by Glenn Rolfe
They ate human food, wore regular clothes, played in the woods, and even watched programmes on the black-and-white television that father brought home one day. They got one channel, PBS. They watched Mr. Rogers’ Neighbourhood, Electric Company, and Sesame Street, which featured a lovable old vampire named The Count. Seeing him there, interacting with kids, it made her childish mind believe they were more normal than they’d been taught. It showed her they could live among people and be fine. She knew better now, of course.
Gabriel used to lead her around to see the things he’d discovered in the woods or take her on long walks just to see what they could find. They built forts; they fished and hunted with spears or with their bare hands. They swam in ponds and lakes deep in forests that looked untouched by humankind. If she fell or got hurt, Gabriel lovingly tended to her wounds. She had no doubts that he cared for her, and there could be no doubt of her adoration for him.
Somewhere near the end of their time in Ohio, she could tell he was struggling with the charade. With Mother and Father’s demand for secrecy. He wanted to be in the city. He wanted regular friends. He wanted to show people what he could do. It was around this time that he stopped taking her with him. He stopped smiling. Even now, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.
When Father died, Gabriel only grew worse, mean even.
Mother said it was a phase. That Father’s death dropped a lot of responsibility onto Gabriel’s shoulders. And that the circumstances would be difficult for anyone, man or monster.
They never shied away from that word – monster. They knew their place. Unfortunately, in that regard, knowing their place, she’d begun to fear Gabriel may have passed a point of no return. If not, he was certainly on the edge. He’d grown angry, dark, and after last summer, sinister.
* * *
Although she could fly, most of the time she chose not to. She enjoyed walking and liked to feel the dirt beneath her feet. It made her feel closer to nature. Father ingrained the importance of keeping up appearances. And one of the fundamentals was keeping their feet on the ground. It taught humility and grace. It also greatly lessened the chances of people discovering them.
Their home came into view. It was a lovely, three-bedroom cottage at the edge of a cemetery on the outskirts of town. Mother was asleep in her darkened room. She’d been sleeping a lot again lately. Not a good sign, but as old as she was, it was to be expected.
November swept through the house to her own bedroom, grabbed her headphones, and put on the new Van Halen record. She still couldn’t believe the ‘I Can’t Drive 55’ guy was singing for them, but it was so good. Side B had just the tune she was looking for.
The keyboard intro to ‘Love Walks In’ warmed her heart and made her smile like a fool.
The lyrics were about aliens pulling strings – love was an out-of-this-world experience, for sure. Not that she was in love, that would be crazy, but there was something about Rocky. It was instant. She saw him and knew she had to hang out with him.
Contact. That’s all it takes.
Chapter Five
Marcy Jackson sat at the window watching the fireworks from the beach. She’d always loved the spectacle of it all. Her late husband, Eddie, hated them. When they first moved up to Old Orchard Beach from Biddeford, the young interracial lovers stuck out like sore thumbs. It was fall, the tourists had all hightailed it home, and the mostly white community left behind could do nothing but talk about the new mixed couple on Gage Street. But a Frenchwoman had fallen for a coloured man from the south. Eddie was thirty when they started dating, she was just twenty, but it was love at first sight. He was beautiful, strong, and had the heart of a lion and a laugh that lit up her world. Married three years by the time they came to OOB that fall of 1968, they’d experienced two lifetimes’ worth of dirty looks and hardships. When her friends warned her what mixing races could do to her reputation, and lord forbid if they had a child, Marcy set them on their heads and told them god was the only judge she concerned herself with. Eventually the new beach community warmed to them, and as recently as two summers back, Eddie, who’d been a career fireman, was awarded the city’s Citizen of the Year Award for his contributions with the fire department as well his years with the town council, and for the volunteer hours he put in at the Boys & Girls Club.
He’d endured racism on a daily basis, and she couldn’t have been prouder of his ability to turn the other cheek. She missed him dearly. He’d been a diabetic his entire life and succumbed to a stroke at the young age of forty-nine, just four months after receiving his big award.
Nights like this, the fireworks and the hubbub of the busy season, made things a little bit easier. They’d never had children of their own but knew plenty of the local kids and had watched many of them grow up before their eyes. Even the younger kids in the neighbourhood knew them and said hello when they passed by.
Eddie had touched so many lives in town, his legacy endured.
Marcy was getting ready to go into the TV room when she heard a yelp from the front yard. She hurried to the window in time to see something streak across the small lawn. She placed her forehead to the glass, trying to glimpse what was just beyond her sight. Her hand fumbled along the wall and found the switch to the front porchlight. The Chaplins lived next door. Their little white picket fence contained a splotch of dark, dripping paint.
Paint, she told herself. Definitely paint. Just because it looks a little like blood, doesn’t mean it is.
Marcy went to the door and stepped out into the warm night. She could hear nothing but the summer people carrying on. A chill crept over her flesh. She hugged herself as she started down the steps and edged toward the corner of the house, her gaze flicking back and forth from the dark splatter across the Chaplins’ fence to the shadowy space between their houses.
