Howard

The blow to Howard Campbell’s ribs still echoed in his lungs as he stumbled backward into the narrow alley behind Marquette Street. His cheek throbbed, already swelling, and his breath rattled in uneven bursts. The three boys who’d cornered him—white, drunk, and mean—had long since disappeared down the street, their laughter thinning in the humid Louisiana night.

Howie pressed a palm to the brick wall, willing the spinning world to steady. “Ain’t nothin’,” he muttered to himself, though the words trembled. He hated the sting behind his eyes more than the bruise blooming across his jaw. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry again. Not over this.

He crouched, reaching to collect himself, when the hair on the back of his neck lifted.

Something was… here.

At first all he heard was the soft drip of last hour’s rain slipping from the gutters. Then the faintest shuffle—lighter than footsteps, more like fabric whispering over stone.

Howie straightened slowly. His heart beat harder, louder, as though trying to warn him.

At the far end of the alley, partly veiled in shadow, someone stood.

Motionless. Dressed oddly—dark coat, high collar, clothes too clean for a back alley. The figure looked as though the mud and grime of the city refused to cling to them.

Howie blinked hard, thinking maybe the hit to his head was still messing with his eyes.

“Hey,” he croaked, voice rough. “I… uh—I didn’t mean to wander back here. I’m just trying to get home.”

The figure didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even seem to breathe.

A mix of fear and curiosity twisted low in Howie’s belly. He took a hesitant step back toward the street—but something glinted faintly in the stranger’s hand.

A smear of deep red. More than a smear—wet, fresh.

Blood.

Howie froze.

The stranger shifted their weight, almost gracefully, and the dim lamplight overhead finally revealed their face. Pale. Far too pale. Cheeks hollow, eyes blackened around the edges as if the darkness had seeped under their skin. Their lips were stained.

And then Howie saw the body beside them.

A man, crumpled behind a stack of crates, two punctures just visible on the side of his throat. His chest didn’t rise.

Howie’s breath hitched. His knees nearly buckled.

The figure’s eyes lifted to him—dark, reflective, like oil on water. Not angry. Not startled. Just… watching.

Howie swallowed hard. “You—you ain’t gonna hurt me… right?”

The stranger stepped forward.

Howie’s back hit the wall. His hands flew up instinctively—not to fight, just to be ready.

But the figure only came close enough for him to see their face clearly. Up close, they looked young. Younger than him, maybe. Or maybe not. Their expression wasn’t threatening—it was curious. Soft, even. Their gaze drifted to the bruise forming across his cheek, lingering there with something that looked strangely like… concern.

Howie exhaled shakily. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “This happens sometimes. Don’t worry about me.”

The stranger reached out a hand.

Howie tensed—but the touch was gentle, unexpectedly cool. Their fingers brushed beneath his jaw, lifting his chin slightly as if studying the damage.

The tenderness of the gesture made Howie’s chest tighten with something he didn’t fully understand.

“You’re… real gentle,” he murmured.

Three weeks passed, and Howard Campbell tried to pretend the alley incident had slipped from his mind.

It hadn’t.

He still felt the ghost of that cool hand under his jaw some nights. Still saw those dark, strange eyes. Still woke wondering if he had imagined everything—until he remembered the corpse on the crate.

But life went on. The diner needed him. Rent needed paying. People still sneered when he walked by.

And on a warm evening, just after closing shift, the sneers turned to fists.

---

“How’s it feel, bein’ half-a-man and half-a-mistake?”

The tallest of the boys shoved Howard hard against the wooden fence behind the restaurant. The others circled in, drunk on cheap gin and self-importance. Howard tightened his grip on his coat collar, jaw clenched. He could fight—he was strong enough—he knew that. But something in him always crumpled first. Some voice that whispered don’t give them another reason.

He lifted his arms instead of his fists.

“Just let me pass,” he said quietly.

“Yeah? And what if we don’t?” Another boy jabbed a finger into his chest. “Town don’t need folks like you walkin’ around like you belong.”

The shove came harder this time—breath knocked out of him, shoulder slamming the fence.

Howard tasted blood.

He didn’t beg. Didn’t cry, though his eyes burned. He simply endured it the way a tired man endures an unexpected storm—chin tucked, waiting for it to pass.

After a few more slaps, jeers, and a final kick to his shin, they left him there, laughing about “the mulatto crybaby” as they sauntered off toward the river road.

