An American Vampire

For William Geryon, the centuries only got easier as he lived them. Things diluted, bleached by new generations of informality and scrubbed smooth by modernity. And, for a vampire, a creature of many sensitivities, that was a good thing.

He’d been born in the United States capital, back when the capital was still Philadelphia, and he’d been twenty-six when plague brought the city to its knees. Creatures of the night had come to gorge on those left outside, those piled high in the plague carts. It was a feast of a low grade, a bounty of foul tastes and poor quality. The vampire who’d turned Geryon had quite literally jumped on his opportunity. From that moment on, Geryon was a husk of memories, missing what had made him fully man. He was the after-smoke of what he’d been before, adulterated and basic, chasing after food and sleep and not much else. 

Geryon lived through America’s early years and beyond, fearful of the sun and churches, of bold flavors and elaborate sights. His misty existence recoiled at potent things. Light lanced into him. Spires, stained glass, statuaries, and all the labor they contained irritated his eyes and pricked his skin. The work of master masons, the stories captured in the colorful windows and stone countenances of saintesses, the quicksilver of fervent prayer and deep belief coating everything— it all was like strobe lights, ringing alarms, acidic fruit to Geryon. 

And so, he kept to the shadows and the basic places where everything was obscured and without detail. He learned his weaknesses, that he should stay away from crosses, the stench of garlic, and mirrors. Doing so, he passed through life by avoiding texture, perfume, and warmth. 

Playing his cards right, he survived every shift of every era. Until the world began to dull… and dull. Geryon saw the little changes most. He noted when shoe cobblers began to vanish, and when people stopped darning their clothes and blankets with histories of colorful scars. City lights began to blaze through the nights, taking out the stars. Language changed too and, one day, there was less thought behind it, fewer taboos, no more eyes darting around the room to check for a lady’s presence. A lot more “Jesus!” shouted to long grocery lines and phone bills. The lamp lights and loose tongues were like sips of cyanide to Geryon, and they built immunity. He became used to the smooth shapes of cities, all sleek and minimal. He watched the world of man shed its filigree. Easy on the eyes. 

Things were made cheaply, broke, and were not mended. This ended the stored memories until the next outfit or object could collect more and then go to the garbage with the new recollections inside. Geryon thrived in the modern era. This was the future, and he quite enjoyed it. With his cyanide-diet of synthetic city sun, he was able to stand the day with just SPF 100 on his side. He could see himself in mirrors again and garlic wasn’t too bad in small portions. And on a windy April day, all this was convenient. Because William Geryon was off to Dante’s Pizzeria for a date. 

He’d been seeing Amelia Creede for a month now and was getting antsy. It usually didn’t take long for someone with his looks to get invited home or, at least, for his own invitations to be accepted. And he hadn’t pegged Amelia, with her poorly inked tattoos, to be particularly solemn about commitment. But it wasn’t a big problem. He could scoop up some snacks at night and wait for the day he and Miss Creede ended up in a private residence. 

Inside the pizzeria were black tables and a chessboard floor. The walls were white all except for the store’s mascot, thin line art of a little chef and a word bubble claiming “Made with REAL ingredients” stenciled by the kitchen door. 

After their drinks arrived, Amelia spoke about her week— a flat tire, a bratty co-worker, a trip to the cinema— and stirred her cola with a plastic straw. Geryon could hear the ice bob, but he was fixated on her eyes: umber and wide. “It was a great movie,” she was saying. “It just left theaters yesterday. I wouldn’t mind renting it at home though. I’d love to watch it with you.”

He perked up at this. “Well, I’m free after this. Why not?”

“Eh…” Then she groaned. “Okay, cards on the table. My grandma is weird about that kind of thing. She’s, hm, old fashioned, I guess. A real antique. She promised me that if I brought a guy home before I introduced him to her, I’m out of the will.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you be somehow compelled to tell her?”

She produced a single, bitter note. “Hey, if you were aware of how loaded that woman is, you wouldn’t take the gamble either. And she’s friends with like everyone. Wouldn’t be surprised if one of my neighbors is a Sunday brunch buddy or something.”

Geryon drummed his fingers against the table. “What could it hurt?” he said. “Couldn’t I meet her?”

Amelia sipped her soda. “She’ll grill you. And, well, it’s a milestone.”

He grinned. “I’m willing.”

But, three days later when he entered the vestibule to Deborah Creede’s house, he questioned his initial enthusiasm. The place was quite Victorian, lots of old wood and classic furnishings. Amelia met him at the door, her grandmother following closely behind. Instantly, he noticed how different her eyes were from her granddaughter’s, almost the opposite. Hers were very blue, though he couldn’t tell the shade. Sky? Sea? Sapphire? She introduced herself and shook his hand lightly. 

