In the midst of the turmoil my brain has been experiencing all week, it actually feels a little strange to be meeting Renee normally for a normal date as I might on any normal weekend. And I can’t decide whether a dose of such normalcy is more likely to be a good, healthy, grounding circumstance or only make things worse by contrast.
“Let’s go make fun of antiques on Old Center Street,” is Renee’s suggestion when I, unable in my distracted state to come up with anything acceptable, wonder what she wants to do. I agree readily, drawn somewhat out of my reverie by the pleasant idea. It’s interesting how many of our excursions start with “Let’s go make fun of–“
Old Center Street, the original main thoroughfare of the city, is relatively short and narrow by today’s standards, and features a lineup of old or at least old-style buildings that, this century, mostly sell useless and spectacularly tacky junk ranging in age from twenty to two hundred years. There are a few art galleries, pretentious jewelry stores, and hipster clothing shops tucked in among these, and Renee and I have made the tour a few times since we started dating. Added to the reliable entertainment furnished by the things people are willing to pay money for, a pleasant walk in nice weather is never unwelcome.
Whether or not it can distract me from vampires remains to be seen.
Renee is a corporate officer for a line of hotels, and it’s not unusual for any meeting between us to start with the details of her latest amusing and frustrating inspections. Her sarcasm is pleasantly familiar, but even the entertainment value (and outrage at the idiocy) of the employees that populate her buildings is difficult to concentrate on from the very moment she starts speaking.
I struggle to pay attention, to stay invested, as we amble along, but I find myself watching the shadows with a concentration of vision that renders my hearing a secondary consideration at best. It occurs to me after a while, only increasing my irritation with myself and the situation, that the sun is still up; why am I already looking around like this in the daylight? I’m no expert, but I believe the majority of vampire myth dictates death or injury as a result of UV exposure, and all my encounters with strange people thus far have been at night.
An antique store we’ve visited every single time we’ve come down here draws us in as usual, and the work-related conversation gives way to sotto voce commentary on the available goods and resultant assumptions about the mindsets of people in previous decades and centuries (as well as the mindsets of people willing to buy these things today at these prices). It is somewhat engrossing, I have to admit, and there are quite a few minutes — many of them stacked all in a row — inside the store during which I give not a thought to vampires or anyone masquerading as such. But the issue rises to the top of my consciousness immediately again when I step outside and observe that sunset it upon us.
“What are you looking for?” Renee eventually wonders, indicating that my attempts to at least keep my searching glances subtle, if I can’t eliminate them entirely, have failed.
“Nothing.” The idea of explaining does cross my mind, and in a serious way, but is dismissed after not too long. Aside from the irritating fact that I’m now operating under an assumption that I’m being constantly stalked, and therefore anything I say to Renee is likely to be overheard by one of those people, I also find I can’t be sure of her reaction. Would she worry about my state of mental health, or dismiss my fixation and concern as meaningless? Would she consider this a legitimate threat that requires an actual police response, or merely a dark practical joke? I don’t know, and it’s not a conversation I want to have. We’ve been dating for several months now, but apparently we just aren’t that close yet.
Neither of us is particularly demonstrative, so when she slips her hand into mine with a firm grip, I know it’s not a casual gesture, but a bid for my fuller attention. She’s a demanding person and often possessive, which I don’t mind in general because these are characteristics that we share, but right now her desire to be my sole focus, though totally understandable, is an inconvenience. And I find myself annoyed all over again at my supposed stalkers for their ruination, when I can’t even detect their presence yet and am only just assuming, of something as personal as a date with my girlfriend.
At this thought, a new (if interrelated) consideration arises within me: why am I allowing the behavior of others — in this case, merely their presumed behavior — to dictate my own? Am I not my own man, a responsible adult capable of decisions, motivations, and strength of character entirely unrelated to what those around me choose to do? Even if I am being stalked — and even if I am being stalked by vampires — that such a circumstance should ruin my evening out with my girlfriend only means I’m allowing it to do so.
