Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  On that subject, Fisher could not be budged.

  He had told himself that he simply wasn't ready, he hadn't found the right girl, he wanted to be even more financially stable than he was, further ahead in his career. But those were all lies. Damnable lies. He just couldn't keep lying to himself any more, though, now when the truth was finding its own way out, tearing open his heart and rending it—painfully, agonizingly—into small pieces. Maybe he'd known it all along, and hadn't wanted to analyze the situation too closely, for then he would have to admit it to himself. Admit that he was indeed in love with his best friend. And afraid to lose him.

  "There you are."

  Fisher started at the familiar voice, having been unaware of his arrival, caught up as he was in his deep dark ruminations. In his defense, he did have his back to the house, so it was understandable that he hadn't seen him emerge, even if Hunter'd just startled him out of ten years of his life. He tried to still the wild beating of his heart, force his voice into some semblance of normality, before turning to face his friend. Having a mask was a godsend at that moment, as it hid all expression.

  "I was afraid you weren't going to come."

  As he'd suspected, Hunter was wearing the matching suit to Fisher's, with the pale blue vest and tie, although all blues were weak imitations of Hunter's eyes. The other difference between them lay in the masks each wore—Hunter's mask was a perfect copy of Leonardo di Caprio's face. Fisher arched his brows at the sight.

  "Didn't I tell you Leonardo is a vampire?"

  Fisher detected a smile in Hunter's voice, even through the cheesy mask. It was amazing how much he was drawn to someone who was so much his opposite in so many ways. Perhaps there was truth in the old adage that opposites attract. "Very funny," he managed to say in a voice which luckily did not crack or break. Good start.

  Hunter reached up, removing the mask of the never-aging movie star, baring his own beautiful visage. He was not smiling. In fact he looked decidedly weary. Fisher couldn't help but be concerned, in spite of what he'd just heard. In spite of the fact that perhaps he shouldn't care so much, not if Hunter had chosen Lana over him. Had there ever been a contest between them, or was that just wishful thinking on Fisher's part?

  "What's with you and vampires this year?" he asked, with a reasonable facsimile of a laugh. It sounded a little hollow to his ears.

  Hunter was moving toward him now, his walk a silken stride, and although he would have welcomed the relief of removing his own mask, Fisher kept it on. He was afraid of what his face might reveal. He wasn't sure what he would do should Hunter try anything with him—such as kiss him. Kiss him back, perhaps? What sort of solution would that be? But then Hunter was standing just before him and all thoughts went flying out the window as his friend took his hand. At first Fisher had the irrational thought that he was going to kiss it. First Hunter took a nip of the edge, then he brushed his lips along that same edge, as if to make up for the nip. He turned the hand over, and gently kissed the palm. His eyes had never once left Fisher's face. "Can you feel them?" Hunter asked, dropping his voice almost to a low growl, one which made Fisher tingle. "They're real. I'm serious. My fangs are real, Fisher. I am a vampire. I wouldn't lie to you. Ever."

  Mesmerized, Fisher stood without moving, as Hunter continued to kiss his palm, their eyes locked. And then he grazed his teeth across that tender flesh. Or rather, his canines. His preternaturally elongated canines. And still Fisher was confused.

  "It's so weird," Hunter was saying, as if they were having the most normal conversation in the world, "at first I thought I'd never get used to them. Or the diet…"

  "The diet?" Fisher echoed uncomprehendingly.

  "Blood. You know. The stuff that runs through your veins." He traced one of those self-same veins across Fisher's wrist with one finger, halting where it disappeared into Fisher's sleeve. "That's an impediment," he murmured. "You should take that off."

  "Take what off?"

  "The jacket. Here, let me help you."

  Fisher felt the hands as they seemed to come to life, swarming his body, pushing back the fabric until it fell from his arms. The chill air plucked at his sleeves, and he shivered. "Hunter, what are you doing?" he managed to ask, although he made no move to stop him.

  "Fisher, I want to tell you something, something very important…"

  "Didn't you just do that?"

