A Long Winter’s Fright:

13 FREE Holiday Poems & Stories

By Rusty Fischer, author of Zombies Don’t Cry

Copyright © 2011 by Rusty Fischer

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events

portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or,

if real, are used fictitiously. (You know, except for the parts about the

zombies, vampires and werewolves – they’re totally true!)

Cover credit: © zzzdim – Fotolia.com

Author’s Note

The following is a collection of 13 FREE undead short stories.

Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the

fault of the zombies, with a little help from the vampires this year. (And

don’t even get me started on how the werewolves feel about the whole

editorial process, either!)

Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find;

enjoy!

Table of Contents

• Introduction

• Zombies Don’t Trick or Treat: A Living Dead Halloween Poem

• The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume: A Werewolf Halloween

Story

• Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving: A Vampire Thanksgiving

Story

• Zombies Don’t Gobble: A Living Dead Thanksgiving Poem

• The Werewolf On Thanksgiving: A Werewolf Thanksgiving

Poem

• Oh Tannenbrain: A Living Dead Christmas Poem

• Zombies Don’t Carve: A Living Dead Christmas Story

• Pin the Nose on the Werewolf: A Werewolf Christmas Story

• A Very Vampire Holiday: A Vampire Christmas Story

• Zombies Don’t Jingle: A Living Dead Christmas Poem

• The Vampire’s Night Before Christmas: A Vampire Christmas

Poem

• Zombies Don’t Pop: A Living Dead New Year’s Eve Poem

• The Vampire’s Valentine: A Vampire’s Valentine’s Day Story

• About the Author: Rusty Fischer

Introduction

I’ve always enjoyed a good scare over the holidays.

How about you?

I hope so, because A Long Winter’s Fright contains thirteen of my

most popular, most FREE poems and stories about zombies, vampires

and, now, with a little extra werewolf thrown in for good measure.

(Okay, a LOT of extra werewolf thrown in for good measure!)

So curl up by the fire, grab a little blood wine or a brain smoothie,

and enjoy these not-so-sweet holiday treats!

Zombies Don’t Trick or Treat:

A Living Dead Halloween Poem

The zombies were out

For a fun, festive night;

There were goblins and ghouls

And witches in sight.

Over there was a demon

His legs warm as toast;

Down that street’s a pumpkin

Down that one’s a ghost.

No, it wasn’t Armageddon

Or a monster’s pot luck;

It was the one mortal night

That didn’t quite… suck!

That’s right, little ghosties

It was… Halloween;

The creepiest, crawliest

Living dead scene!

Poor Chester was frightened

He was new to this town;

And ever since dying

Poor Chester’d been down.

He wasn’t quite used

To being undead;

If he had his way

He’d be living… instead.

His friends liked being zombies

They found it quite cool;

But all Chester felt

Was like one giant fool!

He hated his hairdo

He hated his skin;

He hated the fact

That he could no longer grin.

His legs they were stiff

His arms were quite chilly;

And stumbling around

Just made Chester feel… silly.

Tonight might be different

Poor Chester agreed;

As he watched other kids

Look as foolish as he.

For each one looked goofy

For each one looked grim;

For each one looked not

Quite much better than… him!

“But where are they going?”

He asked of a bud;

Who looked at him like

He had the IQ of a spud.

“They’re all trick or treating,”

Was the answer he gave;

“Or have you forgotten,

Since you rose from the grave?”

“I seem to recall,”

Little Chester did say;

“Of begging for candy

On Halloween day.”

“Let’s give it a try,”

His buddy made it sound like a synch;

“Chocolate’s not as good as brains

But it’ll do in a pinch.”

Chester shrugged

And followed his friend;

As they shuffled and groaned

Up the long driveway’s end.

The lawn was festooned

With orange and black;

The setting quite ripe

For a zombie attack!

The young man who stood

At his cozy front door;

Thought the zombies on his porch

Wore costumes; nothing more.

He smiled,

They shuffled;

He sniffed

And he snuffled.

“I quite love your costumes,”

He said with a smile.

“But your breath I smelled coming

For more than a mile!”

When the man tried to offer

A bowl full of candy;

All Chester could smell

Was his brain oh-so-dandy.

He reached for the bowl

But dropped it instead;

And as the man bent to catch it

Clamped onto his head.

“But why?” asked the man

Squealing in pain;

“Why bother with candy,” Chester said

“When my treat is… your brain!”

The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume:

A FREE Halloween Short Story by Rusty Fischer

“I’m just gonna put this out there now,” I murmur as I pull away

from his curb, Topher riding shotgun in his standard crisp black jeans

and matching v-neck t-shirt, “but… I am so not impressed with your

costume this year.”

Forget Halloween, dude wears the same damn thing every single

day and must do six loads of laundry every week because they always

look brand spanking new.

Topher smiles his cheesy, knowing grin and says, “Trust me, Rain,

you’re not ready for my Halloween costume.”

I make that annoying scary movie “ooooohhhhh” sound, waving

my fingers above the steering wheel dramatically as I roll down Mott

Street.

“Why, are you going as a male stripper and have to do a pole

dance at every door because, seriously, that’s about the only thing would

impress me at this point.”

He smirks but I turn away slightly to hide the sudden blush that’s

blossomed from my throat to my forehead.

(Whoa, where did that come from?)

He shakes his head, unruly black curls doing their unruly black

curly thing. “Hey, at least I don’t cop out completely and wear one of

those cheesy ‘This IS My Costume’ T-shirts like you know Braxton’s

going to.”

I shake my head, limp chestnut hair not doing much but staying in

place as I cruise over to the wrong-ish side of town to pick up Braxton.

“Yeah, well, at least the dude’s trying. This is… just… pitiful.”

I make a kind of half-hearted gesture with my free hand toward the

passenger seat where Topher is reclining, smiling, fiddling with the

simple crystal pendant he always wears, the one tied loosely around his

graceful neck with a cheap leather thong.

As if remembering he’s not driving himself, Topher finally looks

over and chuckles.

“I’m pitiful?” he barks, leaning back against the passenger seat

door to get a better look. “I’m pitiful? What do you call… that?”

The way he’s eyeing me up and down, from toenails to earlobes,

I’m assuming “that” is my costume.

You know, what there is of it.

“I’m supposed to be a French maid,” I say, sliding my little feather

duster out from the cup holder in the door panel and waving it, wand-

like, in the air for emphasis.

“Since when did the French start hiring hookers to clean their

houses?”

He laughs at his own joke, but won’t stop looking just the same.

Part of me hates him right now; part of me really, really wants him

to keep looking.

My face goes pink again and he says, softer this time, “I’m sorry,

Rain, it’s just… I’ve never seen so… much… of you before.”

The pumpkin beer I’d snatched from Dad’s cooler before I left the

house just now has me feeling slightly frisky so I purr, “What… are you

complaining?”

“Actually,” he says, sounding vaguely shocked. “No. I kind of like

it.”

“Yeah, well,” I snort, focusing on my driving since I’ve been kind

of distracted for the last few minutes, “let’s just hope the judges like it.”

“What judges?” he asks lazily, like he does everything else.

“Seriously, Topher? The judges at the costume party we’re going

to tonight. For Halloween, remember? We’ve only talked about this for,

like, the last sixteen lunch periods straight.”

He looks a little miffed, whether at me or just at himself I’m not

quite sure.

“Well, why didn’t you remind me?” he whines a little, shaking

those short little curls. “I would’ve actually, you know, worn

something!”

“It’s too late now,” I grunt, pulling into Braxton’s grody apartment

building, dodging kids playing football in the parking lot and dumpsters

still left out from trash day. “Hopefully Braxton will pull out all the

stops and… nope… there he is, and he’s—”

“Wearing the same ‘This IS My Halloween Costume’ T-shirt as

last year,” Topher smiles, getting out and climbing in back to give

Braxton and his 260-pounds the shotgun seat, as usual.

“Nice costume,” Braxton wheezes as he hoists himself in.

“What’s it to you?” Topher bluffs from behind our seats as I help

Braxton buckle himself in.

Braxton and I share a look before he turns around and says, “We

were going to try and win that prize money and split it, remember?”

“No,” Topher says quietly, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror

as I wait for traffic to die down so I can get back on the road. “I honestly

don’t.”

Braxton shakes his head, long blond hair coming down to the

shoulders of his size XXL Halloween shirt. “A hundred bucks each

would really help out right about now, you know Topher?”

“The grand prize for the Costume Contest is $300 this year?”

Topher asks, and I swear it’s like he’s hearing this for the very first time.

Braxton and I share another glance, but say nothing.

“Come on,” Topher suddenly urges as we come out the other side

of the Cedar Cove Arms apartment complex. “Let’s swing by the drug

store and see if they have anything good left. We can totally still win

that money.”

“What do you care?” I harrumph, turning in the opposite direction

toward the community center on Maple Street.

His brown eyes are pleading in the rearview mirror as I meet them

again. “Honestly, guys, I totally forgot all about the grand prize. Come

on, let’s—”

“It’s too late anyway,” says Braxton, chewing on a breath mint

from his pocket. “The Rotary Club won’t let you in after 7, costume or

no, so…”

As if on cue, we all look at the digital clock above my busted

dashboard radio: we don’t even have ten minutes to spare, and the drug

store is in the totally opposite direction.

Topher goes silent as the community center suddenly rolls into

view.

“I don’t know why you’re suddenly freaking out now,” says

Braxton, chewing on mint number four. “You had all week to get

ready.”

“You too,” Topher shoots back.

Braxton rolls his eyes. “You know how hard it is to find a costume

in my size? Besides, I spent all week helping Rain with her hooker

costume.”

“French maid,” I remind the two of them as Topher finally cracks a

smile from the backseat.

As I cruise around the crowded parking lot, hoping to find a spot

somewhere within the same time zone, Braxton turns to Topher and

asks, “What’s got you so distracted this year, anyway?”

I slow down and sneak a peek at non-costume boy just as Topher

shrugs and replies, “Halloween’s falling on a full moon this year.”

“Doesn’t it always?” Braxton huffs, turning back around and

pointing to a free space clear at the edge of the parking lot.

“Have you ever tried hiking three miles in four-inch heels?” I bark,

turning around for another pass. “There will be one closer.”

“Only in movies,” Topher insists. “This is the first time there’s

been a full moon on Halloween since, well…”

But I’m too busy trying to find a good space to hear the distress in

Topher’s voice, and Braxton’s chewing so loud on the last of his breath

mints – please, let it be the last of his breath mints – that I can barely

hear him anyway.

I finally find a spot – not really, but what are they gonna do, tow a

12-year-old Datsun on Halloween? – on a slim patch of grass by the

grease trap behind the Community Center.

We climb out of the tiny car and stretch our backs at the same

time.

Around us stream much cooler kids with tons better costumes, and

suddenly all chances of cashing in on that 300 buck prize go right out

the window.

Sure, Topher looks statuesque in his daily black getup and

matching curls, but it’s not a hot body contest, you know?

And me?

I feel suddenly ridiculous in my skimpy French maid costume,

particularly considering the chill in the air and how it’s washing across

my mostly bare derriere.

Yes, there’s a frilly black skirt covering my butt cheeks and, of

course, the obligatory fish net stockings up and down my long legs but

for a girl who’s used to about 22 more “layers” on a regular school day,

I might as well be skinny dipping (minus the pool).

As they have before school, and during school, and after school

ever since we started hanging out together freshman year, the boys flank

me; Topher on my right, Baxter on my left.

“I’m sorry I forgot,” Topher whispers as a walking shower curtain

passes by, a shoo-in for the Most Creative Prize. “I just… I’ve had a lot

on my mind this month.”

“It’s okay,” I say as we wait for Baxter to grab a pumpkin spice

cocoa from a booth by the ticket window. “It’s not for me so much I’m

trying to win, but… I know Bax is trying to fix his laptop and he’s

having a hard time getting that last hundred bucks together, you know?”

Topher nods, gravely, a pained look on his face.

“No worries,” I chuckle, nudging him. “A few more weeks without

being online 24-7 won’t kill the guy. Heck, it might even do him some

good.”

“No,” he sighs, fingering his crystal necklace nervously. “I know

how much that computer means to him. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have

been so selfish.”

I lean into him then, the black fabric of my frilly short skirt rustling

against the stiff denim of his jeans. “I’d hardly call flaking on your

Halloween costume selfish, dude. We’re just kidding with you.”

“I’m not,” Baxter winks, handing us each a hot chocolate. “I was

really counting on that dough. If we don’t win, Topher, I’m going to

start crashing with you and using your computer.”

Topher and I groan as I pay our way in.

The Community Center is decked out gaily with black and orange

streamers and blinking orange lights in every available nook and cranny.

There are plastic skeletons hanging from the rafters and black rats

stuck on every beam and a wisp of fog from a machine humming near

the kitchen wafts across everyone’s feet.

Kids from school cluster in groups along the (fake) cobweb-

covered walls, as if we’re all sitting back in the cafeteria at Cedar Cove

High.

But it’s not a school function so there are grownups mingling as

well, most of them decked out in standard costumes plucked straight

from the racks of the nearest Mart: there’s a husband and wife decked

out like mustard and ketchup squeezers, a guy wearing a giant whoopee

cushion and, of course, a dozen or more Jasons, Michaels and

Ghostfaces from Scream.

“You might have a shot after all, Rain,” Topher says, breath sweet

like cocoa and nutmeg and warm as he leans in a little closely.

“Yeah,” Baxter groans, pointing across the room at a cluster of

clingy, leggy chicks from school. “You and the three other French Maids

here tonight.”

Sure enough, Molly Simmons, Caroline Gecko and Tracy Pollack

all chose to wear matching French Maid getups, each one looking hotter

than the last – and way hotter than me.

I turn around and head straight for the snack table, Topher and

Braxton racing to catch up.

We feast on walnut peanut butter cookies and frozen apple ciders

as spooky, scary songs mixed to a syntho-beat turn the covered

basketball court into a frantic dance floor where giant ketchup containers

dance with whoopee cushions and sexy Snow Whites.

