Willie met the boss in the master bedroom and waited anxiously as Barnabas reviewed his list, crossing off the items of which he did not approve.

"Paper towels. Why would one make towels from paper? Ridiculous." He crossed it off. "Brillo pads? What are those?"

"For scrubbin' the kitchen pots. They're pretty gross."

"You have already asked for a scrub brush, or are you planning to use it once and discard that as well?

"No, it's just that—"

"Logs? Why on earth would you buy logs? You go into the woods and you cut them. Have you even looked in the wood shed?" He crossed off Logs and penciled in Axe followed by a question mark. "Raid? I'm afraid to ask."

"It's just bug killer."

Barnabas crossed it off, remarking that boric acid would be equally effective. "Is there anything else?" Willie looked down and answered softly. "Speak up, boy; don't mumble. What do you need?"

"Food?"

"Oh." The master smirked. "You wish to be rewarded." He looked around at the disarray in his room, which actually looked worse than it did on the previous evening. "And yet, I see nothing which you've accomplished today to merit compensation. I am sorry, but I cannot condone this sort of work ethic."

Willie didn't want to tell the vampire he had worked on his own room before finishing the master's. He took a deep breath before proceeding.

"I'll do better tomorrow, if I can g-get some cleanin' stuff. I can go shoppin' in the morning and work all afternoon."

"And when will you provide my sustenance?" Willie looked puzzled, so the vampire translated, taking a step towards him. "See to my needs?"

"At night." Willie backed away. "A cow, right? Another cow?" Not me.

Barnabas sighed with resignation as he took out his billfold. "I'm far too lenient with you," he said, handing his worker a $100 bill. "I want the remainder returned with all expenditures accounted for. Do you understand?"

"Sure, you mean receipts. And the, uh…?"

"Ah, yes. You may purchase one item of food until you prove yourself worthy of more. You will earn your keep in this house."

"Okay, I mean, yessir."

Barnabas regarded his grimy servant. "You remarked yestereve that we have a bathing room."

"Uh—yeah?"

The master cleared his throat. "You have my permission to use it—at the earliest opportunity."

Willie took the money and stuffed it in his back pocket. The last time he saw a $100 bill, he was using it to snort cocaine at a disco lounge in Panama City.


That night, Willie and his wire-cutter visited the Haskell Dairy Farm where he made off with their prize heifer. He led it to the fence by the edge of the pasture where the vampire met both and commenced his evening ritual.

The servant was excused to return home and prepare for his master's return, whereupon he appropriated logs from the Collinwood shed and attempted unsuccessfully to utilize the parlor fireplace. Even the addition of Barnabas' discarded newspapers failed to ignite the damp wood.

One step from useless, Willie could try the patience of a saint; that's what he was told. An African right off the ship would know how to run a household better than he—at least know how to start a fire. Barnabas was forced to instruct his own servant in the basics of home maintenance. The young man felt, however, that assessment was somewhat unjustified, because he did possess other talents. After all, they wouldn't have any firewood at all if Willie hadn't stolen it.

And why is there a pillow on the front lawn?

Later, the master sat in a high-back wingchair by the roaring blaze and elaborated upon his ambitious restoration plans. Willie chose to sit on the floor, wary of what was living in the upholstered furniture and distracted by the curious cockroach traveling the length of the oblivious vampire's suit jacket.

Eventually Barnabas dismissed his servant, granting him a candle for personal use. Willie grabbed it and made his way upstairs without having to be told twice. He brushed his teeth and followed it with four glasses of water in an effort to fill the gnawing void in his stomach.


He was back in Togo, off the west coast of Africa, sleeping in a grass hut under a tent of mosquito netting. Outside a group of young men laughed at Willie's ineptitude as they built their campfire and proceeded to roast the day's catch over the flame. The smell was irresistible but the young man was too tired to rise from the cot.

From the shadows and the firelight there came a parade of spiders. Big, brown African spiders, marching in a row, they made uncharacteristically loud shuffling sounds as they strode purposefully into his hut, across the dirt floor, under the netting, up the bedpost, under his covers and up his legs. Soon they covered his body and, one by one, began to bite. He tried to brush and smack them away but there was always more; they kept coming, stinging and itching all over. Willie woke up scratching uncontrollably.


Shoulda put a wind-up alarm clock on that list.

Still, he had saved one fake Rolex watch from his adventures in Atlantic City, how many years ago, and that would do for now. Willie washed up the best he could with cold water, a sliver of hotel soap and a sweatshirt substituting for a towel. He downed another quart of water, dressed in clean clothes and armed with $100, drove into the village where he filled the gas tank, and hit the hardware store and the grocery.

