Jeremiah stood on the still damp sidewalk in the Willow Glen neighborhood southwest of downtown San Jose. Easy money, inflated real estate prices, the desire to compensate for something else had many homeowners rebuilt their modest houses into monster houses that covered every square inch of the lot with a second story to thrust up into the air. His single-story, two-bedroom house—unaltered since World War Two—stood out like a dirty beggar loading a plate of food at a high society buffet table.
Except for the marigolds.
The entire front yard was covered in the short, dark green plants with a riot of red, orange and yellow petals in half-globes glistening with rain drops, bloomed their summer blooms in a late winter more wet than cold. When he walked up to the porch, the peculiar stench of the marigolds assaulted his nose. His mother grew them on the farm. His father didn't care about them. His younger brother fancied them. He hated them. The marigolds reminded him of his childhood that he didn't want to remember.
Davy Jefferson had rented out the house for him, mostly to keep the neighborhood busybodies from complaining to the city whenever a wayward dandelion sprouted up in the front yard. Why no one complained about the lush field of marigolds was a mystery to him. A retiree by the name of Charlie Brown lived here since 1989, keeping his nose clean, paying his rent on time and no complaints from the neighbors. An ideal tenant but Mr. Brown and the marigolds had to go. With his own unplanned retirement from the federal government, Jeremiah needed his house back.
Above the rectangular mailbox next to the front door was a brand new white-on-red sign.
BEWARE OF DOG!
He stared at the sign for a long time. While the rental contract didn't prohibit marigolds, the tenant wasn't allowed to have pets. Repairing floorboards soaked in dog piss can get very expensive in a hurry.
Jeremiah knocked on the screen door and waited. No answer. He opened the screen door to knock on the door and waited. No movement from inside, no twitching at the blinds. Glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching in the neighborhood, he turned the doorknob and found it locked. The original key from twenty-five years ago didn't work. No key was hidden on the top doorjamb, in the mailbox, or under the welcome mat. He made a mental note to have Junior find his father's spare key and the rental records for the house.
When he walked around to the back of the house, the dwarf marigolds in the front yard give way to the giant marigolds that covered everything that wasn't concrete. A detached one-car garage stood in one corner of the yard with a large iron padlock holding the two wide doors shut. He and his brother had found the padlock while exploring an old barn in the foothills below Mount Hamilton one summer. The long thin key should still be hanging by the window over the kitchen sink.
Climbing the steep stairs to the back door, another white-on-red sign caught his attention. This one was old, bent and rusted, hanging on the wall next to the back door.
FORGET THE DOG
BEWARE OF OWNER
Jeremiah chuckled. If Mr. Brown turns out to be whom he thinks he is, the truth may not be too far off. Pulling open the screen door, which squeaked loud enough to wake up the dead, he still heard no movement from inside. When he turned the doorknob and the door opened without a squeak, he paused for a moment to send out his awareness into the house. A very faint presence was nearby. He tossed his half-finished cigarette into the marigolds behind him and entered the house.
Little light came through the closed blinds in the windows over the kitchen sink and next to the table. He pulled open the blinds to let the light in and opened the windows to air out the place. The smell was a peculiar blend of a dying old man, marigolds, and perhaps a dog. The kitchen looked no different today then when he lived here: the original appliances from the 1950s, a round wooden table with two chairs (the other two chairs were probably out in the garage), and a hardwood floor that desperately needed a refinish. Distant memories of family—wife, son, and a daughter-in-law—gathered around the table for breakfast intruded on his thoughts. He pushed those memories out before they could overwhelm him. No way was he going to spend his retirement dwelling on the past.
The already read morning newspaper sat on the table. A black-and-white picture of an older Davy Jefferson with a crown of white hair stared up at him from the obituary. He laid down his fedora on the table, sat down, and read about the man he haven't known for the last twenty-five years: a community organizer, a minister to the poor and needy, a loving husband, the father of five children. The same man he once knew was a cunning vampire hunter married to a very young assassin, making for a lethal team that struck fear—and wooden stakes—into the hearts of vampires.
He continued exploring the house, being mindful that Mr. Brown may very well be a stranger to him, pulling up the blinds and opening the windows. The living room was bare except for the IKEA showroom of a white love seat on a white round rug in the center of the hardwood floor, facing a black entertainment cabinet that dominated the wall between the two hallways. A large wide screen television set, cable box, DVD player, and video game console was neatly organized inside the entertainment center. He stared at the video game console. Mr. Brown can't be that nimble to be playing video games.
