Many thanks to Paula Balafas of the Wheatridge Police Department, for checking the police stuff, and for being a stalwart literary partner in crime at CU.

Thanks to my housemates when I was writing this: Joe "Max" Campanella, for the radio and music insights, the advice, the high fives, and the shoulder; and Yaz Ostrowski for beta testing, and for the immortal words, "Don't make me hungry. You won't like me when I'm hungry."

Thanks to the Odfellows, Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop graduates, especially the Naked Squirrels, and to the WACO writing group (Michael Bateman, Barry Fishier, Karen Fishier, Brian Hiebert, and James Van Pelt), most of whom have had to deal with Kitty in her various incarnations. I'd especially like to thank Jeanne Cavelos for her always enthusiastic support.

I could keep thanking people for pages, but let's just add a few more: to Thomas Seay for his giddy anticipation; to George Scithers, Darrell Schweitzer, and the staff at Weird Tales, who gave Kitty her first home; to Dan Hooker, who called the day after I almost decided to quit; to Jaime Levine, for "getting it" in ways that exceeded my wildest expectations.

And finally, to Robbie, my biggest fan, and to Debbie, for humoring us.

A portion of Chapter 5 appeared in Weird Tales #324 (Summer 2001) as "Doctor Kitty Solves All Your Love Problems."

A portion of Chapter 8 appeared in Weird Tales #333 (Fall 2003) as "Kitty Loses Her Faith."

When I finished the first draft of Kitty and the Midnight Hour, I burned a CD of some of the music I listened to while writing it. Here's that impromptu sound track:

Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Bad Moon Rising"

Concrete Blonde, "Bloodletting"

Siouxsie and the Banshees, "Peek-a-Boo"

No Doubt, "Just a Girl"

Garbage, "When I Grow Up"

David Bowie, "Let's Dance"

They Might Be Giants, "Man, It's So Loud In Here"

Oingo Boingo, "Skin"

Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Long as I Can See the Light"

The Sisters of Mercy, "Lucretia My Reflection"

Rasputina, "Olde Headboard"

Depeche Mode, "Halo"

The Canadian Brass, Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze"

The Clash, "Train in Vain"

Peter Murphy, "I'll Fall With Your Knife"

I tossed my backpack in a corner of the studio and high-fived Rodney on his way out.

"Hey, Kitty, thanks again for taking the midnight shift," he said. He'd started playing some third-generation grunge band that made my hackles rise, but I smiled anyway.

"Happy to."

"I noticed. You didn't used to like the late shift."

He was right. I'd gone positively nocturnal the last few months. I shrugged. "Things change."

"Well, take it easy."

Finally, I had the place to myself. I dimmed the lights so the control board glowed, the dials and switches futuristic and sinister. I pulled my blond hair into a ponytail. I was wearing jeans and an oversized sweatshirt that had been through the wash too many times. One of the nice things about the late shift at a radio station was that I didn't have to look good for anybody.

I put on the headphones and sat back in the chair with its squeaky wheels and torn upholstery. As soon as I could, I put on my music. Bauhaus straight into the Pogues. That'd wake 'em up. To be a DJ was to be God. I controlled the airwaves. To be a DJ at an alternative public radio station? That was being God with a mission. It was thinking you were the first person to discover The Clash and you had to spread the word.

My illusions about the true power of being a radio DJ had pretty much been shattered by this time. I'd started out on the college radio station, graduated a couple of years ago, and got the gig at KNOB after interning here. I might have had a brain full of philosophical tenets, high ideals, and opinions I couldn't wait to vocalize. But off-campus, no one cared. The world was a bigger place than that, and I was adrift. College was supposed to fix that, wasn't it?

I switched on the mike.

"Good evening to you, Denver. This is Kitty on K-Nob. It's twelve-oh-twelve in the wee hours and I'm bored, which means I'm going to regale you with inanities until somebody calls and requests a song recorded before 1990.

"I have the new issue of Wide World of News here. Picked it up when I got my frozen burrito for dinner. Headline says: 'Bat Boy Attacks Convent.' Now, this is like the tenth Bat Boy story they've done this year. That kid really gets around—though as long as they've been doing stories on him he's got to be what, fifty? Anyway, as visible as this guy is, at least according to the intrepid staff of Wide World of News, I figure somebody out there has seen him. Have any of you seen the Bat Boy? I want to hear about it. The line is open."

Amazingly, I got a call right off. I wouldn't have to beg.

"Hello!"

"Uh, yeah, dude. Hey. Uh, can you play some Pearl Jam?"

"What did I say? Did you hear me? Nothing after '89. Bye."

Another call was waiting. Double cool. "Hi there."

"Do you believe in vampires?"

I paused. Any other DJ would have tossed off a glib response without thinking—just another midnight weirdo looking for attention. But I knew better.

"If I say yes, will you tell me a good story?"

"So, do you?" The speaker was male. His voice was clear and steady.

I put my smile into my voice. "Yes."

"The Bat Boy stories, I think they're a cover-up. All those tabloid stories, and the TV shows like Uncharted World?"

"Yeah?"

"Everybody treats them like they're a joke. Too far out, too crazy. Just mindless trash. So if everybody thinks that stuff is a joke, if there really is something out there—no one would believe it."

"Kind of like hiding in plain sight, is that what you're saying? Talk about weird supernatural things just enough to make them look ridiculous and you deflect attention from the truth."

"Yes, that's it."

"So, who exactly is covering up what?"

"They are. The vampires. They're covering up, well, everything. Vampires, werewolves, magic, crop circles—"

"Slow down there, Van Helsing."

"Don't call me that!" He sounded genuinely angry.

"Why not?"

"It's—I'm not anything like him. He was a murderer."

The hairs on my arms stood on end. I leaned into the mike. "And what are you?"

He let out a breath that echoed over the phone. "Never mind. I called about the tabloid."

"Yes, Bat Boy. You think Bat Boy is a vampire?"

"Maybe not specifically. But before you brush it off, think about what may really be out there."

Actually, I didn't have to. I already knew.

"Thanks for the tip."

He hung up.

"What an intriguing call," I said, half to myself, almost forgetting I was on the air.

The world he talked about—vampires, werewolves, things that go bump—was a secret one, even to the people who inadvertently found their way there. People fell into it by accident and were left to sink or swim. Usually sink. Once inside, you especially didn't talk about it to outsiders because, well, who would believe you?

But we weren't really talking here, were we? It was late-night radio. It was a joke.