  "Yes. But no. Something else." Hunter stepped closer to him, the jacket dropping unnoticed to the ground behind him. Fisher was acutely aware of this one moment—it filled his entire being, consumed as he was by Hunter, his presence, and his words, both dreading and longing for the words he was about to say. At one and the same time he was frightened and elated. The results were dizzying.

  Fisher found himself swaying toward Hunter, toward the mesmerizing sound of his voice. "Let me guess," he attempted to joke, "you want that blood now?"

  "Maybe later." Hunter circled his waist with one arm, the other going to Fisher's cheek, cupping it. "What I do want right now is to tell you… just to tell you… how much I…"

  The moment—and those provocative words—were suddenly and irrevocably broken by a harsh spotlight that cut across the yard, illuminating it garishly. The door to the house opened, and merrymakers spilled out, their voices an insistent hum which intruded upon the privacy that was no longer Fisher and Hunter's to enjoy. "Bonfire!" they screamed, as gleeful as a group of pyromaniac children as they trooped toward the pair.

  Fisher took a step backward, then another, still attached to his friend. Hunter moved with him, refusing to allow his arm to be dislodged. "Wait, we have to talk. Please, Fisher. I need to talk to you."

  Fisher wavered, his instincts telling him to run, his heart telling him to remain and at least hear Hunter out. He teetered on the brink, leaning on the side of staying and listening, when Lana, in full Cleopatra regalia, came striding up to them. Sliding a possessive arm about Hunter's waist, a malicious smile graced her lips as she pulled his arm away from Fisher, and the balance was tipped completely in the opposite direction.

  Fisher turned from the unpleasant sight, heading for the house. He thought that he could hear Hunter's voice calling him, but that had to be the product of his own wishful imagination as it was far too noisy now for one single voice to be heard. Even Hunter's. He pushed his way through the group that was streaming from the house, determined to get out of there. All that he wanted to do was to get to his car and drive as fast as he could—somewhere. He didn't know where. He didn't care where. Just somewhere that was not here.

  By now most of the partiers were outside, ready to witness whatever was about to occur. Bonfire, fireworks, Bacchanalian orgy—whatever Lana had stashed up her sleeve. He didn't care what it was; he wanted no part of it. The few guests that remained inside seemed to be caught up in their own activities. He should be able to make a clean escape, no sweat. Suddenly Fisher was taken by surprise as he ran full tilt into a lone reveler, who appeared from out of nowhere in front of him. He bounced off the other person, the force of the impact slamming him sideways. He let out a cry of indignation as his head slammed against the doorjamb of one of the bedrooms. He must have hit it pretty hard because the next thing he knew he was seeing a multitude of colors, then complete blackness.

  Chapter Seven

  Fisher opened his eyes slowly. His head was throbbing something fierce. Putting one hand up to his forehead, he thought he felt something warm and wet and sticky. Shit. Blood, no doubt. He must have done a real number on himself when he blundered into that other person. He wondered how he or she had fared in comparison. Blinking to clear his vision, he rolled over onto his knees. At first he thought he was in total darkness, but then he realized that the lighting was simply very dim. His eyes worked to adjust to it. Had he managed to knock out the light while he was at it? Great job. He also realized that his mask was not in place upon his face and he began to feel around for it. When he found it, he hung it around his neck backward so he could s
ee.

  He expected to find the wall before he crawled too far, thinking he was still in the hallway, and how wide could it be. But it wasn't there. And the thought that maybe he had fumbled his way into the bedroom was extinguished when he became aware there was grass beneath his fingertips, not carpet. He clutched at it uncomprehendingly before moving back onto his haunches in a squatting position.

  "Hey, I don't have all night!" An impatient voice right beside his aching head made him fall backwards in surprise. A figure was sitting there. Through some trick of the moon—which was when he realized he was outdoors, because he could see a fingernail moon hanging above him, and bare-branched trees all around him, as well as a house—he could have sworn the guy looked just like Leonardo di Caprio.

