I sat in back of the cruiser watching my twinkling porch light fade away. And then we rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill and it was gone.

The driver was sitting stock-still, staring straight ahead. After a moment he turned to look back at me. “Crazy night, huh?”

I looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Yes, it is.” 

The officer turned to look back at the road. An 18-wheeler with a load of lumber roared by us. He then turned back to me. “You’ve been seeing things?” 

He had a strange look in his eyes that I did not like.

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

He turned back toward the road. “I know all about it,” he said. 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?” 

“I don’t know,” I said.

He turned back to the road, checked for traffic on our right and made a left-hand turn onto the Kennebec Road. And then he turned back to me again. “Was it 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 it was 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 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 pack back.

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. “Well, I should 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 looked like two pieces of black coal.”

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

“We both saw him,” he said finally. “I asked my friend about him. He said they saw him sometimes out there walking along the tree line. They thought he might have been one of the neighbors that lived down the street. A neighbor that had lost his marbles. But we never found out who he was or what he wanted.” 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 late at night.

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. 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, trying 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, or should have been. 

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

Suddenly he stopped. He sat there staring straight ahead like a statue.

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? 

No, I didn’t. I wanted to say: Are you crazy? But I couldn’t say that because I was not safe. Something was not right about him. So, instead, I smiled and said, “Not really.” 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 I did not know.

He raised a finger as if to say, “I’ll be right back.” 

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 animal’s 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 sharp and wolf-like.

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 it would be something much worse. 

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 throat and then I felt his teeth sinking in. It felt like someone pressing nails into my throat.

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. Empty. I looked up and Megan was looking out the window. She turned to face me.

“Did you have a nightmare?” 

“Yes, I did. But I am okay now.”  

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

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 have a theory…

The neighbors did it.

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

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, after searching room to room, wondering where my wife and daughter could be. 

The neighbor’s house looks vacant but that is where they are.

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 first 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 were collecting dust in my house. 

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 with her. 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. Paint brushes, roller trays, some primer.”

She smiled, but it was frightening. It seemed 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 she 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 would see 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 report was filed for two people that lived down our street. They were an older couple, in their sixties. There were no signs of a 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. They were two pin-point pricks.

* * *

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 were 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 her 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 a word he said 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 my 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 sure someone is 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 stepped 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. It was the sickly, sweet smell of animal feed gone bad. 

“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. I knew something was not right about this house (or the people that lived there). 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 the kitchen cabinets, a farmer’s sink, refrigerator, and kitchen table.

No one.

“Anyone home?” I asked. 

Silence. 

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 beginning to get 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. It 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 have gone terribly 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 sofa, 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 already 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 reasons 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 popped 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. They were 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… 

Because the neighbors were home. 

* * *

I wanted to lock 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 creaked open. Someone was being extra careful. 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 went into the kitchen and opened another door. 

She whispered, “Do you need help?” 

“I’m all set,” he said. He came back my way 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 last message to her it said, “Read.” 

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

She replied: 

I am downstairs. LOL. 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 I wanted answered. 

Where was she? 

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

The door creaked open.

I saw the man’s steel toed boots and behind him, wrapped in an old wool rug, was a heavy object. He pulled it inside. I was pretty sure there was a human body inside. Something flopped out that looked like a hand. A woman’s hand! 

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

They 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 (probably my wife) flopping, down the stairway.

I heard muffled voices down there and then he came back up the stairs. He was in the kitchen.

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 sofa? And then I realized I told him (or his wife) 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 in there 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 around the corner.

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. He looked guilty as hell.

“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 looking 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 sound 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 cellar. “I have not seen your daughter.” His eyes flickered back to me. “I promise,” he said sincerely. 

“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. It was the elephant in the room. “What was rolled-up in that rug?” 

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

“Something for Christmas,” he said with a grin that I didn’t like one bit.

A chill went down my spine. There wasn’t something for Christmas wrapped up in that rug.

“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 either. His voice was flat, lifeless. He was not going to let me know if he saw them. 

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

He locked the door. 

Part II

Four Days Ago

I was exasperated. “Megan, you don’t remember the neighbors moving in next door?” I pointed at the kitchen oven. “You baked them an apple pie.”

