Bloody Little Secrets

by Karly Kirkpatrick



  Bloody Little Secrets

  Karly Kirkpatrick

  Copyright © 2011, 2012 by Karly Kirkpatrick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author

  Acknowledgements

  It takes one person to write a book, but it takes many people to make a book great. I’d like to thank my family, including my daughter Annikka, my husband Richard Johnson, and my parents Mike and Vicki Kirkpatrick, for supporting me and giving me the time to write. Without them, this dream of writing would be impossible. Thanks to the real Vicky Hernandez for being my muse. I hope she enjoys her story!

  A huge amount of thanks goes to my DarkSide Publishing girls. This book is amazing thanks to the genius of Megg Jensen, Michelle Sussman, Genevieve Ching, and Angela Carlie. I couldn’t have dreamed of a better group of people to work with every day! The preparation for this book also went international for the first time, and I must thank Adrian Hutchinson in Leeds, England for finding all my mistakes (and thanks to my dear friend Liz Hutchinson for giving him time to do so!). Also many thanks to Jon and Mary Kennedy, and Valerie Burleigh who have helped with proofing and are always so helpful and supportive!

  And finally, I have to thank all of my friends, fans, readers, and students. Your love and support makes it all worth it. You are the reason I put words on paper!

  About the Author

  Karly Kirkpatrick is a teacher by day and a writer by night. Her list of titles include her YA novels, Into the Shadows, Darkness Rising, After Dawn, The Green, Bloody Little Secrets, and New Blood, and a selection of short stories. You can found out more about Karly and her writing at https://www.karlykirkpatrick.com.

  Chapter 1

  I never feared the dark, until I became part of it.

  My eyes fluttered open; yet nothing seemed to change. Inky blackness swirled around me. A scream rose in my throat, but I quickly swallowed it. I pressed my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them again, I’d be able to see something, anything.

  Nothing.

  I turned my head. My neck moved in slow motion and creaked like a rusty hinge. My hair rustled against some kind of fabric. Beneath my fingers it stretched, silky and soft. I ran my hands out to the side and above me. More fabric. Satin, I guessed. The air was thick and stuffy, making it difficult to breathe. My hands pressed harder and found resistance at every angle.

  I was in a coffin.

  I banged on the lid that was just a few inches above my nose and screamed for help, my muffled voice bouncing around me. It didn’t budge. I had to get out. My breathing became more ragged.

  “Relax, Vicky, relax.” I rubbed my face.

  I started pounding with all my power on the lid. The wood cracked as my fist exploded through it, sending splinters and dirt onto my face. I spit out a few clumps that landed in my mouth. Nasty.

  Damp air rushed in through the hole. My arm burned as I pulled it back through, ripping my skin on the jagged pieces. Blood dripped down it, pooling in the crook of my elbow. Tears trickled down my face.

  With just a little moonlight coming through the hole, I saw my surroundings. White satin crowded around me. I glanced down, forced to twist my head at an uncomfortable angle, and discovered someone had dressed me in my Homecoming dress. What the hell? Somebody would have some explaining to do.

  The burning in my arm had stopped. Maybe it had just gone numb. Whatever. I had to get out of here. I could get it stitched up later.

  Two more loud cracks sounded as my fists burst through the lid again, clearing a much larger space. The thick wood pieces offered little resistance as I pushed them to the side. Blood oozed down my arms, both shredded from the splinters. I had enough space now to at least get my head and shoulders through. Reaching out of the coffin, I dragged myself out, sliding across the top. I slipped in the light layer of dirt on the lid.

  I was thankful whoever had locked me in there hadn’t gone so far as to bury me. I mean, I remember the time my friends had locked a sleeping Pete Stevenson in Jenna Gorski’s trunk after Homecoming, but that was a joke, and someone was waiting to let him out. They’d gone too far this time.

  Something stabbed me in the knee. The dusty petals of wilted roses littered the top of the coffin. I picked one up and brushed it off. It matched the pink of my dress.

  I was at the bottom of a grave, about six feet down. No one had bothered to leave me a rope or anything. Fear melted into anger. My breath hung in the air in front of me, yet I couldn’t feel the chill. Time to do some climbing. The same dumbass responsible for this sick joke also had the wise idea of locking me in there in nothing more than a pair of pink high heels. I kicked them off and stood on the lid of the coffin.

