Although he was hardly known for being fashion conscious, the following morning Willie carefully chose what would be the last outfit he would ever wear. Not that anyone would find his body. Still, it mattered, so he made sure his socks and underwear were clean and his jeans had no holes. He donned the Grateful Dead tee shirt, even though it was old and threadbare, because it was his favorite, and topped it off with a zippered hoodie.
Time to implement Plan B. Step 1: Find Maggie Evans. Willie headed for the door and flipped the locks, but it wouldn't budge. Again, it had been secured from the outside and, again, the young man popped it free with a card, but this time it didn't work. He tried tripping it with his switchblade and jimmied the keyhole. What the hell?
There was no way Barnabas sneaked up and installed a slide bolt in the middle of the night. Willie decided the vampire was just messing with his head to make him think it was locked. He could do stuff like that.
Well, guess what, Barnabas, I'm gettin' outta here, 'cause I'm the Harry Houdini of vampire slaves. Oh, I'm sorry, was my mental door closed? Let me open it and say that again, then I'm gonna break outta here too.
Willie picked up the fire poker and proceeded to pound out the pins to take the door off its hinges.
Go 'head and kill me, I don't care; but you don't get the girl. I'm gonna rescue Maggie Evans, and you can't stop it.
Very well. You will have to gain access to her first, and there are many obstacles.
You're on, coffin boy.
Willie cautiously descended the stairs to the first floor, checking for roadblocks and booby traps. The house was damp and quiet except for the sound of thunder and pouring rain outside. On a normal day he would be tending the leaky roof, strategically placing buckets among the guano in the rafters. He noticed the front door ajar and closed it as he passed. Every damn door in this house was in lockdown except that one.
The door to the basement was also secured. Undaunted, Willie went around back to the servants' staircase and got through that door, again by dismantling the hardware, but the one at the bottom of the stairs leading to the kitchen was also bolted, and its hinges were located on the wrong side. Unfortunately, all of his tools were on the worktable in the basement, right next to the "His" and "Hers" coffins.
Back upstairs to rethink the situation with the first door. As Jason would say, things were indeed hopeless, but they were not serious. The boy unsuccessfully jimmied the keyhole, which meant there was a lock on the other side of this one too, but there was also a decorative window. Willie busted out the glass, and with a wire hanger reached inside and began the tedious task of manipulating the slide bolt sight unseen.
Hours later, he had accomplished nothing. The hanger was too flimsy and broken glass sliced up his jacket sleeve—and his stomach was grumbling. He pounded on the door in frustration, and the sound echoed into the corridor. No, that was different pounding. Someone was at the front door. Willie reluctantly left his task to find a slightly soggy Victoria Winters on the front porch.
"Christ, what do ya want?" he snapped in a tone reminiscent of the old Willie Loomis.
"I'm sorry if I bothered you," said Vicki, taken aback by his abrupt attitude. "I'm heading into town to report that the storm knocked out our power. I just wanted to check in to see if Mr. Collins was alright…"
"Yeah, he's fine. Know why? Because we never have any power." He started to close the door when Vicki stopped him.
"And you left your truck open."
In the driveway sat his abandoned truck, both cab doors were gaping wide. Ignoring the proffered umbrella, he ran out, dodging raindrops, to close the doors and retrieve his keys, still in the ignition. The floor was flooded and the seats were soaked. The young man hoped the battery wasn't dead as he sprinted back to the porch, shaking out his shaggy hair like a dog.
"Thanks, Vicki. Sorry I was—ah, shit, I'm havin' a bad day."
"So I see."
"I'll tell Mr. Collins you came by. He ain't home now; he's at work." She took note of Mr. Collins' employee, the one everyone whispered about, as he stood there dripping, disheveled and a little desperate. He certainly didn't look like her idea of a "kept" man. Not a well-kept one, at any rate.
"What happened to your sleeve?" she asked, pointed to his left arm. "Look, you're bleeding."
"It's nothin'. A—window broke. I was cleanin' it up." The handyman picked a fragment of glass from his forearm. "No big deal."
"I have Band-Aids in my purse; let me see," The governess reached for his arm, but Willie pulled away.
"I said drop it," he growled, causing her to step back in surprise. "Look, I gotta go. The roof's leakin'."
"Goodbye, Willie." She replied uncertainly. "Take care of yoursel—" He had already closed the door.
A glob of mud went splat on the parlor window. Then another. That was followed by a stone that didn't break the glass but cracked it.
