Author's notes: I miss the good old days of watching a movie and not knowing what the hell one of the monsters is supposed to be. Seriously, is Billy a zombie? A ghoul? It's like tootsie pops. The world may never know.
The white picket fence was a far cry from the wrought iron gates of Jerry's youth. For the conveniences of the modern world, he had traded away a thousand cliches. Billy did not struggle to adapt in the least. Jerry's servant, and in some ways his friend had never failed him. Despite his eccentricities, today's conveniences fascinated the creature in such a way that when he was not guarding Jerry's home during the day, he was fastidiously studying the changes that seemed to have appeared overnight.
Sometimes it worked out for the better. There was no limit to the delicacies a simple phone call could provide, and often Jerry would awake to a delightful surprise in his bedroom bedecked in plastic and polyester fineries. Those who traded in fleeting youth for food. The variety these days was astounding.
Then there was the occasional new gadget Jerry would find in the house. He'd made one of his many fortunes when Billy casually invested in one thing or another. The fax machine in their den was a far cry from the broken telegraph parts in the garage from decades past. Billy had lost his knack for creativity centuries ago when he'd died. The semblance of life Jerry granted him through their pact was unable to revive it, but that did not stop Billy from longing. Longing to remember what it was like to dream. He couldn't sleep, after all. A distinct drawback in being a well-preserved shambling corpse.
"Jer," Billy called out in the dark, striding over the rain-slicked lawn, "I think the neighbors are watching."
"So let them watch," Jerry replied, hardly unaware of the young boy next door who'd caught sight of one of the many elaborate coffins Billy had carved for him over the years, "I enjoy a bit of entertainment."