She dug her nails into her arms as she inched closer to the fence. The splatter glistened and was indeed dripping in the soft light from her house.
Fresh.
Someone was out here. She thought of the boy, John. He was maybe thirteen or fourteen. Maybe he and his friends were fooling around.
“John?” she called out. “Is that you, sweetheart?”
A deep moan came out of the dark.
That was not the boy. That was something awful. She knew it in her guts. She swallowed hard, backing away from the small alley, and hurried up the steps and into her house. She was near tears as she fumbled the slide chain lock into place. She cursed herself for calling out and drawing attention to herself. It seemed so stupid, but the thought that she had suddenly invited trouble to her front door nestled inside her chest like a fast-growing cancer, heavy and black.
“Please, god, please, Eddie,” she whispered, her head bowed before the door. “Please make it go away. Whatever it is, sweet Jesus. Let it be gone.”
After a moment, she dared a peek through the yellow curtain over the door’s little window and caught sight of it. A blur, ever so slight, and then it disappeared. She exhaled, her breath coming out in a staccato sigh as she battled between a cry and a nervous laugh.
And then she screamed when he appeared.
A man dressed head to toe in black stared toward her from the lawn. And just as quickly, he vanished.
Marcy stumbled away until her back hit the wall. She slid down to the floor, brought her hands to her face and wept.
* * *
John Chaplin was out that night, but the blood on the fence was not his. He and his band were jamming up the street at his friend Jonas’s house. Jonas was the only kid on the block with a PA system. His dad played in a cover band that performed gigs on the pier twice a month. When John’s mom helped him get a guitar from the music shop over in Saco, he made a beeline to his friend’s place and demanded they start their own band. And they weren’t going to follow crappy bands like Ratt and Dio with their over-the-top sex and wizard lyrics. No,
they were going to tear shit up. Like The Misfits or Bad Religion. Jonas didn’t know any of the bands, but John made him a mixtape crammed with thirty-something songs from The Ramones, The Clash, Black Flag, and others. And knowing what they were doing with their instruments took a back seat to the attitude and energy, of which John and their drummer, Brandon, had plenty. Jonas owned a bass and knew how to play. He showed John some basic power chords and they were off and running. It wasn’t long before Jonas saw the light and came over to the dark side. They called themselves Freddy’s Nightmares due to John’s love for horror movies, but soon shortened it to The Nightmares after Jonas said it sounded better.
They’d been jamming for two months now and Brandon wanted to invite the neighbourhood kids over to watch.
“We’re not ready,” Jonas said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and pointed at John.
“What? I think we sound awesome,” John said, hitting an A chord that was all out of sorts.
“See, John can’t even tune that thing right,” Jonas said to Brandon. “And we don’t even have enough songs yet for a setlist.”
“Jonas, it’s your job to tune his guitar until further notice.” Brandon pointed a stick at John. “And you, you got all the songs, man. Why don’t you show Jonas what you showed me last night?”
John had songs. Despite all his bravado, he also happened to be really private about his lyrics. Which pretty much went against the whole punk rock rebel thing. How were you going to stand up to authority or oppression or piss off the Republicans if you couldn’t even share those stances with your bandmates?
“Oh yeah,” Jonas said. “What songs? Why haven’t I heard ’em?”
John hated being teamed up on. At the same time, he asked himself, What would Joe Strummer do? What about Jello Biafra? Would they act like pussies?
“Show him ‘Rock, Riot, Revolution’. That one is rad as hell,” Brandon said.
He could feel their eyes upon him. His face felt way too hot. He needed air.
“Come on, John,” Jonas said. “Let’s hear it, man. This is all your idea.”
John bent over and shut off his amp, set his guitar down, and headed for the garage door.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” Jonas asked.
“I can’t breathe in here,” he said, stepping out into the night. As he closed the door, he could hear Jonas whining, and Brandon defending him. Truth of it was, he cared what Jonas thought. Jonas was the most musically gifted of the group. If Jonas thought his songs sucked, it would crush him.
John pulled a pack of Camels that he’d swiped at the corner store from his back pocket, slipped one between his lips and sparked it up, making sure to watch for Jonas’s mom. She’d bust him and tell his dad and he really didn’t feel like getting his ass whooped again.
Jonas came out and joined him.
“Look, man. I get it. It’s hard, right?” Jonas said. “Music is personal. But even though I haven’t heard your songs, I know they’re going to be awesome.”
John was going to wave him off but something across the street stole his attention.
“No, man. Listen,” Jonas said, grabbing his arm. “I’m only playing with you because your energy…it’s…it’s like, contagious, man. You’re like a stick of dynamite set to blow someone’s face off. You have something to say. I know you do.”
“Yeah,” John said. He squinted into the shadows behind the big red garage across the street. “Do you see something over there?”
Jonas let him go and turned. “No, where?”
“Shh, right there, back corner of the garage. I think there’s someone watching us.”
“Why are you whispering?” Jonas asked. “Hey,” he yelled. “If you wanna watch us play it’s gonna cost you one dollar to get in.”
Just then, something was on top of the roof of the garage across the street.
Both boys stepped back.
