G Night is darkening round me

othic“The
When Logicandproportion gavefallen sloppy dead
C hildren of th e n ig h t
Sprit o f the night
Tha t haunts you night and day
Howdreadfullysavage"
 THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO
HELPED ME WRITE THIS ZENE. I AM
VERY pr o u d o f t h e Wo r k i HAVE
DONE, AND I COULD NEVER HAVE.
DONE IT ALONE. TO FELIZON, MY
CLASSMATES, MY FAMILY, MOM,
DAD, CHRIS, NESSA, AND POP,
ALEXIS AND CARLY, ALLIE, LISA,
AND VARIOUS OTHER SOURCES, I
THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR IDEAS,
COMMENTS, SUGGESTIONS, ADVICE,
AND SUPPORT.

(THE ABOVE THANK YOUS ARE

LISTED IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER!)
 About
the

A uthor

the author of this compilation of gothic

stories do thank you for ta king the time to read
my work. eFel free to tell me what you think,
even if its bad, because how else will I learn?
A nyway, if I really don’t agree with your advise,
then I probably won’t take it, but it couldn’t hurt
to speak up, now could it?
I wanted to put together a group of
stories that were gothic in nature, and when I say
gothic, I don’t necessarily mean strictly vampires
and evil, though I did manage to include that
aspect as well. I also wanted to portray some
elements of classic romanticism which emphasizes
the emotion, nature, and probably over-dramatic
feeling among the human being. A t the very
least, it was just fun to let my imagination run wild,
and let my creativity flow.
 About Me
I’m from S a n D iego, and am a freshman
this year at the U niversity of Redlands, soon to
be a sophomore. I hope to incorporate writing
somehow in my life because I love it so much, but
at the moment, I am simply enjoying being able to
explore the wide variety of my different interests.
If you ever have the urge to write me and
tell me what you think, o r give me a suggestion on
my writing, or ju st want to say hey, my e-mail
below should help out. T hank you again for
reading, and I hope you enjoy.

E -mail: [email protected]
 "The Man, the Monkey, and the
Depths of Hell"

The man was walking slowly down a

dark street in the middle of the night.
His clothes were torn and tattered beyond
repair. He was stumbling back and forth
in an apparent drunken state. He coughed
twice, and then began to sing. His voice
was a deep baritone and would have been
excellent had the words not been so
slurred.
He paused beside an alleyway to
give off a few particularly loud ‘harrumphs’
to clear his throat. Something rustled in the alleyway. He stood still
and peered down the dark path, illuminated in one corner only by
the light of the windows above. He took a few steps forward and
listened again. More rustling, then silence. His curiosity got the
better of him and he continued to walk forward, away from the light
and towards the pile of rags, not even fathoming what would
occur next. Hecringed as he heard a te rrib le g u t t u r a l yelp,
the o r ig in o f w h ich c o u ld o n ly be the depths o f h e ll. S t i l l
he e a rn e s tly pressed fo rw a rd to w a rd s the ra g s. A s h e cam e
closer, the ra g s began to m ove.S urely , s o m e th in g w a s n o t
rig h t.
Soon, the rags began to make even
stranger noises. He stooped down, unable
to resist his own curiosity and prodded
the rags with his index finger. Tiny
teeth latched on so tightly that the man
felt as if he had stabbed himself with a
needle. Howling in pain he shook his hand
trying to break free from the thing's
murderous grasp. It held on tightly
though, and after several moments of that
blinding pain the thing released the
man's finger of its own accord.
The man was now sobbing and fell
into a dingy heap on the ground. Leaping out of the rags was
the tiniest monkey he had ever seen. Astonished, the man fell
backwards. The monkey leapt onto his chest and stared at him.
The man lay still and watched the monkey. The creature settled
himself on the man’s chest and proceeded to clear his throat.
“I am Abu” said the monkey.
In reply the man let out a yelp and stumbled to his knees
trying to shake the English speaking monkey offof him..
"W hat the hell did you. say?! M o n k
eys can't
talk. What are you?" cried the frightenedm.
n
a
"If Ican't talk then why are you pestering me
with allthese questions? Itseems as if you are very
confused, Alex,"Abu calmly replied.
"How in the world do you know my name? I
m ust be going crazy!"
" W ellgenius, it certainly seems so."

"If you’re a talking monkey that

must mean that you’re magic!"
"It’s true,” said the monkey. “I’ve
been sent here by one of the Gods to
advise you, and to be your muse.”
“You?!” The man cried out,
completely incredulous.
“Yes, and the first thing I must
tell you is that in twenty seconds you
are going to be hit by a bus.”
The man stood gaping at the monkey,
completely speechless.
“Oh, and also,” the monkey said
grinning with a crazy and odd smile, “I'm
not real. You’ve just had way too much
to drink tonight.”
Wham! A double-decker bus bearing
down at high speed barely noticed as it
hit an annoying speed bump on the dark
street.

FromthetwistedImaginationsof:

Samantha,

Autumn, Shannon

(And In T h a t O rd er)
'It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, 'in this way:

"Up above the world you fly,

Like a tea-tray in the sky.

Twinkle, twinkle--"'

Here the Dor- mouse shook

itself, and began singing in its sleep 'Twinkle, twinkle, twin­
kle, twinkle—' and went on so long that they had to pinch it to
make it stop.

'Well, I’d hardly finished the first verse,’ said the Hatter,
'when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murder­
ing the time! Off with his head!"'

'How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice.

~Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

~ Lewis Carroll
 “A S itu atio n ”

There was only one way to diffuse the bomb. The

only person who knew how to do it was dead on the floor,
killed by the gun he had held to his head just moments
before. The train was moving at a crazy speed that made
Jack’s head ache, and he realized that at any moment, he and
all of the other screaming passengers on the train could be
dead. Perspiration dripped in huge globs down his heated
cheeks. His breath was coming in short gasps as he tried to
control the pressure and movement of his muscles. He rose
from his dingy seat and moved out into the aisle, pushing his
way through the throngs of people that were herding like
frightened cattle to the back of the train.
He couldn’t believe he was back in this situation. It
had to be some sick sort of fate that had placed him, a former
bomb squad member, on a train overtaken by a terrorist with
an explosive device. The terrorist had been sitting quietly in
his seat up until a few moments ago when he had stood,
pulled a gun out, and calmly killed the conductor. Among
frantic screams of horror, the man had planted the bomb, and
then brutally shot his own selfish brains out, leaving behind
chaos and panic in his wake.
At the moment, Jack was ashamed to find the
thought of suicide somewhat appealing. They were probably
going to die, and when they found his body, if they found it,
what would they say? What would they say when they found
that there was a former member of the bomb squad on the
train, who had failed to save them? Somehow, it would end
up being his fault. Two years ago, Jack had faced a similar
situation on the job. At the last minute, he’d lost his nerve.
In the end, it had been some newly recruited officer who had
taken control of the situation, saving them all, elevating
himself in both rank and respect. That didn’t leave Jack in
much better of a situation. Once you fuck with life and
death, there are no second chances.
At the moment, Jack had no other choice. There
was no one else, and he owed it to the people on the train to
at least try and save their lives. His entire body was one tense
wire, ready to snap with the slightest provocation. He was
squatting now, down next to it, listening to the tick that was
barely audible above the noise of the compartment. To him,
it sounded louder than the break of thunder. Every
successive tick caused a spasm of fear and pain to shoot
through his body, as if there were a band around his heart
squeezing in tune with the rhythm of the bomb.
Jack raised a trembling hand and wiped the sweat
from his brow. Why not just throw it from the train? It was
a simple answer, but not a choice. The passing city streets
around them would guarantee other casualties.
He studied the bomb with more interest than he had
ever studied anything in his life. He couldn’t take the chance
of repositioning it. It could be pressurized. Even if it was an
amateur’s bomb, it could be sensitive to the slightest
movement, to the slightest change in position. Even minimal
adjustment could mean instant death.
Jack licked his lips, and tried to control the impulse
to vomit from fear. With every ounce of his energy he tried
to remember the feeling, the control, and the concentration
that had once been second nature to him. He tried to think
like he had once thought, that he could handle any disaster,
uphold under any pressure, and still get the job done. He
grabbed unconsciously at his pocket where, for years, he had
kept a set of emergency tools. They were gone as he should
have known they were, and had been for the last two years.
He couldn’t swallow, he felt like gagging as the bile
he tried desperately to ignore and repress, rose in his throat.
He started to go numb, and the noise of the room faded away
until it was just Jack and the bomb. Just him, and the bomb.
It had been that way the last day he had worked on the bomb
squad, nearly two years ago. The face of his partner and the
rookie cop who had accompanied them that day, swam
before his eyes. They were there with him. They stared at
Jack intently, beads of perspiration running down their faces.
That day, the rookie had made a hero out of himself,
and an old man out of Jack. It had been a fluke that the new
officer had even been there with them that day. He wasn’t
Jack’s responsibility, but because of the disorganization in
the department, Jack, his partner, and the kid had all been
together when they’d gotten the call on the radio. The kid
was new, and had little experience. Jack had ordered him to
stay out of the way, to watch and learn. It was Jack who had
learned much more than he had ever bargained for that day.
They were there together, the three of them. The
other two were strained, focused on him, depending on him,
rooted to the spot for fear that their tread would set
something off. Their faces were vivid, stark in their
overwhelming concentration. They were there, flesh and
blood, and he was going through it all over again.

“Jack! Jack! What are you doing? Jack! There’s

only twenty seconds left, Jack buddy, snap out o f it! ”
“GET THE HELL OUT OF M Y WAY! The g u y 's
cracked. He can’t do a damned thing!” shouted the kid, and
he pushed Jack so hard, he fell, and landed sprawled out on
the floor.

He had been a professional, and always knew what

to do before. But even professionals can crack, and it had
been too much pressure. It was a perfect parallel. These
people were going to die because two years ago, he’d lost his
nerve.
A mother screaming shrilly jarred him back into the
present.
“ What are you doing? It’s a bomb! Leave it
alone, leave it alone!” She clutched tightly to her five year
old child who shouted, “Mommy, Mommy, what’s
happening?”
A pale faced man in a sharp business suit rushed up
to Jack saying, “W h a t t h e h e l l d o y o u t h i n k y o u ’ r e
d o in g ? ! W hat the hell- - ”

“ Stand back! Shut that woman up! I ’m going to

try.. said
". Jack. He had briefly stood, but by the time he had
finished the sentence, he was already crouching back down
again, sweat staining the back of his shirt. Something in his
tone, some trace of the authority Jack had once possessed
conveyed itself to the other man. The guy shook his head,
looking terrified and bewildered. He backed away.
The train seemed to be gaining in speed. Tall
buildings, and short stretches of shrubbery hurtled past,
creating a blurry brown blend of color. The compartment
was garishly lighted, the seats a faded blue that melted into
the cream colored wall behind it. Jack didn’t see any of it.
All he could see was the bomb.
He did not see as a frightened woman fainted, and
sunk to the floor, blocking the center aisle.
One man, dressed in jeans and flannels, screamed at
the top of his lungs, “I ’M NOT GOING TO d i e ! I ’m
GETTING OF THIS GODDAM N TRAIN RIGHT N O W !” He
rushed to the door, and pulled the emergency handle. The
door flew open with sparks and screeches of protest. The
man was thrown backwards into the seats, but rose
purposefully. Violent wind whipped around the inside of the
car. The man pulled himself forward, using the seats to an­
chor himself. He got to the door, braced his arms, pulling
himself through the frame, and with accompanying screams
from the other passengers, jumped into the air.
But all that Jack could see was the bomb in front of
him. His rough and unpolished nails struggled to move with
the finesse they had once been capable of. It was a mere
memory, and seconds of his life were ticking away, almost
gone. It was incredible to think that this was how it was
going to end.
He was frozen, crouched down in front of the
device. His whole body was numb, a dead weight, a helpless
block of lead. The images of his partner and the rookie
bomb squad member faded away before his eyes. Who was
going to save him this time?
Sheer adrenaline brought his body back to life,
brought it achingly back to the moment, to an excruciating
pain that was coursing through his veins, and exploding in
his heart. His eyesight clouded for a moment, then cleared.
A plain pocket knife, cutting into the flesh of his
thigh through his pocket, came to his attention. He wrenched
it out and pulled it open, testing the blade as he had done so
many times before without thought. He must have squeezed
too hard because he felt a sticky warmness that could only be
blood on his fingers. He wiped away the blood, not even
feeling the pain.
His hand was steady all of the sudden, and he
thanked God for the temporary gain of some, if not all his
control. Gently, he pried open the main compartment on the
left side, something he had formerly been able to do with
very little trouble. Now the pressurized feature on the bomb
consumed his thoughts, and he struggled with every ounce of
his remaining control not to involuntarily shake the bomb
loose out of its position. The cover sprung open and the
wires that spilled out under his less than suave
administrations were unlike any he had remembered working
with. He wasn’t breathing, and he paused for one precious
moment of time to force air in and out of his lungs, to force
himself to concentrate.
With one hand he grasped the edge of the box, and
with the other he brought the knife to rest against the wires.
Those wires would mean life or death to not just him, but a
great many people. He could feel now the mind numbing,
heart-stopping weight of the decision before him.
His brain exploded with a million possibilities, and
he gritted his teeth, clenching them so tightly he thought they
would crack. It was incredible that he wasn’t dead already
from the stress. How in the world had he ever done this sort
of thing before? How had he lived his life in such suspense,
and with such confidence, when he had constantly been on
the edge of death? Constantly chased by the demon of
tragedy and mayhem. By Death itself. Yes, he was losing
the battle with death. Its cold icy fingers were closing
around his heart at that very moment, triumphant with his
imminent defeat.
With mere seconds left to live, all he could think
was, I can’t save myself any more than I can save these
people. The responsibility was tormenting him.
The mother was huddled on the floor, wedged
between the seats with her child tight in her arms. She was
repeating something under her breath. It might have been a
prayer, but a prayer would not save her now. The man in the
expensive suit was at the back of the car, trying to break
through the door to the next compartment. Most of the
people had congregated there, as far away from the bomb
and Jack as possible.
Maybe Jack would have just given up and thrown
the knife to the farthest comer of the room, if it hadn’t been
for the rest of them. He silently cursed them all, and
prepared to make the biggest gamble of his life. It would be
either the biggest mistake or luckiest break that could ever
happen to him. It would be the moment where his life would
end or begin.
Memory struck him like a sharp hammer on his
head. He knew this type of bomb. H e’d seen it many times.
A prickle of doubt made him sick inside though, and he
knew that it was still a chance. Being out of the game for
two whole years didn’t make Jack confident, or
knowledgeable about the latest changes and models.
He curved the knife blade up until it strained
against the patch of multicolored wires, and moved them
aside. Underneath, were different fuses and a microchip
board. It was complicated, and getting more complicated by
the minute. The timer read twenty seconds remaining.
He disengaged the clamped-parallel blue wires, and
slipped his hand under the fuse board, gentry prying it off its
setting. So far so good. He didn’t have to worry about the
pressurized element anymore.
Last but not least, the critical wire. Grimly, he
picked it out, and cut through the outer red plastic casing.
The actual filaments of the wire were gold in color, and static
with electricity. He took the knife, and he cut the wire
through to the core. As the tension in the wire gave out, the
beating of his heart all but stopped, his eyes rolled back into
his head, and his breath left him in a whoosh of relief and
unconsciousness.
Jack woke with the smell of burning flesh around
him and despaired. If he was dead, then he must surely be in
hell. He must be in a personal hell, along with the victims
that he hadn’t been able to save.
There were screams, but another sound pierced
through the air. Sirens. Incredulous, and in excruciating
pain, he opened his eyes. He was alive. The sirens were
getting louder, and louder, and he could hardly trust his
disoriented senses. He lay within the bent and disfigured
compartment of the train, early morning sunlight streaming
through the shattered windows. It had not detonated. It had
not blown up. He couldn’t feel his legs, but his other senses
were invariably active. He could taste blood on his lips, feel
the twisted shape of his arm, and smell the burnt flesh all
around him. But one thing remained certain; he would not
be alive at this moment if that bomb had been blown. He
would be a million parts splattered in the wind.
He lay his head back gently, and out of the comer of
his eye, through the window, he saw the split in the path, and
how the train, failing to switch tracks, had derailed and
crashed, skidding off and flying out onto its side. Though
moments ago they had been passing through a busy town,
Jack saw trees and vegetation through the shattered window
of the train car.
Jack sighed in relief and lay waiting for the
approaching sirens to rescue him from his paralyzed state. As
he waited, he listened to the most beautiful sound he could
ever have hoped to hear around him; the tortured screams of
injured people who were alive. He had done it. He hadn’t
been able to stop the train, but at least he had stopped the
bomb. His struggle and responsibility were finished, and he
felt a strange sense of release and accomplishment over
finally facing the demon that had confronted him those years
before. He may never recover his nerve again, but at least he
had succeeded once more at conquering his fears. He would
never take the train again.
 “TH E KIDNAPPERS”

