A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters

by Greenberg, Martin H.

  I closed my eyes and prayed for her soul. I prayed for my own, and I prayed for help, and for food. It had been stupid of me to leave the dining room. I was so hungry I could barely stand it.

  Hail Mary, full of grace . . .

  A soft scratching sound interrupted me. I figured it for a mouse and tried to resume my prayer. I concentrated on the soft fur of my stole, remembering days when my mother and I would dress up in our furs, gloves, and hats, and meet friends in tea rooms and at bridge parties.

  The sound was louder this time, scritch, scritch, scritch . . . was it coming from the coffin?

  “Annabelle?” I cried, but my voice was a dry husk. I jumped to my feet and raced to the coffin, moving aside the cross and the roses and setting them on the altar. I leaned over it, spotting a brass handle, and realized what I was about to do. As the candles flickered, I gazed at the entrance to the chapel, then back down at the coffin lid. I should fetch someone; I should call for help . . .

  Instead, I wrapped my fingers around the handle and yanked back the lid. The wood let out an awful creak. Chills ran down my spine and I flinched and looked away, then back . . .

  ... at nothing.

  The coffin was empty.

  I blinked, not understanding, looking in again. Footsteps rang on the stone floor and I half-expected to see a young girl—Annabelle—laughing as she came toward me, telling me it was all a joke. The footfalls grew louder. I shut the lid and replaced the flowers and cross, then scooted back to my pew, where I sat unsteadily down. I didn’t know why I was being so secretive. Why I was shaking even harder. There were reasons why the body would not be inside the coffin—perhaps she’d died of a contagious illness. Maybe she had begun to smell . . .

  “Hello,” said a voice. I turned, to see the young priest standing in the doorway, holding a bowl of soup. I got to my feet again, holding on to the back of the pew as I turned to face him.

  “Sorry,” he said, walking toward me. Steam rose from the bowl; I smelled meat, barley, carrots, and potatoes and nearly screamed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He held out the bowl with one hand and touched my face with the other. “Poor Bess.”

  I stared at the soup as if I had forgotten how to eat. It was thin, and there were no vegetables or meat. Maybe I had only imagined their bouquet.

  “Annabelle. She-she’s gone.”

  He blinked. Studied me.

  “Her . . . she’s not in there,” I tried again. My mouth was watering.

  “No. She’s not,” he said. “We’ve already buried her. There was some concern about contagion.” He took me by the arm and sat me down, gesturing for me to eat.

  I slurped the watery soup, trying to eat like a lady, unable to stop making so much noise. I sounded like a dog lapping up water.

  “We didn’t tell anyone about Annabelle,” he said, watching me with mingled pity and amusement. “However, to set your fears at rest, a doctor examined her and declared her to be free of disease.”

  “Then why not put her back in her . . .” I couldn’t even say the word “coffin.” It sounded so ghoulish. I began to lose my appetite, and I panicked and kept eating.

  “Timing,” he replied. He played with the end of my stole. “The girls had already been through so much, and the replacing of the body would too traumatic.”

  I imagined a girl my age in the cold, cold ground, and shuddered. “Is there a graveyard here?”

  “Yes. I presided over her burial myself.”

  He gestured to the food. “Eat. Drink.”

  “Why did she die?” I asked him.

  “She had a weak heart,” he said, his voice dropping. He sounded sad and troubled. My own heart went out to him. I took several more spoonfuls; still hungry, I laid the spoon in the bowl.

  “I want my mother,” I told him. I was dizzy, and I could barely keep my eyelids open. “Why couldn’t she stay here, too? She could earn her keep.”

  He lifted my spoon to my lips. “Unfortunately, there are too many mouths to feed here as it is. Now listen, Bess—that’s your name, isn’t it? Others sacrificed so that you would be nourished. Not well-nourished, I’m afraid,” he added.

  “I’m so tired. I’m too sleepy,” I said, which astonished me. Five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have believed I could say such a thing, but my eyes were closing.

  “Come now,” he prodded. I didn’t answer. I was half-asleep already. “I’ll walk you to your room, then,” he said. “You shouldn’t be in the hallways alone.”

