Free Uncle Vampire by Cynthia D. Grant

that he will tear.
    I have to get away. I have to escape. My eyes are open, but his face is gone. Inside my head, I have turned my back on him and am walking down a long dark hallway.
    He can’t hurt us now. Honey sleeps, safe. My family dreams while I keep walking. I leave my eyes behind and find the quiet place.
    He clasps my throat like the neck of a bottle and drinks and drinks and drinks.

10
    â€œFor Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. Forever and ever. Amen.”
    The prayer ends and I lift my head. Grammy smiles at me and squeezes my hand. Then we all stand and sing “Joy to the World.” It’s winter outside, but the church is warm and the altar is decorated with boughs of holly.
    Holy little church! I feel so happy. My grandmother’s voice is strong and true. She is an important part of the congregation because she has a kind heart. People love her. She’s proud that I’m her granddaughter. I’m so glad she’s my Grammy. She never holds back her love, like Mama and Papa do; no dessert until you finish your dinner. Grammy says, “No matter what, I’ll always love you.”
    Promise me, Gram, that even when you’re dead, you’ll hold me in the arms of your love. I’m so scared and alone. Honey’s acting strange and Richie has changed, and Maggie’s gone so far away.
    The service is over. Grammy smooths my hair, the most beautiful hair in the world, she tells me. “Shall we get some refreshments?”
    â€œOh, yes! I’m hungry!” Wonderful smells waft into the sanctuary.
    We walk up the aisle past the gleaming pipe organ. The minister smiles and shakes our hands and welcomes us into the choir room, where the ladies are holding their Christmas bazaar.
    The room’s warm and cozy. I take off my sweater. It won’t get lost; they’ll know it’s mine. Tables line the walls, covered with homemade items: slippers, dish towels, pot holders, fudge, baskets made of Christmas cards, and jars of brilliant jelly.
    Down the hall other ladies are serving the bean supper. Grampa’s in there, holding our places. But first I want to look at everything for sale.
    I have money in my pocket for Christmas presents. Gram gave me money. Lots of money. I’m rich! I browse from table to table, and everybody smiles. Someone pins a tiny crocheted wreath on my blouse, free, because I’m me, and a child of this church, and my grandmother’s precious flower.
    The ladies behind the tables are big and soft. Their aprons are printed with Christmas bells. The room smells of cinnamon, vanilla, talcum powder. I feel happy and safe. The men are down the hall with Grampa, heaping their plates with franks and beans.
    I buy a handkerchief embroidered with violets for Mama, a leather bookmark stamped with a cross for Papa, a pipe cleaner holder for Grampa.
    But I can’t find the right gift for Grammy. I look and look. Nothing’s good enough. I want to give her something perfect, something special.
    She is suddenly beside me. “What’s the matter, darling?”
    â€œI want to give you something you’ll love.” I’m crying.
    â€œI’ve got what I love.” She puts her arms around me. Then she smiles in my face and dries my eyes. “There’s no need to cry. This is a happy time. All better?” she asks.
    I tell her I’m fine.
    â€œGood,” she says. “Let’s go get some supper before your Grampa eats it all up.”
    She takes my hand and we walk down the hallway.
    At the end of the hall is the front of my eyes. Gram and the ladies and the church are gone. My uncle’s face comes into focus, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

11
    Honey and I have always succeeded at school, academically and, most importantly, socially. The teachers think they’re in charge, but the kids don’t take them seriously. What matters is what the other kids think, even if