MaryJane Davidson - Undead and Unpopular

“I'll run up to your room first thing,” she promised.

Mollified, I left.

I didn't get far.

“Hey,” Cathie said, walking through the wall at the top of the stairs.

“Hey.”

“I wasn't eavesdropping,” she began defensively.

I groaned.

“Well, I wasn't. I was coming to get you.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “No ghosts around to talk to right now. Which leaves you. Hey, I'm not happy about it, either.”

“So when you weren't eavesdropping, what didn't you overhear?”

“That you aren't going to turn Jessica in to a vampire. Good call, by the way. Which reminds me, are you ever going to do anything about the zombie in the attic?”

“Are you ever going to drop the joke? I mean, I know you guys all know I'm scared of zombies, but this is just—”

“Betsy, I'm serious. There's a zombie in the attic.”

I swallowed my irritation. Cathie had had a hard life. Or death, rather. She was lonely. She was bitchy. I was the only person she could bug. Talk to, rather.

“It's not funny anymore,” I said, as nicely as I could. “And it never really was. So can you please drop it now?”

“Come up to the attic and see.”

Aha! The surprise party. It was on me at last, like a starving wolf in the moonlight. Fine, I'd play along.

“Okayyyyy, I'll just pop up into the attic to check on the zombie.” I looked around. We were at the top of the stairs; there were closed doors on both sides of the hall. “Uh, whereis the attic?”

“Come on.” She floated off.

“Gee, I hope nobody jumps out at me or anything. Certainly not with the new Prada strappy sandals in ice blue…”

Cathie shook her head. “Oh, honey. If I wasn't so bored I'd never do this to you. But I am. And so I am.”

She gestured to the door at the end of the south hall. I opened it and beheld a large, spiderwebby staircase. The stairs were painted white, and in serious need of a touch-​up.

“Okayyyyy… I'm coming up the stairs… here I come… suspecting nothing…”

There were light switches at the top of the stairs, which was good, because even though I could see in the dark pretty well, the unrelieved gloom of the attic was a little unnerving. I couldn't even hear anybody breathing. Maybe they were all holding their breath. My live friends, that is.

Like any attic, it was filled with generations of accumulated crap. Dust covered everything: broken pictures, beat-​up desks, sofas with the stuffing popping out of the cushions. It appeared to run the length of the house, which meant it was ginormous.

Out of force of habit, I put my hand up to my nose and mouth, then remembered I never sneezed—unless something threw holy water in my face, anyway.

I took a few steps forward and heard a scuttling from behind a scratched wardrobe missing a door. Ugh! Mice. Please not rats. Just little harmless field mice who had decided to stay in the mansion for the winter. I didn't mind mice at all, but rats…

And what was that other smell? A layer of rot above the dust. Had someone, ugh, left their lunch up here or something? Fine place for a turkey sandwich.

Cathie pointed. “He's right over there.”

“Oh he is, eh?” What a crummy place for a birthday party. But I had to admit, I would never have snooped up here for presents. “Well, he'd better watch out, because here I come.”

I marched a good fifteen feet and shoved the wardrobe—which was huge, much taller than I was—out of the way. “Surpri—what the… ?”

At first I was genuinely puzzled. It was like my brain couldn't process what it was seeing. I'd expected: banners, presents, a group of my friends and family huddled, ready to leap up and yell “Surprise.”

What I got: a hunched figure, wearing rotted clothes—everything was the color of mud. Slumped shoulders; hair the same color as the clothes. And thatsmell . God, how could the others stand it? Surely even the live people could smell it.

The figure pivoted slowly to face me. My hand was back up, but this time to prevent a gag instead of a sneeze.

I could see bone sticking out of the remnants of what might have once been a white dress-​shirt sleeve. Bone? That wasn't bone. It was something else, something gray and weird. It was—

“Nice zombie costume,” I managed. Complete with authentic stink and rotted clothes and—this was a great touch—graveyard dirt in the wig.

“Betsy, that's what I've been trying to tell you. It's not a costume. It's a real live zombie.” Cathie was circling it admiringly. “The things you see when you're dead! I thought it was a movie thing.”

“Nuhhhhhhhh,” it said. It reached toward me. It had long fingernails, so long they started to curve under, like claws. There was dirt under every one.

I backed up a step. It compensated by taking a step closer. I couldn't bear to look in its face—and then I did. At first I thought he—he was wearing the decayed remains of a suit—was smiling. Then I realized one of his cheeks had rotted away and I could see his teeth through his face.

I had thought I was frozen with fear. No, that was too simple a word: terror. Absolute numbing terror. It was silly, but I had a lifelong terror of dead things. Especially zombies. The way they kept coming toward you

(the way this one was coming toward me now)

and the way they reeked of the grave

(the way this one did)

and the way they moaned and reached for you and nothing stopped them, no matter what you did, they came and came

(the way this one was coming)

and I thought I was frozen with fear, thought I could never move, but somehow I was backing up. Internally, yeah, I was frozen, I couldn't make myself speak, scream, figure out where the door was, reason, think. But my legs were moving just fine. And that was good. Because if that thing touched me, I would die. Die for real. Die forever.

It

(he?)

reached still, and I was backed up against one of the dusty couches, and its hand brushed my shoulder, and then my internal freeze vanished like an ice cube on a July sidewalk and I let loose with the loudest scream I'd ever heard anybody scream. I sounded like a fire alarm.

I fell back over the couch and hit the floor, raising a cloud of dust. I was trying to back up and stand up at the same time while the zombie calmly walked around the side of the couch and kept coming. As a result, I was leaving a Betsy-​wide track through the dust on the floor as I shoved myself along the floorboards.

I screamed again. This time words. But more fire alarm than words, because Cathie said, “What?”

I chewed on the phrase, actually coughed it out of my mouth: “Go get Eric!”

She rushed toward me—it seemed to take her forever to cross the fifteen feet or so between us. “Betsy, I can't!”

“Then get Tina! Get Marc! Get the Ant! I don't give a shit!Help !”

Suddenly, her hands shot through the zombie's chest. It kept coming.

“I can't! Nobody can see me but you! What do you want me to do?”

I'd shoved myself into the far wall and clawed my way to my feet. God, the stink! I could handle almost anything else except for the stink, the godawful, rotting, disgusting, fuckingstink . “I don't know,” I said, and never had I been so angry about being so dumb.

“Well, kill it! In the movies, the good guys shoot them in the head.”

I didn't say anything, just knocked away its arm as it reached for me. Cathie finally remembered: “You don't have a gun. Okay, but you're not without skills. You're a vampire. Break his neck!”

But then I'd have to touch it. I couldn't bear to touch it. I'd go crazy if I had to touch it.

I grabbed its wrist and pushed. Hard. It went sprawling off into a broken coffee table, and smashed to the ground.