by Anne Frasier
Wouldn’t that be wild if he just showed up in Old Tuonela with a camera crew? Evan would be on one of his rants, tossing plates. Or maybe he’d be muttering about what he’d dug up that night. Graham laughed just thinking about it. “No, we can’t go to my place. How about upstairs at Peaches? It’s a coffee shop on Main Street three blocks from the inn where you’re staying. You can pretend it’s in my house. Oh, and I don’t want a bunch of people there, okay? Just you.”
“I don’t pretend. This isn’t a fictional piece.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
He was doing her a favor, for chrissake. “Do you want to do it or not?”
He’d been so pissy lately. He knew he should be ashamed of himself, and probably would be tomorrow. But not now. Now he was pissy and he liked it.
He disconnected, hopped in his dad’s black car, and drove to Peaches.
Peaches was an old two-story house that had been turned into a café. The floor was worn down to unstained wood, the couches were threadbare, and the chairs were wobbly.
Nobody was upstairs.
He settled at a small table in front of a window that overlooked Main Street. If anybody else showed up he and Kristin could step out on the balcony.
He thought he caught a glimpse of red hair.
Two minutes later Kristin appeared upstairs, a can of diet cola in one hand, a green canvas bag over her shoulder. She spotted Graham right away. Crouching, she slid her can of pop across the table, then sat down and began to unpack her bag.
Her hair was the fakest red he’d ever seen in his life. He liked it.
Was she a crust punk? Crust punks were dirty. She didn’t look dirty. Her jeans were full of holes and patches, and her green tennis shoes were faded and frayed, but she looked clean.
“That was fast,” he said. “You must have been close.”
“I was at the inn. I had a headache this morning, so the others left to scout locations without me.” She pulled out her camera and began fiddling with it. “Headache’s gone now, but it will probably come back. They usually do.”
“You live in Minneapolis? I’m thinking of going to the University of Minnesota.”
“Saint Paul. In a neighborhood called Frogtown.” She laughed. “Known for ethnic diversity, poor people, and hookers. You should come and check it out.” She pulled out a small telescoping tripod, opened it, tightened the locking rings, and positioned the legs on the floor. “What are you thinking of majoring in?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I just need to get away from here.”
“Tuonela is beautiful.” She screwed the camera to the tripod. “I could stay here a while, I think. But it probably gets boring.”
Sweet hell. He wished.
“This will be heavily edited—or maybe not even used,” she warned.
She turned on the camera and began by asking some pretty boring things. After a while he relaxed and forgot the camera was rolling. That’s when the questions got more personal. By that time he’d let down his guard and was beginning to enjoy himself.
It was like being with his therapist, only a lot more interesting.
He was pretty much a newcomer to Tuonela, so he talked about the town and the people as seen through the eyes of a newcomer. But when it came to talking about his dead, abusive mother and Evan, he stopped. While Kristin waited for him to continue, Graham thought about how strange it was that he’d traded one crazy parent for another.
He hadn’t seen that coming.
“I was looking for a fairy tale,” he finally said. “Because if anyplace could handle a fairy tale, you’d think it would be this place, wouldn’t you? With all the crazy shit that happens here, you almost expect it. I said shit. Can you edit that out? Want me to do it again? No? Anyway, this is really just like any other place. It is. Swear to God. I mean, things are weird, like all the Pale Immortal stuff, but people are people. They play softball. They have picnics. They go fishing. They love and hate. Just like any other place.”
“But other places don’t have vampires.”
“Do you believe that? Do you believe in vampires?”
She smiled. “Do you?”
“Come on.”
“What about your dad?”
“Are you asking me if he’s a vampire?” Graham shook his head. “I thought you said you were after something real. You’re putting your own slant on this. You’re going to make us look like a bunch of idiots.” He watched her closely, and could tell he’d hit a nerve. “You are. That’s what this is about. Just another freak show.”
“I’m after the truth,” Kristin said. “I want proof that none of this vampire stuff is real.”
“You do know my dad has a skin disease, don’t you? He’s allergic to sunlight. It has a medical name, but most people just call it vampire disease. Look it up.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “I’m done. Shut off the camera.”
She could see he was serious.
She shut off the camera, removed it from the tripod, popped out a tape the size of a small container of stick matches, and inserted another. “I want to show you something.” She watched the viewscreen, then turned the camera around.
Graham leaned forward and craned his neck to see. It took him a moment to realize he was watching footage of the museum opening. Low angles, low light, and a bobbing camera made it tough to put together the exact location. But there he was, telling Kristin she couldn’t use a camera in the museum. There she was, ignoring him. The camera kept running, and somehow she was able to focus on the case containing the mummified corpse. A reflection on the glass created confusion and distortion, but suddenly the face of the Pale Immortal seemed to take on a human quality.
“Isn’t that freaky?” Kristin asked.
“It’s a reflection,” Graham said. “Somebody in the crowd.”
“Is it?”
She rewound and replayed the footage. She froze the video on the face.
