I sat in the back of the cruiser, turned and watched the twinkling porch light on my neighbor’s house fade away. And then we rounded the corner at the bottom of a hill and it was gone.

The driver had been staring straight ahead, stock-still. And then he turned to look back at me. 

“Crazy night, huh?” he said seriously. 

I looked him in the eyes and nodded. “It is,” I said. 

He was young. Probably 25-years-old or so.

The officer turned to look back at the road. An 18-wheeler with a load of lumber roared by us. 

He then turned to look back at me. “You’ve been seeing things?” He had a strange glimmer in his eye.

“We have. It’s been about a week. I’ve called your station a few times about it.” 

He turned back toward the road. “I know,” he said. “I know all about it.” Another car passed us from the other way. We slowed to a stop at the end of my road. He put on his directional. 

He turned to face me. It was a little too quick for my comfort. “What do you think you’ve been seeing back there?” 

“I don’t know,” I said.

He turned back to the road, checked for traffic on our right and made a left-hand turn out onto the Kennebec Road. And then he turned back to me quickly. “Was it something scary?”

“Yes, it was.” 

Where was this going? I thought. Was this part of the interrogation?

The officer was staring straight ahead now. He said: “When I was younger my buddies and I used to race our dirt bikes on a track on the Shaw Hill road. The Mosley’s. Do you know them?”

I shook my head no.

“Their younger son – he’s moved away now – we were friends in high school. But we use to race our bikes out there on the trail. Sometimes late at night.” 

He reached over to his glove compartment. I heard him opening a package and then he stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. He lifted a stick of gum up for me to see.

“Want a piece?” he asked.

I raised my arm. “No thanks,” I said. 

“Okay.” He opened his glove compartment and put his gum back in.

The car seemed to be moving slower than it should have been. 

He was looking back at the road again.

“We saw a person out there one night,” he said suddenly. He turned to look back at me. “Or, should I say, we saw something.” And he said that with emphasis like it was something he did not recognize. Or did not want to describe to me. “His face was stark white and his eyes were as black as coal.”

He turned to look back at the road again, and we sat in silence for a minute or two. We were halfway to the police station.

“We both saw him,” he said. “I asked my friend about him. He said they see him sometimes out here walking along the tree line. He said he thought he might have been one of the neighbors that lived down the street – one of the neighbors that had lost his marbles. But we never found out for sure who he was or what he was looking for.”

The officer laughed nervously. “Maybe he just liked watching us race our dirt bikes around the track.” 

“Could be,” I said. This story did not make me feel better. But, at least, I knew others were seeing things that were unexplained. I was not the only one that was unsure about what I saw on the Shaw Hill Road.

He turned to me quickly. “Mr. Taylor,” he said. “Would you like to see something really scary.” 

The car slowed down and turned onto a dirt road that went to God knows where.

“Is this – “ I started to say.

The car veered wildly to the other side of the road to avoid a low hanging tree branch. The pine trees hugged the road closely (tightly). They were like soldiers standing sentinel, waiting for us to enter.

“Are we going to the station?” 

He stared straight ahead. He reminded me, for a moment, of the time my daughter and I played “statue” were you sit still and try not to blink. He was playing the part of a statue. I almost reached my hand up to touch his shoulder, to make sure he was real. 

He turned the corners quickly, the cars headlights flashing wildly on the dirt road and pine trees ahead. 

“I want to show you something,” he said in a dull monotone. It was unlike the voice he had been using before.

I thought for a moment to open the cruiser’s door and jump out. But I couldn’t do that. Besides, he was a police officer. I was safe. 

He was driving faster than I was comfortable with – perhaps 50 miles an hour – the speed limit was probably 25 miles per hour. 

And then suddenly he stopped. He sat there staring straight ahead – again, like a statue.

And then, slowly, he turned to face me. He had a weird grin on his face – like he knew something I didn’t. His face was pale white, his eyes were dark – almost black. And I thought: he looks like the person he described standing along the tree line near the dirt bike path.

“Mr. Taylor,” he said. “Do you want to see something really scary?” 

I wanted to say no, but for some reason I didn’t think that was a good idea. So, instead, I said nothing and nodded my head yes (although, I am sure, the look on my face said NO). I noticed his eyes – they were black like the furthest galaxy in the darkest corner of the universe were time had no meaning, were there was no beginning or end, or ever would be. I was sitting alone in a car, down this dark country road, late at night with this person.

He raised a finger as if to say, “just a minute.” 

He sat still and would not acknowledge me – it was like he was a statue or I was not there. But I knew both were not true. He was driving a car, and I was a conscious man thinking these thoughts.

He then slowly lowered his head behind the seat. It could have been 10 seconds or 5 minutes. It was as if he was never there. And then, suddenly, he jumped – YES, jumped up from his seat facing me directly – his eyes were an animals eyes twice the size of a human’s, his pupils were like black marbles, his face was stark white, his mouth was open and I saw his teeth – two of his front teeth were jagged like a rapid dog’s. 

In less than a second I saw this and then he seemed to float (yes, that is what it appeared to be – float) over the front seat back to me. And then he was on top of me. He leaned his head into my neck like he wanted to cuddle or give me a kiss – but, instinctively, I knew better than that. 

I shrieked, “GET AWAY!” like it was an animal and not a man. 

He ignored me (or didn’t care) and leaned his head closer to me. I felt the warmth from his breath on my neck and then, in a beat, I felt pin pricks on my neck and then I felt his teeth sink into my neck like someone was pressing nails into my neck.

And then I jolted from sleep. I was in my bed, at home. It was a dream. I looked over to the other side of the bed. Megan was not there. I looked up and she was looking out the window. She turned to face me.

“Did you have a nightmare?” 

“Yes, I did.”  

That was my first lie. 

Part I

It was like an episode of The Twilight Zone were the man is running through the streets screaming: “Where is everybody?”

I was home from work at five. 

I pulled into the driveway. My wife’s car was parked in its usual spot. My daughter’s Barbie Dream Car was parked on our brick patio walkway. Like normal. My son had pulled half of the things in our storage shed out onto the lawn, trying to find something to sell on Facebook Marketplace. He did this almost everyday.

I parked my truck. Got the groceries out and went to the front door. It was locked. That was strange – the door would not have been locked if they were home. 

Inside, you could hear a pin drop. I didn’t see anyone. I set the grocery bag down on the counter and walked around the dining room table.

“Hello?” I said.

I checked the spare bathroom.

Empty. 

My daughter’s room. 

Empty.

The stairway. 

No one. 

“Hello?” I called out.

Where were they?

I checked my phone. Maybe someone sent me a text.

Nothing.

I looked out the kitchen’s front window onto the driveway. There was my wife’s cream-colored Toyota Highlander, but something was not quite right.

No one was home.

And then a blood curdling stab of fear shot through my entire body. My eyes slowly moved off my wife’s car, across the driveway, to the neighbor’s house. Our neighbors just moved in last week and from that first day I have been concerned.

I have only seen them once. But I know they are home because whenever I walk near their house, or park my truck in the driveway, a curtain opens near their doorway. It’s dark inside so I can never see who is looking out at me.

But someone is watching me, I am quite sure. There was a murder down the street and, privately, my wife and I had a theory…

The neighbors did it.

It’s scary, I know. But that is what we thought.

The case was never solved, and my fear has never gone away. It started with a creeping unease last week when I first saw them and has steadily grown to where I am standing here now in an empty house wondering where my wife and daughter have gone.

I opened the window curtain and looked out at the neighbor’s house. 

Six Days Ago  

The house next door sold. The realtor was over there last night, dressed to the nines, pulling up the “For Sale” stakes on their lawn.

I never saw the buyers when they came to look at the house.

I saw the realtor today and asked about them. She said they have been inside remodeling – doing carpentry, painting and some other things.

They were over there today. They pulled in an old Ford pick-up truck. I never saw them unload a suitcase or any personal belongings. They are husband and wife, I think. And, I will be truthful, I was frightened when I saw them. Their face, and complexion, were white like a ghost’s.

My wife and I went over tonight to introduce ourselves. My wife baked an apple pie. I brought over some painting supplies that I no longer needed. 

After a knock or two a woman came to the door. She looked frightened. Like she had just peered into the utter reaches of hell and, by answering the door, we had just pulled her away from a horrible, frightful scene (although she didn’t appear to be thankful that we did that).

At first, I thought we had just walked onto a crime scene. Something was not right. But she smiled and, if there was a problem, she didn’t want us to know. 

My wife introduced herself and handed her the apple pie. She stood still, like a statue. Her hands were behind her back. She looked down at the apple pie indifferently.

“We just…” My wife hesitated for a moment. “We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” 

I set down the painting supplies on the porch. “And I brought this in case you can use any of it.”

She smiled, but it was frightening. It was forced. It was like she knew I expected her to smile, so she manufactured one just for me.

She stepped forward and reached for the pie and, when she did, I saw something move over her shoulder. 

Was that her husband? 

I don’t know. Whoever it was, it slinked back into the darkness when it saw me.

And then, oddly, she said, “Thank” and slowly closed the door. It was like did not know the proper way to say, “Thank you.”

“Goodbye,” my wife started to say before the door closed shut.

I remember thinking that would be the last time I saw the inside of their house. 

It wasn’t.

* * *

It was the last time I saw them during the daylight hours. After that the curtains were drawn whenever I came near their house. 

But we did see them at night.

I never saw them leave, but my son did. One night he heard them start-up that old, beat-up pickup truck out in their barn. He saw the headlights flash across his bedroom wall as they turned to leave. He went back to sleep, and never heard them come back. 

The next day a missing persons reports was filed for two people that lived down our street. They were an older couple, in their sixties. There were no signs of forced entry, and their vehicles were still parked in the garage. 

They were found, later in the day, out in the snow, frozen stiff. The woman was lying face down on the edge of her lawn near the tree line. The man was found a hundred yards away in the woods. Neither were injured, but one of the first responders on the scene said they looked like they had been dragged to their final resting place. There were scratch marks on the woman’s back and her face. There were no scratches on the man except for a small bite mark on the back of his neck.

* * *

As a species we no longer fear what to our ancestors must have been an all-encompassing dread – something coming from away; something coming out of the woods; someone hiding in the dark.

That was two weeks ago. There have been no other reports of misconduct, but strange things continue to happen. 

One night I saw a man step off our front porch when I looked out our bedroom window. It was dark, so I didn’t see where he went. Later in the night my wife said she heard voices out in our driveway. 