Howard stayed bent over for a long moment, hands on his knees, breathing slowly through the sting.

“Lord,” he whispered, “give me strength, or give me a sign.”

He didn’t know which he wanted.

---

He intended to walk straight home. Truly, he did.

But the nagging thought wouldn’t leave him alone—the river road was the same direction the alley had been weeks ago.

The same place he had seen… them.

Howard told himself he wasn’t looking for trouble. He wasn’t looking for that creature either.

And yet his feet turned toward the river road anyway.

The night air thickened with the heavy sweetness of water grass. The streetlamps grew sparser. The hum of crickets filled the dark.

Howard slowed.

Something felt wrong.

The road was too quiet. Even the frogs had cut off their croaking. He took one more step before he saw it—

The first body.

Propped upright against a cypress trunk. Arms arranged neatly over his lap, as if laid to rest by a careful hand. His eyes were open—empty, glassy. Two small, unmistakable punctures marked the side of his throat.

Howard staggered backward, breath catching in his throat.

A few feet away was the second bully, slumped over a mossy log, head tilted gently to the side. His hat had been placed beside him.

The third lay almost peacefully at the river’s edge, coat buttoned, legs straightened out. All of them arranged. Presented. Like an offering. Or a message.

Howard’s pulse thundered.

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking. “No, no, no…”

The realization struck him like a blow to the gut.

This was for him.

These boys were the same ones who’d shoved him, mocked him, kicked him only hours ago. Someone—something—had followed them. Had listened. Had chosen.

The hairs on Howard’s arms lifted.

He felt—not heard—movement behind him. Like a shift in the air pressure. Like a shadow realizing it was being watched.

Slowly, he turned.

And there, half-hidden behind a thick curtain of moss, stood the vampire.

The same young face. The same hollow cheeks. The same silent, intent eyes fixed on him. Their coat hung still around them, untouched by breeze or mud. Hands low at their sides, faintly stained.

Not looming. Not threatening.

Simply… waiting.

Howard felt his knees weaken. His heart pulled in two directions—fear tightening one side while something strangely warm tugged at the other.

“Did you—” His voice failed. Tears pricked suddenly at the corners of his eyes. “Why… why’d you do that?”

The vampire didn’t answer.

Of course they didn’t.

They only held his gaze, expression unreadable but not cruel. Not proud. Almost… patient.

Howard’s breath shook. “I didn’t want this,” he whispered. “I ain’t never wanted this.”

The vampire stepped closer—not too close—and tilted their head slightly, as though puzzled by his trembling.

Howard wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “You ain’t gotta protect me,” he said, voice small. “I can take care of myself.”

Another moment of silence. Heavy, dense, almost tender.

The vampire slowly lifted their hand—not reaching out, just raising it, palm almost open. Like they wanted to touch him again. Or reassure him. Or simply show they meant no harm.

Howard shook his head. “Don’t.”

It started small.

A glimmer of movement behind a row of shops. A shadow crossing an empty street. A glimpse of a pale face reflected in the window of the barber shop as Howard cleaned tables across the street.

At first, Howard told himself he was imagining it.

But the vampire from the river road was following him.

Not close. Never close. Just… near. Always enough for Howard to feel the prickle under his skin, the awareness of being watched. Their presence drifted behind him like a soft current.

Sometimes Howard walked faster.

Sometimes he walked slower, daring to turn around.

Each time, the vampire stood at a distance—silent, still, head slightly tilted as if studying him.

Never threatening. Just… there.

---

The night air was thick, heavy with river scent. Howard walked home through the quiet back streets, head low, trying to pretend the soft footfall behind him wasn’t there.

He finally stopped in a dim alley where he knew no one else would wander at this hour. He took a breath to steady himself.

“Okay,” he muttered. “I know you’re there.”

The vampire stepped from behind a row of crates. Slowly. Gracefully. They didn’t try to hide it anymore.

Howard’s heartbeat jumped painfully.

He thought of how the vampire had touched his bruised jaw weeks ago—gentle, almost tender. He thought of the dead boys, arranged like a grim gift. And he thought of the way the creature lingered near him now, not feeding, not harming, not demanding.

Just watching him the way a person might watch someone they… liked.

The vampire took one small step closer.

Howard stepped back immediately, hand raised.