He stared at it for a long time. For some reason, the reflection reminded him of his dad. He didn’t mention that.
“It’s just a reflection,” he repeated as he watched her pack up the camera and telescope the tripod legs.
“I think we’re going to a karaoke bar tonight.” She zipped up her case. “Want to come?”
“I’m seventeen.”
“I have a computer program that I use to make fake IDs. If you want one, just let me know.”
“You’re just trying to get that interview with my dad. It’s not going to work.”
She laughed. Threw back her head and laughed.
Maybe it was working.
“You’re funny.”
“Yeah, people tell me that. I don’t really get it.”
“And you’re older than seventeen. Inside.”
She was right.
He’d done something most adults had never done. Something that was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
She hadn’t asked him about that. Maybe she didn’t know. That was nice. To be around somebody who didn’t know.
“I have to work at the museum. After that I have to go home.”
“Okay.” She got to her feet. “I’m not trying to corrupt you or anything. Thanks for the interview. If you change your mind about karaoke, let me know.”
After she left, Graham headed to the museum, where he put in a four-hour shift. He didn’t want to go into the mummy room, but that was his station.
The numbers weren’t as bad as they’d been on opening day, but the building was still uncomfortably crowded. After Graham got over his initial nervousness, he tested his reflection theory, standing in different locations and watching as people entered the museum, but he couldn’t re-create the effect from the video.
When his shift was over, he drove to his grandfather’s house and parked in front of the sidewalk.
He used speed dial to call Evan. No answer. Graham left a voice mail. “I’m probably going to stay in Tuonela tonight with Alastair. I
f that’s not okay, let me know and I’ll come home.” He disconnected, grabbed his backpack, and got out of the car.
The house was located on Benefit Street in the very spot where a sharp valley gave way to flatland. Just months ago Graham’s mother had dropped him off there.
Months . . . It seemed like years. Now she was dead. How many people were gone? Four?
The house was old—dark beams and stucco, with a huge front porch and woodland on three sides.
It took a while for his grandfather to answer his knock.
Even though his hair was white, Alastair Stroud probably wasn’t all that old. He was kind of wiry and still kinda tan from time spent on golf courses in Florida. He wore a lot of crisp plaid shirts and always smelled faintly of aftershave. Right now he smelled like alcohol, and it took only a few seconds for Graham to realize his grandfather was wasted.
Nice.
Did any of the adults in his family act like adults? That was what he wanted to know. And his grandfather was a cop. But he guessed cops got drunk just like anybody else when they weren’t on duty. Weird to think about.
Alastair tried like hell to appear sober, but he was too far gone. He blinked and dropped awkwardly into an overstuffed chair. “Have a seat.” He waved a drunken hand.
Graham hovered near the doorway. “I don’t know. I think maybe I’ll just go.”
“No, stay! Stay!”
So much for spending the night. No way was he doing that now.
“I was just getting ready to pop a frozen pizza in the oven.”
Graham dropped his backpack on the floor and walked across the living room to the adjoining kitchen. Every single cupboard door was open. The floor and counters were strewn with dishes and crap that had been pulled out. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something.” Alastair jumped to his feet. “You haven’t seen a small tin tea canister, have you? About this size?” He made a shape with his hands.
“Silver?”
“Yes!”
“I think I saw it with some of my dad’s stuff. At the other place.”
His grandfather crossed the room and grabbed him by both shoulders. “If you see it again, stay away from it.” He gave him a small shake. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy. “Understand? Stay away from it.”
“Okay, you know what?” Graham bent his knees and slipped from his grasp. “I can’t do this.” He walked to the door and picked up his backpack. “Go to bed. Go to bed and sleep it off.”
“If you see it, call me. If you see the tin.”
“I’ll do that.”
He left.
Out the door and back in the car.
He made a three-point turn and headed down the hill that took him past the morgue, where Rachel Burton had lived. Parked outside the Victorian mansion was what looked like the same moving truck he’d seen there before. Was Rachel still in town?
He pulled into the back driveway, then ran around the brick path that led to the massive wooden front doors. He rang Rachel’s apartment. The front door buzzed to let him in.
He strode down the dark, carpeted halls, briefly thought about taking the elevator, then decided to sprint up the stairs to her place on the third floor.
She opened the door, and it was immediately obvious she’d been crying. Her eyes were red; her nose was red.
And her stomach.
What the hell?
“You’re having a baby?” The words just came out.
“Didn’t you know?” She turned and shuffled away to grab a box of tissues. “I figured everybody in town knew.”
Holy shit.
He thought back to the last time he’d seen her. She’d been driving the coroner van. Her stomach had been hidden.
He didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe this was one of those artificial inseminations. Oh, that was just too bizarre. He felt heat creeping up his face, and he lingered by the door.
“Come on in.”
The apartment was empty except for a red retro table and chairs. In the middle of the table were two dead plants.
“You know what . . . ?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “I think I should go. . . .”
“Stay a minute.” She blew her nose and tossed the tissue aside. Now he caught sight of a big pile of wadded-up tissues on the floor next to a chair.
