by Amy Cross
When I get back to my room, I notice that the window's open. That's odd, because I know it was closed a few minutes ago. Perhaps it was just pushed shut, and the wind has opened it? Without turning on the light, I go and push it closed, and then I freeze because that's when I realize - without having seen him yet - that he's come to see me. Patrick is somewhere in the room, I can sense it. And this time I didn't hit my head or anything, so either I'm insane or he's real. I delay turning to see him for a moment, wanting to savor this feeling just in case it turns out he's not there at all. Finally, I take a deep breath and turn, but at first I keep my eyes focused on the floor, before looking up.
And there he is, staring back at me in the gloom. Patrick. He's real.
Patrick
She's beautiful. This is going to make things a thousand times more difficult. But what happens next is ordained by prophecy, and I can't interfere. Prophecy is prophecy. It has to happen this way. I should leave right now. She can’t die tonight. Not like this. She has to die later, after Abigail has arrived.
Sophie
In the dark, I can barely make out the features on his face, but I can see his eyes: brooding, with a hint of great age. And there's something about the way he looks at me, as if he's not afraid to look me in the eye and see deeper, as if he sees what's behind and inside everything. When Patrick looks at me, it's almost as if no-one's ever really looked at me before.
"I came and looked for you earlier," I say eventually.
No reply. He just stares at me, as if he's waiting for something.
"I couldn't find a way back down to where you left me," I continue. "I looked for hours, but I..." I stop talking for a moment. It occurs to me: perhaps he was watching the whole time. "Did you see me?" I ask. "Were you watching me while I was looking for you?"
Again, no reply.
I take one step closer to him. I'm so close now, I can hear his slow breathing, which is a complete contrast to my heart-rate, which is pounding. Reaching down, I double-check that the towel is securely fastened.
"I just wanted to see you," I say. "To thank you again, for saving me. And..." God, it hits me realize how everything I'm saying is so banal and dull. There's something about Patrick that makes me feel completely inconsequential. Looking into his eyes, I can truly believe that he's some kind of thousand-year-old vampire, even though I know that can't possibly be true. I've just never seen someone look so young and so old at the same time.
"So can't you speak?" I ask. "Or is it that you won't?"
He tilts his head slightly - just slightly - like an animal. It's cute.
"I'm sorry if I seemed a bit weird earlier," I say. "It's just that I wasn't really sure if you were real, so..." I take a deep breath. "I'm still not entirely sure what happened," I continue. "To be honest, I feel like bits of dream and bits of reality are all mixed together and I'm having a hard time separating them out. I mean, I did get mugged, right? It's just that I don't seem to be hurt at all."
Slowly, Patrick starts walking around me. I stay completely still. It's as if he's studying me from every angle. This is how I imagine it'd be to be stalked by some kind of wild animal in the woods; he seems to be sizing me up, almost as if he's trying to work out whether I'm a threat. As I pauses behind me, he leans closer and I feel his breath on my bare shoulder. I look over at my reflection in the mirror and I realize I can't see him at all; it's just me, just my reflection, but I can definitely feel him right behind me.
"Patrick -" I start to say.
Suddenly I feel his brush against my shoulder. I stare at myself in the mirror; I still can't see him, but I can feel him. I try to tell myself that the bedroom is dark, and that this is why I can't make out his reflection. Still, as I feel his hand touch my toweled waist, I know that I'm fooling myself. There's only one reason why I can't see Patrick's reflection: he doesn't have a reflection. He continues to run his hand down from my waist and onto my hip. At first, I assume he's trying to seduce me, but after a moment I realize it's more like he's checking something, as if he's trying to work out if I'm the right shape and size. Eventually he reaches up and moves my wet, straggly hair away from my neck, and he runs the tip of his finger down from my ear to my shoulder, as if he's tracing the line of something I can't see. Finally, I decide to turn and face him, to ask him what's really happening.
But when I do, he's gone.
