Authors: Heather Terrell
I didn’t know why I felt so certain that a man I’d merely read about on the internet could answer my questions. Especially since his specialty was vampires, and I’d come to believe that I was something else entirely. But I was desperate for answers, and desperation bred overconfidence, I guessed. I thought that if he could just tell me what I was—and my purpose—I’d be able to make sense of this madness.
When morning came, I cleaned up as best I could in the coffee shop bathroom and left my little haven for a bookstore, camping out at a Dunkin’ Donuts afterward. It offered an excellent view of the entrance to the building where Professor McMaster held office hours. At exactly two minutes to nine, I watched as a disheveled-looking elderly man with frizzy gray hair raced into the building. At first, the man caught my attention because he was seriously underdressed for the cold, wearing only a tatty-looking blazer tossed on over a button-down shirt. Then I realized that the man resembled the photo from the Harvard website, even though he looked significantly older. I decided that it was definitely Professor McMaster.
I waited two minutes, and then followed him into the building. I didn’t want to bombard him, but I needed to be the first in line for his nine
A.M.
to eleven
A.M.
office hours. Instead of taking the elevator, as he did, I climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. Passing by what looked like a departmental secretary, I walked directly to his door—which was closed.
Double-checking the posted office hours to be sure I had the right time, I knocked on the door. Other than a rustle of papers and the squeak of a desk chair, I didn’t hear anything. So I knocked again.
“I heard you the first time. I’ll be with you in a moment,” a gravelly, very slightly accented voice answered. And he didn’t sound happy.
“Thanks,” I said sheepishly. This wasn’t exactly the start for which I’d hoped.
A few minutes later, I heard a series of locks jangle. Then the door creaked open, just a sliver. “Come in, come in,” he said impatiently.
I slid through the small opening Professor McMaster provided. He then closed and locked the door behind us. After the greeting I’d received and the frazzled state of the professor, I wasn’t exactly excited to be in a locked office with him. But what were my choices?
I didn’t want to be presumptuous and take the seat opposite his desk, so I stood there until invited. He made some grumbling noises as he stepped over the piles of papers littering the floor to get to his desk chair. Once he settled in, he just stared at me with his surprisingly bright and clear brown eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” He gestured to the guest chair.
I hustled over to the battered wooden chair and sat down. I had planned on introducing myself as a Harvard student writing for the daily newspaper—
The Harvard Crimson
—that wanted to conduct an interview of him. I’d even bought and put on a Harvard sweatshirt, and carried a copy of the
Crimson
on top of my notebook. But the professor’s manner was so gruff and odd, I hesitated. Much to the professor’s irritation.
He stuck out his open hand in my direction. “Come on, miss. Have you got it or not?”
“Got what?”
“Your seminar paper. Today’s office hours are reserved exclusively for my Eastern European Myths and Legends seminar students.”
He saw my blank stare and squinted at me. “You are in my seminar, are you not?”
“No, I’m not. I am actually a—”
He cut me off. “Then I must ask you to leave. You may come back during my regular office hours on Friday.”
“I’m afraid I really can’t wait until Friday, Professor McMaster.”
“I’m afraid you do not have a choice, Miss—”
“Faneuil.”
“Come along, Miss Faneuil. There are no imminent deadlines in my other two courses, so you will have to wait until Friday. The seminar students have priority.”
I launched into my little plan. I thought I’d play on his vanity with
The Harvard Crimson
interview—everybody liked to talk about themselves—and then sneak in my questions. That way, I wouldn’t scare him off. I just kept my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t ask for any
Crimson
identification.
“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time, Professor McMaster. I’m a writer with
The Harvard Crimson
, and we would like to do an interview of you for our magazine section. I would’ve set up an appointment with your secretary, but we have an unexpected opening today and we would love to fill it with an interview of you.” I looked down at my notepad as if consulting some notes. “My staff told me that we’ve never done a formal interview of you, and we’d like to rectify that situation.”
The professor’s face softened. I could tell that he really didn’t want to do an interview, but felt obliged. He said, “My apologies, Miss Faneuil.”
“I’m the one who should apologize, Professor McMaster. As I said, I really should have made an appointment with your secretary. Especially since this seems like a really busy time.”
“It is indeed. I am fully committed to student appointments through the afternoon. However, I can offer you fifteen minutes right now, before the first student starts clamoring for his meeting.”
“I really appreciate it, Professor.” I looked back down at my notepad of “interview” questions, and said, “Let’s not waste a minute.”
