She passed the day in a haze, wandering along the canal, distractedly skipping stones across its sluggish surface, avoiding Kalle’s calls. She knew that her growing obsession with the missing body couldn’t be healthy, but she seemed to be incapable of suppressing it. Each time she recalled the moment of eye contact, her heard beat against her ribs as if she were in love. By the time she had wandered the length of the canal three times, night had fallen heavily across the city. Autumn’s tender coldness expressed itself in a crisp breeze. The sky was thick with clouds, and a grey rain had begun to fall, chilling her to the bone.
At last she determined that she couldn’t put it off any longer. Kalle was waiting for her at her apartment. He had cooked dinner and, more importantly, he had done nothing wrong. It would be ungrateful if she simply didn’t turn up to enjoy a meal with him.
She turned to the city and walked through the quiet streets. It was Tuesday, and the sudden cold and rain had rendered the streets inhospitable to the usual gaggles of drinkers and date nights. As she skirted the main drag in favor of smaller alleyways, Inga was once again seized with the sense that someone was following her. At first she dismissed it as paranoia, but the feeling grew as she drew closer to her apartment. A block away, and she was sure that someone was behind her. Adrenaline surged through her veins. There was no choice but to turn and confront them, or die ignorant of her assailant. She turned quickly, a hand raised as if to strike, ready to defend herself, and then she stopped and stood perfectly still.
There, standing before her, was the woman from the morgue. Inga felt as if her breath had been sucked from her lungs. The woman took a step towards her, and heart thumped against her ribcage so hard she thought she might faint. Inga was sure that it was her. She could see the two pinprick scars at the crook of her neck, just visible under the shadow of her hair. Blood rushed in Inga’s ears, and made her cheeks flush red. A mixture of panic and exhilaration rendered her speechless as she stood there, frozen.
The woman stood only a few feet away now. Her smooth black hair flowed over her delicate shoulders. Although she was only dressed in skin-tight black jeans and a black camisole, the cold rain did not seem to bother her. She was staring directly into Inga’s eyes, her face expressionless, perfectly beautiful in its tranquility. She took another step forward. They were so close now that Inga could see that there was something red on her lips—a dash of scarlet against the white landscape of her skin.
“Y-you’re not real,” Inga whispered at last, still unable to move.
‘I’m real. I’ve been looking for you.’ The woman spoke without moving her lips, as if her cold clear voice sounded inside of Inga’s own mind.
“N-no…” Inga whispered again. Her knees felt weak as she realized that the woman could speak to her without opening her mouth. Telepathy. How could this be real? If it were not for the feeling of her heart pumping blood hard and fast through her veins, Inga would have been sure that it was a dream.
‘You don’t need to say anything. I can hear you,’ the woman replied, taking another step forward.
Inga stumbled back, into the closed doorway of an abandoned building. She was trapped. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the woman’s face. Her dark eyes were filled with a peculiar vivacity, flitting beneath the surface of a perfect calm.
‘I was looking for you because you’re perfect,’ the woman said. ‘Perfect.’
“H-how, what do you…” Inga trailed off helplessly as she felt a cold hand come to rest on her cheek.
‘I could feel you,’ the woman replied. She was standing so close now that Inga was having trouble focusing on her face. She thought she might faint as the woman pressed close to her, burying her hand in Inga’s hair now, holding her there. Their bodies were pressed together, and Inga felt a peculiar tickle of heat between her legs as the fullness of the other women’s breasts pressed against hers, and the pain of having her hair pulled flashed through her.
And then the woman was kissing her. Fear and ecstasy crashed together, and Inga’s mind went blank. The woman kissed her roughly, with an intensity that Inga had never known. When they pulled apart, her lip was bleeding. A tear had fallen down her flushed cheek from the pain, but her arousal was sublime. Her loins ached for more. She wanted to beg for more.
