{"id":65856,"date":"2024-09-11T00:01:02","date_gmt":"2024-09-11T00:01:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/?p=65856"},"modified":"2024-09-11T00:22:55","modified_gmt":"2024-09-11T00:22:55","slug":"questions-for-vampires-by-anastasia-gustafson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/questions-for-vampires-by-anastasia-gustafson\/","title":{"rendered":"Questions For Vampires by Anastasia Gustafson\u00a0"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Questions<\/h1>\n

Questions For Vampires<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/h1>\n

By Anastasia Gustafson<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus didn\u2019t mean to kill Angelina. Not really. But she was dead as a doornail, alright, and white as a sheet. In his candle-lit studio apartment, strewn with white rose petals and piles of books, Angelina Zanovich lay frozen in time on his kitchen tile, her perfect blonde curls soaked deliciously ripe with red. It took him a minute to gather himself, but once he did, Marcus shook her at the shoulders, watching her little cross necklace glisten under the smattering of their shared ecstasy, and then hastily wiped his mouth clean. In a final attempt at hope, Marcus held a quivering hand over her nose and pressed his ear to her chest just to be sure, and it was as he suspected: the girl had no pulse, no breath, no nothing. And to make things worse, they both had a worship service to lead at St. Anne\u2019s Chapel in just under eight hours.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShit.\u201d He pressed his fingers into his cheeks, pulling the transparent skin down from his sullen eyes. \u201cHeavens above. Fuck me.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

