Olive Burns
There’s this vampire who lives in the rich side of town. The picket fence, green grass, high 80s side. Blonde newscaster, backyard grill, 4th of July. Two storey house in the neighbourhood that no one else knows. A big Victorian number, red brick with white trim, shadow on the wall where a cross used to hang. American flags blocking out the windows and any number of signs on the front door: No solicitors. No Jehovah’s Witnesses. Please speak quietly. Beware of the dog. Leave packages on the porch. Doorbell broken. Do not knock on the door.
They never wave hello.
--
In the mornings—which are evenings—this vampire smothers themselves in sun block. Orders crates of the stuff off Amazon and goes through a tube a day; smears brilliant white on pallid grey, sickly pink, burning red, and leaves everything greasy. Touches surfaces, slips a wet hand into the icebox, sprays disinfectant but never cleans. Insecticide prickling at the fine hairs in their nose. The faint, gnawing murmur of outdoor mosquito lamps.
In the house there are fans working overtime. One big one in the corner of each room, one small one in this vampire’s hand. Always fans, sometimes music, often TV. Anything to fill the silence. It’s a constant hum and crackle and fuzz; a rattle of metal, stale air circulating on itself, noise overlapping noise until it sounds like nothing at all. The electricity bill is barely payable each month but this vampire can’t imagine turning anything off. Can’t imagine not needing them—needing the buzz, the flow, the steady shushing whisper—couldn’t bear to turn them off because if they did, there’d be nothing to hear. No breath, no voice. No thud in their chest. Just a house. A town. Just a body, growing warmer.
This vampire shrinks back from the heat. Presses their forehead to the cool of the bathroom tiles; licks at the sweat fogging their upper lip, and tastes fever. Raw honey, bee stings. Late nights with their torso in the freezer, their head in the fridge. Doll fingers curled around an ice pack. This vampire peers at empty spaces through thick prescription sunglasses. Feels the second after a kid takes pity on the ant and moves his magnifying glass, but every day, every night, still warm at night, no real relief, no running nose or skinned knees, no childish mercy. No mercy at all.
This is Texas in the summertime. This is heat stroke on steroids. This is a particular flavour of hell.
--
After humid days—trying days—this vampire goes out. Slinks around the suburb; takes in the air. They walk with their hands out in front of them, head down, fingernails clicking as they pick through the night, one pace at a time, like the world hurts. Always in earshot until, suddenly, they’re not. A sound like locusts swarming from fifty feet away.
This vampire walks by parked trucks and trampolines and immaculately trimmed hedges in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts. Steps on lawn flamingos like they can’t see where they’re going; feels the plastic start to buckle, and scuttles away. Hears people coming and flattens themselves against a wall. This vampire waits. Hangs back until they can slip past the hole in the chain link fence, unnoticed, and sit with their back to the bottom of the community pool, sizzling in the chlorine, until the tar black sky threatens light. The water they leave behind gives the schoolkids eye infections.
The locals have a schedule. A routine. This vampire knows it, and they know it inside out. Regular cookouts and picnics and parties advertised on the whiteboard in the rec centre; a scratchy marker and a space to add your name. There’s a sharp nose sniffing at the door each Saturday lunchtime. There’s a body that’s sick and damp and panting, gone swimmy with hunger, a gap held open in the blinds. There’s a tilting silence as this vampire watches. Open fridge in the garage stocked full of provisions, squeezed lemonade with the seeds still in it, jug beading sweat on the red checkered tablecloth. Adults sitting while the baseball kids stroll around, after practice, laughing their shimmery little laughs; all fresh, all tired, all happy; all tight and pink and slick with dew. Cooked burgers oozing on paper serviettes. Meat that bursts open, splits apart, like ripe grapes. Drool burning holes in the kitchen tiles. The ‘s’ in salivating, stretched out to a hiss.
--
What sort of town has such a need for fresh garlic?
