My Sister, the Vampire
Author's Note: All characters engaging in any sexual activities are over the age of 18 years. Names of all characters are fictional, and were changed to protect the naughty! Certain details were also changed to further conceal the identities of any real persons.
Twenty-some years ago, right after finishing grad school, I wrote a novel about vampires. Based on a true story out of Eastern Europe, it took place in a small town in the old Austrian Empire, a region that is now in Slovakia. The book is no longer in print, but was relatively successful back in the day. Sales were good and there was some talk about making a motion picture out of it, plans which never materialized. Those are not the details I think about when I remember the book—and I remember it often.
What I remember so fondly is the cover.
A few copies can still be found in my basement, in addition to the well-worn copy on the shelf of my study, the private hideaway where I do my writing. The cover is still eye-catching. In a dark and foggy cemetery, next to the rusted iron gate of an ancient stone crypt, stands the figure of a mysterious woman in white. Her back is to the camera with her face to the side, her profile partially hidden by flowing flame red hair. The only color on the cover, other than the title and author in blood red, is her hair.
One of the reasons I am proud of that cover is, in addition to writing the book, I also took the cover photo. And the story of that cover is nearly as good as the plot of the book, although far less tragic.
For months I immersed myself in writing, all fall and through the Christmas and New Year's holidays. I spent a few days visiting my family over the holidays, but spent most of those cold months cloistered in my small, one-bedroom apartment writing, with frequent trips to the local university library to research some of the historic details. Back then, I didn't know how to pace myself, and sometimes I got so engrossed I forgot to go grocery shopping. By the time I finished, I was a real mess.
It was nearly midnight when the phone rang.
"Hi. It isn't too late, is it?" It was Consuela, my sister, her voice low and breathy.
"What time is it? Doesn't matter, I don't sleep anyways."
"What is keeping you awake?"
"Still working on the final edits. They are due this weekend. The editor complains I use way too much passive voice, and we have disagreements about some of the dialogue."
"Bet you can't wait until it is finished," she cheerfully said.
"I'm already planning to be drunk for a month."
"That is the best idea I've heard all week."
I asked, "What are you up to at this late hour?"
"Finally got the kids to bed and now I am trying to figure out a way to stay sane. I really need to take a break for a few days. Chuck just dropped on me that his mother is coming this weekend, and I can't take that. One of them is bad enough, but his mother, too?"
"Take the kids and go to Mom's for a week." It seemed like a good suggestion.
She hated my suggestion. "The reason she is coming is to see the kids, since she could not get down her for Christmas this year. But I had another idea."
"Head to Mom's without the kids?"
"She's nearly as bad as Chuck's mom these days. Besides, she won't allow alcohol in her house." Our mother had always been a religious fanatic, but it had progressed in the last few years. I made the mistake of suggesting wine with Christmas dinner, an idea so lousy it nearly ruined the holiday for the entire family. Go figure. "I had another idea—could I crash at your place for the weekend? I only need a few days to decompress. I'll even bring the liquor, so I won't drink all yours."
"It's really a bad time for me. I'm really busy and the place is a wreck. You know how I am when I am writing."
"I don't care about a mess, and I won't get in your way. I'll hang out by the pool during the day."
"Today's high temperature was about fifty. It's February."
"Don't remind me. Saturday is Valentine's Day."
"Maybe you should stay home for Valentine's."
"I'd rather be staked to an anthill. Look, I'll clean your apartment or go shopping. Is that cool bar you took me to still open? That one like the old gold mine? It's walking distance."
Out of patience and not up to a fight, I told her Baby Doe's, the place she remembered, was still there, and surrendered to her will. If she wants to volunteer to vacuum and put some of this mess away, have at it!
Consuela had noticeably changed since the Holidays. Friday night, when I opened my door to see her standing there, it was a bit of a shock. Sure, she'd driven a few hundred miles, which takes its toll on anyone, but her hair was a mess and, when she took off her coat, she looked five pounds lighter than six weeks before. And she didn't have five pounds to lose.
"How was the trip?"
She tossed her coat on a chair. "Great—if you enjoy sitting behind a truck wreck on the Interstate for two hours. How's your book?"
"Sorry about the drive. The book is good—turned in the final edits yesterday. I guess having company coming motivated me."
