Al Fresco

I was a person once.

I sat at a table, ate with a knife and fork, dabbed politely at my face with a napkin.

Now I’m coiled in the undergrowth, hidden by the brambles and the dying half-light of late evening. I’m watching a group of people – family or friends – as they eat in the peculiar way I used to.

Their cutlery clinks on china and their laughter tinkles. They are dressed well. They come from money. Their voices are honeyed and proper, and their chatter inane. A dinner party.

The word comes to me; al fresco.

This is a novelty for them, eating outside, breaking bread to herald the hotter weather.

I feast outside day and night.

One of the women pushes her plate away. Too much food, watching her figure.

In the darkness, I stifle a laugh, the choking sound a million miles away from their wind-chime tittering. I remember when I measured my own waist and tracked my calories, denying myself pleasure for the pursuit of perfection.

Now I give in to every impulse. I devour every morsel. Fat and gristle; flesh and bone. I consume everything.

They are finishing their meal now. Knives and forks and napkins are placed neatly on the plates. A man pours everyone glasses of wine they will never drink.

Out I crawl from my hiding place. The “too much” woman notices me first. A flicker of curiosity registers on her face before the horror takes over. Then the inevitable scream.

I smile at them. I enjoy trying out the gesture again but now they are all screaming. I forget my teeth are much sharper than theirs. We are alike in many ways but in the difference they find fear.

They take in my naked form and my body disgusts them. I have limbs but they are longer. A stomach which is swollen from all my good eating. Eyes which are wide so I can better see my prey. Shrivelled breasts that hang low, an inconvenience to the hunt. Hair that is kept long, a half-remembered vanity.

They are panicked, babbling now as they raise their phones, their first instinct not to run but to record. This has been a shift in the ritual through the last decade. I wonder what will come with the next generation.

Some things though will never change. I will advance and they will finally flee, but I will catch them.

They will be devoured.

Dead of Night

The roads were dead, the night was dark and he felt the familiar thrill lacing through his body now that he had her safe in his trunk.

She was unreal, the best one yet, and it has been so easy. He flirted with her, danced with her a little, and bought her a drink he loaded with just enough rohypnol to get her in his truck without any fuss.

She wasn’t his usual type – he normally went for blondes – but something about her was magnetic. Her long black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes struck him as soon as he walked in the bar. He didn’t care for her heavy eyeliner and lower back tattoo but he let it slide. She had given him the eye and he knew he had to have her. It wasn’t any girl that could light up a dive bar. He couldn’t wait to snuff her out.

As he reached the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, he felt his erection straining his jeans. He was so close. Soon it would be a knife scraped over pale flesh, strangled screams, pleading, life in his hands. He heard a scraping in the trunk – she was waking up right on cue. He jumped out the truck and took a beat to savour the balmy night. This was his time. When the cicadas had stopped screaming and the birds had stopped chirping. There were just stars and silence. The perfect blank canvas.

Showtime he thought to himself as the sounds of her struggling grew more frantic. He popped the trunk and grinned as he took in her tear stained face, her mouth contorted in agony around a gag. She was going to be his masterpiece.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun, princess,” he said, dragging her toward the house. To his delight, she sobbed louder.
“I’m going to be a real gentleman and carry you across the threshold, princess”
He loved how feeble her squirms were. Now he could begin.

He flung her on the old four poster bed, the sheets had never been washed, stained by the women who came before. This was one of his favourite parts, before the blood, taking his time to tie their limbs to the posts, making them completely at his mercy.

He relished the sight of her. Gagged, tied and pleading. This is how women should always be. But he couldn’t help himself, he wanted to hear her beg.

“I’m going to take this off, princess” he said, crouching next to her, removing the gag almost reverently.

“Please” she choked and sobbed, her voice reedy with terror “i’ll do whatever you want, I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just let me go”

“You know I thought you might be different, but you bitches are all the same, begging like dogs.” He whispered. “I’m going to take my time with you, and I’m going to bleed you good.”