“I saw the truck outside. What happened? Aren’t you moving?”
“I can’t get out of here. I have to face it. It’s not going to happen.” She made a useless gesture with her hand. “I can’t leave. Tuonela won’t let me leave.”
He wanted to ask her about the baby, but how did you do something like that? “I have to go.” He backed up. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’m glad you aren’t moving. Well, I’m sorry for you, but glad for me. I gotta go.”
He gave a little bounce, spun around, and got the hell out of there. Back in the car he pulled out his cell phone and punched in Kristin Blackmoore’s number.
They hadn’t left for the bar yet.
He caught up with them at the inn, where Kristin made a fake ID for him. It took only minutes to print it out on the inn’s printer and slip it into a used laminate sleeve. He was twenty-one and his name was Kevin Graham.
Pretty sneaky.
The bar was less than a mile away, so they walked. Claire—the person in charge of the shoot— didn’t go. She was working on getting a psychic to come to Tuonela to do a reading on the town. So it was just the four of them—three guys and a girl.
Until that moment, until they were all walking down the sidewalk together talking about nothing, Graham hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been. Especially since Isobel had left. He knew kids at school, but nobody really hung out with him. Kids his age were afraid of him. He was an outsider. One with an unpleasant past.
Maybe that was why he found the idea of spending time with the documentary crew appealing. They were outsiders too. And they didn’t know about him. Not everything.
The fake ID got him inside.
“Told you there was nothing to worry about,” Kristin said. “They don’t care if you’re old enough to drink, as long as you have something that keeps them from getting in trouble.”
He got drunk. Wasted, actually.
Briefly he thought of Alastair, about how truly unattractive a drunk person could be, but he quickly brushed that memory aside. They bought something called Immortal Punch. It came in a giant bowl and knocked them all on their asses.
He couldn’t sing worth shit, but he got up and sang the Pogues song “Dirty Old Town.”
The night grew late, and people began to drift away and return to their homes. Ian and Stewart headed back to the inn. Graham and Kristin stayed until the karaoke machine was unplugged, the beer coolers refilled, and the OPEN light turned off.
They clung to each other.
Under the glow of a full moon, they talked and laughed as they made their way back down the steep sidewalk to Main Street.
Leaves whispered even though there was no breeze, and shadows crept out of sidewalk cracks.
They were so loud and so caught up in their drunkenness that they would never have known if anybody had followed them. They would never have known if something less than human was drawn to the noise, watching and skittering along behind them with a sound that resembled rustling leaves.
They stopped under a street lamp.
“I killed somebody,” Graham announced.
Kristin stared at him. “I died.” She swayed, then held up two fingers. “Twice.”
They burst out laughing and continued down the hill, where the moon was obscured and the shadows were so dark they could no longer see their feet in front of them. Where their steps took them off the edge of the earth.
“Shhhh,” Kristin said when they reached the inn.
She fished a key from her pocket and unlocked the door as if she lived there. Graham was impressed. With great exaggeration, they tiptoed up the stairs to Kristin’s room on t
he third floor.
Once they were inside with the door closed, Kristin toed off her sneakers and slipped out of her jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor next to the bed. “You should really come to school in Minneapolis.” She crawled under the covers. Graham peeled off his jeans and followed.
Chapter Nine
A scraping sound pulled Evan from a comatose sleep. He lay in bed, ears alert.
There it was again. Coming from downstairs. Like a bare branch scraping against a window.
He checked the clock by the bed. Two a.m. Normally he waited and waited for darkness. How had he slept so late?
He got up and got dressed.
In Graham’s room he found a neatly made bed and no sign of Graham. He would call Alastair. But at the last moment he thought to go downstairs to check his voice mail and found a message from Graham saying he was staying in Tuonela with his grandfather. Evan relaxed.
The scratching started again. Now that he was closer he could tell it was coming from outside. He followed the sound to the front door.
On his porch he found a stinking, fetid mass of boneless, formless skin with black, opaque pits where the eyes should have been. He put a hand to his nose and pulled back a few inches.
Is this a dream? Have I finally completely lost my mind?
As he watched, the skin turned and tumbled down the porch steps to collapse in a pile on the walk. A minute passed; then it began to move again. A hand reached out, nails digging into the ground. It pulled itself several feet, then repeated the movement.
Evan grabbed the shovel and lantern and followed from a safe distance.
He watched as the skin crawled under the gate, then made its way down the lane toward the heart of Old Tuonela.
Matthew Torrance had been the museum’s custodian for almost twenty years. He liked the job. He liked being by himself. He liked being able to listen to music with headphones on while he cleaned. He liked being able to smoke a joint if he felt like it, or take a nap. Nobody to bug him.
He was single, never married, and was into heavy metal. He read science fiction, and had been to two Star Trek conventions back in the early nineties. He’d met a girl there, but after three years he’d decided Star Trek wasn’t enough to have in common. He wasn’t even sure he liked girls. Or guys. Or people in general.