Such a need, to have planted so much of it? To have rooted pounds of the stuff in a shaky but complete circle, all around the dirt track, dead end perimeters of this place?
What sort of town?
--
To live in this town, this vampire has come to live on nothing at all. To subsist on the monthly pizza guy, the weekly cleaning lady; learned to quash themselves, their body, not out of principle, but self-preservation. Learned, through trial and error, that good food is not worth the hassle. Not worth the eyes at the window, the pounding on the door. The prize game here is kept under lock and key. Each one ticked off a list updated each day, held by the hand as they cross the street, sent home with a band-aid and a get-well-soon kiss. If even one went missing, this place would tear itself apart to find it. Would, and have.
This vampire bides their time. Eats what, and when, they can. There is a certain itinerary to be followed. You have to make them last. Order staler morsels to a neighbours house and nab ‘em while they’re confused, walking back as they check their phone, laden with boxes and bottles and bags; easy to overwhelm. Wring out the bodies in the bathtub for simple clean-up, use bleach on the fangs in case of infection, keep the excess in ziplocs and savour the flavour through a swirly straw. Tarpaulin traps in the smell. The leftover clothes fit this vampire better than their own, and the red makes their teeth look deliciously white.
This vampire learns that, just as with boxed wine, blending makes bad stuff taste better. Fresher. If you close your eyes, it’s almost like the real thing.
Almost.
--
Think back. Poaching day. Big city for a forest, your mouth for a gun. Doe in an alleyway, fox in the snow. Snatch a rabbit from a backyard swing like fresh fruit from a market gutter; tastes better when you’ve gotten away with something. Trade morality for a world of sweetness. Being good for feeling it. One hunting ground for another. Only regret not mounting the heads.
Breathe deeply. Slip out of yourself and cross over highways at night; a sudden swerve and a flash of iridescent animal in the wing mirror. The boiling, red hot centre of you, raising steam in the rain. A happy tick buried deep in puppy dog fur. Prostrate yourself and feel the fish-on-land thrashing of a body half the size of your own. Fog up your lungs with scents of strawberry bubble bath, cough syrup, wet fear. Bury your mouth in skin like white sugar. Tape the screams and play them back.
You did not need to be taught indulgence. You did not need to learn the value of good food; of nutrition, sustenance, nourishment. You did not need to be convinced of it.
Look into the dark. Do you see yourself?
--
In a perfect world, this vampire would be long gone. They are wasting away, here. They’ve known it for years. Known it by the jutting lines of their ribcage, the sunken webbing of their veins. The way their skin peels away—like little layers of snake, raspy onion, PVA glue—and flutters to the floor. This vampire leaves pieces of themselves all over the house. White hair gathered in clumps, a molar spat into the sink. Their skin around them like an ill-fitting suit. They swim in their own sweat at night, through the day. Congeals in the damp sheets, oversleeping, and wakes up feeling lighter. Untethered. Looks at the bedside table, and sees their hand. Their own hand, separate from them. White, flat leather shape by the light switch. A degloved glove.
In a perfect world, this vampire stands on the porch. Shaded by the awning, breathing slow. It takes a minute for their eyes to adjust. Looking down at the hard line of shadow and sun, cutting the world in two, as they listen to the birds chirp. The distant sound of sprinklers. Wind rustling through their cotton sundress; an enjoyable breeze. This vampire flicks their skinless hand into the light. Teases, pulls back, like kids playing chicken on a busy road. Advance, retreat. Retreat, advance. Looks a neighbour—sunhat, watering can, socks and sandals—in the face and sucks on their scorched fingertips. The blackened nails, the blistered flesh. A hot, painful little spark. Something to keep them going. Get them through.
This vampire looks. Feels two halves of a decision click together at the base of their skull.
--
It is known that, in the final stages of hypothermia, the afflicted will sometimes begin to strip. To shed themselves of everything—their sleeping bag, their blanket, their clothes, all the layers of wool and fleece and thermal underwear—until they are naked. Naked and convulsing in the frozen heat. The searing cold.
