My notebook is still there, beyond the truck. The body is gone. The one that cut my gas line and burned up in the explosion has been taken away or turned to dust. Without any evidence, one guess is as good as the other.
It’s starting to occur to me that I need to form a plan. In the best-case scenario, I can walk up to Mr. Engel’s and use his phone. The house is probably locked up now, but I’ll get in. I think Amber will understand. I don’t have any identification and my cellphone is lost somewhere in the grass on the other side of the barn. All that is secondary.
I take a step backwards. I’ve taken the first step towards Mr. Engel’s house.
If I can get out of here in one piece and get back to sanity, it’s a win.
Is it though?
Does getting out of here in one piece put a tick in the W column?
What happens after that?
I’ll need my driver’s license, birth certificate, or passport at some point. All those things are in Uncle Walt’s house. What am I going to do, ask the police to go inside with me? That will require a story of some sort. I’ll have to say that someone tried to break in and then what? Do I say that I crashed the truck? They’re going to suspect that I was drinking. Do I care?
But, seriously, what’s next after that?
Am I going to try to sell the house as it stands now?
What happens when the realtor tries to show the house and the prospective buyers ask to see the cellar? What are they going to find down there?
Light
(I start with the notebook.)
I start with the notebook.
I add the following:
“Listen—you can call me crazy if you want to, but I was attacked. I crashed the truck, but they cut the fuel line. They were the same ones from Mr. Engel’s cellar. I’m well aware of how this sounds, but I believe they were vampires. Call them what you like, but I believe they were parasitic predators, trying to feed from my blood. If that’s not a vampire, I don’t know what is. I spent all night locked in the pantry while they tapped on the doors. Now, I’m going to take my house back.”
My hand is cramped from squeezing the pencil. The hasty text is barely legible.
I toss the notebook in the driveway and approach the house.
This is my uncle’s house, regardless of what currently infests it. One could argue that they might have fled in the night to find a better place to roost, but I know they’re here. I can sense it.
I know something else, too—I know they can die.
Standing back, I reach forward and shove the key into David’s door. It goes easily this time and I turn the handle. I push it open with the broom. The hinges creak. Light spills into the hall and I lean forward to look right, left, and up. Next stop is the sliding door. With that open, the shed has a decent amount of light. I head for the woodshop and glance around under the dusty counters before I get to work.
I use a handsaw and chisel to sharpen both the end of the broom stick and a shovel handle that Uncle Walt was saving.
When Mom would make cookies, she would hand me two, saying, “One for each hand.”
I’m holding two sharpened stakes.
“One for each hand,” I whisper to myself.
My shoulder feels limber and strong even when I squeeze the broom handle hard.
I feel ready.
As I move through the shed, I close doors behind me. I cross the floor of the barn fast and unlock the big doors to throw them open. Light rolls into the lower floor of the barn.
If feels like something is missing as the dust swirls in the shafts of morning light.
All the stalls are empty. Uncle Walt lost or gave away all of his animals before he became too frail to care for them. I would like to see it filled again—a winter refuge for cows, sheep, goats, and horses. The barn was a perfect tiny ecosystem.
I work my way from one stall to the next, checking every corner. I inspect the milk room, standing back as I lift the lid of the old cooler in there. I look under the stairs, making sure no hands will shoot out and trip me up before I climb, and then I peer around the lofts.
When I’m satisfied that the barn is empty, I turn back for the house.
Searching the barn and shed were a formality, really. I didn’t expect to find anything there. I needed a warmup.
I’m back at the pantry door. The last thing I want to do is step through that space again. It doesn’t feel so bad when I open the door from the shed. The space is infused with kitchen light now. The endless black expanse of it has been returned to reality.
I step through.
There’s enough light in the kitchen now that I can see tiny glints from the floor. When they cleaned up the glass, they missed the slivers. Flies are already buzzing near the fridge and I smell something sweet over there. It’s no surprise. Uncle Walt’s refrigerator isn’t as old as Mr. Engel’s, and it doesn’t have a hard latch on the door. Without power for a night, the food in there is probably already spoiling.
I use my stakes to flip open the biggest of the cabinets and even some of the smaller ones.
The kitchen is clear.
I mean, aside from the cellar door, it’s clear. I’m saving that for last.
Before I leave, I turn back and have second thoughts. It’s not enough to keep it closed, but I slide the table over from its normal spot so I can push it against the cellar door. A strong hand could shove it aside, but I’ll hear the noise if they do.
I
