Archive of Our Own ^beta

(BEGIN The Vampire.) 

(The soft rumble from a car's cabin fades in.)

JOHN: A little to the left. Too much. Yes. ... Arthur, if I may: you've become increasingly distracted since we left Addison. 

ARTHUR: Hm? Yes, well, I’m...just processing things. What all’s just happened; everything. Wondering... 

JOHN: What is it? 

ARTHUR (hesitant): How much longer...can this go on for? How many Larsons and Kaynes and Yellows are we going to have to face—forced to fight tooth and nail against just to barely come out with our lives? How long is this all going to last, John? How long can we last until we fall apart at the seams? 

JOHN (at a loss): I...don’t know. 

ARTHUR: (He sighs.) I’m sorry, just a little...pessimism that needed to come out. But it’s not like we have a choice in any of this anymore, is it? 

JOHN: No, I don’t think we do. And because of that, there’s nowhere to go but forward. We have to take the cards we’re dealt and play them in our favor. As many times as we have to. 

ARTHUR: I guess so. (He yawns softly.) Well, I am just about ready to collapse into a clean bed. Oh, I’m so glad we’re almost back in Arkham, John. It was starting to feel like I might never return. 

JOHN: So am I, although you can’t forget again about Parker and Eddie. 

ARTHUR: Hm. 

JOHN: I still suggest that we stay in a hotel for a few nights. Get a scope of the police presence before you try to revisit your old locations. 

ARTHUR: (He sighs, tired.) You’re right, I know. I’m just looking forward to walking the familiar streets so much, even if I can’t see them. The calm, tepid air as it wafts through the sweet, fragrant trees—oh, I can introduce you to an authentic blood and sand at Jack’s! And getting a humane amount of sleep... 

JOHN (wistfully): And then, maybe sometime, we can...go watch a movie. 

ARTHUR: What? 

JOHN: It’s been exhausting—not to mention mind-numbing—staring straight ahead at nothing but a road for several hours straight, even if the scenery has been pleasant. I don’t know how you dealt with this when you had your sight, or how anyone does this regularly. 

ARTHUR: Well, I...I guess I never allowed myself to think of long drives as boring, since I often did them for someone else’s sake as an investigator. Driving four or five hours for something as small as a conversation made it worthwhile if it meant a life might be saved. 

JOHN: True; I suppose that would make it easier. Perhaps if we devised a goal to keep in mind, beyond just returning to Arkham, this drive wouldn’t feel so constraining. (With contained excitement.) I want to see a film when we get there, Arthur. 

ARTHUR: (He scoffs, smiling.) Well, what does that leave me to do for two hours or more? Sit there listening to the action, unable to see the screen anymore? 

JOHN: Are movie theater seats usually comfortable? 

ARTHUR: Um... I suppose they aren’t uncomfortable. 

JOHN: Then I’m confused why you’re opposed to relaxing in a chair for the length of a movie while—(barking) Arthur, left! 

(Tires screech, various objects skittering about inside the cabin’s compartments.) 

ARTHUR (panicked): John, what is—

JOHN: Right! (Tires screech again. A monstrous, gurgly hiss resounds in the near distance over the increasingly struggling engine.) Straighten the wheel and speed up! Something jumped out from the woods lining the road. It’s so dark, and the headlights are so dim, I couldn’t make it out until we almost hit it. 

ARTHUR: What was it? 

JOHN: It was human, or human-like, from what little I could see. Its long, dark hair and clothes were tattered and disheveled, and they looked heavily stained with something. Its limbs—its—its body altogether was so scrawny, but, still, its muscles... It looked like it could have stopped our vehicle with its bare hands. 

ARTHUR: Jesus. 

JOHN: Its eyes—it had...bloodshot, red eyes. Like hellfire the size of a match flame resided in them. It almost looked like they were glowing in the twilight. It had unnaturally long and sharp teeth behind the corners of its mouth. I...I feel like I recognize it. 

ARTHUR (incredulous): What? 

JOHN: It’s pursuing us. I can barely see it in the rear view mirror. Speed up. It’s practically flying towards us on all fours, Arthur. 

ARTHUR (urgent): I’m already pushing the pedal to the floor. How far is it from us? 

JOHN: Not far. There’s a roundabout up ahead. Make a sharp right and left...now. (Muffled tire squeals followed by a distant hiss.) I can see the lights of Arkham ahead of us now, shining like a sea of stars in the black night. 

ARTHUR: We need to shake this thing first—we can’t bring it into the city. Can we... Do you see a weapon anywhere in here? I find it hard to believe Larson would drive around without some form of protection. 

JOHN: On the passenger floorboard—a pistol, which wasn’t there before. It must have slipped out from its storage when we swerved. I can’t tell if it’s loaded or not. 

ARTHUR: Only one way to find out. Does the road continue straight on? 

JOHN: Yes, but not for long. The creature is slowly gaining on us. Arthur, we need to— What are you... 

(Arthur strains as his nails furiously claw the thin carpet. The churning engine and muffled hissing grow steadily louder. Arthur releases a determined breath as he clutches the gun and sits up.) 

JOHN: There’s a left turn not far ahead. The creature is almost at the trunk. 

ARTHUR: Alright. (He mutters.) You have one chance to help us, Larson... 

(A heavy metallic click. The hissing, clearer than ever, rumbles alongside the overworked car engine. Arthur cocks the gun.) 

(He shoots. Glass shatters. An unnatural, wailing shriek. The cacophonous car noises continue as the shriek swiftly fades under it. Arthur swallows, panting.) 

ARTHUR: I got it? 

JOHN: It’s lying in the middle of the road. Unmoving, becoming consumed by the void-like darkness. (Dubiously) You got it. 

ARTHUR: You don’t sound so sure. What is it? 

JOHN: The turn is right here. (Arthur: Oh.) Start slowing down. (The engine gradually returns to its usual purr. A light squeal of brakes.) Turn now. 

ARTHUR: You said you thought you recognized what that creature was. Where have you seen it, and what was it? 

JOHN: I don’t know. It’s—It’s like with the wraith, from the mansion in the woods. 

ARTHUR: Yes, I remember. You recalled what she was and how to send her away, without knowing how you knew that. 

JOHN (eager with relief): Yes, i—it’s the same thing. I think it has something to do with a deity; a lesser god of sorts, not a very prominent or important one. His name eludes me. 

ARTHUR (mumbling): That’s not much for remembering. 

JOHN: I’m trying. I never said it was perfect. Anyway: the most devout followers of that god, if they met certain conditions in his eyes and performed a specific ritual, would be offered special abilities. But they were not offered without a price. Slow down. Turn right. 

ARTHUR: This doesn’t sound far off from those people in the mines: an entity turning—manipulating—its followers into mindless, violent creatures for its own gain. And possibly amusement. 

JOHN: This isn’t that, exactly. This is more like...swindling. The god promised powers to its followers who perform the ritual, but, once received, those very powers slowly strip those zealots of their humanity the longer they live with them...and their undisclosed catch. 

ARTHUR: Enhanced physical strength and speed are some of those promised abilities, clearly. 

JOHN: Yes. But the most significant one—the power that entices most followers to devote their existences, body and soul, to this god—is immortality. 

ARTHUR: (He scoffs.) I—Immortality? 

JOHN: It isn’t true eternal life, though. Normal weapons can mildly harm their new, monstrous forms and slow them down in a fight, but they can never kill them. These reborn monsters hardly react to pain, their limbs can grow back within moments—they don’t even need to breathe to live. And they can never bleed out. 

ARTHUR: So...we didn’t kill it. 

JOHN (ominously): We’ve only slowed it down. It’s healing as we speak, and it will definitely seek us out for revenge. These creatures have the keenest tracking abilities of any being that can be called a predator in this world. 

ARTHUR: (Shaken) Great... (He tries to regulate his breathing.) What—What else can they do? How do they...hunt, I suppose? 

JOHN: When they enter this state, their hands become elite weapons, gnarling with an unnatural strength and lethality; their fingernails toughen like steel, sharpening to points like small daggers that can shred other creatures into oblivion, bone and all. Its body also produces a potent paralytic to stun victims before executing its most fatal attack. Slow down. Turn left. 

ARTHUR: And what’s that, the attack? 

JOHN: It takes the paralytic, which secretes from its two especially sharpened fangs at the corners of its mouth, and injects it into the necks of its victims. Then the cataclysmic condition of its abilities comes into play: it must consume human blood to sustain itself and continue to draw upon its powers, otherwise it will slowly and excruciatingly wither away into a ghastly state...one bordering a living death, until its body and soul give out. Upon bite, the paralytic works fast, allowing the creature to take its time draining as much blood as it desires. Few victims are ever left alive. 

ARTHUR: Jesus. (To himself.) Wait. Wait a minute, I’ve... This sounds familiar. 

JOHN (floored): What? How? 

ARTHUR: Yes—for the most part, anyway. There was a novel published a few decades ago where the antagonist was a monster very similar to this. Dracula, it’s called, by Bram Stoker. There was also, I believe, a film released similar to it some years back, though I never saw it. Our creature sounds similar to what these stories call a vampire. 

