by Rose Titus
She was relieved.
Why should she be? It wasn’t real!
“And so their women were almost never left at home with household drudgery.” He went on to describe their women as more physically fit than usual, “unlike our own women who become exhausted so easily.”
Well, you would be too after cooking and cleaning and putting up with screaming brats all day, dear Uncle!
She read on. “The ancient people once worshipped them almost like gods before the coming of the Roman legions into their lands. Those primitives who worshipped the moon goddess believed they were her children, and sacrificed goats upon a stone altar to the goddess, draining the blood into a silver cup...” At that time, the Professor was told, the people lived side by side with the rest of humanity peacefully with no troubles. “It is only in recent centuries that they have been so persecuted and hunted.”
It was all a great story. Too bad it wasn’t real. She was almost beginning to believe.
She got the impression that the Professor felt them to be just like everyone else, except they slept all day. He seemed to respect their intelligence and character, even. They lived what he referred to as “decent lives.” This alone made her feel on edge, but she continued to remind herself it couldn’t be real. What the hell made him write it? Stress?
Soon, she noticed it was late afternoon, and she was still in her pajamas. She had awakened very late in the morning, the old man’s books making her become nocturnal herself. She tried to put them away but couldn’t. She left them on the kitchen table and went to shower in the antiquated bathroom, where things still somehow seemed to work okay.
She was hungry again when she came out. She dressed and then went down and brewed another pot of coffee and began making a sandwich. She read some more.
After a while she noticed it was dusk and the sky was beginning to darken. Had she been reading the crazy old man’s notes for that long all day?
There was a knock at the door, and she realized the doorbell of course no longer functioned. But who could it be?
“What? Elton? Hi. I didn’t—” He was carrying a cardboard box.
“Hi yourself. The word around the neighborhood, if you can call this rural location a neighborhood, is that the place got broken into and the TV stolen, and so—” He came in and put the box on the table. “This is your welcome to the falling down old house present, from your neighbors across the field.”
“Oh, no. You didn’t have to. Look, that’s expensive. Most people just bring over a pie.” But she rushed to open the box. It was a small battery powered TV and she was overjoyed to see it. “Elton, thank you. Look, come in the kitchen. I’ll get you some coffee, okay?”
“My store had an overstock. And no. I really don’t need anything right now.” But he followed her.
“Want a sandwich or—”
He stopped suddenly. “You found them? My God, you—”
“Found what?” Then she saw he was staring at the notes spread all over the table. “Oh. He was writing these papers. I—” She couldn’t describe it. She didn’t want to admit the old man was nuts.
“Where on earth did you find them?”
“Well, they were kind of in the basement, in this really weird place. You know the thing that you clean the ashes out of a fireplace with—”
“I think you mean a cleanout door? They were in there?” He picked one up and began reading. “Muriel. People have been looking for these for a very long time. I don’t know how to explain, but, these are so very important.”
“Well, what do you mean? Either he wrote that stuff because he was losing it, or maybe he was under pressure from work. I don’t know why he wrote it. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff in there.”
“Muriel.” He hesitated. “I know people who would be really interested in seeing these notebooks.”
“I...I think he died right after writing these.”
“I know. It was tragic. Well, I shall leave you alone to enjoy your new TV then.”
“Elton, thanks. It was really nice of you. I should meet other people who live around here. You have family, right?”
“Yes. We live way across the meadow, just beyond the trees. That’s how we knew someone was home. We saw a light on. Come visit some night when you have nothing else to do.”
“Thanks. Sure you don’t want coffee?”
“No. Thank you, though.” He turned to leave.
“Hey!”
“Yes?”
“Elton? Who would want these ridiculous old notes?”
“Well, maybe it would be a conversation better saved for later. Hang on to them, okay? Don’t...please don’t throw them away. Maybe you shouldn’t show them to anyone else, for now. All right?” He left.
The next morning she woke late again, but after breakfast she went to the local bakery and purchased a blueberry pie. On returning home she walked across the field with it towards Elton’s house. She rang the bell, but there was no answer. She looked up and noticed the shades were pulled down in most of the windows upstairs. No one home, but why bother to pull down all the shades? Oh, well. She would try again later.
Later that evening, after running around the old place with a broom, she picked up the notes again. They had become irresistible now, even making her forget the new television set. What if it was all true? No, she reminded herself again. It just can’t be...
She startled when there was a knock at the door. She looked out through the window and saw that it was Elton, and he was with someone this time. She went to let them in. “Hi, Elton.”
“Muriel, hi.” For a moment he hesitated. “This is another neighbor of yours. He lives down the road a bit, in an old farmhouse, almost as run down as yours.”
“Hi,” she said enthusiastically, noticing Elton’s friend was nearly as pale as he was, as if no one she had met in town so far ever went out in the sun. “I brought over a pie and knocked on your door, but—”
“Sorry,” was all he said. Then he went silent. Suddenly, she noticed the tension.
But then the other man offered his hand. “Seymour.”
She took it carefully.
“Seymour Zworykin.” He smiled, almost warmly.
