Well now, gather ‘round, and I’ll tell you a tale. It concerns the goings-on over in the sleepy little town of Piedmont, Alabama, a place so quiet you could hear a skeeter sigh, and where the most exciting event of the last decade was when Ol’ Man Ingram’s prize-winning azalea got ate by a neighbor’s beagle.

This peace was shattered, I tell you, the day the stranger moved into the old Creighton place on the corner of Babbling Brook Road.

The first sign of peculiarity was the moving van. Or, more accurately, the lack of one. The whole affair was handled by a single, grim-lookin’ fella in a black suit who drove a hearse. The neighbors, who’d been peeking through their blinds while pretending to water their petunias, saw him carryin’ in just one piece of furniture: a long, polished wooden box that looked mighty like he’d borrowed it from a funeral parlor.

“A minimalist,” said Mrs. Golden from Number Four. “How modern.”

The stranger himself was a tall, gaunt specimen name of Vladislav. He had hair as black as a well-brewed cup of coffee and a pallor about him like he’d just heard a particularly disappointin’ piece of gossip. He dressed head-to-toe in black, which in the Piedmont summer heat was a statement of either profound fashion sense or a complete lack of good sense.

He kept to himself, which is a real suspicious habit in the South. Folks hereabouts believe in neighborliness, which chiefly consists of knowin’ everybody’s business and deliverin’ casseroles to aid in the knowin’.

The first to make official contact was Lou Ann Witherspoon, the undisputed queen of the Piedmont Garden Club and Rumor Mill. She marched over with a “Welcome to the Neighborhood” peach cobbler that was sweet enough to put a diabetic coma into a jar and sell it as preserves.

Vladislav opened his door just a crack, the hallway behind him darker than the inside of a cow.

“Good evening,” he said, in a voice that was all silk and shadows. “I do not… ingest.”

Lou Ann, who’d never met a carbohydrate she didn’t consider a personal challenge, was flummoxed. “Not at all? Well, lordamercy, what do you eat?”

“I am on a very strict… liquid diet,” he replied, and politely closed the door.

The peculiarities piled up like fire ants on a dropped lollipop. His house had the curtains drawn tighter than a banker’s purse strings, day and night. He only ever came out after sundown, usually to sit on his porch and look mournfully at the streetlights, which had a vexing habit of flickering out whenever he passed under ‘em.

Young Michael Jenkins, a boy with an investigative and troublesome nature, swore he saw Vladislav floatin’ up to fix a loose shingle on his roof instead of usin’ a ladder. The town consensus was that Timmy had been into his daddy’s cough syrup again.

Then there was the incident with the church picnic. They’d organized a barbeque cook-off, and the scent of hickory smoke and sizzlin’ pig fat filled the air for a mile. Vladislav, bein’ new, was invited out of Christian duty and a powerful desire to see what he’d bring to the potluck.

He arrived as the sun dipped below the horizon, lookin’ paler than a boiled turnip. He circled the grills at a wary distance, flinchin’ every time a spatula clanged.

Father McGowan clapped him on the back. “Don’t be shy, son! Get yourself a plate! We got pulled pork, ribs, brisket…”

Vladislav eyed the heaping platter of meat like it was a nest of scorpions. “I… brought my own,” he whispered, and produced from his coat pocket a single, elegant thermos.

Well, the curiosity was killin’ folks deader’n Kelsey’s nuts. Later, ol’ Burt Gowens, who’d sampled a bit too much of his own “white lightnin’,” snuck a sip from that thermos when Vladislav wasn’t lookin’.

He spat it out with a force that would’ve impressed a spittin’ camel. “Gah!” he hollered. “That ain’t sweet tea! That tastes like… like warm, metallic Kool-Aid!”

The final straw, or rather, the final stake, came when the neighborhood watch noticed a sudden and dramatic decline in the local wildlife. The squirrels were less chittery, the possums had quit playin’ possum in the middle of the road, and the deer were lookin’ downright poorly.

A delegation was formed, led by Lou Ann and the Father. They found Vladislav on his porch, lookin’ peaked and sippin’ somethin’ red from a crystal glass.

“Sir,” began Father McGowan, in his best pulpit voice. “We are concerned. There’s talk. Some folks are sayin’… well, they’re sayin’ you might be… a vampire.”

A long silence hung in the air, thicker than the humidity.

Vladislav sighed a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. He set his glass down. “And if I am?” he said, a touch of weary defiance in his voice. “What of it?”

Lou Ann Witherspoon stepped forward, plantin’ her hands on her hips. “Well, for starters, it’s downright antisocial, creepin’ around in the dark all the time. And that ‘liquid diet’ is pure foolishness. You’re as skinny as Job’s turkey.” She peered at him. “And your yard is a disgrace. A few crepe myrtles would do wonders for it.”

Vladislav was taken aback. He’d expected torches and pitchforks, not landscaping advice and a lecture on his social life.

So, that’s the story of how Piedmont got itself a vampire. They didn’t run him out of town. Oh no. They reformed him. Now, Vladislav still can’t eat a casserole, but he’s the president of the neighborhood watch (his night vision is exceptional), he gives the most dramatic readings at the annual Halloween hayride, and his imported European soil grows the most magnificent tomatoes you’ve ever seen. He still drinks a peculiar type of… well, let’s call it iron supplement… but Lou Ann crocheted him a lovely cozy for his thermos so it don’t look so suspicious.

It just goes to show you, there ain’t no creature of the night, no matter how ancient or powerful, that can withstand the relentless and peculiar force of Southern Hospitality. It’s a power stronger than garlic, holier than holy water, and it comes with a side of peach cobbler.

*****

And, you know I couldn’t possibly neglect the obligatory shameless self-promotion. New Yesterdays, a very nice Christmas stocking stuffer, is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.