The Vampire's Grave and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “You have no ticket,” the driver says with a sigh, “and you can't pay for one, so now you must leave the coach. We're already running late and you're delaying all these people. If you don't leave, I will call the police. Do you understand? Get off right now.”

  She closes her purse and drops it back into her bag, before taking another look at the pieces of paper.

  “I spoke to a man,” she stammers, “and -”

  “Do you want me to call the police?” he asks, before placing a hand on her shoulder. “Okay. You must get out. Go. You are delaying the rest of us.”

  Hearing raised voices outside, I turn just in time to see that those two guys outside the kebab shop are really getting into a proper argument now. A couple of women are egging them on from the shadows, telling them to settle things like 'real men', and some other men are sitting on motorbikes nearby, watching the scene with interest.

  “I don't know what to do,” the girl says after a moment, her voice trembling with shock. “I...”

  “Out!” the driver says firmly. “Right now!”

  “Get off the fucking coach!” a voice calls out from somewhere further back. “You're holding us all up, you dumb cow!”

  “Wait!” I mutter, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my wallet. Fumbling for a moment, I slip out some cash and count out ninety euros before handing them to the driver. “There,” I continue, keen to just get this whole mess over and done with. “That covers her ticket, right?”

  He stares at the money, and he seems not only shocked but also annoyed that his little power trip is coming to a premature end.

  “You want to pay for her ticket?” he asks, clearly disappointed. “Why?”

  “If it gets us moving,” I reply, before looking out the window again as I see that a fight has broken out near the kebab place, and I can hear police sirens in the distance. “This doesn't seem like a great area,” I continue, turning back to the driver and then looking at the girl.

  To my surprise, she's simply looking down at her bag. She hasn't acknowledged me, hasn't even thanked me, which I guess is kind of rude. She must be shy.

  “Whatever,” the driver mutters, dropping three coins into my hand before turning and shuffling back to his seat. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we're on our way now. Don't worry, we should be able to make up the lost time and arrive in Paris right on schedule.”

  As the coach finally gets going again, I wait for the girl to thank me, but instead she focuses on sorting out the contents of her bag before finally zipping it shut. After that, she stares straight ahead, and it's hard not to feel as if something doesn't seem quite right in her head. Her eyes are focused on the back of the seat in front, and she's barely even blinking.

  “You're welcome,” I say finally, and when even that doesn't elicit a response, I turn and look out the window as we drive through the suburbs of Hamburg, heading south-west. The vast darkness of Europe stretches out for thousands of miles into the night, filled with ghosts.

  Two

  It's a little after 7am as I haul my backpack over my shoulder and turn away from the coach, heading through to the arrivals hall at Bagnolet station in Paris. I'd been planning to get some sleep during the night's journey, which was kind of a dumb idea since I never manage to sleep while I'm traveling. Still, I figure some fresh air will do me good, so I make my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the station, heading ever upward until finally I emerge on a cold, mid-dawn Parisian street.

  If anything, the fresh air actually makes me feel a little worse.

  Dropping my bag, I take a moment to pull the printed map from my pocket and double-check the details. I have a hotel booked for tonight near the Gare de l'Est, but I figure it's too early to check in just yet so I might as well walk the five or six kilometers to the center of the city. It's not like I haven't made that trek before during my travels, and I guess there's a chance that a little exercise might wake me from this daze. Besides, after everything that happened over the past week, it might be good to remind myself that the rest of the world still exists. And to spend some time in a loud, raucous city full of distractions.

  And then I spot her.

  The girl from the coach is emerging from the terminal's main exit, and she looks totally dazed. In fact, I can't help watching for a moment as she looks around, and I swear it seems as if she has absolutely no idea where she is. She doesn't have any luggage, other than the bag she brought onto the coach last night, and she's not even wearing a jacket. All things considered, she looks like something of a space cadet. I even consider going over to ask if she's okay, but I figure it's none of my business and – besides – she was kind of rude last night when I paid for her ticket. The whole way here, she didn't say one goddamn word to me.

  Screw her.

  She's not my problem.

  Dragging my bag back onto my shoulders, I turn and make my way along the street.

  For the next hour or so, I wander not-particularly-fast along loud, busy Parisian sidewalks. Most of the shops and cafes aren't open yet, but their owners are starting to set up and delivery trucks are parked all over the place, blocking my way. Messengers bring their scooters to screeching halts outside office buildings. Pigeons barely get out of my way as they examine filthy black sacks that have been left to leak across the pavement. Horns blare and voices shout in the distance, and the general cacophony of the city seems to be building with each passing second. I've lost count of how many times I've made this journey over the years, and I'm still not quite used to the sounds of Paris. Somehow this city seems so much louder than London.

  Stopping suddenly after going around the next corner, I stare ahead and realize that I've taken a wrong turn. I wasn't paying attention, and now I'm starting to loop back toward the coach station. Sighing, I turn and -

  Someone bumps straight into me, hard enough to send me back a step.

  Before I can apologize, however, I realize that I'm face to face with the girl from the coach.