On one hand, Marcus considered himself an <\/span>ethical <\/span><\/i>vampire. Many moons ago, he had been a simple, hardworking locksmith who could often be found surveying the ever-growing international cookbook section in his local library. He wasn\u2019t of the opinion that much had changed since then. So up until that moment on his kitchen floor, his convictions had successfully shielded him from killing of any kind. It wasn\u2019t without difficulty, of course. He had soldiered on for the past six years as a wallflower and night-shift custodian at the Transfiguration Hospital, which meant he had grown painstakingly accustomed to quietly cleaning up bodily ooze. He didn\u2019t love it, but it was the best job for someone with his rather unfortunate and sun-sensitive condition. It also made sneaking into the blood bank refrigerator far easier than it should have been. But on the other hand, this was no bodily ooze. This was no blood bag. This was <\/span>Angelina, <\/span><\/i>the only soft-hearted nursing intern that Transfiguration Hospital currently boasted among its crone-infested ranks. At twenty three years young and at just five foot four, she had eyes like blue roses and smelled of spring sunshine, which was why Marcus, an unlucky immortal imprisoned forever at the ungodly age of forty six, was so surprised five weeks ago when she of all people approached him in the hospital break room for what seemed at the time like no reason at all.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, you\u2019re into vampires?\u201d She plopped her white lunchbox down beside him without asking. He\u2019d responded by rigidly flinching. Then Marcus, clumsy even in undeath, almost dropped his dog-eared copy of <\/span>The Historian <\/span><\/i>onto the gum-ridden linoleum below.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d His gaze darted to the girl who so easily and unknowingly poked right at his most well-kept secret. He watched as her slender wrist withdrew a single green apple from her bag. The pulse he heard in his ears was not his own, and he swallowed the familiar dry lump in his throat.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat book,\u201d she spoke with a Russian accent and gestured with the apple in hand. Marcus had to look at the book\u2019s cover to remember its name.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d He raised both his eyebrows. \u201cI, uh. Yes. You could say that I am.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d She smiled at him. \u201cI think they get a bad reputation in books, you know? All romance. No guts. It\u2019s ridiculous.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A strange part of him suddenly felt less heavy, as if a window had been opened.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Angelina.\u201d She began cutting her apple into slender, even slices.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMarcus.\u201d He set the book down and watched her fingers working the butter knife. After a while, he realized his silent staring had gone on for a moment too long. But she filled the emptiness with words before he could figure out what to say.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI heard you singing today. In the morgue.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus felt a chill run down his spine. That wasn\u2019t good. In fact, that could be very bad. Did she know something? See something? Had she found him out? The truth, of course, was that he <\/span>was <\/span><\/i>singing in the morgue today. But it wasn\u2019t for fun. He had long surmised that the sound of his voice was just loud enough to cover the clinking of jars as he rummaged through the organ donation fridge, where he would sometimes find blood fresh enough to drink. But maybe that night he had gotten a bit carried away with his volume. He did rather like the chorus. But that couldn\u2019t be it. She must have seen something, or at least suspected it. Marcus frowned.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Angelina\u2019s wide blue eyes moved away from her apple slices and studied his face, noting his concern with immediacy.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou sounded lovely, I mean. I\u2019d die for Elton John,\u201d she blurted out awkwardly,\u00a0 twirling the butter knife. \u201cIs \u2018Goodbye Yellow Brick Road\u2019 your favorite song?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus rigidly tilted his chin up as he considered the question, still unsure if the ground of this conversation was more of a minefield or meadow.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt is.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Then she did something he didn\u2019t understand. Suddenly confident and composed once again, she clicked her tongue at him. Three times. Slowly, too. Marcus furrowed his brows and waited for the inevitable, for her to come out and say something like \u2018Don\u2019t lie to me, you elderly vampire. I know what you are\u2019. But she didn\u2019t. Instead, the words she chose stunned him in ways no sunlight or silver ever could.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cActually,\u201d she punctuated the sound. \u201c\u2018I\u2019m Still Standing\u2019 is the <\/span>only <\/span><\/i>right answer. But I\u2019ll forgive you just this once because you sounded so nice while being so very wrong.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Then, she let out the most contagious and private giggle, as if she were sharing a juicy secret for his ears only. He found himself joining in.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn all seriousness,\u201d she began. \u201cI have a question for you.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Marcus felt himself leaning in to listen.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Angelina set down the butter knife and spoke with her pretty, pale hands.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy church, St. Anne\u2019s\u2013you know the one off Maple Street\u2013we need another male vocalist for our Easter service. Just the one show. Badly. I wouldn\u2019t normally ask, but our guy, Carl, I think he got caught cheating on his wife and doesn\u2019t want to come back. He said it\u2019s just mono, but it\u2019s a real scandal–and a darn shame because I thought Carl did such a nice job regardless of that, but you know how people can be. You should have heard the way he belted. An unreal tenor. But anyway, when I heard you today, I just had a special feeling that maybe\u2026well, that maybe I should ask you.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus felt his face contort in ways it hadn\u2019t since he realized he couldn\u2019t see his reflection anymore.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBefore you say anything, it\u2019s a <\/span>paid <\/span><\/i>position,\u201d she poked the butter knife again. \u201cAnd I can drive you. I think we live in the same building, which is wicked convenient. I\u2019ve seen you in the elevator.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He winced at how childish it sounded to call something \u2018wicked convenient\u2019. But he knew, of course, that this was true. They did live in the same building. He would sometimes catch himself staring at her hands as she fumbled with hangnails and consequently perfumed the air with the scent of her honeysuckle blood. Though, he was surprised that she was even mildly aware of his existence. Most people looked <\/span>through <\/span><\/i>Marcus with glassy eyes, not at him with wide ones.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAngelina, I\u2019m not exactly the church-going type.\u201d Marcus frowned and leaned back in his chair. \u201cUnless you\u2019d like to watch the building go up in flames, perhaps?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She laughed so loudly that some of the other nurses and doctors and custodians gave them a sideways glance. Marcus felt the air hum from the attention. But really, he had only been half kidding. Marcus hadn\u2019t tried to walk into a church since long before that prostitute he shouldn\u2019t have taken home left him drained and undead in some unforgettable rat-infested alleyway, and that was ten years ago. His last church visit? More than four decades ago.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to be devout to sing,\u201d Angelina leaned in and lifted her hand up to her mouth as if to whisper something no one else should hear. \u201cOur drummer is an atheist, believe it or not. And I\u2019m pretty sure the man upstairs has seen everything under the sun, if that\u2019s what you\u2019re worried about. Church was made for sinners.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus felt a smile twinge on the side of his lips.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m flattered, really. But I\u2019m afraid I will have to decline.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She took another slice of apple and examined it. He watched her throat as she bit in.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps you\u2019ll come just to see <\/span>me <\/span><\/i>sing then? If you\u2019re nice, maybe I\u2019ll let you take me out afterwards.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She took another nibble from the slice with one hand. With the other, she pushed a pink post-it note toward him that slid nicely beneath her two red and freshly lacquered fingernails. The note contained ten bubbly numbers written in a pungent black ink. Marcus raised a single graying eyebrow. His index finger pulled the sticky note closer, and he memorized the figures with record speed.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d The question felt important, so he said it.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAsking you out.\u201d She patted her mouth with a napkin peppered with light pink cherry blossoms. Everything she said sounded so matter-of-fact, so wrapped up in a bow.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I see that.\u201d He raised an eyebrow at her. He didn\u2019t know how to explain that he wasn\u2019t sure <\/span>why <\/span><\/i>she would be doing that. He was a custodian, eternally middle-aged, and quiet. What else was there to know?<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou like Elton John, you can sing, and you like reading about vampires,\u201d she said, as if seeing inside his mind. \u201cTrust me, those stars align far less often than you would think.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A beat of silence.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow old are you?\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTwenty four this October.\u201d She tapped her fingers on the table. \u201cAnd <\/span>single<\/span><\/i>.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know how old I am?\u201d Another important question. He imagined her mouth as he asked it.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Angelina rested her chin in her palm and began twirling the butter knife on the tabletop.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I need that answer,\u201d she said, smiling into the formica. \u201cI know who to ask.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>When Marcus arrived home, it was just past four in the morning. After dozing off on the bus and making two thoughtless wrong turns, he floated into the shabby brown doors of his apartment building before the first beams of light jutted their way through the trees. His seventy-five-year old neighbor, Magdalena, was out smoking a cigarette in the hallway as he approached with his keys.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLook what the cat dragged in,\u201d she murmured over the course of a single, raspy exhale. \u201cThey still treating you good at that hospital, baby? When are they going to give you something other than the graveyard shift?\u201d Magdalena crossed her legs and leaned against the wall. The bells on her tiger slippers jingled in the haze of the hallway. Marcus waved at her politely.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI love the graveyard shift,\u201d he said, fumbling with the ancient lock. \u201cKeeps me young.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She squinted at him.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo you say. But, now that you mention it, you do look sort of chipper today.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus decided to change the subject. It was hard to talk about something you didn\u2019t understand.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow are the boys?\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Magdalena had two grown sons. One was a teacher. The other was a drunken marine who was dishonorably discharged from both the corps and her household. Magdalena, bless her heart, also took care of his two sons, Carlos and Dwayne, with something between a militant iron fist and a grandmother\u2019s heartfelt doting.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSame old, same old. Dwayne won the spelling bee, and Marcus got a girlfriend.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d Marcus glanced over his shoulder as the lock finally unlatched.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCarlos. He fixed up the courage to finally ask that girl he\u2019s been chasing to prom.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou must be proud.\u201d Marcus nodded as he jostled the door open. \u201cHave a good day, Magdalena.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI am. I am. You too, baby.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

