Mr. Morton’s Vampire

Mr. Morton needed a new pair of shoes. The store wasn’t that far from the bank where he worked, so he thought he could get there, get in, and get out rather quickly. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave work as soon as he anticipated, so by the time he arrived the sun had already set. Fortunately, however, he was a creature of habit when it came to shoes.

“Brown oxfords, size eight.” The young, tawny- haired cashier said, already taking out the box and handing it to him.

“Thank you, young man.” Mr. Morton smiled politely, his wrinkled eyes crinkling as he handed the boy the money. He found one always got farther if one was reasonably polite.

“Thank you.” The cashier said with a friendly smile back, “Come again.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Morton replied stepping out of the store.

He was heading to his car when heard the first little squeaks. He could barely hear them, but he had heard them, and something about them said something was wrong.  Looking down he saw a little dark brown bat, face down on the ground, trying to crawl away.

Moved to compassion for the poor little thing, Mr. Morton moved slowly, trying not to scare them.  He knew it wasn’t wise, messing with a live bat like this, but what else could he do? There was no one else to help.

“Hey there, little one.” He soothed, gently picking up the injured bat, “It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you, I just want to have a look.”

The creature moved around in his hands, squirming and squealing. Whatever else, it was certainly alert and aware.

“Why don’t I take you home and get a better look at you.”  Mr. Morton said before realizing. I’m talking to a bat.

#

Mr. Morton’s home was a hodge-podge of different eras.  Faded rambler rose wallpaper that might be older than him.  Well-preserved Naugahyde chair and sofa.  One of those Victorian lamps with the ornate glass shades and beaded fringe dripping down from on an art deco end table and round art deco coffee table at the center of it all.

It was on that coffee table he sat the little bat down, carefully spreading the creature’s  wings. They seemed a bit more corporative now, almost as if they had figured out Mr. Morton was trying to help him, but their eyes were still fearful, not sure if they should trust their rescuer.

He started making gentle shushing noises.  “It’s alright, I’m just going to put your arm in a little splint.”

That seemed to be where the problem was. The poor little guy’s right wing was bent at an unnatural angle. After making sure the bat was comfortable. “I’ll be right that.” Mr. Morton said, before internally scolding himself for once more talking to a bat.

After putting the bat’s arms in a split, he found an eyedropper and gave the little guy some water. They slurped it all down and the bat started squeaking for more.

Mr. Morton was more than happy to oblige, quickly refilling the eyedropper and sticking towards the bat’s mouth. “Here you go, little one.”

#

“I know it’s not exactly your bedtime.” Mr. Morton said, tucking the bat into the little nest he had made them out of scraps of fabric, “But one of us has to go to work in the morning.”

He had given up on not talking to the bat like they could understand him.  Who was there to hear him anyway?

His unexpected houseguest tucked in for the night, Mr. Morton went to get ready for bed himself.

After cleaning up and putting on his pajamas, he checked on the bat again. The little fellow were snoozing quite peacefully. Satisfied they would be alright, he got into bed and shut off the light.

#

Breaking through the haze of sleep, Mr. Morton didn’t register the first groan.  He stayed still for a few moments, before finally sitting up. Sitting his feet on the cool wood floor, he opened his eyes and went to check on his bat, however, what he found was…not what he was expecting, to say the least.

Slumped on the floor next to his nightstand, was an unconscious woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, long toffee brown hair hanging limply everywhere, her slow, steady, but shaky breathing the only sign of life.

Understandably shocked, Mr. Morton stared at the scene, his eyes going between the woman and the scraps of cloth strewn across the nightstand and floor.  Then it hit him that, whatever had happened, this poor woman needed help.

Tentively approaching the woman, he leaned down and shook her shoulder, gently calling out, “Miss? Miss….”

Suddenly he found himself flying through the air, hitting the nearest wall with a thud that sent a sharp pain through his bones, and duller pain through his flesh. Looking up, he found the young woman sitting upright, painting, already protruding eyes wide.

“Easy, easy there,” Mr. Morton soothed, hands out in front of him, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to figure out what’s going on, and I want to help you.”

“I-I know.” The woman admitted, cradling her arm. Her open mouth revealed two dagger-like fangs at the front of her teeth.

Mr. Morton was starting to get the full picture of what was going on. He could scarcely believe it, but he could see it. “You’re the bat I found last night, aren’t you?”

