Vampires Save the Night, page 6
So it went, on and on, for months as we all strove to self-isolate as much as possible. But not Artie. I started making sure I was out in the hall come sundown, when he’d leave for his inevitable midnight ramble.
“Hi Artie,” I’d say as he shuffled past.
At first he pretended not to notice me, but after a few straight nights of this he paused, glanced at me, looked me up and down and said, “Hello.” His voice was a rasp drawn over splintered wood, emerging like a ghost from its sepulcher. I smiled and said nothing else as he shambled on his way, returning two hours later with a younger man – in his 20s – who laughed and joked and acted ditzy as Artie led him to his apartment. Like he was on something, which he probably was. I got that familiar itch and went back upstairs, where I lived alone with my cat Mr. Guster.
Later on I heard Artie’s door open again, and snuck downstairs to see the man weaving drunkenly down the hall toward the exit, his face so pale his veins stood out like bluish scars, breath panting and eyes dilated. Suddenly, moved by the power of my demons, I stepped into his way and timidly said, “Hey, I just wondered – you know, if you’re carrying…”
He blinked at me, stuttered something unintelligible, then dropped in a dead faint at my feet. Going to my knees, I rifled through his pockets before checking his vitals, finding a dull, slow heartbeat under my fingers, though his skin radiated an unaccountable cold. To my shock I saw two perfect puncture wounds on his neck, just as if I were in Dracula: two red weals weeping twin trails of blood down around his shapely collarbone.
With a gasp I rose up and staggered slightly, wondering what I should do. Call the cops? Call an ambulance? Go get Artie, or one of the girls from the other floors? Or should I just leave him here, pretend I didn’t see anything? None of Artie’s visitors had ever passed out before, so far as I knew. My mind raced and I reached up to clutch at my hair, tearing out several hankfuls.
Finally I made my decision. Going to Artie’s door, I steeled myself, reached out, and knocked three times, authoritatively. After no response came, I repeated the gesture, raising my voice to call out, “Artie, are you in there? I need your help! Please, there’s a man out here and he’s – hurt.”
At that the door flew open, tugged as if by a monstrous strength. Artie stood there in all his mediocrity, except a flushed verve suffused him, making his normally alabaster cheeks ruddy, his eyes vibrant, the tips of his ears ever-so-slightly pointed (how had I not noticed that before?).
“The man,” he said, looking me in the eyes and recognizing me with a flinch, “where is he?”
I pointed, and he came out from his apartment, forcefully closing the door behind him. I caught the slightest glimpse before it shut: the flicker of candles illuminated hangings of black-and-red velvet, a table that looked more like a mortuary slab rising in the middle of the living room. Looking back to Artie, I saw him bend down over the man and whisper something tender to him, touching him expertly with his hands in a way that stimulated the blood flow – what little he had left.
“William,” I heard him say, “I am so sorry, it was not meant to be this way.” Desperation cracked his voice as William’s face started turning blue. Then, with the suddenness of an iceberg calving, the dead man’s eyes flew open and he smiled, reaching out a loving hand to caress Artie’s face.
“How long?” he asked. “Can I feed tonight, or is it too soon? I feel so – empty!”
Artie winced and shot a glance at me, the muddy light in his eyes flaring a phosphorescent yellow. “Not tonight,” he said in a level, leaden voice. “You need to go home and dig a hole, like I told you. Dig a hole and crawl in, then cover yourself up with dirt. Nature will do the rest.”
William nodded and let Artie help him to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, in a weepy voice, “you don’t know what it means to me.”
“You’ve said more than enough,” Artie snapped, slapping him across the cheek. “Now go on, get home. And tell no one.”
“Who would I tell, man? Who would I tell?” With an intoxicated laugh William turned and staggered out into the night.
Artie and I watched him go in silence, tension mounting in the air. Reaching down, I slid a knife from the belt at my waist and held it behind my back, in case he got physical. Instead, he turned to me and heaved a heavy sigh, expressing such soul-weariness a shadow seemed to pass over the faux-chandelier light fixture.
