Vampire
by Leslie Schmidt
Note for the reader:
This story was, of course, inspired by “Interview with a Vampire.” Needless to say, the sexual suggestion of a vampire story, combined with a pre-teen girl, is just too horny for me to pass up. That being said, if you’re just looking for a stroke story, you’ll want to skip to Chapter 4. Otherwise, I hope you’ll start from Page 1 and enjoy.
This is easily my longest story, actually a novella rather than a short story. I’ve been working on it for over five years.
Chapter 1
I had never really enjoyed living in the city, and after my wife and I divorced in 1989, I couldn’t afford it. I made a good living as an editor but it still wasn’t enough money to keep the apartment on West 114th. Also, it was the beginning of the ‘Internet Age’ and the idea of telecommuting was just coming into vogue. Because my editing job had always been sort of ‘free-lance,’ it wasn’t too hard to convince the senior editors that they didn’t need to see my face every day. Of course, it helped that I was (and still am, sort of) the exclusive editor for one of their best selling authors.
So, I made the decision to move somewhere, it really didn’t matter where, except that I did want to stay in the Northeast—that’s were most of my family is. I didn’t realize it at the time but there were very subtle influences at work and it was no accident that I ended up in South Orange, outside Newark.
The house had been on the market for eight months and the realtor said that the owners had just dropped the price and were very motivated. Turns out, ‘motivated’ was just the right word. They were motivated to have me as their neighbor. Claudia had left me with most of the furniture but it still wasn’t enough, so the house was a bit sparse. It took me three days to get unpacked and all the pictures hung, then I had some more furniture delivered and things began to look a little more set.
It was almost dark, about a week after I’d moved in, that I noticed the green minivan with tinted windows pull into the driveway across the street. The garage door opened, then closed behind it. Two days later, while it was still twilight, I finally saw my new neighbors—an old man with a cane, walking with a pronounced limp, was being helped by a blond girl up the driveway from the mailbox. I decided that I’d go over and introduce myself.
The red brick stairs had been swept; the lawn was being kept by a landscaping crew. The grass only had a couple of bare patches where the limbs from the spruce trees had grown low enough to shade the ground entirely. The house was almost hidden from the street by the trees but I was interested to note that some of the windows to my house could be seen from here. I pushed the doorbell.
I was about to turn around, figuring my new neighbors weren’t too neighborly, when the lock turned. It swung open with the sound of coughing and the odor of pipe smoke.
“You must be Thomas Ballard, from across the street,” he said. His appearance was a contradiction. He was stooped and had thin white hair, but his face couldn’t be a day over fifty. He was dressed in a BU sweatshirt and jeans.
“Why, yes. Have we met?” I was surprised that he knew me.
“Never in person, but you know me better than I know you,” he responded. “I’m Charlie Bose, but you know me as Robert Carlson.”
My surprise changed to total shock. “My God. Are you serious?” I stammered.
“Yes, and how’s the manuscript going?”
I couldn’t find my voice, I was so speechless. “Ah, ah,…I was just working on it. My God,” I held out my hand, “it’s wonderful to meet you sir!”
He started to laugh but that devolved into a coughing fit. He fell against the door jam and, from behind him, the girl ran up.
“Daddy!” she grabbed his arm, steadying him. The coughing continued, I reached out to help him and he nodded his appreciation. “Let’s go inside and sit,” he gasped between coughs. The girl helped him into the foyer, then we went left into the living room. They made their way among some stacks of books and he collapsed into an overstuffed chair.
“Do you need anything?” the girl said to her father.
I looked around, feeling helpless, then noticed an open bottle of Evian on one of the tables. I handed it to the girl and she gave it to her father. He nodded his appreciation as he took a couple of sips, his coughs were now gasps. His eyes were watering and he pulled a used napkin out of his pocket and wiped his face, then blew his nose.
“You shouldn’t smoke that nasty pipe,” the girl scolded.
“You don’t inhale a pipe,” he responded. Then to me: “Excuse me, I’ll tell you about it later. Please, sit down.” He waved at a chair.
The girl hovered over he father until he waved her away. “Please, dear, go back to the kitchen.”
She looked at me with some interest, then turned and left the room.
“That’s Jenny,” he said looking after her. “She takes care of me.”
“I see,” I responded—lamely.
He turned back to me. “You’re wondering what’s going on,” he started. “Fact is, you and I are going to be working a lot together.”
I had edited over a dozen of his books for Pen House, but had never met him. Robert Carlson had a following in the millions, people waited in line outside bookstores until midnight to snap up his first additions. Then there were the paperback and audio editions—and two movies. His sexy horror novels had been banned in many local libraries and were not to be found on the shelves at almost any high school. It didn’t help that one of the movies had to severely edited to avoid an NC-17 rating. (Later the unedited version had been released on VHS).
“This is really amazing, that I should happen to buy the house across the street from you,” I started off.
“There’s nothing amazing about it, Tom. I’ve set you up. I owned that house and made sure that it was priced right—for you. Fact is, I’ve been planning this ever since I heard your wife was screwing around with that new partner at her firm.”
