Category: Fiction Factor

The captain stood at the head of the table, tapped his wine glass three times with a silver spoon, and smiled as the dinner guests took a break from their polite conversations.

“Thank you,” he said. “I just want to say how happy we are to have you on our Goldenrod Cruise Lines Pickleball Adventure. I know tomorrow is a big day with our competition beginning in the morning, and of course we’ll crown our champion at the end of the evening.

“So please … eat, drink – but not too much because we’ll be getting an early start – and enjoy yourself. We want this to be an experience of a lifetime for you all.”

The pickleball cruise drew an older crowd, and one not afraid to spend money. While it included ocean views and standard tourist stops typical of ocean journeys, it was designed for people who took the sport seriously.

And few took it more seriously than Timothy and Kathleen Miasma.

To say the pair were popular players in their local pickleball club in Seaside, Florida, would be a falsehood. The retired pharmaceuticals executives were, in fact, reviled.

Both had tempers that would manifest in uncomfortable and often inexcusable ways, and they had plenty of smashed paddles and torn nets to show for it. Being sore losers was compounded by the fact that neither were very good players; when it was competition time, they were among the first to exit.

But their wealth helped build facilities and courts, and even funded a pavilion (called the Timothy and Kathleen Miasma Pavilion, of course) that made all-weather play possible. The joke was that they were a “necessary evil.”

This time, though, they were taking their talents to the sea, and had made it known that they intended to be crowned Goldenrod Cruise Lines Pickleball Adventure champions.

They were paired against Bob and Betty Shipley in the first round of competition, and made a point to seek them out after leaving their dinner plates untouched.

“My wife and I look forward to beating you tomorrow,” Timothy said to the Shipleys, who seemed caught off guard by the boast. “This is a business trip for us, and you’re the first order of business. Winning is all that matters.”

It didn’t take long for  the other passengers to realize the Miasmas were not the “fun couple” of the cruise, and any impromptu mini-social groups that formed made sure to exclude them.

As the drinking and feasting wound down, Timothy and Kathleen prepared to make their way back to the cabin – but not before one final pronouncement.

“This time tomorrow night,” Kathleen bellowed, “we will stand alone as champions. Mark my words.”

The Miasmas were up at dawn on tournament day, and after a leisurely early morning, they made their way to the courts on the main deck.

Trophies for first, second and third place were already set up on a table situated near center court, as well as ribbons that would be handed out to all the participants.

But while Timothy and Kathleen were already there when tournament officials arrived, none of the other players were anywhere in sight. And five minutes before the preliminary matches were scheduled to begin, the courts were empty except for the couple who had guaranteed victory the night before.

“Excuse me,” Timothy said, getting the attention of one of the tourney directors, Jan Edwards. “According to the rules, if the players don’t show up on their assigned court by the official start time, they have to forfeit the match. Well, the official start time will come and go soon and if the Shipleys aren’t here, we advance.

“Those are the rules.”

Edwards was more concerned with the complete lack of competitors than she was with the Miasmas’ tardy foes, but nodded in agreement.

“That’s correct,” she said. “But I think we have bigger problems than that. It’s not just the Shipleys who are late, so is everyone else – besides you. Something isn’t right.”

A half hour went by before officials noticed panicked waves from members of the ship’s crew. They scurried over to see what the excitement was about while the Miasmas looked on. Once the commotion settled, Edwards – following a subdued conversation with the ship’s captain – made her way towards them.

“I’m afraid I have some horrible news,” she said. “All of the rest of the competitors are dead. They were found dead in their cabins … every one of them.”

Timothy looked at the official with a gleam in his eye.

“Well,” he said. “We win the tournament.”

Edwards gazed at him in disbelief.

“There are over 30 people dead, sir,” she said, gritting her teeth as she choked out the sentence. “I don’t think anyone is thinking about pickleball championships right now.”

Kathleen walked over to the first-place trophy, grabbed it, and held it in front of her.

“I said we’d stand alone as champions,” she shouted. “And here we are.”

The victorious couple knew that in just a few days they’d be back in Seaside, and their trophy would no doubt be the envy of every other member of their club. They shared a quick kiss and then walked away with their hardware, discreetly tossing the flask of poison overboard.

Jimmy had looked forward to this day for as long as he could remember.

