The Vampire Hunter Comes To Call (The Vampire's Housekeeper Chronicles, # 2) by J Bennett
The Vampire Hunter Comes To Call
THE VAMPIRE’S HOUSEKEEPER CHRONICLES #2
A SHORT STORY BY J BENNETT
THE VAMPIRE’S HOUSEKEEPER CHRONICLES
#1 EMPLOYMENT INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE
#2 THE VAMPIRE HUNTER COMES TO CALL
#3 DUEL WITH THE WEREFROG
# 4 WHEN NINJAS AND VAMPIRES COLLIDE
Copyright © 2012 by J Bennett, All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9910566-1-3
Cover by Jessica VanNostran
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
FOR KRISTIN
~
I’d always pictured vampires as evil, vicious creatures of the night, or, more lately, as sparkly emo romantics. That is, until I became a housekeeper for one. I realize now that my conception of vampires was woefully inadequate. They do age, albeit very slowly, and their minds and fashion sense don’t always keep up with the present. Nathaniel, for example, wears his suspenders with pride, listens cheerfully to his gramophone each night, has voted for Eisenhower the past six election cycles and is still convinced that the television is witch magic. Being his housekeeper isn’t easy. He has particular notions of how a proper woman should act – notions I don’t really abide. This could be a problem, because, old or not, Nathaniel’s fangs are still sharp. Those that cross him once tend to end up in a shallow grave near the mulberry bushes in the backyard. It’s not the best gig in the world, but to be honest, I need the paycheck. My name is Deidre, and I guess for the foreseeable future, I’m a vampire’s housekeeper.
~
Cleaning a haunted house is fun in the way it’s fun to try and bail out a sinking ship with a sieve. A typical day starts with me waking up in my crypt, staring at my PERSERVERENCE poster on the wall for a little inspiration and then cautiously rising to my feet. I say cautiously, because even though I’ve told the ghosts that my room in a no-haunting zone, sometimes they don’t listen.
Dex, in particular, enjoys setting up elaborate and artsy displays meant to challenge the traditional assumptions of fear’s true nature, as he likes to put it. Dex is an artist and activist. Actually, was an artist and activist before he made the mistake of knocking on Nathaniel’s door twenty years ago. Nathaniel wasn’t so much interested in signing Dex’s nuclear disarmament initiative as he was of disarming Dex of all his blood.
And yep, as soon as I open my door, I see, painted in huge, neon yellow letters on the wall:
7 BILLION
“Seven billion what?” I mumble, still rubbing my eyes.
“Seven billion people in the world,” Dex says behind me. “That’s the official population count. Think about the strain on the world’s resources, the increased pollution, the swelling ranks of the impoverished.”
“Yes, I’m very scared,” I say and don’t bother to add any emphasis to my voice.
“You should be,” Dex insists. He’s wearing a ghostly t-shirt that says Conveyer of Extreme Emotions, which is the inflated job title he’s given himself.
I walk down to the first floor while Dex floats after me, continuing his diatribe.
“The majority of those births are taking place in third world countries that are least able to meet the needs of their population,” he informs me. “We’re talking lack of water, little to no female education, the complete and utter destruction of the rainforest!”
He pauses to gauge my reaction.
“Yeah, yeah, so scared,” I say. “So that stuff on the wall, I don’t suppose you can just vanish that away?”
“Absolutely not,” Dex huffs. “I have stained the walls just as you humans have stained the world with your unceasing progeny. Except instead of unceasing progeny, I used permanent Magic Marker.”
“Of course,” I groan as we walk into the kitchen. That’s when I hear a snicker.
“Sloppy Joe?” I call out suspiciously.
Nothing. Damn.
Now I’m on my guard. Sloppy Joe’s only been a ghost for a little over a year, and this is
his first official haunted residence. Not only is he still trying to work the kinks out of his ghostly abilities, he still thinks he’s the white rapper wannabe that he was in life. He’s got a dirty mouth and an even dirtier sense of humor.