“Shit, what was that?” Jonas asked.
John didn’t know and he didn’t want to find out. Tossing his cigarette to the blacktop, he pushed Jonas back toward the door. “Fuck this, let’s go back in.”
He followed Jonas inside, glancing back before closing the door; he could swear he saw a man crouched atop the garage, smiling at them.
* * *
Gabriel enjoyed this early part of the night. Letting people see him, if only for a split second, just a glimpse to set the hairs on end and spill enough dread to give their dreams a malevolent turn. Watching them was wondrous, but picking one…ah, that was the greatest thrill. He’d gone against his preferences earlier, taking the mongrel he’d found next door to the woman’s home. He despised taking pets. Not morally, of course. He couldn’t care less about the sentimentality these humans held for their animals; it was the taste he’d grown tired of. They offered nothing. Hardly even a morsel compared with their counterparts.
He’d been coming out earlier and earlier, making the wait for the moment of gratification longer. He could feel the urge prickling beneath his milky flesh, a constant hum that stayed with him until his teeth made penetration. All those years, Father preaching self-control, minimalism, fear. It was not they who should fear. These humans dispensed pheromones like a beacon, and it offered the greatest sensations Gabriel had ever felt. It was worth living or dying for. Father had been weak and timid. And what had he gotten for it? A quick death and a life unlived. With the gifts that they possessed, it was a tremendous waste, one that Gabriel refused to duplicate.
There was beauty in this world. He found himself drawn to these seaside towns not just for the bountiful collection of victims, but also, their life. Everywhere you looked, there were people going for it. Taking chances, living on the edge, pushing boundaries and treating each day and night as if there were no tomorrow. They did not hide in shadows or cower under the covers. Even the elders watched from windows and doorsteps, sucking on the tit of youth, absorbing all they saw and experiencing it vicariously. The youth were out in droves, celebrating with reckless abandon well into the midnight hour, fearless.
Thinking of it now made the blood ache in his veins. He should have waited until later to come out. Should have slept a little longer. The small amount of sunlight he’d been exposed to was enough to sap some of the power he’d garnered from last night’s feast. Had it not been for his sister and her need to be around humans, he would have postponed this excursion until later tonight. He preferred the traditional way of resting through the day, but November was far too curious for such things. She was more than curious, she was desperate. Desperate to be like them. To be one of them. Coming here, he was certain last summer’s little lesson would at least cause her to be more cautious. To guide her more in line with him. Make her an observer. But her will and her stubbornness were strong. She could welcome trouble. That is why she needed his protection, his guidance, his influence, and maybe in time, his intensity.
It was a harrowing ordeal to get his sister to take nutrition from a human. A feat he hadn’t succeeded in getting her to partake in since the week they left the Midwest. Like him, she could be so much more if she’d see these delightful creatures for what they were – sustenance. But alas, in the end, her supplemental approach of sucking off rabbits and deer would only shorten her time with her precious humans.
She would come around to seeing things his way.
One way or another.
Chapter Six
Warren Dubois whispered sweet nothings into the ear of the tan Southern girl named Vanessa, hoping his accent would charm the shorts off her. He came down to Maine’s top tourist trap every year. Forty-four years young, he loved the way the pretty young things treated the beach town excursions like Sin City. They were up all night and open to anything. And Warren liked to take full advantage of it all before going home to his government job back in Quebec. All year among the boring, stuffy government types, driving through c
rappy snowstorms and blustery northern winds, mingling in sweaty dance clubs surrounded by the same women he’d known all his life, he looked forward to these summer getaways.
“So, ma chérie, where are your mother and father? Do they know you’re out here so late at night?”
“I’m old enough to be out until I’m ready to go home,” Vanessa said, her hand resting on his golden thigh. “Don’t you worry about me, sugar. Us Southern gals know how to take care of our gentlemen.”
The waves lapped the shore beneath stars that couldn’t quite breach the carnival-like lights of the town. Warren leaned forward, inhaling her bleached-blond hair and sunblock. She wasn’t a knockout like the woman he’d had two nights ago in this very spot, but she had a better body and she was nearly half that one’s age.
“I do like the sound of that,” he said. He caressed the back of her head and placed his lips against the salty flesh of her neck. He let his hand trail down her spine, resting just above the waistband of her shorts.
She moaned as she slid her hand to his crotch and squeezed his dick through his jeans.
He’d been with plenty of wild women, but he had a feeling about this one. There were three other couples on the beach, an old man and his dog, and a group of long-haired teens blasting obnoxious heavy metal music from their boombox about a hundred metres away. Sweet Vanessa hadn’t hesitated or flinched as he continued kissing from her neck to her breasts. Instead, she pressed her chest to his mouth and squeezed his dick harder. This little girl was an exhibitionist.
Cheers went up from the metalheads as she slipped her tit out from beneath the bikini top and let Warren have her nipple.
He came up and looked into her eyes.
“You are amazing,” he said.
“I know.”
“How about we go back to my place and—”
She pulled her top back into place and touched a finger to his lips.
“I know a quiet spot just off the path over there,” she whispered.