I screamed, wrestling with the steering wheel, the seatbelt digging into my shoulder as the car tilted onto one side. There was one, dizzying moment where I thought we might fall back aright. We hung in the air, it seemed, the whole world pausing a moment as if Fate needed time to decide. Before I could whisper a prayer, though, the whole thing began to go wrong, and we were sent rolling, our progress halted as we slammed into a parked car.
Its alarm began blaring in the night, and my racing heart filled my ears like a pounding drum. Hanging upside down, my head throbbing, I struggled with the seatbelt latch. With a little click, I flew face first toward the dashboard. Groaning, I forced the door open.
“Come on,” I panted, crawling over broken window glass. He moaned. I could feel the blood gushing out my nose and over my lips, its sweet taste on my tongue.
Scrambling to my feet, cutting my hands on the shards, I saw the offending van which had pulled out in front of us rolling up to the curb. It moved slowly, like a disinterested party pulling over to offer assistance. It was just like the ones that were chasing us, though, the ones we had been speeding away from. Above, the streetlamps buzzed, and the sky was a pale, evening blue, a scattering of early stars just peeking through the hazy clouds.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Get into the house,” I whispered. I turned back toward the van. Behind me, I heard the sound of breaking glass followed by the huffs of an unathletic man climbing through a window, but I didn’t turn around to see. They were getting out. You ever see the movie, Men in Black? Even in this dim light they were wearing sunglasses, their nondescript suits blending in with the stretching shadows.
Their faces were similar, thin and gaunt; hardly any color to their skin or lips even, save her. I had seen her once or twice. I suppose without the makeup she would look as haggard as the rest. She was always applying something. As she stepped out, she was spreading a mauve lipstick over her lips.
“Keep back,” I said.
“Come, come,” she tisked. “You’re running out of light.”
“And patience,” I barked.
“We have no qualm with you.” Her voice was sweet, inviting like the front of a candy store. “You’re one of us, remember?”
Three more vans were pulling up. I began rubbing the sore on my neck.
“Not yet.”
“Soon,” she said, “you’ll be part of a much larger world.” In an instant, she was standing right in front of me. “Why don’t we talk about it inside.” She grabbed my wrist, and the world went fuzzy a moment. I had some vague notion of movement, an idea, perhaps, of passing through a broken window. As my vision cleared, I found myself standing in some strange living room. My hand went to my forehead, and I moaned. Outside I could still hear the blaring car alarm. As clarity slowly set in, my eyes began darting through the shadows. There, she was reclining on the sofa, spreading her lipstick again. She set the open tube down on the coffee table.
“How?” I began to ask.
She pursed her lips, a little mirror in her hand, “I have a reflection too, honey. We can go wherever we want.” From what I assumed was the kitchen, I could hear the running of a facet. “We’re not so bound as our ancestors once were, not so superstitious,” she continued.
“Then what do you want with the priest?” I asked.
She closed the little mirror. “Honey,” she said, standing up. My vision darted towards her hips, stupidly pulled low as her tight pants moved and stretched about her thin, little waist. Closing my eyes, I turned away, but I felt her cold, lifeless fingers alight upon my cheek. “Honey. Don’t worry about the priest.” She pulled my face back towards her with a gentle touch. I opened my eyes and saw those dark, puckering lips—a mortician’s work to make the dead appear alive—and staring down at them, gazed longingly. A weight seemed to be pulling me towards them, bowing my head.
Then somebody shouted something in Latin, and I felt a burning flame against my face. The priest was there, a coffee cup in hand. He had thrown its contents at us. She began shrieking, her makeup washed away by the holy deluge. Hidden under that false paint, the skeletal and noseless face of a vampire emerged. The priest was chanting beside me, waving his arm and the cup about in some supercilious manner, but it worked.
She snarled at him, turned away, and then just snapped out of existence. I glanced out the broken window toward the others across the street. They stood there motionlessly, sunglasses still on though the night was growing thick.
“Sorry.”
“What?” I asked.
“Your face. I’m afraid I got some on you,” he said, looking down at the cup in his hands. At his words, I realized a dull, burning sensation covering my cheek and my ear. “You’re still turning,” he sighed.
Tale Told 