Van Helsing's Diaries: Nosferatu

by Cawdron, Peter

  “The devil has come and you are powerless,” Fallon says, snapping out of his trance.

  Am I being played for a fool? Is Fallon deliberately trying to set up a defense? I’d like to think so, but I suspect he’s genuinely unhinged. This isn’t an act. He’s not playing to a crowd. Rather than being crazy, I feel as though Fallon is trying to tell me something bizarre without sounding mad. He genuinely believes what he’s saying. It’s as though he’s trying to lead me to reach my own conclusion.

  “What happened in that gas station?” I ask, directing the conversation to more comfortable ground.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And even if you did, what could you do? It’s the perfect crime.”

  “What is?” I ask. “The murder?”

  “Theft,” Fallon replies, but he doesn’t elaborate.

  The sheriff looks at me. His face remains stoic. I’d love to know what he’s thinking, but he’s not going to say anything in here. He knows how these situations unfold before the courts. Everything that happens in this tiny room will be scrutinized in astonishing detail before the bench. A judge, a jury of twelve peers, and an army of lawyers from both sides will replay this conversation over and over, looking at the minute details, trying to understand whether Fallon was capable of determining right from wrong in those fatal few seconds.

  I’ve got to be careful, selective in my choice of words to avoid any technicality that could distract from determining the defendant’s state of mind when he pulled the trigger.

  No leading questions. No planting ideas. No distortion of the facts.

  Fallon looks down at himself, saying, “You don’t understand. I’m not him. This isn’t me. It’s not me. The devil came, and no one saw him, no one but me. You’ll never understand. I didn’t do it—it’s not—it’s crazy. A nightmare. This is a dream, right? I’m dreaming. I must be. None of this makes any sense.”

  “Can you tell us why you did it?”

  That’s a leading question, but given the video evidence and the witnesses to the crime, I can’t help but ask. I want to know.

  Fallon answers in a whisper.

  “I didn’t.”

  Chapter 1:02 — Home

  After going around in circles with Fallon for another hour without getting anywhere, I finally make it home just after midnight. Using my cell phone as a Dictaphone, I decide I need to make a few notes before collapsing in bed. My husband’s asleep, so I sit in the bathroom, whispering into the tiny microphone.

  “Subject is unstable, distressed, confused by what happened. There’s a possibility he’s roleplaying, but the dissociation used in his speech is suggestive of a stress-induced multiple personality disorder employing denial as a defense mechanism.

  “Sheriff Cann is concerned about a lack of motive in the case as this leaves an insanity plea open. He’s arranging for background interviews with the victim’s work associates in an attempt to determine if there’s a link between Mavis Harrison and James Fallon.

  “Given my exposure to the accused, I am inclined to consider a mental breakdown as the catalyst behind the attack. The lack of motive. The lack of a weapon in the possession of Fallon prior to the struggle over the gun. These indicate a lack of premeditation.

  “In his fragile state, it’s likely Fallon associated Harrison with some other dominant female personality from his past and felt threatened. The presence of the gun may have been perceived as an aggressive construct, triggering a flight or fight mechanism that resulted in the act of murder.

  “Whether his reason was incapacitated by fear, or impaired by his mental instability at that exact point in time is difficult to determine. More research required.”

  That’s it.

  I’m done.

  The central heating in our first floor apartment circulates warm air, and for a moment I can forget about the storm outside. I change into my pajamas and collapse into bed. Alan’s snoring. I nudge him and he grumbles but doesn’t really wake, rolling over and drifting back to sleep.

  My eyes close, and suddenly the bedside alarm sounds. My hand reaches for the snooze switch.

  “Liar,” I mumble, convinced it cannot be more than two or three in the morning. Certainly, the darkness outside suggests it’s still the middle of the night and not 6AM.

  Alan wanders in a daze to the bathroom, switching on the light and starting the shower, while I drift back to sleep for a few more minutes. I forget about last night. Life seems almost normal. Water splashes in the shower, reminding me of rain. Curious, I pull back the curtain and look out at the parking lot.