They were walking along the boardwalk, sand

crunching beneath their feet, hands clasped, and eyes alert.
To the world they were just a young couple taking an
evening stroll on the beach. A cursory look from passerby
revealed an attractive looking man, with dark wavy hair, a
tall thin frame, and broad shoulders. He held the woman’s
hand tightly, whose willowy figure, blue eyes, and softly
rounded features would have been beautiful if her face had
not been twisted, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the fear
and tenseness that radiated from her. In the other hand, the
man carried an ambiguous brown shopping bag. They
walked swiftly, wary of being approached. His eyes roamed
around examining the other people around him as if he
suspected someone were watching him. But to the
unconcerned people around them they were simply an
innocent couple enjoying a beautiful sunset on the beach.
The fiery red sun set into the glowing waters of the
Pacific, casting the surrounding streets in long shadows.
Condos lined the edge of the boardwalk, and beyond, a maze
of crowded beach front properties created a dizzying grid of
alleyways and dwellings.
They turned a few sharp comers and were suddenly
far away from the safe sidewalks of the beach. They were
moving into a very different part of the area. They seemed
to know where they were going, but still they moved with a
cautious uncertainty as if they were treading on glass. They
made no noise as they approached a doorway that had a
sliver of dim light slipping out the threshold space. The man
consulted a paper, a single address confirming that this was
indeed the place. He looked into the woman’s eyes.
“Sheryl,” he said in a hushed and stem tone, “I
mean it now, I let you come, but if something happens here,
you have to run and not look back.” She pursed her lips,
nodded and moved behind him.
“Be careful Richard,” she murmured breathlessly.
Her mouth had gone completely dry and her voice sounded
hollow and distant.
He moved forward cautiously with the bulging bag
in his hand, checking to make sure it was stapled shut. He
placed it on the step and, tense and sweating with fear and
aggravation, rapped shortly on the door three times. The
noise was a cannon blast in the silence of the night and
Sheryl had to stifle a gasp by clamping her hand over her
mouth.
Richard strode backwards quickly and grabbed her
elbow, pulling her into the shadows, where they waited with
bated breath in the cold still darkness of the night. The
sound of the ocean waves echoed in the distance, and an
overwhelming salt breeze assaulted their senses. Moments
later, the door opened. A man whose face was obscured with
some sort of mask picked the bag up off the front stoop and
re-entered the house. What seemed like an eternity later, he
or another man wearing a similar mask returned carrying a
small bundle. He came forward towards Richard slowly, and
after wordlessly transferring it to him, turned and left.
Sheryl was white in the moonlight and taking her
breaths in irregular and painful gasps. There was their child,
unharmed and in their possession. She kissed her son’s cheek
briefly, and her husband pulled them both close and
shamelessly let the tears gather in his eyes. Some would
never be so lucky as they...
“ Let’s go home, Richard,” said the woman softly.
He nodded silently, relief and exhaustion etched upon his
face. They moved away quickly, back towards the lights
and safety of the main street, carrying their precious child.
Later, when the moon was far overhead,
Sheryl stood gazing at the slumbering form of her child, safe
in his crib. His tiny and angelic features were serene,
untroubled, unharmed. She glanced behind her where her
husband was sitting in a weary stupor, getting the first
untroubled sleep in a long while. It was doubtful that either
of them would leave the nursery for some time. She turned
back to her child, and convulsively straightened the blankets
around him for the tenth time that night.
 She felt as if she had suddenly awoken from a long
torturous nightmare. It was nothing but a dream, and the
nightmare was over. It had been such a long time to wait.
Months of not knowing, of despairing, o f feeling the cold
sweat of terror each time the phone rang. The constant
planning and negotiating alone had almost driven them both
insane. There were a million other details that had been dealt
with, and more to come now that they had been successful
with their risks.
After all that hell, they were finally finished. They
had their child. She stood over the crib, unwilling to move
out of sight, and let the silent tears run down her face, trying
not to sob aloud.

In the weeks that followed Sheryl knew happiness

and content in every laugh, hiccough, and high pitched wail
that issued from her son’s chubby lips. She quit her job,
staying home just to see his angelic cherub-like face stretch
into an innocent smile of delight when she played with him.
“ Mummy’s little boy! Aren’t you? Aren’t you!
Does David want some applesauce? What a big boy! Lets get
your highchair!” He would beam at her when she used that
tone of voice, his fair features positively glowing. Richard
was happy too, and came home every night, focused on
being affectionate and attentive to his wife and child. When
Sheryl saw Richard on the carpet of their small home, play­
ing peek-a-boo with their son, applesauce stains all over the
front of both their shirts, she knew that their family was
finally complete.
After two weeks of perfect health, David developed
a slight cough, but the doctor that Sheryl contacted didn’t
seem too concerned. During the day David seemed happy,
normal. It was with the onset of night that he would become
feverish and red, wailing with misery. Sheryl began to get
dark circles under her eyes from staying up with him all
night. She kept taking him back to the doctor, and the
verdict was always the same: More fluids, and warm baths,
the list went on and on. Over the next week and a half she
went through a number of close calls and false alarms that
unnerved and frightened her out of her wits. It was a
Monday night when Richard came home to such a situation.
Richard walked in the door, a smile poised on his
face as his wife ran from the other room, anxious to greet
him. The smile faded as he saw her expression. Her brows
were two stark compressed lines, and her mouth was pursed
and trembling.
“ Sheryl? What’s wrong?”
“ Richard, I don’t know what to do, he’s getting
worse and you said that...” she stopped speaking abruptly
and started to wring her hands.
“ Well, let’s get the doctor here,” he said
soothingly, trying to restrain his own panic.
“ Damn it! I don’t want that doctor! He’s a fool. He
doesn’t know what he’s doing--”
“ Sheryl, you know we can’t risk--” His sentence
was interrupted by the high pitched wail of his son, and the
two of them hurried to the nursery where they found him
distressed and feverish.
“Richard, what are we going to do?” Sheryl asked
as she took David from the crib and attempted to comfort
him.
“ W e’ll wait the night out Sheryl. He’ll be
okay...”

The brilliant rays of sunlight streamed through the

window, waking Sheryl from her light slumber. She sat next
to her husband who was still asleep on the nursery sofa. Her
eyes, after a moment of groggy incomprehension, flew to the
crib, her heart pounding with sudden fear. Then she realized
that all was quiet and remembered that in the early morning
hours, her son’s fever had finally broken. David lay sleeping
peacefully in his crib. Breathing a sigh of infinite relief, she
rose from the sofa and wrapped her arms around herself, cold
in the briskness of the morning. She crept forward quietly
trying not to wake her son with her approach. A smile of
tender love and delight lit up her face as she saw him there.
He was unmoving and still asleep. The light from the win­
dow reflecting on the mirrors on the mobile above him cast
glimmering shards of light onto his pale face.
Sheryl brushed at the locks of golden hair on his
forehead but stopped when she noticed the chill of his skin.
He was ice cold. Alarm and panic rising in her chest, her
heart pumping faster than she could breath, she nudged his
body slightly, then shook him hard. He did not stir. Her
piercing screams shattered the peaceful morning into a
million irreparable fragments.
When Richard awoke to this ungodly sound, he
realized instantly that his son was dead. The grief didn’t hit
him until later. In that instant all he could do was look at the
huddled form of his wife rocking their infant son back and
forth, shuddering in shock.
“ They were going to make sure that he was
healthy,” he muttered.
After a few minutes her sobs became quieter.
“ They were going to— we paid extra, to make
sure,” said Richard.
Sheryl clutched the child tightly in her arms, and
after a soul wrenching sob, finally was quiet. Her face was
bathed in salty tears, bathed in sorrow.
A long moment of silence followed where Sheryl
refused to look at Richard. Then he spoke.
“ W e’ll try again.” She continued to stare at the
floor, in disbelieving silence.
“Sheryl, it was only our first try for God’s sake!”
he said, his voice mounting in frustration. She looked up at
him, despondent and without hope. Her arms became loose,
and listless, still holding her lifeless charge.
“ Why, Richard? What’s the point? They’ll all
have problems, they’ll all have backgrounds, sickness,
attachments—we’ll never find one that won’t. We couldn’t
even take David to a legitimate doctor because were afraid
they’d find out we had no birth certificate or that they’d ask
questions.. ".she paused for a moment, drew in a shaky
breath, then continued in the same dispassionate tone.
 “ We were naive, admit it Richard. We were
totally unprepared to handle this... and now David is.. She .
stopped speaking, her shoulders shaking with a repressed
sob.
Richard ran a hand through his dark hair in
frustration and crouched down next to her. His lips were set
in a hard and determined line. Gingerly, he extracted the
tiny form from Sheryl’s arms, and placed it back in the crib.
Then, supporting her by the shoulders, lifted her to her feet.
“ This is what you want Sheryl.” She looked
straight into his face for the first time that morning, since it
had happened. She looked deeply into his eyes, noticing in a
detached way the intense sapphire color of his irises. She
shook her head.
“ I don’t know if I can do this again Richard; take
someone’s child like that. What if we got caught this time?”
She gulped heavily and licked her chapped lips.
“This is what you want,” he repeated in a decisive
voice. “I don’t care if we have to move a dozen times, or
commit a dozen crimes,or pay someone to commit it for us
to find you a child,we will.”
Sheryl nodded and taking a shaky breath, wiped
the tears from her eyes.
“And we can start over again, we can start all
over.” He was tightening his grip on her shoulders bruising
them with his desperate strength, wanting her to show some
sign that she believed, trying to convince himself as well.
“ We can have what the adoption agency won’t
give us, and what I can’t give you.”
“ If you say so Richard, we’ll try.” But her voice
was dead and without hope. She turned her head and looked
towards the window where the sunlight had been streaming
cheerfully into the room and saw that the initial glitter of the
morning had faded into a dull, lifeless and dingy gray.
'The Queen of Hearts, she made some
tarts,
All on a summer day:
The Knave of Hearts, he stole
those tarts,
And took them quite away!'

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

~Lewis Carroll
 To N ig h t
~Percy Bysshe Shelley ~

sw iftly w alk o'er the western wave, Spirit

o f Night!
Out o f the misty eastern cave,
W here, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams o f joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear-
Sw ift be thy flight!
 "D elu sio ns"

The vampire was there. He was standing in the

front doorway of a closed and vacant shop, the overhanging
eaves of the roof shadowing his luminous face. The moon
was far overhead, lighting the streets of Spain with a
powerful glow.
He bared his razor sharp fangs before retracting
them and forcing his countenance from its terrifying state
back into that of a civilized human. In human form, his face
was dangerously handsome, with strong aristocratic features
and dark expressive eyes that glittered like opals in the night.
He wore his long dark hair tied behind him. Covering his
mysterious physique was an elegantly collared coat of black.
He blended seamlessly into the doorway of the shop,
becoming a part of the very structure.
He watched as a young peasant woman walked past,
looking uneasily from side to side. The overall effect of her
finely shaped features, lustrous blonde hair, and lips the
shade of crushed berries was ten times more potent in the
moonlight. He saw her, vivid and desirous, his senses acute
and aware. His eyes narrowed maliciously as he watched her
stroll towards the center of the deserted square. The only
sound in the still night was the cascading water that
circulated through a small fountain in the middle of the
plaza. Still the woman did not see the vampire, though a
lingering chill in the breeze made her glance over her
shoulder. Only the palely illuminated darkness returned her
frightened gaze. She turned back, moving quickly on her
way.
With no more than a whisper of rustling fabric, he
moved away from his shadowy sanctuary. As he stepped into
the street the reflected light that shone suddenly, like a
beacon, from his pale and charismatic face was blinding. His
expression was twisted between a sneer and smile as he
regarded his unsuspecting victim.
The woman continued to walk forward, clutching a
knit shawl around her shivering, curvy frame. She did not
realize she was being hunted, only that the night was
strangely quiet.
The vampire closed the distance between them with
an effortless grace. By the time she had reached the center
of the square and was parallel to the fountain, he had moved
in a long continuous stride, and caught her up in his grasp.
He held her tightly in what was her last embrace, giving her
no time to scream or even beg for her life before he plunged
his fangs into the exquisite muscles of her exposed neck.

“Cut!” someone cried, and the darkness on the set

was illuminated by powerful fluorescent light. Crew
members, make-up artists, and technicians swarmed onto the
set making fine tuned adjustments to the scenery, and
lighting. The gothic scenery which moments before had
been so supernaturally surreal, was transformed into an
ordinary nondescript setting, a plain dark alley opening onto
a fake street constructed to mimic a Spanish plaza.
“Gregorio, how many times have I asked you not to
fondle the actresses who are your victims? We are going for
art, not pom!” A tall and chiseled man was speaking
forcefully to another man who was picking irritably at the
protruding fangs in his mouth.
“Tell me Donovan, how am I to work with this, this
imbecile of an actress? Her lines, every move she makes,
casts me in a degrading light.” With great difficulty he
managed to extract a set of false teeth dripping in his profuse
saliva.
“Really Donavon,” said the attractive blonde who
moments before had been clutched in the death embrace of
the film. She walked over to the pair of them while a makeup
attendant nervously hovered around her, making large, and
off-target swoops with a makeup brush.
“ I don’t know how I ’m supposed to work with
such little respect!” She glared at Gregorio and adjusted her
ever-rising skirt. Her costume was little more than a light off
the shoulder peasant blouse, and a flounced skirt that was too
short to be realistic. She had disdainfully thrown off the
modest shawl before joining them.
“Maybe I would respect you more if you did not
sleep with every cast and crew member on the set!” Every
syllable he uttered was dripping with disdain.
“You are telling me? How many women have you
screwed since you’ve been here? Sometimes I think your
whole fan club is waiting outside your trailer door, trying to
get the chance." She spat this last line with a voice of such
deep contempt and loathing that Gregorio tightened his lips,
his face turning red regardless of the white face makeup
adorning his features.
“And you Genevieve, did not you have someone in
your trailer as well last Thursday?” he murmured in a
dangerously low voice usually reserved for his vampiric
character.

