Chapter 1

"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness."-Joseph Conrad (1857 - 1924), Under Western Eyes, 1911

"Charna's guts! You weren't kidding."

"I never kid." Steph sniffed.

The wood was deliciously smooth, polished. It was beautiful. Whoever crafted it deserved praise, in the macabre sort of way. Opened the lid and found the inside padded with a red silk lining. Honestly, it was clear the man had an uncanny fascination with the color crimson. Of course, if what Steph said was true, then that might only be natural. Blood, after all, was red. Perhaps the color had become a symbolic meaning. Vampires love blood after all.

Not that I believed in them. Coffin or no coffin. My uncle Tally had had the same strange affection for sleeping in enclosed spaces (along with an equally odd collection of cuss words), but that hadn't made him a vampire.

I sighed.

"Look, this doesn't prove anything. He might be a vampire fanatic just like you. It doesn't make him legitimate, or prove that vampires exist. Let's just-"

"I'm not leaving."

"Steph-"

"I'm not leaving. Go home." I opened my mouth.

"Before you even start, I can see you shaking from here. Go home. I promise I'll ask him for an autographed picture if you want, but you have to leave. Now."

I almost did. She was using the 'do not argue with me' voice. It's the same one she used when glaring down Sandra Magpie, the girl in the fifth grade that use to pick on me. It implied harm if not obeyed. It was startling to be the target. I almost caved under the pressure, but-

"The guy is not a vampire. Trust me."

"I saw him in one of my books. It's a fact."

"But books are fallible, just like human beings. Human beings write them. It could be one of his ancestors or something-"

"With the same exact scars? Impossible."

"Well, what if they're self inflicted?" I blabbed, "You know, like maybe he wants people to think he's a vampire. You know, perpetuate the myth."

"Do you know how utterly stupid that-"

Footsteps. Coming up the hall. Fear froze my lungs.

"Quick! He's coming!" Stephanie hissed.

I panicked. It was a split second decision, one I immediately regretted. Nor would it be the last. Without even thinking about it, I flipped over the side of the box and hit the bottom hard, despite the padding. Darkness descended fast and the lid snapped shut.

Click.

Pitch black. I shuffled around and blinked stupidly. Where was Steph? I'd expected her body weight to come crashing down on me. Instead, I was alone. In the dark.

In a coffin.

On an intellectual level, the experience would have been dead interesting. Unfortunately, the fear of discovery completely ruined it. A soft thud came from above just before a distinct creaking sound: the sound of a door opening. There was a pause.

"What are you doing in here?" a low voice demanded.

My stomach tightened. It was the vampire. Or what Steph was calling a vampire. I still didn't believe it, despite being in a coffin. For instance, there was no soil lining the bottom of it and everybody knew vampires needed to rest in the soil from their homeland. That's how they kept their strength and pretty much why the coffin was preferred. No soil was just another indication that he imitated the life style, that's all.

Or what I read could be wrong. But that was remote. However, books are fallible. My own damn argument just came back to bite me in the ass. Vampires don't exist anyway, so it was a moot point. As far as I was concerned, he wasn't a vampire.

No, he was just the God of all Drawing Models.

"Is that how you greet your fans?" Stephanie asked. She sounded sly. Also, her voice came from directly above, which pretty much told me she was sitting on the coffin lid. I could picture her perched, her long blonde hair sliding over her dark gray t-shirt, blue eyes glinting with a mysterious grin on her face.

"What do you want? An autograph?" The low voice asked. Is that what he sounded like? I'd been too distracted earlier to pay attention. It was disappointing. Hoped for a Russian accent or something. Instead perfect English. Damn.

"Sure, as long as you signed it as Vur Horston."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me…vampire."

Internally I groaned. Here goes Buffy. There was a brief silence. I expected some kind of smug reply or an outright denial. Instead, the average voice asked,

"Who sent you?"

