SHORT STORY: Titanic- Ship of Monsters

Madeliene Astor was a stunning woman. Her chestnut curls gave the impression of caramel, piled atop her head in a gleaming, cascading waterfall. Her swan-like neck stretched skyward, enviably haughty. When she listened, she did so attentively, leaning close and inclining her head. One might think her childlike, if not for the sad slope of her brows that gave her an air of adult practicality.

Her husband, the devilishly wealthy Mr. Astor, was equally stunning. A straight, proud nose gave him the appearance of a dashing general. The square set of his jaw offset the straight, judgmental, line of his brows. His lips were quirked in a perpetual smirk and even in portraits his eyes sparkled with a tinge of mischief.

Kitty, the family dog, loped beside him, nails clicking against the deck boards, nose sniffing the balmy morning air.

Below, rats— human and rodent alike— were stirring. Mothers were waking babes, servants were hurrying about, arms laden with fresh linens, and the stokers were changing shifts, wiping sweat from their squinty eyes with calloused hands and scarred fingers. John glanced at his own hands, unworn by work, spotted with age. The observation put him in a sour mood.

Madeliene, sensing the change, took his arm. The couple was newly married and not a soul on either side of the Atlantic was free of an opinion regarding their nuptials. It was the scandal of the year. Between their nearly thirty-year age gap, John’s sudden divorce of his first wife, Ava, and Madeliene’s pregnancy, the Astors’ appalling missteps were a page-worthy blaze. The public caught a whiff of the smoke and swarmed the scene. Photographers and gossipmongers followed the couple across Europe on their torrid honeymoon, cashing in on each new development in the sordid story.

For the first time in months, Madeleine breathed deeply, peacefully, and smiled. “What’s the matter dear?” She asked, blinking up at her husband. “How can you be unhappy here?” She gestured to the idyllic bliss around them.

He scrunched his nose, glanced down at Kitty still loping along beside him, and pecked Madeline on the forehead. His mustache tickled her brow, and she giggled. “Nothing’s the matter.” He said. “I’m just a grumpy old man.” But that wasn’t quite the truth.

Something was very much the matter. Only, he could not find the words to voice his fear. Surely, he was wrong. Surely, the thing he thought he saw was just a feverish trick of his mind. A nightmare conjured up by stress. But then again-

“If I ask you a question, do you promise to be honest?” Madeliene pressed. He nodded, distracted, as she took his hand. In moments like this she reminded him of a child. Suddenly shy, staring at the polished floorboards under their feet with a sheepish grin. “Why did you marry me?”

He frowned, taken aback. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re wealthy. You’re handsome. You’re successful. You were married to a woman you loved. Why choose me?” Her face was like a flower in bloom, open and raw and beautiful.

He clicked his tongue on the back of his teeth and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Do you want the easy answer or the truth?” His constant smirk widened into a smile.

“The truth, I suppose.”

“There’s plenty of women richer than you. More well-connected. Women more cultured or mannered or learned.” Madeline’s lips pursed. “But,” John added, “Not one of them has your tongue or your mind,” he squeezed her hand, “or your humor.” Madeliene smiled. “Does that answer your question?”

She nodded, eyes bright. “Well, then, if I am not the cause of your unhappiness, what is?” They passed a couple of morning strollers, Lady Lucille Duff-Gordon among them, promenading in their big, flowered hats. Madeline nodded in their direction, frowning slightly as they swept her up and down with appraising glares. Once they passed, Madeline tugged on John’s hand and steered him toward a pair of empty deck chairs. “Something’s eating at you.” She said. He shivered at her words. “I’d like to know what.”

Kitty sat back on her haunches as they took their seats. Her tail thumped against the wood, a dull grating heartbeat echoing at their feet.

“You’ll think me crazy.” John said.

“John, there is no one saner than you.”

John knew she was right. He took her hand and ran his thumb over her knuckles, staring at the gold ring glinting on her finger.

“When we boarded this ship, I thought the only monsters awaiting us were new-moneyed Americans and gutter rats.” Madeliene nodded in understanding. “But, I think, my dear, we are accompanied by monsters far worse than that.”

