The Vampire of Downing Street and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “I was trying to get to the back door,” she says after a moment, “but the thing was stopping me. I even managed to touch the handle this time, but then the thing blocked my way. It won't let me out of the house. I never see its face, but it always gets in my way and I have to run and hide. But it's looking for me, and I hear its hand brushing against the wall as it comes and -”

  “What book would you like me to read tonight?” I ask, interrupting her.

  “It always brushes its hand against the wall.”

  “What book would you like, Alice?”

  “Mummy, I'm scared to go to sleep.”

  “Then don't go to sleep.”

  “I'm so tired.”

  “That doesn't mean you have to sleep, Alice.”

  “I just want to go.”

  I open my mouth to tell her I'll keep her awake with a story, but then I realize that she sounds utterly drained and tired. She's staring at me with those big brown eyes, and I swear it's almost as if she's silently begging me to end her suffering. I can see the pain etched into her features, and I know that sooner rather than later she'll have more hiccups and more convulsions. She knows that too. Maybe as a child, she can't put what she wants into words, but I'm sure she's waiting for me to end her pain.

  “I'll read you a story,” I say finally, getting to my feet.

  “I don't want another story.”

  “You will once I've started.”

  “I don't want another story, Mummy!”

  “Well, tough! You're getting one.”

  I turn to walk away, but suddenly she grabs my hand and squeezes tight. When I look back down at her, the sense of desperation in her eyes has only intensified.

  “I want to go to sleep,” she whispers, “and not dream about the thing. I want to go to sleep and dream happy things forever.”

  “There's nothing chasing you,” I tell her. “Those dreams you've been having are nightmares, nothing more.”

  “They feel real.”

  “Maybe, but they're not.”

  “I have the same ones over and over.”

  “Nightmares can be like that, sweetie. Now how about a nice book for -”

  “Why does it want me?” she adds. “Why me? Why can't it chase someone else? Why does it always come to me when I'm asleep? I'm nothing special.”

  “Oh but you are,” I reply, reaching down and giving her a hug. “You're the most special little girl in the whole world, and do you know why? Because you're my little girl, and I love you very much.”

  “You're my mummy,” she replies, “so you have to love me very much. But why does the thing in my nightmares want me? Out of all the little girls in the world, why does it want me?”

  I pause for a moment, thinking back to the brushing sound I've heard a few times now, and to the sensation that I wasn't alone on the landing. I want to dismiss the whole thing, but deep down I'm starting to feel a creeping, curling sense of doubt and dread. For a moment I actually start considering the possibility that something is pursuing Alice through her dreams, but then I push the idea firmly aside. I don't have time right now to believe in nonsense.

  “The thing in your nightmares isn't real,” I tell her finally, pulling away and taking a step back. “Trust Mummy, okay? Mummy knows these things.”

  She furrows her brow, and it's clear that she's not convinced.

  “It wants me,” she says after a moment.

  I shake my head.

  “It does!” she continues, sounding increasingly upset. “It says it wants me! I can't hear it properly, its voice is all distorted like it's coming from far away, but it says it wants me and I belong to it. And it won't let me go.”

  “Alice...”

  “She's mine,” she adds. “She's mine. She's mine. That's what it keeps saying. It keeps screaming those words over and over again. And sometimes it calls my name.”

  Realizing that words aren't going to be enough, I lean closer and give her a big hug. I should be able to put everything right, to calm her fears, but I don't know where to begin. I guess it's possible that the medication is making her dreams both my vivid and more memorable. She needs her medication, though, so it's not as if I can stop giving her the pills.

  “She's mine,” Alice whispers again. “She's mine. That's what the evil voice keeps saying.”

  “You've got to stop thinking about it,” I reply.

  “I always hide in the cupboard under the stairs,” she continues, and I can feel her hot breath against the side of my neck. “In the nightmare, I hide and listen to the creature coming closer and closer. Everything's scary and blurred, and I just want to get to the back door but the creature stands in my way and screams that it wants me.” She pauses. “Mummy, I don't want it to get me.”

