Karen and the So-Called Vampire

                   As Karen drove up the long, winding road to the house on the hill, she had to wonder what kind of person had bought the old thing in the first place.

               For as long as anyone in the neighborhood could remember, that rickety old house had sat, abandoned, on the top of a smallish hill in the very back of the suburb. Even when the rest of the neighborhood built up around it, and the hills flattened into streets curved just enough to please the eyes, and the houses slowly turned from a variety of architectural inspirations to the same boxy, modern homes, that house on the hill stayed the same as it ever had.

               Not exactly the same, of course. All things fall apart eventually, and this house did, too. Karen had originally supposed that the house had some historic value. That must be why it had never been torn down—even when lightning seemed to strike it just a little too often, even when bats made their homes in its empty attic, even when the door blew open and sent a resounding thump, thump, thump through the neighborhood on every moonless night.

               Even when the neighborhood children began to spread rumors that it was haunted.

               When Karen became the head of the Homeowner’s Association, her first interest was to look into the history of the old house on the hill. She was tired of her son complaining of nightmares about it every morning, and she was even more concerned that her daughter might rally the neighborhood kids into a ghost hunt. No, she thought. She would take matters into her own hands.

               This turned out to be far easier than Karen expected. There was, in fact, no history surrounding the house on the hill. The previous owner had passed away, leaving their inheritance to no one in particular. As a result, no one knew who owned the property—and all records concerning the house had mysteriously disappeared from the bank that once financed its mortgage. 

               Just as Karen had began to consider various methods that might result in the eventual removal of that old house (her favorite, though she hated to admit it, was leaving “evidence” of the house’s so-called haunting on the city council’s doorstep every day until something was done), a “SOLD” sign sprung up in front of the house.

               That sign’s sudden appearance never sat well with Karen. Just who was the mysterious person that had managed to purchase the house on the hill? How had they managed to track down the current owner?

               She had, of course, attempted to meet the new owner when they moved in. It was early September and pecans were in vogue, so she baked her best pecan pie and walked all the way up that twisting, winding road to the old house on the hill. When she arrived, however, the owner did not answer the door. Perhaps they weren’t home, she thought on the way back? Or maybe they slept late? She wondered what kind of person would sleep until four or five in the afternoon.

               As such, Karen was unable to meet the owner of that old house before today. Now, however, she knew that there were oddities that could not be ignored. As the head of the Homeowner’s Association, it was her duty to confront the current owner of the house. For the peace of the neighborhood, she raised her hand to the worn brass knocker on the door and rapped it three times.

               Knock.

               Knock.

               Kno—

               As she brought the knocker down the final time, the door suddenly swung open. No one was there, of course, but this did not surprise her. She had already called the house no fewer than three times. The owner was simply expecting her, she presumed, and had rigged the door to open should they still be asleep when she arrived. No doubt the loud creak of the doorstep would alert them to her presence as she entered the home.

               “They’ve certainly been setting up early for Halloween,” Karen noted as she looked around the corridor. Thick cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling, and a gold-plated candelabra stood next to a human skull (plastic, of course) on an antique end table halfway down the hall. A lush red carpet led her toward the living room, and she obliged, following the faint glow of candlelight.

               She checked her clipboard. Stradivarius, the homeowner’s paperwork said, though she now realized that it gave no other name. A man in his mid-forties. No other family, and no nearby relatives.             

               Stradivarius. Was that his first name, or his last name? It wouldn’t be polite to call him by his first name. The thought troubled her as she turned into the living room—

               There, on the staircase, stood Stradivarius. Leaning neatly on the handrail, he held a glass of red wine. He wore a long, black dressing gown that trailed down over the bottom step; long, silver hair trailed similarly over his slender shoulders. He held a glass of red wine in one hand, and stared pensively off into space.

               Karen looked down at her clipboard again, then back at Stradivarius. Was he really in his forties? He had aged remarkably. Perhaps she could get some tips on skincare before their meeting was finished.

               At the sight of Karen, Stradivarius started. He tried—unsuccessfully—to hide the glass of red wine behind his back. His other hand clutched the half-open front of his dressing gown.

               “Ah! I—I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he stammered.

               “I’m so sorry. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

               “Um—well, not really. I just—I just wasn’t dressed for the day yet.”

               It was 5:00 PM, but Karen wasn’t in the habit of judging her neighbors. Only their houses. Which was, of course, the precise reason for her visit on this day.

               “That’s fine. Do you need a moment?”

***

               While Stradivarius was getting dressed, Karen snuck a peek into his fridge. Although she had expected to find evidence of severe alcoholism—or, at the very least, an open bottle of red wine—she was surprised to find that the refrigerator was completely empty.

