botanicalmortitian

“Suppose I made you an offer,” the pale visitor says in a voice like autumn leaves skittering across pavement, whispery and dry despite the wicked dripping tongue you’ve spied, a sludge of tar coated in a thick layer of saliva.

“What kind of offer?” You ask warily, keeping a tight hold of your grandfather’s Mosin–Nagant rifle as you wait for a reply from the other side of the door. You’ve been locked in a kind of stalemate for several weeks now, unable to venture from your home, unwilling to allow the tall figure inside. He never seems upset by your continued refusal, his voice always calm, his demeanor more polite than most of his human counterparts.

“What if I kept the others away? No visitors. No soldiers. No guests begging for entry. Just you, alone. Undisturbed. At peace. Perfect solitude. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, dear hermit?”

You would indeed, and the lure of his words makes you curious. “How would you do that?”

The tall figure beams, the wicked points of his teeth glinting in the porch light. Perhaps when he’d still been human the smile had been ingratiating, charming, alluring. Now it simply seems ravenous. You can feel his hunger wafting right through the door, ready to devour not just your body, but your spirit, feasting on your discomfort and fear, the perfect garnish for his grisly meal. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself about those kind of details,” he purrs dismissively, making your gut twist even more.

“You mean murder.”

The rictus grin because flatter, the muscles in the shallow curve of the visitor’s jaw tensing. A faint break in composure, hairline really, and yet you tremble at the knowledge of that fractured boundary. “I think you are missing the point, my dear.”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re getting out of this.” The visitor hardly needs your permission to eliminate any who wander onto your property; he’s already dealt with several trespassers, even going so far as to display his handiwork, propping up severed heads and arranging corpses in various poses within sight of the farmhouse windows.

The grin becomes a smirk, lopsided and smarmy. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’ll require payment.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Of all the things you might have imagined the creature to seek to barter for, this was perhaps at the bottom of the list. “You want money?” You ask incredulously.

The intruder laughs, and this, remarkably, is a pleasant sound. It is deep, the kind that resonates not from the chest but from the belly, a rumbling that has to shake itself free, working its way to the surface in gradual increments. “No, no, of course not. I have no use for such a thing.” His head tilts to one side, the sweep of dark hair falling over his chalky brow shifting with the movement, a shadow creeping over the moon. “I desire the only currency that matters—your blood.” He cannot quite tame that wicked tongue inside his mouth, the black tendril poking from behind his perfect white teeth, curling over them to touch his lips in anticipation, prematurely savoring this prospect.

You immediately take a step back. “You want to drink my blood?” You inquire, aghast.

“Just a small amount, really little more than an appetizer for myself. I assure you you’re getting the better end of the deal. I’ve always been generous to a fault.”

You shuffle closer again, peering once more at the shirtless figure through the peephole set into the door. His hands are still folded in front of him in a false display of patience, but there’s a faint line of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth punctuating his mention of feasting on your blood.

“It will only take a moment of your time. Once a week should be sufficient.”

“How will you…?”

“Oh, you really are a treasure. How do you think? With a bite, of course. I promise not to make a mess; the punctures will be quite tidy. Minimal scarring, if that’s what you’re concerned with.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, a bitter sound without mirth. “You think I’m worried about my appearance? That’s the least of my concerns.”

The visitor scowls, his relaxed composure slipping a bit further. “What’s the issue, then?”

“You want to bite my neck like some kind of vampire—”

“—It doesn’t have to be your neck. There are plenty of other sites I can feed from,” he interrupts smoothly.

“And I’m supposed to just trust that you’re not going to rip my throat open and kill me instead?”

He looks genuinely offended, the neatly steepled fingers collapsing and parting, his long arms now dangling at his emaciated sides. “This is a contract. A solemn vow entered by both parties. I give you my word.”

You hesitate, and the hesitation surprises you. Why are you even considering this? You might as well just fling open the door and invite him inside.

“Why do you even want it? You can drink your fill from any of your other victims.”

“Do I inquire why you prefer isolation?” He sniffs, one bare heel scuffing against the porch’s flooring as he deliberates whether or not to answer you. “There is a difference between what is taken involuntarily and what is willingly offered. It is like comparing a newer vintage of wine and a well aged one; there is a marked variation not so much in composition as in flavor.”