There was another report from our neighbors, Carl and Patsy Lawler, that still bothers me. 

Patsy was hearing footsteps out in their yard two nights in a row. On the third night her husband, Carl, went outside with a shotgun. She didn’t hear a peep – and then she heard two gun shots. A moment later Carl stumbled into the front entryway of their house with a shotgun in hand and a white streak down his hair line, his sideburns and down onto his beard. His brown hair and beard had a streak of white. It was like someone outside had a bucket of white paint and a brush and painted his brown hair white. 

Carl denied that he saw anything or shot his gun. Later, he said that part of his hair and beard were already beginning to turn white. I asked him about the gunshots. He said that was old Elmer Woodmen’s car backfiring “as it went up the hill toward the Kennebec Road.” 

I didn’t believe that and I don’t think Patsy did either. 

It was troubling.

He saw someone or something out there that gave him the most horrible fright. It was frightful enough to turn parts of his brown hair and beard white. 

Before that I would often see Carl out on his lawn landscaping or working on his sculpting projects, but I have not seen him since parts of his hair turned white from fright.

Present Day 

I think I know where they are. Of course, if they are in the neighbor’s house, that is not good. They would not have gone there under their own free will, I am quite sure of that.

I opened the front door and made my way across the driveway. I walked across my lawn and through the thicket of small trees and brush that forms a boundary line between my house and theirs. 

The house is old. The porch is falling apart. The curtains are drawn. It looks abandoned, but I am quite confident they are home. 

Five Days Ago

In February, a single mother was attacked by something in her house. The authorities thought it was a stray dog because of the bite marks, but I didn’t believe that. She was killed in her bed. Presumably, while she was still asleep.

I talked to my wife about the neighbors tonight. I wondered if she had seen them at all. She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. 

“Neighbors?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” I said emphatically pointing toward the neighbor’s house. “Next door.”

She gave me a blank look and shook her head slowly. “Honey, we don’t have neighbors.” 

Either she was losing her mind, or I was losing mine.

Present Day

I walked up onto their front porch and knocked on the door. All the curtains were drawn. Otherwise, it was a normal day. The birds were chirping, the cicadas were clicking. But, I noticed, as I crossed the property line and stepped onto the neighbor’s lawn everything became silent, just like the inside of my house.

I knocked again. 

Crickets. 

I turned the doorknob. The door slowly opened. They had old wooden floors, there was a hardback chair up against the hallway wall and, in the dim light, I could see a wooden stairway going up to a second floor. 

I leaned my head inside the doorway. “Hello?” I said. 

You could hear a pin drop. I stepped into the house. The musty odor overwhelmed me. “Is anybody here?” I asked. 

There was no reply.

At this point, I had two choices. I could leave because no one was home. That is customarily what I would do. Or I could turn on my phone’s flashlight and look around. 

I felt like if I chose the latter, I was putting my life in danger because I was acknowledging that something was not right about this house or my neighbors. Why else would I be trespassing? 

I thought about this for a minute. How confident was I that they were here? And if they were, why? 

Standing in the dark, with that thick musty smell all around, I thought this through carefully. 

Did they come here under their own free will? If they didn’t then my wife and daughter were in trouble. 

And so was I. 

I reached into my pocket for my phone, swiped down on the touch display, and tapped the flashlight icon. 

I shone the light into the kitchen and swung the beam over kitchen cabinets, a farmer’s sink, refrigerator, and kitchen table.

No one.

“Anyone home?” I asked. 

Nothing. I could hear a pin drop. 

I swung the flashlight over the kitchen’s walls. There was an open door that went to a half bathroom and two closed doors. Where did they go? Perhaps one went to a pantry. Maybe the other went to a cellar. 

“Hello?” I said again.

I walked over to the kitchen sink and opened the curtains because I wanted more light and, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to know when the neighbors came home. 

It was late in the afternoon, and it was already getting dark. I stepped back into the foyer and closed the front door. I’m not sure why I did that. Was I afraid that someone would know I was inside? Did I think the neighbors were holding my wife and daughter captive and I didn’t want them to know I was snooping around inside their house? It was unsettling, but that is what I thought.

I had to be certain. 

I walked through the hallway, past the stairway on my right. The hallway opened onto an old, ornate living room that reminded me of my grandmother’s house when I was young.

“Megan?” I called out. “Lauryn?” 

No answer. 

It was absurd. My voice was almost conversational. If my wife or daughter were in this living room something would be WRONG, and I would not be acting like everything was as it should be.

I carefully walked through the living room. There was an old, ornate sofa and a wingback chair next to a large wooden bookcase. I walked over to the couch, got down on my hands and knees, and flashed my light underneath. 

Just cobwebs, pillow covers and a wool blanket. No one tied up with masking tape over their mouth looking for me. 

I had been inside for only about a minute and I was sweating. My heart was hammering in my chest. What was wrong? 

And why was I scared? 

Well, I had an idea but I did not want to acknowledge the reason why.

I began to walk up the wooden stairway. I was clenching my flashlight, directing it to the top of the stairs. There was a small, wood table with a vase on the landing. Just before I reached the top step a green bubble pop up on my phone’s screen.

A text message.

It said:

We’re here

Megan. 

I almost dropped my phone out of fright. 

A flood of light on the upstairs hallway slowly moved across the wall.

Headlights from a truck. Someone was in the driveway. 

My heart dropped.

I turned around and ran down the stairs. The headlights lit up the entire kitchen. I peeked my head out the kitchen window. Things were about to get interesting. 

The neighbors were home. 

* * *

I almost went over and locked the front door. But I couldn’t do that because it was unlocked when I arrived. I ran into the living room and crawled underneath the couch instead. The truck’s lights went out. It was dark.  

I heard footsteps in the driveway. Then steps on the porch. The front door opened slowly. Did they know I was inside? 

The “husband” and “wife” walked in. She was wearing white sneakers. He was wearing brown steel toe boots. They walked into the kitchen and opened one of the closed doors. 

She whispered, “Do you need help?” 

“I’m all set,” he said. 

He came back into the hallway and went outside. I had a minute to reply to Megan:

Where are you?

The message was delivered. I was laying on my side under the couch. Underneath my message it said, “Read.” 

I heard the truck door open outside and then something flopped down onto the ground like a sack of potatoes. 

She replied: 

I am in the basement. Where are you?

I began to type, but then stopped. I didn’t want to tell her. What if someone else had her phone, and was pretending to be her? I thought about this for a moment and then typed: 

I am in the den, next to the living room.

I didn’t want to lie, but I didn’t like how she asked where I was. Why did that matter? There was only one question that had to be answered. 

Where was she? 

I heard the man walking up the steps. He was dragging something. 

The door creaked open.

I saw the man’s steel toed boots and behind him, wrapped in a blue blanket, was a heavy object. He pulled it inside. It was a human body. An arm and an open hand flopped out. On the finger was a ring. 

It looked just like Megan’s ring.

A bolt of fear shot through my body. I looked down at my phone. Underneath my last message to Megan it said, “Read.”

Someone had her phone.

The man dragged her into the kitchen and then began to walk down the basement stairs. I heard him stepping, and the body flopping, down the stairway.

I heard muffled voices down there and then he came back up the stairs.

I slid out from underneath the couch. I wanted to get out of the house, but I didn’t have time. I slipped into the den instead. The man stepped into the living room. I heard him move a piece of furniture. Was he moving the couch? And then I realized I told him (or her) in the text that I was in the den. I thought he would come to see me next. But he did not. He moved the furniture back and left the room. He then walked into a small storage room next to the living room. I thought that might have been the den. I peaked my head around the corner. He was inside that room looking for me. 

All the lights were out. He was walking around in the dark. His back was to me and I noticed a large wooden bookshelf against the wall and another ornate sofa.

I stepped out of the room.

I was no longer going to hide. Why should I feel guilty? My wife and daughter were missing. My neighbors were acting strange, and seemed to be responding to text messages sent to my wife’s phone. I stepped out into the living room. He was still in the den.

“Excuse me,” I said.

He turned around and looked back at me startled. “Hi?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was looking for my wife and daughter. I’m sorry to…to disturb you.”

He looked completely befuddled. “You’re here to look for your wife and daughter?” He looked out the den’s window toward my house.

I shook my head. “I didn’t know,” I said trying to be contrite. “The door was not locked, and you were not home.”

He didn’t believe a word I said.

When he turned to face me his parch, white complexion looked like all the blood had been drained from his face. He glanced toward the open doorway in the kitchen that went to the basement. 

“I have no idea where they are, Steve.” His eyes flickered back to me. “I promise.” 

“Well, I’m sorry to disturb you.” 

I started to make my way to the door and felt the ping from my phone. Another text message. I put my hand on the doorknob and stopped. I turned to face him. I had to ask the obvious question. The elephant in the room. “What was in the blanket you dragged in here?” 

His pale, white face was haggard like he had just aged twenty years.

“That was my dog,” he said. “He died this morning and we brought him to the basement.” He glanced out the window. “We’ll bury him in the morning.”

A chill went down my spine.

That wasn’t a dog.

“Okay,” I said. I stood there a moment longer, expecting a response or further explanation. 

He said nothing.

“Okay, I’m sorry for disturbing you. I glanced toward the basement door. “Let me know if you see them.” 

“I will,” he said. I didn’t like the way he said that. His voice was flat, lifeless.

I stepped outside and closed the door. As I walked down the porch steps I heard the door latch click.

Someone locked the door. 

Part II

Four Days Ago

I was exasperated. “Teresa, you don’t remember the neighbors moving in next door?” I motioned my hand toward the kitchen oven. “You made them an apple pie.”

She shook her head. “Steve,” she said confidently. “I didn’t. When do you think this happened?” 

“We went over last week, when they first moved in.” I changed my tone like I was retelling the story a second time. “We both went over. You baked an apple pie. I brought over some painting supplies. Don’t you remember? The realtor said they were remodeling their basement.” 

“Steve, the house has been empty since they moved in. Look at it,” she said. “No one lives there. It’s falling apart.” 

For the first time I began to doubt myself. Did I really see them? I’ve noticed as I have gotten older my memory is not what it once was. Maybe she was right. Maybe I did imagine it.

A chill went down my spine. 

Either I was losing my mind, or she was losing hers. Either way there was a problem. I looked out our kitchen window onto the neighbor’s house. The curtains were open and there was a face looking back at me.