JOHN (pensively): A vampire... I don’t think I’ve heard that term before. 

ARTHUR: This all sounds too eerily similar to be coincidence. Maybe the book and film had their origins in whispers of or experiences with this cult—who knows? If you don’t conjure up any other name for it, I’ll be referring to it as such. 

JOHN: I... (He sighs.) Fair enough. 

ARTHUR: What doesn’t make sense—or, well, something that isn’t mentioned in the book, if it is based on these creatures—is the aspect of the paralytic. But almost everything else checks out: the near-immortality, the— 

JOHN: Turn right. We are approaching a modest hotel on our right. An elderly valet man in a green vest is watching us beneath a quaint red awning adorned in thin, leafy vines interlacing each other. The vines also crawl up the side of the austere, auburn-bricked building. He’s preparing to receive our car keys. 

ARTHUR: Thank you. (The engine sounds reduce.) But, yes, the immortality, the need for blood, and the teeth, or fangs, or whatever—they all align with the book. Do you remember if those creatures have a weakness to sunlight? 

JOHN: Hm... That doesn’t ring a bell. 

ARTHUR: Here? 

JOHN: What? Oh, yes, stop here. The valet is approaching the passenger’s side. Oh. He just caught sight of the shattered rear window and frowned. He’s trying to smile again, but his thick white eyebrows show concern. 

(Arthur turns the key and pulls it out of the ignition. The engine noises cut. Arthur exits the car and walks up to the valet. A curt jingle as he hands off the keys.) 

VALET (cordially): Good evening, sir. Thank you for choosing to stay with us tonight. (Hesitantly) Um, if I may ask... 

ARTHUR: Oh, um, we got robbed—I got robbed, um, a couple hours ago. It—It was my fault. My luggage and valuables were clearly visible in the trunk all day, unattended. Hence why I’m empty-handed—save for this small bag on me. 

VALET (concerned): Oh, heavens...

ARTHUR: Yes, it was quite the shake-up. It’s alright, though; I’m meeting a friend in the city. He’ll reimburse me with some necessities tomorrow. 

VALET: What a relief. I’m glad to hear it, sir. I can assure you there are no robbers here. Arkham may be a lot of unsavory things, which you may or may not have heard from your friend, but a city of hoodlums and thieves, it is not. 

ARTHUR: (Through a smile.) Thank you; that’s comforting. 

VALET: Have you been here before, sir? In Arkham? 

ARTHUR: Uh—No, I’m afraid I have not. Why do you ask? 

VALET: No reason in particular, sir. I was merely wondering, so—so I may not repeat to you anything that you are already aware of. 

ARTHUR: I see. Well, thank you, sir. 

VALET/VINCENT: Vincent, at your service. If you should require any additional assistance in the way of your vehicle during your stay, do not hesitate to contact me. Just ask for me at the front desk. You have a good night, now, sir. 

ARTHUR: Thank you, Vincent. You, as well. 

(The car door shuts. The engine purrs to life once more as Vincent drives it away, then grows distant.) 

JOHN: He seemed nice, if a little odd. Do you think he— 

ARTHUR (whispering): Recognized me? No. There’s no reason he should have; I’ve never met the man before. Even if we were once acquainted, I imagine it’s become a little difficult to recognize me now from how I looked when I was last here. (To himself.) Home. 

JOHN: I agree. Shall we go in? 

ARTHUR: Hm? O—Oh, yes. Let’s. 

(The soft sounds of the night are replaced by the tranquility of the intimate hotel lobby. Sparse elevator bells ring in the distance, coupled with distant chatter from a few patrons. Arthur’s footsteps echo slightly.) 

JOHN: It’s a quaint lobby, about the size of a small, single-story house. The light brown wooden flooring is broken up by embellished red rugs beneath the few dark oak tables and chairs that line the circumference of the room. A hollow, circular standing desk sits in the room’s center, and hung inside of it are dozens of keys on little hooks. Encircled by the desk, the clerk stands within it. She is a young, blonde-haired woman with...piercing blue eyes...a—and... 

ARTHUR (whispering): What is it?

JOHN: She... The shape of her face and lips, the shade of her skin, and her eyes... She looks like she could be related to Lilly. 

ARTHUR (whispering): Lilly? Nurse Lilly? 

JOHN (eagerly): Yes. Ask her, Arthur. 

ARTHUR: (Whispering) Ask her what? I can’t just— (He clears his throat.) (Normal volume.) Uh, good evening, Miss... 

JOHN: Her name tag says Daisy. 

ARTHUR: ...Daisy. 

DAISY: Good evenin’, sir. Are you lookin’ to book a room? 

ARTHUR: Yes, please. Whatever you’ve got will be fine. 

DAISY: No problem, sir; we’ve got plenty available tonight. Which floor would you like? 

JOHN: The top floor. In case that...vampire comes for us, we’ll have a better chance of anticipating it. 

ARTHUR: The top floor would be great. 

DAISY: Cert’nly, sir. Here you are. 

(A set of keys jingles daintily until a hand grabs them.) 

ARTHUR (whispering sharply): John, what—

JOHN: I want to take them. Ask her. 

DAISY: What was that, sir?

ARTHUR: Nothing. (He clears his throat.) Actually, I—I have a question. Kind of an odd one, I hope you’ll excuse me: do you happen to know a woman named Lilly? 

DAISY: Oh, I—Well, aren’t you perceptive, mister...

ARTHUR: J—John. John...Larson. 

JOHN (baffled): Arthur! You’re using my...? 

DAISY: Mister Larson. 

ARTHUR: Just call me John. 

DAISY: (She chuckles.) Sure thing, John. Yes, I do know a Lilly, and she happens to be my sister. What gave it away? 

ARTHUR: I, um, well... I got into an...accident some time ago, and I believe your sister took care of me. I just noticed your physical resemblance, that’s all. 

DAISY: Ah, that sounds like ‘er—and not just ‘cause it’s her job as a nurse. She’s always been the nurturin’ type—came in handy when I’d take a scrape or three doin’ somethin’ outside that I wasn’t supposed to when we were growin’ up. Y’know, despite what most people think at first, Lilly’s the younger one of us. 

ARTHUR: Is that so? 

DAISY: You’d better believe it, John, ‘cause it’s true. Anywho, that room will be five dollars and twenty-five cents, and here’s the logbook. (She slides a heavy book across the counter.) 

JOHN: To your—yes. Move the pen a little further down. There. (Faint scribbles as Arthur writes.) Your spatial awareness is becoming quite keen, Arthur. (The muffled jingle of pocket change.) The bigger coins and the rest of the bills should suffice. 

ARTHUR: Here you are. 

DAISY: Thank you kindly, John. You have yourself a good night, now. 

JOHN: Good night, Daisy. 

ARTHUR: Good night, Daisy. Thank you. 

DAISY: Anytime. 

(Arthur’s footsteps echo lightly. Background conversations fade away.) 

JOHN: The elevator button is to your left. (Arthur presses it with a soft click.) ... Thank you. 

ARTHUR (lightheartedly): Well, turns out you were right. It really is a small world sometimes. 

(The elevator dings; the doors slide open with a metallic shudder. Arthur’s footsteps dampen from wood to carpet.) 

JOHN: Level three is the topmost button to your left. 

(Arthur presses the button and the doors slide shut. Muffled metallic whirring ensues.) 

JOHN (curiously): Why did you do that? 

ARTHUR: Do what?

JOHN: Why did you use my name? 

ARTHUR: I...don’t know. I just panicked. Maybe I wanted her to talk more directly to you, since you were the one who wanted to ask her. 

JOHN: Hm. Her southern accent is a little thicker than Lilly’s, and her voice was overall more chipper than calming in the way that Lilly’s was. But, otherwise, they sound almost exactly alike. It was familiar. And...nice. 

ARTHUR (through a smile): Hm. It’s the little moments. 

(Brief silence save for the elevator’s ascension.) 

JOHN (severe): And then why did you use his name? 

(The elevator dings and the doors open. Arthur’s carpeted footsteps ensue.) 

ARTHUR (under his breath): A—Again, I panicked. It was the first surname I could think of. I’m sure we’re far enough from Addison that the name has no relevance here. 

JOHN: I hope you’re right. Stop. (Arthur pauses.) Before us stands a heavily textured beige wall with a large, feathery painting of a forest hanging on it, encased in a weathered, wooden picture frame. On either side of it are perpendicular hallways that each lead to a row of rooms. Our key says three-thirteen... According to the room number guide on the gilded placard beneath the painting, our room is down the hall to the right. 

(Arthur continues walking.) 

ARTHUR (still hushed): Back to the vampire. 

JOHN: Right. It took that bullet straight to its head, so it will take more time to heal compared to less severe injuries. Chances are it won’t be able to harm anyone for the rest of the night. 

ARTHUR: I wish that could put me at ease. But who knows how long this creature has been here, possibly harming or killing people? In the outskirts of Arkham, or—or maybe even inside the city? Where did it even come from? 

JOHN: It could have come from anywhere. It could be a resident of Arkham devoted to that deity, or maybe driven out of its original location for the people it’s killed while in that state. A vampire vagabond. 

