Vampire Granny and Other Surprising Stories

By Lura Dymond

Meet the entertaining characters of this short story collection and follow them on their action-filled adventures. The dozen stories are contemporary science fiction with a twist, except for the last one. Granny Evans is a sweet old lady who bakes cookies and babysits. None of her neighbors know that she was made a vampire more than 175 years ago in New Orleans. Then her too-handsome vampire son comes for a visit and wreaks havoc in the neighborhood. Sindra is an initiative in the Cult of the Virgin, using a portal to travel between worlds, when the universe sends her flying in another direction and she ends up at the cookie store in the West Temple Mall. She has to evade an evil flute player and find the arches that will take her home. Janey and Timmy are playing tag across time one Sunday when they become embroiled in the 1381 Peasants Revolt and Janey has a baby named after her in the fourteenth century. As for the story that isn't science fiction? It'll break your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9780964737723

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Vampire Granny and Other Surprising Stories

© Copyright 2021 by Lura Dymond

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or copied in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher, excepting quotes for review or citation.

ISBN No. 978-0-9647377-2-3

Paddleford Publishing Company

Lura Dymond, President

1575 W. Honeysuckle Lane

Chandler, AZ 85248

[e-mail]

925-367-6885

Also by Lura Dymond

Concord’s Dynamic Half Century: The Years Since World War II

(Concord, Calif.: Heritage Media Corporation, 2000)

Contents

Vampire Granny

Escape from the Third Reich

The Day the Wilderness Broke Down

The Golden Arches

Time Skipping: The Pitchfork Army

Hope for the Future

My Sister, My Daughter

Our Larger-than-Life Boy

Sprites Take Charge: An Environmental Fantasy

Through Someone Else’s Eyes

The Knights of Heaven

Times of Loss

Vampire Granny

Granny Evans opened her front door and looked up. A tall man lounged against her doorframe, jeans fitting him like a second skin, t-shirt stretched to its limits across his chest, and a supple leather jacket draped from his broad shoulders. A ferocious motorcycle that looked as though it were still moving lurked at the curb. His canine teeth, a smidge too long, and his skin, much too pale, marked him for the vampire he was.

He pulled off his sunglasses, squinted at the afternoon sun, looked down, and smiled.

Hello, Mom.

Granny pulled her shawl closer, looked around fearfully, and said, Put that thing in the garage and come in the back door. Quickly, before the neighbors see you.

He frowned, though the corners of his eyes still looked playful. Hardly a warm welcome, he observed.

Granny shut the door in his face.

A few moments later, she opened the back door and he entered, stooping a bit to clear the top of the doorframe.

Tremaine, you took me by surprise, she said. How long has it been?

Oh, I don’t know. Thirty or forty years? He sniffed. What is that delicious smell?

Granny’s eyes widened. They’re done! She turned and drew a pan of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.

Ummm. The smell of fresh-baked cookies is the only thing that makes me regret that I no longer eat, Tremaine said.

Be patient a couple of minutes, though I know it’s not your style, Granny said. There’s something I need to do.

She took down a plate, covered it with a paper doily, and carefully layered the cookies on it. Then she took it to the house next door.

Tremaine watched out the window while she rang the doorbell. The door swung open immediately, and a tow-headed boy of five or so wrapped himself around her legs. She patted him on the head and handed the plate to someone inside with a few words. She leaned down and kissed the boy on the top of his head, gently untangled herself, and came back home.

As she shut the door, Tremaine arched his eyebrows and said, Still keeping humans as pets, I see.

They’re not pets—they’re family. At least, the best I can do.

I’m family, he said, a bit defensively.

As we’ve established, I see you only a couple of times a century. Your sisters rarely visit—oh, Suzette every once in a while—and your brother Jareth, for all I know, has been staked. Vampires aren’t very good at being family.

About Jareth, regrettably not, Tremaine said. I saw him a few years ago—out of his mind on opium in Shanghai. Still the same obnoxious prick as always.

He eyed his mother from top to bottom, noting the wavy white hair tidily gathered into a bun, the lavender sprigged dress, and the lacy shawl.

