by Martha Woods
Rick looked at me. His face wore a strange expression. The kind of expression you use when you’re dealing with a much-loved aunt who has gone a bit cuckoo. I didn’t like that expression one bit.
“Go ask the witness,” I snapped. “She must have seen some of it.”
Rick sighed and walked towards her. I was close on his heels.
“What happened?” he asked the nearest officer.
“The lady was taking a short cut home through the alley,” he saw. “She remembers tripping over, and then nothing until she woke up with us here. She must have hit her head.”
“No,” I said. “There was a man. He hurt her. He bit her neck.”
Rick and the other officer looked at me. Rick’s expression was subtle, hard to read. The officer made no such courtesy. He looked at me like I was crazy.
I ignored him and crouched beside the woman. “It’s ok. You’re safe now,” I said. “You can tell us what actually happened. He can’t hurt you now.”
The woman looked at me through her long, mascara-laden lashes. “I…I don’t know what you mean. Was someone else here?”
The fear in her voice stopped me from pressing the issue. I didn’t want to upset her. Instead, I reached out my hand to her face. “May I?” I asked. She nodded, and I gently pushed her head to one side and looked at her neck. Nothing. There was no trace of any blood, no gaping wound. There wasn’t even a smudge or a bruise. I peered closer, determined to find pin-prick puncture wounds. I didn’t care that that made me think of a cheap horror flick.
Before I had a chance to really look, I felt a hand on my arm, pulling me up to my feet. I spun around and came face-to-face with Rick.
“Stop it. You’re frightening her,” he said.
“B…but,” I started.
“No buts. Amy, I’m sorry. You’re off the case. You’re stressed out, and you obviously need a break. I’m recommending you take a couple of weeks leave.”
“Leave?” I repeated, incredulous. “Look at what’s happening here. You can’t expect me to take leave. I need to get back to that body and find the evidence that she was attacked by the same man.”
Rick shook his head. “No. You’re off the case, Amy. Please don’t fight me on this.”
And I didn’t. I was too shocked, too humiliated, too betrayed to do anything but allow a junior officer to lead me back to my car. He sent someone to retrieve my kit. We stood awkwardly by my car until my kit was returned and then I drove home in a blur. I came straight upstairs and laid down in bed.
* * *
I still can’t believe I’ve found myself in this situation. I am angry that I wasn’t given a bit more credit. It’s more than that, though. I’m angry that Rick’s closed mind is going to hinder his investigation. It will lead to more deaths while he and his team chase their tails, looking for someone they are never going to find. And all the while, the victims will pile up. Well, their blood won’t be on my hands. I’ve done my part. I told Rick what I saw. The rest is on him. And all I have to do to feel better is find a way to make myself believe that.
The squad has to accept that their murderer is other worldly before they can have a hope of finding him. And even then it will be hard. I mean, it is unprecedented, to say the least, the idea that we have killer vampires in modern day LA. But apparently, that’s exactly what we have. It occurs to me for the hundredth time how unbelievable it is that I’m even entertaining these thoughts. I don’t believe in the supernatural. I never have.
Even as a kid, I thought the idea of ghosts was downright ridiculous, and I never imagined there were monsters under my bed. When one of my kindergarten classmates told me there was a monster living in her closet, I asked her for proof. Did she have photographs? Slime or scale samples? Needless to say, that particular little girl stopped confiding in me after that.
I didn’t even believe in Santa after the age of about five. One Christmas Eve, my mom caught me out of bed in the middle of the night with a flashlight, a pen, and a little spiral notebook, scribbling down all the evidence against some fat guy bringing gifts down a chimney: no snow on the floors, no soot disturbed in the fireplace, no reindeer poop in the house. Okay, that last one wouldn’t make sense under any circumstances, but I was five. Sue me. I’m pretty sure my mom still has my little list of notes somewhere – my terrible handwriting and childlike spelling mistakes memorialized for all time. I was a little mini detective in the making, I guess. And yes, I’ll admit, a skeptic from the start.
But despite all of that, here I am, certain in the knowledge of what I’ve seen, certain of the existence of—
I shiver as I think of the word vampire. It is a word I have been very careful saying, even in my mind, but it is what I think. It is the only explanation. If blood sucking undead are real and present in the modern world, who knows what else could be out there? Maybe I should cut Santa a little slack.
* * *
I’m in that weird limbo of “tired” and “totally, utterly, completely unable to sleep.” I hate it when I get like this. I try to watch some television, but my eyes won’t remain focused and the images start to blur into the faces of tonight’s victim, and of the woman in the alley, and of the thing with her that looked so human. I shuffle aimlessly around the apartment for a while, straightening things that were already in their proper place, opening and closing cabinet doors in the kitchen, making Bella whine. She hates it when I get like this too.
It’s a side effect of the job, these kind of nights. But it’s probably also a side effect of my own neurotic mind. I like to be in control. I like to take action. And when there’s no work to be done, or a case that just doesn’t want to be solved, I get that little itch in the back of my brain. Usually, it’s around this time that I’d head into the station for some late night work. Even paperwork would quiet my restless brain right now, and my sleep schedule is a pipe dream anyway. But, I remind myself again, with only a bit less bitterness than earlier tonight, I am on leave.
