by Jeff Seats
Anthony smiled as he lay back in the musty loam that lined his box. Vladimir was back in Portland. The days of isolation from his family were over. He smiled as he contemplated trying out one of those orange public bikes he had seen. All he needed was the memory of how to ride one and a credit card—and all his were up to date with high limits.
It was a good life. THE WRITER FROM the Emerald City Weekly sat at the motelroom desk. The green painted cinder-block walls were sparsely decorated with those ubiquitous ugly prints of landscapes used to adorn the walls of these lower-end, hospitality establishments. However, since he was mostly self-financing this “expedition” and the fact that he wasn’t the highest paid reporter in the Northwest or California or Kansas or . . .. The bottom line was he had to watch his finances. He really needed to stop followingthatrabbit downthatparticular hole. It did nothing but depress him and make him resentful. At least this Executive Inn on NE Sandy appeared to be clean, or so he hoped. The 2.7 rating suggested something else, but the price was acceptable, and it was less than a five-minute drive from downtown. All things considered, what he couldn’t see crawling on the ceiling after the lights were turned off was an acceptable risk.
He had been following a string of homicides for the past several weeks since he was first made aware of the two dead students in the university district. Those unfortunate kids, their bodies found with puncture marks in their necks and all blood removed. Soon after, there were more murders. More bodies found with missing blood, minor neck wounds or throats ripped apart. And in a few cases limbs and heads severed from torsos. Each crime scene located further and further south of the original, near the University of Washington. The killer seemed to be on the move—not “hunting” in the same area for very long —heading someplace specific. And the dead left behind in his /her wake fulfilled some driving need. But what was it? He tried to stay away from speculative questions, because he knew dwelling on something that had no answers, as of yet, could only taint his objectivity as he unraveled the facts. But one thing was evident to TC, he was onto something quite horrible, yet exciting, and maybe even worthy of a Pulitzer. Knock on wood.
True Crime was not his specialty. In fact, he had never written about anything other than the mundane human interest stories that his editor kept assigning him. Although a big fan of Ann Rule in his younger days, as a writer he was swimming in uncharted waters. Her breakout book about Ted Bundy scared the crap out of him when he read it the first time at the ripe old age of seventeen. After that, he kept giving that nice, all-American-next-door-neighbor guy a wide berth. Otherwise, he knew nothing of the craft of telling the story of death.
Winning a Pulitzer might be wishful thinking, but even without the biggest prize in journalism, a story such as this could free him from covering all the boring stories he had been assigned ever since he got laid off from the daily down here in Portland. He had been downsized due to the publisher’s never-ending desire to make it the most worthless newspaper in the country. Not merely worthless, but to make it a completely non-print publication; moving it entirely online.
The only reason they had not been successful at totally ending the print version to this point was that their subscription base made up people over the age of fifty who had established morning routines and desired something to touch as they drank their coffee or sat on the toilet. Crossword puzzles, word jumble, Sudoku, and store coupons were more important than news. And God forbid if your favorite comic got removed! But he knew eventually there would be no more printed daily papers anywhere. It was only a matter of diminishing returns. As the old subscribers died off, there would no longer be a financial reason to maintain the show of publishing anything remotely recognizable as news other than as a platform for delivering advertising to readers.
The weekly, independent papers were quickly turning into the only game where journalists could find steady employment. But while he hated writing articles on city council meetings, beer tastings, and transit projects, making regular deposits into his bank account was something of which he kind of liked.
But now he had latched onto this story beginning with the troubling deaths of those two university students late one rainy night. A story growing by the day, or rather, by night—since all the murders happened after sun down—and he was convinced he had uncovered a larger narrative going back over a hundred years.
Initial internet searches had led him to a similar spree of killings in New York City in the late 1890s, which had, at the time been compared to Jack the Ripper. The details between the New York murders and those he had been writing about were identical: the lack of any identifiable culprit(s); blood having been eerily removed from the corpses; some of the crime scenes were neat and business-like, while others a bloody mess. The slayings of the co-eds were of the tidy variety, while others had run the gamut.
Headlines from the New York tabloids of the period were quite sensational but fit with the times. Though he had been taken aback at the name that the press had assigned to the perpetrator.
The Night-Stalker Kills Again!
Streets of New York Run Red with Blood!
Night-Stalker. Will He Ever Be Caught?
Is the Night Stalker NY’s Ripper? Commissioner Roosevelt to Form Night Stalker Task Force
First-of-its-kind Detective Unit. According to the articles, these murders happened in the dead of night, in alleys, dark doorways, cellars, and abandoned structures—just about anywhere secluded and off the beaten path. Most victims were from the unfortunate classes; the poor, street people, prostitutes, homeless children, and drunks. New York of the day had a never-ending supply of such targets. Oh to be sure, society’s upper crust wasn’t completely spared. It was the deaths from the privileged classes of Fifth Avenue that started the political fire under Roosevelt that motivated him to put an end to the carnage. Or at least look like he was trying.