With the door tightly shut behind him, Marcus let out a single, shaky breath. Mostly because it felt like the right thing to do. Next, he pulled out a first, then second, then third blood bag from his satchel, carefully avoiding the nail file he used on his incisors and his emergency umbrella, and set them evenly on the wire racks in his yellowing and otherwise empty fridge. When he turned back to the counter, the pink slip at the bottom of his bag called out to him from the cream-colored tile floor. He knelt down to pick it up and pressed the fragrant paper to his chapping lips.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat a day.\u201d\u00a0 He shook his head as he imagined the face of Angelina, pale and blue-eyed, then her neck and her thighs. \u201cWhat a goddamn day.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The logistics of the Sunday service in question would be the death of him if he wasn\u2019t careful. So Marcus tried to hold out on setting a date for as long as he could, but she worked him over like oil on a stubborn lock.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The three-week long marathon of anxious, yet endearing text messages from Angelina consumed him more than his determination to exercise reason. Reasonable vampires would not talk to curious young women. Marcus knew that. Reasonable vampires would <\/span>eat <\/span><\/i>girls like this. And it\u2019s not like he didn\u2019t consider it. There was a risk in getting close to a coworker, let alone a neighbor, after all. But it was as if she wanted to know everything about him in a particular way, to consume his inner thoughts like they were her most addictive candy. His hobbies, his passions, his ideas. She liked them. And he liked that she liked them. So he let her\u2013one after another, one bite at a time\u2013enjoy them. And, if he was being honest, he didn\u2019t mind her attention or her questions that ranged from the mundane to the intimate. Whether he liked Anne Rice or whether he ever wanted to have children. Yes and no. She always listened. She liked to listen. And what a rare thing that was. It might have even been nice, for once, to be noticed by someone. More than to be noticed, but to be seen.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

All of this, coupled with her intoxicatingly innocent hallway glances at work had more than solidified his fate.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0Marcus stood at the entrance to his local Trader Joe\u2019s on a rainy Saturday evening, trying to weigh the romantic differences between blue carnations and white roses. They were somehow all out of red ones. Perhaps it was because it was the night before Easter, so all the well-to-do housewives and holier-than-thou grandmothers had raided the floral section for their tabletop centerpieces. Maybe it was just a cruel twist of fate. But in the end, he decided on the roses because he felt like they were the kind of thing a man should buy for a pretty woman. Carnations were more of a chaste performer\u2019s reward, and Marcus wanted to be very clear about his intentions.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