ARTHUR: Hm. (He thinks for a moment.) (Subtly mirthful.) Was that... Was that wordplay, John? 

JOHN (vaguely playful): Maybe. 

ARTHUR: (He laughs delicately.) At this rate, you’ll be composing your own poetry by the end of the year. 

JOHN: (He softly chuckles.) Here, to your left. The door handle is—yes, and the keyhole is right above it. 

(Arthur slides the key into the lock and turns. The wooden door softly creaks open and he walks in. The deadbolt locks with a swift chink. The room is still, silent.) 

JOHN: It’s a decently sized room, nothing beyond what we’re used to. The restroom is through a door to our left. A small hallway opens up to the main room about six feet from the entrance. (Arthur takes a few steps.) The bed, adorned in fresh, pale yellow sheets, takes up most of the space to our left. In the right corner closest to the hallway sits a small, old, wooden chair. A dark wooden desk stretches between it and the window in the adjacent corner, and a radio sits on top of it. 

ARTHUR: Do you think we’ll be safe here, if these vampires are as good at hunting as you say? 

JOHN: They are, and this is why I suggested the top floor. Their keenest senses are their smell and hearing. Because we were in a vehicle, it should have struggled to acquire our scent, which is good. As for its hearing: it mainly tracks its prey by the sounds of its heartbeat and breathing. Again, it should have been sufficiently overwhelmed by the sounds of its own running and those of the vehicle. Although... 

ARTHUR: I spoke aloud—to you. It was right behind us. 

JOHN: Yes. It most definitely heard that and will remember your voice, able to hone in on it from up to a dozen blocks away, depending on the strength of its focus. 

ARTHUR: Fuck. (He draws a deep breath, trying to not sound nervous.) Well, there’s nothing we can do about that now. 

JOHN: By now it should have reverted to being human due to the injury, to harness all its energy on healing. Its abilities aren’t as strong in its human state, but it’s still a threat. There is a chance that its wound will be scarred for a while, so in the unlikely event that we encounter it— 

ARTHUR: Them. 

JOHN: What? 

ARTHUR: If we encounter them, in human form. It just feels...wrong, to me, to call a person an it. Like they’re an other. 

JOHN: But it is an “other.” It’s a vampire. 

ARTHUR: When they’re in their vampire form, without the parts of them that make them human. By all means, call them whatever you like in that case. But when they’re human... 

JOHN: (He curtly groans.) Fine. If we encounter them in human form, there’s a chance that they’ll have a bullet-sized mark on their forehead, which can help us identify them at a glance. 

ARTHUR: You be sure to do that, then. 

JOHN (annoyed): I will. 

(Arthur places his bag on the table, then unbuttons his vest and also sets it there.) 

ARTHUR: The radio is here?

JOHN: Yes. You should close the curtains while you’re at it, just in case. 

(The sound of thick fabrics draping and closing together.) 

ARTHUR: Let’s see if we can’t find the evening news while we settle in. 

(Various staticky tones and vocal warblings rapidly intermix and overlap each other for a few seconds until a faint, steady male voice is singled out. Soft ticks of the volume knob being adjusted and the snappy voice grows louder.) 

RADIO VOICE: ...—mation about the animal attack that happened yesterday evening in the outskirts of northwest Arkham. The incident...

JOHN (alarmed): That's the direction we came from. 

ARTHUR: Shh. 

RADIO VOICE: ...which led investigators to the grizzly and gruesome demise of local farmhand Dalton Caufield. He was discovered by his daughter, Rowena, this morning, who claims that her father never returned to their house after his nightly check of the livestock. His body was found among his cows, seemingly frozen in a startled position with a large wound about his neck and having sustained massive blood loss. Detectives currently attribute the attack to wolves that are emerging early from hibernation as the weather begins to shift from winter to spring. We will continue to bring you new details as they develop. Now onto sports: the Red Sox have been—

(A chunky click as Arthur shuts off the radio. Silence for a brief moment.) 

JOHN: So.

ARTHUR (grimly): The vampire has killed someone here. Even after draining an entire person’s worth of blood, it’s still not satiated... 

JOHN: It might be too far gone in bloodlust to be quelled by just one kill. We don’t know how long ago this zealot performed the ritual, how...corrupted it’s become. 

ARTHUR: Or, maybe, they’ve since grown to regret performing the ritual. Maybe they’ve exercised restraint for too long and need more than one feeding to suppress their vampiric form. 

JOHN: Why are you giving them the benefit of the doubt? They’re just another cultist, blindly trusting and fulfilling the twisted desires of a sadistic, back-stabbing god and reaping the consequences of it. And forcing those consequences upon innocent people. 

ARTHUR: It sounds familiar, doesn’t it? 

JOHN: What are you saying, Arthur? 

ARTHUR: I’m saying that I, countless times in the last several months, have found myself the blind fool, John. A trend which ultimately started with my opening an accursed book because an obscure, otherworldly voice in my head told me to— 

JOHN (slightly distorted): Don’t compare me to that god! 

ARTHUR: Calm down, John. I’m just saying, I can’t help but empathize a little bit with this person, with the sorts of—of hardship they faced to become what they are now. You must realize as well as I do that had I not been, essentially, duped by the lost, cunning entity you were when I was coerced into opening that book, none of the pain and suffering we’ve experienced would have happened. ... (Gentler) You’re not that cruel god, John, that’s not what I’m saying. You’re nothing like them because you have evolved beyond your original nature, learned and grown from your mistakes. Mistakes that, to me, at times, have wrought a turmoil not dissimilar from the kind that god appears to relish bestowing upon his followers. 

JOHN (calmed down but still upset): Hm. 

ARTHUR: I, too, have been learning throughout our, frankly, grievous journeys. I’ve been trying, despite some moments of...regression...I hope. 

JOHN: You have, Arthur. You have been—(Contemplative) Hm... 

ARTHUR: What? 

JOHN: Isn’t this the opposite of the assessment you had back at the island? 

ARTHUR: The island? What’s that got to do with this? 

JOHN: The woman in the caves. You said then that she deserved her fate—for being so eagerly duped by a belief she backed with her mind, soul, and body. (Dourly) Before you pummeled her body with a rock. Repeatedly. You even doubled down on this back in the mines. 

ARTHUR: (Suddenly frantic) Yes, I know. (He takes a breath, licking his lips.) I was in a dark place in that moment, John. Mentally. One of the darkest I’ve ever been in. Between losing you to the King and gaining Yellow until you returned... If you hadn’t come when you did, I feel like my soul knows that I would have sunken so low—gone so far into the blackest recesses of my morality—I wouldn’t have been able to climb out of that rut. Ever. 

For the longest time, it feels like, I could only see the worst in others. Especially those who got in our way, intentionally or by mere circumstance. The woman on the island... If I wasn’t so terrified for my life at that moment, I should have tried to reason with her. Hear her out, if she still had a voice left. 

JOHN (slightly surprised): I... I’m glad you’ve come around, Arthur. You were a victim of your circumstances like she was. Yes, they were circumstances partly of her own making, but she, too, had no way of knowing when she made her choices that this was where she would end up. 

ARTHUR: Like the vampire. 

JOHN: (He sighs.) (Taut) These vampires kill and devour people to survive—it’s a necessity of their nature. And they’re not an isolated incident like the woman on the island. There can be no innocent vampire, even if they made an unknowingly fraught deal with a malicious god. 

ARTHUR: But... I don’t think... (He sighs, resigned.) Fine. You’re right. 

JOHN: It’s already killed one Arkham citizen that we know of. The city doesn’t stand a chance at subduing it because they don’t know what it is, what it’s truly capable of—that it can walk among them undetected because it’s one of their own by daylight. We are the only ones who can protect Arkham—protect your home, Arthur. 

(The shrill squeal of springs as Arthur sits on the bed.)

ARTHUR: I know. 

JOHN: It has to be done. 

ARTHUR: I know. (He yawns and stretches, his arms and back cracking dully.) Alright: tomorrow we gather some essentials, then we investigate the vampire’s trail. Sightings, any unusual disturbances—maybe the police will have uncovered more details by then. 

JOHN: I noticed some money stashed in the car’s glove compartment when we started driving. 

ARTHUR: Brilliant, because we’re running low on pocket cash. Oh—damn it, I forgot to tip the valet driver. 

JOHN: Vincent. We can do it on our way out in the morning. 

ARTHUR: Yes, let’s do that. Oh. (Arthur reaches into his pocket and clutches something metallic. The sound of a gun’s barrel unlatching.) I almost forgot I slipped this into my pocket. How much ammunition is left? 

JOHN: I only have the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains to go by, but I think there’s a single bullet left. 

ARTHUR: Just one? Fuck. It’s better than nothing, I suppose. (He gently places the gun on the carpet. Bedsheets ruffle and box springs reluctantly give as Arthur slides into bed.) Good night, John. 

JOHN: Good night, Arthur. 