  I wanted to ask him why. This was a convent, a holy place, wasn’t it? We were safe.

  I couldn’t form the words. I felt as if I were dreaming as he took my hand and helped me to my feet. I imagined that he would carry me, like a princess. He was too handsome to be a priest.

  That’s sinful, I thought, sighing.

  “You’re troubled?” he asked me, as the walls of the dormitory floated past me.

  “Everything . . . is troubling,” I said. “Who was Sarah?”

  “Another girl. She passed away six months ago.” He paused. “There was a washerwoman, too. A young Irish woman. The girls seemed to have forgotten about her.” He crossed himself.

  “That was before the crash.” I stumbled; he steadied me, but I began to fold up, like the accordion our old priest at Sacred Heart used to play, like a tired, wan survivor. “How did she die?”

  I knew he answered, but I didn’t hear him. Then hands came around me . . . was he undressing me? Was someone else? I couldn’t seem to see anything. I remembered that my bed was unmade, yet now I lay in starched, bleached sheets. They made my skin itch, and my eye water as they closed . . .

  ... and I woke up suddenly, my lids half-opening, as whispers wafted through gloomy half-light:

  “This is the one.” It was Mother Mary Patrick. “Such a troublemaker.”

  “Perfect.” The young priest.

  I opened my eyes. My head was at an angle; light from the hallway spilled into my room, and a shadow fell across my face. With terrible effort, I slowly turned my head and raised it off my pillow, almost grunting.

  Their backs to me, Mother Mary Patrick and the priest stood at the head of the bed beside Annabelle’s. They were gazing down at the occupant; then Mother Mary Patrick pulled a piece of white cloth from the sleeve of her habit and handed it to the priest. He draped it over the crucifix on the wall.

  They turned, facing me, and I shut my eyes tightly. I could feel them moving past my bed; and my heart skipped beats as they stopped.

  “She didn’t eat all her gruel,” the priest said. “She was too upset.”

  “You don’t think . . . ?” Mother Mark Patrick replied, sounding anxious.

  “No. She’s asleep.” He snapped his fingers. “Bess?” he whispered. “You see? It’s fine.”

  “Poor lamb, poor lamb,” Mother Mary Patrick murmured, her voice far kinder than I had ever heard it. “All my poor lambs.”

  “It’s for the best,” the priest replied. “You know that.”

  Then they left the room, shutting the door, taking the light with themselves. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t force my eyes open again. I was trying to puzzle out what I’d seen and heard. Had they put something in my soup to make me sleep? What had they been doing in our room?

  It was too hard to think. Time passed; I drifted; and then a penetrating cold spread through my body, like someone injecting ice into my veins. I was so cold I hurt; and I thought I might be dying.

  Trembling, I lay as still as I could; then I heard a little sigh, and someone whispering, “Hush.”

  I forced my eyes open. A strangely glowing, bluish mist wafted around me, illuminating the room. Shadows were thrown against the ceiling, and there was nothing on top of me. Ever so cautiously, I raised my head and looked across the room.

  Two figures in white gowns were bent over the bed to the left of Annabelle’s. The feet of the person lying in the bed kneaded the sheets, as if she were struggling. As if the two were hurting her.
>
  Before I knew what I was doing, I sat up and half-crawled, half-fell out of my bed. Swaying, I crossed the room, advancing as quietly as I could, aware that I could barely stay on my feet.

  “It’s done,” whispered one of the girls—for they were girls—in the white gowns. I saw now that the fabric of the one who spoke was tattered and moldy; spider webs and moss clung to the long sleeves. The dress of the girl beside her was lovely and fresh.

  The tattered one straightened and turned around.

  Her eyes were large and very blue; her face was a pale oval. Her blond hair, coiled in a braided chignon, was covered with cobwebs. And her mouth was painted with fresh blood.

  I gasped; she held up a warning hand and the second girl—the one in the nicer dress—looked at me. Her mouth was bloody, too. She wore her black hair pulled from her face; her dark eyes widened as she stared at me, then at the blond girl—the vampire—at her side.

