It started when I lost my job a few months ago.
My position was ‘deleted’.
I swear that’s the word the HR Manager used when we met in a small windowless office on the ground floor.
She also told me: “It’s a competitive market and we need to cut back to move forwards.” Then she thanked me for my service.
Afterwards, I wasn’t even allowed to go back to my desk. I was told to hand over my ID badge. Then I was escorted off the premises and left standing outside in a daze.
It was brutal.
I walked the streets for hours, with no destination in mind, just replaying what had happened over and over.
Eventually, I went back to my apartment – and that’s where the mood swings started.
First, the shock I’d been feeling morphed into anger.
How dare they treat me like that, I thought, as I paced in circles around my cramped living room.
Then, I was glad. The job was a boring dead-end and I couldn’t stand any of the people I worked with.
Next in line came a kind of elation. This could be the new start I needed, I told myself, as I continued to pace.
I had been paid two months wages as part of the redundancy, so money wasn’t actually a problem.
I’d take a few days out to rest and recover, I decided, and then I’d find a better job. I’d shout about this from the rooftops on social media. That would show them.
That night, I hardly slept. My mind was racing.
The next few days were actually pretty good.
I didn’t have any real friends, not people I would hang out with or call for a chat about nothing in particular, but I was fine with my own company.
I always had been. I was an awkward kid who’d grown into a super awkward teenager who’d drifted into being an adult who didn’t even try.
So, I lazed around the apartment by myself.
I binge watched TV. I didn’t care what was on, I watched everything. I ordered in pizza – pretty much lived off pizza to be honest – and enjoyed being unemployed.
I did think about going out for walks. I could do that anytime I wanted. I could explore the city. I could sit on a park bench and watch the world go by. I could go to the library and read a classic book from cover to cover.
I could have, but I didn’t.
And that was fine. I was free to do what I wanted when I wanted.
Then the money started leaving my account at speed.
The rent and the utility bills came due. There was the yearly direct debit I was going to cancel but forgot to do in time. My phone broke and I ended up with an upgrade I didn’t really need. An expensive one.
It was going to be fine, I told myself, I just needed to find a job soon.
I hadn’t applied for any jobs yet.
All the job hunting I’d done in the past was boring and demoralising. All those forms and stupid questions and then they didn’t even get back to you, let alone invite you to an interview.
I had got as far as going on a few job sites and clicking on a few adverts – but I never got very far. I did not have the essential experience required on any of them, so what was the point?
The weeks passed like this, until I started getting phone calls and emails from my bank and the credit card company.
They were all along the same lines:
There are insufficient funds in your account. You are missing payments.
The frequency of the messages increased, and the official threats started:
Charges would apply. Action would be taken. Your account will be passed to a debt collection agency.
I stopped answering my phone and deleted new voice messages without listening to them. I didn’t look at my emails.
Instead, I kept the curtains drawn and ordered more pizza.
One evening, I had chosen a meat feast supreme with stuffed crusts and sides, a lot of sides. I pressed, Confirm order.
And my card was declined.
I swore then tried my other card.
That was declined as well.
I sat there for a moment and then I burst into tears.
This was a nightmare.
I dragged myself into the living room and lay on the couch and let the TV shows wash over me. Then, I started to get stomach cramps as the lack of pizza kicked in.
I went into the kitchen. The garbage bin was a pizza box graveyard.
Surely there must be bits I’d missed, I thought. Some crusts. A few toppings. If I could scrape enough together, I could put everything in the microwave. Zap it.
I opened the box balanced precariously on top of the pile.
A big, fat bluebottle flew out.
I could see more crawling lazily around inside the bin.
I waved goodbye to that idea and went back into the living room – just as something ran across the floor and under the sofa.
I saw a long brown tail disappearing.
Great, I had rats in the apartment as well.
My shoulders slumped and I felt myself welling up. I was going to cry again, I knew.
And I needed to go to the bathroom.
I really couldn’t be bothered, but I was bursting.
I shuffled slowly back out of the living room.
And that was when I saw the leaflet.
It was lying on the floor, just by the front door.
Must have been pushed under the door, I figured.
It was small and glossy and colourful.
I bent over and picked it up.
On the side I was looking at it said in big red letters:
Worried about money?
“I sure am,” I said to myself as I turned the leaflet over.
The writing was smaller on this side and all light orange. It said:
We can change your life. We can banish your debts in three simple steps.
We’ll be in your area this week.
Why not invite us in for an obligation free chat?
I dropped the leaflet and thought, I wish. I wish there was someone who could help me out of the mess I’m in.
And then I forgot about the leaflet and went for a whiz.
I was back on the sofa when, a few hours later, there was a knock on the door.
It was dark outside and I couldn’t imagine who it could be.
Then I remembered the leaflet.
My knights in shining armour, I thought, and grinned. I couldn’t remember the last time I had smiled.
There was another knock.
Answering it would mean getting off the couch and walking all the way over to the front door. That was at least six paces.
Live a little, I decided with another wry grin, and went to answer the door.
I opened it to find two men standing outside.
One was quite young. He wore a smart white collarless shirt under a black waistcoat and his hair was neatly parted in the centre and slicked down with gel. His shoes were shiny with pointy tips. There was a real retro style about him.