Save, of course, for the single glass of red wine Stradivarius had put in it earlier. It seemed oddly viscous for red wine—her ex-husband probably would have described it as ‘full-bodied.’

               Satisfied with her snooping, Karen waited on the velvet couch in the living room. Stradivarius took a long time to get dressed. When he finally descended the stairs, he wore a long, tailored coat with embroidered cuffs, a lightly frilled shirt, and some kind of ruffle around his neck. Karen was sure that her daughter would know what it was called. She was interested in that sort of thing.

               “Salutations, Ms. Anderson.” His accented voice drawled out the greeting theatrically. “I’m terribly sorry that you had to catch me like—that.”

               “Mr. Stradivarius—” She decided then that this was what she should call him. “—I don’t care as much about the day-drinking as I do about the—err, violations in your front yard.”

               Stradivarius’s eyes widened. “Oh, do you mean the tombstones? Again, I apologize. They’re traditional, where I come from, but I can—”

               “The Halloween decorations? No, we’re not worried about those. But some of your neighbors have mentioned that your lawn looks a little…unkempt.”

               “Umkempt, you say?”

               “Yes. It’s getting long, you know? You’ll have to get the mower out soon.”

               Karen’s words seemed to leave no impact on Stradivarius; he only stared blanky at her. His lawn, however, was the principal reason for her visit today. If she could not convince him to take care of it himself, there were a number of alternatives. She consulted the notes on her clipboard.

               “If don’t want to do it yourself, you can hire someone else to mow the lawn for you. There are lots of kids in this neighborhood, and I’m sure one of them could help you. Oh, and if you aren’t willing to mow it, I guess you could just pay the fine. Some people do that. But you won’t endear yourself to your neighbors, to put it lightly. And if you’re looking to sell this place eventually, well, that probably won’t help the property value much—”

               She glanced up from her neatly-scrawled flow chart to meet Stradivarius’s wide eyes.

               “I…I think I must have some catching-up to do.” He sat down next to her on the couch. His hand shook as he extended a particularly long fingernail towards the flow chart. “When you say ‘mower’ and ‘mowing,’ what do you mean?”

               Karen was used to explaining neighborhood regulations to new residents, but this was a surprise. “You’ve never mowed a lawn before?”

               “No. I used to live in Transylvania. Unfortunately, I never entertained the pursuit of ‘lawn-mowing’ during my time there.”

               Transylvania. Was that a borough in Pennsylvania? That sounded right. He must have lived in an apartment, then. No wonder he wasn’t used to taking care of a lawn.

               “That’s fine. So…when you don’t take care of the grass in your lawn, it continues to grow, right? And that can lead to all kinds of bugs and other vermin living in your yard. If they’re in your yard, they can get in your house! And that’s not very good for the property value. It’s also a huge nuisance, I’m sure.”

               “Ah, yes,” Stradivarius said. “I do seem to encounter spiders, silverfish, and other little friends around every corner. I thought they followed me from Transylvania because they liked me.”

               Karen forced herself to breathe evenly. If there were silverfish, then the pipes in Stradivarius’s house were probably shot. She wanted to address that immediately, but she restrained herself. The lawn was the most important thing for now.

               “Things like that can get into your house through the cracks if you don’t take good care of your lawn. To do that, you just need to get a lawnmower.” Stradivarius’s blank stare confirmed Karen’s growing suspicion that she would have to explain what a lawnmower was. “It’s a machine that lets you cut the grass short. It’s a lot of work, but it looks really nice when it’s done. I promise. Most people in the neighborhood like to mow their lawns in the morning, when it’s not too hot—”

               “Does anyone…mow their lawn at night? Just hypothetically speaking.”

               “Oh, definitely not! Even though you’re all the way at the top of this hill, the noise would probably keep your neighbors awake. If you don’t want them knocking on your door, you should probably get it taken care of during the day.”

               Stradivarius gave a long sigh that seemed disproportionate to the inconvenience of lawn care.

“Ms. Anderson, you see…I have an issue with going outside during the day. My skin—it feels like it’s burning. I can’t spend very long under the sun, so I spend most of the daytime hours sequestered away in here.” As he spoke, he gestured to the thick, heavy curtains draped over every window in the room.

“So you…get sunburned? Well, that’s not a problem. I know some people who struggle with that.”

“Sun…burn.” The word seemed unfamiliar on Stradivarius’s lips. “Yes, that might be the word for it. I didn’t realize it was so common. Regardless, I trust you understand that I can’t go outside in the daylight.”

