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How to you react to a death sentence? How are you supposed to stare down your own impending doom? There is no blueprint for how you could or should react, no answer for how you should live the life remaining. When I awoke the next morning, I was determined to finally return to the motel office. If I truly had been marked for death, I needed to take Martina’s advice and toughen up. No more living in fear.

It was hard to be in there; I’m not going to lie. All around me, it felt as though Martina would walk through the door any minute, coming back in from a cigarette break. Each blue pen, each piece of yellowed paper, the tobacco-scented rolodex, each was a tactile reminder of my friend and mentor. I needed to move forward, I needed to turn back the tide against the malignancy rising in the entities of this property. Even if the ending had already been revealed to me. Just because I would die, does not mean that I would fail.

Martina had been very careful not to leave any other indication of the property’s “unique” qualities beyond the terse notebook I had already been consulting. The desk drawers were filled with manila folders of receipts from nearly every purchase for the last fifty years. Who will sit here when I’m gone? I pushed the thought out of my mind.

Someone had pressed the doorbell to the motel reception area. I sighed.

“We’re closed!” I shouted as I emerged from the office. The was a woman at the door, eyes red-rimmed, clearly very upset. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re closed for renovations.”

“Wait, please!” She thrust a gloved hand into the crack of the door and pried it open further. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I just need some help. Do you mind if I come in?” I let her pass. She seemed to breathe easier indoors. With a shaking hand, she unfolded a few sheets of paper from her jacket pocket.

“I’m looking for my husband. He was camping with his friends at the campground down the street a few days ago and no one has seen them since. Their campsite was in disarray, police think they had a fight.”

“I assume you filed a missing person’s report.”

“Of course! Police don’t seem too bothered though. What kind of wife would I be if I wasn’t out here handing out fliers?”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. I’ll definitely take one.”

She handed me a piece of flimsy paper with a man’s picture printed on the front in black and white. He was probably in his late 30s, smiling with his arm around a person who had been cropped out of the photo. At the bottom, the woman had typed:

Aaron Quinn, Age: 38, height: 6’1, weight: 200lbs

Last seen wearing jeans, sweatshirt, and green LL Bean coat

My face flushed and I felt the bile race into my throat.

“Any other defining characteristics?” I said, trying to hide my alarm.

“Mole on his right arm. Oh, and he would have his initials written in black marker on the tags of all his clothing. In case you find him and…he can’t…” She trailed off, distressed by the thought her husband would need to be identified rather than spoken with.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep my eyes open, for sure. Good luck.” I gently guided her out of my motel. My head was spinning. I reassured myself that the coat was just a coincidence. Popular brand, popular color, I repeated like a lame mantra. I decided to refocus myself on organizing the desk drawers.

In the deepest drawer, underneath decades worth of Martina’s meticulously-kept receipts, I found a small, composition book with a faded blue cloth cover, considerably older than anything else. On the inside was the name of my great-grandfather, John Calnon, written with a beautiful hand. Underneath was written the year 1923*.* Inside was a journal of sorts, not too detailed, just a few thoughts he must have jotted down here and there, reminders about chores and other mundane things. A line stood out to me.

Met with Allaire again today. He showed Ellen and I some options for the gable trim. Ellen seemed very taken with the ideas. We’ll have to see about the cost.

I turned the page to find the back of a photograph with the inscription “John, Ellen and René, May 1923.” I flipped it over and tears began to fall down my cheeks.

I calmly closed the book, opened the gun safe, and sat waiting for sunset.

++

His car pulled in after dark. I waived to him from the reception area, gesturing for him to come inside the motel. He smiled and it took a considerable effort for me to hide my anguish.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I’ve been better,” I said, truthfully. “I thought we could chat in the office. I also found some old things that might interest you.”

“Sounds good.”

“Here, let me take your coat.”

He chuckled and took it off, handing it to me.

“Nice service,” he joked. I laughed woodenly.