Goosebumps immediately broke out. He sounded genuine. Genuine normally indicates either a good actor or a psycho. Sure, he traveled with performers, but I didn't want to take any chances. An urge to start pounding, to start kicking and screaming rose. I didn't. Honestly, I don't know why I didn't. Perhaps it was survival instinct.

"No one sent me. I recognized you from a painting in one of my books. I wasn't lying when I said I was fan. Vampires are pretty much my obsession. I'm very pleased to meet you, Horston."

"My name is Mr. Crepsley." He snarled, then added, "Please leave."

Steph didn't move.

"Crepsley does sound better, I have to admit. Anyway, I have a proposition for you, Mr. Crepsley. One that will benefit both of us. I'll be blunt: I want you to turn me into a vampire."

The world flipped upside down. What?

"In return, I won't call the cops and I won't spread your name across the Internet for a bunch of vampire hunters to find. Oh, and I'll even throw in a snack into the bargain-"

Stephanie rapt cheerfully on the coffin lid.

Oh, okay. I understood now. This is a joke. It's a practical joke. Steph would never do that to me, so this had to be a joke-

"-just to show no hard feelings. What do you say?"

"And what if I just killed the both of you?" Mr. Crepsley asked. His voice was icy. There was also some predatory glee in it.

I knew it was a joke yet I stopped breathing anyway.

Steph chuckled.

"You could do that. Of course, I texted one of my friends, you know, just incase. I mentioned you, full description. If I go missing, the police will be mighty curious. I'm also the First selectmen's daughter and he's a tenacious bastard. If anything happened to his little girl, there would be hell to pay. If the cops don't get you, he'd definitely hire some people to hunt you down with relish."

Stephanine Lynch was the daughter of Mathew Lynch, the first selectman of Willowwich. Mr. Lynch was a tall blonde man that liked to wear striped navy suits and red ties. When he smiled, his teeth were perfectly white and straight. He smiled a lot. Too much. It made me nervous. Steph wasn't particularly fond of him either, so our paths rarely crossed.

"And if I did change you into a vampire? How would you get away from him?"

Here, it was easy to imagine Steph grinning.

"Let's just say I have my ways."

"What about your mother? Or your friends? You could never see them again. You could never have children either. It's a lonely life." The vampire replied in a low voice.

Steph laughed.

"I never wanted kids. My parents are the reason why people shouldn't have kids. My mother has her persciptions so she has no time for me and my father…well, he can't really keep his hands to himself." She snarled.

The bruise on her arm three weeks ago suddenly flashed in my memory. And the broken arm before that. I remembered the there-and-gone again smile as she rubbed it, "Fell down the stairs".

Covered my face in the dark, horrified at my own stupidity.

Her voice evened out, much more somber,

"And my friends? They don't really care about me. Even if they did, I think they would understand."

Chest ached instantly. Loss isn't new to me, but it still hurts every single time. She was right though. I understood.

"Even when you offer them as a sacrifice?" He asked.

"Not as a sacrifice." I could easily picture Steph wagging a finger at him, "I've done my homework. Vampires don't kill those that they feed on. You won't kill her. If anything, she might find the experience novel."

Oh thanks. I'm strange, but I'm not that strange.

"Not usually." The vampire replied, "There is always a risk she-"

"-just as I have put myself at risk for hers." Steph replied briskly, cutting him off, "I don't need to explain what those situations were, not to you. Dawn's approaching so stop wasting time. I've made up my mind. I want an answer."

There was silence. A long terrible silence. White noised crackled in the bitter attempt to hear the silence. I hoped I was dreaming. It could have been a dream. Finding the flyer? Getting the Tickets? The show? It could have been. Maybe in reality I feel asleep in during Mr. Hutchings' class and Stephanie was going to nudge me awake any minute now. In a half hour it would be time to go home. I'd do my homework and paint. The next day I'd go to my drawing class. By then, this nightmare will have left me behind and-

"Let's test your blood."

Charna's guts!

