Vampires in the Attic

I hate the vampires in my attic. You wouldn’t associate a tourist town like Orlando with vampires, but they live here. Well, they’ve lived in my house since the 1970’s. I’ve never actually seen them, but they leave signs. Little ones, but easy to spot once you know they are there.

I was just a little girl, about five years old, the first time I realized there were vampires in the house, and that they wanted my baby sister dead. My baby sister was a little angel; my mother told me, and that was why her name was Angela. I believed her, too; I could think of no other reason why the vampires wanted my sister but that they hated angels.

I tried to tell my mommy about the vampires, but she was too busy to listen. A single mom of two didn’t have time to help hunt vampires, even if they were stalking her littlest daughter. I tried to tell my grandma and grandpa; it was their house after all that the vampires had invaded. After daddy left, grandpa took us in. Grandpa sternly told me that I was acting silly and nonsense of this sort did not belong in his house. I wish he would have said that to the vampires instead of me.

At night, when I was alone in my room, I could hear the vampires in the attic stomping and plotting ways to separate my baby sister from me so they could take her. I would lie in bed all night shivering and looking at my sister’s crib. Every once in a while I would cough or sit up to let the vampires know I was still there. Each night, I left the vampires frustrated. While I was awake and watching, they couldn’t get my sister.

My vigil took a toll on me, though. My teachers complained that I was falling asleep in class and I was cranky all the time. I had stopped actually talking about the vampires; it was clear no one believed me. My mommy had threatened to take me to see a counselor if I kept on about the vampires. She made me go to one when daddy left. I hated it. So I learned to shut up; the vampires were my problem and my problem alone.

I couldn’t keep up the nighttime vigils, though, so I made a deal with the vampires. If I could get them some little girl blood every now and again they would spare my sister. Exhausted, I gladly accepted the compromise.

The next day I had an accident in the back yard. I slipped while I was jumping rope and busted my knee wide open. That’s what I told my mommy. I had really done it on purpose. I smashed my knee into the patio concrete and, crying, had collected the blood in my hands until I had a small pool cupped within. As quickly as I could, I limped to the back of the house and spilled the blood into a paper cup I had placed under the house. There was no foundation; old houses in Florida are built up off the ground. The crawlspace underneath the house was a perfect place for the vampires to come and drink my blood at night.

I slept blissfully for two whole weeks. The vampires kept their word and stopped complaining and threatening every night. They were sated and my sister was safe. Then, one night, I heard them again. They were hungry and needed to be fed and if I didn’t do something they would take Angela.

So began the next eighteen years of my life. Every couple of weeks, I would have an accident and would feed the vampires. The more blood I gave them the longer they waited until I had to feed them again. I quickly became known as the clumsiest girl on the block, and my mommy was driven to distraction, but my sister was safe.

My sister moved out last year, but I still have to feed the vampires. They know where she lives and will go get her if I don’t feed them. Last night, though, they refused my blood. They said they were tired of it and wanted something else – they wanted blood from a different girl.

I hate the vampires in my attic, but I have to feed them. They can’t have my sister and they won’t take my blood anymore. I don’t have a choice. I feel sorry for the little girl that just moved in next door, but I have to protect Angela. I just have to.

(c) Ron Sparks

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