Paranormal Anthology with a TWIST

by Bart Hopkins

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lestat. Follow me.” She interlaced her fingers with mine and led me to the bedroom, where the décor was more of the same—black linens on her queen-sized bed, more lace thrown over lamps, and a journal on her bedside table that no doubt contained poetry that versed about how life was pain. She dropped my hand at the entryway to the room as I brushed past her and stood near the bed. She eyed me lustfully before strutting towards me and shoving me forcefully back. She wasn’t very strong given her demure size but I had to keep up the facade that she was still in control, so I fell dramatically onto the bed.

  I bounced on my back once before she quickly climbed on top of me and shoved her tongue in my mouth. She tasted of clove cigarettes. She was an aggressive little one but I figured I’d let her have a little fun of her own before I had mine, especially since my fun ended with her dead. Some nights, I would have a roll between the sheets with my chosen meal, but it was not to be tonight. I had waited too long between feedings and my lust for blood, not flesh, was driving me on.

  While she was kissing me and pawing urgently at my fly, I could hear her rhythmic heartbeat in my ears. It was singing to me and I could focus on nothing else. Deciding I had waited long enough, I grabbed her skinny waist and, with a swift, forceful motion, flipped her on her back so I was on top. She giggled, probably just taking me for an aggressive lover.

  I kissed her neck lightly as she tipped her head back, enjoying the feel of my lips on her silky, milk-white skin. Little did she know she was just further exposing the juicy vein I was after. I allowed my full weight to settle on her, pinning her down. She let a slight moan escape her lips and I felt my fangs distend. I laid one last, gentle kiss on her carotid artery, pausing for a brief moment before sinking my teeth in.

  I bit down hard into the meat of her neck and felt her flesh pop beneath my teeth. At first she let out just a little squeal of pain, most likely assuming I was still role-playing, but I clenched my teeth harder and felt the blood start to flow into my mouth. That was when she began to struggle. She tried bucking me off but it was no use. She was far too tiny and frail—and I had vampire strength on my side. She began to scream and I clamped my hand down hard over her mouth.

  Even though she struggled more than I would have liked, I was pleased that I had chosen her. Her blood was divine, like sweet honey sliding down my throat. She was punching me hard in the back but her hits were weakening and her screams were becoming mere murmurs. Her final punch landed in the middle of my back before her arm went limp and fell to her side. I continued to drink until her blood stopped flowing. When I was done, I licked my lips and my eyes rolled back as I enjoyed the ecstasy of the moment. I relaxed on top of her, laying my head on her chest, breathing a deep sigh, while taking in her perfumed aroma—the gentle scent of burning leaves on a cool fall day. I remained there for a while just savoring my meal and her scent before it was time to get up.

  I propped myself up on my hands and peered down into her vacant eyes. Even in death I had to admit she was a very beautiful woman. She reminded me of a grownup version of Wynona Ryder’s character, Lydia Deets from Beetlejuice. The comparison made her a little endearing to me since it was one of my favorite movies. I shrugged my shoulders, oh well. I rolled off her, leaned on one elbow, and stroked her cheek. I brought my face down to hers, placing a small kiss on her now blue and bruised lips. “The name’s not Lestat; It is Marcus Keary and the pleasure has been all mine.”

  I flicked on the light in “Lydia’s” tiny bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yes, vampires have reflections and mine was ghastly. I had been a slob during my meal, causing the blood to crust on my mouth and chin.

  I dug through a small linen closet until I found a washcloth. Running the faucet until the water was warm; I scrubbed my face with her facial cleanser that smelled pleasantly of roses and rain. I pulled off my fishnet shirt and wiped down my chest. I’m usually not a sloppy eater but this time I should have worn a bib. When I was done cleaning up, I wrung out the washcloth and hung it on the towel bar to drip dry.