Donovan, a seasoned director, knew what was

happening. He rolled his eyes and swept a tanned hand over
his weathered face wiping his eyes in exhaustion. It was the
end of a very long day, and his less than professional actors
were quarreling like children. He was tempted to throw the
lot of them out and recast the entire project. He had seen
them act like this for weeks, though when they had initially
started to rehearse, the two actors had gotten along
wonderfully. More than likely the reason they were fighting
now, was that their illicit off-set romance had gone sour, and
neither one was willing to submit to the reasoning that ‘the
show must go on.’ When Donovan thought how they were
over-budget, behind schedule, and understaffed, he wanted to
quit the entire project. He looked up at the dark sky, and
wondered what he had done to deserve the actors he had.
In his time Donovan had been a respected and
sought after director. Known for such films as Undead and
The Evil Ones, he had made his reputation very early on in
his career as a quality horror film director. It had a been a
combination of a few bad flops and a few bad back injuries
that had forced him to ‘break’ from the industry. About ten
years later, Donovan was 50, and going out of his mind in
retirement.
Since the strike had begun in Hollywood, film
companies were grasping at straws, trying to find qualified
people to act, direct, and manage their films. Even small
companies like Ace 4 Studios, were having problems re­
cruiting, and when Donovan’s name had somehow come up
in conjunction with the proposal for the project, the offer had
captured his interest. He had accepted despite the insultingly
low budget and the obscurity of the script, because he had
been desperate to find a project to fill his time. He missed
the control and the work that directing involved.
They obtained an empty lot in a little town near San
Diego, which had an empty warehouse that had so far served
as an adequate headquarters. The cheapness of the location,
and the relative simplicity of shooting the movie in a quiet
town had its advantages, but despite its closeness to major
cities such as San Diego and Los Angeles itself, the members
of the crew and cast had complained bitterly. Something
about the desert shrubbery and local nightlife of coyotes and
jack rabbits didn’t please anybody.
Donovan had initially determined that the
anonymity, and unindustrialized area was well suited to the
needs of the project, and once his mind was set on
something, his stubborn determination made a change in
plans difficult to arrange. They had started operations and
setup in the field, using the warehouse as their main base of
operations. Thus far they had managed to ward off curiosity
seekers and tabloid photographers with minimum security.
Donovan had also thought that the atmosphere of the small
provincial town would be a method of focusing his cast and
crew on their tasks...and he was sure it would be once they
stopped complaining.
Now, looking at the disorganized situation, and the
unprofessional people surrounding him, he thought twice
about the charms of a larger city. If they were closer to a
major city the least he could do would be to hire a personal
masseuse. The accident in which he had hurt his back a few
years ago had been more serious than Donovan had
admitted, even to himself. Donovan’s back hardly bothered
him now though... hardly ever...
He wearily raised a megaphone that was clutched in
his left hand and effectively broke up the argument that was
still continuing between Gregorio and Genevieve, by
announcing to the set in a loud sonorous voice, “Everyone,
that’s it for today. Go home and get some rest. Wake-up call
is at 6:30 tomorrow.” There was a bustle of noise and
excitement as everyone eagerly rushed to leave the set.
Gregorio and Genevieve eyed one another, their
stances hostile and faces flushed with anger. There was a
long dramatic moment of silence, then each one swept off
huffily to separate directions of the set.
Donovan sighed before once again raising the
megaphone to his lips.
“ MILLIE!?”
A short and stout woman appeared almost instantly
by his side. She had dark brown hair and a competent round
and familiar face that inspired total confidence. Donovan
had depended on her for years, and after he had received the
offer to direct, he had immediately called the short brunette
with an offer of his own. Completely loyal, she had refused
a better job to collaborate with him once again. Donovan
couldn’t have done it without her, since he depended on her
for everything from his morning coffee to advice in the
editing room. She was as efficient as she was short, and
always dependable.
“ Yes, Elliot?” she said in a carefully measured and
soothing tone. Just hearing her voice made him feel better.
She was one of the few who dared call him by his first name,
and after all the years they had worked together, knew she
was the only one who could get away with it. She raised an
eyebrow as her eyes followed the wave of his hand. The
retreating forms of the two actors were still visible in the
distance.
“Are they at it again?” she asked.
“ Yes,” he replied curtly in frustration. “I can’t get
them to work together. Their lines are terrible, and their
acting is worse. There seems to be a loss of genuine talent
these days in Hollywood. I can’t even seem to get the script
straight with the writers!”
Millie’s lips were compressed in a tight line as she
patiently listened to the director’s complaints. She smoothed
the dark green pullover sweater she wore, and the matching
calf length skirt before replying in her most comforting
voice.
“ Elliot, don’t worry about a thing. I ’ll personally
go to talk to Gregorio and Genevieve about their, err...
differences. As for the script, I’ll schedule an emergency
session with the writers for some day this week." She
paused, for effect no doubt, then continued in the same
voice, but now with a note of command.
“W e’ll continue on our schedule tomorrow as
planned, and devise changes for the crew and actors as we
go."
Her reasoning was so sensible and direct that as
usual, Donovan felt completely assured once again. The film
still had major problems, but with Millie by his side, he felt
up to anything. Donovan gave her a rare smile, his oversized
and ruggedly tanned features coming together to produce a
strangely friendly and relaxed stance that was rarely seen on
the loud and overbearing director. He then said briskly,
“Great. If you need me, page me.” As Donovan walked away
he consulted his watch, and gaped in astonishment when he
saw the late hour.
Already 11:00. I hope that I can still get through to
the producers.
He walked ten feet to the left, entering the side door
of the large warehouse, and then turning a corner, entered a
very messy and makeshift office. After an impatient search,
he found the phone which had been hidden under the
massive stacks of papers on his desk.
Damn! Donovan sighed as he lifted the phone and
tried in vain to dial the overseas number. They must be just
waking up at this hour. I f ever there was a bad time to make
an assessment trip!
The producers of the film were on a temporary
investigational trip in Spain, seeing if the crew and set could
be moved there for a more realistic background. As it was,
their funding was limited, and the producers had wanted to
see the potential for themselves before they invested more
time and money and asked others to do the same.
Donovan put the phone back on the hook and left
his office. He made his way through the crowded sets to the
back lot where their trailers sat housing their cast and crew.
He strode up to a particularly small and hideous
trailer with a small label on the outside reading Elliot
Donovan, and rapidly keyed into the flimsy lock. He
climbed the first two steps, carefully ducking his tall frame
away from the doorway. He swore violently as he knocked a
stack of parchment to the floor, and still fuming in
exasperation, he bent to put the mess back in order.
The actors of the film all had their own personal
trailers set up on the back lot for use between scenes, though
they also were supplied with rooms in the nearest hotel,
ironically named the Star Sleeper. Donovan was of the
opinion that it was an unnecessary expense, and had made
the decision to live on the set, hoping that others would
follow his example. So far, nobody had even noticed.
The trailer, though small and a bit dingy, was well
cleaned, except for the strong odor of cigar smoke which
lingered comfortingly in the air. Just breathing the traces of
smoke had a calming effect on his mind. When he finished
rearranging the mess he had made, he automatically reached
into the cupboards below the bench of the kitchenette table,
and pulled out a Cuban cigar from a very old box. The
smoke filled the air around him as he lit up and inhaled.
Finally able to concentrate properly, he set his mind to the
task at hand.
 Pictures and still frames, notes and script pages one
by one met their match and were edited, screened and with
added notation placed in a neat pile on the kitchenette table.
He looked at the clock several hours later, and
realized with a start that it was after two o’clock. Yawning,
and exhausted, he made his way towards the small bedroom
in the cramped trailer he called home, and after pulling his
shoes and shirt off, he collapsed into bed.

Donovan was dreaming. He was running from

some unknown attacker. Not a man to be passively attacked
in the first place, he wondered why he wasn’t standing and
fighting. He decided it was because he was more frightened
than he had ever been in his life. He couldn’t stop. He knew
that if he did, he might never live to see the day. The street
he was on was shadowy and indistinct. Strange shapes
loomed out at him in the darkness, making him change his
direction erratically. Wrenching his neck around as he ran,
he saw a dark blur, and heard footsteps that sounded like a
jack hammer piercing the dead silence all around him. His
breaths were coming in short gasps and he found, despite his
best efforts, that his legs were slowing down. The sharp
footsteps pounding into the asphalt of the street were gaining
on him, yet his body was getting heavier and heavier. He
rounded a corner, almost at a walk, still unaccountably
terrified of whatever was behind him and seconds away from
confronting it. He stumbled, skidding out on his knees, and
then landed painfully out on the ground. Donovan found
that he was paralyzed, left incapable in the strangling,hazy
thickness of the dream. The footsteps that had been so rapid
a moment before slowed to a maddening pace, and were no
more than a moment away from turning the corner, when the
vision faded and there was nothing. All that remained was a
vague sense of danger that Donovan did not even remember
when he woke the next morning.

When Donovan woke, intensely hot sunlight was

streaming in the window, burning his face. He opened his
eyes a crack, then rolled over and shut them again tightly.
He was slipping back into a state of lazy unconsciousness
when his eyes snapped open, and looking at the clock, he
realized that it was much later than it should have been.
Already 9 :00!
He swore, twice, then hoisted himself out of bed.
He was two steps away from the shower when the wooziness
hit him.
His eyesight blurred, and his head swam with
sudden pain. Confused and momentarily stunned, he reached
a hand out to where the kitchenette table should have been,
but missed, and in a moment, he had sunk to his knees. His
heart was beating frantically, and as he struggled to regain
his eyesight, he concentrated on keeping his breaths regular.
Inhale, Exhale. Inhale, Exhale... His breathing was
extraordinarily loud, and echoed strangely in his head.
Inhale, whoosh, exhale, whoosh....
He sat kneeling on the floor for a minute, two
minutes, and then his eyesight began to return, the pain in his
head began to abate. Shaking his head from left to right, he
climbed laboriously to his feet. He tested his muscles, and
when a small spasm of pain shot up his spine, he took
another few moments of rest before attempting to move any
further. The brief pain in his back faded, and he breathed a
sigh of relief.
Now, what was that all about? he wondered. I feel
sick, like I haven’t eaten in days... Rolling his shoulders in
aggravation, he made his way to the shower.
It struck him about twenty minutes later that it had
been the first time he had ever missed the morning call.
Climbing out of the shower he reached for a towel and
wrapped it around his waist. Stepping into the kitchen/living
area, he reached for his cell phone which he had discarded
the night before on the table, and hit the button on speed dial
for Millie. For a few seconds he thought his phone was
broken. After five minutes of repeated dialing, he realized
with considerable shock, that Millie was not answering his
increasingly frantic calls.
 Donovan quickly dressed, and grabbed a
bottle of water from his small fridge before he
left the trailer and headed over to the set. The facade was
there as it had been the night before, but in the bright
sunlight it appeared foolishly unrealistic. It was fairly
deserted for a Thursday morning, especially when they had
been scheduled to start the day at 6:00 am. Only a few
dedicated crew members were present; cleaning, sweeping,
and setting up for the day’s work. Donovan walked rapidly
up to one of them, a burly six foot man who looked vaguely
flustered at being approached by the legendary and
intimidating director.
Years before as a fledgling director, Donovan had
taken necessary steps towards being a respected director
among his crew and associates. By being strict and
aggressive, as well as intimidating, he had earned a
reputation for being an all business director. After returning
from his ten year absence, he had found a new generation of
unruly workers and actors that needed reinforcement of that
idea. Essentially, the idea that Donovan, and no one else, was
in charge.
Seeing the stocky tough looking fellow cringe, he
wondered if the first days on the set had really been that bad.
All I did was yell a little, and then the pushups weren’t really
that bad... a little unorthodox maybe, but nothing inhumane!
Donovan dismissed his momentary doubts, and addressed the
worker.
“Good morning. Is this all in order?” Donovan’s
voice was gruff with sleep deprivation. He sounded much
harsher than he had intended.
“Yes sir—well, almost sir. Well, as soon as more
people start coming sir, Mr. Donovan.
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Where’s Millie?”
Donovan asked.
The confused crewman shrugged his shoulders, and
turning his eyes back to the ground, started to coil a spare
piece of rope that had been lying listlessly on the floor. He
looked like a child trying to avoid a reprimand.
A spark of memory struck the crewman, and after a
moment of careful deliberation, he phrased his sentence.
“Uh, sir, I ’m not sure if you already know, but the
producers...they showed up a little while ago, and I thought I
saw ‘em go into the briefing room.”
“ Damn!” said Donovan, his tone intense and filled
with frustration. “Well, get back to work, and get everyone on
the set! We don’t have time for this,” said Donovan as he
glanced at his watch and moved off towards the briefing
room. He left the cowering six foot crewman to finish coiling
his rope, a red flush coloring the man’s cheeks. He looked
sulky and resentful, but didn’t dare voice his opinions to
Donovan.
The room in question was little more than a small
meeting space at the back of the warehouse, meant to be a
staff room, but which Donovan used to confer with his
associates. There, he found two men, both of whom
represented all of the collaborators on the movie project.
Donovan entered the room and studied them for moment,
noting not for the first time that they were unnaturally similar
in appearance. They both were middle aged, with salt and
pepper hair, and newly acquired tans. Even the suits they
wore were of similar style and color. They both looked
slightly jet lagged, but still more well-rested than Donovan,
making him feel even more annoyed than he had been
before.
“Mr. Thompson, Mr. Grant, good of you two to
join us.” Donovan grasped each hand in turn noticing that
they both appeared to be vaguely surprised to see him.
“ Yes, quite, Mr. Donovan. We are back as you can
see from our little holiday in Spain,” said Grant. He was
obviously the boss of the two, and maintained the better
speaking voice. Thompson, who was slightly shorter than
Grant, with dull green eyes and a supercilious smile, did not
speak, but nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement.
“ We had thought you would be at work this time
of day... We meant only to come and evaluate the
proceedings.” Grant’s velvety manipulative voice wielded
considerable power in certain circles, but not with the savvy
director. Donovan had learned early on that in order to deal
with Grant and his ways, it was necessary to take a firm
stand.
“ Yes,” said Donovan, and he took a deep breath
and tried to conceal the brisk impatient tone of his voice.
“ We are a little behind, but in a few days time we will be
back on schedule, just like before. Maybe if you two had
been here— ”
“ The thing is, Mr. Donovan,” Grant said, changing
his tactics smoothly, “we have one hundred percent
confidence in you as always, but things don’t seem to be
moving along as they should be.” He picked a speck of
imaginary dust off of his spotless tie before continuing.
“ We have a lot of money invested in this
expenditure and we want it to be a success. Everyone has
seen a horror film at one point in their lives, but we want this
one to be the one they remember and watch for generations
to come.”
“ Yes,” said Thompson, finally speaking up, “and
we know you are the man to do it, but if we were to perhaps
secure the chances of it being a success...” Thompson’s
voice was breathy and slight and he made emphatic gestures
in the air as he spoke.
Donovan’s brow creased in contemplation. What
have these fools done now? I swear, that i f they’re up to
something even slightly illegal I ’ll turn them in with no
hesitation...it would be a relief.
Aloud he said, “For the time being, gentlemen, let’s
save any ideas or publicity campaigns for later. I have a long
day of work ahead of me and I am sure that the two of you
are tired from your flight.”
They looked doubtful, but after a minute of quick
consultation they agreed.
 “We do need to talk about what we encountered in
Spain. I have a feeling that we don’t necessarily need a
location change to bring this movie to life.”
“If you remember,” said Donovan in a restrained
voice, “I was the one who said that we don’t have the time or
resources for such a move. We have everything we need
here, and besides that, we’ve just completed the stairw ay-”
“We will be happy to listen to your concerns once
again, whenever you like Mr. Donovan. For now though, as
you said,I think we’ll just check into the hotel and discuss
our plans later.” Grant finished speaking, and taking
Thompson along with him as if on an invisible leash, gave a
slight bow to Donovan as he passed out of the room.
Donovan sighed loudly, unsure of how he should
feel. He walked over to the small coffee pot that Millie
usually had brewing early in the morning, and swore when
he saw it was empty.He left for the set, Millie’s whereabouts
weighing heavily on his mind.
“Where is Millie?” he asked person after person,
but no one had seen her that morning. Donovan was
beginning to become seriously worried. He walked into the
warehouse and over to his office,searching his desk for any
sign of Millie’s presence.
Why am I worried? he thought. S h e’s probably
running some errands and forgot to turn her cell phone on.
Sh e’s probably on her way back right now from whatever she
needed to do.
Regardless, Donovan still felt uneasy about her
absence and checked his messages, his voice mail, and his
memo pad before finding a crinkled note on the rickety old
desk. Pulling it open and smoothing it down he read the
shaky handwriting.
 “E l l i o t - I ' m n o t fe e lin g w e ll. W ill re tu rn to th e s e t

a s s o o n a s p o s s ib le . - M illie .”