He turned, ready to reach for the knife on the dresser but froze, feeling a pricking down his spine.

“I don’t think so. I think I’m going to bleed you dry”

Her voice was low, steady and commanding.

“Turn around and kneel” he felt her words reverberate in his head, a crushing compulsion. Before he could even think about refusing, he was on his knees in front of the bed.

She had freed her arms and he watched her effortlessly snap the ropes binding her legs.

He couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening. What the fuck was she.

“Are you surprised?” She laughed, rubbing the smudged eyeliner from her tear stained face and standing tall.“You see, I’m a really good actress.
“Did you honestly think a girl like me would just let a piece of shit like you buy me a drink? No, no I smelled what you are as soon as you walked into my bar, and I knew I had to have you.”

He felt his gut begin to bubble, fear lacing its way through his body.

“no, this can’t be real,” he choked.

“Oh it’s real” she said “you tried to roofie a fucking vampire. And now I’m going to tear you apart’

“No, please no, I’ll do anything” he was crying now, fat tears and snot rolling down his face.

“You beg like a bitch” she hissed “now take your clothes off’

He felt that same crushing in his skull, and then he was naked. He felt his dick shrivel with the sudden exposure.

“How many women did you kill? She asked, her voice steel.

“Please, I -”

“Tell Me” her voice a knife twisting in his head.

“Eight” he blurted.

She bared her fangs and he felt the involuntary trickle of urine down his thighs.

“I wish I could take my time with you but I’m really thirsty and I can’t stand looking at you”

“Please!” He screamed, beyond desperation.

She smiled. “This is really going to hurt”

She was on him before he could scream again. She went straight to the jugular, tearing his throat and spitting the ruined flesh on the filthy floor. He gurgled wildly and she felt the bloodlust take over. She drank deeply, revelling in his agony.

Too soon he went limp, his lifeblood drying up.

She wiped him from her lips and gave him one last look. Death always revealed their smallness. One less scumbag to worry about.

Dawn was still a ways off, she would walk home, enjoying the night, knowing nothing could hurt her.

Last Christmas

Stacey smiled as she heard the opening strains of Wham’s Last Christmas and lowered herself onto the plush armchair, steaming mug of coffee in hand. Looking down at the two children tearing the wrapping from their mountain of presents, she felt at last like all was well. She had never been one for Christmas but she was almost dizzy with it now, seeing the happiness on their faces. So much love, it threatened to overwhelm her.

The room could have been straight out of a magazine, it was so immaculately decorated. Ornate wreaths hung on the walls and the tree twinkled with warm lights; though with their matching pyjamas and bright smiles, the children were somehow even more perfect.

It hadn’t always been easy but now Stacey had it all; her little boy and girl, her dream house, everything she ever wanted.

“look mummy!” the little girl said, “It’s so beautiful, I’m going to play with it every day!” she stood beside a Victorian dolls house, the remnants of the wrapping paper strewn over the floor.

Stacey felt an odd flutter in her chest and her vision swam grey. The doll house was just like one she had as a child, right down to the painted white flowers crawling up the pink exterior. She had the worst kind of déjà vu that stirred a profound sense of wrongness in her.

Shaking her head, she took a deep drink of coffee. Get a grip of yourself woman, she chided herself, It’s bloody Christmas. The coffee was hot and rich, settling her nerves enough to let her melt back into the happy moment, though that strange familiarity still gnawed at the edges.

“It’s lovely” Stacey forced a smile in her voice. “Santa’s been good to you this year”.

“We can play with it all the time mummy, it’ll be the most fun forever”

Stacey smiled for real this time. She was probably misremembering and overreacting as usual. Today wasn’t about her, it was about the children.

“That’s nothing compared to this!” The little boy shouted, “ Look Mum, a bike!”

