FOREWORD
In the words of Monty Python's Flying Circus, "And now for something completely differently." Well almost completely different, there is a vampire in it. And the 2 Kolchak movies were produced by Dan Curtis. But it is a completely different cast of characters and a completely different locale, compared to my previous stories.

My deepest thanks to SpunSilk. She wordsmithed [a word I learned from her] the Kolchak parts of this story for me. And without the inspiration provided by HER Kolchak stories, I never would have thought of this one.

Kolchak: The Night Stalker
"The Vampire, and After (POV: Faye Kruger)"

My name is Faye Kruger. And Carl Kolchak changed my life forever.

No, make that ruined my life forever.

It all started innocently enough. I met him while showing a house – I'm a Real Estate Agent by profession… or I used to be… before…

He struck me that first day as a 'Can-Do' type of guy; the type I'm usually attracted to, under normal circumstances. He seemed to be confident and competent in his job as a journalist, incredible enthusiasm, and he understood how to easily mold a conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. He skillfully stroked my ego just enough to make me think my old journalism dream from all those years ago, was still a possibility… that it was in fact, in his words, " –– all just right there; just around the corner, Darlin'. So close you can reach out and touch it if you try. Close your eyes, now. Do you see it?"

I swear, Carl Kolchak could sell crude oil to the Kuwaitis.

I fell for it, and soon found myself in his hotel room enthusiastically typing up a story. My reporter skills were a bit rusty, I'll admit. But I had a good story to type about a good friend, who happened to have a stunning house, to boot. And I quickly rediscovered that I enjoyed writing. And it was easy to write what I knew.

The phone rang a lot during my first typing session in Carl's room. I obeyed his explicit instructions, and did not answer the calls. I figured he was married, and he didn't want a woman answering if his wife telephoned. He himself was absent for the lion's share of the project. It was pretty obvious that Carl was working on two stories at once here in L.A., and fobbing one of them off on me. But I didn't really mind; it was exciting to be working my fingertips instead of my poor feet for once. The thrill of the newspaper deadline was surging through my veins once more, and I was surprised to find, it made me feel more alive.

I wasn't sure what the other story was all about, really it was none of my business. But it sure occupied his mind. So much so, that sometimes when we would be talking I could see right on his face that his wheels were spinning on some far-off place. (Hel-lo, Earth-to-Carl!) His intensity was jarring. It was like trying to discuss my article with a caged tiger. His personality was far too large for the small room where I typed.

I heard snippets. Police actions here in L.A.; Missing persons in Las Vegas. Then that call from his wife did come through, a gal named Toni. His conversation with her I won't even try to describe. I tried not to smirk at his evasion tactics. He was clever and resourceful, that much was apparent enough. He was also someone who set out to bamboozle his own spouse, big-time. I shook my head, and returned to the typing. What must he be like in bed, to have a woman be willing to put up with that kind of crap? Hmm. I typed with a thinly-veiled expression of disapproval. He hung up the receiver and grinned at me, like a playful boy. Okay, he did have a winning smile… but still.

My article came together, pages and pages. I smiled as I held it in my hands on the way to putting it on the Wire, myself (Carl was gone, again). Then I took myself out for a celebratory glass of wine in the hotel lounge. While I swirled and sipped, I played the fantasy of a life in journalism around in my head. Maybe, just maybe… my life was about to take a turn for the better. Jewel tones of music played in the lounge in the background, and couples leaned into their private conversations, quietly chatting and smiling at each other. I felt a bittersweet pang of loneliness watching them. Or maybe it was the wine.

The following day, I was on top of the world when I arrived at Carl's hotel room. I had just sold Amurta Mira's house for five-oh-five, five. (That's real estate parlance for $505,500.) That was only $20,000 below the asking price, which in the market at the time was outstanding. And I was expecting to celebrate my first article's flight onto the Wire.

Wrong! Instead I walked in on Carl's conversation with his Editor in Chicago. It seems I was mistaken the day before; it was TONY with a 'Y.' Now that I could hear his voice and not Carl's shaver, there was no mistaking that this fellow was male, and an angry male to top it off. I had a sinking feeling when I realized he was yelling about my article.

But Carl poo-pooed his Editor's upset, and redirected the conversation (as always) after the call to what he wanted to talk about. I leafed through the pages of my copy, but watched him from the corner of my eye as he scanned Ma Bell's Yellow Pages, fascinated by the contradictory messages this guy gave off. How could any human be so sure of himself?

