The Vampire Bride

The Vampire Bride

Laura Holt

I wake up in a coffin.

It takes me a minute to realize. For my eyes to adjust to the dark. It is that pitch black humans think we understand until it’s experienced, so thick it is impossible to see my hands in front of my face. Then I make out the edges of my confines. Feel the press of earth. Taste the stale air. Hear the worms moving in their dens. My mouth goes dry.

I flail, disoriented, a diver underwater who has gone too deep. Which way is up? Down? My elbow brushes something—a note pinned to my chest—and I snatch it up, squint at the words.

Pronounced dead. Pull string to ring bell if alive.

No. It’s not true. It can’t be! I beat at the sides of the box meant to be my final resting place, scream myself hoarse. Only no one comes. No one hears. I search for the string tied to the note, to ring the bell on the other end, to let those above know I’m here. But I dropped it in my struggle and cannot find it.

My chest heaves. I want to sob but cannot. The tightness in my lungs is a fist. I have minutes left, maybe an hour. I have no sense of time, how long I was unconscious before I woke.

Something scratches at the coffin roof—maybe death, come to claim me, or a rat, drawn by the scents of fear and fresh meat. Either way, I have an idea.

Ignoring the pain, I tear at the lid until a jagged hole forms. Dirt pours in, filling my eyes, my mouth, my nose. I cough, spit it out, brush it away, and keep digging. Force myself to climb through the soil. Things I cannot see and do not want to name grab and bite at me with bony fingers and sharp pincers. I imagine I hear whispers saying my name, begging me to stay. Stay forever. I ignore them, keep going, gaze focused on what I pray is the surface, until at last my fist punches through the ground and touches open air.

I grasp weeds, roots, and haul myself out of my grave. Finally free, I collapse on the grass and lie there, panting, until I feel strong enough to stand.

“Vampire!”

Startled, I turn to see a grave digger running away. His arms wave like a scarecrow blowing in the wind. His shovel lies nearby where he dropped it. I try to call after him, to apologize for scaring him, to explain I wasn’t a vampire. I was buried mistakenly and couldn’t ring the bell. Except my voice comes out a rasping croak, and the sound makes him run faster.

I let him go, read my tombstone. Loving wife.

Henry.

My husband.

I must go to him.

I head down the path, my movements a painful shuffle-shuffle-step as feeling returns to my limbs. I pause next to the pond by the gate, study my reflection.

My hair is knotted and matted with leaves, my wedding dress ripped at the shoulder, the hem stained a rusty brown. My feet are so filthy they look black, and my nails are broken and crusted with blood. My face is gaunt and hollow, eyes in too-deep sockets. I look wraithlike. No wonder I gave the poor boy a fright.

The moon is at its peak by the time I reach our drive. The pecan trees cast long shadows. Somewhere, an owl hoots.

I leave dirty footprints as I mount the steps. My gown’s train makes a shush-shush noise as it drags across the porch. The knob turns easily. I open the door, comforted by the familiar creak, and step inside.

The foyer is dark, the hallway beyond lit only by a few candles burning dimly in their sconces. I trail my hand along the wall for purchase as I make my way upstairs to our bedroom.

The grandfather clock in the parlor chimes midnight as I reach the threshold. I think I hear a muffled giggle, a low murmur, but my ears must be playing tricks. I smile and step inside, ready to embrace my lover.

It melts into horror at the sight of Henry in the arms of another woman.

She sees me first. Her eyes make round o’s, and she screams. He turns to see what has frightened her, his expression morphing from confusion to revulsion to horror as I realize my mistake.

Our swift engagement. How he needed my dowry to start his practice. Long nights at the office. Strange smells and stains on his shirts. His aloofness since our wedding that I put off to work distractions. My sudden illness, and how his tonics made things worse.

Consumption, he’d said.

Poison, I think now.

I must say it aloud, so shocked at his betrayal, because he climbs out of bed, hands raised, as if I am a rabid animal.

“Ellery. I can explain. This isn’t what it looks like. Let me help you.”

I see him reach into his pocket. The flash of the syringe. It shatters against the wall, liquid, glass, and silver needle everywhere, and it takes a moment to realize I did that. Then, I move with impossible speed, hands curled into claws, snarling with rage.

I kill the woman first. Her neck snaps like a twig, no time to scream again.

Henry tries to run, but I catch him easily. Lift him off the floor as if he weighs no more than a feather and sink my teeth into his neck. His blood is rich and sweet, making me feel strong and whole. I drink my fill before letting his body fall at my feet. I stare at the empty husk of my ex then wipe my mouth, beaming.

I guess the grave digger was right after all.

I am a vampire, and I will never be hurt by another man again.