Present Day

I stepped off the porch and quickly walked across their lawn. I turned to look back and saw his pale, haggard face looking back at me through the window. When he saw me looking at him he backed away slowly and closed the curtain.

Not a good sign.

I made my way through the thickets and bramble and back onto my lawn and went into my house. What now? And then I remembered the text message.

I reached into my pocket. There was a new message from Teresa’s phone. It said: 

He’s lying. We’re in the basement. 

And then:

Come down the stairs.

It was like a cold spike went through my heart. What now? Do I go back over, confront him and say: 

Sorry sir, but I am receiving text messages from my wife. I think she’s in your basement. Would it be okay if I come in, go down into the basement and snoop around?

No, I wasn’t going to ask him that. Instead, I typed: 

Who are you?

It was 9 o’clock at night. Should I call the police and open a missing persons report? Or do I sit tight for an hour or two and go back over there? Maybe look for a basement window that I can pry open? I saw what was wrapped in that blanket. It was not a dog. It was human, I know that for sure. And I saw a ring on the finger that looked just like Megan’s.

My phone pinged. A new message. I took a look and a new cold stab of fear shot through my entire body. It said: 

Your neighbor

“Your neighbor,” I whispered.

I typed “Hampden Police Maine” into my phone and tapped the number on the screen. 

* * *

Ten minutes later an officer arrived at my door. I told him what I saw. He looked at me suspiciously the entire time. His eyes slowly wandered around the house like he thought there was a little more to the story. I felt like I was the suspect. He said he would go over and ask them some questions. I asked if he could check the basement. He said not without consent.

I held up my phone. “She sent me a text message and said she was in the basement. Isn’t that enough to…” 

He grimaced and shook his head. “I am afraid not. Unless they let me I would need a warrant.” 

He said I should call the police station and file a missing persons report. 

I was afraid of that.

I called them and filed the report. They said another officer would be over in an hour or two.

I hung up the phone and looked down at the ominous message again. 

It said: 

The Neighbors

The neighbors house was pitch dark and the curtains were drawn.

* * *

The officer pulled in my driveway about an hour later. He asked the same questions as the previous officer and then went next door. I watched it all out my kitchen window. He had his flashlight on and moved it across the front of the porch and the window next to the doorway. He knocked on the door and waited a moment. No one answered. He walked around the perimeter of the house, shining his flashlight across the lawn and side of their house.

It was like he was looking for signs for life in an abandoned house. Neither his body language or actions indicated any kind of urgency. Everything was routine. He went back up onto the porch and knocked again. And then he opened the door. He paused for a moment like he saw something he didn’t like. And then, after a beat, he stepped inside.  

I gave him twenty minutes. 

His patrol car was still parked in my driveway. I put on my coat and walked back over to the neighbor’s house. 

I didn’t knock this time. I just walked in. “Hello?” I called out.

“I’m down here,” I heard the officer say. He was in the basement. 

“Can I come down?” I hollered. 

“Yes,” he said curtly.

I took a right and went through the kitchen to the basement door. I quickly walked down the steps to the dank basement. It was the kind of root cellar I remember seeing in old farmhouses when I was a child. Cool and dank with dirt floors and exposed rock walls. It was like an underground cave.

But there was no light.

“Where are you?” I whispered. 

No answer. 

I turned on my cell phone’s light and panned it across the room. It was a large room, but with a lot of debris and many hiding places.

“Sir? Are you here?” 

“I am over here,” he whispered. His voice sounded off. It was not normal. 

I turned around and the officer was right behind me – just inches away. The officer looked different. Strangely, his eyes looked like the women who lived here. 

“We’ve been waiting for you,” he hissed. He took a step closer to me.

In my phone’s light I could see his beady black eyes and pearl white teeth that looked sharp.

“What are you doing?” I asked. 

He stopped where he was. 

I directed my flashlight right at him. He looked normal again.

“Sir, I don’t want you down here…”

“You asked me to come down.” 

“I had no idea you were in the house, Mr. Taylor. But I do have to ask you to leave.”

I nodded my head and turned around. I scanned my flashlight over the debris and overflow of storage. Underneath a tipped over bookcase there was a blanket.

It was the blanket that Megan was wrapped in.

I turned around to look at the officer. “Have you checked that blanket?” I asked.

“No, I have not.” 

“Do you think you should?” 

“Mr. Taylor please – “

I raised my hands, palms facing outward. “Okay, I’ll leave,” I said. 

I walked back up the basement steps. 

Something primal inside of me was triggered when I saw him. I am not sure where that came from but I hope I never feel it again.

And then there was the blanket.

Was that Megan wrapped up inside?

Three Days Ago

I had my first sleep walking incident. At least, that is what I thought it was. It was before dawn – probably two or three in the morning and I found myself deep in the woods. I had no idea where I was or how long I had been there. But my shirt was torn, one of my boots was off and I had blood on my arm. I wiped it off. I didn’t see a cut or wound.

I made my way through the underbrush and bramble and saw a street light about a hundred yards away through the trees. I walked over there. 

I came out onto a paved road. I looked up the hill and noticed this was my street. For some reason I had wandered out of the bedroom, went outdoors and walked through the forest for about a quarter of a mile.

The night was cool, but oddly I still had that primal feeling like I wanted to be out there. Or perhaps, even, belonged out there. What did I want to do? 

And then the scarier question: What had I done? 

Present Day

I went back into my house and waited patiently. There were no new text messages. 

At about 10 pm I heard sirens down the street. And then I saw a pulsing white and red light coming up the hill. It was an ambulance and it pulled into the neighbor’s driveway. I stood at the window watching. Two paramedics with a stretcher went into the house. 

A few minutes later they came back out with a body wrapped in the same blue blanket. I ran back outside toward the ambulance. The officer in the house came out and hurried down the porch steps toward me. 

“Mr. Taylor,” he said motioning toward the body on the stretcher. “Can I have you come over here to identify this person?” He looked worried. 

I didn’t like that. 

“Is it – “ I started to say. I walked over to the stretcher. There was a nurse over the body. 

“Kyle, we have another body in the basement,” one of the paramedics said, standing by the front door.

“Shit,” the paramedic standing next to me said under his breath.

I went over to the stretcher and saw that it was Megan. It looked like she was sleeping peacefully, but I knew that she was dead.

“Sir,” he said. “Can you identify the women?” 

Again, I did not like the suspicious tone.

It was Megan. 

“I can,” I said. “That’s my…”

The paramedic had the blanket pulled from her face, and was staring back at me intently.

“That’s my wife. Is – “

“She’s dead,” he said.

“What was the cause?” I asked.

“We don’t know for sure, but there are bite marks on the back of her neck.” 

I had heard that before. 

“Where is the other officer?” I asked. 

“He’s in the house,” the paramedic said. “He should be out in a minute. Would you like to talk to him?” 

All I could think was, “Someone close by is a vampire. Or pretending to be.” 

But strangely they seemed to think that it was me.

Even the paramedic standing by her body had a strange look in his eyes when he looked at me. 

Two Days Ago

I had another fever, and was seeing white flashes. And when I slept I had the worst nightmares in places I have never seen – faraway lands in another time. I can’t remember most of of the dream but I remember a pastoral setting with a large green field, mountains in the background, and a faraway castle. I tried to tell Megan about my dream, but you know how they are – they seem to fade quickly and, unless you write them down, you tend to forget.

“Why are you having them?” Megan asked me. 

Again, I know I sound paranoid, but I didn’t like how she asked the question with such a suspicious tone. She was looking at me like I was guilty. 

“I don’t know. I have not felt well since the neighbors moved in,” I said. 

She was rinsing dishes in the sink and placing them in the dishwasher. “You think they are related,” she asked. 

“I don’t know,” I said. 

* * *

Later in the day a vehicle pulled into our driveway. A tall, elderly man and shorter, elvish man that looked much younger – perhaps 20 – stepped out of the vehicle. They looked at the neighbors house and then came toward my door.

They introduced themselves. The elderly man was a professor at the university and taught slavic languages. He said his name was Dr. Scotts. The younger man was his student and a scholar of folklore and mythology. 

Slavic languages, folklore and mythology. I know what you are thinking. 

I looked at them quizzically and asked, “How can I help you?”

“Well,” Dr. Scotts said with an almost embarrassed look. “I came across your wife’s Facebook posts. And I have been following her and you for the last few months.” 

“You have?”

(Before this started my dog had rabies and had to be put down. After that strange things began to happen).

“Yes,” he said. He stood stock-still on my front porch and was not comfortable. He looked like a man that had spent some time within the safe confines of the university’s walls and leaving that place was distressing for him.

“Mr. Taylor,” he said. “Do you mind if I come in to discuss my concerns?” 

“Concerns?” I asked. I stepped back from the door and motioned for them to come inside. “Yes, come in,” I said. 

He removed his hat and stepped in the door. “This will not take long, Mr. Taylor. I appreciate your time.”

He put his hand on the shoulder of the young man. “This is my student, Aaron Murkowski. He has been following your Facebook feed.”

“He has?” 

“Yes, it is a story of folklore and mythology in the modern world. It is an age-old phenomena…” 

“That is what we see today online,” Aaron piped in.

“Yes,” Dr.  Scotts said looking at Aaron warmly then back at me. “We are trying to study how folklore and legend are transmitted in today’s culture. It happens so quickly – it morphs, changes, and adapts much faster than it did in the past.” 

“And you saw this on my wife’s Facebook page?” 

“We did,” Dr. Scotts said. “But we saw more than we expected.” 

“What did you see?” I asked.

“We thought we were seeing folklores and urban legends transmitting electronically. Your wife’s posts…” he trailed off for a moment and looked around the house like he was looking for my wife. “Your wife’s posts are tracking nicely with the urban legends that we are currently studying.” Dr. Scotts pointed at Aaron. “And he was taking notes. Aaron showed me the posts and his work. You see an urban legend, or folklore, is a superstition. It is not real. But what caught my eye was that what she said in her posts were true.”

“What caught your eye?” I asked.

Aaron’s eyes lit up. “The bite marks.” 

“Yes,” Dr. Scott said putting his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “The bite marks. And the police believe it was a dog?” he asked with a small smile.

“That is what he said in two of the cases,” I said. 

Aaron’s eyes were still wide and bright. “Do you believe that?” 

I shook my head and turned around like I was looking for my wife “We didn’t,” I said.