  The earthen walls were as smooth and hard as stone. My fingers searched the dirt for leverage. There were few options. With one swift motion, I slammed the pink spiked heel into the hard-packed earth. I dug my bare toes into the makeshift ladder. The shoes held my weight and after a minute I was able to pull myself over the edge.

  I rolled onto my back and let an exasperated breath out toward the night sky. It was dark here, and the stars were bright. I sat up and my fingers explored the spattered and dirt-streaked fabric. I attempted to brush the same filth from my arms and legs with no success.

  “What the heck?” I ran my fingers down my forearms. The deep wounds were gone and the dried blood made my skin feel stiff.

  Whoa. This was not normal.

  A handmade white wooden cross marked the head of the grave. I crawled over and ran my fingers along the handwritten black letters.

  Victoria Ann Hernandez.

  It looked like my dad’s handwriting. My senior picture was stapled at the intersection of the two pieces of wood. My long, dark hair was straight and expertly placed around my face. Head tilted, I flashed a winning smile at the camera. Straight teeth, dimple in my cheek, my skin dark and smooth. A date ran down the vertical portion of the cross.

  June 14, 1993–October 27, 2010.

  What?

  This wasn’t possible.

  I was dead.

  But I didn’t look dead, or at least I didn’t think so. My skin, apart from being bloody and dirty, didn’t appear to be rotting. I sniffed my arm. It smelled earthy from my surroundings, but not dead. I felt my face, my hair. Same thing. Everything seemed one hundred percent intact.

  This had to be a joke.

  “Very funny. You can come out now.” I scoured the graveyard for any sight or sound that might give my friends away. This was far from funny. It was a shitty thing to do. And when I found out who did it, I was going to show them just how unfunny it was.

  A branch snapped in the woods twenty feet in front of me with a loud crack. The dark trunks stood dead quiet and imposing at the edge of the graveyard. I jumped to my feet. My eyes swung across the rows of headstones before me which, despite the faint moonlight, seemed clear as day. I couldn’t see anyone, but I heard breathing.

  I crept closer to the trees and shrubs that formed a wall around me and jumped from grave to grave. I hid behind the large marble headstones. A blur caug
ht my eye as something ran through the woods in a completely I’m-not-a-prankster-but-a-rapist kind of way. I dropped down behind an ornate headstone of an angel, its white arms raised to the sky. Maybe I had the wrong idea. Why go towards a strange noise in the woods? The smart thing to do would be to run the other way.

  Glancing back the way I’d come, I could make out some lights in the distance. A house sat on a hill, maybe a half mile away. I needed to get help. I stepped into the shadows of the trees, opposite the area where I’d heard the noise. The most direct route to the house would take me straight through the forest. I hoped whatever I’d heard wasn’t interested in following me.

  Sprinting this fast should have been difficult without shoes, but I wove quickly between the trees. A few night creatures roamed as I sped by. A possum rummaged in some bushes and a family of raccoons scurried towards a bubbling stream. They took no notice of me.

  Dodging a particularly large tree, I slowed to gauge my distance from the house. It sat just above the tree line. Almost there. The tree branches creaked and something much larger than a raccoon dropped to the ground in front of me.

  I shrieked and skidded to a stop.

  “There you are. You move pretty fast, you know.” He chuckled. His black leather jacket shined in the moonlight.

  A shiver slithered down my spine.

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  He moved forward much faster than anyone I’d ever seen before and grabbed my arm. “Why so rude? You could at least thank me for digging you up.”

  I wrenched away, darting back into the woods. His feet trampled right behind me, gaining. I skidded, sliding around a large oak and going in yet another direction. I had no idea where the house was now, but I didn’t care. I just had to get away from him. I couldn’t hear his footsteps any longer and dove behind the thick trunk of the nearest tree.

  I was breathing hard now, more out of fear than from running. I peeked out from behind the tree, taking in the shadows of the trees around me. It was quiet. Too quiet.

  From nowhere, I felt arms slide around me. I smelled leather.

  “Ha. Gotcha.”

  On reflex I threw my arms wide and tossed the man off of me. I spun around. He flailed and flew backward across the small clearing. A loud crunch echoed through the air, bouncing off the dark trees. A large tree branch erupted from his chest, bursting through the leather jacket. Blood poured from the wound and pooled at his feet. He gulped air, his eyes wild as they locked on mine. A faint scent of rotting garbage floated from his open chest.