“Well now,” he muttered, “what am I to do with you?”
I nodded toward the exit, the door just swinging shut on William’s departure. “Never mind that. What did you do to him?”
He grimaced, and I could just make out the prominence of pointed eyeteeth protruding from his upper gums.
“I knew it!” I cried out, perhaps a bit too loudly. “You’re a vampire, right? Like, a real vampire. None of this cosplay shit. I’ve got a friend who’s into that –”
“The word vampire is a modern contrivance for what I am,” Artie answered. He swept a hand over his thinning — forever-thinning, I guessed – hair, that weird yellow fire still smoldering in his eyes.
“You have fangs like a vampire.”
Now he smiled in earnest. “You could say we change with the times.” A pause, then, “I’ve noticed you recently. You’ve been waiting for me in the hallway. Spying on me.”
“I like to go for walks,” I lied, “gives me a chance to stretch my legs.” Glancing back at the door, I asked, “Did you make him into a vamp – into something like you? He seemed pretty excited.”
Artie’s smile became a snarl. “Enough,” he snapped. “There is only one answer. I must drink you, though the thought disgusts me.”
“Why?”
“Because – I have a predilection for masculine blood. And for masculine company, as I’m sure they whisper the building over.”
“That’s not all they whisper,” I said, gritting my teeth as Artie hobbled towards me, legs still hidden by his voluminous trench coat.
“Oh? Faggot and vampire. Heh. I’m used to whispering. But not to spies.”
My breath hitched as a wave of coldness coursed over me, curdling my blood, chilling my breath. In a moment Artie exuded a sense of palpable power. His eyes stared into mine with hypnotic impulse, his pasty face flushed with new-drunk blood, fangs sliding down to become fully visible as he surrendered to his hunger. “I’m already so full,” he wheedled, “but sometimes overeating can be a pleasure.” He advanced another step, and I heard a grotesque sloshing noise, his belly full like a wine cask.
“Are you sure,” I blurted out suddenly, “that you want to do it here? In – this hallway, I mean, where anyone could see us. Why not take me into your room? I’ve never seen a vampire’s lair before, it sounds like a fascinating final experience.”
***
And that, improbable as it sounds, is how me and Artie became friends. Over the course of that evening he let me explore his collection of Blues 78s, after which he showed me the coffin he slept in (very much in keeping with tradition) and the bolts of Persian cloth he carried with him everywhere, to drape his environs. There was little else of interest, no books or ancient manuscripts, no desiccated husks of former victims.
“I live simply,” he told me, “and alter to fit each age. Vampires are not static beings; we move on a parallel timeline to mortals, and the mortal imagination shapes us. When first I was born I crawled, a putrid maggot-ridden corpse, out from a stone howe in some accursed land – it no longer exists, swallowed by the sea. Every night I rose with a singular desire to drink, to kill, to fill myself to brimful with hot red life. In that form especially, all I could do was raven. But then, the evolving legends gifted me with a greater intelligence; my feedings started to restore my corpse to a lifelike semblance. Most recently these fangs sprouted, so much more convenient than ripping out throats with your bare hands! I’ve managed to go unnoticed all this time, save when I desire to be seen. How it is that you picked me out, took the jokes of the others seriously enough to watch me …? I must admit I’m intrigued.”
Of course, I was intrigued too. As he described the elapsing span of millennia, from prehistoric humanity to now, his experience vast as a god’s, almost I fell to my knees and began to worship. Fathomless oceans of blood he’d drunk – uncounted centuries of wonders he’d witnessed. A description of ceremonial worship in an ancient Egyptian temple caused me to have a past-life regression, I seeing everything clearly in my mind’s eye, hovering above it all like a ghost.
He smiled at the dreamy look on my face and said, “Yes, you were there, and no surprise. The soul goes through so many cycles of death and rebirth the lives get all jumbled up into what they now call the subconscious. Only five percent of all mental activity is conscious …. Yes, and I drank you that night, took you out among the sands on pretext of performing a sexual rite to Osiris. Instead I sucked your body drier than the desert, left you there as jerky for the jackals. Then, of course, you were a man. I have most likely eaten you at other times; the same souls do tend to return. Which perhaps makes it unsurprising that you should notice me, should spy on me.”
