide away. "I promised to do a favor for Mom. An old guy moved into the apartment today, and she offered me up for chauffeur duty since he doesn't have a car. I'm already in hot water for putting it off until after the movie. Luckily the guy's an insomniac or something. He said he didn't care if we went shopping at midnight."

  "Maybe he vants to go at miiidnight," Maggie said, pouring on the Transylvanian accent. "Maybe he's vun of the undead!"

  "You're incredible," Rob said, but he wasn't looking at Maggie.

  Maggie kissed him then.

  I looked away, but then Rob's hands settled on my shoulders. I stared into his eyes, so bright and blue, so focused, shining into mine. I almost stopped breathing because I thought he might kiss me, and as he pulled me close and hugged me tight I could
smell his sweet dark hair and feel my heart pounding against his chest. And over his shoulder I could see Maggie, her suddenly expressionless face so creamy white in the moonlight and her wild hair so black, her eyes gleaming with an emotion that I couldn't decipher.

  We came out of the embrace. Rob stepped back, but my eyes were still locked on Maggie's.

  "G'night, Jan," Rob said.

  I knew that I couldn't look into his eyes again. I forced out a too-cheery see you later, and then I ran up the walk before they could see how rattled I was.

  They walked up the hill. Maggie whispered something. Rob laughed and shook his head. The wind picked up again and he turned and waved goodbye, and then they broke into a run, dancing through the swirling leaves, disappearing into the night.

  Maggie was wrong. About our new tenant, that is. I was positive that Mr. Vincent wasn't a vampire. No self-respecting creature of the night would stock up on oat bran, decaffeinated coffee, and denture cream.

  Of course, that's not to say that he didn't look like a vampire. He certainly did. If you could imagine a vampire getting very old. His face wasn't anything like Christopher Lee's, and he didn't sound like Bela Lugosi (or Maggie imitating Bela Lugosi), but he did carry himself with the regal air of a Hollywood bloodsucker. In fact, if he reminded me of anyone, it was Vincent Carfax.

  Driving home from the market, I made the mistake of telling him so.

  He chuckled. "I never thought I'd hear that name from anyone under the age of sixty."

  "You'd be surprised," I said, a bit insulted. "Why, some of us youngsters even know about a guy named William Shakespeare. He wrote plays, I think."

  I down-shifted from third gear to second and the Toyota complained. That only made the old man laugh louder.

  "Look," I said, "I'm sorry I mentioned the resemblance... I guess I meant it as a compliment."

  He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "No need to apologize. There was a time when I would have taken your remark as base flattery. You see, years ago I worked in Hollywood...before color film and cinemascope and music videos, of course." He smiled. "I was Vincent Carfax's stand-in."

  "Oh, c'mon. You're joking."

  He straightened indignantly, puffing out his chest. "You seem to know quite a bit about Mr. Carfax. Go ahead, ask me anything."

  I did. I asked Mr. Vincent at least a dozen questions, all of which he answered with polished ease, as if he'd answered them at least a million times. He knew that Carfax's first movie had been a British film called The Blood Bat. He knew that Carfax had been great friends with Boris Karloff, and that he'd loathed Bela Lugosi. And when I asked him about the actor's marriages, the names of Carfax's many wives spilled off Mr. Vincent's tongue faster than he could count them on his twisted, arthritic fingers.

  But more than that, he claimed to know the details of Vincent Carfax's death, one of the great mysteries of Hollywood. Carfax had died of an undisclosed ailment shortly after completing a movie called Count Orlak, Vampire. His leading lady, an Irish beauty named Erin McCague who had costarred in three previous Carfax films, had followed him in death, and Count Orlak had become a national sensation when a well-known gossip columnist spread rumors about the "cursed" vampire film.

  Mr. Vincent was tight-lipped concerning the details, promising to tell all only if I'd help him arrange his apartment. There was no way that I could resist that kind of bait. "Okay," I said. "But if I find out that you sleep in a coffin, the deal's off."

  Mom and Dad didn't mind my spending so much time with Mr. Vincent. I'd never had many friends, and they were always after me to meet new people. I always argued that "old friends are best friends," but Mom claimed that Maggie and I were practically attached at the hip, and even I had to admit that Rob knew the contents of our refrigerator as well as I did.

  Not that I'd seen much of my two best friends lately. Maggie had been avoiding me for weeks. We shared two classes, biology and algebra, but she didn't even want to get together to do homework. She'd been as quiet as a rock ever since the night we'd seen Vampyre III.

  That's a lie. Well, maybe not a lie, but certainly it's a diplomatic description of the way things were. The truth was that Maggie had been freezing me ever since the night Rob looked deep into my eyes and almost kissed me right in front of her.

