by Owen, Kelli
“Fuck.”
There, in the matted mess of bloodied hair beginning to dry against the girl’s neck, he saw it. Several tears and indiscriminate gouges, and a single puncture wound.
“Connor?”
“It’s him.” He stood and looked around the field. “It’s him but something’s wrong. Different tools? Something... It’s him, but he’s coming unhinged. This is different. Violent. Angry.”
“I’m sending the teams. You’ll get your task force.”
“Hey, send me Bollard. He’s not an ass like the rest of them, and the last thing we need is more live feeds of cops behaving badly on social media.” He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
Connor had been the lead on two lamian murders in the last ten years. Both had been brutal and neither had been declared fully sane. Connor knew there were bad lamians out there—he’d seen their handiwork, both in person and on reports. But that didn’t mean they were all bad. His father had always told him, “Hate the person, not a people.” Of course, his mother usually followed up with, “Hate is an awfully strong word. Use it sparingly.”
They were both right. But now, now we have hate crimes. Because it’s not only an awful word, but an awful thing, and complacently commonplace.
He would need to get the chief to write a press release, stating this wasn’t necessarily lamian. If he could convince him, he’d suggest he should point blank claim it is human, before the hateful took it upon themselves to spread their beliefs and cause panic.
More problems, more crimes, more hate.
Connor did another turn around the field, pointing his flashlight out at the perimeter and wishing it would shine farther. No movement, no motion, and no obvious perpetrator watching from the edges of his vision. He looked back down to the bodies and shuddered, positive in his assessment.
This guy is human. And he’s escalating toward something awful.
— SEVENTEEN —
Friday morning, Fox & Friends wasn’t on Andrea’s television. They were national—covering big stories and famous people. Instead, Andrea was glued to the local news, as they covered the murders in town. Her town. The murders Andrea had been mostly unaware of until now. She’d known about one, late last week, but that was it. Just the one.
And now there were five?
She couldn’t believe it was actually happening. In Riverside. A small town by big-city standards and a big town by small-town standards, Riverside was just large enough to have a wrong side of the tracks and a tourist district. Known for its annual duck race—hundreds of rubber ducks let loose in the river, picnics along its shores to watch, all in the name of community—Andrea dreaded the idea of her little burb being known for vampire murders instead of the innocence of rubber ducks. Riverside wouldn’t be quaint and special anymore. It would be like every other dangerous place in the world.
Andrea felt somewhere between sick and sad, as she watched the local anchor team tell the story with a patented Ping-Pong exchange of information and questions.
“So you’ve been looking into this since the developments last night, right Tom? How was the first murder not considered a homicide until now?” The brunette’s face had enough wrinkles for Andrea to question whether the shoulder length waves were her natural hair color.
“Apparently animals got into the house and there was some question about whether it was a natural death and simply an unfortunate aftermath with encroaching wildlife. Due to lack of family members, the victim, a Mr. Erwin Winter, was not discovered for several days, and his remains were a gruesome sight for officers and the truth of his death wasn’t immediately known.”
“And the most recent? The young lovers?” She’d been playing the anchor role long enough to almost sound uninformed, as if her questions were for herself rather than the audience tuned in for her acting.
Andrea saw through it and sneered at the theatrics. Just get to the story.
In response, the man who had been giving Riverside its news since Andrea could remember—and who would likely retire soon guessing from the new shake in his voice—nodded his head with tightly pinched lips.
“Yes. Seems a young couple, still in high school, according to our sources, was murdered last night at the school’s football field. The information leaked so far includes rather disturbing, graphic images. But most confirmed details are still being withheld by officials.” He turned from his partner and looked directly at the camera.
At Andrea.
“We also now know a young man, previously reported on last week, by the name Erik Smith, was part of this ongoing tragedy, as some key element has tied him to the others and he was apparently the one officials were working on when they began tying it all together. As well as a fifth body—which was actually found downstream by the Springfield Police Department and only this morning connected to our own situation. Whether that victim was killed before or after what they were referring to as the first case, is unclear at this time. People…” He blinked at the camera, and his face both softened with concern and intensified with a fear that could have been practiced or genuine but Andrea couldn’t tell. “Citizens. Neighbors. Friends… It seems we have a killer loose on our streets. For more on what you should do, here is our own Bart Walder.”
The camera cut to a man standing outside the police station, “Thanks, Tom. Officials aren’t saying much, citing fear of social retaliation and vigilante justice, as well as claiming they’re trying to avoid demonstrations and riots like other towns have endured after these types of crimes.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “These comments by officials make it sound like a lamian-based crime, and their actions and worries only further cement that presumption.”
Andrea leaned forward, glued to his every word—spoken or implied.
“What we have ascertained for sure, is that each of these murders took place at night, and officials are now reminding citizens, we do not live in the golden age of neighborhood awareness, and to please remember to lock your doors and windows at night. Leave an outside light on if you will be coming, going, or expecting company, deliveries, or other known guests. And if you see anything at all suspicious, you should call the hotline here on your screen.” The reporter pointed down, as if he could see the 800-number that popped up as he spoke. “The police are planning a news briefing at the courthouse in several hours. We’ll get you more information then. Back to you, Tom.”