More silence. My heart was banging loud in my ears, my imagination running a horror movie. In it, Stephanie was bearing her throat and Mr. Creplsey, the God of all Drawing Models was pulling closer. His hands moved and lightly touched the curve of her hip, then rested on her waist. Steph tilted her head a little more to the right. Her jugular was fully exposed. He leaned his puzzle of a face in, opened his mouth…

By the Black Blood of Harnon Oan!

Raised a hand to thrust the lid open. Froze at the sound of choking. Then spitting.

"What's wrong?" Stephanie asked. I was incredulous at the worried tone. Then, even more surprised when I heard,

"Get out."

"What's wrong-?"

"Your blood is rotten. You cannot become a vampire. Ever!"

"Rotten? How is it-?"

"You are evil! A monster!" A pause beat for two seconds.

"I'm a what...?"

No rage. Just honest pain. The three words came in one long keening sob, like someone just ripped her heart out. It was much more potent than the there-and-gone again smiles or the forced cheerfulness. It was worse than the low tired whispers, the hunched shoulders, and even the snarling curses.

I knew I should've raised hell. In my imagination, I started kicking and screaming, putting large dents behind the cushioned walls, calling the vampire a son of a bitch and vowing to rip his fangs out.

Because Stephanie never showed weakness. It was beneath her. She was an iron maiden. The warrior princess that crossed miles of emotional bogs and muddy trenches, house fires, brutal murders, the oceans of paint and charcoal, and other oddities where no one else dare set foot, and found me. Like a goddess, Athena herself found me and accepted me for what I was. She had forced me to come back to the real world.

In reality I'm staring at the dark, completely silent. You are a monster. If Steph, Athena incarnate, were a monster…then what was I? Before I could even begin to fathom such impossibility, she spoke. Her blade-like voice sliced,

"No, you're the monster here. An abomination. Killing you would be a service to-!"

Suddenly he laughed. It was black.

"Kill me? Do you know what I could do to you? Crushing your bones would be as easy as snapping twigs, you stupid girl! Kill me-?"

"Try it. I dare-!"

Something crashed. Cracked. My heart flinched hard, then tried to wriggle out of my ribcage. There was a loud high-pitched gasp. Not pain, a tremor of utter terror. A thud followed on its heels, and a voice bellowed, animalistic with a roar-

"GET OUT!"

The door slammed.

Have you heard of that weird theory involving a cat with poison shut up in a box? Schorgenger said something like it was possible that the cat was both alive and dead simultaneously, as long as you didn't look inside.

Too bad I can't remember what his point was.

All I know is this is the situation in reverse.

Was the room empty? Was Stephanie still here? She wouldn't leave me. That would be like finding snow in hell. She was the only thing that kept me from vanishing. In that way, she was selfless in tying me to reality.

However, that didn't change the fact that she could be dead. Crepsley could have slashed her throat open and she could be bleeding out on the carpet like a fallen deer, weak and still feebly kicking with wide Doe eyes.

Or maybe Crepsley was vanquished and sent back into the primordial soup and Steph was simply reeling from the shock. Maybe he was turning to dust, or maybe he was liquefying like the Wicked Witch of the West and she was watching the strangeness. Or maybe he was the one bleeding out onto the floor and she was trying to think of a way to hide the evidence. Perhaps she was getting ready to tuck him under the floorboards of the theater where his body would decay into quiet nothingness, sponged back into the earth, and turned into mushrooms or something.

Or maybe I could do that. Let myself turn to rot like that crusty mildew that clings to the sides of basement walls. Maybe I'll just stay in here until I suffocate. Much better than facing the bloodthirsty beast outside, or worse the possibility of the factual evidence that proved my Athena was in fact a killer, or even possibly a mon-

The lid opened.

I woke up on Kempton Street. About twenty minutes away from home. Would have been drowned in the twilight if not for the lone streetlight shining above my head. Blinked at it, owlishly. I have no idea how I've gotten there. Just feel dizzy and sick. Rolled into a crouch on the pavement instead and tried to orient myself. Ruffled through the memories but couldn't find any which were specific to leaving the building.

