Ah, my father. A full two heads taller than the tallest man in the valley, with the same golden skin and black hair with which he’d gifted my mother. But where she moved with the lightness and joy of a creature which knows itself to be beautiful, to be loved, his amber eyes were dulled with the deep pain of a lifetime of despair. He flinched from mirrors, even turning his head before ducking through the waterfall, lest he see himself reflected in a smooth expanse of water. And although he delighted in my mother’s gaze, he could not bear to be seen by another living creature, other than me.

I understood his revulsion, though I never understood why he applied it to himself. So many times I sat beside that deep pool, under the waterfall, willing waves and foam and broken twigs to obscure my face. I loathed my smooth, pale skin, the regular curve of my lips and brow. I despised my fleshy pinkness, and longed for my mother’s spare elegance. And her scars. Oh, her scars. That silvery network that highlighted her rounded cheekbones and knife-straight nose, gleamed from her high, perfect breasts, accentuated the length of her fingers.

The scalpel eased the pain. I took it from my father’s workshop, and concealed it in the basket I carried to the weekly market in the valley. It nestled there, under the list my mother had written in her slanting, fluid hand. It tugged at me, so that halfway home, I thanked the farmer who’d allowed me to ride in the back of his truck (my father had warned me never to ride in the cab) and hopped out onto the road. I waved gaily, until he disappeared around a turn, then ran into the trees. I nearly tipped my mother’s fabric and spices into the dirt, in my haste to reach the steel blade hidden beneath.

It was more difficult than I’d expected. The sharp edge dimpled my skin at first, without cutting. I imagined myself cutting the tough skin of a passion fruit, and suddenly, bright blood welled around the gleaming steel, and dripped onto the earth. I wiped the scalpel carefully, tucked it back into the basket, and waited until the bleeding stopped to straighten my clothing and step back into the road.

That night, and every night until it healed, I rubbed the wound with a rough cloth, to keep it from healing smooth. The scar faded from an angry red, through a pale pink, and finally to that silver gleam of my parents’ scars.

One day, I’ll ask my father to remake me, as he remade my mother. He has the notebooks – the ones he took from his creator and puzzled out, over the long years. Time means little to him. One raised from the dead, as he was, may never truly die. But I was born, rather than made, and I don’t have that luxury. All that stops me is the sure knowledge of how badly it will hurt him. He wants so much to be like me. So, for now, I wait. And when the longing grows too strong, I tuck the scalpel into my market basket and mark myself as they are marked. I keep the scars hidden, for now, but onne day, I’ll wear them as proudly as my mother wears hers.

You’re thinking it’s some weed dealer’s apartment, right? It is so much better than that.

On Tuesdays there’s a troll. He hides out in the country somewhere usually, farther even than the airport in Moon Township. He comes here to get his mail and talk to the proprietors — all forty of them — and I know that because when I discovered the secret apartment it was Tuesday and there was a Whole Foods paper bag full of envelopes on the floor. I stole it.

Look, I know what you’re doing with your face right now and you need to stop judging me. Like I said, there are forty of them and they’re all thieves — they come out at all hours of the day and night, and they scatter across the city of Pittsburgh to take your stuff. They grab grocery bags out of your trunk, slip into your pocket for credit cards and IDs, and cycle away on your improperly locked bikes. All this for trolls and who knows what else. So I bet you want to /thank/ me for taking that mail.

I don’t know how much longer I can evade them, now that they’ve spotted evidence of an intruder. But I’m here to find out what happens on Wednesdays.

/Open sesame./

He waved off the bong the next time it came around. It was only his first time smoking and already he felt odd, disconnected and more cool than he had ever been. It was passed on to the next person in the circle with a laugh. There was a delay before his own voice joined the cackling that echoed up and down the empty beach. The laughter faded to soft giggles separated into small clusters around the fire. He was alone is his little section but that was something he was used to, a feeling that was comforting in this odd situation, where people invited him places.

He looked out toward the water, watching the shadows that played upon the surface as clouds moved above, obscuring the full moon. He turned back to the people around him, tried to pick out individuals in the combination of dying firelight and hidden moon. They had invited him to drink and smoke with them on the beach for the same reason they had locked him in lockers and stuck his head in toilets for years. He couldn’t make out specifics, they were all fuzzy. He giggled, quiet and to himself. They looked like blurry people-shapes.

Like the photos his father had up in his store and at home.

The ones of Bigfoot.