  “And it won't,” I reply. “I'll always look after you, even -”

  Suddenly she lets out a loud, gurgled gasp, and I immediately pull back. She's fitting again, shaking violently as bloodied hiccups erupt from her mouth. I put my hands on her shoulders to steady her, and to make sure that she doesn't toss herself over the side of the bed, but this fit seems much stronger than any of the others and as I try to set her back down against the pillow I'm shocked to see thick, mucousy black blood bubbling between her lips and running down her chin.

  “It's okay, Alice!” I stammer, forcing her against the pillow. Her eyelids are open, but her eyeballs have rolled back in their sockets. “You're going to be okay! Mummy's here! Alice! You're going to be alright!”

  Every night is the same right now. Every night, the same things happen.

  ***

  “Damn it!” I gasp as the bowl slips from my hand, tumbling out of the fridge and smashing at my feet. Soup goes everywhere, soaking my socks.

  Sighing, I grab a tea towel from the counter and kneel down, and I immediately start gathering the pieces of porcelain together. I take care not to catch any of the sharper edges, but after a moment I feel a slicing pain on the underside of my right thumb, and I wince as I see beads of blood dribbling from a long cut that runs all the way to the nail. How did that even happen? I was being so careful...

  “Great,” I mutter, wiping the blood against my jeans as I try to figure out a better way to clean up this mess. “Okay, just stay focused.”

  And that's when the truth hits me.

  I can't clean it up.

  I can't clean any of it up.

  I might as well just leave the soup and the porcelain all over the floor, because no matter what I do, I'll never be able to make things right again.

  I know this sensation of despair will pass. It always passes. Still, for a few seconds I can only sit on the kitchen floor and wait for the hopelessness to lift. I can't stay here forever, because I have to get back up to Alice and make sure that she's okay. In fact, Alice is the only reason I ever even get out of bed these days. If I didn't have to go and tend to her, I think I'd just sink down forever.

  Finally, getting to my feet, I realize that at least I still have one other bowl of soup, so at least Alice won't go hungry. Taking extra care, I remove the bowl from the fridge and set it on the counter, before heading over to grab some more tea towels.

  I can hear Dad shuffling through, but I really don't have time for his inanity right now.

  “Did you break something?” he asks.

  “Don't worry about it. Go and watch Emmerdale.”

  “I heard the most dreadful noise.”

  “I'm fixing it now. Emmerdale's on soon. You don't want to miss the start, do you?”

  I head back to the mess and start gathering the broken porcelain in a tea towel. Dad's watching me from the doorway, and I'm sure he's going to ask me a whole rush of stupid questions. I know it's wrong of me, but sometimes I just wish he wasn't here, not when I'm trying to look after Alice.

  “You want to be careful with those broken pieces,” he says after a moment.

  “I know.”

  “You're bleeding.”

  “I know.”

&
nbsp; “I'll help you.”

  “No. Thank you, but I'm fine.”

  “It's no bother.” He turns and starts shuffling back toward the cupboard. “I'll get a towel.”

  “Please don't,” I continue, fully aware that in his current state, any 'help' will just make things worse.

  I focus on getting the porcelain shards safely onto the towel, but a moment later I hear a bumping sound coming from over my shoulder. I turn just in time to see that Dad is pulling a tea towel that's partly caught under the edge of the microwave, and in doing so he's also pushing the one remaining soup bowl toward the edge of the counter.

  “Dad, stop!” I call out.

  “Hang on. I'm going to help.”

  “No! Stop!”

  I stumble to my feet and rush toward him, but I'm a fraction of a second too late and the bowl falls, tumbling to the floor and smashing. Soup splatters everywhere, not only across my feet but also spilling underneath the counter.

  “What was that?” Dad mutters, looking around in bewilderment.

