I fidgeted nervously in my seat as Mr. Nadler reviewed my paltry student resume.
“You don’t have much experience in journalism…” he muttered.
“No sir,” I said, then leaned forward. “But – but I’m ready to work hard and won’t back down from any assignment.”
Mr. Nadler raised his eyebrows at me, and then leaned back in his chair. His desk plaque, rather dusty, dimly read “Editor in Chief.”
“Well, being that you’re a student, you can’t have the full-time position.”
My shoulders sagged. Mr. Nadler looked me up and down and then shrugged.
“But, we do have an open part-time position… With pay. We need all the help we can get on the O’Neil murder.”
I nearly jumped out of my seat.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Nadler!” I exclaimed. He shook my hand but then his face darkened.
“One thing, though. I’m curious, and as a journalist, want to know the answer…. What’s got a young kid like you moving to our little town just before his senior year?”
I grimaced and took a moment before answering.
“Well, my mom and I had to downsize after my Dad died. She’s… bedridden you see. He didn’t have life insurance and her disability just doesn’t pay very much so…” Mr. Nadler held his hand up.
“No need to go any further. Welcome to the team. Go speak with Kevin. He’s the other student we have on the team. He’ll fill you in.”
Moments later, Kevin was filling me in at my new desk. He was small, a little chubby, and had curly red hair with thick glasses. Around us, the rest of the staff was hard at work on the O’Neil case.
“Welcome to the only source of local news in our tiny po-dunk town!” Kevin exclaimed, before glancing over his shoulder at Nadler’s office.
“Boss told me you and I are being assigned to the O’Neil case.” He beamed.
“Thank God, first bit of actual news this place has had in thirty years, and he’s had me writing stories on the kindergarten’s art show…”
Kevin reached into his desk and pulled out a thick file.
“Here, a copy of the O’Neil file. Read up on it so you know the details. Oh and uh… I hope you’re not squeamish.”
For the rest of the day I reviewed the file. Malcolm O’Neil had been the owner of the town’s only pharmacy. About two weeks ago, he never showed up to work. After 24 hours with no word, the police made a welfare check.
When the police arrived, they found a bloodbath. Old Malcom had been butchered in his bed, and his wife, Carla, had been found tied to a chair next to the bed, drenched in blood. She was alive, but catatonic.
I reviewed the photos that the police had released. The hairs on the back of my neck raised. I turned to the acquired evidence and scowled. DNA results were negative, but fingerprints were a match. They had been found at a series of unsolved murders. Except those murders had all happened seventy-five years ago…
A few days later school began and I met up with Kevin in the hallway after receiving my schedule. We compared our classes. We had English together.
“Nice…” Kevin exclaimed, before tapping his watch. “Don’t forget, we’ve got a follow up interview with Sheriff Blake tonight… oh hey, Mike!” I turned to see ‘Mike’ walk up. He was tall but built like a tank and dwarfed little Kevin.
“Yo Newsman Kevin, any update? This shit is crazy, man! It’s all anyone talks about,” Mike said. Kevin shook his head and then pointed to me.
“Sadly no, but we’ve got a new guy on the team.” Mike smirked and extended his hand to me which I shook. It was like gripping iron.
“Well keep me posted. And don’t forget, I’m starting next Friday night as Tight end! See y’all at the game.” The three of us split and for the rest of the day all I could think about was the upcoming interview with the Sheriff. Was there any new information? Perhaps there was some tiny detail that had been missed that I could recognize and jumpstart the case…
Night came and Sheriff Blake took the podium. He was gruff, grizzled and wore a black cowboy hat. Kevin and I took notes as he spoke.
“What we have here is some madman out there living in the woods. A real sick bastard. Someone so evil that he’d tie a poor woman up, just so she could only watch as he carved up her husband. This is someone who revels in causing people pain, both physical and mental.”
One of our journalists raised her hand.
“Any update on the status of Mrs. O’Neil? Has she spoken yet?”
Sheriff Blake shook his head angrily.
“Not a damn word. Doctor’s don’t know if she’ll ever come around. Poor thing.”
“What about the fingerprints? There was a match…” the reporter trailed off. Sheriff Blake shook his head.
“Lab took that to Atlanta for as many eyes as possible. It’s a match but… it’s a match from 75 years ago. They think it’s a fluke due to bad protocol from the 40’s. Likely just a similar fingerprint. Regardless, it doesn’t match anyone in the system. But I will say this…” Sheriff Blake adjusted his cowboy hat.