You know, Eugenie, under that getup, you’re still twenty-eight, hardly older than me. He poked a finger at her hair, and a white cloud flew up. As I thought, still powdering your wig, just like in the good old days.

She sighed. Come in the living room. We can discuss how long you’re staying.

Tremaine settled in a rocker with crocheted doilies on the arms, looking with interest at the china cabinets filled with bric-a-brac and the needlepoint quotations framed and hanging on the wall. It’s so reassuring how some things never change, he murmured.

Granny regarded her first-born son. In her hedonistic youth, Eugenie, as she was known then, had made several vampires. She was living in New Orleans’ French Quarter as the favorite of an older, wealthy vampire—her own maker—and spent her days in an alcoholic haze. She hardly remembered all her offspring, but Tremaine, Jareth, Suzette, and Marie had stuck around long enough to establish a relationship. They had long since scattered to the winds. Only she had stayed in one place, in this house she loved, for 173 years, to be exact.

You may make fun of my life, Tremaine, she said, but it suits me. It took a lot of effort to become who I am, but I forget, most days, that I was ever anyone else.

So tell me about the rug rats next door.

She leaned forward, eagerness in her eyes. It’s the third generation of that family in the house, though, of course, human generations are regrettably short. Still, there’s always a baby to cuddle and kids to bake for. The current batch are Emily, age eight; Timmy, age five; and the baby Madelyn. Oh, and I got lucky last year—a new family with five kids moved in down the block. Their mother is more than happy for me to babysit when she needs to run an errand or work at her church.

They sound delicious, Tremaine said. Aren’t you ever tempted to take a little nip from the little nip? He exaggeratedly licked his lips.

She shook her head but chuckled. Speaking of things never changing, your sense of humor would qualify.

What happens when everyone’s favorite grandmother never gets older and dies?

That’s the beauty of being old. You can stay the same for a very long time. She gestured at her hair and dress. Several times since I’ve been here, Granny Evans has passed away, to the sorrow of the neighborhood, and a younger relative has inherited the house. I just start over. Voilá!

Tremaine rose. I’ve been thinking about those delectable children, and I’m famished. Anything to drink? A glass of scotch, for starters, and then a nice red—well, you know.

A shadow crossed Granny’s face. She stood up and said, There’s a rabbit hutch out back. The children love to pet the bunnies, but they serve another purpose.

He grinned. Clever!

Tremaine reappeared in the kitchen with a rabbit by the scruff of its neck in each hand and another tucked under his arm. His mother frowned.

What? It was a long journey, he said.

With a scalpel, Granny nicked a vein in one of the quivering animals and drained just enough of its blood to not endanger its life. She pinched the vein until it stopped bleeding. With a gentle pressure of her fingers, the wound healed. Repeating the process with the other rabbits, she soon handed Tremaine a glass of warm, thick liquid.

He sniffed it. Not my favorite, but it will do. Do you want some?

No, she said fastidiously. I ate a couple of days ago. I think I have the bottle of scotch you brought last time. Try the cupboard next to the sink. I’ll put the poor, terrified bunnies back.

When Granny returned from the back yard, they settled at the kitchen table, Tremaine with his glasses of scotch and blood at his elbow.

You usually have a reason for these visits, she said. What is it this time?

I’m on the lam, in trouble with the cops, he said. "I stopped by a biker bar in Fontana—birthplace of the Hells Angels—that I visit when I want a fight and some hot-blooded blood, if you know what I mean. I took on a bit more than I expected—four burly sons of bitches. They got more than they expected, not knowing how strong I am. By the time we were through, the bar was history and the bikers were broken in several places. I had a few bumps and bruises myself, but of course they healed immediately.

The police showed up and hauled us all off to jail. I got out by glamouring a guard who looked at me like I was an angel who had magically fallen into his jail. Some repressed homosexual urges there, I gather. He let me out in the middle of the night. I gave him a kiss, stole a motorcycle, and here I am. I need to hide out for a while and where better than with dear old mom—or grandmother, as the case may be.

Granny hid a smile behind her hand. Oh, Tremaine, you’re always entertaining. I’d forgotten how dull my life is compared to yours.