  Streetlights cast a white sheen on the snow piled high on the parked cars. Looks like three or four inches fell overnight. A snowplow trundles down the road, spraying ice and slush into the gutter. A large, stray dog pads past the cars, disappearing into the shadows.

  Alan gets dressed in the bathroom. He’s been distant lately, and I can’t help wonder if it’s me. Am I pushing him away? Working weird hours doesn’t help. We used to be so close. Now we’re both so busy with life, we’re strangers sharing a bed.

  “Gotta run,” he says, squeezing past me and kissing me on the cheek as I walk into the bathroom. Alan’s a doctor, a cardiovascular surgeon. He’s the one that’s supposed to be working the crazy hours, not me.

  “I—ah.”

  “Everything okay?” he asks, swinging the end of a tie around as he works on a Windsor knot.

  “Yeah, fine,” I say.

  “Okay, see you tonight.”

  “Bye,” I say, wondering why I chose that particular word instead of ‘later,’ or ‘love yah.’ Goddamn curse of the psychologist—always overthinking things, and yet there’s something ominous about our parting. I feel as though a dark shadow has descended over my life. The murder of Mavis Harrison is disturbing on a number of levels.

  I’m not religious, but I don’t know that insanity best describes James Fallon’s state of mind in the gas station. Possessed would be more apt. His comments about the devil were innocuous enough, and yet the way he spoke carried a sense of conviction that troubles me.

  There’s nothing like a hot shower to wash away my cares. For a while, I just stand there, letting water cascade over my shoulders and down my body. As much as I’d like to, I can’t stay here all day, so I crack open a new bottle of shampoo and lather my hair. The water is warm, but there’s a chill in the air.

  Strange, erratic noises come from the bedroom. Something large is knocked over but I can’t think of what or why. The bathroom door shudders as someone bumps into it. I kill the water, standing in the shower dripping wet and suddenly shivering.

  “Alan?” I call out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around me. “Is that you?”

  Thumps resonate through the floor.

  I step out of the shower. It’s cold. This isn’t my imagination. The temperature within our apartment has plummeted. Steam forms on my breath.

  “Who’s out there?” I cry, wishing I’d brought a change of clothes into the bathroom. “I have a gun!”

  It’s a bluff, and not a believable one.

  From the other side of the door, there’s a low growl.

  “I’m—I’m calling the police,” I yell, shaking like a leaf. My voice is less than convincing. It would be nice if I had my phone, but it’s charging beside the bed. “There’s a—there’s a patrol car on its way. You’d better get out of here.”

  The chair by the desk is knocked to the ground. I hear papers being scattered and torn. A lamp crashes to the floor. Glass breaks.

  My hand rests on the door, feeling the slight vibrations in the wooden paneling as someone, something trashes my bedroom. There’s a gnawing, grinding sound, like that of a dog breaking a bone beneath powerful jaws.

  “Alan?” I whisper, trying to overcome my fear.

  I have to look. It’s irrational, and deep down I know I shouldn’t, but I have to see what’s happening on the other side of this door. Not knowing is torment. Even if it costs me my life,
I have to see. My fingers tremble, slowly turning the door handle. Within the lock, a soft click is followed by silence in the bedroom and my heart stops.

  Do not open the door, Jane. Don’t do it.

  I have to. I must know.

  Slowly, I crack the door open, peering out into the darkened bedroom. Torn clothing lies scattered across the carpet. One of my shoes has bite marks in the supple black leather. Another shoe has been dragged out of the closet and discarded by the foot of the bed, while the sheets have been stripped and torn into rags in a rage of fury.

  The lights are off, leaving the apartment cloaked in darkness. The only light comes from behind me in the bathroom, casting my shadow across the floor. Ambient light seeps through the curtains from the street outside.

