by P. J. Burgy
She’d asked, hadn’t she? She’d asked Martin if he’d killed Tommy and he’d replied ‘No’. Would he have lied to her?
Perhaps it wasn’t Tommy’s blood. Maybe he’d dropped it when he ran, and the crows had found it, brought it to Martin’s house and had such a scuffle over it that one had been injured, resulting in- No, don’t be stupid. You know what happened. Occam’s razor, Lizzie. You’ve known all along.
She chewed on her nails, rocking on the futon, Tommy’s bloody nametag sitting on the coffee table in front of her.
There was only one answer: Martin had killed Tommy and lied about it. That was it. End of story.
You knew. Come on. Stop playing stupid.
She shook her head.
Handsome, generous Martin. Monstrous, bloodthirsty Martin. Was it easier to pretend? Did it feel that good to be loved?
Her chest ached, the apprehension gnawing at her until she couldn’t take it any longer and cried out, doubling over. It was only 2 PM; Martin wouldn’t be awake for another couple hours. Gathering herself as much as she could, Lizzie pondered over her phone, thumb hanging over Martin’s name in the contacts.
Margo had been the one calling her earlier, her message in the voicemail. Lizzie had listened to it already – Margo had called to ask how it all went – but that was as far as it went. In the state she was in, Lizzie didn’t think she could handle the talk.
She called Martin. It rang many times before going to his voicemail. He didn’t have a message; a robotic female voice instructed her to leave a message after the tone.
After the low beep sounded, Lizzie inhaled deeply. “Martin, when you get this, ah, just… call me back. I want the truth. I found his nametag, Martin. Tommy’s. Outside your house. I know …and I want to understand. Why? Why did you lie? Why did you do it?”
She took in a low, ragged breath.
“Do not come over. Just call me. I can’t look at you.”
Her eyes closed. She licked her lips.
“Goodbye, Martin.”
Lizzie hung up.
Outside, the snow piled up rapidly, a foot already laying by the time the local plow driver rolled through her neighborhood, his pickup truck shambling by her house.
She texted Margo that she’d put a hold on her decision with Martin, also adding that she had a migraine and was going to take it easy for the night. Margo replied, asking why.
Lizzie stared at the phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as she pondered her options. She wasn’t about to text back that Martin the vampire had sullied the working agreement by murdering her boyfriend in cold blood a week ago.
Instead, she said that there were a few clauses in the contract that she didn’t care for, and that he would be a terrible roommate. Partly true, at least.
It occurred to her that she hadn’t really cried since discovering the truth. Most of her tears had come right after he’d gone missing, and while she’d been holding out hope she sort of knew that Tommy would never come home again.
He did you a favor, Lizzie. He tossed the albatross when you wouldn’t.
She clenched her fists, doubling over again.
Tommy hadn’t deserved to die, no matter how frustrating he could be. She’d loved him, hadn’t she? Hated him too, but… loved him and grown accustomed to his presence. He never would have left her. Not ever.
Tears slid down her cheeks once more, her teeth bared. A wretched sob tore from her throat. As badly as it hurt to realize what had happened – what had actually happened – the fact that she’d known resonated, and it stung.
She had pictures of Tommy on her phone. She was in a few of them too, sticking her tongue out as they goofed around and took joint photos for their social media accounts. It had been a year since she’d deactivated hers, but he’d kept his. When he’d shared anything with her in person, she saw their picture together in his profile, the main image.
Most of those pictures had been taken during happier times, though a some included forced smiles in the dips and pits of their worst moments together.
She wiped at her eyes, scrolling through the camera roll.
Over and over, she checked her phone as the sky darkened. Margo had sent a few more messages before giving up on her; Lizzie wouldn’t reply at all. When 5 PM appeared on the screen, she held her phone close and waited for him to wake up, get her message, and call her back.
Another forty minutes passed.
Sighing, she stood up, placing the phone into her back pocket as she contemplated dinner. She was hungry, even if she didn’t feel like eating. And compulsively glancing at her phone wasn’t going to make him call any sooner.
She began to pour herself a glass of orange juice when a loud pounding sounded at her door, the burst fast and violent. Another round came only half a second later and she scrambled to set her glass down on the counter.
“LIZZIE.”
Running to the door, she pressed her palms against the wood grain. She knew better to open it, sensing the rage on the other side. “Martin, I told you to call me!”
“Let me in, Lizzie.”
“No. I told you to call me. Go home and call me.”
He spoke in a low monotone. “Lizzie, invite me in. We can talk. Open the door.”
“I don’t want to talk here. I don’t want to see you. I wanted you to call me and explain what I found, Martin.” She swallowed thickly. Her stomach lurched.
“I have no idea.”
“It’s his bloody nametag, Martin. Did you kill him?”
“No. I don’t know how that got there.”
She scowled, peering out at him through the peephole. A large, piercing blue eye stared back at her – almost comically warped by the lens – and she pulled back. “I know you’re lying to me, Martin. The way he disappeared. You did it. You did it and you lied to me, and for some reason I… believed you.”
“You were happy he disappeared, that’s why.”
