Dottie’s Plot for Revenge

Yvette and her brother Mark sat across from the cemetery director, flipping through the pamphlets and doing the math in their heads of how much the endless fees would probably add up to, and whether it would be worth it.

“I suppose it’s odd,” Yvette said, tapping her toe nervously. “Most people who come here want to bury someone, and here we are, wanting to, to—”

“Exhume,” her brother finished for her.

“It’s really not that strange,” the cemetery director said. “We move people around all the time. Last month we had a couple remove both their sets of parents so they could be cremated and relocated to Georgia.”

“Well, we’re just hoping to move her a few plots over,” Mark said.

About fifty yards over, as she’d specified when she shattered the mirror over his fireplace, blasted them with Frank Sinatra and threw their Thanksgiving turkey out the window. The dead know what they want, but they have to resort to dramatic measures for anyone to notice.

~

This is a soap opera.

This is a soap opera starring nothing but people who are dead.

The setting: Somewhere on a different plane from here.

When Dottie Truman died, she knew her husband still had enough years ahead of him that he would need to find another companion. So rather than curse him to another two decades of lonely nights in front of late night television, she used her dying breath to tell Peter Truman to fall in love again.

Which he did, to a lovely woman named Beatrice Harper. And Peter and Beatrice were very much married and in love for fifteen years before they passed just weeks apart at the ages of 97 and 91, respectively.

Dottie watched all of this from her little ethereal plot of the afterlife. She cried with a mix of joy and sentimentality at their sweet little wedding at the Beech Tree Shoals Retirement Home. When Peter went first, she prepared to meet him with one eye on his funeral, where Beatrice had to be helped by her son Tyrone and stepson Mark across the rolling field of the cemetery. Dottie was so busy checking her face and straightening her dress that she didn’t notice right away that instead of in the grave next to hers, he was being interred half a football field away, surrounded by gravestones marked “Harper.”

But when she did finally notice? Had anyone been near her own grave, they would have noticed the dirt above her coffin roil like the angry sea. Later on the groundskeeper would think that the black bear rumored to roam the woods around the perimeter of the cemetery had gotten in and started foraging.

“Trying to do my job for me?” He muttered as he set about seeding the grass in the disturbed dirt. “Wrong plot — no one’s due to be buried here anytime soon.”

See, Dottie was buried with the Trumans in a double plot that her husband was supposed to return to once he died. But that bitch Beatrice either didn’t know or didn’t care, and now she had absconded with Dottie’s husband of 49 years to her own plot.

As far as the logistics of the afterlife went, the location of someone’s grave didn’t affect where they could or couldn’t go in the next plane of existence. But that didn’t matter to Dottie: She was confident that being buried with his second wife, away from the Truman family plot and away from Dottie, was doing nothing to coax him back to his first love and the mother of his children.

And anyway, the Trumans had always been a stuffy bunch, and Dottie hated being buried alone with them for all these years. The least Peter could have done, if he had known he’d be buried with some Boca Raton bimbo named Beatrice (which, of course, he didn’t, but try telling Dottie that), was put Dottie in the ground with her own family.

So after five years of waiting, and waiting, and waiting in the afterlife for her husband to come back to her, she decided to get her childrens’ ever-divided attention. It started with turning their TVs at random times, to random channels, but she was so appalled at what she saw across the channels that she decided that was causing more harm to her sense of the world than good. So she resorted to other poltergeist-inspired chicanery: She would tip over a coatrack (which would be blamed on the dog), turn on lights during the night (which would be blamed on the house’s electrician), explode soda cans (which would be blamed on PepsiCo) and burn food in the oven within minutes of it getting hot (which would be blamed on whoever was cooking). Eventually she decided that Thanksgiving would give her the biggest and best audience, so she went nuts: Shattered a mirror, changed the stereo to her favorite Frank Sinatra tune and blasted it, and even threw the half-cooked turkey out the window before using the grease and drippings in the pan to write on the walls “BURY ME WITH YOUR FATHER. LOVE, MOM.”

Dottie wanted to add “AND MOVE THAT BITCH BEATRICE TO THE PLOT NEXT TO THE BATHROOMS” but ran out of grease.

Unfortunately, now that she was watching Mark and Yvette sit with the cemetery director, that wasn’t quite a possibility. Peter Truman, it turned out, had been buried with his second wife on one side, and an empty plot on the other. And that plot was saved for Beatrice’s son, Tyrone.