“Does everyone in town have a last name I can’t pronounce?”
“The family that runs the gas station has the last name Jones,” said Elton.
She laughed quietly. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Seymour. And it’s nice to see you again, Elton. Let me get that pie—”
“Well...No. That’s okay, Muriel,” Elton continued. “No thank you. We’re fine. Thanks.”
“Won’t you two at least sit down?”
So they did, both of them staring at the notebooks.
“Look, I am sorry about the mess on the table. I know they’re dusty, and smell a little bad from being in the basement for like seventy something years. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t stop reading them. He wrote such off-the-wall stuff. You gotta at least let me get you coffee.” She went to get two mugs.
“Miss Aubrey,” Seymour began, “about the notebooks—”
“Why are you two so mysterious about those silly papers of his? And why don’t you eat any of this nice pie I bought today? What is so—” Then it hit her. “Oh my God.” She almost laughed, but stopped. And took a step back away from them both. “None of that stuff can be true. Can it?”
“Muriel.” Elton tried again. “Please. There is nothing to be afraid of. Look, your granduncle was a good man. He understood. We hope you will, too.”
“I did not even freakin’ know my uncle! And will you two just tell me what the hell is going on? Because if you don’t, I am so gonna scream!”
It seemed to her like they had been talking for hours, and she had lost track of time when she calmed down. She realized also that she had finally stopped shaking. They were now in the living room. She had eaten both pieces of pie that were intended for Elton and Seymour, along with several cups of coffee, and she sat on the worn-ou
t couch, listening to Elton talk, and taking it all in.
“It happened a long time ago, but it’s still clear in my mind. I was just a boy then. I saw him come into the house with a gun so I hid in the closet. Then there was this awful hammering sound and I heard my father screaming; he had been asleep and then…I’ll never forget that ungodly sound. I heard my mother scream. She tried to stop him. But it was no use. There was a gunshot. I heard her fall, and she stopped screaming. My mother was pregnant. I’ll never know if I lost a brother, or a sister. Then I heard someone come in downstairs and two men arguing. It was Professor Aubrey. He had come to try and reason with him, but it was too late. I heard him shout, ‘You have gone completely mad.’ ‘No;’ said the other voice, much louder, ‘it is you who have gone mad. These creatures are not human. They should all be destroyed. They are not like us,’ and then he killed him as well. I remained hidden for quite a long time in that closet. It took a while for the police to arrive. Not everyone back then had a telephone, but someone did. I still to this day don’t know who heard all the noise and reported it.”
“But, that was a long time ago. You couldn’t have been a little kid then. You’d be like—”
“Yes, I know. I don’t look it.”
“Oh...that’s right. You guys...don’t get old.”
“Eventually,” said Seymour. “We all have to go sometime. We just live a lot longer than most people. Miss Aubrey, we’re sorry to have frightened you.”
“No. Look, call me Muriel. I—you didn’t scare me,” she lied. “I was just...surprised that it was real, that’s all. I didn’t expect...well, you know...”
“Of course. We understand.”
“Look, you want to take the notebooks, fine. Can’t I just finish reading them?”
“Of course you can, Muriel,” Seymour said. “It’s not that we want them. You see, we just don’t want them to get into the wrong hands. Four people already died because of superstition and ignorance. We don’t want it to happen again. It’s not just the two of us we need to protect. It’s the entire community that could be put in danger. We have families, people we care about. Plus, we have to think of the well-being of the entire town. There are a lot of decent people locally who know about us but don’t say anything. We have friends. They don’t deserve people coming here from outside, knocking on doors, bothering people, asking questions. We don’t want tabloid reporters and self-styled vampire hunters descending on us all, causing chaos, and maybe even hurting more innocent people…”
They talked of many things throughout the night, and it was nearly dawn when they left. She sat awake in bed staring out the window, watching the sun awaken into the sky and hearing the birds sing outside, knowing others were quietly sleeping. And she knew they would be safe.
She sighed before closing her eyes and imagined to herself that the notes would make a great story, and most would believe them to be fiction anyway.
And as she finally fell asleep, an idea awakened within her. It would make a hell of a great story. And before finally drifting down into oblivion, she decided she should wait until the right moment, and then ask if it would be okay.
“So, what do you all think?” She tried to sound cheerful, and hopeful. “I’ll change all the names, the name of the town, the dates, and everything”
“Well.” Seymour hesitated, and then he flatly said, “No!”
“Oh, come on, Seymour, she said she’d change everything necessary. It would be presented as pure fiction. You don’t expect any modern person to believe—”
“No. No. And no! Bad idea. Very bad idea, Elton. Extremely bad idea.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” said the attractive Sophie, whom Muriel just met that very evening. She wasn’t expecting to meet any more of them so soon. Elton and Seymour had brought her over to introduce her to the Professor’s niece. Sophie, she guessed, could be the oldest, but looked to be about 40. She might be the oldest, Muriel supposed, since she briefly mentioned in conversation how difficult things were for them in the old country. She seemed at times to have a slight accent, but it was obvious that she had been speaking English for a very long time. The others were quiet when she spoke. “Why not? Or did they all die for nothing?”
