The Bully Magnet

From my favorite perch atop the mausoleum, I had often watched the skinny, bespectacled teen arriving at the bus stop early autumn mornings or returning home dark winter evenings.  He always walked as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was going, but fully expected that there would be some sort of trouble along the way.  And all too often, trouble found him. 

The school bus pulls up at the stop near the gates of the rural cemetery I call home.  The sun has set, robbing the brilliant fall colors from the ash, maple, and oak trees around this remote country crossroad.  The bus door clunks open, and the bully magnet is the first one out.  He steps down to the street and starts home through the evening fog, carefully carrying something large and flat in both hands.

Behind him, boisterous laughter and shouting from inside the bus spills onto the street.  A large kid and two pals bounce down the steps and onto the sidewalk.  The engine surges.  The bus pulls away and the bully magnet quickens his pace, but the others quickly close the distance.  Their voices carry in the damp air as they approach their victim.

“Hey, Jonah.  Whatcha got there?”  The bully slaps what the boy is carrying to the ground.  It breaks into pieces and scatters in the gathering darkness.

“Aw, come on Miles!  Pick on someone your own size.”

“I would, if I wasn’t bigger than everybody else, dumbass.”  He laughs scornfully and his cronies join in.  During the commotion, one of them had quietly squatted down behind Jonah’s knees.  Miles notices the set-up and pushes Jonah hard in the chest.  He falls backward, losing his glasses and hitting the ground hard. 

“See you around, shitbag,” Miles says over his shoulder.  “Oh - and you’d better pack yourself a sandwich tomorrow, ‘cause I’ll be taking your lunch money.  I’m sure you don’t wanna take that walk up to the quarry with me, right?”  

Jonah picks up his glasses, grumbling under his breath.  The boys stride away laughing.

It isn’t the first time I had seen the bully and his goons abusing him.  I descend to the ground, make my way out of the graveyard and approach him. 

“Are you all right?” I say, offering a hand.

“Where did you come from?” Jonah looks me up and down.  “I’ve never seen you before.”  He glances toward the graveyard and then over at the nearest structure; a burned-out house silhouetted against the twilight sky just up the road.

“I was just - passing by when I saw those boys assaulting you.  I’m Fergus.  What’s your name?”

I can see by his expression that he doesn’t know what to make of me.  With a slight shake of his head, he lets me help him up, then starts picking up the pieces of his project.  I help him until we recover all but the smallest scraps.  He shrugs on his book bag, then picks up the shattered model and looks at me guardedly.

“Thanks.  I’m Jonah, by the way.”

“Do you want me to walk with you?”  

“Nah.  I’m good, thanks.”  He frowns and starts walking away.

”What if those idiots come back for more?”

“Well, I don’t know how much help you’d be.  But come along if you want.  I’m just up here around the corner.”

We walk together in the darkening twilight.  The air is thick with the damp, earthy smell of fallen leaves.  An owl calls dolefully from a hedgerow behind the abandoned home.  Jonah warms up a little and seems curious about me.  We’re about the same size.  He’s sixteen years old and I’m eighteen.  Well, I look eighteen.  That was twenty-seven years ago when everything changed.

Jonah asks me some questions and I answer them as honestly as I can.  But I know if I’m completely forthcoming it may frighten him.  He may just write me off as a crazy person and never allow himself to trust me.  I like him, and I begin to hope that we can be frends.  It’s nice to feel hopeful about something.

He seems comfortable sharing details about his life, too.   He warms up to me fairly quickly, giving me the sense that he’s probably short on friendly interaction.  He lives with his mother in a little rented house.  His father abandoned them when Jonah was still an infant.  He is a bookworm, spending most of his free time in libraries and working as a tech assistant for his school’s drama club.

He reminds me of myself at that age.  My father had raised me as best he could on his own.  My mother died shortly after I was born.  I was also skinny and nerdy and bookish.  And I had been bullied as well.  Severely.

“So, this is me,” he said, stopping in front of a small bungalow.  Several windows are already shining, pushing back the early November darkness. 

“Jonah, before I go, I have to ask you - about this bully situation.  How long are you going to let them treat you that way?”

“What choice do I have?  Miles alone is more than I can handle.  If I try to stand up to him and his two chain monkeys, I’m dead.”

“Did I hear him say something about a quarry?”

“Oh – there’s an abandoned stone quarry just up the hill from his house.  It has a really deep reservoir.  He’s always saying that if I give him any trouble, he’ll take me up there and do something to me.”  

“Do you think he means it?”

“I doubt it.”  Jonah shrugs.  “I don’t know.  But I’d rather not find out.”

“Right.”

“Okay, Fergus.  Well thanks for checking on me.  Maybe see you around.”