He giggled again. They all looked like Bigfoot. They all looked like his father’s crazy obsession, an obsession that made his whole family into pariahs, the reason he feared school and his sister had left as soon as she was old enough. He got postcards every month from New York, they didn’t have Bigfoot sightings there.

Slowly his laughter petered out and he looked back to the water. Even the shadows out there looked people-shaped, everywhere he looked he saw images of Bigfoot. Well, why shouldn’t he be like everyone else in town? Bigfoot sightings were on the rise, nebulous shapes in the night, missing pets, a horrible lingering smell, all of a sudden everyone had a story about their run-in with the missing link and all of a sudden he was the most popular kid in town. He had the inside scoop, the family knowledge. Except, he didn’t really, he had done his best to distance himself from the myth that ruled his father’s life. Despite this he was the boy of the hour, invites to all the parties, flirting from the prettiest girls (and boys). It was everything he had ever wanted but it felt odd, hollow.

No one was talking to him.

He was surrounded by people yet felt as alone as ever and the thought wasn’t as comforting as it had been a moment ago. His stomach roiled and he wrapped his arms around it. It was probably the weed. And the vodka.

He heard the retching all around him. He didn’t understand. Why was everyone throwing up? This wasn’t what MTV had told him beach parties were like. Then he registered the smell. It smelled like…rotting fish. He looked back at the ocean, a dark shape was rising from the surf.

Someone else spotted it and let out a scream. Suddenly there was movement all around him, people jumping up, running back to their cars, dragging along or carrying friends who were too wasted to react quickly enough.

No one grabbed him.

He tried to rise and gained his feet but immediately began to fall back down. Arms caught him. They felt wet and rough through his clothing. He was being carried, a hand under his knees, another under his back. He took in a breath to scream but the smell overwhelmed him and he began coughing. A hard hand, with what felt like claws on the fingertips, rubbed soothing circles on his back. He looked up into entirely black alien eyes in a face covered in scales so dark a green they almost matched the eyes. Gills on either side of the neck opened and closed, revealing white-yellow insides.

Slowly he reached up and put his arms around the creature’s neck, careful of the gills. The scales scraped his arms. The creature opened its mouth, exposing three rows of needle sharp teeth. He thought it was a smile so he gave one in return. Wetness crept up his legs as the creature continued into the water. The weed and vodka still churned in his stomach but he could get used to the smell.

The ringtone was Greig. The number, unknown. He let it ring out a few more bars of digitized classical before grudgingly answering.

Or trying to answer. The person at the other end of the line must have heard breathing, and jumped right into a conversation. “Mr. Dracula? Hi, Ed Collins, from the homeowner’s association. Sorry to call you so early in the morning. Is now a bad time?”

He should have hung up, but he was acutely aware of proper manners, and he held on. “No,” he said. “No, now is fine.”

“Excellent. Look, Mr. Dracula, I’m afraid I’m calling with rather… unfortunate news, so I’ll just get right to it. The association has amassed quite a list of grievances regarding Carfax Abbey. Your property has only deteriorated since you assumed ownership. Now, I don’t know how you did things in the Carpathians, but here we do things according to the sensible rules and regulations outlined in the homeowner’s agreement. You signed that agreement, sir.”

Ah. The agreement. His real estate agent, Jonathan Harker, had brought that packet of insensibilities to him and urged him to sign. He had read over every clause and block of small print—it was an exercise in rulemaking, nothing more—and signed it only because he needed to in order to move in.

“I do not recall signing any such agreement,” he tried.

“I’m looking at your signed copy now.”

He caught himself clutching his cellphone too tight. He heard the casing crack, and relaxed his grip. He couldn’t afford to anger the phone company again. Their evening rates were far too reasonable. He sighed away the frustration and said, “What sort of grievances…?”

Papers rustled. “Do you mind if I go down the list?” Collins said, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He brought up things like rusted ironwork and mildewed stone, power washing services and resurfacing companies, chipped paint, cobwebbed windowpanes, and improperly stored garbage bins fully visible from the street. Also, the trees were too dead and the grass was too alive, which seemed the greatest point of consternation for Collins.

“There is nothing wrong with my lawn.”

“Seriously? Mr. Dracula, your lawn is, frankly, a mess. It’s grown well over the six inch height limitation imposed by the association. Neighbors have noted men—possibly gypsies—unloading boxes of earth at Carfax Abbey, but no landscaping seems to have been done. This situation needs to be remedied. Immediately. People are worried about their property values going down, and we’re trying to uphold a certain aesthetic here in the neighborhood. Your home is… well, it’s clashing, sir.”

