Jeremy Hunted 4: Deal with the Devil

This part directly follows the events of last week.
You can read last week's chapter --> HERE <--

Andrew’s eyes were trained on Jeremy as the vampire kneeled by Frank. Andrew checked to make sure the safety was on and nodded at his friend. Jeremy extended Frank’s bare leg until it was at the level of his head, and with an expression of disgust sank his teeth into Frank’s calf. Frank’s eyes grew wide and he tried to cry out, but he lacked the air to do it. In the next instant he had passed out, from fear or from lack of oxygen. It made no difference to the others, who were glad he wasn’t going to raise a fuss. Jeremy ‘s attention was elsewhere.

In the dead-silent kitchen there Andrew could hear the sucking, slurping noises emanating from the vampire. That would have been funny on an ordinary day, but today it made Andrew break into a cold sweat and filled him with revulsion. Jeremy hadn’t tasted human blood in over 40 years. He’d been totally clean for so long, there was no telling how he would react now that he was exposed to it again.

To his amazement, Andrew noticed a bizarre change in Jeremy. Jeremy normally looked so pale he could have passed for an albino, with white hair and papery skin, he looked like a colour photograph left to bleach in the sun. Now it seemed that colour was suddenly flooding back into him. His skin was becoming rosy and pink again, with a vivid blush on his cheeks. His straw-like hair was changing from bone white to charcoal grey then to raven black. Most noticeable, however, were Jeremy’s eyes.

While his flushed skin and dark hair made him look years younger and much handsomer, his eyes were terrifying to behold. The vampire was becoming so saturated with blood, the capillaries in his eyes were bursting, creating two seas of deep red out of which flashed two cat-like slits for pupils.

Frank was breathing easier now, but his olive skin was growing so pale that he seemed to be turning green.

“Jer, I think you can stop now,” said Andrew in a husky voice.

Jeremy ignored him as he sucked ferociously.

“Jer. Stop, you’re draining him,” said Andrew more forcefully. He tried to lay a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, but the vampire snarled and batted the hand away with a blow that made his bones grind. Andrew cried out, but still managed to jam the barrel of his gun into Jeremy’s neck. The vampire froze and let out a feral growl.

“Drop it, now,” shouted Andrew, feeling sick.

Jeremy dropped Frank’s leg and spun around so fast he was a blur. He snarled at Andrew and crouched low, ready to pounce on his throat. Andrew flicked off the safety catch with an audible “click.”
Just as quickly, Jeremy seemed to recover himself. He straightened up and adjusted his shirt collar. He was still the handsome black-haired stranger with the demon eyes, but underneath it all Andrew could see the real Jeremy guiding it.

“Sorry, Andrew,” said Jeremy in a rich deep voice so different from his usual strained whisper. “I lost control there for a moment. But I think I’ve got…” (he interrupted himself with a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down) “…everything sorted. Is he breathing again?”

Andrew lowered the gun and reset the safety. He then examined Frank with what little expertise he possessed. “Yeah. He looks like he’s breathing comfortably now.”

“I managed to break it up a bit, I think,” said Jeremy. “My saliva acts as blood thinner, so that should help. The doctors can do the rest for him... whenever they bloody get here. We could have walked there by now,” he grumbled irritably.

“You alright?” asked Andrew again.

“I could do with a glass of water,” said Jeremy.

Andrew made to get up but he was halted by a loud, “NO!” from Jeremy. “No, don’t leave me alone with him just now. The impulse is too strong still. Can you put a plaster on him or something?”

Andrew wordlessly drew out the first aid kit from the cabinet in the breakfast nook. It was where they kept the candles, matches, torches, and battery-operated radio for emergencies. Once the blood was mopped up with an antiseptic wipe, it was hardly noticeable on his leg and after Andrew’d put a plaster over the larger marks, it looked like nothing more than a simple scrape. Andrew sighed in relief as he realized that the EMTs wouldn’t be asking about the teeth marks on Frank’s leg in correlation to his copious blood loss.

Jeremy seemed to have calmed down now that Frank was patched up, though his fingers continued to flex and squeeze compulsively while they waited for the anticipated knock at the door. At long last the ambulance arrived and Frank was carted off to the nearest hospital.