It is known that the human brain can convince itself of anything.
--
Middle of the day and this vampire goes to the attic. Gets naked. Breaks the lock that keeps the skylight shut and uses duct tape to hang their clothes over the window, one-handed. A rash of agony on bare skin as the beams slice through, raising welts like fat pink slugs to crawl up their arm. They don’t flinch. Don’t blink. None of this can touch them anymore.
Temperature concentration is highest at the top of a house. Warm air rising, closer to the sun, at its uppermost point in the sky. This vampire cooks. Lies on the bare floorboards, tanning bed still, and stays there for hours. Lets their open eyes grow shrivelled. Desiccated. Insect pinned to a board, left to dry out.
There’s a noise. A stirring in their chest like something parasitic. Something simmering, inside. Growing restless. The crackling sounds of chrysalis in action.
--
There are bodies in the empty pool. Big and small, stacked high in the deep end, the pool shed, the downstairs bathroom, like leftovers; a power outage in the mortuary, everything thawing, mushy, beginning to turn. There are bowls of apple cider vinegar and dish soap on every surface of the kitchen. Each one stretched over with clear wrap, teeming with fruit flies. This vampire sleeps and dreams heat lightning. Dreams bacteria on jello, larvae on wedding cake, breakfast buffets collapsing into sweet and savoury rot. This vampire drifts through the day, way into the night, and startles awake with a feeling that they’re drowning. Suddenly, the air seems cold.
Outside it’s black. A heady, pulsing darkness. Distant sirens growing close enough to hurt. Voices of men and a dull, pounding knock. In the backyard there’s a path to a muggy lake too hot to dip your toes in. There’s wasp-striped line stretched around the trees, blocking the way. There’s a tiny, foetid corpse bubbling to the surface of stagnant water.
On the bed, in their shroud of tropical linen, this vampire’s teeth throb. Thud, tight, in their mouth. Crowd together as the thing in their chest swarms. Possesses. Opens the mouth, the throat, the window, and climbs out. Sheds the skin.
No one sees it leave.
They never wave hello.
--
In the mornings—which are evenings—this vampire smothers themselves in sun block. Orders crates of the stuff off Amazon and goes through a tube a day; smears brilliant white on pallid grey, sickly pink, burning red, and leaves everything greasy. Touches surfaces, slips a wet hand into the icebox, sprays disinfectant but never cleans. Insecticide prickling at the fine hairs in their nose. The faint, gnawing murmur of outdoor mosquito lamps.
In the house there are fans working overtime. One big one in the corner of each room, one small one in this vampire’s hand. Always fans, sometimes music, often TV. Anything to fill the silence. It’s a constant hum and crackle and fuzz; a rattle of metal, stale air circulating on itself, noise overlapping noise until it sounds like nothing at all. The electricity bill is barely payable each month but this vampire can’t imagine turning anything off. Can’t imagine not needing them—needing the buzz, the flow, the steady shushing whisper—couldn’t bear to turn them off because if they did, there’d be nothing to hear. No breath, no voice. No thud in their chest. Just a house. A town. Just a body, growing warmer.
This vampire shrinks back from the heat. Presses their forehead to the cool of the bathroom tiles; licks at the sweat fogging their upper lip, and tastes fever. Raw honey, bee stings. Late nights with their torso in the freezer, their head in the fridge. Doll fingers curled around an ice pack. This vampire peers at empty spaces through thick prescription sunglasses. Feels the second after a kid takes pity on the ant and moves his magnifying glass, but every day, every night, still warm at night, no real relief, no running nose or skinned knees, no childish mercy. No mercy at all.
This is Texas in the summertime. This is heat stroke on steroids. This is a particular flavour of hell.
--
After humid days—trying days—this vampire goes out. Slinks around the suburb; takes in the air. They walk with their hands out in front of them, head down, fingernails clicking as they pick through the night, one pace at a time, like the world hurts. Always in earshot until, suddenly, they’re not. A sound like locusts swarming from fifty feet away.
