Little Bram

          Peering out of the sewer, young Bram watched the children--a witch, a ghost, a pirate, a clown--run along the street. He wished he could run with them, laughing from door to door and collecting candy along the way. He looked their age, but of course he wasn't. His kind grew slowly, aged at a geological pace, and never died. His mother told him not to feel bad because all those children wanted to be like him tonight. But Bram didn't feel any better, because every other night of the year he yearned to be like them: flat-toothed, rosy-cheeked, and full of life.
          Bram climbed down from the grating and retreated into the cold labyrinth of the sewer. It had rained the night before, and the brown water was fast and frothy so he had to jump nimbly along the edges, ledges, and pipes. His parents would be waking soon, and it would be time for his feeding. Rats, probably. It was always rats for dinner. He wasn't old enough to hunt the night like his father. He was too small, and his wings didn't work yet. Bram stopped on a wet ledge and unfolded his stubby wings. Sometimes he dreamed about swooping and twisting through the cold caverns of the sewers. He flapped quickly. The air vibrated around him. He jumped, hovered for a second, and then fell to his knees, his pants soaking in the slime. Ah, what was the big deal about flying and hunting if you had to hide in a sewer? His father only picked up drifters and drunks, anyway. And when he was finally bloated on bad blood, he'd stumble back to the chamber and slur boring stories about the old country.
          Since tonight was Halloween, those all-too-familiar stories started right as Bram's father sat down at the dining table.
          "I've told you about Great Great Grandfather Vlad, haven't I?" Bram's father asked.
          Bram didn't respond. He just gnawed at his rat holding its rigid tail like a popsicle stick.
          Bram's mother nodded dreamily as she rummaged through her burlap bag and sighed, "Vlad was the greatest. He knew all the tricks."
          It's going to be a long night, thought Bram.
          Bram's father chuckled as the memories cam to him. "Vlad would sail down from his castle at dusk and the timid mortals would scurry like bugs. Sometimes they'd try to stop him by hanging garlic on their doors and shaking their stakes and crosses--but these mean little to the true Nosferatu. Sometimes, for fun, Vlad would toy with them and pretend to cower." Bram's dad drew one leathery wing up before his mouth and hissed like an angry cat. The candle light flickered in his eyes flashed. "Back mortals. Back! No! NO! And just when the villagers thought they had him, he'd turn into a green fog or a pack of rats. Oh, that would get them screaming. And let me tell you, they'd think twice before chasing him again."
          "One of a kind," Bram's mother chuckled and slurped up a handful of gristle.
          Bram shrugged. "Too bad they didn't send him to Euclid, Ohio. I bet he'd really drive them crazy here." He didn't intend it to sound mean, but his father suddenly looked hurt. His wings slackened and all the crimson left his eyes. Bram wished he had kept his mouth shut.
          "Some day we'll get back to the old country," Bram's father mumbled. He turned and skulked off to work.
          "I didn't mean anything by it, Mom."
          "I'm sure you didn't, darling, but you know how sensitive your father is about being assigned to this town. You should know better." She stroked her moldy black tresses and gazed into the candlelight. "Someday we'll get the call up to one of the big cities, or maybe even the old country, and everything will be better."
          Bram was barely a century old, but he knew that wasn't likely. The world of the undead was very political; it was all about who you knew. Being sent to a town like Euclid wasn't a vote of confidence, and there was little chance of reprieve. Bram thought sadly about his father, and knew that in a few hundred years he himself would be just like the old man: stalking drunks and bums in roadhouse parking lots and bus terminals, feeding on sleeping cows when things got slow. Bram excused himself from the table and wandered beyond the reach of the candelabra's glow.
          "Don't you want the rest of your dinner?" his mother asked.
          Bram didn't even glance back at the cold rat. "I guess I'm not hungry."