Just that room. That room.

Grabbed my throat, but found no puncture marks. Nor were there any lacerations anywhere else. I wasn't sore, not between my legs, so I couldn't have been raped-

And it's that thought which produces tears. Not sure if I cried with relief or fear. It was also that thought which made me realize the danger of just sitting here, on the street, in the early hours of the morning was.

With numb legs, I staggered home.

Steph didn't come back to the apartment, which had been the plan.

She didn't come to school either. Two hours in I realized she may have never went home. I never saw her leave. Six hours passed horribly.

Bell rang.

A ten-minute sprint later, there was the house. Two stories and tan colored with black shutters, it crouched behind perfectly square cut hedges. An impeccable lush green lawn rolled right up to the white picked fence. From the gate, a path of cobblestones lead to the front door made of a stained oak. The knocker consisted of a lion's head. It was more for show because they had an electric doorbell.

There was also a green mountain bike on the front porch. Instantly, I relaxed. Steph hated cars and preferred to bike everywhere because it was better for the environment. She'd ridden it to the theater; the fact that it was here meant she had come home safely.

I pulled the latch to the gate, but then noticed something was amiss.

A silver Impala was parked in the driveway, in front of the two-car garage which complimented the house.

It was Mr. Lynch's car.

I stared at it.

He wasn't supposed to be home from work yet. Of course, he could have finished work early. He was the first selectmen. Didn't they make their own rules? Or maybe he forgot something and came back for it. Or maybe Steph was really sick and he stayed home to make sure she was all right.

Well, he can't really keep his hands to himself…

Stood there for a long time.

Didn't have a clue what to do. One voice suggested running for another adult and describing the situation. Another contradicted that this would only waste time: I had no empirical evidence, just rumor. The first stated this would be good enough for one of the female teachers. The second snarled school was out and most of the staff would probably be gone. It would also take twenty minutes to get back, then God knew how long to convince them something was wrong. More time would pass before said adult did something.

While walking in might stop whatever might be taking place.

Like I said; stood there for a long time.

Finally opened the gate. At the same time the front door opened. Mr. Lynch emerged. He was dressed in the usual suit, shoes, and tie. Hair slicked back, completely in place. He was whistling and twirling his keys around on his left hand. Took two steps out onto the stoop and then noticed me.

Flashed a large good-humored smile.

"Well, hello kiddo." He chirped.

Suddenly, all I wanted to do was slaughter him.

But that was impossible. I did not have the physical strength to over take him, not even if I took him by surprise. I'd lose, and I still feared him. Also, he was Stephanie's father. For some reason, killing her father seemed very wrong. Despite how he was hurting her, he was still her father and therefore perhaps a treasured person. Even when hated, children loved their parents. That's what the books said.

I won't know. My parents died when I was four. But there was Tally. Even when I hated my uncle, I had loved him.

So I didn't say anything. Didn't do anything. Yet. Yet was the key word. Killing may have been wrong, but reporting him to the authorities-that did not require life and still included punishment. Having made the decision, my head gave a mechanical jerk. It might have been a nod. Couldn't be normal despite the resolution. Some things can never be unlearned. The urge for violence still persisted. Stood frozen on the path. Couldn't come any closer.

He noticed. The light in his eyes dimmed slightly and a wrinkle appeared on his brow: puzzled. The keys stopped swinging in circles. Uncertainty crept in to his gaze like mold. If this persisted, he'd figure it out. If he figured it out, he might prepare a counter attack before I could even make my move-

"I'm bringing Steph her sick work." I croaked. "I mean-the work we did today. Because she was sick. Sick work."

The smile jumped back. Not as bright as before, but more grounded. He always made me nervous. Everybody does. He was well aware of this. It was the usual stuttering.