“Clashing…?” He took a look out the window. His lawn was nearly three times over the association’s limit, and full of dandelions. Then he glanced across the street. “My neighbor,” he said as levelly as possible, “has replaced his front lawn with lava rocks.”

“Yes, sir. Very chic, sir.”

“His ‘lawn’ is filled with stone animals. Are those also… chic?”

“Sir, we’re not talking about your neighbor’s property. We’re talking about Carfax Abbey. But yes, the animals are chic. The gargoyles you have peering down from the roof? Not so much.”

He sighed again. Perhaps it was too early to listen to Collins. “I am afraid,” he said, trying to be as charming as possible, “that I have disappointed the association. That I have disappointed you. Perhaps you can come to my home this evening and we can discuss… solutions… in more detail. I will have a dinner prepared for you.”

He could hear Collins thinking about it. “I don’t see why not. I’ll be over at seven.”

“Excellent,” he said, and he turned off his phone. He would deal with the homeowner’s association later. But for now, the sun was shining. It was well past his bedtime.

© Andrew Kaye

Although slowly, I’m finally starting to feel my face. Weird bearded man is coddling my hair with a brush. He puts it into a bucket, then coddles me again. He talks with a weird accent. I can recognize only every seventh word.
I’m feeling kind of wet. Sticky liquid is slipping down my face. It’s dark and I can’t move. I don’t understand anything, but I’m alive. With an end of my wet eye, I can see skeleton standing by my side. He makes me want to throw the golden coins, that I’m holding in my hand, at him.
“You can’t buy me over”, I keep hearing someone’s whisper.
I’m noticing the skeleton is not moving. Perhaps we’re in the same trouble. He doesn’t have a scallop and his legs are also standing incorrect. He holds my hand pretty tight.
The fear starts to slack. Voices are swimming away, while chemicals evaporate from my body. I must be seriously sick.
Through the whole in the wall, a glimpse of light is breaking in. I can see Christ in his agony on Golgota. I ask him what the hell is happening. What am I doing here? He doesn’t answer, or moves. I watch him pretty long. Not a blink.
I can hear the doors squeaking. A pile of men watches me with a content pose on their faces. What the hell is this? Twelve apostles?
“This year has been very fruitful”, a voice travel through my ears, “so, cheers to you all”. Pleasant essence is spreading across the air. I can hear munching and teasing. The room is getting brighter.
Christ is still suffering on Golgota and I can also see his baptism in Jordan. Just a moment, let me think. How can he bee in two different places at the same time? And, isn’t he already dead?
Scary skeleton keeps holding my hand. Harder and harder. He gives me creeps. I think I’m completely insane. I try to look around, but my neck is totally blocked.
I’m waiting. Golden coins in my hand are getting heavier and heavier, but I can’t find the strength to let them go.
From time to time, a bunch of people fills the room. One of them stands right in front of me, so I can see his face clearly, while the rest of them are turning their backs on me. They are singing and yapping for a while, then they proudly leave the room. I don’t know why. Why don’t they save me? I’m alive.
On their way out, some of them are watching me with compassion, but they just can’t look me in the eye. They are much more interested in Christ and his eternal agony. They seem to be afraid of me, almost like I remind them on themselves.
The time is slowly floating by my side. I don’t know who am I. I think I have an amnesia. From time to time, a part of my face or clothes falls of. I’m not sure, but I think humidity is chousing it.
I rarely sleep. Even when I manage to close my eyes, the ticking of camera wakes me up. I find that very disturbing. They take photos of me, while they could be rescuing me. I’m turning into the eighth world’s wonder. Rotten wonder.
A few times I’ve heard them laughing at me, so I’ve decided not to listen them anymore. But that day one of them was speaking horribly loud.
He was watching me and explaining: “This is the dance of the dead. The skeletons symbolize death. They guide people to the graves, first they take the representatives of church and secular authorities, then the barkeeper, a child, a beggar, a soldier and a merchant”.
The crowd is staring at me and approving with their heads. Very rhythmical and trained.
Mr. Know it all continues to sizzle: “This procession ends with an anecdote. Look at the merchant that is trying to buy over the death with his golden coins. But, uncompromising death take his hand and navigate him straight into the tomb.”
While the sounds of hand clapping are spreading through the air, and I’m being showered with light shocks, only one thing is passing through my brain. If I even have one.
“I’m a mural on the wall.”
And the skeleton next to me giggles. And giggles…