The sun was already climbing toward its noon position when Gwen pulled her motorcycle to a stop in front of 1247 Elm Street.
The house looked ordinary enough—a two-story colonial with faded blue shutters and a garden that had seen better days. But sothing about the place felt wrong, like it was holding its breath.
She’d spent the better part of the morning tracking down Robert Miller’s address, cross-referencing public records and old phone directories until she found a match.
The phone number had been disconnected for over a year, which wasn’t a good sign. But sotis the old-fashioned approach worked better than technology.
Gwen checked her gear one more ti. Nightfall hung heavy on her back. You could never be too careful when hunting supernatural creatures.
Or when visiting strangers who might have information about them.
She walked up the cracked concrete path, noting the dead bolts on the front door and the heavy curtains that blocked every window. Whoever lived here was serious about security.
Gwen knocked twice, the sound echoing hollowly in the morning air.
Silence.
She waited thirty seconds and knocked again, harder this ti. From inside the house ca the sound of movent—footsteps crossing a wooden floor, then stopping. Soone was ho, but they weren’t in a hurry to answer the door.
"Go away!" a female voice shouted from inside. "I don’t want whatever you’re selling!"
"Ma’am, I’m not selling anything," Gwen called back. "I’m looking for Robert Miller. I have so questions about his research."
More footsteps, this ti moving closer to the door. "Robert’s not here. Now get off my property before I call the police."
"Mrs. Miller? I just want to talk about his work on historical vampire incidents."
The footsteps stopped. For a long mont, the only sound was the distant hum of traffic from the main road. Then Gwen heard multiple locks being undone—at least four different deadbolts from the sound of it.
The door opened six inches, revealing a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and eyes like flint. She was holding a double-barreled shotgun in one hand and a ceramic mug in the other.
The business end of the shotgun was pointed directly at Gwen’s chest.
"Step back," the woman ordered. "All the way back to the sidewalk. Do it now."
Gwen raised her hands slowly, showing she wasn’t reaching for any weapons. "Ma’am, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just—"
"Step back!" The woman’s voice cracked like a whip. "Move away from my door and into the sunlight. Do it!"
Understanding flooded through Gwen. The woman was testing her, checking to see if she was one of the creatures that couldn’t tolerate direct sunlight. It was actually pretty smart, assuming vampires were the main threat in her world.
Gwen backed away from the door, moving into the patch of sunlight that fell across the front yard. She stood there patiently, letting the woman get a good look at her.
The woman stepped partially outside, still keeping the shotgun trained on Gwen. Without warning, she hurled the contents of her mug directly at Gwen’s face.
The liquid hit her like a slap—cold, pungent, and unmistakably the scent of garlic. A lot of garlic. Gwen blinked and wiped her face with her sleeve, trying not to gag on the sll.
"Well," she said, spitting out the taste. "That’s one way to test soone."
The woman watched her carefully, looking for any sign of burning or adverse reaction. When nothing happened, she lowered the shotgun slightly but didn’t put it away.
"You’re not a vampire," she said. It wasn’t a question.
"No, ma’am. Just soone who slls like a very aggressive Italian restaurant now."
The woman’s expression didn’t soften. "So if you’re not a vampire, what do you want with my husband? Are you a governnt official? Tax collector? So kind of inspector?"
Before Gwen could answer, the woman’s eyes fixed on sothing behind her. Gwen saw the woman’s features harden, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the shotgun tighter.
"Are you one of those useless security personnel?" the woman demanded, her voice filled with sudden anger. "Is that why you’re here?"
Gwen glanced over her shoulder and realized the woman had spotted Nightfall. The blade was clearly visible. She turned back to face the woman, keeping her hands visible and non-threatening.
"No, ma’am. I’m not with any security company or governnt agency. I’m just a story researcher. I carry that blade for the sa reason you have your shotgun and garlic—protection. There are dangerous things out there, and sotis the police can’t handle them."
The woman studied her for a long mont, weighing her words. So of the tension left her shoulders, but she kept the shotgun ready.
"My husband," she said finally, "died two years ago. There’s nothing I can help you with."
Gwen felt her heart sink. Another dead end in a case that seed full of them. But she pressed on, hoping to salvage sothing useful from the trip.
"I’m sorry for your loss," she said genuinely. "I had no idea. Mr. Miller was... well, he was like a ntor to , even though we never t. His research, his analysis of historical vampire incidents—it was incredibly detailed and insightful. I’ve been following his work for years."
The woman’s expression shifted slightly, surprise replacing so of the suspicion. "You knew Robert’s work?"
"I did. His posts about the Ga of Salvation, the historical patterns of vampire control thods—they were brilliant. I was hoping to share more of his stories with the world, maybe help other people understand what we’re really dealing with out there."
The woman looked at Gwen with new eyes, as if seeing her for the first ti. There was sothing in her face now—not quite trust, but a kind of desperate hope.
"The world needs to know," she said quietly. "About what’s really out there. What they did to him."
"What happened to your husband, Mrs. Miller?"
The woman’s grip on the shotgun tightened again. "Soone killed him. Snapped his neck like a twig while he was sitting in his car after grocery shopping. Police said it was a mugging gone wrong, but nothing was stolen. His wallet was still there, groceries still in the back seat, car wasn’t even scratched."
She paused, looking past Gwen at sothing only she could see.
"Nobody cared. Nobody investigated. They wrote it off as random violence and moved on. That’s when I realized I couldn’t trust anyone. Not the police, not the governnt, not the neighbors who stopped visiting after the funeral."
Gwen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. A man who specialized in researching historical vampire incidents, killed in a way that suggested supernatural strength. It wasn’t exactly subtle.
