Just for something to do, I grope around on the radio until I find the tuning knob. Making a slow sweep, I go from one end to the other. Buried in static, I find a voice but I can’t really make out what he’s saying. It must be religious. The only word that I catch is “Temptation.” I wander back to the Mountain and listen to an ad for a car dealership and then a furniture store.
The rain slows down.
(I remember the phone.)
I remember the phone.
I have to keep my wits. The cordless phone was working, but the line was dead. Since moving to my uncle’s place, I’ve never had issues with the internet service or the phone. It would be stupid to assume that it’s a coincidence that the phone outage and my visitors were unrelated. Therefore, it would be stupid to assume that they’re simply cunning animals. They must be intelligent enough to understand that the phone is connected by the cable and that they could cut me off from the outside world by severing that line. If they’re smart enough to do that, what else are they smart enough to figure out?
One of my favorite movies had a great line: “What do you mean, ‘they cut the power’? How could they cut the power, man? They’re animals.”
Because they didn’t smash the window of the truck, I’ve been assuming that they’re not too bright. What if there’s another reason?
Maybe they don’t like to break glass. Maybe the sound hurts their ears the same way that the light hurts their eyes.
“Pieces,” I whisper.
I’m thinking about the one on the front porch and how it was crouched under the bird feeder. Didn’t I read somewhere that a vampires are compelled to count spilled seeds? I think that’s the way it goes. People used to put a pile of seeds on their porch because a vampire would be compelled to count them before passing.
Maybe it’s the same with shards of glass?
This is all speculation. At least it’s occupying my brain and helping me stay awake.
Suffice to say, there could be a logical reason that they haven’t smashed my window besides simple stupidity. If that’s true, I’m going to have to stay on my toes.
I take a peek at the dash.
The clock is still dead at three. The gas is holding out—more than half a tank.
The Mountain of Pure Rock, WTOS, is fulfilling their promise of Soundgarden. I don’t recognize the song, but Chris Cornell’s voice is unmistakable. I wonder how many voices I’ve heard tonight are from dead people. Petty is dead. Cornell is dead. I’m pretty sure that the guy from Bad Company—Paul Rodgers?—is still alive. I wonder if there’s a correlation between how long a musician is remembered and the tragic circumstances of their death. If they just pass away from natural causes, does their music fade away fast? At the moment, I can’t think of any dead musicians who didn’t die in a horrific way.
Mr. Engel didn’t die in a horrific way, at least not according to the hospital. They said it was a kind of anemia. I wonder if that’s what they will say about me. Will two cases of anemia be enough to trigger suspicion. I hate the idea that there’s a chance that they will kill me too and nobody will put two and two together.
That’s one thing that I have control over.
I reach past the shifter and feel across the dash until I find the glove compartment. Inside, there’s a notepad with a pencil through the spiral binding. For a long time, Uncle Walt wrote down the miles and gallons every time he filled the truck. He said that a sudden change in gas mileage was a good indicator that there was a problem brewing with the truck. I guess he gave up on the idea at some point because the last time I looked the notebook didn’t have any recent entries.
It was about to get one. I crawl over to the passenger’s side and lower myself into the footwell.
When I’m crouched low, I open my eyes.
I can just see the notebook from the light of the dashboard.
I flip to a blank page and start writing.
I mention Mr. Engel and how I found him. The word “vampire” only appears in my narrative as a quote from Mr. Engel. I don’t want anyone to assume that I’m crazy. I only refer to them as predatory animals. It’s a simplification, but I’m trying to maintain the credibility of the narrative. I beseech anyone who finds my body to look into the possibility that I was a victim of these animals. I reiterate that I have no history of anemia. I donate blood all the time with no issues.
My handwriting has deteriorated in the past couple of years.
Kimberly and I used to leave notes for each other all the time. We had a certain style in these notes that’s hard to describe. You might call it Victorian Nonsensical Love Letter style. She started it, of course. I came home one day and found a note that said something like:
Dearest, I pray this missive finds you well. The furry one—firm decision being unnatural to his bearing—is neither in nor out. He stood in the doorway mewling whilst I prepared my lunch and I fear I’ve lost track of him. Henceforth, I shall call him Schrödinger and wonder everlasting over his existence. On the morrow, we’re expected in Danforth. Until tonight, my heart beats for both of us.
My replies were never as clever as hers, but I tried. With all that writing, my hand grew confident and the script was confident and legible. I’ve lost that skill apparently. I read over my note and make a few clarifying smudges where necessary.
When she was pregnant, her body bulging and stretching, she trusted her doctor completely. Dr. Phan had four kids of her own and she was very honest about the experience of