“You heard him,” the brunette started reiterating everything the other reporter had said, but Andrea drifted off, lost in thoughts.
They’re killers. They’ve always been killers. They’re not like us. They’re dangerous.
Both sides of the argument had their own television stations, their own reporters, their own demonstrations and statistics which leaned conveniently the way they wanted, but what it came down to was the truth right there on her television. Five people dead in her little town because of one of them. She glanced up at the pictures on her wall. At her son.
He’s dangerous.
He may not be a criminal yet, may not have killed anyone yet, but he will. They all do. And it will be my fault because I did nothing about it.
But what can I do?
Andrea’s mind swirled with preemptive guilt, with shame for murders that hadn’t happened yet. She imagined the funerals she’d have to attend so she could apologize to the families for her son’s behavior. She would be ostracized at church, sermons would be directed right at her without Father Clark having to announce or admit it. She would know. Everyone would know.
I have to stop him.
The thought came so unexpectedly. She’d almost heard it in a foreign voice.
But how? He’s too strong to take down. He’s so much taller than me now. Maybe in his sleep, with a pillow? But if he wakes up, he’ll overpower me and I’ll be the next one on the news.
; So deep in her own thoughts, Andrea didn’t see Dillon come into the room behind her. She didn’t see him freeze and cock his head at her. She didn’t witness the blend of fear and disgust wash across his face before he quietly slipped back out of the room and up the stairs.
Andrea glanced at the pictures on the wall, the snapshots of their life together so far, and paused at each one trying to remember if he’d shown any violence the day the picture had been taken. On any day. If anyone in her family had been violent, could he have inherited it from her side and the lamian genes from his father’s side would tip him over the edge?
How do I stop him? She returned to the darker, more final, line of questions.
Maybe his food… Poison?
Her mind ran through various recipes she knew and a plethora of household chemicals, trying to find a combination to both hide the flavor of the poison and be something he enjoyed enough to guarantee he’d get seconds. To make sure he’d get enough of the poison.
Andrea snapped out of her murderous thoughts when she heard the door shut and glanced to the window. Dillon was off to school with his backpack bulging.
Strange, she thought. He doesn’t usually bother with a bag.
— EIGHTEEN —
Madison hadn’t taken a single note through biology class. She hadn’t even heard the lecture. She was busy, frantically chewing at the fingernail on her index finger and trying to figure out what she was going to do.
The first tooth had fallen out. In its place, a tiny nub had already broken skin in the socket and was eagerly pushing its way through to fill the empty space. She’d spent the last two days covering her mouth when she laughed, moving her lips no more than a bad ventriloquist, and doing everything she could to mask the gaping hole in her mouth that would announce to everyone what she truly was. And now her second canine was more than a little loose.
This is happening. This is real. The two sentences rolled past her thoughts repeatedly, like a mantra of panic.
The sudden taste of blood pulled her back to the classroom and made her instantly nauseous. Madison almost spit without thinking. Instead, she held it in her mouth, gathered her things and walked out as fast as she could.
She didn’t ask to be excused.
She didn’t bother to grab a hall pass from the desk.
Once in the hall, she ran the short distance to the girls’ bathroom. The janitor raised an eyebrow at her as she passed him, but she didn’t take it to be any type of wet floor warning or other reason to slow down, so she kept going.
Madison burst through the door, dropping her things by the closest sink and almost vomiting as she spat the blood into the porcelain bowl. She turned the water on and used her hand as a makeshift cup, bringing handfuls of water to her mouth to rinse and spit and repeat. When she could no longer taste the blood, she did it several more times in an attempt to rinse the memory of it away. Wiping her mouth with her hand, she looked at the mirror in horror.
What am I?
She pulled her lip up and looked at the nub of her new tooth, her tongue automatically flicking across its surface. The reflection reminded her of the source of blood and she saw the damage she’d done to her fingernail. She’d completely chewed off the loose part of the nail and part of the soft tissue beneath, leaving a red, raw, and now profusely bleeding stub with only a sliver of blue polish left at the very bottom of her nail.
She jumped as the bell went off and immediately let go of her lip—afraid someone would see her looking. They would know what she was inspecting. She turned her attention to the finger again and tried to ignore her mouth.
Madison flipped the water back on and put her finger under the stream, gently massaging the wound. She was trying to clean it without the shitty-smelling soap from the dispenser above the sink—convinced the pink liquid would sting in the open wound. She pulled away from the water to inspect the damage, grabbing a paper towel with her other hand.
The door opened and several girls entered, rushing to use the bathroom between classes. She ignored them, as they peripherally filed into the stalls behind her—chatting, phones beeping in response to texts, and dropping heavy backpacks with an almost rhythmic pattern of thuds.