“Careful,” Braxton warns around a mouth full of peanut butter

bars, “you have to be able to fit in that costume at least until the

contest’s over.”

“Who knows?” I say back, mouth full of candy corn. “My only

chance of winning might be as a naked French maid?!?!”

Braxton’s laughing so hard I’m afraid he’s going to choke, so I

look left and right for Topher, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Where’s Mr. No Costume?” I ask when we’ve both swallowed.

“He had to take a leak,” Braxton says subtly.

“But he’ll miss the Costume Contest,” I whine, watching from

across the room as the Mayor of Cedar Cove, North Carolina takes to the

stage and starts fiddling with the microphone stand.

“What’s he gonna miss?” Braxton asks, turning to join me as we

face the stage. “Worst Costume of the Last Century?”

We chuckle but I gaze nervously toward the restrooms as the

crowd kind of surges us helplessly along toward the stage.

I try to hold back, waiting for Topher, but it’s either move forward

or be trampled and how will I ever seduce Topher from inside an iron

lung, so… onward I go.

I watch anxiously as Mayor Murphy makes a big speech about

how “proud” he is of the night’s huge attendance, or everyone’s

“holiday spirit” and “creative energy.”

We all kind of gold clap each time he pauses because he seems to

expect it, but really we all just want to know: who won?

As I secretly cross my fingers behind my frilly lace skirt, the

Mayor starts calling folks up to the stage.

My fingers cross tighter and tighter as one by one ketchup bottles

and whoopee cushions and gladiators and sexy Snow Whites slink to the

stage, not a single French maid asked to join them, least of all me.

At last, five contestants stand nervously behind the Mayor as he

announces, “And now, back by popular demand, I’m going to open the

floor up to one final contestant who you get to vote on collectively,

gang. So look around, folks, is there anyone you see standing next to

you, perhaps, or even across the room who deserves to win this contest

more than these brave folks already standing on stage?”

As if on cue, a giant roar rips through the Community Center.

Chicks, children and Baxter scream as the crowd parts to make

room for the thundering presence that has suddenly announced itself.

The roaring grows louder and louder as I spot giant, hairy

shoulders and a growling, sneering, gnashing head rotates from side to

side.

“Dang,” wheezes Baxter, impressed enough to pull the giant

orange lollipop he’s been sucking on away from his face for a better

look. “That is one convincing werewolf costume.”

“Werewolf?” I blurt, adrenaline pumping. “I thought it was a black

bear on steroids!”

“No,” Baxter argues, as if I was really serious. “Check out the

teeth and is that… dang, dude even sprung for the lifelike drool hanging

off his fangs. That had to set him back at least two bills, Rain!”

The howling grows more ferocious as, without asking, the

werewolf grinds and gnashes and claws and paws and generally menaces

his way to the stage.

His giant, massive, muscular fingers grip the two metal rails on

either side of the rough wooden steps as he clomps and chomps his way

up to the stage.

Mr. Ketchup bottle faints.

Mrs. Mustard bottle swoons.

Whoopee Cushion guy, no lie, messes himself (I think).

And sexy Snow White literally stage dives into the crowd, the only

problem being… no more crowd.

She lands on the suddenly empty dance floor with a sickening

thud, something maybe, possibly snaps but then she groans and begins

crawling out of the way so at least we know she’s okay.

You know; sort of.

That leaves only Mayor Murphy and Werewolf Guy still on stage,

expensive – according to Baxter – fake drool drizzling down his fake

fangs, although I have to say they look pretty darn real to me.

In fact, the whole dang costume looks pretty much Grade-A, A-list

Hollywood Movie Monster Makeup good.

We’re talking muscles moving in his feet, kneecaps bulging and

about as big as most bowling balls, shoulders as broad and hairy as

Viking defensive lineman – the actual race of Nordic warriors, not the

football team (not that those dudes are too shabby, but… seriously, dude

is cut).

And that hair.

It is some kind of authentic.

“Where would you get hair like that?” I ask Baxter, who’s busy

cramming his mouth with popcorn balls as if he’s front and center at a

double creature feature.

Where is Topher?

I cannot believe a monster movie fan of his proportions is missing

all this!

“It’s gotta be real,” Baxter says clinically, admiring the seven foot

tall creature’s glistening black hair, which covers his bulging muscles

and most of his wicked looking face.

Wolfie’s eyes glow a fierce, brownish yellow to match his giant,

six-inch fangs.

His snout is gleaming and leathery, the dark brown color of my

Dad’s favorite deck shoes.

His chest heaves in and out with the effort of breathing and

growling and snorting; it’s amazing Mayor Murphy hasn’t bolted with

the rest of the contestants.

“Well,” he chuckles nervously, signaling to someone off stage. “I

guess that just about seals it. Due to the fainting, fleeing and jumping

offstage of the rest of the contestants, this year’s winner of the grand

prize of $300 is, well, The Wolfman!”

Suddenly a timid bank clerk-ish type woman, complete with a mint

green business suit and crooked bifocals trembles her way onstage,

bearing the biggest check I’ve ever seen.

Mayor Murphy grabs it, poses for a few photos with some clown

from the local newspaper, waving the Wolfman over as he hands off the

check.

The Wolfman’s paws are so authentic, so real, they actually kind

of pierce the check where he grabs it in the top two corners.

“Uh oh,” says the Mayor, noticing. “I hope the bank takes that.

You know, damaged check and all.”

He’s chuckling but the Wolfman growls, silencing the Mayor and

piercing the crowd – the timid, cringing, half-empty-now crowd – with

those blazing yellow eyes.

The drool drips, the teeth gleam beneath snarling lips as that

massive werewolf head scans the crowd, slowly, slowly until it stops to

find Baxter and I literally clinging to each other.

There is a deafening howl, then a snort and a sniff, as the werewolf

keens and bounds offstage, four paws tearing up the steps as he holds the

check by one corner in his drooling, giant teeth, the way a dog will drag

an empty food bowl to his master.

With that, silence reins, except for the occasional snort and snuffle

as the werewolf beats a hasty retreat toward the Fire Exit down the hall

offstage left.

“Dang,” admires Baxter, finally unclenching his giant, massive

mitt from my bare forearm. “I could have sworn he was howling at you,

Rain!”

“Me?” I blurt, inching toward the stage. “You were right there with

me.”

“Yeah, but he was looking at you.”

I turn, only to find Baxter back to grazing through the now empty

buffet line.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Nervous eating,” he explains, mouth already full. “Besides, half

the town left when the Wolfman showed up. Now’s my chance for some

of Mrs. Sherman’s famous candy corn bark!”

I ignore him, food the last thing on my mind now as I inch closer

to the stage.

Snow White is gone, Mr. Ketchup Bottle is finally coming to but

there’s something shiny and glistening at the foot of the stage that I want

to check out before things get back to normal.

It looks so familiar, I can’t take my eyes off it.

Then, a few steps closer, I realize why; it’s Topher’s necklace,

snapped in the back.

No, not snapped; more like torn off, totally.

I pocket it, knowing he’s never without it and will want it back,

ASAP, once he finds out it’s gone.

The thing is… where’d it come from?

I can’t remember seeing it before the Wolfman showed up, but… if

Topher’s been in the bathroom this whole time then… who dropped it?

And why?

Suddenly, I hear his familiar voice saying, “Hey, where’d

everybody go?”

“What?” I blurt, seeing his handsome face smirking as he emerges,

at last, from the restroom, still zipping his black jeans up, his hair a little

messy and his face flushed. “Are you kidding me, dude? You totally

missed THE most authentic werewolf costume you’re ever going to see

in your ENTIRE lifetime. I swear, you and your disappearing acts. I’m

really starting to wonder about you—”

“What’s that?” he asks, reaching out to gently clasp my hand.

I open my fingers to reveal his necklace.

“You must have dropped it in your haste to use the little boy’s

room,” I joke, handing it back.

“Thanks,” he says, looking me in the eyes.

For just a moment there, a flash of yellow merges with the brown.

But by the time I blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing things,

it’s gone.

It’s gone and so are we.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask as he drags me back toward the

restrooms.

“It’s the weirdest thing,” he says, pulling me close so Baxter won’t

hear. Although, good luck; dude’s on Round 3 – or is it 4 – at the buffet

line. “But, as I was coming out of the bathroom, this dude in a werewolf

costume handed me… this.”

As we round the corner there, leaning against the vending machine

in the back of the Community Hall, is the giant check for $300!

“Well, where’d the dude go?” I ask, standing next to the check. It

basically comes up to my shoulders, it’s so big.

“I dunno,” Topher shrugs, looking at me funny. “Last I looked, he

was heading out the emergency exit toward Old Man Grossman’s farm.

Before he left, he told me to keep it. When I asked him why, he just

growled ‘Happy Halloween’ and bolted out the back door. Weird, huh?”

His face is slightly flushed, a sure sign he’s lying; or high, or

nervous, or sad, or scared or any of the 101 emotions that passes across

Topher’s face twelve times a day.

I can never read the dude. It must be one of the 101 reasons I’m

crushing on him so hard lately.

“Should… should we really keep it?” I ask.

“Why not?” he huffs, grabbing it and sticking his hand right in the

puddle of werewolf drool at the top corner. “Gross!”

“Look at those bite marks,” I crow, marveling at the two inch-wide

holes in the opposite corner of the check.

“I guess you were right,” he chuckles, carrying the check out to

Baxter. “That was one authentic costume.”

Folks along the way – the dozen or two who didn’t flee for the

main exit the minute the Wolfman showed up, that is – pat Topher on

the back, assuming it was him beneath the scary werewolf suit all along.

He tries to explain but everybody’s happy or buzzed or has their

mouth full and aren’t buying it anyway.

Finally he shrugs as I grab Baxter away from the food line.

With a candy apple in one hand and a complimentary barf bag in

the other, he follows dutifully.

Only when we’re outside, trying to fit the giant check into my pint-

size Datsun, does a questioning glance cross his face.

But the first question out of his mouth is the last one I’d expect.

“What happened to your necklace, dude?” Baxter asks as Topher

holds it in his hand instead of wearing it around his neck.

My heart pounds as he explains, “These cheap thongs, you know,

they’re always breaking.”

Baxter shrugs and says, “Yeah, well, now that you’ve got an extra

hundred bucks, you can buy all the cheap crystal necklaces you want!”

“Naw,” Topher blushes, handing over the giant check. “The

werewolf dude said you should have it. All of it.”

He looks at me with those questioning brown eyes, as if to ask if

it’s okay.

I make that crumpled “of course” face and roll my eyes, as if he

ever had to ask in the first place.

“What?” Baxter asks, sweat suddenly popping out on his broad,

red forehead. “What for? Why? How did werewolf guy know… me?”

Topher looks at Baxter admiring the check, then looks over at me

and winks.

“You got me,” he groans, voice suddenly hoarse and all kinds of

sexy. “Maybe he works at that computer repair shop you’ve been

hounding for the last three weeks!”

“Yeah, right,” Baxter chuckles, wedging into the backseat with the

check resting happily on his lap.

He looks so contented and cheerful, you’d think it was Christmas

morning and not Halloween night.

After we drop him off a few minutes later, Topher and I ride in

silence for a mile or two.

As we near downtown, or what passes for it in tiny Cedar Cove,

anyway, Topher clears his throat and says, “You hungry, Rain?”

I think of all those candy corns I’d downed at the buffet table but

it’s not every day Mr. Strong and Silent opens the door for a dinner date.

Before he can think twice and back out I blurt, “Starved!”

“Me too,” he says, patting his slim, empty belly. “I know I gave

away all the prize money but… what if I treat you to a nice, rare steak at

Delmonico’s anyway?”

“Delmonico’s?” I ask, picturing the ritzy four-star restaurant on the

nice side of town.

“Have you seen how I’m dressed?”

“You look beautiful,” he says, with that low voice of his and those

brown eyes stuck on where the short skirt stalls at my upper thigh. “I’d

be proud to take you anywhere, Rain.”

I see the twinkling lights in the trees and the fancy restaurant’s

parking lot looming into view.

“Screw it,” I say, yanking the car into the half-empty parking lot.

“Maybe they’ll give me half off for showing some Halloween spirit.”

As I park the car and prepare to get out, he stands slowly.

“You all right?” I ask as he unfolds himself from the car like my

grandpa on visiting day at the nursing home.

“Sure, why?”

“Nothing,” I smirk, winking at him.

He seems in no hurry to race inside, so after I lock the car I kind of

lean my arms on the roof and stare over at him.

He does the same, his arms so long our fingers almost touch.

“How come you asked me out to dinner all of a sudden?” I ask.

“I… I… kind of have something to tell you,” he croaks, giving me

the shivers with that sexy new voice of his.

I wink and walk around to his side of the car, grabbing him by the

hand.

“Topher, if you wanted to tell me you were a werewolf, Burger

Barn would’ve done just fine.”

“W-w-what?” he asks, incredulous. “H-h-how did you know?”

I stand next to my car, looking up at him.

“The necklace, for one thing,” I remind him, soft Italian music

wafting from inside as a couple walks through the front door and hurries

to their car. The only time it could have fallen off was when you were

doing your little act on the stage.”

He shakes his head, looking almost… relieved.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” he bluffs.

“Okay, well, how about this…?”

I pull him slightly down, so that he’s facing the passenger side

mirror.

There he sees his right ear, still giant sized and hairy; just like it

was on stage that whole time.

Just like it’s been ever since he ran out of the men’s room, shoving

his black V-neck T-shirt back into his snug black jeans.

“Oh my God!” he blurts, standing back up and covering his mouth.

(Come to think of it, his knuckles are still pretty hairy as well. Or,

wait… are they always like that?)

“D-d-do you think Baxter saw?”

“I think once he saw that check, dude, that was all he saw. Come

on, let’s eat.”

