Underground Vampire Read Free

the beach.  Cantilevered from the hill, it jutted from a surround of
mature firs floating above smooth beach boulders artfully arranged to appear to
be undisturbed.  They and the house had been featured in a leading
architecture magazine as a prime example of modernism brought forward, and
rumor had it that a hipster website planned to satirize them in an upcoming
post. 
     As homage to the indigenous
peoples who’d once inhabited the isles, their decorator had carefully strewn
about Plains Indian artifacts casually accenting the totem pole commissioned
from an authentic Indian craftsperson.  The pole was positioned on the
beach in a direct line with Alan’s living room recliner to mark either an
equinox or  solstice, he could never remember which, and had been
designated an official vortex site by shamans from Sedona come to bless the
house.
     Birthed in the Bering Sea,
this particularly nasty storm was accelerated by a weather system coming in
from the North Pacific and compressed as it funneled through the Strait. 
Huge rollers picked up energy from the wind and tide, producing killer waves
the native peoples would have feared, had any remained on the islands. 
Seeming to hover above the turmoil, the almost dainty house was engineered with
steel foundation beams anchored in ancient bedrock. 
     Clad in stone to repel the
elements, the all glass front gave the home a delicate effect, which belied the
strength of the metallic windows installed to withstand a hundred year
storm.  Safe inside, Joyce admired the surging sea through sheets of rain
blown horizontal against the windows, confident that the storm would cast
treasure up on the beach, maybe even a Japanese glass net float like the ones
she scavenged as a child. 
    “Remember,” said Alan peering over
the top of his wine glass, “you can only salvage what you can carry.”  She
stuck her tongue out at him, the pile of her treasures at the side of the house
a small joke in their relationship; he preferred a clean unadorned aesthetic
while she compulsively accessorized with the flotsam and jetsam cast up on her
front yard.  Where he saw a clean wall in museum white finished with
subtle lighting as the perfect complement to the shifting day, she saw the
ideal spot to display custom framed debris gleaned from the sea.  
Cozy, with a fire at their backs and an Oregon pinot at hand, they reclined,
relaxed and admired, safe from the storm.
     “Look,” she said, pointing at
the surf line, “something’s coming in.” 
     “Great,” he groused, “more
junk.” 
      Whatever it was, it
surged through the surf like the prow of a Haisla canoe heaved from the
deep.  Harsh rain slanted down, graying the view, and she squinted as the
wave broke and white foam surrounded her find. 
     “Oh my God,” she exclaimed,
sitting up in her recliner, “something’s walking out of the surf.”
      Alan grabbed the
binoculars he kept ready by his chair and scanned the Sea. “I don’t see a boat
anywhere, where did he come from?”  
     “God almighty what is that?”
she said, pointing at the creature standing in the surf. 
     It had arms and legs and a
head with matted stringy hair rather like a Rasta man dragged from a greasy
pool.  Its skin, what was left of it, hung in leprous lizard tatters like
scaly ribbons pasted to the white bones sticking from its frame. The only life
was its bright red eyes, beacons blinking in the storm. 
      Clear of the surf and
striding across the rocky shoreline, Joyce could tell it was male and noticed
the incongruous belt about his waist and shoes flapping on its feet.  She
thought of pictures she’d seen in a Journal depicting a Stone Age tribesman
who’d adorned himself with bits of broken glass from discarded beer bottles, a
flashy bottle cap dangling from his penis.  The man walked without mincing
over the sharp and uneven stones and didn’t appear fazed by either the weather
or his predicament. 
     “Oh