  Duh. Of course. Hunter's mask. How he'd managed to run into Hunter when he'd left him behind with Lana, he couldn't fathom, and he didn't try to figure it out, not right now. "Hunter, are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

  "You, sir, are delusional." The Hunter figure pointed an accusatory finger at him, arm outstretched. Fisher began to take in more of his costume, realizing his mistake with a guilty blush. This fellow was garbed in a white shirt, maybe even a blouse, which had long sleeves which seemed to billow loosely, open at the throat. Not Hunter at all. Not even a mask. And yet he still managed to look like Leonardo di Caprio. How odd.

  Fisher squinted around him, into the darkness. There was something oddly familiar about this place. Like he'd been here before. But more importantly, it wasn't Lana's house; he could tell that much, at least. Which was a decided plus, even if a bit confusing. So where was he and how had he gotten here? Surely this young man wasn't a kidnapper? He had nothing anyone would want, anyway, so he didn't think that was it.

  "C'mon, up with you." The strange young man was tugging at his arm, urging him to rise, and Fisher found himself doing so, in spite of himself. "We don't have all night, and you're not the only one. Here." He shoved a white square at Fisher, which he discovered was a handkerchief. Who carried those anymore? Gratefully, he pressed it against his bleeding temple.

  "What do you mean? Who are you?" he asked, even as the stranger was dragging him toward the house. "Where are we?"

  "You ask a lot of fucking questions," the boy frowned, "My name is immaterial. Call me Arthur, if you like. Or you can call me the ghost of Halloween past. Whatever pleases you."

  Fisher was sure he hadn't heard the other correctly. Must be a direct result of conking his noggin. But suddenly it dawned on him why the house before them seemed so familiar, as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. It was the one he'd grown up in, the one where his mother still lived. This wasn't possible. He must be hallucinating.

  Arthur, or whatever his name was, continued to drag Fisher toward the house. Fisher could see two cars in the wide driveway. Older cars. One looked like an automobile his mother had once had, one which she'd traded in years ago. The other one he didn't recognize. Neither one looked their age, though. In fact they seemed in pretty good shape for as old as they must be.

  "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Fisher protested, "This is my mom's house. Do you know my mother?" Arthur didn't seem as though a simple matter of a door was going to stop him, and Fisher was afraid he'd simply walk into the house and startle his mother. The outside lights were off, naturally. She kept them off on Halloween, a sign to the trick-or-treaters to stay away, that she had nothing to give. She didn't celebrate Halloween in any way shape or form. No decorations, no costumes, and certainly no candy to be divvied up among the costumed children. She didn't believe in it, never had, and it was how she had raised her son. In his confusion, his rattled brain didn't register that it wasn't Halloween yet.

  They were heading up the walk now, and Fisher was close enough to see that the unfamiliar car was filled to overflowing, clothes and books in untidy piles on the back seat, and half of the front. As if someone were either moving in or out. He saw what looked like a telescope on top of the clothes. He half-remembered that his father had a telescope, but the memory was blurry, uneven, and far too indistinct to recall. He didn't get time to ponder the mystery, as suddenly he was literally yanked into the house—without benefit of opening the door. One moment they were outside, the next they were inside.

  "How… what did you do?" Fisher demanded of his guide. Arthur shot him a look filled with pity, shaking his head.

  "You're a bit slow about this whole ghost thing, aren't you? We walk right through walls, doors, windows, whatever the job takes."

  "But I'm not a ghost," Fisher protested.

  "Tonight you are."

  Before Fisher could protest that sentiment, he heard voices approaching. Down the stairs came two people, in the midst of an argument. With a start he recognized the man as his father, just the way he remembered him from the last time he'd seen him, way back when he was ten. He'd seemed father-old to him then, but now he realized he was only in his thirties, probably mid to early thirties.

  "Go on, leave then, leave if that's what you want to do." That was his mother's voice, cold, controlled, and emotionless. "He doesn't need you and I certainly don't either."

  They had reached the base of the stairs. His father held a suitcase in one hand, an album in the other. Could it be a photo album? But why? His mother had always said that his father had wanted to leave, but she would never elaborate on the reason that he did. He felt like he was eavesdropping on a private conversation, and yet he couldn't keep himself from listening. Without thinking he pressed back into the shadows. Arthur, or whatever his name was, laughed.