She was surveying the room. "You weren't lying; this place is a mess!"
"I spent the afternoon cleaning up." That earned an eye-roll.
I probably should tell you about Consuela. From the sound of her name, you probably imagine us as Spanish. An exotic girl with black hair and matching eyes wearing a long black and red dress. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Our mother heard the name in a movie and instantly fell in love with it. We've often wondered how she looked at a pale, redheaded baby girl with blue-green eyes and decided to stick her with a Spanish name, but it is doubtful she ever considered the irony. I came along a little more than a year later and, although I still call her my big sister, outgrew her by junior high. Tiny as a child and still petite as an adult, she finally got to 100 pounds after she was married.
From the look of it, she may have dropped back below the century mark.
"So, the book is all done and out of your hands?"
"Now we're just fighting over the cover."
"What's wrong with the cover?"
"Take a look at what they want." I'd printed out their suggestion and it was still sitting on the table where I'd thrown it that morning, and handed it to her. A coffin lay on a table with a shadow person behind it. Across the top was the title in white, Gothic lettering, with my name at the bottom.
Her initial reaction was to make the face she made when our mom served her liver and onions. "It's not too bad."
"It's not good."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"I hired a model. In fact, we're shooting tomorrow. Come along if you want."
"You are doing a photoshoot with a model for the cover? I mean, you've done photography since you were a kid, but I never expected you to do it professionally."
"When I told them how much I hate this cover, I managed to convince them to give me the weekend to come up with an alternative. It won't be too hard, pretty basic stuff, and I have Photoshop to edit it just right."
"How did you find a model?"
"Found her on a website where models and photographers can meet up. She charges a hundred dollars an hour, but it's worth it. She looks just like the painting of the book's vampire that hangs in a museum in Bratislava. And there is a boutique that specializes in period costumes, and it had an old-fashioned nightgown that will be perfect."
"A nightgown?"
"In the book, she appears to her victims at night wearing a nightgown."
"I think you just wanted to meet a hot model."
"No, this is totally serious. But it never hurts to meet a hot model."
Because vampires don't hang out in broad daylight, we scheduled the photoshoot for early in the morning and hoped for clouds, to capture the gloomy, spooky vibe I wanted. Consuela and I hung out drinking wine and relaxing before going to sleep relatively early; she insisted on sleeping on the couch, refusing to kick me out of my bed.
The next morning was perfect: gray, overcast skies and a hit of fog. We were scheduled to meet at 7:30 at an old graveyard in a nearby town a half hour away, and Consuela and I arrived early to scout everything out. At 7:30, she asked, "Where's your model?"
"She'll be here." When she hadn't shown up by 7:45, I called, and a sleepy voice croaked hello on the other end. "We are here at the graveyard; where are you?"
"Oh. Last night I partied pretty hard. I must have forgotten to set the alarm."
"How soon can you be here?"
"Where is it again?"
"The old cemetery on highway 5."
"Oh, that's like an hour from here. I must look like shit. Can we reschedule for next weekend?"
I was freaking out. This was my only chance to avoid a shitty cover, and shitty book covers mean shitty sales. "Listen, I don't give a damn what you look like, get your ass over here!"
"Wow. There is no need for that. Shit happens."
"And professionals get their shit together. See you in an hour?"
"I'm not really in the mood today. Call me this week and we can reschedule." Click.
Consuela did not need to ask. She heard my side of the conversation as well as the string of obscenities I screamed out after the bitch hung up on me and knew the model was a no-show. True to her name, she tried to console me, calming me with words and well-intentioned suggestions. Photos of headstones in the fog. Try to find another model for the afternoon or tomorrow morning.
"The forecast is for rain tomorrow. And a photo of a tombstone will never convince anyone to read a book."
"What size is that nightgown?"
"Medium."
"It's a bit big..."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, I'm not much of a model, but if you want to try, I'm willing to be your vampire. It will save you a few hundred dollars, too."
Consuela did a little modeling back in high school, but there isn't much of a career in modeling at 5'2". Her idea did pique my interest. While Sveta, the vampire, as only a teenager and Consuela 28 or 29 at the time, she regularly got carded at the liquor store and could easily pass for a teenager—even after giving birth to three kids. Hell, she was skinnier than most teenagers. A black & white cover might work for the mood, with some blood red lettering giving it color.