(The leisure movement of bedsheets gradually fades away. Silence lingers until gently rustling leaves in a forest fade in. An owl softly coos while the crickets’ song rises in harmony with dozens of other insects. Stealthy footsteps flatten the grass, hardly detectible, growing louder until the final one crunches a bug, and the insect chorus loses its loudest member. Dry, raspy breathing fills the air as something takes a few deep sniffs. It grunts in satisfaction before dull, crackling sounds are heard, like several small keratin knives unsheathing from beneath skin.) 

(The owl coos again—louder, startled. A brief grunt of exertion as something quickly jumps from the grass. One quick slash through flesh and bone. The owl screeches a final, painful wail. Its small carcass falls to the ground, followed by the stuck landing of something much larger. Fat streams of blood pour viscously into the earth.) 

(A sharp gasp for air. Arthur’s shallow panting fills the otherwise quiet room. Bedsheets rustle and springs squeak as he sits up.) 

ARTHUR (whispering): John? ... (A little louder.) John? 

JOHN (gradual realization): Hm. Hm? Arthur? What’s wrong?

ARTHUR (whispering): Did you hear that? 

JOHN: Hear what? 

ARTHUR (sharply again): ‘Hear wh—’ You are always awake and you didn’t notice that—that shriek outside? 

JOHN (‘seriously?’): Arthur. When you’re asleep, I have literally nothing to do but get lost in thought for several hours. Deep, meditative thought. I tune out most sounds until the sun begins to rise, when I know you’ll be waking up shortly after. I can still see moonlight creeping in from behind the curtains. I didn’t catch any shriek. 

ARTHUR: (He sighs, grumbly.) Okay, I understand. But I swear I just heard a sound of distress. An animal, maybe. Is—(He tosses his blanket aside.) Are there a lot of trees outside of our window? 

(Springs squeak. Arthur walks the short distance to the window and parts the curtains.) 

JOHN: Yes. Our room overlooks a small parking lot, which backs up to a corner of dense wood. The moonlight isn’t the best, but I can see our—well, Larson’s—car, in the farthest row. It’s facing toward us, so it looks quite similar to the other vehicles in the lot, but through the windshield I can see the—(He catches his breath.) (Urgently) Arthur. Something is moving in the car. 

ARTHUR (equally serious): What? 

JOHN: I can’t tell what it is, even with the streetlight near the parking lot, but I see movement in the passenger side. It looks like someone’s...tampering with the glovebox. (Incredulous) Arthur, we might actually be getting robbed. 

ARTHUR: Shit. 

JOHN: With the rear window broken, anyone can access the cabin. We should’ve—(Ominously) Arthur... 

ARTHUR: What now? 

JOHN: It’s the vampire. I can see his eyes—red and glowing, just like before. 

(Arthur catches his breath and yanks the curtains together.)

ARTHUR (whispering): Did it see us? 

JOHN: It was looking right at us through the windshield. It looks like it’s in a semi-human form now, with thicker patches of long, dark hair regrown and bearing a less unnaturally gaunt appearance. 

ARTHUR (sharp, still whispering): Fuck. Fuck. (Carpeted footsteps.) Shit, the—the gun. 

JOHN: You placed it on the floor against the wall, next to the bed. (Arthur rushes to and clutches the gun.) Remember, it won’t kill it. 

ARTHUR: Well, we’re a little pressed for options, John. Unless you remember any of its weaknesses? (Uneasy) If it...has any. 

JOHN: I don’t think... (With realization) Wait...yes. I think it’s severely weak against silver. 

ARTHUR: Silver? That doesn’t help much. There’s no way there’s anything pure silver in this room. 

JOHN: What do we have in your bag? 

ARTHUR: Um... (He powerwalks to the table and rummages through the bag.) The shaving kit, which is steel. Food from Larson’s—ow. Fishing hooks. The lighter, also steel... 

JOHN: Nothing. 

ARTHUR: This is madness. We can’t have come all this way just to... 

JOHN: Arthur? What is it?

(Arthur slips a hand into his pocket, retrieving something dense and metallic.) 

JOHN (appalled): Arthur! Don’t even think about—

ARTHUR: I’m not going to summon Kayne! Just—humor me. What color is the coin? 

JOHN (taut): It’s silver. 

ARTHUR: Brilliant; it’ll have to do. 

JOHN: Hol—Hold on, we don’t even know if it’s real silver. And what can you do with it, anyway? Besides the obvious? 

ARTHUR: I’m not sure, but we’re about to find out. (To himself.) This, the gun (He clenches it in his hand.), maybe we should bring the bag just in—

(A panicked female voice shoots through the walls. “Agh! What are you—” [Muffled snarling and the ripping of flesh and bones.] “Vincent!”) 

JOHN (distressed): Daisy! 

ARTHUR: Shit. 

(Arthur slams open the door and bolts down the carpeted hall. Another room door opens.) 

ARTHUR (assertive): Don’t leave your room. Stay quiet and call the police. John, where is—

JOHN: Turn left. The elevator button’s to your—

ARTHUR: No time. Are there stairs anywhere? 

JOHN: I don’t... To your left, at the end of the hall—a door to a stairwell, maybe. 

(Pounding footsteps followed by the crash of a metal door, ricocheting against the wall behind it. All is echoey, save for John’s voice.) 

JOHN: The stairs are to your left. There is a small platform every ten steps or so, and they redirect clockwise as they descend. 

(Arthur’s frantic footsteps pelt down the shuddering, metal stairs. Amidst the clatter, he draws his gun and cocks it. The echoey slamming of another metal door, accompanied by whimpers. Arthur readies his gun.) 

JOHN (imperative, scared): Arthur, don’t! 

DAISY (panting and fraught): John! 

ARTHUR: Daisy! I’m—I’m terribly sorry. 

DAISY: Don’t go out there, John! Some lunatic’s bro—broken in. Vincent an’ I were—and he—he came outta nowhere an’—(She breaks into sobs.) Vincent’s bleedin’ real bad. He might not... 

JOHN: She’s inconsolable, an—and covered in blood, Arthur. 

ARTHUR: Are you hurt? 

JOHN: She’s shaking her head ‘no.’ Her tears are melting her makeup and staining her face in messy black streaks. Her hair’s a mess.

ARTHUR (on business): Good. Stay in here—no, no, go upstairs. Use a room phone to call police if you haven’t already. Be prepared to escape out of a window, if needed. 

DAISY: Bu—But John, you can’t—

ARTHUR: Go, Daisy! Please. 

(Daisy’s steps echo on the stairs, then pause for a moment. She continues, then fades out of earshot. From the other side of the door, a low, husky voice calls out.) 

???: C’mon out, Joyride. I smell ya in there. An’ yer pistol. Just one, lone bullet left, right? Y’already know it’s not gonna help. 

ARTHUR (under his breath): He...He heard... 

JOHN: I told you, they have the sharpest ears of any hunting beast in the world. 

???: You do a whole lotta yappin’ to yerself, y’know that? Cut it an’ get out here before I decide to finish pluckin’ that little Daisy. 

ARTHUR: (He raises his voice, worried.) Alright, alright. (He pushes the heavy metal door; it slams shut behind him.) (Normal volume) I’m here. 

JOHN: The vampire is standing maybe thirty feet away from us, on the other side of Daisy’s desk. He’s at least six feet tall, unusually lean, with long, greasy black hair, and wearing a plaid button-up with tattered suspenders that attach to his ratty, brown pants. The front side of him, starting below his mouth, is drenched with blood, and behind him...a small carnage. (In a low tone.) Vincent is haphazardly slumped in the middle of the floor near the front door. Almost decapitated. His blood swamps the area around him, leading in a spotty trail to the vampire. 

VAMPIRE: Y’look ‘proper’ (in a bad English accent) stupid with yer hands up, seein’ as yer the one with the gun here. Not that it makes any diff’rence to me, as you’ve already discovered. Gave me quite the fixin’, y’did. (With sleazy eagerness) Look, look. 

JOHN: He’s taking a few steps toward us, using his bloody, claw-like hands to part the hair on his forehead like a curtain. Beneath it lies a cratered, dark purple circle surrounded by several, patchy shades of red and pink against his sickly pale skin. Crusted blood flakes from the lesion’s center. It looks like a wound that should have killed. 

ARTHUR (unnerved but trying to hide it): Right, um... Sorry for that. 

VAMPIRE: ‘ts okay, ‘ts alright, nothin’ by it. However, I do know how you can make it up t’me, Joyride. 

ARTHUR: Arthur—my name is Arthur. And yours? 

(The vampire gives a rough, shrill scoff.) 

VAMPIRE: But that Miss Daisy just called you ‘John,’ and you’ve been callin’ yerself ‘John’ all alone in your room. Y’know what? Doesn’t matter. And what is it with Brits an’ bein’ so damn posh, n’ polite, n’—n’ other stuff all the time? A few hours ago I was trailin’ yer car at speeds no livin’ creature on two legs oughta be movin’. I just showed ya the scar yer point-blank bullet left on my forehead—which did nothin’! You should be shakin’ at the knees, interrogatin’ me on what the hell I am, beggin’ me t’spare yer life. ... But you ain’t. 

JOHN (cautiously): He’s walking toward us again. Slowly. His shoulders are slack, and his dark brown eyes are tinting a deep red. 

