At dusk on the thirteenth night after his death, Desmond stirred deep within his own chest cavity, in the space where his heart used to be. At that time he did not know where he was or why, or even what he was; he knew only that he was desperately hungry. He turned and twisted inside the corpse, looking for a passage out. Finding none, he bit, sliced and ripped through a brittle lung, then squirmed through the trachea to the larynx, then to the epiglottis, then to the mouth. With the long claws on his thumbs and toes, he pried open the corpse's teeth and lips enough to force his nose and head through, then pushed and pulled his lean, furry body out of the mouth of the corpse and into the vast blackness of the coffin.

Using his wide pointy ears, upturned snout, and various hairs and whiskers on his head and body, Desmond recorded the locations, dimensions and composition of the walls, floor and ceiling of the coffin. Then he stretched his long, webbed arms and fingers, and with his leathery wings thus outstretched, he flipped himself up to the ceiling and grasped the cloth lining with his claws. While hanging there, he slashed the lining with his teeth and began gnawing vigorously at the oak lid of the coffin.

After hours of determined gnawing, Desmond chewed through the last layer of wood and began digging upwards through the loose dirt covering his grave. He quickly reached the surface and crawled out into the bright, moonlit night.

At once he ascended above the graveyard and trees and streets and buildings, perceiving every movement of every object and creature below. He flew over highways and boulevards where a few cars and trucks roamed with their headlights and taillights on. Then he flew over houses and yards with cars parked in driveways and on the streets.

Soon he spied a large dog sleeping in a dimly lit back yard of a house, and he swooped down and landed softly on the dog's back, near its neck. The dog, a Rottweiler, quivered but did not wake as Desmond nuzzled his face into its fur and licked the warm skin. While licking, Desmond lightly pierced the skin with his razor sharp incisors and twisted his head to make a single long cut. Even then the dog did not stir, and as the blood flowed, Desmond lapped it up with his blood-red tongue.

When he had his fill, Desmond fluttered off the dog and onto the pitched roof of the house. Now that the animal lust of hunger was gone, he closed his tiny black eyes to rest for a minute. As he did, he felt his body stretching and bloating and transforming from a three-inch long, one-and-a-quarter-ounce vampire bat to a six-foot-one-inch tall, two-hundred-twenty- pound vampire.

Face down and naked on the steep roof, Desmond cringed from a severe burning pain in his chest. Suddenly he began to slide down the roof, and he scraped and scratched at the asphalt shingles with his toes, knees, elbows and fingers. The noise woke the Rottweiler below, who growled and barked furiously at him. Then, just when he got a grip on the shingles, he heard a door open and a woman's muffled voice saying, 'Rex! Hush! What is it?'�

Desmond twisted his head to watch as Rex the Rottweiler ignored the woman and continued to bark at him on the roof. Then Desmond heard another door open, and the woman appeared in the yard beside Rex. She wore a thin collarless robe and stood with her arms across her chest, craning her white velvet neck to look up at the roof in the direction of Rex's bark. Desmond admired her intensely, even as the burning in his chest intensified. But when she made out Desmond in the darkness, she yelped and ran back inside the house and slammed the door.

Desmond understood the woman's reaction. Even if he had not been naked, the sight of him clinging to her roof in the middle of the night would have startled her. What was he doing?

Carefully he clambered up the side of the roof, over the peak, and backwards down the other side toward the front of the house. When he felt the edge of the roof with his feet, he turned sideways and reached for the gutter, then dropped to the ground and ran, his chest burning all the while.

He tried to stay off the streets and sidewalks and in the shadows of the manicured front yards of houses, crouching beside parked cars as he went. At the corner, he noticed the street signs for Anastasia and Katerina Streets. He knew the neighborhood. Marietta Street, and home, were near. No wonder he had flown here.

At the thought of home, Desmond recalled his suicide. He had worked as an accountant for Crescent Shipping Company in New Orleans until they caught him writing checks to his own fictitious company, Maintenance Contractors, LLC. After his indictment for embezzlement, wire fraud, and mail fraud, he faced enormous legal fees, bankruptcy, prosecution, conviction and imprisonment. On the other hand, he had a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy and a wife and three kids who would lose everything if he went to prison. So he made himself a cup of tea from the leaves of an English Yew plant he bought at Home Depot. It was said to paralyze the heart, causing instant death, and it worked. It was just as effective as the .38-caliber pistol his father used to shoot himself in the head when Desmond was nine, and it was a lot neater.

