The Lottery Revisited

I could tell from across the square that my poor girlfriend got The Question again.

I could almost read her lips, since she's just about patented the response as a tour guide to this little village that everyone wishes time had forgotten. “Yes, apparently it is a true story, you can visit the graveyard and see the line of head stones for the sacrificed victims. Once Mrs. Jackson wrote the short story – and yes, I am a direct descendent, and carry the family name – and the world was made aware of the goings-on, the lottery was modified. What was held yearly became every five years, then ten, and then faded out about the time the newfangled paved roads came to town. The black box is still on display at the town hall, which we will get to later. There are still papers inside, but no one will open it to find out. Hopefully it will be sealed in its hard plastic coffin till world's end.”

The tourists chattered excitedly as they moved to the gabled building to the west.

A heavy voice sighed despondently beside me. “And still they come, to leer, to pry. To make a spectacle of our greatest shame.”

“It was quite a sensational story, Mr. Summers. Once voracious readers realized there was a real village, and some evidence the tale was more fact than fiction, it was only a matter of transportation for the gawkers to come. Setting up paid tours was brilliant, and keeps the town's cash flow coming.”

“That, and the souvenir stands. Disgusting. Ah, my chariot arrives. I will be hiding at Mr. Graves' house, having an extensive tea, till later, when this batch goes home. See you at the picnic?” And he was off.

I hadn't known about the town, or the townspeople, or their dirty secret, for a long time. I dated Shirl for four years before she brought me home to meet her parents, and their hesitation – heck, the whole town's collective apprehension – was palpable. Now that I've been told and read the story, I get it. What a past to try to hide, when everyone knew.

By flipping the script, Shirl and a few of the other college grads were bringing in sorely-needed income. Even with their secret so painfully out in the open, most of the townspeople hid during the day of the summer solstice. Who wants to be reminded of it during the town picnic? The only hard rule, which no one would break, was No Tourists. Once the clock struck three, the tense noonday remembrance hours were considered over, and it was time for the town to celebrate their own way.

No more box. No more slips of paper, marking a family for stoning. Picnic tables, with paper tablecloths tacked against a light wind. And food, made by many hands, and much love. And relief, that it didn't have to happen again.

And no outsiders. No lookie-lous. Just the town, communing.

Of course, there were always a few. The families that moaned when the other towns gave it up, centuries before they did. But they couldn't deny that all the other villages had the same harvest luck, so did people have to die for their old ways?

And the row of graves, tucked behind the church like an embarrassment, stood mute testimony to their stubborn folly.

Old Man Hutchinson was still in prison for trying to revive it. Would be for life, with Mrs. Delacroix still in a coma in the hospital in the big city. Far, far away from the rest of her kin, setting up casseroles and heaps of homemade rolls at the table.

I sat down with the Dunbars, talking quietly till Shirl was finished. This would be the last group to go, and they were being discreetly watched like always, to make sure they all left.

There was always one that tried some nonsense to stay.

Sure enough, one of the women on the tour grabbed her leg dramatically, and was roughly bundled into her vehicle and told where the clinic was. Three towns over. On a back gravel road. They took off in a whirl of dust, in the opposite direction.

Yeah, thought so.

Shirl joined me, face flushed and a bit shiny. “What a mess! They really thought being the last tour would get them invited to the picnic. Mr. Dunbar took care of them right quick, bless that man. Did you save me a burger?”

And we sat, and feasted.

I'm not considered a stranger. I was very careful to respect that, before I was invited to stay many years ago. I'd been dating Shirl for five years, and everyone knew I had a ring in my pocket, waiting for the right time.

The first beer tasted pretty good. Old Man Warner made an awesome home brew, and he saved the best of it for the midsummer picnic.

I wasn't feeling it, so I had another. And another.

Time blurred.

When I came to, it was near sunset, and I was in Shirl's bed in her own house. The Watsons had moved out when they lost their eldest to the lottery, and couldn't bear to stay. Shirl bought it for a song, and moved in when she reached her majority.

Wait. That timing doesn't add up-

Shirl was straddling me, grinning, as she unbuttoned my shirt. “Well, my darling, it looks like you're going to win the lottery tonight.”

I couldn't move. Suddenly I was very, very sober. “That's... not... funny.”

“Not meant to be, darling. But you're the only outsider, and it's midsummer at the beginning of a new decade, sooo....”

My pants were gone, and she slid into place on me. I tried to move, and couldn't. Tiny fangs gleamed in the setting sun, slanting through the window.

“Time has to stop for us somehow, darling. And we must keep up with the times. My story didn't have the consequences I thought it would have. So, methods had to shift to accommodate new needs.”

She leaned over, nuzzling my neck. I barely felt it.

“The sacrifice must still occur, but there are other ways to get what we need. And what we need, to live, to live forever...

...is new blood.”