Son of a bitch.
Willie threw open the front door and yanked David out from behind a pillar. Taking advantage of Miss Winters' absence, he had taken off in the storm in search of mischief.
"Get the hell outta here, kid; I don't have time for you today."
"No," the child replied defiantly. "I know what you and Cousin Barnabas are doing, and I'm telling."
Willie grabbed his arm. "What do ya know? What are ya talkin' about?"
"Stop, you're hurting me!"
Willie released the boy. "Sorry." Of course it hurt. That's how Barnabas would grab him, throwing his servant around like a sadistic toddler with a ragdoll. He escorted David into the foyer and closed the door. "So, tell me what ya think ya know."
"I know Josette is in here somewhere, Sarah too, and you won't let me visit them anymore. It's not fair."
Willie breathed a sigh of relief. "You're right, it's not fair, but I don't make up the rules, and neither do you." He reached for his jacket from the rack inside the door and realized it was still downstairs in the wine cellar, so he pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt instead. "Get in the truck, and I'll drive you back. You can play the radio—wait, it's all wet inside."
David looked around the room, then pointed to Barnabas' Inverness coat on the rack.
"Sure, why not?" Willie grabbed the cloak and used it as a seat liner.
The car's battery was intact and eventually the engine kicked in. Willie nervously tapped the steering wheel as the windshield wipers beat out of rhythm with the Christmas carol playing on the radio, which, in turn, was out of rhythm with David banging his head against the passenger window.
But the truck's tires were hopelessly stuck in the mud. David slid over to the driver's seat while Willie got out and pushed. The young boy had a great time pumping the gas pedal and revving the motor, but the rear tires only spun themselves deeper in the mire, and Willie got covered in mud.
"Forget it. I'll walk ya home."
"But I'm having fun."
"Get outta the truck."
David laughed. "You're a mess, Willie."
"I know."
The handyman pulled up the hood on David's mackintosh and they trekked through the woods, where the trees offered some slight shelter from the rain. On the journey, the child, without warning, grabbed a branch from the forest floor and began furiously beating a nearby log.
Everybody in this family is a fuckin' nutcase.
"Watch this." Willie picked up another stick and hurled it as far as he could. David followed suit and tossed his as well, and they continued to walk.
"Ya know, they told me at Collinwood what a trouble-makin' piece of shit you were," the servant remarked casually. "But I didn't believe 'em."
"Why not? My father says I'm evil, and so does Carolyn."
"They don't understand ya like I do. People get bad reputations sometimes they don't deserve. Now that's gonna piss 'em off, and they start actin' like people expect them to. Ya know what I mean?"
"I guess so. Is that what happened to you, Willie?"
"Nah, I got a bad rep 'cause I earned it."
"Were you a trouble-making piece of shit?"
"Still am. That's how come I know one when I see it."
They cut across the terrace and headed for the front door of Collinwood.
"If I promise to stay away from the Old House, will you come over and play with me sometime?"
No, kiddo, 'cause I'm gonna be dead. "I don't really get a day off. Anyway, you should have friends your own age; stop hangin' out all the time with grownups."
"Willie, you're not a grownup."
The handyman laughed. "I'm s'pposed to be."
"Do you have any friends your own age?"
"Not anymore, but when I was a kid like you, I had lots, and one of 'em was even named David. And there was Denny and Joey Jellydonuts—his real name was Francis Joseph Cassidy, but ya didn't call him that unless you wanted a punch in the nose."
He hoisted up David so he could bang the knockers on the front door. Roger answered, ineffectively waving a flashlight, and Willie scowled at the boy's crummy parent. "Pay some attention to your kid once in a while, Mr. Collins, before somethin' bad happens to him."
Roger regarded the young man with a heavy lidded stupor. "Are you threatening me, Loomis?" he queried indignantly.
"No, sir. It's a warnin'."
Willie stifled a laugh when he overheard David yell at his father as the door closed, "I am not a trouble-making piece of shit; you are!"
More than anything, Willie wanted to run around back to the kitchen entrance, scrounge a bite to eat and wash up, but Mrs. Johnson would want to yak, and there was no time for that. The overcast sky gave no indication, but the young man knew it was late. He paused briefly by the terrace fountain to rinse the mud from his face and hands, and raced home.
Back inside the Old House, Willie could hear the water dripping in upstairs as he invaded the master's bedchamber to pilfer a wooden hanger. This had to work, he thought, breaking off the bottom rung so it would fit through the tiny window.