(Arthur grips his gun tighter.) 

VAMPIRE (slowly, ominously): What kind of things have you seen, Arthur? John? 

ARTHUR (coldly): Horrors that put your kind to shame. 

(A pause. Then, a small, snarling laugh that intensifies into belly laughter from the vampire, ending abruptly in hoarse coughing and a hard swallow.) 

VAMPIRE/MITCH: Name’s Mitch. Yer clearly a learn’d guy, Joyride, so I bet you can guess why I don’t give my name out to just anyone who asks. But you’ve earned it, Brit. 

ARTHUR: I will tell you one time, Mitch, and one time only. Leave this hotel—leave Arkham—and don’t hurt anyone else on your way out. 

(Mitch lets out a half angered, half humored snarl.) 

MITCH: Well, Arthur-John, that request comes with a bit of a problem, don’cha see? I thought you were a learn’d man. Money for such luxuries as transportation don’t come easy to people like me. 

ARTHUR: Cultists, you mean? 

MITCH: (A shrill, airy laugh.) Oh, oh yer more than learn’d, yer educated! Well, let’s cut to the chase, then. Y’see, I’ve been havin’ a rather tough time keepin’ down a job lately. (He snickers.) As if I wasn’t before I sought out Bloþ-rhugosch’s power. An’, sure, he may not’a been so—how would you say?—forthcomin’ on the terms of his gifts, but, in all, it’s a small price to pay. An’, y’know, after a while... 

JOHN: He’s a few feet in front of us now. Smiling. His blade-like teeth have a wet, pink hue to them. 

MITCH: ...it don't taste so bad ‘nymore. 

(A metallic clutch as Arthur brings both hands to his gun and aims.)

ARTHUR (venomous): You vile, reeking cannib... (Weaker, with realization) cannibal... 

MITCH: Fer bein’ so educated, how’re you this loose upstairs? That. Don’t. Work. (Carefree yet tense) I’ll cut’cha a deal, Joy. Empty yer pockets and yer bag of all change n’ valuables, an’ I’ll consider the valet man a three-course meal tonight. Help a poor, vile can’bull’s losin’ streak. 

JOHN: Just give him what we have left. He’s already taken what was in the car, so hopefully he won’t demand more. We’ll find a way to recoup it later. 

ARTHUR: Here. (He fishes for the money in his pockets then walks forward, change in hand.) You already took the rest from the car. This is all I have on me. 

MITCH: (through a smile) Naw, it ain’t. I smell a big coin in yer other pocket. A heavier one. (Dark) Hand it over. 

ARTHUR (faking hesitance): A—Alright... (He slides a hand into his other pocket. A dense jingle as the coin surfaces.) Take it. 

JOHN (eagerly): He’s reaching for it! 

MITCH: Pleasure doin’ busin—(He wails in agony, underlaid with monstrous shrieking. Soft sizzling resounds.) 

ARTHUR: I bet your god didn’t warn that you’d be weak to silver. 

JOHN: Grab his arm—yes, Arthur! 

(Wailing turns to painful gargling as the sizzling grows louder.) 

MITCH (strained): Weak... 

(A hard punch; a bone cracks. The coin falls and rolls away with the rest of the money. The gun clatters to the floor as Arthur cries out in pain and also falls. His panting and whimpering punctuate the background.) 

JOHN: Arthur! He—I—I barely saw him move! 

MITCH (weary): ...but not fatal. (Bitterly) Guess I was wrong ‘bout you bein’ educated. If y’were, you’d’a known a wood stake is the only thing that can do us in. To the heart. (A stilted inhale, then a sigh.) 

JOHN (urgently): Arthur, get up. 

ARTHUR (groaning, through clenched teeth): My ribs—

MITCH: Now I’m sad, Arthur-John. We were really gettin’ along—more so than with anyone I’ve talked to in a good, long while. On top of that, you’re just about the most interestin’ creature I ever met. Aside from the other dedicated disciples of Bloþ, of course. 

I was just lookin’ to make ends meet tonight, but you’ve gone an’ spoiled that meek venture. Now, I am keen on fully replenishin’ my appetite for the week. Maybe you’ll last me long enough to skip a few towns over. Or maybe I’ll finally make it to New York this time. All the traffic, the incessant noise, those dark, invisible alleys no one with purpose thinks to look down... I’d never struggle for a meal again, y’see. (He grabs Arthur’s collar.) 

So... Do me this last favor, Arthur-John. Would ya? 

ARTHUR: You don’t—

(A swift swoosh before a big, meaty crunch. Gurgling snarls and struggling breaths.) 

JOHN (in despair): Arthur! No! Stop—stop. Please. Arthur, grab the coin again! Do something, goddammit! 

(Sounds of struggle continue. Blood audibly pours onto the floor. Mitch’s snarling tapers off as Arthur’s resistance and breathing become shallower, quieter.) 

(A gunshot. A monstrous shriek. Two more shots. Labored snarls.) 

OFFICER 1: Hands where I can—(Swallowing his speech.) Christ...

OFFICER 2: Stay down! Put your hands in the air! Don’t move! 

(Mitch shrieks defiantly. Two heavy footsteps followed by a clunky whoosh. Silence.) 

JOHN (stunned): Arthur, he’s—he’s gone. The police are here. Get up. Please... 

OFFICER 1: What just... Did that thing—

OFFICER 2: A crazed maniac broke into a hotel and killed two bystanders within. May have killed or injured more. We had no choice but to open fire, and the lunatic escaped. That’s what happened, Brown. 

JOHN: ‘Killed?’ No. Arthur... 

OFFICER BROWN: But... Yes, Chief. Understood. 

CHIEF: It looks like these two aren’t as drained as the farmer. It’s gotten sloppy. For the sake of the department’s integrity, Brown, this incident will be reported as unrelated to yesterday’s. 

OFFICER BROWN: But we still haven’t secured a containment vessel for it yet, let alone the sedative bullets to capture it in the first place. 

CHIEF: We will have them soon, Brown. In the meantime, our job is to quell public outcry and prevent a nervous riot from breaking out while we get things sorted. 

OFFICER BROWN: And when this—this serial killer...creature...thing strikes again, are we supposed to just—

CHIEF: Stand down, David. This was the consensus we all came to, and we’re going to abide by it. Or else I’ll be searching for a more obedient partner while the beat cops gain fresh blood. Am I making myself clear, officer? 

OFFICER BROWN: (He exhales.) Yes, Chief Wilkins. 

(A slight shuffle on the floor.) 

JOHN (hopeful): Arthur? 

OFFICER BROWN: Shit, I think the one over there is still alive. I’ll call an ambulance—

CHIEF WILKINS: You will call mortuary services, then we’ll console the hotel’s residents and figure out how much they saw or heard. Time will come for that one. There’s nothing we can do; look how much he’s bled. 

(More shuffling. A hand hits the wooden floor.) 

JOHN: (Pumped) Yes, Arthur, get up! The officers were just about to leave... (Puzzled) Wait, open your eyes more. Why does everything look red? 

OFFICER BROWN (dejected): You’re right, sir. 

(A faint dry gurgling sound, growing louder. The dull grinding, shifting, of bones snapping into place one at a time. Smaller joints pop as Arthur slowly pushes himself to his feet. Gurgling gives way to hissing.) 

JOHN (panicked): No. No, no, no, no—fuck! I didn’t think this would happen. Arthur? Arthur, listen to me. 

CHIEF WILKINS: It’s a shame, Brown, but you know this line of work—holy sh—! (He draws his gun.)

OFFICER BROWN: What? (Disturbed) Oh my go... (He shakily draws his gun.) 

(Small, low cracking sounds echo from Arthur’s agape, hissing mouth, like small bones expanding and breaking through other small bones. Blood drips to the floor; his hissing becomes wet. Bigger bones continue to audibly push into place.) 

JOHN (frantic): Fuck—How can—I—I can’t... Fuck! Arthur! 

(Slow, heavy, uneven footsteps. Arthur’s hissing grows less mindless and more deliberate.) 

JOHN: Arthur, don’t! 

OFFICER BROWN (mumbling): He—It—It looks stronger than the other one, Chief...

CHIEF WILKINS: Shoot all the same. Maybe we can bring this one in and pin the farm— 

(Arthur roars, shrill and monstrous. A whoosh followed by two fleshy slashes. Bubbly choking sounds, and two bodies drop to the floor, audibly spilling blood. Rough, irregular mouth breathing from Arthur.) 

JOHN (flummoxed, panting): What the... We’re—We’re on the other side of the desk, near the front door. I didn’t even tell you where... (With rising panic) The—The officers are bleeding out at our feet. Your hands—now gnarled, with claw-like fingernails—are sopped with blood, as well as most of your clothes. Can you hear me? Arthur? Goddammit, I can’t help you if you don’t make an effort to break through this and talk to me! 

(Arthur’s breathing levels out and deepens, still ragged.) 

ARTHUR (gravelly): J—Joh... 

