Paranormal After Dark: 20 Paranormal Tales of Demons, Shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Fae, Witches, Magics, Ghosts and More

by Rebecca Hamilton

  The stranger unceremoniously dropped the lifeless body in a heap on the ground and turned back to me. I caught the intensity of his eyes. He was a frightening sight at that moment. I trembled, watching a small line of fresh blood drip down his chin. He exhaled a long, pleasurable sigh before wiping the blood from his face. He had saved me from those men, but I wasn’t convinced yet that he was no danger to me.

  He bent down to me again, and wiped the hair out of my face. His touch no longer felt cold. I recoiled in fear, but my body was still too weak to let me move far.

  “Who…what … are you?” I asked.

  “I am Lysander,” he said matter-of-factly. The tips of his fangs poked out from behind blood-stained lips. “We are not done yet. You need more blood.”

  He stood up and walked over to the skinny man, still unconscious on the ground where he had been thrown earlier. Lysander grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and the man let out a faint moan as his body was dragged over to me.

  “You need to drink if you want to make it through the night,” Lysander said. He picked up the knife that had been left on the ground and cut into the man’s wrist.

  I shuddered, seeing blood pool to the surface of the fresh wound.

  Lysander sat me up and pushed the bleeding wrist to my mouth.

  “No,” I whimpered and tried, unsuccessfully, to turn away—I still did not have much control over my body.

  I didn’t want to drink any more blood. I was repulsed at the thought of it. Lysander held the man’s wrist firm and offered it to me again.

  “You must drink this, or you will die.” He stared at me with hard, cold eyes. His voice echoed in my head, telling me I had no other option. Lysander pushed the wounded arm to my lips.

  My tongue grazed the wound, tasting the sticky wetness. This wasn’t the liquid fire I had just experienced from Lysander. It was almost sweet. I swallowed quickly, surprised that it soothed my pain as it ran down into my stomach.

  “Good girl,” Lysander said in a whisper. “Keep drinking.”

  With each swallow, the trembling of my limbs lessened.

  Strength slowly returned to my body. I drank deeply, ignoring the thought that it was blood—it was my remedy and nothing else. I needed it to end my pain and suffering.

  Soon, I was able to control and lift my arms; the trembling had stopped. A blissful fuzziness, as if I were drunk, filled my head. My mind swam with euphoric pleasure. I found myself lapping at the wound like an animal. I wanted to draw out every last bit of this healing elixir.

  Lysander must have noticed. He pulled the wounded arm away from me.

  “That’s enough for now,” he warned.

  As soon as I stopped drinking, the pins and needles returned, tingling and pricking at my skin.

  “No, I need it,” I rasped. “Please, I need more.”

  An understanding smile crept across Lysander’s face. He chuckled.

  “You have had enough for now, young one. There will be plenty more, when the time comes.”

  Pain was already increasing as each second passed. Tingles became sharp pin pricks. My insides were no longer on fire, but every muscle in my body ached. I needed more. I did not want to feel pain again. I tried to get up, but lost balance. My stomach churned. I fell. White light flashed before my eyes as my head hit the ground.

  Chapter 3

  DARKNESS SURROUNDED ME. A voice spoke softly in my head. Do not die, young one. Be strong. Do not die.

  I became painfully aware of liquid pouring down on me, each drop like an icy hammer hitting my sore skin. Movement echoed in my ears, telling me that I wasn’t alone. Slowly, I opened my eyes. Harsh light blinded me. My mind was fuzzy. I struggled to recall any small detail that might clue me in to what had happened and where I was.

  I reached up to wipe the splattering water from my face and chanced opening my eyes again. As I looked up, I found the source of the water, a showerhead on the opposite wall. Confused by my odd location, I struggled to penetrate the blackness of my memory and figure out how I had ended up in a bathtub.

  Where the hell am I?

  Everything was bright, too bright, and unfamiliar.

  My vision, it seemed, had become remarkably sharp while I was unconscious. I couldn’t remember ever seeing so many details in such simple surroundings as these before.

