by Tim Lebbon
In a provincial town.
On a Sunday afternoon.
In the fifties.
A small waiting area greeted them, padded benches lining the walls and a table covered in old magazines planted in the middle of the room. A tiny cubicle to their left was occupied by a woman who looked like she was about eighty years old.
She was knitting.
They approached the cubicle. The walls inside were covered with faded pictures torn from ancient magazines. Mulder squinted at them. Dallas. Dynasty, that kind of thing.
“Afternoon ma’am,” said Mulder.
The old woman carried on with her knitting, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth. Mulder glanced at Scully. She shrugged.
Mulder tapped on the glass. “Ma’am?”
The old woman finally looked up and scowled at him. He flashed his badge.
“Special Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner, Dana Scully. We’re here to see the sheriff.”
She squinted at their badges, her lips moving with the effort. Mulder could actually see her forming the words “FBI” as she read the badge. She finally sighed and heaved herself out of her chair. She pulled open the door to the cubicle and leaned out.
“Lester!” she shouted. “Visitors!”
She slumped back into her chair and resumed her knitting. A few seconds later, a tall, thin figure appeared in the reception area. Mulder blinked. The new arrival was wearing a sheriff’s uniform, but he looked like he was only about twenty years old. That couldn’t be right, surely.
Lester strode forward and shook hands with them.
“Lester Goodman. Acting Sheriff.”
“Acting?” asked Mulder.
“Yeah. My dad’s the real Sheriff, but he’s... out of action for a while. Follow me.”
They followed Lester along a corridor lined with police circulars and Missing Person posters issued from out of state. Lester paused before a door, then gently pushed it open, gesturing for them to look inside. Scully looked first, then turned to Mulder, her face inscrutable. She moved aside to let him look.
The room was dark, but he could see it was kitted out with hospital gear. Machines hummed and buzzed. Blue and green lights flashed comfortingly.
A large figure rested in a wheelchair, IV lines arcing across the desk to saline pouches mounted on stands behind him. The figure’s head was resting on the desk. Mulder couldn’t be sure the guy was still alive. He didn’t look it.
Lester reached past his shoulder and closed the door. “My dad. He’s been Sheriff in this town for forty years. He’s... a little reluctant to pass on the torch. He’ll come around, but in the meantime I’m Sheriff by proxy. You see that movie? With Bruce Willis and the bad wig? Where they put their minds in robots and let the robots do their day to day? That’s me. I’m the robot.”
Mulder couldn’t detect any resentment in his tone. Just resignation.
“And the town is okay with that?” asked Mulder.
Lester shrugged. “No complaints. ’Course, they’re all watching to see how I handle these missing kids.”
Mulder almost snorted with laughter at that. Lester couldn’t be more than a year or two older than the victims.
“The thing is, there’s not usually much for me to do. Most recent hassles we had were some earth tremors a couple months back. Old Elsie’s chimney collapsed. Folks were still talking about it a month later.”
“Has there been any progress?” asked Scully.
Lester blew out his cheeks. “Well, old Bill Wicks—he owns the hardware store—has offered to rebuild it for her—”
“I meant about the missing girls,” said Scully gently.
Lester’s face flushed red. Mulder felt sorry for the kid. “Sorry. Right. Uh... no. No progress. Your friends have been out searching the forest. Where Kimmy said it all happened.”
“Kimmy?” asked Scully.
“Sorry. Kim Duncan. The witness.”
“Of course. We’ll need to speak with her.”
Lester nodded.
“The previous missing girl,” said Mulder. “There’s been no progress there either?”
“None. The woods cover a forty-mile area. We’ve sent dogs through, and every weekend the family organize searches.” He shakes his head. “But there’s been nothing. I’m sure they’ll all turn up. Just kids out having a good time.”
He didn’t sound like he believed it.
“And you’re sure none of them were having problems at home?” said Scully.
Lester shook his head. “According to the families, everything was good. Lucy—that’s the first missing girl—was a straight-A student. Spent all her time reading. Mostly those stupid Dusk books.” He made a sour face and shook his head.
“I take it you’re not of the opinion that the perp is a three-hundred-year-old vampire?” asked Scully.
“Come on. That’s just stupid girls getting their panties in a knot.”
“So how do you explain the footage?” asked Mulder.
Lester shrugged. “A prank. You know McEllroy’s fans—Duskites, they call themselves—believe that he based his books on a real vampire? The one that was supposed to have terrorized the town in the fifties—”
Mulder held a hand up. “Back up. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I suppose it wasn’t in the report. Back in the 1950s we had a spate of attacks. Similar to what’s happening now. Missing girls. And a couple of boys. Eight in total. Not sure how the rumor got started, but people said it was a vampire. Word is McEllroy got his idea from those attacks, and these Duskites think Callum James is the real deal. The one responsible for the attacks in the fifties. Me, I think it’s a couple of jocks on the football team having a laugh.”
“I fail to see the humor in the situation,” said Scully. “Three girls are missing and if this is just some... high school prank then those responsible will have to be punished.”
“Did the missing kids ever turn up?”
