Free When Night Came Calling by Emily Asimov

 
     
     
     
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    “Forget everything you think you know about things unseen,” said the zombie thoughtfully, and slowly he walked across the dimly lit room towards the mahogany bar. For a long time, he stood there beside the counter, running a hand along the grains of the wood. The girl watched him as he moved. The cabinet’s storage spaces were filled with spirits, glassware, and other bar items. In the center cabinet, stemware hung upside down above fine china plates and every bin of the bottle wine storage was full. She stood near the window and waited.
      “But are you sure?” asked the zombie, turning now to look directly into the eyes of the girl. “Sure this is a story you really want to know?”
      “Sure, I’m sure, if the story’s as good as you said it is. But it’s a good story, isn’t it?”
      “I think it is,” the zombie answered. “It is the story of my life and I would like very much to tell it to you. Would you like that?”
      “I would, if it’s as good a story as you said.” The girl opened her black leather purse and removed a digital recorder, making a check of the battery level. “I’m in a bit of a hurry though. It’s late and I—”
      “Not the way I’d like to begin,” cut in the zombie. “This is a story I will only tell if you agree to stay until I’m done. No matter how long it takes. You must promise me this.”
      The girl fidgeted with her recorder and her purse. “I think I can agree to that. I’d really like—”
      “No,” the zombie said firmly. “This story, if you want it, can only be told one way, from beginning to end. Will you stay until I’ve finished, until the end?”
      The girl took a deep breath. “Yes.”
      “Great, then it is decided.” The zombie reached down, taking a dusty bottle from the very bottom of the wine storage.
      As he uncorked the bottle of wine and filled two long stemware glasses with its deep red contents, the girl took in the rest of the furnishings of the large room, the French provincial arm chairs, the round cinnamon-finished coffee table, the king-sized four poster bed with its British colonial styling. The girl moved away from the window. She set her purse on the table, started the recorder, and waited.
      The zombie walked to the girl and handed her a glass. He indicated that she should sit but he did not.
      “How would you like to start?” The girl asked, looking up at him as he sipped his wine.
      “I’m going to open the curtains and the windows,” said the zombie.
      “Yes, it is a bit warm in here.”
      “It is, but more than that, it’s the night air. Something,” said the zombie, letting the word hang in the air, the thought seemingly unfinished.
      The zombie pulled back the curtains and opened each of the three large windows in turn, allowing more and more of the street noises from three stories below to stream into the room along with the night air. The girl watched him. She could make out little of his face now, having seen little enough before in the poor lighting of the all night diner where she’d first met him.
      “Would a light help?” asked the girl.
      The zombie watched her from a distance. It seemed he wanted to say something, thought better about it, and sipped his wine instead. “What do you think of this vintage?” he asked after a prolonged silence.
      The girl hadn’t really drank the wine yet, though she had feigned a few sips. She wanted her thoughts clear and not clouded for this story—if it was as good as the zombie said it was she knew she’d need a clear head. “The light?” she asked.
      “Very well, if you must,” said the zombie, turning to look out the window. He turned back, pointed. “The switch is over there, by the door.”
      A flick of the switch and the room was flooded with warm white light. And the light only made the cavernous room seem grander. The girl hadn’t noticed the wainscoting