Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (29 page)

“How would me getting her a Christmas gift be selfish?”

“You lost your sister. And now you’ve found another one.”

“You’re saying I’ve replaced Ashlie with Lindsey.”

“Subconsciously, yes.”

“Ashlie’s dead. And I can’t change that. I can’t bring her back to life.”

“Of course you can’t. But maybe you’re trying to do that. With Lindsey.”

Mark shakes his head. “You’re incredible. Someone tries to do a selfless thing, and you have to find every excuse to make them feel like shit about it.”

Anthony Barnhart

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A heavy snow falls on Christmas Eve. Mark asks the girl if she wants to go play outside, because she seems to be doing better. The fever has lifted, she hasn’t had convulsions for a while, and he dares to hope that she may be getting better. Maybe her body is fighting against the disease and slowly taking her back. But she doesn’t want to go outside. She’s tired, and she just wants to sleep.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” the boy says.

“Really?” she asks. Her eyes sparkle. “I didn’t get you anything!”

“You don’t have to,” Mark says.

“But I want to.”

“You’re sick. You just need to rest. When you’re better, we can go find me a present.”

“Are you getting me something?”

Mark smiles. “Well. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out.”

The man stands out on the back porch, smoking, staring at the freshly-fallen snow, feeling the stinging pinpricks of snowflakes driven into his cheeks by the savage winds coming up from the Cincinnati valley. The haze of the falling snow hides the city below, the empty skyscrapers lost from view. The man lets the smoke fill his lungs and exhales. A beautiful, wondrous feeling as the nicotine surges through his blood and alights in his fingers. He tosses the cigarette into the snow, and the filter becomes soggy with the frozen water. He leans against the brick siding and feels the wintry wind slapping him in the face. A tear brims in his eye, but it is frozen before it crawls down his cheek. He remembers his first Christmas with Kira: sitting beside their small Christmas tree with only a few meager ornaments and flickering red-green-blue lights. They opened their stockings, and then their presents. He got her a pearl necklace. She loved pearl necklaces. And she got him a new case for his cell phone, and a frame in which to put his Flight School diploma. They cuddled on the sofa and drank hot cocoa and watched the snow falling outside. A snow similar to this one, except beneath the snow lied only grass and not the teeth-gnawed bones of fallen angels.

Morning comes. The boy has decided to give Lindsey Ashlie’s old stuffed dog with the pink bowtie. Ashlie would want her to have it. He places the stuffed animal into a box and wraps it in newspaper. He moves the coffee table away from the door and steps inside. Lindsey is snuggled in her sheets, sleeping. A smile creases his lips. He kneels beside the bed and takes her shoulder. He shakes it gently. Her body rolls over, and the sheets fall away. He falls backwards with a shout: her face is a deep purple, the bloodshot eyes bulging from tunneled sockets; her mouth is open in a silent scream of agony, and her pale fingers stricken with rigor mortis clutch the blankets tight.

Christmas Day is cold. The snow continues to fall. They silently pry her fingers from the blankets and wrap her in them; her eyes refuse to shut, forever engulfing the cruel world in which she died. The man doesn’t say a word to Mark, who fights off tears. They carry her outside, down the street, and they put her on a sled beside a large hill bare of trees, and they push the sled down the snow-covered slope until it crashes into a creek covered with frozen ice; they watch without emotion as the ice cracks and the sled disappears underneath with its stiff cargo. They go back to the house and drink coffee, staring silently at the wooden table, saying nothing, hearing only the sound of their own breaths, the beatings of their own hearts, and the broken symphonies of the wind shrieking outside.

The boy goes upstairs to gather the gift he never got to give. He bends down to pick it up and sees something under the bed. He crawls underneath and pulls out two small boxes. He opens them up. Inside one is a drawing of three stick figures: a man, a boy, and a little girl, each smiling. And in the Anthony Barnhart

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other a coffee cup that reads PRICE HILL CHILI: THE BEST IN CINCINNATI! He tosses them back under the bed and leaves the room, shutting the door. He never got to give her his present, and she never got to give them theirs.

Anthony Barnhart

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Chapter Nine

The Legend of the Vampire

“…Vampires are make-believe, like elves, gremlins, and Eskimos.”

