by Martha Woods
“Nothing,” My mind goes blank for a moment. “I swear, I didn’t see anything” I plead.
The man’s grip is forming bruises on my arms, I can tell. I struggle, but it is no use. He has me completely in his control.
“HEYYY! What are you doing over there?” a voice yells.
And in a blink of an eye, Mister Muscles is gone again. I breathe a sigh of relief. Rick or one of the officers must have noticed I was gone and has come looking for me.
I turn.
“She was….” My voice trails off as I look into the face of the woman’s attacker.
“Amy.” Mister Muscles smiles. The blood is all gone from around his mouth, as if he has just freshened up and come back to finish our conversation. This time, his smile is warm, charming. I feel a rush of fear, but underneath it, I’m ashamed to admit there is something else. A stirring of desire. “What exactly did you see?” He is not urgent like he was before. He’s speaking easily, as if we’re just having a casual conversation.
His eyes are fixed on mine, and I am floating in a sea of warmth. A reassuring strength radiates off the man, and I want to fall into it, fall into his arms. But with a force of will that surprises me, I force my eyes away from his.
“N…Nothing,” I stammer. “This woman, she fell, and she’s hurt.”
I indicate the woman behind me. The man’s neutral expression falters slightly. What is that? Confusion? A hint of fear?
I hear footsteps running towards the alley.
“Amy? Amy?” Rick’s voice yells.
“Here,” I call back, surprising myself with the strength in my voice.
The man in front of me vanishes again and I fall to my knees. Am I going crazy? Has all the time spent around dead bodies finally started to send me insane?
No, I think. I know exactly what I saw. That was no ordinary man.
Chapter 2
I lie on my bed, looking up at the ceiling, and sigh loudly. I can’t believe I am on leave. Leave in this case meaning “she’s gone crazy, get her out of the way.”
I’m trying hard not to be enraged by the situation. I’ve done good work for the LAPD, and Rick knows I take my job seriously. He knows I’m not nuts. Rick has known me since I was just starting out. He’s seen me at my worst, back before I knew how to control my emotions (and, I’ll admit it, my gag reflex) at a crime scene. Seeing a body is never an easy thing, no matter how much training and mental preparation you go through. And it doesn’t get easier with time. But you learn to push emotions aside, to concentrate on the job, because in the end that’s the best way to help a victim. At the beginning, though, staying calm and collected just isn’t in the cards. And I was no exception.
At my first crime scene, I managed to hold it together just long enough to excuse myself, round a corner, and vomit into a dumpster. Rick was the one who found me there in that alley, weeping, trying to regain enough control to face the other officers again. He handed me a breath mint and told me it was okay, that it happened to everyone. He was there to encourage me and make me feel like I could keep doing this job after that. I know that’s why he’s so protective of me. But right now, it doesn’t stop me from being furious with him.
A part of me knows that’s not fair. I put myself in Rick’s shoes for a moment. If a witness had told me that a man had attacked a woman and then vanished, reappeared, spoke to them and vanished again, I’d have written them off as crazy too.
But I’m not just a witness, dammit. I’m a respected forensic officer. I’m not prone to delusions or flights of fancy. I am known for being meticulous, getting the job done and spotting the little details other people might miss. And in this case, that little detail happens to be a man who vanishes and bites people’s necks. A vampire?
I snort out a bitter laugh. How can that not sound crazy? Maybe I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately. I have been putting in a lot of overtime given these serial murders. I don’t like not having answers. It’s not just that it makes me look bad professionally. It’s more than that. I’m a forensic scientist, and forensic science, however complicated, has hard and fast rules. It has logic. It has answers. It’s not like I’m a quantum physicist or something. I’m not used to problems I can’t solve. Maybe this whole vampire fantasy is just my over-exhausted brain’s way of explaining away the unexplainable.
Vampires. I try again to push the thought away – to convince myself that I imagined the whole thing, but I can’t. I know what I saw. And I know it was my duty to report it.
I think back to the moment, wondering if I could have done anything differently, made myself sound more believable, my story more plausible.
* * *
Rick rushed along the alley. He crouched down beside me.
“Are you ok?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“I’m fine.” I nodded, pushing myself up. I saw my hands were trembling. “Just a bit shaken up.”
Rick stood up to his full height beside me.
“What happened?”
I opened my mouth to answer him when I remembered the woman. I turned and saw two uniformed officers attending to her. She was sitting up and looked ok. She was talking to the officers.
I turned back to Rick.
“I was examining the body when a woman, that woman” I indicated her with a nod of my head “caught my eye. She headed into the alley, and I was sure I saw the outline of a man in the shadows. I was worried that if I called to you, it would alert him and we’d lose him, so I followed her.”
Rick opened his mouth to interrupt me; no doubt to give me a lecture about placing myself in danger. I cut him off.
“I crouched behind the dumpster and watched. The man stepped out of the shadows, and she went to him. They started kissing and I thought I had been mistaken – they were just screwing. But then she cried out. It didn’t sound like pleasure.
“So I turned back and saw he was kissing her neck. Except he wasn’t. He was biting it, ripping into her throat with his teeth. I called out for him to stop and he looked straight at me and vanished.”
“Vanished how?” Rick asked.
“No idea,” I said. “And then …” I didn’t know why, but I hesitated then. It was as if something inside me didn’t want to talk about the man. He hadn’t killed the woman, after all. What was I saying? He probably would have if I had not intervened. And he had grabbed my arms so hard I had bruises in the impressions of his fingers. “Then he was back, just like that. He was right in front of me. He asked what I’d saw, and I lied. I said the woman had fallen and I wanted to help her. He seemed confused. Scared. And then you yelled to me, and he vanished again. Rick, I know how this sounds, but he vanished into thin air right in front of my face.”
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 nod
ded, 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 races, 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?