  "They can't see us. Trust me. Watch." He walked up right beside Fisher's mother and leaned impudently against her with one elbow, while staring straight at his father. Neither of them paid him any attention. Fisher relaxed slightly, but he still felt creepy about the whole situation.

  "I can't stand seeing what you're doing to him. You're raising him to be just like you. No feelings, no heart… You're killing his imagination. What kind of parent doesn't let their child believe in fairy tales or trick-or-treating on Halloween?"

  "Nonsense, I treat Fisher like an adult, and I don't fill his head with nonsense. No son of mine is going to grow up wasting his time on fantasies. This is the real world, Robert, and it's time you joined it!"

  Fisher flinched at her words, on behalf of his father, who shook his head and sighed. She had always led him to believe that his father didn't care, but that's not what it sounded like to him. Of course, he didn't really know. Appearances could be deceiving—he tried to make excuses for his mother. She was the one who'd always been there for him, raised him, taken care of him, after his father left. Loved him. But somehow he got the impression that his father loved him too.

  "He's just a boy, Beatrice, please. Let him believe and let him dream. And don't make fun of his stories."

  His mother's face hardened into a mask, even more than he thought humanly possible. "No, if he wants to write, he can be a journalist. Real writing. Not imaginary stuff. Not my son."

  "He's my son too."

  "Not anymore." Harshly. "Don't bother to call us, I've had the number changed, and you won't be able to get it. And I'll get a restraining order if you so much as set foot in this neighborhood again. Just go away and leave us alone, so that we can live."

  "If I thought that you would, I'd be happy to," he sighed, hefting the album higher into his grasp. "Your idea of living is not living, Beatrice. Why did you have to change? Why?"

  Fisher's mother said nothing, maintaining a stony silence.

  "Can I please just say good-bye to him, please, Beatrice?" Fisher held his breath, waiting for the answer, even though he knew what it must be. Must have been.

  "No. Just go." When his father looked as if he were going to make a move toward the rest of the house, she narrowed her eyes. "Don't make me call the police."

  Without another word, he left the house. Fisher stared after him, even after the anticlimactic closing of the front door kept him from view.
Even after he heard the engine start up, and then die away. His father seemed to care about him, he really did. Stories? What stories? Those silly things he wrote when he was just a child? He barely recalled those. She'd taken them away from him. And he hadn't written anything else fiction-wise unless you counted his novel. And see how that had turned out. She'd been right, of course. Journalism was real; fiction was just a lot of pipe dreams and hallucinations. And yet he couldn't help but remember that Hunter had always liked his writing.

  Fisher's mother passed right through them, moving into the house. When he started to follow, Arthur caught his sleeve and yanked him back.

  "No, we don't have time," he answered Fisher's unspoken question. "Gotta go. I told you before, we don't have all night." He tightened his hold on Fisher, dragging him through the front door and out of the house once more. "Don't you know that life is the farce which everyone has to perform? This one has to go on without us, we have other places to be."

  Fisher opened his mouth to protest but hadn't gotten even one syllable out when they were suddenly in another place completely. His head reeled in the same way as when he was a child, and he had spun himself about in circles until he had fallen to the floor laughing. He and Hunter, actually. They'd laughed themselves silly over nothing in particular other than the giddiness brought on by their spinning antics. Deep hard belly laughs which multiplied as laughter often does when shared. He'd forgotten all about that until now. Those days were such a very long time ago. Those immature days of youthful follies. Carelessness and irresponsibility. But in the back of his mind, he seemed to remember that they'd had fun.

  Once his eyes stopped bouncing around in his skull, Fisher took stock of his new surroundings. The first things he noticed were rows and rows of bookshelves, stretching from floor to ceiling. Books of all colors and sizes, as far as the eye could see. They were arranged in rows, traversed by aisles. Arthur pulled him down first one aisle, then another, zigzagging him about as Fisher came to the slow realization where he was—his high school library. There was a good reason that it should be familiar to him—he'd spent a lot of time here during the four years he had attended the school. It had been a source of great pleasure to him, as well as a refuge.