Paranormal Anthology With a TWIST (22 page)

Feeling refreshed and invigorated, partly from my meal and
apparently from her facial cleanser’s promises of such things, I wandered
around the apartment a bit. I didn’t find anything too interesting—a few
bills waiting to be paid, a mostly empty refrigerator, a bookcase loaded with
vampire fiction (not a huge surprise there), and a little plant, the type one
would grow from an avocado pit, sitting on the sill of her tiny kitchen window.

That little plant seemed sad to me, and a glaring metaphor for
Lydia’s life. She was at the club solo and came home with a stranger. There
were no photos around her apartment of family or friends and I didn’t see any
photo albums either. She died essentially alone and now her little plant would
do the same. That was just too depressing. Picking it up, I asked, “Would you
like to come home with me?” I fear I’ve become sentimental in my old age; I’ve
taken to collecting small keepsakes from my victims. Can’t know where you’re
going if you can’t remember where you’ve been and all that jazz.

I walked back into the bedroom. Lydia still lay motionless on the
bed and a large pool of blood had collected beneath her. I hadn’t drained her
as dry as I would have liked and I was a little disappointed in myself. I
licked my lips at the memory of her sweet flavor. The aroma in the air was
still enticing but she had been dead too long to go back for seconds. Dead
blood gets a funk to it and you can’t get that taste out of your mouth for
days. I would just have to savor the memory and move on.

I stood above her. Her blank brown eyes continued to stare at the
ceiling. I ran the back of my hand down her smooth cheek one last time, found
the satin cord around her neck, and yanked until it snapped. I let the cord
dangle between my fingers while I committed her face to memory. “I gotta go.
It’s been fun, Lydia. I’ll lock up on my way out.”

The rain had started again at some point. About halfway home, I
realized I should have gone back for her cloak. I seriously contemplated it for
a while but thought better of it and tossed the key to her apartment down a
storm drain. I arrived back at my own apartment, soaking wet and shivering. Once
inside, I set my new plant down on the coffee table before I rushed into the
bathroom, tossed the soaked fishnet shirt on the floor, and dried myself with a
towel. I wrapped the towel around my shoulders and walked back to the living
room to retrieve the little plant.

I took it to my bedroom and placed it down next to my other
keepsakes, twelve of them in total, each representing a different victim from
the past few months. I looked over my collection; a pair of black lace gloves,
a hand carved hair stick, a small panda charm incrusted with black diamonds on
a silver chain, and an AA chip I took from my very first male victim. I had
been trolling a new club where none of the girls were having any of my crap,
but there had been a young man giving me bedroom eyes all night, so I
figured—what the hell? He was the kind of man that was the epitome of a
beautiful gothic youth; tall, lean, shiny black hair, and eyes darkened with
coal. In a hundred and seventy years, I had never fed from a man before, but he
had been worth breaking the streak. That chip held a special place in my heart
and had been my favorite keepsake—up until the little plant.

I scrubbed the towel over my black hair and tossed it over my
shoulder onto my bed. I stripped off my buckle boots and leather pants before
pulling on a pair of black pajama bottoms. Finding a warm black sweatshirt in
the closet, I pulled it over my head. The sweatshirt was a gift from an
ex-girlfriend, which read
Meat is Murder
in huge white letters. The ex was a strict vegetarian and had no idea I was a
vampire. The irony of the sweatshirt always made me laugh whenever I wore it.

I made my way to my sparsely furnished living room and flopped
down in the green reclining chair. Contrary to popular belief, becoming a
vampire doesn’t automatically give a man style and decorating sense. My
apartment looked like a bachelor pad, which it is. Granted, the bachelor was
one hundred and seventy years old—but the standard still rings true. I
grabbed the remote and turned on the fifty-inch, flat-screen television, one of
my most prized possessions. As a man who was around to witness the invention of
electricity, a big screen TV is pretty damn cool. I flipped through the
channels for a while, landing on nothing in particular before I fell asleep in
the chair. I had haunting dreams of a beautiful, young woman with short brown
hair—she was covered in blood. She seemed so distantly familiar.

I woke in the warm golden sunlight the next morning, unsettled
from sleep and with one hell of a crick in my neck. Pop culture dictates
vampires shy away from the sun and it’s nothing but a fabricated lie. I,
myself, rather enjoy it. I stretched my arms high above my head and out in
front of myself, just like a cat. I yawned wide, leaned back in the recliner,
and rolled on my side. Gazing out the window, I watched the clouds drift lazily
in the blue sky and felt the warm sun on my face.

