Morgan Freemont glanced at the clock: 12:07am. She rubbed her eyes and sighed, looking away from the black screen and green text of the brand new Amiga computer the library had received only a week ago. Outside the library's window lay the dark, empty streets of Omaha. She had stayed late to put together a new computerized book catalogue. Mrs. Wordsworth, the elderly head librarian, had been skeptical of using a system that wasn't paper based, calling computers "those infernal machines", but Morgan's other co-workers had been enthusiastic for the idea.
Programming the database had taken much longer than she had intended; typically she was on her way home by seven at the latest, and she was almost never out past nine. Late at night was when the dangerous people came out.
Morgan stepped outside and turned her back to the world in order to lock the library door behind her. She had trouble turning the key, she was shivering so badly, but finally heard it click into place and hurried away. As she walked, she determinedly did NOT think about the news articles in the papers and on TV; NOT thinking about the pictures of the bodies; NOT thinking about that awful artist's rendition of a hulking silhouette of a man holding a knife against a bright, Halloween orange background, dubbed "The Carver" by sensationalized media for the way the killer tended to leave deep gashes in his victims flesh. No, Morgan thought not of these things, and instead focused on the fact that the three bodies had been found far away (fifty miles was far, right?) in Lincoln.
She couldn't stand violence in any form, it reminded her too much of then. She still lived in constant fear that she might one day wake up to find herself seven year old again, curled into a fetal position under her covers, waiting as her father's drunken voice and heavy footsteps made their way up the creaking stairs to her room.
Morgan was glad the streets were quiet this night, but in a way it made her more nervous, as if something was out there, in the night, that made everything too frightened to even breathe. She finally reached her home and walked in with an audible sigh of relief. She locked her three locks and set her things on the table. She went to her fridge to look inside for something she might rustle up, and froze in place, hearing something shift behind her. It was just soft enough that she might have been able to dismiss it, if she wasn't already feeling a bit high strung. She stood back up slowly, listening intently, trying to hear over the sound of her ragged breathing and her quickened pulse.
Just turn around, Just turn around, it's nothing, just turn around. She gripper her hand on the fridge's handle and tried the fight the mild paralysis that seemed to have taken over her body.
Just turn around, yes, turn around and look at me…what? She blinked nervously. That thought had come out of nowhere, and it had felt cold, so cold. She knew she wouldn't be unable to turn around now, forever frozen in place. She could see an image of herself in her mind's eye as she clutched the fridge door from a view point a few behind her, looking down at her, seeing an orange static haze around herself, unable to TURN AROUND NOW.
The force of the thought made her cry out meekly and fall to her knees, no longer paralyzed, but no better off as a puddle of gelatin instead. She couldn't quite turn her head, but angled her left eye as far up and over as she could.
There, out of the darkness a form became clear. It had a pair of red cowboy boots pulled over worn blue jeans with holes in the knees. He wore a bulky leather jacket over a bare chest and a straw hat with the brim pulled down over his eyes and a grin than made her blood run cold.
"Hello! My name's Jack." He pushed up the brim of his hat and she saw his eyes were black as death. Despite his cheerful seeming manner, she was frightened more than she had ever been in her life of this man. He suddenly frowned at her. "My name's Jack. You're supposed to introduce yourself now." She could tell if she did not find her voice quickly, he would be angry.
"M-Morgan," she barely managed, her voice only a whisper she barely heard herself.
"Morgan! How nice to meet you! Now that we've been introduced, let's get to know each other better shall we?" he grinned widely and suddenly rushed at her in a blur. Before she could even register the motion she was hit over the head and slumped, unconscious on the ground.
Jack Elsworth was an old man, a no-man, not a human, much older than he looked. He had passed 300 a while ago, at least he thought so. He had never been very good at keeping track of time. Jack had many names over the years; John, Mike, Mr. Henderson, Mr. Rodgers (this one confused him, but it seemed to make the members of court smile), The Alligator Man, Wayward Wayne, and most recently, The Carver. Jack thought he may have other names over the years, but his memory wasn't the best either, and he often got the order of his memories mixed up and sometimes made up memories completely when it suited him, and then forgot he made them up.
Since he was getting old (300 is supposed to be old, even if it isn't that old anymore), he felt it was time to find a companion, someone to share the night with, someone to share an Embrace with, someone to share his pleasures with. So he had approached the throne, straw hat held bunched in his hands nervously, his head bowed, and asked the Prince if he might have a child. It had taken only a couple of years for the Prince to concede and Jack had whooped with joy, throwing his hat in the air. The court had eyed him warily, well aware of how his enthralled happiness might induce frenzy, but he was led from court without incident.
