by Amy Cross
"You were beaten by some men," he continues, very matter-of-factly. "Very badly beaten, in fact. You would definitely have died without immediate medical attention. Your neck was fractured in three places, you had breaks and fractures in all four limbs, and your back was fractured. You also had several cuts, including one deep one on your forehead. And your skull was broken."
I raise a hand to touch my forehead. It's sore, but I can't feel any cuts. I'm more convinced by the second that this is all a dream.
"You're okay now," says Vincent. "As I said, we get along perfectly well without all the modern techniques. Now, would you like to come and meet Patrick?"
I'm still a little groggy. "Patrick?"
"My son," says Vincent. "Well... that's not quite accurate. He's not really my son, not exactly. But I'm his father, that's for sure. He's the one who saved you and brought you down here." He smiles and waits for me to say something, but I'm not really sure how to react. "Come on," he says after a moment, smiling as he heads over to the door. "I think you and Patrick will get on very well indeed."
"Sure," I say, deciding to just let this crazy dream take its course. As long as it doesn't turn into a nightmare, I don't see why I shouldn't see what my subconscious can cook up. "Why not?" I add, walking stiffly through to the hallway.
As we step out of the front door, I realize that the whole house is inside a huge rocky cavern. The walls are like sheer cliffs, leading up to a dark and jagged ceiling maybe thirty meters above us. The ground is covered in dirt and soil and there's some antique furniture pushed up against the rocks, while the remains of a smashed chandelier are scattered nearby, as if an attempt to hang it from the ceiling came to nothing. The only light is from candles in the windows of the house, turning the whole cavern into an eerie midnight chamber. It feels hollow and holy in here. The whole place seems like some kind of vast inside-out cathedral.
I turn and look at the house, and there's another shock: it's a fairly normal-looking, old brick townhouse, but it's at an angle, as if it's been dropped into position from a great height and has landed roughly, and no-one thought to set it straight.
"I know what you're thinking," says Vincent, surprising me from behind by wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, "and yes, the house did actually fall down here. Quite literally." He points to the roof of the cavern above the house, where there's a large gap leading into a dark section. "Subsidence," he says. "The house used to be number 315 Beacon Avenue until 1925, when a sinkhole opened up and the whole house fell down here."
"No-one missed a house?" I ask, still not sure what to believe.
"Oh, they missed it," he replies. "But they just covered up the hole, reinforced it, and built a new house on top. No-one bothered coming down to get the old one back. They even left all the furniture and cutlery, for which we are very grateful."
I nod and look around at the cavern. It's hard to believe a place like this exists beneath the streets of Dedston.
"Are you feeling okay?" asks Vincent.
I nod. "Yeah, thanks."
"No dizziness or nausea?"
"No."
"Definitely no concussion, then. Which means, I suppose, that you're free to leave. It's almost morning; I imagine your parents will be very concerned that you've been out all night."
"I doubt anyone'll notice," I say.
"I'm sure they will, the -" He opens his mouth to answer, but then his attention is caught by something behind me.
Following his gaze, I turn and see someone standing a few feet away from us. I don't know how, but as soon as I see him, I know this is Patrick, the one who saved me. He looks young, younger than I expected - twenty, twenty-one, about my age. He's tall, with an athletic build under a large black, baggy and thick coat. He has dark brown hair, and the most amazing eyes that have a depth to them that I've never seen in anyone before. I'm immediately struck by the belief that these are eyes that have seen things I could never possibly imagine.
"Patrick, meet Sophie," Vincent says, stepping back. "Sophie, this is my son."
"Thanks for helping me last night," I say, feeling a little awkward.
Patrick stares at me.
"If you hadn't come along," I continue, before my voice trails off.
Patrick is still just staring at me.
"He won't say much," says Vincent. "He doesn't speak. But don't let that fool you. He's all there." He taps the side of his own head. "More than you can imagine."
"Can't speak?" I ask. "Or won't speak?"
"A little of both," says Vincent. "The last couple of centuries have been... traumatic for him."