“I didn’t want this.”
“Let it go, Lizzie. It’s over now. Tonight, I make you mine and your life begins anew.”
“No, Martin.”
“No?”
“Tell me what happened!”
“Ugh. It’s pretty self-explanatory, isn’t it? He was holding you back, so I removed him from the picture. You should be thanking me!” he shouted. He appeared by the window in her living room. “Thanking me!” The glass did little to muffle his voice.
The blur of motion in her peripheral caught her attention and she gawked at him through the glass. “You killed him! You really did!” Lizzie cried, stepping into her living room to narrow her eyes at him. A second later, she looked away, returning to the door; his gaze had grown too dark and oppressive to hold.
“If you’d never found the damn thing, you’d be none the wiser and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Shame on me for being sloppy, I suppose.”
“You bastard!”
“What are you angry about? That I killed him or that I lied about it? Which should I apologize for? Please, clarify.”
“Both!”
“All right. I am sorry. Can I come in?”
“No!”
“You’re being needlessly difficult. I apologized.”
“Are you kidding? Why, Martin?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you kill him?!”
“I told you; he was a parasite, Lizzie. I picked him off like the tick he was, and you were never happier. Tell me you weren’t happy!” He slammed his fist into the glass, cracking it, and pulled back, a pained sound escaping him.
She pressed her back against her door and slid to the floor, hugging her knees. “Go away, Martin! You’re a killer and a liar!”
He laughed. “You aren’t a fool. Naïve, yes, but not a fool. All you needed was the lie and you threw yourself into my arms. You’d wanted to so badly for so long that it didn’t matter how you rationalized it. This mire of sudden remorse is absurd.”
“Go away!”
“
You made a promise, Lizzie! We have an agreement!”
“I changed my mind.”
He banged on the door again. “You can’t change your mind!”
“I did. Now leave me alone!”
“Leave you alone?” His low growl echoed from the other side of the door. “Lizzie, I will never leave you alone. Not ever. We had an understanding. You told me that you loved me, didn’t you? Said you’d bind with me tonight.”
“And now I’m saying no. You murdered my fucking boyfriend, you lunatic!”
“I did it for you.”
“I thought we were friends! I thought you cared about me!”
“I love you more than you could possibly know.”
She shut her eyes tightly, finding it difficult to keep her voice from cracking. “That’s not love, Martin!”
“Not love? Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. Freed you of that dead end job at the bookstore, didn’t I?” He slammed against her door, the sharp crack of the impact shaking the entire frame. He did it again. “I! Offered! You! Everything!”
“Did you burn down Kat’s Corner?! Tell me the truth!” Lizzie knelt up, shivering wildly.
“I did! I set it ablaze. You weren’t going to leave without some gentle prodding. You’d rooted yourself there wasting your talents! I gave you freedom!” He grabbed the doorknob, jostling it violently, and cried out in agony.
“I literally cannot believe you right now!” She pounded on her side of the door. “You are insane! How could you do that? How could you do any of that?!”
“For you. For us.”
“What else have you been hiding from me?!” Lizzie forced herself to her feet and looked at him through the peephole. Her lungs contracted.
He loomed out there, unaware of his being watched, the fisheye effect not doing him any favors. Backing away, his eyes, entirely black, sclera and all, flashed with menace. His sharp teeth glinted in the low light. Throwing his hands up and around, he thrashed in hysteria on her porch before rushing forward and slamming his forehead right into the door.
She fell back, almost landing on her rear.
“Ungrateful rodent!” Martin cried. “I offer you my love, my soul, my entire being, and this is what I get in return? Why is your kind like this? WHY?!”
“You’re insane!”
“I’m so sorry – that was rude of me. I love you. Please let me in, and we can talk about this. Please.”
“No!”
“LIZZIE!”
“You’re out of control! Go home!” she cried at her door.
“You can’t stay in there forever!”
“You can’t wait out there forever!” Her mouth went dry.
Silence.
A low, rumbling laugh. He tapped on her door, the sound clacking sharply. Claws dragged across the wood, the door vibrating. He tapped again. “You aren’t thinking clearly, my love. You’re upset.”
“Find yourself another artist, Martin. I don’t want to bind myself to you anymore. You’re crazy. And dangerous.” She found herself kneeling on the floor, her head down and her hair spilled over her face. Keeping the fear out of her voice seemed impossible at this point. “You’re scaring me.”
“Scared? Of me?” A pause. “Lizzie, I’d never hurt you.”
“You already have!”
“All I ask for is your love. Your paintings. Your stories. Your soul. All I ask for is you. Give me those things and I’ll worship you, Lizzie. I’ll kiss the ground you walk on. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Whatever you desire.”
“I desire you to leave!”
A long moment passed. She licked her lips, heart pounding.
“Lizzie, I’ll let you think about it. You have time. We can do the ritual tomorrow night. Everything is ready for us,” he said. “I’ll come back at six tomorrow and get you.”
“I’m not binding with you, Martin!”
“Think carefully, my love. You made me a promise, and I made one as well, did I not?”
She swallowed, unable to speak.