“If my blood is really as appealing as you seem to think it is, then I ask again what’s to stop you from overdoing it?”

“Are you implying that I have no self control?” His voice is low. Dangerous.

You shift your grip on the gun. Your fingers are beginning to cramp from how tightly you’re clutching it. “No, I’m not. But I have another question.”

He sighs loudly, clearly growing impatient. “Ask.”

“What happens if you sample my blood and you decide it’s not to your taste after all?”

“An event that will never occur. I have every confidence in your stock, just as I’m certain you have faith that I’ll keep your home secure. Enough deliberation. You have the information you need. Make your decision.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then I can promise you will never know a moment’s peace again. I will summon every visitor to this location. It will be a siren song to every human, and the men from FEMA will harass you incessantly. If you think not being able to go out into the sunlight is a hardship, you will surely feel like you’re dwelling in Hell on Earth when you’re tormented by every living wretch for miles.”

“If I agree to your terms under duress, wouldn’t that spoil that precious vintage you’re so eager to taste?”

The visitor’s palm slaps against the door and you jump, startled as the wooden structure rattles in its frame. When he speaks again, the words are pushed out through gritted teeth. “I grow tired of this banter. Do you accept my terms, yes or no?”

“A…Alright.”

His head lifts sharply. “Is that a yes? You agree to the terms?”

“Yes.” You can scarcely believe the word leaves your lips so readily.

The furrowed lines on the pale visitor’s features smooth out, the tension in the muscles between neck and shoulder visibly easing. He smiles. “Excellent decision. I’ll do my part, and return next week so you can hold up your end of the bargain.”

You nod, and then realizing he can’t see you, you manage another agreeable sound.

He departs as silently as he came, leaving you alone once more. It takes you a long time to fall asleep that evening, your mind swirling with thoughts of what might happen when he returns to collect his due.

~~~

That week nothing happens.

Not a single knock at the door. No horrors on display in the yard. No bone chilling cries or menacing shouts. You enjoy the peace and quiet, until you remember what the cost of that luxury will be.

The pale visitor returns exactly seven nights later. He knocks politely on the door. You know it’s him before you even look through the peephole; before his knuckles even rap against the wood. There’s a distinct presence about him, an aura that spreads like an oil slick announcing his arrival, making the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Good evening,” he greets. “How was the week? Did you enjoy your solitude?”

“Yes.” The sound of the word is a faint croak. “Were there a lot of people you had to…had to…”

“…Dispatch?” He supplies. “A fair few. But you needn’t linger about those unpleasant details. Let’s move on to other topics. Namely, your payment.”

You inhale and exhale deeply. “I think my wrist would be best.” You’ve been giving this some thought, and you feel like this is the least intimate place he might bite.

“As you wish.” Nothing in his tone suggests he’s pleased or displeased with your choice.

“I’m not letting you in. I’m just going to stick my arm outside the door.”

A brief flicker of annoyance creases the corners of his dark eyes, the thin lips spreading to an even narrower line, but he nods his acceptance.

You unlock the door, cautiously easing your left arm through the sliver of a gap you’ve allowed, your heart pounding like mad.

The visitor’s touch is cool and surprisingly gentle. You allow him to bend your elbow, lifting your wrist higher.

“Hold still.”

You close your eyes, struggling to obey. His breath ghosts across the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, warm and humid, the only warning you’re given before his teeth pierce your flesh. You stifle a cry, biting your bottom lip. The sensation is akin to stabbing yourself with a sewing needle, unexpected and sharp, and just as brief. Now suction is applied, lips latching over the marks to form a boundary, the coaxing pressure of his tongue drawing your life essence inside his mouth. You begin to feel drowsy. The feeling becomes increasingly pleasant, almost like slipping into warm bath water.

“Enough.” Your wrist is released and all of that lax warmth fades, the evening air suddenly cool against your damp skin, whatever spell had been cast broken as you become alert once more.

You swiftly withdraw your arm and shut the door, quickly assessing the damage. You’d been expecting to see blood still dripping from the wounds he’d just inflicted, but the twin holes are surprisingly small and there is very little blood staining your skin. A neat job of it, as he’d promised.

“So, homeowner, what do you think? My terms are agreeable, yes? Both parties satisfied with very little exertion or discomfort required.” His skin seems a little less pale, a bit of color highlighting his gaunt cheeks.

“It didn’t hurt too badly,” you grudgingly admit, rubbing your arm more in disbelief at how normal it felt than any attempt to soothe it. “Did you…did you…”

“Did I what?” The wide grin splitting his lips apart informs you that he knows exactly what you’re attempting to ask.

“Did you enjoy the taste? Was it what you imagined it would be?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I certainly did.” You watch his tongue run over his teeth, as if hoping to catch any stray remnants of your blood tucked between them, and you shudder. “Well, I believe that concludes our business for this evening, so I’ll bid you farewell for now. I’ll return in one week.”

The visitor departs and you seek the comfort of a hot shower. You scrub at your injured arm, at the marks left there, and your fingers stutter over your lathered skin as you recall the feel of his mouth pressed there. It is a memory that resurfaces after you’ve slipped into pajamas and returned to your bedroom, nagging and gnawing, making you toss and turn, driving that same arm beneath your pillow in search of cool relief, a distraction from the heated awareness that you’d actually liked the feel of his mouth dragging your lifeforce from your body.

Another week passes. No one comes to your door until the seventh evening.

The pale visitor has returned.

“Good evening. How was the week?”

“Quiet,” you reply.

“And your arm?”

“Healing well.” It’s true; the tiny scabs that had dotted your inner wrist have already fallen away, leaving faint pink dots in their wake.

“Good.” He rocks forward slightly on his feet and the porch floorboards creak.

“I’m going to open the door.” You make good on your claim, a wedge of moonlight spilling through the gap. You hesitate, then widen it, deciding at the last moment to let it swing open completely.

The visitor makes no move to push his way forward, and you’re not certain if you’re relieved or disappointed.

You keep your eyes open when he bites you this time, the same wrist offered up once again. You do not mute the sound that emerges when his teeth break through the surface of the skin. You watch and you feel, the sharp gone soft, two pieces melding to one. Drinking you in, like taking communion. Solemn. A touch when he is finished that might be a kiss, lips pressing without need, not to sup but to offer a goodbye. He does not speak when your arm retreats back to your side, the movement slow this time, careful. He looks at you a moment longer and then he turns away, descending the stairs and disappearing into the fields.