  Cream-colored tiles covered the walls, each rippled with tiny imperfections. Each held an individual pattern, making them unique and special. Yellowing, porous grout, framing the tiles, appeared to be littered with dots from small air bubbles that had come to the surface, creating different patterns and shapes.

  Even the plain white curtain that separated me from the rest of the room seemed unusually detailed and perfectly woven. I saw each tiny strand that had been tightly bound together to form this heavy, durable cloth.

  Small specks of mold building up in the corners of the porcelain basin weren’t able to escape my new sight either.

  The amazing level of detail I experienced didn’t hold my attention for long. Freezing water still poured down on me. I needed to reach the handle and end the cold assault, but it seemed so far out of my reach. I eased myself up to a sitting position, my muscles aching with each small movement. Looking down, I saw my beaten body. The water had washed away some of the grime, but what was left of my shredded clothes was stained and clinging to my skin.

  “Uggh!” I moaned.

  “Oh, good, you’re alive,” said a male voice from behind the white curtain.

  I’d have jumped out of my skin if my muscles were working properly. The strange voice startled me so, but though it was odd, it was also very familiar. I searched my fuzzy memories to place the voice with a face. A wave of fear came over me as I remembered the attack.

  Had I been kidnapped? Was I a hostage of some kind? I struggled to recall the events of the evening.

  “You’ve been out for a few hours. I was worried I might have lost you,” he spoke with kindness, I almost believed him.

  “What?” I called, still not sure who I was talking to.

  “It doesn’t always work. Some people can’t be turned.”

  “Turned?”

  I again tried to run through my memories of what had happened. I remembered blood, and the feeling of my body burning from the inside.

  “I’ll explain it when you’re done in there. I’ve left some clothes on the toilet. I hope they fit.” The voice trailed out of the bathroom.

  I tried to stand. My muscles ached. Gripping the edge of the tub, I moaned as I pushed myself up. My legs didn’t want to cooperate; they shook as they tried to support my weight. It was as if I was learning to stand for the first time.

  I felt weak and a little dizzy. I leaned against the wall, using it as a crutch to help me to balance while I removed what remained of my shredded and blood-stained clothes. I shuddered, seeing more of the wounds that covered my body. I shouldn’t have survived.

  Each bruise I saw invoked a terrible memory: the man on my stomach laughing, the knife waving in front of my face, teeth biting me, a stranger drinking my blood.

  I turned the shower handle to hot and let the water run down my back. The warmth soothed my sore skin. I rested my head against the wall and tried to rationalize what had happened. I blamed myself for walking alone. I knew better. I should have asked someone to walk with me or drive me. I cursed myself for relying on a stupid keychain of pepper spray as my protection.

  I could hardly believe everything that had happened. I saw myself lying on the ground, drinking blood from a strange man’s arm.

  What was his name? Was I really drinking blood? Why was I even alive? Did that man save me?

  The thought of blood caused an ache in the pit of my stomach.

  I pinched myself a few times.

  Maybe this was all just a really bad dream and I just needed to wake up.

  None of it made sense

  Maybe someone had slipped something into my coffee at the café. I hadn’t really been
drinking blood, had I?

  I couldn’t stop focusing on the blood I had drunk. A sweet, sticky taste crept up from the back of my throat. I gulped at the water pouring down from the showerhead, trying to smother the flavor. My stomach retched as I swallowed, causing me to sputter and spit the water to the ground. I tried to ignore the nagging ache in the pit of my stomach. I needed answers first. I needed to know why I was here and where here was. I needed to know what the hell had happened to me.

  I finished rinsing, turned off the water, and slid open the shower curtain. The light seemed brighter in the rest of this room. I squinted, letting my eyes adjust a little. The rest of the bathroom was small and narrow. Nothing more than a simple toilet, shower, mirror, and vanity sink. The only real color in the room came from the red towels hanging on the towel bar and the bath mat on the floor.

