Vespertilio

1. To my husband, Paul: I will never love another. . .

2. To my son, Jeremiah: I have never met anyone who has a purer spirit.

3. To my sister, Anna: Thanks for being my inspiration for this one.

4. To all of the women at work: Thank you for being my sounding boards.

5. To Jennifer: Thank you for insisting that I write another book.

6. To Liz: Thank you for reading this even though you never liked vampires.

Chapter One: Doors

Few things upset me more than uninvited guests showing up unannounced at my front door. That’s why I surprised myself by inviting him in. He looked harmless enough, standing there in a three-piece black suit with a leather satchel in his right hand. Unique Bibles was inscribed on the flap. I’ll admit, I did hesitate a moment before I opened my full-length glass door. But, it was only a momentary pause.

Hello, Ma’am. Could I come in and show you my product? he inquired.

With one eye slightly closed and my smirk-smile fading, What are you selling? I asked.

Unique bibles was his reply.

I already have several. What’s so ‘unique’ about yours? As I half-opened the door, he simultaneously walked in past me and headed toward the kitchen table. I thought I caught a whiff of something terribly unpleasant, but it passed so quickly I shook it off. It couldn’t have been him. No one smelled like that and was still upright. Instinctively, I followed behind him a little too closely to see if the cloud of decay was again detectable. It wasn’t, so I sat across the table from the salesman and chocked the scent up to a dead possum or racoon somewhere just out of sight in the forest surrounding my home. I immediately crossed my arms. It was a not-so-subconscious gesture aimed at letting him know I was not going to be an easy sell.

While he went about the business of unpacking his wares, I studied the stranger sitting in front of me. Nearly everything about him was just a little off—like the suit; while I could detect no obvious signs of dirt anywhere, I was convinced it was not clean. It was older than it had initially appeared, worn, and somewhat out-of-place. Perhaps it was the thin line of black under the tip of his pale fingernails that gave me the unclean feeling. There was also a slight, brown smudge on his lower left shirt sleeve that peeked out from the jacket like a one-eyed turtle sizing up the situation. It was subtle, and most people wouldn’t have noticed. But most people weren’t like me—a single woman living alone in the country, on a secluded road without visible neighbors. Girls like me become masters of observation, a necessary trait for preservation.

I next found myself studying his lips; once again, something was slightly off. They were just a little too red. I envied that a tat. Without paint and polish, my features kind of blended in to the background. Yet, his face was clearly defined. I even temporarily wondered if he had applied some eyeliner to highlight his dark, inviting eyes. Then, I realized it was some very thick eyelashes causing the illusion. It was almost as if he had been a Vaudeville performer who had just walked off the stage and quickly removed his make-up leaving a hint of it behind. And that was it, I thought. There was a hint of something there, but I wasn’t sure what.

The spell was broken as he let out a little groan. It was odd and out of place, but I couldn’t help but notice that it matched what I was feeling at that moment. There was a definite tingle in my groin. It was as if he had sensed what my body was doing and responded with the sound that I wanted to make. I was embarrassed and readjusted myself on the chair. I was keenly aware that my heart was throbbing between my legs, and that made me even more uncomfortable. On the other hand, he seemed to be completely relaxed. A smile formed on his face as he tilted his head up toward me. It was the smile that lovers exchange when they find themselves in the company of others and aren’t at liberty to say what they are thinking. I blushed. I know I did, because I could feel the heat welling up in my cheeks. Obviously, I needed to get laid. It had been too long since my last tryst. Hell, this guy had barely spoken to me and all I wanted to do was ride him like a wild stallion. Instinctively, I bit my lip. He grinned, again. But this time, I saw his hand disappear under the table. And while I couldn’t see a thing, I knew he was stroking himself. I imagined him in my mouth as my tongue hungrily massaged every square inch of his pulsating penis. Sweat began forming on my upper lip. I reached up to wipe it away. The motion jolted me back to reality, again. This is bad, I said to myself. It’s like fucking the preacher; hell had a special place for sinners like me. He was a bible salesman, for Christ’s sake!

I had to get control of myself, so I hopped up and made my way to the sink. I filled a glass with water from the faucet. After I downed half of it, I turned and offered him one. That simple action was enough to reset my moral compass. I stood there a moment and shook my head. What the hell had just happened? I went from critically evaluating his appearance to nearly succumbing to animalistic lust in less than a thought. I had been attracted to men before, and in all honesty, I had been this sexually attracted to men before. However, it had never happened quite so quickly. Lust for me had always been a building game—one that started with a spark and after fanning the embers for a decent amount of time (and over the course of several dates), slowly built up to a roaring fire. There had been nothing decent about what I had been thinking about doing to him, and definitely nothing decent about what I wanted him to do to me. I stood with my back to the sink trying to garner enough strength to resist. When I looked at him, it was as if I could feel his hands caressing my breasts. I glanced down at my nipples which were poking out of my shirt. Shit! Lascivious thoughts were coursing through my brain. I had a sudden flash of him entering me (forcefully) right there on the oak table. Somehow, I literally willed the glass to my lips and took another sip. The coolness of the water quenched my salacious appetite for the moment. Whatever was happening was hard to wrap my head around. I WANTED him—as much as I had ever wanted anyone in my life. This was insane! Who was he? What was he?

I told myself that I would have to be careful around this being—whatever he was. Not that I believe in the supernatural, mind you, but this. . . he. . . was something else. After I dispensed some ice in his glass, I slowly made my way over to where he sat. Carefully, I handed it to him without making contact with his skin. And while I was never really sure if what I saw next was real, I could have sworn that the water briefly boiled.