I turn and look over at the open window. I go and look out, but there's no sign of him. How did he get out so fast? There's only one possible explanation. He was never with me at all. The reason I didn't see his reflection was simply that he wasn't there. I imagined it all. I guess it's official, then: I'm losing my mind.
Patrick
I heard him outside the window. Listening, watching, recording. The little red light of his video camera. He seems to be gone now, but the ghosts and I spend the rest of the night watching her house. Sure enough, just before dawn he shows up again. He keeps his distance, just seems to be loitering and checking out the area. But it's him alright. I've been waiting for him to show up for years, but I still don't know if I'm ready.
There are ghosts on the road tonight, whispering to me again as I pass. Some days more than others, it's hard to ignore them. Perhaps that's because I know that what they're saying is true. But it's the kind of truth I don't need right now. They're just echoes, voices sent from the past by a species that knew it was about to die.
I need answers. I should speak to my father, but I feel he has told me as much as he can, or as much as he will. I need to find these answers for myself. If there were others, I could ask them. But there are no others. My father is a good substitute at times, but he and I both know that the time will come when he isn't around to help me. This is part of the learning process. And after what happened the last time I had to ask him for help, I know one thing for sure: I'm never going to ask him again. Asking him is how this whole mess started in the first place.
Lately, though, the signals have been muddled. For more than seven decades, I have felt how alone I am in the world. But while that's still true, there's some static in the background now. I've only felt like this one time before, when the Sentinels put down their weapons and ripped apart their sanctuary, releasing the nightmare. Fortunately the Sentinels are long gone, turned inside out by their own faction. But it feels as if something of that magnitude is stirring far away. I'm starting to worry about this girl Sophie, though; things are moving too fast, and she's starting to draw attention to herself.
Sophie
The next day, I have to go into town to look for a job, but only for the morning. It's the usual soul-crushing drudgery, going from store to store and handing my resume to a bunch of people who clearly couldn't care less. When lunchtime comes, I decide to head for home, but I take a quick detour to the bus station so I can take a look at the departure board. I swear to God, one day I'm going to get out of this town. I don't care where I go. Anywhere. Just out of here. Unfortunately, as I stand and watch people getting onto a bus to New York, I realize someone has stopped next to me, and from the corner of my eye I can already tell who it is.
"Well, hello," says Dexter Logan, grinning like an idiot. "What a coincidence!"
My heart sinks. Not only do I not want to be talking to this guy, I don't want to be seen to be talking to him. Not that I have any reputation to uphold, but still...
"Genuine apology time," he says, before I get a chance to say anything. "I've been bugging you. This is the last time. I just came to say sorry."
I stare at him for a moment. Was it a coincidence that he bumped into me? "Okay," I say blandly. There's an awkward silence, and I wonder if it would be rude of me to just walk away.
"Look at me," he says, grinning nervously.
I don't particularly want to, but I do, just to be polite.
"59 fucking years old," he continues, "and I've never broken a decent news story in my life. I'm a joke at the office. When a big story comes in, the other guys always get it. Jason
fucking Dunn, he's the big-shot reporter in town. Meanwhile, they send me out to cover stories about old ladies' cats getting stuck in trees." He sighs. "The one thing I always counted on was that one day I'd get the mother of all stories. You know what I mean?"
I smile politely. Does this guy really want to offload his entire life's list of grievances on me? Here? Now? Seriously?
He leans in, conspiratorially. "Look, I know these vampires are real. I know it. I've seen clues, I've felt it, here" - he thumps his chest, above his heart - "I know it's true. 1959. Rose Tisser. You know what happened to her? You should look it up. There's -"
"Got to go," I say, turning and walking away. "Sorry."
"Come on, Sophie," he continues, walking after me as we walk past the departure bays. "I know you know."
"I really don't," I reply, although the truth is: my heart is racing, and I feel as if this guy is dangerous.