That spying accusation kept things between us from becoming too chummy. I managed to keep my astonishment and reverence in check, assuming always the night would end with him devouring me. Instead, as daylight began its ambient creep, he smiled and sheathed his fangs, saying, “I can’t remember the last time I was able to talk about myself like that. My own kind are scarce, and conversation with humans seldom contains anything of interest – like talking to a soap bubble! But you have known more lifetimes than most, have suffered in a way I understand. And I have eaten you so many times before, it seems a waste to push myself to it, especially as I wouldn’t savor the dish as I ought. I do,” he said in a sudden deep voice, puffing up like an adder, black eyes flaring yellow, “command you to absolute secrecy concerning me, my nature and habits. You will tell no one, but keep laughing and sharing petty rumors. Do you understand?”
I shivered and tried to draw back from Artie, pushing myself down in the plush chair. I felt all the revulsion of something wrong from the grave – something moving that shouldn’t be, something out of time and place and space, a thing that ate life to live. But so does everything, I thought, and blinked, Artie’s dreadful semblance vanishing. Just a quiet-looking slump-shouldered man, small delicate hands and polished black-patent shoes, wearing a loose shirt and (presumably) pants under the trench coat he never took off in my presence.
He smiled at me, with no hint of fangs, and repeated, “Do you understand?”
I blinked again and shook my head, feeling all of a sudden exhausted, drained. “Of course. I wouldn’t say anything to those bitches anyways. I hate people, for the most part. I’m almost sad you don’t kill them anymore.”
He’d told me how he came to have compassion for humanity, to rein in his bloodlust and stop taking life when he fed. “Once I hungered for death more than the blood itself,” he’d said, “but Time changes things, and I must change with them.” In fact, he’d said that last part often.
Now he chuckled, rising and extending a courteous hand. “There is more than enough death now,” he said. “It has other avatars, other archetypal forms far more awful than I could ever be. In return, I get to finally taste some of the civility of being a man again. Part of that is not killing – when I don’t have to.” Again, a bolt of menace raced from my seat to my crown, leaving me shivering with a fearsome excitation.
***
So things continued for a while. I would lurk in the hall and watch Artie bring men home – young, old, sexy, ugly, wicked, kind, foolish, worldly. He liked to sample all of humanity, had a taste for the ripeness of life at every stage. I couldn’t have said anything to anyone – once I tried just as an experiment, and his commanding voice exploded in my mind, drowning out the words before they reached my tongue. Sue, of course, thought I was having a stroke, and ended up calling 9-1-1.
Just a little bit of everyday drama beside the encroaching weirdness of knowing a vampire. It felt profane – as if I had been admitted into the inner circle of the Sabbat, but wasn’t allowed to sign my name in the Black Book.
Artie let me watch him, let me come over and hang out while he talked for hours on end about adventures he’d had, ages he’d seen rise and crumble.
“Entropy is all around us,” he told me, “nibbling away at the fabric of everything. Particles drift from surfaces, flake from your skin, cloud the air with atomic motes. What you now call a vampire is in league with entropy, rather than a slave to it. The longer we exist the stronger and more solid we become, a fixed place on a spatial plane you can’t even perceive with your limited senses. We grow ever-more-dense, like a black hole; we are siblings to their insatiable hunger. What is gravity, but appetite expressed as a force? Matter yearns for matter, makes wells like throats to gobble up everything that passes by. Vampires are no different. Of course, we can die – we will die. It’s just probabilistic statistics. But until we are killed or compelled to self-destruction, we endure ever-more-potent. And we change. You know that, though.”
Of course, I started imagining myself as a vampire. Jane the undead, Jane the insatiable, Jane the eternal! It had a certain ring.
