“Stop!” My stalker’s voice is shrill and cracking. He’s terrified. “Stop! God, stop, please!”
White hot tears pour down my cheeks without warning as two red eyes fall on me, blinking out from the darkness. To my surprise, the relief I feel at seeing them is bigger than my fear of dying.
“Quiet,” the creature snarls, followed by a sharp snap. I’m pretty sure it’s bone breaking, but I can’t identify what was broken. They’re too far away from the phone’s light for me to see.
“No, no, no! Please, no!” I’ve never heard a grown man scream the way this one does. Not that it matters. He won’t get a single iota of sympathy out of me.
Moments ago, he was gloating as he choked me. And now? He’s been reduced to sobbing and begging. It’s poetic, but also unsettling. Outside of movies, I had never heard the sound ofwet flesh tearing before. It’s a sickening squelch that echoes in the attic, and I only know it’s happening because the blood from the impact sprays onto my face. Vomit curls in the pit of my stomach.
“Holy shit.”
The scream that comes from my stalker is so raw, so violent, that it shakes the walls. The sound of it reverberates in my ears long after it stops, and though I know he’s likely dead, I can’t bring myself to relax yet. Something else is still in the room with me. The attic settles, but the quiet is now filled with a strange, wet sucking sound. It’s deafening. I breathe carefully to stifle another sob.
The creature in the darkness rises, and those red eyes find mine as it pauses. Oddly enough, they’re even brighter than before. It’s like looking at the neon sign outside of String Theory. There’s a kind of allure to it, like an invitation to come closer. I find myself leaning forward, hoping to get a clearer look at what kind of face might be hiding behind those big, red eyes.
“What are you?” I whisper.
The creature stops, dropping the body to the ground with a satisfied groan. It inches toward me without a single cautious step. As it moves away from the darkness, it becomes clearer to me in the halo of light still emanating from my phone. I’m struck speechless. This creature, this person,hewas the corpse I had tripped over.
“Sister,” he says as he leans towards me. I notice his voice isn’t as raspy as it was before. It’s fuller. Warmer, even, and there’s an accent to it I can’t place.
My voice falters. I can’t seem to find any words.
Instead, I reach a weak hand out, connecting with skin as cold as ice, yet soft as silk. It looked as rough as sandpaper before, but there’s a new youth in it. I can hardly believe it, yet I feel the sharp slant of his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw.I don’t need a fully lit room to see how beautiful he is. My imagination can fill in the gaps, but still I can’t help but let my fingers wander. From his jawline, I stroke a trail to his hairline and along his scalp, back down along the bridge of his nose to the very tip. I stop short of his lips, hesitant to travel further. A deep groan escapes him.
Blame it on the lack of oxygen, but that one lone groan makes my stomach flip.
I need to get my head checked.
“Sister, as much as I like what you’re doing, I have to ask you to stop,” he says with a trace of worry. My eyes close against the sound of him. He’s throaty. Sultry in the way a good shot of whiskey feels. “You’re hurt.”
Astute observation. My neck tingles with fresh bruises, which is probably why I’m struggling to speak. I’m bleeding, my thigh stings, and I’m pretty sure my arm is dislocated. In all honesty, I’m surprised I haven’t lost my shit yet.
“What sort of uniform is that, sister?”
I glance down at my chest. The white mounds of my breasts poke out more furiously than they had all evening and my skirt is hitched above my hips, panties askew. Dignity has left the room. I feel exposed and violated. Silent tears make their way down my cheeks. This man, or whatever he is, tilts his head, watching… waiting.
“Sis—” A laugh bubbles out of me as I cut him short.
“I’m not a nun,” I say through hysterics. “I’m a stripper!”
“I’m not certain I understand,” he says, confused.
“I’m not a nun.” I wince when I try to move. “This is just a costume.”
He makes a sound, as if he understands. I shift onto my hip to alleviate some pressure. I’m sore all over, and I’ve got the makings of a killer headache starting. My vision is blurring, dipping in and out of clarity. The room seems to spin, and I lurch forward toward it.
“Careful now,” the man says, catching me. He moves me around until I am cradled in his arms. Up close, I can see the blood on his face, caked in his long hair. He doesn’t look crazy or anything like that. In fact, he appears cool and collected.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, suppressing a sob.
A silent beat passes.
“What year is it?” he asks.
“2025,” I say.
“Damn,” he snaps, suddenly irritated. With his free hand, he swipes his hair away from his face, and in the little light coming from my phone, I can see him clearer. He looks old, eaten awayat, but it isn’t his sunken face that has me taken aback. It’s the two fangs peeking out of his open, blood-covered mouth.
