Chapter 7 Naturally, Everything Goes Wrong the One Time I’m at Risk of Being Eaten
ON SATURDAY MORNING, I WAKE to the sounds of screaming outside the guest room window. A quick survey later, I’ve determined it’s a flash-mob re-creation of Moby-Dick on e-scooters. I can almost appreciate that, for its novel lack of witchery.
Rubbing my eyes, I observe the street performers in their pop-art-inspired costumes, simulating a harpoonist and a dying whale. Are they less dignified than me and my paranormal wedding planner charade for two vampires? Debatable.
Around two p.m., two and a half hours before the ceremony is scheduled to begin, I roll up to the wedding venue on Salem’s outskirts.
Dave and Amanda told me they’d chosen a traditional venue.
The place was invisible on Google Maps Street View, so I’m startled by our arrival at a gray, three-story Victorian mansion.
Maybe calling it a mansion is too generous.
The word “mansion” implies a building you can live in.
If I’m being nice—just kidding, I’m definitely not—this place has the look of a bed-and-breakfast that’s fallen on the wrong side of a Hallmark movie treatment.
The trees are withered, the flower beds chronically neglected.
The roof is… gone. It’s the kind of disaster that would make a jaded heroine realize her city job is the shit after all.
“I’ve never been in a relationship long enough to think about getting married,” I say as I park in the empty circle-drive, “but I know I definitely wouldn’t choose here.”
“Where would you choose?” Bulan asks with interest.
“A registrar. Courthouse. Maybe a hotel package. Something ordinary.”
“You’re a terrible wedding planner,” he says.
“Thank you.”
But an actually terrible wedding planner would dump the décor and flowers and flee immediately upon seeing the state of the venue.
I, on the other hand, pack up the rented dolly and lead it to the foyer in hopes of finding the venue coordinator.
At least two TikTok wedding planners explained that venue coordinators exist to guide wedding planners around, unlocking rooms and feeding planners sparkling water and gossip.
From my experience at the hotel, sometimes a random employee gets the short straw for the day or, as punishment for something else, gets pulled into the position.
No matter what, there’s always, always a venue coordinator. A wedding planner would never get free rein. Without supervision, their transformation of a venue can do a lot of damage, down to the studs.
So I enter the foyer, wielding the décor-packed dolly ahead of me like a shield, and call out, “Hello? Anyone here?”
Beyond the black-and-white checkerboard tiled entryway, the building interior fades into darkness, with no reception area in sight. It’s not my favorite, but it totally matches Mr. Dark Dave’s vibe—the only indication so far I’m at the right place.
“Hello? Hell-ooo?”
Bulan joins from my arms. “Hell-o-nnff?” He’s straining as if holding back a sneeze. Uncomfortable with the idea of his bodily fluid being ejected over me, I place him on the dolly.
“Are you naming me the navigator of this doomed ship?” he asks.
“No, I’m calling for the venue coordinator. Think they’re using the bathroom?”
“Maybe they took the life raft,” says Bulan.
Being that we’re located in inland Massachusetts, not by the sea, I ignore him.
We use my phone light to claw through the hallway, searching in vain for bathrooms. At long last we discover a ballroom.
Flickering candle sconces dimly light the curtained space.
I guess the coordinator arranged that before bailing.
It seems they did little else: the four dusty long tables beg for linens; the curtains are stained with either mud, blood, or a severe misuse of jam; and the pattern of the historic wallpaper is interrupted with either black mold or something less sanitary.
It’s… not great. Even for fashion-impaired, undead vampires.
Maybe I should’ve discussed the room’s layout a little more with Dave and Amanda before arriving for setup.
And asked them when the catering would arrive with freshly laundered black linens for the tables.
And maybe I should’ve required a guarantee I’m not breaking and entering an abandoned seasonal haunted house.
Oh well. At least our decorations will rock this aesthetic.
“Let’s get dark,” I say to Bulan. I go for a high five before I remember he can’t really do that. “Whoops, my bad.”
“It’s okay,” says Bulan. “I appreciate the effort.”
He means it, too. Bulan has a creative, upbeat spirit.
And he’s surprisingly adept at pulling tape and cutting ribbons with his teeth.
Unfortunately, there’s a limit to the support he can offer.
Each trip to and from the SUV sucks more than the last as I haul in heavy hurricane vases, buckets of brittle dead plants, activated charcoal water, and more.
I’m starting to regret my choice to use a dolly and not a wagon.