“Come on Joe, this isn’t funny,” I say.
Another snicker from somewhere behind me.
“So childish,” Dex sighs.
I haven’t even made coffee yet, and I’m already waiting for some malformed animal to jump out from the cabinet, or the dishwasher to try and bite my leg off. I wonder again if I’m making enough money, or if it’s not too late to find employment at a classier joint like McDonalds or Pizza Hut.
I put the coffee pot under the sink, turn on the tap and watch a brown pasty substance ooze into the pot.
“Ah-ha! Take that!” Sloppy Joe calls triumphantly behind me. “That’s being the last time you mock my doo-rag.” His laughter is cut off as he notices what’s coming out of the sink. “What? Aw hell.”
I hesitantly put a finger under the tap and then bring it to my nose. “Peanut butter,” I diagnose. “What was it supposed to be?”
“Acid,” Sloppy Joe moans.
I suck the peanut butter off my finger and give him a sarcastic smirk. “Mmmmm. Yes, its stickiness is horrifying to the depths of my soul.”
Actually, had I known that all the faucets in the entire mansion would be running peanut better for the rest of the day, I probably would have been more scared.
Just another typical morning at Nathaniel’s house, and I haven’t even gotten to my boss yet.
Nathaniel is…peculiar. Oh, and a vampire. I should definitely mention that up front. He doesn’t kill anymore, not that he wouldn’t like to. It’s one of the conditions of my employment, and I have a hell of a time getting him to stick to it. There are other things that sometimes strain our relationship. His utter abhorrence of the women’s suffrage movement is one. Others include his occasional conviction that slavery still exists and is proper, and his fear of all things technological that have been invented after the candle.
And then there’s the bell.
Which is ringing insistently right now. I trudge up to his crypt. Nathaniel sits in his lushly accommodated coffin, all prim and proper in his night dress and cap.
“Is that how you choose to clothe yourself in the morning?” he asks sourly.
I look down at my matching Tweety Bird pajama top and bottoms and shrug. “I haven’t had a chance to shower and change yet,” I reply. “Actually, the shower thing might be kind of tough on account of the peanut butter.”
“The what?”
“You rang?” I ask him.
“Prune juice. And command the next episode of I Dream of Jeannie to play.” Nathaniel waves his hand irritably in the direction of the television, which he still thinks is possessed by some sort of witch magic.
“Sure thing boss.”
I get him his prune juice and fire up the TiVo, and Nathaniel is happy for the moment. So happy in fact that he gives me another biography to read, this one about Henry Knox, some sort of commander during the Revolutionary War. Nathaniel didn’t actually fight in the war??
force the conversation in that direction.
“Don’t you fear, Deidre,” he’ll say on occasion, “if those bastards want to tax our tea, we’ll pay them alright!” This is usually accompanied by the waving around of said flintlock musket. Thankfully, they haven’t produced musket balls for it in a couple hundred years, so I’m sure Nathaniel’s weapon is harmless. Mostly sure, that is.
But the gun is the least of my worries. This biography thing…it’s becoming a problem.
See, I like to read. Mostly historical fiction, an occasional romance novel and maybe a mystery here or there. Nathaniel reads one thing and one thing only—biographies. Everything god damn biographies. In fact, he has collected quite a massive library of biographies over the centuries, and he has generously loaned around eighty tomes for me to read. He seems to keep forgetting that it actually takes most people more than a day to read a book and keeps digging up more and more to add to my growing pile. The next day he will invariably ask me how I liked the book on Dwight Eisenhower (his favorite president, for whom he has voted in the last six elections) or Vlad the Impaler (another idol), or King Henry the VIII or Alexander the Great, and on and on and on.