He continued. “I promised not to hunt in this town, didn’t I, my love? I promised not to hurt anyone you know.”
“Martin…” She felt like she’d vomit. “Don’t…”
“Think it over. I can make it all better again. Or I can make your life a living Hell. The choice is yours.”
“Please, don’t do this…”
“And don’t even think about trying to take me out after sunrise. I have ways of guarding myself.” He tapped rhythmically on her door.
“I wouldn’t. I just want you to leave me alone.”
“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t. Let me in tomorrow night or I will make you regret it. I’ll have you, Lizzie, that I promise. I chose you. You. A special one. Gifted. A spark in you that separates you from the rest of these vacant eyed sheep.” Martin leaned into her door, and it groaned under his weight. “And I will kill every last one of them in this wretched little town until you open that door for me.”
Heaving, Lizzie shut her eyes tightly. “Martin…”
Silence.
She waited on the floor rocking for what felt like an eternity until she heard the heavy crash from upstairs. Terrified, she ran up the steps and flew into her room.
A boulder at least twice the size of her head lay on the floor next to her bed, the shattered glass sparkling in the carpet. A cold wind swept into the room from the gaping hole he’d put in her bedroom window, the blinds rattling and hanging like a broken jaw. She gasped and stumbled backward, slamming the bedroom door shut.
Her hands shook as she called Margo from the hall outside her room. Mind racing, Lizzie considered what to say. What would Margo think? What would she believe? It all sounded like pure madness when Lizzie thought about the words she wanted to blurt out.
As soon as she picked up, Lizzie cried her name.
“Whoa, girl. What’s going on?”
“Ah, Margo, ah, are you home?”
“Did you see the snow out there, Lizzie? Can’t go anywhere!” Margo said. “Not until they get the state plows get in-”
“Stay home! And don’t open your door for anyone!”
“Um. What? Are you okay?”
“Don’t let Martin in, okay?”
“What’s this all about? You two have it out? And why would I need’ta worry about him? He doesn’t even know where I live. Trust me, I would’ve given him my address in a second if-”
Lizzie grunted. “Just don’t.”
“Uh, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “I, ah… I suspect he’s… he’s the killer, Margo. I saw some suspicious things…”
“Oh shit, call the police!”
“It isn’t like… proof-proof, and they, uh, wouldn’t believe me. But he knows I know, so, um, he’s…”
“Tell them anyway! What proof did you find?”
Her eyes closed. “I found Tommy’s nametag at his place.”
Margo tsk’d. “Okay…”
“There’s blood on it.”
“And you think Martin killed Tommy?”
“He admitted it.”
“He said he killed Tommy? Lizzie, that’s proof! Call the police! What are you doing?”
“It isn’t that easy,” she said. “There’s no… no body, and…”
“So, they pick him up and ask him questions. Call the police!” Margo’s tone turned emphatic. “What’s the problem?”
“Martin is…”
“Is what, Lizzie? Martin is what?”
“He’s, ah, rich, you know. Powerful…”
“You think they won’t touch him?”
“Well…”
“Girl, I am going to have a few drinks before bed. But you know what you have to do. If he really admitted to it, you need to get the cops involved. Call the FBI, actually. Not those useless local dweebs. Call the Marshall, or something. Whatever they do in the movies. Just do something.”
“Okay. Be safe…”
“I ain’t going anywhere until the plows do.”
“Goodbye, Margo.”
“Peace, hun.”
Chapter 13
For most of the night she sat awake in the basement surrounded by her paintings. Periodically she checked on her phone, waiting for it to ring and for it to be Martin screaming at her. He never called.
Her dozing dreams frightened her awake, her back against the cement wall and her fists clenched at her sides.
7 AM came and she cautiously exited the basement, spotting fresh daylight, crisp against the three feet of snow outside, gleaming across the kitchen from the windows.
Opening the front door and peering out, she found deep scratches in the wood – four long gouges from his fingernails. He’d also cracked the paneling in the mid center with his headbutt. Her throat tightened.
It had snowed again since the plow came through, tapering off during the night. Still, there was a lot of the stuff. Her yard and sidewalk beyond her porch were completely hidden under a thick blanket of white. She heard a snowblower going somewhere in the distance.
Since the plow would most likely come back through again before too long, she forced herself to go out and shovel, bundled up in her warmest clothes and a thick jacket. It took two hours to clear most of her sidewalk. Why she was doing it, she wasn’t sure, but she did know that she didn’t want to be trapped in her house that night. Not with Martin coming back at sunset.
Winter days were so short.
She went in and made herself eat.
Back out again, she finished the sidewalk and cleaned off her car, half expecting to find her tires slashed and the windows smashed in. He hadn’t damaged her vehicle at least.
She sighed, her breath turning to mist, and leaned against her little red Honda. Something on the passenger seat got her attention as it glimmered green. She frowned and walked around to the other side, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling.
Her car door was unlocked. She must’ve forgotten to lock it when she’d arrived home the other night. No, she always checked. The other doors were still locked, the latch rods in their lowered position. Only the front passenger side had been touched.