  “Hi,” I stammer, as she stares at me with an expression of pure shock.

  And then she steps around me and hurries on her way.

  “Don't mention it!” I call after her, before realizing that she seems to be just about the rudest person I've ever met in my life.

  Sighing, I turn and head back to the corner, and then I take the next left, which takes me onto the road I remember from my last time here. I've still got a long way to go before I reach the hotel, and my feet are aching in these new boots, but at least I have a plan for the next few days.

  Even if it's a plan I hate with every atom in my body. Anything is better than being back in Stockholm, back in that apartment where I started to lose my mind.

  Three

  The hotel room, when I finally get through the door a little before midday, turns out to be small, cramped and old-fashioned, but basically more than enough for my needs. Hell, I don't even know what my needs are anymore.

  After all, I'm only staying for one night, so it's not like I need luxury. I guess years of traveling with Sonja trained me to expect a slightly higher standard, but now that I'm on my own, I just need a place to get my head down. There's a TV in the corner, but I doubt I'll turn that on, and there's a kettle with some tea bags, but again...

  I'm only here to sleep.

  Dropping the backpack onto the bed, I feel several muscles in my back starting to loosen. I hesitate for a moment, praying that none of them will twist and give me real pain, and fortunately the moment passes without the need to curse under my breath. A little discomfort is good, though, since it reminds me that I'm still here. Honestly, if I didn't feel any pain at all, I think I might just turn into a ghost without even dying first.

  Checking my phone, I see that I have no new messages. Finally Maria and Michael and all the other people from Stockholm have stopped bothering me.

  The cord has been cut.

  The bed looks so inviting, and I desperately want to take a shower, but I'm also hungry. Checking
my watch, I figure I might as well head to the nearby train station and find a sandwich, and then I can come back and get some rest. Hell, I might just hole myself up here for the entire afternoon and into the evening. It's not like I want or need to go exploring the city. I've seen the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and all the tourist traps before, and I hate the thought of mingling with crowds. Making my way out of the room and back to the elevator, I can't help feeling very much alone, and I've got to admit that there's still a part of me that wants to turn right around, go to the airport, and fly back to Stockholm. Not to the apartment, but just to Stockholm itself.

  But I can't do that.

  Not again.

  It's over.

  For me, Stockholm is a city of ghosts now. A place best avoided. Another day there, and I think I would have really lost my mind. I came so close to madness.

  Once I reach the lobby, I drop my key off at the desk and then I head out onto the noisy, dusty street. The train station is just a block away, so I shove my hands into my pockets and set off.

  And that's when I see her again.

  Stopping in my tracks, I stare at the girl from the coach. She's on the other side of the street, and she's looking directly at me with that same confused expression that hints at great concentration beneath the surface. I wait for her to turn and walk away, but instead she stays right where she is, and she seems not to care about the fact that she's giving off some seriously weird vibes. In fact, as the seconds tick past, I honestly don't know quite what I'm supposed to do in this situation, although finally I simply turn and keep walking, figuring that this run of coincidences has to end soon.

  It doesn't end, though, and ten minutes later I'm in a queue at the sandwich bar and I see her staring at me again.

  ***

  “Are you okay?” I ask as I step out with a baguette and potato chips in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other.

  To my surprise, this time the girl hasn't hurried away, nor has she averted her gaze. Instead, she's simply standing near the door, staring straight at me. I guess she's getting braver. And weirder.

  “Do you want something?” I ask, staring to wonder if she's seriously ill or maybe some kind of psycho. Frankly, I want to turn and head back to the hotel, but I feel like there's a fair chance she might follow me, and I figure it'd probably be best to deal with this situation here and now.

  Plus, we're in a crowded place, which seems safer.

  “You speak English, right?” I ask. “I heard you last night, on the coach. Remember?”

  She tilts her head slightly, the way a dog does when it's trying to understand something, but still she doesn't see fit to utter a goddamn word.

  “I bought your ticket,” I remind her. “You didn't really say anything, but... I mean, I didn't want to see you get kicked off the coach in that sketchy neighborhood, so...”

  My voice trails off, and I feel like I'm rapidly losing my patience.

  “I was sitting right next to you all the way from Hamburg to Paris. You must remember that!”

  No reply.

  “I bought your ticket!”

  Again, nothing. She just stares at me.

  “Okay,” I say with a sigh, taking a step back, “so that's cool. No need to thank me. Have fun.”

  I turn to walk away, but suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and I stop. Turning slowly, I find myself face to face with the girl once again, and it takes a moment before she slowly moves her hand away. From the look in her eyes, it's clear that she seems shocked by something.

  “Where are we?” she asks finally. Her voice seems strangely harsh, almost damaged, but at the same time a little monotone.

  I hesitate for a moment, starting to peg her as perhaps some kind of drug user.

  “Well, this is a train station,” I explain cautiously. “The Gare de l'Est. We're kinda right in the heart of the city.”

  She looks past me for a moment, almost as if she's only just noticed all the people milling about.

  “What city?” she asks cautiously.