“You bet.  Have a good night.”

I watch Jonah go up his walk and into the house, then I look ahead in the direction Miles and his pals went.  In the distance, I can see that they have parted ways.  At the next intersection, Miles has turned right, and his sidekicks turned left.  

I think about my life as I walk to catch up with Miles.  The truth is that I am caught somewhere between the worlds of the living and the dead, with dealings in both, yet a proper resident of neither.  I have been stuck in this existential conundrum for the last twenty-seven years. 

My destiny was sealed in high school, where one fateful afternoon, four boys ambushed me in a heavily wooded area on a trail we used walk to and from school.  They beat me severely, dragged me into the underbrush a few yards off the trail, and left me bleeding and unconscious.  When I came to my senses, it was dark, and a strange weight was bearing down on me.  I was paralyzed by a sensation of pain and restraint.

I remember pushing against the weight and capturing a momentary glimpse of a female figure with dark eyes, black hair, and something dark running down her chin.  But as I regained full consciousness, the sensations ended, and the figure vanished.  

I got myself up and limped home, took a shower and threw my clothes in the wash.  After my shower I discovered two large puncture marks on the side of my neck.   Sensitive to the touch, red and swollen, they looked absurdly like the calling cards of all of the vampires I had ever seen in movies and on TV.  It seemed impossible at first, but to my horror, over the next several days and weeks, I had to accept reality.  I have lived the life of a vampire ever since.

At first, I used the primal, time-tested method of biting necks.  Unfortunately, I did not possess the looks or charisma to charm potential victims into a classic vampire embrace.  So, I often relied on trickery, ambush, or the use of my new-found invisibility skill.  But it was messy, painful for the victim, and most importantly also turned them into a vampire - a fate far worse than mortal death, speaking from experience, of course.

It took me years to arrive at a better method.  Now I carry a black bag with me when I’m on the hunt.  Inside is a bottle of chloroform and a rag, a variety of IV needles, rubber tubing and several stoppered flasks.  I also carry a razor-sharp boning knife, and a pair of handcuffs, just in case things get dicey.    This method is a huge improvement, as it is cleaner and less traumatic to the victim.  I put them to sleep and extract two or three pints of blood, some of which I can take away with me, allowing me to extend the feeding cycle.  

Within a few minutes I have nearly caught up to Miles.  I am within earshot of him when he turns into what I assumed to be his driveway.  A small yard lamp glows in front of the house.

“Miles?”  He stops and half-turns toward my voice.  “Miles?” a little louder.

“Yes?  Who’s there?” he answers with a very un-bully like quaver in his voice.

“A friend.” I step into the lamplight.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“What friend?”

“Jonah.”

“That four-eyed puss is no friend of mine.” Miles spit, turned on his heel, and started toward the house.  I reach out, grab him by the elbow and spin him back around.  He glares at me. “You’d better walk away right now, friend.  Or you’ll be sorry you didn’t.”

“Oh, I’ll leave, but not before you and I have a little chat.”

“Okay.  I warned you.”  He drops his backpack, raises his fists, rears back, and takes a hard swing at me.

I immediately blink to invisibility and move.  By the time Mile’s fist reaches the place he expects my jaw to be, he is swinging at thin air and screwing himself into the ground.

“Oh, no – too slow,” I say smirking from the other side of the driveway.

Miles looks at me with his eyes and mouth wide open.  His face is a mask of surprise and disbelief.  “Y-y-you. W-w-what just happened?”  

“Listen closely.  This is a warning.  I may not look it, but I am a very dangerous person.  I’ve seen a lot of death, and you don’t want me for an enemy.  You will stop bullying Jonah.  You will never touch him again.  Do you understand?”

He indicated his agreement by nodding very slowly.

“Swear it!”

“I swear.”

“Good.  Now go kiss your mommy and go to bed.”

Just for final effect, I immediately blink to invisibility.  But I don’t move.  Miles stands there for a long moment gaping at the place I had been a second earlier.  Then, as if waking from a bad dream, he grabs his backpack and runs for the house, moaning.

Over the next few weeks, Jonah and I begin to spend more time together.  I make a point of keeping a close watch of his comings and goings.  Many evenings, I meet him at the bus stop and walk home with him.  Whenever we come in close contact with Miles, I always make eye contact to show him I’m watching him.

Jonah eventually feels comfortable enough to invite me home and introduce me to his mother.   She seems a little guarded about me at first, but I’m always on my best behavior, and she comes to accept me as a welcomed companion for Jonah. 