  Feeling refreshed and invigorated, partly from my meal and apparently from her facial cleanser’s promises of such things, I wandered around the apartment a bit. I didn’t find anything too interesting—a few bills waiting to be paid, a mostly empty refrigerator, a bookcase loaded with vampire fiction (not a huge surprise there), and a little plant, the type one would grow from an avocado pit, sitting on the sill of her tiny kitchen window.

  That little plant seemed sad to me, and a glaring metaphor for Lydia’s life. She was at the club solo and came home with a stranger. There were no photos around her apartment of family or friends and I didn’t see any photo albums either. She died essentially alone and now her little plant would do the same. That was just too depressing. Picking it up, I asked, “Would you like to come home with me?” I fear I’ve become sentimental in my old age; I’ve taken to collecting small keepsakes from my victims. Can’t know where you’re going if you can’t remember where you’ve been and all that jazz.

  I walked back into the bedroom. Lydia still lay motionless on the bed and a large pool of blood had collected beneath her. I hadn’t drained her as dry as I would have liked and I was a little disappointed in myself. I licked my lips at the memory of her sweet flavor. The aroma in the air was still enticing but she had been dead too long to go back for seconds. Dead blood gets a funk to it and you can’t get that taste out of your mouth for days. I would just have to savor the memory and move on.

  I stood above her. Her blank brown eyes continued to stare at the ceiling. I ran the back of my hand down her smooth cheek one last time, found the satin cord around her neck, and yanked until it snapped. I let the cord dangle between my fingers while I committed her face to memory. “I gotta go. It’s been fun, Lydia. I’ll lock up on my way out.”

  The rain had started again at some point. About halfway home, I realized I should have gone back for her cloak. I seriously contemplated it for a while but thought better of it and tossed the key to her apartment down a storm drain. I arrived back at my own apartment, soaking wet and shivering. Once inside, I set my new plant down on the coffee table before I rushed into the bathroom, tossed the soaked fishnet shirt on the floor, and dried myself with a towel. I wrapped the towel around my shoulders and walked back to the living room to retrieve the little plant.

  I took it to my bedroom and placed it down next to my other keepsakes, twelve of them in total, each representing a different victim from the past few months. I looked over my collection; a pair of black lace gloves, a hand carved hair stick, a small panda charm incrusted with black diamonds on a silver chain, and an AA chip I took from my very first male victim. I had been trolling a new club where none of the girls were having any of my crap, but there had been a young man giving me bedroom eyes all night, so I figured—what the hell? He was the kind of man that was the epitome of a beautiful gothic youth; tall, lean, shiny black hair, and eyes darkened with coal. In a hundred and seventy years, I had never fed from a man before, but he had been worth breaking the streak. That chip held a special place in my heart and had been my favorite keepsake—up until the little plant.

  I scrubbed the towel over my black hair and tossed it over my shoulder onto my bed. I stripped off my buckle boots and leather pants before pulling on a pair of black pajama bottoms. Finding a warm black sweatshirt in the closet, I pulled it over my head. The sweatshirt was a gift from an ex-girlfriend, which read Meat is Murder in huge white letters. The ex was a strict vegetarian and had no idea I was a vampire. The irony of the sweatshirt always made me laugh whenever I wore it.

  I made my way to my sparsely furnished living room and flopped down in the green reclining chair. Contrary to popular belief, becoming a vampire doesn’t automatically give a man style and decorating sense. My apartment looked like a bachelor pad, which it is. Granted, the bachelor was one hundred and seventy years old—but the standard still rings true. I grabbed the remote
and turned on the fifty-inch, flat-screen television, one of my most prized possessions. As a man who was around to witness the invention of electricity, a big screen TV is pretty damn cool. I flipped through the channels for a while, landing on nothing in particular before I fell asleep in the chair. I had haunting dreams of a beautiful, young woman with short brown hair—she was covered in blood. She seemed so distantly familiar.