There was that awful feeling again. It was uncanny. The bike was powder blue with yellow wheels, an exact copy of the one she had received for Christmas aged seven. There was no misremembering this, a photo of her riding that exact bike had hung on her parent’s wall for years.

“Love, who got you that one?” Stacey said, struggling to keep her tone bright.

“Santa of course, silly.” the boy said sweetly.

“Of course, silly mummy!” Stacey felt frayed, an intense headache beginning to build at her temples. What was wrong with her? She needed to keep everything perfect for the children. They were so beautiful. So sweet. Everything she had ever wished for but those gifts… who had bought them? This seemed like more than a coincidence.

Stacey stood up abruptly, the strange panic reaching a boiling point. In her haste, the coffee dropped and hot liquid sloshed at her feet.

“Mummy, are you okay?” The girl said, concern lacing her voice.

“I’m fine love, but look at the mess I’ve made” Stacey was flustered, the pain in her temples screeching.

“No you haven’t mummy, everything is lovely” the girl replied sweetly. Stacey looked down puzzled. There was no mess. The mug of coffee felt solid and warm in her hands.

“My mistake I…’ she trailed off, trying to find the words, “I think I just need a lie down.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it would help quiet the headache. The pain was getting excruciating now and the music wasn’t helping. It felt like it was getting louder, and why was it still playing anyway? She didn’t remember Last Christmas being this long.

As soon as the thought passed her mind, the song started to distort, the dulcet tones of George Michael warping into a terrible shriek.

Stacey covered her ears. “Please, make it stop!” She yelled, pain and panic overtaking her.

“Mummy, are you okay?” the little boy shouted back. She wanted to console him but everything was wrong. She couldn’t even remember their names.

Oh god, what were their names?

She forced her eyes open. The music stopped, leaving them in terrible silence. The boy and girl stood in front of her, smiling.

She didn’t know who they were.

“You’re not my children, are you?” Stacey said, the realisation numbing her.

“It’s easier if you don’t fight it mummy” the little girl replied, her voice saccharine.

Reality was starting to seep in. This wasn’t her house. This wasn’t her life.

“I don’t have any fucking children, I’m a student, I still live at home for fuck sake!”

“We’re trying to help you” the boy said, reaching out to her, “just take my hand and we’ll make the pain go away”.

And pain there was, she felt like she was going to burst with it.

What the fuck is happening?

She wasn’t going to take his hand, he was a stranger, this was all wrong. So wrong. She watched in horror as the children’s faces began to distort until their features were completely blank. Stacey screamed. The pain reached a crescendo and she felt herself falling into blackness, the illusion shattering

….

Stacey’s eyes fluttered open and she felt her body twitch lamely. She tried to move but she was paralysed. She wasn’t alone though, a figure was crouching beside her. The dread she felt was matched only by the pain that now engulfed every nerve in her body. With her heart racing, stacey swivelled her eyes over to the figure and even in the low light she could tell it wasn’t human. Its clawed fingers were splayed on her chest, forcing her down. Worse, much worse, she felt the awful thing suckling wetly at her temple. She now knew what was causing her agony and tried to scream out but her throat was so dry she managed only a pathetic yelp.

The creature was probing the inside of her head with its tongue.

The awful pressure of it violated her, pressing against her skull. It defied everything she knew to be true but the thing was inside her, lapping at her brain like a fucking ice cream. With a horrible finality, Stacey realised she wasn’t getting away from this. All she wanted now was for the pain to disappear, to go back to that happy place.

“Shh, mummy” she heard a sweet voice say inside her head. “Come back to us, we’ll make it go away.

Please, She thought desperately. Help me.

“We’ll make it perfect for you this time mummy.”

Stacey could barely keep her eyes open now but saw two faceless children hovering on her periphery. She let her eyes flutter shut and the pain mercifully started to recede. Music played faintly in the distance as Stacey felt herself be pulled into the blackness.

……