JOHN: Yes! Keep going. Overcome this haze so we can—

(Both Arthur and John wince as an intense, unnatural, high-pitched tone squeals from nowhere. Beneath it, a myriad of sounds buzz simultaneously: male and female voices—some frantic, some grim—dozens of footsteps, running water from taps and showers, and television and radio voices overlapping each other. One woman’s voice gradually rises above the rest. Still fuzzy, but clearer than all else.) 

(“Yes, I want you to send more police. Well, I don’t care how competent they are, these officers are not enough! ... Sure, arrest me for abusin’ y’all’s services, but you’re gonna find more than you bargained for here. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Lord have mercy.” A phone is slammed into its base. “Oh, John...”) 

(A door slams egregiously loud, prompting another wince from John and Arthur. Dozens of footsteps pummel the metal stairs and reverberate into a cacophony of high-frequency disorientation.) 

JOHN (straining): Daisy... Arthur, stand up... 

(Arthur hisses then grunts, straining. He trudges hurriedly with normal-volume footsteps.) 

JOHN: No—Arthur, don’t enter the stairwell. Stop. (Distressed) You idiot, stop! 

(Arthur crashes the metal door open; the two wince again. The clamoring footsteps stop abruptly. The female voice resounds over the ongoing wall of sound, clearer than before but now echoing.) 

DAISY: John! What ha... Oh, you’re hurt! Um, just, uh, just sit down and I’m gonna go grab the med... 

JOHN: She’s locked eyes with us. What little color she still had just drained from her face in an instant. She’s scared for her life, Arthur! Get away from her, now! 

DAISY (trembling): Wh...What happened? John? 

(After what sounds like the clash of several cymbals at once, Daisy yelps in pain and shock. Her fragile, whimpering breathing becomes restrained, choked. The raucous background noises and high-pitched tone dissipate. Daisy’s struggling and the rapid beating of her heart intensify.) 

ARTHUR (strained, in a husky, bestial voice): Loud. 

JOHN (desperate, trying to sound calm): Arthur, let her go. You don’t want to hurt Daisy. You’re better than this. You... Remember, just the other day, in Larson’s mansion? I was lost to the void of nonexistence after the King in Yellow separated us. But you brought me back, playing her song on the piano before we were flung into the caves. (Hesitantly) Faroe’s song. If I can’t make that up to you right now—if I can’t bring you back before... I won’t be able to forgive myself. Please, just, put her down, and we might be able to catch up to Mi—

(The blunt crunch of flesh, muscle, and bone. Soft gurgling and weak gasps for air from Arthur. Streams of blood dribble onto the hollow metal ground. Daisy’s wild heartbeat grows weaker, softer, slower, as Arthur’s low gulps and swallows overpower it. Several seconds pass. The quiet heart beats once more, then never again. Arthur takes a final, voracious swill; a relieved gasp and a low, steady exhale. The echoing clamor of a slack body slumping onto cold, hollow metal. Arthur breathes deeply, cutting the silence.) 

JOHN: (He tries, fails, and tries again to find his voice between moans of anguish and repulsion.) (Sunken) Arthur... 

(Silence.) 

ARTHUR (slowly, monotonous): John. 

JOHN (surprised, bittersweetly): Arthur! You’re... I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before; I really didn’t think things would lead to—

ARTHUR (still dazed): John, speak...slowly and concisely. I’m not...all here, and I don’t think...this will last very long. 

JOHN (trying his best): What? A—Alright. Um, Mitch...ran away. I don’t know where. Find him and we should be able to fix... (quieter) some things. Do you think you can do that? (Silence.) Arth—

ARTHUR (slightly bestial like before): Yes. 

JOHN (uneasy): O—Okay. Um... We’ll talk later. 

(Arthur inhales, deep and steady. Two metallic footsteps as he turns around.) 

JOHN (enthralled): Oh! Arthur! Your vision is still tinted red, but I see a trail of faint, crimson mist leading down the stairs and through the door. 

(Arthur hurriedly clamors down the steps. He slams the door open, which echoes loudly but not painfully like before.) 

JOHN: (mentally whiplashed) Whoa... (He clears his throat.) The trail leads to the—(Arthur walks quickly, bolstered by a faint whoosh.)—right—Oh. Yes. (Astonished) Oh! It’s our coin! Mitch’s scent must be what I’m seeing, manifesting as strong visually as it must smell to you. The mist is heavily shrouding the coin. Go pick it up so that we (Arthur takes a few steps.)—wait! 

(The footsteps stop. John catches his breath.) 

JOHN: Um... Grab... Go tear a sheet out of the hotel’s logbook and use it to pick up the coin. You can’t touch it, either, right now. The book is on the counter of the front desk to our left. 

(Arthur rushes to the desk. Small sounds of scrambling, searching, before he lands on the thick book. He slides it closer, flops it open, and rips out a page. Leisure footsteps as he returns to pick up the coin with a papery sound.) 

JOHN: Yes, good. Now, gather as much of his scent as you can, then wrap it up and put it in your pocket. I wish we could leave it behind us, but it’s... It needs to stay in our possession. 

(A quick sniff, then a muffled crunch as Arthur puts the bundle in his pocket.) 

JOHN: The mist trail is even darker now, emanating from your pocket and...leading clearly out of the front door. Arthur, remember that... (briefly pained) Daisy just called for reinforcements, so more police will be here any minute. I suggest we find a window that leads to the building’s rear and—

(A few rapid footsteps bolstered by whooshing. Arthur slams open a wooden door, which ricochets against the building’s exterior and faintly echoes into the night.) 

JOHN: Jesus! Arthur. I just said we need to be stealthy! We can’t afford to be seen like thi—

(Rapid footsteps once more, which nearly become swallowed up by louder whooshing. John’s sounds of worry punctuate the background. Other noises blip swiftly and hazily in and out of focus, including the rev of vehicle engines, barking dogs, startled chatter, and—loudest—a siren.) 

(Two male voices shout something unclear to each other before two gunshots explode, sparking a high-pitched whir similar to before that Arthur and John wince at. Two more gunshots—a puncture. Arthur snarls, whining.) 

JOHN (straining, fretful): Arthur! It’s—It’s okay, you can slow down after we... There! There’s a corner store up ahead to the right, with a large, curved awning lining it a few feet above us. See if you can find a way to—

(The whooshing intensifies, as do the male voices. Another gunshot, which strikes concrete. Arthur takes two heavy steps and grunts. Whooshing ceases. All sounds return to normal as a vehicle screeches to a halt nearby.) 

Officer A: Shit, did you see where he went? 

Officer B: I thought Wilkins was hamming up this maniac, but...

Officer A: He’s fast for a cannibal. 

Officer B (bewildered): Do you have a point of reference for that, or somethin’?

Officer A: N—No. Uh...look, there’s a blood trail! It curves down 12th Street—shit, he’s probably run into the park. 

Officer B: Then let’s go. ... What did you even mean by that? 

(The police siren flips on and the car squeals away, gradually leaving earshot. Arthur releases a slow, gruff breath, and John sighs.) 

JOHN: I can’t believe that worked. Arthur, the mist is almost gone. Jump back down (A crumply noise.) so we can—

(A watery plunk.) 

JOHN: The coin... It just slipped out of your pocket, into a muddy puddle. With the paper. (He takes a long breath.) Okay, Arthur, jump down and let’s—(A heavy metallic squeal, then Arthur lands on his feet.)—let’s see if we can still use it. Nudge it out of the water with your foot. (A small splash followed by a tinny scraping sound.) 

The mist... It’s gone, except for a small cloud hovering around your pocket. I don’t see a trail anywhere. Fuck. (He sighs.) Alright, just, use my... Move your left hand close to the coin so I can grab it and put it in your pocket. So you don’t feel it. 

(Soft sizzling. John groans through clenched teeth for a few seconds until the coin is slipped into Arthur’s pocket. John takes a moment to recover.) 

JOHN: (Agitated, bordering aggressive) Damn it, Arthur, how are we going to find Mitch now? (His venom quickly deflates.) This is my fault. I can’t let you stay like this. I should have warned you that this could happen, but I...I got...cocky. I discounted the sheer strength of the vampires in my mind, despite what I’ve said about them. I know I kept emphasizing their danger to you, but I didn’t think we would actually let him get this close. After all the battles we’ve emerged victorious from, when the odds said we shouldn’t have survived, I didn’t think you would... (He clears his throat.) 

As entertaining as it's been, admittedly, for you to obey almost everything I say, I know it’s wrong, and it’s not safe. For either of us. Arthur, I’m not sure how much you’re understanding in this...instinctual state right now, but just know that I’m going to fix this. (He grumbles.) If we can find him. 

(Arthur closes his mouth, his deep breathing shifting to his nose. After a moment a high-pitched tone whirs, similar to before but gentle. Soft static ambiance emerges as several murky, unintelligible voices, a low owl hoot, the slow dripping of water, and the heavy crunching of glass gradually fade in and overlap each other—until a deep, disgruntled voice overtakes all.) 

(“Shit—fuckin’—shit... Fuckin’ heats hornin’ in—barely missed my spine... Now I gotta drain another one to heal it. [He pants.] And they ruined my shirt. Fuck.”) 

(A brief swoosh that blankets all sounds, then the noise level is normal again. A small crack as Arthur snaps his head in the direction of the voice.) 

