They sat at a table not far from mine. The diner was practically empty, not exactly a prime location for romantic dates with its grease-slick floors and ever-present aroma of burnt bacon. And yet they’d seated themselves at the table immediately to my left, as if they needed an audience for their public displays of affection.
I had already ordered, so I kept my face down and ate my breakfast bowl in peace. But every so often I’d hear them loudly professing their love for another, and giggling, and making all manner of needlessly performative gestures. It bordered on perverse, so I eventually looked pointedly at them with what I hoped was a silencing glare. I was just trying to eat my lunch in peace.
The woman noticed my look, and in misinterpretation—or defiance—of the intended effect, smiled at me. The man, seeing her attention elsewhere, turned; and he too smiled. Their flippant responses would’ve angered me, had I not noticed the oddness of their expressions. The smiles weren’t impolite, not exactly. But there was something beneath them, an underlying impression or intimation of…hostility? One that was far more potent than what I’d added to my glare.
Just then my waitress came over with a pot of coffee. I extended my mug, happy to have the awkward interaction with the couple interrupted. When the waitress left, I saw that the couple had resumed their obnoxious snogging. Too tired to reengage, just wanting to finish my meal and go home, I quickly ate my eggs and drained my mug.
As I was walking past the couple to pay at the counter, I overheard the woman mention something about “loners”, and I was immediately sure that she was talking about me. I stopped in my tracks and glared at her, though this time she ignored me; even though I was standing only a few feet away. The man then laughed, either in response to the woman’s comment, or at my admittedly weird posturing. I wasn’t actually going to do anything, merely wanted them to know that I’d overheard.
The waitress, perhaps seeing the interaction and wanting to avoid trouble, called over to me, asking if I was ready to pay. I nodded and turned away from the gossiping lovers. I paid, tipping a little more than usual for having nearly caused a scene, even though I felt that the couple were the ones ultimately responsible.
Before I could step out the door, I heard someone call out, “Hey, you!”. Turning, I saw that it had been the woman, who was rising from her table. She came over to me and asked, “We saw that you were alone. You don’t have to be—not today. You’re free to come with us, if you’d like. We’re just going around town, enjoying the day.”
I was surprised, not just by the offer, but by the woman’s beauty, which I had apparently failed to notice in my agitation. It was almost discomforting, like staring into an exceptionally bright light. Her features were starkly refined yet relaxed, her eyes piercing, as if she had never once felt anything but total confidence in any given social situation.
It was obvious that I couldn’t refuse, so I meekly nodded; and as if sensing my response—he’d been facing the other way—the man rose from his seat and joined us. He paid for their meal and the three of us left together.
Luckily, I hadn’t made any other plans for the day, otherwise I would’ve abandoned them without hesitation, regardless of with whom they’d been.
The three of us spent a few hours walking around town, exploring different shops and buying a few items here and there. I learned that they were visitors, had come from somewhere in “Old Europe”; a phrase whose meaning I couldn’t exactly discern, but accepted, nonetheless. Aside from that, they said very little about themselves, and instead questioned me on my life, specifically why I was alone on Valentine’s Day.
Naturally, I felt embarrassed by the question, and offered the simple though undoubtedly unconvicting response that I’d never felt the need to find a date just to celebrate the “Holiday”. I was given the appropriate “That’s fair!” response, and the subject was promptly dropped; but the woman would occasionally point out random women and ask how I felt about them, if I found them beautiful; and the man would laugh. There was nothing mocking about it, I sensed none of the smoldering animosity I’d seen in their gazes back at the diner. Things were still awkward, but no more so than you’d expect, in such strange circumstances.
Things took a turn for the worse when we entered a bookstore. There were, understandably, plenty of couples browsing the shelves and occupying the tables at the attached café. My companions quickly fell into form, grabbing cups of coffee and wandering through the aisles. Since I’d had a couple cups back at the diner, I chose to forgo more caffeine, and instead followed casually behind them whilst trying not to appear as some pathetic third wheel.
It took a few moments for me to notice, but eventually I realized that we were slowly meandering through the sections concerned with history, mythology, and ancient cultures; specifically, those of a European nature. I remembered then what they had said of their origins and tried to pay close attention to where their attention lingered, so that I could figure out their exact heritage. But before I could deduce anything definite, the man turned to me and said, “You know, while this is all interesting and informative from a general perspective, there really isn’t anything here that’ll tell you the full truth of it—of us. You know?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I replied, “What do you mean?” He smiled, and while the expression was outwardly friendly, I again perceived a subtler, darker meaning behind what now seemed like a superficial mask of friendliness.
At that moment my heart rate quickened a little, and as if overhearing it the man looked down at my chest. And for the briefest second, the face beneath appeared, a once-dormant malice flaring to the surface. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was demonic, but there was a certain inhumanity about it, and I instinctively backed away.
The bookshelf behind me stopped my progress, and panic seized my limbs. But the man’s face relaxed, and his smile became no more threatening than that of a mischievous friend.
“Are you alright?” There was no ironic or ulterior inflection to the question, but I nonetheless felt compelled to answer in the affirmative.
