Sunset Years

The clock above the counter at Denny's read 11:58 PM. Two minutes to midnight, Halloween sliding into All Saints' Day. Victor Kessler dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, catching a drop of steak juice before it could stain his cardigan. Rare meat, even at this chain restaurant, was the one indulgence he still permitted himself.

"You missed a spot," Margaret said, reaching across the laminate table to brush her thumb against his lower lip. After fifty-three years of marriage, such gestures remained—small, unconscious intimacies that required no thought.

Victor's silver hair contrasted sharply with his black turtleneck, giving him a distinguished look despite the slight stoop to his shoulders. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses magnifying eyes the color of faded denim. "I like the way you work, Jules," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

Margaret rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "Pulp Fiction. Travolta to Jackson." Her silver bob framed an angular face with high cheekbones, deep-set amber eyes that caught the light in unusual ways. "You always try the easy ones first."

A television mounted in the corner of the diner played a late-night news broadcast, the volume low but audible.

"...still no leads in the case of the Highway Killer. Police are urging residents to remain vigilant after the discovery of a fourth victim yesterday. The suspect is described as a white male in his thirties, possibly driving a dark-colored Dodge Charger..."

"Turn that off, would you?" a waitress called to the cook. "It's Halloween. Nobody wants to hear that tonight."

"What time is it now?" Victor asked, returning his attention to Margaret.

She glanced at her antique silver wristwatch. "Almost midnight. Just like it was when you asked five minutes ago." She sighed, flexing her fingers slightly. "I can feel a storm coming in my joints. Time moves differently when you hurt."

"Time has always been strange," Victor replied, his gaze distant. "Sometimes an hour feels like a century. Other times, decades pass like moments."

Behind them, the diner had filled with college students in Halloween costumes. A boy in plastic vampire fangs threw his arms wide, fake blood glistening on his chin.

"I vant to suck your blood!" he bellowed in a terrible accent.

Victor winced. "Amateurs."

"You're showing your age," Margaret replied. She tilted her head toward a group in the corner. "What about them? The girl with the green hair?"

Victor studied the indicated table, their long-established people-watching game in progress. "College sophomore. Art major. Recently broke up with her boyfriend. Lives fast, thinks she'll never get old."

"They all think that," Margaret murmured. "Until they do."

At the next table, the conversation had turned to local legends.

"Did you hear about the vampire professor?" a zombie cheerleader asked. "The one they found all those bodies buried under his house in the '90s?"

"That's urban legend nonsense," another student replied. "You mean the Nightwalker Killings. My mom said there was this couple who drained like twenty people before disappearing."

"The only real monster around here is that Highway Killer," the vampire boy interrupted. "My dad's a state trooper. Says it's the worst case he's seen in thirty years."

A waitress approached, coffeepot in hand. Her nametag read "Doris" and her eyes carried the exhaustion of the graveyard shift. "Refill?"

"No, thank—" Margaret began.

"Absolutely," Victor interrupted, pushing his cup forward.

"We need to get home," Margaret reminded him after Doris left.

"One more cup won't hurt." Victor sipped his coffee.

"You folks celebrating Halloween?" Doris asked when she returned with their check, gesturing at Victor's crimson pocket square—the only splash of color in his outfit.

"Anniversary, of a sort," he replied, his expression softening. "Our son Daniel passed on Halloween, twenty-eight years ago tonight."

Doris's smile faltered. "I'm so sorry."

"He had a rare blood condition," Margaret said softly. "Like Victor's side of the family. We always hoped he'd outgrow it."

Doris nodded sympathetically before moving on to another table.

"That was close," Victor murmured, watching the waitress walk away. "The clinic's been calling about those test results."

"What's there to say?" Margaret replied, flexing her fingers again. "After all these years on this... diet... I'm not surprised the numbers are changing."

Victor reached into his jacket pocket and frowned. He patted his other pockets with increasing urgency.

"What is it?" Margaret asked.

"The medicine. I thought I had it with me." His frown deepened. "I must have left it on the bathroom counter."

Margaret's eyes widened slightly. "Are you serious? After I reminded you three times?"

"I was distracted." Victor's tone grew defensive. "Julia called right as I was getting ready. She says the community is gathering again. The old families."

"Did you at least take your dose before we left?"

Victor's silence was answer enough.

"Victor." Margaret's voice carried decades of practiced patience. "Twenty-eight years, and you still can't remember the one thing we can't afford to forget."

"We'll be fine," he assured her. "We'll be home in twenty minutes. It's not like we'll burst into flames without it."

They paid their bill and made their way toward the exit. Victor moved with the careful precision of someone managing chronic pain, while Margaret walked with unusual grace for her age.