“B-b-but, my ear,” he says, feeling it gingerly; yup, it’s still there.

“Who cares?” I huff, yanking him toward the doorway of Delmonico’s.

“If anybody says anything, we’ll say it’s part of your costume!”

Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving:

A Vampire Thanksgiving Story

She appears out of nowhere.

Just, one minute I’m driving, trying to find something – anything –

other than Christmas music on the radio and, the next, POOF… she’s

there.

I swerve to avoid her but, then I think, “She’s sitting there. Right

there. How do I avoid that?”

“Eyes on the road,” she says in a deep voice.

Not masculine, exactly, but not quite seductive either.

“W-w-where did you come from?” I blather, ridiculously,

sounding like the dumbest coed in the dumbest slasher movie ever made.

“I’ve been here all along,” she explains, hands resting gently in her

lap. “We can do a lot of things, Hector, but… we’re not ghosts. We can’t

just slip through glass windows and rusty truck doors when you’re not

looking.”

“H-h-how did you know my name?”

She snickers and with one pale, cold finger points to my chest.

“It’s on your nametag, silly.”

I look down and, sure enough, there it is.

The road is mostly deserted this time of day, but even if it wasn’t

this time of day, it would still be deserted on this particular day.

The bends of Route 1 sag and stretch along the hilly countryside of

Patchwork, West Virginia.

The countryside is brittle and yellow with the afternoon’s early

frost.

I can still feel it in my fingers after the long hours spent hosing

down the factory floor, my joints creaky and cold despite the gloves

already mildewing in my employee locker.

“So you’re not a ghost,” I find the stones to say just as we pass the

Patchwork Funeral Home, its parking lot empty. “And yet, you pop up

out of thin air. So… what are you?”

“I already told you, I didn’t ‘pop’ out of anywhere. I’ve been

sitting here the entire time. Don’t you listen?”

Her voice is impatient, tired, almost bordering on a sneer.

I like it even less than her raven hair and grave marker pale skin.

“Sorry, it’s a little hard to focus when I’m freaking out, you

know?”

She smirks, black lipstick curling into half a smile.

“And you still haven’t answered my question.”

The truck sails along, heavy under my hand. With last week’s

paycheck in the bank, I finally have a full tank of gas. Plenty to race up

to speed and sail through the fence on old Man Potter’s farm, sailing just

over the property line to crash, passenger side first, into his biggest

pecan tree.

Take that, snarky Goth suddenly appearing girl!

“I’ve been sitting here your entire shift,” she explains as I

gradually begin to accelerate. “I knew you wouldn’t start the truck, let

alone pull out of the parking lot, if you’d seen me so I waited until you

were halfway down the road before allowing you to see me.”

“You can… do that?”

“Of course we can,” she snaps. “But, that’s not what you really

want to know, is it Hector?”

Her voice is cold; colder than the November countryside, colder

than my still-thawing fingers after eight hours on the factory floor.

I hate it.

I hate her.

I don’t care who she is, or what she is, or where she came from.

“Slow down,” she says through barely parted lips.

I glance at the speedometer and see I’ve sped up to nearly 60 miles

per hour.

Not bad for an LA freeway but, here in Bum Stuck, West Virginia,

I might as well be daring a cop to pull me over.

Even if it is Thanksgiving.

“Sorry,” I grumble, stepping slightly off the gas.

Then I think: “Why should I be the one to apologize? I mean, it’s

my car.”

She settles back, thin as a rail and sharply angry in her black jeans

and matching hoodie.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she oozes in that cold, unlikable

voice. “Speed up, aim the car at the nearest tree, hope the crash is less

painful than what I have in store for you.”

“What, you’re a ghost and a mind reader?”

“Slow. Down. Hector.”

Her voice is like steel; cold steel.

I do as I’m told.

I mean, what if she can read my mind?

“I can’t, you know,” she says, a smooth smile oozing across her

frosty face. “Read minds. It’s just, you’re speeding up, you haven’t

taken your eyes off that row of trees up in the distance, so… a girl can

put two and two together, you know?”

I nod, biting my lower lip.

I do that when I’m nervous.

Or, you know, about to face certain death by unidentified stranger.

“So what can you do?” I ask, throat dry, eyes still on that row of

trees up in the distance.

I wish the factory wasn’t so far from town.

There’s nothing out here but pecan trees and rusty barbed wire and

hills and dales and miles and miles of open, empty road.

“Well, I can see myself in your rearview mirror, for one. I can

become invisible, for another. And I can tear your windpipe out with my

fangs if you keep giving me the attitude, how’s that for starters?”

“So… you’re a vampire?”

She nods, quietly, then hisses around two wicked, yellow, curved

fangs.

Kind of like vampire show and tell.

I shake my head, grit my teeth and drive.

“So what now?”

“Well, I thought you’d be more impressed, Hector. I mean, it’s not

every day a vampire shows up riding shotgun.”

“I am impressed. I’m just… more shocked… is all.”

“Shock would be the appropriate response, Hector.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because it’s not every day a vampire shows up riding

shotgun. Sheesh, I thought we just covered this…”

“I mean, why are you here?” I ask. “Why are you sitting here?

Today?”

“I’m glad you asked,” she smiles, almost… purring.

With no other traffic in sight and the road clear for miles, I risk a

second look her way.

She looks young, maybe 17 or 18?

My age, at least.

But there is an air of wisdom about her.

Or maybe just superiority.

She is thin but I can tell, even from the veins in her wrist and the

set of her jaw that she’s wiry, strong… powerful.

“Today is a very special day for vampires, Hector.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“Absolutely. It’s the one day of the year we can feel guilt-free

about dining on humans. Well, certain humans, anyway.”

“What, like you feel guilt?”

I hear the hard edge to my voice and see my knuckles, white on the

wheel.

She turns her head and cuts me an icy glare. “Just because I’m

undead doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings, Hector.”

“Okay,” I snap, a little too quickly. “You’re going to tell me you’re

one of those beatnik vampires who feasts on rats and cows and not

people?”

“Actually, 364 days a year, yes… I don’t eat people. But you’re

lucky; today’s my one exception.”

After a long, deliberate pause she adds icily, “You’re my one

exception.”

I speed up again.

Screw her.

I gun it!

She sighs, and doesn’t move a muscle.

“Go ahead, Hector. Crash your car into the nearest tree. Who do

you think it’s going to hurt? Me? Who’s been alive for the last 200

years? Or you?”

“If I’m going to die, I’d rather die on my own terms.”

“No you wouldn’t, Hector. And besides, who said anything about

dying?”

“You did, lady. You just said you were going to eat me.”

“No I didn’t. And I’m no lady, Hector. My name is Isabelle. My

friends call me ‘Izzy.’”

“Huh, how about your victims? What do they call you?”

“Gurgle, Gurgle Scream?” she jokes. “No, but… seriously. You

can call me Izzy, too.”

“Okay, Izzy, well… you just said I was going to be your one

human victim of the year. So if you’re not going to eat me, what are you

going to do?”

“Give you a choice, that’s what.”

“A choice?”

“Yes, Hector. You can live or die.”

“Live! I choose to live. See ya!”

“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Hector.”

“Oh, I am. It’s just, like you said, not every day a vampire pops up

riding shotgun for no reason.”

Her head snaps around. “You think I’m here for no reason, Hector?

You think I showed up in that parking lot back there, in your truck, for

no reason? Think again, friend.”

“Then what reason, huh? What could I have possibly done to clock

out of work and find a vampire sitting in my truck?”

“You just answered yourself, Hector; you clocked out.”

I shoot her a glance as I zip past another pecan tree and she adds,

“What do you do for a living, Hector?”

“Go to school. I’m a senior at Patchwork High.”

“For work, Hector?” she asks, unimpressed. “What do you do for

work?”

“What, back there? That’s… that’s my winter job. I took it to help

out the family for the holidays. Dad’s on disability since the accident,

Mom works nights at the mall but they cut her hours to make way for all

the seasonal part-timers, so… I took the job at the factory, why?”

“You consider the slaughter of innocents a job?”

I look at her, then smirk.

“Innocents? You mean, the frickin’ turkeys?”

“Yeah, the turkeys. Did you ever think of them before?”

“No, Izzy. Wanna know why? ‘Cause they’re turkeys – ouch!

What the hell?”

I look down to find her hand resting on my thigh, and not in a

frisky-cheerleader-after-the-football-game way, either.

From the tips of her fingers stretch long, black claws; sharp, and

one of them has blood dripping it off of them onto my torn work pants.

Then she moves her hand and I feel the blood trickle down my leg;

slowly, at first, then thicker, faster, like grape jelly oozing over the crust

of a double-decker PB & J.

I look down and see the perfect slice across my inner thigh; clean

and neat, the torn work pants revealing a glistening, oozing flesh wound.

“Turkeys have feelings too, you know?”

“No, I don’t Izzy. Know why? Because I don’t work with the

turkeys, you witch!”

“What? What do you mean? You work at the plant, do you not?”

“Yeah, in custodial! I clean up turkey crap and feathers all day,

hose the bloody walls and belts on the line. I’m 17 years old, you freak!

You think they’re gonna let me slaughter turkeys at my age? Jesus, you

really cut me!”

“Well, I mean…” she’s blathering now, stammering, looking

uncertain for the first time since she appeared out of thin air. “Why

didn’t you say so?”

“I was trying to when you practically sliced my leg in half.”

“Pull over!”

“No way! I’m going to a hospital to get this—”

She reaches over and, with one hand, lifts my leg off the gas pedal

and, with the other, yanks the wheel hard to the right.

We hit the ditch, go up and over and land, embedded, in a long

swatch of barbed wire surrounding Mr. Butterson’s squash farm.

Steam rises from the punctured radiator and hisses green, brackish

water all over the shattered windshield.

“What was that for?” I ask, tasting blood on my tongue.

“Your choice,” she gasps, inching over. “I promised you a choice;

you have to make it. Now, before it’s too late!”

“What choice?”

“Live or die, Hector? Now or never!”

“How about none of the above?”

“Your thigh, Hector; look at it. I’ve severed your femoral artery,

stupid. You have about two minutes before you pass out and never wake

up again.”

“Well, what’d you do that for?”

“Hector! Because, I thought you spent all day getting your jollies

slaughtering Thanksgiving turkeys.”

“What? I could… I’d never… I don’t even eat turkeys, Izzy! I’m a

vegetarian.”

“That’s it,” she grunts, leaning over. “I’m choosing for you!”

Suddenly, she pierces my throat with those grody yellow fangs.

They slide in, not quite like butter, but smoothly, no doubt.

There is a warm sensation, kind of like the tickle you get between

your toes when you feel that annual rash of athlete’s foot halfway

through every football season; then… nice.

Just… nice.

“I’m sorry,” she is saying, over and over, as she pulls back from

me, wiping blood – wiping my blood – off her thick, black painted lips

and onto her thin black sleeve. “I thought you were one of those turkey

killers! Oh dear. Well, at least you won’t die now.”

“I won’t?” I ask, my voice sounding far away.

“No, Hector; never. Not anymore.”

“Okay,” I sigh, blinking at her.

Her face grows blurry, then comes back into focus.

Before it goes blurry again she says, “Rest, Hector, and when you

wake back up, we’ll be somewhere far, far away from here.”

“But I like it here,” I sigh, the barren West Virginia landscape

yellow and frosty beyond my shattered windshield. “Wait, no; not really.

I hate it here. But… my folks. The money; they’ll need it after I’m

gone.”

“You’ll send them money, Hector; we both will. Just, rest for

now…”

I look down at my shirt, see the blood gush down my throat and

across my nametag.

The nametag that reads “Hector.”

Just below the name of the company I work for: Patchwork Poultry

Factory.

Where I used to work, hosing down the turkey pens and shoveling

turkey crap.

I feel the energy draining from me now, the life – my old life –

bleeding out.

I blink my eyes open to find Izzy, smiling; smiling.

She looks almost pretty when she smiles.

You know, aside from my blood still drying on her fangs…

Zombies Don’t Gobble:

A Living Dead Thanksgiving Poem

The table was set

The candles aglow;

When at the front door

Three zombies did show.

“Who could that be knocking?”

Poor Mother did pout.

“Probably Mindy’s boyfriend,”

My Father did shout.

“I’ll see who it is,”

I said to them all.

As I skittered and shimmied

To see who did call.

The door it did open

My heart it did shudder;

My legs felt just like

A bowl of whipped butter.

“Brains!” said one zombie

“Your Brains!” said another;

“It’s turkey or nothing,”

Blared my big, nosy mother.

I held my breath tight

As they studied my skull;

Then each rolled an eye

To find it… quite dull.

I felt almost rejected

As they brushed me aside;

And toward our Thanksgiving table

Each zombie did stride.

The zombies they shuffled

Straight up to the bird;

They left quite a smell

Like a three-week old turd!

They reached out their hands

To tear off a leg;

Mom said, “Sit down you three;

And don’t make me beg!”

I figured they’d tear her

One limb from another;

But those zombies seemed –

Quite scared of… my mother!

In no time they listened

In no time they sat;

And wore napkins in their collars

In two seconds flat!

My family sat watching

The zombies devour;

A 20-pound turkey

In less than an hour.

They gnawed on the wishbone

And guzzled down gravy;

Their behavior was almost

Well… downright… behave-y!

Mom smiled and cheered

As they refilled each plate;

It didn’t seem to bother her

That none of us ate.

And when there was nothing

To swallow or chew;

The zombies looked happy

Or at least far less… eeeewwwww!

My family sat frozen

Quite glued to our seats;

Until Zombie One burped

And sputtered, “Good eats!”

They rose without speaking

As we covered our brains;

They turned and shuffled out

Leaving only grease stains.

I stood at the door

To see where they’d gone;

And watched three stuffed zombies

Shuffle down our front lawn.

“It sure looks to me,”

I said with a tweet.

“Like they’re going away;

Like they’re crossing the street!”

“Now that they’re gone,”

Mom said with a grin.