She shook her head confidently. “Steve,” she whispered. “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. You don’t remember? The realtor said they were remodeling their basement.” 

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

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 we had 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 out at me through the window. When our eyes met he backed away slowly and closed the curtain.

Not good.

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 Megan’s phone. It said: 

We’re now in the basement. LOL. 

And then:

Anymore questions?

It was like a cold spike went through my heart. What now? Do I go back over and confront him? I could 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 Christmas present. It was human, I know that for sure. I saw a foot or a hand. 

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

Who do you think?

“Who do I think?” I whispered.

I typed “Police Hampden 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. It made me feel like I was a 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.

He went next door. I watched him from my kitchen window. He had a flashlight on and moved the light 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.

Neither his body language or actions indicated any sense of urgency. It was like he was looking for signs for life in an abandoned house. Everything was routine. He went back up onto the porch and knocked again. Nothing. Slowly, 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.  

Was he given consent to enter?

I gave him twenty minutes and then put on my corduroy jacket and walked over.

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 as a child in old farmhouses. Cool and dank with dirt floors and exposed rock walls. It was like an underground cave. But with 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 different. He was not cool and calm like before. 

I turned around and the officer was right behind me – just inches away. But he 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 a mouthful of sharp, pointy white teeth.

“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. Now I 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 rolled-up rug. It was the rug that Megan was wrapped in. I turned around to look at the officer. “Have you checked that rug?” 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 rug. 

Was that Megan or Lauryn 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 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 a 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. 

Why was he asking me?

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

Behind me a paramedic standing on the porch said, “We found something else in the basement.” 

“Oh no,” the nurse standing next to me whispered.

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

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

Again, I did not like the suspicious tone. “I can,” I said. “That’s the…”

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

“That’s the neighbor’s wife. Is – “

“She’s dead,” he said.

“What was the cause?” I asked.

“We don’t know for sure, but there are marks on her throat. Two pinpoint pricks.” 

I had heard that before. 

“Where is the other officer?” I asked. 

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

The nurse standing by the body had a strange look in her eyes when she looked at me. All I could think was, “Someone close by is a vampire. Or pretending to be.” 

But, strangely, everyone still thought it was 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 been – faraway lands in another time. I don’t remember most 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 someone moved in,” she said. 

“No, I know they moved in,” 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 neighbor’s 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?”

“Yes,” he said. He stood stock-still on my front porch and was not comfortable. He looked like a man that spent most of his 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 studying your Facebook feed as well.”

“Studying?” 

“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 has 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 caught our eye…” he trailed off for a moment and looked around the house like he was looking for my wife. “Your wife’s posts align, quite 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 I think, and I want to confirm this with you, that what your wife is posting on Facebook is actually true.”  

“It is, but…what caught your eye?” I asked.

“The suspicious behavior, the death of the neighbor’s wife and…” 

“And?” 

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 from a dog?” he asked with a small smile.

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

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

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

Dr. Scotts put his hand on his chest. “You see I never believed this was true either. 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 dreamed this would happen in Hampden, Maine.”

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

“Was Megan only posting about the bite marks found on the victim’s bodies?” 

“No,” I said.

“Was there someone else?” he asked. 

“Yes, me.”

Dr. Scotts looked at Aaron sheepishly then back at me. “Do you mind if we take a look?” he asked pointing his finger at my throat. 

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 came around and stood in front of me. “Where were you yesterday?”

“At work.”

“All day?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is  there an eyewitness that can verify that?”

“I don’t know,” 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?”

“Why? Do you think I killed my neighbor’s wife?” 

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 I can to help,” I said. 

* * *

The nightmares continued for another week or so. But I was not being pursued in the forest late at night. It was, perhaps, more disturbing than that. 

I was the pursuer. 

I would always awaken from the dream in a cold sweat. My bedsheets would be damp. Megan would be at the window looking out into the night. She would always turn to me with a look of fright. “Another nightmare?” she would ask.

“Yes,” I would say.

She never asked anymore questions but she always turned back to 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.

She turned and looked at me. “It looks like you.”

* * *

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 across the room to the bathroom 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 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 did it?” 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 seemed more realistic than the others. I felt 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. You were having a nightmare.”

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. Their 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 grass. The man was wearing a corduroy jacket that looked 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. That was me.