“If you’re talking of Margaret Brown, I fear you’re right.” Madeliene replied tartly. “It’s not right for a woman to talk the way she does. So bawdy and crass-”

“I don’t mean Margaret.” John interrupted. His voice was stern, his stare was sharp. “Do you remember when you were a girl, and your mother caught you reading ghost stories by the hearth?”

Madeline laughed. “She never liked penny dreadfuls. Said they were poor people’s poetry.”

“What if I told you I saw something from those pamphlets?”

Madeline frowned. “Like a murder?”

John mirrored her frown. “Something like that.”

“John, you must tell the constable what you saw.” Madeleine dropped her voice and leaned close. “Whoever it was, they can arrest him.”

“That’s just it.” He said. “I don’t think it was a man.”

“Well, a woman would-”

“I think it was a monster.”

Madeline’s lips parted. She sucked in a startled breath. “Are you ill, John?” Her lips pulled down in a worried pout. “It’s not like you to talk so.”

“Maddie, what did your penny dreadfuls say of vampires?”

Madeliene’s rosy pallor grayed. “You can’t mean that, John. Vampires are nothing more than a nightmare.” His jaw was tight, his grip was firm. Madeleine swallowed her remaining arguments. “Who do you suspect?”

John lowered his eyes, gaze settling on the satin toe of her pointed shoe. He thought again of the poor blokes in the boiler room, streaked in sweat and ash. The wide-eyed children in steerage with hollow cheeks and sunken stares. “The poor.”

“All of them?”

“Enough of them.”

Madeleine’s lips pressed in a thin line. Her fingers trembled in his iron-tight grip. “I think you better start at the beginning.” She said. Then softer, “So I can understand your meaning.”

He nodded. After a moment of fraught quiet, he spoke.

“Last night, after I escorted you to our room, I wandered up on deck. Just to look at the stars. They’re so bright here, nothing like the faint spots back home.” Madeliene nodded. “Well, I lit a smoke,” he lifted his hand to ward of her nagging, “just for old times’ sake. And while I was standing there, admiring the view, I heard a noise.” Madeliene’s fingers were chill in his. “A scream,” he corrected, “coming from the rear of the ship. I thought perhaps it was just a spat between lovers, but nonetheless, I crept closer.” He licked his lips and continued. “It was dark, despite the stars, but I could still see the forms of two figures. I should have shouted a greeting, but they were locked in an embrace, and I was afraid of imposing, so I stayed still, watching. As I stared, one of the silhouettes, a woman I realized, slumped against the rail.” He paused and took a shaky breath. “The other figure, taller, broader shouldered, smoothed her hair. I supposed she merely fainted, but as I watched, the taller figure lifted the woman in his arms, over the rail, and dropped her into the sea.”

Madeliene’s hand flew to her mouth. “Like a heap of rubbish.” She whispered. He nodded.

“I ran forward and peered over the rail, but the woman was gone. I turned, intent on striking the man responsible, but he too was gone.” A haunted look settled in John’s eyes. “Like a puff of smoke on a windy night.” He shook his head. “I thought I imagined it, until I stumbled across Guggenheim in the hall. He was going up for a smoke and asked how I came by the blood on my hands.” Madeliene’s gray face grew grayer still. “I realized it came from the deck rail. The blood was the woman’s. I gaped at Guggenheim and muttered some nonsense about a fall. If he pressed, I would have stammered out the whole horrid tale.”

“This figure.” Madeliene whispered. “This vampire.” She corrected. “Did you see his face?”

John shook his head, glancing around him as the warmth of the day thawed the frostiness in his chest. “No.”

“Then why do you think there are others?” Madeline pressed. Ever the pragmatist, ever the sound mind. “And why must they be poor? Could a vampire not just as easily be wealthy?”

He tilted his head. Kitty whined, putting her paws in his lap. He stroked her under the chin, and she whistled contentedly through her nose. “He was not dressed in a suit. And his coat,” he frowned, “it was outdated.”

Madeliene chewed her lip, gnawing on his words. “Tonight, at dinner, tell the captain what you saw.”

“He will not believe me.”

“Everyone believes a billionaire.” Madeliene reasoned. It was a much-appreciated attempt at levity. John tried on a smile for size, but it was grim, forced, and he let it slip from his face. Madeliene stood, pulling him to his feet before kissing his hand. Together, they slipped below deck. Neither saying a word, chiller now than before their stroll in the sun.