  “What -” I can't help smiling a little, but I think she might just be deadly serious. “Um, well, we're in Paris. You know, the capital of France. In Europe.”

  I wait for another dumb question, but she's still watching the crowd, and her mouth is hanging open slightly. Suddenly, as if spooked by God-knows-what, she turns and looks the other way.

  “Do you have somewhere to go?” I ask, realizing that she's wearing the same clothes from the coach, and that she still has her bag dangling limply from one hand.

  When she doesn't reply, I take a step back, telling myself I should just get going. This girl isn't my problem, and I've already done way more for her than most people would even consider. She'll be fine. It's not like she'll just drop down dead if I don't help out, and again, she's 100% not my problem.

  “So I should head off now,” I tell her finally. “I hope you have a great time in Paris and... Well, I hope you find wherever you're going. Your friends or... whatever you came here for.”

  Again, no reply. She's simply looking along the concourse, and after a moment she turns and looks past me, still watching the crowd with just the faintest hint of confusion. Or maybe even fear.

  “Do you want these?” I ask, holding my lunch out toward her. “I can get more, I just... If you're hungry or thirsty...”

  My voice trails off, and I honestly don't know if she even heard a word I just said.

  “I guess that's a no then,” I mutter, starting to feel just a little frustrated by her inability to thank me. “Well, I've done everything I can,” I add, “so now I think it's time for me to get going.”

  I pause, waiting for her to respond, but still getting nothing.

  “Bye, then,” I mutter, turning and making my way back toward the exit. I can't help glancing over my shoulder a couple of times, and I see that the girl is still in the same space, still looking around with that vacant, slightly concerned expression on her face. At least she's stopped following me, which I guess is a bonus.

  By the time I reach the main exit, I've lost sight of her in the vast, bustling crowd. Still, as I step out into the bright midday sun, I can't help feeling a little bad for her, and I have to remind myself a couple of times that she's really not my problem. I'm still scared that my mind might crack at any moment. Maybe getting away from the apartment won't be enough to keep me sane.

  Four

  “Fuck women,” the guy at the hotel's front desk mutters with a thick French accent, as he pours us each another shot of whiskey. “They know the game. They play the game. They're as good at the game as any guy, but they won't admit that. And do you know what I hate more than anything in this whole goddamn world? Hypocrites!”

  He slides one of the glasses toward me, almost sending it careering off the edge of the bar.

  “They act like they're so sweet,” he continues, clearly warming to his theme, “like they're the victims in every situation, but they know how to manipulate the whole goddamn fucking world.” He downs his whiskey and immediately pours himself a refill. “I could tell you stories, my friend. Stories about women that would make your heart do crazy things. Then again, I'm sure I don't need to fill you in. No offense, but you strike me as the kind of guy who's had his fair share of dealings with the other sex.”

  I open my mouth to tell him he might be surprised. At that moment, however, the doors to the elevator slide open and a young couple steps out, arm in arm.

  “Good evening,” the front desk guy says to them with an easy, friendly smile as they pass. “Enjoy your night out in the city of love.”

  He watches as they head outside, and then he rolls his eyes as he turns to me.

  “Doesn't she look like a total bitch to you? I mean she's hot, sure, but she looks like she knows it. And he is so pussy-whipped, it's painful.”

  “Maybe they're just in love,” I point out. “Not every -”

  “He's whipped, I tell you!” he says with a grin, quickly downing anoth
er whiskey before letting out a gasp and pouring another. “They were here last night, and I happened to overhear them getting frisky in their room. She was moaning and groaning, but she still managed to give him orders every few minutes. Move this, touch that, harder, softer, twist it a little, all sorts of stuff. I'm surprised she didn't kill him after she was done.”

  “You listen to your guests having sex?” I ask, slightly disturbed by the suggestion.

  “Just one more drink for me,” he continues, dodging the question. “You know, I can afford to be a little drunk while I work the night-shift, but I can't be too drunk. Just enough to take the edge off, you understand? But you, you are a guest, so you can have as much as you like. Drink up, my friend! Drink!”

  I take a sip, but to be honest I really don't feel like getting drunk ever again. Those days are long gone.

  “Who is she?” he asks suddenly.

  “Huh?” I pause for a moment, before looking at the exit just in case the crazy girl has shown up again.

  “You are either running away from a girl,” he continues, “or you are running to one. I am guessing away. So come on, spill the beans. Who is she and how did she rip your heart to shreds?”

  “It's complicated,” I reply, feeling a little uneasy. At the same time, my mind briefly flashes back to the blood-filled bathtub, and to the weight of Sonja in my arms as I lifted her out. She'd lost so much blood, I swear she felt lighter. For a fraction of a second, I even remember the feeling of her body as I placed her on the floor, and the slightly oily sensation of water mixed with blood on her flesh.

  “Complicated how?”

  I open my mouth to attempt an explanation, before realizing that it would take far too long.

  “You see that?” he asks, pointing past me.

  Turning, I look at the large painting on the opposite wall. It's some kind of abstract piece, like some huge mess of different shades of red paint all smeared together. I noticed it earlier, and to be honest it's a little alarming.