by Amy Cross
I hold my hands up. They're still marked by traces of blood. Humans think vampires revel in blood, but that's not true. I haven't taken blood from a human in years. It feels strange and it shames me. Even though I knew this tragedy was coming, I would rather I had never had to play my part. But I will accept this fate and move on. I have that luxury. Others do not.
They'll find Jessica Harper's body, no problem. They'll pick up the chunks of her bones and flesh. That's fine by me. I hope they examine every inch of her. But they'll never, ever find Rose Tisser.
Sophie
Dedston - Today
After knocking on the screen door, I stand nervously on the porch of John Tisser's house. I can't help looking over my shoulder, wondering if anyone's watching me or has followed me here. Recent events have taught me to be extra-cautious. And even though I can't see him, I know there's a good chance Patrick's somewhere around. In which case, I really hope he doesn't know whose house this is. I don't think he'd be too happy that I came.
The door opens and a friendly-looking, smiling old man appears. "You must be Sophie," he says. "I'm John. Come in."
He leads me into his house. His wife is pottering about in the kitchen, but she doesn't come through to say hello. Instead, John goes and fetches some coffee and cookies from the other room, coming back and setting them out in front of me.
"I hope you don't mind me coming," I say. "I don't want to stir up any bad memories."
"Nonsense," he says, pointing to a chair. I take a seat as he sets the coffee down and starts pouring. "I don't mind taking about it. Just..." He glances back at the kitchen. His wife gives us a quick, dark stare before carrying on with whatever she's doing. "Don't forget that this stuff all happened 50 years ago. My memory's not quite as sharp as it used to be. And don't expect anything from my wife. She sees things a little differently."
"I don't want to cause any bother," I say. "Like I said on the phone, I'm just doing a college project and your sister's murder came up." That's a lie. A total lie. I'm not even at college.
He nods. "Do you know they never found her body?"
"Yes," I say. "But there was so much..." I pause, wanting to be tactful. "There was so much evidence, and they didn't have the capabilities to analyze it all. I'm sure it'd be very different if it happened today."
"You're right," John agrees. "They did claim they couldn't analyze it all. And I have no specific reason to doubt them." For the first time, he looks a little uncomfortable. "I'm glad they didn't identify her body in all that mess. I went to the other girl's funeral, Jessica Harper. As they carried the coffin past, someone slipped and jolted the coffin. Heard all sorts of stuff in there slopping about. That girl wasn't in one piece, that's for sure."
I hadn't planned to go into too much detail today. I'd assumed John Tisser would be keen to avoid talking about the more gruesome aspects of the whole thing, given that whatever happened to Jessica Harper probably happened to his sister as well.
I take a sip of the coffee John has prepared for me. It's time to broach the one part of this discussion that I really don't know how to start. "There were some pretty wild theories about the whole thing, weren't there?" I say.
John visibly bristles. "Yeah," he says.
"John!" his wife calls forcefully from the kitchen. She's been listening.
"In a minute," John calls back. He takes a deep breath. "I remember when they came and told me about Rose and Jess. Told me they'd been killed. And I couldn't wait to find the son of a bitch who killed them. Fifty years later, I've still got that anger. If someone tells me today who did it, I'll be down there and I swear I'll beat the life out of them."
"Some people said it was a vampire," I say, hoping I'm not being too blunt.
"Or Mickey Mouse," John says, smiling. "No, the vampire thing was a misunderstanding. She had a boyfriend, and some people didn't like him. Hell, I didn't like him. But... it wasn't a human that killed the girls. It was some kind of animal." He seems lost in his thoughts for a moment. "Did you know my sister was going to be a writer?"
I shake my head.
"She was writing a novel," he says.
"Really?"
"Wait a sec," John says. He gets up and goes to a bookcase, quickly pulling out a scrappy little item. "This is what that mix-up was all about," he says, passing me the book. "Rose wanted to be a writer. She was writing a novel about a vampire. Some fella in the press got hold of it, started saying she and Jess were killed by a vampire."
