stared hypnotized half-naked forms of the Vampire, sensual dancing under the psychedelic lights. Pierre was beginning to enjoy himself, he did not like too consumerist messages stuck in traditional festivals such as Halloween.
But could not miss that, seeing as to organize it was Ronnie and Maggie, who had rented apposta la villa settecentesca nel Quartiere Francese. Ronnie gli aveva spiegato che era una delle case più singolari di New Orleans: qualche decennio prima vi era avvenuto un fatto di sangue senza spiegazioni. La figlia ventenne della coppia che vi abitava era stata uccisa – a morsi, raccontavano le cronache dell'epoca – senza che si fosse mai trovato il colpevole. L'unico indizio, che però non era servito a far luce sul fatto, era una piccola quantità di terra trovato sul pavimento di cucina, accanto al cadavere della ragazza. Questo, e il fatto che la villa sorgeva a pochi passi dal cimitero, la rendevano il luogo perfetto per un party di Halloween.
- Da quando gli Zombi sono attratti dai Vampiri? - disse una voce alle sue spalle.
Pierre si voltò, fissando la ragazza che aveva parlato. Era truccata da morta vivente, come lui. Il volto dipinto con tinte verdognole, gli occhi cerchiati di nero, un lungo abito a fiori strappato in più punti e sporco di una perfetta imitazione di muffa mista a terriccio. Era un costume così perfetto che sembrava appena uscita da La Notte dei Morti Viventi , il film del momento.
- Tu da quale tomba arrivi? - replicò Pierre. Quella festa stava diventando sempre più interessante.
- La 2302, e tu?
- Molto divertente... comunque io sono Pierre Quixote. Come ti chiami?
- Pauline de la Dalene. Ti va di fare un giro... o preferisci rimanere a fissare il culo di quella Vampira a go-go nella gabbia?
- Non mi piacciono gli incroci fra 'razze'... preferisco i miei simili, miss de la Dalene!!! – rispose ridendo Pierre, prendendola sottobraccio.
Camminavano sul marciapiede che delimitava il cimitero, mentre dietro di loro, la musica giungeva sfumata dall'interno della villa, dove la festa era al culmine.
Alimentati dall'atmosfera strana e piena di mistero di Halloween, i loro discorsi toccavano argomenti sempre più audaci, e nonostante si fossero appena conosciuti, Pierre sentiva che quella ragazza sought a more material. The vitality of his early twenties led him to accept those avanches, thinking this was his lucky night.
They stopped in front of the entrance to the cemetery. Despite the discomfort that the smell of death - which could only come from the grave a few feet of them - caused gl, Pierre embraced the girl, pulling her with force, and shut her lips in kiss, stick his tongue in mouth before she could protest.
- What did you eat? - Exclaimed, pulling out his tongue, looking disgusted.
- To tell the truth - Pauline said, grabbing hands - not eaten for so long ...
With a sudden motion, she bowed her head and bit the hand of Pierre. The pain made him retract his arm, screaming. Stared at him unable to believe what his eyes revealed: the first two fingers of his right were no longer there, and the blood spurted from the stump and dark button.
Pierre's screams had come to the villa, and already someone was rushing to see what had happened. No one had had time to see the female figure dressed as the living dead who had fled inside the cemetery, as Pierre had begun to scream.
Lying naked in the room Charity Hospital, Pierre was giving his deposition at a paunchy middle-aged police officer sitting next to the bed.
- Young! Of course you're just strange ... certainly was doped up to the acid. Did he tell you his name? - The policeman asked, lifting the pen from the book.
Pierre button again shaken and incredulous bandage that covered the entire right hand - Yeah .. gave her name as Pauline ... Pauline de la Dalene, I think.
The agent began to write that name, but stopped almost immediately, looking up and staring at Pierre with a curious expression - Pauline de la Dalene? Are you sure you boy?
- Si, era proprio quello il nome... perché?
- Perché ti ha preso in giro! Pauline de la Dalene abitava in quella casa. Fu uccisa più di vent'anni fa, e da allora la villa è rimasta disabitata.
Le parole del poliziotto non davano pace alla mente sconvolta di Pierre. C'era qualcosa di strano in quella storia, un particolare che non tornava. Nei giorni successivi chiese a tutti gli amici, a cominciare da Ronnie e Maggie, informazioni circa Pauline, o comunque si chiamasse. Nessuno la conosceva, e fra gli invitati non c'era alcuna ragazza corrispondente alla sua descrizione.
Il moncone gli faceva sempre più male, invece to heal, and he felt very weak, prey to a languor that at times prevented him from any action, even the simplest.
was taking shape in his mind an absurd hypothesis, indeed, impossible ... but the only one that could somehow explain everything that had happened. He had to check.
was one o'clock at night and no sound broke the silence of the cemetery, except the regular noises of land that was stirred by a paddle.
Pierre was digging the grave number 2302. Which corresponded to that of Pauline de la Dalene. So the girl, if indeed I had made fun of, knew the story well. But if his absurd hypothesis was true, had not been teased ...
digging feverishly, despite the excruciating pain in my hand was now, and he could scarcely stand. But he must know ...
With a final effort to rid the surface of the coffin from the soil. He stayed a few minutes to secure the timber lid eaten by time and humidity. He wanted to know but at the same time he was afraid of the answer. By becoming
force bent down and with the help of an iron bar that lifted the lid, slowly but firmly. His guess was right!
Pauline de la Dalene was lying in his coffin. Just that he had met Pauline at the party: the same shade greenish skin, same flowered dress torn and stained with mildew and mold.
She covered her face filled with disbelief and horror, her eyes rimmed with black Pauline opened, and you, spitting out the index finger cut off, burst into a laugh that rang with an echo beyond the grave.
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