“I don’t think Frank’s first day in England is doing so well,” said Jeremy sadly as they watched the flashing red lights drive away.

“Could have been worse,” said Andrew.

“I really don’t see how.”

“He might have eaten the breakfast you were going to make him.”

Jeremy frowned and slapped Andrew lightly on the back of his head. There was a loud crack and Andrew was on the floor yelling in pain.

“My neck! I think you broke my bloody neck!”

Jeremy examined his newer stronger blood-saturated hand, wide-eyed in alarm and chagrin. “Oh, heck! I forgot!” He said to himself as he sped down the pavement trying to flag down the ambulance again.

Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite

This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2


Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.

He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.

Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.

As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.

The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.

“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.

“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.

“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.

“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”

“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.

“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”

“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.

“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.

“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).

“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”

“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.

“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.

“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.

“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.

Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”

“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.

“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”

“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”

“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”

“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.

“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”

“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”

Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.

“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”

“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.

“It is?” asked Andrew.

“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”

“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.

Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”

“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.

“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.

Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.

“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.

“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.

“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.

Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.

"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.

(continued next week)

Jeremy Hunted Part 1

Not sure whether this is a 2 or 3 parter, but I think this merits a bit of expansion. Not sure where I'm going yet, so we'll see what happens. ; ) ~Monica
PART ONE: THE OLD DOG

“ARGH!!!”

Andrew had scarcely draped his coat over the armchair (which Jeremy had asked him not to do over fifty times) when heard a cry and crash upstairs and ran to see what was going on.

After a clumsy hike up the narrow stairs, Andrew stood in the upstairs hallway, trying to discern where the noise came from. He checked in his room first. He knew that Jeremy liked to poke around in his room while he worked at the pub. Andrew didn’t like it, but decided not to let Jer know that he was on to him. He wasn’t worried about things disappearing — Jeremy wasn’t the sort to go around pinching things, he was merely curious. He sifted through Andrew’s belongings like an archeologist dug through ruins; he was to find out about the world outside his stuffy townhouse. Jeremy didn’t get out much. The last time he’d gone to the Odeon at Swiss Cottage, “The Shawshank Redemption” had been playing.

                Every few decades, Jeremy would get lonely and curious about the world and decide to stick his head out. He’d try to suck up all the information that he could and then he’d lose interest and cling to those facts for the next fifteen years or so. Andrew had observed him one time with a pile of his t-shirts next to the computer. The man was laboriously typing (with two fingers) the band names on his shirts into the Google search engine and would occasionally gasp at the results. The internet was one of the few concessions Jeremy had made to modern innovation; it allowed him to do his shopping without leaving the house.

Andrew peered into his room which was empty and (to all appearances) untouched. He checked Jeremy’s room and there was nothing there either, but something was different that Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. He eventually looked in the guest bedrooms, which were resolutely empty despite the “Rooms to Let” sign by the privet hedge. It was in one of these that Andrew saw a fallen curtain rod and a pile of dusty cloth in a large pile. There was something thrashing under it muttering a stream of Victorian obscenities.  

                “Jer?” asked Andrew, picking up the pile of cloth. The awkward bundle weighed as much as a small child, which would have given the anemic Jeremy some trouble. It was immediately apparent to Andrew, however, that Jeremy’s main struggle was with the cast iron curtain rod that had skewered him through the chest.

                “Jer?” cried Andrew in alarm.

                “Little help?” gasped Jeremy, his face screwed up in pain.

                Andrew immediately grasped the heavy rod in his hand and yanked it out of Jeremy’s ribcage with a sickening “crunch.” Jeremy uttered a sharp cry and shuddered, but he seemed to shake it off shortly and sat up. His punctured shirt was damp with clear plasma, as was the carpet beneath him.

                “You alright?” asked Andrew in alarm, kneeling next to his friend.

                “I’m fine. It missed my heart by a few inches, but that was a close shave.”

                “I would think you’d have been a little more careful about your choice of décor, Jer,” said Andrew, eyeing the menacing spear on the end of the rod.

                “It was an antique,” said Jeremy with a shrug.   

“So are you,” said Andrew shaking his head. Already the hole in Jeremy’s chest was getting smaller, and Andrew could see paper-white skin through his rent shirt.