~~~

“Where do you go?” You ask quietly during another visit. The weeks have spread to months. He has not bitten you yet this evening. The door is wide open. You’re wearing a dress tonight, the buttons lining the front of the material the same shade of onyx as the visitor’s hair.

“What do you mean?”

“When you leave here, where do you go? When the sun comes up…”

“Wherever I can find shelter. A vacant home. A barn. A cellar. Any place that suits my needs.”

“Do you miss having a place to call home?”

A flicker of something in his eyes. Dark eyes to match his hair, your dress, the sky above. “I have no need of such a place anymore.” He pauses, his eyes sweeping up and down your form. “Your attire.”

“Yes? What about it?”

“It’s different from what you usually wear.”

“Do you like it?”

“It doesn’t matter what you clad yourself in,” he claims, but his eyes say something different. “Let us complete the contract.”

“Here,” you say, tapping against the side of your neck.

If he is surprised by your request, he is careful not to reveal it. One hand settles on your waist, the other threading through your hair to cradle the back of your head as his lips find your throat. Bone cleaves skin and vessel and his grip tightens, tugging you against him. You have never been this close. You had imagined he might smell like decay, like the vile things he consumes. Instead you detect pleasant notes of rich earth, fresh cut grass and the smoke of perfumed incense. You reach past the rows of ribs straining his chest and clutch the wing of one shoulder blade.

He stops feeding, releasing you and stepping back. You almost invite him inside. Almost.

He is gone.

~~~

“Good evening.” This time you are the one to issue the greeting. “How was your week?”

“Fine.” He looms at the threshold. His shadow has already crossed it, teasing the feeling of being indoors.

“Come inside,” you invite, before you lose your nerve.

His breath hitches. The night takes on a new kind of quiet, as if holding its breath.

When he enters, he has to duck his head. Your feet are bare like his. They tuck neatly between them when he presses you against the wall. The picture frame set on the nearby table falls. The slips of yellow paper tacked above the cordless telephone rain down like leaves. Your hands cage his slender waist and he shakes. Your lips brush his collarbone and he nuzzles your hair. For every question one body asks, a ready answer is given by the other.