“If that son of a bitch dares show his face in this town again, he’ll learn real quick that there ain’t nothing on earth a bullet can’t kill.”
After the press conference, Kevin and I finished the article and submitted it for the paper. It would be live on the website within minutes.
The next few weeks were a blur. Classes got under way and I was soon buried with homework. On top of that, leads kept coming in that we had to follow up on. All of which were dead ends. The occasional prank caller even rang which ticked off Nadler something fierce. How someone could make a joke about such an awful murder, I’ll never understand.
When we weren’t in class, studying or working, Kevin and I were gaming, Call of Duty of course. I admittedly was trash, but Kevin was a God and carried me to victory on numerous occasions. We’d talk about our plans after school, college, girls…
One Friday night we went to the football game to see Mike. Our tiny school barely had enough guys to even play, but Mike was an all-star. Seriously. It felt like every play was just “Throw to Mike.” He was a budding Gronkowski, and just trucked anyone trying to stop him once he had the ball in his hands.
“See those guys over there?” Kevin muttered to me, pointing at the side of the field to a group of men taking notes. “Yeah, college scouts. Mike’s going to be playing in Bama next year, no doubt.” Mike ended up leading our team to victory that night.
About a month after moving to town, and right as interest in the murder had started to drain. We got a tip from the psychiatric hospital one county over that Mrs. O’Neil had started to speak. A press event was scheduled the next day. Mr. Nadler gave us all a briefing the night before and Kevin and I were even given permission to ditch school that day as coverage of the case was our senior thesis.
Kevin and I, along with the rest of the press, arrived at the hospital and waited for Mrs. O’Neil. A moment later, she arrived in a wheelchair, being pushed by a nurse. She looked exhausted, and her eyes were unfocused. One of the journalists gently approached her and spoke softly.
“Mrs. O’Neil. I’m so sorry for your loss… We’d like to know what you saw that day. It would help us to find the person responsible.”
Mrs. O’Neil lips quivered. The journalist brought his ear close to her face.
“Again, please?” he asked.
And then the power went out. Before anyone could react, a great rushing sound filled the air, as if something was flying through the room at high speed. Then the unmistakable wet thump of an impact issued. The back-up generator kicked on and a dim light flooded the room.
Mrs. O’Neil’s throat had been torn open. The journalist howled in terror as a torrent of blood splattered him. The room erupted into chaos.
A day later Sheriff Blake held another press conference.
“Eight seconds. In eight seconds, the killer, who must have been in the crowd, stabbed Mrs. O’Neil. To silence her. And he had an accomplice, somebody had to have sabotaged the hospitals electrical systems.”
Mrs. O’Neil’s death changed things. After interrogating everyone in the crowd and coming up empty handed, the police were stumped. Meanwhile, people were terrified to leave their homes. The sidewalks of town were empty. At school, people spoke in quick hushed voices. Everyone glanced over their shoulders. If a woman could be butchered in a hospital full of people, was any place safe?
Two weeks after her death, a strange man showed up at the office of the newspaper. He was dressed oddly, with a long overcoat despite it still being warm outside.
“I know who the killer is,” he told the receptionist. Within a minute we had set up the interview. Mr. Nadler went to call the police so they could be present but the strange man stopped him.
“No. No cops. They won’t believe this anyway. That’s why I came to you. The local newspaper might be more, open-minded.”
Mr. Nadler’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Open-minded? About what?” he asked. The strange man gulped.
“The killer is a vampire.”
Mr. Nadler groaned along with the other journalists.
“Get out of here before you’re thrown out.”
The strange man, disappointed, began to leave but Kevin jumped up.
“Screw it! I’ll hear what you have to say.” The strange man nodded and the two of us followed him outside.
Once outside, the strange man stroked his messy beard and glanced around quickly.
“My conscience wouldn’t let me leave this alone. I had to come…” The strange man took a deep breath and then addressed Kevin.
“I’ve dedicated my life to studying the occult. This is not a human. This is a vampire. And not like Hollywood. A real vampire is an Apex Predator. An evolved human. They laugh at the sun and wooden stakes. They are impossibly strong, durable and always hungry. From all my research, I believe there is just one still alive. The original. Do you understand?”
“I guess,” Kevin said, shrugging.
The strange man glanced over his shoulder with paranoia, before continuing in a hushed voice.