Year after year he had heard stories of others who reached the transformation age, standing under a bright, full October moon and finally morphing into their wilder selves.

So many myths surrounded lycanthropy, with humans thinking either it was a form of madness or – if they believed it to be real – the result of a horrible curse.

But for those in The Culture, it was simply nature taking its course, no different than experiencing a voice change or seeing hair sprout in tender places.

Most took on a wolf-like appearance and hunted under cover of darkness, joined by their parents and friends. And just as wolves rarely attack people, neither did members of the The Culture – although deer were fair game and raccoons occasionally found themselves on the wrong side of sharp teeth.

There was also an unfortunate incident several years earlier involving the Star Trek cosplayer dressed as a Tribble, but that was rarely talked about except during Star Trek conventions and the Strange But True Animal Attacks podcast.

Following the first kill, the newly transformed would usually wake up in tattered, bloody clothes, with only a spotty memory of what happened the night before. Over time, though, they’d learn to retrace their every move and gain complete control of the beast within. As adults, they would become valued and trusted leaders of the pack.

On this particular night, only Jimmy’s parents – Leonard and Mavis – were around to oversee his ceremony.

They had kept their nocturnal activities out of their son’s sight. It was standard practice; a rule of thumb was to “never show what they will become until it’s time to become the thing never shown.”

“I don’t see anybody else,” Jimmy said as he walked with them toward the clearing where the ritual would take place. “From what I hear at school, the newly transformed in The Culture make it a big party. And everybody wears robes.”

Leonard and Mavis had no robes. They were dressed in their usual garb – blue track suits, reflective running shoes and fluorescent yellow headbands.

“No, honey,” Mavis replied. “It’s just us. It’ll make more sense to you later. Just stand in the circle we drew there and we’ll go ahead and get started.”

Leonard stepped forward, produced a piece of paper from his left pocket, and began to read the sacred words:

By the light of the moon, and the power of the night

It’s the eye of the Tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight

A Survivor lyric might seem out of place

Buy you’ll forget all about it once fur’s on your face

Enjoy the journey, it’s about to begin

Oh, Didelphimorphia, take over this skin!

With that, Jimmy felt a strange sensation, as though his head was becoming elongated and his ears were growing larger. Although his eyes began to blur, he noticed gray fur popping up on his arms and felt his teeth rearranging in his mouth.

And then, he passed out.

Hours later, the morning sun pierced the window in Jimmy’s room, and the young man groaned as he rolled out of bed. His clothes were mostly intact, although he appeared to have dog food splattered on his shirt and he smelled of week-old garbage.

He remembered little of the night before, although he did seem to have a slight recollection of hissing at a cat.

He rose to his feet and prepared to head downstairs when he heard a perfunctory knock signaling the entrance of his parents.

“Mom, dad … what happened last night?” he wanted to know.

“Sit down, son,” Leonard said. “It’s time we told you everything.”

Jimmy plopped down on the edge of the bed while his dad took a knee.

“Jimmy,” Leonard said. “I know how much transforming means to you. And I know you thought this was all part of becoming part of The Culture … those who claim to be well-bred. But that’s just not who we are. And that’s never who we’re going to be.”

“Son, we’re Possum Folk.”

Jimmy had heard of some kids turning into dogs – even coyotes – but manifesting as a marsupial was rarely even whispered about.

“I thought on transformation night we all go on this great hunt,” Jimmy said. “Is that not what happened?”

Mavis walked over and sat on the bed next to her child.

“Well, I guess it depends on how you define ‘hunt,’” she said. “Your father and I knocked over a garbage can and found some Chinese food. You ended up wandering over to the Jemison’s porch and eating some of their dog Ringo’s food. We ate, and then we came home. Really, things went pretty well, all things considered.”

Jimmy had imagined running wild in the forest, wind slicing through his fur and eyes glowing as he moved in for a kill – apex predator-style.

Instead, when the full moon rose and he transformed, he’d most likely hit a top speed of four miles per hour, and only then because he got spooked by a motion-activated sprinkler.

Jimmy shook his head and sighed.

“This is such a huge letdown,” he said.

“It shouldn’t be,” Leonard stressed. “The important thing is that you wake up every day being the best Jimmy you can be and – when it’s transformation night – just be the best werepossum you can be and never be ashamed of who you are.