Another odd correlation research revealed between the two eras was, in the 1800s, there were several disappearances while the murders were happening. As in, many people had been reported missing, seemingly having just vanished off the face of the earth never to be heard from again—no apparent reasons, no ransom notes, no unidentified bodies in the morgue. And while stories regarding people who had mysteriously disappeared were not as gruesome, and thus did not sell as well as murders, their numbers were significant enough to warrant coverage of their own, though never on the front page. Whatever the reasons, this was a mysterious side note to the main attraction of a Ripper-type psychopath on the loose in the Empire City as well.
Then, as if there were no more victims to be had, the killing orgy in old New York abruptly ceased a year after it had begun as did the rash of unexplainable disappearances.
Further research revealed there had been similar murders documented over the succeeding years from across the globe: stories about bodies with blood removed, puncture wounds in necks, ravaged corpses and strange vanishings. But these notices only reported on the discovery of a single body at a time; days, months and even years, miles and countries apart and none duplicated the concentration of nightly butchery as during that one twelve-month period in New York City in 1895. Until now.
Since those first two deaths near the University of Washington, TC had followed this story, watching it morph into something more extensive than the homicides of two unfortunate college kids. Within days, several more had died in and around the university. Then the murder party moved south, ever so slowly—into Seattle’s neighborhoods and mega-tech campuses; through downtown; into the Stadium District; continuing south around Boeing Field, and then following I-5 into Tacoma. Tonight he was sitting in the Executive Inn in Portland, Oregon, putting his notes in order, listening to the police scanner app on his phone, waiting for the next report and further material to support his slowly evolving theory.
He felt he was onto something big. Another I-5 Killer, Randall Woodfield, or better still, another Ted Bundy. The thought of that guy still sent shivers down his back. Som
eone like that would get him some attention. But this killer would have to be given another handle. Night Stalker had been over-used too recently with Richard Ramirez being given that title in the 80s; a shameless rip-off of the label attached to the murderer Roosevelt had to deal with. And obviously, I-5 Killer was out too.
This title had to have some marketing punch as well. Maybe, The Blood Drainer. Not drainer. Drinker? Siphon? Those would get attention, but he wasn’t interested in his story sounding like something from the front page of the Globe or Enquirer. “Blood Drinker Strikes Again!” That could sell papers for sure, but he was following fact, not fancy. Though the missing blood angle was the crux of these deaths and the definite connection to those in old New York. Blood Thief. Maybe just Blood Killer. Maybe not. He’d have to think on this a bit longer.
One nagging issue kept appearing as he continued to delve into what connected these murders. Motive. Were they cultrelated ritualistic killings carried out to satisfy the demands of some worshiped god or demon, or just the manifestation of a bizarre mental condition? But the circumstances surrounding all the deaths were too eerily the same—connecting across time and wide-ranging locations—to be merely coincidental. If not for the differences of when the murders occurred and where they were committed, they could have all been carried out by the hand of one perpetrator.
TC was concluding something else was going on. A something he was finding hard to ignore. Every time he entered queries into Google, Yahoo, Bing or any of the other lesser search engines, he invariably was presented with results pointing to times earlier than the 1800s. Links to stories from mythology, folklore, and legend were offered up as fact. These web pages suggested the atrocities he had been writing about for months, and those recorded since the dawn of history, had one thing in common but was too fantastic to consider possible.
Vampires.
“HELLO CALLER, THIS is Dr. Gwen. You’re on the air. How can I help you?”
“Um, yes, hi Doctor . . . I’m a little nervous.”
“That’s okay, it’s just you and me here. What’s your name?” “Dana.”
“Well Dana, how can I help you?”
“It’s my husband. I think that he has . . . I think that he isn’t .
. . I don’t know how to put it.”
“Sometimes just spitting it out is the best way.”
“Okay. I don’t think that he is my husband. I mean, he’s not
the same man I married. I mean, I . . . I don’t even think he IS a man.” “Well, in this day and age that wouldn’t be all that surprising.”
“No! I mean, I don’t think he’s even human. I think that he’s been replaced—”
“Thank you, caller. Okay! I see that it’s time for a break. More calls when—”
A buzzer filled the room with its annoying announcement.
Paul reached for the keyboard and turned the volume down on the internet radio feed and then reached under the desk to push the button opening the electric lock on the door at the back of the room.
Bzzd. Click! The door unlocked and was forcefully kicked open, banging heavily into the stop secured to the floor. Ellie Struthers walked in balancing two large cups of coffee in a cardboard tray along with a bag of snacks. “Thanks for the help.”
“Not a problem.”
“Being sarcastic.”
“Me too.”
Ellie stepped through the door into Control-West and stopped. Con-West was one of three such control centers located across the country for the CSC to monitor their various reservations, responsible for the area west of the Rockies, located at Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho.
The room was laid out in a modified amphitheater format. The back of the room was the highest point and from the entrance where Ellie was standing, the floor stair-stepped down in four levels with four workstations per layer that faced a large monitor mounted onto the wall in the front. Right now it showed two maps—the one on the right was of the entire United States and on the left, showed a more detailed view of the Western States. Multiple glowing dots representing the CSC’s “monster reservations” were visible scattered across both displays. All were emitting steady, green lights. Everything looked good.