No forensic work for Amy. If my life were a comic book, it would be around now that I turned toward vigilantism. I let out a snort of laughter at that thought and force myself to settle down into bed again, grabbing a book off my bedside table. I really have been watching too many on demand movies.
* * *
I run through the streets, panting, terrified. I can hear it behind me. Its long strides are closing the distance between us. I pant, my breath coming in short bursts, each one burning my chest. The thing behind me sounds like it could do this all night. It doesn’t sound out of breath at all.
I steal a glance over my shoulder. The thing moves with eerie grace through the darkness, as though it is one with it. I can’t make out any obvious features. It is like a well-defined shadow. It seems to blur and change as I look at it, never retaining one shape for more than a second or two.
I turn back to face front and push myself, speeding up. I know I won’t be able to keep this up for long, but the terror pushes me on, feeding me the fuel I need.
I trip and hear myself let out a strangled scream as I hit the floor. I slide forwards, the entire length of my body connecting with the hard pavement and my chin bouncing painfully, bashing my teeth together.
I feel the skin on my arms grazing. I try to get my feet back under me. I have to keep running. As I drag myself up, I feel it. Something grabs my ankle, pulling me back down.
I scream. “Help. Please, someone, help me.”
The streets are deserted. No one comes for me. I am on my own with this, this thing.
I feel its…hands? Appendages? reach up my body. I feel its weight bearing down on me, and its hot, rancid breath covering the back of my neck in bursts. I can’t keep myself from retching.
I try to crawl my way along the floor, but the thing clinging to me is too heavy. I am trapped. I sense it bending its head closer towards me. I felt the warm wetness of what I presume to be a tongue on my skin.
My breathing is a series of ragged screams now; my pulse race
s, and my vision is blurry. I feel a sour, roiling sickness come over me and I realize, I am going to die here.
* * *
I hear the strangled gasp that bursts from me as I bolt into a sitting position. I sit upright, panting for a moment.
I jump to my feet and look around, raising my hands into a defensive position. The self-defense training Rick insisted I undertake ages ago presses against the fog of sleep, making my already racing heart absolutely hammer against my chest. I look around wildly, my hands still raised, ready to block any blow that comes at me. That thing from my dream…What was it? Where did it go?
As I look around, my eyes darting manically form place to place, I recognize my surroundings finally. I’m in my bedroom.
I feel my legs go shaky with relief as I realize it was just a dream. I take a step backward and sink down onto the edge of the bed, letting out a shaky laugh.
Of course it was a dream, I think. I reach out and switch on the bedside lamp as my breathing returns to normal and my racing pulse begins to slow down.
Bella is watching me, concern in her little puppy dog eyes, but I am still too disoriented to comfort her. This dream was more vivid than any I remember having had in the past. It has left a knot of apprehension in my stomach, and a haze on my mind. I feel like I’ve been asleep for days, but I don’t even remember going to bed.
I check the clock. 3:27 a.m. I must have fallen asleep. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I know I had been tired. And angry. So angry. I rub my forehead and push my hands through my hair. It feels damp, sweaty and tangled. I grimace and tie my gross hair back away from my face.
My whole body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Going through to the bathroom, I strip off the damp clothes, throwing them in the hamper. I let my hair down again and hop in the shower. The warm jet of water helps relax me, washing away the last remnants of my dream, and I simply stand for a while, unmoving, savoring it.
Sometimes, a good shower is the only thing that calms me down. I’m sure there’s some science behind that. The soothing stream of water, the repetitive sound, the warmth relaxing my muscles. It all combines to put me into a sort of trance. It is pure and purifying, almost magical. There’s a reason people tell you to take a long hot shower when you’re upset, and a reason people say we do our best thinking in the shower. I should have done this earlier tonight, if only to calm down my racing mind.
Eventually, I actually wash up, and step out into the steamy bathroom. I dry off, feeling groggy from the soothing water, but I know sleep will be a long time coming. Now that I’m out of the shower, its spell has been broken, and the creeping tendrils of the nightmare are working their way back to the forefront of my mind. My whole body is suddenly alert again, on edge. I can still feel that thing clinging to my back, and it jolts me further awake. I am hyperaware, jumpy almost. I decide to make a cup of tea. Maybe that will help soothe me. I half wish I had something a little more alcoholic.
In the kitchen, I can feel eyes on me even though I have turned every light on in the apartment and have been looking over my shoulder at my innocent entertainment center repeatedly. I jump when the kettle shrieks, signaling that the water has boiled. My hands are even shaking a little as I pour the steaming water into my mug and watch the teabag stain it a murky greenish-brown. What is wrong with me?