My potential new career now in jeopardy, my mind was on the rewrite. But Carl's was not. He shooed me away, interested really only in his other story. Suddenly his stake in my professional future was flimsy, to say the least! I was a tad peeved. By the time I left that day, I had decided he was stubborn, reckless, less than tactful (especially in arranging illegal rendezvous in front of other people!), self-absorbed, and had some kind of a lipstick fetish I did not want to know anything additional about. I left that evening shaking my head in amazement.

I understood even less as the story goes on, though. The next morning, I saw a lipstick cross on the door (!), and he talked nonchalantly about leaving town "either now, or after twelve years in San Quentin."

Just like that. I stared at him with my mouth open. I didn't know what to think.

Around then, that's when I made the off-hand comment, "Oh well, it's back to Real Estate for me."

That was the moment everything changed. Something in him seemed to snap. The next thing I knew, we were in my office, where we spent the next ten hours on the phone looking for a house that was rented to a beautiful young woman with long black hair. A secluded house. Nothing else about its physical condition seemed to matter. Not even its location! Do you have any idea how many single-family houses are sold and rented in L.A. in a month? Remember, this was not happening with computer search engines; this was happening with metal file cabinets. Again, the room was too small for his personality; and my office is a large room, with many desks.

He was not just out for a story, I began to realize. I'd seen what reporters look like doing stories. This was different. He was on a Mission. Driven. Manic.

My co-workers glanced at me sideways as they passed my desk, but didn't ask questions. I hardly had time to come up for air as we leafed through stack after stack, cross referencing for the information we wanted.

"Purchase date May six. National Title Insurance," I said.

"…. 4912 Parker Street," he answered, his index finger following down the list of addresses.

"Buyer is… Mr. Anthony Meyer. Nope. Next." I toned, checking out the data point from the stack of papers I held. "Purchase date May six. Freddy Mack."

"…. 1132 Sequoia Avenue."

"Buyer is… buyer is… lemme see… Miss Candi Barr. Nope. Next." I yawned.

Carl looked up from his papers and reflected with a frown, "Candi Barr? What kind of parents would do that to a kid?"

I dropped my stack onto the desk with a muffled 'thwump'. "Look Carl, I'm tired and I'm hungry. The listings will still be here in the morning, let's start fresh –"

"No! It has to be now! You're doing fabulously, stay with me, Faye. We can't give up. What about the next one, the one on El Dorado drive? We might be at the point of finding it. It could be just outside our grasp." He pressed on, flipping through a stack of papers. "Just one at a time; purchase date, address, owner's name…"

We soldiered on, although he was gallant enough to order a pizza delivered, "to keep body and soul together." My co-workers, one by one, finished their duties and left for home, each with a significant smile to me as they went.

He seemed to have unlimited energy and focus. I was beyond caring at that point. We soldered on for hours more. Until…

"456 Oceanview Avenue," he read.

"Renter is… is… Miss Catherine Raw––" I started. With the wheels on his chair, he was right there and reading over my shoulder, before I could even blink. "––lins!" we finished in unison.

He banged his hand on the desktop in celebration, and I was jarred alert. His laugh was almost a cackle, and he trumpeted, "Faye Kruger, take me to a map!"

When we did find the house on the huge LA map hanging on the wall, I pointed out that it was on the other side of the hill on which Matheson's Cross stands, Matheson's Cross being a major landmark in that area. Carl cried, "Perfect!" Then he kissed me on the top of the head, grabbed his duffel, and ran out the door.

Silence. He was gone.

I let my weight fall back onto the back of the chair, and let my shoulders sag for the first time that day. My weary eyes closed luxuriously…

I had, at that moment, my first chance that day to think without the distraction of Carl's presence at my side. What had just happened? What a strange fellow, I mused… so focused on… on… finding… on finding…

Uh-oh. My eyes flashed open again.

I had the most soul-chilling thought, and my tired head started spinning; "Did I… did I just help a stalker find his intended victim?" I asked the empty room, out-loud, with a higher register than normal.

In a flash, it all made sense. His other 'story', his single-minded obsession around this young woman. His mention of San Quentin prison! How could I have been so blind?! I felt the panic rising up in my chest. Could he be a dangerous type? In a blink I reviewed what I knew of him. I saw his over-sized personality finally discovering her in her safe hide-away, looming over her, threatening her. And I had helped! I had led him to her!

My spinning mind energized my tired body. Fight-or-Flight, I think they call it. I had to do something! Call the Police? What would I tell them; I had not a shred of evidence Carl could be dangerous. Call some big strong bouncer-type friend of mine to offer Catherine a body guard, just in case? Very sadly, my circle of friends included only one guy at the moment, and he was not the big strong bouncer-type. Strong willed, yes, but that was not enough in this situation.