At least my vision comes together fast for the table arrangements.
It takes mere moments to re-fluff and re-pose the little flower corpses.
While I’m double-checking the number of place settings and chairs, a loud noise interrupts my focus.
From the void of the hallway, a figure emerges, cradling his head as if he’s hit it on a low overhang.
Instead of having a heart attack, somehow I recognize him.
“Hanry!”
There’s a reason I didn’t recognize him right away: unlike last time, my cemetery forager is all dressed up.
His white button-down, paired with navy suspenders, accentuates the solid span of his chest. The hulk of his shoulders.
The pressed chinos and unscuffed Chelsea boots.
For a nocturnal lumberjack, he cleans up nice.
Real nice. My heart’s beating even faster now—and probably faster than it did when he first found me on Grandma Rose’s grave.
I feel as if I’m looking at Hanry for the first time.
Except the sparks are even more intense than our first meeting, probably because I’m not distracted with committing a minor crime.
“Samantha!” he calls back. “Or is it Sabby?”
“Sabby,” I confirm. He holds eye contact with me, approaching in an alarmingly short number of strides.
At once, I realize that I am wearing: a black apron, the sparkly Crocs I bought when I was thirteen, and a black turtleneck that covers a cross necklace I found in Grandma Rose’s flamboyant costume jewelry jar.
My hair is up in a basic claw clip. Bulan looks slightly more the part of a wedding guest. He insisted on another nice hat—this time a top hat—which I’ve tied firmly around his chin-butt.
I never thought I’d be jealous of a head, but here we are.
“I’m leaving right after the ceremony,” I inform Hanry, rather than greeting him like a normal person. “That’s why I’m underdressed.”
“Oh.”
“The venue is supposed to take care of the send-off. Not me. So.”
Hanry seems to accept that. Now that he isn’t weighed down by his forager’s knapsack, he stands at a more impressive height than I remembered.
It’s annoying. Rude, even. I was planning to chew him out for foisting this job on me and assuming I’m the type to casually interact with vampires.
But the height and the suspenders are too damn distracting.
“A shame you won’t be staying longer,” Hanry says in a congenially towering fashion. “I was looking forward to you being here.”
Again: how annoying.
“Well, I’m here now.”
“As am I.”
Wow. This is a great conversation, not the least bit awkward.
In a moment of unexpected empathy, Bulan rescues me. He asks, “What brought you here early, Hanry? Are you a groomsman?”
In order to see us, Bulan has rolled onto his ear at the expense of his hat. This reveals a strip of tape stuck to the wiry red hair on his upper lip. Neither the presence of a talking head nor its poor sense of hygiene fazes Hanry.
“I came here to check in on you,” Hanry says to me. Then to Bulan: “Hello.”
“Hello,” Bulan says.
I return his top hat to its proper position, to preserve what little there is of Bulan’s dignity.
I also consider ripping the tape off his wiry red mustache, but no: I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
Bigger ones, even, than the question of how seemingly human Hanry is wrapped up in the paranormal community, and why he was foraging in the graveyard, and how he got so damn tall.
I’m here to get this wedding picture-perfect, so I must correct the wonky shape of this cobwebbed branch amid my shriveled fungus kebabs.
It’s not a centerpiece if it’s off-center, right?
While I work, Hanry surveys the shabby, near-festive mess of the ballroom. I watch him from the corner of my eye.
“What do you think?” I ask. Because for some reason, I care about his opinion.
“Everything looks great,” he says.
My chest gets unexpectedly warm and fuzzy. “Thanks.”
“Can I help you put anything away?”
I puzzle at him. “We’ve only just started decorating. We need to do finishing touches on the other tables, put together the ceremony room, set out chairs and signage. Then I’ll give the bridal party their bouquets and pin on some boutonnieres…”
“Huh,” says Hanry. “Isn’t everyone arriving in an hour?”
I don’t appreciate that kind of joke, but I still fake-laugh, right until I realize he isn’t teasing. I check my phone. It’s already four.
“Where the hell did the time go?!” I mutter to myself.
Bulan answers from the floor. “Don’t look at me, Sabby. I’m not your timekeeper!”
“Are you going to be okay?” Hanry asks.
Am I?
Filling one last hurricane vase with charcoal water, I say as lightly as possible, “Well, I definitely won’t be able to complete the wedding arch. Which is the most important job of this whole wedding. I hope no one eats me alive for it. Ha ha.”
“Wedding arch?”