Dr. Scotts put his hand on his chest. “You see I never believed this was true. I study folklore and mythology with a critical eye. There is always a grain of truth – some parts are true and, quite often, there is a lesson to learn. The professor dropped his professorial demeanor for a moment. “But I never thought it was happening in Hampden, Maine.”

At this point I was quite nervous and scared. “What questions do you have for me?” I asked.

Dr. Scotts looked at Aaron sheepishly then back at me. “Can we look at the bite marks on your neck?” he asked.  

Part III

Present Day

An officer came up from behind me and placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Mr. Taylor, would you be able to answer some questions?”

“Yes,” I said. “Should I have an attorney?”

“That is up to you. You can answer only the questions you are comfortable with.” 

“Okay.” 

The officer walked around me and stood in front of me. “Where were you yesterday?”

“At work.”

“All day?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you have witnesses that can testify to that?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “I work alone most of the time. People see me but there are not eyes on me all the time.”

“Okay,” the officer said. “Would now be a good time for you to come down to the station?”

“What is this about? Do you think -“ 

The officer raised his hands, palms facing out. “We don’t know anything yet Mr. Taylor.” He gave me a Cheshire grin. “But we hope you can help.”

“I’ll do anything to help.” 

The time was 11:14 pm. 

* * *

The nightmares continued for another week or so. But it did not involve someone attacking me. It was, perhaps, more disturbing than that. It was me attacking someone else.

I would always awaken from the dream in a cold sweat. The sheets would be damp and Megan would be at the window looking out into the night.

Every night she would turn to me with a frightened look. “Another nightmare?” she would ask.

“Yes,” I would say.

She never asked anymore questions but she always turned to look out the window with that look of fright. What she saw out there bothered me more than waking up in cold sweat after a bad dream. I never asked her what she saw until that last night. 

“What are you looking at?” 

“I’ve been seeing things,” she said. And then she looked at me. ”A person.”

“One person?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Well, it is…” she hesitated. 

“Megan?” I asked.

“It is someone that looks like you,” she said.

* * *

Last night, before bed, Megan asked me where I go at night. 

“I’m in bed, sleeping.”

“No, you get up,” she said, “and use the other bathroom.” She was pointing to the other bathroom we have downstairs next to the pantry closet.  

I did not remember any of that. When I need to use the bathroom I use our master bathroom right next to our bed. I do it several times a night.

“I do?” 

“You have. Every night. I don’t know how long you are gone because I’m half-asleep. But I hear you leave the room.” 

“Well, I don’t know Megan.” I took a bite of my toast. “I don’t know why I would use the other bathroom unless I was sleepwalking.” 

“Maybe you are,” Megan said. 

I shrugged my shoulders, wiped my face with a napkin and picked up my plate.

“I’ll have to be more aware of what I am doing at night.” 

Outside a police cruiser with lights flashing roared by, followed by an ambulance.

My heart dropped.

“Uh-oh,” Megan said. She reached for her phone to check the news.

“Did something happen last night?” 

She glanced up to me and gave me a suspicious look – maybe that is not the way it was but that is how I felt. 

“Yes, something did,” she said slowly, studying the screen.

I stood by the kitchen table, plate in hand waiting. 

“What happened?”

She pointed her finger to the right side of the house. “Do you know the Collins? Their daughter went to preschool with Lauryn.”

I nodded my head.

“The mother is missing and the father was found dead in his bed.” 

“From what?” I asked slowly. I didn’t like the inference that was being made. I was missing late at night (and having nightmares that I  would like to forget). 

Megan looked up at me.

She thought I was guilty. 

My hands trembled, I almost dropped the plate. And for one instant I wanted to go over to her and strangle her. 

And then the feeling was gone. 

“Megan, do you think I was involved?” I asked.

She looked exasperated and shook her head. 

“No, I don’t think so, but…” 

I walked over to the kitchen island and put my plate in the sink.

“But what?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

* * *

I had another nightmare the next night. This was more vivid and seemed more realistic than the others. I can remember feeling the cold air on my face. I was chasing a women through the woods. I heard a constant cry from someone asking me to stop. It was faint, but persistent.

And then a hand grabbed my shoulder.

“Steve,” a woman’s voice said faintly. “Steve, wake up.” 

It was Megan.

“Was it another…” I started to say. 

She nodded. “Yes. It was another bad dream.”

One Day Ago

I was in the kitchen eating breakfast. Megan was frying sausage and eggs. She started to say something. 

“What?” I asked.

She turned off the overhead vent.

“I received a text that bothers me a little,” she said.

“What?” I asked and then chuckled. “Did someone see me sleepwalking?” 

“Well, we have a picture,” she said and turned her phone’s screen toward me. It was a blurry, gray image.

She walked over and handed the phone to me. “This was taken from a trail camera last night.” She pointed out the window at a house up on the Kennebec Road. “It’s the Peterson family. There son has a trail camera for finding deer or anything else that moves around in the woods late at night.”

I squinted and looked closely at the screen. It was a black and white, grainy image like an old Polaroid photograph.

It was in a field and there was light behind the trees – probably a porch light – but in the field there was a tall, slim figure hunched slightly walking through the field. The man was wearing a corduroy jacket just like mine. 

At first I thought someone else had taken my jacket and was traipsing through the neighboring fields late at night pretending to be me.

But I knew better.

“Is that me?” I asked.

Megan had her back to me and was flipping the crackling sausage and eggs. She turned to me with the spatula in her hands.

“It looks like you, don’t you think?” 

She had a suspicious look on her face like she knew it was me but wanted to hear me say it. But underneath that, in her eyes, I could see worry. And maybe fear. 

I looked back at the image. “That looks like my jacket,” I said. Megan nodded once and slowly turned around. She turned off the burner and put the sausage and three plates lined up on the counter.

“Do they…” I started to say. 

“No, they don’t know who it was,” she said. “But you were up last night and I followed you.”

That surprised me.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“What…” I thought for a moment about how to ask the question “What did you see?” 

“I saw you walk out of the house like a zombie. You didn’t seem to know, or care, that I was behind you. You stumbled across our lawn and through the tree line along our property.” She brought over a plate of sausage and eggs and set them next to me like everything was okay. “You seemed to want to walk on the grass and the trees and avoid the driveway or road. You were walking along our property and the neighbors like you were an animal. It was like a dog or a deer running across your property. Not a human that would stay on a man-made path. You went across the yard and then onto the Kennebec Road. But instead of walking on the street you went right into the woods.”

Megan raised her arms and waved them for emphasis. “It scared the shit out of me.” 

Megan never swore. Her eyes were watering.

I glanced over to the foyer where I kept my boots. I had noticed, since these strange occurrences, that my boots were dirty, with mud and grass like I had been walking through a forest.

“Did you follow me into the woods?”

Megan shook her head. “No, I was too upset. I came back into the house and waited for you.”

“And what happened?” 

“You staggered back into the house like you were drunk. I tried talking to you…but you seemed like you were asleep.” 

She put her plate in the sink. “But you were awake.”

“Megan, I had no idea…”

She turned on the faucet and rinsed her dish, and then opened the dishwasher and placed it inside.

“Did something happen last night?” I looked out the window, toward the street. “Up on the Kennebec Road?”

Megan sighed, like she was exhausted and at the end of her rope “Yes,” she said. “The mother, father, and both of the kids were found dead – all lying in their beds.” 

My face felt hot. “And do you think that was me? Who did it?”  

Megan was leaning against the counter, she had her elbows on the counter, and she put her hand on the side of head and started rubbing her temples. She shook her head slowly. Tears were in her eyes. “No,” she said.

But here eyes betrayed her.

She thought I did it.

* * *

An officer came to the house the next day and asked some questions. I didn’t volunteer anything that would be incriminating. In fact, I lied to him several times.

And I never lie. 

Or, should I say, it is very rare. To lie through my teeth, and to know that what I say is not true to a law enforcement officer, is very disturbing. Not one bit of myself – what I consider to be my inner self, the true me – would ever tell a lie.

The officer had a notebook and took it all down. He didn’t seem to have any suspicions about me.

But I know I did. 

* * *

I called Dr. Scotts today, and told him more of the story.

“Does it always happen at night?”

It did. 

“Look at your front teeth. Do they look elongated? Are they sharp, like canine teeth?” he asked.

I walked into my bathroom and beared my teeth in the mirror. My two front canine teeth on the top looked sharper – but I could not tell – had they always been so long? And sharp? 

I didn’t think so.

“Do you…” Dr. Scotts hesitated for a moment, like he was searching for the right turn of phrase. “Do you have cravings…” 

Again, he could not finish the question. I walked into the kitchen and peered out our front window. It was dark, and late at night, and I noticed this made my heart hammer in my chest with excitement. It was an endorphin rush that was so unfamiliar to me, but still felt right.

Dr. Scotts cleared his throat and paused for a moment. And then he asked, “Do you have cravings for blood?”

I licked my lips. My heart dropped and I tried to push these thoughts back into my mind. They were pleasant thoughts that felt illicit, and I could not contain the physical reaction that overcame me. The endorphin rush flooded over me like warm bathwater. 

“No,” I lied.

Dr. Scotts paused for a moment, expecting me to elaborate on this idea. He seemed to think that I might have more to say. But deception, at this moment, was getting easier for me.

* * *

The next night I asked Megan to shake me out of my slumber if she ever sees me in that state again. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “I’ll try.”

I knew it would happen again that night. I felt something building up inside of me and the prospect of traipsing through the woods like a wolf looking for blood seemed thrilling… 

My dopamine circuits were lit up. I was ON. But I was no longer a well-thought-of citizen in Hampden, Maine. Someone to be depended upon. I was not a neighbor willing to offer a helping hand. I was not a father, and husband, fulfilling my human duties as a member of civil society. Someone to be trusted. No, I was… 

Something else entirely.

* * *

We went through the routine. I normally go to bed first. And I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. A part of me, for sure, wanted to just get a good nights sleep. But another part of me wanted  something else. Something not permitted in civilized society.  

A part of me wanted blood from the neighbors that lived down the street.

I had a nightmare almost immediately, but I don’t remember much. I was awakened before the main event.

STEVE, STEVE, WAKE-UP!” I heard a woman scream. My arm felt tingly like it was stuck in…something. A tree branch or a door.

And then I opened my eyes. Megan had her hands on my arm, tears were in her eyes.

“Steve, where are you going?” 

I was standing in the foyer of the house with the door wide open. I had on my jacket and work boots like I had something important to attend to. 