  I woke in the warm golden sunlight the next morning, unsettled from sleep and with one hell of a crick in my neck. Pop culture dictates vampires shy away from the sun and it’s nothing but a fabricated lie. I, myself, rather enjoy it. I stretched my arms high above my head and out in front of myself, just like a cat. I yawned wide, leaned back in the recliner, and rolled on my side. Gazing out the window, I watched the clouds drift lazily in the blue sky and felt the warm sun on my face.

  The nightmare was at the forefront of my mind and it left me feeling lonely and terribly sad. There was a slight nagging tickle in my mind; I felt like I was forgetting something but I couldn’t place my finger on it. Who was this woman? Was she a victim of mine? After a long while I decided I wasn’t going to remember, therefore she must not have been that important.

  I took a quick shower and hastily pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black pair of Vans sneakers. I was in need of some caffeine—guess I shouldn’t say need—it was more that I wanted some caffeine. I’m addicted to those whipped-up coffee milkshake drinks, not the manliest of drinks but yet another brilliant invention of the twentieth century, if you ask me. So I grabbed a lightweight hoodie and trotted out the door to the coffee shop on the corner.

  I stepped out onto the street and shivered as the cool breeze caught me. Fall had been making its presence known the past few days but I was all right with that. I was very much over the sweltering summer heat; give me jacket weather any day. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans, dropped my head down against the wind, and plowed towards my destination.

  I made it there quickly enough. That’s the benefit, and some might even argue the downfall, of living in the big city—there are coffee shops on every corner. You can’t spit without hitting one. I do my best to frequent the locally owned places though, avoiding the franchise corporate giants at all costs. I pushed the door open and was practically blown inside by a strong gust of wind. The little bell above the door jingled violently as I shoved hard back against it to close it again.

  My hood had blown up over my head. I shoved it back down and blew my hair out of my face, adjusting my hoodie as I turned towards the counter. The place was really empty, not all that surprising considering it was midmorning on a weekday. There was only one other customer, a young woman standing at the counter frantically digging through her purse as the bored “barista” popped her gum behind the register.

  “Son of a bitch—fuck! Where are you?” she exclaimed to her handbag as I walked up and stood in line behind her. She continued her fruitless search before letting out a very heavy sigh. She looked frustrated and embarrassed.

  “Is everything all right?” I inquired.

  “My wallet is gone. I must have left it at home. I don’t have time to go home to get it and I’m going to die without a caffeine fix.”

  “Allow me,” I offered, pulling a trifold wallet from the back pocket of my jeans and handing a few wadded-up bills to the impatient teenager behind the counter.

  “Really? That’s so sweet of you. Here…” She reached back into her bag, producing a blue ball-point pen and a crumpled piece of paper, which turned out to be a receipt, shoving them into my hand. “Write down your name and address and I’ll send you the money.” I started to decline and tell her it wasn’t necessary when she got a very stern look on her face that told me this girl wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I did as I was told, writing my address down in my sprawling chicken scratch and handed it back to her.

  “Awesome. I’ll send the money as soon as I get back home this afternoon.” She patted me on the back, slinging her handbag over her shoulder as she grabbed her coffee and ran out the door. Before she was completely gone though, she called back over her shoulder, “Thanks again, you’re a lifesaver!”

  Quite the opposite, actually.

  On the way back to my apartment I stopped to pick up a sandwich from the deli. When I arrived home I plopped down on the green tweed sofa, unwrapped my turkey on rye, popped open a bag salty kettle chips, and flipped on the television. The lunch-hour news was on and a balding, chubby weatherman was giving details of an impending storm. I watched with vague interest while I munched on my food.

  The weatherman had just ‘thrown it back’ to the perky anchor in the studio as I took a large slurp of my blended coffee drink, when a familiar face appeared on the screen. I swallowed slowly, picking up the remote and turning up the volume, listening as the newscaster told the story.

