Timmy Baxter knew his sister was a vamper, just like in all the horror comics he collected, but nobody would believe him. Not even old Mr. Evans who lived in the small white "candominium" next door. Mr. Evans said: "Vampires don't exist, boy! Har har!" and he then lapsed into a raspy cigarette cough. He just laughed and laughed at little Timmy Baxter, and the way he pronounced the word vampire.
II.
They had come for Mr. Evans early in the morning. They had taken him out on a stretcher, with a white sheet covering his emaciated body. His yellowed toes were sticking out at one end, his white hair from the other. They said it was a heart attack, but Timmy knew better. A vamper had gotten him during that long, cold Nevada night. And now it was dark again, and Timmy was waiting. His mother thought sister Julie had a sunburn, and that's why she wouldn't go outside to play during the day, but Timmy Baxter had a huge collection of horror comics, and he just knew that Julie was a vamper. She would try for him too, and soon, but he intended to be ready.
Darkness had stretched like a cat in the foothills and then padded down to cover up the little trailer park. Timmy had moved his croquet set over in front the window, in case his sister or another vamper showed up there. He tried and tried to stay awake, but finally dozed off somewhere near midnight.
Someone was knocking on the door. The RV squeaked, then swayed to the left, as his mother went to see who it was. Timmy, still half asleep, imagined that the police were outside. They had come to rescue him. His fantasy died the moment he heard the start of the conversation.
"Who is it?"
"Open the door, Mommy." That voice. It sounded like her, but it wasn't Julie.
"Julie? What in God's name are you doing out there at this time of night?"
"Let me in. I'll explain."
Timmy found his voice. "Mom, don't! Wait!"
A click: The lock, turning. The door squeaked open. Timmy heard his mother grunt, as if surprised by a sneaky punch. Twice. Three times. A vase slid from the dining room table and shattered on the floor. A wheeze, a gurgle. Sobbing. Then a loud thump as if she had collapsed, all loose and clumsy like a rag doll. Timmy could feel his little heart trying to climb up through his throat and run away. An empty throb of mourning filled his stomach. He was much too frightened for tears. Mommy was dead. That was horrible enough, especially for an eight year old boy all alone in the dark. But then, in a matter of seconds, it got worse.
Those awful sucking sounds.
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