  “I told you to stop!” I hiss, panicking as I realize that now I'll have to make some more soup for Alice. “Why wouldn't you just listen to me?”

  “Did something break?”

  “Just get out of my way!” I continue, grabbing another towel. “I'll clean it up!”

  “But -”

  “Just go!” I yell, shoving him out of the way. “Get out of here! I can't deal with you right now!”

  I crouch down and start gathering up these other broken pieces, but I'm very much aware that Dad is simply standing and watching me. I know I shouldn't lose my temper with him, and I know it was wrong to shove him aside. Sometimes, when I get really desperate, I act like an ass. I owe him an apology.

  “Your mother bought those bowls,” he says suddenly.

  “She did,” I mutter.

  “She got them from the shop on Beach Street,” he continues. “Willow's, it was called. Mrs. Armitage used to run it, and she let your mother buy the bowls in installments because they were so expensive. Lovely lady. I'm so sorry I broke one, I...”

  His voice trails off.

  Looking up at him, I can see the confusion in his expression.

  “I break a lot of things, don't I?” he stammers. “Lately, I mean. Oh, I must be the most terrible burden.”

  “You're fine,” I reply, closing the towel around the porcelain pieces before getting to my feet and heading over to the bin.

  “You look after me,” Dad continues. “You're so patient when I'm forgetful.”

  “Seriously?” I mutter. “You're choosing this exact moment to be lucid?”

  That's wrong of me.

  I should be glad that his mind has drifted back, even if it's only for a few seconds.

  “You should put me in a home, dear,” he continues. “I don't want to be a burden. You need to live your own life instead of looking after me all the time. I'll be fine in a home, you know. I'll adapt.”

  “I've got everything under control,” I reply, as I tip the broken pieces into the bin. “Just let me do this, and then I have to go up and check on Alice.”

  “Alice?”

  “Your granddaughter.”

  “I know that.”

  “I have to go and sit with her. She's still very sick.”

  “Alice isn't sick.”

  Once the pieces are in the bin, I turn to him.

  “Dad -”

  “Alice isn't sick,” he says again.

  “Can we have this discussion another time?”

  “Alice is dead.”

  As soon as he says those words, I feel a cold crack running through my chest, as if icy fingers are cutting straight through the center of my heart.

  “Alice is dead,” he repeats. “We went to her funeral on Monday morning.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that he's wrong, but then I happen to look past him and see a pair of black gloves resting on the hallway table, next to the front door. Before I can say a word, I realize that I remember coming through the door last week and taking the gloves off. We'd just come back from the cemetery and I was in a daze. I've been meaning to put those gloves away ever since, but somehow I've never quite found the time.

  “Alice is dead,” Dad says for a third time. “Isn't she?”

  I hesitate for a moment, before setting the tea towel aside and hurrying out of the room. Making my way up the stairs, I feel a crushing sense of panic in my chest as I rush toward the door at the far end of the landing. I can hear a faint brushing sound nearby, but I don't even bother to look over my shoulder. Instead I hurry to the door and then I go into Alice's room, only to freeze in the doorway as soon as I see her empty bed.

  Thursday

  I think I can see the grave from here.

  Sitting alone in my car, I peer out at the cemetery. There's one particular stone at the far end, silhouetted against the darkening sky, and I think that might be where we buried Alice on Monday.

  Then again, most of that day is a daze.

  I remember getting home, and I remember placing the gloves on the hallway table. And then I went upstairs and found her in her room, and I didn't question the illusion at all. I just went with it, because I was overjoyed to see my little girl again. I must have been completely crazy.

  And now I'm not even sure which grave she's in.

  I could get out and go check, of course, but that would mean seeing the stone. I've been sitting here for over an hour now, trying to find the courage to get out of the car and go to my daughter's grave, but I can't quite bring myself to open the door. I even have some flowers on the passenger seat, waiting to be placed, but again I'm not sure I can bear to go over there right now.

