MOVING DAY (NIGHT?), by Kathryn Ptacek

Originally published in 100 Vicious Little Vampire Stories (1995).

“We have vampires moving in across the street,” Peter remarked to his wife as he stood in front of the big picture window in the living room.

Startled, Cordelia looked up from her crocheting and squinted at him. “What makes you think so, honey?” Their third daughter, Tammy, was due to deliver any day now, and she wanted to finish the fluffy baby afghan in time, which is why she was so engrossed in her work that she’d hardly paid attention to her husband tonight. But Peter understood. They had been married for some forty-four years now, and if he didn’t understand that she liked to be by herself at times and that she didn’t want to talk to him every moment of her waking day, then she didn’t think they’d make it to their golden anniversary. Lucky for her, though, she thought with a slight smile, he was understanding.

Peter, she knew all too well, was prone to saying some pretty odd stuff, but vampires? Across the street. Vaguely she wondered what movies he’d been watching on TV again. He always enjoyed the horror films, and the gorier the better. She much preferred a good old-fashioned epic—heavy on characters and costumes and the whole grand pageant of inevitable events that sweep characters into their destined roles—and none of that blood and guts stuff, thank you very much.

She wondered if something might be wrong with his mind, but she pushed that thought quickly from her own. She didn’t want to even consider the possibility of Alzheimer’s or something equally horrible. It was enough that the girls were forever calling on them, checking to make sure they were okay and hadn’t fallen during the night or gotten sick. Their daughters were forever reminding them to take their vitamins and eat their vegetables and dress warmly when it was cold…all things she realized with some amusement she and Peter had instructed the girls when they were children. And it wasn’t like she and Peter were elderly; they were only in their mid-sixties, for God’s sake, and had plenty of good years ahead of them.

Still peering outside, he ticked off the points on his fingers. “They came to see the house at night. They signed at night—Wayne down at the bank told me so when I met up with him at the ShopRite last week—and now the moving van is outside, and the men are unloading, and it’s a quarter to ten, which is a pretty darned peculiar time for this sort of thing. Besides, I haven’t seen a single mirror, and I’ve been watching since the van pulled up.”

Not one to argue in the face of such impeccable logic, Cordelia shrugged. “Maybe they’re bringing the mirrors themselves. You know how rough movers can be. Remember when we moved into the house on Decautur and those men broke Aunt Irene’s rosewood dresser?”

He nodded.

It’s true that he’s been fixed at the window since she’d returned from the church group’s meeting an hour or so ago. Someone had heard a weather report and snow was on its way, and so the group had quickly adjourned and she’d hurried home. Only to find Peter avidly watching their new neighbors. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them, but that wasn’t all that unusual. She tried not to keep tabs on the people in the neighborhood; but there was a delicate balance between not knowing about anything going on and being considered a busybody. She was afraid that Peter fell into the latter. He always knew what was happening in the houses around him. Hadn’t he said that the McLeods would be divorcing because he’d heard them arguing and Francis crying loudly later on? Wasn’t he the one who saw the first wisps of smoke coming out of Mrs. Pelacky’s house and called the fire department and then run down the street and got into the house and pulled the old woman, who’d broken her hip and fallen and couldn’t get out, to safety? And hadn’t he been the one to phone the police when he saw the little Harrison boy with bruises day in and day out? Of course, none of this had gotten him a medal or any such recognition, beyond being told time after time to mind his own business.

Sometimes she thought that Peter had retired too soon. He should have kept working, or found another job when he retired from the phone company. Of course, now maybe they could do some traveling, something they really hadn’t done much while the girls were growing up—there were always doctor bills to pay, or ballet lessons and summer camps to pay for, and so most of their vacations had been quick one-week jaunts to visit relatives in-state or to fairly local sites. Now might be the time to show Peter that brochure she’s picked up at the travel agency downtown, the one that with the beautiful glossy photos of the Alaskan cruise. They had a good sized nest egg now; their kids were secure in family and job and so didn’t need any financial support.

She would mention it, but not tonight. Not when he was playing detective or whatever he was doing. Peter Sherlock Holmes, she thought and smiled to herself as she looped the yellow yarn across the #10 hook.

“Vampires?” she echoed.

“Don’t laugh at me, Cordy.”

“I’m not.” She rested the crocheting in her lap. “Honey, this pretty wacky, you know.” For a moment she wondered, maybe there is something wrong with him. He had seen Wayne yesterday, not last week. And hadn’t Peter forgotten he’d done the laundry last night and did it all again today? Maybe…no, she told herself. No, no, no, as if the repetition of the word would somehow protect them.

He shrugged, but she could see the rigid set of his back. He wasn’t pleased with her. Well, they’d weathered their share of arguments and sore feelings, and God knew, they’d bickered about even less important things before.

“I don’t see why you think it’s so weird.”

“Peter! C’mon—have you see any coffins?” He shook his head. “Do they wear black? Does she look like Morticia Addams? I haven’t even seen them yet. They’re probably coming in tomorrow or the next day, and just wanted their stuff inside the house when they arrived. And besides, what would vampires being doing out here in the suburbs? I mean, this is a prime area for them.”

“Maybe they got a good interest rate.”

She sighed, not sure she wanted to encourage him in this delusion.

“They’re vampires, I tell you.”

“Oh, Peter, you’re impossible.” She felt a little cranky now, and thought she’d finish this row of her crocheting and then go to bed and read. Let him stand out here all night and stare at the neighbors. And what must they think of him, standing silhouetted against the window, the light from her table lamp outlining. He couldn’t have been more obvious, and she wished he’d get away from the window because he made the perfect target. Target for what? she asked herself, when their little suburb didn’t have much crime and they weren’t in an area known for drive-by shootings. Still…it made her uneasy.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. “I met them, you know, Cordy. They came by while you were gone earlier this evening,” and as he turned from the window to face her, she saw the glint of lamplight on his fangs.