“I’m fine, yeah.” I couldn’t stop my heart from going haywire, but the man diverted his eyes from my chest to meet my gaze. He nodded and beckoned for me to follow him.
We caught up to his partner, who had wandered over to the horror section. There, she’d apparently found something of interest to her; she was engrossed in a book of old supernatural tales. The man went and stood behind her, placing his hands on her hips and peering over her shoulder.
Every few moments they would chuckle together. Curious, I ventured a little closer and peered at the opened pages. I vaguely recognized the story as a tale about old blood-drinkers; not exactly vampires, but something similar: more feral, having none of the pomp and aristocratic heritage commonly associated with the mythic horrors.
After a while, they closed the book and wandered off, and I followed; somehow knowing that they expected me to. They went toward an area of the bookstore that was under renovation. The section—which had apparently held magazines and book-related trinkets—was cordoned off by tape, the accompanying walls bare and re-painted. The area was around a corner, away from the main flow of the foot traffic. As the couple rounded this corner, I felt an alarm go off in my head; a dim animal warning not to follow them. But another impulse—one that felt like it had been implanted—suppressed that seemingly primal trepidation, and I went around.
I still can’t figure out how they managed to transform so quickly.
In the five or six seconds it took me to join them, they’d turned into something else; something both less and more than human—older than mankind yet somehow more evolved, more refined in savagery.
They were alike in general appearance, though the woman had retained her female characteristics, and the man his. Their bodies had broadened, becoming nearly as wide as the bookshelves we’d left behind. Their eyes had parted further, resting now at their temples, giving them a weird, fish-like appearance above their now pointed noses. Their skulls had expanded, ballooning to a size and shape that was nauseating in its unwholesomeness. The once blonde hair on both their heads had inexplicably greyed, now hanging in withered clumps from their irregularly lumpy scalps.
With bestially arched backs and hunched shoulders, they stood like proto-men, but their narrow-eyed expressions bespoke of a callous intellect. Their clothes—taut in some places, loose in others—bore fresh bloodstains; as if the transformation had caused their skin to burst or tear.
They were awful, abominable things, and yet I couldn’t even so much as turn away. I was awestruck, terror-stricken; I knew then that from the moment they’d laid eyes on me, I’d been under their monstrous thralldom.
“No one should be alone on this day.” They spoke in unison, with voices that might’ve belonged to a reclusive crypt-keeper, if not the dead he kept. The woman’s mouth—which, somehow, had become utterly lipless—opened, and from out of it came a long, red-veined flesh tube, like an insect’s proboscis. I watched, horrified, as it snaked its way through the air toward me.
Unable to even move, I could do nothing but whimper sheepishly as the appendage touched my neck. Remembering the book they’d laughed at, I mustered the courage to beg them not to drink my blood—assuming that they were some horrid precursors of Vampires. They laughed—the woman accomplishing this despite the long tube extending from her mouth—and the sound sent a stifling chill down my spine, silencing me.
The man, with his ungodly face, smiled and said, “Dear, could you imagine if we drank blood? If we needed to subsist on that vile stuff?”
The woman, with her tubular tongue still dancing around my neck, replied, “Oh, I’d just give it all up. What a dreadful life, that’d be.”
They let loose another round of that hoarse, ghoulish laughter, and my soul shrank.
“No, I’m not going to drink your blood, child. I’m going to give you some of mine.”
Just then, there was a stabbing pain in my neck, and the tube went rigid right to the woman’s mouth. There was a pulsing sensation, and I felt something being steadily pumped into me. I swooned as if suddenly and deeply intoxicated. Something foreign was coursing through my veins, paradoxically chilling and warming me. I at once felt feverous, drunk, physiologically unstable.
Eventually, the proboscis was withdrawn. The woman slurped it back into her mouth like some vein-streaked noodle. My legs gave way and I hit the floor just as their de-transformation began.
I was gently shaken awake by an employee of the bookstore. Their face was full of concern, and I saw that they’d dialed 911 on their phone, though hadn’t yet called. Still a bit dazed, I looked around for the nightmare couple, but saw only a small crowd of concerned customers. Wanting to believe that it had all been some kind of fever daydream, I assured everyone that I was fine, and let the bookstore employee help me stand. I thanked them and hurriedly left, finally listening to that lizard-brained warning to get out of there.
When I got home, I examined myself in the mirror. I didn’t bother wiping away the subsequent tears. I had, after all, been stabbed or violently probed with something; there was a red puncture wound in my neck, rimmed with a weird purplish ring from which trailed similarly colored streaks—like some kind of bizarre bacterial infection or toxin.
It’s been three hours since confirming the wound, and I’ve started hearing her voice in my head. She calls to me, across a distance that seems both vast and close, offering words of comfort and praise—sometimes sounding like a mother, other times like a lover. And a certain feeling of affection has blossomed in my heart, a longing for a companionship whose nature feels disturbingly inhuman. I don’t even know her name—they never told me, and I for whatever reason never bothered to ask. And yet I’m starting to think that I love her, that I need her, and that she feels the same way about me.
I have always felt alone and bitter on Valentine’s Day. I don’t feel that way anymore.