The other man was old. So very old. He was painfully thin. The sharp lines of his skull were clearly visible, as were the bones of his wrists and his hands. His skin was drained of colour and his eyes were pale, watery orbs sunk deep into his emaciated face.
He was a snappy old-style dresser as well, though. I’ll give him that. He wore what looked like a silk cape with a red trim over a black dinner jacket and his white shirt was topped off with an equally white bow tie.
I’d never see anyone like him, and I was staring at him.
I knew it but I couldn’t seem to stop, until the younger man coughed – a polite, Excuse me, type of cough and said, “May we come in?”
“Sure,” I replied quickly, embarrassed by the way I’d just stood there eyeballing the old man.
They stepped inside, the old man moving slowly and unsteadily. The younger man stayed close, walking at the same pace, ready, it seemed to me, to reach out and catch the old man should his legs give way.
He didn’t crumple though, and finally we all made it through into the living room. I offered them the couch. They sat and I stood by the TV.
An old black and white horror movie had come on. A classic. A coach was rattling along the road towards an ominous looking castle, while bats that were clearly on the end of strings danced about.
I dragged my attention reluctantly away from the screen and back towards my visitors.
The old man sat staring into space. Sometime between the door and here, a thick line of drool had appeared from one corner of his mouth and now hung down below his chin.
It was pretty gross, and I was hoping the younger man would notice as well and dab it away with a tissue – but his attention was elsewhere.
He was watching a bluebottle that had flown in from the kitchen and was circling around the room. He appeared transfixed by it. And on its third circle, as it passed by in front of him, he reached out suddenly, as if he was trying to catch it.
But he didn’t close his fingers and the bluebottle was left free to continue on its way.
Looking wistful, he said, “Sorry, I used to have a thing for flies. Juicy, juicy flies.”
Then he sighed and turned to face me.
“Well, first of all, thank you inviting us in,” he said. “That was necessary. I could have come in anyway, to be honest. But, my Master, he needed your permission to enter.”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Ok…” I said unsurely. “The leaflet said you could help me. So, what are you going to do?”
He smiled and said, “I am going to hold you down while the Master feeds.”
What the Hell! I thought. That’s insane.
I was about to tell him this, and that I wanted them both to leave, but, before I could get the words out, he had jumped up off the couch and was rushing at me.
He wrapped his arms around me and wrestled me back over to the couch.
I tried to struggle, but he was so strong.
He forced me down, next to the old man, and held me there.
I was helpless. Trapped. And could only watch as the old man reached into his jacket and took out a knife.
It was slim and looked razor sharp.
I began to shake.
The old man moved the knife towards me. Towards my neck.
I wanted to scream, but I could barely breathe.
The tip of the knife touched my skin. Then the blade entered me.
I felt warmth trickle down my neck.
I’m bleeding, I thought, as the old man leaned in, as if for a kiss.
His lips parted and a nauseating stench drifted out of his opening mouth. I could see his teeth – they were blackened stumps.
His incisors were freakishly large, curling down from his shrivelled gums. But they too were rotten and cracked.
Too damaged to bite.
But the old man did not need his teeth.
Not when he had the knife to open my vein.
His lips reached my neck, and I felt the pressure of them, and the foul hotness of his breath, and then I felt his tongue flicker and begin to lick.
I realised with horror that he was drinking my blood.
I was his feast.
He lingered for a long time over the cut he had made, savouring the blood which wept from it. Then he opened a new wound, on my forearm, and drunk greedily from this.
I do not know how long my ordeal lasted, how many cuts he made. At some point I was aware the younger man had moved away and was standing watching silently, a voyeur’s smile on his face.
Even though he was no longer holding me down, I could not move.
I was too weak, too distraught.
After finishing with the latest cut he had made, the old man held the knife up again, but this time he did not seek out a new place on my body – instead, he brought the knife towards his mouth and he licked the blood from it.
He licked it clean. Then he placed it back inside his jacket.
He was done. Sated on my blood.
I began to sob and turned to the younger man.
“You conned me,” I said. “The leaflet was a lie, a way to get in and attack me. But how did you know that I would fall for it? How did you know that my life was such a mess?”
The younger man laughed. “I didn’t. Not till I knocked on the door. Since the Master became frail and I had to come up with new ways to find helpless victims, I have posted a lot of leaflets under a lot of doors. Most of the time, they achieve nothing. But every now and then we find someone like you.”
He arched an eyebrow at me then added:
“Why do you think scammers keep sending emails? Because every now and then they’ll find someone who clicks on the link. Someone stupid or needy.”
His response left me almost lost for words.
Almost.
“You are evil,” I said.
The smile slipped from his face. “Better to be evil than hungry,” he said and, with that, he helped the old man to his feet, and they walked away.
Out of my apartment, back into the night.
That was almost a week ago, maybe. I’m not sure. I’m ill and I’m finding it hard to think straight. I’m having blackouts as well. And I can’t remember the last time I ate. I’m so hungry.
But at least I’ve almost finished sharing what happened to me. I have done this to warn people. To say: If you get a leaflet under your door, like I did, don’t let them in.
All the while I’ve been telling my story, a rat has been scurrying around on the floor nearby.
If I pretend to be dead – I’m wondering now – maybe it will think I’m a big, easy meal. The meal deal of its dreams.
It will come over, and I can surprise it, grab it, sink my teeth into its warm flesh.
Then, it will be my time to feed.