Authors: Sara Beaman
Argonaught: I
learned of the undead about fifteen years ago. I’ve been doing
research ever since.
NyghtWynd: The
undead? So there are undead things other than vampires
Argonaught: More
like two kinds of bloodsuckers.
Argonaught: The
ones we call vampires are almost like people. They can blend in
shockingly well with humans. They don’t really look dead,
although their skin is cold and they don’t need to breathe.
They have human-like personalities as well, but they all have
sociopathic or psychopathic tendencies. The urge to kill.
Argonaught: Then
there are ghouls. They’re more like zombies. They’re not
slow and lumbering, but they don’t think. They can’t talk
or be reasoned with. All they do is kill.
Argonaught: Ghouls
can run around in broad daylight. But for some reason vampires can’t.
NyghtWynd: Were
you attacked by one?
Argonaught: No.
I’m fortunate enough to have never been attacked by a vampire
or a ghoul.
Argonaught: My
story is stranger than that.
Argonaught: It all
started when my brother hung himself, in the summer of 1992. His
fiancée had just died, and he must have taken it really hard.
He didn’t even leave a note.
NyghtWynd: Oh my
God. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry...
Argonaught: It’s
all right. It was a long time ago.
Argonaught: His
funeral was closed-casket. He was an organ donor.
NyghtWynd: I see.
Argonaught: The
day after the funeral, his research assistant went to pick up some of
his stuff from work.
Argonaught: His
office had been picked clean. Someone had taken everything over the
weekend.
Argonaught: We
looked through the security tapes taken by campus surveillance
cameras during those 48 hours, but they were all blank.
NyghtWynd: That’s
really bizarre!
Argonaught: That’s
not even the beginning.
Argonaught: Later
that night, he called his apartment.
NyghtWynd: Wait.
You mean your dead brother called?
Argonaught: Yes.
Argonaught: His
fiancée’s mom was the one who picked up the phone. She
was in their place, putting their stuff in order.
Argonaught: We
sound alike, so she thought it was me, doing a crank call for God
knows what reason. She called me right away to yell at me, but of
course I had no idea what she was talking about.
Argonaught: We
couldn’t figure out who had done it, and we didn’t really
want to think about it. We tried to forget it.
NyghtWynd: I don’t
blame you.
Argonaught: But a
week later one of his ex-girlfriends found me at work. She said she’d
gotten a call from my brother too. He’d been talking like he
didn’t even know he was dead.
NyghtWynd: What
did she do?
Argonaught: She
didn’t want to believe him either, but after a few days I guess
her curiosity got the best of her. She traced the call and called him
back.
NyghtWynd: Did he
pick up?
Argonaught: Only
once. The first time she called.
NyghtWynd: I’m
not trying to be skeptical, and I do believe you, but... I mean, how
did she know it was really him? Couldn’t it have been someone
who sounded a lot like him?
Argonaught: No.
She said she asked him something only he would know, and he answered
correctly.
NyghtWynd: What
did she ask?
Argonaught: She
never told me.
Argonaught: She
tried calling back a bunch of times, but she never got through again.
Argonaught: She
was so shaken up about it that she flew up North to find me and tell
me her story.
Argonaught: I
don’t know if I would have believed her if we hadn’t
gotten that other call from my brother, but when I put the two
stories together it seemed like too much to ignore.
NyghtWynd: What
happened next?
Argonaught: She
wanted to dig up his casket and open it.
Argonaught: But we
couldn’t get permission. Even though I was executor of his
estate. It didn’t matter.
NyghtWynd: So you
couldn’t do it?
Argonaught: No, we
did. We dug it up ourselves. We both ended up getting arrested.
NyghtWynd: Oh my
God...
Argonaught: But we
did it. I don’t know how the two of us managed to do it in one
night, even back then. Neither of us was young. I guess we were
determined.
NyghtWynd: What
did you find?
Argonaught: There
was no corpse inside. Only a CPR dummy made of rubber and plastic.
NyghtWynd: Holy
shit! What did you do?
Argonaught: We
didn’t know what to do. The police started an investigation,
but nothing came of it.
Argonaught: Before
you get it in your head that he faked his death or something, don’t.
I was the one who found his body in the first place. So don’t
ask me about that.
NyghtWynd: I’m
so sorry. That’s really awful...
Argonaught: I’m
not trying to make you feel bad.
Argonaught: It’s
just that whenever I tell anyone this story, that’s what
everyone wants to think. That he wasn’t really dead in the
first place.
NyghtWynd: I’m
sure it’s hard for people to understand when they haven’t
had any experiences of this kind themselves...
Argonaught:
Whatever.
Argonaught: In any
case, his ex left a few days later. I kept in touch with her for the
next few months. She kept looking for him the entire time. She
figured out what town he’d called from and was trying to go
from there.
