The Vigil

I held the crinkled worn letter in my hand, reading it one final
time. The paper shredder waited with a machine's perfect patience, as I had waited all these years.

Dear Hooker,

By the time you receive this, we'll be on the move again. I'm sure by now you know the stories about "The Slaughter House Kids" are all true.
I wanted you to know I'm sorry about Rex. Damien and David's appetites grow stronger with each passing day. It's becoming harder to control
them. Mother keeps me busy and in a constant search for food. I
promised father she would never go hungry again. The last time she got
hungry two cadavers ended up buried in our yard. He is already planning
our next move--when it becomes necessary.

I don't see him much, but when I do, it's enough to know he has done
his job, as I do mine. To satisfy a hunger so ravenous and deep is a fearful thing. I don't expect you to understand. Sometimes, my own
logic fails me.

None of us can choose the families we are born into. We are who and what we are. The universe doesn't apologize for behavior. Likewise, I
will not attempt to justify the choices I've made. I am one of those little fish hiding in pond grass, darting out of the safety of shadows
to feed--because I must or die.

Even now, I count you a friend. A promise is a promise; we will meet again, some day.

--Marcus

My mind fled into memory?

The day after the Slaughter family escaped, I woke up to the sound of a bulldozer plowing up their garden. After hastily throwing on some clothes, I raced over and watched, along with others in the
neighborhood. Yellow police tape kept the curious at bay. It encircled the entire yard. As time passed, excited medical examiners unearthed
thousands of bones.

There were more corpses than could be dealt with. Assorted body parts fell off stretchers. A small shapeless piece of once-living meat flopped to the driveway. I could see that it was teaming with blind white maggots. The smell had to be nauseating; workers covered their faces with bandanas made from their shredded tee shirts and the professionals wore facemasks.

Pieces of dog, cat, chicken, and God-knows-what mixed with human remains, a cross-species holocaust come to light. My thoughts reeled
with the horror and strangeness. I couldn't believe it, in our town? Nothing ever happened in our town. Rumors spread and fluttered about,
like crows on a battlefield. The dominant story insisted the mass grave was designed to hide the meals of ravenous ghouls. Other variations
referred to vampires or brain-sucking pod people.

Of course, the carnage soon drew the attention of the media. They descended on us in hungry packs, cameras prying into everything. They turned our little corner of the world into a fishbowl and then asked us how we felt about it.

I know how I felt, time-warped. The dark ages had returned. It was no longer 1957. Sure, Buddy Holly and the Crickets were playing in town to a packed house of screaming girls in poodle skirts, bobby socks and saddle shoes. President Eisenhower was still in office. And Burger King offered the world a thirty-nine cent burger of incredible proportions, the Whopper.

But despite all that, people were back to huddling together in fear of terrible ancient things that had never really gone away.

The unearthed secrets didn't really surprise me. My own family had its share. My own name, the one I didn't use, was a secret. My Daddy named
me Horace. I hated him for that and for all the times he would get drunk and make us kids go pick a switch from the holly bushes so he could beat us. We would get twice the licking if we picked a switch hedidn't like.

His darkness often escaped his grip.

I remember how he would even beat my dog Rex for no good reason. Rex was mine since I found him by the railroad tracks, just a pup, and snuck him home. Daddy didn't like the idea of another mouth to feed,knowing I'd sneak him food whenever I got the chance. At least Rex wouldn't suffer any more on my account. His bones lay somewhere in that
monstrous pile. I was sure of it now.

Marcus was my best friend. He and his brothers had kept to themselves,but despite our differences we all got along. Maybe it was because I was just too stupid at the time to be afraid of them. The Slaughter family didn't look any different than anybody else, but they talked funny, like I did. Nobody ever made fun of their accents, not to their
faces.

The neighborhood kids feared them, calling them the "Slaughter House" kids. I didn't care. They were my friends. I didn't believe the stories.

I'd told Marc as much. He'd peered through jungle-green eyes, mussing my hair. Leaning over me like a loan shark, his voice a menacingly rumble, "How can you be so sure? How do you know what is or isn't buried under our rose bushes?" I never seriously considered digging up his yard for evidence...even though they were Damn Yankee's from New York. I'd thought he was only pulling my leg.

Marc and I shared a hatred of our fathers. That was enough to bind us together at first. Of course, I didn't know if Mr. Slaughter deserved
contempt. He wasn't a familiar figure to me. I only saw him late at night. Thinking back, that should have told me something.