          Bram scuttled out from the drainage pipe, scurried along the bank of the brook, and crawled up to a line of bushes. There he peered out at the festivities on the street. Pirates, elves, zombies, and soldiers ran giggling through the fallen leaves. Toothy, glowing pumpkins leered from porches and windows. Black and orange streamers and paper skeletons hung twisting from the barren branches. The living were always happy, Bram mused. So full of fun. And why not, they had so many wonderful celebrations. His favorite was the one with the decorated tree. Many times, crouching at windows, he'd press his face to the frosty glass and watch longingly as they exchanged brightly colored gifts.
          A hand grabbed Bram's shoulder. That's it he, he thought, I've been discovered. Run, he told himself, but his legs wouldn't move.
          "Booo!"
          Bram nearly jumped out of his wings.
          "Hey, calm down," a laughing voice said.
          "You got him good, Pete. You really got 'em."
          Bram turned to see a black-cloaked ninja at his side. Further off stood a bleeding thing in dusty, tattered clothes. They weren't much bigger than himself. In fact, Bram realized, they were only children, tick-or-treaters. Bram's claws unclenched, but his ears stayed up, keen.
          "Sorry," the ninja said. "I didn't mean to scare you. Well, not too much anyway. Wow, you look really cool."
          "Yeah," the other boy chimed in, "is that a mask?"
          Bram's blood went cold with pride. "Not at all."
          "That's the best vampire outfit I've ever seen," the ninja declared.
          "Thanks." Bram smiled, giving them a quick flash of his fangs. "And you really look like a ninja."
          The boy in the dusty, tattered clothes announced that he was a ghoul. "I feed on the flesh of the dead." A big smile revealed red plastic fangs.
          Bram wanted to tell him that there was no pride in being a ghoul. They were the lowest of the low and the most boring at parties. But the kid obviously didn't know much about ghouls. He didn't even have a bristle-mouthed feeding worm coming out of his belly. Bram realized that his lack of enthusiasm must have shown because the ghoul began to pout, and before he could say anything, the ninja began talking again.
          "You must be the new kid that just started school this week, right?" he asked. "I can barely recognize you in that get-up. My name's Pete. I don't remember yours."
          Bram sounded so strange, so old world, and Abraham didn't sound much better. He wanted to be like them, to fit in. He wanted a daylight name. He wanted to be . . .
          "Timmy."
          "Hi ya, Tim." Pete gave him a quick handshake. "And that's Dan." The ghoul nodded curtly. "That's enough small talk," Pete said. "Let's get going."
          And like that Bram was among the living, running and laughing like all the warm-blooded, round-eared children. For once he was on the other side of the window, no longer looking in.

          As they ran up the first set of steps, Dan asked where Bram's bag was.
          "Bag?" Bram didn't have one. Certainly this would make them suspicious. What self-respecting child would go out tonight without a bag? They'll start asking questions, Bram thought. Think fast.
          "I lost it," he suggested, sounding more like he was asking a question than answering one.
          Dan's jaw dropped. "Lost it? How could you do that? I never let go of my bag."
          "Yeah, that's a real bummer," Pete said. "You've got to have a bag on Halloween. Here you go." He tossed Bram an extra pillow case that he had been carrying inside his black robe.
          "Thanks."
          Dan didn't approve. "I wouldn't give away a my other bag. No way."
          At the top of the stairs an old woman answered a door, oohed and ahhed at how scary their costumes were, and dropped handfuls of candy into the three yearning bags. This scene was repeated at each doorstep they visited. Soon Bram's bag was heavy with a clump of goodies that tickled his bat sinuses with scents of honey, syrup, and chocolate. He sucked in the sweet air and held it in his lungs. This sack held more promise than any burlap bag his mother ever carried. Bram couldn't believe that people just gave away such goodies. Even Dan was smiling again.
          At one door, a perky woman with a ball of gold hair balanced on her head handed out dripping, dark red spheres skewered on sticks. Bram inspected the sticky gift. It was sweet and warm. He sank his fangs into it and drew out the goodness within until the gelatinous shell began to collapse.