  A dark shape passes in front of the window. A wolf drops down from the desk and paces toward me, baring its teeth. Quickly, I slam the door as the creature hurls itself into the thin wooden panel, growling in anger, trying to knock the door in.

  This is no stray dog. Its size and scruffy coat, along with the pungent smell of musk leaves no doubt in my mind this is a wild wolf. Again and again, the animal pounds the door, scratching at the particle board and trying to rip through the flimsy paneling with its teeth. I’m shaking uncontrollably.

  Snarling, the creature tears at the crumpled outer layer of the door, wanting to burrow inside. Its teeth grind against the thin panel in the door.

  I’m crying, sitting on the cold tiled floor with my back against the door, pushing against the bath with my feet. I try to gain some leverage against the wolf, but I slip on the wet tiles, and the door gives, opening slightly, forcing me to slam it shut again. The animal hurls itself into the door, charging with frightening ferocity and shaking my bones. I scream for help and the wolf howls in delight.

  Again and again, the wolf charges at the door. The thin panels flex, bending inward and threatening to give way.

  I’m mumbling, sobbing.

  And suddenly, there’s silence.

  I dare not move.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, but I cannot relax. Every muscle in my body is tense, waiting for one final blow to break down the door.

  Footsteps pound through the apartment. A voice calls out, “Jane? JANE?”

  “Alan?”

  Without thinking, I scramble to my feet and open the door.

  Alan comes running into the bedroom with snow still clinging to his boots. He turns on the light. Scratch marks line the walls.

  “What happened?” he asks, seeing me still wrapped in a damp towel. He grabs me, holding me tight. “Are you okay?”

  “Is it—Is it gone?”

  “It?” he says, and I can see he’s troubled by my choice of words. He was expecting me to say, ‘him.’ He thinks there was an intruder.

  Alan grabs a gun from the overturned desk drawer. Just the sight of a handgun being drawn and the slide being pulled back fills me with terror. I break. I’m Mavis Harrison. I sink to my knees, feeling the terror she felt in those final seconds. I can’t cope.

  “Stay here,” Alan says, walking toward the door.

  “Please, don’t,” I say. “Don’t leave me.”

  Alan stands beside the bedroom door, looking down the darkened hallway toward the main door of the apartment. A low growl causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end, but I'm not sure if Alan hears it as he doesn't react. Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? Fallon. Fallon thought he was trapped in a nightmare. Am I as mad as him?

  Alan pulls a phone from his pocket and dials 911, explaining to the operator that there’s been a break in and the intruder may still be in our home.

  “You’re shivering,” he says, closing the bedroom door and flicking a tiny lock that could be broken by a stiff shoulder or a ravenous wolf. “Let’s get you dressed.”

  “I’m fine—the door!”

  Alan hands me the gun and drags a dresser in front of the bedroom door. My hands are shaking so violently I’ve got to keep my fingers clear of the trigger or the damn thing could go off. Alan sees me standing there with a loaded gun and little in the way of muscle control, and gently pries the gun from my fingers, saying, “Easy. Everything’s going to be fine.” My heart beats a little slower.

  I’m helpless, standing in the cold with a wet towel draped around me.

  “You’re okay,” he says. “Deep breaths.”

  It’s all I can do to nod in reply. Concentrating on breathing helps calm my mind. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

  Alan grabs a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a sweater for me as I put on some underwear.

  “What happened here?” he asks as I dress.

  “A wolf,” I say, barely able to believe the words coming out of my mouth. “It was a wild wolf.”

  “Wolves don’t do this,” he says, examining the torn clothing on the floor, and I know precisely what he means. He’s not doubting my story. Like me, he’s confused by what’s happened to our home.

  “We need to get you out of here.”

  “Fine with me,” I say, grabbing my phone and my purse.

  Alan drags the dresser away from the bedroom door. Blue and red lights flicker over the snow outside. A police officer stands outside the main door with a flashlight. He’s behind the door jamb, protecting himself from any possible assailant inside as he rests his flashlight beneath his drawn gun.