“Ohhh… Better cover that before a vamp sees it and thinks it’s snack time.”
Madison heard Brenna’s voice but didn’t look up at her, afraid the other girl would see her fear. Instead, she played the part of snotty friend picking on lamians—as was expected of her.
“No shit, right? Got a Band-Aid in that mini suitcase of yours?”
“I think so.” Brenna plopped her huge purse on the edge of the sink and rummaged through it. “What the hell did you do to your finger anyway? Looks like it’s been chewed up by one of my mom’s nasty little Chihuahuas.”
“Nah, just me. Guess I hate this chapter of biology more than I thought.” She grimaced, hearing the unintended dual meaning of her comment.
“Stings?”
Madison looked up at Brenna with confusion for a moment, wondering if her self-admonishing expression had been accompanied by a noise she didn’t even notice.
“Hell of a face you’re making.” Brenna triumphantly pulled free a beat-up-looking bandage. “Here you go.”
“Oh. Yeah. It stings. I chewed it way too low.”
“Since when do you even chew on your nails? Gross. It looks like Rachel’s hands. All nasty and ripped up. What the fuck, Maddie?”
“I don’t fucking know. Okay, Brenna? Jeez. I wasn’t thinking about it, I just did it.” She took the Band-Aid from Brenna, braced for retaliation for her snapping at the more popular girl. None came.
Madison ripped open the Band-Aid wrapper and scoffed aloud when she saw it was covered in a flowered pattern.
Brenna smiled. “Hey, they don’t make Band-Aids that actually match your skin color. And if you gotta show your wounds, at least make ’em pretty, right?”
“I guess.” Madison had never thought about how pale a regular Band-Aid would look on Brenna’s dark skin.
The second bell rang, announcing the beginning of the last class of the day.
“Shit, late.” Madison grabbed her books and turned to the door.
“No worries. I heard we have a sub today for history.” Brenna strolled without concern or speed out the door and down the hall.
Madison followed on autopilot, staring at her bandaged finger the entire time.
— NINETEEN —
Henry dumped the dirty rose-colored water from the bucket and squirted more generic dish soap into the bottom. Lavender fragrance drifted up and filled his nostrils for a moment, but the store brand soap wasn’t strong enough to sustain the aroma—Henry could still smell the blood he’d carried home in the bucket. While he was normally excited by the heavy copper scent, this time he needed it to be gone. He shook his head and wished he had cleaned it right away rather than letting it sit overnight. But the high of the kill—the thrill that followed him home and ended in a night filled with two small glasses of fresh blood and the exploration of finger painting on his own skin with the coagulated lumps—had left him exhausted. Cleanup hadn’t even occurred to him until this morning, and he hadn’t had time to do it before he had to punch in at the school.
Now, even though the bucket had sat all day without soaking, he was surprised to find the dried blood itself flaked off fairly easy, but it left a distinct metallic smell different than the bucket itself. He couldn’t return it to the school until he was sure. There hadn’t even been much blood collected in it. But it was in the tiny creases and seam at the bottom, and the smell was as stubborn as a skunk on a curious dog.
He sprayed the hot water directly at the soap glob and let it foam up for a few seconds. Turning off the water, he reached for the bleach, uncapped it, poured some inside and then swirled it by moving the bucket in a circular motion.
He set it down and dove in, scrubbing it again with the handled bristle brush reserved for dishes. At no point was he worried about reusing the brush on plates. It was hard enough to focus on the task at hand physically while his mind continued to wander back over the events.
He’d watched enough crime shows to know the police would think he’d taken a trophy, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t about keeping something from the scene. To Henry, the boy’s penis was simply holding blood he wanted to taste—nothing more than a flesh bucket. The metal one had held the girl’s blood. And he’d been careful not to mix the two.
But the boy’s hot blood… His thoughts wandered.
He’d been collecting the blood for later consumption, for fear of being interrupted at the scene. But he wasn’t prepared for two victims, wasn’t planning on any victims. And the spur-of-the-moment killing would have been wasted if he’d walked away with only her blood—the blood he was curious about, the blood he suddenly needed.
Before stabbing her neck with a screwdriver from the toolbox to collect her blood—his ice pick on the counter at home—Henry had bent over the boy and lapped eagerly at the blood from the head wound where he’d struck the youth with the pipe. He drank until it no longer ran free. He had forgotten how filling it was when still warm, fresh from the source. And he realized how much different it tasted than when it was reheated—like cold pepperoni pizza loses its zing, the blood loses a certain earthy taste.
But the boy may have been something else. It may have had something to do with the tissue leaking from the wound as well.
He’d then licked the bits from the pipe before turning to the girl.
On the way home, he’d thrown the pipe over the bridge. It was a scrap of forgotten garbage he’d rescued from the bleacher renovations the previous winter, and no one would tie it to him. It was construction trash. Nothing more. The screwdriver was one of many in his mismatched toolbox and would be neither missed nor tracked to him, and it went into the river as well.
