Herbert McHoolihee threw things at random into a battered leather suitcase. The apartment was a disaster area, most of the damage having been done by Herb himself in his blind terror. Shirts, socks, pants and underwear were all high on his list of priorities, but somehow memorabilia kept making its way in and out of the suitcase as well. Desk-sized photo frames, housing shots of himself with everyone from Christopher Lee to Ingrid Pitt, his shattered cigarette-case mirror, a stiletto that shot out a ten-inch aluminum cross and even framed movie posters had each taken their respective turns at being stuffed into the already bulging bag. Herb had begun to reconsider his needs when his life-sized portrait of Bela Lugosi, in full Count Dracula regalia, had slipped out of his fingers, spraying shards of glass all over the floor.

Bela had been a good friend. The painting had been a gift, bequeathed from the greatest vampire to the greatest vampire killer. If only the legendary vampire could see him now. Not even an hour ago, a lifetime of fantasy had coalesced into nightmarish reality in this very room, and he had been found unworthy of it. He knew it.

Evil Ed had known it too.

Herb shuddered. The body was still there, lying where it had fallen. Its death had not been quick, oh no. For several endless minutes, the thing that had once been Edward Thompson had writhed on the floor, shrieking and hissing. Spittle had flown from its mouth as it had screamed obscenities at him, vowing a swift and violent retribution by its master. The burn on its forehead had sizzled and smoked, filling the air with a rancid odor that smelled of foulness and dead things.

Gradually, mercifully, the thing had begun to quiet. Muscles stiffening and bones creaking, its limbs had locked into place as rigor mortis set in. The blackened skin from its holy brand started to fade, until it had vanished completely. And then at long last, it was still.

He didn't know what was to become of it, nor did he care. I gotta get out of here, I gotta get out of here. It was the mantra of a man in mortal terror. A psalm of self-preservation. A communion with cowardice. I gotta get out of here. It was the only thought in his head.

When the knocking at the door began, Herb let out a little screech. He dropped what he'd been clutching and fumbled at his neck for the crucifix that hung there by a golden chain.

"Mr. Vincent! Mr. Vincent, please! Open the door!"

"Who is it?" he trilled, his words thin and quavering. He thought he recognized the voice, but it was hard to tell; he'd never heard such panic.

"It's Amy! Amy Peterson! Please open the door!"

Tentatively, Herb edged toward the door. He put his hand on the knob. "What do you want?"

"He has Charley, Mr. Vincent!" The voice from the hall began to sob, and the pain in it stabbed Herb in his heart. "Please… Let me in, Mr. Vincent!"

Herb sighed. I'm being a fool. He cracked the door, keeping the dead bolt anchored as he peeked out through the opening. Amy gazed back at him, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She was in total disarray, her hair untidy and her mascara running down her frightened face.

"Are you one of them?"

Amy sniffled. "What?"

"Here," Herb produced a cross from the inner pocket of his jacket, holding it out towards Amy. "Grab this."

Reaching out, Amy slowly entwined her fingers around the cross, squeezing the wood tightly against her palm. Herb waited with baited breath, watching the young woman closely for any indication of fear or discomfort brought on from grasping the holy relic. When it became apparent that nothing would happen, Amy let go of the cross.

"Come on, Mr. Vincent!"

Herb unlatched the deadbolt. Not waiting on Herb to invite her in, Amy pushed her way through the entryway, hurrying on into the apartment. Herb slammed the door closed behind her, throwing the locks back into place.

"Oh, Mr. Vincent! It was terrible! He chased us! He was everywhere! He trapped us in a nightclub! The Club Radio! He had me but Charley… Charley offered to take my place! He traded himself for me and he – AAHHHH!"

Amy's words cut off in a horrific scream as her gaze landed on Evil's body, frozen on the floor. She backpedaled, tripping over a fallen lamp and landing soundly on her behind. Amy scrambled away, crawling until her back hit the wall.

"It's dead," Herb called from beside his bedroom dresser. He selected two additional shirts from the chaotic mess within the drawer. "At least, I think so."

"It?" Tearing her eyes off of the body, Amy looked up, watching as the legendary vampire killer continued to pack his travel case. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving."

"But you can't!"

"Can't what?"

Amy forced herself to her feet, bracing against the wall for balance. "He has Charley, Mr. Vincent!"

"So call the police." Herb struggled to close the suitcase, cursing as the zipper caught on a pair of socks. "Let them deal with Dandrige."

"But they won't believe us! Charley already tried!"

Herb gave up on the zipper and hauled the overstuffed bag from the bed. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed an old pair of pajama bottoms from the top of the duvet, tossing it over his shoulder. "That's not my problem, young lady."

"But it is!" Amy stepped around Ed's corpse, being careful not to look at it. "You know what he is! You know how to stop him!"

"No, I don't."

"You have to!" Amy was crying again, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "You're Peter Vincent, the Great Vampire Killer!"

"THAT IS A CHARACTER IN A MOVIE!"

Amy flinched at the harshness of his words, hiding her sob with trembling hands.

"I'm sorry," Herb said, softening his tone as Amy fought to control herself. "I really am."

Amy stared across the room at her dead friend, her face going slack as a strange calm blanketed her mind. "Charley worships you, Mr. Vincent," she said. She wiped at her eyes. "You're his hero. Maybe you are just a movie character. But, are you really going to just let him die?"

Herb stood gaping at Amy. He was conflicted, being torn between his desire to help and his overriding sense of fear. Helplessly, he looked between the terrified girl before him and the malformed body crumpled in the corner of the room. I can't do it, he thought, and the realization made him sick. He hated himself, the cowardice he embodied. He was powerless before it, and was powerless to stop it.

"I'm sorry," Herb's whisper was barely audible. "But I can't help. I just can't."

Slowly, Amy nodded her head. She dried the last of the dampness from her face with the sleeve of her blouse. A beautiful ornate cross hung on the wall by the door. Amy lifted it from its mounting. She turned to look at the man she had once known as Peter Vincent, seeing only an old and scared man unwilling to meet her eyes.

"Then I'll just have to do it myself," she said.

The door banged shut behind Amy as she left the ransacked apartment. Inside, Herbert McHoolihee was drowning in his grief, and the great Peter Vincent could do nothing to save him.


Author's Note:

I'm sorry if the ending to this chapter seems rushed or sloppy. This was a "filler" chapter I wanted to get this done and posted so that I could begin the on the next one, where this story will begin diverging from the film.

I also wanted it to be clear to the reader that Evil Ed was dead. He's not my favorite character, to be honest, and really, his character wouldn't have served a purpose in this story anyhow.