This vampire walks by parked trucks and trampolines and immaculately trimmed hedges in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts. Steps on lawn flamingos like they can’t see where they’re going; feels the plastic start to buckle, and scuttles away. Hears people coming and flattens themselves against a wall. This vampire waits. Hangs back until they can slip past the hole in the chain link fence, unnoticed, and sit with their back to the bottom of the community pool, sizzling in the chlorine, until the tar black sky threatens light. The water they leave behind gives the schoolkids eye infections.
The locals have a schedule. A routine. This vampire knows it, and they know it inside out. Regular cookouts and picnics and parties advertised on the whiteboard in the rec centre; a scratchy marker and a space to add your name. There’s a sharp nose sniffing at the door each Saturday lunchtime. There’s a body that’s sick and damp and panting, gone swimmy with hunger, a gap held open in the blinds. There’s a tilting silence as this vampire watches. Open fridge in the garage stocked full of provisions, squeezed lemonade with the seeds still in it, jug beading sweat on the red checkered tablecloth. Adults sitting while the baseball kids stroll around, after practice, laughing their shimmery little laughs; all fresh, all tired, all happy; all tight and pink and slick with dew. Cooked burgers oozing on paper serviettes. Meat that bursts open, splits apart, like ripe grapes. Drool burning holes in the kitchen tiles. The ‘s’ in salivating, stretched out to a hiss.
--
What sort of town has such a need for fresh garlic?
Such a need, to have planted so much of it? To have rooted pounds of the stuff in a shaky but complete circle, all around the dirt track, dead end perimeters of this place?
What sort of town?
--
To live in this town, this vampire has come to live on nothing at all. To subsist on the monthly pizza guy, the weekly cleaning lady; learned to quash themselves, their body, not out of principle, but self-preservation. Learned, through trial and error, that good food is not worth the hassle. Not worth the eyes at the window, the pounding on the door. The prize game here is kept under lock and key. Each one ticked off a list updated each day, held by the hand as they cross the street, sent home with a band-aid and a get-well-soon kiss. If even one went missing, this place would tear itself apart to find it. Would, and have.
This vampire bides their time. Eats what, and when, they can. There is a certain itinerary to be followed. You have to make them last. Order staler morsels to a neighbours house and nab ‘em while they’re confused, walking back as they check their phone, laden with boxes and bottles and bags; easy to overwhelm. Wring out the bodies in the bathtub for simple clean-up, use bleach on the fangs in case of infection, keep the excess in ziplocs and savour the flavour through a swirly straw. Tarpaulin traps in the smell. The leftover clothes fit this vampire better than their own, and the red makes their teeth look deliciously white.
This vampire learns that, just as with boxed wine, blending makes bad stuff taste better. Fresher. If you close your eyes, it’s almost like the real thing.
Almost.
--
Think back. Poaching day. Big city for a forest, your mouth for a gun. Doe in an alleyway, fox in the snow. Snatch a rabbit from a backyard swing like fresh fruit from a market gutter; tastes better when you’ve gotten away with something. Trade morality for a world of sweetness. Being good for feeling it. One hunting ground for another. Only regret not mounting the heads.
Breathe deeply. Slip out of yourself and cross over highways at night; a sudden swerve and a flash of iridescent animal in the wing mirror. The boiling, red hot centre of you, raising steam in the rain. A happy tick buried deep in puppy dog fur. Prostrate yourself and feel the fish-on-land thrashing of a body half the size of your own. Fog up your lungs with scents of strawberry bubble bath, cough syrup, wet fear. Bury your mouth in skin like white sugar. Tape the screams and play them back.
You did not need to be taught indulgence. You did not need to learn the value of good food; of nutrition, sustenance, nourishment. You did not need to be convinced of it.
Look into the dark. Do you see yourself?