When I sheepishly admit that I didn't finish whatever latest book he’s given me, Nathaniel always looks disappointed, and then he shrugs, straightens his bow tie, pats me on the shoulder and says something horribly offensive to cheer me up like, "Ah, well, endeavors of enlightenment do tend to put greater strain on the fairer sex. Your minds are not capable of the concentration we men enjoy. "
Of course, none of Nathaniel's biographies are about women. I brought this to his attention once, and he told me, "being a dutiful wife and mother is of great importance, but it doesn't make for very interesting reading now does it?"
I’ve got to get Nathaniel’s mind off the biography kick, but the guy honestly has no life. I
think he’s lonely. He never gets any visitors except for the Mormons who just keep coming,
despite the fact that Nathaniel has killed at least a dozen of them over the last decade and buried their bodies in his backyard next to the mulberry bushes.
So, when I make it my personal mission to get Nathaniel some friends, it’s partly about generosity but mostly it’s about preserving my sanity against an onslaught of biographies. On my quest to improve Nathaniel’s social life, the place to start is obvious.
Facebook.
Of course, my mostly well-meaning friend attempt will soon bring the wrath of the vampire hunter down upon our heads, but I don’t know this as I blithely create a profile for Nathaniel and do more than a little fibbing along the way. For instance, I don’t mention the fact that Nathaniel is a vampire or that he’s an irritable old biddy with an I Dream of Jeannie obsession. I say that he is a gentleman of leisure. The little birthday box only goes down to the year 1900, so I give Nathaniel’s birthday as 1946 instead of 1746. Then it’s just about airbrushing the fangs out of his profile pic, and I’m done.
I show Nathaniel. He is initially excited only because he doesn’t know the difference between the television and the computer and thinks I have a new episode of I Dream of Jeannie for him. When he figures out that what I’m pointing at is not the television but the “portal of damned souls,”(Nathaniel assumes there are spirits inside the computer continually updating news feeds, writing blogs and making pointless YouTube videos), Nathaniel immediately loses interest.
Things don’t get better when we discover that there’s no alumni fan page for Harvard, class of 1768, or when I try to divert his attention by joining some vampire fan pages. Nathaniel is extremely perturbed by the content of these groups, and for the next three hours I am forced to post adamant arguments explaining that vampires do not sparkle when exposed to sunlight.
Right before I beg off to go feed The Thing In The Basement, Nathaniel gets his very first friend request. It’s someone named Silas who was also a member of several of the vampire groups. His profile pic is a cheerful cartoon lawn gnome. I happily accept his friend request, proud of myself for having helped my cantankerous boss actually make a friend.
For his part, Nathaniel is cautious. “Is he of the gnome folk? Gnomes are often mischievous and untrustworthy creatures. I also do not favor their pointed hats,” Nathaniel says as he adjusts his ruffled sleeves.
“No; that’s just his profile picture,” I explain to Nathaniel. “He probably just likes gnomes.”
“Then I have reservations about his judgment. Perhaps I shall comment upon it when he comes to call.”
“Comes to call?”
Nathaniel raises one of his bushy black eyebrows. “When he calls upon us to formally introduce himself like a true gentleman.”
“Uh, Nathaniel, people don’t really call upon other people anymore.”
“Nonsense,” Nathaniel waves a pale hand. “If he is a man of honor, or a gnome of honor, he shall call upon us and perhaps invite me up to his estate for a repast. You, as a servant, won’t be invited of course. That would be unseemly.”
I sigh. “Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell Nathaniel as I log out of the site.
Little did I know that Silas would come calling; seeking not to invite Nathaniel to a fancy dinner, but to plunge a stake through my boss’s heart.
***
The next day I visit my Uncle Jimmy down at the slaughterhouse. Jimmy isn’t actually my uncle or a close family friend or connected to me in any way, save for the fact that he’ll take cash payments in exchange for what I need.
“So, how’s the Satanic cult going?” Jimmy asks as he hands over the cooler of cow blood.
Terrible excuse, I know, but slightly better than explaining how I’m forcefully implanting a conscience into my vampire boss.