I look at the front of the book. It's tatty, old and almost falling apart.
"You can take it," says John. "Read it. It's entertaining enough. Would've been published, I'm sure, if she'd lived long enough to finish it. She was a great little writer."
"I'll bring it back," I say.
"No hurry," he says. "The thing is, I know that Rose's body is still out there, buried somewhere. Whenever I read in the paper about some new housing project, or some new construction scheme, I can't help wondering if they'll find her bones hidden in an unmarked grave. But you know what? Whatever happened to her, happened. I'm at peace with it now."
"John," says his wife, who has come to the door between the front room and the kitchen. There's urgency in her voice. "You need to fix the garage door." He gives me a look that betrays great contempt.
"I can go," I say, standing up. "You've been very helpful."
"Hope it helps with your college work," John says.
"Thanks for lending me the book," I say.
"Are you sure she should have that?" John's wife asks.
"It's no problem," John says, smiling at me. "Keep it as long as you like. If I've fallen off my perch by the time you're done, you're welcome to keep it."
While his wife disappears back into the kitchen, John walks me to the door. "She was such a good little writer," he says. "So much imagination."
I open the book and glance at a page. It's handwritten, in an old-fashioned script that I can barely understand. It's going to be a challenge to get through this, and it might even be a waste of time. But then I notice something: each chapter has a date written next to it.
This isn't a novel. It's a diary.
Rose Tisser
1959
This is wonderful! Jess is so jealous!
Why, she wants to know, does he come to my window? Why to my door? And never hers. Why, when she is undoubtedly the prettier, more interesting of the two of us, does he seem so much more interested in me? So used to being the center of attention, you would think she might spare me some sympathy and let me enjoy Patrick's attention. But no. She hates it!
I do understand, though. Patrick is a very peculiar type of man. For one thing, he never says a word. I have no idea why he remains silent, and whether he is unable or unwilling to talk. At times it can be frustrating, and Jess in particular complains. But I'm okay with Patrick the way that he is. He speaks in other ways. With his eyes. His hands. His actions.
It has been three weeks since we met him, and he has gradually become a central part of both mine and Jess's lives. When I wake each morning, I wonder when I will encounter him. I wish I had more control over our meetings, but the truth is I don't know where to find him, so he gets to make all the decisions. I get on with my day, and suddenly at some unexpected moment he will be there, right behind me.
But why does he scare me so much?
Sophie
Today
"Shit," my mother says, and then she flicks the channel with the remote control. "Shit," she says and flicks again. She stares at the screen, which is filled up with some kind of soapy drama. "Shit," she says and flicks while taking a big slurp from her milkshake. "Why don't they ever show anything good?" she asks.
"I'll be in my room," I say, getting up. It's getting late, and the last thing I want to do is spend the rest of the evening watching my mother get increasingly angry at the TV. Spotting a spider crawling across the wall, I swat it away. I swear to God, those things are everywhere these days.
&nbs
p; "Look after your brother," my mother says.
My little brother Todd is sitting on the floor, ripping up the carpet. "Todd," I say, "if you want me to look after you, come and find me. I'll be in my room. Don't play with knives, and if you go outside, don't go messing about near the river, okay?"
Todd looks up at me and wrinkles up his nose. We both know he won't be coming anywhere near my room, but the brief exchange of words should be enough to keep my mother happy.
"House smells like a frying pan," I say as I leave the room.
"Then fucking clean it," I hear my mother say as I go.
I go straight to my room, the one room where the smell - if not absent - is at least avoidable. I light some candles. I don't like candles much, but they mask the smell. I can't really afford the damn candles, though, so I stick old bits of soap to them in an effort to make them last longer. It doesn't really work.
Rose Tisser's diary is on my bed, where I left it. I've been reading it on and off all day, but it's a real struggle to read her old-fashioned cursive handwriting. Tomorrow should be easier, however, as I've had an idea that should solve the problem in one quick stroke.