Quickly, I asked him a series of basic questions about his background and areas of expertise. He was responsive enough, although he was visibly uncomfortable. His discomfort increased when I started on the questions I really wanted to know about—the characteristics of vampires. And what—if anything—he knew about other supernatural creatures.
He interrupted me. “Miss Faneuil, I informed you that I could spare fifteen minutes. I believe that I kept to my promise. I cannot offer you a moment more.”
The professor stood up abruptly and came around to my side of the desk, presumably to escort me back to the locked door. As he took me by the hand to lead me out of his office, I got a flash from his touch. It was mild, but astonishing in the breadth and potency of its information. And not surprising in its contents given that we’d just been talking about his upbringing. I didn’t want to use what I’d learned to get his attention—that seemed too fallen, for my purposes. But I had no choice.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to insist on a few more minutes . . . Professor Laszlof.”
The professor recoiled from my touch, as if I’d burned him. “What did you call me?”
“Istvan Laszlof. That was your given name, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t speak. Maybe he couldn’t. It had probably been fifty years since anyone had called him by his birth name.
When I touched him, I learned that he had been born in Eastern Europe in the nineteen thirties, as Istvan Laszlof. He came to this country with excellent credentials as a historian and spoke near-perfect English—but no one would admit him into their doctoral program at that time. They’d rather see a former adherent of Communism mopping the floors of their hallowed halls. Not one to be cowed and so thirsty for knowledge that nothing could stop him, Istvan bought himself a new identity and reapplied to all the top programs as Raymond McMaster. If the truth about his falsification became known, Professor McMaster’s career would be destroyed.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It most certainly does.” His naturally unpleasant tone was getting nasty.
“Professor, I have no intention of sharing your secret with anyone else. I just want a few more minutes of your time.”
“Miss Faneuil, if you do not tell me where you learned this information, I will not give you the time you want.”
Now I was getting mad. I just wanted to talk to him—why did it require telling him all my secrets? But what were my options? “You just told me about Istvan Laszlof.”
“I don’t understand.”
I spoke slowly, wanting to soften my next statement as much as possible. “I learned about your origins as Istvan Laszlof by touching you just now. Professor McMaster, I’m not like other people. I can see and do things that would probably shock you. I didn’t tell you about Istvan Laszlof to scare you—as I have no intention of telling anyone else—but because it seemed the only way to get a little more of your time.”
Trembling, he walked back behind his desk and sat down. “That’s really all you want? Just to talk?” He looked very skeptical.
“Yes, that’s really all I want. I’m not here not to frighten you; I’m here for your help.”
In an effort to reassemble the shattered pieces of Professor McMaster and store away Istvan Laszlof, he smoothed his wild hair and straightened his shirt before speaking. After taking a deep, steadying breath, he gestured that I should take a seat and said, “I’d be happy to assist you, then, Miss Faneuil. Though, I must confess, I do not know very much about psychics. Vampires are my area of expertise.”
“Oh, Professor McMaster, I’m not a psychic.”
“What are you, Miss Faneuil?”
“I am hoping you can tell me what I am.”
He appeared relieved at my request. “I am little used to classifying people.”
I wasn’t about to relinquish my hope so readily. “Yes, but you have some familiarity with creatures that aren’t human?”
“I do,” he admitted reluctantly.
“And you believe in the existence of such beings? Including vampires?”
“Yes. I have had the acquaintance of a few beings that I would consider to be actual vampires. Hence, the necessity for the locks on my office door; one can enter and exit my office only by my own hand. Evil must be kept at bay as best it can.”
“I understand,” I said, although I knew that no lock could keep someone like Ezekiel “at bay.”
He quickly added, “But, in most cases, the individuals who have made such claims are only humans whose perceived differences can be explained by a thorough understanding of historical and cultural trends.” He had slipped into academic-speak.
“I don’t think my ‘differences’ can be explained away so easily.”
Professor McMaster sat back in his chair and folded his hands into a triangular shape. While he looked the part of a professor, I wondered whether he truly felt the role or was using it as a protective measure. After all, I’d just strolled in here and bandied about the skeleton in his closet. “Tell me about your”—he hesitated, and then picked the word—“differences.”
“You witnessed one of my ‘differences’ just now. By touching people, I can read certain thoughts, those that are currently passing through their minds.”
“Yes, that was—impressive. Can you extract people’s thoughts by any other means?” he asked, very matter-of-factly.
