The Narrows(100)

She hung the rosary beads from the doorknocker on the front door. Beside the back door, she slipped the silver crucifix into the rusted eyelet beside the doorframe where Hugh Crawly used to plant an American flag when he was feeling patriotic. She knew vampires couldn’t enter someone’s home unless they were specifically invited, but she wasn’t so sure if that rule applied if the home had previously belonged to the vampire. Better safe than sorry.

There were garlic cloves in the refrigerator. She broke them apart, getting stink on her fingers, and scattered the remnants around all the windowsills throughout the two-story house. Once she’d finished, she deliberated on one final precaution. While arguably the most vital, she did not know if she could actually bring herself to do it.

Stakes. Wooden stakes. You were supposed to drive them through the vampire’s heart.

There were brooms and mops and all sorts of things with wooden handles in the laundry room. It wouldn’t take much effort to whittle the handles into points with a kitchen knife. The hard part, she knew, would be summoning enough courage to actually use the stakes if and when the time came. Could she do it?

She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until a clash of thunder jarred her awake. She was sprawled out on the kitchen floor, a broom handle angled across her lap. The tip of the handle was sharpened to a point and there were curled bits of shaving scattered around the tiles. In her right hand, Brandy still clutched the kitchen knife.

Something was wrong. She felt it in the center of her animal brain.

She got up and checked on her mother, who was still asleep on the sofa in the living room. Rain slammed against the windows and lightning briefly lit up the sky. The lamp beside the sofa dimmed but stayed on.

She went through the house a second time, methodically checking the locks on the doors and windows. In the kitchen, she picked up the telephone to make sure there was still a dial tone in the event she needed to call the police. There was.

With the kitchen lights off so that nothing could see inside, she cleaned up the wood shavings off the floor then shook them into the kitchen trash. Then she systematically lined up the brooms and mop beside the laundry room door like rifles in an armory. Her hands reeked of garlic.

Hungry, she took out a dish of cold chicken from the refrigerator and poured herself a cold glass of milk. In the dark, she sat at the kitchen table and ate. Around her, the house creaked and moaned. The storm was unforgiving.

The epicenter of her animal brain remained on high alert. Her skin tingled. After only a few bites of chicken and a few sips of milk, she broke down, crying silently into her hands. Wake up, she told herself. Wake up, wake up! You’re dreaming. This is all one bad dream. But it wasn’t a dream. The tingling intensified as thunder shook her bones.

She waited, a blood-sense promising her that something would soon happen. The way parents know when something bad has happened to their children…the way twins sense each other’s pain and grief and happiness…the way dogs know when their master is about to arrive home…

All those things.

She waited for her brother.



3



Wearing a pair of rubber gloves, Ben carefully extracted the small bat from the birdcage. The thing struggled futilely in his grasp, its one free wing batting uselessly in the air. High-pitched squawks funneled up from its throat as its blind head bobbed like some windup toy. Even through the gloves, Ben felt the heat radiating off the tiny creature, and the power of its struggle to break free. He held it delicately but firmly.

“Don’t let it bite you,” Shirley said. She seemed calmer now, more like her old self. “Rabies City.”

“Thanks,” Ben grunted.

With Shirley’s assistance, he secured the tracking device to the bat’s back by Velcro bands, tight enough so that it wouldn’t fall off but not too tight as to restrict the bat’s mobility. Shirley switched on the battery-powered GPS and waited for the signal to load.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” Ben asked.

Shirley smiled her grandmotherly smile at him. There was terror in her eyes. “I have no idea, Ben. I really don’t.”

The GPS beeped and a red dot appeared on the screen. A map of Belfast Avenue and the surrounding streets blinked on. The red dot appeared just off Belfast on the map—right where the police station should be.

“Well, look at that,” Ben marveled. “It’s pretty damn accurate.”

Shirley’s hands trembled as she held the GPS. “What now?”

“We let the little fella go,” Ben said, looking around. Rain lashed a small porthole window inlaid in the wall. He went to it, carefully holding the bat in two gloved hands now. Shirley followed him, footfalls nearly silent. Ben shoved the window open several inches, allowing the cold wind to spear through the crack and chill his bones. Rainwater wasted no time spilling over the sill and pooling on the concrete floor.

“Wait a minute,” Shirley said. “Can bats fly in weather like this?”

“I have a feeling this one can,” he said, holding the bat up to the opening in the window. The creature’s tiny head bobbed and its triangular nose sniffed the air. Its little black eyes were like two dollops of oil. “Godspeed, little buddy.”

He released the bat and it took off like a shot into the night.

Shirley held the GPS closer to her face.

“I hope the rain doesn’t wreck the electronics,” Ben muttered, more to himself than to Shirley.