---

That evening the Astors dined at the captain’s table. Smith was a staunch, stiff man, but good-natured. His white hair gave him a grandfatherly charm that was entirely at odds with the crisp cut of his uniform. The passengers scattered around the table were the usual gilded dolls and moneyed men. The Strausse’s and Wideners, the old bachelor Guggenheim, Margaret Brown, and the Duff Gordon’s, with Lucille dressed, as always, in the most cutting-edge fashion.

The meal was pleasant, light-hearted, but a touch quiet. Everyone was in glittering spirits, except John who kept his gaze downcast, and his customary smirk bottled. Madeliene had little appetite for conversation or food, taking tentative bites, but otherwise sitting mutely with her hands folded in her lap. As the men retired to the smoking room and the ladies settled into their post-dinner gossip, Madeliene inclined her head toward the captain. John needed little reminder. He cast her a stiff nod and pulled the captain aside with a confident, cool manner. Madeliene watched from afar, trying to pick up their words under the jabbering chatter of her waspish friends.

“Did you hear me, Maddie?” Lucille prodded.

Madeliene turned. “What was that?”

“One of my maids is a thief.” Lucille’s tone was sharp, her manner brisk.

“What did she steal?”

“Not what, who.”

Madeliene frowned.

“I caught her with the Allison’s girl. Wandering the halls in the middle of the night.”

“Snatched from her sleep.” Margaret intercut.

“Why?” Madeliene asked. A chill crept along her spine.

“Who knows why the poor do what they do.” Lucille rolled her eyes. “She kept muttering nonsense about disaster and doom.” She made a show of pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Can you imagine?” She laughed. “On this ship?” Her pale fingers flew to her throat, daintily caressing a strand of pearls.

“Did you hear about poor Ms. Isham?” Margaret added. She detested gossip, but her eyes glimmered with delight as a sea of powdered faces swiveled toward her. “The rumor is she’s missing.”

“Missing?” Lucille asked. “How does one go missing at sea?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Eleanor Widener mused. “She fell.”

“On purpose?”

Eleanor nodded. “Can you believe it?”

The image of the woman tumbling over the rail, reared its horrid head. “I’m sorry,” Madeliene said, rising to her feet, “I must excuse myself.”

“Oh, dear,” Lucille said, reaching out a motherly hand, “is it the baby?”

Madeliene shook her head, then thinking better of it, leaned into Lucille’s excuse. “Just an ache,” she said, rubbing her lower back, “but I think it’s best if I call it a night.” The women nodded and demurred their sympathies. She cast them an apologetic look before weaving through the tables and stepping into the hall.

---

Madeliene leaned against the wall, catching her breath, trying to dampen her rising fear that perhaps her husband was right. Perhaps this ship of dreams was really a ship of monsters. In the corner of her eye a shadow stirred, and she turned, catching sight of a man. He caught her staring and raised his eyebrows, but it wasn’t his face that held her attention, it was the ring of smoke above his head. Misunderstanding her interest he proffered a cigarette. Madeliene shook her head.

“Ladies don’t smoke Mr.-”

“Black.” He puffed another ring of smoke and grinned. His teeth glinted in the dim light. If she squinted, she could almost make out a pair of fangs.

He was not dressed how her husband described. His dark hair was combed back from his pale, angular face. His shoes were well-shined, his suit clean pressed, hands free of grime.

Madeliene bit her lip. “I don’t recognize your name.” She said edgily. “I know every person of importance in that room.” She pointed to the glass paned dining room doors, noting with unease that while her reflection twinkled in the glass, his did not. “But I do not know you.”

“New money.” He said with a shrug.

“Very new money indeed.” Madeliene agreed, noting the ring on his finger. A ring that looked eerily like Ms. Isham’s. Just then the door opened, and Madeliene turned to see her husband striding over, a dour expression stamped on his face. “You must excuse me, Mr.-”

But the man was gone.

---

John’s talk was fruitless. The captain refrained from calling him mad, but he made it clear any fear of monsters aboard the greatest ocean liner in the world was unfounded at best, slander at worst. That evening, he stormed through his bedtime routine and slunk under the covers with a grumbled goodnight.

