Day One – The Original, by Amber Averay
I’ve found it!
I hurry through the front door, kicking it shut but forgetting to bolt and chain in my haste to get to the study. Arms laden with papers both loose and bound, I stride through the kitchen and down the hallway, mind buzzing with excitement. Even though it’s not quite dark outside, the sun only just beginning to dip behind mountains bristling with trees and frosted with a dusting of snow, already glittering Christmas lights flicker in the waning light.
It’s cheerful, merry, and normally would fill me with anticipation and excitement – still would, if not for the frenzied racing of my thoughts. The chirpy carollers’ voices carry through the air, singing about sleigh-bells and reindeer and a jolly fat man.
I can’t afford distractions. I yank the drapes shut, blocking out everything outside the window; the room descends into a gloom both chilling and comforting, wrapping me in a cold embrace I welcome even as it fills me with a sick anticipation.
For so long I’ve been researching, hunting, seeking proof that He exists – and right when I am about to give up, believing my chase for the truth come to an ignominious end, the evidence almost falls into my lap.
With such an unusual, ancient subject I have found I focus better when immersed in a grim environment – hence the single dull lamp in a darkened room, casting flickering shadows upon the walls not unlike capering shades released from Hell.
With quick, precise movements I spread the papers across the desk, a random selection of printed pages, scribbled notes, and rushed sketches that together tell a chilling tale that sends an icy thrill skittering along my spine.
Almost reverently I trace a fingertip over the ink splotches, the scratched marks of the pencil, eyes skimming everything and then repeating the process.
How has nobody put this together before? The evidence is there, was always there, waiting for somebody to find it, painstakingly collating every piece of the puzzle to form the whole, eerie picture.
And what a portrait has emerged! Throughout the centuries reports concealed, hidden, lost to the mists of time and only now coaxed into the light, telling of a creature who feeds on blood. Who calls the night his domain. Who charms, seduces, tantalises until he has you in his thrall – and leaves trails of exsanguinated victims in his wake, terror etched into their pale, lifeless faces.
Very few witness statements exist, but those that do are detailed enough to pebble my flesh with goosebumps and have me fingering the silver crucifix nestled at my throat. Not that it would do any good. The legends we all ‘know’ for truths are nothing but fantasy, created by Him in a bid to help him and his grim disciples hide in plain sight – well, mostly.
Garlic has no effect, other than to offend his olfactory senses.
Mirrors show his reflection as well as they do my own, or yours.
An invitation is not required for him and his kind to gain access to someone’s property.
Holy ground is no deterrent, meaning he can walk in churches, abbeys, and the like.
He can deliver prayers as fervently as the truly devout.
He is neither alive, nor dead, but something in-between. Straddling the shadows balanced between dark and light, sunlight does not burn him yet he prefers the hours between dusk and dawn, stalking his victims through creeping darkness.
A clatter outside makes me jump, and I press a hand to my racing heart while huffing a small laugh. I chose to blanket the room in shadows and yet startle at the tiniest noise! Fool woman, I chide, but find myself on my feet and hurrying through the ground-floor apartment, flicking on lights and, for good measure, checking the doors. All securely locked, bolted, chained.
I don’t sigh my relief yet, darting from window to window to ensure they, too, are sealed. A quick peek through the curtains assures me there are no footprint-like indentations in the snow.
I close my eyes, expelling a breath that cuts off part-way through. My heart freezes, then begins a galloping chase in my ribs as realisation kicks in. A rash of fear erupts over my body, and almost involuntarily my gaze tracks to the front door…
The locked, bolted, sealed front door.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.
Only ten steps separate me from it, but it’s a yawning chasm that widens with each thundering beat of my heart.
He’s here. In my home.
A noise behind me, and I turn – but something sharp bites into my neck, long and deep, and a warm sheet of blood spills over my shoulder, soaks my shirt. My vision blurs, and as I fall I glimpse the figure of a man, face spattered with glistening ruby droplets. His teeth – very straight, very human – gleam a dirty yellow in the glare of the bare overhead bulb.
His panting breath rasps over my own ragged gasps as he crouches over me, knife held in gloved hand, and as shadows swarm over me I hear the cheerful voices of people singing Christmas carols warp and fade, sinking into the darkness as the blade plunges again and again…
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