My name is Abigail VanBuren. You may call me Abby. I’m a vampire. That’s why you can hear my thoughts without me speaking. You’ll have to excuse me. My dinner’s en route. This will only take a couple minutes. They’re almost here.
A man’s voice. Speaking to his companions. A few hundred yards distant. He’s trying to reassure them. “You saw her…”
Yeah, because I let you.
“She’s what? Four feet tall, maybe fifty pounds. Turned into a bloodsucker when she was nine years old. Come on… How dangerous can she really be?”
More dangerous than you could possibly imagine.
Clearly.
Idiots.
I can hear you out there you know.
In past centuries I’d telepathically slip a warning like that into their pea brains. Mess with them a little. But playing with my food has gotten old. No matter how you try to spice it up. After two millennia they all taste the same, like chicken, but dumber. And boring. So boring. As boring as the silly thoughts that occupy their frail bodies and tiny brains.
My would-be slayers are in the woods at the back of my estate. I turn on a mash-up of Wagner and Brittany Spears. What can I say, I’m going through a phase. A girl gets bored. You have to do something to keep yourself busy. Why not be an aspiring DJ?
My visitors are at the back door. About time. I leave everything not only unlocked, but open. Wide enough for a human to poke their stupid head through and take a peek. Otherwise, the savages take a crowbar to everything… It’s impossible to find a decent carpenter nowadays. I didn’t pay multiple millions for the estate of a reclusive robber baron to have some random variety pack of snack food on two legs in sneakers tear up the vintage woodwork.
I invited them here of course. Had to. Somebody needs to start a delivery service for my kind. Or, should I say, a better one than the current system. I’m not the Luddite you’d think. I used Door Dash and a couple others; meals on wheels you might say. They cite some obscure ordnance as their reason for their unilateral refusal to deliver their drivers to my door anymore. I’m pretty sure Door Dash and each and every Pizza Parlor within a thirty-mile radius are on to me. Apparently, I should have been a better tipper. Or less bitey.
Which is why I’ve stooped to trolling vampire hunting websites and dropping none too subtle hints as to the location of my less than humble abode. Reduced to handing out written directions to yahoos like the clowns now gathering their courage in the pantry on the first floor.
Yay… Yet another chicken dinner in front of the TV. Real Housewives or The Bachelor. Maybe a Lifetime Movie. Or Netflix. A comedy — aka a “slasher flick” in the colloquial. What you people call a horror movie. Like you humans would know the first thing about horror. As if. (Not even if it bit you directly the ass.)
The man-boy and his lover are at the top of the third-floor steps. Companions a step behind. Their big mouths have stopped, their minds racing, mentally rehearsing how they intend to slay little old me.
Finally.
He kicks in the already half open door of my study and charges in with his best war face on. Is that eyeliner? Yep. Good for him.
His associates follow. They stand stock still and take in their target in person for the first — and last — time. Underwhelmed by my presence. He and his merry band of vampire slayers are clearly terribly disappointed. I didn’t dress up for dinner. Haven’t for centuries. They were obviously expecting someone or thing considerably more dramatic than a nine-year-old girl, hair in a sloppy ponytail, pink sweats that could really use a wash, or a one way trip to the incinerator out back, and white bunny slippers. Did I mention playing Rollercoaster Tycoon on my cell?
I nod to acknowledge their presence but remain seated, half swallowed by the old pea soup green vinyl bean bag chair leaking Styrofoam beads all over. The one I bought for $1.75 at a garage sale in Layton, Ohio. Last year? Last century? Who keeps track anymore. It was after a meeting of The Council. I dipped out early to go garage Saling. Perks of being Supreme ruler.
The man, his mate and their companions spread out. Form a half circle, sharpened wood stakes gripped tight. Ready to charge.
I hold up a finger in a “just one moment” gesture, return to the game on my phone. Speak out loud for their benefit. My reward for their accomplishment. The last words they’ll ever hear. “I’ll be with you in just a second. Go ahead and grab a chair if you like. This won’t take long…”
It never does.
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