“Our real Thanksgiving dinner

Can finally begin!”

Dad helped clear the table

Sis set it again;

As I asked Mom about

Her backup turkey plan.

“Why everyone knows,”

She grinned from ear to ear;

“To cook a second Thanksgiving dinner

When zombies are near!”

The Werewolf on Thanksgiving:

A FREE Thanksgiving Poem by Rusty Fischer

I sit at the table

Tapping my feet.

As chomping and slurping

My family, they eat.

They are clueless, you see

That a wolf might be here.

As I try to sit still

And smile, ear to ear.

For if the wolf thinks I know

That he’s in our midst;

He’s bound to get angry

And huffy… and pissed!

So I play it all cool

On this Thanksgiving Day

And hope that the werewolf

Will just… go away.

I know that he’s here

Only in human form.

‘Cause the vibe at this table

Is well past the norm.

I can smell him, all ugly

And snarly and gross.

As my brother burps loudly

And grunts, “Pass the toast.”

I cannot; I will not.

For to move is a crime.

I know if I do

He’ll be on me in no time.

Or it could be a she.

I’m clueless, I know.

But I can’t spot who’s Wolfie

‘Til his fangs start to grow.

It could be my mother

(Who’s quite quick to anger.)

Or maybe my Dad.

(Whose toenails spell danger.)

It might be Aunt Fannie.

(Who smells rather… odd.)

Or poor Uncle Chuck.

Or my big brother, Todd.

My sister’s been angry

Ever since Halloween.

(And has the hairiest mole

That I’ve ever seen!)

But wait, what’s that snarling

And huffing and puffing?

Oh wait, it’s just Todd

Who’s wolfing down stuffing.

The mood it grows tense,

As the temperature drops.

The snorting, it’s starting

And then it just… stops.

But why are they looking

At my dinner plate?

Could it be ‘cause the size of

The helping I ate?

Or is it my fingers

As they split right in two?

Or the veins in my neck,

All bulging and… blue?

Is it ‘cause my nose is turning

Into a snout?

And what used to be in

Is now bulging out?

Could it be that the hair

Is starting to grow?

No, not on my head

But where hair shouldn’t grow?

Like out of my ear holes

And out of my nose;

And under my fingers

And over my toes!

At last, that old Wolfie

Has shown his true face.

As my family, it scatters

All over the place.

It isn’t my nephew,

My sis or my aunt.

I can’t face the truth;

Oh no, I just can’t.

The werewolf is neither

A he or a she.

The werewolf on Thanksgiving

Is little old… me!

Oh, Tannenbrain:

A Living Dead Christmas Poem

The zombies were ready

For the first reindeer hoof

As it padded and pawed

On the house’s pitched roof.

They grumbled and groused

And gurgled and drooled;

They’d waited so long

They wouldn’t be fooled!

They weren’t mad at Santa,

Not hardly, no way.

In fact he’d be President,

If the zombies had their way.

No, the zombies were hungry

For stuff other than brains;

They wanted to play

With stuffed dolls and toy trains!

Though their hearts were quite empty

And their souls long past dead;

They still got excited

For the green and the red!

Their lives were so boring

Their mealtimes mundane.

They looked forward to playtime

After another serving of… brain.

It got boring gnawing on

The neighbor’s fat head;

When they’d rather be playing

With Big Wheels instead!

They’d hatched their plan

While watching the Grinch!

“We’ll capture Santa,” one burped.

“It’ll be a cinch!”

And now the fireplace rumbled

As soot fell to the floor

And boots did appear

Where there were none before!

The zombies were hiding

Behind the Christmas tree

Their rotted teeth smiling

Green faces covered in glee.

When the fat man stepped out

The zombies did roar.

Oh, what a playtime

They all had in store!

But Santa grew frightened

As mortals they will

And ran to throw open

The nearest windowsill.

The zombies they trampled

The zombies they ran

And quickly surrounded

The jolly fat man.

They did try to reason

With good Old St. Nick.

But nothing they grunted

Did quite do the trick.

The window it opened

And before he could run

The zombies dragged Santa

Back for more fun.

He tasted quite fleshy

That jolly old man;

The zombies just quite

Couldn’t stick to their plan.

It wasn’t that Santa

They wanted to frag;

It was really quite simple:

They wanted his bag!

And now they sit scattered

All over the floor

The toys and the dolls

And oh so much more.

For it’s Christmas morning

And the zombies all smile

As they play with their toys

In the best zombie style.

And no zombie is smiling

More than Santa himself

Who is having a ball

As a living dead elf!

Zombies Don’t Carve:

A Living Dead Christmas Story

Echo sits in the car, pale fingers clutching the seatbelt still clicked

firmly into place.

The engine idles, exhaust pluming in the rearview mirror as we sit,

parked in front of my house.

“Babe,” I murmur, caressing his cold skin with my warm hands.

(Ooohh, I hope I never tire of that sensation.) “Seriously, it’s going to be

fine. They’re not bad people, trust me.”

“I know they’re not ‘bad’ people,” he says, voice a little on the

gravelly side. (Just the way I like it!) “They don’t have to be ‘bad’

people to hate zombies. Haven’t you heard? Apparently, it’s America’s

last acceptable prejudice!”

He fumes, staring down at his slick brown shoes.

They’re new; I helped him pick them out after the last day of

school before Christmas break.

From the looks of it, he’s been polishing them ever since.

I don’t have an answer to that, so I just kind of sit there for a few

seconds, willing myself not to look at my watch; we’re already six

minutes late.

Not a stretch for most families; for mine, well, we might as well

bring Twisted Sister’s Christmas album for the evening’s listening

pleasure.

Speaking of, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” oozes from

the radio, some old lady from a long time ago really belting it out; he

gives me an ironic smiley face, so I turn it down; then off.

He turns it back on, quietly, and explains, “I was hoping there’d be

some news on the latest outbreak before we go in.”

“Last I heard,” I tell him, ignoring the knot in my stomach from

the live newscasts I’ve been hearing all morning, “the checkpoints from

Thanksgiving were still holding and the governor has doubled the

reservists at each hot spot.”

“That’s good,” he says by rote, knowing as I do that what they say

in news accounts and what’s really happening on the ground don’t

always mesh.

“10 minutes, Echo,” I plead. “Just give them 10 minutes and if

you’re not digging it, if they’re even the least bit rude – aside from my

little brother Zack, he can’t help it – then we’re out of there, promise.”

“You say that,” he says, sighing and reaching for his seatbelt. “But

you don’t really mean it.”

He’s right, of course.

We step out of the car, feet crunching on the mushy snow sliding

down the street toward the gutter halfway down the slight hill we live

on.

He reaches in back, like the gentleman that he is, and grabs the

gaily-colored presents we’d spent hours fighting over in the mall just the

other day.

Despite the pasty pallor, he looks downright gorgeous in his thick

turtleneck – it hides the bite marks from his run-in with a true zombie on

Halloween – and starched wheat-colored chords that hug every curve

he’s got, and some even I’ve forgotten he had.

He smells of some musky, spicy cologne he must have bought

when I wasn’t around (which could be any day ever since they kicked

him out of school for catching “the Z disease”), and as I reach for the

gourmet food bag behind my seat, I nuzzle his neck as he stands beside

me.

“Stop,” he giggles, breaking his stern mask for the first time all

night. “It tickles.”

“Tickles?” I gush, excited by the temperature of his freezing cold

skin. “I thought you zombies couldn’t feel anything?”

“Well, I can feel that,” he growls suggestively, forcing me to step

away before we start something in the backseat we can’t finish before

dinner.

I blush slightly at the ridiculously expensive front lawn display

Echo has never seen before, but I’ve been embarrassed about ever since

it went up the first week of December.

Mom went all out (again) this year, adding Santa hats and candy

canes to last year’s imported-all-the-way-from-Spain life-size nativity

set.

“Wow,” says Echo un-ironically. “That is… major.”

I still can’t tell if it’s a compliment, or a diss.

I guess at this point it doesn’t really matter; meeting my parents for

the first time, he’s entitled to a few sour grapes.

“So this is where you live, huh?” he asks, unable to hide the slight

sense of resentment in his tone.

I shake my head and say, “Hon, you know how it is. I’ve been

meaning to bring you over, introduce you to the fam it, just, with school

and volleyball and college prep, I just… where does the time go, you

know?”

He nods before smirking, “Funny, you always seem to have

enough time to hang out at my place.”

“Okay, you got me,” I admit, boot heels crunching on the freshly-

cleared stoop as we stand in front of the front door, a fresh evergreen

wreath tickling my nose. “I’m a jerk, all right? Happy?”

He smiles at my discomfort.

“Getting there,” he oozes, standing nervously next to me as I reach

to ring the bell.

While the fading strains of “Jingle Bells” echo in our heads – Dad

ordered the custom-made door chime special online – I hear footsteps

and Jimbo’s barking in the long front hall.

The door opens and immediately the scent of fresh-baked pie and

basting turkey shoots out of the house like fresh balls from a cannon.

“Yumm,” he says instinctively as I watch the faces of my family

closely.

The door wide open now, nothing to hide, my zombie boyfriend

standing right by my side, Dad frowns sternly, as if I’d shown up at the

front door with a tattoo-covered biker named “Booger.”

Mom, naturally, keeps her “It’s the holidays, I must maintain my

composure at all costs” face plastered on, blinking rapidly and clutching

tight to Dad’s bright red Christmas sweater.

My younger brother, Zack, smiles in a way that says, “Wow, this

night just got a whole lot funner.”

And Jimbo, our intrepid German shepherd who’s been known to

bark nonstop at our 6’ 7”, 300-pound mail carrier without ever once

backing down, takes one look at Echo and promptly puts his tail between

his legs, scurrying into the den.

“Mom? Dad?” I begin nervously, hating the catch in my throat.

“This is Echo, my… boyfriend.”

He grins despite himself behind the tower of presents and croaks,

“Merry Christmas!”

The house is alive with fireplace glow and flickering candles and

the 7-foot, pre-lit tree.

Echo takes it all in; it’s quite a contrast from the two-bedroom

apartment he shares with his workaholic Dad, who even seven weeks

after the attack still doesn’t know his own son is one of the living dead.

“Wow,” he says while my family stands around looking

speechless. “You have a great place here, Mr. and Mrs. Kersey.”

“Why, thank you… Echo,” says Mom as he sets the presents down

at the border of the huge stack already under the tree. “And you’re so

kind; you didn’t have to bring anything.”

Echo and I wink at each other; wait until they open the presents

and see what’s inside.

But then, hopefully, we won’t have to.

I shut the door uneasily behind us, taking one last look into the

street for any signs of rampant zombie infestation.

So far, so good, although I notice extra locks and plenty of high

security house lights on the neighbor’s homes.

The dinner table is already set and Dad busies himself making sure

everyone is in the right spot.

Old school ‘til the end, I can’t even sit next to Echo, but must face

him from across the decked out table as Zack pokes his fork into my

thigh under the table and whispers, “He doesn’t look that bad, for a

zombie I mean!”

I shoosh him as Mom pours me a half-sip of champagne.

Mom pours some for Echo, too, who politely says, “Thank you,

ma’am,” even though of course he can’t drink it; can’t drink anything,

that is, except for the rare sip of brain juice that runs off his main dietary

supplement.

“Oh please,” she blushes to hear such manners – my last boyfriend

used to honk the horn at the curb and never even lasted ‘til Christmas –

and says, “Please, call me Trudy.”

He smiles and I know, if he could, he’d be blushing right now.

Dad sits while Mom fusses around finishing off the last minute

fussing.

I spy the frilly white gourmet bag sitting on the kitchen counter

and excuse myself to join her.

“Mom,” I say, reaching for one of her fancy china plates. “FYI,

Echo can’t eat, like, normal people food so I was just going to serve him

this, if you don’t mind.”

“What, you mean he’s a… vegetarian?”

I look at her lined face, her Christmas sweater, her tightly wound

hair bun and sputter, “No, Mom, he’s a… a—”

“I know what he IS, dear,” she snorts, reaching for a mostly empty

glass of wine; I can tell by the syrupy voice it’s not her first. “I’m just

kidding. Let’s get a look.”

I untie the golden, gilded bow keeping the two wicker handles of

the gift bag together, then slide out a waxy white box filled with fresh

brain pate from that ritzy gourmet store in the mall.

It cost me two weeks’ worth of allowance, but it was worth it; I

wanted Echo to have something he could enjoy on our first Christmas

together.

“Uhhm,” she says appreciatively as I slide it onto a plate. “Smells

better than my boring old turkey. I wish your father would loosen up a

bit and let us have something different for a change.”

I smile and pick up the plate and she grabs my shoulder.

“Here,” she says, adding a sprig of fresh holly to the pate. “Why

should his plate look any different from ours?”

I smile to myself and walk into the dining room, where Dad and

Echo are in the middle of a heated debate over the whole zombie “right

to life” issue.

“I mean,” Dad is saying. “Why should my taxpayer dollars go

toward educating a zombie like yourself when you have no hope of

finishing high school or, for that matter, even getting a college degree?”

Echo, who I’ve personally seen break bad guys in half with his

pinkies, to say nothing of what can happen when he uses both of his

hands, has his temper in check; if only for me.

“Sir, with respect, the latest Reanimation Bill states that zombies

can, indeed, go to college—”

“That’s IF they complete their high school equivalency, son,” Dad

barks, knuckles white around his half-empty beer mug.

“Echo’s petitioned the school board to let him back in after

Christmas break, Dad,” I say, voice pitched a little high for comfortable

table talk.

“Well,” Dad grumbles. “We’ll see.”

Echo fumes a little, until Mom slides his plate under his nose.

I watch his gray nostrils flare, admiring the way his graying hair

sets off his kind, black eyes.

“Yummm,” he says unconsciously as Zack leans in and whispers

to me, “Phew, glad it’s not MY brain on his plate.”