Thanksgiving holiday came around, and I didn’t see Jonah for a few days.  It was just as well.  I was due for a feeding, and I try to avoid human contact with anyone other than potential prey as the urge to feed can make me dangerous.  It was something I had to take care of a few times a month.  Feeding on human blood is by far the most unpleasant part of being a vampire.  That is, apart from the eternal half-life as a slave to the relentless urge to do it.

The most glaring misconception about vampires is the idea that we are somehow privileged to enjoy the blessing of immortality.  Believe me, it is no privilege, and it is certainly not a blessing.  As a matter of fact, I am exhausted with it. I am more than ready to die.  But I need to do something good (relatively speaking), before I go.  

The Sunday night after Thanksgiving I got back to my crypt a little earlier than usual and fell asleep before sunrise, so I missed seeing Jonah at the bus stop the next morning.  That evening, I am in my usual spot on top of the mausoleum as the late activity bus pulls up.  Miles and his squad pop out first this time and head up the sidewalk doing their usual mindless grab-ass routine.  There is a long moment before Jonah comes down the steps.  He walks very slowly as the bus pulls away, and I go to the road to meet him.

“Hello Jonah.”

“Hey.”  He seems subdued, walking with his head down.  I reach out and stop him, gently turning his shoulder toward me.  His glasses are broken, and his left eye is blackened.  His lower lip is cut and badly swollen.  “What happened?”

“Miles and his minions used me for a punching bag this morning at the bus stop.”

“What?”

“Yep.  He said you threatened him.  Because of me.”

“Well, we had a conversation.  I told him to leave you alone.”

“Well, you see how that turned out.  Thanks.”

I feel furious and guilty and don’t know what to say.  But I know what I have to do.  I grasp Jonah by the shoulders.

“Look.  I’m going to handle this.  You might not see me for a while.  But I’ll be thinking of you.  You’re going to be fine.  Take care of yourself, Jonah.”

He nods silently.  I turn and walk quickly back to the crypt and pick up my black bag.  I climb outside, disappear, and set out at top speed to find Miles and his posse.  

After Miles and the two boys part ways, I catch up to him and follow him closely until he is nearly home.  Just before he reaches his driveway, I move ahead of him and draw my boning knife from my bag. I turn and wait until he is only a few steps from me and then I apparate immediately in front of him.  The knife is leveled at his chest.

“Hello Miles.”

He jumps and turns white as a ghost.  Then he sees the knife.

“W- what’s this about?”

“Don’t be stupid.  I just saw Jonah.  I guess you forgot about our agreement.  Did you think I was bluffing when I warned you to leave him alone?”

Miles shrugs.

“Well, I wasn’t.  Now, Jonah told me about the old quarry up the hill from here.  He said you threatened to take him up there to see it sometime.  Why don’t you and I take a walk up there together?”

“Oh, well – it’s a long hike.  I don’t know if I can get there in the dark.”

“It’s not that far.  I’ve been there before.  The dark won’t be any problem.  Let’s go.”

I give him a short jab with the knife to move him along, and he stumblingly starts up the hill.   About an hour later we break out of the trees onto a wide, flat table rock.  The moonlight looks beautiful reflecting off the surface of the water.

I get behind Miles and guide him toward the edge of the cliff, which slopes gently toward the reservoir.

“Get down on your knees.  Now lay on your stomach with your hands behind your back.”

I pull the cuffs out of my bag and secure his hands.  Using the chloroform, I soak the rag, then reach around and hold it tightly over his nose and mouth until he goes limp. I uncuff him, spin him around so his feet are toward the water, then rig IV needles with long rubber hoses to each of his arms.  Once the needles are inserted, I lay the hoses out toward the water, so they dangle down over the cliff’s edge and let them run.  

As Mile’s life blood drips into the water below, I sit back and listen.  I’m not proud to say it, but I enjoy that sound tremendously, thinking about all of the bullies who tormented me when I was a kid, and imagining that it was their blood leaving their bodies.  Then suddenly, it stops.  The lapping of the water against the base of the cliff and the plaintive call of an owl from across the reservoir are the only sounds in the world.  It feels like a moment outside of time.

I sit there for quite a while, thinking about Jonah’s life and my own life.  I wonder about what I may have experienced if things had been different.  But it is over now. 

I stand and gather stones and rocks, then stuff them into Miles’ shirt and pants and roll him off the edge of the cliff.  His body hits the water with a loud splash.  I watch it sink further and further into the cold spring water until it goes out of sight, still sinking, into the black depths.  I also put a few rocks into my bag and throw it far out into the water.

It is almost dawn.  I walk slowly around the west side of the reservoir until I find a young ash tree with a clear view of the eastern sky.  I sit near it and clap one hand cuff around my right wrist.  Reaching around the tree I put the other cuff on my left wrist, and wait for the rising sun to take me.