I know you think Mina is the heroine of the story, paragon of virtue, resisting his advances. Whereas I'm just dead. Sort of and actually. Really really dead. As in beyond hope of redemption. As in Jesus only saves sometimes. As in we should all strive to safeguard our immortal souls from eternal damnation. That, of course, is repressed churchgoer endgame. 

Not only did they fear how fully I embraced my beauty, body, and how I wanted, how I took; but think about who told the story and how. That fuddy-duddy old man in need of a game changing bestselling novel to solidify his place in literary heaven. He rallied hard against cheating death, but who is still a household name? Sounds like immortality to me. But what do I know? I'm just a woman playing a part. My role was supposed to be a damsel in distress. But think about it, which character captures your imagination more… Poor impotent Jonathan? Virtuous to the boring end Mina?

Of course he wanted to punish me. I had three suitors. And he had what? His fear of the foreigner. Of a female reveling in her beauty and her power. 

Yes, I died young. But that is what the narrator wanted. To punish beautiful girls who dared, of course. Think about all those late 20th century horror movies. Good girls don't die. 

But if you put away your garlic cloves, your wooden stakes, your crosses, if only for a moment…don't worry, you can pick them back up. God knows—does my use of that word offend? Relax. It's just an expression—you need your crosses to bear. Your prayer groups to gossip at, your out of context quoting of the Bible when it suits you to wield like swords. But, what if you set that self righteous load down, (it gets heavy, right?) just for a minute. Maybe five.

You don't want to see yourself as a part of the pitchfork wielding villagers. But really, aren't you? Protecting your town from dangerous newfangled notions. Things that keep you up too late at night like desire inducing music festivals, gender stereotype crushing drag queens, and books that challenge your preconceived notions of race and privilege. You say you just want to protect the children. But isn't killing their curiosity, penning them up like cows, really just a slower kind of death? In my opinion, a more terrible one (I should know.) 

Maybe you should live a little. Slather on some lavender essential oil, veer off the straight and narrow, tarry in the forbidden forest, wear a dress that doesn't cover your shoulders or knees, consider even baring those bra straps. 

Take a trip to the cemetery alone. What's the worst that could happen in the moonlight? Maybe you should fear the darkness. But allow for another ending. Be honest, if you had to cast yourself as a woman in Victorian England, would you really want Vera’s role of resisting temptation whose later life might have been so very Yellow Wallpaper? So, yes, there's always that trust in the WASP men and do the education just to show the daughter/future good wife what they say. 

Or.

While you're out there in the night, straying off the straight and narrow, touching the tombstones, maybe even moving your body in a sexual way, think about this. What if he told the story that way because, when it came to me, his imagination failed? Predictably, he cast me as evil temptress Eve. 

But you could do better. When a beautiful man knocks and offers you a chance to let down your hair, rip off your corset, feel the fire of those kisses and don't deadbolt the door. Let him in. And when they attempt to scarlet letter you into an old age filled with sewing work and too much alone time, don't let them. Consider for a moment that the worst things they said about me were not true. That whole narrative got very Jerry Springer Daily Mail fast. I mean, when they recount all the ways they tried to stop me from rising, doesn't it seem a bit of a cautionary tale? Whereas, when it comes to the male horror villains with murky motivations and no redeeming qualities, they  have at least ten sequels. And yet little kids still proudly don their costumes on Halloween.

So, do me a favor. Unsolder the coffin, remove the garlic from my mouth, put my head back where it belongs. I'll do the rest. If history, and the 2016 American election, tells us anything, it is that there's no greater villain than a woman with intelligence and power. 

Should you be afraid? It depends. But, if I were you, I would make a confession-like list of your so-called moral failings. Because it will not be your misguided notions of self-sacrifice that save you from my—centuries dormant now ready to break out at any moment—righteous anger. Of course, you could try to stop me with—yawn—more stakes or garlic, more public will not be too challenging to the patriarchy burnings. But I think you should consider that your silly superstitious rituals don't work. At least not anymore. 

***

Lori D'Angelo (she/her) is a grant recipient from the Elizabeth George Foundation and an alumna of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. Recent work has appeared in Idle Ink, JAKE, One Art Poetry Journal, Toil & Trouble, and Wrong Turn Lit. Find her on Twitter @sclly21 or Instagram at lori.dangelo1.