A Vampire Teaching Vampire Literature?

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Yes, that’s exactly what happens in Chapter 11 of Her Loving Husband’s Curse. James Wentworth, my favorite vampire, also happens to be a professor of literature. I know, but it works. He was talked into teaching a vampire literature class and here’s the scene where he teaches the class for the first time.

I referred to this scene in my last post so I decided to share it with everyone. To this day this scene was one of my all-time favorites to write, and it goes well with the Halloween season.

Also, the entire Loving Husband Series is going on tour starting on Saturday, 10/17. Be sure to join me at each of the stops!

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James nodded at the students as he entered the room, recognizing a few familiar faces from previous terms. He pulled out his class roster and put his book bag in the bottom drawer of the instructor’s desk. In a matter of moments every seat in the room was taken. Too bad, he thought. He was hoping most of them would drop and they’d have to cancel the class.

“Hey, Doctor Wentworth. Your favorite student is here!”

Levon Jackson rushed into the room, nearly tripping over a classmate in his haste. 

“Are you taking this class?” James asked. “Last year you had to cover your ears whenever anyone said the word vampire.”

“I need the units so I can graduate in the spring. Besides, it’s make-believe, right? And I can suffer through any class of yours, Doctor Wentworth.” 

“Thanks a lot,” James said.

Levon sat in his usual seat, front row center, and he nodded to familiar classmates. “My mom says hi,” he said to James. “She said to tell you not to forget her appointment next Tuesday night. She needs to check up on you, make sure you’re all right.” Levon grinned. “She likes you, you know, so I wouldn’t worry.” 

“I like her too,” said James. “And I suppose you’re all right as well.” 

James looked at the clock on the wall. Class time. Two more students rushed in, shivering and stomping winter wet from their boots. They smiled at James as they took the last seats in the back row. All eyes in the classroom turned to him, and suddenly James felt like he had a flashing neon-pink arrow pointing at his head, freak show style: “Step right up, step right up ladies and gentlemen, to see for yourselves one of the garish creatures of the night. See the angry vampire monster-man who wants to drink your blood!” But the students didn’t hear any carnival barkers. They watched him, waiting for class to start, and he smiled at the fresh young faces staring back at him while he called roll. Everyone who signed up for the class was there. Damn. That never happened. There was even one student who hadn’t signed up, sitting in his usual spot in the back closest to the door. James checked his roster again, and he was right, Timothy’s name wasn’t there. James could tell by the way Timothy glanced around that he was listening to every conversation in the room. Levon and Timothy together in a vampire literature class. This should be interesting, James thought.

There was one student who stood out in particular, a young man named Brent Wilson, about twenty years old with dyed jet-black hair, black eyeliner, and black clothing. He wasn’t painted white, though he seemed pasty for a human, like he stayed out of the sun. James wondered briefly if Brent was one of his kind, but he looked, listened, and knew, no, the boy is human. He may want to be one of us, but he isn’t. James wanted to take the boy aside and tell him the truth. This life might seem exciting, but there are so many problems. Stay human, James wanted to tell him. Stay human the way I wish I could have stayed human.

James passed out the class syllabus, then began with a simple question: “What do you know about vampires?” 

He looked at Levon, expecting the well-built, athletic-looking young man to slap his large hands over his ears the way he had before. 

Levon smiled. “Not a thing, Doctor Wentworth.” 

“I guessed as much. Anyone else?”

A blond-haired girl sitting by the window raised her hand. 

“Yes?” James said.

“They sparkle.”

James sighed. “Anyone else?”

A burgundy-haired girl raised her hand. “They come out at night. They drink your blood.”

“Yes, those are common beliefs. What else?”

“They turn into bats.”

James looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes into class. This was going to be a long term.

“Some people believe vampires turn into bats,” he said. He looked at a young man to his right. “Yes?” 

“They’re dead, but they come back to life at night.”

James nodded. “That’s another common belief. Does anyone know when the first vampire story was told?”

“The movie with that Russian guy,” said a bearded young man. “The one wearing the black cape with that weird accent you can hardly understand.”

“His name was Bela Lugosi, and he was Hungarian. The movie version of Dracula you’re referring to was made in 1931, but vampire stories were told thousands of years before that. The earliest vampire stories go back as far as 4000 B.C.E. to the Sumers in Ancient Mesopotamia.” The students began scribbling in their spiral notebooks or typing into their laptops. “The Sumers spoke of a vampire known as the Ekimmu, which they believed was created when someone died a violent death or wasn’t buried properly. The Ekimmu were believed to be rotting corpses roaming the earth searching for victims to torment. In early Hebrew tales, Lilith was depicted as a winged demon. She is believed by some to be the first wife of Adam, and since she considered herself his equal—heaven forbid a woman should consider herself a man’s equal—she was banished to the demon world. Some say the mark of Cain is the mark of the vampire. Eastern Europe was, and is, a hotbed for vampire legends. Stories of the undead have been told all over the world, and every culture has their own version. Some are merely ghost stories, but others grew from a need to explain misunderstood anomalies before science could explain them.”

“Like what?” Levon asked.

“Like porphyria, a hemoglobin issue that causes extreme sensitivity to sunlight. Another is catalepsy, a suspension of animation where the person appears dead but then appears to come to life again. In 1730s Serbia, murders of people and farm animals were attributed to the undead. A number of corpses were exhumed and found to be rosy-cheeked with fresh blood in their mouths.” 

“That creepy dude with the accent comes from there.”

James looked at the bearded boy. “He comes from the area,” he said.