Who was far from dying.

And who had moved off the grid, never to be heard from again.

At least, not until Dottie decided she had to pay someone a visit. It was time to introduce someone to Old Blue Eyes, backed by a full orchestra, belting out “Strangers in the Night” at top volume around 3 a.m.

Excerpt: “Untitled Vampire Story”

The fact there was something different about him should have clued me into the fact that this was a bad idea — but I never heed my own instincts. My sister said it would eventually catch up to me, this haphazard lifestyle, but hey: I’d been purposefully arrogant for all 563 years of my life.

That’s what comes with being 17 for the last 547 of them. People expect me to be a thrill-seeking, living-on-the-edge, throw-caution-to-the-wind adolescent because I look like a walking, talking teenage cliché.

My sister, ten years my senior, used to moan about how inconvient it was that I vamped at the height of my teen years. She was a perpetual victim of my pubescent mood swings until I figured out how to control them around Year 303 of vampiredom. It also meant having to move around constantly because I never grew older. Then she realized continual transfers were useful, as it meant she could take complete advantage of any man she dated, then disappear when the relationship had run its course. No awkward breakups, and no one-night-stands gone long.

This was fine for the first 500 years until everyone suddenly became like us.

I don’t know who did it. Brom Stoker? Anne Rice? Fucking Stephanie Meyers? Almost overnight — or over-day, rather — the 300 or so vampires, including me and Morgan, came out of hiding in droves. Maybe it was because we were tired of being casted as brooding teenage heartthrobs. Maybe we were jealous of the attention fictional characters attracted and wanted some of the lime light. Whatever it was, suddenly, it was cool to be a vampire.

All I know is that one minute I was a rarity — a freak, some would say — and the next everyone I knew was drinking blood and sleeping from dawn until dusk.

Along with this change came another.

For 563 years, I avoided the hormone cesspool of high school successfully. Now that everyone turned out immortal, everyone started hitting Vamp Highs, where the older you were, the cooler you looked. It was a place where if you were new the first question wasn’t “Where are you from?” but “How old are you?” Some people jacked up their age, just to get attention. That was stupid, since just one glance at your V.I.D (Vampire Identification) clarified the subject.

None of us really needed school, but we were in the habit, and habits die hard, especially when you won’t. Or can’t. Ever.

Like any other “new kid,” when he walked into history class and the teacher, 958 years old, told us his name was Ron Jones — quite a pedestrian name, as far as everyone could tell compared to the students named Cecily, Piper, Loradonna, and Hunter that dominated the roster — the first question he was smacked in the face with upon taking his seat was “How old are you?”

“17,” he replied, looking at his books. I snorted at how Hollywood it sounded.

“No,” said Cecily di Garso (Cecily G. for short). “How old are you? Like — all together.”

“17,” he said again.

That was when the teacher told Cecily G. to shut up and listen to the lesson. Because we were all pretty old, the teachers didn’t really take care “to protect the youth.” Half of us had braved the Crusades, and we had all lived through at least the second World War. When we weren’t trying to one-up another during history class, we were busy swapping war stories.

Which helped make abundantly clear that this Ron kid was weird.

First off, he took notes.

Second, he had no good stories to tell. Not even when the topic of conversation moved on to the Vietnam War did he perk up. He attempted, once, by regaling us with a story told by his last history teacher who had passed around a shell from a bomb he almost died from just outside of a small coastal village in South Vietnam, but when no one seemed to care unless Ron had personally collected it, he grew quiet.

I overheard Cecily G. talking with the over-600 crowd at lunch that day while I eyed Ron taking a seat alone at the corner table.

“He must be a newbie,” she said. “That’s why he said he’s seventeen. Must have just Vamped.”

“Wow,” gasped one of them. “I didn’t know there were any humans left!”

I took my seat at a table away, with my friends in the mid-500s. There were no humans left, even 20 years ago. We had all taken care of that pretty well. I personally had never bitten anyone — I didn’t believe in all the stories about how kinky it could be — but I knew Morgan had. Once. By accident.

I found this in my files from God knows how long ago and thought it would be fun to share in the light of today’s Halloween festivities. Honestly I don’t know where I was going with it, but it fits into my usual M.O. of imagining a tired storyline with the roles reversed or perspective changed. A vampire figuring out what to do about a human in their world? Now that could get spookily hilarious. Who knows: Maybe this will turn into a YA book one of these days….