  I tried to scream but I was too stunned. The two advanced; and as I backed away, they both stopped and held up their hands, as if shading their eyes from a light that was too bright. Then the blonde grabbed my arm and covered my mouth with her hand. Her skin was so cold it burned me, and I nearly fainted.

  She dragged me out of the room. No one else stirred. The sleepers were drugged. I was certain of it. There had been something in the gruel, and I hadn’t drunk enough.

  And I was about to die.

  The moon shone overhead as the vampire pulled me down corridors and out into the chill night air. The little brunette followed behind, silent.

  My bare feet sank into moist earth. I couldn’t see where I was going; the vampire in the tattered gown had clamped a hand over my mouth, and her hair was hanging across my face. She smelled like wet earth and rose petals.

  I whimpered once and she said, “Shut up or we’ll rip your throat out.”

  Then she jerked me to a stop. “Listen, you. You know what we are, Annabelle and me. And what you are. Food, see? So if you scream we’ll eat you up.”

  “Sarah, please, don’t be so mean,” the dark- haired vampire protested. I knew she was Annabelle. Newly risen from her grave, and taken by the older vampire to our room, to drink blood.

  “Why were you awake?” Sarah demanded of me. “Did Father Mark put you up to something? Did he tell you to attack us?”

  I was at a loss. I began to cry.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Annabelle said, smiling kindly at me. “He’s a good man.”

  Sarah laughed. “There are no good men. He gave you to me, Annabelle. And picked out Maria for you to kill.”

  I remembered the cloth over the crucifix. It had been a signal . . . for murder.

  “No,” I gasped. They both turned to look at me, almost as if they’d forgotten I was there. I arranged my fingers in the shape of a cross, and Sarah’s lip curled. Annabelle looked stricken, and kept her distance.

  “Maria was a horrible little troll. A beast,” Sarah said.

  I kept my fingers in the cross-shape, backing into something cold and hard. It was a gravestone, but the cross that had been atop it had been broken off, and lay half-buried in mud. There were no crosses anywhere in the graveyard.

  I glanced to my right and saw a newly turned mound of earth. Roses were placed upon it.

  “That’s my grave,” Annabelle whispered. “My resting place.”

  “We have a bargain, see?” Sarah told me. “The vampires of Los Angeles. We want new kin. And they want food.”

  “They . . .” I said.

  “The humans. Father Mark and Mother Mary Patrick. Human food,” Sarah elaborated. “Bread, apples, whatever we can get.”

  “But . . . it’s not enough.” Annabelle glided toward me and ran her fingers down my cheeks, and it was not unpleasant. “There’s not enough in the world any more to feed all of you.”

  I began to heave. Weak, terrified . . . I bent forward, dry retching, and Annabelle put her arm around my shoulders. She cooed, holding me, and I felt her lips brushing against my neck.

  “I agreed,” Annabelle told me. “Sarah, Father Mark, and Mother Mary Patrick. They asked me to become what I am now, and I consented. I wasn’t well.”

  She stroked my cheek again. “You came to the chapel. You prayed for me. I was watching.”

  I remembered the little scratching noise.

  “I would have died, and so will you,” she said.

  I shuddered, hard, wobbling on my feet. She held me up. I was going to be sick or faint. “Why-why will I die?” I asked her.

  She stroked my hair. “You’re too delicate. You were taught to allow people—men, servants—to take care of you.” Her voice was mournful. She pitied me. “But no one will.”

  “No one will,” Sarah concurred. “No handsome knight in shining armor. No government. No one is coming to save you.” She waited a beat. “Or your mother.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Your mother is beautiful,” Annabelle said. “But the world will be too much for her. Humanity has shown its true face. Men don’t care for widows and orphans. They care for money. Gold. And they dare to call us monsters.”

  “We are what God intended,” Sarah said. “Born to new life, through the blood.”

  Together the two vampires gazed rapturously toward heaven. Moonlight washed down on them; the alabaster beams bleached their foreheads, the hollows of their cheeks. Blood was drying on their lips.

  “Who did you kill tonight?” I asked Annabelle.