“Who has a funny vampire story?” Levon asked. 

“The Greeks. Andilaveris isn’t a scary vampire, only an annoying one. At night he roamed into villages and dined off the villagers’ food and smashed their plates and glasses. One night he stood on the roof of a church and urinated on anyone passing below.” The class laughed. “He had to stay in his grave on Fridays, so one Friday a priest, a sexton, and a few others opened his tomb, captured him, and sent his body to a deserted island, Daskaleio, where he was trapped and never bothered anyone again.”

Levon nodded. “I like that one, Doctor Wentworth.”

“Me too,” James said.

“What about the Native Americans?” asked a dark-haired young woman. “They have vampire legends too. What about the Kalona Ayeliski?”

James nodded, keeping it casual. There was nothing odd about the question. This was simply more information he could impart to his curious students. 

“For the Cherokee, the Kalona Ayeliski, or Raven Mocker, is a powerful evil spirit, so powerful other spirits and witches fear it. The Raven Mocker tortures and torments a dying person to hasten their death. After the person’s death, the Raven Mocker consumes the heart to bolster its own life force. Raven Mockers add a year to their lives for every year their victim would have lived.” 

“Don’t they appear as old men or women?” the dark-haired girl asked. 

“They can.”

“Why are they called Raven Mockers?” the bearded boy asked.

“The Cherokee believe that when the Raven Mockers hunt they make a sound like a raven’s cry. People feared the sound because it meant someone would die soon. Only the medicine men could see them, and the medicine men would stand guard over the dying to prevent the Raven Mockers from stealing their hearts.” James shook his head, forgetful of the forty young people sitting there. “They didn’t know,” he said. “They didn’t understand.”

A student near the back coughed and James came back to himself. He scanned the faces of his students and realized he had a captivated audience. Even Timothy dropped his pen to listen. In all his years of teaching, James had never seen anything like it. He had taught Shakespeare, Dickens, the Romantic Poets, the Harlem Renaissance. He had taught contemporary American masters like Morrison, Oliver, and Walker. But here, in this vampire literature class, he had his students’ attention unlike ever before. They were so engrossed in the discussion that most of them stopped taking notes or typing. They watched him the way Grace watched him when he told her bedtime stories—wide-eyed and mesmerized. 

“So now we have some background information about early vampires legends,” he said. “What else do you already know about vampires?”

“They’re real.” 

James turned to the student who had spoken, the pale-skinned boy in black. Other students laughed. Some rolled their eyes. A few muttered obscenities under their breath. 

“Freak,” a blond-haired boy said. 

“Vampires are real,” Brent said. He stared into James’ eyes. “Isn’t that right, Doctor Wentworth?”

James looked at the floor, at the clock on the wall, around the room at the other students. He smiled. Did Brent know? He sighed, a big display sigh because at that moment, with all eyes on him, the word vampire in the air, hanging over him like that neon arrow he imagined, he needed the students to see his chest move.

“Who believes vampires are real?” Levon asked. “Besides that fool with the blog and that idiot over there.” 

James looked at Brent. The black-haired boy was firm, his arms crossed in front of him, his eyes disappointed and small. 

Suddenly, from the side of the class, James heard, “Hey, Doctor Wentworth, you’re pale and you only teach night classes. Maybe you’re a vampire.”

“Right,” Levon said. “Doctor Wentworth’s a vampire. Next you’re going to tell me his wife is a werewolf.”

“Actually, she’s a ghost,” James said.

Levon laughed. “But you still haven’t said how vampires get to be vampires in the first place. Where do vampires come from?”

The bearded boy faced Levon. “You see, first the mommy vampire and the daddy vampire meet and fall in love, and then they…”

“I’m serious,” said Levon. “What makes a vampire, Doctor Wentworth?”

“They’re cursed,” James said. “It’s the only explanation.”

“Can a vampire ever break the curse?”

“I’m not familiar with any way to break the curse.” 

James sat on the edge of the instructor’s desk while he gathered his thoughts. These young people, so curious, so vigorous, so alive, had no idea what it meant to be cursed. If they knew his truth would they come to his class then? Would they run away screaming in the halls? He settled his worries and continued his lecture about early vampire legends, with no further interruptions from Brent, while the students took notes and asked questions. 

“James?”

Sarah stood near the door, a sleeping Grace in her arms. “Class was over twenty minutes ago. We were waiting for you in the library.” 

“I’m sorry, honey,” James said. “I lost track of time.” 

“We all did,” said Levon. “You’re a good storyteller, Doctor Wentworth. Especially that Raven Mocker stuff.”

“Thanks, Levon. All right everyone. Your assignment is to research an early vampire legend, not the same ones we talked about here tonight, and bring in some information about the legend to share. I’ll see everyone next time.”

The students said good night and filed away. At first, James thought they were tip-toeing around him, though he knew it was his paranoia brought on by Hempel’s blog and Brent’s questions. Timothy was gone. A few students peeked at Grace as she slept in Sarah’s arms. One blond-haired girl smiled at James. “She’s cute, Doctor Wentworth. She looks just like you.”

“Thank you,” James said. 

Levon said good night to James and Sarah and smiled at Grace before he left. When the room was empty and only Sarah and Grace remained, James put his arms around them, holding them close while he kissed the top of his daughter’s silk-like curls. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind. 

“How did it go?” Sarah asked.

“It’s a vampire literature class. How do you think it went?”

“Was it that bad?”

“I’ll survive.”

“It looked like a full class.”

James kissed Sarah’s forehead. “It was,” he said. “It was.”

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