Candace McIntire drafted stories about other people who paid her for her time. Ghost writing wasn’t all she enjoyed. She wrote of witchery, vampires and werewolves that went bump in the night. She was a slender, tall woman of raven hair and deep brown eyes. Unlike the others though her face was white as snow. One evening she got a call from a mysterious sounding voice, a voice that sent a chill down her spine.
“Ms. McIntire, I understand you are a ghost writer.” His voice sounded deep with a baritone and Spanish dialect.
“Yes, I write about ghosts and other creatures of the night,” she replied with hesitancy and feelings of dread in her voice.
“My name is Sebastian Rodrigues. I originally came from Madrid. I live here now. I wish for you to author my story. It is a long saga of how I came to being. I was of a normal life but was reborn years ago.” He paused. She wondered where this conversation was leading to. “Are you intrigued?”
Why does that name sound so familiar? “I’m not sure, I charge by the hour and my rate is a minimum of $1000.”
“Money is not an issue with me. I am, as you say, old money. I will gladly pay you what you charge, maybe even provide you a bonus afterwards, Ms. McIntire.”
“A bonus? What kind of bonus?” She asked, her voice rose significantly sounding overly excited or greedy.
“While I have lived many years, my time is nearing its end, and time has become more tangible now. If you can write my life story within six months and can guarantee a respectable publisher, I will gladly give you a bonus plus your rate.”
“Cancer?”
“No, something else is slowly draining my life force.”
“I will need to see you and conduct interviews, plus I’ll need to have documentation. Can you provide me with your records?”
“I have everything that you will need, Ms. McIntire.”
“Can I come and visit your hacienda or…”
“There is a cantina near where I live off the Sunset highway called Benito et Geraldo’s. Are you familiar?”
It took Candace a brief moment to gather her bearings on the outskirts of Mazatlán. “I believe I have seen it a time or two.”
“Meet me there after sunset in two days when the bats come out from their cave.” The connection abruptly ended, and the same shiver caused involuntary convulsions to jiggle her petite and slender form.
Two nights later
Candace strolled into the smoke-filled cantina, filled with mostly local regulars who talked amongst themselves. Suddenly, the place became deathly quiet. She stood at the entrance. A bearded man of medium height came to her. He looked middle aged, perhaps no older than sixty with a hint of salt and pepper interlocking his black hair and beard. He too appeared deathly pale to her.
“Ms. McIntire, I am Senor Gomez, Senor Rodrigues’ go between,” he introduced himself but didn’t offer a complimentary salutation. He instead pulled an ancient looking valise up upon a table where the two men sat but appeared in a hypnotic state, neither blinking nor exchanging glances with the man, who opened the flap using brass buckles that he deliberately opened showing a folder with many files inside.
“Where is he? Why didn’t he come in person?” she asked with suspicion in her voice.
“He will be here at another time. He wants you to start here with these pages, reports, and other documents to get you started. If you have any questions, I will be available to answer most of them.”
“I am not certain I like this. When will I get to interview him?”
“When you have gone through all the documentation here and have an outline made out, you will call me. Here is my card. At that time, an interview will be granted.”
“Granted? Are you kidding me?”
“I assure you Ms. McIntire, Senor Rodrigues is not frivolous and understands your time is valuable. Here in my breast pocket is an envelope with one thousand American dollars that you said was the minimum amount you would accept. Consider this a good faith gesture.” He said this while pulling the envelope from his white breast suit pocket. He laid it flat on the table next to the valise. Candace reluctantly took the money and the files.
She glared at Senor Gomez. “I am not happy with this arrangement. Tell Senor Rodrigues I want an interview within a week after I finish this.”
“Very well, have a pleasant evening Ms. McIntire.” He stared after her. Candace did an about face and stormed out of the cantina. The conversation continued as if there had not been an interruption.
She followed Gomez to a beachside cottage a mile or so east of the main highway. She continued to her apartment after she knew this was where Sebastian lived.
The Following Night
She spent the entire night going over every document and public record Sebastian provided. She went ahead and drafted out an outline, knowing exactly what needed to be done. Candace knew the moment she read his files, his records, who he was. She had in her mind the perfect ending to this story. Now she just needed Sebastian Rodrigues to interview and complete his story.
After the bats had left the cave, she entered the house Sebastian lived at, along the sandy beach of the resort. It was a modest cabana. A single light from a kerosine lantern showed her the starkness of the one room place. In the center of the room Sebastian was reposed on a divan of rich velvet the color of blood.
“I thought we had an arrangement, Ms. McIntire,” he stated to her. He remained as he was, appearing death-like.
“I’m afraid I don’t take commands very well, Senor Rodrigues.”
“That is most unfortunate.”
“I’m ready for the interview, sir.”
“What was your first impression of me when I called you?”
“I don’t know. You frightened me, I supposed.”
“And now? How do I appear to you now, Ms. McIntire?”
“You are older than I imagined, much older. You mentioned you have a short time left, tell me why if it is not cancer?”
“I need not explain my condition to you. You are correct though; I am old. Did you read my records?”
“They could’ve easily been altered—”
“But they were not. I am as old as is recorded. The paper those records were written on should have been your first clue, Ms. McIntire. My first life as a human ended in 1793 in France during the reign of terror. A young girl cursed me. Her name was Fleur. She was imprisoned as I was. My crime was my opposition to this madman, Rospierre, and his reign of terror. She, well as you can imagine, what her crime was. The guillotine was not her death, but the bright morning sun. How I escaped a similar fate, I do not remember. When I awoke though, I was on a ship destined for the Americas. I eventually wound up here.”
“So, you are a vampire,” Candace concluded.
“No, actually I am a vampire slayer. It is both blessing and curse.”
“Well, now that I know for certain, this will be much more blessed. Do you remember Maria?”
Sebastian turned his head in her direction. The sunken eyes, the bald head and the pointed ears made her gasp in horror. “Yes, yes, I do remember Maria. She was my first here in Mexico. Why?”
“Because she was my mother until the village where we lived learned the truth.”
“If you are her daughter…”
“Yes, I too am cursed,” Candace replied as she lunged toward him in one motion so fast that it would appear like a flash of white light went across the room. He never saw it coming and cried out in agony as she sank her pearl-white fangs into his throat and sucked the undead blood from him, reducing Sebastian to a withering dried mound of dust.
Jerry Schellhammer 