I stamp his foot and then threaten him with my eyes as he opens

his mouth to shriek like a little girl.

Dinner quiets the family down; it always does.

I give Echo little reassuring glances, but he doesn’t need them.

Between a dry plank of breast meat and another guzzle of beer,

Dad fixes me with a look of betrayal and asks, “So, how did you two…

meet… anyway?”

I sigh and say, “Dad, you know I’ve been volunteering at the

Rehab Center after school three days a week.”

“How romantic,” Mom says through thin eyelids, another sure sign

she didn’t just start drinking a few minutes ago.

Echo brags, “I knew her from class, but she didn’t remember me.

She couldn’t believe a zombie had a better memory than she did!”

We all laugh, except Dad, that is; he just sits there and glares.

Nonstop; the entire meal.

I think about what I’d told Echo, about getting up and jetting if the

‘rents weren’t cool, but I question him with my eyes and he shrugs,

giving me a “no big deal” look of reassurance.

Mom, sitting close and the holiday wine buzz going strong now,

leans in and asks for a bite of his brain pate.

“You sure?” he asks, an amused smile on his face.

Zack nudges me and I watch as Echo takes her fork and hands her

back a small, firm, gray square.

“Trudy!” Dad barks, but she pooh-poohs him with a finger wave

and licks her lips in appreciation.

“They still haven’t determined if you can catch it through saliva,

dear,” he says under his breath, as if Echo – who’s basically sitting two

seats away – can’t hear.

“Gheez, Dad,” Zack says. “She used her own fork.”

He gives Echo a kind of “we’re cool, bro” smirk and the two dig

in.

I smile, not all that hungry myself, and watch the familiar Yule log

crackling on the local TV station that runs it, nonstop, from

Thanksgiving Day until just after midnight on New Year’s Eve.

All of a sudden the crackling is interrupted by a high-pitched

squealing sound; one I wasn’t hoping to hear tonight – or ever again.

“We interrupt this regularly scheduled programming of our annual

holiday Yule log for the following announcement,” comes the generic

voice of your typical emergency broadcast dude as the Yule log turns

into a black and white test pattern on the big screen TV.

“The governor reports that the blockade at Cumberland Junction

has been overrun by zombies, and that reinforcements from the National

Guard have been unable to contain it. Local officials have issued a

curfew for Christmas Eve, and instruct all citizens within five miles of

the Junction to retreat to their safe rooms for the remainder of the—”

Table legs clatter, cutting off the rest of the announcement.

It’s not like we need to hear it, anyway.

Been there, survived that; barely.

Mom clears the bulk of the food off the table – any kind of meat

attracts the zombies, kind of like bears around a campsite – while Zack

goes around dimming the lights and Dad pours his beer on the

smoldering fire.

It sizzles with a faintly sour smell, and Mom gives him one of her

patented, “Oh Roger, you didn’t douse the fire with beer again, did

you…” frown-smiles.

Echo is up, too, turning off lamps, sliding the curtains shut in front

of the tree, yanking open the presents we’d brought and handing me my

satchel full of black gloves and my tool belt and my black yoga pants.

Zack watches the presents slowly disappearing as Echo slides his

baseball bat into a corner by the window and his machete in the opposite

corner and whines, “Were there any ‘actual’ presents in there, April? I

mean, what if we hadn’t had a zombie invasion tonight? Were you going

to give me a machete? Or was that for Mom?”

Dad is yanking one of his shotguns out of the closet and propping

it in the open door of the safe room, which is really our basement with

some reinforced locks on the door.

I duck around the kitchen into the back room, where I can still see

the front door from the lobby, but the whole family – especially Zack –

can’t watch my transformation from vaguely cute suburban Christmas

chick to kick-butt zombie killing babe.

Meanwhile, in full view of the whole family – zombies aren’t quite

as shy as the rest of us – Echo strips down on the front stoop, tossing his

thick, beautiful turtleneck and snugly fitting chords behind a Santa-

hatted wise man in the yard before carefully hiding his new shoes and

the watch I gave him as an early present under the neon baby Jesus.

Then, clad only in black socks and black boxer-length jockeys that

are way too tight for me to ignore, he hoses himself down.

Va va voom!

It’s like some surreal underwear ad or something, this moonlight

pale boy with nothing but muscles and scars hosing himself down as

water bathes his marble biceps and slithers across his six-pack abs and –

careful, girl!

The water’s so cold it hisses steam as it rushes from the hose, but

to a dead head like Echo it must be like a sauna bath; meanwhile the

runoff coats our stairs with a thin patch of ice that dribbles, and

eventually freezes, all the way to the street.

All the better to slip up zombies with, my dear!

He stands there in the doorway, dripping like a Playgirl pinup, as

Mom gasps, “Oh my!”

“What are you doing, son?” barks Dad, chambering rounds in his

shotgun as he tosses canned hams and candy canes down the stairs into

the safe house; last-minute provisions in case this siege lasts as long as

the one over Thanksgiving did.

(These breakouts; why do they always happen around a perfectly

good holiday!?!?)

“Dad,” I shout, unwrapping the present that has my double-

reinforced hammer inside. “It’s the smell; he’s washing off the

deodorant and cologne that makes him, well, presentable to… mortals.”

“What for?” gasps Zack, already catching a whiff of my naturally

gamy boyfriend.

Echo merely smiles, steam rising off of him from the open

doorway. “The other zombies won’t come near here if they get a whiff

of the… real… me.”

“Whoa!” smiles Zack, still covering his nose. “Kind of like when a

cat pees on its territory, huh?”

“Zachary!” shouts Mom, finally untying her apron for the long

siege ahead.

By now I’ve completely changed into full-on zombie fighting

chick mode, emerging from the back room in snug black yoga pants, a

baggy black hoodie, short gray socks and thick black sneakers.

Around my waist is a tool belt snatched from shop class, featuring

a wide array of personal-sized hammers, screwdrivers and the occasional

gleaming chisel; all the better to behead you with, my zombie dear!

Mom gasps at the getup while Dad merely shakes his head.

“This is no time for games, dear,” he says, tossing another box of

shotgun cartridges down the cellar stairs. “Now get in here with the rest

of the family.”

“Dad,” I say, making sure all my weapons are in place. “You guys

go down; I’m going to stay up here and help Echo fight off the

zombies.”

“You most certainly are NOT,” Dad says, large nostrils flaring,

forming little creases beneath the red skin of his enraged face. “Echo can

do what he likes. They’re his kind, after all. But you? You belong with

us.”

Echo frowns from the doorway and says, “He’s right, April, go on.

I’ll be fine.”

I snort, and inch past Mom to stand between my zombie boyfriend

and my uptight Dad.

While Dad fumes and Echo stands there stubbornly, Mom looks at

my get-up and says, “Where did you get all that, dear?”

Zack’s the first to say what’s on everybody’s mind: “She’s

obviously in the Resistance, Mom. I mean, look at the way she’s all

ready and crap! I mean, sorry – ready and stuff. There are a couple kids

at my school who have the same thing; they wear all black, bring their

own weapons and whenever an outbreak pops up, they’re on it like flies

on, well, you know…”

While Mom and Dad look at each other in stunned silence, Zack

says to me, “I’m going to join as soon as I’m old enough!”

I glare at him, but secretly smile.

Dad finally composes himself enough to say, “Son, the last thing

I’ll have you do is join the ranks with these… these… rotting bags of

flesh and bones and—”

Just then we hear groaning through the open front door; my mind

flashes back to the last battle Echo and I had over Thanksgiving.

That same sound, those same shuffling feet, the same groaning and

creaking of bones, sometimes broken, shuffling against old clothes as

people flee in the street and we, the kids from the local Resistance,

march forward, hammers swinging.

Echo ignores us, cracking his neck, getting his game face on.

I watch his serene face break into a growl; watch the boy I love

turn into the zombie I sometimes, but not often, fear.

I creep forward, Mom’s fingers clutching weakly at my arms.

“Dear, are you… sure?”

I turn and smile.

“Mom, I know you don’t believe me but, I’m really, really good at

this. You’ll all be safer with me out here, trust me.”

I hang a thumb over my shoulder at the half-naked god standing in

the doorway growling and say, “Really, I learned from the best.”

She turns, grabs the electric carving knife from the still dirty dinner

table and says, “Then I’m staying up here, too.”

“Trudy!” barks Dad, still clinging to the doorframe.

“Roger, the zombies almost got through those ancient basement

windows over Thanksgiving and you said you were going to reinforce

them before Christmas and you never did get around to it. I’m sorry,

dear, but I just can’t go through that again.”

Zack creeps up beside her, clutching a carving fork between his

grubby 12-year-old hands and looking more than ready to defend his

dear old Mom.

“Suit yourself,” Dad grumbles, slamming the door.

I look at Mom and give her “wtf?” eyes, but she pooh-poohs me

with a dismissive, “He’ll get over it. Five minutes from now he’ll be

standing next to us, complaining about the empty ornament boxes I

forgot to put away down there.”

Suddenly the room feels empty as we listen to the clicking and

sliding of no less than six locks and one giant 2 x 4 sliding into place

behind the solid safe room door.

Those ominous sounds are quickly followed by Dad’s size-13

loafers trouncing down the stairs.

I can’t believe he’s doing this; deserting his family just because I

dared bring a zombie home for Christmas dinner.

Has he learned nothing from my first 17 years on this planet?

Have my extracurricular activities, my straight-A’s, my good girl

image, my adoring smile whenever he walks in the room taught him

nothing about the choices I’ve made?

Apparently not.

When I turn back from the locked and bolted door, I see Zack

standing protectively next to Echo.

He smiles as the boy sniffs him.

“Not to be rude, dude,” Zack says, rudely, “but you smell like six

bags of onions covered in eight bags of dog doo that have been left in a

dumpster for two years!”

“Zachary!” shouts Mom, but just then Echo crouches low and, over

his bare white shoulder, we see three zombies pacing the front lawn.

They look hungry, and ragged, and Zack quickly jumps behind the

door; suddenly not so brave.

(And who can blame him? Even with all my training, those brain

suckers still freak me out!)

I grab him, and literally toss him back toward Mom so I can stand

between the two.

Zack gives Mom a “when did she get so strong?” look, but is too

scared to follow it through all the way to the end.

Mom regards me more closely, too busy to ask too many

questions; yet, anyway.

Echo steps forward onto the stoop, keeping a steady foot on the

slippery ice.

The zombies stop on the lawn and snort, sniffing the air like rabid

dogs in heat.

They take a tentative step forward, frozen grass crunching beneath

their feet, and I tense with my hammer at the ready, but they eventually

shuffle past, leaving everyone inside breathing a sigh of relief.

But that’s not enough for Echo; he looks at me, smiles at Zack,

nods at Mom and – before I can stop him – slams the front door.

There is such force behind his power that the whole front wall of

the house shakes.

I run to it, desperate to join him, but he crushes the doorknob

outside in his super strong hands and I can’t budge it no matter how hard

I’ve been training these last few weeks.

I watch through the picture window next to the door as he trudges

through the snow, down to the street now, lurking low and using the

dark of our yard to follow the zombies.

“He’s quite the gentleman, dear,” Mom sighs, nibbling on a cold

piece of turkey to steady her nerves. “Not like some men I could—”

Just then I hear barking from the back room; Jimbo!

We’d forgotten all about him!

Zack turns, running to protect the dog he’d raised from a pup, but

too soon I hear a telltale yelp, then a squeak, then… silence.

Then… chewing.

Lots and lots of chewing.

Oh no; not Jimbo.

I run toward the door, hammer in hand, and kick it wide open.

Jimbo lies on the floor, twisted, bloody, coat marred with bright

red blood, our next door neighbor feasting on his hind leg.

“Get up, Mr. Witherspoon!” I shout, as Mom and Zack crowd the

doorway behind me.

I go to slam the door, to keep them out, but Zack stops it with his

foot.

He wants to see.

In a weird, way, he needs to see.

I hear grunting, and Mr. Witherspoon – the mousy guy who runs

the reference desk at the public library – looks up from the dog’s hind

leg and growls at me.

I lurch, and he stands, sniffing the air and then… backing away.

I follow him, through the room, out the sliding door he’s smashed,

and into the back yard.

He backs away the whole while, sniffling, sniveling, clutching

Jimbo’s hind leg like a drumstick in his bloody, broken hands.

I stop at the sight of several more zombies in the backyard, bloody

and ragged things with bloodstained snow on their feet, expecting a mad

dash for the broken slider; they, too, wrinkle their noses and keep

sauntering on.

Nothing to see here, folks.

I turn, and Mom shakes her head.

“So it’s true,” says Zack, avoiding the sight of his mangled dog by

focusing in on his big sister’s secret. “You can catch it from saliva!”

“Catch what?” I sneer, but only because he’s right.

When he doesn’t answer, when Mom’s eyes won’t stop begging

the question, I shut the back room door behind me and follow them back

into the living room.

“Okay, okay,” I confess. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?” gasps Mom, reaching for the wine.

“Tonight, at dinner.”

“Sweet!” says Zack. “My sister’s a zombie!”

“Not quite,” I say, rubbing his head. “Half-zombie.”

“But you look so normal, dear—”

A door crashes behind us, making us all crouch as if a shot’s rung

out over our heads, and I’m hoping it’s the front door and Echo’s

changed his mind, but instead it’s the cellar door.

The safe room door.

A door no human could crash through; ever.

“Dad!” I shout, leaping to action as bloody hands finish turning the

cellar door into splinters – and my Dad into the living dead.

Dad makes it halfway into the living room, grabbing onto the

Christmas tree stand frantically with bloodied hands, before the zombies

get him.

Even over Dad’s screams I hear the crunching of teeth on bone as I

sprint past his writhing arms and bleeding gums.

There are three zombies gnawing on Dad’s admittedly meaty

calves; two of them local neighbor kids (I never did like either of them)

and one a stranger in a flannel shirt and overalls.