I nod, understanding; then, suddenly, I realize I don't understand at all. "Couple of centuries?" I ask.
Vincent smiles. "You mustn't be shy. He's what your people might call a vampire. It's not an entirely accurate term, but it's the name humans give them, and I'm afraid it's rather stuck over the years."
I turn to Vincent.
"I'm not lying," he says with a smile. "I'm afraid, Sophie, there are things in this world that you can't possibly understand."
"Yeah," I say, taking a deep breath. Something tells me I'm in the company of a pair of real maniacs, and right now I just want to get out of here. Glancing across the chamber, I try to spot the nearest exit. The whole experience feels so real, I have to keep reminding myself that it's just a dream. I mean, it has to be a dream, doesn't it?
"You don't believe me," Vincent continues. "That's okay. Frankly, if you did, I'd question your sanity. I'm sure you'll understand eventually, though."
"I'm sure I will," I say cautiously.
"Patrick will show you out," Vincent adds. "I'm sure you want to be getting back home. If you experience any dizziness or light-headed moments, you must go and see a doctor. For now, though, I think I've done as much as I can." He pats my shoulder. "I hope to see you again soon."
"Yeah," I say, glad to be getting out of here. "Thanks. You too."
I turn to look at Patrick. He's barely moved since I first saw him, but now he smiles at me and slowly turns, heading for an opening in the rock face that I assume must be the way out. I decide to follow. The weird thing is that, although I know there's no way Patrick could actually be a vampire, he's doing a very convincing impression. He's really got the moody silent thing worked out, and from the look in his eyes I could definitely believed that he's hundreds of years old.
Vincent calls after us. "Sophie, do you mind if I ask you one more question?"
I turn. "Sure."
"Have you ever seen a ghost?" he calls across the cavern.
I stare at him for a moment. "A ghost?"
He nods. I think he's serious.
"No," I say. "I've never seen a ghost."
He seems satisfied with this answer. "Good," he says. "Well, I hope we shall see one another again some time." He turns and heads back into the house.
I look at Patrick. For the first time, he has a look of puzzlement on his face, as if he doesn't quite know what's happening. He looks at me for a moment, as if he's trying to understand; then, just when I think that one of us might say something, he carries on walking, and after a moment I follow. Whatever's going on here, I really don't think I want to interrupt the strange world that Patrick and Vincent have got going on down here. I'm almost certain that I'm dreaming this whole thing, but just in case I'm not, I figure I'd better get out of here as fast as possible.
Patrick
Why does my father suddenly talk about ghosts? Have they been here? Has he seen them? Does he know who they are, or why they are watching? Does he know what they want with me? If they are becoming more active, more curious, it worries me, especially coinciding with the first stage of the prophecy. I had not figured that the ghosts might be involved with the prophecy at all, yet here they are, seemingly reaching their grasp into the heart of whatever is happening. I am no longer entirely confident that I have all the information I need. I need to be more careful. The last thing I can deal with right now is another m
istake.
Sophie
Patrick leads me down a long, dark tunnel. There are trailing roots hanging from the ceiling, the very lowest ends of trees that - above the surface - tower high into the sky. Down here, though, we have to brush past them as we make our way quietly through the darkness. Slowly, though, it starts to get lighter up ahead, but I don't want us to get to the end just yet. I want to talk to Patrick, but I don't know how to start. If this is a dream, it's not too shabby so far.
Walking steadily just ahead of me, Patrick is a complete mystery. There's so much to say, so much to ask, so much to tell him... so why do we both stay silent? He saved my life, but he doesn't seem to think that's worth talking about at all. As we come to the end of the long tunnel, I realize I can see the first light of morning breaking up ahead. Have I been down here all night?
"So," I say, just as Patrick turns and starts walking back into the tunnel. I watch as he walks away. "Hey!" I call after him. "You're a dream, aren't you?"
He stops and looks back at me.
"I don't mean you're a dream-boat," I add, correcting myself hastily. "I just mean... you're not real, are you? I'm dreaming you."
He stares at me.
"You know what I mean," I add.