“Oh god,” she whispered, “This can’t be, you can’t be…”
The woman only smiled, and released Inga’s hair. It was a mysterious and predatory smile, and Inga was sure she caught a glimpse of a very sharp canine peeking out from the woman’s scarlet lips, and then it was gone. Someone was coming. There were footsteps echoing in the alleyway. The woman brushed the back of her hand against Inga’s cheek with surprising gentleness, and kissed her one last time, cold and sweet like a late-falling apple.
‘See you again, beautiful…’ she murmured, and was gone.
Inga collapsed in the doorway, breathing heavily, covering her face with her hands. Her bottom lip was swollen, and though every fiber of her body was seized with fear, she felt a desire more intense than anything she’d ever known. She wanted to give herself to this strange woman, to let her have everything, body and soul. She wanted to be devoured by her. Inga slumped against the door frame, attempting to regain control of herself. She took a few deep breaths, breathing steam into the cold night air, and ran her hands through her hair distractedly. She took out a small mirror from her bag and inspected her lip. It was red and swollen. She would have to tell Kalle it was a joke that Astrid had played, she decided. Slowly, slowly she got to her feet, bracing herself against the rotting doorframe before stepping down into the street. She walked the remaining block to her apartment, and climbed the stairs to her flat, an impossible fatigue settling on her body. She arranged her face into a smile and pushed the door open.
“I’m home,” she called, kicking off her sneakers and dropping her backpack by the door. The apartment smelled wonderful, like roasted chicken and orange peel. Kalle stuck his head out of the kitchen.
“Everything okay? You’re late.” He was clutching a large spoon in his left hand and wearing a look of concern.
“Fine. I’m gonna take a shower,” Inga mumbled, practically running into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She turned on the shower and pulled off her clothes. She still felt shaky as she stripped off her jeans and sweater. She studied her own face in the bathroom mirror. The swelling of her lip was not as bad as she thought. It was negligible. A vision of the mystery woman flashed before her eyes. She could still smell her. A faint sweetness, like roses. As she recalled the touch of her hand on her cheek, Inga raised her hand and gingerly caressed the place. The tenderness and violence of the encounter had overwhelmed her entirely. Steam obscured her image in the mirror. Inga pulled off her bra and underpants, conscious now of the response that the woman had elicited from her. Her panties were wet, and she was still wanting.
Kalle pushed open the door to the bathroom without knocking. “What, are you taking a sauna in here or what?” he asked, approaching her and resting his large hands on her bare waist. His hands were so unlike hers. His were large and warm and tough; hers were cool, slender and feminine.
“Uh, no, I…I was just looking at what that idiot Astrid did to me yesterday,” she pointed to her lip.
Kalle reached up to her mouth, making sure to brush her breasts with his hands as he felt the wound. “She bit you again?”
“Yeah…” Inga trailed off. She could feel that he wanted her as he pressed up against her back. She was filled with desire, but it wasn’t for him. She swallowed as he began to kiss her neck, and decided, in spite of herself, to succumb. He took her on the bathroom floor. He misunderstood the wetness between her thighs as a gift for him, and sunk into her with a moan of gratitude. This was as about as creative as Kalle could get—having sex on the floor instead of in the bed. Inga disguised her boredom by sinking into her memories of the evening. Even a recollection of the woman was enough for Inga to feel excitement rising inside
of her. She imagined what could have happened if they had been alone. It was the woman’s hands on her now, pushing the boundaries of pleasure and pain. She was all around her, undressing her, pushing her roughly to the ground and jerking back her head, biting her neck so hard that the blood flowed out between her perfect lips. Inga came to her climax, her eyes tightly closed as she submitted to fantasy, her body vibrating with the force of her ecstasy. Kalle finished soon after.
Although she knew him to be a force for good in her life, Inga couldn’t help but feel a certain revulsion as she watched Kalle stagger to his feet and dress. He slapped her backside playfully.
“Dinner should be ready in 5,” he said with a wink, and left her alone.