  I'd replayed that scene a million times, and I'd come to the conclusion that kissing me was exactly what Rob had wanted to do. And I don't think that his mind had changed since. He'd been trying to catch up with me for weeks, and I'd made as many excuses to him as Maggie had made to me. Not that he'd cornered me or anything. Rob was subtler than that. He kept dropping notes into my locker, writing that he had to talk to me, and I kept ripping them into bits. I didn't know how things were with him, or with Maggie, or with the both of them, and I didn't want to know. I prayed that everything would stay the same, and at the same time I yearned for everything to change. I told myself that I had so much in common with Rob. I told myself that in a few years Maggie would probably marry a movie star and break Rob's heart, anyway. But no matter what I told myself, I still felt guilty, like somehow the whole thing was my fault even though I hadn't done anything.

  Home became my refuge, and Mr. Vincent became my new best friend. I told him all about my troubles with Maggie and Rob, and I was surprised that he was so understanding.

  "Creative people always have horrible love lives —I suppose these days you'd call them relationships." he said. "Just look at how many marriages Vincent Carfax destroyed, and not all of them were his own, mind you. Artists are more emotional than other people. Some say that's a myth, but I believe it. We feel things more deeply, and we suffer for our feelings. And worst of all, we're most attracted to other creative people. That's why you're attracted to Rob. It's a strange magnetism. It brings us together, and we feed off our shared creativity. But it can be dangerous. I've seen talented actors collapse on the stage, sucked dry by the sheer power of a great star. I've seen painters curse and weep when they beheld a friend's masterpiece."

  Winter was hard upon us, and we spent the evenings watching old movies on Mr. Vincent's VCR while drinking hot cocoa to fight off the chill that penetrated the garage apartment. I complained to Dad about the cold, but Mr. Vincent said that it didn't bother him. He claimed that too much heat made him sleepy.

  Mr. Vincent always sat in a big wingback chair, his eyes fixed on the tiny TV screen, the remote control held firmly in one gnarled hand. He didn't watch movies as much as preside over them, telling stories about the actors, running the tape backward to show me an example of a certain camera setup, explaining lighting techniques — that kind of thing. I drank in the information. Mr. Vincent came alive in the gray glow of that tiny TV, and learning from him was so much easier than learning from a book. Sometimes he tripped over words, rushing to get them out. I'd look at him sitting in his old leather chair and think that indeed he was regal, the last king of Hollywood come to pass the scepter on to me.

  It was easy to think like that, because Mr. Vincent dressed the part of a king when I visited. He always wore a faded black tuxedo jacket that matched Vincent Carfax's, the one with velvet lapels that everyone remembers from Count Orlak, Vampire.

  One night we watched Carfax's last film. Mr. Vincent still hadn't explained the actor's death, and I saw this as an opportunity to broach the subject. Mr. Vincent grinned at my innocent questions, knowing full well what I was up to. "All right, Janice, I'll confess everything," he said. "Heaven knows that you've told me all your secrets. But what you believe and what you don't believe is up to you." He winked. "I know you've read all the Carfax biographies, but those silly scribblers were in diapers when the whole awful business occurred. They don't know the truth and wouldn't believe it if they did."

  I nodded, begging him to go on.

  "The studio judged the entire episode too morbid for public consumption. The truth is that during filming, Vincent Carfax fell ill. The producer was in desperate straits at the time —the Great Depres
sion was still upon us —and he was counting on Count Orlak to be a big hit. To put it plainly, the studio needed the money. Fortunately, when Carfax dropped out, the interior shots and close-ups had already been completed."

  "Let me guess. They needed a stand-in for the exterior scenes."

  Mr. Vincent smiled. "They called on me, of course. I believed that it was my big break, as we used to say, and each day when I slipped into Carfax's cape I felt his talent surging through me. Just by wearing his costume I felt as If I'd taken on the mantle of Vincent Carfax, King of the Hollywood Vampires. Everyone on the set complimented my performance, and the director predicted that I would become a star in my own right. And then, on the last day of filming, we learned that Vincent Carfax had died. The entire crew was shocked. Vincent had been hospitalized with a serious illness, but we all thought that he'd beat it somehow."

  "You finished the picture?"

  "Barely. Soon after the awful news hit the set, Erin McCague collapsed. Her affair with Vincent Carfax was common knowledge, and she took the news of his death very badly. She was rushed to a hospital, of course. The director replaced her with a script girl who happened to have long red hair and an hourglass figure that matched Erin's. We only had one setup left, and we managed to complete it. The special effects man doubled the dry-ice fog to mask the script girl's identity." Mr. Vincent shook his head. "News of Erin's death came the following day during the wrap party."

  "The studio kept all this quiet?"

  He nodded. "The head of the studio was deathly afraid that I'd blab to the press about my involvement in the film. He was certain that if word got out the critics would claim that Count Orlak, Vampire wasn't really a Vincent Carfax film at all, but rather an Aaron Vincent film, and he was just as certain that the public had no interest in Aaron Vincent. He paid a great deal of money for my silence. And after that, I was blacklisted. Couldn't get a job anywhere. It was frustrating —I felt that my talent as an actor had reached its peak, and I had no way to share it."