With a stab of heartburn, it struck Desmond that he had risen inside a corpse in a coffin in a graveyard, eaten his way out, flown into the suburbs and feasted on the blood of a Rottweiler, and then found himself in his present, human form on a roof. Yet, except for the heartburn, he felt good and healthy, as if he could run forever. And still he could taste the dog's salty blood, and could see the tender outstretched neck of the woman, and his mouth watered. Apparently vampires were real, and he was one.

But maybe, now that death had liberated him from the indictments, he could get his life back. He could not let the U.S. Attorney or his former employer know he had returned from the dead, but Linda and the kids would protect him. He had to get home to them.

At Marietta Street, Desmond's heartburn persisted as he hurried toward his house. He could ring the doorbell, but he knew Linda and the kids would be sleeping, and he wanted to surprise Linda. Fortunately, his 4Runner SUV was still in the driveway next to Linda's Camry. When it came to his house and cars, he was always prepared for lost keys. He went to the SUV, reached inside the wheel well, and pulled out a magnetic box with the key. Then he opened the SUV door, dug around in the map pocket, and pulled out a key ring with several keys on it. He put the 4Runner key on the key ring.

At the front door, Desmond quietly unlocked the bolt lock and doorknob lock. Then he opened the door, slipped inside, and entered the security code in the alarm system keypad.

In the hallway, Desmond went first to Mark and Tim's room, where he peeked in and saw them clearly in the darkness, sleeping in their twin beds. Mark was fourteen and Tim was twelve, and they constantly complained about having to share a room. With the money from the Maintenance Contractors scheme, Desmond had hoped to buy a bigger house in River Ridge. Now, with his life insurance money, they should finally be able to get the new house, and the boys would get their own rooms.

Next he went to Tina's room and peeked in. She was sixteen and beautiful like Linda. He watched her sleeping in the bright glow of a night light, and he had to kiss her like he used to every night when she was younger. He went to her bedside and bent down to her face. He saw her gently pulsing neck and almost kissed her there, but he thought better of it and kissed her cheek instead. She did not wake, and he left the room feeling awkwardly naked as the acid burned in his chest.

Finally he came to the master bedroom and Linda. She slept with the TV on with no volume, and the glare illuminated her where she curled on her side of the king-sized bed. Softly Desmond walked around the bed and knelt beside her. He meant to kiss her, but her neck was bare, and he was drawn to it directly. He felt the heat rising from it. Sliding his tongue across his sharp incisors, he lightly brushed the fine hairs on the neck. Lightly he licked the skin, the warm spicy flesh, until Linda moaned. Still licking her, he bared his teeth. But then he moved his arm, and the keys in his hand jingled, and Linda stirred.

Seeing her waking, Desmond whispered, 'Linda. Linda, it's me. I'm back, baby.'� He kissed her cheek, still straining not to bite her neck. Then she opened her eyes and shrieked as she scrambled away from him across the bed.

Desmond stood up, still naked, and said, 'Baby, it's me. Desmond. I'm back.'�

'Get away!'� she yelled and started to climb off the other side of the bed. Desmond rushed around the bed to meet her, and she screamed again and crawled to the center of the bed to get away.

'Linda, it's Desmond,'� he said. 'Desmond.'�

'No! Get out!'� she screamed.

The bedroom door opened, and Mark, Tim and Tina stood there.

'Run, kids!'� yelled Linda. 'Call 9-1-1!'�

'No!'� said Desmond in the commanding tone he used with the kids. It worked. The kids did not move. 'Kids,'� he said. 'It's daddy. I didn't die. See?'� He held out his arms to show them, then quickly lowered his hands to hide his nakedness.

'You're not dad!'� shouted Mark. 'Who are you?'�

'It's me Mark,'� said Desmond. 'Your dad. I won't hurt you'-any of you.'�

'Just get out!'� screamed Linda.