Inga climbed into the shower and washed the sweat from her body. The man whom she had once sought out for comfort and pleasure was now meaningless to her. She washed his sweat from her body and explored her anxiety. It was growing now. She knew that her life was perfect now, and she knew that the very idea of leaving it for a mysterious woman—a woman who should have been dead, who was obviously dangerous—was preposterous. And yet she couldn’t deny that it was what she wanted.
When she joined Kalle at the kitchen table, she could only pick at the meal that he had so considerately put together.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, finally becoming aware that something was amiss.
“Nothing really,” she said with a shrug, and shoveled a forkful of roasted chicken and green beans into her mouth, “Just thinking about school stuff.”
Kalle nodded and took a sip of his beer, “Right, the body thing…So did they find it?”
Inga felt a strange pang of irritation at Kalle’s use of the word ‘it’. “Her, and no,” she said. “They had detectives and everything else in class, but it’s basically seeming like she left without a trace.”
“Left’?” Kalle looked at her with raised eyebrows, “Don’t you mean ‘was taken’?”
Inga studied him in silence for a moment. His lack of imagination could be truly infuriating. “Well it could be either, I guess,” she said finally, fiddling with her wine glass and looking thoughtful.
“You’re kidding,” Kalle said. He looked astonished.
She suppressed a sigh and downed half a glass of wine before summoning all of her patience to explain, “Yeah. You know, like those cases in Russia where the guy is so wasted that his heartrate is nearly non-existent? So the doctor thinks he’s dead and they throw him in the reefer, where he wakes up a few hours later and scares the shit out of the lab tech.”
Kalle laughed at the image. “So I guess the dead can rise?” he said. “Sounds like some vampire or zombie story.”
Inga nodded. It was truly stranger than fiction. And if the woman wasn’t a junkie or a zombie…In a flash, Inga recalled the sharpness of her teeth in that small smile. Was it possible? Could she be a vampire? Goose bumps formed on Inga’s body, and a shiver ran down her spine. She stood up abruptly. “I…I’m sorry Kalle, I’m really not feeling well…I need to lie down.”
He looked at her with concern and nodded, watching as she stumbled across the apartment to her bedroom. He was sure that she had just had a long and intense day, and would feel better tomorrow.
In the weeks that followed, the investigation surrounding the missing body deepened. Inga’s memories of that first autumn night faltered, coming in and out of focus like a poorly tuned radio. There were days when she wondered if she had imagined everything, and days when her memories of the woman’s body, the feel of her hand and her lips, were so vivid that she was certain of what had happened. Some days, walking alone, Inga swore she felt a presence behind her, just as she had on that night a month ago. But she would turn, and there would be no one. Just the faintly sweet scent of dried roses.
Inga became moody and unpredictable. Kalle attributed the change to the stress of being caught up in such an infamous investigation. The press couldn’t let the disappearance go unpublicized, and the police presence on campus was incessant. Almost more stressful was the fact that Detective Turan had taken Professor Janson’s advice, and was attempting to take Inga under his wing. She felt torn between her secrets and her ambition as he drew her deeper into the investigation.
They met almost daily now, but the detective remained almost as inscrutable to Inga as he had been when they’d first met. He was quiet and watchful. He trusted no one, and smoked and drank often. There was a certain appeal to his weathered features, and his powers of deduction were unparalleled. He gave her access to aspects of the investigation that would have made her classmates green with envy.
But as she helped him sift through hours of traffic camera footage and material evidence, and hovered in the background of witness interviews, she knew that she was deceiving him. She found the smallest comfort in the idea that if she told him what she had experienced, he probably wouldn’t believe her anyway.
And then, on a grey day in October, as the heavy winter darkness crept across the city, there was a break.