  “The body of a young woman was discovered early this morning in her apartment at the corner of sixth and Charles Street. The woman, identified as Katherine Waits, lived alone and was discovered by her boyfriend. The boyfriend has since been questioned and released. Police gave no details of the scene but we spoke with a neighbor who claims to have seen the body and said the scene was extremely gruesome. Another neighbor described Miss Waits as a college student who was always polite, quiet, and kept to herself. We will bring you further details as they are made available.”

  The news anchor was leading into the next story about another body, that of a young man, which had been found a few blocks away. He was bound at the hands and feet in his bed and stabbed through the heart. I turned the volume back down to a respectable level, abandoned my lunch, and walked into my bedroom. There on my bedside table was the little plant. It looked a little droopy so I carried it to the kitchen to get it a drink of water. After it had been sufficiently watered, I returned it to its spot in the bedroom, gently stroking the leaves.

  “Your mom’s name was Katherine, huh?” I asked.

  It didn’t respond.

  “She didn’t look like a Katherine. I’m still going to call her Lydia if that’s alright with you.” Still no response but I knew in my heart, if the little plant could talk, it would agree.

  Later that evening I was sitting in the living room reading a book when there was a knock on the door. I slid a bookmark into the spine of the thick paperback, setting it down on the arm of the sofa. As I rose and crossed the room I looked at the clock—it was after eight. I don’t know why I checked. I never have visitors regardless of the time of day. I stuck my eye to the peephole and was surprised to see the woman from the coffee shop on the other side of the door. I unhooked the chain and opened the door.

  She smiled a huge grin. “Hi! Remember me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I thought I’d bring you a coffee instead of just sending you money. That seemed too impersonal after such a sweet gesture. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Did I mind? I wasn’t sure what to say. I was pondering the quandary silently in my head, unknowingly causing an uncomfortable silence as she stood in the hall holding up the two paper coffee cups. While waiting for my response, the smile slowly began to dim on her face. I swiftly recovered my manners and finally answered, “Come on in.”

  I opened the door wide to allow her to enter. As she passed I couldn’t help but wonder why women trusted me when, in reality, I should be the last person to trust. This woman knew nothing of me, except that I had purchased her a cup of coffee, and yet she entered my apartment with no hesitation. Don’t get me wrong, it definitely works out to my advantage, but it always strikes me as more than a little odd.

  She turned back to face me and I took note of her. She was young. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say early-twenties. She had long blonde hair that she parted down the middle in a very typical hippie fashion. She wore baggy blue jeans, a blue t-shirt, a grey men’s cardigan sweater, and converse sneakers. She had the appearance of a typical college student, especially with the khaki
-green messenger bag she had slung across herself. Her baggy clothes were leaving a lot to the imagination and I allowed mine to run wild for a few moments.

  I observed her as she glanced around my apartment. She let out a slow whistle. “Nice pad.” I wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or forthcoming but when she turned, her blue eyes resonated honesty. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Had I seen her around the coffee shop before our previous meeting? That had to be it, but my brain didn’t seem totally satisfied with that answer. I realized I was staring at her and diverted my eyes. “I didn’t know what you would like so I winged it and gotcha a Mocha. Hope that’s cool.”

  “Works for me, but you didn’t need to repay me.”

  “Seriously it was the least I could do. What you did today was so cool.” She handed me the cup and I gestured for her to take a seat. She plopped down in the recliner with the grace of a gorilla, yanked the messenger bag up over her head, and unceremoniously tossed it on the floor beside her. Picking up the book I had been reading, she started flipping through it. She was bending the spine rather hard as the pages slid quickly though her fingers. The bookmark fell to the floor and I gently snatched the book away from her. Yes, she brought me coffee—but that didn’t mean she could just waltz into my home and disrespect my books. I laid the novel back down with care on the coffee table. I had a sneaky suspicion she was someone who dog-eared pages, which meant we could never truly be friends. However, I realized I was being rude and should probably remedy the situation.

  “I’m Marcus by the way.” I reached out my hand.

  She extended hers in return and shook mine firmly. “Jules.”