Relieved to know Millie was no longer unaccounted

for, but still discouraged by the message, Donovan made a
memo reminding himself to call her later and check to see
what the exact problem was. Millie had never been late
before, and missing an entire day because of sickness was
not like her either. Donovan searched his memory, and after
a little thought, he succeeded in coming up with an image of
Millie, sick with a cold and fever. That time, the only time
he had ever seen her sick, she had arrived on the set, on time
as usual, a box of tissues under one arm, the mended
headdress of the African witch doctor character from their hit
film, voodoo doll under the other.
“Hey, uhh, Mr. Donovan sir, whadya want us tado
with these?” A tall lanky crewman with a strong Jersey
accent interrupted his thoughts, holding up a pair of dueling
swords for Donovan’s inspection.
“Over there, on the back wall of the stairway.
Didn’t you read my instructions?” Donovan sighed and left
his office, moving out into the fake scenery of the movie and
back to business. The day was full of last minute additions
and improvements. Towards the afternoon, Gregorio and
Genevieve arrived, in separate cars, and began to rehearse in
one of the upstairs rooms of the warehouse. Donovan zipped
around, descending on idle workers, and supervising projects
with a finesse and ease that made him begin to remember the
joy of his profession. They all worked in something of a
frenzy, trying to get the set together for that night. By the end
of the day Donovan was considerably irritated. When he
found his assistant director Seymour singing, “Here comes
the sun...dum deedee dee dum,” he snapped. If the crew had
been afraid of him before, they thought he was crazy now.
He hustled Seymour off to do some job after a thorough
lecture on wasting his time, and continued with his tasks.
Donovan had been filming at sunset and sunrise
alike for the last three weeks, trying to capture a truly unique
setting, and in addition, trying to catch a good performance
from the actors... The sun was going down remarkably fast
when Donovan realized Gregorio and Genevieve still hadn’t
come back from their twenty minute break—for the last
hour.
“Where is Gregorio?” Donovan asked. Receiving
no answer, he raised the megaphone to his lips and called
again in a louder voice, “Gregorio! To the set! NOW!” His
voice was magnified to ten times that of his normal one, and
bounced off of the stone walls that had been constructed to
look like an alleyway.
The sun was rapidly going down, and for the shot
that Donovan wanted they would have to act fast. The red
tinges in the sky were beautiful and brilliant, giving an
almost otherworldly air to a setting that Donovan knew he
could never reproduce.
He was raising the megaphone to his lips once
more, about to treat the crew to another ranting tirade on
incompetence, when Gregorio appeared at his side.
“ Where have you been? You’re wasting precious
scheduling time. We have a small window of time to shoot
our scenes—”
“ Yes, yes,” Gregorio said absently, fiddling with
the strings of his cape. “But, where is Genevieve?” Gregorio
craned his neck past Donovan, a look of dark jealousy
crowding his handsome features.
“Just, go to makeup, and go quickly, okay? I need
to get something done today if we want to at least pretend to
remain on schedule.”
Gregorio strode quickly off in the opposite direction
than Donovan had indicated, towards the trailer section of
the lot. Donovan was fairly certain that he had gone in search
of Genevieve.
Donovan threw up his hands in defeat. He was
seconds away from raising the megaphone to his lips and
calling off the entire effort for the day, when a hand, strong
and cold, grabbed his raised forearm and brought it back
down to his side.
“ Millie! Thank God you’re here! My new assistant
is driving me crazy, and you...” He stopped as he noticed
how pale she looked. She wore a light blouse and dark calf
length skirt, and was perfectly composed as usual.
Something else about her was different.
Donovan was still studying her when she spoke. Her
voice like the rest of her, seemed different, though Donovan
couldn’t quite put his finger on what that difference was.
“ Elliot,” she began, “I’m sorry I’ve been sick, but
I feel much better. What are we working on?” Her short
explanation was all that Donovan needed at the moment. He
promised himself he would talk to her again later, to make
sure she was really okay. At the moment, he had to get
through the filming.
“ Millie, I need Gregorio and Genevieve on the set
now. We need to get this sunset into the opening shot and it
is not going to last much longer.” Donovan glanced at the
fading light, and saw with stricken eyes that the moon was
already visible though the sun had not quite gone down yet.
“ Look at that! We may never get a chance like this
again—” but Millie was already gone. He did a double take as
he noticed she had already closed the distance between the
set and the trailer lot. He brushed his feeling of bewilderment
away. It was natural for Millie to be overly efficient.
Sometimes she even anticipated his thoughts.
Suddenly cheerful again, he moved off to have a
quick conversation with the microphone/boom workers and
when finished with the conversation, was just in time to join
Gregorio and Genevieve as they came onto the set.
Both were dressed in the same costumes as they had
worn the previous day. They were avoiding each others’
glances though, and Donovan knew that little to nothing had
been resolved between them.
His features arranged themselves into the image of
a patient man, and he spent the next few minutes trying to
convince the two to work together.
“ I understand that you two have your differences,
but in all seriousness, you’re professionals.” Donovan
paused and thought for a moment about what he had said.
Deciding to continue, he said, “and you need to do your job
and not let other things distract you.” His voice was
condescending and patronizing, but they hardly noticed.
Genevieve smirked at Gregorio.
“ What’s the problem, Donovan? I’m not the one
being unprofessional!” She flipped her golden blonde hair
over her shoulder and smiled coyly.
Gregorio’s face darkened as he replied, “So it’s me
who’s being unprofessional then? Then you are most
certainly being a whore—”
“ ENOUGH,” said a strange voice behind the three
of them. Donovan had just been about to explode in anger
but the presence behind him had beaten him to it. With
shock, he realized that it was...
“ Millie? What are you...” But she interrupted him,
an unheard of occurrence. No one had interrupted him in
years, and for good reason. He had a fierce temper.
“ Get to work,” she growled, “or you’ll be fired
with no compensation—contract or no.” The way she said it
was everything. Her voice was icy and calm, but with a
threatening note that held considerable power and demanded
respect. Her usually amiable face was contorted to an ugly
grimace that more closely resembled a tiger, viciously
stalking its prey.
“If you choose to fuck with each other on your
own time, that’s none of our business. The truth is, you’re
both easier to replace than you think. You’ll never get
another chance to work with a director like Elliot Donovan
again either, and if you continue to behave the way you are,
you’ll miss out on it.” Her voice dropped to a menacing
whisper. “Donovan is not the man to play these silly games
with. If I were you two, I’d start thinking about my future in
the acting business and being serious about your jobs. That is
unless you want to end up working the night shift at
Denny’s.” Her eyes were narrow slits of blue fire. She bared
her teeth and growled, “So,stop fucking with our time."
All three of them stared, wide eyed in shock, at
Millie for a full ten seconds before Gregorio and Genevieve
beat a hasty retreat. They left quickly, casting dubious stares
back at the five foot two woman who seemed ten feet tall at
the moment. Donovan continued to stare, less in shock,
more in admiration. Helpless with astonishment, random
thoughts flew through his mind before he centered back to
the task at hand.
“ E rr... thank you Millie. Very effective. Now if
you would,” and he handed her a sheaf of parchment,
highlighted and marked with pen in the margins.
“The script needs to be retyped and ready for re-
editing with the writers, with all my notes included. As you
can see,” he pointed ruefully at the chicken like scrawl that
was virtually unreadable, “I wasn‘t too neat with my
comments. I hope you won’t have trouble reading them.”
“ Not a problem, Elliot.” With a nod, she moved
confidently off in the other direction towards her own trailer
where she kept her computer for such assignments.
He stared at her retreating form and wondered why
she seemed so different. Her form was the same, and she was
behaving, for the most part, like the same old efficient Mil­
lie. Maybe it was the pallor of her face, or the way she
walked away with more grace and finesse than he had ever
seen her do, but Donovan couldn’t help feeling that
something just seemed completely wrong.

Donovan glanced at his notes as he watched

Gregorio practice his scene in the corner of his eye. The sun
had set minutes before in a blaze of glory, but Donovan had
a strange feeling their last shots had failed to capture it. After
an hour of re-shooting the plaza scene, they had taken a
break and were working on a different part of the plot.
Donovan was listening to his assistant director, Seymour,
talk to him about a camera angle in one ear, and the ravings
of Genevieve in the other.
“So, Donovan, if we turn the camera to the left and
catch the vampire as he descends on the stairway...”
“But, Donovan, what do you mean everyone has to
be on the set tomorrow at 4:00? That’s soo early, and I’ve
got a party in L. A. tonight that won’t be finished u n til-”
Genevieve gave him a pouty glance that was wasted on
Donovan’s stony inattentive countenance.
“—and when you do that, you can see that you get
the moon from the window casting light on the floor, which
creates a very interesting effect, which in my opinion—”
Donovan raised both of his hands, on either side of him, his
fingers extended, palms outward towards their faces.
Extracting himself from his protagonists, he stepped forward,
and without a word, proceeded to examine the camera angle
for himself. After a few moments he raised the megaphone to
his lips.
“All right, Gregorio, let’s take it from the top.”
Gregorio stopped pacing on the side where he had been
studying the script and proceeded to walk on camera. He had
changed his costume into a charming old fashioned tuxedo,
complete with authentic cape. His makeup had artfully been
done, giving him an appearance of unearthly paleness and
luster. His fangs protruded slightly from his mouth, and as he
clamored to the top of the set of curved stairs, he picked at
them irritably, not yet in character.
In the main hall of the warehouse, the crew had
labored for weeks constructing the set, which was made up
of a magnificent stairway opening up into a large anteroom.
A pair of ten foot cast iron doors with engraving and wolf
doorknockers sat closed to the outside. The windows on
either side of the staircase were stained glass, ironically
portraying religious scenes in giant and hypnotic tableaus.
The light from outside shone through the panes, casting
strange shadows on the marble floor.
Pride filling him with a sense of satisfaction,
Donovan took a moment to study his creation. Constructing
this set had been a magnificent feat, and they had only just
put the finishing touches on last week. He had a good feeling
about it, and seeing Gregorio mount the last step at the top
and turn around, he drew in a breath, ecstatic at how realistic
and interesting the shot looked.
Donovan peered in the camera, and was trying
focus for the shot when he realized that nothing changed as
he made his adjustments. Everything remained indistinct
and blurry.
“ Seymour! Get over here!” The now less than
confidant man, seemed to shrink in size as he followed the
directors’ orders.
“What did you do to the camera?” Donovan asked
in a tense and imposing voice. Seymour looked into the lens,
after first removing circular glasses from his face. He wore
an anxious expression that faded into one of relief as he
examined the shot through the camera.
“It’s all right Donovan, there’s nothing wrong.
See...?” He straightened up and gestured for Donovan to have
a look. Suspicious, Donovan looked into the camera once
again.
“ You‘re joking right? It’s completely blurry. It
almost looks like the lens is dirty but—”
“ It’s not sir, I checked it myself,” Seymour said
earnestly. He was a short man with balding hair which he hid
with a bright purple beret. The rest of his outfit was equally
ostentatious, complete with canary yellow running shoes and
black sunglasses hanging from a diamond studded lanyard.
Donovan had serious doubts as to his culpability, but had
reluctantly hired him the week before, to replace his other
assistant who had been extradited back to Boston on drug
charges...Because his options had been so limited, he had
been forced to make a quick decision. The strike had had a
negative effect in all the areas of the Hollywood job market,
and it just so happened that Seymour was the cream of the
crop. Donovan studied the riding breeches, and breezy
eggplant flannel the man wore, and inwardly groaned in
exasperation.
“ Well sir, it does look like the area around
Gregory especially, is a bit—”
" Shut up!” Donovan hissed. “Don’t call him that!
He’ll be uncooperative for a week if he hears his real name!”
Seymour looked as if he wanted to stretch his thin
features into a sheepish grin, but succeeded only in creating a
pinched wan look that was farther from any smile Donovan
had ever seen. Donovan rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“ Let’s just shoot the scene, okay? W e’ll use the
other camera.” Donovan strode back to his director’s chair
and after the other camera was in position, he raised the
megaphone and shouted,
“ Alright! Places! Action!”
Gregorio froze and watched Seymour count on his
fingers until they were all folded down.
The transformation began, and it was complete and
seamless. His entire countenance and manner changed.
Where Gregorio had stood a moment before, there was a
vampire.
He stood tall, giving the impression of superiority
and strength. His eyes had a cool glitter, and he stood with
one hand on his chest, covering his heart as if he were a
sheik, a Latin lover, or a poet preaching to his audience. He
was all of these things, and yet something completely
different. He stood motionless at the top of the stairs for a
moment, and then slowly, gracefully, began to descend.
About halfway down, he languidly extended his arm, hand
palm down. He rotated it and made a fist as he drew it back
towards his person, and the magnificent cast iron doors
before him screeched open. Fog billowed in softly through
the doors, and the distant howls of wolves echoed in the
distance. The vampire smiled hauntingly, and the sound of a
pulse, strong and loud began to vibrate throughout the room.
He swept forward, moving in the same measured yet almost
gliding steps towards the gaping doorway. His form was
silhouetted in the arch of the entrance, the light from the
moon streaming in the doorway creating a long shadow on
the marble floor. As the shadow lengthened, it morphed into
a smaller flickering arc that disappeared into the blackness of
nightfall...