"Ah. Thank you. It's refreshing to know that Stephanie has such a good friend." He smiled. With his teeth. Somehow, the gesture needed to be repeated. Settled for a closed there-and-gone again smile. Avoided his eyes as usual. With that, he nodded, left the door unlocked, and turned towards the car. Just like that, I was over looked.

Waited an extra second to let him get a head start to the car. Then carefully, with measured steps, crept into the house. Shut the door softly behind me and waited for the car engine to both start and ebb away.

Then I bolted up the stairs and into Steph's room.

She wasn't there.

Back tracked, looking into each of the bedrooms on the second floor. Empty. All of them. Even checked the coat closet to no avail. Finally, noticed the bathroom door was closed. Stood in front of it, but wasn't caught in such a perpetual state of fear. Pushed it open.

Steph was sitting on the toilet seat cover. The left side of her face was still swollen, red not purple yet. The left sleeve of her blouse was torn, exposing a bare shoulder with no bra strap. Her jeans were gone. She was sitting in lavender panties.

She didn't look up, but continued to stare at the tiled floor.

I will never forget that look.

"Come stay at my place."

After relocating to Steph's bedroom, with the door firmly closed, the blonde took up a position near the open window, smoking a cigarette. The window happened to be furthest away from the bed. I noticed how she skirted away from it upon entrance. We both stayed away from it. Again, she shot another hard questioning look at me. It asked why I was crying. She wasn't and she was the victim here. In her mind, I had done nothing wrong; there was nothing I could have done. Why did I feel bad?

Guilt.

I could have come in and interrupted it. Whatever it had been, could only imagine…

She retorted, "No. It's better if I stay here."

"Please? You won't be intruding. My place is small, but it's comfortable. I can move all my paintings out of the way-"

"Trust me. It's better if I stay here." Steph replied, softly. Won't look at me.

"I'm serious. If you stay tonight, I'll give you the bed and I'll sleep on the floor. Tomorrow morning I'll skip class and go get an air mattress-"

Steph exploded.

"LISTEN TO WHAT I'M SAYING: I. AM. STAYING. HERE."

Wasn't ready for the roar. Curled up under the hot glare like a burnt leaf. Steph kept her battle visage for another few moments, then settled back into her apathetic look. Now that it was safer, I whispered,

"Why?"

Except I knew why. He must be a treasured person. Special. Kin is always special. Even if they hate you. Even when they work to destroy you, when they try to turn you into a scapegoat, they are still of value. Kin is always special. Undeniable. That is how powerful blood is.

"I have my reasons." She replied, confirming my fears, "I'm not stupid. It won't be for much longer, but there are things I have to do here first." Then added after a thoughtful pause,

"Are you mad I left you?"

Spinning around in so many confused circles. Looked at her, shocked.

"Left? You didn't leave. You went to get help. You weren't strong enough. Needed reinforcements. The monster would have killed you."

Except her shoulder's stiffened. Her face tucked into her arms to hide. What was that? Guilt? Or…?

No. She won't. She really won't. She didn't leave me. She wouldn't leave me. It was impossible. Fought the sinking suspicion, the cruel reality of the situation tooth and nail. She would never ever leave me like that. Never.

"Do you think I'm a monster?" she asked in a whisper.

"No. Never." But that wasn't enough. The silence demanded more. As usual, I could only think of the bizarre.

"The day you're a monster is the day Lovecraft's Nyarlathotep appears in a maid outfit." I paused, suddenly thoughtful.

"How cumbersome do you think it would be to hold a feather duster with tentacles?"

This got a snort. I waited, tried to hold out. Couldn't, and giggled at my own lame stupid joke like a moron. Then Steph joined in and it no longer mattered. We cackled like a couple of witches. I was happy then. I was happy. She looked at me, blue eyes bright, and there was no pain. 'Blue Bayou' hummed into my mind.

Then it died when her eyes pierced me.

"Promise me you won't tell anyone. Not about the Cirque and especially not about my father."

No. There was no way-

"Please?"