I club them all viciously, brains splattering on the cellar steps and

even up onto the ceiling, until they run – or fall – away.

Dad has managed to pull himself into the living room proper as

Mom cries into his bald spot and Zach uses Christmas ribbon as

tourniquets on both of Dad’s legs.

Zack is frantic, crying, wrapping like a mad man, bloody like a

serial killer and I kneel to him and say, “It’s too late for that, Zack.”

He ties them anyway as we yank Dad up and turn him around, until

his back is against the wall and he’s staring at us with sweat – and blood

– pouring down his broad forehead.

Just then the living room picture window implodes and Echo steps

calmly over the shards to step next to the fallen Christmas tree.

He sizes the scene up in seconds; the blood, the safe room door,

Dad’s gnarled legs, Zack’s bloody hands, Mom’s useless tears.

“April,” he says somberly, tenderly, but I can’t run to him now.

Dad is mumbling so I lean in, his breath already foul, his eyes

turning yellow, the Dad I knew becoming the monster I’ll see in my

nightmares 20 years from now.

“What, Dad?” I ask, leaning in more closely. “What’s that? I can’t

hear you.”

More loudly this time, he rasps two words: “Kill. Me.”

I stand, and back away; all my training failing me now as Mom

clatters into a dining room chair, guzzling the rest of her wine in two

large swallows as she looks away from the man she no longer knows.

Zack hides behind her, clutching to her like he did as a little tyke

on the first day of kindergarten.

“Take them,” Echo orders me, reaching for the spare shotgun in

the open closet. “Upstairs, out back, wherever, April; take them

somewhere so they can’t hear.”

There is a low growling on the floor behind him, and when I look

up Dad is sniffing Echo’s leg like a bear at a fresh campsite.

“Hurry,” he says as I gather Mom and Zack tightly to me, shuffling

them past the room where Jimbo lies congealing and around the corner

toward the den, where I crank up the Christmas music on Dad’s old

school stereo as loud as it can go.

As Bing Crosby croons, as the snow falls, as Mom covers her ears

and Zack stares out the window at a dozen dragging zombies, I hold my

ear to the door.

I’ll never know what Dad said to Echo, if anything; or what Echo

said to Dad.

I only know that I don’t flinch when I hear the shotgun blast, and

that Echo has cleaned the blood off – all of it – when he finally comes to

get us long hours after the latest infestation has come and gone.

With the sirens racing down the street, and lights flashing in their

wake, we spend the rest of Christmas the only way we can these days;

hunkered down, stomachs rumbling, with the ones we love.

Or, at least, the ones we trust…

Pin the Nose on the Werewolf:

A FREE Christmas Short Story by Rusty Fischer

Do you know how hated it is to have a birthday… on Christmas?

No offense to the Big Guy Upstairs, but… it pretty much blows.

I mean, how do you compete with THE biggest birthday in the

known universe, am I right?

Still, my family’s pretty cool about it and always tries to make sure

that in addition to the usual Christmas presents, I also get at least one

present that’s wrapped in birthday wrapping.

So that’s why I’m playing “Pin the Nose on the Reindeer” when I

hear the first growl.

Yes, I know it’s un cool.

Yes, I know it’s for little kids.

Yes, I know nobody ever wins.

We’re being ironic, get it?

Plus, it’s my 17th birthday this Christmas and if I want to get

blindfolded and spun around and play some stupid kids’ game with my

entire family and half my friends cheering me on, then it’s my party and

I’ll be lame if I want to.

Nobody’s cheering now, though.

The growl is low and ominous and, what’s worse, none of us have

dogs.

Not even Aunt Bertha, who has every type of animal known to

man – except dogs.

It’s the kind of growl you don’t just hear; you feel it, deep down in

the marrow of your bones.

It starts as a low rumble, and I’m thinking maybe my sister’s

boyfriend is playing with me, but his voice isn’t that deep and, frankly,

he’s just not that imaginative.

The growl gets louder, never piercing; just a kind of general “Is

that what I think it is?” sound.

People stop watching my silly Christmas-slash-birthday game to

get a better listen.

I stop, the party laughter stops, the back chatter behind me, around

me, even the CD – Christmas Party Hits of the 80s, don’t ask – stops.

I stand there, blindfolded with an extra-long Christmas stocking,

red rubber reindeer nose in my hand, waist at mid-pivot, cake frosting

still fresh on my tongue, and wait with the rest of my family and friends

for what’s to come next.

One second, two seconds, three, and time is slowing down now

and then—

The first growl was kind of behind me, but the next one is in front

of me – and close.

Suddenly there are growls everywhere – all around, moving

quickly – and I still have that stupid rubber nose in my hand!

I hear screaming, and running and smashing and glass ornaments

breaking and party streamers tearing and it’s all heightened because I

can’t see a damn thing!

I reach to take my blindfold off and something knocks me down;

something hot, and hairy, and big, and long.

It brushes against my shoulder like a cruise liner sliding by and

seems to take forever.

Then something snags on my favorite black and white mini-hoodie

– something sharp and stiff – and yanks me down to the ground.

I land with a thud, on my side, in a heap, the red reindeer nose

bouncing out of my hand and feel open air on a fresh wound.

I reach for my elbow and feel a gash and slick, wet hotness and

smell the coppery smell of blood and still the screams echo off the back

porch and the above ground pool and the sliding glass doors.

There are more growls now, growls so loud and hot and wet they

must be right over me, then beside me, then behind me, then in front of

me, then… racing away.

There is a distinct smell, too; like wet dog fur.

And the growls, so many growls; hungry, tearing, ripping, angry,

violent growls.

There are fewer screams.

I hear one, the high-pitched wail of my mother shouting, “Mercy,

get up honey; get up and RUN!”

Or, at least, I think she says “RUN” because her last word is cut off

mid-stream; not by a growl but what sounds like a – slash.

Then the screaming – and the words – stop altogether.

I sit up and listen for more screaming, hearing only the sound of

gallons of water draining over the top of the above-ground pool.

It hits me in the back, a small wave, and gushes over my legs and I

hear giant tongues lapping, like a dozen dogs at the world’s biggest

water bowl.

I groan and sit up, my head throbbing from where it hit the ground;

hard.

The lapping stops, instantly.

I hear muddy footsteps, four of them, eight of them, twelve…

sixteen?

Too many to count, let alone identify how many.

They go in groups, moving together; and all toward me.

The world goes silent except for this very specific sound: heavy

breathing.

Hot, heavy breathing right up against my face, like I’m sitting in

front of the world’s grossest, meatiest air vent.

It smells putrid and raw, like eight days of old steak stuck in front

of a fan; but hot, like the steak’s still raw and putrid but sitting on a

heater.

And it’s not wafting, either; it’s blowing right.

In.

My.

Face.

In front of me, beside me, in my ear, behind me, blowing against

my dark black tresses, dragging them across my shoulder, ruffling the

cheesy red stocking my older sister Sarah bound tightly against my eyes

just so there’d be no chance I’d ever win; she’s very competitive, Sarah.

And the panting; the panting is so loud, it’s almost – almost –

worse than the growling.

I go to raise my blindfold and something growls.

I drop my hand and it’s no more growling; back to panting.

My face is moist with it, my hair covered in it.

I raise my hand again and the growling starts; one growl, two

growls, three or more joining in.

I let my hand drop and don’t dare raise it again.

The panting slows, the hot air softens and then; silence.

I flinch as hot breath returns, closer this time, and the glistening

sound of drool dripping onto the wet, muddy ground pauses and the

slick, sickening sound of an opening mouth reaches out.

I jerk backward as a hot, wet tongue slides up and down my face;

it’s not human.

It’s two, three times the size of a human tongue; sharp and wet like

being smacked in the face with a wet salmon, scales included.

I gag, and retch as the tongue recedes and the panting turns to…

laughter?

Not quite human laughter, but not quite animal growling, either.

Like humans pretending to fake growl; or animals that aren’t all

animal.

Suddenly a howl sounds off in the distance and the growling

returns; lower than before, deeper, hotter, more urgent and stark.

I am brushed aside by furry loins and giant shoulders and claws

trampling over my ankles as the circle of… whatever… that’s been

surrounding me rushes to join the howling sounds behind me.

I sit in the mud, bloody and wet, drool rolling down off my one

cheek, until I’m sure nobody – or nothing – is still around.

Then I reach up and yank down my blindfold.

Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t.

The backyard is a battlefield, blood red mud trampled with bodies,

body parts, icing from my half-eaten birthday cake and dozens – I mean

dozens – of paw prints.

I put my hand in one, if only to avoid the carnage that surrounds

me; I barely fill one fourth of it.

I stand on wobbly legs, holding my bleeding elbow next to my

chest as I race inside.

The back door is in tatters, blood splattering the living room walls,

the Christmas tree and all that remains of Aunt Bertha is a swath of her

ever present pink and periwinkle blue housecoat.

Mom’s sneakers are bloodstained and she’s not breathing; Dad is

in another room, his pale, cold hands full of torn presents he must have

been sneaking out of the attic.

My sister is in the backyard, her face a mask of pain; what remains

of her face, anyway.

I toss the one piece of birthday cake I had into the bushes, follow it

up with the roof of the gingerbread house I snuck when no one was

looking.

I wipe my trembling, sugar-coated lips with the back of my ragged

sleeve as I slog through the bloody, muddy backyard.

I return to where I’d fallen and just sit there; trying to see what I’d

missed while I was blindfolded.

All around the space are paw prints, dozens of them, large as

Bigfoot’s, and all circled around me.

How long had they sat like that?

And what for?

And why was I the only one left standing?

Did they know it was my birthday today?

Was this their idea of a Christmas present?

The howling keens in the distance, the brush full of retreating

bodies and bark breaking as giant, massive haunches scrape by.

I stand, take one look at my family, and follow.

By rights, I should have been dead too.

And if the lore is right, the mythology, all those late-night monster

movies I watched on TV long after everyone else in the house fell

asleep, this bite on my arm means I’m a goner already.

Might as well find out who killed me, right?

I take a step, then another, crouching low to the ground and

following the muddy, wet footprints as they disappear into the forest

behind our house.

It’s my party, and I’ll have revenge if I want to…

A Very Vampire Holiday:

A Vampire Christmas Story

“Let me get this straight,” I ask the fat man, standing – quite

literally – with his fuzzy red cap in hand. “You want us to help you

deliver your presents tonight?”

“Yes, Sheila, that’s right.”

His voice is louder than I thought it would be; firmer, too.

I’ve read too many kids’ books, I suppose.

Once upon a time, that is.

“What of your miraculous elves you’re always bragging about?” I

ask, sitting up in my ice throne just the same.

“Well, you see…” He pauses to chuckle and, I must admit, even

though my heart hasn’t beaten for over two centuries, it’s hard not to

like the dude.

I mean, this is Santa Claus we’re talking about here, right?

“That’s the thing, you see, Madam Sasha. Mrs. Claus whipped up a

batch of her favorite molasses and macadamia macaroni, you know, so

the elves could carbo load for the big day. Well, apparently, the pasta

had gone bad and now, you see, I have 6,000 elves all down with food

poisoning.”

I chuckle, staring out the ice wall at Santa’s back to see the rest of

my coven lingering closely as they eavesdrop through the sheer,

crystalline walls of my inner sanctum.

You can take the heart out of the vampire but you can’t take out

the gossip, let me tell you.

“I don’t see how we can help, you see; we’re such a small, humble

coven.”

“Over 60 strong,” Santa boasts. “And, you’re vampires, aren’t

you? That means you have the strength of 10 men each!”

“Aha! So you do know we exist.”

“Why, of course dear,” he sighs, fat hands anxiously wringing the

life out of his cap. “I’m Santa Claus, you see.”

I nod, licking my lips. “If you say so. I mean, we were starting to

wonder seeing as you haven’t dropped off a present in over 78 years!”

Santa blushes, three shades of crimson.

Now it’s impossible to tell where his neck starts and his red satin

overcoat begins.

“Well, now, we talked about that Sasha, you see. I can’t have you

draining my reindeer dry every time I stop by to drop off a few gifts for

you and your… undead friends.”

“Hey, better we drain reindeer blood than elves’ blood!”

“Better neither, my dear,” Santa corrects and, looking closely, his

nose really is red.

I shrug and admire one of my three-inch long, razor sharp claws.

“Besides, I thought we were doing you a favor. Vampire reindeer could

fly you around the word faster, stronger and sooner than those regular

old reindeer.”

“Yes, Sasha, but… regular reindeer don’t try to eat the children at

every stop, you see?”

I sigh. “Details, details…”

“I put you on the naughty list then, you see, and I haven’t seen fit

to take you off yet.”

“And yet, here you are. On Christmas Eve, of all nights. So, which

is it? Are we too naughty for gifts, but just naughty enough to help you

deliver gifts? Is that it, St. Nick?”

Santa shakes his head irritably. “But you’re vampires, dear.

Whatever would I give you anyway?”

At last I stand from my chilly throne and slink down the three

shaved ice steps to the cavern floor, my thick-heeled boots providing

both dramatic effect as well as much-needed traction.

It wouldn’t do to slip and fall at my finest moment, now, would it?

“Millions of things, as I see it Santa. Files for our fangs, crystal

tumblers for our blood, a new cape… heck, a new coffin! You of all

people know how far it is to the nearest town, and yet every year, you fly

right on by without so much as a lump of coal, to say nothing of a clot of

blood. How do you think that makes us feel?”

“Feel?” he asks, combing fat fingers through even fatter whiskers.

“I, well dear… I never stopped to consider your feelings, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” I “aha” him, waving a long, dangerous finger in his

face as I circle him, raggedy cape still managing to “hiss” dramatically

along the pure ice floor beneath our feet.

“Every year we wait, and we wait, all Christmas long. And you fly

right on by, and you fly back, and never even a nod as you sail across

the sky over our heads. And there we sit, black stockings hanging from

our ice chimney, red lights blinking on our dead fir tree, hoping just

once that you’ll finally forgive us for that one little transgression lo these

many years ago…”

“Little?” he gasps, stepping back in his own fancy black boots to

issue one of his famous lectures. “Why, Donder and Blitzen were two of

my best reindeer. Do you know how long it took me to find worthy

replacements?”