“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. And 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 lined up the three plates with sausage on the countertop. 

“Do they know who…” I started to say. 

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

Surprise.

“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 went out of your way to walk on the grass to avoid walking on the driveway or road. You were walking along our property and the neighbor’s lawn like you were an animal. It was like a dog or deer that was out of sorts trying to find a place to hide. 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 Taylor never swore. Her eyes were watering.

I glanced over to the foyer where I kept my boots. I had noticed, since these strange occurrences began, that my boots were dirty, with mud and grass every morning 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.”

“How long was I gone?” 

“Well, about an hour later 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 you think that was me?”  

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. A tear ran down her cheek. “No,” she said.

But her eyes betrayed her.

She thought it was me.

* * *

An officer came to the house the next day and asked more 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. And, like everyone else, he looked at me like I was the bad guy the entire time. 

* * *

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

“Does it always happen at night?” he asked.

It did. 

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

I walked into my bathroom and bared 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 felt right.

Dr. Scotts cleared his throat. He acted like he was not sure he should ask the question. And then he did: “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 said. That was a lie too.

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 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 someone to be trusted. Or 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.  No, I was… 

Something else. 

* * *

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

I probably shouldn’t say.

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. I felt pressure  on my arm like it was stuck in something – a tree branch or a door. And then I opened my eyes. Megan had her hand 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. 

And, I am afraid, I knew what. 

“Steve, can you hear me?” 

She kept shaking my arm.

I nodded my head. “Yes, I can.” 

“What are you doing?” 

And what bothered me was I knew the answer and lied. I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said.

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.

And it was not to say hello. 

Later 

“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 already 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 could not remember what it was.

Megan sipped her coffee. She was rubbing the back of her neck and, I am afraid to say, I had another illicit thought. It was the most disturbing of them all.

“He should be here at noon,” she said.

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 wandered 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, trying to show sympathy. “With the nightmares. And…” 

I nodded. “And everything else.” I felt fear the moment I said that. I did not want to think about what “everything else” meant.

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

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

“Most of it.” 

“I had another bad dream last night, but Megan 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. The doctor was clicking his pen, and gently tapping his foot, looking at me. “Do you have cravings now?” 

“No.”

“Do you have them when you are in bed trying to 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 the urges you have late at night?” 

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. “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 came for. 

“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 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 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. But something else inside of me came alive.”

“Go on,” Dr. Scotts said encouragingly.

“At first I was pursued.”

“And now?” Dr. Scotts asked.

“I am the pursuer.”

“Did you see him? Your pursuer? Was it an animal or a man?” 

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

“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 a hand on my shoulder. It felt heavy, like a tree branch pressing into my shoulder blade. 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 started spinning the tip of his pen in small, concentric circles in the air. “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 a dream, you can’t move. I was in the mud, but I couldn’t move my arms and legs. The creature was crawling up my back 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 throat. It felt like two wasps stinging me at once. I cried out in pain.” 

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

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

“Who was it?” 

I glanced 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 its eyes and they were not human, I know that for sure. It had reptilian eyes and its skin was white – white as a sheet of paper. But when it knew that I saw him it flinched back and turned completely black and then seemed to fold into itself like a bird.” 

“Or bat,” Dr. Scotts said.

I signed. “Yes, like a bat. That is what it was.” 

We sat in silence for a minute or two. It was only a dream, so there was no further action to take.

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.” 

“What changed?”

“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 being the pursuer.” 

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

“Do you think you were infected?” 

“In the dream, yes. And in every dream after that.” 

I didn’t like how Dr. Scotts just sat there with no expression at all. I wanted an encouraging head nod, like he understood. 

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

But he did not say that. 

“Mr. Taylor, would you mind if I look at 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 I was experiencing in real life. 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?” he asked. 

“Yup.” I leaned forward.

And then I felt the needle go into my arm.

Everything went dark and I was asleep. 

There were no dreams that night.

London

I awoke with my arms folded across my chest. I couldn’t budge. I was wearing a white nylon gown. I heard squeaking gurney wheels outside my room, and saw stark white lights out in the hallway. I was in a hospital.

“Hello?” And then louder: “HELLO?”

A nurse shuffled into the room wearing a face mask and holding an iPad. “Yes, Mr. Taylor?” she said sweetly. 