“No, Sophie, please. It’s not safe.”
“Things change, Seymour. People change. Even the world changes.”
“There are still fanatics running around in the daylight, you know.”
“Well, if she changes names, they won’t know where to run to. Will they?” And she turned to Muriel. “Let’s re-write your uncle’s notes, then, dear. People will believe it’s just a story.” She then gave an almost sad look back at Seymour, “They put such awful things about us on television. Why not let someone write something different about us, for a change? A story that would be kinder to us? To change people’s bad ideas about us? Aren’t we all so tired of seeing such bad things about us, in books and in movies?”
“Aren’t we all so tired of seeing such bad things about us, in books and in movies?”
Summer came while she busied herself with the seemingly endless cleanup and exploration of the old home, and summer then turned into autumn, and the autumn turned into winter. With the work about the house, the last remaining confusing paperwork for the estate, and getting settled in, it seemed as if she almost didn’t notice the change of the seasons. She was now back at college; and her life started to get back into quiet and dull routine while spending weekends and winter break at the old house in the tiny little town. She got to know many people there, some who even knew her granduncle from long ago.
But she especially liked the company of Josephine, Seymour’s granddaughter, who was closer to Muriel’s own age. “They don’t consider you a grown up around here until you’re like 100 or something.” Josie was still able to eat solid food, although bright light was beginning to make her uncomfortable. She was attending college, taking night classes. “Like the other day I was chewing gum and accidentally bit my lip. Ouch! Major safety hazard.” Josie joked about it to cope. Her body was changing over as she grew into adulthood. She had stopped aging and had trouble staying awake during the day. Muriel learned a lot from Josie, who talked more freely, never having suffered any direct persecution herself.
Finally, word came one day that her story of “Professor Alberts” and the mysterious research that led to his tragic death would be serialized in her college’s monthly publication. She would get no money for it, but she did get a free subscription; and it generated conversation among some of her classmates and friends. Only one thing remained the same, for she had changed the time frame to the 1950’s, the location from New York State to Maine, the immigrants were from Romania instead of Czechoslovakia. She signed her own name to the story, written by Muriel Aubrey. Her friends were shocked. “Where did you get such a wild idea, girl?”
“I dunno,” she shrugged. “Too many late nights studying, I guess. Maybe too many beers.” She couldn’t wait to drive back to the rural town to share her news.
Sophie was especially thrilled for her, and she told her so. Sophie’s real name, she learned, was Annasophia. It had been her idea to lead the entire group to America to save them from the constant persecution they had all suffered. “Wherever we went in the old country, there was trouble. The peasants were completely uneducated and ignorant. Maybe someday—Someday I hope things will change,” she sighed. “We live in the dark, but why must we hide in it?”
“I’m sorry about how things were for you back then, Sophie,” Muriel said, somehow knowing it hurt today as much as it did a century and a half ago.
“And now look at all the garbage you see on TV. The movies have us all as undead monsters.” But then Sophie changed the subject to stop herself from becoming distraught. “How is school?”
“Pretty dull. I wish I could spend all my time out here in the boondocks.”
And so she did. She decided to spend winter break with her newfound family. That’s what they all beca
me to her. The small town did not have much to offer, but she spent as much time as she could there now. She often stayed awake late at night, with her uncle’s old friends, and when she was with them she would sit by the fire at Annasophia’s old stone house in the pine forest and listen to stories of the old country. Sophie told of how she believed there were no more vampires in Romania, because, she said, “they must all have been hunted to extinction by now.” But the others would disagree and debate whether they were still there, surviving in small numbers somehow.
Muriel listened quietly one night while Sophie told of how she came home from a journey away from her small village to find her family butchered. “They died in their sleep,” she whispered. But Muriel realized that they would have awakened to the terrible pain and shock of having a wooden stake pounded into them. It was then that Sophie, though still young, had to take leadership of a small group of survivors. She began, she said, by buying books to teach herself and the others English. “And I read as much as I could about America, and made plans for what was left of us to come here to start over.”
During the darkest, cold winter nights, they discussed anything and everything—the past, the present, the future, art, science, philosophy, and even what was on television. Muriel would sit by the hearth and listen but eventually she would get tired and go home.
One morning she woke up with the wind howling and snow flying outside her window. She looked sleepily outside to see a field of endless white that ended at the edge of the forest. She yawned, looked down, then startled. “What?” she said out loud. There was a man, standing there, at the edge of the trees, looking up at the old house, oblivious that she could see him. He wore a down parka, ski hat, and those ugly hiking boots that a lot of men wore out in the snow. “Who the hell?” She wished Elton was awake so she could call and ask ‘do you know that guy?’
What the hell is he doing in my woods?
But then silently he turned and walked away. Like an apparition, he was gone. She put on her coat and boots to look in the snow and there she saw footprints. He was real, not imaginary. Then who in the hell was he? She knew it wasn’t anyone who once knew her old long gone granduncle. The sun wasn’t out, but still it was day. She ran quickly back in, shivering from the ice cold wind.