Outside, the October air carried the scent of dead leaves and woodsmoke. Victor opened the passenger door of their midnight-blue Lincoln for Margaret, a courtesy unchanged by decades.

"I keep thinking about him," Margaret said as Victor settled into the driver's seat. "Every year it shouldn't hurt this much."

"Some wounds don't heal," Victor replied, starting the engine. The dashboard clock read 12:17 AM. "They just become part of who we are."

Margaret stared out at the darkness. "When Daniel was five, he asked me why the stars don't fall down. Remember that?"

"You told him they were hanging on invisible threads," Victor said, smiling at the memory. "He spent a week looking for the threads with your magnifying glass."

"He was so curious about everything." Margaret's voice caught slightly. "Always looking for answers where there weren't any."

"We thought we were protecting him," Victor said, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Some truths are better left buried."

"Every day I wonder if we made the right choice," Margaret whispered, staring at her reflection in the window. "This slow fading. This... surrender."

Victor nodded, his profile stern against the passing streetlights. "No parent should have to bury their child."

They drove in silence through empty streets, passing Halloween decorations that would look garishly artificial in daylight.

"I saw Julia yesterday at the pharmacy," Margaret said finally. "She mentioned that old group from the university is gathering again. At the Miller place."

Victor's jaw tightened. "We haven't been to those functions since Daniel died."

"I know, but she says things are changing. The younger ones don't appreciate the old traditions."

"Not our concern anymore," Victor said firmly. "We chose a different path."

As they approached an intersection, Margaret suddenly stiffened. "Victor, that car—"

Headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, approaching rapidly. The vehicle—a battered Dodge Charger—swerved alongside them, then suddenly cut in front, forcing Victor to slam on the brakes.

"Victor, the news—that's the car they mentioned—"

A man emerged from the Charger, stalking toward their car. He wore a dark hoodie pulled low over his face, revealing only sharp cheekbones and a jagged scar running from his right temple to his jaw.

"Lock the doors," Victor said, but it was too late.

The man rapped on the driver's window with the barrel of a gun. "Out of the car, pops," he shouted.

Margaret's hand found Victor's arm, her grip tight with fear. "Victor, don't—"

"It's okay," he said quietly. "We'll give him what he wants."

Victor rolled down the window halfway. "Son, you don't want to do this."

"Wallet. Keys. Now." The man's eyes, unnaturally bright green, darted nervously. "And your jewelry, lady."

"We need to get home," Victor said calmly. "We forgot our medication."

The man pressed the gun against Victor's temple. "Do I look like I give a rat's behind? Keys. Now."

They eventually complied, climbing into the back seat as the gunman took the wheel. He drove recklessly through the sleeping town, taking them farther from their home with each passing minute.

"Wait a minute," the gunman said suddenly, studying Victor in the rearview mirror. His face, illuminated by the dashboard lights, revealed tattoos crawling up his neck. "I know you. You taught at the university, right? Literature?"

Victor blinked in surprise. "Yes. For thirty-five years."

"I had your class. Ten years ago." The man laughed, a harsh sound. "Guess the education didn't stick, huh?"

Margaret studied the back of the man's neck, her eyes increasingly focused. Victor noticed her staring and subtly shook his head.

Eventually, they turned onto a narrow dirt track that wound through dense forest. The car stopped in a small clearing, and the gunman ordered them out.

"Kneel down," he instructed, gesturing toward the center of the clearing.

"My knees aren't what they used to be," Victor said calmly, leaning on his walking stick.

"Kneel or I'll re-arrange your kneecaps permanently."

Margaret took Victor's arm. "Like I said: one day, I'm gonna pay you back. I'm gonna kill you with this walking stick." Her voice was perfectly steady.

Victor gave her a brief smile even as he complied. "Kill Bill. Uma Thurman to David Carradine."

After taking their valuables, the gunman prepared to leave them stranded. But as he turned to go, Victor called out:

"You're him, aren't you? The Highway Killer."

The car door opened slowly. The man stepped out, gun raised. "What did you say?"

"I recognized your car. The Dodge Charger they mentioned on the news." Victor's voice remained steady despite his kneeling position. "Four victims so far, wasn't it?"

"Victor," Margaret hissed. "What are you doing?"

The gunman approached them, his face twisted with rage. "You think you know me, old man?"

"I taught literature for thirty-five years," Victor replied. "I know how this story ends."

The man raised the gun until it was level with Victor's forehead. "Yeah? How's that?"

"All predators eventually meet something higher on the food chain."

The gunman laughed and swung the gun toward Margaret. "Maybe your wife?"

"Please," Margaret whispered, genuine fear in her eyes. "We won't tell anyone."

"Too late for that." The man's finger tightened on the trigger.

Victor lunged forward, but he wasn't fast enough. The gun went off with a deafening crack, and Margaret jerked backward, a dark stain blossoming across her chest.