As I followed him inside the office, I took a glance down at the coat tag. As I had dreaded but expected, in neat black marker were the initials “A.Q.” Stifling the urge to vomit, I sat across from him behind the desk, in Martina’s maroon swivel chair. I draped the coat over the desk and with a subtle tap confirmed the loaded gun was resting next to my leg.

“I had the most interesting visitor today, René.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Her name was Quinn. Didn’t catch her first name, but she was looking for her husband, Aaron. Does that ring a bell?”

His expression didn’t change. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

“He was last seen at the campground down the street. In fact, the other guys he was with are missing too. Happened the same night that Martina died. You see, I have a hypothesis. The thing that killed Martina, also got to these unfortunate men. And Mrs. Quinn also told me another interesting fact. She said that each item of clothing her husband wore that night was monogramed in black marker.” I picked up the coat on the desk and flipped the tag out for him to see.

Initially, his face was blank, absorbing this information passively. Then, he stood and picked up the coat and a look of great sorrow crossed his face. He traced the marker with his finger and nodded, dejectedly.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “This belonged to him.”

“And how did you happen to …acquire his coat,” I spat, trying to control the rage welling inside of me.

“Nora.”

“I have something else I found that would interest you.” I threw the photograph I had found in my great-grandfather’s journal. He caught it with frightening ease.

“Ellen and John,” he whispered sadly.

“And who else? Who else? Shut up and tell me the truth, damnit!” I cried, picking up the gun and aiming it at him. He sighed and placed the photograph gently down at the corner of the desk. Though his hair and clothing were different, the man with my great-grandparents was unmistakably the same who stood before me.

“You are right. I have not been entirely truthful. I never received a call from your Martina. I was imprisoned in Cottage 7 for nearly a century before something stirred me. The next thing I knew I was lying on the ground of the camp site, naked but whole, the bodies of these men scattered beside me. I know what I have done, but I—”

I pulled the trigger. He flew back against the wall, a hole blown through his chest. He slumped to the floor. I lowered the gun to the ground, hands shaking, tears streaming down my face. I went around the front of the desk to find him gasping, blood pouring out of his mouth. His face had subtly changed, his eyes seemed brighter, and in his mouth, his canines had elongated into fangs. But that was not all.

The gaping wound had begun to heal, knitting itself together with alarming speed. He groaned and rolled on to his back, lifting himself into a seated position. His outstretched hand reached the thermos attached to his backpack and he took a long, long draught, the contents spilling down the side of his mouth in one neat rivulet. When he had finished, the wound had completely ceased to exist.

He stood and faced me and I was surprised he didn’t seem angry at all. Just mildly annoyed. I know I should have run away, but I didn’t. Maybe being marked for death has made me a bit too reckless.

“You deserved that,” I said.

“That and worse,” he said.

“What are you?”

“I’m sure you have a guess.”

“There’s blood in that fucking thermos, isn’t there.”

“Yes.”

I didn’t know what to say. My anger had somewhat ebbed, but I was still deeply wounded. I needed to understand. I gestured to the chair.

“Explain yourself.”

“It’s a very long story.”

“We have all night.”

“Very well.”

I settled into Martina’s chair. He sat across from me, fangs receded, the bloody hole in his shirt and the blood on his face the only evidence of his true nature.

“I want you to comprehend what happened that terrible night, so I will begin there, though this story stretches back long before then. As I said before, I was imprisoned underneath the floorboards of Cottage 7.”

“Sounds like for good reason.”

He scowled. “Undoubtedly the only subject on which you and my jailer would agree.”

“How can someone imprison a … a…vampire.” The word sounded unspeakably stupid, but I knew no other.

“If we are weakened, deprived of blood, we can be entombed for centuries, our bodies desiccating. In my case, I was punished for daring to oppose the wicked thing that the spirits here call the Mistress. But more on her later.

At first, I suffered immensely. Imagine being buried alive, but never actually succumbing to death. Eventually my consciousness drifted away into some suspended state, but I am not sure. I am still trying to process it. On that night, I suddenly felt myself hurtling through a darkened tunnel, as though something had summoned me to re-enter the world. I heard noises, words, but I didn’t understand. I was still in the tunnel, you see. Whatever my body had done was animated not by my consciousness, but by the dark force that makes us what we are.