I hesitated. Was it too risky to tell him? I had no alternative but to divulge my darkest secret to a stranger. “Yes, through their blood.”
He did not seem fazed. Had he met others like me? Or just a slew of kooks pretending to be vampires? He continued with his line of questioning. “By touching or tasting their blood?”
I’d gone this far; I might as well disclose everything. “By tasting their blood.”
Professor McMaster nodded and continued with his questions, as if processing my credentials. He was remarkably composed. “Do you possess any other special skills?”
“I can fly.”
This alone seemed to surprise him. “You mean that you can actually take flight?”
“Yes.”
“That is most unusual.” He rose and started pacing around his little office. While he didn’t appear frightened or repelled by my strangeness, he did seem thrown off. As if I’d messed up his categorization of otherworldly beings.
There was a knock on his door. He muttered something about his seminar students and excused himself. He unlocked the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. I heard a muffled exchange. It sounded like Professor McMaster was trying to persuade his student to wait patiently for a few minutes.
He returned, closing the door tightly behind him. “Other than an understanding of your skills, do you have any information about your nature or origins? Even an intuition of your identity might prove helpful.”
“Just what my parents told me.” I’d been reluctant to mention my mom and dad. Because of what Ezekiel said, I wanted to keep them as far out of this as possible. But I had to share it; I didn’t want to risk getting useless information.
“Your parents know about your skills?” For good reason, he sounded shocked. What teenager would tell their parents about that?
“Yes.”
“What did they tell you?” His natural impatience surfaced.
“My father told me a Bible story, and told me it was relevant. It was from Genesis, and it dealt with angels, their Nephilim creations, and Noah’s flood.”
Professor McMaster went to his shelves and plucked out a well-worn copy of the Bible. He read aloud the verses from Genesis that my dad told me about. Then he stared at me. “Miss Faneuil, your parents didn’t explain the relevance of this biblical passage to you?”
“No.” In fact, I had inferred from my parents’ story that I was some kind of angel. Particularly since God had ordered the annihilation of all Nephilim.
“They just told you a story and let you draw your own conclusions about your unusual powers?” He sounded justifiably incredulous.
It did sound preposterous, particularly without the context of the full story my parents shared and their own identity as angels. But I had no intention of telling that to the professor. Obviously, I needed to divulge something more, or risk sounding ridiculous. So I offered him a fairly irrelevant tidbit, for my purposes anyway. “Well, they did say that the vampire legend emerged from the presence of these fallen angels in our world, once they had been cast out of heaven for creating the Nephilim.”
He looked confused—but excited. “What did they tell you?”
I tried to clarify. “God insisted that these angels—the ones that mated with man—remain on earth as punishment, right? My parents explained that, from time to time, these fallen angels appeared at the side of a dying man or woman. For good and bad purposes. Occasionally, mankind witnessed these angels, and man fashioned the vampire myth around them.”
Professor McMaster practically leapt from his seat. “Can you repeat that?”
I did the best I could. As I spoke, his eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands. “This is terribly exciting. It is a very interesting—indeed unique—explanation for the creation of the vampire myth. Even an explanation for the existence of vampires themselves.”
Odd that he seemed more excited about uncovering the origins of a legend than he did about the possibility of finding a real live supernatural creature in his office. But I supposed there was no accounting for the eccentricities of academics.
He seemed to realize the idiosyncrasy of his behavior and backtracked by saying, “But of course, we need to focus on your question, Miss Faneuil. I confess to no great familiarity with Nephilim or biblical creatures, but we could talk further and do some investigation. And I have an acquaintance with a noted scholar in the field that we might contact.”
“I would really appreciate that, Professor McMaster.” I wondered if he was being so helpful because he feared my knowledge of Istvan Laszlof or because he wanted to hear more about the genesis of the vampire fable. It certainly wasn’t due to any innate kindness.
Another knock rattled on his door. He rose and said, “We obviously need some uninterrupted time. Let me meet with some of these anxious students, and let us meet back in my office at five
P.M.
today. I will see what I can find out in the meantime.”
Five o’clock sounded so far away. “Is there no way to meet sooner? I’m afraid there’s some urgency to my question.”
“No, Miss Faneuil. It would be impossible.” His door shuddered with a knock—again. “Not without constant disruption.”
My heart sank at the thought of waiting around until five.
Not so for Professor McMaster. His eyes lit up, and he said, “Later, you can tell me all about the beginnings of the vampire myth.” Hardly my interest.