'The Show' by Paul G. Tremblay

I

t's late.
And there is a faint knocking at your door.
Fear prickles and you try to ignore it like a child hiding beneath the covers. But fear swirled with thoughts of Monday night and the show don't go away.
*
Monday.
It was just another lazy night with the television until the show. You were tired but not quite sleepy and, as usual before crawling off to bed, you sat down on the couch to kill an hour or two in front of the television. Not much of interest was on though. Mostly just newsmagazine type shows that had proliferated like a virus.
*Flip*.
Another news show, but this one was live. A chiseled young man with American good looks was interviewing that crazy Florida senator that had divorced his wife of thirty years and then married his twenty-year-old secretary. The new trophy-wife wasn't at the interview, though the voyeur in you wished she was.
Make-up did their best with the silver haired senator but they were unable to hide the smarmy used-car salesman look. At least the location for this interview was surprisingly beautiful. They were filming on a private beach from Sanibel Island. Palm trees flanked the weathered senator and a light breeze tickled through the leaves. Waves crashed in the evening background.
The interview was only one minute old and he was visibly sweating. His re-election bid was two months away and he was spin control mode, trying to save his job. You decided to watch and see if the interviewer could make this worm squirm some more.
Then, from out of nowhere, it happened.
A pack, it was difficult to see an exact number, of dark figures swarmed the interview participants. Guttural screams, so horrible that you felt nauseous, crackled and fizzled though the speakers in your TV.
Writhing figures dressed in black engulfed both the senator and the interviewer. Glimpses of pale white skin flashed before the blood.
And there was blood.
Other sounds joined the screams, which were now fading. You could only guess at their origin. Grunts? Torn flesh maybe? Was that what that sounded like? The camera bounced and jarred, making the scene strobe-like in its horror: a flash of sand, then the headless senator with a craven being still working at his neck, the bark of a palm tree, an unidentifiable leg lying on the beach, a pair of glowing red eyes, white skin...
The maddening kaleidoscope of images didn't stop because you changed the channel but because one of the dark assassins held the camera steady and peered into the lens. He looked normal, well, except for his pale skin and red eyes.
And his teeth.
He smiled and you saw his pointed, stained red teeth.
Despite it all, a part of you that you don't let out at parties, found this thing's face almost handsome--sharp, tapering nose set between high cheekbones and sensual, feminine, lips surrounded by flowing jet black hair.
He spoke. The boom microphone must have been further back by the presumably dead interview participants because the voice was so soft.
His lips parted and quietly, "We will be in hiding no more. Our time has come."
The camera fell to the ground.
You looked at the digital clock on your VCR. The whole terrifying scene had only lasted one minute, two at the most.
The show then went to commercial.
You didn't know what to think.
The next morning, newspapers and news-stations alike dissected and analyzed the show. A hoax? A publicity stunt? Terrorists? They all had a different theory. Yet, no bodies were reported and the Sanibel Island authorities were generally tight-lipped, basically saying to the world that there-was-nothing-to-see-here.
You logged on to the Internet and all the shut-in keyboard punchers seemed to think that they were vampires.
*Vampires? Bah*, you thought.
*
Thursday.
There was no more news of the incident. Some newspapers didn't even print. The local newsstand was surprisingly naked. The commute to work was less congested. Religious holiday maybe? Once at work, you found that many of your co-workers called in sick or just didn't show.
Those that did come to work were worried and on edge. Not much work was done as everyone spent their day on the phone and on the Internet, while whispering about vampires.
You went home. The local streets were quiet. There weren't many kids running around like there usually were at this time. Odd.
*Flip*.
The TV went on after you ate a hurried dinner of leftovers. Reruns of sitcoms helped to soothe after such a strange day. The couch was comfortable and you stayed there for most of the evening.
It was getting late. You tired of the canned laughter and tried the all-news stations and...nothing. White fuzz. Fumbling for the TV guide, you found it between the couch cushions. At this hour, each major network was supposed to have their newsmagazine show broadcasting. Instead, there were only sitcoms, old ones. *MASH*, *Cheers*, and even I Love Lucy. The canned laughter now chilled you for some inexplicable reason.
*TAP TAP TAP*
*
*TAP TAP TAP*
It's late.
And there is a faint knocking at your door.
Fear prickles and you try to ignore it like a child hiding beneath the covers. But fear swirled with thoughts of Monday night and the show don't go away.
You can't see your doorstop from the front window. The solid oak door has no peephole, so you cannot cheat and see who it is. You would have to open the door for that. You weren't expecting anyone and it's late.
The TV still blares a nameless rerun show. You look at the wide glass tube, wishing it would tell you what to do, wishing that it would tell you that everything is okay.
*TAP TAP TAP*
Despite the show, the newsstation outages, the solemn workday (where was everyone, huh?), and the rumors passing through the Internet and your town like an insidious disease, you do not believe in vampires.
Do you?
*TAP TAP TAP!*
Knocking again, but louder.
Will you open the door?

 
(c) Paul G. Tremblay, All Rights Reserved