“At all? That sounds more like a sunlight allergy. If that’s the case, then—”

“It’s not exactly that, either, I’m sure.” Mr. Stradivarius cleared his throat. “Ms. Anderson, I don’t think I can hide it from you for much longer. I should tell you everything.”

With that, Stradivarius stood, pacing around the living room as he spoke.

“When I moved into this neighborhood, I promised myself I would be more open about things. After all, that was why I moved away from Transylvania: I found myself dissatisfied with loneliness. I lived a harmless life away from—well, most everyone. And eventually, it bored me. I read every book on these shelves more times than I can count. I learned several languages and studied ancient, forbidden texts. There was no knowledge that was barred from me.”

Except, Karen found herself thinking, for lawnmowers.

“But that knowledge was not enough. No, I watched time go by, and I realized: the world had changed. In many ways, it had moved on. And I was left behind. So, I decided to start somewhere new. I moved into this neighborhood hoping I could be more honest with those around me and learn more about the world as it is now. With that, Ms. Anderson, I have to tell you…I am a vampire.”

The sound of the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room filled an uncomfortable silence. Karen’s face twitched. Then, she began to laugh.

“W-what’s so funny about that?”

“Oh, you really had me going!” Nothing had made Karen laugh like this in a long time. Tears streamed down her face. “What you were drinking when I came in—you wanted me to think that was blood, right? You can’t be serious. I’ll admit, you almost had me when you told me you didn’t know what a lawnmower was. And the house, and the yard—all the world’s a stage, right? Mr. Stradivarius, you’re truly the most talented actor I’ve ever met.”

Stradivarius’s face fell. “No, no, I’m not—I’m not an actor. As I told you, I am a vampire. Short of going outside—if the sun still shines its rays—I’m not sure how I can prove that to you.”

“There’s no need! Fine, fine. You’re a vampire. We’ll go with that. Just make sure you get the lawn taken care of soon. If you don’t want to mow it yourself, I’m sure my daughter would do it for you. All the neighborhood kids are scared of this place, but she doesn’t seem to mind.”

“They’re scared of this place? Oh, no. That isn’t good.” Stradivarius bit the end of his coffin-shaped thumbnail. “As I said, I would like to get more involved with the neighborhood goings-on. But it is difficult when one is a vampire. I can’t leave my home when everyone else is awake, and the whole…partaking of blood tends to put people off.”

               He must be a method actor, Karen thought, but she did not voice this for fear of further distressing the so-called vampire.

               “Well, if you don’t want to come out during the day, we’ve got some nighttime events coming up. We’re having a Halloween parade through the neighborhood on the 27^th! They’re holding auditions for the King of the Harvest later this week, and I’m sure they’d love to have you. Oh! The King of the Harvest is a local legend, you know? I’m sure you probably wouldn’t have heard of him up in Transylvania. They say that every year, the night before Halloween—”

***

               As Karen Anderson rambled on and on about upcoming events and something called ‘Halloween’—apparently, some holiday—Stradivarius felt his shoulders begin to relax.

               It had been some time since he felt welcome. Although it had been many hundreds of years before, he could still remember the screams of the masses and the flicker of their torches when they learned that the old manor on the hill was inhabited not by a reclusive nobleman, but—a monster.

               Ms. Anderson, however, didn’t seem to think of him as a monster. In fact, she didn’t seem to believe his story at all. That was fine. Eventually, he thought, she would come around to it. She had to.

               After a final confirmation that Stradivarius would tend to his overgrown lawn, Ms. Anderson made her way out the front door. Night had fallen during the course of their conversation, and the moonlight reflected from the rims of her bifocals.

               “If you have nothing else to say, Mr. Stradivarius, I believe that will be all. Oh, and don’t forget to stock up on candy for Halloween! I think you’ve got the perfect ‘haunted house’ setup going on here.”

               As she turned to leave, Stradivarius felt a pang. It had been a long time since he had held such a long conversation with someone.

               Truthfully, he didn’t want it to end.

               “Oh, one more thing—”

               Ms. Anderson turned to face him.

               “My friends call me Stradivari. You can, too, if you would prefer.” He extended a hand.

               Ms. Anderson smiled. Rather than meeting his hand with hers, she instead reached for his cheeks, pinching them firmly.

               “Aren’t you just the cutest thing? There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me Karen.” She released the vaguely flustered Stradivarius, giving a small wave as she opened the door to her car. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Stradivari. Hope to see you around.”

               With that, the engine started, and Karen’s car began to make its way down the long, winding road.

               Stradivarius lifted his hands to his face, feeling where Karen’s hands had been.

               Although he could not yet explain it, he felt some warm life return to his cold, bloodless cheeks.