ARTHUR: Mitch. 

JOHN (amazed): That was... Good job, Arthur. Go get him. 

(Swift footsteps bleed into whooshing. More car engine sounds, hazy glimpses of voices, and miscellaneous animal noises...until the sound of glass-crunching.) 

(Whooshing ceases, sound quality returns to normal. Arthur pants gruffly then shuts his mouth, masking his breaths. He takes stealthy, careful footsteps on the rocky concrete.) 

JOHN: Why did you stop? ... The dim, scattered street lights make it hard to see the dreary buildings around us. But, going off of your hearing, I can tell that Mitch is inside of an abandoned storefront a couple blocks ahead to the left. It looks like it may have once been a drug store, now ravaged by a fire, or perhaps an explosion, not too long ago. Arthur, your tracking was perfect, so why are you... Oh! You’re trying to catch him by surprise! Yes, Arthur. He’s had the advantage of time to master his abilities, so we can’t be too careful. Keep going. 

(Silence for a moment, save for Arthur’s steps.) 

JOHN: Look, I’m...I’m still not sure how aware you are right now, Arthur, but I want to take this moment, while we have it, to explain some things that I should have told you before. Hopefully you hear at least some of it. 

Remember what I said about the deity—Bloþ-rhugosch, Mitch said—requiring a ritual of his followers before imbuing them with this power? Well, curse, I suppose. The intention is for the followers to sacrifice their souls to Bloþ-rhugosch. Relinquish them to him for his own barbaric pleasure—to toy with in every manner of anguish and misery until the end of time, once the followers die. The setup is...actually not dissimilar to that of the Dark World, except that this demise takes place in a smaller, personal dimension exclusive to those in Bloþ-rhugosch’s circle. Willingly or not. 

His greed knows no bounds, Arthur. His curse is twofold: he will not only permanently gain the souls of those who do the ritual, but also those of anyone they spread the affliction to. It’s transmittable through the paralytic, but only if the victims survive after coming into contact with it. It’s megalomanic and cruel...and it’s perfect. It ensures that the few who manage to survive being attacked and drained of their blood still don’t make it out with their lives; they become enslaved to an entity they know nothing about, only to learn the horrifying truth upon what they expect to be the relief of death. Instead, it’s an awakening into another, endless nightmare. 

B—But I know how to fix it! How to return the reins of your soul back to yourself, at least. The ritual’s effect upon a disciple of Bloþ-rhugosch is permanent—there’s no saving Mitch from his fate. But, there is a way to free those that have been changed by a vampire: by killing the one that bit you. I guess we’re fortunate that Mitch enjoys talking, because I did not know how to kill them before he told us. (Skeptical, confused) Pretty brazenly, actually. Then again, he expected to... 

(Arthur stops walking. He lightly presses his body against a brick wall, then continues with even more careful steps.) 

JOHN: We’re almost to the pharmacy. The front door looks like it’s been replaced with a dingy, white tarp of some kind. Due to the fire damage, no doubt. It looks like it’s been...slashed through, vertically. (He sighs, on edge.) I will fix this, Arthur. I promise, whether that assures you right now or not. We have his fatal weakness, and there will be debris in the dilapidated pharmacy at our disposal to accomplish it. Hopefully.

(Half-upbeat.) This isn’t the kind of adventure you were expecting when you returned home, is it? (A weak chuckle.) Hm. Across the street from the pharmacy is a much larger building, where a letter board juts out along its tall awning. It appears to be listing things. “David Copperfield,” “Texas Terror,” “The Man Who Knew Too Much.” Are those...film titles? Is that a movie theater? Arthur, can we... (He catches his breath.) I’m sorry. Maybe after Mitch is dealt with, we could—

(Something shoots through the tarp. Flesh is sliced and Arthur’s breathing turns coarse, labored.) 

JOHN (distressed): Arthur! A hand—Mitch has grabbed your throat through the slit of the tarp! Your neck is bleeding from his claw-like nails. Try to turn your head around so I can—

(Mitch grunts as he wrenches Arthur through the tarp. Another, louder grunt as he hurls Arthur into the echoey building, flying across the room, before landing on concrete, skidding through wooden and glass debris.) 

JOHN: Arthur! 

MITCH: (slowly panting) You S.O.B. I gotta say, this is a rather...unexpected development, Arthur-John. Y’just don’t know when to call it quits, do you? When to roll over an’ die an’ leave me on my merry way. ‘Cause that’s all I ever wanted, AJ. To go about my life on my own terms, for once. 

(Arthur growls, gurgling.) 

JOHN: Arthur, you’re...you’re bleeding badly from your neck. But you’re healing rapidly, like before. Hm... Cover your neck—the right side—with your hand. Maybe he won’t notice when you finish healing and we can try to catch him off-guard again. One swift attack. It might be our only chance to subdue him before he escapes again. 

It’s dim in here, but not as dark as it would be if you didn’t have this red night vision. Piles of scorched wooden shelving and shattered medicine bottles scatter the room haphazardly. The building is all but destroyed, save for the walls and some of the soot-stained wood ceiling. 

Mitch is still standing by the entrance, glaring at us. Alright, now start sitting up slowly. Try to inch your left hand outward on the floor toward the... Yes, like that. Keep going. 

MITCH: (Epiphanic, with a smile.) Oh. I see. Judgin’ by that semi-conscious glint in your eye only ten minutes after bein’ turned... You’ve already fed on someone, haven’t you? (He scoffs.) Way to go, friend. Now, I’m—I’m especially impressed, ‘cause it took me several hours before I could stomach my first one. Both literally and that I was hesitant to take a life for the first time. I mean, I had wanted to before over the years, make no mistake. Thoughts along a similar vein—heh, another double entendre—had crossed my mind. Homelessness ain’t never been for the faint of heart. But I don’t take it you’d know what that’s like, AJ. 

(Mitch takes slow, casual steps, crunching glass and other debris.) 

MITCH: But you, Arthur-John...you didn’t hesitate to feed. Kill. I mean, you gave in (He snaps his fingers.) just like that. Which leads me to believe that the act comes pretty easy to you. But you don’t strike me as the serial-killin’ type; trust me, I know it. Maybe you only do it when you feel it’s ‘necessary,’ when you feel backed into a corner and left with no other choice. Desperate to stop the ringin’, the sounds, the voices, the insatiable urge to torch a city to the ground to make it stop. Kinda like this drab little store we’re in—well, when it was a store. 

JOHN: The plank is just a little further, I can feel it. Keep looking at him. 

MITCH: So, considerin’ all that... No, you’re not a cop; you don’t have a big enough stick up your ass. No formal military trainin’, obviously. Hmm, a detective, maybe. Are you some Sherlock sent to ‘take me in,’ AJ? 

JOHN: Got it! Okay, stay still. On the count of three, rush him as fast as you can, and I’ll aim for his heart. 

MITCH (deeply annoyed): Would you stop lookin’ at me like that? Like I’m the cause of the world’s problems? 

JOHN: One...

MITCH: ‘Cause I’m not, AJ. On the contrary, actually. We’re in this together now. You n’ me, n’ all the others like us out there, hidin’ in the shadowy corners of society. 

JOHN: Two... 

MITCH: I know your neck is healed by now. Pick yourself up, AJ. Maybe we can find you another meal on the way to New York. Together. 

JOHN: Three! 

(John clutches the plank with Arthur’s hand. The loudest whoosh yet, for one second. Sounds of strained struggle from Arthur and Mitch. The latter emits something between a grunt and a yelp. Harsh cracks and bony squelches as the plank is stabbed into Mitch’s chest.) 

JOHN: Yes, Arthur! Keep pushing! 

(Audible splintering as Arthur forces the plank slowly, painfully deeper into Mitch’s chest. Mitch releases a desperate, guttural cry. The plank snaps and breaks.) 

JOHN: Fuck! 

(The thunderous, boney crack of a headbutt. Mitch throws punches, amidst increasing exertion from himself and Arthur. Several small bones crack. Arthur whines.) 

JOHN: What are you doing, Arthur? Fight back! 

(Mitch’s punches grow weaker, less furious, though still heavy. He laughs weakly and grips a hand around Arthur’s throat, choking him.) MITCH (between panting): That’s another thing... You haven’t looked me straight in the eye since we met. At first I chalked it up to fear, ‘r disgust, ‘r both. But now, as you’re not even tryin’ to escape me or fight back...you’re hardly even facin’ my general direction. (In a low, ominous tone.) You do fascinate me so...Arthur. 

JOHN (tense): Arthur. (He takes a breath.) If you can hear me...I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, but you’ve left me no choice. I hope this works. 

(Arthur’s choking grows weaker, filling the silence for a few seconds.) 

(The deep, meaty piercing of flesh. Skin and organs squelch. Two large, dull cracks. Stunned whines tumble weakly from Mitch’s mouth.) 

JOHN: Where is it? 

(Blood pours onto the floor in thick streams and drops. Mitch’s sounds turn crackly, faint, breathy. Bones bluntly displace.) 

MITCH (in a feeble whisper): P...Please… Ar—thur... John... 

JOHN: There. 