  “Maria. That horrible girl who took your stole,” she replied. “We were watching. We saw everything.”

  “They’ll eat you alive here,” Sarah said. “You’re too soft. We can save you.”

  “Yes, please,” Annabelle urged, “be our sister. You will never die, or be hungry.” She smiled at Sarah. “And the feeding is most pleasant. It’s like a holy thing.”

  Sarah smiled back.

  I burst into tears. Annabelle gathered me into her arms, holding me, comforting me, as no one had since my father’s death—my mother had been too shellshocked, too undone, to do anything but lock herself in her room. To watch Our Lady of the Vampires roaming in the hot sunlight, withering, dying inch by inch. I had had no one. Annabelle held me, and rocked me, and I began to forget that there was blood on her lips.

  Someone was coming to rescue me. Someone had come: two vampires.

  Two angels.

  “We should do it now,” Sarah said, “before it’s light.”

  “No. Please, let her consider,” Annabelle murmured, cocking her head at me. “Do for her what you did for me, Sarah. Give her some time to think.”

  “She’ll tell.” Sarah glared at me in the same way that Mother Mary Patrick had. I was a threat.

  “I won’t,” I promised. “I swear I won’t.”

  “Tomorrow night, then, give us your answer,” Annabelle pleaded sweetly. “We can change you, and take you away. You don’t have to feed here, among the girls. We can find you someone else. Somewhere else.”

  “You’ll never be hungry again,” Sarah said. “You can take the starving, the hopeless. It’s a sort of mercy.”

  “Maria felt nothing,” Annabelle assured me.

  I frowned. “Her legs kicked—”

  “A reflex.” Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest, posing like a dead girl. “I promise.” Then she took her hands. “We’ll teach you everything. Crosses burn us. Wooden stakes through the heart destroy us. You’ll learn to be cunning. And strong.” She glanced at Sarah. “So I have been promised.”

  “You will,” Sarah assured her.

  “And if I say no?”

  Sarah blinked as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. But Annabelle stepped forward. “We will let you go. If you leave this place and tell no one, we will not harm you. I give you my word.”

  I swallowed hard and looked at the other vampire, the one who had been dead longer. She lowered her head in assent.

  Sarah said, “We’ll let you go.”

&nb
sp; Go where? I thought, as they escorted me back to my dormitory room, and watched as I climbed into bed. To the streets, to starve?

  Did I have a choice?

  I drew the sheets up. The two vampires stepped into the hall, and closed the door. There was still light in the room: through two high, arched windows, the dawn was coming.

  I saw then the statue of the Blessed Mother at the far end of the room. I hadn’t noticed it before. She looked very young. I had been taught that the Virgin gave birth to Jesus when she was fourteen.

  I was fourteen.

  The Blessed Mother’s world had been filled with turmoil—her people were slaves under Roman rule; she had nearly been stoned to death when her pregnancy became apparent. She was unmarried. Her husband had spoken for her, telling the rabble and the priests of a dream, a holy vision.

  My mind raced; my heart thundered. I rolled on my side to face the statue and clasped my hands in prayer, sliding them beneath my pillow. I tried to pray, but mostly, I cried.

  My fingertips brushed something beneath the pillow. I jerked my hands away, then sat up and lifted it up.

  In the hollow sat a folded piece of paper. On it was written: BESS (THE NEW GIRL).

  I unfolded it, and read.

  Dear Bess,

  Im sorry I took yor fox stole. I aint had much and i thought it would be better hear at Our Lady but its not. Its just as hard. So I was mad when you come cause its hard as it is without new girls. But it would be easier if we was friends instead of enemys. Will you be my friend?

  Sorry agin,

  Maria

  Maria, who was dead. I could never tell her now that yes, I would be her friend. Yes, it would be easier. I remembered the nameless Irish woman who had also died. My father used to talk about the Irish problem—too many immigrants, taking the jobs of the “real” Americans. Stealing the wages of men who’d been there first.

  Vampires.

  I looked at the statue of the Blessed Mother. I looked at the drugged girls, who were as hungry and frightened as I was.

  I reread the note from Maria, and kissed her name.