Madeliene’s rest was fraught with nightmares of stolen children, drowning women, and men with sharp teeth. Unable to sleep, she padded over to the dressing table and sat before the mirror. In times of trouble, she found comfort in thumbing through her trinkets and ribbons and pearls. No amount of wealth could buy peace of mind, but it could distract troubled hearts. She ran her fingers over each bauble, recalling where she bought it or who gave it, until her thoughts quieted.

She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment the air shifted, or the frost on the porthole deepened, or the ice in her bones sharpened. But she knew the moment a hand slipped around her throat; she was in danger.

A foolish woman might have screamed. A smarter woman might have run. But Madeliene sat still, staring at her reflection in the mirror, watching as her tumble of chestnut curls was brushed from her neck by an invisible touch.

“Are there more of you?” Madeliene whispered. Looking straight ahead at the mirror.

The vampire did not answer, nor did he breathe. His fingers tripped along her shoulder and tickled her collarbone, his lips brushed the base of her throat.

“You killed Ms. Isham.” Madeliene dared. “John saw you do it.”

The vampire stiffened and pulled away. She stole a glance over her shoulder, expecting a swirl of smoke, an empty night, but this time he did not flee. He was rather handsome, in a beautifully tragic sort of way. And she wondered how many hearts he had broken in his lifetimes.

His eyes were pools of pity. His lips pulled down in a pout. But he did not deny the accusation.

“Why?” Madeliene pressed. Her pulse hammered in her throat; her breath rattled in her chest.

“To save her from the cold.” The vampire said.

Madeliene thought then of the Allison’s little girl, Helen. She was too young to be afraid of monsters, but Madeliene was too old not to be. She wondered if Lucille’s maid, who snatched the child from her bed, was a vampire too.

“What do you mean?” Madeliene pressed. She faced the vampire, staring past him at her husband still sleeping soundly, oblivious to the monster lurking at the foot of his bed.

The vampire shook his head. “You will know soon enough.” Madeliene opened her lips to protest, but he vanished, melting into the dark corner of the room as if he were only a shadow and not a man.

Madeliene placed a hand to her breast, feeling the quick gallop of her frantic heart slow to a trot. She rose to her feet, knees knocking, just as the ship juddered. The sudden motion sent her reeling to the right. She threw her hand out and caught herself against the wall as the dressing table mirror shook in its frame, a bottle of perfume tumbled to the floor, and John bolted upright in bed.

Madeline rushed to the porthole, threw open the glass, and shivered as the cold kissed her skin.

“What do you think it is?” Madeliene whispered, as her husband joined her at the porthole.

“Another twist in the horror, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t fret. I’ll go have a chat with the captain and see if I can root out the cause.”

He was pulling on his robe and stepping into his slippers when Madeliene noticed a flash of red just under his ear. Drawing close, she saw the collar of his night shirt was stained with it, clinging to his pallid skin, half obscuring the twin punctures on his throat.

Madeliene screamed. It tore from her chest and echoed in her skull. She wasn’t sure how long it lasted before John’s hand found her mouth and clamped it shut. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were wide.

“What? What is it?” His palm slipped from her mouth. Madeliene swallowed past the knot in her throat, but finding herself unable to speak, pointed instead at his neck.

John lifted his hand to his throat, blinking dumbly as his fingers came away sticky with blood. She expected him to be frightened, but his face twisted in fury. He hurried to the wash basin, snatched up a clean towel, and scrubbed the blood from his clammy skin. The water in the basin was wine dark as he pulled the collar of his robe closed over the remaining mess and strode toward the door.

Madeliene watched him, shaking and silent. “What are you going to do?”

His hand lingered on the doorknob. He glanced over his shoulder. Then he slipped into the hall, and Madeliene was left alone in the terrible dark.

---

What started as a rumored propeller problem devolved into disaster. Theories and fears ran rampant. A torn hull, flooded floors, and a mammoth iceberg were the whispers on sandpaper tongues. The halls filled with frightened faces. But Madeliene was a statue. She sat stiff as stone at her dressing table, chewing her nails as the maids raced about in a frenzy.

Dressed in her flowing nightgown— a life vest over her chest, ties hanging open at her sides, a blanket over her shoulders— she watched the door, waiting.

“Ma’am,” One of the maids said, kneeling before her and slipping a shoe on her foot, “we must go. Quickly.” As if to prove her point, a creak groaned through the room and ran its nails over Madeliene’s frayed nerves. She nodded. The maid ushered her through the door, and they slipped into a stream of jostling people.