Looking way from him, the woman nodded.

Mr. Morton sat there a moment, processing what he had just been told, and the implications.  Then he realized that, vampire or no vampire. She was injured, she was naked and therefore no doubt freezing. “Miss…um, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

The woman gave him an aspiring eye for a minute then answered, “Agatha.”

“Agatha.”  Mr. Morton repeated, “That’s a lovely name. Well, Agatha, my name is Jack Morton.” He slowly got up, “I’m going to find you something to wear and some bandages as then we can start from there.”

#

Since he lived alone, Mr. Morton didn’t have anything in the way of women’s clothing, so he wrapped Agatha in a powder blue dress shirt and began the work of setting her arm again.

“I know it’s none of my business, but may I ask exactly how you broke your arm?” He asked, carefully putting the splint in place, and wrapping cloth bandages around it.

“That streetlight you found me under?” Agatha reminded him, “I don’t look where I was going and ran smack dab into it. “She rubbed the back of the neck with her good arm, “Hard. “After a beat she added, “This is really nice of you.”

“Well, you needed help.” Mr. Morton said simply.

“And the fact that I’m a-a—” Agatha began.

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t really prepared for that.” Mr. Morton confessed, “But I’m dealing with it.”

#

The strong, stout smell of coffee permeated the air and Mr. Morton looked through his fridge. “I could’ve sword I had some blood sausage in here somewhere…”

“You know, this isn’t really necessary.” Agatha insisted, sitting at a jade green and chrome midcentury Formica table in Mr. Morton’s kitchen, “I can really find my own way that home.”

“Agatha, your arm’s broken, you’re in one of my shirts, and you must be famished.” Mr. Morton pointed out, finally finding the sausage, “The least I can do is feed you and take you home.”

The least?” Agatha repeated, “You already took me in where most people would have been afraid to, gave me a place to sleep it off last night and you’re almost disturbingly causal about the whole vampire thing.”

 Mr. Morton handed her a cup with the blood sausage in it, heavy on the blood, while Mr. Morton sat down across from her with coffee and two pieces of toast, the butter melting into them.

“As I said before it wasn’t…something I was expecting.” Mr. Morton began.

“Which is a polite way of saying you thought we were fiction.”  Agatha said with a sharp-toothed grin.

“But it didn’t change the fact that you needed help.” Mr. Morton finished.

Agatha took a tentative sip of blood. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, though?”

“Only if you’re comfortable answering them.” Mr. Morton replied.

“Ask me and we’ll see.”  Agatha smiled, revealing her fangs again.

Mr. Morton swallowed in spite of himself.

“Don’t worry, I don’t drink from the tap without consent.” Agatha assured him before taking another sip.

“I’ll admit that’s a relief.” Mr. Morton confessed, “Do all, um vampires have that policy?”

“It varies.” Agatha answered, “Most of my roommates eat ethically, but some…well, let’s just be glad those kinds don’t live anywhere around here.

“Vampires have roommates?” Mr. Morton asked inquisitively.

“Again, it varies.” Agatha told him, “We’re not a monolith. Some live with friends, some with roommates, some live alone, some even live with humans.”  She took another zip of her blood, “I’ve known some these guys since the Regency aera.”

“Regency aera?” Mr. Morton repeated, “Agatha, exactly how old are you?”

Agatha looked away bashfully. “I’m actually kind of sensitive about that.”

“My apologies.” Mr. Morton responded, “I won’t speak of it again.”

#

It was mid-morning when Mr. Morton pulled up to a deliberate house on the edge of town. “Is this…is this it?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Agatha confirmed, opening the door. “It’s probably better if you don’t go any further. Some of my roommates might get the…wrong idea if I bring you in there. They might think I brought home a snack.”

Mr. Morton nodded his understanding.

Pushing open the wrought iron gate, Agatha turned back around. “Oh, Mr. Morton? Thank you. For everything.”

That night, Mr. Morton lay in bed when he heard a creaking noise outside. He tried to shake it up, then he heard the noise again, followed by pounding and then shrieking. “Get it off, get it off!”

Grabbing his gun, Mr. Morton ran towards the back door where he heard the sound coming from. Swinging it open, he found a man clad in black, completely with a ski mask, fighting with three bats. As he swatted them, he ran out back into the night.

“Thanks Agatha.”  Mr. Morton called out, tittering just a bit before going to call the police.

He always knew it paid to be polite to people.