Lester shook his head. “And no bodies either. Nothing. If you want more details, ask Tom across the square. He runs the B&B. You checked in yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, he’s a character. Claims he witnessed one of the original abductions back in the fifties.”
“Where exactly does McEllroy live?” asked Scully.
Lester looked at them in surprise. “Why?”
“I’m a fan,” said Mulder. “Thought I’d get my book signed while I’m here.”
“He has a house on the outskirts of town. Follow the main road through and take the dirt track on your right. House is at the end. Don’t know if he’ll sign your book though. He’s a grumpy bastard. Only comes into town to buy whisky and cigarettes.”
*****
The B&B was a double-story house on the opposite side of the town square. Mulder pulled his overnight bag out of the trunk and joined Scully inside.
A cramped welcoming area greeted them. Wood paneling. Leather armchairs, a deer’s head mounted on the wall. Scully was waiting by the reception desk. She glanced over her shoulder and held something out for him, a brochure of some kind.
Mulder glanced it over while Scully rang the bell. It was a history of the original vampire attacks, ending with an ad for a guided tour of the locations where the kids went missing. The brochure looked like it had been put together in MS Paint about twenty years ago. It even used Comic Sans.
Mulder skimmed through it. The attacks took place over a six-month period. The brochure listed the names and even had black-and-white pictures of the victims.
The beaded curtain behind the desk was pushed aside and a couple in their seventies stepped through.
“Hiya there,” said the woman. “I’m Aileen.”
“And I’m Tom.” The man held his hand out to shake. “Are you two the FBI fellahs who’re gonna find our girls?”
“We’ll certainly try,” said Mulder. “Do you have a room? A double?”
“You folks a couple, the
n?” asked Aileen.
“Um... yes,” said Scully.
“That’s nice,” said Aileen. “It’s good that you work together. Especially when you’re away from home. Right, Tom?”
“You know it’s the same vampire, right?” said Tom, leaning forward.
“From the fifties?” said Mulder.
“Yes. He’s come back.”
“Any idea why he would do that?”
“To finish what he started.”
Aileen’s smile had turned brittle. She quickly handed the key to Scully. “Here ya go. Supper’s between 6 and 8. Will you be eating with us?”
“I think we’ll need something.”
“We have steaks,” said Tom, turning his attention to Scully.
“Sounds good,” she said.
“How’d you want them? As Count Dracula intended or crisped in the light of the sun?”
“As the good Count intended,” said Scully.
“Same for me,” said Mulder.
Tom stared at them both suspiciously, then reached under the desk and came up with a mist spritzer. Aileen’s eyes widened and she tried to stop him, but he was already squeezing the trigger on the plastic bottle.
A stream of water hit Mulder in the face. He blinked in surprise as Tom turned the bottle to Scully and sprayed her too.
The four of them stood for a moment, confusion and embarrassment hanging in the air. Tom finally smiled and put the bottle away.
“Holy water,” he explained. “Just checking.”
Mulder wiped the water away.
“I’m so, so sorry,” said Aileen.
*****
The afternoon light was fading as they headed toward Kim Duncan’s house. The grey sky was low and heavy. About to dump another few inches of snow on them, Scully thought.
Kim’s mother opened the door. Her eyes were glazed and empty. She looked like she hadn’t slept since her daughter went missing.
“Special agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. We’ve come to see Kim.”
Mrs. Duncan nodded and led them through the house to the kitchen. Scully could see through the windows to the backyard. Kim was seated on an old wooden swing, swathed in a massive, quilted jacket that had to be her father’s. Her hands were cupped around a mug of something hot. The steam drifted up into the air and was swallowed by the cold wind.
Mrs. Duncan stared out the window. Scully could only imagine what she must be feeling. Did she blame Kim? She was the older sister. She should have been looking out for Briony. Not that anything was ever that simple, but those treacherous thoughts must be sliding around her head. Questioning. Wondering. Did Kim do enough? Why didn’t Kim stop Briony leaving the house? Why, why, why?
“Mrs. Duncan?” prompted Scully.
Mrs. Duncan started, looking at them as if seeing them for the first time.
“Can we talk to Kim?”
“You can try,” said Mrs. Duncan. She glanced back out the window. “We’ve all tried,” she added softly. “She’s... different. She was always a bit distant. But now...” she shook her head. “She barely speaks. Just stares into the woods.”
Scully and Mulder headed out the kitchen door and approached Kim. She was pushing the swing slightly, bending her knees and pushing back, then letting it swing gently before pushing off again.
“Kim?”
No answer.
“Kim,” repeated Scully. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What for?” she snapped. “You’ve got the cell phone footage.”
“We’re more interested in what happened after you stopped recording,” said Mulder.
She turned her head to stare at Mulder. “What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”
Mulder nodded. He glanced up at the grey sky, then down at the snow. He kicked it with his foot, digging a hole in the snow. “It’s just... in the report, I wonder if you forgot something. If something was left out.”
She turned away again and hunched down deeper in the jacket. “Nothing was left out. I ran. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. I ditched my little sister and I saved my own skin. Now leave me alone.”