Madeliene felt as if she were floating. Wobbling on her feet, unable to focus on anything other than John. Was he in danger? Was she in danger? A wave of people surged past in various states of dress and undress. Some listless and dazed, others wailing and shouting. She spotted Helen, further up the crowded hall, cradled in her mama’s arms, rubbing at her sleepy eyes. Madeliene lifted her hand, expecting the child to giggle and wave back. Instead, the girl stared at her with glassy eyes. When she opened her tiny lips, twin fangs gleamed back.

Before Madeliene could scream, the girl howled and buried her fangs in her mother’s throat. All at once the crowd in the hall was running and shrieking, lower class passengers shoving past the rich to flee the depths below. But not one of them was staring at Helen or the woman caught in her horrible kiss.

‘Like rats fleeing a flood for the fire.’ Madeliene thought.

A boy shouldered past, stumbling on Madeliene’s shoe. She seized him by the arm before he hit the ground. “What are you running from?” She shouted over a fresh chorus of grating screams.

His pale face was spattered with blood and his lashes were gummed with gore. “You ma’am.” He said, yanking his arm free and thundering down the hall.

---

On deck, the scene was much the same. Flailing limbs and shoving hands and animals dressed in human skin, tearing through necks and cutting through crowds. And just as the boy said, the monsters were not the poor blokes from the boiler room or the servant girls in their pinafores, but the rich. Her neighbors. Her friends. Dressed in sparkling gowns and trim, dark suits— fashionably fiendish, devilishly damned—eating the poor just as they always had.

Madeliene stood rooted in place, turning a dazed circle. Desperate fingers snatched at her sleeve and tugged at her hair. She swatted them away and stumbled back. Her slipper caught on the hem of her nightgown, and she crashed toward the deck. A hand seized her by the arm before she hit the ground and tugged her to her feet. Through a net of messy curls and a film of tears, she glanced up at her husband. He was wane and tired, but solid and human and him. With a shuddering sob, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Are we really sinking?” She whispered, breath hitching. “Or is it something worse?”

“Doesn’t matter, now.” He said. “We’re going to be just fine.”

She knew his words were an impossible, hollow promise, but before she could argue, he took her hand and shouldered a path through swinging fists and gnashing teeth. It was all she could do to keep hold of his hand. Somewhere nearby a gunshot sounded. It echoed against the starry sky and shattered against the floor of her mind. She yelped and John pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and shoving her toward a lifeboat.

“John, wait!” She shouted as a flash of fiery curls caught her eye.

“Maddie!” Lucille called. She lifted a crystal glass in her gloved fingers, filled to the brim with red.

Madeliene paled.

“Leaving so soon?” Lucille asked. At her feet the body of her maid, the rumored thief, lay in a crumpled heap, neck twisted, eyes glazed. Her warnings went unheeded and now they would all pay the price. “You’ll miss the grand finale!”

John stepped in front of Madeliene, glaring at Lucille with flinty eyes. “We’ve seen quite enough. “Now if you’ll excuse us-” He tried to cut a path through the tight-packed crowd, but Lucille cut him off.

“Do you have somewhere better to be?”

He gritted his teeth, eyes darting to the lifeboats filling behind her with panicked passengers. Not all the wealthy on the ship were demons of the night. Some stared on in open-mouthed horror. But fangs or no, they were still monsters. Still wretches unwilling to save space for the “have-nots” even as they were dragged kicking and screaming to the deck boards, their necks split open like bottles of prized wine.

“Last I checked you chose to be here. On this ship. With us.” Lucille took a dainty sip from her glass and giggled. “You’re a monster too you know. Whether you believe you are or not.”

Madeliene wanted to strike the smug, haughty Lady Duff Gordon. She always had, when she thought about it. Instead, she seized her husband’s hand and rushed toward a nearby boat. Her satin slippers squelched through a puddle of warm blood, steaming in the frosty night, freezing to the deck.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Helen, screaming at the stars, tears cut tracks down her bloody cheeks. There was a doll in her lap, headless now, like the corpse discarded beside her. In another life Madeliene would have liked to hug her. In another life, Madeliene would have liked to save her.