  His face, hands, and feet crumpled before me, collapsing into a pile of dust underneath the clothing. I tiptoed over to the pile. The branch stuck through the leather coat right where the man’s heart should’ve been.

  I tripped over a tree branch as I backed away and landed hard on the ground. A sob escaped my lips. This wasn’t right. People just didn’t turn into piles of dust. I had to get away from here before anyone noticed what I’d done. I pulled myself up, straining to see above the tree line to the house on the hill. I’d run a bit out of the way, but because of either the adrenaline or the weirdness of the night, I closed the space quickly.

  What was that guy?

  I climbed the hill, nearing the house, still glancing behind occasionally. Nothing moved. I breathed a sigh of relief as I hit the driveway. House, driveway, garage. No imploding rapists here. The light was on in the garage, spilling onto the driveway through one of the open doors in a giant yellow square.

  I padded on bare feet across the concrete drive towards the open door. Something smelled delicious, like all my favorite meals rolled into one. Pizza, cake, mashed potatoes. My stomach growled and my mouth watered. I spotted a man working at a bench along the back wall of the garage. I crept closer, trying not to make a sound, the smell still driving me crazy. The pieces of a small engine were spread out on the workbench. The man cleaned a metal cylinder with a rag. The scent of oil and grease mingled with the pizza and mashed potatoes smell. I tripped over something metal, which clanged and rang through the still air.

  “Damn.” I grabbed my toe.

  The man jumped and turned around, clutching his chest. He wore blue jean overalls and a white tee shirt. Wisps of gray hair stuck out from under a dirty baseball cap on his head.

  “Man, you scared me.” His look changed from surprise to concern as his eyes took me in. He wiped his hands on the rag and walked towards me. “Are you okay, darlin’? You have some kinda accident or something?”

  “No, I’m okay,” I whispered, my brain clouding over. It was hard to hear him over the smell of pizza. It was like he had bathed in it.

  “Well, you’re all muddy and bloody. Did somebody hurt you?” he asked, taking a step closer.

  I felt a sharp pain in my mouth and howled. My teeth were extending, pushing through the gums. This wasn’t possible. I threw my hands over my mouth and whimpered.

  He rushed over, dropped his rag, and grabbed my arms.

  “Hang on, honey, let’s get you to the house. We need to call you an ambulance.” He caught me around the waist as my knees gave out and caught me before I sank to the floor. My arms snaked around his neck and I laid my head on his shoulder. The smell of food was so strong now I couldn’t take it any longer. It was the man. It had to be the man. I just wanted a little taste. I was so hungry.

  “Come on, I guess I’ll have to carry you.” He half-dragged me towards the open garage door.

  I took one last whiff of his intoxicating scent and I lurched forward, latching onto his neck. My teeth sunk into his skin, like it was nothing more than a slice of bread. He gasped, caught off-guard by the bite, and attempted to pull away.

  “What...what are you doing?” he asked. My arms were locked around his neck of their own volition.

  “I’m just really hungry.” I pulled my head back from his neck and looked deep into his eyes. “Don’t move.”

  His eyes glazed over.

  “Okay,” he said, staring off into space.

  I sunk my teeth back into his neck, and all of the flavors I had smelled spilled down my throat in one glorious smorgasbord. Every meal my mother had ever made filled my stomach, the warmth of it spread throughout my body. And then it stopped.

  The man slumped over in my arms, empty.

  Startled, I gently laid him down on the garage floor. What the hell? This was so not good.

  “Harold?” A voice yelled from the back door of the house. “Are you all right out there?”

  I jumped, hiding myself behind the closed garage door. I looked down again. Harold appeared to be sleeping on the floor, but I knew better. He didn’t smell like pizza anymore. On his throat were two bloody puncture wounds.

  “Harold!” The woman shouted again and the back door slammed shut.

  I held my breath as her footsteps padded across the driveway.

  “Harold, I swear, you never listen when I call you. Harold?” She gasped, finally seeing him on the floor of the garage. “Oh my Lord, Harold, what happened? Can you hear me, Harold?”

  She knelt down on the ground and slapped his face. Her eyes caught on the puncture marks. “What is this? Harold!”

  I stepped out of the shadows, and she jumped, pressing one hand to her heart.