  I grabbed one towel and wrapped it around myself and then noticed the clothes left on the toilet seat. They appeared to be new and for a brief moment, I wondered where he had gotten them.

  “I guess this will have to do,” I mumbled as I pulled on a simple green spaghetti-strap tank top. I slid my legs into a pair of blue jeans and pulled them up. Fastening the button, I felt a small pinch in my back. I reached around, touched a hard scab, and winced, remembering the pain of the knife that had been stabbed into my back.

  How was I even alive? I certainly shouldn’t have been after the ordeal I’d been through.

  I checked myself out in the mirror. Most of my wounds were already healing. Bruises that weren’t covered by clothing had started turning yellow. The cuts on my back and face had scabbed over too. I noticed something on my neck. Brushing away the wet strands of my red hair, I saw a half-ring of small bruises and two very deep-looking holes.

  Lysander, I thought, suddenly remembering the stranger’s name.

  My memory flashed again. I remembered the pinch as his teeth sunk into my neck. I shuddered again as a chill danced down my spine.

  What…who was this Lysander? He couldn’t be a…No. That’s silly; they aren’t real.

  I gave the rest of my body a quick once-over in the mirror and suddenly I stopped in shock.

  “My eyes,” I gasped. “Oh, my God!”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  How is this possible? Those are not my eyes.

  All the color had disappeared. Large gray eyes stared back at me from the mirror. They were pale and cloudy with hints of blue, no longer the emerald green they used to be. These were the same eyes I looked into when I got my first glimpse of Lysander.

  Wondering what else had changed, I surveyed the rest of my face: ears, hair, lips, all seemed the same. Thinking of the bite on my neck, I opened my mouth. Gone was the five-thousand dollar, perfectly straight, smile —that had taken me four years to pay off. My eyeteeth appeared to have grown larger, crowding the surrounding ones. The new, slightly larger, canine-like teeth poked down below the others, reminding me of fangs— the kind vampires from Hollywood movies were famous for. I playfully licked at them, noting how much sharper they felt as they scraped across the surface of my tongue.

  “This can’t be possible.”

  It was time to find this Lysander guy and get some answers.

  Chapter 4

  I STEPPED OUT of the bathroom into a small, dark hallway, noting doors to my left and right. Peering through an arched opening in the wall in front of me, I saw light and dancing shadows.

  Maybe I should look for Lysander there.

  I limped slowly through the archway, my muscles aching with each step.

  The living room was cavernous, with vaulted ceilings. Though only two small lamps provided light, the room appeared as bright as if it were daylight inside. I squinted, allowing my eyes some time to adjust as I searched for Lysander. The small lamps, on top of side-tables, cast their glow on a U-shaped sitting space. A large, overstuffed black leather couch sat against a wall, flanked by two smaller matching loveseats.

  Lysander sat on the couch, looking down at a book in his hands. He appeared not to notice me slowly making my way toward him.

  I stopped long enough to get a good look at him. His skin was flawless, smooth as porcelain and just as pale, showing no signs of wrinkles or imperfections. He had a slightly pointed nose that hung over a pair of thin lips and his wide masculine jaw tapered down to a perfect crescent chin.

  I might have thought him a statue for the still and rigid way he sat on the couch. His broad shoulders hunched as he looked down, obviously engrossed in the book in his hands.

  A glass coffee table sat in front of him, littered with papers and an antique-looking book.

  I quickly scanned the rest of the room, wondering if anyone else was here with us. I was barely ready to speak with Lysander, and the prospect of more people like him sent a shiver of fright down my spine.

  The opposite wall housed a large set of bookshelves with a library’s worth of old-looking books. A television was mounted to the wall between the bookshelves. Its light mingled with the glow of the table lamps, creating dancing images on the bare white walls. There was no warm, homey, lived-in feel, only a stark, minimalist theme to the décor in this room. That, and the fact I didn’t see another person, gave me a small measure of comfort, confirming that we were alone.

  Time to get some answers.

