I am now playing the game of "How Many Chapters Can I Post Until I Have To Go To Bed." It'd quite fun, I highly suggest it.
For anyone reading this story, I feel like all you lovely readers should know that I know about 5% what I'm doing, but everything else that I've written has been made up on the spot. This story might take a different direction then planned or not. Either way, it should be a fun and a creepy ride.
Watch your heads.
"P-pardon...?!" Constable Crane questions, as the woman approaches him. The sun has gone behind the dark clouds and she seems even more threatening. All of a sudden he wishes he wasn't alone. At least in Sleepy Hollow he had Young Masbath by his side.
"Are you deaf? There never was a Mrs. Janice de Winters." She repeats and gently strokes Ichabod's jawline, causing him to shudder. Something about her touch makes him extremely uncomfortable. it reminds him of a certain Judge.
"My name is Heather Briargrove..." She finally says in a whisper, and without a warning, or really any hesitation kisses the Constable. Ichabod's light brown eyes widen in shock and fear,as he pulls away, gasping for air and trembling. His legs are going weak, black dots are having a ballet in front of him and yet he's still conscious. How he is still conscious, he doesn't know. Heather smiles at him and takes his hand, squeezing it hard and bringing him back to his senses.
"Still with me? Good. I need a man for where I want to go." This woman continues on, in a rather sultry voice as she quickly kisses his cheek.
She leads him across Whitechapel and Bell Court and even Fleet Street, to a rather elaborate looking club of sorts, the type of club that Crane would never want to go into. The things he does for this job. There's a list of rules posted outside, but Heather seems to ignore them and sneak past the guard with Ichabod mind you, but as they scamper past the brutish looking bodyguard, The Constable catches a glimpse at the rules. Couples only. So that's why she needed a man. The inside of the club is full of the wealthy citizens of London, all drinking and chatting and dressed in their very best. It's dimly lit with hundreds of candles, and there is a trio of violinists all playing some rather enchanting music.
"Wait here." Heather commands and slips off to the faculties with a bag of sorts, a bag that Ichabod didn't see before. The bag must've been in the club, or perhaps Heather is a witch and made the bag appear out of nowhere. Ichabod sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting not to cry out or laugh. He would like to go home now. It takes a good five minutes for the Constable to regain his composure, and while waiting for Miss Briargrove, he decides to scribble down a few notes in his black ledger. Crane has been sucked into the world of pen and paper once more, and fails to notice Heather slipping out of the women's restroom and tapping his shoulder. Ichabod yelps and drops his quill, as she smiles at his foolish actions.
Miss Briargrove, has changed into a long navy dress with lace around the collar and sleeves, and shining white pearls sown into the fabric. Her brown hair has been pulled back into an elaborate bun of sorts with dangling earrings, and a necklace to match. She even smeared some makeup on her already rather attractive face.
"M-my word..." Ichabod chokes out when he gets an eyeful of her, and blushes rather heavily as he decides to avoid all eye contact. Why oh why, is the company of females so nerve wracking and well scary?! Heather ignores his comment and takes a seat at their table, crossing her legs and tapping her gloved hands on the tabletop. A waiter, a young scruffy looking boy barely ten years old comes over, and Heather orders some sort of drink that must have alcohol in it. Ichabod doesn't really know though, he does not drink. The boy hastily places her order, and rushes off before the bartender boxes his ears again.
"Miss..." Ichabod starts as he finally faces Heather. Hopefully this won't fail, but knowing Ichabod it will.
"Briargrove. Hell, call me Heather." She snaps as her light blue eyes travel upwards towards the ceiling. She seems to see something interesting on the ceiling and smiles.
"Miss Briargrove...I-if you could be so kind, could you possibly explain this whole situation with M-Mrs. Janice de Winters..?" The Constable asks and glances up at the ceiling. What was that dark shape? It must be a chandelier...
Heather takes a sip of her drink wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and leans in to him. She's still smiling and do her teeth look slightly sharper, or is that just his fearful imagination?!