And so, Jack had begun his search for a companion. He thought to himself if would be nice, if she were a girl, but he there was something more important he was looking for than gender in his companion: someone who could share in his pleasures, someone who shared his idea that pain could be as beautiful as blood, and screams a melodic soundtrack to glorious act of torture. His eyes glazed over thinking of the joys he would share with his child for centuries after the embrace, if only he could find the right one. He was careful to feed before taking a potential match, lest he wind up eating his own child, but each human he had taken so far had not lasted very long on his table. Each one had been beautiful, and had become more so as he laid into them with his blades, but their screams had held no joy in them, and Jack was becoming more and more frustrated, killing each non-match quicker than the last. He still had hope he might find the right one to make his, but he had already moved once to get away from the growing suspicions of the humans and he wasn't sure how many he would go through before finding the right one.
He didn't have high hopes for this girl (though, he reminded himself, he still didn't know her true self that well, that she might yet surprise him). He looked down at her still unconscious, and now naked, form. Morgan, she had said, was her name. She had long black hair, large, doe-like brown eyes and a small scar on her left cheek, just under her eye. This small flaw had caught his eye a few nights ago and spurred him to choose her to follow next.
He had to admit, she led a fairly boring life. She stayed inside her home almost all night every night, but still he watched her, fixated for reasons he couldn't explain. He was glad she had finally stayed out late for something this night; it gave him a chance to see her doing something other than eating and sleeping. He was a bit disappointed to see her only tapping away at a computer, her aura keeping to its typical dull grey-blue-green, at least until it started getting later. Then he had seen the orange begin to creep in, her aura becoming frantic as night settled in. This change piqued his interest, and he had decided, tonight was the night he was going to get to know her better, the way only a person such as himself could.
She stirred on the table, her body attempting to move under the ropes he had tied her with, and he approached her, looking down at her like a scientist examining a specimen. Her eyes flew open at the sound of his footsteps and her aura flared back to the brilliant, buzzing, orange of fear he had been enjoying earlier. Her eyes flicked everywhere.
"Looking for a way out?" he chuckled to himself, looking at the gag in her mouth, knowing she had no way to answer. He reached the table and leaned over her, looking into her face. She flinched away from him, trying to make herself smaller, wishing she were someplace far away. "No need to be shy, Morgan M'dear, we will know each other very well soon, and I'll know if you're mine or not." He patted her stomach gently, the way he felt any good, consoling, parent might, and turned away, looking to his instruments. A plethora of sharp metal in all shapes and sizes, and varying states of rust or pristine cleanliness lay before him. These tools were almost like lovers to him, a collection he had amassed over his years. His hands fluttered over them and he asked quietly which of his friends wanted to go first. A sturdy steak knife called out and he picked it up deftly, holding the knife gently in his hand.
He turned to face Morgan once more who was overcome with powerful panic at the fight of his knife. She struggled and tried to scream but the noise was strangled in her throat by her fear and only came out as the smallest whimper. Jack frowned as he paused, holding the blade just above her skin. She was bucking violently now, even starting to foam at the mouth, desperately trying to escape and he couldn't help but think this was going to be another lost cause. Oh well, too far gone now to stop!
He drew the blade deeply into her abdomen and sliced down the center. Her body suddenly stiffened and her eyes rolled back into her head. A scream finally exploded out of her, but it wasn't the kind of scream he had been expecting. Her aura bloomed into a beautiful mix of gold with passionate reds and other colors flitting in and out playfully. He looked up at her face excitedly and found sly, lustful eyes with humor in them. Jack hurried to ungag her; confident she wouldn't cry out for help, not now.
"Morgan! Morgan!" he sang out childishly as he lifted the gag away. She caught one of his fingers with her teeth and bit viscously down. He tugged his hand away and looked absently at the now missing chunk of skin and muscle she had taken off.
"You call me that bitch's name one more time and I'll kill you." She hissed at him. He raised his eye brows skeptically. She was still restrained, and still naked, but something about how she said it made him decide to err on the side of caution.
"Then what shall I call you, M'dear?" he grinned widely down at her clasping his hands together. He could already feel his finger healing.
"Kendra. You call me by her name, ever, and you'll regret it. You understand me?" again, that tone which made it hard for him to doubt her.
"Kendra," he whispered it lovingly and ran his finger along the gash in her mid-section. She shivered pleasantly. "Kendra."
They spent the night getting to know each other. Kendra revealed herself as once being part of Morgan's suppressed psyche, and Jack told her about himself and his search for a progeny. She quickly agreed to join him, and he smiled, knowing he would've Embraced her regardless of her wishes.
By morning, the two were entangled in the grip of death, hidden away from the sun, awaiting twilight and the night that came with it.