“Do that, and your mom and I will always be proud of you. We only ask one thing.”

Jimmy looked at them, fighting back tears.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Mavis smiled. “Stay out of the road,” she said. “It can be really dangerous … especially after dark.”

Tall, thin and nattily dressed in a deep purple sport coat and slacks, Count Dracula waved at the man from his small table in the back of the restaurant.

Robert Belmont had been running the Vampirical Evidence website ever since he dropped out of junior college, and after nearly 10 years of chasing leads – and shadows – he had finally scored an interview for the ages.

As Belmont reached the table, Dracula extended his hand and smiled broadly – revealing a pearly white (if fangless) set of teeth.

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Belmont,” he said. “I hope this restaurant suits you.”

It did, indeed.

While a damp, dark castle might’ve been a more traditional setting, those were hard to come by in Hays, Kansas. Plus, meeting a vampire in a public place was much safer for the interviewer.

“This is great, Count,” he said. “It’s such an honor to finally meet you.”

Belmont had spent countless hours studying vampire mythology, and had so many questions he worried that he wouldn’t have time to get even half of them answered.

“I hope you don’t mind if I jump right in,” he said, plopping a digital voice recorder and spiral notebook down on the table. “I’m gonna record the conversation, if that’s not a problem. Or maybe should I ask, is your voice even recordable? I’m hoping you can help explain which myths have an element of truth and which ones are false.”

Dracula drank deeply from his wine glass and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m afraid you might be disappointed when you find out how many myths are just that,” he said. “That said, I’m hoping I can clear some things up for you and your audience. Oh, and yes … my voice records just fine.”

Belmont turned on the device and started his questioning.

“OK,” he said. “First off, how many years have you been in your castle in Transylvania?”

Dracula gave Belmont a puzzled look.

“Uh, I’m from New Castle, Pennsylvania,” he said. “I grew up in a midcentury modern home there. I’ve never been to Transylvania … I couldn’t even find it on a map.”

Belmont was dumfounded.

“But your name is Count Dracula … I’ve confirmed it through some of my sources on Facebook.”

Dracula nodded.

“Ah, yes, Facebook. Isn’t there a group on there that has proof that four plus four equals five?” Dracula said, using air quotes to emphasize the word proof. “You can’t believe everything you read, Mr. Belmont.”

The interviewer began hastily thumbing through his notebook.

“So, are you denying that you’re Count Dracula?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Dracula answered. “My family name is Dracula. My first name is Count … my parents were rather eccentric and huge fans of Count Basie, which is how I got my name.”

Belmont reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone. On it were several photos and drawings of Dracula from various time periods, all bearing a striking resemblance to the Dracula sitting in front of him.

“Come on, Mr. Belmont, “ Dracula said. “Really? I don’t recognize any of those photos, which means I’m quite certain they’re photoshopped. As for the drawings, anyone could’ve done those. Nothing there proves I’m a vampire.”

Belmont sighed.

“You’re not a vampire, then?” he asked, earnestly.

Dracula’s eyes widened.

“Oh yes, I’m a Vampire,” he said. “The Vampire family hails from Romania. I did dome research on a genealogy website and learned that Augustus Vampire emigrated from there back in the 1600s. Eventually – because of the myths – they changed the name to Vampoor and settled in Malta.

“What you thought you knew, you don’t. Am I undead? Well, yes … if you’re alive, you’re undead. Do Vampires drink blood? The Vampoors drank a lot of blood orange juice because they had a citrus orchard. I’m sure you’ve had fun with your Vampirical Evidence website, but I’m your evidence – and I don’t think it was what you hoped to find.”

Belmont closed the notebook, slid his phone and recorder into his pants pocket and stood up from the table.

“Well,” he said. “I appreciate your time, anyway. I doubt my site is gonna generate much traffic after I run this story.

“Thanks again.”

Dracula watched Belmont leave the restaurant and followed him out moments later, getting into a car that had just pulled up.

“Well?” asked the driver.

“Good news and bad news,” Dracula said. “I’m pretty sure I fooled him … I masked my scent with cologne and he seemed genuinely dejected when he left. But there’s a full moon coming in three days, and we need to be vigilant.

“Belmont might not think I’m a vampire, but I know for a fact he’s a werewolf – I could smell that bastard the minute I saw him.”