Michael Scott Hand

This is a story that by most educated estimations could rightly be referred to as a “fairy-tale”, which is to say that it contains all manner of strange and unlikely situations, most singularly guided by those inviolable laws of magic and witchcraftery that were set out long ago by the forest-folk and the spirits-in-the-trees and the eyes-in-the-night and the eyes-in-the-sky and the darkness-beneath our beds—or, perchance, lurking within our minds—like the tiny man we call homunculus who steers our emotions with a pair of minuscule, steadfast hands on that spinning wheel of cognition that turns this-way-and-that as we surge through a churning, obsidian sea.

This is a story that is rendered in layers of muddling reason, just as our vital organs are wrapped in bone-cage and muscle and skin and perfume; swaddled in cotton and wool; bundled up in front of a fire that whispers flickering premonitions of enlightenment into our ears. And like the cabin surrounded by pine trees and the tempest that howls beyond the wooden door—wolves or wind or both—we will tremble atop these foundations and we will cling to these words ever more tightly such as we do with the blanket that keeps us warm.

But the blanket, and these words, become threadbare with time and eventually neither will suffice at keeping the cold away. The fire burns low, crackling and cackling. The light becomes ash and charred remains. There’s a tapping at the window, an insistent tap-tap-tap that could be sleet or pine-needles.

It could be—but it’s not.

Because this is a story that could rightly be referred to as a “fairy-tale” and that tapping you can hear..?

Is a witch.

I crack open a can of Coca-Cola and step onto the balcony. The sun blazes down on the rooftops of the houses in the valley, reflecting off of TV antenna and solar panels. Old trees line the streets but the sunlight punctures through the branches, seeking out the shadows and driving them back. There is something unapologetic about a summer morning.

I am like the sunlight. I blaze. I am defiant. My body is strong and lean and tanned. I am marked by the sun and vampires don’t like that. But then… those undead fucks don’t like much of anything.

I drink the can quickly, I guzzle it. We all have our vices. At first I needed the caffeine to keep me awake, but now it’s just a habit. The tiny people mulling about in the valley below remind me that ignorance is bliss. But some of them know. Some of them have watched the faces of their loved ones transformed by an illness that we still don’t understand. An illness that turns people into monsters.

And it’s spreading.

I blame TV. I blame movies. I’d blame books if anybody actually bothered reading them. They glamorised the thing. They made everyone wanna be a fuckin’ vampire.

A lot of people believe the illusion. They think that the undead lifestyle is some sort of classy soft-focus porno. They don’t realise until it’s too late that vampirism is a sickness. A disease. It’s like when an apple turns rotten at the core. The body keeps on living, but the rot is inside of them. It eats away at what it is to be human. It strips them of their dignity, of their self-respect, of any pretence that they might have once had of being a ‘good person’.

I’m not convinced that anyone is a good person. Not really. But no matter how bad you are, vampires are worse. Vampires are hungry. Vampires are desperate. And vampires will do whatever they can to not only survive—but to propagate. That’s why it keeps spreading. That’s how these things started to get out of control.

I don’t know who brought the illness here. I don’t know who Patient-X was. The only thing I can do is keep killing them. But for every one I kill there seems to be a dozen more. I’m swimming in a losing battle. I’m fighting in a flood of blood.

The Coca-Cola is finished and I crumple the can. A wasp swings by, defying gravity, silent stinger poised. I should get some rest, but I’d prefer to stay here in the sun. Last night was bad. Really, really bad. Really, really… messy.

But there’s nothing I can do about that now. I can only keep hunting them down and killing them, I guess. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve put wood through. Which makes me something like a serial killer, I guess.

I told you, I don’t believe anyone is a good person.

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