(Something dense with blood and muscle is sonorously punctured. Mitch cries a shrill, inhuman wail before fading into a phlegmy gurgle. A wet and meaty rip. Mitch’s body meets the detrital ground like a sack of bricks. Blood continues to drip from something, steadily.) 

JOHN (serious yet anxious): Arthur. Arthur? Can you... Your vision—it’s returning to normal. The red is fading, as well as the night vision. The room is much darker now. (Gentler) Arthur, are you alright? 

(A soft, rocky groan lazily escapes Arthur. He clears his throat and smacks his lips weakly.) 

ARTHUR (dazed): John? 

JOHN: I’m here, Arthur. 

ARTHUR: I—What... We were just... 

JOHN: Take it easy. I’ll explain everything. 

ARTHUR (uneasy): John, where are we? (He smacks his mouth and spits.) Why—Why does my mouth taste like blo... O—Oh... 

JOHN: What do you remember? 

ARTHUR: We were...in the hotel, confronting Mitch. And—And then he punched me in the... 

(A squelch.) 

ARTHUR (alarmed): John. What is in my hand? What am I holding? 

JOHN: That...would be Mitch’s heart. 

(A sharp fright from Arthur. He swallows a gag.) 

ARTHUR (nauseous): Drop it—Drop it now, please. Oh, God. 

(A heavy, sticky plop. Straggling blood drips from Arthur’s hand until he hurriedly wipes it against his clothes.) 

JOHN: I had no choice, Arthur. Mitch had the upper hand, and I could barely get you to fight back against him. 

ARTHUR: ‘Couldn’t get me to...’? John, what do you mean? What happened? 

JOHN: I just said I’m... (He draws a curt breath.) Look, there was a certain...aspect to the vampires that I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t think it was relevant to our goal. 

(Arthur steadily pants in the background.) 

JOHN: Arthur, sit down, you’re exhausted. You’ve been running around all night. I’ll tell you everything, just rest for a moment. There’s a wall to our left. 

ARTHUR (still breathing deeply): Fine. (A few heavy footsteps and he slumps against the wall on the debris-laden floor.) I remember... (He licks his lips. A shaky breath.) Mitch should have killed me. But...

JOHN: The police intervened before you fully bled out—before Mitch made sure you were... He made you a vampire due to exposure to his paralytic. I explained this before, but I don’t think you—

ARTHUR (in a low tone): It’s a measure to commit more souls to Bloþ-rhugosch, right? 

JOHN: Yes. 

ARTHUR: I think I’m starting to recall some of the... 

JOHN: What is it?

ARTHUR: I...killed Daisy. Didn’t I? 

JOHN (contrite): ...Yes. 

(Arthur releases a pained breath, which echoes in the empty space.) 

ARTHUR: Dammit, John, if you had told me about this before it happened, she wouldn’t have been—

JOHN: I know, and I’m sorry! I’m so... (He fights a shaky breath. Exhaling, his tone steels.) Lilly gifted me the inception of my humanity. Through consistent, unconditional kindness she showed me while in her care, she single-handedly chipped the foundation of my nature which aligned with the King in  Yellow, priming it for the countless cracks which followed. It was a kindness I realize is undeserved to a stranger like me, even if she didn’t know why. And I’ve now repaid that kindness by making a severe misjudgment and getting her sister killed. (Slower) If anyone knows how direly I have messed up by withholding information from you, Arthur, by selfishly underestimating the vampires...underestimating Mitch...it’s me. 

(Tense silence, save for distant insects, burns the air. Arthur sighs.) 

ARTHUR (calmer, dejected): I know. I’m sorry for my part in it. Lilly... She sounds strong. She’ll come out of this even stronger one day, I’m sure. I just hope that I... (He dryly swallows.) that it was quick. Um... I didn’t... Did I make you watch—

JOHN (with sad undertone): No, No. You let her go before she fell. 

ARTHUR: Good. (Softer) Good. 

JOHN: How are you feeling? 

(Arthur strains as he slowly stands to his feet.) 

ARTHUR: A little better than some of my old nights after Jack’s. (A flat chuckle.) It was so...strange. Like living in a foggy dream I wasn’t fully aware was happening. I—I felt like I couldn’t...comprehend things, moment-to-moment. Couldn’t grasp a higher order of thinking. Like an...animal, almost, I suppose. All I could think of—or, all I could feel—was...focus. 

JOHN: I’m not familiar with the intricacies of the transformation process, except that new vampires initially default to a state of survival. Fight-or-flight. 

ARTHUR: There’s a couple lesser-acknowledged survival tendencies, as well: ‘freeze’ and ‘fawn.’ 

JOHN: Hm. But none of those entirely describe how you operated. 

ARTHUR (warily): I suppose not. 

JOHN: Save for trying to remain unseen by Mitch, you were like a...machine, waiting for an input before moving. Almost like you...didn’t want to do anything. (Sympathetic) Arthur, are you— 

ARTHUR (wintery): I don’t want to talk about it. 

JOHN: (He draws a long breath.) Okay. 

ARTHUR: (He stretches, groaning slightly.) Every bone in my body is screaming. I want to sleep for twelve hours, maybe more. 

JOHN: We don’t have anywhere to go. And we haven’t scoped out your old office or apartment yet. 

ARTHUR: But we still have our money—well, Mitch does. We’ll find another hotel. 

JOHN: Alright. Just don’t—

ARTHUR: I’m not going to touch him. 

JOHN: Okay. Thank you. 

(Rustling cloth as Arthur locates and purloins Mitch’s pockets while he and John talk.) 

ARTHUR: A wooden stake through the heart, right? 

JOHN: That’s what he said. I had figured—I hoped—that the size of the stake didn’t matter. 

ARTHUR: So you used the wood from the Dreamlands in our pinky to... (Pleased) That was very clever, John. Good thinking. 

JOHN: It was my Hail Mary. Otherwise... 

(Arthur clears his throat. Fistfuls of coins and dollar bills jingle as he stuffs them into his own pockets.) 

ARTHUR: Well, it worked out. Hopefully this will be enough for a couple nights somewhere else, as well as food and transportation. I feel like we shouldn’t be seen with Larson’s car any longer. 

JOHN: Agreed. And you need some new clothes; you’re drenched in blood, and coated in dirt and broken glass. 

ARTHUR: Oh. Right. Um... Most clothes shops don’t open until six or seven in the morning, and I doubt we could step foot into one without drawing unwanted attention. 

JOHN: We’ve already had our share of attention, even if it was under a false name. It’s unfortunate, but I suggest we steal some clothes. I think I spotted some full clotheslines between a few apartment buildings on our way here. 

ARTHUR: Alright. (He takes several gritty footsteps. The echoing fades, and the air opens up to harmonious crickets and distant cars rumbling.) Which direction? 

JOHN: Right. 

(Arthur starts walking down the street.) 

JOHN: The lines were hung pretty high above the ground. We may have to climb atop a dumpster to reach the clothes, or maybe there will be a ladder or something. It’s a shame you can’t jump ten feet into the air again. 

ARTHUR: I—What? 

JOHN: You don’t recall? We were running from some police officers and had to hide, and the only coverage around was a store awning (Arthur scoffs.) almost ten feet high. 

ARTHUR: And that worked? 

JOHN: We didn’t get shot again. 

ARTHUR: ‘Again?’ (He runs a hand across his body.) No wonder my back is killing me. 

JOHN: It sounds like you might want to take it easy tomorrow, at least for a couple hours. 

ARTHUR (playfully suspecting): John? 

JOHN: I’m just saying, if we don’t have any actual plans...

ARTHUR: (He sighs deeply.) Fine. We can go see a movie tomorrow. After I fall into another coma. 

JOHN (psyched): Yes, Arthur! Okay, I’m having trouble deciding between “The Man Who Knew Too Much” and “Texas Terror.” 

ARTHUR: Why does that... Those titles sound so familiar. 

JOHN: Maybe we’ll have to watch both to find out why. 

ARTHUR: (A soft chuckle.) You would like that, wouldn’t you? 

(Arthur’s steps leisurely fade into silence.) 

* * * 

(A set of footsteps fades in, heavy and loud, casual. A metal lighter chimes open, ignites a cigarette, and flicks closed. Someone with a light voice takes an easygoing drag. The footsteps cease when one disturbs a puddle. The figure bends down. They lift something up, dripping water. A smooth, whisky-like chuckle.) 

???: “John Larson.” (He sighs wistfully.) And here I was, expectin’ this to be a fun job just ‘cos the man promised so. Never trust a southern schmoozer. 

(He squeezes water out of the sheet of paper and slides it into his pocket.) 

???: Well, still worth tryin’ to make it fun. Someone needs to teach you how to come up with better pseudonyms, boyo. 

(Another footstep crashes into the puddle. The man leisurely fades out of earshot.) 

(An electric crackle, followed by static.) 

(END The Vampire by antonymph02.) 

wow, wasn't that fun? didn't you have the best time? i know you did. thanks for coming along.

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and now, the magic continues in Part Two: the art!!! my guys flea and lubia popped off here!! 

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anyway that's pretty much it. see ya. (thanks again <3)