“Cut!” Donovan cried, but then

was speechless with astonishment. The
shot had been perfect from its
beautifully acted motions, to the art
direction, to the lunar essence permeating the room.
Donovan held the megaphone in one hand while his other
hand rose and absent-mindedly rubbed the side of his neck.
Coming back to the moment, he further flabbergasted
himself by involuntarily calling out on the megaphone,
“ Well done. That’s a wrap on that scene.” In turn, the crew
members and actors looked at him with expressions of
complete shock etched upon their faces. Donovan was
known for his quality work, and in the few short months that
they had been filming, he had never once relied upon a single
take for a scene. After a moment of silence, the crew once
again went on with their jobs, still shaking their heads in
disbelief.
“I can’t believe it myself,” Donovan muttered under
his breath. He took a pencil from the right pocket of his
expensive black leather jacket that was hanging on the edge
of his chair and began to attack a random script with
notation.
“Donovan, I think we should get at least one more
take just in case something goes wrong w ith...” Seymour,
who had walked up to him a moment before, stopped talking
as he saw the expression on Donovan’s face. Donovan was
determined, lips set in a thin line, his brows heavily
depressed. Seymour tiptoed away, a look of anxiety on his
thin features.
“ Here’s your script Elliot,” a voice said in his ear,
making him jump a foot off his chair. Donovan turned and
looked at a very pale Millie. She was standing so close that
Donovan had felt her breath against his neck. She wordlessly
handed the script to Donovan, then waited for his orders,
standing almost as a soldier would, at attention. Donovan
studied her silently for a moment. She didn’t look sick any­
more, but there was something else there. Her eyes were
lowered, and dark hair framed her pale face. Her lips stood
out in a slash of scarlet that made her face seem less round
and more shapely. She looked, well, pretty Donovan
admitted to himself. Why have I never noticed that before?
S h e’s really quite... She raised her eyes as the silence
continued, her mouth suddenly quivering,and her eyes filled
with tears. Panicking at the thought that she might
cry, Donovan rose from his seat.
“ What’s wrong Millie? Do you still feel sick?”
Millie didn’t answer, but with a visible effort, got herself
under control. She slowly shook her head from side to side.
“ Maybe you should take the rest of the day off
Millie. You’re still looking pale, and I want you to get
completely better.” He smiled, his face kind and concerned.
“ You never get sick, Millie. You had me worried this
morning.” He patted her shoulder in a friendly comforting
way, but recoiled as he felt the coldness of her skin under the
thin material of the blouse she wore. Millie did not flinch at
this gesture, but caught Donovan’s eye in a captivating gaze
that sent shivers through his body. All at once, the
background and all of the noise around him began to fade.
Seymour’s annoying comments about the camera angle, the
lighting technicians arguing about the interference of the
moonlight, even the screeching fight between Genevieve and
Gregorio that had just begun, all faded into the distance.
Her eyes, why had he never noticed her eyes?
They were startlingly blue, vividly transfixed upon his own
and all he could think was, I could get lost in those eyes,
they’re so beautiful... Their gazes stood locked for what
seemed like an eternity, and Donovan began to
unconsciously inch closer to her. He slowly lifted his hand
and let it rest lightly upon her shoulder once again, all the
while advancing slowly, staring transfixed by her blue orbs.
“ DON’T!!” shouted a voice as a whole pail of
dirty mop water came splashing down on Donovan’s head. It
caught him with such surprise that he was pitched
backwards, away from Millie. He landed hard on the marble
floor, his back cracking painfully beneath him.
“ —And if you think, that you can just cast me
aside like some slut! Well, I’ll tell you something!
Genevieve Marlow doesn’t stand for it!”
“ I wish you would just shut up and listen to
someone else besides yourself for once!” Gregorio was
furious, all trace of his Italian accent missing in the heat of
his anger. Genevieve had attempted to throw an entire bucket
of water on him, but had missed, striking the director instead.
The entire cast and crew stared open-mouthed in shock as
they watched the two actors continue fighting, despite the
fact that they had just doused their director. A titter of
combined concern and amusement ran through the rapidly
increasing and watching crowd.
Gregorio and Genevieve were standing at the base
of the stairs, about five feet from where Donovan lay.
Donovan was still too shocked to move and remained in his
prone position watching the scene unfold in front of him.
“ If you think that for one minute that I even give a
damn about you, and your stupid, controlling,
domineering—”
“ Oh, I ’m the domineering one, am I?” Genevieve
was livid, her hair was flying around her head like Medusa’s
snakes, and her skirt was being hiked up to an indecent level,
though in all her passionate anger she didn’t notice.
“ I’m domineering? When you expect me to be at
your beck and call, here whenever you want me, and then
when you disappear you can’t offer any explanation!”
Gregorio made rude sounds with his tongue and the
roof of his mouth, but Genevieve managed to get one more
sentence out before he could interrupt.
“ —and don’t think I don’t know where you were. I
knew it would only be a matter of time before that bitch
Yolanda got your pants off!” A tall attractive woman
watching from the side of the crowd raised her eyebrows and
let out an audible gasp before she hastily retreated from the
scene. The two actors in the midst of their fight did not
notice the interruption but continued to roar at one another.
“ I DID WHAT? I never—I didn’t,” he stopped,
panting in a rage, then moved forward towards her, his index
finger pointing in her face.“But even if I did, how can you
stand there and accuse me like you’re some kind of God­
damn saint, when you slept with that bastard, Tony!” His
face was a mixture of sweat droplets and makeup, making
his countenance alarmingly pale and shiny.
“ Don’t try and deny it!” Gregorio yelled at the top
of his lungs. “I know it was him, I saw someone leaving your
trailer the next morning!”
Gregorio looked like he was going to explode into
another torrent of wild accusations, but suddenly and without
warning his eyes rolled back into his head and his body
swayed slightly before it toppled over, hitting the floor with
an awful thud. He lay motionless.
It was pandemonium. Crew members ran every
which way trying to locate a phone, Genevieve collapsed on
the floor next to Gregorio and cradled his head in her lap,
screaming, “Oh my God! Gregory! Wake up! Don’t leave me
like this! I love you.” Her melodramatic cries drowned out
all other rational speakers and served only as an impetus to
further the panic around them.
“ Gregory!” she shrieked. “He’s ... he’s dead!” Her
voice held a note of insane gravity that made everyone stop
dead in their tracks. Had the situation not been so serious the
scene would have been extremely comical. The dead hero
and his lady cradling his head in her arms, and a crowd full
of people standing frozen, staring at the misfortune before
them, shocked into incapability.
After a moment of frozen astonishment Donovan
was up and on his feet like the crack of a whip. “Dead?” he
repeated. “Don’t be stupid, he can’t be dead...” But even as
he said it and crouched down to take his pulse, the white
sheen of his face, and the utter stillness of Gregorio’s
features testified to the reality that he was not alive.
This is not happening, Donovan thought, horror
stricken. He leaned forward and studied Gregorio’s pale
unmoving features, willing them to come alive. How can he
be dead? He was alive a second, a moment ago...
Gregorio’s eyes flew open. Donovan staggered
back, aghast at the red rimmed eyes that stared calmly back
at him. For the second time that day, he felt himself being
drawn in, being enveloped in an intense gaze. Donovan was
fairly certain that the dirty water he had been drenched in
was not the only thing sending electrifying chills up and
down his spine. He was inching forward, looking deeper into
those dark eyes, when Gregorio shifted his gaze towards
Genevieve, abandoning the director. She gave a little sob,
then said in a soft voice, “Gregory, Greggy, don’t leave me!
I’m sorry I made you jealous with Tony. I was just trying to
get back at you. You’ve been acting so strangely.”
‘Gregorio’ reached up a lonely hand and caressed
her cheek for a moment, then pulled her head down,
passionately kissing her lips, before moving his kisses to her
neck.
The crew was at a total loss, standing still as statues.
Gradually, smiles began to break out on certain faces, and
then all out relief-filled laughter burgeoned out into the
room. Some people were temperamental enough that they
began to clap and holler their approval. The crisis was over
as quickly as it had begun.
Gregorio stood, still looking pale, supported in the
arms of a sobbing Genevieve. He embraced her tightly,
nuzzling her neck.
Even as Donovan felt his anger and frustration
levels rising, he also felt a spasm of sudden pain in his back.
Alarmed, he stumbled backwards a few steps, and leaned
heavily on his director’s chair. A cold hand grasped his
forearm. It was Millie.
“Are you all right, Elliot?” Donovan felt like her
voice was the only calm intelligent one for miles.
“Millie, I just need...” he started, then took a deep
breath and tried to sound more confident than he felt. “I just
need to rest for a little while. Those two are going to kill me
one day!" He made every effort to give an assuring smile but
only managed to keep from crying out in pain. It felt like
someone had twisted his spine into a pretzel. It felt like it
had that day, years before, when he had realized he would
have to give up directing because of his injuries.
 Though Donovan half stumbled from the set, with
Millie’s short, yet somehow strong frame supporting him, no
one seemed to take notice. The drama taking place on the set
was too much entertainment for people to notice their retreat.
Gregorio and Genevieve had proceeded to make up in huge
dramatic soliloquies that were receiving applause on
completion.
“And I, I swear that to the end of my days that I
will always love you... I swear I will never leave your side
again.” Gregorio held a hand over his heart while he
promised his eternal devotion.
Genevieve swooned, partially because she was still
supporting Gregorio, then replied in a teary yet articulate
tone, “Gregorio, I am yours! I will never again stray from our
love, I know it is you whom I was meant for all my life... I
knew I loved you from the very first moment I met you in
that little town in Pennsylvania—”
Gregorio made a loud coughing sound, then
interrupted her before she could betray him any further.
Their cries of unending love grew more and more faint as
Donovan allowed Millie to guide him towards the back lot of
the set. With a suddenness that took his breath away, sharp
pains exploded in his head. With that added pain, it took
his complete concentration to get to his trailer in one piece.
Somehow, despite her short stature, Millie was almost totally
supporting him, her shoulder feeling like a pillar of stone
digging into Donovan’s side.
As they neared the trailer, Donovan was too out of
sorts to notice that the door was already ajar. He merely
lumbered up the steps, brushing his head against the
doorframe and collapsed two feet inside the doorway on the
short sofa.
He raised a hand to his suddenly feverish forehead
and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. Millie disappeare d
for a moment into the tiny bathroom and came back with a
washcloth soaked in icy water. She stood over Donovan, her
face enigmatic and composed. He gave her a weak smile.
“What would I do without you, Millie?” he asked in
a quiet voice. Anything louder and he thought his brain
might burst. Realizing that his shirt was soaked and filthy
he carefully raised himself, though not without a lot of pain
from his back, and stripped it off. He painstakingly levered
himself back down again. His last memory before he began
to flit in and out of consciousness was of Millie soothing his
forehead with the damp cloth and saying, “Get some sleep
Elliot. You need to rest now ...” He closed his eyes certain
that when he woke he would feel much better.

Donovan fell into a deep sleep that lasted

throughout the entire day. Close to sunset of the next day, he
began to dream again.
The dream was intense and frightening. He couldn’t
move, he was paralyzed, and he had a strange feeling that he
was going to die. He couldn’t do anything to stop it, he could
only sense that it was going to happen. Blood pounded in his
ears, his heart raced so quickly he thought it would erupt in
his chest. Some malevolent presence was watching him, and
he could feel the eyes boring into the back of his skull.
Without warning the presence dissipated, and then was gone.
The blind panic lessened somewhat and he was able to
breathe more calmly, though he still couldn’t move. Before
he could gather his wits, strange faces began to float in and
out of his vision. Thompson and Grant, his producers, flitted
by, closely followed by Gregorio and Genevieve who were
still clinging to one another closely. Seymour stayed for a
few moments and squealed like a pig while Donovan tried to
swat at him as if he were an annoying fly. Then came Millie.
Millie lingered far longer than the others, kneeling down to
him and whispering unintelligible things in his ear. She
caressed his brow and he found his fear dissipating as her
sensuous touch made him shiver with some undefined
emotion. She raked her nails through his hair, leaving trails
of fire behind on his scalp, cupping his head in her hands.
The undefined emotion of a moment ago became passion so
clear and blinding that Donovan gasped and wondered at the
vivid reality of the dream. She lowered her own head and
met his lips with an ardor so intense, Donovan prayed he
would not wake. She tasted of fire and sweat, and blood?
Donovan opened his eyes and she broke the kiss, biting his
lower lip as she withdrew. With an unbroken feverish gaze,
she lowered her head once more, but this time not for a
kiss...

The ringing of his bedside phone woke Donovan

from his deep sleep. He opened his eyes and saw the
gathering twilight through his open window. He ignored the
phone and when it stopped ringing moments later he barely
noticed. He felt different. His head felt better, but he could
tell that something was not quite back to normal. Donovan
slowly moved into a sitting position noticing the natural ease
with which he did so. Amazed, he realized that his back felt
completely normal. The room was surprisingly vivid despite
the increasing darkness, and Donovan could smell a myriad
of different scents in the air. He closed his eyes and inhaled
deeply. Then he started to remember the dream. Looking
around him, he struggled to recall the details, but could only
be sure that he desperately wanted to see Millie. He moved
to the closet where he hastily put on a clean pair of jeans and
a black tee shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it
down and noticed the sensitivity of his scalp. He was
noticing everything, in a new way. He looked up and noticed
the pale moonlight streaming in through the small skylight
on the ceiling of his trailer. He reached up, intending to open
it farther, grasped the handle, and...
A small explosion of noise occurred as he wrenched
the entire cover off its steel hinges and into his hands. He
dropped it, astounded by what he’d done. The skylight cover
smashed to the ground in a motion so slow and pronounced
that Donovan could hear every abrasion it incurred as it hit
the tiled floor.
What is happening to me? he thought, glancing
around the room in a fair state of alarm. He looked down at
his hands with mingled fear and wariness. It took him a
moment to register the fact that he could see the veins and
pale red blood of his hand, and straight through to the dirty
tile floor. He dropped his hands quickly to his side, his mind
unable to accept what he had seen. These dreams, and that
sickness, and now I don't know what I ’m doing... how to
explain it... Donovan stopped. His lips parted as an image of
him kissing Millie in the dream he’d had came back to him.
He let the image bum itself into his brain. He’d never had a
dream like that before.
I do n ’t know if I ’m still dreaming or if I ’m ju st
going crazy. Maybe I ’m hallucinating... He left the trailer in
a few agitated long steps. Millie will help me, I have to talk
to her, I have to know if it really was a dream ... to know
w h at’s happening to me...
He started to run and finished the short distance to
Millie’s trailer in the space of a few silent heartbeats, but she
wasn’t there. Donovan didn’t know what to do. He was in
such a strange state of panic that he was uncertain about
where to look next. The set looked strangely ornamental and
gilded at that dusky hour, and as Donovan walked through it
still vainly searching for Millie, he looked at the moon in
terrified amazement and awe. It was a night meant for lovers;
the glowing orb in the sky attested to the fact. So focused
was Donovan on every detail of the night that he didn’t even
notice that the set was completely deserted and had an almost
isolated quality about it. Dark clouds blown by a destructive
wind framed the moon menacingly, and after a few endless
minutes of rapt attention Donovan had to force himself to
keep moving and not to stare at it forever.
He rounded the comer, passing the deserted plaza,
and came to the small office room in which he had formerly
briefed the producers. The door was slightly ajar, golden
light slipping out the small space. He glanced inside and
started to move on, until the things he had seen registered in
his brain. He moved back to the doorframe and peering in, he
saw Millie, Thompson, Grant, and Seymour? They sat
around a small table, Grant being the only one standing.
Wearing an expensive, yet wrinkled black pin striped suit,
Grant was gesturing to a paper in his hands, and speaking in
low tones. The others were studying him in silent
captivation, not moving, and not responding to his apparent
pleas. Donovan closed his eyes and listened very carefully.
Gradually Grant’s voice became clear and loud, reverberating
in his ears.
“I’m telling you that this has gone too far, and that it
was never the original idea...” Grant was sweating
copiously, his knuckles white as he gripped the paper tightly.
Donovan opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath
of air, making little to no sound. Despite that, all heads in the
room turned and focused on the door. They looked back at
Grant and then to Millie. Millie stood, murmured a few
words that even Donovan’s ears couldn’t hear, and then
before he could react or move away she was there staring
him in the face.
“Elliot, are you feeling better?”
He studied her face anxiously, then looked back into
the room at the remaining members of the meeting. They had
converged upon Grant and were whispering with their heads
together, looking like conspirators of a crime.
“What’s going on Millie?" he asked her, drawing
her away from the doorway. His chiseled features were set in
a pained expression. “I don’t know what’s happening
anymore...”
Millie looked at him, her expression perfectly
poised and unchanging. “Elliot, we need to shoot the final
scene of the climax sequence. I’ve made arrangements for
everyone to meet us.”
Donovan grabbed her shoulders and pulled her
around the comer out of sight of the doorway.
 “MILLIE! What is happening? What were you
talking about in there? I need to talk to you! I ’ve been
feeling so strangely lately.” His voice increased to a pitch
that he used when he wanted to intimidate people into doing
what he wanted. There was a slight note of panic and
frustration as well, and when Millie remained expressionless,
he fought the desire to shake her by the shoulders. Instead he
bent down until he was on her level and looked her squarely
in the eye. Her expression softened slightly, the corners of
her mouth relaxing, her vivid blue eyes shadowed by her
long lashes. Donovan’s expectant expression faded. In a
moment of doubt, Donovan wondered if he was still
dreaming. He took a deep breath and started to lean his head
forward, suddenly intensely curious to find out. She twisted
sideways out of his grasp, straightening the black pantsuit
that she wore with a brusqueness that surprised and
frustrated Donovan further.
“Elliot, I suggest we continue with our schedule as
planned. We don’t want to fall behind.” She walked swiftly
away, presumably towards the set of the scheduled shoot for
the night.
The last thing that Donovan felt like was getting
back to work. Running a hand through his hair, and letting
off a frustrated sigh, he decided that there was some sense in
at least attempting to finish the project.
At least then I can take a lengthy vacation and think
about something else besides the disaster that this film has
been... His eyes turned heavenward, transfixed once again by
the moonlight. What am I going to do if something else
happens? What else can happen? My back feels fine now, but
I ’m not sure how much more stress it can take. I ’m not sure
how much more o f this I can take...
 C an yo u Id en tify th ese V a m p ire
M o vies fro m th eir P lo t S u m m a ries?
1. Bela Lugosi stars in the role that made him a famous and
reknown monster movie maker. This classic tale is
based on Bram Stoker’s novel.

2. A bunch of kids stumble on the diary of a vampire

hunter, that tells them some pretty disturbing things that
are set to happen in the near future. When the forces of
darkness arrive in their town, ready to take over the
world, the kids take matters into their own hands. They
prove that they are up to the task, matching wits with
full grown monsters and demons.

3. In this movie, one almost feels sorry for Louis, the main
vampire character who feels insanely guilty for taking
human life. This story chronicles Louis' journey through
the ages, as he desperately tries to find answers to
ancient questions, and meaning in an eternal existence.

4. Ben is a famous writer returning to his old home town to

visit friends, and to face his childhood fear of a house
that had held great evil at one time. When one dark
night, a mysterious Mr. Barlow comes to town, the fu­
ture of the small sleepy town is changed forever, and
Ben's world is turned upside down. Ben and the few
remaining people in the town must fight the powers of
darkness and try to save their lives, before it’s too late.

5. A sixteen year old girl receives a summons from her

watcher, who tells her that she is the chosen one,
destined to kill vampires. Reluctant and disbelieving,
she quickly finds that her unique acrobatic talents, and
haunting dreams are not coincidences. It’s up to her to
accept her destiny and save prom from the vampires.
6. F.W. Mumau's German silent classic is the original and
some say scariest Dracula adaptation, taking Bram
Stoker's novel and turning it into a haunting, shadowy
dream full of dread. Count Orlok, the rodentlike vampire
frighteningly portrayed by Max Schreck, is perhaps the
most animalistic screen portrayal of a vampire ever
filmed. Names had to be changed from the novel when
Stoker's wife charged his novel was being filmed
without proper permission.

7. A family waits on pins and needles for their grandfather

to come home from hunting a vicious line of vampires in
an isolated town in old Europe, in the 1800's. A Russian
count, weary, and traveling through the area, stumbles
upon them in the midst of this tension, falling in love
with the beautiful daughter. Meanwhile, the grandfather
has failed in his quest, and has become a vampire. What
follows is a terrifying chase as the rest of the family tries
to escape from the terror of the vampire.

8. A mother and her two sons move to a small coast town

in California. The town is plagued by bikers and some
mysterious deaths. The younger boy makes friends with
two other boys who claim to be vampire hunters while
the older boy is drawn into the gang of bikers by a
beautiful girl. The older boy starts sleeping days and
staying out all night while the younger boy starts getting
into trouble because of his friends' obsession.

