The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

To the citizens of Monroe, Marge Demdike was a cheerful, slightly senile, and friendly neighbor. Her property was well-kept, her home clean and charming like a gingerbread house from a fairy tale. She was kind to the local children, always handing out homemade cookies and candy. Her neighbors worried about her, living all alone in that old farmhouse, backed up against woods so thick that the shadows seemed to swallow light. But Marge was a sturdy 90-year-old, and she always seemed to manage just fine.
In the spring and summer, Marge spent most days puttering about her vegetable garden, caring for her crops like they were her children. A pleasant sight, but the townsfolk pitied her. Her own children hadn’t been seen in Monroe again once they’d moved out of her home. In the winter when the snow was deep, Marge was rarely seen unless one of the neighbor boys came to shovel her walk or a family came to sing carols. But always there was a cheery plume of smoke rising from her weathered chimney. Until the thaw, it seemed that the entire town held its breath, hoping that she would emerge with a sun hat, a trowel, and a smile.
Beyond that, no one really gave much thought to Marge Demdike. She didn’t entertain many visitors, and she never invited anyone into her home. She drove a rusting pickup into town twice a month to do her shopping, but otherwise she remained in her private little world. She never caused trouble, she rarely asked for help, and so her fellow Monroans let her be.
That suited Marge just fine. She’d always enjoyed her privacy. After all, that’s why she’d settled in such a small town. The townsfolk knew just enough about her to feel secure with leaving her alone, and not enough to pester her. Despite her friendly demeanor, she was not fond of visits from her neighbors. She did often pick up vagabonds, however. She liked to refer to them as her “special friends,” and they called her “Granny Demdike.”
Backpackers, hitchhikers, runaways, it didn’t matter. There was always room for them at her hearth. Marge found that wanderers were always grateful for her hospitality, and, provided with enough food and warm drink, they were willing to do just about anything to help their host. She’d had leaky pipes fixed, lightbulbs changed, firewood gathered and chopped… And while her special friends completed these chores, Marge would watch. Marge would evaluate.
Those who did shoddy work, Marge would release after a few days with some fresh-baked bread and some jam. She never saw them again, and that was just how she liked it. Those who did good work were invited to stay, however, doing odd jobs and growing fat. Marge loathed to let these friends go.
She had her favorites, of course. One of her first guests, just after her husband’s death, had been a carpenter who built her a beautiful china cabinet. She’d convinced him to stay most of the winter. She’d had a young mother and her son, a cherubic little boy with curly brown hair and dimples. Marge used to read the boy stories, and his mother had been a fantastic cook. There had been a seamstress, who had made Marge’s daughter a lovely prom dress. All were fondly remembered.
She would ask about their lives, too, and write their stories in dozens of journals. When she was feeling nostalgic, she’d pull a journal down, read them aloud and pretend she had an audience of all her special friends seated on the rug at the foot of her chair, like schoolchildren during story time.
Sometimes she would entertain her special friends for weeks, and sometimes they only stayed for a handful of days. She could always tell when their time together was growing short, though, and it always hurt the same. She took comfort knowing that even after her friends were gone, they never really left her.
That’s where Marge found herself now. Settled on a rocking chair that was almost as old as she was, knitting so quickly that her knobby knuckles were a blur of motion and listening to the rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunk of an axe meeting wood. Josh would be about through with the chopping by now, surely. He’d been outside in the frigid winter air for a couple of hours. Marge could see a cloud of steamy breath through the warped glass of her window, though she couldn’t see its source. She was running out of things for her guest to do. He’d worked almost non-stop for her for just over a week, and she’d never heard him complain once.
She was sure that he pitied her, living all alone in the woods. She could accept that. For all intents and purposes, she appeared to be a lonely, feeble old woman, and it was easy to pity lonely, feeble old women. In truth, she was lonely. Since her children had all left, she’d had no one to share her home with, and the townsfolk were all so dull. Kind, helpful, not unpleasant, but… dull.
The hinges of the back door creaked as Josh entered. He wiped his brow with the back of one gloved hand and sighed, lips stretched with the satisfied smile of someone who was proud of their work. “Wood’s all chopped, Granny Demdike.”
“Thank you, dear,” Marge smiled and set her project aside. It was a scarf, knitted with fine wool yarn dyed the color of maple leaves in autumn. A gift for Josh in his favorite color – she’d asked for that information almost before his name. “Would you like something to eat? You must be exhausted after all that.”