                “What were you doing anyway?”

                “I was taking the curtains down to be cleaned. Need to tidy up for the new lodger.”

                “We’re getting a lodger?” asked Andrew.

                “Yep, should be here tomorrow. He’s an American fellow here on a sabbatical.”

                “A yank lodger?” asked Andrew in surprise.

                “Americans need rooms to stay in like everyone else,” said Jeremy with a shrug.

                “You going to be…”Andrew trailed off uncomfortably. “Okay with it?”

                “I need the money, Andrew. Vampire-hunting doesn’t pay the bills, and things have been getting tight.”

                “No I mean with the…” Andrew stared at Jeremy’s chest as his wound shrunk to the size of a pea and then disappeared, leaving behind only pale, blue-veined skin, still damp with yellowish plasma.

                “Oh, you mean, am I going to drain his blood like it was Ribena?” said Jeremy with a shrug. “Oh please. It would take more than some American priest to make me go berserk.”

                “He’s a vicar?” asked Andrew agog.

                “No, he’s a papist something-or-other. He’s a deacon or a seminarian or something… I forget which he said it was.”

                “A religious nutter? Are you barking?”

“I don’t really care what he is as long as he pays rent. Help me carry these to the laundry room.”

“And you think he’ll be okay with living with a vampire?” asked Andrew with a frown. He shouldered the dusty bundle with a violent sneeze before following Jeremy downstairs. Apart from a few stiff jerks and quiet groans, Jeremy seemed otherwise fine again.

“I don’t intend to tell him I’m a vampire, Andrew,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes. “And you better keep mum too, got it?”

“Oh, because I’m Mr. Subterfuge, ain’t I?” said Andrew with a snort.

Jeremy paused and gripped his head. “…I can see where this may lead to some difficulties.”

“I’ll try to keep it secret,” said Andrew with a shrug, “but you know me.”

“Yes,” said Jeremy looking nervous. “Just put the curtains down there. I’ll have Olivia take care of them,” he added, pointing to the stone floor in the laundry room. Andrew complied and tried to wipe his dusty hands off on his black jeans.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Andrew eyeing Jeremy anxiously. He only realized now that the curtain-rod had gone completely through Jeremy’s sternum. There was a twin hole through the back of Jeremy’s white shirt as well.

“Bit peaky. And frankly starving,” said Jeremy grimly. “It takes a lot out of me to regenerate like that.”

“You want me to go get food?” said Andrew.

“Would you?” asked Jeremy, looking hopeful.

 “Yeah. Who do you feel like hitting up then?” asked Andrew. “Singh?”

“No, I can’t do Indian on an empty stomach,” said Jeremy with a grimace.

“How about Maarouf?” asked Andrew.

“Yeah. Lebanese would hit the spot,” nodded Jeremy. “Get some lamb kebabs (rare) with rice, falafel, tabouli salad — oh! And get that really good hummus with the pita bread,” said Jeremy eagerly.

Andrew’s face spread in his usual lopsided grin full of chipped teeth. “Yeah, sure, Jer. See you in a bit, eh?”

“Thanks,” said Jeremy.

“No problem. I was hungry, myself,” said Andrew.

“No, I mean thanks for… well, everything. I’ve been feeling a lot… better since you moved in,” said Jeremy.

“No man is an island, Jer,” said Andrew. “I think being around other people is good for you. Even if ‘other people’ is only me.”

“Oh, you’re good company, Andrew,” said Jeremy. “You just listen to rubbish bands.”

Andrew shook his head and grabbed his coat again on his way out the door trying to remember Jeremy’s order. “If that priesty-nutter starts to suspect, he can just watch you eat all that GARLIC and relax,” he mumbled.

Next week: PART TWO: Lodgers

The Night Job

My dear friend Icy got me thinking about England this week. Andrew and Jeremy were characters I'd invented during my short study-abroad at Cambridge. I simply like Andrew for being a large lovable hooligan.  I don't have many characters like that.