          When they reached the last house on the block, they paused. It was a dark uncertain structure that seemed pushed by winds that only it felt. There were no other children around. There was no more laughing.
          "It's the old Myers place," Pete announced soberly.
          "We're not going up there, are we?" Dan asked, the words catching in his dry mouth. As if in response--or warning--the wind howled and a shutter whined.
          "Sure," Pete said and took two steps up the crooked path.
          "But," Dan protested, "That place is supposed to be--"
          "Haunted?" Pete asked. "Tim, does this place seem haunted to you?"
          Bram sniffed the air and studied the shadows. There was no rotten-smelling ectoplasm or any of its purple residue. He shook his head. "Nah, there are no ghosts here."
          Dan gave him a nasty look.
          They climbed the stairs to the darkened porch. Dan tapped timidly on the screen door. Pete reached around him and rang the bell. It tolled sullenly somewhere deep within the house.
          They waited.
          "There's no one here," Dan whispered. "We should go. . ."
          Suddenly the porch light came to life, spilling a yellow haze over them. Someone approached the front door; they heard the slow steps, saw the vague figure manifest behind the curtain on the front door window.
          "Trick or treat," Pete chirped.
          The figure didn't respond, but only continued to regard them through the shroud. Finally, it retreated. The porch light was extinguished.
          "Not too neighborly," Bram said.
          "No, not at all," Pete agreed.
          "Well, let's not waste our time here," Dan said. "Let's go someplace where they give out candy."
          "Hold on," Pete commanded. "You know what this calls for, don't you, Tim?"
          "Sure do," Bram said, hoping he wouldn't have to explain because he really didn't have the faintest idea.
          Pete smiled slyly. "I think it's about time we gave out some tricks. C'mon."
          With that, the young ninja stepped off the porch and melted into the shadows. Dan and Bram followed him into the bushes and along the side of the house to the backyard. A large picture window revealed the illuminated kitchen and the old man inside. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot, his suspender loops dangling at his hips.
          "I'm going to tap on the window to get his attention." Pete pointed to the back door. "When he comes out to investigate, we'll give him a good scare."
          They all nodded, and Bram and Dan snuck to the edge of the back steps.
          "You wait for my sign," Dan whispered. "I'll jump first, and you follow my lead. Okay?"
          "Whatever you say."
          After a quick glance at his conspirators, Pete reached up and tapped on the window. The old man looked up from his brew. A second rap on the frame brought him to the glass where he cupped his hands around his eyes and peered into the night. The man's face became a pale mask of annoyance, as Pete scratched the flaking wood of the house.
          All the sounds of the night filled Bram's ears: the old man's slippers on linoleum as he shuffled to the door--a dying moth caught in a screen--the three mortal hearts beating out a quickening, bloody rhythm. It was like a symphony that only he could hear. It traveled through his nerves, made the hairs on his neck rise, and vibrated through his intestines. This is what it is like to hunt, he thought. Saliva dripped from his fangs.
          The multiple locks of the back door were undone, the hinges creaked.
          "Who's there?" the old man asked. Bram heard the forced bravado, the anger masking the fear.
          That was the cue. The night symphony had reached its crescendo and Bram joined in. He unleashed a brutal wail and leapt from the shadows. Dan shrieked and fell face first to the ground. The old man stumbled back, his pale hands thrown up for protection, his eyes as wide as saucers. Something exploded over his right shoulder with a gooey splat. A second explosion spilled across the screen door showering the man's face with yolk.
          "Let's get out of here," Pete yelled as he lobbed a third egg over his shoulder and started to run.
          "Happy Halloween!" Bram exclaimed and took off laughing after his friends.
          "I'll get you kids! Don't think I don't know who you are. I know all your names." The old man's threats faded into the night.
          Two blocks away they stopped running. Dan's words came in between hard, dry gasps.
          "Tim...you were...supposed to...wait for my..."
