In the Night

Born in the slums of New York, a year after my family came over; I knew poverty for the first bit of my life. We’re Irish, both my parents born and raised in Ireland, and then in 1889, they took a ship over to American and landed on Ellis Island. Twelve or so months later I arrived. My first memories of my father are all right. He was a good man, but had a pretty nasty temper, especially when he drank. It wasn’t until I was about seven or eight that things started to go down hill. My father lost his job at the factory and at first it was all right, he would go to the lines and wait for his name or number to be called, but it never was, he was always too late. He then turned to drinking and even gambling, which made his temper even worse because he’d almost come home empty handed and waste what little money we’d made for the week. 1

A couple years later he left. He just went out to the store one day and never came back. I was ten and I had to get my first job just to keep some food on the table so my family wouldn’t starve. My brother was only five and he couldn’t do much, except hang around and help our mother. 2

I was working at a newsstand. Pay was all right, enough to get food for the week and we did, every week we had food. I worked at that newsstand for about five years, then when I was fifteen I moved on to the factory. They paid a lot more, which was good since Michael, my brother, was starting to eat more; he was a growing boy and needed more food. It was 1905 and things were just barely getting better.3

It wasn’t until 1910 that things changed. I was on my way home from the pub, where I’d gotten a couple drinks with the guys. There was still enough money for the week, especially now that Michael was fifteen and working as well, doing my old job at the newsstand.4

The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen stepped in front of me while we crossed the street. Her long, flowing hair was a dark red; her skin seemed to glisten in the moonlight. Her dress was red, yet plain, for all I knew it was her only nice dress. That usually meant one thing in a place like this, working the streets. Many times I’d passed them and only stopped once, I was eighteen and confessed to the Father that Sunday. 5

“’ello, luv.” She said in a honey voice. The accent was Welsh; I’d heard it before. I tipped my beret at her as we reached the corner. Dark eyes looked me up and down, dark eyes that unnerved me and enticed me at the same time. 6

“Come with me.” She said. I wanted to say no, to say that I had to get home to my family, that they needed me, but the words wouldn’t form and helplessly I followed.7

A kiss with her full lips and I was completely lost, it wasn’t long however until I felt her teeth in my neck. It was a bite that drew blood. Swiping a smooth, cool hand across my face and through my dark hair she said, “Sleep, luv.” 8

Too heavy to keep them open, my eyes fell shut. By the time they reopened I was alone, or alone in the sense I knew no one around me. To my right lay an old man, either passed out from drinking or sleeping in his current bed, which these days wasn’t that rare to see. Remembering the night before my hand flew to my neck, where I could feel two small bumps, the remnants of the bite. My only thought then was hoping it didn’t get infected. 9

Glancing upward, I stared at the heavens above me. Stars were twinkling and the moon was shining bright. Mother would be worried; she knew I rarely stayed out late, not without letting her know first anyways. 10

My limbs felt stiff as I stood up. I stretched them out. The walk helped too, it was a short walk and as I suspected, my mother was half sick with worry. 11

“James Murphy, where ‘ave ya been, I’ve been worried sick ‘bout ya.” She yelled, her accent strong.12

“Sit down, mother, I’m fine. I was just out with a couple of the guys, we lost track of time, that’s all.” I lied. It settled her down. 13

“Yer all right though, aren’t ya, son?” I couldn’t help but smile at the question14

“Course I am, Ma, don’t worry, just a bit tired is all. Go to bed, I’ll close up down here.” She walked up to the little apartment above the bakery, but not before giving me a kiss on the head. She didn’t own it, but she worked there sometimes. The owner’s wife had taken a sort of motherly affection to her and to Michael and myself. This in turn caused us to have the apartment above the shop, it was small, but Mother had her own room, Michael slept on a cot in the living room and I slept on an old battered sofa, one day when I moved out Michael would be allotted the sofa, if he wanted it. 15

After I locked up I headed up, where I heard the familiar sound of her praying. Every night she prayed. Some nights she prayed a specific, memorized prayer, others she made up her own. She was always praying, always blessing us, if it weren’t for her taken Michael and me to Mass every Sunday, we’d probably be the worse kids in New York; we weren’t though. 16

“Oh, James.” Mother called from her room as I passed by. Stopping short, I popped by head into her room and gave her a raised eyebrow. 17

“A letter came for ya.” She was smiling as she held out an envelope and I wasn’t positive, but I think there may have been tears. Taking it, I looked for a seal or something. I found it in the left hand corner. New York University. 18