"Listen," he says, keeping pace with me, "I don't care about headlines these days. I did, once, but I'm over that now. I'm retiring next year. I have a decent pension, it'll cover my bar bill. But I just wanted to know... I wanted to know that I wasn't wrong, you understand? Half the time, I used to tell myself I was crazy to believe it was all true, that there were vampires around here. And the other half the time I'd tell myself I'm not crazy, that they are here. Do you know what it's like to bounce back and forth in your head between two extremes all the time? I guess I was crazy after all."
As we reach the exit of the bus station, I stop and turn to him. "I understand," I say. It's true, I do. He's a sad, unfulfilled small-town reporter with vampire-fueled delusions of breaking a big story. He wants, finally, to know that he's been right about something. He doesn't want fame or glory or money, he just wants self-respect. And I could give it to him. I could take him to meet Patrick and Vincent, to show him that they're real, and then I could let him sort out the rest of the story. But something deep down tells me that, although I'm still not quite sure who or what Patrick is right now, the last thing I want to do is lead someone like Dexter to his door.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I wish I could help you."
"I just wish I knew what happened," he says sadly. "I mean, I've seen the footage from the ATM camera. In fact, I have the only copy. You got beat up good. You looked dead, to be honest. And then this big old dark figure came and saved you, and scooped you up and carried you into the woods, and now here you are, a few days later, looking perfectly healthy." He smiles. "I'm a newspaper-man. You understand why this story is piquing my interest, don't you?"
I don't know what to say. "You should write a book," I offer, weakly.
He laughs. "Yeah," he says, "Yeah, maybe I should. I don't know, maybe I'll..." His voice goes quiet. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm an old man. Turning gray. I shouldn't unload all of this on you. If you tell me that vampires aren't real, and that you haven't met one, then I guess I'll take your word for it. Deal?"
I stare at him for a moment. "I've never met a vampire," I say eventually.
"Huh," he says, before letting out a sigh. "Well, I guess that's that. There's not much more I can do, is there? Thanks for at least taking time to talk to me." With that, he pats me on the shoulder and then turns and walks away. After a moment, he's vanished into the bus station crowd.
Although I'm hungry and I want to get home for a nap, I feel as if I have to work out what's really happening. Hurrying out of the bus station, I make my way across town and eventually I reach the ATM on West Street where I was mugged. The machine itself is still out of order, with plastic tape covering the broken screen, but after a moment I spot something over on the floor. Crouching down, I realize that there's blood on the sidewalk. I glance over at a nearby wall and see another patch of blood. Those two guys mugged me, but I haven't heard anything about their bodies being found. It's as if, after rescuing me, Patrick came back and dragged the corpses away.
Slightly against my better judgment, I head away from West Street and down the slope that leads into the forest. I'm trying to retrace the path from the other night when Patrick carried me. After half an hour of searching through the woodland, though, I realize it's hopeless. For whatever reason, I still don't seem to be able to find the entrance to that tunnel. I'm still struggling to work out which parts of that evening were real and which parts were all in my head, but I remember being led out of the tunnel by Patrick, and I know I emerged somewhere around here. It's as if, now that I'm alone, the entrance is hidden from me.
Hearing a noise nearby, I turn, almost expecting to find that Patrick has come to meet me again. There's nothing nearby, however, so I guess my mind must be playing tricks on me. I head over to a moss-covered set of rocks, figuring that I'm going to go insane if I don't find the entrance to the tunnel. I'm certain that this was the clearing where I emerged with Patrick the other day, and the entrance should be right here. There's no way something like that could just disappear, so I must be mis-remembering something. Stepping back, I take a deep breath, trying to force myself to -
"Sorry about this," says a familiar voice from nearby. Before I can react, I feel a sharp pain in my neck. I turn to find Dexter Logan standing behind me, but as I stare at him, I realize I'm getting light-headed. I try to turn and run, but my knees buckle and I drop to the ground. As Dexter walks around me, the last thing I hear before blacking out is the sound of his sniffing laughter.
Sophie
I wake up slowly, feeling my way groggily back to consciousness. My first thought is that the sun is lower in the sky, that the shadows are longer, and that the day seems to be drawing toward early evening. For a moment, it's almost pleasant. But then I realize something's wrong; I try to move my arms, and I find I'm tied to a tree. A few meters away, Dexter is sitting perched on a rock, smoking a cigarette.