          "Did you see his face?" Pete laughed, giving Bram a high five. "Man, did we scare him good. That's what tonight is all about."
          Pillow cases, treats, tricks, and even eggs: Bram didn't understand any of it, but it was fun. He didn't want this night to ever end. What other thrills awaited? Bram was going to drink up Halloween night to the last drop. And it seemed like the excitement was just beginning; the street was a hive of activity. All sorts of people--young and old, disguised and undisguised--were marching together.
          "In the park!" someone shouted.
          "The tree!" another yelled.
          Pete and Dan fell into step with the crowd and waved for Bram to follow.
          What could be next? Would they gather around a tree and exchange gifts and treats? He didn't have much to give, but he would share all of his candy to be party of the party.
          Ahead Bram could see a great black tree with a crowd gathered around its trunk. Flashlights and lanterns glowed like fallen stars. There was a tang of kerosine and excitement in the air. Bram wondered what the final treat on this night of tricks would be. There was some sort of decoration in the tree, but as Bram and his new friends neared the jostling crowd, he saw that it wasn't streamers swaying in the October breeze. It was more like a giant, black, tattered kite caught in the clutching branches.
          And the smell of the crowd struck him. It wasn't joy or celebration that uncoiled in his pug, bat nose. It was anger...hate...fear.
          The squirming shroud wasn't a kite--It was his father. The sweeping beams from the searchlights caught his snarling, anemic face as he hissed at the mob. His sulfurous eyes flared with reflections.
          "What is it?" Dan asked.
          "It's an animal, I think," stuttered Pete.
          Bram's father released a mournful screech that momentarily silenced the crowd. But like a beaten dog, they came back twice as nasty.
          Bram knew what had happened. His father, while prowling the night, had imbibed some bad blood and gotten twisted in this tree on the way home.
          An explosion of emotion surged through Bram: pity and shame for his father, anger at the pathetic humans. His body went rigid, like a great iron spike had pierced his back and rooted him to the ground. He didn't know how to respond. Even his friends, Dan and Pete, were shaking their fists and yelling.
          Someone ignited a torch. It spilled garish light and cast wild shadows over the crowd, the maze of tree branches, Bram's flailing father.
          "Cut the beast down!"
          "Don't go near it!"
          "Yeah, it's too dangerous. Set fire to the tree!"
          Two massive hands swung a rake at the struggling figure. A broken bottle missed the vampire's head by inches.
          Dan nudged Bram's shoulder. "Grab something and throw it at the monster!" he squealed.
          More rocks and sticks flew through the air.
          Bram had to do something. He couldn't just stand by and watch! An annoying itch burned his back, and the steel strap of fear suddenly snapped loose. Before Bram knew it, he was rising into the air, his black wings spreading at his back.
          He looked down at the frozen, gaping humans. He saw Pete's face quiver with revulsion. Dan burst out with mirthless laughter and hurled a rock, which sailed harmlessly past Bram's ear. Silly mortals, he laughed to himself. He could smell fear flood the air. How easily they lost their nerve, how easily they surrendered to terror. He hissed at them, and they cowered. Finally, he understood his father's stories and truly believed them. Their horror and his strength mixed and tasted sweet. Yes, I am a monster, he thought joyfully, and it is good! I am a vampire! He didn't need the fickle friendship of these weak humans and their shrill parties. He had his own traditions and heritage to uphold. He had all the dark power of the Nosferatu at his clawtips.
          Bram swooped down to his father's side, clutched a branch with his taloned feet, and hung upside down. His small, nimble claws gently unhooked his father's wings from the tangle of branches.
          His father sprang into the air and howled viciously. It thrilled Bram to hear the awful song rain down on the humans and echo into the night. His father's black dragon-shadow eclipsed the moon, and Bram knew he still had much to learn. This is what tonight is all about, he thought with a chuckle. This is a good scare. He floated to his father's side and together they sailed through the night, looking down and laughing at the timid, gawking cattle.

All text and images Copyright © 2000 Geof Smith.