9. This vampire spoof has Count Dracula moving to New

York to find his Bride, after being forced to move out of
his Transylvanian castle. There with the aid of assistant
Renfield, he stumbles through typical New York city life
situations while pursuing a beautiful woman whose boy-
friend, Doctor Jeff, realizes she is under the influence o f
a vampire. He tries his bumbling best to convince the
police of what is going on, and to help him stop Dracula.
10. In this movie the main character hunts vampires using a
variety of exotic technology and incredible willpower in
combat. He himself is half vampire and half human. In
essence he has all of the strengths of vampires and none
of their weaknesses. Sunlight does not affect him and
yet he still has superhuman strength.

Can you Put The Anne Rice Vampire

Chronicles in order?
Identify the Actors/Vampires below:
 Donovan felt amazingly awake,
considering the fact that he hadn’t slept
peacefully in several nights. He had taken a few
naps during the day, and always awoke,
refreshed in the afternoon from a deep slumber.
I wonder if I ’ve hit my second wind here... my back doesn't
hurt at all, and I feel okay again. My sleeping patterns are
off, but I'll recover. If I could ju st make some progress on
this movie...
It had been two nights since Donovan had decided
to try and wrap up the movie as quickly as possible, but so
far their progress was slow. Donovan was growing more
and more frustrated as each day drew to a close, and less and
less was accomplished.
He sat in his director’s chair to the right of the same
magnificently constructed stairway that they were re-using
for the final and climactic scene of the film. Donovan
glanced down at the script and pursed his lips as he
concentrated.
Everything should work, theoretically. He looked
up, intending to call Seymour, but seeing no one around he
sighed and a look of displeasure darkened his face. Where is
everybody? Although Millie had alerted everyone about the
shooting schedule for that night, the usual crew members and
artists were scarce. A scattered dozen people were milling
about, doing random jobs but not looking very energetic.
No one is showing up anymore, and the few that do
all look so tired. Have I really been working them that hard?
Donovan shrugged his shoulders. It will all be over in a few
days anyway. They’ll live.
A few feet away, Millie was talking with one of the
workers. As if feeling his gaze on her, she turned and
inadvertently caught Donovan’s eye. Donovan felt his pulse
quicken,and Millie’s eyes flashed for a moment, her face
aglow in the remaining moonlight. Then she turned aw ay.
An image of him and Millie kissing flashed across
his brain, but he shook his head and dispelled the vision. He
had to remain focused, and these ludicrous visions were only
misleading distractions. He reached down and grabbed his
megaphone from where it had been resting next to his chair
and raised it to his mouth.
“Listen up everyone!” His words were ear-
splittingly loud, even to his own ears. He tried to moderate
his voice before he continued.
“We’re going to give this scene a try, so everyone
get ready.” He paused and looked around him. “Genevieve,
Gregorio, places!” The two were standing half hidden, half
exposed behind the front doors of the facade. They started
violently, breaking their kiss as they heard their names
called. They recovered their composure swiftly, and gave
each other another quick kiss before obeying. The two of
them sauntered into full view, Gregorio smirking, and Gene­
vieve giggling inanely.
Millie walked to join Donovan and, on the way,
stopped to reprimand the two actors. “Wipe that smile off
your face Gregorio, and you, stop giggling and behaving like
a fool. You’re professionals, act like it.” Millie watched to
make sure they had followed her orders and then turned to
Donovan, awaiting his commands.
Her voice had been hard, and full of disdain.
Donovan willed himself not to stare at her. Instead he
cleared his throat and took position behind the camera.
“Gregorio, Genevieve, I assume you’ve read the
script and are ready to go?” The actors cast sidelong glances
at each other, and coughed to hide their laughter. Donovan
rubbed his tanned and lined forehead with the heel of his
hand, wondering suddenly what would happen if he joined
the strike, like every other self respecting worker in
Hollywood. His distaste of the word quit, and his stubborn
nature won out, and he continued, his voice valiantly trying
to control the anger within it.
“Your character,” he said, pointing at Gregorio, “has
just recaptured Genevieve. She was rescued by the Duke,
and taken to his castle." Donovan nodded his head in re­
sponse to their blank expressions. “That’s right, we haven’t
shot that scene yet, so pay attention. You broke in on their
wedding day and stole her again. You killed the Duke, and
a whole bunch of the guards. Now, you’re exuberant.
Triumphant—” Gregorio was getting into it. He was grinning
with a smile that said he already believed all of those things,
but was certainly glad to hear someone say it to his face.
Genevieve looked impressed, and fluttered her long blonde
lashes, still softly giggling.
“Donovan,” squeaked a voice behind him.
Donovan held up his hand, hoping to make Seymour wait,
then continued. “You’re triumphant, and powerful, and evil!
I want to see it in your face, in your actions. You’ve won the
day. Now, lets take it—”
“Donovan, I need to talk to you...” Donovan spun
around and grabbed the front of Seymour’s shirt, lifting him
a few inches off the ground. The man whimpered, and
Donovan quickly released him. Smoothing his hair down,
Donovan barely controlled himself as he said, “Not now
Seymour, I am extremely busy. You’re supposed to be
behind the camera anyway.”
Pulling his lower lip up, Seymour looked like a
sulky child. “I just wanted to tell you that I fixed the camera...
I had a few people come down...” his voice continued, but
Donovan wasn’t listening. He could hear Gregorio and
Genevieve behind him giggling and kissing, getting dis­
tracted all over again.
Gregorio let out a howl of pain. Donovan spun
around and saw that Genevieve had somehow managed to
dislodge Gregorio’s costume fangs with her tongue
acrobatics. Gregorio’s teeth were very large and very white,
and it took the makeup artists a good half hour to effectively
superimpose fangs on top of them. Seething, Donovan
forgot his attempt at patience, and shouted. “Damn it! Get to
makeup. No, not you Genevieve, you’re wearing enough
already.” Thrusting an arm backwards, Donovan caught
Seymour by the shirt and pulled him forward. “Seymour,
you take him. Make sure he comes directly back. I don’t
want him wandering off...” he said, suspiciously watching
the way Genevieve and Gregorio were winking at one
another and making little nods with their heads.
They sauntered off the set, or rather, Gregorio
sauntered, and Seymour skipped, trying to keep up with
Gregorio' s long arrogant strides. They made an odd and
disturbing pair. Seymour was dressed in colorful pink
trousers, and a violet sweater vest. The purple beret was
perched precariously on his head, and Donovan swore the
rhinestone belt had been worn at some time by Cindy Lauper
in one of her music videos. Gregorio, in full cape and
costume, looked slightly disgusted with his companion, and
walked a full five feet apart from him.
Donovan turned away and cursed at the delay.
Consulting his watch he saw that it was almost 10:00 at
night. Through the stained glass window they had installed
in the warehouse, Donovan could see bright stars twinkling
in at him. Enchanting waves of brisk night air blew in
through the open doors, and Donovan decided he may as
well step outside and take a short break.
Outside, he found Grant, his executive producer,
sitting on a few packing cases, smoking a cigarette. Since
the beginning of the project Grant and Donovan had
disagreed about almost every aspect of the film. Their fights
over the casting and venue had been particularly long and
bitter. Donovan had seceded to the choice of actors against
his better judgment. After months of miserable arguments
and shoddy work from his principle actors, Genevieve and
Gregorio, he naturally held a grudge against Grant. As
Donovan came and stood next to him, Grant briefly glanced
up muttered and a hello.
“Have a seat,” said Grant. He seemed deep in
thought, and not quite his usually impeccably dressed and
manicured self. Donovan studied the man for a moment,
slightly taken aback by his behavior and haggard appearance.
His expensive coat was wrinkled and had a slight tear on the
arm, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in two days. In
between taking long drags on his cigarette, he bit his
fingernails. Donovan could see that they were gnawed so far
down they had started to bleed.
“ No,” said Donovan quickly. “I just wanted a
breath of fresh air. It’s a little stuffy in that warehouse.” He
turned to leave, but Grant caught him by the sleeve. “How is
Arnold doing?”
“ Who?” asked Donovan, puzzled by the obscure
question.
“Arnold Seymour... your assistant director. How’s
he doing?” Grant’s voice was casual and unconcerned, but he
had started to bite his fingernails again. There was nothing
left to bite, only skin, but he continued to gnaw at them like a
hungry dog with a bone.
“ Oh, fine, just fine.” Donovan had never known
anyone less like an Arnold in his life. He raised an eyebrow
and his mouth drew in at the comers in a wry half smile.
“He seems to be very earnest about the job. I guess, that’s
more than I can say about some of my other assistants.”
“ Really?” Grant’s voice was thoughtful, and a
little tense. He stared straight ahead, into the night. The area
was pretty desolate, on the very edge of the town, and though
less than 45 minutes from the ocean, very much like a desert.
There were coyotes and dry shrubbery everywhere. The
nearest houses were only ten minutes away, but in the night
were curiously obscured and distant.
“ There’s something lonely about the night,”
murmured Grant. Donovan raised both his eyebrows.
“Excuse me?”
“ The night. There’s something lonely about it.
Can you imagine, only having the night to live in ... like your
characters?” Donovan considered the question. He was
about to answer in the negative, but the moon caught his eye.
“ Yes, I can imagine,” said Donovan.
Grant shot a quick glance at Donovan, then laughed,
his voice breaking with a slight quiver. “You can eh?” He
started biting his upper lip, and tried to smoke at the same
time. It didn’t quite work, and a coughing fit shook his
sturdy frame. Grant tossed the cigarette away and stood.
Clearing his throat one last time, he said, “Back to work now
Donovan? W e’ve got a lot of ground to cover before the
night is finished.”
“ Yeah, better get back to it.” Donovan let Grant
precede him, and they stepped back into the warehouse.
Donovan couldn’t help thinking, as he watched Grant’s
stumbling progress, that all he needed now, was for his
executive producer to have a nervous breakdown. Grant went
and sat in a seat on the edge of the set, preparing to watch the
filming.
Inside, Donovan found Gregorio just returning to
the set, and picking irritably at his newly applied set of teeth.
“Stop that!” snapped Donovan. “Get in place.
And where’s Seymour? Genevieve?” Donovan raised his
voice. “Everyone better be in place and ready to go in ten
seconds! TEN!—NINE!” As Donovan counted down, there
was a wild scramble among crew members and actors alike.
Genevieve miraculously appeared and Gregorio swept her up
in his arms, preparing to carry her up the stairs for the scene.
Millie stood by Donovan, ready and waiting. With no sign of
Seymour, Donovan sat behind the camera himself and yelled,
“ Ready? Action!”