All day long, Willie scratched and clawed until his skin was raw, but the handyman was determined to have a successful day. He dusted, wiped, mopped and swept late into the afternoon, frequently reminding himself that a can of Beefaroni awaited him on the kitchen table. Shortly before five o'clock, he rinsed and stored his cleaning supplies and ran downstairs like it was Christmas morning.

He threw open a utility drawer. Then another. Then all of them, followed by the cupboards. SHIT! There was no can opener, and no time to go back to town. He pounded ineffectively at the container with other kitchen tools before tossing it across the room. Minutes before sundown, the servant grabbed his car keys and ran out the service entrance.

Willie knocked tentatively on the kitchen door at Collinwood, then harder when there was no response. He was about to leave when Mrs. Johnson appeared at the entrance.

"Willie Loomis?" She was shocked to see him at the bottom of the steps. "What on earth are you doing back here? You left town."

"No, actually, I didn't. It-It's a long story. I need your help."

She shook her head uncertainly. "You remind me more of my Harry every day. Are you in trouble?"

"No—well, I hope not. It's just—could I borrow a can opener? Please? It's really important."

With an expression of obvious conflict, Mrs. Johnson told the scruffy young man to wait there. He shivered on the doorstep until the housekeeper returned a short time later with an old turn-crank can opener. "Now, take it and skedaddle." She reached down and patted his head, made a face and wiped her hand on her apron. "You need to wash your hair." She closed the door without another word.

He turned and ran down the driveway, tripped and knocked over the trash can, spilling its contents.

Dammit, he was always leaving messes for Mrs. Johnson to clean up. As he scooped the garbage back into the can, his eyes met with an irresistible sight: an apple, only one bite gone, and a half eaten peanut butter sandwich, obviously from David's lunch. Willie shoved the sandwich in his mouth and munched on the apple as he raced back to the Old House.

Barnabas was waiting for him in the parlor when he burst through the service entrance door. A ledger was open on the desk where the vampire sat, experimenting with a new-fangled fountain pen.

"Come here, boy." Willie complied. "Did I not say you are to be at my coffin the moment I arise each evening?"

The servant shrugged. "I dunno," to which Barnabas rose and grabbed him by the throat. "I mean, yessir."

"Where were you?"

"Collinwood. I had to, uh, b-borrow somethin'."

"And eat from a refuse bin?" The vampire pushed him away, and he lost his balance. "That meddlesome housekeeper probably saw you through the window. A member of my household cannot be seen to beg or accept charity; is that clear?"

Willie got back up on his feet. "Yessir."

Barnabas sat at the desk, trusty walking stick by his side, and fountain pen in hand. "I will review your accounts now."

Willie emptied his pockets and dumped a handful of crumpled bills and receipts on the ledger. The vampire gave him a disgusted look and proceeded to decipher their content.

"What is this?"

"Gas. I f-filled up the pickup tr—"

Barnabas whacked the stick across the servant's leg, which caused him to flinch and jump back. The master did not look up. "You did not have permission for that expenditure."

"But I can't—"

"Do not spend my money without leave to do so. And if you move away again, it will be the worse for you." The young man hesitantly stepped back to where he belonged.

Better tell him the rest and get it over with. "I also bought a cage—it was important; we need it to trap rats." Barnabas struck him again. Willie grabbed his leg and inhaled sharply through his teeth, but did not move.

"You are presumptuous. What else have I purchased without foreknowledge?"

Willie thought hard, recalling the list in his mind, and began with trepidation. "One, just one, D-Duraflame log. It's so late when I get to my r-room, and they were on—Owww." His eyes watered as Barnabas hit the same spot.

His master closed the book. "You must learn to plan ahead. Determine what will be the presumable outcome, then the possible one, and prepare accordingly. Our existence depends on it. Do you understand?"

"I think so." Willie felt he would understand better if the boss spoke like a normal person.

I trust you won't make the same mistakes again."

"No…sir."

The vampire produced Willie's canned dinner from the desk drawer. "Since you have already indulged in your meal for today, I will safekeep this for you until the morrow." He rose and donned his wool coat. "Shall we go to work? Tanner's tonight, if you would. I'm famished." He left by the front door.

Willie stared at his Beefaroni, for which he had worked so hard that day, and punched the chair in which his master had sat.

"Willie!"

He left the can opener on the desk, scratched his ribs, and limped out to the truck.