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The Gentleman Botanist arrived in town with his cartons and cases, bottles and beakers, samples and sketchbooks, and set about studying and collecting the local flora. The children approached him first with their natural curiosity and innate lack of fear. He quickly engaged them to lead him to new areas to investigate — the first time for a penny, each time after that for promises of more.

Within a day the men would confront him — the mayor or constable, property owners, or whatever leading businessmen felt it was their duty to represent the town’s interests. He spoke to them of the importance of scientific investigation and the necessity that he be given free reign to go and do as he pleased regardless of property lines. He spoke to them as inferiors, as indeed he believed them to be. And without exception they acquiesced.

He stretched a tarpaulin between two trees and slept on a cot under the makeshift shelter. That brought the women out, tut-tutting what a deplorable situation it was to leave a gentleman out in the cold and soon he had offers of a room that would be placed at his disposal. “No,” they would say, “of course it is no trouble at all.” Not that any of them really had any room to spare, but what was a little inconvenience to the family in the service of science and Christian charity?

He weighed his options carefully and gratefully accepted one in particular. The woman was solicitous and pious. The man was solid and slow-witted. And the daughter, of course they had a daughter, was young and fair. Her name was… let’s say it was Virginia.

He set about the business of collecting botanical samples during the day and cataloging them by the fire each night. And one night he suggested, if it wasn’t any trouble and only if she was interested, perhaps Virginia would like to write some of the notes as he studied the samples and dictated. She would? Oh, that was splendid. And within a day or two it became clear she had quite an aptitude for the work and perhaps she could accompany him during the day and help collect the samples too. Besides, she had local knowledge that would supplant that of the children who had grown tired of waiting for the next supply of pennies.

Each day they ranged further afield, trudging over the steepest terrain and inspecting the remotest dales and hollows. It had not been so many years since she had been a girl whose daily activities included climbing rocks and trees. She never complained about the rigors and he began to compliment her frequently. And when they chanced upon a wildflower that she said was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, he declared that it held but a fraction of the beauty of dear Virginia. He kissed her hand and she blushed, but didn’t draw away. So he embraced her and kissed her face and still she didn’t draw away. Soon he was exploring dales and hollows of a carnal nature.

Thereafter they would set out each morning and collect just enough samples so that they had something to catalog that night and then enjoy intimacies each afternoon until it was time to go home. Then one morning he announced that he would be leaving the next day. No, Virginia could not accompany him. But he could send for her when his expedition was done and he had settled back in his family home. And it would be best that her parents remain ignorant of their liaison for the time being. Of course, when he published his research he would name a species just for her. Perhaps it would be that wildflower she had admired so much? That, he said, was as much up to the scientific community as it was to him. Wait and see. They still had one glorious afternoon to spend together. No tears now. That just won’t do.

The next morning after Virginia’s father had left for work, he packed up and left. Virginia took to her bed and cried. Her mother recognized the tears of an abandoned woman and prayed that he would be far away when father got home, lest he strike out after him with murderous intent. The Gentleman Botanist, it must be plain, was a “gentleman” by virtue of his birth in high society and not by virtue of, well, any virtue he might have possessed.

And when his work was published it was just as well that no copies made their way into any of a dozen or so small towns, each with a Virginia who had been scandalized. And each of those Virginias would have been mortified to learn that he remembered them well, but not for any wildflower. They were immortalized in print as Fissidens adianthoides. Maidenhair moss.

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The old guy was good, I have to give him that. Too good to be busking on some street corner late at night for spare change. But that’s where I met him. I listened for a while. Tossed some coins into his guitar case. Listened some more. He nodded his appreciation and kept playing.

The wind was whipping up and I got a chill. There was a convenience store just down the block so I went in for a coffee. What the hell. I got two cups and took one back to the guy making music. I held it up to him. He sort of grinned and said, “Thanks, but I gotta keep playing ’til midnight.”

“What,” I said, “you got a contract or something?”

“Exactly.” And he kept on playing.

I set the cup down next to his case and listened for another minute or so. Then I continued on my way home. But there was something about the way he played, the way he looked, that I couldn’t get out of my head. I wandered around for a while sipping my coffee and near midnight I found myself back on that street corner. No one else was there, but he kept on playing.