Aside from Ellie and her work-mate, Paul Mathews, the room was empty. They were the newbies with the agency, and as such, got the honor of pulling the worst hours. And with the recent decrease in staffing, they also drew more than their share of shit detail. Which, if one were to ask either of the two, they were assigned far more often than was fair. But no one ever said that military-like organizations were fair and as far as super-secret government entities went, well—tonight’s earth-saving duty was babysitting the control room.
The general illumination was set to a low, comfortable, almost intimate level. The ceiling fluorescents—generally used by the janitorial staff or on those rare occasions when the director called a pow-wow and wanted to see all facial responses—were turned off. Instead, the perimeter lights were dimmed so that the side walls barely glowed, giving the space a warmth that belied the cold, tedious task of watching a dot on a map blink green. The only other illumination was the LED task light on the workstation, where Paul was sitting, creating a bright island in the middle of an ocean of dimness and the runway lighting embedded in the floor on either side of the center aisle which was more a nod to fire codes than room lighting.
Ellie checked the balance of the coffee tray before she proceeded further into the room. “So, what have you been doing while I was away getting coffee?” She asked dropping the bag of pastries almost on top of his keyboard. She sat down in the chair next to his and removed the lid from her mocha letting the steam rise into her nose; filling her sinuses with the chocolaty sweet aroma.
Paul nodded up to the big screen while he removed a treat. “I’ve been watching the wanderings of OR-7. One of the wolves that they’re reintroducing to Oregon. He wandered south and seems like he’s somewhere in California.”
She sipped and looked up at the half of the screen showing a satellite map. A flashing red arrow icon labeled OR-7 was blinking somewhere near the Oregon/California border.
“That flashing yellow spot is where the state caught an image of OR-7 in the Siskiyou mountains with a trail camera shortly after the battery in its tracking collar gave out. That blue flashing light is where they believe he is now, nearer to Nevada. And based on the photos it looks like he has a mate and several offspring.”
“Not what I was asking. And unless he’s a lycan, not interested.” She said as she moused over the internet radio button on his monitor. “I’m talking about this,” and with one click the internet radio show was blaring through the room speakers, “— caller, you think that the victims of some recent murders were actually subjects of alien experimentation?”
“How else do you explain the missing blood? Vampires? Now that’s crazy.”
“Oh, look! The board is lighting up. More calls after this break.”
Ellie clicked the mouse and the radio muted. She looked at Paul with an accusatory grin.
Paul looked at Ellie. “Hey! Craig had this station set, ready to play. I just thought I would see what he listened to on these long lonely nights in the Command Center.” He took a drink of coffee. “And besides, it sounded like something interesting was going on.” He grabbed the mouse and clicked the radio app back open.
“—sometimes I honestly don’t understand why certain people call this show. Now, if there is anyone out there tonight who is interested in getting some serious help, I’m here for you. Line number one.”
“Dr. Gwen.”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Gwen—”
“Yes, this is Dr. Gwen, and your name is?”
“Dr. Gwen . . . sorry, this is Keith.”
“Michigan State Keith? I told you that the next time you and your frat buddies call this show—”
“I’m sorry, yes it’s me, but I have no one else to talk to . . . the cops don’t believe—”
<
br /> “Okay, Keith, everyone deserves a second chance . . . how can I help you?”
“That last caller . . . I think I saw the same thing!”
“Alright. I told you—”
“I was walking home from my bartending shift . . . in the shadows behind a truck . . . I saw two people. It looked like they were hugging, kissing. You know? And then the taller one, a guy I guess . . . he, likes, starts kissing the other’s neck . . . but the other, the uh, woman . . . starts struggling . . . then she goes all limp.”
“If you believe you witnessed an assault—”
“I called the cops! I told you. But the guy let the woman’s body fall to the ground and sort of, like, disappeared. The police came pretty quickly, and I walked up to the car so they wouldn’t think I was a threat, but when I took them to the spot . . . the woman’s body was gone! The cops thought I was crazy.”
“I know how they feel.”
“I’m being serious with you, doctor. I couldn’t sleep so when it got light I went back to the spot. I found a silk scarf under the tires . . . there was blood on it!”
“Calm down Keith . . . I believe you. I’m going to put you on hold, and my producer will take your contact info, I can refer you to someone who can help you in your community. Where do you live?”
“Vancouver. The one in Washington.”
“Near Portland. Lovely area, now you stay on the line.”
Ellie grabbed the mouse and clicked off the radio feed. For a long moment, she sat in silence.
“You know what that Keith guy was describing . . . right?” Paul asked softly, not wanting to disturb whatever it was playing out inside Ellie’s head.
“Some sort of vampire encounter,” she replied in a trance-like fashion.
“Yeah. Like they were both vampires. The one feeding off the other, kind of like in-flight refueling the air force does. The woman was the tanker and the man—”
“Was in need of having his tank topped off.”
“That’s weird though. Right? I’ve never read anything that describes this.”