---

She didn’t realize she was crying until John kissed away her tears. He was handing her to an officer, arms shaking, lips white from cold and fear. Too late she realized it was a goodbye.     

“You have to let me out.” Madeliene begged as the officer shoved her into the boat. He shrugged off her grasping fingers, turning to help the next passenger. “Please, sir, let me out.”

“It will be alright.” John shouted, holding tight to the deck rail. His eyes were bright with tears, but his voice was calm.

“No, no it won’t.” She blinked in horror as a blood-smeared woman leapt from the rail into the waters below. “There’s still room.” She insisted. “Come with me. Please.” Her breath hitched; her outstretched hand trembled like a weathervane in a storm. “John, please.”

Her husband shook his head. “I’ll go fetch Kitty and we’ll meet you tomorrow.” He said. She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him. But she knew it was a lie.

He blew her a kiss. A flare flashed in the dark. And her husband was lost in the crowd.

---

The Titanic was sinking. Madeliene saw that now. A tragedy on full display. But which was the greater tragedy? A sunken ship? Or the unsatiable, bloodthirsty hunger of the upper class? Her shoulders shook. Her fingers trembled. But she was not cold. Not yet. The cold would come later. Once the screaming stopped. Then, it would creep inside her bones and hollow out her chest and make a tomb of her heart.

With a shaky sigh, she glanced at her hands, aware she was worrying a piece of fabric between her fingers. Unaware it was a glove until she lifted it to her face, pressed it against her cheek, and breathed in the smell of his skin. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend the glove held a hand, that John was sitting beside her, telling her all would be well, and Kitty was yapping nearby, wagging her tail. But then, she opened her eyes. And the lights in the distance guttered and died. And the last shred of her hope flickered out.

---

The night was long, the blood on the hem of her nightgown crusted and froze, and her heart froze with it.

When the dawn broke and the Carpathia neared, the women around her wept with joy. But Madeliene’s eyes were dry. What was there to be joyous about? Whether they climbed from the lifeboat or sank to the bottom of the sea, she could not forget Helen’s sticky, smeared mouth or Lucille’s crystal glass brimming with blood or John’s face illuminated by the red flash of Titanic’s final, unanswered plea for help. Those horrible images snaked their way around her neck, a noose of twined tragedy that threatened to strangle her. She was broken enough to let it, but the drop never came.

---

They looked at her like a broken doll. Searching for cracks to patch and joints to mend, but the broken part was her heart. It was bleeding now. She could feel it. Filling her chest with fire, climbing her throat and bubbling in her breath. They were men, not doctors. And they could not heal a broken heart. Only time could do that. So, they trundled her off to a room, to rest.

The sheets were soft, and the air was warm. She clutched John’s glove to her chest and tried to sleep, but rest did not come easy. She played and replayed horrors against the silver screen of her shuttered eyelids until her mind succumbed to oblivion.

---

Madeliene woke with a start. There was someone in the room with her, a shadow at the foot of her bed. For a dazed moment, she thought it was Kitty. Oh, how she longed to hold that fluffy, slobbering dog. But then she realized it was a man. And not the man she wished to see.

“Why’d you do it?” She asked. Her throat was tight. Her voice was grating and foreign.

“I did nothing.” Mr. Black said.

“You made them into monsters.”

The vampire shook his head. “They were already monsters. They did not need fangs to bleed the poor dry.”

Madeliene drew her arms tight around her. “Who are you?”

The vampire hung his head, dark hair hiding his eyes, and ran his fingers over the stitching of the quilt. “Just a man.” He said. “A man who’s lived long enough to know monsters always survive.”

A knock sounded at the door, and the vampire was gone, leaving only the faint smell of ash, and Madeliene wondered, as she pictured his black suit and dark hair, whether he was a vampire at all, or whether he was Death.

---

Madeliene hoped it was John. She wished it was Kitty. But when the door swung open a shock of red hair strolled coolly into the room.

Lucille smiled. Prim, proper, beautifully dressed in silk and lace. Her face was rosy and soft, devoid of the dark shadows and sharp angles of the night before. Madeliene watched her like a mouse watches a circling hawk, with wide-eyes and thrumming veins and itching fingers.

“Oh, don’t be frightened.” Lucille said. “I know last night was a treacherous ordeal. But we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Madeliene blinked at her in disbelief. “You-you killed people.” She stammered.