“No,” he said, voice shaking. “No. Don’t—don’t do that. Whatever you’re tryna do—don’t.”

The vampire froze.

Their expression didn’t change, but something in their posture softened, almost like they were waiting for him to explain.

Howard swallowed hard. “People already look at me like I’m strange. They already treat me like I don’t belong nowhere. And if they think I’m… that way with another man—Lord, I can’t handle all that.”

The vampire’s head tilted slightly, slow and thoughtful. Their dark eyes fixed on him with that same, quiet intensity. A yearning of some kind.

Howard shook his head harder. “Look… you’re kind. You’ve been… lookin’ out for me. But folks in this town—they don’t understand things like that. They don’t even understand me.”

He hesitated, voice low. “I ain’t sayin’ you’re wrong for feelin’ whatever you feel. But I ain’t safe to be seen with you like that. Not here.”

Not in 1920s Louisiana.

Not as a biracial boy.

Not as a boy who already felt too soft, too unsure of himself.

The vampire moved, but only to raise a hand—slowly, gently—as if offering it without expectation. Asking nothing.

Howard flinched again. “Please. Don’t make this harder.”

The hand lowered immediately.

Howard let out a shaky breath of relief… and guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking a little. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong. But people see things. They talk. And I can’t give ‘em one more reason to make my life hell.”

It happened on a night humid enough to soften the wooden shutters of the apartment buildings. Howard Campbell had just finished a long shift, his shirt damp at the collar, his muscles aching. He rode his bicycle slowly through the quiet back streets—too tired to hurry, too thoughtful to relax.

He had begun to sense a presence behind him these past few days. Never close enough to see clearly. Never loud. Just a soft, subtle weight in the air, like being studied from far away.

Howard tried to ignore it.

Tried.

But when he turned down the narrow walkway beside Blanchet’s hardware store, he heard the faint scrape of a shoe behind him.

He stopped.

The presence stopped too.

Howard swallowed and forced himself to turn.

A woman stood at the far end of the brick corridor.

Pale. Almost delicate-looking. Dark hair loose around her shoulders, eyes wide and too reflective in the moonlight. She wore an old-fashioned dress that clung to her frame like it was part of her skin—cleaner than the streets around her, untouched by dirt or dust.

Howard knew instantly—she was the same kind of creature he’d seen in the alley weeks ago.

A vampire.

And she was watching him with an intensity that made his heart thump uncomfortably hard.

She stepped forward.

Softly. Gracefully. As if walking didn’t disturb the air at all.

Howard backed up a little. “Please—don’t come too close.”

She paused, head tilting, studying him with a sharp, almost gentle curiosity. There was no threat in her posture. Only interest. Her eyes flicked over him—his bruised jaw from an earlier scuffle, the tear in his shirt sleeve, the shine of sweat on his face.

Then she lifted a hand slowly, palm open, as if to offer comfort.

Howard shook his head. “Don’t… don’t do that. You don’t gotta.”

She lowered the hand.

But she didn’t leave.

If anything, her eyes softened.

Howard felt a twist in his stomach—a mix of fear, awe, and something strangely flattering. A woman this beautiful, this strange, this otherworldly, looking at him like he mattered…

It made his knees weaken.

But he forced himself to straighten.

“I know what you’re wantin’,” he said quietly. “Not blood. Something else.”

Her gaze didn’t shift.

It stayed locked on him—steady, warm, unblinking.

Howard rubbed the back of his neck. “I ain’t blind. I can see how you look at me.”

Her lips parted just the slightest bit, not to speak, but in something like surprise—or hope.

He shook his head. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The vampire stepped forward half a step, slow, silent.

“No,” Howard said firmly. “Stop right there.”

Howard looked away, voice trembling. “You’re beautiful. I ain’t denyin’ that. And you—you’re gentle. A lot gentler than people in this town.”

His throat tightened. He hated how much he meant that.

“But I got dreams,” he whispered. “Foolish ones, maybe. But real. I wanna have a family someday. Kids. A future.”

He forced himself to meet her eyes.

“Can vampires even have children?”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t shake her head. Didn’t nod. Didn’t give him any sign at all.

Just silence.

Empty, cavernous silence.

Howard felt the answer settle in his chest like a stone.

“I can’t take that chance,” he murmured. “I can’t spend my life wonderin’ if I’m givin’ up somethin’ I been dreamin’ about since I was little.”