"Shelley," I say when I phone her up and she answers. "You free tomorrow?"
"Yeah," she says on the other end of the line. Good old reliable Shelley. Not only an expert in grammar and spelling, but also always available to meet up. "Can we talk about it another time?" She giggles.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm with Rob."
"Having fun?"
"Watching a video. Dirty movie."
"Have fun with your porn," I say.
"I think you'd like it," she says. "It's about vampires."
"I hate vampires."
"It's called Bram Strokes Her."
We put the phone down on each other. It's late, dark outside, and cold. My mother says we don't need the heating on during autumn, and that if I'm cold I should put on a sweater or gain some extra body fat. Sometimes I think her answer to everything is to gain some extra body fat.
SLAM!
I turn as something hits the window. Walking over, I look out into the darkness. Fat chance of seeing anything. I wonder, just for a moment, if Patrick might be out there. In this light, he could be right on the other side of the glass, staring straight back at me, and I wouldn't be able to see him. Since the last time I saw him, I've been constantly wondering whether he might be keeping an eye on me. After all, it'd be pretty odd if he just left me alone. I look into the black of night and wonder... is he there?
Forcing myself not to dwell on things, I go through to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I normally don't bother, but I actually have a job interview in a few days so I figure I should try to freshen myself up a little. But as I'm brushing, I become aware of a distant sound, like a shuffling of fabric. At first I dismiss it, but then it occurs to me that given how my life has been developing recently, I shouldn't dismiss anything. I rush back through to my bedroom, and there he is.
Patrick.
"Hi," I say, feeling a knotted sensation in my stomach. He's by the window, as if he's just entered. As is his custom, he says nothing; he just stands there dressed in black, staring at me with those eyes.
"What do you want?" I ask. Is this it? Has he come to kill me? I start trying to work out how I can get away.
He looks at my bed. I follow his gaze to see Rose Tisser's diary on my pillow.
"Seen that before?" I ask. This is the first time I've ever felt like we're even vaguely on a level playing field. "Interesting book," I say. "I've been doing some reading -"
He steps towards the bed. I beat him to it and grab the diary, holding it firmly. He stops and looks at it, and then at me.
"You want this?" I ask.
No answer.
"Did you come here because you knew I had it?"
He stares at me. Still nothing. Damn it, I should have considered the possibility that the diary would in some way draw him to me. I've been hoping to avoid him. Still, Vincent told me that one day Patrick would kill me after I did something to anger him. I guess I'm safe for now, as long as I don't do anything dumb.
"You could always try asking nicely," I say, knowing that he never speaks. Not ever. "That's what people do when they want something. They ask."
He steps one pace closer and holds out a hand. Clearly, he expects me to just give him the diary.
"That's not what I mean," I say, a little bolder than I've ever been with him before. "If you want the book, you'll have to ask me politely. With your mouth. With actual words."
I can see he's thinking about what to do.
"Just say the words," I say. "Something like... Dear Sophie, I'd really like to borrow that book of yours, would you mind if I take a look please?"
I worry that I'm pushing his patience here, but what else can I do? I need to hang onto this book. I should have scanned the pages as soon as I got hold of it. At least then, if I'd lost it, I'd have still been able to go through it. As things are, I can't afford to just give it away. This book is my best, and perhaps my only, chance of learning a little more about Patrick's history.
"What do you want it for, anyway?" I ask. I look at the tatty diary. "I'll give you the book if you tell me who Rose Tisser is and how you know her. And Jessica Harper too. Tell me about them and I'll gladly give you this. I won't need it anymore, then, will I?"
He steps closer. I take a step back, unfortunately straight into my bedroom wall. I have to stand my ground now, whether I like it or not.