But I knew what it was. 

“Steve, are you…can you hear me?” 

Megan was shaking my arm.

I nodded my head. “Yes, I can hear you.” 

“Where were you going?” 

And what bothered me right then was I knew the answer. 

I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said.

But I did.

Megan was wide-eyed and kept looking outside and then back at me.

But there was something else. I had a fleeting thought that I could hold for just a second before it would fade away forever. It was the scariest thing about that night. Before I forget it for all time I will write it here.

I had a plan. I was going up on the Kennebec Road to visit the neighbors. 

Later That Morning

“I called Dr. Scotts.” Megan and I were in the kitchen. She was holding a cup of coffee and I was sipping my tea. “He’s going to be over this morning Steve.” 

“Why?” I asked.

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. She pointed at the front door. “Because of what happened last night.” 

My memory of that had begun to fade. In fact I did not remember it all. I had to look back at my notes to remember the event. I saw that I wrote that “I had a plan” but, for the life of me, I can not remember what it was.

Megan sipped her coffee. She was rubbing the back of her neck and…I am having trouble writing it down here. I will just say that I had another illicit thought. That was the most disturbing of them all.

“He should be here at noon.” 

Dr. Scotts’ Visit

“Do we have a room to talk privately?” Dr. Scotts asked. He was standing in the foyer, with his hat in his hand.

Megan took a step toward him and pointed toward the spare bedroom.

“You can go in there,” she said.

I got up from my seat at the kitchen table and went into the room. Dr. Scotts’ walked in behind me.

“How are you feeling now?” Dr. Scotts’ asked. He sat down in a side chair in the room by the table. I was standing.

“I feel fine.” 

Dr. Scotts looked at me closely. His eyes wondered down to my body.

“You look thin.” 

I began to pace the room.

“Well, I haven’t been sleeping much. You know with…”

Dr. Scotts nodded his head. He was trying to show sympathy. “With the nightmares. And…” 

I nodded. “And everything else.” I felt fear the moment I said that.

I did not know what “everything else” meant.

Dr. Scotts nodded obligingly. He seemed content to let that go – the “everything else” part – for now.

“Did Megan tell you everything that happened?” I asked.

“Most of it.” 

“I had another bad dream last night and Megan…she intervened.”

Dr. Scotts sat still waiting for me to say more. 

“She stopped me before I did something bad.” 

“Something bad?” 

My eyes darted to the window, and up to the Kennebec Road.

Dr. Scotts turned his head and pointed his finger out the window. “Were you going up that street?” 

Now his eyes took on a different appearance – from inquisitive interest to concern. 

I nodded my head. “Maybe,” I said. 

“Have you been eating much, Mr. Taylor?” 

“No, my only cravings…” I stopped. I didn’t want to go there yet. Dr. Scotts sat still, with his notebook in his lap and pen in hand.

“Cravings?” 

“Yes.” 

I didn’t want to say more and Dr. Scotts wasn’t going to press me on this point.

Dr. Scotts was clicking his pen, and gently tapping his foot, looking at me. “Do you have the cravings now?” 

“No.”

“Do you have them when you sleep?”

“Yes.” 

Dr. Scotts wrote that down in his notebook.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked. He pointed out the window. “Are these cravings related to what you want to do outside?”

I put the palm of my hand over my mouth. I had a knot in my stomach. Did he know what this was? Did he know what I was? 

I just nodded my head yes. 

Dr. Scotts was expressionless, but his color was a bit gray. He made another note in his notebook.

“Tell me about the dreams Mr. Taylor. Are they nightmares?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have they always been the same?”

“No.” I was rubbing the back of my neck with the palm of my hand. “Lately they have been similar, but the first ones were different.”

“How so?” Dr. Scotts asked. He had the tip of his pen near his lips like he was coming close to hearing what he needed to hear.

“In the first few I was being chased in the woods by an animal.” 

Dr. Scotts nodded knowingly. “We all have those dreams,” he said with a nervous smile. It was like he was trying to calm my nerves, like this happened to everyone, but underneath I knew this was different. He wouldn’t be at my house, with a notebook and pen, asking me hard questions if that were true.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I was being chased and tripping over the underbrush…it felt like I was in a prehistoric time – the adrenaline, the rush of blood to my brain, my vision, my senses were sharp. I thought I was going to die, or at least the part of me that I consider to my inner self, would die.

At first I was pursued. And now I am the pursuer.

Did you see your pursuer? Was it an animal or a man?” 

“Both,” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to sound so sure. It was a dream. Why would it matter if it was a man, animal or fire-breathing dragon? The confidence that I had in that made it seem real. 

“It seemed like if he caught me I would be killed, or…” 

“Or what?” 

“Infected by something.”

“Infected?”

“Yes, I know it sounds strange. But that is what I thought.”

“Did it catch you?”

“Not in the first few dreams.” Dr. Scotts sat stock still, pen in hand, waiting for me to say more.

“But it did in that last one,” I said. 

“What happened?” he asked, tapping the end of his pen on his lips.

I was still rubbing the back of my neck, and Dr. Scotts seemed to be just as interested in this as what happened to me when that Thing got his hands on me and started…

In the last dream my legs weren’t moving as fast. It felt like I was trudging through a foot of mud, but it was the dry forest floor.

“And then…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“And then?”

“And then I felt an arm on my shoulder. It felt like a large tree branch had collapsed on my arm – his grip was solid. I fell onto the ground. Dirt and mud were all over my face, in my mouth.” 

Dr. Scotts was writing it all down.

When I stopped talking he glanced up at me.

“And what happened next?” he asked.

“I felt him, or It or whatever it was, crawling on my back. He felt like a crocodile or large lizard crawling on my back.” 

“Did you resist? Were you trying to get away?” 

“I couldn’t…it was the dream…you can’t move. I was in the mud but I couldn’t move my arms and legs. So the creature crawled onto my neck and I felt its breath on the back of my neck. And then I felt…”

Dr. Scotts glanced up again from his notebook. He looked at me. “Go on,” he said.

“I felt something wet on the back of my neck.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know what it was. It felt like it was lips and then I felt sharp pin pricks in the back of my neck and then the most excruciating pain in my shoulder. It felt like two wasps stinging me at once. I cried out in pain.” 

“Did you try to resist?” Dr. Scotts asked. “Did you see who it was?” 

“I think so. I turned my head to the side so I could see and I recognized who it was – but I was in disbelief and still am.”

“About what? Did you recognize him?” 

“Yes, I think so,” I said glancing out the window to the neighbor’s house. “It didn’t make any sense, but the creature that was on top of me with that primitive strength and animal-like behavior looked just like my neighbor. I looked into his eyes and they were not human I know that for sure – he had reptilian eyes and his skin was white – white as a sheet of paper. But when he knew that I saw him he flinched back and turned completely black and then seemed to fold into itself like a bird.” 

“Or bat,” Dr. Scotts said.

I signed. “I guess,” I said. 

We sat in silence in the spare bedroom of my home for a minute or two. It was just a dream. So there was no further action to take. That is what I told myself. 

Or was there? 

Dr. Scotts had the posture of a physician, trying to diagnose an illness. It was more than a dream to him.

“And then you woke up?” he asked.

“I think so, yes,” I said nodding my head. 

Dr. Scotts wrote himself another note. His posture and the way he made this seem all-important was no different than a judge carefully hearing a case – weighing the evidence, parsing the details, so as to come to an equitable result.

Or, in my case, a diagnosis for what was wrong with me.

“And did you dream afterwards? Did the same nightmare happen again?” 

“Yes, I had the same dream but…” 

“But?” 

“There was a change.” 

“A change?”

“Yes, after that I went from being pursued to…” I stopped, not wanting to incriminate myself (even if it was just a dream).

“To what?” Dr. Scotts asked.

“To pursuing,” I said. 

Dr. Scotts flinched backwards, and almost dropped his pen, like my posture, or the look in my eye at that moment, frightened him. 

“Do you think you were infected?” 

“Well, in my dreams. But not for real.” 

I didn’t like how Dr. Scotts just sat there – expressionless – when I said that. I wanted an encouraging head nod, like he understood. 

Of course you are not infected in real life. You are not pursing people in the woods. These are just nightmares.

But he did not say that. 

“Mr. Taylor, would you mind if I look a the back of your neck?” 

I felt a lump in my chest. My nightmares became real in that one instant. What had been imagined, something that happened in that ethereal place, suddenly became something much more real. Having someone else ask it made it more real than I wanted it to be.

Dr. Scotts sat down his notebook and walked over to me. 

“Can you tip your head forward?” he asked. 

“Yup.” 

I tipped my head forward.

And then I felt the needle go into my arm.

Everything went dark and I was asleep. 

There were no dreams that night.

Mount Abrams Psychiatry Hospital

I awoke with my arms folded across my chest. I was wearing a white nylon gown with my arms folded across my chest. I could not move them. I was in a hospital. I heard squeaking gurney wheels outside my room, and saw the stark white lights in the hallway.

“Hello?” I said. “HELLO?” I said louder.

A nurse shuffled into the room with a face mask on holding a clipboard. 

“Yes, Mr. Taylor?” she said sweetly. 

“Why am I here? What happened?” 

She looked down at her clipboard and flipped through the pages. It was like she did this everyday. This was normal for her.

“You were admitted by Dr. Scotts last night,” she said.

“For what?” I asked. I felt mislead. 

“Dr. Scotts will need to talk to you.” 

“Is he here?” 

“Yes, I think so. Just a minute. She poked her head outside the door (around the corner). “Dr. Scotts, do you have a minute?” 

I heard a distant, gravely voice say: “Yes.” 

She turned back to me. “The doctor will be right in sir,” she said.

“Okay.” 

She left the room. After a minute or so Dr. Scotts came in.

“I see you are awake Mr. Taylor. How do you feel?” 

I glanced down at the straight jacket I was in and then looked back at him. My legs were also tied to the bed. I couldn’t move any of my limbs. 

“I’ve been better.”

He could see that I needed a little more information. 

“I had to admit you Steve.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, I think you had a psychotic episode, and you were in danger to yourself and other people.”

“Do you think I murdered those people? It was a dream. Did you see…” I wanted to word this carefully. “Did you see something on the back of my neck?” 

“No, and I didn’t expect to.” He chuckled. “I just needed an excuse to get close to you.” 

“So you could inject me with a needle?” 

“Yes.”

“Am I in Bangor?”