With the proper bouquet in hand, he went over the plan in his head. Marcus had just a few hours before the sun was going to make things very difficult. He would have to get to the church in the middle of night, somehow make it inside and remain unseen until the service, and he would have to do it all without setting off any alarms, figurative or otherwise. But that was ok, he reasoned, because he knew how to pick locks. And it would just be a few hours of waiting. It could have been worse.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything went off without a hitch. Marcus walked three blocks from his usual stop and arrived at the church just as the sky started to careen with churning and unruly thunder. It was a brick building with two ornate stained glass windows that stared down at the onlookers from their wide and chiseled steeple. A little sign out front read \u2018<\/span>Sinners Wanted: Apply Within\u2019, <\/span><\/i>which Marcus shrugged at and took to be an invitation as good as any.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He made swift work of the lock on an unassuming side window, propped it open, and pulled himself inside. Though, he had miscalculated how far down the drop would be, and promptly plummeted into the echoing wood with a loud and clumsy thud. Thunder rang out from the sky, which masked some of the noise he had been making, or so he thought.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGod,\u201d he groaned, his face pressed against the hardwood. That was going to bruise. Marcus looked over to his side, examined the roses in the dark, and found them to be perfectly unscathed. Just when he was going to accept the fleeting feeling of relief, a voice wandered into the air like a mist.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHello?\u201d A deep voice echoed. \u201cWho’s there?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus felt his eyes widen at the sound. He quietly scrambled to his knees and perked up his ears. Usually, Marcus could hear a pulse from a room away and by proxy locate a whole person. Or at least detect them. But over the rain and his own racing panic, Marcus could only hear the footsteps in the dark as they patterned in calculated ticks across the floor.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Think, Marucs, <\/span>think<\/span><\/i>. The vampire studied the room, making note of the large, wooden pews currently obscuring his view and the door just to the right of the aisle. It looked to be a closet. He could get there without being seen, so long as he moved fast. The footsteps suddenly stopped, and Marcus, thinking quickly, snatched the roses from the floor and darted into the closet, moving more hastily than any human could ever hope to see. With the door tightly shut, Marcus backed into the corner. No sounds came from the outside. Nothing but the puttering of rain against the roof and a tight, cottony panic as it packed itself firmly into the channels of his trembling ears.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Against all odds, the rest of that Sunday went on as planned. Marcus somehow emerged from the closet, noted the sign that read \u2018<\/span>confessional booth<\/span><\/i>\u2019, and straightened his tie without so much as a sideways glance from anyone around. There were too many people to notice, at least, and far too many people to care. Like worker bees in beige suits and blue dresses, the churchgoers around Marcus buzzed with a familial sort of excitement that he could neither place nor understand. But when he spotted her, that feeling drifted away like a breeze\u2013and so too did the memory of being cramped in that airless room.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou made it!\u201d Angelina waddled between limbs and bodies to squeeze her way over to him. She wore a short white dress that cinched at the waist. And while he watched her walk, he noted a little bruise on her ankle. The vampire licked his lips.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI did. But are you sure this is a church?\u201d He feigned ignorance. \u201cThis place should be cinders with me standing in it. And yet\u2013\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He gestured to the air. She giggled.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Angelina led him by the hand to a pew where she told him he\u2019d have the best view. His only issue was that the massive crucifix on the wall behind the pulpit sort of gave him a headache to look at. It whirred and simmered on his irises if he stared at it too closely. But he kept that information to himself as she kissed him on the cheek.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you for the flowers,\u201d she said. If he hadn\u2019t done so already, he thought he might have died. \u201cWhite is my favorite.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He sat stunned and wordless for the entirety of the service. The songs, of course, were catchy enough. The sermon was fast enough. But the way Angelina would smile and sway as she strummed her little guitar made Marcus\u2019s mind wander out of the church, far from the streets, or their city, or their lives. Marcus\u2019s mind was in the clouds, amidst the stars themselves, and it remained there for the next three blissful weeks.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He snuck in every Saturday night, and stayed until sundown on Sundays, hiding in the basement or making himself comfortable in the attic where he would drink or read or sleep. The only trouble was, the more time he would spend with that girl, the more blood he would drink. He was going through bag after bag, more than one a day. The hospital even held a staff meeting about \u2018missing specimens\u2019. But there was no stopping him now. When the day had given itself up to the night, Marcus would emerge from the church basement and slink out the window, texting Angelina immediately and inviting her out for an evening stroll, or a movie, or the mall. It was an easy little routine. And no one was noticing. Marcus, after all, was highly trained in the art of remaining invisible. Or at least, it felt that way for a while.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

