Sarah Benadine is Dead

Chapter IX, Part I

Part Two

Blood and Bone

December 1955—March 1956

In order to understand where we are going, you must first know where we have been. Where we have been is this:

The only reason Jared Wilkins was outside so late that night was because Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury were fighting again. Unsurprising: Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury fought as often as they breathed. It seemed worse than usual that night, but that was probably because it was Thanksgiving. So much for celebration.

The Wilkinses and the Bradburys were neighbors; backdoors on both houses opened up to a yard without a fence. Jared snuck out that way that night, long after he was supposed to be in bed. The time was creeping towards midnight, and Minerva Boulevard was deserted. He made as little noise as possible, even once he'd made it outside. He was right below his parents' bedroom window. They were probably already awake. There was a soft glow lighting the grass coming from the Bradburys' living room window, but the curtains were drawn. They didn't want anyone to see their brawl, just hear it.

Some nights, when Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury's fighting got really bad, Dexter would slip out of his own backdoor and spend the night at the Wilkinses', creeping back over in the early morning hours. Jared was under no delusions that his parents didn't know about this, but they didn't say anything and so neither did he. His parents felt bad for Dexter—his father often said so. His mother would never dream of criticizing the way another couple raised their children, but the fact that she said nothing about Dexter's night excursions showed that she took pity on him, as well. Florence Wilkins was not the type of woman who would normally hold her tongue about mischief in her own household.

As for Dexter's household, Jared was pretty sure the only person who might have taken notice of Dexter's absence was his grandmother, who'd lived with them for almost ten years.

Jared waited awhile on his back porch, huddled into himself for warmth, watching to see if Dexter would come out. The night was a symphony of Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury's insults and curses. Jared wondered idly what it was this time—money, in-laws, household chores—but he did not really want to know. He waited all of fifteen minutes, teeth chattering, limbs shaking, but Dexter never came out. Jared thought without much conviction that maybe Dexter was sleeping through it all. The cold but realistic voice in his head told him otherwise: Dexter probably didn't think he could get out without being heard. Jared turned and was about to go back inside when something else caught his attention.

The Kraus farm was across the street. Jared had learned the routine pretty well over the years; he'd only ever had one home and the Kraus farm was older than he was. Perhaps that was why his curiosity was really piqued: he knew the farm well and he knew the woman standing on its land did not belong.

She stood with her back to him. She wasn't very tall, and she was just skin and bones; the flowery dress she was wearing hung off of one pointed shoulder. Her short hair was brown and choppy, and though he could not be sure he thought that she was still quite young, perhaps in her twenties. As he watched she fell to her knees and wrestled with something on the ground. Her flowery sleeve slipped further but she did not seem to notice.

Jared leaned around the side of his house, craning his neck to try to see what she was doing. Her thin body and the baggy folds of her dress blocked his view. Her arms were working aggressively, looking like she was stirring the ground. An unexplainable impulse kept him rooted to the spot, watching her with anxious expectation. His breath ballooned out in swirls of smoke. With the greatest care, the woman turned ever so slightly, just enough for Jared to see. The front of her dress was an ugly red-brown color, and in her hands, bony fingers held the bloody corpse of a chicken. Horror settled way down deep in Jared's bones as the woman lowered her head and began to drink.

His brain screamed at him to run, get inside immediately, but he didn't. For at least another minute or two, his feet remained bolted to the ground and he stared, dazed, confused, and horrified, as this stranger drank her fill. His house offered him some cover, but not much; if she turned all the way and looked up she'd see him for sure. Still he watched, frozen and thoughtless in a dull kind of fear. For a reason he could not describe, his eyes were not drawn to the awful act itself. Instead, he found himself concentrated on the ugly stains on her dress—some obviously wet, bright red and awful, but some brown and dry. Old.

Finally, when the woman lifted her head, the blood that ran messily down her chin jarred him. A cartoonish image of legs twisting in a circle kicking up dust floated before his eyes as he wheeled into his house, no longer caring if he disturbed his parents. He struggled with the lock for what seemed like an eternity, fumbling fingers slipping countless times before he finally drove it home. He stared at the wood of the door for a moment, then flew into the living room, tossing the heavy curtains on the front window and peering cautiously outside. The dead chicken lied limply on the ground, but the woman was gone. He let the curtain fall back, not anxious to wait around to see if she would return. He climbed the stairs to his room noiselessly, half expecting to hear his parents or siblings stirring or a door downstairs flying open. He heard nothing.

He stared at the ceiling for an unknown amount of time that night. When he at last fell asleep he dreamed not of dead chickens or women who drank blood, but of old brown stains on baggy flowery dresses.

The next morning, when he heard the news about the Kraus farm, he went to Ollie O'Brien and asked if her parents had any books on vampires.

***There are a lot of chickens in this book, haha. Anyway, thanks to everyone who voted and commented, it means a lot to me :)***