“No, you are in St. Johnsbury, Vermont. This is the hospital I work at. We can help you here.”

“Couldn’t the psychiatric hospital in Bangor help me? Why do I need to be in Vermont?”

“We specialize in your ailment Mr. Taylor.” 

Dr. Scotts turned and left the room without saying another word.

Something wasn’t right. There were bars on the window. The room and the hallway, that I could see, were darker than a normal hospital would be. If I was in Vermont it was not with my consent. And who else knew where I was? Did Megan? I looked out through the bars in my window. It was a dark, cold winter afternoon. In the distance there was a tree line – large pines reaching into the sky and, very faintly, I could see a black bird flying among the trees. And in that lone fleeting moment I had another thought that rose from God knows where inside of my head. I wished that I was flying away too.

* * *

I was able to talk with Megan tonight. 

“Do you know where I am?” I asked. “Dr. Scotts said Vermont, but…” 

“But what?” she asked. 

“I don’t know if I believe him. When did I leave?”

“Steve,” she said breathlessly. “You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“You’ve been gone for a month, honey.” 

“Do you have my phone? Can you see my location?”

“I don’t know where you are.”

“How are things at home? Have things settled down?”

She was silent on the other end.

“Megan? Are you there?”

“Yes.” 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes…”

“Has anything happened since I have been gone?”

“No…”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” she said flatly. And then: “All the murders have stopped since you have gone away.” 

Part IV

Vampyrs

Dr. Scotts sat in his home study late at night. This is were he often did his most important work, or at least, the work that he enjoyed the most. He had a cubicle up against the wall, and an oak back shelve behind him lined with his books on subjects from biochemistry, folklore, mythology, the Russian Orthodox Church and Vampirology. Books by PhDs from all over the world. Dr. Betsy Shurls’ text on The Elements, History of Periodic Table, The Science of Folklore by W.W. Norton, British Goblins by Wirt Siles, Slavic Blood: The Vampires in Russian and East European Cultures by Thomas Garza, The Interpretation of Dreams by Sigmond Freud and In Search of Vampyres by Ian Wilke. 

Dr. Scotts opened his laptop computer, searched through his e-mail for the meeting notification and clicked “Join Meeting.” 

Suddenly a 4-way grid popped up on the computer screen with four people in each box. Underneath each box was a caption box with their name: Betsy, William, Peter and Ian. 

Dr. Scotts said to the group: “Hi everybody. Thanks for meeting on such short notice. Betsy, in the top left corner, said: “No problem, anytime, Peter,” in her British lilt. The other talking heads nodded and smiled. Ian’s square, in the bottom right corner, seemed to have a little delay.

“I just want to update you on this case from America,” Dr. Scotts said. “We’ve brought him to Oxford and have him under close supervision.”

“Is it a hospital or psychiatric ward?” Peter asked. 

“A psychiatric ward.”

“With security?” Ian asked.

“Yes.” 

“What have you seen so far?” Ian asked. 

“He’s been stable. He just woke up last night. He doesn’t know where he is.” 

“Have you done the bloodwork?” Betsy asked. She had a virtual background of a beach with blue ocean – it was like she was standing on a platform sixty feet above the ocean asking him questions on this computer screen.

“We’ve done some.”

“And?” Betsy asked. 

“We did a porphyrins blood test – to check his hemoglobin. There were some irregularities.”

Peter’s head moved off the screen for a moment, and then popped back up. He had something to say.

“Steve, this is the first documented case in the United States, correct?”

“Yes. It’s not the first in North America. We had that incident in Moncton up in Canada earlier this year. But nothing since then.”

“If this is what you suggest how do you think he was infected?” Peter asked. Peter’s image was taking up most of the screen. The others were three little small boxes on the bottom of the screen.

“I don’t know yet, Peter. But he did mention the neighbors and their strange behavior before he…”

“Before he began to exhibit strange behavior,” Peter said with a chuckle.

“Does the subject exhibit any other traits,” Ian asked. “Have you looked at the upper canine teeth?” 

“I have – but I don’t see any evidence of elongated or sharp teeth.” 

“Have you done any urine tests,” Betsy asked. Her virtual background was now an industrial scene, with welding arcs, and steel beams with large fiery red furnace with molten rock flowing out the sides. It seemed out of place for Betsy to be in that scene. “You can test for Gunther’s disease. Little is known about it, but we often see this in the patients that we suspect…” 

“We will today,” Dr. Scotts said. “I feel like we are in Salem, Massachusetts in 1617 – not Hampden, Maine in 2025.”

“It’s not a witch hunt,” Peter said. Behind on his bookshelf you could see a line of black bound books and in a bold, white font was the title of his recent book: In Search of Vampyres. 

“Tell me more about about his neighbors,” Peter said. “You said they just moved in next door?”

“Yes, Steve said they had only been there a week. They were a quiet couple. I am not sure they even spoke before…” 

“Before what?” Betsy asked. 

“Before his wife and daughter were missing.” 

Neilson’s image suddenly took up the entire screen. “Dr. Scotts, this is Neilson from Edinburgh.” He had a flop of brown hair that covered  his right eye. “Did the subject see these neighbors?” 

“He did. Uhhh…they were quiet, slight-built, stark white.” 

“Well, that meets the description,” Betsy said. 

“Do you think these neighbors are related to other cases.”

Betsy and Neilson began to talk at once. Neilson stopped himself. 

“Well, if what we believe is true then the man would…” Betsy hesitated for a moment and cleared her throat. “The wife and child may be victims as well.” 

Neilson’s image then popped up on the full screen. “We should probably try to find this neighbor. Just to cover all our bases.” 

Ian’s image popped up on the screen and there was a clicking sound like someone was snapping a ballpoint pen. “He is probably there, close by, pretending to be someone like you and me.” 

“Who do you think he is?” 

The four heads in the boxes on the screen were suddenly quiet.

Suddenly Neilson’s image popped up. “Nosferatu,” he said timidly. 

“The unholy one,” Ian whispered.

Part V

Ian’s image came back onto the full screen and Nielson’s box dropped down next to the little boxes on the bottom left hand corner.

“This is not Bram Stroker’s Dracula,” he said. “That was fiction. The is a little subtler, but just as concerning. There was a man named Vlade the Impaler from Romania.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve said. 

“Well, we think that the vampire strain is something like a zoonotic virus – a virus that originates from another animal or environmental source but can infect a human. The human carrier is not able to transmit.”

Betsy’s image filled the screen. “To kill the virus,” she said. “You need to kill the source.” 

“Source?” 

“The primary carrier of this zoonotic strain, I suspect, is the man that moved in next door to Mr. Taylor.” 

“I see,” Dr. Scotts said. 

“Will you be traveling back to America?” Betsy asked. 

“I will. When I bring Mr. Taylor back.” 

Ian’s image popped up and filled the entire screen. “Maybe you should pay this neighbor a visit Dr. Scotts.” Ian smirked.

“And give him a shot.” 

Dr. Scotts nodded. 

Peter’s image popped up on the screen. “Just don’t get bit,” he said.

* * *

The tests are finished in Oxford. I’m on a plane now over the Atlantic on my way back to the United States. I have not had anymore nightmares. Dr. Scotts is coming back with me. I have a bad feeling about our return to America. It is like a dark cloud has descended upon my house, and the neighbor’s, and I am not sure it will ever lift. 

I believe that most of this is due to our neighbors – they flew in and it has been chaos since they arrived. People missing. People walking on my lawn late at night. And this, a trip to London, for tests that are unknown to me. What were they looking for? What were they testing for? I asked Dr. Scotts when he picked me up at the hospital, but he is a man of few words. 

“Everything is okay,” he said in his British lilt. He carries a brief case and wears a small top hat like someone in a 1970’s movie playing the part of the British detective. I don’t know what is next. I feel fine now, the mark on my neck is gone. This morning Megan FaceTimed me and asked me to put the phone’s camera behind my head. I stood in the mirror and reached my arm around. The red marks were almost completely gone. She kept calling them bite marks. Dr. Scotts is sitting next to me reading a hardcover book – he says it is a scientific journal for his work and he does not seem to want me to see. He jots down notes, but seems to flip the pages quickly when he sees me looking. This concerns me, but what should I do? Megan and are clueless as to what he is going to do. And what he has done already. Megan even suggested that I contact an attorney. “After all,” she said, “you were abducted.” But I am not going to do that. It is water under the bridge as far as I am concerned. Besides I feel better and Dr. Scotts says he has a plan.

But not for me.

I will ask him for more details before we land. But, at this point, all he has asked is that when we land he would like to go visit the neighbor. 

* * *

Dr. Scotts did not tell Steve the entire plan, or for that matter, any discoveries or insights that he had in London. “I would like you to introduce me,” Dr. Scotts said of the neighbors.

“I can,” Steve said. “What do you intend to do?” Steve had a nervous chuckle. “Do you want to jab him with a needle and take him to London for further testing?”

Dr. Scotts looked at him blankly; with no expression at all. “Maybe,” he said with a smile.

Steve didn’t like that response, but what was he to do? He was the doctor and, in theory, was trying to solve the problem.

“They’re often not home,” Steve said. “I usually only see them late at night.”

“There are two?” Dr. Scotts asked.

“Yes,” Steve said. “Husband and wife.” 

“Interesting,” Dr. Scotts said. 

* * *

I made initial contact with them or, I should say, with the man. I don’t know where the woman is. He seems normal, congenial even. He’s thin –  almost, I would say, emancipated. His eyes are large, darting things. When he opened the door he looked at me quickly and then glanced over my shoulder, and then over the driveway – scanning everything in just a second or two – looking for his mark I presume. I stood stock still on his porch holding my briefcase.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Mr. Varlan?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Scotts.” I turned and pointed toward Steve’s house. “I’ve been working with Mr. Taylor and I have a few questions for you.”

He seemed congenial. Interested even. For a moment I had a flash of doubt. Was this real? Was he what I thought he was? And then I remembered what Peter said. The deceiver is tricky, he will manipulate, his weapon – the most dangerous – are not the fangs or the cloak and dagger or the hatchet. It is manipulation – the way he will get into your head and make himself comfortable. This is how he gets what he wants. Inside your head he controls the levers and knows what buttons to press. It is his super power. “Be wary,” Ian said. 

“How can I help you Dr. Scotts?” He stepped back from the door threshold. “Come in, please.” 

I nodded, took off my hat, and stepped inside.