"Hey Hooker" Marc yelled to me from across the road, "Wanna go down to Mister Mercer's place and see if we can make a few bucks?"

"Sure Marc, but that old son of a bitch told me not to come around there no more or he'd cut me up and feed me to his dogs."

Marc just laughed and kept on walking, already knowing why.

"C'mon Hook, when we get done I'll buy you one of them new-fangled Whoppers you're always goin' on about."

So, off we went, carrying on, joking around as we walked down the road together. Old man Mercer's place wasn't that far, his rickety old shack
hugged the fence line that separated the train yard from the neighborhood.

Mercer's back yard was divided into twelve sections bordered by creosol soak logs. Two by fours jutted skyward on all four corners with thick
black mosquito netting overlapping the roof of each structure. In the middle, mounds of moving earth rose above the ground alive with what
must have been millions of night crawlers. They fed on the droppings of numerous mango, guava and avocado trees that canopied the property. It
was a dark place; hot damp humid air permeated the place with the distinctive smell of an overrun septic tank. What little light filtered through the trees was quickly diminished by the old mans nasty disposition.

As we approached he was sitting on his porch taking swigs from a Jack Daniels bottle and every couple of minutes spitting out a trail of Redman's chewing tobacco from the side of his mouth. His beard along the right side of his jaw line was permanently stained dark from the drool of his saliva. Above his door he proudly displayed his hand painted sign, "Mercer's Worm Farm."

He thought himself a cut above the rest of us in this working class neighborhood, a real entrepreneur. He sold earthworms to the local bait
shops for fifty cents a box. Mercer would pay a nickel for each pint sized round container of worms picked. Why, a kid could make a whole
dollar if he picked one thousand worms, ten boxes worth.

The old man had a strict rule that each box had to have exactly one hundred worms in them. You could spend all day at his place picking those damn worms when you finished you'd have to bring him what you picked. He would take out two or three boxes at random and count them.If any one of the boxes contained more or less than exactly one hundred worms he'd make you dump them all back. Then would cuss you out and chase you off ranting and raving about what a damn little cheater you
were.

The last time I worked for him I went home sweaty and dirty with nothing to show but a nightmare for all my efforts. All I could see when I closed my eyes to sleep was nothing but fucking worms, hundreds maybe thousands of Mercer's worms crawling all about inside my head. He was a mean old bastard that reminded me of my Daddy but for some reason he took a liking to Marc.

Old man Mercer looked up and saw us at the gate. He yelled out, "What the hell you boys doing around here." Then he recognized Marc and waved
him over. I don't know if it was Mercer's failing eyesight or all the whiskey sloshing around in his brain, but I was relieved he didn't recognize me or remember I'd cheated on couple boxes of worms
once.

Marc would spend all day at Mercers place and come home with ten dollars in his pocket. That was big money for a kid in those days. A lot of kids in the neighborhood would have to work every day for a
whole week running their paper routes to make that kind of money.

Marc's count was always true. Every Saturday and Sunday like clockwork he would pick those damn worms. He had more money than I'd ever seen
when I was a kid. It didn't seem to bother him that he pulled forty thousand night crawlers from the smelly mucky ground for those twenty bucks. What was even more peculiar was he always managed to sneak a couple of thousand of those damn things in the pockets of his overalls. I always wondered why he did this but knew better than to ask. Marc
wasn't the type to give up secrets, not even to his best friend.

I got to work that day and as promised Marc bought me my first Whopper. He wouldn't let me pay even though I earned the money, "A promise is
promise Hooker, don't ever forget that."

I never did.

The Widow Gardiner was a tough old bird that didn't scare easily and was always full of good advice and a few bucks on the weekends. I'd
been cutting her grass and doing small chores for her since I stopped working at Mercer's place. In her own way she was a wise and worldly woman and must have read a lot of books because she always had something to say about everything.

"Horace Hooker, what's a good God fearing boy like you doing hanging around Slaughter's children?"

"They're my friends; they don't make fun of me like the other boys
do."

"Be careful child sometimes things aren't what they appear to be. Those people aren't like you and me son."

"I know they're from New York."

"They're from a cold hard place, but it sure the hell ain't New York. You're playing with fire boy, that Slaughter family is an evil bunch, every last one of them. Why, just last week I saw the two younger ones out back, trying to shimmy over my fence, defiant little bastards. Their eyes glowed red in the dark. They tried to stare me down like I
was supposed to be scared of them. I took this here cross from around my neck and went after them, commanding them in the name of every thing
holy on God's green earth to leave my place be, and they fled into the night."