A message flashed across the screen of Inga’s phone. She was cooking dinner when it came. She wiped her hands and picked it up, staring at the screen intently. “We got something.” The message was followed by more in rapid succession. “Body down by City Hall.” And then, “COME,” accompanied by a photograph: A woman sprawled on the pavement, her golden hair fanning out around her like a halo. Inga turned off the stove and pulled on her coat without hesitation. As she stepped out into the street, she buttoned the white wool coat and threw a red scarf around her neck as she strode towards the city center. A cold mist lingered in the streets, blurring the features of the cityscape and chilling her to the bone as she walked. It was eerily quiet. As she approached City Hall the blue and red lights of the police shone through the fog, glimmering faintly and fracturing in the thick air, making the night sky appear as if it were on fire.
“Inga,” Detective Turan called out to her, striding across the street and seizing her hand. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said gruffly. “She’s over there.” He jerked his head toward the alley that ran behind City Hall.
Inga nodded silently and followed behind him, steeling herself. It would be her first true crime scene. It was hard to believe that she was even being allowed here, among the uniformed officers and the forensics team in their protective suits. Detective Turan gave her the privilege of crossing the police tape, lifting it above her head, beckoning for her to follow him. He led her to the body.
“Well, what do you think?”
Inga steeled herself, and then looked down at the body. It was a young woman just about her age. She was dressed in a winter coat, but her hat had fallen off, and her blonde hair was splayed across the pavement. At first, Inga thought she could be sleeping, so peaceful was her face, eyes closed and lips parted ever-so-slightly. She could see no outward signs of damage, but as she leant closer over the woman’s face, she recognized the scent of blood. There, the collar of her pink coat was stained with a dash of crimson. Inga knelt beside her and saw clearly two very small puncture wounds on the side of the woman’s neck. She looked quickly up at Detective Turan, her heart suddenly pounding.
He nodded, “That’s what I thought. Just the same as the Jane Doe, right?”
Inga nodded. “It could be, but…It’s a bit hard to say for sure here,” she said. But inside, she was certain. It was exactly the same as her mystery woman. But did that mean that this was another murder by a serial killer? Or did it indicate something else? A sinister thought crept into Inga’s consciousness. In an instant she recalled the feeling of slightly-too-sharp teeth on her lip.
“I’m curious, Inga, what do you think the weapon was?” the detective was pacing slowly beside the body now, his eyes flitting around the scene.
“Well, again, it’s hard to say, but if I had to guess, since it doesn’t look like there was much of a struggle, maybe some kind of drug delivered by needle?” She stared hard at the detective, trying to determine whether he had s
ensed her momentary hesitation.
“Perhaps,” he muttered, “but what if it was something else? Take a good look, and then come and find me by the road. This bears further discussion. He gave her a piercing look, and stepped swiftly from the scene, leaving Inga alone in the hazy lights.
She looked down again, studying the woman’s face. Perhaps it was her own strange narcissism, but Inga couldn’t help but feel that the woman resembled herself, though she supposed it wouldn’t be difficult to find such a stereotypically Swedish woman in Uppsala. Still, it was a little eerie. Then there were the puncture wounds on the woman’s neck. Though they were fresh, it was clear that they were the same size and shape as the woman from the morgue. Inga almost laughed aloud as she found herself entertaining the absurd idea that vampires were real, and maybe, just maybe, this woman had fallen victim to one. And could that one be the woman from the morgue who had so mysteriously risen from the dead? Inga’s head spun as thoughts chased each other through her mind in a dizzying race to absurdity. She stepped back from the corpse and then spun on her heel, leaving the gruesome scene behind as she sought out Detective Turan from the small crowd of law enforcement milling about. When she found him, he simply nodded and led her in silence away from the scene to a small bar with only a few seats and no other customers.
“I like it here,” the detective said, after they had taken their seats at a small table. The interior of the bar was almost as dark as the outside, lit almost exclusively by candle light. It was cozy and quiet. Inga unbuttoned her coat. He ordered two scotches.
“It’s nice…” Inga replied, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. Why had he brought her here? To talk about the murder over drinks? She shrugged internally, and vowed to herself to leave the word vampire unspoken.
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