  Finally I start the engine and turn the car around. Maybe I'll come back tomorrow and try again.

  Friday

  “Did you hear that?”

  Looking back across the dining room, I watch the doorway for a moment. I swear I heard footsteps on the stairs, but now the house has fallen silent again.

  “Probably mice,” Dad mutters from the other armchair. “We get a lot of mice on the farm.”

  “We're not on a farm,” I reply, getting to my feet and heading over to the doorway. Dad's lost in his childhood again, so I guess it's no use asking him anything. “I heard someone.”

  I wait for a moment, before heading over to the stairs and then starting to make my way up toward the landing. I must have let myself get startled like this a dozen times today, but I keep hearing little bumps and scrapes in the house. By the time I reach the top, I'm starting to think that maybe there's really something else here with us. I start walking toward Alice's room, but then I slow as I realize I can hear a faint sound over my shoulder, as if something is brushing against the wall. I keep walking for a few more seconds, determined not to panic just yet, and then suddenly I turn as quickly as possible..

  The sound stops immediately, and I'm left staring back across the landing.

  “Hello?” I say out loud.

  I wait, but there's no hint of a reply. Which is perfectly natural, really, since I know there can't be anybody else here. Dad's downstairs watching his soaps, but apart from that the house is completely empty. Still, I wait a moment longer before turning and heading into Alice's bedroom, and then I make my way around the bed and take a seat in the chair where I sat while she was dying.

  I sat here after she was dead, too. Night after night.

  Deep down, I know that I'm still hoping to see her again. I've been imagining her presence for the past few nights, but there's a part of me that hopes it was more than that; part of me hopes she really came back to me, as a ghost or a spirit or whatever the hell else it might be called. After the funeral on Monday, I spent several days believing Alice was still up here. I saw her, and I heard her, and I swear I even felt her when I held her fitting body. It was exactly like the last days when she was alive, and although I was wracked by fear and sorrow, at least she was here with me.

  If
she wasn't real, at least she felt real.

  Now I only have an empty bed, covered in sheets that any normal person would have washed by now. Reaching out, I run a hand across the fabric, and I feel a connection to the sweat that soaked into the sheets while Alice was really here. For a moment, I remember the faint creaking sound I heard when her body was lifted off the bed by the funeral director and his assistant, and I close my eyes as I think back to the sight of my darling little girl being carried out of the house. That was on the Tuesday before the Monday she was buried. Almost two weeks ago, now.

  I spend the next couple of hours sitting alone, with a hand still resting on the bed, sobbing with my eyes closed.

  Eventually I get to my feet, resolving to go downstairs and get Dad ready for bed. I can't keep living like this, waiting for Alice's ghost to come back, but for now this is the only activity that gives me any comfort. I don't even know if her ghost was here at all; perhaps I've spent this past week in the company of an illusion instead, imagining the whole thing. As I make my way out of the room and pull the door shut, however, I can't help thinking that perhaps she really was here, that perhaps her ghost really did came back to me.

  “I don't mind,” I whisper out loud. “If you want to haunt me, I won't be mad. I think I'd like it.”

  When I get down to the hallway, I see that the black gloves are still resting on the table by the front door. I'll have to put those away soon, but I'm too busy tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

  ***

  Opening my eyes suddenly, I stare up at the dark bedroom ceiling as I try to remember what woke me. A fraction of a second later I hear a distant banging sound, coming from far off in the house, and I sit up.

  The banging sound continues, as if several doors are being violently flung open and then slammed shut, and then finally the house falls silent again.

  I climb out of bed and make my way over to the door. It's not until I'm out on the brightly-lit landing that I even consider the possibility that there might be an intruder in the house, and even now that thought doesn't slow me down at all. Instead I make my way toward the door of the stairs and listen, hoping against hope that perhaps some other visitor has come to us. If Alice's ghost spent its first post-life week in bed, perhaps now it has chosen to run freely about the house. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, I might even see her.