The attic was probably flooded. There would be a friggin' mess upstairs by tomorrow, but too bad, because if Willie was dead, he wouldn't have to deal with it. And he wouldn't have to cater to that selfish bastard any more, working 15 hours a day, every single, goddam day. The vampire never talked to him except to bark orders or criticize. Never paid him a dime. Made him beg for food like a dog. All Willie ever got in return was beaten and bitch slapped. Now this shit. Willie slammed against the slide bolt with the wooden hanger. Afterwards he could ram it into the master's heart.
The light grew dimmer as the day waned, and Willie still had a lady to rescue. If only there hadn't been so many damn interruptions. Seriously, if one more person knocked at that door…
There was a knock at the door. Willie grabbed the fire poker and stomped to the front entrance. Two clean-cut, smiling young men in suits stood on the porch.
"Good afternoon, sir, have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?"
"Get the fuck outta here!" Willie swung the poker and brought it down where the frightened gentlemen had stood a second before. They tripped over each other scrambling down the steps back to their car.
Got it.
Willie pushed the bolt back with his coat hanger and the door swung open. He ran downstairs to the basement, not sure what the next plan of action should be, since the truck was incapacitated, and he hadn't counted on Step 1 taking the whole damn day.
"Maggie!" He ran toward the wine cellar, past the two coffins, and stopped dead in his tracks. The lid of his homemade casket was up. It was lined with a quilted coverlet and inside, under the wool blanket, laid his damsel in distress.
"Maggie." He stroked her face and brushed her hair aside to see if there were fresh puncture wounds on her neck. The woman's skin was cold, but it wasn't dead cold, it was human sleeping all day in the basement cold. Her hand shot up and seized his wrist as she opened her eyes. For a second there was a glimmer of recognition, then it faded.
"Hello," was all she said, and pushed his hand away.
"Are you okay? Can you get up?" He whispered. "C'mon, I'll help ya—" Willie was grabbed from behind and tossed aside.
"Allow me." Barnabas approached his bride's coffin and extended his hand graciously. "Good evening, Josette. I hope you rested comfortably."
"Yes, Barnabas," she alighted as gracefully as one can while getting out of a coffin. "But I am not accustomed to this damp weather. I prefer it to be…" she searched for the correct word, "chaud? As in Martinique."
She spoke with a strange accent. Willie had been to the French Caribbean and that wasn't how the natives sounded. Then again, she wasn't really Josette, she only thought she was—or, by virtue of her recently acquired knowledge and high school French, pretended she was. But the woman looked stunning in a deep blue velvet gown, although it was slightly wrinkled and her hair was slightly mussed.
Josette felt inside the coffin and produced the diamond necklace Barnabas had previously given to her. Ignoring Willie, she allowed the vampire to attach the clasp in the back. She didn't look like she particularly wanted to be rescued.
"My deepest apologies," Barnabas said. "I shall take you upstairs and build a fire as soon as we have concluded our task at hand."
"I-I can do that," Willie ventured uncertainly. "Build the fire."
"Indeed," the master responded sardonically. Now you would like to helpful." the master clamped his hand on Willie's shoulder. "Would you like to try obedient? And respectful?"
"But I d-didn't do anythin' wrong. Not really. I mean, I'll fix the window."
"A heartfelt apology would have been the appropriate response, but the time for that has passed. You are a coward and a cretin." Barnabas pushed him toward the work table, from which the tools had been removed and in plain view lay Willie's razor strop.
Willie turned to run as the vampire nabbed him by the hood. In a flash, the young man wriggled out of his jacket but his escape route was blocked. He darted under the table and scrunched up tight against the wall.
Josette tapped her foot. Barnabas sighed. "Willie."
"You said I had to gain access to all the obstacles, and I did! So you have to let her go."
"Josette does not wish to leave, as you can see. She is being very cooperative, whereas you remain quite troublesome."
"Because we hadda deal, and you cheated. Now you wanna kill me." came a muffled voice from the beneath the table.
"Yes, you would like that, would you not? But then you would not have learned your lesson, which is long overdue." Barnabas reached under and dragged Willie out by his ankle and pulled him to his feet. "Don't disgrace yourself more than necessary." The vampire thrust him face down on the table, knocking his head on the wooden surface.
"Barnabas, must you?" Josette pouted with a stifled yawn. "It's dinnertime."