“Oh, it’s good,’ I shrug. “All Satanic and stuff. We just had a potluck yesterday. It went really well.”
“Did you serve a lot of finger food?” Jimmy asks. His big frame shakes with good-natured laughter. “I’m playing yah. How many cow heads you thinking today?”
The Thing In The Basement has been relatively quiet of late. “Just two this week if you got them,” I respond.
“Oh I got ‘em. Open up your trunk, and I’ll haul them out.”
Yep, my sturdy 98 Corolla has been commandeered for blood and cow head conveyance. The smell isn’t really what you’d think, since Jimmy always wraps the heads up real good. I’m not saying there isn’t a smell. There’s a smell alright. It cloys into the upholstery and stays there. I’m just saying that if you roll the windows down, put some music on high and think of pretty, pretty paychecks, the smell isn’t so bad.
“Good luck with the cult,” Jimmy says as he hefts the second head into my trunk and closes it for me.
“Yeah. Can’t wait until the Lord of Darkness descends, and the world erupts in blood and fire and stuff,” I mutter as I wave and get behind the wheel.
About a quarter mile from Nathaniel’s mansion, I notice a powder blue van pulled off to the side of the road, haphazardly covered in tree branches and leaves. An old guy is huffing and puffing as he brings another branch out of the woods. It doesn’t help anything that he’s leaning against his walker, struggling with every step.
I slow my car, put down the window and ask if he needs any help.
The old guy stops and squints at me. “I work alone,” he says in a deep and gravelly voice.
“Okey dokey.”
“It’s not safe in these parts,” he continues. His face is deeply lined, like he’s lived too long and seen too much evil. “…especially for a young girl.”
“Tell me about it. My boss is killing me. I mean, not literally, of course. He’s just…never mind.”
“You should get home,” the man says, and the cold look in his eyes is starting to disconcert me.
“Alllll right. Let me get on that, like, now.” I roll up my window and head back to Nathaniel’s mansion wondering if my body emits some kind of natural perfume that attracts the crazies.
***
When I get to the mansion the cow heads go on ice, and I make Nathaniel a nice blood cocktail before he turns in for the day. Predictably, he’s the epitome of sunshine and gratitude.
“I daresay you’re trying to poison me! This isn’t even human blood!” he whines.
“I’m not stealing blood out of a blood bank just because you have a favorite flavor,” I respond. “Other people need that blood. People who are actually alive and want to stay that way.”
“If you ever expect to find a suitable husband, I suggest you tame your ill-mannered tongue,” Nathaniel snaps, “though at your advanced age and with your…regular looks and poor housekeeping skills, your prospects are doubtful at best.”
“Thanks for the sage advice,” I reply and utilize all my willpower not to roll my eyes. Once Nathaniel retires to his crypt for the afternoon, I pick up the empty glass and take it to the kitchen.
“Joe did you fix the sinks yet?” I call out.
“Boo.” He appears next to me wearing his doo-rag, baggy pants and torn Tupac wife beater.
“Ha. Ha. I haven’t had a shower all day. What’s the plumbing situation?”
Sloppy Joe grins at me, which is very unsettling. “Peanut butter is gone.”
“Good.”
“Now it’s just glue.”
“Glue?”
“Yeah, gooey white stuff. Sticks crap together.”
“I know what it is! Glue is not better than peanut butter. They may be on the same level of stuff-I-don’t-want-coming-out-of-the-sink, but it’s definitely not better.”
“Dex thinks it’s better.”
“Of course he does. Now he can…” I stare at Sloppy Joe with his idiotic doo-rag. “Oh no, what is Dex doing with the glue?”
All I hear is Sloppy Joe’s laughter as I race toward the parlor.
***
“It’s a diorama of the earth with a population of 7 billion people,” Dex explains happily. I look around the parlor and see only massive amounts of cardboard, Barbies dressed in rags and buckets of glue.