On the night of the fourth Saturday, Marcus arrived at his usual window, only to find it strangely open. Nothing came of it, thankfully. But at the end of the usual service, the priest walked up to him quietly, long after Angelina had left for her car, and caught him by the arm just as he was headed for the stairs.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMarcus, is it?\u201d An eerily familiar voice asked. \u201cAngelina\u2019s Marcus?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus\u2019s head turned slowly as if he were an owl and stared down at the hand on his elbow.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUh,\u201d he stuttered, \u201cYes?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI think you should join the church choir,\u201d the priest said, pushing up his glasses. \u201cThat way you\u2019d have reason to be here so late on Saturdays.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus swallowed, feeling the whole world stop around him. He blinked, completely stunned, and said nothing.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cChurches aren\u2019t places for deadweight, son,\u201d the priest tried again. \u201cAnd Angelina said you\u2019re a natural.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus stared forward, too stunned to speak.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m trying to help you son, if you\u2019d let me.\u201d The priest patted Marcus\u2019s arm. \u201cSo, what do you say?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And that\u2019s how, without another thought, Marcus nodded and became the best lead tenor that the St. Anne\u2019s Chapel had ever seen.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAngelina?\u201d Marcus asked, squeezing her hand under the milky lamplights of the Trinity Oaks Park. \u201cWhat would you do if you couldn\u2019t die?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou mean other than going to heaven?\u201d She asked.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d He nodded. \u201cOther than heaven.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou always ask such fun questions.\u201d She pursed her lips as she thought about it. \u201cI think I would buy a plot of land somewhere. Maybe out in Washington state. In the woods. Then, I\u2019d open a library for night owls and collect my favorite books. Or buy lots of Apple stock. I\u2019m sure God would let me know.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou seem ambitious,\u201d Marcus chuckled.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI am.\u201d She squeezed his hand. \u201cSpeaking of which, I want to see <\/span>your <\/span><\/i>apartment. Perhaps even make you a meal. I think it\u2019s about time, don\u2019t you think? I\u2019m rather good at cooking. And we could practice that hymn\u2013 \u2018New Wine\u2019 was it? Until you get that third stanza right.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t see why not.\u201d Marcus blinked. \u201cNo need to cook, though. But I\u2019d love to do just about everything else.\u201d He pressed her hand to his lips and shuddered at the honeysuckle ache biting at the back of his throat.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The very next Saturday, Marcus rolled out of bed early and scrubbed his whole studio down to its bones. He cleared his throat as Angelina arrived around noon, just after he lit the candles and set his Spotify playlist to a thoughtfully curated collection of Elton John and Eddie Murphy.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh my God.\u201d Angelina paused between each word and blushed. He watched her as she pressed both her hands to her cheeks. \u201cMarcus, I had no idea you were a hopeless romantic.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have my secrets.\u201d He repressed a cough and gestured for her to enter, and so she did. So perfectly. So willfully. So well. He closed the door behind her and locked it without thinking. And when she turned around, without a prompt or a prayer\u2014it happened.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI love you,\u201d she said, taking his face in her hands. His nostrils flared.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI love <\/span>you<\/span><\/i>,\u201d she pressed his cheeks. \u201cSo, are you going to kiss me or not?\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus swallowed and tripped over the words. \u201cI am.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

