I pull the curtain closed on him.
“Thank you,” says Bulan. He squints up at me with gratitude. “The glare from his head was hurting my eyes.”
“So true,” I agree. “Now, hold this butcher paper between your teeth and help me wrap this up.”
7NATURALLY, EVERYTHING GOES WRONG THE ONE TIME I’M AT RISK OF BEING EATEN
ON SATURDAY MORNING, I WAKEto the sounds of screaming outside the guest room window. A quick survey later, I’ve determined it’s a flash-mob re-creation ofMoby-Dickon 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.
Buoyed by the thought, I drop the blinds and get to work. Today’s the day of Dave and Amanda’s wedding—and more importantly, it’s the day Grandma should theoretically ascend, following the final high tide peaking in Salem Harbor at 9:02 p.m. I finish the last of the floral arrangements, pack the rental SUV with décor, plunk Bulan in the front seat, and get going.
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 chronicallyneglected. The roof is… gone. It’s the kind of disaster that would make a jaded heroine realize her city jobisthe 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.”
“Wherewouldyou 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 anactuallyterrible 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,alwaysa 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 alittlemore 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!”