My days and nights were spend jonesing, yearning to plunge something into my vein, to light up or check out, but the meetings with my probation officer included collecting my pee in a little plastic cup for analysis, so that was out. An itch overtook my entire body, a yearning for altered-ness: the world is such a boring, drab gray place without drugs to give it color. Like a filthy washrag, and your soul gets filthy from rubbing up against it. The idea of being a vampire, of every night going out to get my fix, my allotment of blood –
“It’s a sacrament,” Artie’d told me, “better than sex could ever be, except for the Pranic practices. A sacred intoxicant, to be taken nightly in exaltation, creating pervasive sensual arousal. Even now, after unnumbered centuries … the feel of it pulsing into me is exquisite, a shivery consummation, their life dangling before me on a finite thread, I an infinite black maw swooping to consume in the name of powers so terrible I am but their slightest emissary.” He shivered even as he described it, eyes glowing with putrescent yellow flame. “And there are other privileges … secrets of the cairnyard, marvels of dreaming amid the massed bones, all silent sleepers I can assure you!”
That night he’d eaten from a drunk man, and the alcohol set him to rambling.
At length I found myself sprawled, somehow, across his lap, having downed two whole bottles of cheap wine. I stared up at him as he spoke of first seeing the Great Pyramid, of the glory of ancient Egypt which seemed to preoccupy so much of his thoughts.
“Everything after has been a disappointment,” he said, looking down at me. “Now, there is so much for humanity to dread that is of their own creation. A power like myself, from outside their sphere, I’m almost … quaint.” He chuckled.
I bit into my lower lip, being sure to draw blood. “You’re turning them all, aren’t you?” I said in a breathy undertone.
His eyes flared wide, and he pushed me off his knees, forcing me onto the floor. Rising, he stood over me and glowered, eyes receding into his skull until his sockets resembled dim-lit caves. “I am sharing my love,” he said, “giving a gift I’ve kept to myself for too long. My kind have all but faded. Awakening a new flock to the darkness – the thought has obsessed me for some time. New forms are coming which we will need to inhabit. And always, the blood calls, not content for me alone to savor it. Do you dare judge me?” he demanded, and in that moment I understood he thought I was disgusted with him. Artie readily admitted he sometimes had trouble understanding the subtleties of vocal inflection.
I scrabbled onto my knees, raised my hands and cried out to him, swaying drunkenly, “You’re making them all vampires. Only men? Don’t you think that’s a little sexist?”
“Only men are a pleasure to my taste,” he said.
“Once you said you only preferred masculine company, too. Yet here we are.”
“What are you saying, Jane?”
I grit my teeth and lurched towards him, feeling the chill of his body surround and inundate me. “I want to change,” I said, “to remake myself. To become something more. I want to live forever, to drink blood, to take lives to sustain my own. I want the endless Mother Night – want it like a wolf scenting a wound, don’t you understand?”
I sounded crazy even to myself, but the pressure had been building up for several weeks now, Artie, of course, oblivious. Now, his eyes narrowed to simmering slits.
“It was a mistake to take a mortal into my confidence,” he said, drawing back from my grasping hands. “Somehow, you have drawn closer to me – almost against my own will you remain in my orbit. But my will is the will of the spheres. What are you, to demand anything from me?”
So saying, his fangs slid down and he hissed at me, his human semblance molting away to show a lizard-like mottling, black skeletal wings stretching out from either shoulder, fangs long as rebars and a throat so deep you could see the abyss at its bottom. His trench coat at last fell away, revealing raptor-like legs with reversed knee-joints, lined with quivering tines.
“Why not change me?” I squealed pathetically, like a rat caught in a trap. “What can it cost you? Maybe I’m not in your gravity – maybe you’re caught up in mine.”
“We do not turn those we have often eaten,” the Thing that was Artie said. “Terrible karma, I’m afraid.”
A wicked mirth shivered through his voice, and my right hand slid into my pocket, gripping an object I’d bought downtown several days before and almost used twice, but lost the nerve. Now it looked like I’d have no choice.
“Besides,” the horrid thing croaked, drifting toward me, “those who ask are undeserving of the gift by principal. Dear Jane, I have enjoyed your companionship, perhaps too much. Now I shall enjoy your death.”
