Unnamed Vampire Story 4

Father Louis Hernandez had indulged in numerous passions before God became chief among them. Some of the things he had loved before he became a man of the cloth: women, fine wine, bad fiction, softball, boxing (both watching and engaging in), mafia movies, and action figures. He was one of those rare adults whose toys were displayed prominently on nice shelves in his living room; each Sunday after mass, he dusted each figurine, each superhero bust, each model plane with loving care. He thought of it as his second flock, but always his second. Although the elderly ladies clucked and scowled and spoke, he kept both his flocks in good order. The children in his congregation loved him.

Just after he completed seminary training, one of his first parishoners, a teenager named Kelly Gunderson, handed him a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula. She asked him for his thoughts on the vampire hunter, Abraham Van Helsing. After he finished the novel, he gave Kelly his thoughts. “I do not know what Dracula is, if he signed a pact with the devil or if he's just a kind of human that we haven't yet encountered. It is not my place to judge.”

“And Van Helsing?” she asked.

Though Kelly was a little too old for it, Father Hernandez ruffled her hair with his callous-covered palm. “We live in a scary world. I can't tell you that if a man is hunting you, that you should not defend yourself. But Professor Van Helsing's vendetta was based on his own judgment, not God's. Remember Miss Gunderson, our mission is to preserve life. You can't just look at something you don't understand and say, 'That's not life the way I live it, so it deserves to die.' Does that make sense?”

He stepped back. Kelly's face had crinkled into the intense glare of a young woman trying to grow. “But Dracula, he—He was the bad guy, wasn't he?"

Twenty years ago, he would have cupped her chin and stood close, but men much like him had been taking advantage of the holy vestments, and scandal was in the air. Father Hernandez stayed away from her and held his arms awkwardly at his sides. “Miss Gunderson,” he said, speaking warmly, “to someone out there, you are the bad guy.”

“Me?” she murmured. How he'd wanted to hold her then. He imagined that little Kelly knew nothing of the special loneliness you feel when you know someone hates you for no reason at all. He imagined the rest of her life, from that moment when a busy, undiligent priest had made her cynical and cruel.

He'd expected her to quit right then, walk out of the church and never return, but it took Kelly another decade before her attendance slowed, then finally stopped altogether.

Even after she'd gone, the conversation haunted him. He was a man well-versed in fantasy and science fiction, and he studied other races, other times as vigorously as the Bible itself. Metaphors about Klingons and dragons slipped into his sermons, and the elderly ladies, now almost ancient, clucked their tongues and shook their heads. However, he was popular as a priest and made a name for himself as the geeky father who could relate to the youth, an archetype that the church sorely needed at the time. Over the decades, his office accumulated toys trinkets, as well as a wallpapering of crayon drawings depicting Jesus piloting Tie-fighters or wearing a wizard hat or riding astride various dinosaurs.

At age 95, he lay on what he knew to be his deathbed, surrounded by the donations and well-wishes of tiny children and the parents who raised them, who had once been tiny children themselves. Begging God for strength, he would play Nintendo Wii games with the youngsters; sometimes the teenagers would guide his wrinkled hands, palms still stiff with callouses. He had watched a man walk in space and seen the sequence of his own DNA. At 95, the world held such wonders for him that he hadn't known or understood back then, talking to Kelly Gunderson as a young clergyman.

So when he saw his first vampire, he was unsurprised that the world had again presented something new for his now deeply sunken eyes. “Welcome back,” he murmured. His voice creaked like a neglected hinge.

“I never left.” Kelly was a young woman now, in her late 20s. He could not tell if she was beautiful, but her voice was gentle, and he assumed that she was.

In a rush of sudden uncertainty, he feared he was suffering a morphine hallucination and let his eyes slide shut, just in case. The hospice workers had assured him that they would increase his dosage so he would pass easily. He had not seen any nurses come by, but he missed so many things these days. “I haven't seen you in almost sixty years.”

Her hand slipped into his, and it was cool, room temperature. “I wanted to thank you, Father.”

“Not that I don't deserve it, Miss Gunderson. I've lived a long, useful life. But what are you thanking me for?”

He almost didn't feel her, but he knew she was there. She lifted his head gently and embraced him, pressing her cheek into his chest. “Once, you taught me to embrace all life. I haven't forgot it. I won't ever. And God willing, I'll live a long, long life.”

He tried to nod, but like many of his gestures these days, it turned into a dry coughing fit. Weak as he was, she still seemed small, vulnerable, as she had been as a teenager. “Will you pray with me, Miss Gunderson?”

She took a long breath, and Father Hernandez wondered if it hurt her to pray, like the folklore said. But after a few seconds, she began. “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” As she spoke, her hands clasped around his, Father Hernandez noted that she was so close, he could feel her words vibrating through his hospital gown, but not the deep throb of a young woman's heartbeat.

After a while, she could not feel his either.