And the Hunted, excerpt

Most nights, my routine is the same. I take a ride in my 1947 Austin Sheerline, going down the dark, winding road by my estate until I come across someone in need of shelter or transportation. I take them back to the estate and offer a steak dinner along with a place to stay for the night, an offer they reluctantly accept out of a mixture of necessity and convenience. This far north in England, it snows whenever it is not raining; one rarely wants to be without shelter in such weather. After my guest goes to bed, I spend three quarters of an hour tidying up before I go upstairs, descend upon the visitor in their sleep, and suck the blood from their body. The year is 1966. My current name is Nikolaj Botezatu, and I am a vampire for the twentieth century.

Tonight, I find a hitchhiker trying and failing to shelter himself from the storm. The bright headlights of my automobile cut through the shifting, inky haze to create a blurred silhouette of the man: he is of average height but lanky, a characteristic accentuated by his long wool overcoat. The long brim of his hat begins to droop in the front under the weight of the rainwater, which still drips from its edges like a leaky faucet. As he warily comes closer, features become more defined, and I make note of his markedly average face. In an American accent, he sheepishly asks for a ride and climbs into the passenger seat. I ask him to call me Mr. Botezatu, and he introduces himself as Roy Thompson; my performance has begun. I go through the motions of flavorless small talk, feigned consideration before I propose that he wait out the storm with me. After almost a century, this entire act has become mechanical.

Finally, we arrive at Stanwyck Manor, an “acquisition” of mine from the previous century. I bring the car to a stop in front of the looming double doors and open the car door for my guest. Walking in pace with him — a subtly unsettling behavior that helps set the tone — I unlock the double doors and give them the slightest push so they swing out slowly, ominously. I smoothly turn back to the hitchhiker while standing in the doorway, flash him a perfected creep’s grin, and say: “Come in. You look pallid.” As always, I pause for a moment to watch his skin crawl… yet this time, the moment does not come.

As I said, I have gone through this routine for quite some time. No matter who I pick up, be he a traveling salesman or a circus strongman, this line will cause a reaction within them. Every single time those words escape my lips, I watch as my victim feels that first primal tinge of fear and their “rational” minds try to silence the feeling that something is wrong. This response is guaranteed, and yet… I receive nothing from the hitchhiker. Outwardly, his reaction is nothing abnormal, but nothing about it feels genuine. It feels unnatural, and I cannot help but become irked. What gives this transient the right to react as he does? What does he–

No. No, I should not preoccupy myself with this. Some people simply have a higher tolerance for fear, I suppose. This was only my opening move; the true terror begins inside! Reassured, I lead the hitchhiker into the dimly lit, cobweb-filled foyer of the house. An infirm yellow glow coats the room, which bounces off of the aged sheets covering the furniture. The grand staircase with its ratty carpeting rises opposite the doors, and hallways branch away on either side. The suspense in this room sits palpably in the air, so in this room I let him marinate. I excuse myself to prepare supper, and he watches me leave down the dark hallway.

Karen A. ‘29

Roy sat up in bed, gasping for air. He’d had the most horrific dream. A dark silhouette who Roy couldn’t quite make out had been swinging a globe of light. A little boy stood next to the man, glancing into the distance. A ghostly ship had risen from the water, and then…he was awake.

His neck was clammy as he touched the left side of his chest. His heart was beating, babum, ba-bum, ba-bum. His hair was drenched with cold sweat, and he leaned back, relaxing. He couldn’t figure out what had seemed so chilling about his dream. He wasn’t the kind of kid who chickened out to go sleep with his dad, but he felt strange. It wasn’t that he was scared. He couldn’t name the feeling. His eyes darted around the room, and he dashed out, fearing what would happen if he stayed for another second.

He unbolted his father’s door and cried out, “Dad!” He jumped on the bed, feeling for his father. All he felt were smooth blankets. His heart started beating faster, and he checked the time. It was two in the morning. His father couldn’t have possibly gone back to the lighthouse. He glanced at the lighthouse through the fog. Roy couldn’t make out a light, and fear fell upon his innocent face. He didn’t believe it, but the truth dawned on him. His father wasn’t home. Nor was he at the lighthouse.

Roy shivered. It wasn’t cold, but goosebumps rose on his skin. He grabbed a sweater and slipped on some shoes. He didn’t stop to adjust his laces. He stepped out onto the faded, scratchy grass. The iciness of the breeze made his shoulders tighten. He was a brave kid, and he wouldn’t back out of any challenge. This time was no different. No matter how uneasy Roy was, his father was more important.

Roy couldn’t imagine his father going somewhere without telling him. But it had happened, and Roy felt a strange feeling of loneliness and discomfort. He had never really been alone without his father before. He was an only child and only had a father. He was used to having to do things alone, but not completely alone. He always had his dad with him, a gentle hand on his shoulder saying, “Son, I will always be there for you, okay? I know it’s hard for you sometimes, but you’ll always have me.” That was comforting while it lasted, more like when he believed it.