- Dan Castellaneta, 1958

I

Mark still hears her whispers in his dreams, the gentle laughter hidden under lips squeezed tight.

“Sing me something sad, soft, and delicate; sing me anything.” He buries his face into the pillow at night, soaking the worn cotton with salty tears. Every movement is liquidated with her presence, and any fleeting sparkle of happiness is extinguished when he sees her brilliant brown eyes peering at him from above. His hands shake as he grips the wheel. The snow has half-melted, and the roads are decent. The wrecked vehicles are still covered with snow, appearing as white boulders which he must drive around. Some of the snow upon the windshields has melted, and inside some of the vehicles he can see the remnants of what had once been loving mothers, businessmen, giddy children: now nothing more than skeletons covered with tattered, moth-eaten clothes, hidden underneath rusting hulls. He takes the exit ramp slowly, and in time he is driving down a country road lined on either side with the skeletons of trees, draped in their icy lace. He pulls into the gravel driveway, can hear the rocks growling underneath the slick tires. He parks beside the man’s old car, covered with snow, and leaning back in the truck’s seat, he can’t tear his eyes from the two-story house, the window overlooking the front lawn, long since broken. In the shattered window-frame a bird watches before taking flight. He kills the engine and slowly gets out. The air is cold, sharp, crisp. It burns in his lungs, and his breath crystallizes before his own eyes. His feet carve footprints in the snow as he approaches the front door. He tries the icy knob, but it is locked; he steps back and kicks the door. It creaks once, groans, and with another strike from his shoe, the door handle splinters. The door swings open. The boy enters, surprised at the coldness within the house. Dust covers everything, and the carpet is stained with blood. He moves forward without looking, through the parlor; something crunches under his shoe, and he steps back, looks down: a crunched human femur. A noise comes from above, the sound of squawking, and his blood runs chill. He glances into the kitchen, at the refrigerator plastered with photos long since hidden with mire, the unplugged microwave and the toaster on its side. The backpack lies underneath the table. He turns on his heels and slowly ascends the stairs.

He is shaking as he stands before the door to her room. A million thoughts and images dance through his mind. The wooden door is covered with countless scratches, and a corpse lies farther down the hallway, now nothing more than a skeleton with a toothy grin and empty sockets. He pushes hard against the door. It creaks and groans, slides open; the dresser had been pushed against it. It opens enough for him to slip through. He looks down at his stomach, much smaller now than it had been before all this began. He wonders what he looks like, knowing he hasn’t looked into a mirror for longer than he can remember. Self-reflection is shattered as he looks at the bunk-bed. The sheets are tangled. Stuffed animals litter the floor. He moves towards the bed and falls upon his knees. He lays his head against the sheets, so cold. Her warmth has gone, and he tries to rekindle her Anthony Barnhart

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scent—”Consider this song a testament/Of my devotion to your saccharine scent/And to be completely honest/You’re not like all the rest”—but the only smell is that of the needling winter air, whistling through his hair from the window. Tears slide down his cheeks, and he remembers.

∑Ω∑

He and Cara sat on the bed. She had been going through one of her scrapbooks from her high school years, but they had wound up closed upon the floor. They had moved closer together, and they started kissing with small pecks that quickly became intense tongue-in-mouth. Mark’s groin went tight, and he found his heart screaming like a tea kettle. Cara began rubbing her hands against his body, playing it off as accidents, but Mark realized they were no mere accidents when her hand squeezed around his jeans, her finger stroking the bulge of his erection. Cara took him by the hand, and she pulled him down beside her on the first bunk of the bunk-bed. Her mother had gone to a work meeting for the night, and they laid there together, holding hands, their bodies close, feeling one another’s heartbeats. He rest his head upon her breast, and he heard her whisper in his ear, her breath tickling his skin: “Mom’s not home.”