I was really perplexed. “Why, what’s going on?”
“Over the years, you’ve become my exclusive editor, and, now, I’m your exclusive writer.”
This was actually true. For the past three years, Pen had only been assigning me Carlson’s manuscripts. It was convenient for me, the publisher said Carlson liked what I did with his work, and he turned out four books a year, enough to support me.
“We’ll talk about it more later but, I’ve got five manuscripts ready for you, and a dozen more or so unfinished.”
“Great,” I said, still wondering what was going on.
“Fact is, Tom,” he leaned forward, “I’m dieing. The doctors give me four months, I guess less than that. I need your help.”
Again, shock went through me.
“OK,” he said, moving on. “I arranged for you to move here so we could work together—for the time I have left. I need you to finish my stories.”
Again I was in shock. “Wow, that’d be an honor.”
“Damn right it is!” he waved his pipe.
We talked for an hour, then moved to the kitchen. I watched, fascinated, as he gave Jenny instructions while she made dinner. I set the table and helped with the salad. We sat down to brazed beef-tips, new potatoes, and candied asparagus. Charlie uncorked a bottle of red wine and filled three glasses. I cleared the dishes and Charlie loaded the dishwasher. Desert was peaches in brandy over vanilla ice cream. I noticed that Jenny really seemed older than the ten years she looked to be. She refilled our wine glasses without asking—seemed that drinking wine was normal for her—but she only half filled her own.
When the clock chimed 8 PM I realized that I probably had a rather neglected feeling dog at home.
“Oh, God, it’s gotten so late!” I started. “I have to get back and take my dog for his evening walk.”
“Ah yes,” Charlie said. “The Australian Sheep Dog ‘Arbutus’, named after the suburb of Baltimore or the shrub?”
Again, I was shocked. “Ahh…the shrub, I guess.”
“Can I come with you?!” Jenny interrupted. She looked from me to her father with pleading eyes.
“Sure,” I said after a pause, Charlie didn’t seem to mind.
“Go ahead, dear,” he said to his daughter.
We crossed to my house and were met by the type of excitement that only a dog can show when his owner arrives. I had to tell Arbutus twice to sit before I got the leash on him, then we headed down the street.
“How long have you and your father lived here?” I asked.
“About te—two years,” she responded.
“What grade are you in?” I guessed she was about ten.
She paused for a few seconds, then said, “Sixth.”
‘OK, eleven,’ I thought. “Are you into any sports or band?”
“N—no…, I have to stay with Dad a lot, he really can’t be alone for long.”
“That’s quite a burden for a girl,” I said.
The moon was moving in and out of the clouds. I looked at her while I let Arbutus sniff around one of the lamp posts. Her eyes seemed to catch the light and reflect it—picture red-eye like but it didn’t seem to go away when she looked away from the light. Arbutus lifted his leg on the post, then led me on down the street.
We got to the corner and turned right. At the end of the block there was a group of kids standing under a light. As we got closer I could see they were all girls, maybe early teens. There was a bike lying in the grass. As we approached they fell silent and moved off the sidewalk to let us by.
“Hi girls,” I said. A couple grunted as we passed but didn’t say anything. Neither did Jenny.
“Do you know them?” I asked.
“No, not really.”
“They look like they should be classmates.”
“I think they’re a little older, a maybe in eighth grade,” she said. “I don’t hang around much.”
“Oh.”
We went down the opposite block and I tried to look between the houses to find my own back yard but, in the dark, I couldn’t recognize it. It’s a single story and I had left the lights off.
As we were walking, I took some notice of her, trying to figure her out by her looks. She appeared to be a pretty normal youngster. For eleven she was just a little tall for her age, just shy of five feet. To me she looked like she was definitely a ‘tween’, probably wearing a training bra, judging from the shapes under her sweatshirt. She was certainly well into her pre-pubescent growth spurt—it looked like half her height was in her legs. There was no beginning of filling out in her hips. Her hair was quite blond, but not platinum, it reached down to the points of her shoulder blades. It would certainly darken as she got older and as an adult she’d be a ‘dirty blond.’ She kept it parted in the middle but didn’t cut her bangs. She really is quite pretty, but she was at the age where some features grow a bit awkwardly. Her face is oval with high cheek bones. Her nose is straight and just a bit large. Her mouth is large with full lips but her chin is a bit weak. She has green eyes, but it’s hard to really tell because of the way light seems to reflect out of them.
While I thought about her, I realized that I had never seen her in full light—only indoors with the curtains closed or at night.
She carried herself with a note of quiet self-confidence and grace but she seemed tired, just a little stooped. Still, she was going to grow into a tall, thin, and poised woman.
“Well, good night dear,” I said when we reached my driveway.
“Good night Tom,” she said.
The moon came out and shown directly down into her face. I almost gasped when I saw her. For an instance, while the moon was out from behind the cloud, her skin was silvery white and her eyes glowed bright red. Then it passed and she was in shadow again. Still, I could see a dull glow in her eyes. I watched as she crossed the street and went into her house. The porch light went out.
After a glass of wine with the TV, I shut off the lights.
Chapter 2