Andrew felt himself waking up and fought it. He lost rather quickly. With supreme effort he tried to unglue his eyelids. He blinked red-eyed in the dim light that signified it was the wee small hours of the afternoon. He was suddenly aware that this was not his bed.  It was a familiar bed, and by familiar it didn’t fall into either category of girlfriend or one of his drunken mates. Instead he recognized the leaded windows and oak-beamed ceiling of Jeremy Bates’s house. How the hell had he wound up here? Jeremy was an old friend to be sure, although they hadn’t worked together in ages, but why here? HOW here?

He’d left the bike at the flat, he was sure of that. He couldn’t remember getting on the train last night and taking the Northern Line to Golders Green (that would have involved two transfers!). Nor could he remember stumbling down Finchley Road trying to look sober. That walk would have taken hours at any rate. Had he really gotten THAT pissed last night? That wasn’t like him. Realizing he was fully clothed, Andrew stuck his large clumsy hands in his pockets to look for clues.

 When he pulled out the ring, he remembered. Sasha had left him.

Kicked him out, come to think of it—that was a first. He wondered what protocol was for getting his stuff back. Most of it was Sasha’s and a lot of it wasn’t worth bothering over, but he really wanted his motorcycle helmet, and the commemorative 1966 World Cup Champions mug that had been a gift from his Uncle Arthur. Maybe Jeremy knew how the standard “I’m-really-sorry-and-I-know-you-said-you-never-wanted-to-see-me-again-but-can-I-pop-in-and-get-my-rubbish” transaction went. Did he have to bring a “second?”

He thought more about Sasha and fought back the tears that sprang to his eyes. It wasn’t too hard; he’d had a lot of practice after 36 years.

Unable to go back to sleep, and not sure he wanted to in any case, Andrew wound his way down the narrow staircase. He heard a clattering in the kitchen and made his way towards the large and very old dining table, currently set for one.

Jeremy was in the kitchen, heating up baked beans in a saucepan. Two pieces of bread suffering from third-degree burns were smoking pathetically on a chipped plate. Andrew managed a half-grin. Only Jeremy could have buggered up beans on toast.

“’Morning,” said Andrew by way of greeting.

“Afternoon more like,” said Jeremy kindly in his polished clipped tones. “No —tell a lie — it’s almost evening. Gloaming perhaps?”

“Twilight?” suggested Andrew with a grin.

“Hur hur hur,” answered Jeremy, rolling his eyes

“So…er…uh…”

“You’re going to ask me what happened last night and how you got here,” said Jeremy. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes please,” mumbled Andrew.

“I found you this morning while I was getting the paper. You were at the street corner trying to bash in a postbox. You kept screaming, ‘this bloody thing took my money and won’t give me a Kitkat.’ Sound familiar now?”

“Uh. No.”

“I…well…” Jeremy looked uneasy and suddenly became interested in the caramelizing beans in the saucepan.  “I called Sasha to come and get you… and…” He faded into silence as he poured the beans over the gluten-based charcoal briquettes.

“Yeah. We broke it off,” finished Andrew. He watched Jeremy try to chisel the remainder of his beans out of the pot with a lemon zester.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jeremy.

Andrew frowned. “No you’re not,” he countered. “You never liked her.”

Jeremy had the pained expression of one determined to make a clean breast of it. “She was an illiterate chav with more piercings than brain cells who thought that the greatest contribution to modern civilization was Heinz’s line of microwavable puddings.”

Andrew was shocked and hurt by this statement but one bald fact stood out: “SO AM I!!” he blurted out.

“You’re literate,” sniffed Jeremy taking his sad plate to the dining room.

“Yeah, but I don’t read if I can help it,” said Andrew.

“That’s because you need glasses.”

“And there’s no cause to complain about microwaves when you can’t be fussed to buy one,”

“Nasty horrible things. Ruining food,” muttered Jeremy. He winced momentarily as his tooth came down hard on a petrified bean.  “Well as far as girls go, you’ve done a lot better than Sasha.”

“You’ve never liked any of them, Jer.”

Jeremy seemed loath to admit this and didn’t sound convincing when he said, “Christine. I liked Christine.”

“No you didn’t” snorted Andrew.

“Well her tattoos were spelled correctly at least,” said Jeremy loftily. “So what happened with Sasha?”

Andrew let his head rest on the cool table and said nothing for a minute. “The same reason all the others left,” he said.