The nightmare was at the forefront of my mind and it left me
feeling lonely and terribly sad. There was a slight nagging tickle in my mind;
I felt like I was forgetting something but I couldn’t place my finger on it.
Who was this woman? Was she a victim of mine? After a long while I decided I
wasn’t going to remember, therefore she must not have been that important.

I took a quick shower and hastily pulled on a pair of blue jeans,
a black t-shirt, and a black pair of Vans sneakers. I was in need of some
caffeine—guess I shouldn’t say need—it was more that I wanted some
caffeine. I’m addicted to those whipped-up coffee milkshake drinks, not the
manliest of drinks but yet another brilliant invention of the twentieth
century, if you ask me. So I grabbed a lightweight hoodie and trotted out the
door to the coffee shop on the corner.

I stepped out onto the street and shivered as the cool breeze
caught me. Fall had been making its presence known the past few days but I was
all right with that. I was very much over the sweltering summer heat; give me
jacket weather any day. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans, dropped
my head down against the wind, and plowed towards my destination.

I made it there quickly enough. That’s the benefit, and some might
even argue the downfall, of living in the big city—there are coffee shops
on every corner. You can’t spit without hitting one. I do my best to frequent
the locally owned places though, avoiding the franchise corporate giants at all
costs. I pushed the door open and was practically blown inside by a strong gust
of wind. The little bell above the door jingled violently as I shoved hard back
against it to close it again.

My hood had blown up over my head. I shoved it back down and blew
my hair out of my face, adjusting my hoodie as I turned towards the counter.
The place was really empty, not all that surprising considering it was midmorning
on a weekday. There was only one other customer, a young woman standing at the
counter frantically digging through her purse as the bored “barista” popped her
gum behind the register.

“Son of a bitch—fuck! Where are you?” she exclaimed to her
handbag as I walked up and stood in line behind her. She continued her
fruitless search before letting out a very heavy sigh. She looked frustrated
and embarrassed.

“Is everything all right?” I inquired.

“My wallet is gone. I must have left it at home. I don’t have time
to go home to get it and I’m going to die without a caffeine fix.”

“Allow me,” I offered, pulling a trifold wallet from the back
pocket of my jeans and handing a few wadded-up bills to the impatient teenager
behind the counter.

“Really? That’s so sweet of you. Here…” She reached back into her
bag, producing a blue ball-point pen and a crumpled piece of paper, which
turned out to be a receipt, shoving them into my hand. “Write down your name
and address and I’ll send you the money.” I started to decline and tell her it
wasn’t necessary when she got a very stern look on her face that told me this
girl wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I did as I was told, writing my
address down in my sprawling chicken scratch and handed it back to her.

“Awesome. I’ll send the money as soon as I get back home this
afternoon.” She patted me on the back, slinging her handbag over her shoulder
as she grabbed her coffee and ran out the door. Before she was completely gone
though, she called back over her shoulder, “Thanks again, you’re a lifesaver!”

Quite the opposite, actually.

On the way back to my apartment I stopped to pick up a sandwich
from the deli. When I arrived home I plopped down on the green tweed sofa,
unwrapped my turkey on rye, popped open a bag salty kettle chips, and flipped
on the television. The lunch-hour news was on and a balding, chubby weatherman
was giving details of an impending storm. I watched with vague interest while I
munched on my food.

The weatherman had just ‘thrown it back’ to the perky anchor in
the studio as I took a large slurp of my blended coffee drink, when a familiar
face appeared on the screen. I swallowed slowly, picking up the remote and
turning up the volume, listening as the newscaster told the story.

“The body of a young woman was discovered early this morning in
her apartment at the corner of sixth and Charles Street. The woman, identified
as Katherine Waits, lived alone and was discovered by her boyfriend. The
boyfriend has since been questioned and released. Police gave no details of the
scene but we spoke with a neighbor who claims to have seen the body and said
the scene was extremely gruesome. Another neighbor described Miss Waits as a
college student who was always polite, quiet, and kept to herself. We will bring
you further details as they are made available.”

The news anchor was leading into the next story about another
body, that of a young man, which had been found a few blocks away. He was bound
at the hands and feet in his bed and stabbed through the heart. I turned the
volume back down to a respectable level, abandoned my lunch, and walked into my
bedroom. There on my bedside table was the little plant. It looked a little
droopy so I carried it to the kitchen to get it a drink of water. After it had
been sufficiently watered, I returned it to its spot in the bedroom, gently
stroking the leaves.

“Your mom’s name was Katherine, huh?” I asked.

It didn’t respond.

 
“She didn’t look like
a Katherine. I’m still going to call her Lydia if that’s alright with you.” Still
no response but I knew in my heart, if the little plant could talk, it would
agree.