'Don't you recognize me? Tim? Tina?'�

'No!'� said Linda.

'How do you know our names?'� asked Tina.

'I'm your dad, and I died, and now I'm back. I don't know why, but I'm not dead any more.'�

'You're insane! Naked and insane!'� cried Linda. 'You better get out! The police will be here.'�

As his heart burned, Desmond realized they did not recognize him, but no one had called the police yet, so he had time. 'I just want my clothes,'� he said. 'Please. Don't move. I know right where they are.'� He backed around the bed toward the dresser, opened a drawer, and with the keys still in his hand, pulled out a pair of underwear and slipped them on. Linda was still crying, but she and the kids had not moved.

'Okay,'� said Desmond. 'Now I need pants and a shirt. I'm going into the closet. Please don't move.'� He went to the closet and opened the door. Without turning his back, he stepped inside the closet and grabbed a pair of khakis off a hanger and pulled them on, dropped the keys into a pocket, slipped his feet into a pair of boat shoes, and grabbed a navy blue polo shirt and pulled it on. Next he reached up to a shelf and pulled down a carry-on bag and shoved several pairs of pants, a few shirts, and a pair of Nikes in it. Then he went back to the dresser and pulled out underwear and socks and stuffed them into the pockets of the carry-on. All the while he kept his eyes on Linda and the kids, and they watched his every move.

'Thank you, Linda, for not throwing out my clothes yet,'� said Desmond. 'One more thing--toothbrush. And antacid.'� He ducked into the bathroom with the carry-on and hurriedly opened a drawer in the vanity and grabbed the bottle of antacid pills for his raging heartburn. Then as he went to the medicine cabinet for his toothbrush and toothpaste, he glanced at the mirror on the cabinet door. There was nothing--no face--nothing but an empty navy polo shirt in the mirror. He dropped the carry-on to the floor with a thud and looked down at his hands. He saw them plainly, his own hands, one holding the antacid bottle. He waved the hand in the mirror and saw only the bottle floating in thin air. He turned on the bathroom light and squinted, but still he could not see himself in the mirror. He looked at the floor all around him and saw no shadow. So the stories were true.

He got the toothbrush and toothpaste and put them and the antacid in a pocket of the carry-on. When he came out of the bathroom, Linda and the kids were gone. As he had told himself once before, he would miss them, although he had not expected to know he was missing them. He walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door without seeing them anywhere.

Outside, the horizon glowed in the east, and now Desmond's eyes as well as his chest burned. He went straight to the 4Runner and jumped in and threw the carry-on in the front passenger seat and started the engine. As he backed out of the driveway, he reached up and opened an overhead compartment and took out his sunglasses and put them on. On Marietta Street, he found the antacid pills in the carry-on and took two of them.

He did not think about where he was going. He just drove. Slowly, surely, the day was coming. His eyes and chest burned. He had to close his eyes. But he was driving. He blinked. He had to stop driving and close his eyes. With great effort, he pulled off the road into an empty parking lot, parked, and turned off the engine.

At last he closed his eyes, and soon his clothing lay in heaps on the seat and floor as he fluttered around the 4Runner. He had to get out, but all the windows were closed. He zeroed in on the vents and flattened himself and pulled and pushed himself through the slats. He crawled and squirmed down the vent pipe and between the fan blades toward the opening under the hood. He came out of the vent duct flapping and flew out from under the SUV and into the pre-dawn haze.

Still he did not think about where he was going. He just flew. He flew over the boulevards and highways and buildings and streets and trees. He came to the graveyard, where, of course, he had to be, and plunged earthward to his grave site. There he crawled back in his hole and down to the opening he had chewed through the lid of his coffin. Planting his claws, he dropped through the opening and hung from the ceiling above the decomposing body of Desmond Duplantier, his former self.

But he did not sleep. He remembered, craved, brooded, and waited. He remembered his life before his death, and his death by his own hand, and his life in death. He craved the neck of the woman with the dog named Rex, the succulent skin of his widowed wife, and the blood of every woman he had ever known. He brooded on his damnation in this dead, wretched, sleepless prison. And he waited for the night, when again he would walk in the world of the living--this time as Desmond Rex, Vampire.

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