“Okay, so we screwed up Santa, but… look how good we’ve been

ever since. No more feasting on Arctic scientists, no more terrorizing

documentary film crews, no more depleting the local polar bear

population, now we ship our blood in, along with our capes and fang

files and everything else you won’t bring us each December.”

Santa still scratches his beard, but now at least he’s nodding his

head. “Yes, I suppose once we hunted down and trapped all the vampire

polar bears, the North Pole has been a much more peaceful place. But

dear, it took us nearly 50 years to catch them all!”

I grin, thinking of the dozen or so we still keep penned up beneath

ground, pacing their ice prison with dripping fangs and dangerous claws.

You know, just in case.

I shake my head and purr, “Well, Santa, maybe we’ll need 50 years

to consider your offer.”

“But I don’t have 50 years, Sasha; I barely have 50 minutes. Won’t

you… won’t you fill my sleigh tonight? And, you know, avoid eating all

my reindeer in the process?”

“What’s in it for us, Santa?”

“Why, you’d be saving Christmas for the entire world, Sasha; think

of the goodwill it will mean for you and your coven when… oh, well, I

suppose no one could ever find out, could they? It wouldn’t quite do for

Santa to go boasting about his ‘undead helpers,’ now would it?”

“See what I mean? We get no presents, no press, not even any

credit. I’m not feeling a lot of motivation at the moment, Nick. You’re

going to have to do better than that.”

Santa Claus turns, scratching the back of his bald head as the

vampires who’d been eavesdropping scatter into the various nooks and

crannies of our not-so-secret – to Santa, anyway – lair.

Then he turns back, a sneaky smile on his face.

I lean in, almost expectantly, to hear his reply.

“What if, during my time in Transylvania tonight, I make a rather

large withdrawal from their national blood bank? That would keep you

and your coven in nourishment until Valentine’s Day at least.”

My fangs literally leap from my gums at the prospect of pure,

Transylvanian blood.

Damn them!

How can you keep a poker face with six-inch road signs pointing

out your every emotion?

“Tempting,” I lisp as the fangs gradually slide back in. “It would

be nice to drink some pure blood for a change. And we’d be far less

tempted to feast on fresh polar bar in the meantime.”

“Good,” Santa beams, extending a chubby pink hand. “Then it’s a

deal.”

“Not quite, fat man. Who’s to say we won’t help you load that

sleigh of yours and send you off into the night, only to have you renege

on your part of the deal?”

“Why, I’m insulted you would even say such a thing. I’m Santa

Claus, dear; my word is my bond.”

“Says you,” I smirk, slithering toward him. “But you promised us

if we quit turning polar bears you’d bring us presents again and, well,

look how that turned out?”

“What do you propose?” the fat man asks, cheery voice turning

suddenly to steel.

“Only that I come along to make sure you keep your end of the

bargain.”

“Out of the question.” His face fairly shudders at the very idea.

“Ditto!” I bark, whirling away from him and making the best use

of my cape.

“Someone, Sasha, in fact many someone’s might see you.”

“How, Santa? No one ever sees you and, those that do, you simply

snap your finger and they forget all about it. Can’t you do the same for

one little old vampire?”

He looks me up and down, sniffing as if I offend his delicate

senses, then concedes by saying, “Well, you can’t wear that.”

“Fine,” I snort, reaching inside my ice wardrobe to slither into a

slinky red, white and green number I’ve been saving for just such an

occasion.

“Why, my dear,” Santa says, admiring my getup as we saunter past

the other vampires, who grunt and growl but get in line to help Santa just

the same. “I never knew how much Christmas meant to you vampires.”

“More than you’ll ever know,” I gush, sliding my arm through his

and steering him past the iron kitchen to our left, where the rest of the

moldy pasta sits, buried behind a steel door, until we can dispose of it

properly in the new year.

What, you thought I’d leave a trip on Santa’s sleigh up to chance?

Zombies Don’t Jingle:

A Living Dead Christmas Poem

We caroled on Elm Street

We caroled on Oak;

Yes, I’d have to say

We were caroling folk!

We sang ‘til our voices

Were scratchy and sore;

Then swallowed a cough drop

And sang 10 songs more!

The snow felt so chilly

On our bright, singing faces;

As we shuffled around

In brightly lit spaces.

The houses were decked out

So merry and gay;

As we caroled and sang

All night and all day.

Our noses were frosty

As we rounded Pine Street;

Struggling to stand

On our achy, sore feet.

“One more then we’re finished,”

Pastor Carol did boast.

“Then it’s back to the rec hall

Where it’s warm as fresh toast!”

We started to sing

That old Silent Night;

When the door burst wide open

And gave us a fright!

Three zombies came stumbling

Out the Harrington’s door;

Dripping our neighbor’s blood

All over the floor.

Those zombies they saw us

And gave quite a start;

And the smell that came off them

Was worse than… a fart!

It reeked quite of death

Of rot and decay;

Not things one should smell

On a bright Christmas Day!

Their teeth were quite yellow

Their eyes were pure red;

And the gray of their skin

Made it clear they were… undead.

I wanted to bolt

I wanted to run;

But the zombies were hungry

For some holiday fun.

I turned to find seven

Shuffling up to my back;

And six more stumbled over

To wage their attack.

Our church group was surrounded

Our future quite grim;

Until I croaked out a suggestion

To good Pastor Jim.

“The end is quite certain,”

I said with a frown;

“But I’d like one more carol

Before we go down!”

The zombies were inching

Getting ready for a fight;

When our voices sang steady

Of that first… Silent Night.

We sang to the rooftops

We sang to the rafter;

Not caring a whit

For what might happen… after.

I waited each minute

For a crunch or a bite;

For the gnawing to start

On this non-Silent night.

But the zombies stood still

And drooled on their feet;

As our singing and caroling

To them was... quite sweet.

The song it did end

And the zombies all clapped;

Sue Briggs tried to run –

In no time she was trapped.

Before we could sing

Before we could try;

They ripped her to pieces

And sucked her bones dry.

We all stood there trembling

As they wallowed in gore;

Until I haltingly suggested

That we best sing… one more!

With each Christmas carol

The zombies they sighed;

But each time we stopped

The next caroler died!

We sang and we sang

That long Christmas day;

Until the last zombie

Just… drifted away.

“We still have three songs left,”

The last caroler said.

Then I looked all around

To find my friends… dead.

The street was quite empty

The town deadly still;

I stepped on a finger

It gave me a chill!

I wandered for hours

Until it was night;

And found no survivors

Nope, not one in sight.

On the far edge of town

I heard quite a grumbling;

Like the groaning and retching

Of a hundred stomachs rumbling.

I still had my elf cap

Fixed tight to my head;

As I approached the zombie gathering

With fear and with dread.

They stood there and waited

Gore stuck in their teeth;

As I crept up toward them

As neat as a thief.

I stood there before them

And sang Oh, Christmas Tree;

Though each inch of my body

Wanted to flee.

They smiled and shuffled

They burped and passed gas;

But no mattered how hard I tried

They would not let me pass.

I settled in and gave them

The show of the year;

Grinning and smiling

In spite of my fear.

Their bellies were hungry

But the carols were soothing;

Even if my neighbors’ bones

They were chomping and toothing.

I wasn’t afraid

Oh no sir, not me;

I sang without falter

I sang loud… with glee.

I knew I’d be safe

From this living dead throng;

At least until I came

To the very last song…

A Vampire’s Night Before Christmas:

A Vampire Christmas Poem

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the coven

The air felt as cold

As an Eskimo’s oven!

The coffins were open

The vampires milling;

As this was the night

For some Santa blood spilling!

The vampire’s basement

Looked haunted and dusty;

The floors were quite damp

The walls rather… musty.

The air it was filled

With maximum dread;

As just up the stairs

The vampires fled.

The living room looked

Like a warm greeting card;

As to welcome dear Santa

The vamps had tried hard!

A tree it stood shining

The lights they did glitter;

As the vamps shook their heads

And started to twitter.

It wasn’t their nature

To get bright and sparkly;

For vampires preferred

To celebrate… darkly.

If they did have a tree

(Which was rather quite rare)

The vamps lit it sparsely

With black balls and devil’s hair.

Their vampire leader

Smiled wider than most;

His hair black as tar

His skin white as toast.

His name it was Chauncey

His legend quite vast;

For even among vampires

He was quite the badass.

One vamp asked him, “Chauncey,

“Do you think Santa knows…

Of our plan to attack him

And suck dry his toes?”

Chauncey nodded quite gravely

And said with a sigh,

“This isn’t the first time

We’ve tried to drain the big guy.”

Chauncey thought with a smile

Of the last 10 decades;

And how they’d tried to trap Santa

And his trusty elf aides.

For Santa had one thing

The vamps sure did not;

A magical bloodstream

That just would not clot!

If only the vamps

Could tap Santa’s vein;

Over all the immortals

Their species would reign!

So every year

On the 25th of December;

Vamps all cross the world

Tried Santa to dismember!

And now hooves were tramping

Up on the vamps’ ceiling;

As dread in his veins

Chaunce was suddenly feeling!

For now it was time,

To drain the jolly old elf;

Or bring another year of shame

Upon Chauncey’s old self.

He readied the vamps

As he put them in their places;

With fangs sticking out

Of their pancake pale faces.

“I don’t know what Santa

Has stuck up his sleeve,”

Chauncey said to his minions

Who could no longer breathe.

“But whatever you do,

Take care of yourselves.

And don’t fall into the trap

Set by Santa’s bad elves!”

Each vamp had a corner

Each vamp had his space;

As the chimney hole spat up

All over the place!

The first crucifix fell

And scattered the lot;

As the vamps ran away

Before they could rot!

The elves quickly followed

As onto the floor;

They rolled one by one

As more followed more.

They each grabbed a cross

And stood side by side;

As across the floor

They started to stride.

Only Chauncey remained

His vamps having scattered;

He had barely noticed

For nothing else mattered…

Save slaying dear Santa

On this Christmas Eve;

For elves or no elves

Santa just couldn’t leave.

They elves they did battle

They put up a fight;

But Chauncey prevailed

On this holiday night.

He slayed them quite soundly

Each pint-sized little elf;

Until he was triumphant

(And quite proud of himself!)

But the war wasn’t over

It had just begun;

For Santa brought vengeance

And all kinds of fun!

He landed quite squarely

In the fireplace grate;

And said, “Sorry Chauncey;

It appears I’m too late…”

“… to save my dear elves

From your living dead charm;

But have no fear, Chauncey –

Santa’s here to do you harm!”

And old Santa meant it

That lively old elf;

He snuffed and he snorted

In spite of himself!

He ripped off his sleeves

And flexed massive biceps;

Old Chaunce stood his ground

Fangs glistening like forceps.

“I see you’ve been lifting

Your loyal reindeer.

You’re mad if you think

You fill me with fear!”

Old Santa did wink

And the rumbling it grew;

As eight giant reindeer

Down the chimney they flew!

The reindeer were vicious

As they gathered around;

And knocked poor old Chauncey

Straight onto the ground.

They stomped as they hungered

For some prime vampire pain;

As poor Chauncey tried fighting

Them off quite in vain.

And as each massive paw print

Seared into his skin;

Chauncey’s face fairly burst

In a maniacal grin.

He slashed at their ankles

With his ragged, rough claws;

As each tiny reindeer

Fell straight to its paws!

They scattered and scampered

Away from his wrath;

As straight toward Santa

The vamp set a path!

The fat man was turning

To make his escape;

When Chauncey came at him

And chomped on his nape!

But Santa was lively

Quite spritely and quick;

And poor Chauncey got

No more than a lick!

And onto the rooftop

Old Santa did spring;

As into the night

His voice it did ring.

“On Dancer, On Dasher

Don’t care if you’re bleeding;

Away from this hellhole

We need to be speeding!”

Old Chauncey was wounded

And felt to one knee;

Landing in front

Of that old Christmas tree.

And there, wrapped up nicely

In ribbons and bows;

Was a sight that warmed Chauncey

Straight down to his toes.

A vial, you see

Filled with gooey red stuff;

A sight that filled Chauncey

Fully of holiday guff!

It was from Santa, you see

A gift straight from the heart;

For it was with one pint of blood

The fat man did part.

He’d given old Chauncey

His fondest gift yet;

A tube of his blood

The freshest he’d get!

His wish had come true

Santa’s blood was all his;

He poured it all down

But it started to… fizz?

The vampire did choke

On Santa’s gag gift!

Just when his spirits

Had started to lift!

It wasn’t elf blood

In that little glass tube;

Old Chaunce had been had;

He felt like… a boob!

It was candy Santa’d left him

Under the tree;

And now the fat man

Did cackle with glee.

“It would be too easy,”

Santa called from his sleigh.

“If I gave you my blood;

Just tossed it away.”

And then Santa drove

Quite far out of sight;

As his sleigh disappeared

On this cold Christmas night.

And Chauncey retired

To his coffin downstairs;

For some much needed

Old bloody vampire repairs.

And he thought as he nestled

Quite snug in his coffin;

How next year old Santa

He’d better be offin!

Zombies Don’t Pop:

A Living Dead New Year’s Eve Poem

I’d never liked parties

At the end of the year;

Since it meant back-to-school time

Was drawing more near.

But this year was different

As the clock did ding-dong;

And out of the graveyard

Bodies soon were long gone.

They roved and they wandered

As midnight drew near;

It was clear they were shuffling

Why, right over… here!

The dead had arisen

From their burial plots;

I’d say there were dozens

I’d say there were lots!

Their movements were jerky

Their feet they did scrape;

But the street was too crowded

To make my escape.

Our party was outside

As the confetti flew;

And the revelers shouted

As the party it grew.