Chapter Two: Sinister

He wasn’t a nice man. And, he knew it. He had spent the last 50 years perfecting his rouse. In the beginning, no one would have accused him of blatant malevolence. But even then, his behavior was immoral, not that he concerned himself with such notions. He just was. He had long since given up hope of recollecting how he had gotten here or where he had been before. All he knew was this; he existed, and he found his state of being wholly gratifying at this point and in this time. He liked taking what he wanted. He enjoyed, no relished, the seduction. And, he had no qualms about devouring his prey—even the young ones. Truthfully, the young ones were his favorite. Yeah. They were definitely the object of his most sadistic desires. While he couldn’t really say this particular predilection was his finest strength, he didn’t really care that it was his most despicable attribute, either.

Thinking about his chosen profession, Bible Salesman, always brought a sinister grin to his lips. Man, had he ever struck the fucking jackpot when he came up with that malignant, little idea. Who would have thought that he would be a purveyor of the Good Book? He let out a diminutive giggle. There might have been a time when such an evil thought would have had him penitent; but, that time had long since passed—if it had ever even existed at all. Now, such oppressive thoughts brought him pleasure. And, he liked pleasure, a lot. In fact, there were several things he liked a lot, like her.

He had been watching her for weeks. She wasn’t ravishingly beautiful or even acutely innocent (which were his usual lures), but she was appealing in her own right. Primarily, it was her scent. She smelled strongly of musk; it was not something she got out of a bottle. It was something that oozed out of her pores. Some humans just had it in abundance, and she reeked of it. She stank of it. And, he couldn’t help but sniff the air where it lingered for hours after she went inside. Oh, he would have her; there was no doubt. But, he would take his time with this one. When (and only when) everything was just right, would he strike. . . And, she would beg for him to stop. He especially liked it when they begged. Bless her heart, he thought, she doesn’t stand a chance.

He knew the time for revelation would come; until then, he busied himself controlling the variables. With his interest piqued, the stalking began. Every night she arrived home between 5:45 and 6:00 pm. Every night she closed the blinds within minutes of entering the house. And every night, she ate some tasteless thing—alone —in the living room—with the TV on some home-improvement channel. What was her obsession with fixer-uppers? From what he observed, her house needed no repairs. It was a very adequate dwelling in his opinion; at least it was a damn sight better than where he hung his hat. Well, he didn’t actually own a fedora, but if he did, . . . He stood there in the night air, thinking, and planning how he was going to savagely consume her. Every night the narrative slightly changed. In some of the scenarios, he forced himself in—first in the house—and then, in her. Once, he pictured a softer approach, but that left him angry and shaking his head. He didn’t want for her to derive any satisfaction out of the event. He wanted to possess her, own her, strip her of her very soul. Yeah. That was it. He wanted to completely fuck her up and leave nothing in the wake.

When he took a moment to let that charming concept settle in his blood-thirsty brain, he realized her light was out. She had fallen asleep. You could set your Rolex by that Cunt, he mumbled. By 11:00 pm, she was fast asleep. How apropos, he thought. Eleven o’clock just happened to be his favorite time to hunt. As he eased up to her bedroom window (something he did religiously and with prejudice), he drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He ran the tip of his tongue over the point of his sharp, canine teeth and simultaneously rubbed the front of his bulging pants. Your time is coming, Bitch; your time is coming.

Chapter Three: Choices

Truthfully, the moment I let him inside the house, he had a sale. I just wanted to order something so that he would have to come back. I needed to see this creature, again. So, I milled about for a while and feigned interest in some of the books he had lain out before me including a reference text or two. The one I finally settled on was a Wycliffe version of the Holy Bible with Apocrypha included. I seemed to remember from my college course on The New Testament that Apocrypha were religious writings that were deemed too controversial to be included in the King James version. Surely, it couldn’t hurt to read some of these, I thought. Taking it in my hands, I wasn’t sure if it was the added passages or the feel of the cover that was off-putting, however, and I put it down nearly as quickly as I had picked it up. Something about it made me feel almost queasy. Were it not for the handsome black leather binder and gold-foil initials on the cover, I might have second-guessed my choice. But, I had an ulterior motive: from what I could see, it was the only one that would have to be embossed, meaning he would have to return once it was personalized for me. So, I whipped out my checkbook and starting writing.

He was pleased with her choice. It’s the one he wanted her to make. Each one of his volumes had been manically altered. The ink in the red-letter issues had been mixed with the blood of slaughtered sheep—imperceptible, to even the most discriminating olfactory glands, but a pungent bouquet to him. Amulets were hidden in some of the texts. But the one she had selected was the foulest of the foul. She was so easy, he thought. Maybe she wasn’t going to be much of a challenge after all. Her obvious reaction upon touching the goat-skinned book was nearly palpable. At first, he was concerned that she might reject it, and if that were to happen, this visit was going to end very differently. He could rip her to shreds in an instant. Granted, a vicious attack that he was envisioning had its merits. This time, and with this one, however, he needed more. He wanted it to last. He suspected the engraving had sealed the deal.

To whom should I make it out? I said, trying to impress him just a little. I had hoped he’d notice that I purposely didn’t end the question with preposition (like every English teacher I have ever met had drilled in my head). Then, I felt a tad embarrassed to think that he might care about such a thing. I mean I did, but why?

Samuel Tariq, he replied, and then added T-A-R-I-Q spelling it out before I could ask.

It wasn’t his real name, and the way it rolled off his hypersensitive