  “What did you do to my husband?” She shrieked, still holding his hands. She smelled like freshly-baked muffins. Banana nut.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  The silver streaks in her dark hair glinted in the garage light. Her red and blue plaid flannel pajamas were faded and worn. I took a step closer.

  “You…you stay right where you are.” Her voice shook. “I’m calling the police.” She rose to her feet, trembling, and walked to a phone above the workbench.

  In a flash, I was by her side. I grabbed her arm and whipped her around. She screamed and tried to hit me
but I stopped her hand with one quick motion.

  Her eyes landed on mine and she stopped struggling.

  “Your eyes, they’re so beautiful,” she said.

  “Please don’t call.” I begged with my eyes.

  “I won’t call,” she mumbled.

  The smell of muffins washed over me again, causing my mouth to water. No, no, no! Not again. My mouth hurt much less this time when my new, sharp teeth slid down. I found myself drawn to her throat, just as I had been to Harold’s. My teeth sank into her neck, the taste of muffins splashing into my mouth. I drank from her until she too collapsed in my arms. The fog in my brain cleared again, and I looked down in horror at the limp woman. I choked back a sob and tears pooled in my eyes, overflowing and spilling down my cheeks.

  Had I really killed three people in one night?

  Until I figured that out, I needed to get as far away from here as possible. And I needed to avoid people. I didn’t want this to happen again. I dragged the woman across the garage and laid her next to Harold. I linked their arms together. I didn’t know them, but I thought they might want to be together wherever they were headed. I stepped out of the garage and pulled the door closed, blocking out the macabre scene. I prayed there was no one left in the house.

  I remembered I was still wearing the bloodied and torn Homecoming dress. My fingers found clumps of dirt and leaves in my hair from my graveyard and forest exploits. I needed some clothes and a shower, or I’d never make it to wherever I was going. I headed towards the back door. I opened it and sniffed. No people, just a cat.

  I padded through the house, feeling like I didn’t belong there. There was a teakettle whistling on the stove, which I turned off as I walked by. No need for the house to burn down. I found a staircase and climbed upstairs, stopping by the first bedroom. It must have been their bedroom. I flipped the light switch on and walked around the bed.

  A neatly-made bed with one side turned down waited patiently for an owner who wouldn’t be coming back. A paperback romance novel with dog-eared pages lay on the nightstand. I ran my fingers over the bedspread as I walked towards the open closet. I rummaged through the old lady clothes until I found something suitable. Sweatpants and a tee-shirt with a college logo on it. A pair of clog-style slippers would have to complete the outfit since my feet were too big to fit in the woman’s shoes.

  I stepped into a spotless bathroom and stopped to glance at myself in the mirror. My long, dark hair hung in dirty clumps around my face, which, like the rest of my body, was streaked with mud and blood. My eyes glittered in the light. There were so many more facets, like gemstones

  I inspected my arms again, finding no evidence that they had been torn to shreds by splintered wood less than an hour earlier. My eyes fell on a razor lying on the edge of the bathtub. I picked it up and gently touched it to my skin but pulled it away before it could cut me. I didn’t really want to do it, but I had to see it for myself.

  I buried my head in my hands, eyes wet with tears I hadn’t noticed. There was only one way to do this. It was like ripping off a Band-Aid, only the exact opposite. With a quick move, I sliced the skin on my arm. I bit my lip, trying not to cry out. The blood trickled out slowly, a few drops plopping onto the white tiles below before the cut started to heal. The skin fused back together, changing from red, to a light purple, the color of an old bruise, and then shifting back to a light brown. It disappeared. No trace, no scar.

  My mouth was smeared with dried blood. My hands shook as I gingerly touched my lips, still not fully believing what I had done earlier. I thought about my teeth and how they’d extended at the smell of all that glorious food. I could feel them slide out again and opened my mouth, wanting to see for myself.

  Razor sharp fangs replaced my canine teeth. I touched one with my tongue, and it drew blood. My own blood didn’t smell like cupcakes; it smelled wrong, off, not unlike the guy in the woods.

  No.

  This couldn’t be possible. I stared again, eyes sparkling, fangs out.

  This creature that stood before me was just a myth. A bedtime story or the lead character in a teen romance novel. Not me, not here in the middle of Illinois. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them I would awaken from this awful dream.

  I opened them again. I stood before the mirror—horrible and magnificent.

  I was a vampire.