But I couldn't just leave it be – I couldn't.

I chose Flight. And then I sprinted to the car and set out to follow Carl to Catherine Rawlins' house.

There was a part of me that wished I had the gun my father gave me as a going away present when my new husband and I left for Los Angeles. Big bad Los Angeles in my father's eyes, hometown to my husband. The gun is a Colt Detective Special, if you're interested in the details. And my father is an Irish cop - in Raleigh, North Carolina, not New York. So all three of his daughters, as well as his two sons, know how to shoot.

Yes, we're Irish Catholic! My maiden name was Ryan. The only part of the stereotype we don't fit is my father and my two brothers are cops in Raleigh instead of New York.

I intended to follow Carl in the sense of "drive to the same place, but after he drove there." But I was lucky. Maybe traffic ahead of him was heavier than the traffic between us, but some how I caught up with him. Not all the way up with him, I was careful to keep a few cars between us.

As I said: I am the daughter of a cop.

Later I learned that I caught up with him because he stopped to buy a big gas can and fill it up. Not filled up his car's gas tank, you understand; a carry can. A big one. Full. If I had known that at the time, I would have stopped at the first pay phone I saw, and called the cops. I would have had the evidence I needed at that point.

When he turned up the road to Matheson's Cross, I realized I had shown him how to sneak in the back way. He was choosing to sneak. More evidence against him. Now I really wished I had that gun.

I was torn. Deep in my heart I didn't want to really believe that Carl was evil, that he was out to hurt Catherine Rawlins. If he was trying to kill her, why did he leave ME alive as a witness after I helped him find her? My hands were clammy as I gripped the smooth steering wheel. Doubt and suspicion were at war with my more trusting true nature. Driving along behind him up to that point, I found myself believing in him, which was crazy, or stupid, given the brief time I had known him. It was also crazy, or stupid, given the fact that he had used me. He had: used me to write what should have been his story about Amurta Mira, and afterwards used me to find Catherine Rawlins.

So what should I do now? Assuming now that Carl really did want to hurt this girl…

Go straight after the lout and try to talk him out of it? Yeah, right, and end up dead myself! He hadn't seemed violent during our time together, but you can never be sure with off-balance men. That's the thing with unpredictable men: they are unpredictable.

Find a phone and call the police? How long would that take? How dead would Catherine Rawlins be by the time the cops arrived?

Stay here in the dark behind his field of vision and do nothing? Not one thing? No. That decision was made. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to that poor girl.

I couldn't turn up the road to the Cross after Carl without giving myself away. I drove past that road, and then farther down turned into the driveway of Catherine Rawlins' house. With my headlights off for the last quarter mile, I stopped just a few feet inside the long driveway. I would have some explaining to do if she were home and tried to leave, or if she was out and came home, and found my car in her way. But I had explaining to do when I met her, in any case.

I strained to see something, anything, amiss in the flat blue moonlight. I listened with everything I had. Nothing. Nothing but the wild beating of my heart. I dug the flashlight out of the glove box, my hands were almost useless with nerves. Then I dug the jack handle out of the trunk. It felt heavy and powerful in my hands, and I took strength from the sturdy metal tool. Better said, the sturdy metal weapon. Something to even up the odds a bit, hey Mr. Predator?

I slipped off my stylish office pumps, and pulled on the tennis shoes I always kept behind my driver's seat – ever since that time years ago where I had found myself far outside of town looking for a particular property, with a blown tire and nothing but high heels to get back to town with. Thus shod, I took a number of deep lung-fulls of crisp evening air and set off on foot. I took the risk of leaving the driver's door unlocked, in case I had to get back in fast.

Snakes. Like most women, and every man with an ounce of sense, I am terrified of snakes. That was one reason for the flashlight, to light the ground ahead of me even at the risk of giving away my presence. I did keep my hand over the lens in a position that resembled the Vulcan salute, with a narrow band of light emerging through the gap between my second and third fingers.

I moved slowly, my eyes moving back and forth between the ground immediately in front of me, and the driveway farther ahead. If Carl was up to no good, I wanted to see him before he saw me. And if I saw him long enough before he saw me, maybe I would have time to grab the jack handle tucked under my arm. Maybe even time enough to use it.

I approached the house as noiselessly as I could manage but saw no sign of him. Unless he were inside the house already, he should be pretty easy to spot in that light-colored suit of his.

I tested the front door. Locked. I peered in through the dusty glass ––

At that point my world flipped on its head.

A commotion sounded to the right, yelling and hissing in the quiet California evening. I dashed in that direction with all I had, pulling the jack handle into swinging position, and saw the pursuit happening just as I had anticipated. But she was chasing him.