I didn't pay much attention to her, figuring she was just an old woman who liked to hear herself talk. The Widow Gardiner was known to tell
tall tales and liked to exaggerate everything. She tried to warn me.

I suppose my curiosity got the best of me. Maybe it was just my childish nature, wanting to know about things I had little chance of understanding. I had to know what he did with those damn worms he'd hidden in his pants.
I doubled back that night and hid behind the cherry laurel hedges that
surrounded the perimeter of Marc's house.

First thing Mr. Slaughter did after moving into the house was put in those cherry laurel hedges. They had since grown to five to six feet in
height and surrounded the entire property. The house could not be seen from the street. It provided good cover for a nosey boy on moonless
night.

I watched Marc empty his pockets, heaping handfuls of night crawlers into the flowerbed of his Mom's rose garden. The rest he dumped into another freshly dug bed at the rear of the property. He slapped his hands against the back of his pants, and looked around cautiously before heading back toward the house.

His father stood on the back porch watch. Marc brushed passed him. I heard Mr. Slaughter say,

"Good job son."

"We got to keep mother happy, don't we Pop?"

"That's right Marc. It gives her great comfort knowing we're here to provide needful things. She must never be allowed to go hungry."

"I know," Marc entered. His dad followed, letting the door slam shut behind him.

I got chills from what I'd seen and heard that night. I ran back home with my heart pounding and my mind racing faster than my legs. I was
only a boy then but instinctively understood there was something unnatural in the tone and spirit of their conversation.

It was then I knew Marc and his family kept such a deep dark terrible secret that by its very nature it held them together as much as it tore them apart.

It scared me so bad I willingly went to church with Mama. I asked God to save me from the evil I felt while hiding in those bushes. I wished
I'd never gone there that night because I knew something, but I didn't know what, and somehow, I couldn't leave it alone. I wanted so badly for everything to go back to the way it was before. I asked God to forgive me for betraying my friend, and if in fact it turned out the Slaughter House kids were real killers--to forgive them and make them mend their ways.

After all Preacher Jones did say and the good book teaches, no sin is so great it can't be forgiven. I claimed this promise for my friend. I
didn't know any better. I was just a child. I learned later that forgiveness is only offered to those who choose to repent.

I never went back to Mercer's Farm after that, but I remained friends with Marc. His brothers Damien and David would tag along with us. The brothers were nearly inseparable. Marc didn't seem to mind. He watched over them like a mother hen. I stayed clear of my own siblings.

David was the youngest, a skinny little kid with a pale complexion, light brown hair and penny colored eyes. He was a curious child who asked questions about everything and wouldn't stop pestering you until you gave him an answer that made sense to him.

One time when we were all down at the lake with our cane poles stretched out over the water, David watched as Marc baited his hook with one of Mercers worms. He would start at the head and rework the hook back and forth into the squirming worm, over and over again until it was securely impaled.

"You think that hurts him," David asked.
"Don't worry about the worm," Marc told him.
"I'm not worried about him."
"Then why did you asked?"
"I just want to know if they feel pain."

Marc stopped what he was doing, took his pole out of the water walked over to David and slapped him hard across the face and said. "David do
you feel any pain." To my amazement David said "No." Marc then pulled him close and hugged him, tears tracking down the side of his face. He
walked over to the waters edge and said, "You see those fish swimming around darting in and out of the grass in the shallows."

"Yes."

"Well David they don't care if that worm feels pain, all they wanna do all they need to do, is eat him to stop the hunger. Fish that eat him,
are eaten by others, and those fish are then eaten by us. But in the end those damn worms are what end up eaten us all. Remember that because that's all you need to know.

"I'll remember," David said.

Damien physically favored Marc. It was easy to tell they were brothers. They both had light eyes, but Damien's was blue grey, his hair was longer and chestnut brown. He was a couple of years younger but carried himself with the same sense of confidence as Marc.

Given to fits on occasion, Damien was usually quiet and moody. His dark brooding deepened before his attacks. His body would shake uncontrollably and his eyes would roll back into its socket's. Damien's eyelids would quiver rapidly before he'd passed out.

