Bobby Crace

The vampire’s favorite place to shoplift was Littles. It was on the other side of the valley and if he didn’t time the trip perfectly – like zero room for error – he’d get caught in the sun.

But Baba Yaga was worth it.

He made it to Littles by midnight, flapping his bat form for hours over the valley. When he arrived, he sneezed himself back into a vampire and peered through the storefront glass. Where was the shop cat? 

The vampire looked for the shelf where the cat usually hung out – the one with the Barbies dressed in GI Joe fatigues, approaching a manger that cradled not a baby Jesus but a Malcolm X action figure. On the other side of the manger, a line of GI Joe figurines dressed in Maui Barbie bikinis, carried gifts for the Malcolm X. 

The vampire moved to the other side of the storefront where he saw a set Mickey Mouse ears repurposed as a lampshade overtop a base made from a Thomas Edison statue. 

That’s when he saw a flash of calico jump onto the register counter. Above the register hung a picture of the proprietor, Linda Littles. She looked out over her curation of kitsch while the cat sat underneath cleaning its paw. 

The vampire tried to fall into the frequency of the animal. Single syllable ideas worked best. He whispered to himself, “Bite, claw, chase, hiss, hunt…” His thoughts stretched out toward the cat. “Are you the owner of this establishment?” the vampire channeled. Cats were easy. Spiders were too. Mice and insects were more scattered.

“I am much more than an owner,” the shop cat transmitted back, jumping down from the counter. “I am lord and purveyor.” The animal pranced toward the front door.

The vampire imagined grabbing hold of the cat’s arrogance like a globe and turning it with his hands.

“Come inside,” the cat channeled, “behold my domain.” 

Assisted by the vampire’s telekinesis, the cat jumped, wrapped its claws around the deadbolt of the front door, and clicked open the lock. The vampire entered the store, scaring away the cat as he disengaged from its frequency. 

The store was well-stocked with Linda Littles’ curious humors – an imprint of personality the vampire had to co-opt. He ambled over to the GI Joe figurines dressed in Barbie outfits. The gifts they brought  for the Malcolm X included  a sterling silver ring with a beetle engraved on the face. He took the ring from the outstretched arms of a GI Joe dressed in a turquoise one-piece and examined it. 

Would Baba Yaga like this? 

He continued down each aisle over and over again, looking for something that would entice Baba Yaga to spend more time with him – something to take their relationship beyond this opposite-schedule, trinket competition. 

None of the knickknacks seemed good enough. They began to taunt him. A moonshine jug engraved with a bible verse seemed to mock: “You’ve got no spirit.” A waist-high Ronald McDonald wearing a Burger King crown criticized: “You need your own brand of humor.”

“I’m trying!” the vampire shouted back at the clown’s frozen expression. Around the corner, he found himself back in front of Linda Littles’ portrait. He followed the path of her fixed gaze; it seemed to point to a shelf displaying the perfect gift. 

The vampire turned back to sneer a fang at the picture of the mortal. “Can’t do anything without a fucking human.” He shook off his Vampiriority Complex and approached the gift. 

Sitting among a collection of salt and pepper shakers was a ceramic head of garlic, with each clove a detachable spice shaker. 

The vampire pictured Baba Yaga bellowing her great ogre laugh at the gift. He picked up the ceramic garlic and felt phantom pains burning through his hands. He checked for blisters but found no burn marks. He shoved the tchotchke into his leather pouch as a series of loud meows sounded from across the room. Too fake to be coming from the store cat. The vampire followed the noise until he found a Felix the Cat Cuckoo Clock whose paws read 2:30AM. 

How was it already so late? 

The vampire stepped outside and pressed the leather pouch to his chest. He imagined the sound of Baba Yaga cackling, and speculated all the futures the gift would inspire. When the joy felt real enough to believe, he snapped his head forward, blinking his body, clothes, and gift into the form of a bat. 

Suddenly suspended in air, he frantically flapped his wings before hitting the ground. Eventually, he was able to create enough lift to catch a strong wind and start making wide brushstrokes over the hills. Although the wind propelled him forward quickly, the morning hours seemed to keep a deadly pace. 

By the time the vampire was halfway over the valley, the sun had started flirting with the horizon. 

By the time the vampire had begun his descent toward home, the fur on his bat belly was smoking and beginning to burn. 

When he spotted Baba Yaga’s chicken-legged cottage still parked by his hovel, the vampire dive-bombed toward it. Smoke trailed him. He was falling faster than he’d ever allowed himself. Only a hundred yards from the ground, the vampire flung open his wings, to harness as much air as possible, dislocating his left-wing shoulder joint. 

He had slowed himself enough to survive the slam into the dirt, and immediately sneezed back into a vampire form. The ceramic garlic bulb appeared to be more intact than his body; he managed to toss the gift toward Baba Yaga’s fence of human bones before diving for his hovel. 

As the vampire gingerly moved his seared body to close the lid to his coffin, he heard Baba Yaga’s hurricane laugh booming through the early light. 

Bobby Crace writes, teaches, and bartends in New York City. You can find his work in The Brooklyn Rail, Eclectica, Chicago Story Press, Mayday, and other journals. http://www.bobbycrace.com