The smell of a dying old man and a dog became stronger, coming from the other hallway for the two bedrooms and bathroom. Walking into the hallway and past the closet door, he opened the guest bedroom door first. A twin bed covered with a patchwork-quilted blanket was under the opened window. A cool breeze stirred the sheer curtains. A sweet smell pervaded the room with perhaps a hint of dog but not the stench of a dying old man or marigolds. This room wasn't like the rest of the house, which he found to be too feminine for his taste.
Turning on the light inside the bathroom at the end of the hallway, a compact fluorescent light bulb lit up in the socket that hung by a cord from the ceiling. A clawed-feet bathtub sat on worn black-and-white tiles, a wooden toilet tank hung overhead with a pull chain, and a porcelain sink that hung from the wall with the plumbing exposed underneath. Everything except the light bulb was from a bygone era. He pulled open the blinds and opened the window that looked out on the backyard, sneering at the marigolds swaying in the breeze.
The medicine cabinet contained a hairbrush with long strands of gray hair, a straight edge razor with a dull edge, a cracked bar of shaving soap, and a bottle of aspirin that expired ten years ago. Behind that bottle was a stray blond hair that he held up to the light. The length suggests the hair belonged to a woman. Maybe Mr. Brown was nimble after all.
Jeremiah's faint reflection stared back at him in the mirror when he closed the medicine cabinet door. His maroon tie and white shirt was still crisp under his raincoat. The cut on his nose was gone. The ancient gray eyes set in an old, craggy face under the gray buzz cut told another story. He was no longer the young man he used to be. Maybe the time has come for him to retire. A vampire hunter can't hunt without vampires to prey upon.
A low growl came from the hallway.
He took out the wooden stake with one hand and raised the other hand to block the monster he knew was there when he turned back to the hallway, which was empty except for the closet door was ajar. Another growl. Much closer, much lower. Looking down at his feet, he saw a sandy-brown Chihuahua staring up at him with big ears pressed back.
"Be quiet, little fellow," Jeremiah said in a low voice, putting the stake away. The dog became still, looking up with a bared teeth curiosity. "Otherwise, I'll put you outside to get beaten up by the neighborhood tomcat."
The little dog started barking furiously.
Stepping over the little dog that alternated between yapping and growling at his feet, he opened the hallway door wider. The smell of dog was much stronger, which was better than the stench of marigolds. A stack of shoe polish cans and shoeboxes sat on the top shelf, old dress coats hung from the rack, and a doggie bed with some chew toys sat on the floor.
Jeremiah looked over his shoulder. "Hey, little fellow, is this your doggie bed in here?"
The little dog rushed towards the closet.
His foot swept the little dog off the floor into the doggie bed, and closed the door with a loud click. Muffled barks erupted from inside.
He went over to the master bedroom door, took out the wooden stake and put his hand on the doorknob. The presence he felt inside was still too faint for him to tell if it was either human or vampire. When he opened the door to the dark room, the pungent smell of the dying assaulted his nose. He turned on the overhead light. Heavy black plastic was stapled to the wall to cover the window that prevented air circulation within the room. An oxygen machine, a wheelchair, and a walking cane stood in one corner. The air tubing ran across the bare hardwood floor to the twin bed that stood against the other wall, up underneath the heavy blankets, and into the nostrils of a dead old man. He stood still watching for a long time. The perceptible rise and fall of respiration was barely noticeable.
Walking over to the bed, he stared down into the old man's face. Almost like looking into the medicine cabinet mirror again, except this old man had long gray hair, a ragged beard, and yellowing skin that was taunt and blotchy from a long illness. Removing the air tubing from the old man's nose without waking him up, he turned off the oxygen machine, lit up a cigarette, and inhaled deeply before exhaling the smoke into the old man's face. Nostrils twitched violently before erupting in a series of sneezes. Ancient gray eyes fluttered opened in confusion, trying to adjust to the now lighted room.
Muffled barking came from the hallway closet.
“Mister Charlie Brown, I presume?” Jeremiah leaned into the old man's face with the cigarette dangling from his lip. “I'm your landlord and the rent is late.”
Confusion clouded the old man's face, his chapped lips trembling when he tried to speak.
“Or, should I say, dear brother,” he said, holding up the wooden stake for the old man to see. “It's lucky strikes time!”
The old man's dried lips pulled apart in a loud hiss to reveal the sharp fangs of a vampire.