Final Exam

He always dressed for the part; a black cutaway tuxedo with a red sash, a toupee with a widow's peak and a black cape with red lining. His bushy black eyebrows stood in stark contrast to his chalky complexion and a bright red shade of lipstick stained his lips. Count Dracula himself would not have looked more like a vampire.

Two coeds whispered in the back row, "He has the darkest, most hypnotic eyes I've ever seen. It's like looking into an inkwell, there are no irises ."

The professor turned toward the blackboard, writing, then turning to face the audience while speaking, then writing again. Monsters in Literature was a popular course, made more so by the professor's showmanship.

" These beings weren't created entirely from someone's over-active imagination. We have the superstitious belief that the newly dead are to blame for the misfortunes that they, the living, suffered. The dead want us to suffer as they have, and want our company, you see."

He wrote again. "Then we have the reaction of the bodies when dug up and examined. The blood on the lips which is a normal pathological process; the exhaling of the lungs when the chest was pressed often produces a sound, very much like a sigh. Pretty damning evidence to people a few hundred years ago. We still distrust what we don't understand, don't we?"

"Of course we can't have the dead walking around, so they pounded a stake through the heart to pin them down." He smiled wickedly. "It works, too. They don't leave the coffin when pinned to the ground." The class tittered.

"The smell of garlic is repulsive to most people, so they wore some garlic around the neck to repulse the vampires."

A student raised his hand. "Yes, John."

"Professor Burton, haven't there actually been cases of real vampires?"

"There are cases on record of psychotic people who had an unusual sensitivity to light who imagined themselves to be vampires. A few even drank blood, something normal humans can't digest. If you want to be sick as a dog, have oral surgery or a tooth pulled and swallow a cup or so of blood. But they don't turn into bats or vapor and go around at night sucking the life out of the living."

He drew his cape over his left arm and hid the lower part of his face with it. "If you want to see real vampires, go see an old Bela Lugosi movie."

The class tittered again.

"So much for the facts. You begin to see the basis for the legend? If you're writing, use your imagination, Hollywood did. Could your monster have super-human strength, sight, hearing, smell? Can he hypnotise even the unwilling? There is no limit to his powers, although you'd better give him an Achille's heel, else how will you kill him off?" The thought hung for a minute. He could hear the wheels turning.

The bell rang. "We'll continue this on Monday. Read all of chapter eleven and answer the questions in your study guides, have them ready by next time."

The class filed out.

He watched them walk across the campus. "The children of the night. What tales they could tell, eh?"

The professor gathered up his papers while his aide cleaned off the blackboards. "You ready? Then come, Igor, you dine with me tonight."

The aide laughed. "Do you call all your aides 'Igor', Professor Burton?"

"Only during this course. They like it, I like it and it amuses the class. I owe a lot to Hollywood."

After dinner the professor invited the man he called Igor in the study and poured two glasses of a dark red wine. He lifted his high. "A-B negative, my favorite vintage. A toast, Igor, er ah, I mean Ralph. I get so caught up in the act that I forget when the curtain's gone down. To Bela and Bram Stoker, to Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney. They've helped provide us with a good living, don't you agree?"

Ralph raised his glass. "A very good living, indeed." He sipped his wine. "And an excellant vintage, also." He finished his glass.

"Well, thanks for the meal, professor. That's the best steak I've had in a long time. I hate to eat and run. Have a nice weekend, hope you don't run out of candy."

"That's right, tomorrow night's Halloween, isn't it? It hasn't been fun since my grandaughter was killed on Halloween. But I have plenty of candy for the few kids who will dare to knock on my door. Most of them are afraid of Dracula."

"Can't say that I blame them, you're the best. Sorry about reminding you about your grandaughter. Hope they catch that guy. Good Night."

He spent the next day mowing the lawn, weeding the garden and other yardwork. In the evening he passed out candy to a meager crowd of children, mostly teens. Once the kids stopped coming he turned to administrative duties. It was after midnight when the professor stopped grading papers and turned the computer off. The rest could wait. He cocked his head to one side, listening for unusual noises. Someone was moving around downstairs.

He walked down the stairs, not bothering to hide. He walked into the library. A large shadowy figure sat in the winged chair. "Sit down, professor. We need to talk."

"You're in a lot of trouble, friend. Breaking and entering, attempted robbery, murder perhaps. I'd be within my rights if I shot you dead where you sit." It was a low even voice, cold with menace.

"But you ain't carrying a gun and I am, so you'll sit like I said and we'll talk for a minute." The professor sat down.

"What do you want?"

"I'm here to pay an old debt, professor. I owe you a lot. Tonight I'm going to pay you back." The intruder stood up and stepped into the light. He was over six feet tall, about two hundred forty pounds of hard muscle with a thick black beard. The professor said nothing.

"So you're a professor now, huh? Come a long way since the old days at Lusterford, haven't you?" The professor only stared at him.

"You don't remember me, do you, professor? Have you forgotten all the fun we used to have, the cars we stole, the gas stations we knocked over, the girls we had fun with?"

The professor thought back over the years. They had never been good friends, Rex had always been too busy trying to dominate whoever was in his company. He had bullied the professor as a boy in grade school and carried this activity on into high school where things got serious. He thought of all the beatings, the threats, the things he'd been forced to do. There is a point past which even a mouse won't go, and Rex had pushed to that point and more.