Jeremy dabbed at his chin with a napkin for a moment before regarding Andrew. “Ah,” he said softly.

“I just wish one of them would give me a chance,” Andrew said to the table.

“They can’t help it. You mention your line of work to anyone and they all think you’re a loony.”

“Or that I watch too much Torchwood.”

“Torch-what?”

“It’s just a show.”

“On the wireless?”

“No. I keep telling you, Jer. People don’t do shows on the wireless anymore… nor do they call it a wireless,” he added.

“So what did Sasha say?” asked Jeremy, ignoring him.

“She said, ‘How in the hell after all this time can you come out and say such utter plonk? Telling me you were seeing another girl woulda been more honest than this rubbish about bein’ a vampire hunter!’”

“Ouch. So she just thought you were a rake then.”

“Eh?”

“A louse, a cad, a…” Jeremy snapped his fingers, looking for a less-dated word. “ A ‘player’?”

“ Yeah. One of those. I’ll admit it’s a first. Usually they call an ambulance and I’m under surveillance for a few days.”

“Until I fetch you and say you’ve been off your pills.”

“Yeah, we need a new cover story by the way. You don’t look old enough to be my dad anymore.”

“On the contrary— you don’t look young enough to be my son anymore. It’s not my fault you keep aging,” said Jeremy lightly.

“Brother?”

“With this face? I look nothing like you, you ugly sasquatch,” said Jeremy.

“Lover?” joked Andrew batting his eyes.

Jeremy grunted and flashed him an annoyed look. “NO. Call me something else, please.”

“What do you call a vampire that teams up with a vampire hunter?” mused Andrew.

“MENTAL,” was Jeremy’s answer. “Welcome back, partner.”

Andrew didn’t answer; his mind was occupied elsewhere.

“Er… so how much money did I shove into that postbox?”

Happy Hallowe'en!

A special thanks to Tony Noland and Werewolf Mike Murphy. My concept was an entry in the "dullest horror movie" hashtag thread. Tony and Mike sort of ran with it for a few yards. I managed to intercept it and get possession again, but I couldn't have done it without 'em. And now, without further ado, I present

DR. FRANKENSTEIN'S HOUSE OF PANCAKES

“Welcome to Dr. Frankenstein’s House of Pancakes. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have the bottomless pot of coffee.”
“Decaf or regular?”
“What do you think?” came the sarcastic reply.
Stephanie tried to brush off the comment, but it stung. There hadn’t been anything insipid in her question. Why the smart-ass remark? The pained look on her face must have registered with the customer, who put her hands up in supplication.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m having a rough day. It’s my time of the month, and I can be a real bitch,” she added in an undertone.
Three weeks ago, that comment would have meant something very different to Stephanie (and been far too much information.) Now, it only took her a fraction of a second to note the woman’s swarthy side-burns and bushy brows. Ah, werewolf.

Stephanie wrote the coffee on the werewolf’s tab and walked to the kitchen. On the way, she passed a clean fork to the shoggoth who kept dropping his, brought another batch of creamer to the family of villagers (their pitchforks propped up against their chairs), and took back an order of blood sausage which was too cooked for a customer’s liking. The vampire scowled at her as he complained about his breakfast.
“And by too cooked, I mean it’s been cooked. Next time I tell you I want something raw, I’m not using an artful metaphor,” he sniffed. He pulled out a package of Lucky’s and started to light up, when a theatrical throat-clearing made him pause.

Mr. Prometheus, the assistant manager, had materialized from the shadows and was now looming over the vampire’s table. Mr. P raised a gigantic scar-mottled hand to a bright red sign on the wall. It read, “This is a non-smoking establishment. FIRE BAD.” He growled under his throat for emphasis. The vampire turned three shades whiter (until he was nearly translucent) and quietly put the unlit cigarette next to his coffee mug.

“Thanks,” whispered Stephanie, and Mr. P gave her a friendly, if slightly lopsided wink. He was quite well spoken, and very intelligent, but he never revealed it to the customers. They were more inclined to respect him and the staff if he didn’t try to coax them into conversations about Proust. Stephanie had been nervous around Mr. P until the day he had helped her with a difficult crossword puzzle during her lunch break.