Marc carried five taped Popsicle sticks in his back pocket, placing them in Damien's mouth so he wouldn't bite off his tongue. But these fits would pass and Damien would remember nothing of them. Marc would carry him back to the house and lay him down in a back bedroom letting him sleep. After awhile he would join us again as if nothing ever
happened. We would all go about our business, doing the things kids do.

It was Damien who noticed I'd seen and heard the whole incident with Marc and little David that day by the waters edge. He walked over and whispered something into Marc's ear. Marc pushed him away
disapprovingly and sent him and David away as well.

Marc looked over to me and said.

"Hey Hooker, come over here for a minute," as he pulled a long fillet knife from his waistband. I've got a little present for you."

I was uneasy seeing that in his hand. "I've got to go Marc, I promised Widow Gardiner I'd cut her grass this afternoon and it's already getting late."

"Don't be afraid, Hook. We're best friends. I would never hurt you.That's a promise. You know what they mean to me."

Yes, I did. I walked down the embankment to where he stood. "What kind of present?" I tried to be brave and nonchalant.

"The best kind, the kind that last forever. Now, give me your hand," he demanded.

"What for," some kind of blood-brother oath?

"I want to put a mark on the palm of your left hand. Now, it might hurt just a little?but it will heal in no time and keep you safe, always,
especially when you need it most."

"Protection from what?"

In the most patient voice I'd ever heard, he said, "Protection from things ugly and evil. If I don't do this, something bad just might get
you."

"This is for my own good?"

"I promise."

"Alright, Marc."

I extended my hand, palm up. Marc gripped my hand with a scary strength, guiding the sharp point of the knife until a double bloody circle lay there with compass points.

"It's done," he said.

I never saw Marc in the same light after that. His eyes held unreasonable depths though he tried hard to act his age. I sensed suffering thinly veiled. I learned later the significance of what he put on my hand and the reason why.

In time, the scar became barely visible, the Mark of Slaughter I came to call it. Eventually, he explained it as a warning to those who dwell
in darkness, a sign of possession to ward off inhuman poachers.

Mr. Mercer was found dead on his property the following week, victim of a freak accident the authorities surmised. I remembered what the old
woman said. Mercer was found lying face down on one of the mound beds. His worms were feeding on him. They said one of his corner post worn from age and weaken by termites must have snapped. They found him after two days with a sharp jagged edge of fence post going clear through his jugular vein impaling his head into the ground. He bled to death. His body drained of blood.The authorities figured the worms were delighted with this unexpected meal.

In the ensuing days, people's pets and other animals started disappearing in the neighborhood at an alarming rate.I cried when I found Rex's blood stained collar on the path in the back alleyway of the Slaughter residence.

I went home and prayed harder than I ever prayed before. I asked God to bring Rex back to me, if only for one more night, even if it was just
in my dreams. I fell into a deep sleep, a sleep so real and true that only God could have made it so. Rex was with me again and it was just like old times, we were wrestling and playing in the grass with him licking my face and all was good in the world again. I woke myself up from the excitement, pulled the sheets back from my bed, hopeful that
maybe this dream could some how come true.

I threw on my pants getting ready to go out back to see if Rex might be sleeping under the Gumbo Limbo. I was stopped dead in my tracks. There,
hovering by my window, I saw Damien and David peering through, watching me.Their mouths stained with the blood of a fresh kill. I screamed,
throwing my hands up to ward off the horror. They saw the symbol Marc carved on the palm of my hand, looked at each other with irritation,and fled.

I laid back down, letting my heart settle to a relaxed beat. I knew then that I didn't have to fear their kind.

A knock at my study door pulled me back to the present. I heard my wife's voice. "Honey dinner will be ready soon, dear. What have you been doing in here for so long?"

"Well, if you must know, I was just shredding some?old documents? What are the kids doing?"

"They're just watching some silly vampire movie."

She poked her head into the room.

"I know what your secret is. You're reading love letters from old girlfriends aren't you?" Her tone was teasing.

"Actually sweetheart I was just reading a letter from an old vampire friend of mine."

"Oh you are such a funny man! I suppose that's why I married you. Maybe after dinner you can nibble on my neck for awhile."

"I can think of nothing I'd rather do." I fed the letter to the shredder. After all these many years?what were the chances? I joined her, leaving the room behind. "Lets eat, I'm starving".

She went on to the kitchen as I paused in the hallway. I saw a motion through the glass of the front door. On the porch, a shadow waited; a
shadow with red eyes.

Why had I doubted?

A promise is a promise after all?