Your father tells you that the vampire has come back again. He stopped by and asked for you while you were out at the market. You tell your father that if the vampire should come again, he should not be let in. You caution your father that the vampire has bitten before, and that he has the capacity to bite again.
“What do we do with this vampire?” your father wonders aloud. He isn’t so sure. It has been almost a year now since the vampire last drew blood. There had been rumors of his thirst, but they were long disregarded by the serious men of the village — simply hysteria or attention-seeking run amok they figured. The vampire had operated freely for years until he was caught with the neck of a maiden in his jaw by the local gossip. Since then, the vampire had been hiding in his castle on the outskirts of town, completely silent. The vampire, who cast an eye on your mother while she was tending a wagon, whom your brother finds intriguing, had not shown himself in nearly a year and yet now he comes politely knocking.
Your father tells you that you are not being fair.
“He was brief and contrite enough. Should he never be allowed to return to our lovely village?” Yes, you think but dare not say, by all rights he should be locked in a small tomb somewhere, or be forced out of town for the remainder of his days. “And what of his friends? They no doubt miss his company and wit,” he continues. “Your point may have merit, but I think there are more things to consider here.”
The murmurs around town in the days after the vampire’s return reveal that some others feel much the same as your father. One man on the west end of town had answered the call of the vampire just yesterday, letting him in for lunch despite his wife’s objections. Your father remarks to you that the family on the west end of town seems fine even after dining with the supposed vampire.
“They may have been bitten and you just have yet to find out,” you protest, “or maybe they have been sympathetic to vampires all along.”
“Our neighbors may be vampires now, according to you,” he puzzles, “so shall we leave them out in the cold as well?” You wonder if this onerous puzzling of his will leave him paralyzed when the time comes.
The vampire soon knocks again at your door, now with a pale friend from the west end of town at his side. You hide against the back wall as your father makes stilted conversation briefly before turning them away once more. He peers over his shoulder at them as the door slowly closes behind him. Seeing his hesitation, you plead with your father not to let them in under any circumstance.
“Did we not see him bite?” you remind him. “How can you even consider this?”
“That was some time ago,” your father points out. “And we personally did not see him bite. He was once a great patron of my shop. Perhaps he has paid penance.” You both remember that the vampire himself had admitted to the act after being caught with teeth deep in flesh. Your father stares hard at the wall, searching. “Perhaps he did not know his deeds were wrong at the time and has learned a lesson.”
The bakery closes first. The vampire had visited every morning since his return and made leering conversation with the baker until the baker quit baking. Next comes the flower stand, the tavern — people edged out of public spaces near the bakery. Knocks abound all over town on doors and windows.
“Does she not believe in forgiveness? In redemption?” The neighbors ask your father about you in the town square. He sadly shakes his head and sighs. You know the vampire has not asked for forgiveness, has done nothing to earn forgiveness; the vampire merely waited in his lair and counted the days on the short cruel memories of serious men.
“Who are we to judge,” your father scolds you later in the den after his trip to the square, “when he should be allowed to return to our town? Hasn’t he already paid enough for his crime with his isolation?” You turn red.
“He hasn’t paid at all,” you shout, “he just disappeared for long enough for your memory of his wickedness to soften!” Your father does not seem swayed. “You never wanted him gone at all, did you?” You rush to your room and stay there the rest of the evening until your mother finishes cooking.
Your cheeks are still red and stinging from earlier when you enter the darkened hall. You sit reluctantly at the table next to your mother. Then comes the horrible knocking again — soft, almost inaudible — just before dinner. Your father stands up from the table and heads to the door. You were not told there would be company tonight. Your mother clutches the corner of the linen tablecloth and her lips tighten. Your brother turns, his eyes lighting up. The heavy door creaks open as several pallid faces jostle to fill the space, peering past your father and into the room.
“What do we do with all these vampires at our door?” you implore an answer from your mother in a strained whisper. Your father returns to the side of the table smiling in the dim candlelight. He is bringing guests. The answer to your question was the same here as it was all around the village, decided between fathers, brothers, uncles — vampires, enablers, or cowards, all.
“We let them in.”