She passed Patrick on her way to the kitchen. An anxious gypsy mother was asking what the Igor Special was.
“It’s a tall stack of pancakes: one classic buttermilk, one blueberry, one buckwheat, and one pecan. Comes with an egg and your choice of bacon or scrapple.”
“Oh, I see. A stack made out of different pancakes,” sighed the mother in relief.

Just don’t ask what’s in the scrapple, Stephanie thought, stifling a giggle. Her grin slipped off her face as she walked hip-first through the shiny metal kitchen doors and dropped off the blood sausage.
“I screwed up another one,” she sighed.
“It’th only your firtht one thith week, and it’th Thurthday at that,” said Igor kindly, agitating the hash-browns on the griddle. “You’re getting better, Thtephanie. Don’t worry. You’ll thoon be an exthpert.”
“Thanks,” said Stephanie, making an effort to pronounce her ‘esses.’ After listening to Igor for a while, she had a tendency to pick up his lisp. She picked up a pot of coffee from the line of thermal pitchers, and waited for Igor to hand her a new raw sausage.

Of course, all fry cooks were required by law to wear hair-nets, to prevent unwanted additions to the food. Igor was probably the only fry cook who wore hand and face nets as well. The result looked a bit like an Olympic fencer, wearing dainty crocheted gloves and a greasy apron. The face net had the added advantage of catching run off from the little man’s precipitous small-talk.

She was on her way to drop off the food when a figure ran through the double doors and smashed into her. The blood sausage sailed through the air as the plate dropped and smashed. Hot coffee poured copiously over her work clothes and scalded her and the person in her lap. Stephanie screamed as her assailant scrambled to his knees and blinked at her through his specs.

It was the boss.

She had barely seen Dr. Victor Frankenstein (or ‘Doc’ as the others called him) since she was hired, but she liked him. It was impossible not to like Doc. He was middle-aged and handsome, if a bit on the lanky side. The doc was driven, you could tell by the way he ran the place, but he also cared about his employees. On Stephanie’s first day, when she’d first dressed in her green uniform, in the pocket of her apron was a handwritten note saying, “Welcome to the family!” It had also included some “free meal” coupons that she could use whenever she wanted (which admittedly she had never used since she already got free meals during her shift). Now, with his glasses askew, and his graying hair in his eyes, she couldn't help but think Doc was kind of cute. Then she remembered her ruined uniform and various coffee burns.

“Owwww!” she moaned.
“Uh! I’m s-so sorry, Stephanie,” Doc stammered, as he helped her to her feet. “Oh! You’re…you’re a mess! I’m sorry! Oh dear! This really couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” he moaned. He sounded so distraught that Stephanie’s heart went out to him.
“What’th all thith thillineth?” asked Igor indignantly. He was apparently ignorant that the airborne sausage had landed on his head. He stopped short as he eyed Stephanie’s ruined uniform, and the disheveled Doc. “Mathter Victor? Whath going on?”
“There’s thomething—er, sorry,-- something coming to the restaurant. Something horrible that threatens to undo all we’ve fought to achieve here,” said Doc soberly.
“Villagerth with pitchforkth?” asked Igor, trembling.
“No, they’re at table eight. Incidentally, Stephanie, they could use a refill of water.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“No, you need to change into a fresh uniform first. I’ll see to them.”
“I don’t underthtand, Mathter. What’th tho horrible? What’th coming to the rethtaurant that can dethtroy uth all? It’th not that Van Helthing chap that shot up the plathe with his crothbowth, ith it?”
“No….it’s….” Doc trailed off before he steeled himself.
“He’s here, Doc,” said Mr. Prometheus, standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Who ith?” demanded Igor, now literally hopping mad.
“It’s a food critic,” said Doc in a low quaver.
The others froze. Stephanie gasped in alarm, and the Doc pulled her to him, comforting her in his embrace, but also seeking comfort in it.
“What shall we do, mathter?” asked Igor.
“We’re gonna give ‘em the best damn pecan pancakes they’ve ever eaten, that’s what,” said Stephanie boldy. The Doctor gave her an admiring smile.
“MMMMM…” said Mr. Prometheus, from the doorway.

Happy Halloween!