I barely finished high school, mostly because half the time I didn’t attend because the factory needed me, but I always did the work and I always passed the tests. I didn’t graduate until I was nineteen, slightly older than the rest of those in my class. It wasn’t until the beginning of this year that I actually applied. I had little hopes of getting in anywhere or going for that matter with what little funds we had, but I still applied. The envelope in my hand was the first one from any school that I received. 19

“Open it, luv.” She said, I flinched slightly at the word, but she didn’t seem to notice. My hands, shaking from excitement and a bit of fear, flipped over the envelope and a pale, slender finger went under the little opening. Slowly, I opened it, unsure of what lay inside. My eyes skimmed over the words and my nerves began to fade. It was an acceptance letter, I’d gotten in, I was going to college. My mother hugged me tight and thanked the good Lord for this. I hugged her tight, gave her a kiss, said goodnight, and walked out of the room, letter still in my hand. 20

I sat on the sofa, reading and re-reading the letter. Now that I had the acceptance, what came next? I’d applied, barely expecting anything and now I could go and I didn’t know what to do with it. With one last glance, I put the letter down and laid my head on the armrest of the sofa, it wasn’t very comfortable, but it’s what we had. Michael’s snores lulled me to sleep. 21

Images played for me behind my closed eyelids. Images of creatures and of night. Men and women, paler than any Celt I’d ever seen, laughed and followed people on the streets. Some would grab at them and they’d plunge fang like teeth into their necks, drawing blood. They would drink it and then leave. They’d leave some for dead, some they’d make like them. Then I saw the woman that had approached me. It was as if she were staring straight at me, her face twisted into a malevolent smile, her lips raising, showing her own pair fang like teeth. She laughed a wicked laugh. I woke up. 22

The sun had yet to rise, but I could no longer sleep, I was hungry and it wasn’t for soup or bread. I walked past my brother’s sleeping form and into my mother’s room. I could hear her heartbeat loud and strong, her sleep was deep. I went to her bed; the smell of her blood intoxicated me as I knelt down. Brushing a hand through her graying, red hair I took one final glance at her face before I knew what I needed to do. With a growl deep down in my chest I bent forward and drank the life from her veins. She didn’t wake, she didn’t scream, she died without any knowledge. 23

I opened the window and jumped out, landing on the cobblestone street below. I wandered for miles. Sometimes I’d see someone and I’d take them. Others, if I were nowhere near people, I’d find an animal. Soon I found that animal blood was not as appealing as human. I needed human, I craved it. I’d passed over the New York, New Jersey border and I continued to wander, completely alone. The search for someone like me seemed useless, until one day in 1935 I ran into a couple, they were different, that was obvious. Both were pale, they kept to themselves, yet stayed among people. The trained and observant eye would notice that they were looking for something, I knew what. I’d approached them. She had on a long, black dress; he wore a suit and a hat. I questioned them, wondering if they too were like me. There was a suspicion that they were, but I wasn’t too sure. By the end of the night, my suspicions were confirmed. We roamed the east coast for the next year and a half, till one day they disappeared. I tried to find them, but never did. 24

Times were changing. By the sixties it was obvious no one feared vampires. Someone showed up bloodless; it had to be a serial killer or just some freak with a obsession with blood. The drugs of the day allowed me to share my secret, sometimes I’d tell the kids what I was and they’d tell me that it was “trippy”. I got one of my best feeds around that time. 25

In 1970 I traveled across the ocean and made my way to England. London was full of stories of bloodsuckers, of those like me. I wanted to learn more. I found a flat to my liking there. Then much later that night he was brought there. A woman dropped him off and it was obvious he was on something. I’d learned early on in the hallucinogen period of the sixties, that the hallucinations pass on to you when you drink their blood. I enjoyed it once in awhile, though the blood never tasted quite the same as those who were clean. This guy was different though; he was a legend. 26

Once the woman had left I stepped out before him. I know I startled him; I liked that. 27

“Hello, Mr. Hendrix, it’s time for the legend to die.” I confused him. He wanted to ask a question, he wanted answers, I didn’t let him. Right there I went for the kill. I didn’t completely drain him; just enough that he died and I could get a high. 28

The tabloids talked about him drowning in his own vomit, that’s possible, but not likely. He did vomit; I saw it. It was as he was dying when he saw his own blood. He couldn’t handle it. Then the lyrics they found, they weren’t his, they were mine. I’d gotten bored while I sat there and started jotting down words in my head, those were the lyrics found in his flat by the cops. It didn’t matter to me though. 29

I’m still alone now; I like it though. I’ve got my own rules; no one else’s. There are others out there; I have seen them and I’ve avoided them. I’m a loner, that’s how I live.30

My name’s Patrick James Murphy and I wander the streets, looking for you. I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. I’ll drink your blood and maybe, just maybe, I’ll make you like me. 31