“It’s almost quitting time,” I said.

He nodded.

“Coffee’s probably cold by now. I can get you a fresh one before the store closes.”

“Thank you,” he said, “but you’re my audience. That’s all I needed.”

“That part of your contract too?” I smirked.

“Yep. Just like he promised on the crossroad.”

Oh, great, I thought, another one of those ‘deal with the devil’ whackos. I should get on home now. But I stood there just the same.

His fingers flew over the strings in a way that didn’t seem humanly possible. He grinned. He knew he had me hooked.

“All I wanted,” he told me, “was to be the best and to always have an audience willing to listen to me play. Maybe I should have asked to be rich and famous too, but I didn’t. So that’s not part of the deal.”

His guitar was making the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard.

“I can always get a gig,” he continued, “as long as I’m willing to work for tips. Or for free. And there’s always an audience, but sometimes that’s whoever passes by on some street corner like you did. Sometimes it’s just an old wino even more down on his luck than me.

“I play every night ’til midnight. Sometimes ’til my fingers bleed. I never dreamed that playing could become a chore, that I could ever lose my love for it. All I wanted, or thought I wanted, was to be the best. But one of these nights I’ll find myself back out at the crossroads. I’ll stop playing. Lay down my guitar. And die.”

“Well,” I said, “you’re a hell of a guitar player, if you’ll pardon the expression. I never had a talent for music. I’d give anything to play like that.”

I was startled by a voice from behind me that asked, “Anything?”

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“I thought you were dead,” I tell her.

She smiles, but doesn’t speak. It’s so good to see her again. Even here at the cliff where it happened.

No one comes up here any more. Not at night anyway. Its too dangerous. So I come alone. Every night. And every night is just like this, shrouded in fog. I don’t know what I expect to find here. Certainly not her, yet here she is. Diaphanous gown, ethereal body. A spectral vision. Or is she?

I move closer to the edge. The fog roils around me.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I continue. And still she says nothing. Maybe she can’t hear me. I move closer.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something. Something important. What was it? I take another step, but it doesn’t bring me any closer to the answer.

I should know this. Whatever it is, I should know. I should remember. Another step. If I can just get to where she is, then perhaps….

“I thought you were dead,” I tell her again.

And as I take the last step into oblivion she finally answers, “We are.”

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Candace and Hannah were the first to go. They were a wild pair and it didn’t surprise any of us when they burned. They were known to stand outside until the first rays of morning sun tinged the sky and then run shrieking and cackling into hiding. “Working on my tan,” they called it with a laugh. Risk takers. Irresponsible children. Whatever. In truth there were more than a few of us in the community who weren’t at all sad to lose them.

Leonard was next. At first we didn’t even associate it with the women’s demise. We found him, what was left of him, inside his home. We assumed someone had dragged him into the sunlight and then left his remains where we were sure to find them. A message. Over the ages, it wasn’t that unusual. But who had found Leonard out?

Then it happened three more times; Benny, Phil, and Tom all disappeared within days of each other. They were young, sure, but careful. Quiet. Discreet. The community went on full alert and lock-down. No one went out at all. We had enough blood stored to see us through most disasters. And we had our stable of willing victims who would come to us.

That should have kept us safe. It always had. But we had never faced a scourge like this. And the next to go was Grigore, one of the ancient ones. Founder of our local community. Fear and panic raced through us like the fire that had consumed our friends. If Grigore’s centuries of experience could not keep him safe, what chance did the rest of us have?

A dozen more of us would be ashes before we made the connection. It wasn’t until after Madeline — dear, sweet, Madeline, a tiny little slip of a girl — burned right in front of us that we realized we were facing something completely new and insidious. No one, nothing, was dragging us out into daylight. Somehow, the daylight was getting inside us.

It was impossible, but it was happening. We wracked our brains to find what, or who, all the victims had in common. And we found one. One woman on whom all our friends had fed before their agonizing destruction. Like Typhoid Mary from the turn of the last century our Little Mary Sunshine was a carrier, but of some malady we never knew existed. Never believed could exist. Yet once we disposed of her things returned to normal. Of course, normal would never be the same again.

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