Lucille perched on the edge of the bed and patted Madeliene’s leg, still tucked under the quilt. “The brain conjures up all sorts of horrors to cope with tragedy. But neither of us can say for certain what happened on that ship, can we?” Her eyes flashed a warning. “The papers say it was an iceberg. I think that’s as good an explanation as any. Certainly, far more believable than, well, vampires.”

Madeliene gritted her teeth. “Everyone saw what a monster you are.”

Lucille leaned close and spoke carefully. “Any left to tell are bought. Everyone thinks blood is life, but the rich know it’s wealth.” With that she rose to her feet and swept toward the door in a cloud of perfumed death. “You know,” she added, turning over her shoulder, “For what it’s worth, you deserved a happily ever after.” Then, she slunk into the hall and slipped quietly into the pages of history books as nothing more than a victim of poor luck.

---

Madeliene never saw Lucille again. Her face graced fashion catalogues, her testimony and lies sold papers, but Madeliene refused to speak another word to that dressmaker from hell.

Years blurred past, the ache in her chest dulled, and the glove in her nightstand drawer became less of a crutch and more of a habit. Every night before bed, she would take it out, press it to her lips, and try to picture the man who so lovingly saved her life from a bloody end. Over time, the face faded. The twinkling eyes became less sharp, and she found it harder to recall the slope of his brows or curve of his lips. But then her little son would laugh, and John didn’t feel so far. And life was better, if not good.

Then, one balmy evening, just shy of her forty seventh birthday, a shadow graced her doorstep. He was the same age as the last time she saw him. Black hair curling around his face, dark eyes sharp enough to draw blood, dressed in an antiquated trim black suit.

“Mr. Black,” she said, “you’ve not aged a day.”

He said not a word.

“Black Death.” She said, staring at the polished tips of his shoes with a wry smile. “I guessed right.” She lifted her head, and he matched her smile. “You took so many souls that night. Why not mine?”

The man, who she once mistook for a vampire, frowned. “It wasn’t your time.”

“And now,” Madeliene hedged, “I suppose it is.”

Mr. Black stretched out his hand. She squinted at his palm, then glanced over her shoulder at the heavy oak door of her home. Her boys were grown now, but her daughter was only seven. She still slept in her mother’s bed on stormy nights, and hosted tea parties for dolls, and raised holy hell when Madeliene refused to purchase her a pony.

Mr. Black folded her hand gently in his. “You will see her again.” He said.

“Not too soon, I hope.” Madeliene forced a laugh. “But John’s been waiting long enough, hasn’t he?” She blinked back tears and took a shaky breath. Death’s hand was warm, and her chest was light. She trailed him down the steps and into the lane, crossing through traffic and traipsing through a nearby park until they came to a towering tree. Together, they sat beneath the sprawling branches, listening to the trill of birds overhead as the day faded to gray.

“Will it hurt?” Madeline asked, but when she turned her head, Death was gone. In his place, sat a mass of coppery fur. “Kitty.” Madeliene sobbed, as she threw her arms around her old friend. The dutiful dog licked her face with slobbering delight and a laugh sounded beside her, throaty and raw, just like his son’s.

“You took your time.” John said.

Madeliene smiled and turned over her shoulder. He was more handsome in person than in memory. His mischievous smirk was just as charming now as it was on their wedding day. “Just closing the age gap, dear.” She replied with a laugh. She was still laughing as his lips brushed hers.

The sun gleamed in her chestnut hair, streaked now with gray. And though the warmth of a happy ending would never ease the pain of a tragic plot, it thawed the lingering chill of years spent apart. As she pulled away, John looked up at the sky.

“It was a ship of monsters.” He said softly, as the glare of the setting sun softened behind a tree. “But for one shining moment, it was a ship of dreams.” He caught her eye and smiled sadly. “A heaven made of steel. A heaven made for us.”

Madeliene glanced from the paint-daubed rose bushes to the watercolor trees, to the distant whorls of chimney smoke, and smiled. She stroked Kitty’s fur between her fingers and took John’s hand in hers. “I prefer this heaven.” She said. “If that’s all right with you.”

“It’s more than alright.” He replied as the sun set and darkness settled. “It’s perfect.”

The End