Kitty and the Midnight Hour

'So, do you?' The speaker was male. His voice was clear and steady.

I put my smile into my voice. 'Yes.'

'The Bat Boy stories, I think they're a cover-up. All those tabloid stories, and the TV shows like Uncharted World?'

'Yeah?'

'Everybody treats them like they're a joke. Too far out, too crazy. Just mindless trash. So if everybody thinks that stuff is a joke, if there really is something out there—no one would believe it.'

'Kind of like hiding in plain sight, is that what you're saying? Talk about weird supernatural things just enough to make them look ridiculous and you deflect attention from the truth.'

'Yes, that's it.'

'So, who exactly is covering up what?'

'They are. The vampires. They're covering up, well, everything. Vampires, werewolves, magic, crop circles—'

'Slow down there, Van Helsing.'

'Don't call me that!' He sounded genuinely angry.

'Why not?'

'It's—I'm not anything like him. He was a murderer.'

The hairs on my arms stood on end. I leaned into the mike. 'And what are you?'

He let out a breath that echoed over the phone. 'Never mind. I called about the tabloid.'

'Yes, Bat Boy. You think Bat Boy is a vampire?'

'Maybe not specifically. But before you brush it off, think about what may really be out there.'

Actually, I didn't have to. I already knew.

'Thanks for the tip.'

He hung up.

'What an intriguing call,' I said, half to myself, almost forgetting I was on the air.

The world he talked about—vampires, werewolves, things that go bump—was a secret one, even to the people who inadvertently found their way there. People fell into it by accident and were left to sink or swim. Usually sink. Once inside, you especially didn't talk about it to outsiders because, well, who would believe you?

But we weren't really talking here, were we? It was late-night radio. It was a joke.

I squared my shoulders, putting my thoughts back in order. 'Right. This raises all sorts of possibilities. I have to know—did I just get a call from some wacko? Or is something really out there? Do you have a story to tell about something that isn't supposed to exist? Call me.' I put on Concrete Blonde while I waited.

The light on the phone showing an incoming call flashed before the song's first bass chord sounded. I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to call. If I could keep making jokes, I could pretend that everything was normal.

I picked up the phone. 'Hold, please,' I said and waited for the song to end. I took a few deep breaths, half-hoping that maybe the caller just wanted to hear some Pearl Jam.

'All right. Kitty here.'

'Hi—I think I know what that guy's talking about. You know how they say that wolves have been extinct around here for over fifty years? Well—my folks have a cabin up in Nederland, and I swear I've heard wolves howling around there. Every summer I've heard them. I called the wildlife people about it once, but they just told me the same thing. They're extinct. But I don't believe them.'

'Are you sure they're wolves? Maybe they're coyotes.' That was me trying to act normal. Playing the skeptic. But I'd been to those woods, and I knew she was right. Well, half-right.

'I know what coyotes sound like, and it's not anything like that. Maybe—maybe they're something else. Werewolves or something, you know?'

'Have you ever seen them?'

'No. I'm kind of afraid to go out there at night.'

'That's probably just as well. Thanks for calling.'

As soon as I hung up, the next call was waiting.

'Hello?'

'Hi—do you think that guy was really a vampire?'

'I don't know. Do you think he was?'

'Maybe. I mean—I go to nightclubs a lot, and sometimes people show up there, and they just don't fit. They're, like, way too cool for the place, you know? Like, scary cool, like they should be in Hollywood or something and what the hell are they doing here—'

'Grocery shopping?'

'Yeah, exactly!'

'Imagination is a wonderful thing. I'm going to go to the next call now—hello?'

'Hi. I gotta say—if there really were vampires, don't you think someone would have noticed by now? Bodies with bite marks dumped in alleys—'

'Unless the coroner reports cover up cause of death—'

The calls kept coming.

'Just because someone's allergic to garlic doesn't mean—'

'What is it with blood anyway—'

'If a girl who's a werewolf got pregnant, what would happen to the baby when she changed into a wolf? Would it change into a wolf cub?'

'Flea collars. And rabies shots. Do werewolves need rabies shots?'

Then came the Call. Everything changed. I'd been toeing the line, keeping things light. Keeping them unreal. I was trying to be normal, really I was. I worked hard to keep my real life—my day job, so to speak—away from the rest. I'd been trying to keep this from slipping all the way into that other world I still hadn't learned to live in very well.

Lately, it had felt like a losing battle.

'Hi, Kitty.' His voice was tired, flat. 'I'm a vampire. I know you believe me.' My belief must have showed through in my voice all night. That must have been why he called me.

'Okay,' I said.

'Can—can I talk to you about something?'

'Sure.'

'I'm a vampire. I was attacked and turned involuntarily about five years ago. I'm also—at least I used to be—a devout Catholic. It's been really… hard. All the jokes about blood and the Eucharist aside—I can't walk into a church anymore. I can't go to Mass. And I can't kill myself because that's wrong. Catholic doctrine teaches that my soul is lost, that I'm a blot on God's creation. But Kitty—that's not what I feel. Just because my heart has stopped beating doesn't mean I've lost my soul, does it?'

I wasn't a minister; I wasn't a psychologist. I'd majored in English, for crying out loud. I wasn't qualified to counsel anyone on his spiritual life. But my heart went out to him, because he sounded so sad. All I could do was try.

'You can't exactly go to your local priest to hash this out, can you?'

'No,' he said, chuckling a little.

'Right. Have you ever read Paradise Lost!'

'Uh, no.'

'Of course not, no one reads anymore. Paradise Lost is Milton's great epic poem about the war in heaven, the rebellion of the angels, the fall of Lucifer, and the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. As an aside, some people believe this was the time when vampires and lycanthropes came into existence—Satan's mockery of God's greatest creation. Whatever. At any rate, in the first few chapters, Satan is the hero. He speaks long monologues what he's thinking, his soul-searching. He's debating about whether or not to take revenge on God for exiling him from heaven. After reading this for a while, you realize that Satan's greatest sin, his greatest mistake, wasn't pride or rebelling against God. His greatest mistake was believing that God would not forgive him if he asked for forgiveness. His sin wasn't just pride—it was self-pity. I think in some