The whole street was blotto’d

Quite high off of champagne;

As the zombies grew closer

Inflicting their pain.

They chomped on the grown-ups

And then every kid;

It wouldn’t be nice

To describe what they did!

But maybe I’ll try

To give you a taste;

Of what happens when

Some zombies laid waste.

They cracked open noggins

And scooped the brains up;

And then on their torsos

They started to sup!

They chomped on their shin bones

And nibbled their toes;

As blood spewed all over

Like H20 from a hose.

The street grew quite bloody

Yes it was soon red;

As all of my neighbors

Grew terribly dead.

And there I stood trembling

As the zombies approached;

Yes on our street party

The dead did encroach.

I could find no weapon

To fight the horde off;

As I started to cry,

To sputter and cough.

And as 20 zombies

Reached in for a bite;

I grabbed for the first thing

That came into sight.

The cork popped right open

And knocked three dead down;

As the rest of them stood there

And started to frown.

I looked to my left

And then to my right;

Thank God they’d attacked

On New Year’s Eve night!

My back to the bar

I’d stumbled upon;

A case of champagne

That wasn’t quite gone.

I handed the bottle

To the first zombie in line;

She tipped it into her mouth

And thought it… quite fine!

She sucked and she swallowed

The bubbly all down;

It fizzled and fuzzled

All over her gown.

The rest gathered round

Waiting their turn;

For those quite undead

How quickly they learn!

I popped all the bottles

And gave them all out;

As the zombies grew drunker

And started to shout.

They were lively and merry

Those living dead ghouls;

And in no time at all

Were acting like fools.

I left them all there

Quite torn up and twisted;

As I made my escape

Why, all of them missed it!

So I no longer hate

That old New Year’s Eve;

Since from a zombie attack

It allowed me to leave.

And I do have one lesson

I’d like to impart;

As your next cocktail party

Is about to start:

To see a mean zombie

Get all troubly-wubbly;

Skip brains for a change

And give him… some bubbly!

The Vampire’s Valentine:

A Vampire Valentine’s Day Story

I’m staring out the classroom window when the soft ruffle of

paper, more like cardboard, clatters inside my empty mailbox.

Most days of the year I don’t have a “mailbox” on my desk, but

this is Valentine’s Day, so… desk?

Meet mailbox.

I don’t turn right away because I can see her in the midday

reflection of the window.

Tall, black hair, black sweater, black skirt, red and white stockings,

black shoes; her Valentine’s getup.

Hilda McGregor?

She’s my valentine?

My first-ever, in 145 years, valentine?

I turn, at last, to see her fidgeting nervously in front of my desk.

“Hilda?” I ask, voice low as our classmates giggle and coo over

their endless, towering, so-big-they’re-teetering-off-their-desk stacks of

red and white and gold foil greeting cards.

“Hey Chester.”

She has that crooked smile I see so rarely but, sometimes, from

across the room when I catch her looking at me.

“Did you… just… slip a Valentine into my box?”

She bites her lip and nods, looking around self-consciously.

The only thing worse than one loser drawing attention to herself is

two losers enjoying themselves.

Nothing draws attention like that.

I’m no fool; either is she.

Time is running out before someone notices.

“Thank you.”

“No biggie,” she adds, clutching her shoulders the way she does.

“I… I… don’t know what to say.”

“You just did,” she giggles.

And somewhere, deep in my cold, dead heart, the temperature rises

just a little.

Not enough to matter, but a little just the same.

“I don’t have one for you,” I apologize.

She shrugs and says, “I didn’t expect you too, Chester. No one

ever does. It’s cool. You can… can… get me back someday, okay?”

And she flees, quickly, without another word.

I flick my eyes left and see why: Char Brighthouse is shooting her

daggers, all the way back to her desk.

She looks from Hilda back to me, then back to Hilda and sneers; I

smile back.

Groaning, Char turns to her friends Brazen and Splenda and leans

in for a monumental whisper-slash-bitch-fest.

I smile, wondering if I haven’t already just found a way to repay

Hilda.

I lurk in the shadows for the rest of the afternoon after our midday

Valentine’s party in Mrs. Hutcheson’s Home Ec class.

Hilda is easy to shadow, so tall and hulking in the halls, always

dressed in black, that limp blond hair like straw as she twirls a single

strand endlessly around one bitten-to-the-quick nail.

We don’t have many classes together, but now that she’s shown

me a small ray of kindness in this mortal world, I shadow her from room

to room just the same.

I stand outside her Biology class, ear to the wall, using the powers

I’ve honed over nearly two centuries to eavesdrop through the cheap,

cinderblock walls.

Aside from a boring lecture from Mr. Haines and a few catty

asides about Hilda’s stockings from Char and her gang, not much

happens.

Outside the gym during 7th period, though, everything changes.

There are windows here, and what I couldn’t see in Biology I can

see clearly now.

Hilda, hang dog and hunched over in her brown-on-brown gym

shorts and matching T-shirt, tube socks yanked up to her bruised knees

and knotted shoestrings bunched around her battered hi-tops, standing

awkwardly while Char and Brazen and Splenda circle her like sharks in

a tank.

I can feel the fangs flicker at my gums, like wounds healing – or

being torn open.

I can feel the claws itching to slip from my fingertips, and stow

them deep in my jeans pockets just in case.

I turn, eyes closed in anger, and slip unnoticed into the girls locker

room.

I ignore the showers, the heat, the naked bodies as they pass

beyond my cloaked presence a few minutes later.

In my anger I feel the invisibility begin to wane, but manage to

focus even as Char continues to taunt Hilda standing, half-naked, at her

open locker.

“Fess up, Hilda,” Char spits. “You dig that Chester dude, don’t

you?”

“Not like you think,” Hilda insists, and I can tell her voice is

sincere.

“I think you’ve got the hots for the creep,” says Brazen, tossing her

long, red locks as she shoves Hilda into the lockers.

The sound echoes off the slick, wet walls as the other girls –

cowards, all of them – quickly dress and scramble out of sight.

“So what if I did?” Hilda squeaks, defiant – if hopeless – to the

end.

The other girls laugh, harpish shrieks that grate on my ears.

And I’ve heard werewolves howl in the fresh moonlight, so I

should know a thing or two about shrieking!

The air in front of my face sizzles to life as the power of

invisibility threatens to tear apart in my rage.

And still the insults hurl, the abuse continues.

The girls taunt Hilda, and push her, paying no heed to the ringing

bell or the empty hour.

They have all day, it would seem, to make Hilda their special

project.

The locker door slams every time they shove Hilda into it, her pale,

bare shoulders peppered with bruises; some recent, others long since

trying to heal.

Her peach colored bra struggles to stay on from the constant abuse,

even as her black skirt from earlier in the day hangs loosely around her

pale, concave stomach.

And she never wavers, never gives an inch.

In her eyes I see not fear, but the revulsion – the rage – of a

thousand vampires.

And I know, if only she had the powers that I possess, she would

grind these girls under her boot and leave without a frown.

But she is too good to fight back, too hemmed in by the

consequences of what might happen if she broke Char’s nose, yanked

out Chaz’s earring or chipped one of Splenda’s perfect, white teeth.

Years of being outcast have ground her down and made her fear

the repercussions both real and imagined.

Char raises an open hand to strike and I drift from my cloud, fully

visible and stop her slap in mid-air.

She shrieks, but no more loudly than Brazen and Splenda.

Brazen tries to run to Char’s aid but, at last, Hilda is spurred to

action, reaching out with one long, nearly endless arm and yanking the

back of her bra until Brazen’s brassy red head yanks back, all the way

back into the nearest locker.

She slumps, conscious but shamed, to the floor in a blithering

heap.

Splenda rushes to her aid and, on the way past, Hilda extends one

bare foot, sending the blond slipping across the wet locker room tiles,

her head landing face first in an open locker full of damp, moldy socks.

She lies, semi-conscious, where she lands.

“You witch!” Char spits at Hilda when I finally release her.

Hilda is tugging on her black sweater, pulling her limp blond hair

out the opening and across her shoulders.

“Me?” Hilda asks, keeping her distance. “You and your girls

rushed me, Char. How am I the witch?”

“You planned this,” Char accuses, inching away from me and

closer to Hilda. “The two of you, I saw you at the Valentine’s Party

earlier, getting all chummy.”

“Nonsense,” I correct. “Hilda here was just giving me a

Valentine.”

I smile at Hilda.

Uncertain, she smiles back.

Hesitantly at first and then, when it’s dawned on her that I’m here,

really here, the smile at last gets bigger.

Char looks suspicious, her pug nose turned up as she rifles two

hands full of bright red fingernails through her raven black hair.

“Yeah, so… what are you doing here then, Chester?”

“I suppose,” I say, just now realizing what I am doing, “this is my

valentine to Hilda.”

Hilda smiles, standing a smidge taller all of a sudden.

“Whatever,” Char spits. “You’re both a couple of freaks anyway.”

“So what?” Hilda barks, slipping into her candy cane striped tights

before we get down to business. “So we’re freaks, big deal. Just… leave

us alone. We’re not bothering anyone.”

Char snorts, an ugly sound; worse even than the sound zombies

make when sucking brains from a fresh skull.

(And, yes, I’ve heard that too.)

“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hilda asks.

“Yeah, like after what’s happened here, I’m ever going to leave

you two alone. Ever! You both just bought yourself a one way to ticket

to Mean Girls Heaven.”

As Char and Hilda face off, I chuckle easily, the fangs sliding

effortlessly from my gums.

Char is turning around slowly as Hilda shakes her head at me.

I make a quizzical gesture but close my mouth just the same.

Only then does Hilda smile.

“What’s so funny, sourpuss?” Char asks, finally looking me up and

down.

I smile behind closed lips until my fangs retract and then ask

Hilda, “Yeah, Hilda. What is so funny?”

“Just this!” Suddenly, Hilda grabs Char’s hand and yanks her

backward onto the nearest bench.

Char’s head bounces off the varnished wood but Hilda leaps onto

her waist, pinning her down with crab-like thighs that are obviously

much stronger than they appear, all sickly and skinny like.

“Left or right?” Hilda asks, gripping Char’s hands to keep them

from flailing.

“Left or right what, witch? Let me up or I swear I’m going straight

to—”

“Left it is,” Hilda says, finding Char’s pinky and, with a crooked

smile, bending it back until we both hear a sickening “snap” sound.

Char cries out in pain as Splenda and Brazen huddle together in a

corner.

“Keep screaming,” Hilda hisses into Char’s ear, “and I’ll keep

snapping.”

Choking back tears and swallowing snot, Char does as she’s told.

Hilda shoves her off the bench, onto the floor, and takes her spot,

sliding out her battered hi-tops and slipping them on casually as she

looks at Char, whimpering, snottily, on the wet locker room tiles.

“Don’t ever talk to me again, Char,” Hilda says, brass in her throat.

“I mean it. For every word you say to me from this day forward, I’m

going to break a finger. And if you say more than nine, I’ll start on your

toes.”

Char whimpers, nodding nervously.

Hilda looks toward her two friends and says, “When I run out of

your fingers and toes, I’ll start in on theirs.”

One of the girls shrieks.

Neither Hilda or I care which.

Hilda opens her mouth to say more, then shakes her head.

She looks at me. “It’s not even worth it,” she says, standing.

We walk out of the locker room together, pausing only so Hilda

can turn at the door and, over her shoulder, wish the girls, “Happy

Valentine’s Day.”

The commons is deserted; even the janitor has gone home for the

day.

The walls are littered with paper hearts and red and pink streamers

as we stroll by, together, not even bothering to stop by our lockers.

“Thanks,” she says a few blocks from the school.

It’s the first thing either of us has said to each other since we left

the girls’ locker room.

“For what?” I ask, chuckling dryly in the mid-February chill. “You

didn’t even let me use any of my vampire powers.”

“Why waste them on Char and her friends?” she asks seriously, as

if she’s been plotting world domination for quite some time now. “I

mean, then what would happen? They’d go tell their parents, and their

parents would tell the town, and before you know it we’d all be coming

after you with torches and pitchforks. It’s easier this way.”

“But why, Hilda?”

“They ticked me off one last time, Chester. It’s embarrassing,

taking their crap all day long. I mean, that crap’s been going on for

years. But… when they did it in front of you, well, that took the cake. I

snapped, I guess.”

I chuckle.

She says, “What’s so funny? That I snapped in my bra?”

“No, I mean, yes, but… what I meant was, why did you give me a

valentine in the first place?”

“Oh, that?”

She smiles to herself, walking on those long, stringy legs for

another few steps before finally admitting, “I was too shy to talk to you,

and I’ve wanted to ever since you transferred here after Christmas, so…

I figured I’d give you a card and see what happened.”

“Are you sorry you did?”

“Heck no!”

“I mean, that you gave a valentine to a… vampire?”

“Oh that? Who cares? I mean, as long as you don’t try to turn me,

we’re cool…”

I nod, shuffling along at her side.

“You’re not? Going to try to turn me, I mean? Right Chester?”

I grab her hand; it’s so warm against my cold, cold skin.

“Not until you ask me to, Hilda. Not until you ask me to…”

About the Author:

Rusty Fischer

Rusty Fischer is a professional freelance writer who lives in sunny

Florida with his beautiful wife, Martha. They enjoy riding bikes, long,

leisurely walks on the beach, romantic dinners and zombie movies; with

a few vampire movies thrown in for good measure!

(Well, Rusty does, anyway!)

Rusty is the author of several YA supernatural novels, including

Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press, 2011), Ushers, Inc. (Decadent

Publishing, 2011), Detention of the Living Dead (Quake Books, 2012)

and Vamplayers (Medallion Press, 2012).

Visit his blog, www.zombiesdontblog.blogspot.com, for news,

reviews, cover leaks, writing and publishing advice, book excerpts and

more!

And if you can’t wait for his next release, download his complete

YA novel Vampires Drool! Zombies Rule! absolutely FREE at

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/25988.