"Janice was killed by a vampire three months ago." Heather rasps in response as a low hiss escapes her throat. Now Ichabod is rather scared as he clutches his ledger to his chest, hoping that'll slow his rapidly beating heart.
"Pardon me, but there-"
"No such thing? Wake up and smell the Death, Constable. The corpses you've found with no blood, the missing men and women..."
"H-how did you know about the c-corpses?!"
She smiles and takes another long sip of her drink, her eyes traveling up towards the ceiling once more.
"Too many questions... I haven't even finished with Jan."
"I-I see." Crane nervously answers and forces himself to breathe slowly. In and out, In and out. He will stay conscious, if it kills him.
"Jan was a nice girl. A bit of a flirt but nice. She was walking home one night when the vampire attacked. She comes to my door, crying and screaming and I take her in before the whole block is woken up." Heather starts and by her grim expression and how she's downing her drink, the next segment of the story isn't pleasant. Not that the first half was.
He pauses writing and glances down at his elegant cursive. So far he has everything frantically scribbled down. That doesn't mean his hand isn't shaking like crazy.
"She...Jan died that night. She got a really high fever and just withered. Y'know when you leave a plant outside too long and it just shrivels up? That was Jan. Then she came back."
"C-came back?" Ichabod questions. Oh goody! Here come the black dots again, dancing and swirling in front of his eyes.
"That's what I said. She came back with this...This horrible papery skin and glowing red eyes. She said she was thirsty. Jan said she was so thirsty and then she screamed."
Ichabod pauses once more, looking much paler and even more frightened.
"W-why did she scream..?" He questions, almost fearing the answer.
"There was a vampire at our window." Heather finishes and chugs the rest of her drink in a rather unladylike fashion. Ichabod shakily stands and glares at her, attempting to be brave.
"I-is that what you believe? T-there are n-no such things as v-vampires!" He says, his voice quivering and forces himself to stand.
"N-never has been...N-never will b-be..."
Heather laughs. It's a cruel laugh that sends chills down the Constable's spine.
"Not real? Why my dear Constable, look above you. Look around you."
To Ichabod's horror, he looks up and instantly freezes with fear. There are several shapes, clearly human on the ceiling just hanging around. One of them spots Crane and hisses at him, showing the same fangs that the woman in the alley had and shining crimson eyes.
Ichabod Crane is in a club full of vampires.
"Well?" Miss Briargrove asks as he backs away, towards the door. This is too much. It can't be real. No, no it all must merely be a hallucination or odd dream! It's getting harder to breathe, is the air getting thicker in here? Ichabod fumbles with the door, trying to find the doorknob but there is none. His fear only grows as the customers get up, their fangs showing as they hiss and snarl and get closer and closer and-
The forest has an enchanted feel to it and the young boy wanders through the knee high, soft grass. The grass is a minty green and he picks a few wildflowers here and there and soon finds his mother under a twisted elm tree. His mother is wearing a dark blue gown and is sitting in the grass, weaving and turning blades of grass into small smiles at the baskets and at her. She's taught him so much and is his best friend.
"Little Love, come here." Lady Crane says as the small boy runs into her open arms. She strokes him and braids the flowers he gathered into his hair and he's safe. He's safe and warm and comfortable and loved.
Ichabod Crane is loved.
The peaceful dream slowly comes to an end with the image of an Iron Maiden and Crane, once more has jolted awake. He's lying on the cold cobblestoned streets and a few citizens pass him by, mistaking him for a drunk or beggar. The sun is burning him, making him squint but that's only because of how dark the club was. Speaking of the club, he seems to be nowhere near it nor near Mrs. de Winters or Miss Briargrove. Crane feels like crying. He got so close, he got to the vampire's nest and yet fainted like some sort of sickly maid!
The Constable manages to stand and brushes himself off, finding out that his hands have been scratched up pretty badly. The scars on the palms of his hands are bleeding once more, and just to top it off he has a throbbing headache. Lovely, just lovely.
This case is going to be great.