Mr. Varlan turned on the kitchen faucet and filled a clear glass with water.

He looked at me darkly for a moment, it was so different from the way he looked at me when I first arrived. And then, in a flash, his look softened – friendly even. 

“My wife passed away last year,” he said. He walked over and set the glass down on the table next to me. He stood over me and for a moment I had another tinge of fear – something was not right about him. But, with his charisma, he could fool the typical person. Ian’s message rang in my ears: 

The Deceiver will be interested in you. He will ask questions that provide you a way to build your esteem. He will allow you to show the best side of yourself. That is before he takes it away. He builds up equity, and will be on good terms, by showing an interest in you. And, when you least expect it, he will pull his attention away. Poof, it is gone. And you are left feeling hollowed, like you gave up a piece of yourself. He took this from you – and you mourn this loss. 

He put his hand on my shoulder as I stepped in.

“Come in Dr. Scotts.” 

The Deceiver will manipulate. He will be a friend. Don’t be fooled Dr. Scotts. 

It is an act. 

We stepped into the kitchen. There was a kitchen table on the right and another smaller, side table on the left. In the corner was an old-fashion refrigerator. Beside that were two closed doors and in the corner an open door. I could see a sink and a mirror. It was a bathroom, I presume. 

Mr. Varlan stepped toward the refrigerator – shuffled might be a better word. He walked like a man of sophistication – like at one time he may have been a man of some importance. But, for whatever reason, his life had taken a different turn.

“Would you like anything to drink Dr. Scotts?”

“Water’s fine,” I said. 

I sat down in a chair next to the small side table.

“Do you live here alone?”

I already knew the answer – but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to see if he would give a different answer than the one he had given Steve.

“Where are you from Mr. Varlan?” 

“Europe,” he said. And for the first time, oddly, I could detect a faint accent. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced at something over my shoulder. 

“What brought you here?” I asked. “Was it work?” 

“I wanted to start over Dr. Scotts. I was a teacher in Spain for two years. I taught English.” 

“You did? What school?” I was trying to catch him off guard. 

His dark gray eyes looked distant and disinterested in the conversation. “It was an academy in Madrid.” 

I didn’t believe him.

We talked for another twenty minutes and I didn’t get any new information. It was like I was talking to a robot, an autumata, without feelings or any concern for me. 

I decided to make him a little uncomfortable, or at least try. 

“Your neighbor said that he saw you bring someone down into the basement.” My eyes flicked over his shoulder to look at the two closed doors. “Is that true?”

He was as calm as could be. I could have said anything and he would not have blinked.

He was holding the handle on his coffee cup. “I never brought anybody down into the basement,” he said. “But I have one,” he said. “Would you like to go down?”

My heart almost stopped. He said it so cooly. 

I answered him quickly: “Sure.” 

He nodded his head. “Okay,” he said. He slid his coffee cup across the table, and stood up quietly. He walked over to the middle door, opened the door, stepped aside and waved his hand toward the open door. “After you,” he said. 

He was a tall, gangly figure. Perhaps 50 years old, but with the solidly and quickness of someone half his age. His dark gray eyes were alive and told a million stories, many of which I believe are horror tales (that I did not want to hear).

Occasionally in life you are presented with choices that are a fork in the road. You can go left or right, say “yes” or “no” and this decision will determine a certain trajectory. It could be better or worse, but your life will change. When Mr. Varlan opened that door and stood there waiting expectantly for me to enter I knew this was one of those  times.

Something was going to happen.

It could have been good, which is to say that nothing would come from going down into the basement. It would simply be an old farmhouse cellar with the exposed stone foundation walls and nothing more. I may bump my head on an exposed ceiling beam but I would not be attacked by the present day incarnation of Count Dracula in the dark.

That is what I hoped.

On the other hand the worst could happen. And I think you know what I mean. I will try not to harp on that now.

I am writing this now so you know that I survived. But you will be disturbed by what happened.

Stop reading now if this is bothering you. It will get scarier. 

* * *

I pushed my chair away from the table. “Yes, I would like to take a look if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” he said with a wave (flourish) of his hand. I didn’t like how he said that. He slipped a little, and his act wasn’t quite on like before.

I could see the vacancy in his eyes, his lack of caring. 

I made my way to the door threshold – it was black, like night. 

“Is there a light switch?” I asked.

“No. Do you have a light on your phone?”

I did . 

I reached into my pocket and flicked on my phone’s flashlight. 

I took a step down the stairs and I had a terrible feeling that he was going to push me. I turned around quickly. His face was close to mine. How was that possible? He was still standing in the kitchen unless he was much taller than I believed. 

I flinched back and shone the light in his eyes.  He squinted and bared some teeth. In one terrifying moment I felt my own mortality. I saw his sharp teeth. But he quickly closed his mouth, and changed his expression. He stood straight up and acted like nothing had happened. “Go ahead, Dr. Scotts.” He was grinning. “It is as safe as can be.” 

“Are you coming down?” 

I asked the question to get him talking – but I didn’t want him to come down. I didn’t like being in the same house with him, much less in a dark basement alone with him.

“Do you want me to?” he asked smiling. 

“I’m okay,” I said. I turned and scanned my phone’s light across the basement. It was completely dark. There were dirt floors. There was a stack of wooden crates with a red painted apple emblem on the side of the crate. I heard, faintly, dripping water. 

The exposed stone foundation glistened in my phone’s light.

I walked down the basement steps to the dirt floor. 

What did I expect to see? 

I am not sure, specifically, but I wanted to see something to corroborate the story I was told. I was looking for the rolled up rug. According to Steve there was a body wrapped up inside. 

I made my way across the cellar’s floor. I passed a vertical metal support beam and, in the corner, I saw a tipped over bookcase and a rolled up rug. Pushing out the side of the rug were someone’s feet.

I almost shrieked out of fright. I put my hand to my mouth. What the hell was that? 

The story was true.

“Dr. Scotts do you need anything?” I heard a voice say from the top of the basement stairs. 

I was kneeling down by the rug with the my phone’s flashlight directed on the exposed feet. I turned my head toward the stairs. “Everything is okay Mr. Varlan.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I looked back at the exposed feet in disbelief. 

“When was the last time you were down here?” I screamed up the stairs.

“It’s been almost a year.”

He was lying, and that scared the shit out of me. I suspected that he had been telling half-truths, dusting over what was really happening but I was sure this was a lie.

“Would you like me to come down Dr. Scotts?”

“No,” I said. I was creeped out. It felt like snakes were crawling all over my body. I looked back at the dangling feet and then touched the rug. It was rolled up tight. I moved my hand over the rug to unroll a portion so that I could see what was inside. 

And then I heard the basement door close. And the lock latch. I looked quickly towards the stairs. “Mr. Varlan?” I said. And then I heard footsteps coming down.

* * *

When you are in the most frightening place, and at the risk of being the next victim, what do you do next? I had no weapon, no means to defend myself. But I did have my phone. Quietly, I swiped the screen and tapped this message to Megan: 

Help. I am in the basement.

Deja vu. 

Wasn’t that what Steve’s wife typed to him? Was this the strategy? Lure people into your house, have them traipse through your basement, and when they find the other dead bodies you lock the basement door and come down to get them.

The rescuer becomes the next victim. 

I heard slight footfalls on the cellar’s dirt floor coming closer to me. 

I shined my flashlight in that direction. There he was: standing stock-still, wild-eyed and looking for me.

“Mr. Varlan! Please!” I pleaded. I wanted him to stop and explain himself.

“Dr. Scotts,” he said in a low, gravely voice. “Didn’t you want to see me?”

“Not down here,” I shrieked. 

He put his hand on my neck and began to squeeze. He had a wiry, old man strength that I was sure would lead to certain death. 

“Mr. Varlan,” I pleaded. “Can we talk?”

He stopped and let go of my throat. 

“What do you want to say?” he sneered (growled).

“I-I wanted to talk.” I forced my face to brighten and look optimistic. “Can we go back upstairs and talk?” His dark beady eyes searched my face like he was trying to confirm my sincerity. He wanted to be sure I was being authentic. 

I wasn’t. 

“Yes,” I said. “I had some more questions and wanted to go upstairs and talk about it. I didn’t see anything down here.”

That last sentence was important. I wanted him to believe that I didn’t see feet pushing out from the rolled up carpet. I didn’t want him to think that I knew he was guilty – guilty as hell – of murder.

His face sharpened for just a moment. But I still had work to do. I had to convince him that I didn’t recognize what he had just tried to do for what it was. He had just tried to murder me in his basement. And someway, somehow I had to convince him that I didn’t notice. 

I chuckled. “You need to get some lights down here.” He relaxed some more. It is working, I thought. 

He twitched slightly, like he wasn’t buying it – but then he said: “I don’t come here much.” He wasn’t in a rage anymore but he wasn’t exactly being polite and courteous either.

I think my confidence, in that moment, caught him off guard. Rather then flight or fight, which would have increased his aggression and most certainly would have been the end for me, my non-response put him off-balance and saved my life.

“Would you like to go back upstairs?” I asked. I waved my phone’s light toward the staircase. “I just have a couple more questions and then I will be on my way.” 

He stared at me blankly. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me with his arm, but the next moment his features looked softer, thoughtful even, like he thought that was a good idea. 

Perhaps that is the secret – in nature when a predator doesn’t show flight or fight – simply act like you “don’t notice.” This will catch the predator off-guard – put him off-balance and give you time to maneuver and plan your next move. That is all I needed: time to plan my next move. 

“We can if you would like,” he said. He waved his hand with the same flourish as he did before – like he was indifferent, not-caring what I did or did not do – but at ease nonetheless. 

I took him up on it and quickly back up the stairs. 

I heard him murmur something as I stepped up the stairs but I am not sure what he said. 

My plan was to get up to the kitchen, sit back down at the kitchen table and talk some more with my strange friend that live next door. 

But as I made my way to the top step I sensed he was still at the bottom of the stairs (perhaps only the first or second step) and made another decision.

I would just leave. 

I walked through the kitchen and out the front door.

I had a few questions answered, and I saw some things that disturbed me. That was enough for one day. Perhaps Dr. Scotts would have more for me when I reported back.

* * *

Dr. Scotts was rubbing his chin, and then the side of his face with his hand, listening closely as I told him about my encounter. 

“And his eyes,” Dr. Scotts said. “Did they change color? You said they were blue, but when he was in the cellar did you notice their colour?”