NyghtWynd: Did she
ever find him?
Argonaught: I
don’t know. I don’t think so. Three months after she
visited me, she stopped calling.
NyghtWynd: What
happened to her?
Argonaught: I
hadn't heard from her for a few weeks, so I tried to call her myself.
By that time she’d already gone missing. I talked to her son on
the phone. He said the last time he’d seen her, she was on her
way to meet with someone downtown about the case.
NyghtWynd: Who?
Argonaught: A
reporter. They told her they could help her with her research.
NyghtWynd: Do you
think she was kidnapped? Could she still be alive
Argonaught: No.
Argonaught: I know
she’s not.
NyghtWynd: How do
you know?
There is a long
pause.
Argonaught:
Because the police found her body four weeks later.
Argonaught: She’d
been completely exsanguinated.
///
The vision fades.
Adam’s hand
drops down onto the space between us on the couch. He stares forward,
eyes unfocused, and takes a few ragged, slow breaths.
There is no
question in my mind: Argonaught spoke of him, the death of his Elena.
Argonaught was his brother. And I delivered that account to Mirabel—I
put that information in her lap—I put his brother in mortal
danger—
“That wasn’t
you,” he says. He takes off his glasses and brings his hands to
his face.
But
it
was
me. I did that.
He doesn’t
reply. Through the gaps in his fingers I can see him squeeze his eyes
shut. He is totally still, totally silent. Crying.
You didn’t
know...
He shakes his
head, inhales through his nose, wipes at his eyes. “About
Elena? No...”
God, Adam, I’m
so sorry.
“It had
nothing to do with you.”
He stands up and
starts to walk away. I scramble to my feet, grabbing his hand.
“Kate...”
I wrap my arms
around his shoulders and bury my face in his back. His shirt smells
like detergent. I feel like crying too, even though I never knew
Elena, never knew his brother, and really I barely know him. God. He
hung himself? He must have been in pain worse than I can even
imagine.
I feel his ribs
expand and contract as he sighs.
“It’s
not your fault,” he insists.
That
doesn’t mean I don’t care,
I tell him.
I
do care. I care about you.
He turns to face
me and forces a smile. It makes him look worse. Without really
thinking, I put my hands on the sides of his face, taking him in for
a moment—his tired grey eyes, the faint slicks of tears down
his cheeks, his lips. It’s true. I do care about him. I don’t
care what Haruko told me about him. I don’t care that it’s
weird. I care about him.
Before I can stop
myself, I’m kissing him on the mouth, putting my hands through
his hair, pulling him close. I almost expect him to pull away again,
but then his arms circle my waist; his tongue finds mine. I don’t
care that it’s cold. I don’t care that he’s dead. I
go up on my toes, pressing my chest against his, my hips against his.
I grab his shirt and pull him down to the couch, wanting him on top
of me. I don’t care if it’s too soon.
But then he pulls
away. He looks over my head at something behind us and shudders.
I turn around.
Aya is standing in
the foyer, staring at us wide-eyed, blushing furiously.
Adam stands up.
“What is it?”
“It’s
five minutes to dawn,” she says.
“Jesus
Christ,” he mutters. “All right. Thank you. I’ll be
down in a minute.”
She turns and goes
back down into the basement.
He scrapes a hand
against his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Shit. I’m
sorry.”
I’m
blushing. Why am I blushing?
It’s
fine. Don’t worry about it.
He nods. “I
should go...”
Adam... are you
okay?
He blinks. He
opens his mouth, then closes it again. He forces another smile.
So that’s
a no.
“I’ll
be fine. Get some rest. I’ll see you after nightfall.”
I nod, looking
down into my lap. He puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I care
about you too, Kate,” he says.
He walks to the
basement door and starts his descent. I watch him go until I can’t
see him anymore. I lie down on the couch, on my side, curl into the
fetal position, and try to think about what just happened—not
what happened five years ago, and not what’s going to happen
tomorrow.
As my nervous
excitement fades, just before I fall asleep, I think of Mirabel.
And I think of
murder.
{Adam}
I woke up in a
storage closet, lying prone on cold concrete. Face-down on the floor
next to me was a woman wearing a simple black shift and no shoes, her
brown hair obscuring her features. At the nape of her neck, right
below her hairline, was a brand, an icon seared into her flesh: a
golden spiral, the
spira
mirabilis
.
I gently nudged
her shoulder, trying to wake her. Her skin was as cold as mine. I
shook her more forcefully, praying she was only dead in the same
sense I was. She didn’t respond. I rolled her onto her back,
still hoping she might only be catatonic, but judging from the
stiffness of her limbs and the smell, she was truly and permanently
gone.