“What’s got your interest, dear?” she asked him, and he realized he had been distracted by various candles on a nearby table. Some of them were votive, with art on the glass. They seemed brighter than the overhead lights at the pizzeria.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “The candles are lovely.” He’d forgotten to add proper emotion until the last syllable. But Amelia didn’t notice; she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. “There are snacks in the kitchen!” she said, ushering Geryon that way. He hoped he didn’t look too dumbstruck as he took in the house: millefleur tapestries, busts of Pallas and Plato, little roses sewn onto armchair cushions to mask tears. Texture. Aroma. Minutiae. He could barely focus.

While they stood around the kitchen island, he became aware that Deborah was staring at him. She took a last bite of her hors d’oeuvre and said, “You need a little wine. I’m a doting grandma, not a boogeyman. How about this. Amelia, I have something really special in the cellar, a 1996 Leoville Las Case. You may have to look a bit, but I know I haven’t used it yet. Bring it on up. You’ll be quicker on those darn stairs.”

“Well, that’s a treat.” Amelia winked at Geryon. “Be right back, Will. Ask Grandma about the house. That’ll start a conversation.” 

When she’d gone, he turned lamely to Deborah. “The house?”

“The best room is right there.” She indicated across the hall to what looked like it was once a bedroom. Now, there was no door and Geryon could see that the space was packed with mismatched furniture and oddities. Deborah waved him off. “I’ll be right with you. Let me refrigerate some of this leftover cheese.”

He did as she asked, trying to keep his displeasure off his face. I’ve never put this much effort into a meal. Sardonic thoughts jumping through his mind, he strained to look around. 

There was toile de Jouy wallpaper in this room. After that, Geryon didn’t quite know where to look. He saw curio cabinets, old toys, mannequins with crushed velvet dresses, and several paintings.

“You don’t like this place much do you?”

Geryon flinched and tried to hide it by running his hand through his hair. Deborah stood in the doorway, rubbing a dishcloth on her aged hands. Her gaze was piercing, pinning him like a moth to a shadow box. 

“I like it.”

“Forgive me, but I can’t see how that would be the case,” she said. And Geryon saw that her eyes were not sky or sea or sapphire. They were a deceptively nice blue, blue that turned dangerous in an instant. Blue like a man-of-war washed up on the beach, just a playful little shape until you got close enough and wise enough to know what it was. “Because this house is full of things your kind hate.”

Geryon couldn’t move, couldn’t remove the pin and flutter free. So he did what he could; he smiled and pretended as though he quite liked it there, stuck to the felt. 

“Am I so obvious?”

“I can recognize certain things when I see them. But also.” She flicked her head in the direction of an ornate mirror, almost obscured by a lampshade that looked like a wedding cake. There Geryon saw only a vague outline of himself. That mirror had a repelling effect, something in the carefully formed frame and the delicate pelican engraved into the cornice was too dynamic. 

He glanced past the old woman and into the hallway. She set down her dish towel and smiled. “Oh, we have a little time,” she said. “I do have many wines in that cellar. No 1996 Leoville Las Case though.” 

Geryon clicked his tongue. He was feeling warm and the little room was beginning to assault him with its vintage paintings and handmade mementos. A stuffed bear with two different button eyes sitting on a rocking horse. An embroidery hoop quoting Luke 8:46 in gold calligraphy and lilies-of-the-valley. A woven basket filled with leather lace-up boots. None of it easy or smooth. 

“Have you met a vampire before?” he wondered.

“I’ve noticed them.”

“And you’ve killed them?”

There was an undefined motion in her eyes, a spark. “You know, people debate why certain techniques work. Why is it that garlic wards you? Is it because it was once said to cure blood disease, or is it because you’ve become too sensitive to smell? And why can’t you see your reflection? Is it because you lack a soul, or is it because the silver backing on old mirrors kills all it can get of you?”

“You seem to know.”

“Yes. And it’s none of those things.” She took a seat in a chair, right beside a mannequin, and rubbed her knees. “It’s just the stories themselves. The fear of illness and the hope for a solution. The belief that the soul is good and that silver is pure.”

Geryon smirked. He had to admit this accursed room was taming him. But he was amused by the explanation. “So you believe things into existence?” 

“Goodness, no.” She blew a raspberry. “There are things in this world that will come for you, whether you believe in them or not. And things that will never be there even if you take them as fact. But evil is real.” She vaguely gestured at him, as if the conversation was beginning to drop off and it was time to speed things along. “And it cannot stand love. Or faith. Or beauty.” 

The room was now sweltering and arctic cold, tirelessly bright and viciously personal. Deadly in its detail. Nausea undulated through him, and he could barely do much more but sway as Deborah approached a curio cabinet and withdrew a spike, large and thorn-shaped. Somehow he instantly recognized the wood as hawthorn. The shape, the wood, the story— strikingly ancient, told again and again and again and again. He got stuck on that word like a troubled turntable needle, until he felt a very real pierce, much worse than the pin of Deborah Creede’s poisonous eyes. 

He had preyed on the future and the past had bitten him back.