“Kim—”
“I said leave me alone!” she screamed, tears in her eyes. “Why are you even here! Go and find her! Find my sister and bring her back!”
Kim leaped out of the swing and sprinted back into the house, slamming the door behind them. Scully caught Mrs. Duncan’s eye through the window. The woman just shrugged helplessly.
*****
The snow finally started to fall as they followed the road out of town. The heavy, pregnant flakes fell silent and thick, flaring white as they cut through their headlights.
They missed McEllroy’s drive the first time, had to double back when they’d driven over the town limits. They moved slowly, finally spotting the driveway obscured by bushes that had been coaxed and cut to hide it from view.
“Doesn’t seem to like visitors, does he?” said Scully.
Mulder nodded. “A journalist turned up unannounced at his door once. Back in the seventies. McEllroy tied him to a chair and kept him prisoner for five days.”
Scully glanced at Mulder to see if he was joking. Always hard to tell with him.
“Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“The journalist wrote a story on it. Won the Pulitzer.”
They edged the car along the rutted track until they arrived at a surprisingly modern house nestled among the tall firs. The whole front of the house was glass. Scully could see straight into the lounge. Old, comfortable chairs. Bookshelves lining the walls. A roaring fire. No television, she noted. Rare, these days.
They got out and Mulder knocked on the front door. “Be prepared,” he said. “He’s got a reputation for being difficult.”
“You mean normal people don’t hold journalists prisoner for five days? I’m shocked, Mulder.”
The door swung open. Scully immediately took a step back and drew her gun. “FBI. Drop the weapon!”
McEllroy stood before them wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, a double-barrel shotgun held in his hands. A homemade cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.
He squinted through the smoke at them.
“Who?”
“FBI,” said Mulder. “Sir, please put down the weapon.”
“FBI?”
Mulder reached into his overcoat and pulled out his ID. McEllroy frowned at it, then leaned the shotgun against the wall.
“Thought you were fans,” he muttered.
Scully warily holstered her gun. “That’s how you treat your fans?”
“Only the loyal ones. The ones that track me down.”
He turned and walked back into the house. Scully glanced at Mulder. He shrugged and followed after.
*****
McEllroy led them into the kitchen where it looked like they had interrupted him making a milkshake. He carried on where he left off, spooning ice cream into the jug. Then he emptied half a bottle of whisky on top. He gave it a few blitzes and poured it into a glass.
“Want some?”
“We’re on duty,” said Mulder.
“Suit yourself.”
He downed half the glass, smacked his lips and sighed. “Good stuff.”
“Mr. McEllroy, we’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Scully.
“What about?”
“The missing girls.”
He looked perplexed. “What missing girls?”
“Sir,” said Scully, trying her best to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Are you honestly saying you don’t know what’s been happening in your own town?”
“My town? This isn’t my town. I hate this place.”
“So... why are you here?”
“Only place I can write. I grew up here. Doesn’t mean I like the place, though. Can’t stand it.”
“Three girls have gone missing, Mr. McEllroy,” said Mulder. “And people are claiming the perpetrator is Callum James. The talk around town is tha
t you based your books on a vampire that terrorized this town in the 1950s. That Callum James, is, in fact, real.”
McEllroy shook his head in disgust. “This town is filled with idiots. I knew some people thought Callum was real but I didn’t know any girls had gone missing. You know where I got the idea for Dusk from? I wanted to see how stupid, how mindless a book I could write and still get people to buy it. It was meant to be satire. A commentary on modern society and the mindless fashion in which we consume entertainment. How teenagers today are so stupid they’ll buy into anything. The vampire as a metaphor for the mindless trash we’re all addicted to. How we can’t survive without our gossip rags and 24-7 entertainment.” He barked out a laugh. “Only problem is, teenagers today don’t know satire. Or irony. They lapped it up. Bought into it as if I was writing a serious novel just for them.” He shook his head in disgust. “If they’re running around thinking Callum is real, I guess I succeeded. Just not in the way I’d hoped.”
“You sound like you wanted your book to fail,” said Scully.
“Don’t be an idiot. I wanted it to succeed. But for the right reasons. For people to realize it for what it was. A hate letter to everything that’s wrong with today’s world. I despise the Dusk books. Loathe them with every fiber of my being. They’re everything that’s wrong with modern society. Mindless crap passed off as something meaningful. Pop psychology disguised as deep thinking. Teen relationships distilled into the most destructive form I could think of—stalker and the stalked—hunter and the hunted. When I realized no one actually understood what I was trying to say I even threw in some necrophilia fetishism, making it clear Callum was dead—had been for centuries. When that didn’t work I turned him into a controlling, abusive creep who wouldn’t let the main character have a life of her own.” He shrugged. “They thought it was romantic. If I could go back in time I would burn the manuscript of the first book before it left the door. I’d kill myself before I even had the idea.”
McEllroy was practically frothing at the mouth, his face flushed. He forced himself to calm down, taking another hefty gulp of his milkshake.
“So... what are you working on now?” asked Scully, trying to deflect the conversation slightly.
McEllroy looked at her as if she was insane. “The new Dusk book, of course.”