  “Dr. Langford?”

  As we’re both doctors, I’m not sure who he’s calling for, but Alan answers.

  “We’re in here. In the bedroom at the back of the apartment.”

  “Are you two alone?”

  Alan looks at me. I say, “I think so.”

  “We’re not sure,” Alan calls out.

  “Sit tight,” the officer says. “Backup just arrived. Stay where you are. We’ll come to you.”

  Radios squawk. I can hear the officers reaching around into each room and turning on lights, moving in short bursts. Their boots pound on the floorboards, but it’s a welcome sound, comforting. After a few minutes, an officer appears in the doorway to our bedroom, saying, “All clear.”

  As we walk through the house, I’m shocked by the devastation. The lounge suite has been torn apart. Stuffing lies strewn across the floor. Books, magazines, coats, shoes—they’ve been savaged by a wild animal. The flat screen television has been knocked over and is lying face down with electrical wires torn out of the plastic casing.

  In the kitchen, the pantry door is open and rice has been spilt on the floor. A loaf of bread and several cans of beans and tomatoes have been knocked from the shelves.

  Muddy paw prints stain the cream carpet in the living room, but they’re huge, almost the size of my outstretched palm.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Alan asks the police officer.

  “Nope.”

  We walk outside. Coats, hats, a torn cushion, a rug from the kitchen, torn curtains and various personal effects like a photo from our wedding day have been scattered in the snow. It’s no wonder the cops were so cautious in making sure our home was secure. The front yard looks like it was hit by a bombshell.

  “Jane?” one of the female officers calls out, rushing over to me with a thick jacket and wrapping it over my shoulders. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  “Thanks, Liz,” I say, remembering her from a case we worked together late last year.

  “Did you get a look at any of the intruders?” the lead officer asks.

  “It was a wolf.”

  “Wolves don’t—”

  “I know,” I say, cutting him off. “But I saw it. A wolf came into my bedroom. It tried to attack me in the bathroom.”

  He jots down notes on an electronic tablet, talking to Liz as his fingers type on a glass screen.

  “Have we had any reports of a wild animal in the area?”

  “No,” she replies. “We’re, what? Five miles from the outskirts of town?”

  “I’ve never even seen a wolf out in the woods,”
the officer confesses.

  “I know. I know,” I say, feeling I need to justify myself even though I’m the victim. Alan has his arm around my shoulder, holding me tight and visibly showing his support.

  “And you?” the officer asks Alan.

  “I was on my way to work. Forgot my wallet and came back home. The door was open. The lights were off.”

  “But they were on when you left?” the officer asks.

  “Yes.”

  “So this wolf turned off the lights?” he asks.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” I say. “I can hardly believe it myself, but that’s what happened.”

  “I know I left the kitchen light on for Jane,” Alan says. “I always do.”

  “And you shut the door when you left?” the officer asks, still making notes.

  “I locked the door.”

  The officer walks over and tests the door handle. It’s still locked.

  “It can’t have shut properly when you left,” he says. I get the feeling Alan would like to contest that, but he tightens his lips.

  My phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and step to one side as Alan and the police officer continue talking.

  Incoming call

  Sheriff Matthew Cann

  You have two (2) unread messages

  “Sheriff,” I say, holding the phone to my ear. Two beeps indicate the signal failing and the call drops out. I look at the text messages while I wait for the sheriff to try again.

  From Sheriff Matthew Cann:

  Jane, arranged 10am meeting with deputy warden at the state prison to discuss M. Harrison.

  From Mom:

  Don’t stand me up this weekend. I’m making pumpkin pie. Promise me. xxx.

  That last message brings a smile to my face.

  The phone rings again.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Jane. Are you and Alan okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, we’re fine.”

  The sheriff says, “I heard something about a dog or a bear. What happened?”

  “It was a wolf,” I say, hugging myself against the cold.

  “Damn.”