“There’s more too. They can mess with electromagnetic waves. Shapeshift. And fly. And-“
“Okay. Thank you very much,” Kevin said, cutting him off. And with that we left the strange man babbling in the street.
Weeks passed. Another body showed up. Then another.
Press from across the country showed up. Soon our little newspaper was drowned out completely. Federal police took over. And yet, still no culprit. But the bodies continued to pile up. This went on all the way through the fall…
Finally, the end of the semester was upon us and Mike’s football prowess had carried our little school to the state championship. Football season had nearly been cancelled due to the murders, but the community fought back, saying it was the one good thing we could be happy about.
And so, I found myself covering the big game. It seemed like the entire town had made the trip to support Mike and our school. Everyone was here. And even though we weren’t home, the police presence was huge nonetheless as a precaution.
It was the end of fourth quarter and the game was tied. We had the ball and it was fourth down. This was it.
The QB threw the ball to Mike who caught it and immediately took off down the field. The crowd erupted as he shook off the first defender, then the second, then…
“TOUCHDOWN!” We had won. I turned to Kevin to give him a high five.
The field lights suddenly cut out, plunging everyone in darkness. Only the pale light of the moon dimly lit the field and stands.
The first blood curdling scream rang out. Then another. Then another. Panic. People started running. The stands began to clear. There was pushing and shoving. People tripped in the dark and were subsequently trampled. It was pandemonium in the darkness. Police clicked on flashlights but were overwhelmed by the terrified mob. And the screams of death continued. One after another without ceasing.
A shadow moved in the darkness. Everywhere it went a person fell. A hundred people had been slain already. People pointed at the shadow and howled in fear.
I found myself on the field, being carried with the crowd as everyone sprinted towards the parking lot, the tree line, anywhere but here. The shadow continued to fly and that haunting rushing sound filled the air. More screams, more death.
Gunshots! The cops, desperate, tried to shoot the shadow but it was far too fast. The bullets missed and hit people in the crowd.
I found Kevin amidst the mob. He gaped at me, and I saw that his glasses were broken and his forehead was bleeding.
“Come on!” he screamed, dragging me by my blood-soaked hand. But I did not follow him. I grasped his wrist tightly and he stopped mid-stride. He turned and looked at me in confusion.
“What are you doing?” he gasped.
Then I crushed his wrist beneath my fingers. His eyes widened and he screeched in agony. This was soon silenced when I sank my teeth into his jugular. He crumpled to the grass and I peered into his eyes. Eyes that were overwhelmed with pain. Then confusion. Then realization. Then betrayal. And then death.
Centuries ago I found that the slaying of mortals had grown… boring. So as not to grow apathetic with my immortality, I devised a new strategy for my hunts. The long campaign. I would befriend the mortals. Gain their trust. Learn their dreams, their fears. Become close to them. On occasion, love them… even marry them. It was quite fascinating. A new spin on an old game. I traveled the world. Fifty years here, fifty years there. You see, when you’ve become close with the mortals - when they become close with you - it makes the blood oh so much sweeter.
I peered at Mike’s head which lay on my palm; the eyes were still blinking. It is believed that mortals are conscious for several seconds after decapitation. I wondered if he could see me. I dropped his head on the filleted body of Mr. Nadler and surveyed the field.
In minutes I had slain nearly all of them. I counted over five hundred. Of course, there were some survivors who had escaped, but that was acceptable. How can fear spread if none live to tell the tale? A massacre of this size would keep me sated for years… I would need to rest after such hard work. But a few years from now, I would awaken, thirsty once more.
However, there was one last loose end.
I had deliberately left Sheriff Blake for last. Instead of flying, I walked towards him, almost lazily, relishing in the theatrics of it all. He fired round after round from his AR-15 into my chest and skull. He emptied the magazine and reloaded, then emptied that one too.
I was now but inches away from him. It was satisfying to watch all that bravado… all that machismo crumble before me, leaving a terrified whimpering infant behind. With tears dripping from his eyes, he seized a pump-action shotgun from the hands of a slain officer.
He racked it, and then shoved the muzzle right up under my chin and pulled the trigger.
Funny. I have not felt pain in nearly a millennium, when the Knights Templar incinerated me after plunging a trinity of swords into my heart. Alas, it takes more than that.
And so, in a mere second or two, the pain was gone just as soon as it had arrived.
Flexing my jaw, I grasped Sheriff Blake’s throat with one hand and lifted him off the ground.
Pain for me is fleeting. But my thirst is eternal.