The Vampiric Housewife

The Vampiric Housewife

By Kristen Marquette

Copyright © 2009 by Kristen Marquette

Published by FireLight Books

ISBN 978-0-615-33006-8

Chapter One

The Rise of the Undead

    
The sun set over the green hills of Sangre Valley, the orange sunlight rapidly retreating across the manicured lawns of the identical, suburban houses with their trimmed palm trees and white picket fences. White stars began to twinkle in the navy velvet sky, the crescent moon, a sliver in the cloudless heavens. Street lights flickered on as night settled comfortably down upon the sleepy town and the houses slowly stirred to life, stretching and yawning, alarm clocks ringing and kitchen lights switching on. Wives dressed and prepared breakfast for their families while their husbands snatched the newspaper off the front porch and sat down at the kitchen table in their suits and ties prepared for the office.

    
Inside the bungalow at 2024 Lestat Road, housewife Valerie Murray turned off the wind-up alarm clock as her husband stirred in the twin coffin on the other side of the nightstand. Tiptoeing to the bathroom, she flipped on the florescent light and quickly closed the door so not to wake her husband. He had a few more minutes of sleep left. She, however, was not as fortunate. In front of the bathroom vanity mirror, Valerie immediately began her work for the day.

    
With a brush she powdered her already pallor, flawless complexion. She was thirty-four years old, but there was not a blemish on her porcelain skin, nor a wrinkle around her rare, shimming violet eyes or bow of a mouth. Though her violet, doe eyes required no aid to attract attention, she dutifully lined them in black pencil, added a pale lilac over the shade, then black mascara on her long, endless lashes. The only cosmetics that truly enhanced her appearance were the bright red lipstick on her lips and the fake flush of blush that enlivened her cheekbones. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, her teeth long and white, a perfect smile to go with a perfect face.

    
One by one she removed the curlers from her reddish brown hair and pinned the soft curls to frame her painted face. She shed her nightgown and robe and replaced them with an unneeded girdle and bra. Her body was long and lithe, fragile in its thinness, but flawless in its strength. There were no bulges for the girdle to hold in, no wobbles of flab to keep still. Even her small, round breasts required little support despite the birth of her three beautiful children. Next came the silk stockings and the belted shirtdress, a dark blue with tiny white polka dots—Valerie was fond of polka dots. She stepped into the stiletto heels that stood her at nearly six feet tall. She slipped on her silver wedding band and the modest but beautiful engagement ring on her long, graceful finger then clipped on the finishing touch—her pearl earrings which she was never without.

    
Valerie looked at her created self in the mirror but did not smile this time. She traced the delicate line of her jaw and ran her hand down her swan-esque neck. She was beautiful, glamorous even . . . and sad. Beneath the layers of makeup and clothes, the uniform she wore daily, there was a person she did not recognize, a stranger, one who was melancholy. Valerie had a wonderful life. A loving husband with a good job. Bright, healthy children. This lovely house. She was happy. But then why was she seeing this sadness in the mirror? Who was that stranger?

    
She abruptly looked away from the reflection as if a spell had been broken. There was too much work to be done. She couldn’t dawdle in front of the mirror all night long indulging her vanity. The smile came back. That looked better. At least it was familiar.

    
In the bedroom she drew back the heavy curtains and went to wake her darling husband.

    
“Charlie, sweetheart, time to wake up.” She lightly kissed his cheek and switched on the lamp by the coffin.

    
In each of the children’s room she performed a similar ritual, first entering the boys’ room, a small shake and kiss for each boy—eleven year old Harry with his cowboy sheets and sixteen year old John with all his sports trophies proudly displayed on a shelf above his coffin. She always made sure to turn on the light so they didn’t fall back to sleep. In her fifteen year old daughter’s pink room, Amelia rolled over and smiled up at her. “Goodnight Mom.”

    
Valerie smiled down at her daughter. “Goodnight sweetheart.”

    
In the spick and span kitchen of black and white tile and aqua appliances, she prepared a hearty breakfast for her family. After all, it was the most important meal of the day. Humming Frank Sinatra’s
Young at Heart
, she removed a large slab of beef from the refrigerator and slapped it down on a lime green cutting board. She began to tenderize it with a small hammer, a little violently perhaps, a bit of blood splattering on her cheek, but she mindlessly brushed it away. It was a good stress reliever. She removed a butcher’s knife from the drawer and cut the meat into large chunks then arranged them on a serving platter. She placed the plate of raw animal flesh on the table then licked the metallic blood off her fingers, its smell intoxicating, awakening an aching hunger inside of her. But her family would have to be fed first.

    
Charlie walked in, his black pants perfectly pressed, his shoes polished to a high shine, the top two buttons of his white shirt not yet buttoned, a green tie that the children had bought him last Father’s Day loose around his neck. He hung his suit jacket on the back of the kitchen chair and set his briefcase down. He was a handsome man, but he hadn’t looked well in months. Six foot and always on the slender side, he looked decidedly unfed recently. His long face was tired and stressed, his black eyes anxious with circles beneath them. The fact that he had recently traded his traditional crew cut for what they were crassly calling a “duck butt” only accentuated the newfound creases in his high forehead. It was no wonder he looked so worn out. The poor man worked virtually every single night at the hospital, and he was so exhausted when he came home in the morning that she could barely get any nutrients through those thin lips of his. The only time he looked well was after his hunting trips with the guys. But lately, even after his weekend trips . . . the stress wasn’t released. Valerie worried about his health.