He frowns.
"This isn't real," I say eventually. "No offense, but vampires aren't real. They're just not, which means I'm dreaming. Maybe I'm in a coma. Maybe I've got concussion. Whatever. It's all a dream." I pause for a moment. "Sorry. I guess that must suck for you. You'll stop existing when I wake up."
He narrows his eyes.
"Okay," I say, taking a deep breath and deciding to cut my losses. "It's been very nice dreaming about you, and I hope maybe you'll pop into my subconscious mind again some time, but for now..." I pause, trying to work out where I'm going with this train of thought. I really, really hope this is all a dream; if it's not, I'm making a huge fool of myself right now. "Thanks for everything," I say eventually.
He nods - just slightly; almost imperceptibly.
I nod too. It feels like a 'moment' where we're on the same wavelength. To be honest, it's the first time I really feel I've caught his attention. But then I say something stupid. Something so stupid, I still cringe when I think about it: "Can I see your teeth?"
He frowns.
"Sorry," I say. "It's just... if you're a vampire, I'd really like to see your teeth, before you go."
A hint of a smile crosses his lips for a moment, then he turns and walks away.
"Sorry," I call after him. "I didn't mean that!"
He doesn't respond. He just keeps walking and soon he's vanished into the shadows. So that's it, then. Goodbye forever?
I trudge out of the tunnel and find myself in a woodland clearing. I'm not entirely sure where I am, but I'm pretty sure that I can follow the sounds of a distant road and get back to civilization. As I start to walk, though, I can't help thinking about what I said. Can I see your teeth? Well, that was dumb. Seriously: Can I see your teeth? For fuck's sake, he must think I'm a complete idiot; he must think I'm a stupid little kid with a fetish for obviousness. Even though he and I look the same age, I feel so much smaller and younger right now. I guess I've just blown all my credibility.
Hearing a creaking sound nearby, I stop and turn around, half expecting to find that Patrick has followed me. Instead, a deer walks past. A real, actual deer. In the early morning sun, its coat glistens with dew as it sniffs the ground, and then it looks over at me and - I swear - it almost smiles as it locks its eyes on mine with a majestic stare that hints at some greater understanding. For a moment, I can't help feeling that this deer understands more about the world than I'll ever know.
"What are you looking at?" I ask, and trudge off toward home.
Patrick
I hang back. I don't want her to see me, but I have to make sure she gets home safely: partly because I'm concerned she might still be a target, and partly because it's as close as I can get to spending time with her right now. No matter how much I would like to see her, I have to keep away, at least for a while.
When she reaches her home, I wait for her to go inside and then I quietly make my way into the garden. Immediately, I know he's been here. I can detect his scent; he's been here more than once. That's okay. I expected as much. Benjamin and his men are probably all over this town, but I'm certain they'll hold back for now. They're probably just watching and waiting to see what I'll do.
One thing's for certain, though. Sophie is the girl from the prophecy. I can feel it in my bones.
Sophie
I push the front door open as quietly as possible. It's barely 7am and I really don't feel like talking to anyone, but my efforts are in vain: my mother is sloping through the hallway in her dressing gown, with a morning milkshake in her hand. She turns to look at me, but she doesn't say anything and instead she just hauls her bulk back up the stairs and shuts the door to her bedroom. Somewhere else in the house, my little brother Todd is doing something that sounds destructive, but if my mother doesn't care - and she never does - I don't see why I should. So I go to my room.
My bedroom door is open again, letting the smell of chip fat waft in from the rest of the house. I shut the door and go straight to my desk, and I immediately pull open the top drawer: the $150 I'd stashed in there is gone. I slam the drawer shut, filled with anger at the knowledge that not only did my mother brazenly come and take my money, but also that there's nothing - nothing! - I can do about it, other than start again and this time find a better hiding place. A year's worth of saved money, gone.