Josh nodded eagerly, and Marge lifted herself from her chair to shuffle across the room to the stove where a large pot of stew sat simmering.
Marge hummed as she worked, adding the finishing touches, and pondered what she’d learned about Josh so far. He’d been married, once. His husband was in the Marine Corps and had been killed in action five years ago. He’d been living on his own since then, working and saving so that now he could spread his husband’s ashes across the US during a year-long backpacking trip. It was all very romantic, and Marge had been so eager to write it as he shared it.
“Do you mind if I say grace?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Josh smiled and folded his hands obligingly.
“Dear Lord,” Marge began, “thank you for bringing Joshua to my door. Bless him for his kindness to an old woman. And bless this food we are about to eat. Amen.”
She watched Josh eat, watched his eyelids grow heavy as his stomach filled, watched him nod off over his bowl, and moved the dish just before his head hit the tabletop. Marge reached out and patted his hair with a fond sigh, a melancholy smile stretching her weathered cheeks.

Marge wasn’t in the shed when Josh awoke, groggy and delirious on a dirty blanket. She hated leaving her special friends there, but the fear made them faster when they ran, and Marge couldn’t resist the chase. It made the sting of loss a little less potent.
Marge watched through a grainy monitor while realization slowly donned in Josh’s eyes. Confusion, betrayal, determination, and then desperation and terror. She watched as he glanced about the room, mouth agape and eyes wide with horror as he took in his surroundings. It was a cozy enough shed, the floor covered in mismatched rugs, a potbellied stove squatting in the corner, and a couple of threadbare armchairs. On cold days like today, she loved sitting and reading a book in the room, surrounded by her artwork. Marge had been a taxidermist in a previous life. Before settling in Monroe. But she still found use for her skills after becoming a wife and mother.
Lining the walls were dozens of trophies, each preserved in excruciating detail, lovingly rendered to look just as they had in life, eyes closed and smiling placidly, just like they were sleeping. Her special friends.
Josh scurried about the room like a trapped rat, pulling at the boards over the windows with bare hands, pounding on the door and screaming. Marge was grateful that she hadn’t installed a microphone in the shed. She didn’t think she would enjoy listening to the weeping and wailing. It would make her job more difficult.
The determination of the dying never failed to impress Marge. Her special friends always followed the same pattern after they found themselves in the shed. First would come the tears as they processed the reality of their captivity. They would try to escape, sometimes digging at the wood until their fingertips bled. Then, they would search for a weapon, expecting that Marge would have to come and visit them in the shed at some point. She never did. She was stronger than she looked, but not as fast as she used to be. It all worked out in the end.
Marge turned away from the monitor and picked up her knitting. She had no desire to watch Josh grow more and more frantic. When he was ready, she’d know. She had a sense about these things. It wouldn’t do to move before it was time. Marge was a hunter, not a murderer. Besides, it was best that she focus on finishing the scarf. She had to finish it before the game began.
At some point, Marge fell asleep with the nearly complete scarf clutched in her fingers, snoring gently. A loud pop from the dying fire startled her awake. For a moment, fog clung to her brain, and she forgot where she was. Who she was. What she was about to do. But the moment passed quickly, and Marge glanced at the monitor to check on Josh. He was huddled in the corner near the stove, arms folded over his legs and head buried in his knees. It was time.
She shuffled about the farmhouse, gathering supplies for the chase. She bundled herself up tightly, gathered some jerky and trail mix, and carefully cleaned her rifle. She double and triple checked everything. Something told her that this hunt would be special.
Marge pressed a button, carefully labeled “speaker,” so that she wouldn’t forget, cleared her throat, and spoke. “I’m so sorry, Joshua. I truly am. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive your poor old Granny Demdike.” Marge watched as Josh lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed, but determined, and pressed another button, this one labelled, “lock.” She heard the faint buzzing sound of electricity in the distance as the shed door unlocked. She switched back to the speaker, “I’ll give you a head start. One.” Josh began to unfold himself.
“Two.” He began to rise, confusion and hope crossing his face in turns. “Three.”
He hesitated a moment. “Four.”
He sprang into action, rushing for the door and yanking it open roughly. “Five,” Marge intoned, as Josh sprang from the shed, slipping in the fresh powder in his haste.
“And so it begins,” Granny Demdike sighed and cocked her rifle. This hunt would be special, indeed.