“Where am I? What happened?” 

She looked down at her iPad and tapped the screen. It was like she did this everyday. “You were admitted by Dr. Scotts last night,” she said.

“For what?” 

“You will have to ask Dr. Scotts.” 

“Is he here?” I felt betrayed.  

“Yes, I think so. Just a minute. She poked her head outside the door. “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 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 was upset. “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 London.”

“London!”

“Yes, this is where I work. We can help you here. We know how to treat this.”

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

“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 London it was not with my consent. And who else knew where I was? Did Megan? I looked out through the bars on 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 I could fly away too.

* * *

I was able to talk with Megan tonight. 

“Do you know where I am?” I asked. “Dr. Scotts said London, 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 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 left.” 

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 bookshelf 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 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, flickered and 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 my hospital in London.”

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

“The psychiatric ward.”

“With security?” Ian asked.

“Yes, we have him under close supervision.” 

“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 from her laptop computer. 

“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, but not the first in North America. We had an incident in Moncton, New Brunswick earlier this year. But nothing since then.”

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

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

“Before hebegan to exhibit the same 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 would be last place a person like Betsy would ever be standing doing a Zoom call. “You can test for Gunther’s disease. Little is known about it, but we often see this in the patients that we suspect…” 

“We plan to test for that 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 him, 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 recently moved in?” 

“Yes, Steve said they moved in last week. They keep a low profile. I am not sure they even spoke before…” 

“Before his wife and daughter disappeared?” Betsy asked.

“Right.” 

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 your subject see the 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.” 

“What do you think he is?” 

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

Suddenly Neilson’s image popped up. “The unholy one,” he said timidly. 

And then Ian whispered: “It’s a vampyr, Dr. Scotts.”

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. This is a little subtler, but just as concerning. There was a man named Vlade the Impaler from Romania.”

“Tell me more,” Dr. Scotts 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 one of your shots.” 

Dr. Scotts nodded. 

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

* * *

Steve

The tests are finished in London. 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 sitting next to me. I have a bad feeling about our return to America. It is like a dark cloud has descended upon my house, and my neighbor’s house, and I am not sure it will ever lift. 

I believe that most of this is due to our neighbor. Since he arrived there has been chaos. People missing. People are 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. She wanted me to take a picture. I stood in the mirror and reached my arm around. The red marks are completely gone. She calls them bite marks. Dr. Scotts is sitting next to me reading a hardcover book – he says it is a scientific journal for his work – but he does not want me to read it. He carefully covers the page with his hand or adjusts the angle of the book whenever I try to look. 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 I are clueless as to what he is going to do. And what he has already done. 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 has a plan.

And, this time, it does not involve 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 like you did with me?”

Dr. Scotts looked at him blankly; with no expression at all. “A needle won’t work,” he said.

Steve didn’t like that response, but what was he to do? He could not argue with a doctor.  

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

“There are two?” Dr. Scotts asked.

“Yes, there were two,” Steve said. “Husband and wife. But his wife is dead.” 

“Interesting,” Dr. Scotts said. 

* * *

Dr. Scotts

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. I would almost 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?”

“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. Can I ask a few questions?”

He seemed friendly. Pleasant 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 one – 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 which one to pull. 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.” And then he stopped himself and said carefully, “If you want to.” 

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

Mr. Varlan turned on the kitchen faucet and filled a clear drinking 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 again. Was he just playing the part of a good neighbor? “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 quite 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 you questions that give you a chance to build your esteem. He wants 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 for his benefit. It was all a sham.

He put his hand on my shoulder as I stepped in. “Come in Dr. Scotts. You are always welcome.” 

The Deceiver will manipulate. He will be a friend. Don’t be fooled, Dr. Scotts. It is always 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, above that, 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 eat Dr. Scotts?”

I reached for the glass of water. “This is 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 Mr. Taylor.

“I do,” he said.

“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 Serbia for two years. I taught English.” 

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

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

I didn’t believe that.

We talked for about twenty minutes. I didn’t learn anything new. 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 he saw you bring something suspicious down into the basement.” My eyes flicked over his shoulder to look at the two closed doors. “What was it?”

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 anything down into the basement,” he said. “But I have one. Would you like to see it?”