"The cars you stole, the gas stations you robbed, the girls you raped, you mean? Always had to have a stooge to blame things on, some meek mousy little skapegoat kid, so you dragged me along. Rex Milhouse. I didn't place the voice at first. And you've changed, a lot. I thought you were dead, at least I hoped you were."

Rex laughed. "Yes, I'll bet you hoped I was dead, only I ain't. I nearly got killed in prison after you testified against me. Have to wear a beard to cover up the knife marks, the girls don't like them much."

"They probably don't care for you, knife scars or not. Most women abhor the smell of rat."

Rex pointed a cheap .22 caliber revolver menacingly. "Just shut your mouth, bud. It's just an old .22, but it will kill you as dead as an Uzi. Have a seat in my special chair." He pointed to an oak arm chair with rollers on the back legs.

Professor Burton sat in the chair, resting his arms on the arms of the chair. Rex got a large tool bag and, unzipping it, drew out a roll of duct tape. "That's right, just relax and you'll live longer."

Rex taped the professor's arms to the chair with several layers of tape, then put a piece over his mouth. He then secured the professor's legs to the chair, even taped his waist to the back. "That's better. You always were a mousy one. Now we'll take a little trip, I've got this great desert oasis I want to show you."

Rex propped the back door open and left for a minute. The professor heard a truck start. Rex backed the truck up to the back steps and dropped the tail gate. He walked past the professor, threw his tape in the tool bag and took the bag to the truck. Returning, he tilted the chair back and slip it across the floor, professor and all. He laid the chair down on its back in the bed of the truck and shut the door of the house. Grabbing a plastic tarp, he covered the bed of the truck and tied it in place, then he put the tailgate up.

"Next stop, the middle of nowhere."

The truck moved off, the noises of the city eventually faded and the sounds of the highway replaced them. An hour later, the truck bounced onto a dirt road. The truck sped across the desert, then wound through a maze of turns. It was almost three a.m. when it stopped.

The tarp whipped off and the professor stared at the stars. Rex put the tailgate down and rudely dragged the chair out, lowered it to the ground and sat it upright. He took the tape from the professor's mouth. "It's sixty five miles to the pavement from here. I spent a week out here once and never saw another soul. Nobody's going to disturb us."

"Payback's a bitch. ain't it professor? I already paid you back some, but I still owe you for the scars."

"When did you ever pay me back? I haven't seen you in years."

"You lost a granddaughter a few years ago, didn't you?"

"Yes, she was murdered by a serial killer. They still haven't caught him."

"That's me. When I got out of prison, my uncle took me in to his construction business. When he died, I got it all. Now I'm a respected citizen, you believe it? Got six kills, you'll make number seven. I liked killin' cats when I was a kid, even more than punchin' you out, but cats don't do it for me any more. The first two were old prison buddies, the ones who cut me up. the next three were just for fun. But Stella, she was the best. She cried like a baby and man, could she scream. Nobody heard her, though. Nobody 'cept me."

So you're the one. My prayers are answered at last.

Rex turned and got the tool bag out of the truck. As he bent over, he heard the professor say, "Paybacks are a bitch, you say. How eloquent. Happy Halloween, Rex." Rex heard the professor's laughter mixed with the sound of tape tearing as he turned.

The medical examiner picked up the autopsy report. "The autopsy reveals a lot about whoever did it. OK, Lieutenant, for the benefit of those who don't speak doctor: he was bound to a chair, shot through both knees with a .22 pistol. He used carpenter tools, sandpapered his fingertips, poured battery acid on them, sanded them again. He sliced off his eyelids with a construction knife, then drove nails in both eyes, drilled holes in the shin bones, and poured acid on his privates. The x-rays show that the toes of both feet were hammered, the bones are crushed. Same was done to the shins, the fractures go all the way to the knee. I suspect it was done with a rubber mallet. Maximum pain with minimum damage, gives me the creeps. Someone had a grudge against our friend here. Notice the bruises around the temple, wrists and ankles. He was tied into the chair with electrical wire, and he strained against the wires."

"Look at the guy, doc. He looks like a tackle for the Detroit Lions. How did he get him in the chair and keep him quiet while he wired him into it? There was no sign of a struggle, at least not at the scene. Any sign of drugs?"

"Nope, no drugs. He lost a lot of blood, but there was not much blood at the scene. I think he was still alive when the coyote found him, but too weak to fight it off. The coyote had a taste for liver, that accounts for the damage there."

"I've investigated a lot of murders, but this one is a real puzzle. Somebody phoned in a tip. They found another victim out in the desert, tortured to death. I thought at first it was just another serial murder like the ones we've had, the guy who ties them in a chair and has his fun. But when I got to checking out the victim, I find he has a scrapbook, even a few pieces of clothing belonging to other victims. This Milhouse character was the dude, the serial killer! Whoever did it used the guy's own truck to drive him out there! And he left the victim's truck there. How did he get away? There aren't any foot prints, not that it matters, it's too far to walk."

He opened the package and took out a pair of contact lenses which he held up to the light. They were as black as a welder's mask.

Life has been nicer since I've been able to function in the daylight.

He put the lenses in and pulled the drapes.

Yes, Rex, you changed a lot. I changed, too.

 Return to The Greenhorn's other stories