I take my tea back to my bed. Bella hops up and settles in beside me, and I’m grateful for her warmth, and the security it brings. She’s not much of a guard dog – far too friendly and affectionate, even towards strangers. But even so, her presence is reassuring. And normal. So blissfully normal. I switch on the TV and look for a sitcom. Maybe a good laugh track and a ridiculously large New York City apartment will take my mind off of things. I watch for a minute, sipping my tea, but I feel an increasing sensation that something isn’t right.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid. After a dream like that, who could blame me? But it is more than that. It is something tangible, but something I can’t place. My career has been built around noticing details, focusing on the minute discrepancies that help solve a case. I know when something is out of place. I can feel it. And I feel it now.
I pull my robe tighter around my shoulders as a chill breeze caresses the exposed skin there. A chill breeze? I sit up straighter, my head flying to the right. That’s it. The door to my balcony is open, just a crack.
I know I didn’t leave it that way. It was closed when I went into the living room to watch the movie earlier that night. It feels like months ago. But I know it was closed. I double checked it.
And I didn’t open it when I came back in. So how is it open? Had someone been in here? Someone, or something? I push that thought away quickly. It is neither helpful nor rational.
I gently place my cup on the bedside table. I walked through the whole apartment between taking my shower and venturing into the kitchen to make the tea, so I know no one is here now, but that knowledge does little to make me feel better. Someone had been in here. They must have been.
Nothing looks out of place, though. Did I actually double check the door? Maybe I left it unlocked and it blew open? I don’t know. One thought keeps trying to surface and I keep ignoring it. But it is there. Suddenly, in blazing red letters seared into my brain, it is there. The vampire had been here. I laugh at the ridiculousness of my thought. The laughter sounds strained to my ears, a little hysterical. It does nothing to calm me. Another laugh escapes me, this one sounding a little more normal, a little more like me, as a new thought pops in. It can’t have been a vampire. You have to invite them in. Right? I’ve watched enough vampire movies to know that much.
I’ve watched enough vampire movies to know a lot about them, now that I think of it. Or at least, enough to know about the fictional versions. I like monster flicks. They are, in some ways, the most realistic genre. No over the top romance or melodrama, just creatures hurting people. If you think of the monsters as metaphors for a certain type of people, it’s about as accurate to the real world as Hollywood gets. Maybe the actual vampires are accurate, too. Some of their movie characteristics must be based on truth, I reason. If vampires are real, which I am now fairly convinced they are, the familiar archetypes probably come from someone’s real life experiences – back when people didn’t get called crazy for stuff like this. That time existed, didn’t it?
I jump as my cell phone starts to ring. Who would be calling me at 4 a.m.? Usually, I would assume it was work, but that seems unlikely considering I am on leave.
I pick it up and look at the screen. There is a number I don’t recognize. I feel a cold shiver of fear run through me. Annoyed at myself, I press accept. It’s just a phone call. Even if it was the vampire, it’s not as if he could suck my blood through the phone. Besides, magically knowing people’s unlisted cell phone numbers isn’t usually considered to be one of a vampire’s supernatural abilities. Why am I suddenly scared of my own damn shadow?
“Amy McCartney,” I say.
“Hello, Amy,” says a man’s voice. I recognize the voice from somewhere, but I can’t immediately place it.
“Who is this?” I snap. I don’t mean to, but it is the middle of the night, after all. I have every right to. Plus, I’ve had a big night, what with my whole world view being turned on its head by the existence of vampires of all things, the whole being placed on leave thing, and a mysteriously and unsettlingly open balcony door.
“It’s Damon.”
Damon? I don’t think I know anyone named Damon. But the voice still sounds familiar. And, if I’m being honest, it sends a pleasant little flutter through my stomach as well. I can feel myself beginning to blush, which usually only happens when there’s a ridiculously attractive guy involved…then it hits me. Damon from the crime scene. I mentally focus. On the case, not on his amazing jawline. Nope, definitely not focusing on that jawline. Or those eyes.
“Did you remember something?” Good, Amy. Very professional. And totally coherent! I give myself a mental pat on the ba
ck. Maybe I’m getting past that whole prolonged bumbling teenager phase.
“No. I just wanted to make sure you were ok,” Damon says.
“Why wouldn’t I be ok?” I ask, genuinely curious. I should probably feel irritated, cautious. Strange men I meet at crime scenes calling in the middle of the night to check up on me is not normal.
I can almost hear him shrug. “No reason,” he says.
I picture him, sitting in bed, talking on his cell phone, chatting with me as if we are old friends, or…something more. Okay, so maybe not quite over the bumbling teenager phase. Seriously, what is the matter with me? I’m not even in the same room as this guy and I already feel all goofy. And we only met once. At a murder scene. I have a feeling I’m going to have to keep reminding myself of that fact. Still, calling me at this time seems odd if he doesn’t want to talk about the case. Maybe he figured I was still awake, given how late it was when we met at the crime scene. Maybe he was thinking of me. Maybe he found me attractive.
I push the thought away. I need to get information out of this man. I have a feeling that somehow, he could be the answer to all of this, but now that I have pictured him in bed, I start imagining him naked, a good natured smirk on his face as he speaks to me. I try to ignore my mind’s movie, but it’s hard to shake. I may not believe in love, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy an attractive man’s company. And I remember vividly how attractive Damon is.