And she was out for blood.

My mind seemed unable to handle this change in dynamic, and I stood rooted in the spot, unable to run or call out. In their battle, he was defending himself with… with a cross. Say what? And then she turned in my direction for a split second–– and I saw her fangs.

It was like I was moving in a dream, one of the nightmare variety. This was the stuff of horror movies and campfire tales. It was impossible. Impossible. My head shook of its own accord in rejection of everything I was seeing, but my eyes protested that Carl really was there, on the ground and that… that thing… was going for his jugular. But he slammed his metal cross flat on the back of her jacket, and an incensed hiss split the night; the place where the cross had landed was smoking, the thing was writhing on the ground, and Carl was free and scrambling up the incline towards Matheson's Cross.

The she-thing finally got free of the jacket that now carried the black-burned image of a cross and made to follow him up the hill. At that point, I also set into motion. I ran after them. I reached down into my neckline to pull out my gold crucifix, a confirmation gift from my parents I had with me at all times. There was a time when I wore it outside my top, but as crime had gotten worse and worse in L.A., I had moved it out of sight. My fingers were trembling so badly that I couldn't get a grip on the delicate chain of the crucifix. So I grabbed the edges of my neckline with both hands and pulled as hard as I could, ripping my top down the middle to expose the crucifix ... and quite a bit of myself in the bargain.

Then, Carl set Matheson's Cross on fire. Flame roared into the night, a good 40 feet over my head. Yellow light lit the hill side and overwhelmed my straining eyes. I froze again, and a good thing too, or I might have run straight into the line of flame that cut off the she-thing's retreat from the Cross. She fell prostrate on the ground, thrashed around for a bit feeling God-knows-what in the glory at the foot of that brilliant cross, and then lay paralyzed on her back.

And Carl pounded a wooden stake into her heart. With a determined brow and a set jaw, as if it were nothing; as if it were all in a day's work.

I stood frozen in the brush through all of this, my own heart pounding louder than Carl's mallet strikes. This could not be happening! But the police sirens were real, and they pulled me back from the horror land. I saw the police coming over from the other side of the hill.

I turned around and walked away very slowly. I was hoping if I moved slowly enough the police wouldn't see me, not with the firelight in their eyes and all their attention on Carl. I walked until I couldn't stand it anymore. Then I ran. Ran way from the sight, away from the horror, away from what I didn't want to believe.

But I jerked to a stop when I saw a snake lying on the path ahead of me!

Only the primitive danger of almost treading on a snake could have cleared my mind at that point. That's where the world came into focus again, where the horror world and the real world melded in a blink. I screamed when I saw it, laying there in the dim light of a flashlight. Thank God for the flashlight lying on the ground next to the snake. Without it, I never would have seen the snake.

Wait a minute. Where did the flashlight come from? And what kind of a snake can bend itself into a sharp angle instead of a curve?

It was my flashlight. And the snake was the jack handle from my car. Without realizing it, I had dropped them both when I needed both hands to rip open my top as I went running after Carl and the… the…

I grabbed the flashlight and the jack handle and resumed running, afraid the cops had heard my scream and were hot on my heels.

When I reached my car, I jerked open the driver's door. I threw in the flashlight and the jack handle. I was vaguely aware of the sound of breaking glass. I discovered much later that I had thrown the jack handle hard enough to break the right front window.

At the time I didn't even glance in that direction to see what it might be. I was too busy getting behind the wheel and burning rubber for the first two times in my life: the first time when I backed out of the driveway, and the second time when I took off down the street.

It was a dead end street, so I had to go back the way I came. I didn't slow down as I passed the road to Matheson's Cross. It occurred to me much later that an innocent passerby would have slowed down to rubberneck at all the police car lights up that road. Lucky for me no cop was looking my way when I passed. He might have gotten curious and come after me.

About a mile later, a fire engine came around the curve ahead of me. Red lights and siren and all. By then I had recovered some of my wits. I pulled over as far as I could and stopped until the fire engine was past. It was the right thing to do. It was also the smart thing to do: when the firemen found out the fire was arson, they would have told the cops about someone who was departing the scene in too big of a hurry to pull over for a fire engine.

I took a moment to pull together my frazzled thoughts. What I had just seen had really happened. That changed things, a lot of things. Carl must have been looking for her ... for it! ... the whole time he was in L.A. The 'other' story. He must have been planning this from the beginning. The… bloodsucker was dead. What would happen to Carl now? I fled the scene because I knew I couldn't stop the cops from arresting Carl.

So I was going over their heads.