Jillian never made it to the bar. Instead, she took what could generously be called a wrong turn, veering down a side street toward her friend Gabriella's apartment—several blocks in the opposite direction. Her neighbor might have been a serial killer, but she didn't expect him to be so easily tricked. She almost laughed to herself.

Then again, maybe he wasn't quite as gullible as she liked to believe. Maybe he was just arrogant—convinced he held the upper hand by default.

He probably saw her as delicate. Diminutive. Harmless. A trembling girl wrapped in denim and naïveté, like most everyone else walking the streets in this Reagan-era suburban neighborhood. But the truth was more complicated. Jillian was no victim. And while she wouldn't call herself his equal—considering he was the kind of monster who killed people—she was something close. Sharp. Watching. Undeterred.

She didn't need books or library microfilm to figure it out. She'd seen the fangs. Seen him lean over a woman's throat, swelling up like a tick on her blood. What else could he possibly be? Dracula didn't belong in black-and-white films anymore.

The thought disturbed her. Vampires were the stuff of paperback thrillers and B-movie matinees. They belonged on posters in darkened theater lobbies, not lurking in the apartment next door. She'd considered the possibility of there being any other supernatural beings besides her, but she never thought she'd just stumble onto one like this. Especially never thought it would turn out to be a vampire.

God, this world she lived in couldn't be real. Werewolves, vampires… What could be next? Bigfoot?

She shook the thoughts away as she climbed the stairs to Gabriella's apartment. Gabby was the only thread still tying her to her old life. Jillian had moved cities to start over—she had her reasons—but Gabby, ever relentless, had followed not long after. Tracked her down like a bloodhound. It was intrusive, maybe even creepy, but Jillian had long since accepted it. She was glad, honestly. Gabby made things feel a little more human.

When Jillian knocked, the door flung open with typical Gabby Flynn enthusiasm. In an instant, arms wrapped around her like a boa constrictor.

"Jilly! Oh my God, it's been forever!" It had only been about a week.

"Hey, Gabby," Jillian wheezed, overwhelmed by the acrid fumes of AquaNet drowning Gabriella's perm. Still, she managed a smile. "Ease up!"

"Sorry!" Gabby released her, laughing, then immediately began smoothing down Jillian's jacket and fussing with her bangs. Gabby was always doing that—fidgeting, fixing, touching. In high school, the nickname "Grabby Gabby" stuck like her hairspray.

"Come in, girl, come in!" Gabby flung an arm over Jillian's shoulder and pulled her inside like a sitcom sidekick.

The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla, and Madonna's "Lucky Star" played softly from the radio on the living room side table. Gabby pirouetted into the kitchen. "You want anything? Tea? Lemonade? Maybe a little somethin' with vodka?"

The word hit a nerve. Vodka. That damned bar. Her neighbor was probably there by now, checking his watch with an impatient sneer, wondering where his evening plaything had gone. Jillian pictured him throwing a tantrum, frightening the bartender with his intense stare and unsipped beer. She smirked at the mental image—then felt immediately guilty for it. There was nothing funny about a murderer.

"Earth to Jillian?" Gabby was back in front of her, hands on hips. "You want something or not?"

"No thanks," Jillian replied, snapping back to the present.

"Your loss," Gabby plopped down beside her, a glass of cheap red wine in hand. She took a sip, and immediately winced. "Woof! That's strong... I thought all red wine was sweet?"

"I didn't know you drank."

"I don't usually," Gabby admitted. "It's left over from the party. Figured I'd crack it open before it turned to vinegar."

Jillian's stomach sank. "Wait—your birthday? Oh God, Gabby. I missed it. I'm so sorry."

Gabriella waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. Wasn't much of a party anyway."

"But still. That's awful of me."

"Don't say that," Gabby said, more firmly. "You're a great friend. You've just been... distant. Is something wrong? You know you can talk to me."

"Of course," Jillian lied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gabby nodded, but a quiet unease lingered. To fill the silence, she told Jillian for probably the hundredth time, "Dean misses you, you know."

Jillian was used to this from Gabby—a not-so-subtle nag to get back in contact with Dean. She tried not to let it affect her. But still, Jillian's breath caught. "Did he call again?"

"Yeah, duh." Gabby grinned, mischief sparkling in her eyes. "He couldn't make the drive for the party, but we talked for a long time."

A pang of jealousy surfaced hearing that, but Jillian pushed it down. "You didn't tell him I'm here, did you?"

"No. Just the usual 'I miss her too' stuff." Gabby hesitated. "Why is it so important that no one knows where you are?"

"It's... complicated. Things aren't the same as they were."

"Tell me about it," Gabby said, sipping again. But to Jiillian's relief, it seemed that her friend would give it a rest… for the time being.

Jillian watched her friend—the golden girl, with her sunshine hair and effortless charm. Gabriella was everything Jillian wasn't. She knew how to use makeup, how to style her hair to match every rising trend. But more valuable to Jillian… Gabby had direction, a sense of normalcy Jillian could never quite recapture. Even her melancholy felt elegant.

"You're amazing, Gabby," Jillian said, sincerely.

Gabby's expression softened. "Aww, Jilly! So are you. You just forget sometimes."