"What are you going to do?" I ask. "Steal it? Rough me up a little?" I look into his deep, dark brown eyes. There's a single freckle at the bottom edge of one of his eyelids, like a little tear mark. I'd never noticed that before. "I'm not giving it to you," I say firmly. "Not without you giving me something in return. So unless you -"
He reaches out and grabs my arm, holding me with a firm, determined grip. I can't help feeling this is a final warning. It's like I have to give him what he wants, or else!
"Let go," I say, but his grip just tightens more. My heart is racing. I've seen this side of Patrick before, but never directed at me. There's no way I'm giving him this book, though; not without getting something in return. "Let go of me," I say, and he tightens even more. I try to pull free, but he holds firm and I feel like my wrist is about to snap.
I put the book behind my back.
"If you fucking touch me, I'll tell everyone about you," I say. "I'll have you and your father being examined in Area 51 before you know what's hit you." I pause, realizing that maybe I'm going too far. The last thing I want to do is provoke him. "Seriously," I say, trying to stay calm, "let's just calm down and talk about this."
He leans in a little. What's he going to do? Kiss me? Bite me? I look at him, waiting for his lips to part so I can see his sharp fangs.
"I just want to know about you," I say quietly.
No answer. I twist and try to get away, but he still has my arm and there's no way I can get free. I fall onto the bed, still keeping the diary behind my back, and he falls on top of me, putting all his weight on my arm. I really think for a moment that it's about to break, but at the last minute he shifts a little and I wriggle out from under him. I look at him and his face is right up against mine, looking calm but menacing. I'm scared, but I don't think he's going to kill me over something as small as a tatty old book.
"If you think I'm giving you this thing," I say, "you're dead wrong." I try to act brave, yet I know he's holding me down despite probably using less than a tenth of his strength.
Okay.
One.
Two.
Three.
I push him away and almost get out of his grip, pushing myself across the bed. At the last moment, however, he grabs my shoulder, forcing me down, my mouth smashing against the corner of my bedside table. A horrible bursting pain immediately blossoms in my bottom lip and I lose all strength in my body, dropping the diary as Patrick finally lets go of me. I fall off the bed
onto the floor, and then I roll onto my back and look up at him. I touch my lip and then look at my hand. I'm bleeding.
Patrick is holding the diary. He looks at me.
"Get out of my room," I say, filled with panic. "And give me the diary. It's not yours."
Ignoring me, he goes over to the window, which he opens before climbing out. He doesn't even stop to look back at me or to see if I'm okay. He's got the diary. He's got what he wants. And he's left me behind, bleeding on the floor.
"Hey!" I shout, hurrying over to the window. "Did you kill them? Did you kill those two girls? Are you just some kind of monster?" I stare out into the darkness, and I realize there's no point expecting an answer. Without that diary, I guess I'll never know the truth.
Rose Tisser
1959
Patrick is so gentle. I know what everyone thinks: I'm a young girl, fairly presentable and from a respectable family, and I'm spending far too much time with this mysterious young man. And he certainly has a scandalous look about him: dark-haired, tall and brooding, silent and serious, and nobody knows the first thing about his family, or where he came from. But I'm a modern girl and I simply won't be held back by old-fashioned tastes. This is 1959, after all, not 1859!
To be honest, I'm surprised he wants to spend so much time with me. It's not like I'm the most interesting girl in town. Despite the rumors that I know are going around, I never put out with him and he never asks me for anything. I'm not saying I wouldn't like a little kiss here and there, and I expect we shall do it eventually. But for now, it's nice to be with a man who isn't just after one thing. I look at the gossips and snipes, the ones who talk about me behind my back, and I know none of them can claim to be half the gentleman that Patrick shows himself to be every single day.
I do wish he'd talk, though. It's so hard trying to work out what he's thinking. If I didn't know better, I'd think he has nothing to say. But when I look into his eyes, I know there's some depth to him. I can see there's something burning inside. It's just that I have to work out how to unlock it. Certainly if I'm ever going to consider marrying him, I'll have to make some form of progress soon. I can't marry a man who never talks!