A woman’s scream
echoed in the distance. The
giant iron doors of the castle
swung inward as if by magic,
the hinges screeching as they
moved. The vampire was
coming, and he was not alone.
Through the mist and the tall
trees they appeared. His black
cape billowed out behind him as
he carried the beautiful young
woman in his arms. She wore a
wedding dress, though she
would never walk down the
aisle of a church again. It was a
snowy white concoction, low-cut and form fitting. Yards of
satin fabric cascaded freely down the vampire’s arm. It was
the same girl who had managed to elude him in the Spanish
plaza. She had been rescued at the last moment, just before
he had been able to completely drain her of her life force.
Cheated of his victory, the vampire had pursued her and
outwitted the Duke, her protector, amidst the confusion of
the wedding celebration. Luring her into the garden, he re­
captured her started back to his lair. After some time her
screams had finally faded and she had slumped into a faint.
There would be no rescuers this time, he made certain of that
when he had killed the Duke in cold blood. No one else
would dare challenge the vampire. The villagers all knew
and feared him too well to risk it. His dark features radiated
triumph. He had won. He mounted the marble steps in front
of him, still carrying her limp and unconscious form. The
doors behind him creaked closed with his silent glance as
their only command.
As he reached the top of the stairs and paused on
the landing, the girl began to stir a little. She murmured little
cries of fear and insensibility, but it was clear in her
condition she was not going to fight the events that would
surely follow.
He placed her gently on her feet. Her dress was
resplendent, and spread out like a fan behind her. She
swooned, almost falling, but his strong arm supported her
about the waist. Her skin was pale and glorious in the
brilliant light from the moon. Her chest heaved as her breath
quickened, a small whimper the only attempt at defense that
she could muster.
“ Do not fight it,” he whispered to her. “You must
want it to happen.” His body was strong and powerful, and
his dark eyes gleamed cruelly. “It is a gift. I give it to you, if
you will have it.”
Her eyes opened widely as she looked into his.
After a moment of feverish contemplation, the fear left her
face and was replaced with awe. She whispered back in a
breathy voice, “Yes, I do, I want it!”
He smiled, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her.
 “ Then I give it to you.” He bared his fangs and lowered his
head not only in hunger, but in desire. She was his bride
now, his bride of darkness. She did not move for a moment.
Then, her features took on a look of stark horror, and she let
out a gasp of air as the reality of what was happening hit
her. As if in validation of her acceptance though, she raised
a pale and graceful arm and pressed it against his head,
gripping his hair and pushing his fangs deeper into the
delicate tissue of her neck. She went limp a moment later,
supported only by the strength of his arms.
“ Cut!” Donovan cried, though he could not have
said anything more at the moment since he was overcome
with emotion. He had never in all his years of directing ever
seen a scene so perfect, so wonderfully, so...
Why do they have to bring their stupid personal
relationship into everything? The two of them had
continued to make out despite Donovan’s command to stop.
“Cut!" he repeated. “Genevieve, Gregorio,
excellent work, I think we can say we’re finished with that—
I SAID CUT!” When they continued to ignore him,
Donovan decided he’d had enough. His blood boiling, he
sprung out of his chair and leaped forward starting up the
stairs. As he reached the landing, his fury mounted when he
saw they were not in the least bit intimidated by his
approach.
Losing his cool, Donovan wrenched them apart,
sending Gregorio stumbling. The moment he did it,
Donovan knew it was a mistake. Gregorio had been the only
thing supporting Genevieve. She collapsed in a heap on the
landing and lay still. Her cheeks were pale, her body stiff.
Donovan knelt down next to her in alarm, but when his hand
slid through a sticky red patch of blood on the floor beside
her, his stomach gave a powerful heave and he had to steady
himself, stumbling backwards until he hit the back wall.
There he slid to his knees and stared, completely senseless.
She was dead. There was blood on the floor and on
Gregorio’s lips. His brain didn’t want to believe it. He
couldn’t believe it... The pool of blood on the floor oozed
forth from her neck, staining Genevieve’s pristine dress
scarlet. Transfixed by the crimson color that was slowly
flowing towards him, Donovan was sure he was either in hell
or completely insane.
Gregorio had saved himself from falling headlong
down the stairs by grasping the railing tightly. He now slid
back to a standing position and watched Donovan
suspiciously. His expression changed from a sneer of
contempt to loathing.
“Finally caught on, have you?” Gregorio’s voice
was steely and cool. Full of power and confidence, he glided
gracefully forward, and picked Genevieve up off the floor.
He gave a sidelong glance at Donovan, then attacked her
lifeless form, continuing to drain her. Donovan didn’t know
what to be more afraid of: the fact the Gregorio was taking
blood from Genevieve, or that Donovan himself wanted that
blood so badly for himself that he could almost taste it.
“It’s hopeless, you know," a voice said in
Donovan’s ear. Millie knelt down, facing him. Where she
had come from, he didn’t know. She blocked Gregorio
effectively from view, but not the horrible sound of his
sickening and greedy sucking noises. A moment later a
heavy thud testified to the fact that Genevieve’s lifeless body
had been carelessly discarded. Gregorio moved into view,
and started to pick his teeth, that were more realistic than
Donovan had realized.
Donovan looked at Millie as she began to speak. “I
tried my best to keep them from you. I did everything I
could. In life as well as death I have had the power to make
others do my w ill... but not you. Never you.” Her voice was
bitter, her face harshly contorted with some unknown pain.
Donovan stared dumbstruck into her eyes.
“ Even now, when you look into my eyes, it’s all a
trick.” She leaned against him, her palms pushing against his
chest, her face inches from his. “I ’ve loved you for years
and nothing, never once... All of those women I watched
come and go, all of those whores who never knew you as I
had, as I d o ...” His pupils dilated as if her intense gaze was
shining light into his.
“ And now, it’s too late. Even in dreams you
would only come to me when I called you.” She was a breath
away from his mouth. Donovan wanted so badly to kiss her
that her words were barely registering in his brain. When
she withdrew, he felt as if he had been cheated somehow.
An intense flash of pain hit him like a thunderbolt as her fist
collided with his cheek. He was awake and alert again,
awakened from his trance to a reality he did not want to
claim.
“ THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT!” she screamed,
back-handing Donovan across the face again. She was
absolutely livid. Donovan had never seen her so disheveled.
Her hair was coming down, tendrils of shining dark hair
falling into eyes that burned into his, red rimmed and glassy
as if from a fever. Donovan began to realize that fever was
not the reason...
“ I tried to stop it, but it’s too late. This wasn’t
my fault.” Her voice had changed to a whisper that was even
more frightening than her shrieks. Two spots of burning
color brightened her cheeks. Gregorio, leaning against the
edge of the railing, laughed softly, and pulled a mirror out of
his pocket.
“I know,” said a hollow voice from the bottom of
the steps, effectively cutting Gregorio’s laughter off. “ It was
mine.” Grant stood there, looking unkempt, terrified and
guilty? Donovan looked beyond Grant, down the stairway
and realized that the remainder of the crew had fled. The set
was completely deserted.
“I wanted to make it better, Thompson and I did,”
said Grant. “We brought him back from Spain to make the
film more realistic...” Grant crept forward as he spoke. “He
seemed harmless enough, and he promised to only make one,
or two vampires in exchange for a job in Hollywood. We
made him sign a contract, and he seemed perfectly happy
with the arrangement.”
Gregorio was still leaning against the railing,
looking comfortable, but bored. He raised an eyebrow, and
rolled his eyes as he listened. He yawned, but his eyes were
focused on Grant. Grant started up the stairs still talking,
while Donovan and Millie stood transfixed and silent, a few
feet away from Gregorio. Grant’s voice was hoarse and
echoed around the room like a man calling up from the
bottom of a well.
“We never thought that it would get out of control
like this. He gave us his word.”
“Who?” Donovan found his voice at last.
“We came back a week early, earlier than we told
you. We wanted to put him into place and knew you’d never
believe, or consent.” Tears gathered in Grant’s eyes as he
continued to stumble up the steps. “We made Millie first.”
Millie flinched as if the words had physically struck her.
“We knew you depended on her, and we wanted to
give her the power... and then Gregorio. That was all I
authorized, I swear. After that we lost track... things started
happening. We didn’t know who was a vampire and who
was pretending...It takes a while you see, to become a full
vampire. In between, people just feel sick. They can still
work, and move around in the daylight.” The word vampire
stuck in Grant’s throat and came out sounding more like
umpire.
"Then, they got to Thompson...” His voice broke,
but with a deep breath Grant forced himself to continue. He
was nearing the top five steps, still coming at a painstakingly
slow pace. His feet made rough shuffling sounds that
pierced the silence like sandpaper grating against porcelain.
“They overpowered me, said I was the one who
would take care of the day arrangements, work from their
orders, be their slave...” He shuddered and came to a halt
three steps from the top. “They blamed me, you see. But
how could I have known that Seymour would betray our
agreement?”
“SEYMOUR?!” shouted Donovan. He had not
moved from his sitting position, and could not have if he had
tried. I must be going insane ...he thought, pinching his arm
quickly. That’s it, I ’m insane...
H o w could Seymour possibly be--? I picked him
up last week as an assistant...” Donovan stopped speaking as
Millie dropped her head to her hands, and Gregorio stood a
little taller, a supercilious smile adorning his features. Grant
shook his head, and continued.“Yes, and we forged his
references, put him right in front of you, knowing he was one
of your only choices. We would have insisted had you not
made it easy for us and picked him anyway. We lost control,
and now who knows where he is... what he’s doing.” Grant’s
voice faded out as if desperation were crowding all his
coherent thoughts.
“But I killed him, that fool of a vampire... so it is no
matter now,” said Gregorio, as he took a step towards them.
Looking bored and buffing his nails,his tone was
supercilious and condescending, as if he were explaining
something very simple to a room full of idiots.
“I cut off his head, this Seymour." His voice was
thick with disdain and he sniffed and waved his hand in a
dismissive gesture. “I therefore claim his title as leader.”
Gregorio didn’t even look up, but there was something
threatening about the way he spoke.
“It wasn’t that fool who made the others anyway. It
was I! The Great Gregorio!”
 "But why?” asked Grant in a shaky voice. His eyes
were red rimmed and glassy. He looked as if he might faint
at any moment.
Gregorio’s eyes flashed in anger. “I’ve been
shunned my entire career for my behavior and unsuccessful
films. No decent director would take me, and I’m a
laughingstock in the Hollywood community, the only
community that matters to me." Gregorio lifted his eyes
briefly, condescending to regard the people staring at him for
a moment, then continued to clean his already gleaming
nails. His slouching form took on a new stance though, and
he seemed inches taller.
“I will have everything I need now. Slaves,
assistants, directors, devoted crew members who will do my
bidding and answer to my wrath if they do not.” His eyes
were shining now. His face hardened into a cruel mask.
“They are mine, my own coven that I have created. With the
incredible stunts and insight I will bring to my own vampiric
character, I will be the most sought after horror movie actor
of all time. I will surpass even Bela by the time I have
finished, and I will never finish! I will live forever!”
Gregorio’s dogmatic pronouncement seemed final and
deadly. Horror struck life into Donovan’s immobile limbs.
He leapt to his feet and moved toward Gregorio.
“And just what makes you think I’m just going to sit
still and let you make me a vampire or your slave?”
“But you already are.. Gregorio laughed long and
hard, as Donovan’s face changed from anger to surprise. He
stopped laughing, long enough to ask, “Haven’t you been
having some strange nightmares lately? Haven’t you been
feeling strange?”
 “Y ou... you made m e... I ’m--?" Donovan’s voice
cracked in fury and he lunged for Gregorio. Gregorio slid
deftly aside, but not before his tone changed from
amusement to coldness. “She did it, not I. God knows I
tried.”
Donovan stopped dead in his tracks and turned. He
begged Millie with his eyes, asking her to tell him it was a
lie, even though he knew by her silence that it was true. She
spoke as his stare continued.
“I wanted to spend eternity trying to ... but now I
know that was foolish. You would never love me, no matter
what I did. And if you did, it would be because I hypnotized
you, or because you were afraid.” Millie’s face was
shadowed and faded. Her voice was even farther away.
Donovan regarded her speechlessly for a moment, then
addressed Gregorio again, using his most imposing
director’s voice.
“Even if I am a... I’m no one’s slave, especially not
to an idiot like you.” Donovan felt his senses returning as he
spoke his bold words. He faced Gregorio again, his features
stone hard, his stance combative.
Gregorio stopped and regarded Donovan in cold
calculated apathy, before snatching him by the neck. In an
effortless display of strength, Gregorio lifted him over the
railing, suspending him over a dead space of thirty feet.
Donovan had not anticipated his move and even if he had,
Gregorio had moved with a swiftness Donovan’s eyes could
not see. Gregorio laughed, his voice gritty and harsh, full of
contempt.
“ New are you? Just today I think. We’ve been
playing with your mind for a while, trying to get to you that
way, but she always protected you. Isn’t it ironic that a
woman’s weakness, particularly that woman whom no one
would ever have suspected had a weakness would be the
one? You can’t hope to defeat me. I’m one week ahead of
you, and that was all I needed to find out that my strength
would grow tenfold with each passing day.” Gregorio held
Donovan firmly by the neck, but Donovan was a large man
and his own weight and the bruising strength of Gregorio’s
hand was choking him. He struggled blindly, digging his
fingernails into Gregorio’s wrist, desperately trying to climb
back up, but with no progress. Gregorio’s grip was tighter
than steel, and would not budge.
“I would not have you as my director anyway.
Perhaps Steven Spielberg would be obliging. His talent far
surpasses yours. You are nothing but a has-been who can’t
even recognize when his own set is being overrun by the
creatures he has written and directed about his entire life.”
A sneer painted Gregorio’s handsome features black with
malice. He pulled Donovan closer and whispered into his
face, his dark eyes glittering.
“Would you like to know how I killed Seymour?”
“Like this?” murmured a voice behind Gregorio.
Millie lunged forward with the sword in a
movement so fast it was a blur. It speared Gregorio through
the neck with a force that made him slam against the railing,
almost breaking it, and Donovan was dropped over the edge
as Gregorio’s grip released him to the air.
Donovan landed hard on his back against the cold
stone marble, but amazingly did not experience the fatal
sickening crunch he expected. In fact, he immediately sat up
and realized in amazement that he felt nothing more than a
little bruised.
Donovan looked above him to where Millie stood
still holding the steel sword piercing Gregorio’s neck. She
had pulled it off the wall of the set, and until that moment,
Donovan had been sure that the dueling instruments had only
been props. The way that Gregorio’s eyes bulged in horror
and pain testified to the fact that the sword was as real as it
was deadly. The angle at which she had struck had not
decapitated him, but hit him like a railroad spike through the
neck. Black blood trickled, then flowed from his mouth as
Gregorio choked and waved his arms around. His hands
came up and grasped the blade that penetrated his throat. It
was useless. Millie, as always, was in complete control. A
quarter of the blade protruded through the back of Gregorio’s
neck, and with a cruel and long pause, Millie twisted the
blade and sunk it in to the hilt. Gregorio’s hands still
gripping the blade, were sliced, leaving a stigmata that
spurted blood down the front of his garment as his hands fell
to his side. His features solidified, eyes staring open in
astonishment. He dropped with a silent thud to his knees, the
sword stuck in place. His body made violent jerks as it
shrugged off the last traces of life and then went limp, sitting
upright against the cracked railing. He sat only two feet from
where he had thrown Genevieve minutes before.
At the first sign of trouble, Grant had dropped to the
floor, his hands over his head, precariously stretched out on
the top portion of steps. He did not raise his head as the
silence lengthened. Millie stood a foot away from Gregorio’s
lifeless form, her back ramrod straight, her body radiating
tenseness. She turned slowly after a minute and looked over
the railing, and down into Donovan’s eyes. The twin of the
sword she had used remained on the wall, glinting silver in
the moonlight.
“I just loved you for so long..." she whispered
softly, but Donovan could hear her as if she had shouted it
two inches from his ear. He stood up silently, and though he
heard a couple bones pop, he felt no pain. He mounted the
steps, first slowly then with growing speed and urgency. B y .
the time he had stepped over Grant, who lay in a dead faint
on the steps, reached the landing, and taken her into his arm s,
she had begun to cry. She pushed him away with such force
that Donovan almost pitched backwards down the stairs. He
caught his balance and continued to follow her.
 “No! it’s not real. It’s only in my eyes, it’s a trick!”
She sounded angry and brokenhearted all at once. Donovan
pursued her till her back pressed against the wall. He looked
down from his considerable height into her upturned face.
“I do love you...” He said it with feeling, but also
with some surprise.
“You’re lying... you're afraid of what I will do to
you if you say you don’t.” Millie’s face was white with red
splotches, but somehow still miraculously retained an
element of reason and intelligence that was somewhat like
her old self.
Donovan drew in a shaky breath and said, “I don’t
care what you do to me. I don’t know why I’ve never seen it
before. All these people had to die...is it true about the rest
of the workers? The crew are all... dead, or vampires?” Mil­
lie nodded her head, her face grave and drawn.
Donovan shook his own head in disgust. “Damn
that Gregorio! All of these people had to die before I could
get it through my thick head what was happening.” Looking
again at Millie, his anger turned to tenderness. “Millie, I
know that I’ve never said anything to you, or maybe I ’ve
never realized it myself, but I think I ’ve loved you for a long
time now... You know I can’t pretend or act, that’s why I’m
a director.” He smiled, and he reached his hand up and
traced the round path of her jaw. “And anyway, what would
I ever do without you Millie?”
“You can say that, after knowing what I am? After
knowing what I did to you?” She drew in a shaky breath.
Donovan looked squarely into her blue eyes.
“It’s nothing I didn’t deserve for having my head up
my—”
A violent scream interrupted Donovan, and he saw
that Grant had woken to find the bloody tableau of
Gregorio’s and Genevieve’s lifeless bodies not two feet
away from him. Grant shrieked and then was violently sick
on the floor.
Millie wiped the tears from her face, ignoring
Grant’s whimpers of, "Oh my God, how are we going to
explain this? I ’m going to go to prison... I ’m going to the
electric chair...Both Genevieve and Gregorio... ”
“Do you mean it?” she asked, her voice carefully
controlled once more.
Donovan did not answer but lowered his head and
touched his lips gently on hers. After a moment, she
responded. As the kiss deepened and grew more passionate,
she stood on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around his neck. She
tasted of fire and sweat and blood, and Donovan loved it.
They broke apart after a while and Donovan
wrapped his arm about her shoulders, and called over his
shoulder to Grant, “Grant, let’s go. You don’t have to be
anybody’s slave anymore.”
Grant hopped to his feet and staggered after
Donovan and Millie saying something that sounded
suspiciously like, “Yes, master.”
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Grant trail­
ing listlessly behind, Donovan commented, “You know, we’
ve always made such a good team, Millie. Maybe Gregorio
was right...” He hastened to complete his thought as he saw
the look of dark disapproval she gave him.
“I mean, of course he was a narcissistic lunatic,the
last person anyone should have made a vampire.” He paused
for a moment, thinking. “But, maybe being vampires will
give us new insight to the cinema.” They walked past the
set line and started off through the Spanish plaza scenery.
“It’s only a shame that this movie didn’t turn out
quite like we’d planned. It would have been a hit.
He fell silent then, and they walked off together, into the
night.
 They did not notice as they passed it, that the camera
was still focused on the upper landing of the stairway, its red
recording light glowing wickedly in the darkness...

“Listen to them... Children of the

Night. What music they make...
~Count Dracula
 E v ie

C la ir e
 "BeneathS
ilk"

“ What do you mean?” Evelyn's face turned ashen,

and the rosary beads she held in her soft pink and wrinkled
hand dropped to her lap as she listened to the words being
spoken. Her lined but pleasant face was at the moment
creased with dismay.
“ I was the reason. He left you a message, and
when I saw it, I took it and hid it,” said Claire, who was
stretched out on a hospital bed, light playing across her face
from the window of the private room. A crisp white sheet
stretched tightly over her frail and thin body. She had never
been a great beauty, but she had been pretty once. The
wasted form that now spoke with halting slowness barely
resembled the picture on the night stand. In the picture,
Claire and Evelyn stood, their arms wrapped around each
other, glowing in happiness and youth. They wore dresses
that had gone out of style many years before, with their
blonde hair arranged in short bobs. The picture was signed,
and dated, Evie and Claire, August, 1919.
“ I don’t understand. You’re my sister,” said
Evelyn slowly. She sat next to the bed of her dying sibling
Claire. Evelyn’s age showed in her old fashioned clothing,
snowy hair, and owl-like glasses that sat perched on the
bridge of her nose, though she was still remarkably good
looking for a seventy-five-year-old. At the moment, her lips
were parted in shock, and she stared at her sister completely
bewildered.
Claire reached out her hand and blindly tried to
catch Evelyn’s. When they touched, Evelyn shivered at the
feel of the cold, clammy flesh.
“ Forgive me Evelyn, I need you to forgive m e...
before I die.” She broke into a coughing fit and for a few
minutes the sound of her dry rasping throat expelling mucus
was the only sound in the room.
“ Evelyn... Evelyn...? Please...?”
 “ Please, Evelyn, you’re going to wear that?”
" And why not?” Evelyn replied. She turned in a
wide circle, admiring herself in the full length mirror. The
scandalously low cut frock that was fitted to her hourglass
figure spun out around her. With her ruby red dress, and
short cut, wavy blonde hair, Evelyn was stunning. She had
turned twenty-one that year, and her face had matured to be
slender and heart shaped. She possessed such a unique
beauty, that Claire often wondered how Evelyn and she
could truly be sisters. When they were younger, people had
taken them to be twins, but as they had grown to be women,
the differences had become more obvious. Claire’s own chin
was square, and her figure,though slim, was as straight and
without curves as an pole.
Evelyn lifted her dainty nose in the air and sniffed.
“ Mam’s burning dinner again. Claire, would you cover for
me? I wouldn’t want to keep my date waiting.” She grinned
wickedly in the mirror and applied more rouge to her cheeks.
Claire lay sprawled across her sister’s four poster
bed, hands supporting her chin. Her intelligent brown eyes
studied her sister silently. Claire had always surrendered to
her sister’s superior fashion and social skills, though some
part of her had always resented the natural grace and
popularity that Evelyn possessed. The look on Claire’s face
was particularly sour as she replied, “Evelyn, why do you
always make me cover for you!? You could stay in
sometimes, too, you know. Besides, you get to see James all
the time.”
“ But I’m not seeing James tonight,” said Evelyn,
still studying herself in the mirror. In the background the
vitrola played a merry tune that had come out that year at the
1919 Ziegfeld Follies. A deep baritone voice sang against a
scratchy undertone. A pretty girl is like a melody, that haunts
you night and day, ju st like a strain o f a haunting refrain,
she'll start upon a marathon, and run around your brain...
Claire’s brow creased in contemplation. “Then
w ho...?”
“ Clifford Allen!” Evelyn’s smile was so huge and
her tone so satisfied that she missed the small look of distress
that crossed her sister’s face. It was fleeting; there and gone
in half a second.
“ How long...?” Claire paused and schooled her
features to indifference before continuing. “Honestly,
Evelyn, he’s not even Catholic. You know what Mam would
say. Besides that, it’s not fair how you’re always out and
leaving me here to do the work.”
Evelyn let out a cheerful shriek of laughter before
turning and swooping down on her sister. Before Claire
could move, Evelyn had captured her in a giant bear hug and
was kissing her cheek playfully. “Are you bitter, big sis?
Don’t be such an old biddy! As if I were forcing you to stay
here and work!” Claire squirmed and made protests while
trying to wrench out of her sister’s tight and affectionate
grasp.
“ You’re a funny duck Claire, but I don’t have time
right now to tell you why.” Evelyn abruptly released her
sister and retrieved her hat, handbag, and wrap before
rushing out the doorway. She called over he shoulder as she
left, “Enjoy the meat loaf! Tell Mam I’m sorry I missed it.”
She was gone in a flurry of skirts and laughter. A moment
later, Claire heard her bright exuberant tone calling, “Taxi!”
in the street below their two story home.
Claire silently lowered her head to her forearms, her
body shaking with suppressed sobs. The record continued to
play, singing in a cheerful voice, I have an ear fo r music,
and I have an eye fo r a maid. I like a pretty girlie, with each
pretty tune that's played...”
After a minute of dejected self pity, she sprung up
from the bed, and slammed the needle off the gramophone,
scratching the record. She came and stood before the mirror,
her face flushed an angry red. The look of misery on her
features was horrifying, an ugly grimace that distorted her
pleasant features, making her look much older than her
twenty-three years. With a huge effort, she took a deep, deep
breath, and forced her mouth to straighten, and her eyes to
focus unwavering into the mirror. Her trembling hands
unclenched and reached up to smooth her hair. A voice from
below called out, as she knew it would.
“ Claire! I need help in the kitchen please. Where
did Evelyn go?”
She can go to the devil ... she thought, but aloud she
said, “Coming, Mam.