He stretched and took another sip of scotch. "In some ways, it’s not a good time to be a vampire. There aren’t many of us around, and we’ve been left behind in this age of Googling and Facebooking. It used to be that you could visit any city, find the section with dark alleys and shadows, and there we’d be, ready for some fun. Now you really have to hunt for a fellow vampire, and, often as not, he’s had his teeth filed and is hunched over a computer trying to make a living.

Although, I should point out that those same things, paradoxically, are making it easier to hook up. Do you know that some social networking sites have groups for vampires? You have to sort out the wannabes from the real thing, and there are way more wannabes. Some people are so into ‘the vampire lifestyle’ that they have their dentists implant permanent vampire teeth in their mouths. He shook his head, with a what’s the world coming to? expression.

"We’re very popular because of all the movies and TV shows—Twilight, Vampire Diaries, and the like. You cannot imagine how many girls ask me if I’m the ‘real’ Edward Cullen."

"I’ve never seen the Twilight movies or read the books, though I’ve been curious, Granny said. I’d look out of character buying the books or taking in a matinee. My television is mostly tuned to Sesame Street."

Speaking of girls, now that it’s dark, I think I’ll make the acquaintance of some of those lovely coeds, Tremaine said. If you had to settle down somewhere, Mom, I’m grateful you picked Santa Barbara. The girls here are tan and adventurous—and love something tall, dark, and handsome.

You’re not going to kill them, Granny said, picturing headlines about a rash of ripped-out throats in the seaside paradise.

Of course not. I haven’t killed a human in years. My technique is so refined that all they have the next morning is a weak feeling and a humdinger of a hickey. They think we spent the night in passion, which is usually true.

They rose. Granny said, I need to turn out the lights anyway. Granny Evans goes to bed early. She put her hand on his arm. Please be careful, she pleaded. I live here and I really don’t want to have to leave.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. Good to see you too, he said before slipping out the back door. The throaty roar of his motorcycle dwindled as he left.

Tremaine sauntered down the stairs the next morning, looking rested and well-fed. Granny was in the kitchen, apron on, whipping up a batch of something.

For a vampire who doesn’t eat, he said, you do an awful lot of cooking.

I’m babysitting today, Granny said. They’re much happier to see me if I bring treats. This is going to be Rice Krispies squares.

He sighed. I remember those from my childhood. So sticky sweet.

Tremaine eyed a long pair of white coveralls and a tan t-shirt draped over a chair. They were already liberally decorated with paint.

What’s this? he asked suspiciously.

Granny turned, spoon in hand. You need to blend in. Coincidentally, I need the window frames and eaves painted. Maybe the whole house.

Tell me you’re just teasing.

Not at all. She picked up a notepad. The front door lock isn’t working properly, and the faucet upstairs is leaking— She held out the list. You can read the rest for yourself. The paint and all the tools you’ll need are in the garage.

He groaned. Why didn’t I come from one of those vampire families who have French chateaux and maids eager to satisfy your every whim?

Granny regarded him dispassionately. It looks like you may be here a while, and you need a disguise. This is the price for your residency. You might even enjoy it. Remember that you painted the inside of the house the last time you were here? Though having the Sistine Chapel re-created on my bedroom ceiling was rather disturbing. I had to paint over all the gods and angels after you left.

He brightened. Can I put a gargoyle or two high up under the eaves?

With exasperation, she replied, Maybe. But remember that Granny Evans’s house has to fade into the background, not raise eyebrows.

She slid the pan of treats into the refrigerator. I have to get going, she said. I still have to gather up my Play-Doh and watercolors. Please, please try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.

I promise, he said, grinning and holding up crossed fingers.

Tremaine had barely started when a girlish voice down by his feet asked, Who are you?

He looked down to find a young miss with flyaway blonde curls held back by a hairband. He set the scraper on top of the ladder and climbed down.

I’m Granny’s son—uh, grandson, he said, rapidly calculating that a son of Granny’s would be a respectable fifty rather than a rakish twenty-five. And who are you?

I’m Emily, she said. I live there, she added, pointing to the house next door. "Granny never mentioned