    
He smiled at her, kissed her cheek, both hands placed on her hips.

    
“Goodnight. Have you grabbed the paper yet?” he asked.

    
“No, not yet.”

    
“I’ll grab it.”

    
She set the table with five plates.

    
Harry came sprinting down the hall into the kitchen and jumped into his chair nearly knocking it over, his sandy brown hair bouncing over his violet eyes and boyish face. He was a boisterous, precocious little boy, small for his age but no less mischievous. Just last week she had been called to the school because he had gotten into a fist fight with another boy. Tried biting him on the neck. He had no excuse other than the boy’s heartbeat drove him to it. Valerie was a bit concerned about his adjustment, but the teacher assured her that all boys acted out, that it was just his age. John had never acted out like that though.

    
“It’s time to get you a hair cut,” she said ruffling his hair. He shook her hand off.

    
“I like it long. Meat? Don’t we have any fresh blood?”

   
 
“Right here buddy,” Charlie said with the paper folder under his arm carrying two glass bottles of the sticky red liquid left on the step by the bloodman. “And it’s still a little bit warm.”

    
Harry twisted in his chair to look at Valerie. “But I want
fresh
blood. Don’t we have any humans left?”

    
“No. You know a whole human is very expensive. Drink your blood and eat at least two pieces of meat,” she said strictly as Charlie poured blood in each glass before opening the Sangre Valley Gazette. Sulking, Harry picked up two pieces of raw meat and dropped them on his plate with a splat staring at them with resentment. Since he was a baby, Harry loved to feed. He loved all blood. But the older he grew, the pickier he became. First he rejected the packaged blood she put in his school lunches. They weren’t fresh enough. So she let him buy warm blood at school. And now it was animal meat. Next it would be animal blood. When they did have a fresh, living human in the pantry, she’d find little bite marks on its ankles where Harry had snuck a drink. He said he couldn’t help himself.

    
“Night Mom. Night Dad,” John said entering the kitchen. John was a strapping young man, long and slender like his father with the same gaunt face, but a healthier, better fed complexion. He kept his dark hair in a crew cut as was the popular style. He wore his Sangre Valley letterman jacket—red and white—with letters for basketball, football, and baseball. He was a good boy who excelled at all sports and was popular with both boys and girls as well as his teachers. He may not have been at the top of his class academically, but he did well. At parent-teacher conferences, all his teachers said what a pleasure he was to have in class.

    
He popped a piece of meat in his mouth as he sat down at the table. “Would it be alright if I took the car out Friday night, Dad?” he asked chewing.

    
“Date with Lisa?” Valerie asked. Lisa was his steady girlfriend, a sweet girl, cheerleader, blonde, well endowed in all the right places. It concerned her sometimes that he was so serious at such a young age. Lisa was his first real girlfriend. But Valerie married Charlie, her first boyfriend, when she was just eighteen herself. There wasn’t much she could say to him.

    
“We were going to go to the drive-in to see the new monster flick. Can I Dad?”

    
“I don’t know. Me and your mom are having a dinner party Friday night—" Harry’s ears perked up as John’s face fell. To Harry a dinner party meant a human to feast on and for John it meant a night of polite conversation with his father’s boss Dr. Venjamin and his colleagues. “But if you promise to be home by curfew—“ Charlie said, a sudden smile on his face.

    
Charlie could deny his eldest son nothing. Pride shone in his eyes every time he looked at his son. They were close, tossing the football on the lawn, shooting hoops in the driveway, playing chess in the parlor, discussing girls and cars. Besides, Charlie wasn’t overly fond of dinner parties either. He had to be subjected to them. His son did not. At least not yet. But Jett Wilson had one just last week and Dr. Venjamin had him brought in on a new, special project. Charlie couldn’t lose his edge at the hospital.

    
“Thanks Dad. I’ll be home by curfew. Not a minute later.”

    
“And not a scratch on the car,” he said still smiling.

    
“Amelia! Honey, your breakfast is getting cold!” Valerie called.

    
“Sorry, I couldn’t find my homework,” her daughter said coming down the hall. She was just a couple of inches shorter than her mother with a much more voluptuous body. Of course the conical bra under her sweaters helped accentuate what God had already given her. But she was a modest child, her books always folded against her chest, the hem of her skirt never above mid-calf where as her classmates’ skirts became shorter everyday—of course they tried to get away with that in Valerie’s day too. Her dark hair was in its traditional long ponytail, her full lips in a pout—also vintage Amelia—and her large, brown eyes a little sullen. She loved school but was not as popular as her brother. She got straight A’s, but had few friends, no boyfriends, and was more interested in art than sock hops. At least she had joined the drama club where she socialized a little as she painted the scenery. When Valerie suggested she audition for a role, Amelia exclaimed, “I’d rather
die
than be on stage and have everyone staring at me!” It saddened Valerie a little. She had been a lot like her daughter at that age, unsure of herself, self-conscious, but she had loved the stage. It freed her from her normal life. If her parents hadn’t died when she was eighteen, she may have tried to go to college to pursue her thespian dreams. But that’s not how things worked out. Instead she had this beautiful family. And if Amelia preferred painting to acting, so be it.

    
“Aims, you want to double with me and Lisa on Friday?” John asked chewing on another piece of meat. Valerie had grown up an only child. She was so happy that her two eldest had each other and were so close. “Drew Sanders told me he thinks you’re cute,” he teased.