The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

53

Isla, Give That Wolf a Banana

Greg's eyes pierced holes between my shoulder blades as I knocked on the door. Surprised he didn't follow me. That he didn't suddenly appear in front of my nose, cage me against his body, and drag me back to his little hideout. Very surprised, actually. But maybe he figured all his moaning and pouting would be enough to lure me back.

Well psych, bucko.

Bummer nobody answered my first knock.

"Um, hello?" my voice shook more than I wanted. Not cool. I cleared my throat. "Anybody home? Uh... Lily? It's—" It's a-me, the necromoron who resurrected you a week ago. Oh balls, this was stupid. Greg, that prick, had some nerve being right. I should've had a better plan.

"Fuck." I hissed, punching my fist against the door.

With a metallic pop, the lock disengaged, and the door creaked open. Just a sliver. A wave of cool, lavender, and caramel candy, and mothball scented air wafted out.

An old woman's gaunt, liver spotted face greeted me.

"Oh. Hi, you must be Kyle's mom—er, Mrs. Cabroni?" She didn't blink or flinch. "I'm a, uh, friend of your son's and was wondering if, maybe, say, he's recently brought another friend of ours over to stay—Ma'am? Hello?"

Without a sound the woman retreated from the doorway, drifting backward, her unblinking stare vanishing into the darkness of her home. Nah, not spooky at all. But at least she didn't slam the door in my face. I'll take that as an invite to come inside, sure, why not? This was already playing out easier than I expected.

I gently pushed the door aside and entered.

The lavender and candy and mothball scent, mixed with an unhealthy dose of musk and something rotten, was suffocating. Especially after the door snapped shut behind me, nearly clipping me in the booty as it did. I coughed on the dusty air. A Tiffany lamp flickered. It cast the hall in a dim, kaleidoscopic glow.

She stared at me. The old woman. Sunken cheeks and wrinkles creased the dark circles under her eyes. Her slippered steps backward were stilted and awkward. Made sense. Since her entire body had twisted from the neck down, rotating to keep that vacant gaze on me even as her toes pointed forward and she hovered down the hall.

She stretched an arm forward— pointing away from me and toward the back of the house— and curled one beckoning finger inward. Yeah. I think that was meant for me.

Ugh, great, another haunted house. Just what I needed.

I took a deep breath, shaking out the last of the chill from my shoulders on the exhale. Buck up, Buttercup. It's show time.

A dizzying wave of nausea crested over me as stepped forward. The peeling floral wallpaper seemed to spin. Heart shaped rings of daisies and violets in a swirling vortex. A mirror to my right warbled like the surface of a puddle after a muddy tire'd run through it. Kept my vision trained on a water stain seeping down one corner of a wall to stay balanced. Barely helped. I tripped and stumbled. My eyes crossed at the sight of tumbling family photos and Christmas tchotchkes that hadn't been taken down yet. A porcelain Santa's rosy cheeks made it seem like he too wanted to hurl onto the lace doily on which he stood. The floorboards gave tired wheezes under my feet and layers of murky mint colored carpet.

Haunted houses were so annoying. Everyone was different, but whatever their tricks were, I felt it acutely. Staying in this fun house too long was going to make me ill. A tragic side effect of my craft I bet none of those necromancy books stolen from the public library ever mentioned.