"No!" Victor's anguished cry echoed through the clearing as he crawled to his wife. "Margaret!"

She gasped, her hands clutching at the wound. "Victor..."

"I'm here," he said, gathering her in his arms. Blood seeped between his fingers as he pressed against the wound.

Margaret's breathing became ragged. Her eyes, fixed on Victor's face, began to lose focus. "The medicine," she whispered. "I can feel it leaving my system."

"No," Victor insisted, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. "Just hold on."

Her hand reached up to touch his face, leaving a crimson smear along his jawline. "Fifty-three years," she murmured. "Longer than anyone thought possible."

Margaret's eyes fluttered closed. "I'm so... thirsty..." Her body went limp in his arms.

Victor bent over her, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Christ," the gunman muttered, lowering his gun slightly. "I didn't mean to— She shouldn't have moved."

Slowly, Victor raised his head. The grief in his eyes had been replaced by something else—something ancient and cold. "You killed her," he said, his voice transformed, resonating with a timbre that made the gunman take an involuntary step back.

"It was an accident," the man insisted, raising the gun again.

Victor gently laid Margaret's body on the ground, then rose to his feet with fluid grace that belied his earlier stiffness. "For fifty-three years, we lived among you," he said, advancing toward the gunman. "For twenty-eight years, we denied what we truly are. We buried ourselves alongside our son, thinking that's what he would have wanted."

The gunman fired again, the bullet striking Victor in the shoulder. He didn't flinch, didn't even break stride.

"What the hell?" The man fired again, this time hitting Victor in the chest. Still, he continued forward.

"You can't kill what's already dead," Victor said, his teeth suddenly looking sharper in the moonlight. "That's what the students were talking about tonight. The Nightwalker Killings. That was us, before Daniel was born."

Behind them, there was movement. Margaret's body twitched, then slowly sat up. The wound in her chest was still visible, but no longer bleeding. Her eyes, when she opened them, glowed with an amber light.

"That hurt," she said, her voice carrying the same resonant quality as Victor's. "I haven't been shot in... how long has it been, Victor?"

"1964," he replied, still advancing on the terrified gunman. "That business in Marseilles."

Margaret got to her feet, brushing dirt from her skirt with precise movements. "The medicine dulls more than just the pain," she explained to the gunman, her voice musical with newfound power. "It quiets everything that makes us who we are. Makes us forget what it means to truly live."

"What—what are you?" the man gasped.

"We told you," Margaret said, approaching to stand beside her husband. "Nightwalkers. Though that's just the latest name. We've had so many over the centuries."

Victor checked his watch. "It's 2:36 AM. Nearly four hours until sunrise." He looked at his wife, a question in his eyes.

Margaret considered for a moment. "For twenty-eight years, we've denied who we are. We've watched our son's friends grow old and die. We've lived half-lives, Victor." She touched the bullet hole in her blouse. "I'm tired of pretending."

"A simple decision, then." Victor smiled at the gunman, his teeth now unmistakably fanged. "You wanted to be a predator tonight."

"But you chose the wrong prey," Margaret finished.

The gunman's scream echoed briefly through the forest before being cut short.

Some time later, the Lincoln's engine purred to life. Victor wiped a drop of red from the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief as Margaret settled into the passenger seat, the bullet hole in her blouse the only evidence of the earlier violence.

"We should call Julia in the morning," she said, smoothing her skirt. "About that gathering she mentioned."

Victor put the car in drive. "I suppose we've been absent from academia long enough."

"Twenty-eight years of self-denial," Margaret agreed, looking younger somehow, the lines around her eyes less pronounced. "The dust gathers whether you live or merely exist."

"Like I said," Victor quoted with a small smile, "the night is still young."

Margaret glanced at him. "From Dusk Till Dawn. George Clooney."

By the time they reached their modest suburban house, the eastern sky had begun to lighten almost imperceptibly.

"Happy anniversary," Victor said as he locked the door behind them, secure before the dawn.

Margaret touched his face with cool fingers. "I believe it might be time to redecorate. This place could use some... life."

In their bedroom, they drew the blackout curtains against the approaching sun. On the nightstand sat two silver pillboxes, untouched.

"I suppose we won't be needing these anymore," Victor said, picking up one of the boxes.

"No," Margaret agreed, taking it from him and placing it in a drawer. "Some hungers can't be suppressed forever."

"Only delayed," Victor finished, the youthful gleam returning to his eyes.

"And sometimes," Margaret said, taking his hand, her skin already firmer, smoother than it had been hours before, "the sunset is just the beginning."

In the forest clearing where they had knelt as victims, nothing remained—nothing except a cheap digital watch with a cracked face, counting down the hours until a sunrise its owner would never see.