--
In a perfect world, this vampire would be long gone. They are wasting away, here. They’ve known it for years. Known it by the jutting lines of their ribcage, the sunken webbing of their veins. The way their skin peels away—like little layers of snake, raspy onion, PVA glue—and flutters to the floor. This vampire leaves pieces of themselves all over the house. White hair gathered in clumps, a molar spat into the sink. Their skin around them like an ill-fitting suit. They swim in their own sweat at night, through the day. Congeals in the damp sheets, oversleeping, and wakes up feeling lighter. Untethered. Looks at the bedside table, and sees their hand. Their own hand, separate from them. White, flat leather shape by the light switch. A degloved glove.
In a perfect world, this vampire stands on the porch. Shaded by the awning, breathing slow. It takes a minute for their eyes to adjust. Looking down at the hard line of shadow and sun, cutting the world in two, as they listen to the birds chirp. The distant sound of sprinklers. Wind rustling through their cotton sundress; an enjoyable breeze. This vampire flicks their skinless hand into the light. Teases, pulls back, like kids playing chicken on a busy road. Advance, retreat. Retreat, advance. Looks a neighbour—sunhat, watering can, socks and sandals—in the face and sucks on their scorched fingertips. The blackened nails, the blistered flesh. A hot, painful little spark. Something to keep them going. Get them through.
This vampire looks. Feels two halves of a decision click together at the base of their skull.
--
It is known that, in the final stages of hypothermia, the afflicted will sometimes begin to strip. To shed themselves of everything—their sleeping bag, their blanket, their clothes, all the layers of wool and fleece and thermal underwear—until they are naked. Naked and convulsing in the frozen heat. The searing cold.
It is known that the human brain can convince itself of anything.
--
Middle of the day and this vampire goes to the attic. Gets naked. Breaks the lock that keeps the skylight shut and uses duct tape to hang their clothes over the window, one-handed. A rash of agony on bare skin as the beams slice through, raising welts like fat pink slugs to crawl up their arm. They don’t flinch. Don’t blink. None of this can touch them anymore.
Temperature concentration is highest at the top of a house. Warm air rising, closer to the sun, at its uppermost point in the sky. This vampire cooks. Lies on the bare floorboards, tanning bed still, and stays there for hours. Lets their open eyes grow shrivelled. Desiccated. Insect pinned to a board, left to dry out.
There’s a noise. A stirring in their chest like something parasitic. Something simmering, inside. Growing restless. The crackling sounds of chrysalis in action.
--
There are bodies in the empty pool. Big and small, stacked high in the deep end, the pool shed, the downstairs bathroom, like leftovers; a power outage in the mortuary, everything thawing, mushy, beginning to turn. There are bowls of apple cider vinegar and dish soap on every surface of the kitchen. Each one stretched over with clear wrap, teeming with fruit flies. This vampire sleeps and dreams heat lightning. Dreams bacteria on jello, larvae on wedding cake, breakfast buffets collapsing into sweet and savoury rot. This vampire drifts through the day, way into the night, and startles awake with a feeling that they’re drowning. Suddenly, the air seems cold.
Outside it’s black. A heady, pulsing darkness. Distant sirens growing close enough to hurt. Voices of men and a dull, pounding knock. In the backyard there’s a path to a muggy lake too hot to dip your toes in. There’s wasp-striped line stretched around the trees, blocking the way. There’s a tiny, foetid corpse bubbling to the surface of stagnant water.
On the bed, in their shroud of tropical linen, this vampire’s teeth throb. Thud, tight, in their mouth. Crowd together as the thing in their chest swarms. Possesses. Opens the mouth, the throat, the window, and climbs out. Sheds the skin.
No one sees it leave.
Olive Burns is a writer and artist based in the UK, with a focus on creating (and consuming) strange, psychological, visceral horror. Their first published short story "we'll do it on three" is set to appear in the first issue of Mouthfeel Fiction.