Mark didn’t say anything. She rolled over, her back to him, and with his free hand (his other arm was wrapped around her head and stroking her sweet-smelling hair), he began stroking her thigh. A wickedly pleasurable smile traced over Cara’s lips, and she began rubbing her butt-cheeks against the bulge in his hands. She made the next move by rolling back over onto her other side, so that they were facing, and she slowly unzipped his zipper, being careful not to hurt him; and she reached into the warmth of his groin, folded back the folds of his boxers with her fingers, and discovered his penis. He could feel her cold fingers brushing through his pubic hair, and as she stroked his hard erection, the pleasure was nearly enough to make him sick. He kissed her forehead a few times, and after a few lashes with the tongue, reached for her shirt and began pulling it off. With her bare chest before him, he undid the latch on her bra—quite the struggle, for he had never had sex before—and then his chest was poised against her twin breasts with their swollen nipples. She continued stroking his penis as he rearranged his position and began sucking her nipples, one hand against her quivering cheek and the other groping at her tight shoulder-blades.

“We can do it if you want,” she said.

Mark’s voice came broken and ragged. “I’ve never done it before…”

“You’ll like it,” she said; and in a teasing whisper, “I promise.”

The young man’s face flushed red. “I don’t know how to do it.”

“Then let me teach you,” she begged.

A few moments later, they were lying naked under the covers, holding one another. Mark’s heart felt ready to explode. His stiff penis felt the warmth of her pubic hair as she wrapped her slender legs around his thigh. She began kissing his mouth deep, and he returned the favor. His penis felt ready to implode upon itself, it was so tight. He continued kissing her until she pulled her head back.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.

“Nothing,” she said. “You know what you should do?”

Mark couldn’t tear his eyes from the fierce lightning in her eyes. “Tell me.”

“You should lick my lips,”

“Okay,” he said, and he leaned in closer, began licking her lips. She laughed, pulled away, bit her lips. “Not
those
lips, Silly.”

His eyes swam in confusion. “Not those lips?”

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She thrust her hip into his. “My lips
down there
.”

Mark understood. He had never eaten a girl out before, didn’t know what to expect, but he had always wanted to do it. We went slowly, kissing his way down her body—enjoying her slender neck, her swollen breasts, her pale and warm stomach—until he reached her vagina. It was dark, for he was under the covers, but he could feel her warmth against his skin. He kissed the insides of her legs, then proceeded to feel along her scratchy pubic hair until he found the slit. He wiggled his fingers inside and felt them vanish within her. She leaned her head back and groaned, but warned, “Be careful, don’t hurt me with your fingernails, okay?” He withdrew his fingers and began kissing and licking her moist slit. Cara’s body arched up and her legs quivered as he continued. He had never tasted anything so bitter that tasted to beautiful. Her legs slashed around for a moment, and she moaned, “Yeah, Mark, yeah…” He teased her clit with his finger and fucked her with his tongue. A few moments later she went, and her slit became flooded with juices. The explosion frightened him, and he stumbled backwards as her juices spread onto the bed-sheets. She laughed, grabbed his bare arms, pulled. “Come up here.”

He emerged from the shadows. Sweat popped over brow. “Did you like it?”

“Oh, God, yes,” she said. “Now it’s your turn. Lay down.”

He laid down on his back, and she switched positions. Her movements were elegant, and her breasts swung with each movement. She turned herself around on the bed, and he pulled her legs close to him, clean-shaven, as she began running her tongue up and down his penis. He grabbed her butt-cheeks with both hands and pulled her vagina back upon his tongue and began to lick and kiss again. This spurred her forward, and she began deep-throating, and he felt his penis engulfed in the warm wetness of her mouth. She continued moaning and groaning as Mark ate her out, and she rubbed his balls and sucked his penis as she went once more.

Mark felt the growing sensation he knew so well, and he pulled away from her vagina.

“Cara…” he said.

She pulled off of him, said, “Why did you stop?”

“You need to stop,” he said, “unless you want a mouth full.”

She grinned. “A mouth full of what, Mark?”

He stammered, “You know…”

She bit her lip, then returned to his penis.

The insides of his legs went tight. “Cara… You really should…
Shit
.”

He felt himself ejaculate, and he was surprised that Cara kept going. He could feel her swallowing his cum, continuing to suck. His shoulder blades tightened with the pleasure, and he ashamedly felt drool trace down the corner of his mouth. He continued licking her, and she continued sucking him, and they both went a few more times. Moments later, they were curled up in one another’s arms, head upon the pillow, sweat-streaked, reeking with the beautiful stench of sex, and gazing into one another’s dazzling eyes.