As I said before, when I first opened my eyes, I was in that campground. That was the first time I was back in control of my body. I opened and closed my hands in wonder. Then I saw the carnage I had wrought in that wretched, animalistic state. I took what I needed from the bodies and buried them. I wandered the next few days, learning, absorbing, trying to comprehend a very different world. A name echoed in my mind, Martina. I felt that she was associated with the cottages somehow. On the night you found me, I had returned to understand what had happened. There was a light on in Cottage 7, so I went to investigate. That much was true.”

“And yet everything else was a lie,” I said bitterly.

“No!” he said shaking his head, voice raised. “No. Not all. In life, I was a carpenter and master woodworker. After I had been made into… this” he gestured disgustedly at his body. “I would still practice my craft. It was my only joy. After a long time, I met Ellen and John, your great-grandparents. They wanted to build this place, but to be honest, they had no idea what they were doing. I did it for them.”

“You? You built the cottages?”

“I did. At first, they thought it odd that I only came at night, but my work was quick and of high-quality. The benefit of having centuries of experience.”

“And I supposed you were ‘flexible’ in your pricing.”

“I don’t really need money.” He smiled wanly.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Figure what out?”

“Why on that night, of all nights in the past century did you wake up? Was it because of what we did? We pulled up the floorboards.”

“I am not sure. It was as though something snapped its fingers and tore me back into existence. For good or for ill, I do not know. But, Nora, I promise you, I did not mean to hurt your Martina. When you told me she had died, I knew in that moment that I had been responsible. I am horrified.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” I asked, quietly.

“Eventually. Yes. What was I supposed to do? Show up and introduce myself as the undead monster beneath your floors?”

I shook my head.

“Listen, I know that things…can’t be the same between us,” he said softly. “Though it pains me greatly to admit it. But I know what is playing with you here. My old enemy. I can help you. I can be your ally. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

At those words, my head shot up and I remembered the spirits in the flames. Ne te laisse pas seule… My mind was still reeling from his revelations. I should hate him for what he did to Martina. But I couldn’t. How could I blame him for reacting out of brute instinct? I wasn’t sure. Martina wasn’t the kind of person to hold grudges. Just then the lights flickered in the office. René and I looked around, but there was no indication that anything had touched the switch.

I noticed on the desk, at least a foot away from where he had put it down, was the photograph of John, Ellen, and René, centered right before me. They were smiling together in front of a recently completed cottage, arms around each other in friendship. Did you do this, Martina?

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then I will lay bare to you the story of my past. Not to garner your pity, but for you to understand what you are dealing with. Shall we walk outside? I need to uhhh…” He shook his empty thermos. “I have more in my truck.”

“Fine.” I cringed.

We exited the motel and he began to rummage through the glove compartment.

“Where are you getting the blood? Or do I not want to know?”

“In the past century, you humans have gotten adept at blood transfusions. Easy takings from the local hospital.”

“So no killing necessary?”

He chuckled.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But do not fear. There are plenty of vile individuals that the world would do better without.”

He emerged with a full thermos, ready to talk. The night was clear and almost unseasonably warm. He drank from the thermos and I noticed a subtle shift in the color of his face, a soft pink rose to his cheeks. He appeared more…alive. I shuddered. We stopped at the bench and he sat. With a sigh I sat beside him.

“Back here again?” I asked coldly.

“I remember when John surprised Ellen with this bench.” He was smiling. “They were good people, your great-grandparents. Kind, honest folk. Friends to all. Even the likes of me.”

“I’m tolerating you for their sake.”

“Good,” he grinned. “I am grateful for that.”

“Can you get on with this story you’ve been promising me?”

“Yes.” He turned to me, jaw clenched, as though preparing himself for something unpleasant.

“I first met the Witch nearly three hundred years ago.”

x

[Part 8]

[Part 9]

[Part 10]

[Part 11]