Part 42 (1/2)
”It'll make a new man of you,” he said. Then they closed the doors and locked them.
BLOOD BROTHER.
by Charles Beaumont
”Now then,” said the psychiatrist, looking up from his note pad, ”when did you first discover that you were dead?”
”Not dead,” said the pale man in the dark suit. ”Undead.”
”I'm sorry.”
”Just try to keep it straight. If I were dead, I'd be in great shape. That's the trouble, though. I can't die.”
”Why not?”
”Because I'm not alive.”
”I see.” The psychiatrist made a rapid notation. ”Now, Mr. Smith, I'd like you to start at the beginning, and tell me the whole story.”
The pale man shook his head. ”At twenty-five dollars an hour,” he said, ”are you kidding? I can barely afford to have my cape cleaned once a month.”
”I've been meaning to ask you about that. Why do you wear it?”
”You ever hear of a vampire without a cape? It's part of the whole schmear, that's all. I don'tknow why!”
”Calm yourself.”
”Calm myself! I wish I could. I tell you, Doctor, I'm going right straight out of my skull. Look at this!” The man who called himself Smith put out his hands. They were a tremblous blur of white. ”And look at this!” He pulled down the flaps beneath his eyes, revealing an intricate red lacework of veins.
”Believe me,” he said, flinging himself upon the couch, ”another few days of this and I'll be ready for the funny farm!”
The psychiatrist picked a mahogany letter opener off his desk and tapped his palm. ”I would appreciate it,” he said, ”if you would make an effort to avoid those particular terms.”
”All right,” said the pale man. ”But you try living on blood for a year, and see how polite you are.
I mean--”
”The beginning, Mr. Smith.”
”Well, I met this girl, Dorcas, and she bit me.”
”Yes?”
”That's all. It doesn't take much, you know.”
The psychiatrist removed his gla.s.ses and rubbed his eyes. ”As I understand it,” he said, ”you think you're a vampire.”
”No,” said Smith. ”I _think_ I'm a human being, but I _am_ a vampire. That's the h.e.l.l of it. I can't seem to adjust.”
”How do you mean?”
”Well, the hours for instance. I used to have very regular habits. Work from nine to five, home, a little TV, maybe, into bed by ten, up at six-thirty. Now--” He shook his head violently from side to side.
”You know how it is with vampires.”
”Let's pretend I don't,” said the psychiatrist, soothingly. ”Tell me. How is it?”
”Like I say, the hours. Everything's upside-down. That's why I made this appointment with you so late. See, you're supposed to sleep during the _day_ and work at _night_.”
”Why?”
”Boy, you've got me. I asked Dorcas, that's the girl bit me, and she said she'd try and find out, but n.o.body seems to be real sure about it.”
”Dorcas,” said the psychiatrist, pursing his lips. ”That's an unusual name.”
”Dorcas Schultz is an unusual girl, I'll tell you. A real nut. She's on that late-late TV show, you know? The one that runs all those crummy old horror movies?” Smith sc.r.a.ped a stain from his cloak with his fingernail. ”Maybe you know her. She recommended you.”
”It's possible. But let's get back to you. You were speaking of the hours.”
Smith wrung his hands. ”They're murdering me,” he said. ”Eight fly-by-night jobs I've had--eight!--and lost every one!”
”Would you care to explain that?”
”Nothing to explain. I just can't stay awake, that's all. I mean, every night--I mean every _day_--I toss and turn for hours and then when I finally _do_ doze off, boom, it's nightfall and I've got to get out of the coffin.”
”The coffin?”
”Yeah. That's another sweet wrinkle. The minute you go bat, you're supposed to give up beds and take a casket. Which is not only sick, but expensive as _h.e.l.l_.” Smith shook his head angrily. ”First you got to buy the d.a.m.n thing. Do you know the cost of the average casket?”
”Well--” began the psychiatrist.
”Astronomical! Completely out of proportion. I'm telling you, it's a racket! For anything even halfway decent you're going to drop five bills, easy. But that's just the initial outlay. Then there's the cartage and the cleaning bills.”
”I don't--”
”Seventy-five to a hundred every month, month in, month out.”
”I'm afraid I--””The grave dirt, man! Sacking out in a coffin isn't bad enough, no, you've got to line it with _soil from the family plot_. I ask you, who's got a family plot these days? Have you?”