They hugged again, this time gently. Jillian, for once, hugged her back readily, letting it soothe her.

Gabby pulled away from the hug with a grin and bounced over to the TV stand. "Hold on, I've got just the thing," she said, digging through a crate of VHS tapes. "You need a serious pick-me-up—and Christopher Reeve is just what the doctor ordered."

She popped the tape of Superman into the VCR with a satisfying click. "He's such a dreamboat," she sighed, dropping back onto the couch beside Jillian. "Like, come on—he saves the world and he's got that whole mild-mannered reporter thing going on? Yes, please."

Jillian gave a soft chuckle, letting the screen's glow fill the room. The iconic theme played, crisp and hopeful, and Gabby settled in with a contented sigh. But as the film rolled on, Jillian found herself only half-present. Her mind wandered, drifting back to earlier events, to the dark man she'd left behind.

She found she wasn't nearly as repulsed as she should be, thinking of him.

Get a grip, Jillian, she scolded herself inwardly. That's what vampires are supposed to be good at—making people blind to their evil. He threatened to kill me. I can't give him another thought.

Unless wishing for him to burn in Hell.

And yet… there was a gravity to him, a strange pull she couldn't quite shake. The memory of his voice, smooth and deliberate, echoed in her mind. She told herself it was just fear keeping him alive in her thoughts. Nothing wrong with studying your enemy to protect yourself. That's why even preppy girls like Gabby liked true crime.

Eventually, Jillian checked the time. "I'm sorry, this is a good movie, but I should go. I've got work tomorrow."

"You want me to drive you?"

Jillian thought of her neighbor, and how much she didn't want to run into him in a dark alley tonight.

"Yes. Please."

Gabby grabbed her keys without question. "Alright. Let's go."

The days that followed passed with an uncanny stillness, too quiet for comfort. Jillian returned to her job, mechanically going through the motions, but her mind rarely left the shadows of her home. When she wasn't working, she remained indoors, curtains drawn more often than not, the weight of recent events pressing heavily on her chest.

Her neighbor's house, looming just across the way, remained silent. Each morning and evening, she'd drift toward the kitchen table, settle into the creaky wooden chair, and peer through the gauzy curtain at the window.

For three days straight, the house seemed abandoned—no flicker of light, no shifting shadows in the windows, no creak of footsteps on the porch. The stillness had a presence of its own, something that made her skin crawl.

Then, on the fourth day—Friday—a figure emerged.

Jillian sat up, her breath catching in her throat as a man stepped from the back door. It wasn't him. Not the vampire. This one was younger, lighter in build, and moved with none of the fluid, controlled precision she'd come to associate with her neighbor. He didn't linger. Without so much as a glance at the street, he crossed into the backyard and climbed into a car she hadn't noticed before—parked well out of sight. Moments later, he was gone.

She couldn't decide what was stranger: that the vampire hadn't been seen at all, or that someone else had taken his place. A roommate? A relative? Another vampire? She shivered. The questions gnawed at her.

In the meantime, she'd taken to scouting the outskirts of town for a new place to turn—somewhere secure, somewhere secluded. But every location she found was either too exposed or rested on private land. She still had time before the next full moon, but the memory of that basement door—splintering, breaking, failing—lingered in her mind like smoke. She needed a new sanctuary, one she could trust not to betray her when instinct took over.

And yet, her thoughts always curved back to him.

Had he disappeared, believing she'd gone to the police? Was he lying low, waiting for the storm to pass?

She hadn't told anyone. Not a soul. And the silence clawed at her, heavy with guilt. She owed it to his victims—those lost and those yet to die—to say something. But the truth was... she didn't want to. Not yet.

Something about him kept her quiet. There was hunger in him, yes—and he probably took some sick joy from it. But still, he killed because he had to. Wasn't that why vampires drink blood in the first place? It was monstrous, yes. But it was survival. And he'd probably do anything to ensure it isn't threatened.

And she held the knowledge of it—his secret—tightly, like a key. As long as she didn't speak, he was vulnerable. She had an advantage over him, whether he cares to admit it or not.

She didn't have to mention the vampire part to law enforcement—just give an anonymous tip about the missing person last seen at his house. Her neighbor probably knew that—with just a slip of the tongue, he could be dragged off to prison and thrown in a cell to rot. How would he feed then?

But then again, if she told the police, she would lose that leverage. The cops would handle it from there, and Jillian would be forced to sit and watch it all unfold from a distance. Her involvement would end there. Twisted and perhaps reckless as it may seem, she preferred having him at her mercy, and no one else's. It was wrong, and she knew that. She feared she might lose her humanity if she kept giving into impulses like this.

But… she wasn't human. Sometimes, she just had to accept it. There was more than one monster on the block. And there was no reason she shouldn't use this opportunity for her own benefit… right?

And with that thought, an idea began to form. A wicked, perfect thing.

By nightfall, Jillian was standing at her front door, heart pounding, the sky bleeding orange behind the rooftops. She hesitated. The air felt thicker, colder somehow. Still, she stepped off her porch, walked down the sidewalk, turned, climbed up the porch steps…

…. and knocked on her neighbor's door.