"Yes, my dear, however, I shall be brief." Willie tried to bolt when the vampire turned to his lady, but Barnabas slammed him back down without a backward glance. "I shall be master in my own house. The more consideration I show this man, the more he abuses his position; my patience is at an end."
But Willie had no intention of learning a lesson, no matter how brief. He had successfully met each challenge. It was unfair, all of it, and his temper exploded. The young man hollered at the top of his lungs, pounded the table with his fists and kicked viciously, barely missing the master more than once. Barnabas calmly held him in place until the tantrum had exhausted itself.
"If you are quite finished." The vampire pulled out Willie's tee shirt from his jeans and with a single gesture, ripped it up the middle, exposing the boy's bare back before retrieving the strop. "We may begin."
The first stroke landed just below the servant's shoulder blades, but now he refused to make a sound. The leather strap continued to leave stripes of searing heat, and Willie bit his lip to keep from crying out, but a gasp involuntarily escaped.
"And yesterday you were so brave," Barnabas punctuated his sentence with a blow to the seat of his pants. "I hope today you are repentant."
There was no response, so the whipping continued. In fact, the vampire aimed a succession of blows to the same spot, his arm falling into a rhythm, as he hit his stride. At length, Willie released his grip on the table edge as his knees began to buckle.
"I say, are you repentant?" Again, his question went unacknowledged.
"Mon cher, you said this would be brief," Josette interjected impatiently.
"You're right, as always." He yanked up Willie by the hair and thrust him in the lady's direction. "Does he look repentant to you? I can't quite tell." The servant quickly wiped away hot tears that streamed down his face.
"Yes, yes, of course. Do please get on with it. Je suis fatigué of this—nonsense. Next I think you will take me to public executions.''
"Very well." Barnabas turned the servant around to face him. "So, boy, are you repentant?"
He allowed Willie to pull away. Breathing heavily, the young man snarled, "Fuck you, freak."
The vampire slammed him across the face with the strop, sending Willie to the floor. Barnabas' hand trembled as he forced himself to regain composure.
"You are trying to provoke me into killing you, but I will determine your destiny, not you. When I decide to end your miserable life, it will be a blessing for both of us."
Willie was on his hands and knees, his ear ringing from the blow. "At least I can die. But you're gonna be an asshole forever."
Barnabas raised the strop again but Josette held up her hand to stop him.
"Is this how a gentleman controls his temper? You are no better than he is."
The vampire cast the leather strap aside and seized Willie by the arm, dragging him across the dirt floor from the room, through the root cellar, down the two stone steps, and the dairy cellar. The iron door swung open, and he flung his wayward servant inside the wine cellar.
"I shall assume you are not yet repentant." Barnabas locked the door and left.
Willie landed on the desk chair, toppling it. Dark. Get rid of the dark. He felt his way up the desk to the oil lamp and, pulling a Bic from his pocket, lit it. It was nearly dry. The young man sank to his knees in despair.
"I don't know what that means!" Willie pounded the dirt foundation with his fists. "I'm stupid! I'm a stupid—fuckin'—loser—piece a'—shit! I don't need you to tell me that!"
He looked around the room for something sharp—not the lamp—a bottle. Willie scrambled to the shelves and, grabbing the closest wine container, smashed it against the stone wall. He held up the broken bottleneck while feeling his neck for the familiar location of his jugular vein.
Oh, stop it. Put that down.
"No, I hate this! I wanna die!" the young man hollered to the dark, empty room.
Do not make me come back down there.
Willie erupted with a primal scream as he flung the broken bottleneck across the room.
You're acting like a child. Go to bed.
Willie slammed himself against the door, and pulled on the bars. "This is how a crazy fuckin' lunatic acts!"
There was no response.
The servant pulled off the remains of his torn tee shirt, held together only by the binding at the neck. The picture of a skull with a crown of roses smiled back at him. The grateful dead. Jason had bought him that at a Goodwill thrift shop in Scranton, Pennsylvania, seven or eight years ago. It was his favorite shirt and Barnabas trashed it, just to be mean.
Willie trudged over to the bed and collapsed onto it, pulling the cotton blanket over his head. The vampire had once told him that a slave had no rights, could own nothing, not even the right to end his own life.
Depleted of fuel, the oil lamp died. When faced with an unpleasant situation as a child, Willie would take his mind to another place and pretend it away. Tonight, however, the young man was hard pressed to conjure a light-hearted fantasy. He just wasn't in the mood.
"Vicki?" he said to the empty darkness. "I'll take that Band Aid now."