I sit on the end of the bed and for the first time in nearly a day I find myself in complete silence, alone, and lost in my thoughts. I think of Vincent this morning, telling me that my parents would be worried about me being out all night. Cute idea, but he was dead wrong. At that moment, I hear something bumping about in the room above my bedroom: sounds like my mother is slamming things around again. I'd like to think she can't possibly be drunk before midday, but I wouldn't bet any of my non-existent money on it. I think about calling my father, but while it's 7am here, it's only 5am in his time-zone. It seems cruel to wake him up so early just to bitch and moan over the phone, even if I know he wouldn't complain. He never complains. I miss him.
I lost my phone last night, so I grab my laptop and type out a quick message to Shelley, just to double-check she got home okay. She replies almost instantly:
NO WORRIES. STILL AT CALLUM'S. WANT VODKA? SEE YOU TONIGHT?
Somehow, I raise a smile. Good old Shelley: up all night, drunk out of her mind, probably on all sorts of drugs, but still making sure her spelling and grammar are perfect. I once watched her when she was high as a kite on drugs, but no matter how wasted she got, she was still squinting and concentrating as she tried to find how to insert a semi-colon in a text message to her dealer. People like Shelley make mornings like this more bearable; even when they're far away on the other side of town. I type back:
MAYBE.
Notice the full stop? Shelley would slaughter me if I missed that off the end. I shut the laptop and curl up on the bed, with the aches and pains from last night really starting to kick in. It feels like someone rolled me up into a ball and then threw me into the middle of a giant pinball machine; it's like I almost died, even if I don't seem to have any obvious cuts or marks. I grab a small mirror from the bedside table: looking at my reflection, I'm shocked by how healthy I look. What's going on here?
Taking a deep breath, I start wondering when I'm going to wake up. I'm clearly still in the dream, unless somehow I woke up while I was walking home and my dream somehow segued into real life. It's tempting to think that Patrick and Vincent were real, but I'm certain they were a product of my feverish mind. Either that, or I happened to bump into two absolute lunatics in the forest. Still, I don't understand how my injuries from last night could have healed so fast. I must be dreaming. There's no other explanation.
Still, I can't stop thinking about Patrick. Questions rac
e through my mind so fast, I don't have time to think about any of them. Tragically, he was by far the most interesting and attractive guy I've met for a long time. Did my subconscious mind create him, purely so it could torture me. I could never get a guy like that. The guys in Dedston are more my type: dull, brain-dead and mostly kinda ugly. Seriously, why would a hot, moody vampire hang around in a town like this? Sighing, I close my eyes and try to force myself to wake up from this dream. Whatever's happened to me, wherever I am, I just want to get back to reality.
At some point, with all these thoughts swirling above me, I fall fast asleep. Well, that's what it feels like, anyway. I guess you can't fall asleep in a dream, but eventually I wake up and find myself still dressed and still on my bed. Is it possible that I fell asleep while I was already dreaming, and now I've woken up and I'm still in the dream. Sitting up and rubbing my eyes, I realize that all these contortions are starting to make my head hurt. Taking a deep breath, I reach up and pinch my left arm. The pain's real enough, which I guess means I'm awake right now. Whatever happened before, I'm definitely awake now.
Heading through to the hallway, I find that it's gone lunchtime. Just as I'm about to go into the kitchen, I hear the doorbell ring. I'm tired and I don't want to talk to anyone, but I figure the person - whoever he or she is - can probably already see me through the front door's frosted glass. Sighing, I walk over and open the door.
"I'm so sorry," says the man standing on the porch, speaking with a thick southern accent. He seems just as surprised as I am. "I didn't want to disturb you, but..." He looks rather sorry for himself, and totally out of place. Dressed in a big puffy green jacket, blue jeans, and a white sunhat, he looks more ready for an early morning fishing trip than door-stepping me in suburban Dedston. I can't see much of his face, because he's wearing huge orange-tinted sunglasses. When he smiles, however, his tobacco-stained teeth and browned, dirty lips tell me this is the kind of guy who does most of his work on a bar stool. He looks pretty ridiculous, like a cross between Steve Buscemi and Hunter S. Thompson, the kind of guy you'd avoid wherever you had the misfortune to encounter him.