Claire listened to the sounds of Evelyn’s distressed

sobs from the next room, and tried to control the excited
beating of her heart. She felt ashamed and guilty at the
pleasure she felt over her sister’s misery. She said an Act of
Contrition, then recited a Hail Mary, but her conscience was
not assuaged. Finally, curiosity, and a smidgeon of sympathy
prompted her to rise, and in the dim glow of moonlight, she
assumed her dressing gown. She left her room, and walked
across the hallway to investigate.
She found Evelyn face down on the four poster, her
beautiful dress discarded on the rug like a rag. Claire picked
it up and carefully set it on the chair, folding the filmy
sleeves neatly. Evelyn must have known she was there, but
she did not respond. She continued to cry softly into the
linen coverlet.
“ Evie, what’s wrong?” Claire asked, trying to keep
her voice neutral.
“ Claire, he’s leaving. He’s going. We fought.”
Her speech was muffled by the blankets, but there was pain,
alive and throbbing in her voice.
“Clifford?” Claire asked quietly.
“ Yes, yes, he said, oh G od...” She raised herself
up on her elbows, her disheveled but silvery gold hair
shining in the moonlight. Her lashes were wet and her eyes
were smeared with the eye makeup she had worn that night.
The straps on the light cream colored slip she wore strained
precariously against her shoulders, and when she raised her
head, her face was a miserable, puffy mess.
“ I didn’t tell Mam, and I didn’t tell you because,
you wouldn’t have approved, you know. He’s divorced, and
older—but oh, I love him, and he loves me.” With that, she
collapsed sobbing again onto the bed.
 Claire raised an eyebrow, her mouth turned in at the
the comer. Evelyn had pulled this routine before. Claire
started to feel better. I f this is ju st another one o f her
fellows, it will be over in a week, and Cliff will... She forced
herself to focus on her sister.
“ Now Evie, that doesn’t sound too serious. I’m
sure that Mam can be brought round, and you know that I
don’t care who you date... Besides, you can’t really love
him. You haven’t been going out with him that long.”
“ Oh Claire! Don’t be an idiot. I ’ve been seeing
him for the last six months. I just didn’t tell you.” Evelyn’s
words stung like a brisk slap in the face. She spoke,
oblivious to the pain that crossed Claire’s face.
“But he, he said he was leaving, moving back to
New York. He wanted me to come with him. We fought,
and he, oh!”
“ What?!” asked Claire in a sharper voice than she
had meant to.
Evelyn hiccoughed and took a deep shuddery
breath. She stopped crying long enough to say, “He wanted
me to elope with him—tonight!”
In shock, Claire remained silent. Her confused
thoughts bore down on her, and a dull ache in her chest took
her breath away for a long moment. She struggled to
maintain control.
“And you said no?”
“ I wanted to go Claire, it’s just, he made me
angry. He just assumed that I would drop everything and
come with him. I love him, but I don’t want to elope.” She
paused, and for a moment her glistening eyes shone with
excitement. “I want a big wedding. With grandma’s lace,
and Mother’s pearls, and a trip to Niagara falls—”
“B ut...?” prompted Claire.
“ But, he said, he didn’t want all that fuss. We can’t
even get married in the church unless he converts, and he' s
been divorced. He’d have to get an annulment, and maybe
they wouldn't give it to him. If the church wouldn’t allow
the marriage, Mother wouldn’t.” Her eyes brimmed with a
wave of fresh tears.
“ And I couldn’t have left without saying goodbye
to M am ...” After a moment she said, “And you Claire.”
I ’m always the afterthought, she thought bitterly.
The older one, the responsible one...
“ Then he said that he’d changed his m ind... that he
didn’t want me to come anyway. So, I ... I, left... and he
didn’t follow!” Her voice broke again, giant tears splashing
from her eyes onto her forearms.
Claire let her sister cry, offering tissues and comfort
as best she could. Once Evelyn fell into an exhausted sleep,
Claire brooded, her face drawn and her head bowed. She
stared off into space, deep in thought, and the dawn came
slowly, illuminating the luxuriously furnished room one ray
of light at a time. As the room became brighter, Claire rose,
and tiptoed out, pausing only to stare at her own grim
reflection in the mirror before she left the room.

She found it on the floor, pushed under the front

door. The handwriting was familiar, and she looked over her
shoulder before she picked it up and opened it, already sure
of what it would say...
 My love, I was angry when I said those words to you, and I shall always
regret them. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, especially since
I do and will always love you. I realize that you are hesitant about leaving
home, and so quickly, but I also know that if you think about it long enough
you will find that you do want to come with me. My proposal still stands, and
shouldyou chooseto accept, you willmake an undeserving man happy beyondhis
wildest dreams. If you come, and I hope my darling, that you will, I will be
waiting for you on the corner of Eighth and Vine tonight at seven o' clock.
You remember the place? Where we first met these six months ago. I will
wait an hour, and then I will accept your decision with as much fortitude and
courage as I am able. If you do not meet me, I will leave immediately for
New York, hopefully giving you the time you need away from me as you
said. However, I want you to know this. I'm not accustomed to loosing
something I dearly want. You can expect that before long I will most
certainly be back to try again.
Yours, with affection and love,
Clifford Allen

Claire wiped away the tears that had gathered on her

cheek, smothering a cry that ached to be dispelled from her
person. She wrenched open the front door, intending to let
the brisk morning air cool her feverish brow, but stopped,
when she saw the tall form of a man, walking away from the
house and towards the street. He heard the door open, and
turned, his face lit up with hope. It took him a moment to
realize the blonde woman was not Evelyn. Not discouraged,
he went back up the walk, towards Claire.
He was a six foot, well built man, at least thirty
years old. He wore a light colored day suit, tailored and well
fitted to his form. He walked with crisp light strides,
displaying a grace that his appearance had not initially given
an impression of. His face was slightly sallow, but his dark
hair and expressive black eyes and brows gave his face an
impression of strong character.
“Excuse me, are you Miss Claire Archer?” He
reached the front porch in a few steps, and faced Claire with
a dazzling smile that displayed even, white teeth. He swept
his hat off, and made a courtly bow. His hair was thick and
black, and curled slightly at his forehead.
“W e’ve met, Mr. Allen. At Fanny Barker’s
welcome home party. I was there.. Seeing his blank
expression, she added grudgingly, “with my sister Evelyn.”
His face registered recognition. “Oh yes, terribly
sorry. About Miss Evelyn, I wonder i f you saw that I left a
letter for her. You see, I wasn’t sure that I should be calling
this early.”
Holding the ripped and opened letter behind her
back, and wary about saying anything that would betray her
knowledge of the letter’s contents, Claire only nodded her
head in acknowledgement.
“Could you please give it to her. Its very important
that she reads it—today in fact. I would be grateful.” Again
he smiled, his clean shaven face overpowering Claire with its
fresh sincerity. Averting her eyes, she said in a careful
voice, “I will see that she gets it.” She started to move,
backing away with the letter clutched tightly in a fist behind
her back, but he caught her arm. Surprised at his
forwardness, and somewhat startled, she lifted her eyes to his
face.
“ I ’m sorry, but did she say anything, about me, to
you? Does she,” he paused and his confident face faltered
for a moment. “Is she still angry?”
Claire didn’t have the heart to look at him anymore.
She gently dislodged her arm, and barely repressed the tears
that were building up in her eyes. “She doesn’t want to see
you,” she said, and retreated into the house, slamming the
door practically in his face. She hadn’t lied. Her sister
probably didn’t want to see him at the moment, since she
was still asleep. Claire leaned against the doorway and let
the silent tears stream down her face. She snuck a glance out
the curtained window to the side of the door. Clifford stood
there, looking slightly dejected. Replacing his hat, and
furrowing his brow, he turned and walked back down the
porch steps, towards the street.
Clifford Allen had arrived in Boston less than a year
ago to conduct business with a law firm over a case he was
defending. He had succeeded in unintentionally charming
every young woman in society, but had unbeknownst to
Claire, focused his attentions on Evelyn. She belatedly
realized, that they must have worked very hard at keeping
gossip away from her own ears and the ears of their mother.
He doesn’t even remember that we danced
together, thought Claire. It was to that song, ‘The Road to
H a p p i n e s s .' . Miserable, and jealous, Claire admitted to
herself that she was in love. It hadn’t taken m uch; a few
words, a dance, and a polite smile, but Claire was head over
heels. Every social event where he had made an appearance,
she had gone, trying to catch the lawyer’s eye. Thinking
back to how he always seemed so distracted, Evelyn cursed
her naivete. He must have been preoccupied w ith...Evelyn.
Evelyn had been at those parties too. Damn! she thought.
I ’m such a fool. And now, s h e ’s going to get her way, as
usual...
Stifling her tears, Claire dutifully turned towards the
stairway from where she had come, knowing that her sister
would be eloping that night with Clifford Allen. It didn’t
matter what she’d said the night before, about wanting a
traditional wedding. Claire was as sure that Evelyn would
go, as she was sure that her own heart was breaking.
The older, and divorced attorney was not the ideal
Catholic boy that their mother had hoped for, but since their
father’s death a few years before, there was no other strong
male in the family who could put a stop to the situation. At
one time their mother had been a strong woman, capable of
keeping track of her vivacious daughters. The death of her
husband in the war had all but turned her into an invalid.
Mam can’t do anything... they'll be gone before she notices
that Evelyn isn’t here to wash the dishes... as usual, thought
Claire.
Claire’s foot paused on the first step, as a thought
struck her. She looked up the curved flight of stairs, and
seeing no one about, she nervously looked at the letter
again. If she doesn ’t read it, it w on’t change anything. He' l l
still come fo r her, but perhaps not so soon. It might give him
time to think. She hesitated for a moment, but sudden and
unfaltering determination set her face into a mask of iron.
She placed the letter in the pocket of her light morning dress,
her hands suddenly cool and steady. She ascended the
stairway, and crept silently down the hall to her room.
There, she stuffed the letter into the back of her lingerie
drawer, where it stayed, hidden beneath silk and satin.

Tears gathered in Claire’s eyes as she

struggled for breath. Her gray faded features
were pinched and wan, with more than pain
crinkling them in distress.

“I was so unhappy, Evelyn. I loved him too, and

you never knew. The one man who,” she stopped, wheezing
and exhausted with the effort of talking.
Evelyn solemnly regarded her older sister. When
she’d found out the news, that Clifford had been involved in
a tragic automobile accident, she had regretted never being
able to take back her harsh and foolish words. Knowing that
he had never been meant to go to New York at all, and that
perhaps he wouldn’t have died, took her breath away. For
the first time she saw the woman her sister was, and had
always been. Bitter, selfish, and sad, Claire had been an old
woman before she had even aged.
The pain Evelyn felt in her heart increased as she
saw her sister continue to beg for her forgiveness. She
fingered the rosary she had wrapped around her hand, the
cool beads leaving impressions in her pink flesh.
One O My Jesus, and a Glory Be. Then three Hail
M ary's. Finally, an Our Father. Our Father, who art in
heaven, hallowed be thy name...
“I never knew, Evelyn, that he would die, I
thought he would just go away.” Claire tried to take a deep
breath, but her lungs were failing. She choked, and coughed
painfully.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it
in heaven.
 "Evie? Please Evie? My baby sister.” Her voice
was raspy and raw.
Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our
our trespasses... as we forgive those, who trespass against us.
“ Please Evelyn, I’m dying, forgive me. I may
have a few short days left, and I want you, my sister to be
here with m e...”
“ I do forgive you, Claire.” Evelyn’s voice was
calm, but the storm lay just beneath the surface.
And lead us not into temptation,
Claire dissolved into another fit of violent coughing
that her weak body struggled to control. Her hands flailed
around, then reached for the nurse’s call button. Her fingers
grasped it for a moment, but Evelyn leaned forward and
gently broke her sister’s brittle grip, placing the button back
on the night stand. She stood, waiting, and after a minute, her
sister’s choking subsided, then stopped altogether. The
rosary beads clicked against one another as she sat back
down and watched the form of her sister lying motionless
and serene on the bed. She quickly wiped away a single tear
that had escaped from her
eye, and then she
finished her prayer.

—But deliver us from

evil , Amen.
A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody
-Irving Berlin
I have an ear for music,
And I have an eye for a maid.
I link a pretty girlie
With each pretty tune that's played.
They go together like sunny weather
goes with the month of M a y !
I study girls and music,
So I 'm qualified to say:

A pretty girl is like a melody,

That haunts you night and day,
Just like a strain of a haunting refrain,
She'll start upon a marathon
And run around your brain,
Y ou can't escape, she's in your memory,
By morning, night and noon,
She will leave you, and then,
Come back again,
A pretty girl is just like a pretty tune!
A pretty girl is like a melody,
That haunts you night and day,
Just like a strain of a haunting refrain,
She'll start upon a marathon
And run around your brain,
Y ou can't escape, she's in your memory,
By morning, night and noon,
She will leave you, and then,
Come back again,
A pretty girl is just like a pretty tune!
 How should I make Clifford die?

*Vanessa Bradshaw*
He should be so upset that Evelyn broke up with
him, that he should go out and get drunk. Then as he’s wan­
dering around in a drunken stupor, he should end up into a
cemetery. Its cold and snowing by the way. He’s not paying
attention, and an icicle hanging from a mausoleum roof
should fall and hit him straight between the eyes, making
him fall backwards into a conveniently placed, and empty
grave. Unconscious and hurt, he stays there until the grave
diggers come, and not realizing he’s down there, they bury
poor Clifford alive. He disappears, and Evelyn never hears
about him again.

*Kathleen Bradshaw*
I did some research, and in September of 1919 there
was a time bomb that exploded on wall street. He could
have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and gotten
blown up with the bomb. Or maybe in an accident with a car
and a carriage. It was 1919! It could have happened.
White rabbit
(Grace Slick)

Jefferson Airplane

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small,
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all.
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall.
And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you're going to fall,
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call.
Call Alice
When she was just small.
When the men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low.
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know.
When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead,
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen says "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said:
"Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head"
 Emily Jane Bronte
The Night is Darkening round Me
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me :
I will not, cannot go.

Samantha Elizabeth Bradshaw~ Author of this Work