And so he dove in with his face, hoping to find her lips, but did so at such an angle and with such force that he clobbered her right in the nose. She winced and fell backwards, slamming her head against the corner of his kitchen countertop. Then, as if in slow, lifeless motion, she thudded to the floor, red rivers pouring out from both her perfectly small nostrils.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything next was a blur. The red, the slurping, their shared little moans. He couldn\u2019t help it. Until he stumbled back shivering, his mouth sopping wet. All trembling. All aching. All horror.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShit.\u201d He pressed his fingers into his cheeks, pulling the transparent skin down from his sullen eyes. \u201cHeavens above. Fuck me.\u201d Marcus scrambled backwards.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAngelina?\u201d His voice wavered slightly as he studied the fading blue roses in her eyes. But she was not there. The light of her was snuffed out like a match. He brought his face to his knees and shivered. Think Marcus, <\/span>think<\/span><\/i>.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus had no idea what to do. He paced his apartment floor for hours, glancing at her unseeing eyes every now and again. At some point, he reasoned there was no solving the issue of her body now. As the clock ticked past three in the morning, the best thing he could do was act normal, and normal meant leaving for church and securing his alibi.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to hell,\u201d he muttered, grabbing his coat and keys. \u201cI\u2019m absolutely going to hell.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>He insisted she was sick, that it was just a bad case of mono and that she would be fine in due time. The band offered their prayers, which made him feel ill.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo prayers needed.\u201d He raised both his hands. \u201cShe will be fine.\u201d But the words stuck in his mouth like sharp razor wire, and his unbeating heart throbbed like a fresh wound.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The service came and went, and he was eager to be done with it. But just as Marcus darted for the basement door, a familiar tap prodded at his shoulder.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy son?\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus paused, frowned, and glared at the priest, who was smothering a piece of bread in jelly with a dirty butter knife. Patience was in short supply that day, but Marcus held his tongue.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t look well.\u201d The Priest turned the knife over slowly and wiped the blade clean. \u201cMaybe you should eat something.\u201d He handed Marcus the limp slice. Marcus stared at it silently.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThanks.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll good things to the glory of God.\u201d The priest nodded. \u201cSee you next week.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

#\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

On the account of some undeserved miracle, Marcus made it home. As he stood outside his door, fumbling with his keys, his neighbor Magdalena leaned against the wall smoking yet another silky cigarette. It wafted into the air like a spiders bending web.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThose things will kill you, you know,\u201d Marcus said, fidgeting with the keyhole.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour girlfriend seems to like them,\u201d Magdalena exhaled as she spoke. Marcus\u2019s head snapped back to face her. She raised an eyebrow at him and rubbed her swollen ankle against her calf.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat’s her name?\u201d Magdalena pointed with her two fingers. \u201cAnabella or something? You never told me. She sounded Russian.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus blinked at his neighbor slowly, waiting for her to continue.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAngelina.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the one.\u201d Magdalena nodded. \u201cShe came out here soaking wet, banging on my door, asking for paper towels and a cigarette. Gave me thirty dollars for the trouble before she went back inside. Called me a doll.\u201d Magdalena puffed a little ring from her wrinkled lips. \u201cI <\/span>like <\/span><\/i>her.\u201d\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

With his whole body feeling like a freshly shaken soda can, Marcus turned back to the door. He shoved the key into the hole with a newborn and violent intensity.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHave a good day, Magdalena,\u201d he mumbled as he forced the key to move.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh\u2013one more thing!\u201d She called out to him. Marcus sighed and turned his head.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m in a bit of a hurry.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure you are,\u201d Magdalena coughed. \u201cSome men from the hospital came by earlier. Asked me if I\u2019d seen you with any hospital <\/span>property. <\/span><\/i>I told them no. Obviously.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

She raised a mother\u2019s eyebrow up at him. Marcus swallowed. He said nothing.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStay out of trouble, baby,\u201d she said, but her voice was just a blur.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Marcus slammed the door shut behind him, his arms pressed to the wall. He stared at the scene before him with freshly wide eyes to find that the blood was all gone, but the candles were still lit. And then, it happened. Again.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Angelina Zanovich, in all of her glory, sat long-ways on his sofa, legs crossed and lips humming, wearing his clothes. In her hands was a dog-eared copy of some book he had already forgotten to finish. And though Marcus parted his lips, the words never came. At least, not from him.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHello, Marcus.\u201d She lowered the cover, her red eyes peeking over the pages. \u201cI have a question for you.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Anastasia Gustafson is a graduate student at Northwestern University studying creative writing. She has an undergraduate degree in English and education. Her work has appeared in the National Council for Teachers of English, in 1\/10th of a Second (an Amazon Documentary). She writes vampire fiction for thousands of readers on Archive of Our Own.<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Marcus didn\u2019t mean to kill Angelina. Not really. But she was dead as a doornail, alright, and white as a sheet. In his candle-lit studio apartment, strewn with white rose petals and piles of books,<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":65858,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[348,425,88],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-65856","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-classic-short-story","category-contemporary","category-horror"],"aioseo_notices":[],"amp_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/65856","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=65856"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/65856\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":65862,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/65856\/revisions\/65862"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/65858"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=65856"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=65856"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=65856"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}