  I steeled my courage and took a step forward. My ankle sagged. I let out a whimper as I lost balance and caught myself against the wall.

  Lysander looked up. Wavy dark hair framed his oval face in a messy yet purposeful way. His dark hair emphasized the almost transparent nature of his eyes and forced me to look directly at them.

  They were so beautiful.

  I could get lost looking into those deep, swirling pools of gray. Small hints of blue sparkled at me like stars in the twilight sky. I was entranced. We stared silently at one another for a moment before he stood up.

  “Good to see you up and moving,” he said in a smooth, velvety voice. He was at my side in a blurred flash, moving quicker than I’d ever seen anyone move before. I stifled a small gasp as Lysander enveloped me in his strong arms and helped me to stand.

  I suddenly felt the brush of butterfly wings buzzing deep within my stomach. Heat flushed my face. I looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze again.

  “I have no doubt you are a little confused. Here, let me help you.” He supported my weight, helping me walk.

  “Where am I?” I asked meekly.

  My muscles gave out and I collapsed onto the soft leather of his couch.

  “This is my home, Alyssa.”

  “And… who… what are you?”

  My memory flashed to the darkness and the sound of his voice commanding me to drink. I shuddered for a second riding a small wave of fear.

  “Do not worry, Alyssa. I will not hurt you.” He breathed a heavy sigh, taking a seat next to me. “I’ve done enough to you already.”

  My hand moved instinctively to my neck. I touched the crusted scabs of two small puncture wounds. I recalled the small pinch of teeth and the pressure of his mouth against my neck.

  “What exactly have you done to me?”

  “I must apologize for what has happened this evening. You would have died if I had not turned you.”

  “Turned? What have you turned me into?” I asked, my voice finding a small measure of strength.

  “Well.” Lysander paused and took a slow, deep breath. “To put it simply—” He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyebrows pulled together and small creases formed in between them.

  I waited anxiously for what would come next.

  “You are a vampire.”

  “A what?” I shrieked.

  “You are a vampire, Alyssa,” he said slowly. “An immortal.”

  “No! That’s not possible.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Vampires aren’t real. They’re fiction; nothing but stories and myths.”

  One of his dark eyebrows rose slightly. He cocked his head to the side. He smirk
ed as his eyes trailed down from my face. “Did you not notice the mark on your neck? Do you not remember drinking my blood?” His fangs showed as he spoke: pure white, sharp little daggers, just a slight bit longer than the rest of his teeth. His voice carried that same arrogance I remembered from when he talked with my attackers.

  My mouth hung open. No, this isn’t possible.

  Things were still fuzzy in my head, but I did remember the blood, the liquid fire, I had been forced to drink. I’d hoped it had just been some drug-induced dream.

  Oh, my God, it was true. I drank his blood. “I’m…a … vampire?”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “Our kind are very real. And now, Alyssa, you are one of us.”

  I slumped backwards into the cushions of the couch. His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared wide-eyed at the distant wall. This was like some terrible nightmare. I didn’t want to believe what he was telling me, but I knew he was right. There was no other way to explain what had happened to me. No amount of hallucinogenic drugs could have explained how I had survived the attack, why I had these markings, or the sharpness of my own new set of fangs.

  “Does that mean I’m… undead?”

  “You are immortal,” Lysander said with a casual wave of his hand. “Undead is a silly term mortals use to explain the supernatural things they cannot possibly understand. You are no more dead than you were when you woke up this morning. You are just, for lack of a better word, changed.”

  Lysander gave me another toothy grin. His fangs were frightening to look at. The memory of him biting me played over and over in my mind like a video stuck on repeat.

  “But you drank my blood.” My hand shot back up to cover the wound on my neck.

  “Only enough to allow the transformation.”

  He reached out, grabbed my hand, and pulled it from my neck.

  “Don’t touch me.” I flinched, annoyed and afraid at his sudden gesture. I tried to pull my hand out of his grip, but he was so much stronger than I was. He pushed my hand to my chest, forcing me to feel the erratic thumping of my heart.