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. He walked over to the middle door, stepped aside and then looked back toward me. “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 should not be told. 

Occasionally in life you are presented with a choice that is 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 would happen. My life would change.

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.

I had my fingers crossed. I was hoping to see nothing. 

On the other hand the worst could happen. And I think you know what I mean. 

* * *

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 of his hand. I didn’t like how he said that. He seemed a little too eager, which was odd. 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. His teeth were like a wolf’s. 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 emblazoned on the side. I heard water dripping somewhere off in a dark corner. 

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, but I wanted to find 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 I saw something that looked like human 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 wasn’t going to get any closer to the rug but I had my phone’s flashlight directed right on it. I turned my head toward the stairs.“Everything is okay, Mr. Varlan.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I looked back at the rug 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 asked. 

That is when I heard him coming down.

* * *

When you are in the most frightening place, and at the risk of being the next victim, what should you do? I had no weapon, no means to defend myself. But I did have my phone. Quickly, 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.

Classic bait and switch.

I heard footfalls on the dirt floor coming closer. 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.

“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 was not.

“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 rug. 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 pick up on what he had just tried to do for what it was. He tried to kill 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 so you can see where you are going.” He relaxed some more. It is working, I thought. 

But then he twitched slightly, like he wasn’t buying it. 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 then his features softened like he thought that was a good idea. 

Perhaps, that is the secret. In nature when a predator doesn’t show flight or fight you simply act like you “didn’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 you need: time to plan  your 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. 

I took him up on it and quickly walked 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 new friend (but I would have to change the subject).

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 still had some questions, and I saw some things that disturbed me. But that was enough for one day. Perhaps my colleagues 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, staring at his laptop computer. Written across the screen were the words: 

Waiting for the host to start this meeting. 

Suddenly four grids popped up and he saw the faces of his colleagues waiting patiently. 

“Okay, it looks like everyone is here,” Peter said. “Dr. Scotts, it is good to see you. I see you made it back. Would you like to update the group on your case in America?” 

Dr. Scotts told the group what happened.

“And his eyes,” Peter 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.” Dr Scotts was tapping his hand on the chair’s armrest nervously. “And I couldn’t shine that in his eyes.” 

“What about other changes?” Ian 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. “No. Nothing like that.” 

He blew a puff of air out of my mouth. He was tapping on the armrests of the chair. “Actually his strength did change. He was stronger,” Dr. Scotts chuckled a little under his breath. “Although I am not sure how strong he was when he was behaving normally up in the kitchen.” 

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

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

“And baring teeth?” 

“Yes, he was baring teeth. What are you implying?”

“What do you think I am implying?” Peter asked.

Dr. Scotts just grinned a little and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. He did, actually, he just didn’t want to say it out loud.

Peter smiled widely, and it sent cool shivers down Dr. Scott’s spine. I would not say that it was evil, but it didn’t make him comfortable in the least. He began to tap both of his hands on his chair’s armrest. “You have been watching too many scary movies, Dr. Scotts.”

* * *

Steve

Perhaps that was true, but I had two, maybe three problems. Megan, my wife, was missing. Lauryn, my daughter, was gone. 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 for sure it  is that he is a liar. And most importantly, or disturbingly, he tried to kill Dr. Scotts in his basement. And Dr. Scotts said he 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.  Or, as Dr. Scotts calls them: their nests.

Had he been hanging upside down when I opened the door? I hoped not because I knew what that would mean. 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 him why that mattered.

“Because…” Dr. Scotts stopped and looked at me seriously. 

“Because?” 

“Vampyrs sleep upside down,” he said.

* * *

I told Dr. Scotts about it the next day. 

“This is an opportunity,” he said. 

“What is?”

“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 next to the cellar door.”

“Well,” Dr. Scotts said, “if you go over there during the day you will have time to look around. If you go at night you are likely to find your neighbor wide-awake. And, I promise, you will not like that.”

“If he sleeps 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. “It is worth a try.” 

“Should I go over there now?” 

He glanced out the window and waved his hand toward the neighbor’s house. “Why not? Now is as good a time as any.” 

“Okay, I will,” I said. 

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

“Yes?”

“Don’t 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 make-believe?

The reason was time.