I stared owlishly. Steph never said please. She commanded her own destiny. Told people what she thought. Spoke frankly. Also told people to either get lost or suck it up and deal with it. In elementary school, she used to use fists when words hadn't worked. Now, she was more sophisticated, graceful, yet kind. Cruel to be kind, she understood how to save people. Settling for composed and casual threats in battles; combated vices not people. Quiet orders; she employed harsh staring eyes that could brandish defiance like a saber. She feared nothing.

She never ever said please.

An hour later, normalcy had returned. Walked through the woods in her backyard, far enough so we lost sight of the house. We always had to lose sight of the house. Steph dutifully called me over after she stepped over a fallen maple and discovered a dead crow. As usual, I whipped out my sketchbook and sketched the carcass. I'd done this since I was a kid. Animals move too quickly when alive. Studying corpses allowed for more time to fully record all of the details. Skin, fur, feathers, teeth, it was all very different from flowers and vases; they were interesting to look at.

Except organs. Never organs.

Luckily for me, the crow had hardly been touched. Its black glossy feathers were a delicious challenge. My hand moved quickly, recording the beauty of it.

"Why don't you go down to the police station and ask to see the road kill they collect? Officer Wolf says every two weeks there's always some poor thing that gets hit. You'd get plenty of material from them."

"And expose this level of morbidity? Trust me, they'd never understand."

"I understand it." Steph snorted.

I started at her.

"That's because you're unique."

Several times, I thought about breaking my promise. Wondered if it would be bad to breech that trust and appeal to an adult. Some adults were dependable, so if I did I'd have to be careful who I picked. I also considered the end result: she would be sent to her Aunt and Uncle's, and therefore removed from the house. It would be breaking her trust. She would never speak to me again. Losing her would be a very painful experience.

Still, I felt like an accomplice.

And then like a murderer when she vanished two days later.

I heard about it Saturday. Woke up early, pulled out some already prepped canvas, and set up shop near the window. Threw on an oldie but goodie, Crash Test Dummies in the boom box and hummed along. They had been my mother's favorite band.

I assembled my palette. Painting is my catharsis, so all the thorns in my subconscious come out there. After three hours, I pulled back and was unsurprised to find Mr. Crepsley's face staring out from the bottom left hand corner. I scraped him out and painted some more.

An hour later, he filled a quarter of the canvas.

Damn.

The phone rang. Turned the volume down on 'Afternoons and Coffeespoons'.

"Hello?"

"Darlene?" a woman's voice asked.

"Darcie." I replied.

"Darcie, sorry," She didn't sound like it. Just anxious, "This is Stephanie's mother. Can you put her on the phone please?"

"Steph isn't here right now."

There was a pause. I think she was trying to figure out if I was lying or not.

"Oh." She said, then, "Well, if you see her, tell her to come home."

The woman hung up.

"Good bye." I replied to the deadline and hung up the receiver.

Went back to painting. Scraped Crepsley out again. Repainted that corner. Went up and down the canvas, trying out colors, trying out shapes. Getting rid of the ones that didn't go together. When the sunlight failed, I flipped the light switch and kept going.

The phone rang again.

"Hello?"

"Please tell me Stephanie is there."

Sudden nausea. Shock does that. Especially when your brain speeds ahead and gets an inkling of what happened. What could have happened. It becomes like truth. Truth gets confirmed with facts, like the pure desperation I heard in the voice on the other side of the line.

Replied in the negative, and then felt absolutely horrible when Steph's mother started to sob. When the line went dead again, I hung up, and like a zombie went back to the painting.

Stared at it.

Even abstract, I could still recognize Crepsley. In a huge sea of red, his face had taken over the entire three feet of canvas, framed by thousands of green, purple, and brighter red spiders. He had no expression. His head was simply monumental, just a maze of plans and lines, scars and flesh: expressionless, but with two open wide staring eyes.

Propped the damn thing to facing a corner so I wouldn't have to look at it.

Or maybe so it won't look at me.