"Hi-ho," he says casually, barely glancing over at me.
I look down at the ropes binding me to the tree. I try to struggle, but it seems to only make them tighter. I'm tied up with the kind of tightness that tells you instantly that there's no point struggling, but what else am I supposed to do? Not struggle?
"I imagine you're surprised," Dexter says, stubbing the cigarette out and tossing it to the ground as he gets up and walks toward me. "It's okay." He gets close and leans in. "I'm just trying to draw him out," he whispers. "I'm just pretending to threaten you, okay? Now play along."
"Let me go," I say firmly, still trying to get free from the ropes.
"That's good," he whispers. "That's really good, keep it up, just like that. He won't come out unless he thinks you're really in danger. Like at the ATM, right? When those thugs attacked you, he came out of the shadows to save you. We need to trick him into thinking you're in real danger here."
"Untie me, you fucking psycho!" I shout, struggling for a second and then giving up. How the hell could I have been so stupid? I should have checked he wasn't following me, but I had no idea he was this insane.
"Great," he whispers again. "Okay, play along." He turns and walks a few paces away, before stopping and staring at the trees. "I suppose I'm just going to have to kill you!" he says loudly, in an absurdly theatrical voice. He stands and waits for some sign that Patrick is coming, but there's nothing.
"He's not coming," I say. "The other night was just a coincidence."
"No!" Dexter shouts, turning back to me. "He was watching you! He's been watching you for a long time, Sophie Hart. You've caught the vampire's attention."
"Let me go," I say. "If you let me go now, there's no harm done."
"Shut up," he says, giving me an angry look for a moment. Then he winks and continues. "I'm going to have to kill you!" he says archly. If he was an actor on a theater stage, he'd have been recast long ago. "Yes!" he shouts. "I shall have to -" He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. "I shall have to kill you!" he shouts at last.
This is ridiculous. The guy's clearly insane. If I wasn't tied to this tree, I'd actually find the whole thing pretty funny.
"What the fuck di
d you inject me with?" I ask.
"Tetra-chlorine," he says quickly. "Harmless. You were out for ten minutes, tops." He clears his throat. "This is it, then!" he announces to the whole world, like some really bad Shakespearean actor. "I shall slice out your heart!" He's such a bad actor, I think he's slipping into an English accent occasionally. He waves his hand in the air and for the first time I realize he's holding a knife. A big hunting knife, the kind people use to gut bears.
"Let me go," I say again, trying to sound firm and calm.
"No!" he shouts, then steps closer to me and whispers angrily. "Are you playing along or not?"
"Help!" I shout, hoping that someone can hear me. It doesn't have to be Patrick; I just want someone to save me from this idiot. Unfortunately, we're a long way out of town right now, and the chances of someone just happening to wander past are pretty slim.
"Come on!" he complains. "This'll work. It's all I want, to see him one time. That's all. Not too much ask. A real, live vampire, with my own eyes, standing in front of me. To know for a fact that he's real. Is that too much? Is it a terrible inconvenience? Please, can't you help me with this one thing?"
I struggle with the ropes, but I can't get loose.
"I'm sorry about this," Dexter says, raising the knife to my face "I'm going to have to show him that I mean business." He leans in closer and whispers: "Just for show, okay? I won't actually hurt you, I promise. You have to believe me. Just a few little cuts here and there." He looks away from me. Before I can open my mouth to say anything, he turns back and slashes my face with the knife.
Patrick
Okay. You've got my attention.
Sophie
I scream in pain, as much from shock as from pain. I don't even think the knife made much more than a surface wound on my cheek, but it's agony and I'm terrified. With my hands tied, I can't do anything but shout out. Straining to get loose from the ropes, I feel a trickle of blood run down the side of my face. This Dexter guy is clearly more than just a local nut-job. He's psychotic, and I'm terrified that the next cut will be deeper.