I had already gone to the authorities. That was a dead end. They weren’t missing long enough and, evidently, snooping around in someone’s 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.

So I had to take matters into my own hands. I went over that afternoon. 

* * *

Like usual there was no activity over there during day. The only time we saw anyone 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 that sounds. Why are you knocking when just the day before he had his hands around Dr. Scotts’ neck going for the kill? Do you really need to be observing accepted norms? Well, I was not knocking out of courtesy. 

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 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 looking at me. I opened the door and I recognized the musty smell. This was the place. Again, there was no light, so I made my way down the stairs carefully. When I reached the dirt floors I called out: “Megan? Lauryn?” 

Crickets. 

But something happened. 

The doorway at the top of the stairs closed shut. 

* * *

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

Did he awaken from his sleeping position, creep into the kitchen and 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 that would not have shut by itself. Someone was up there in the kitchen and closed the basement door. I almost said, “Hello?” again. But I knew that would not have been the best idea. Instead, I turned around to see what was in the basement. My light flashed over to the rug and to the two object’s poking out the end. Who could they belong to? Was it Megan? I waited a moment, trying to build my confidence. My fear, from the beginning, was that it was Megan but I was holding out hope that it was all a mistake. I stepped slowly over to the rolled-up rug. I could hear footsteps in the kitchen. Someone was up there walking around without a  care in the world. Perhaps he was awake but didn’t know that I was in his basement snooping around.

That might have been 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. 

To be frank, I did not care. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. 

I walked over to the rug and put my hand on the outside roll. I could probably unroll the rug to reveal the contents and identify the person inside.

Just as my hand touched the outside of the rug 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?

Her response turned my world upside down. 

Megan and I are home. We were at my parent’s house. I thought you knew that.

“Holy shit,” I whispered to myself. They were home. That meant…

They were never here. 

Did I imagine this the entire time? But what about the neighbor’s erratic behavior? And, I thought with a sudden pulse of fear, what about those feet dangling from the rug? 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 I needed to check one more thing.

I was locked in this basement and I had this body wrapped up in a rug. But…

Was it a body or something else?

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

Shit. They were not feet.

They were cardboard tubes for wrapping paper.

I reached down and tugged on the tubes – they did not move. There was not a body wrapped up inside this rug. 

It was something for Christmas.

I was down in someone’s basement for no apparent reason. Meagan and Lauryn were fine. There was no body inside of a rolled-up rug. 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 walked back up the cellar stairs. 

I slowly turned the doorknob to see if it was locked. The door opened. No one was 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 else was in the house with me. I hurried across their lawn, through the bramble and bush, and back onto my property. 

I was home. But that was not the end of the story.

* * *

I told Megan everything. She was sympathetic but could not believe that I had taken it that far. When she texted  “We’re here” she meant “We’re at my parent’s house” two hours away – not at the neighbor’s house being held against her will. 

There is a difference.  

She had no explanation for the other text messages. She checked her history and did not see any message were she asked for help or sent me anything that would suggest she was being held captive against her will at the neighbor’s house.

I couldn’t connect the dots. And then I noticed that I didn’t have my phone.

I leftit…

You know where.

My heart gave a little flutter, but I was not nervous. Now I knew the truth. I could simply walk over, knock on their door and ask for my phone. 

Right? 

Except the neighbor would want to know why I was down in his basement. 

I thought, for a moment, to forget it and buy a new phone. But someone would eventually find it and trace it back to me.    

Better to face the consequences now instead of later.

I walked over and knocked on the door.

No answer. 

Deja vu.

I turned the doorknob and opened the door. Everything looked the same. The lights were on in the kitchen. Someone was home.

But where?

I went down the basement stairs. When I reached the bottom I heard a cryptic voice. “Looking for this?” It was coming from a darker part of the basement where the ceiling was lower and I had not explored.

“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 rug. That is where I left the phone.

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 jack post that supports the ceiling beam. I was close. 

And then my foot stubbed something hard. Either it was a rolled-up rug or a body.

I was hoping 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?” he said with a smile, showing his elongated canine teeth.

My last thought was the warning Dr. Scotts gave the night before last: 

The Deceiver will manipulate. He will be a friend. Don’t be fooled Mr. Taylor. It is always an act.

THE END