“No, I didn’t. The only light was from my phone.” I was tapping my hand on the chair’s armrest nervously. “And I couldn’t shine that in his eyes,” I said. 

“What about other changes?” he asked with a glint in his eyes. “Did his body change at all? Did he appear taller? Or stronger?” Dr. Scotts shrugged his shoulders and opened both his palms that were resting on his desk. “Anything like that?” 

I blew a puff of air out of my mouth. I was tapping on the armrests of the chair. “His strength changed,” I said. “He was stronger,” I chuckled a little under my breath. “Although I am not sure how strong he was when he was normal up in the kitchen.” 

Dr. Scotts sat up in his chair and leaned forward. “What do you mean by normal?” he asked. 

“Well, we were having a normal conversation,” I chuckled nervously again. “We were in the cellar and he had his hands around my neck.”

“And baring teeth?” 

“Yes, baring teeth but I don’t know if that’s what you are implying it to be.”

“What do you think I am implying it to be?” he asked.

I just grinned a little and shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said. But I did I just didn’t want to vocalize it.

Dr. Scotts smiled widely, and it sent shivers down my spine. I would not say that it was evil, but it didn’t make me comfortable in the least. 

He began to tap both of his hands on his chair’s armrest.

“I think you have been watching too many scary movies, Mr. Taylor.”

* * *

Perhaps that was true, but I had two, maybe three problems. Megan, my wife, was missing. Lauryn, my daughter, was missing. And my neighbor, he goes by the name Mr. Varlan but as far as I am concerned he could be anybody because if there is one thing I know it  is that he his a liar. And most importantly, or disturbingly, he tried to kill me in his basement and I did not imagine that. 

That reminds me. Today, I had the most horrible fright. When I went to visit Mr. Varlan that last time I saw a door in the house that I had not noticed before. I turned the knob and walked in. There was a great commotion and I saw a black form fall from the ceiling onto the floor. It was a blur. On the ceiling was some apparatus like slings that you may see at a gym. My heart hammered in my chest and I thought for sure that I had found his sleeping place and he had been sleeping upside down. 

Had he been hanging upside down before I opened the door? 

I hoped not because I knew what that meant. Or, at least, what it might imply.

Dr. Scotts had talked about that briefly the day before and, at the time, I didn’t connect the two. But now I did. He wanted to know if I saw Mr. Varlan sleeping upside down because he knew what it would mean. I can still remember his worried look when I asked the question: “Why do you ask?” 

And Dr. Scotts said: “Because…”

“Because?” 

“Nosferatu sleeps upside down,” he said.

* * *

I told Dr. Scotts about it the next day. 

“That may be the opportunity,” he said. 

“What is?”

“Well, the opportunity to go into the house and thoroughly check the basement.” 

My heart hammered in my chest. I was torn. The one thing I didn’t want to do was to go back into that house. But, on the other hand, the one thing I needed to do was to go back into that house to find my wife and daughter. 

“Where is the door you found him sleeping?”

“It was the door beside the basement door.”

“Well,” Dr. Scotts said, “you could go over there and have time to look around. If you go at night you are likely to find your neighbor awake.”

“If he does sleep during the day. That is just a theory, right?” 

“Yes, but….” he glanced out his office window for a moment like he was distracted by something out on the sidewalk. “I think it is worth a try.” 

“Should I go over there now?” 

He glanced out the window and waved his hand toward the sidewalk outside. 

“Why not? Now is as good a time as any.” 

“Okay, I will,” I said. 

“Oh and Mr. Taylor. One  more thing.” 

“Yes?”

“Be sure not to get bit.” 

* * *

I know to you, the reader, this will sound implausible. Why not go to the police? Or the proper authorities? Why try to be a hero like this is a movie?

The reason was time.

I had already gone to authorities and that had been a dead end. They weren’t missing long enough and me snooping around in the basement and seeing feet wrapped up in a rug wasn’t compelling enough for them. I wish I had taken a picture with my phone. The officer I spoke with said that was all I needed to have. Without one it would be difficult to get a warrant. 

Being missing is not a crime, he said. And it is difficult to do much without a search warrant. And to get a search warrant you need probable cause. The police obtained a search warrant to track Megan’s phone but it did not show that it was near the neighbor’s property.

So it was all set. I was going over there this afternoon.

* * *

Like usual there was no activity over there all day. It was dead. The only time any of us saw activity was at night. I put on my jacket and work boots and made my way over. 

It was brisk, colder than the day before, and I wished that I had put on my winter coat. 

I reached the door and knocked. And I know how this sounds. Why are you knocking now when just the day before he had his hands around your neck going for the kill? Should I pretend to be observing pleasantries at this point? And now I was knocking on his door. What was wrong with me? Well, I was not knocking out of courtesy or etiquette. 

I wanted to make sure he was asleep. 

There was no answer. 

I slowly turned the door knob and entered. 

I didn’t say “Hello?” this time. Remember, I wanted him to stay asleep (if he was sleeping and that was a big if ). I couldn’t remember which door went to the basement and which room went to his nest (you know, where he slept). I did not want to walk in and see this creature hanging upside down waiting for me. I was quite sure it was the door on the left (but not certain). I turned the knob slowly. I felt as though I could have opened the door a crack and he would be peeping out at me. I opened the door and I recognized the musty smell – it was the basement. Again, there was no light, so I made my way down the stairs. When I reached the dirt floors I called out: “Megan? Lauryn?” 

No one answered. 

But something happened. 

The doorway at the top of the stairs closed shut. 

* * *

I quickly pointed my phone’s flashlight at the closed door and whispered: “Shit.” 

Did he awaken from his sleeping position and creep out into the kitchen and then close the door shut? Was there a lock on that door from the outside? I could not remember. 

But I did know that it was a heavy door and would not have closed by itself. Somebody was up there in the kitchen and closed the basement door shut. I almost said, “Hello?” again – but, again, that would not have been the best idea. Instead, I turned around to see what was in the basement. My light flashed over the carpet and to the two dangling feet out the end. They were still there. I waited a moment – trying to build my confidence. Who could that be? My fear, from the beginning, was that it was Megan but I was holding out hope that it was someone else. I stepped slowly over to the rolled up carpet. I could hear footsteps in the kitchen. Someone was in the kitchen walking around and was not trying to be inconspicuous. Perhaps he was awake, but did not know that I was in his basement snooping around.

That might be good. It was better than him being sly, and closing the basement door (and locking it) and then stealthily entering the cellar from some secret entrance in another part of the house. 

That would not be good. 

I walked over to the carpet and put my hand on the outside roll. I could probably roll the carpet, and the dead body inside, to reveal the contents and identify the person inside.

Just as my hand touched the outside of the carpet my phone pinged. 

A message. 

I looked at my phone’s screen. It was Megan. She asked: 

Where are you?

I thought: Are we going to do this again? 

I typed back: 

Looking for you. Where are you?

The response she gave me turned my world upside down. 

Megan and I are home. We just got home from my parent’s house

“Shit,” I whispered to myself. They were home. That means…

They were never here. 

Did I imagine this the entire time? But what about the suspicious behavior? And, I thought with a sudden pulse of fear, what about those feet dangling from the carpet? I was so excited with the news that Megan and Lauryn were alive (apparently they were never in danger) that I just wanted to leave this house and go home to see them. 

But, first things first. 

I was locked in this basement and I had this body wrapped up in a carpet. Something was still wrong.

The question was: Was it really a body? 

I shined my light and looked closely at the feet extending out the end. 

Shit. 

They were not feet.

They were two pieces cardboard tubes for wrapping paper.

I reached down and tugged on the tubes – they did not move. But they were cardboard tubes for wrapping paper – not human feet.

Now what? 

Presumably, I was in someone’s basement for no apparent reason. Meagan and Lauryn were fine. There was no body wrapped in a carpet. In fact, there was no evidence of foul play whatsoever. Perhaps, the only crime was the one I committed by entering this house and snooping around in the basement. 

Have you ever had that feeling? Like everything that you believe is turned upside down. What’s up is down and what’s down is up. It was happening to me.

I slowly walked up the cellar stairs. 

I slowly turned the doorknob to see if it was locked. The door opened and I did not see anyone in the kitchen.

Perhaps they were in the other room. This was my chance. I opened the door quickly and stepped around the kitchen table. I went into the hallway and tried the door.

It was locked. 

I felt faint for a moment, but then I noticed the lock on the inside. I turned it, opened the door a crack and slipped out. I never saw who was in the basement. I hurried across their lawn, through the bramble and bush, and back onto my property. 

I was home, and I had a story to tell.

* * *

I told Megan the story. She was sympathetic but could not believe that I had taken it that far. As far as the text messages – she had no explanation. She checked her history and did not see any message were she asked for help or sent me anything that would suggest she was in need of help or was at the neighbor’s house.

We were not able to connect the dots and then I noticed that my cell phone was missing.

I left it in the neighbor’s house. 

In the basement. 

My heart gave a little flutter, but I was not nervous. Now I knew it was not true. I could simply go over, knock on the door and ask for my phone. Right? 

Except the neighbors would wonder why I was in their basement. 

I thought, for a moment, to forget it and buy a new one. But I could not do that because someone would eventually find the phone and trace it back to me.    

Better to tell the truth and face the consequences.

I made my way over and knocked on the door.

No answer. 

Okay, are we going to do this again? 

I thought for a moment to leave, but instead I turned the doorknob. Everything was the same. The lights were on in the kitchen. It looked like someone was home.

But where were they?

I went down the basement stairs. In the basement some dark, cryptic voice said: “Looking for this?”

“What?” I asked. 

No answer. 

I shuffled across the floor in the dark. I had no light. I hoped I would stumble into the rolled up carpet. That is where the phone should be.

Unless someone took it.

I didn’t want to think about that. Did I hear that voice? Perhaps I only imagined it. At the same time, I listened for footsteps in the kitchen (or on the stairs) but I did not hear anything. I held my arms out in front of me and my arm brushed the metal beam post in the cellar. I knew I was close. 

And then my foot stubbed something hard. Either it was the carpet or a body.

I was sure it was the rug. 

I bent down to touch the object when I felt a long, frail hand on my shoulder. I turned around out of fright. It was him. 

The neighbor. 

And in the dim moonlight cascading in from the cellar window I saw his wicked, pale face and teeth. He had a creepy, forced grin that looked like I was in the presence of something evil or worse. And then he lifted up my phone and whispered: 

“Looking for this?” 

THE END