"Mrs. Miller," she said carefully, "I’d like to help share your husband’s work, if you’ll let . The world needs to know these stories, especially now."
The woman looked at her for a long mont, clearly wrestling with so internal debate. Finally, she made a decision.
"You have fifteen minutes," she said, stepping back from the door. "That’s all. And if you try anything stupid, I’ll put both barrels through your chest."
"Understood."
Gwen followed her into the house, which was as heavily secured on the inside as it appeared from outside. Multiple deadbolts, reinforced door fras, and what looked like silver wire worked into the window screens. Mrs. Miller had turned her ho into a fortress.
"Here," the woman said, handing Gwen a dish towel. "Clean yourself up. You sll like a vampire’s worst nightmare."
Gwen wiped the garlic juice from her face and hair, though she suspected the sll would linger for hours. Mrs. Miller poured her a cup of tea from a pot that had been sitting on a side table—clearly, she’d been prepared for a longer conversation than her initial hostility had suggested.
"Mrs. Miller," Gwen began, "do you rember your husband posting a story about sothing ritual? It was about three years ago."
The woman shook her head. "Robert posted dozens of stories over the years. I can’t rember them all. Most of his ideas ca from his library—he had books that you couldn’t find anywhere else. Old books, handwritten manuscripts, things that cost us a fortune to acquire."
Gwen’s pulse quickened. Primary source material was exactly what they needed.
"Would it be possible for to look at his library? If I could find the source material for that story, it might help understand what we’re dealing with today."
Mrs. Miller hesitated. "I don’t know. Those books were Robert’s life’s work. He spent thirty years collecting them."
"Ma’am, I think your husband’s research might be the key to stopping sothing terrible from happening. People are dying, and the pattern matches what he wrote about. If his books can help us understand the threat..."
The woman looked at her with sharp eyes. "What kind of pattern?"
"Young couples being murdered in ritualistic ways. Symbols carved into their bodies. X’s and O’s, just like in your husband’s story about The Arbitrum."
Mrs. Miller went very still. "Show ."
Gwen pulled out her phone and showed her the cri scene photos that Kaine had shared. The woman’s face went pale as she studied the images.
"Jesus," she whispered. "It’s real. Robert always said soone might try to bring the old rituals back, but I thought... I hoped he was wrong."
She stood abruptly. "Co on. The library’s upstairs."
They climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor, where Mrs. Miller led her to a room that had once been a bedroom but had been converted into a scholar’s paradise. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, filled with volus that looked impossibly old. The air slled of leather bindings and aged paper.
"Most of these books can’t be found online," Mrs. Miller explained. "They’re handwritten manuscripts, private journals, family records that go back centuries. Robert spent our life savings tracking them down."
Gwen approached the nearest shelf, running her fingers along the spines. Many of the titles were in languages she couldn’t read—Latin, Old Church Slavonic, what looked like dieval German. But others were in English, with titles that made her pulse race.
"The True History of the Vampire Wars." "Blood Rituals of the Eastern European Covens." "The Ga Masters: How Ancient Vampires Controlled Human Populations."
"This is incredible," she breathed.
She pulled out a leather-bound volu titled "The Arbitrum Chronicles: A Study in Systematic Terror." The pages were yellow with age and covered in neat handwriting. As she flipped through it, she saw detailed descriptions of ritualistic murders, maps of affected villages, and most importantly, accounts from survivors.
"This is it," she said. "This is exactly what I need."
Mrs. Miller watched her with a mixture of hope and suspicion. "You really think this can help stop what’s happening?"
"I do. But I need ti to study it properly, cross-reference it with what we know about the current murders. Would it be possible to borrow this book? Just for a few days?"
The woman’s expression hardened again. "Those books don’t leave this house. Ever."
"Mrs. Miller, I understand how valuable they are, but—"
"You don’t understand anything," the woman snapped. "These books are all I have left of Robert. They’re his legacy, his life’s work. And they’re dangerous in the wrong hands."
Gwen felt her window of opportunity closing. She needed those books, but she also needed Mrs. Miller’s trust.
"What if I could help share your husband’s work with the world?" she said. "Really share it, not just reference it in so obscure academic paper. What if his research could save lives?"
Mrs. Miller was quiet for a long mont, studying Gwen’s face.
"My husband believed that knowledge was ant to be used," she said finally. "He always said that the worst thing you could do with dangerous information was lock it away and hope the danger would disappear."
She pulled another book from the shelf—this one bound in what looked like snakeskin. "The Bloodline Prophecies: Predicting the Return of Ancient Powers." She handed it to Gwen along with the first book.
"You can take these," she said. "But I want them back. Both of them, in perfect condition. And if I find out you’ve shared this information with the wrong people..."
"You’ll hunt down," Gwen finished. "I understand."
Mrs. Miller nodded grimly. "Robert died because soone didn’t want his research to see the light of day. I won’t make the sa mistake he did—trusting people too easily."
Gwen pulled out one of her business cards and handed it to the woman. "My contact information. I’ll call you every few days with updates, and I’ll bring the books back as soon as I’m done."
Mrs. Miller studied the card. "Patricia Gwen. You work for a newspaper?"
"Freelance. I specialize in stories the mainstream dia won’t touch."
"Good. The mainstream dia is controlled by the sa people who killed my husband."
Gwen tucked the books into her motorcycle jacket, making sure they were secure.
"Mrs. Miller," she said as they walked back downstairs, "thank you. This could make all the difference."
The woman stopped at the front door, her hand on the deadbolt. "Miss Gwen? When you find whoever’s behind these murders—and I believe you will—make sure they pay for what they’ve done."
"I will."
Gwen stepped back outside, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. She climbed onto her motorcycle and started the engine, already planning her route back to the city.
Reviews
All reviews (0)