It’s probable that my resolve regarding this matter has been weaker than it should have because I’m so unaccustomed to dealing with this type of distraction. When have I ever found something so gripping, so engrossing? I’ve had little practice keeping my head under such circumstances, so even where I feel I should excel based on my own natural propensities, I’ve been failing simply through lack of experience.
In order both to provide Renee with an explanation of sorts and to take control of my own experience and frame of mind, I decide to tell her about the murders. It’s not what’s really bothering me, but it’s connected.
“That isn’t your case, though, is it?” she wonders when, after glancing around to make sure no one detectable is listening in (I can’t do anything about anyone hypothetically lurking in the shadows), I’ve outlined what I know so far.
“No,” I reply. “But I’m sure you’ve heard about the latest murder. The body was found at the grocery store in my neighborhood.”
We’re walking along the lamplit sidewalk between stores, and she doesn’t slow as she gives me an appraising look. “Yeah, I did hear about that. It didn’t occur to me that was the one you shop at, but I guess it was.”
I nod. It’s possible she believes now — and my manner of presenting this would not have deterred the belief — that I have some level of interest in the case, possibly even some discomfort or concern regarding it, because of its closeness to home. Being so disingenuous with my own girlfriend may not be the optimal way of dealing with this situation, but it’s better than nothing, than not dealing with it at all.
That I’ve sunk to ‘better than nothing’ makes everything all the more galling.
“Someone’s obviously going out of their way to make these look like classic vampire attacks,” she muses, and I appreciate that she’s humoring me and engaging in conversation about this, even if vampires aren’t the topic I would really prefer at this time. “And you have to assume the average person doesn’t have the equipment or know-how — or patience — to drain large amounts of blood from bodies.”
I nod, trying to keep from glancing down the alley we’re passing as I do so. It’s getting darker and darker, and I’m not so much wondering whether one of those people is nearby as assuming they are and just wondering whether I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of them. This has gotten extremely stupid.
“That makes it seem less random, doesn’t it?” Renee goes on. “Somebody planned and bought equipment for this.”
Even as I’m agreeing with her and entering into a discussion of what equipment might allow the thorough bleeding of a human body through small wounds in the neck — and, though neither of us is anything like a medical professional, certain questions of blood pressure and the seeming difficulty of the task arise almost immediately — I’m remembering, with a bit of a chill, something I overheard that Megumi woman saying: “Do you have any idea who’s vagabonding around here? When I felt the touch on one of the police, I thought they might be farther along than they usually get.”
I’m coming to accept the fact that some part of me is taking the vampire idea entirely seriously, so it’s no surprise that that part feels some immediate, sardonic pity for my co-worker who isn’t likely to get anywhere on his case against a ‘vagabonding’ vampire. That same part of me wonders, furthermore, whether Megumi, with her holstered wooden stakes, is in the area to deal with the problem herself. If some vampires are the enemies of humanity and others are not, it seems the latter would feel a moral imperative to protect the weaker humans from the former. Somebody qualified had better be handling the matter, if the police are destined to fail at doing so, before more innocent people die.
Of course, maybe vampires simply don’t care about human murders. I’m pretty sure tracking down whoever is ‘vagabonding around here’ isn’t the reason the young man is present.
The rest of me, the part that believes itself the most rational and still insists that vampires can’t possibly exist, is simply more irritated than ever that I’m having these thoughts at all. It rededicates itself to the conversation with Renee, which may be about vampire attacks but is probably about the more human kind of monster the police are more accustomed to dealing with, no matter how much morbid know-how, patience, and purchased equipment they may have.
We look through a few shop windows as we carry our discussion onward, then cross the street and head back in the opposite direction, still leisurely doing the same, but make no move to further our original plan of browsing and deriving amusement from store contents. It’s as if we’ve come to an unspoken agreement not to get any closer to other people than we have to, whether because our conversation is confidential or because I’m still obviously distracted I don’t know.
And I wonder, as we walk, whether the growing sense that someone is watching us, listening to us, following us, is merely the inevitable result of my preexisting paranoia, or something more substantial.
Renee is too sharp for this. She knows perfectly well that I’m disengaged, even without my constant attempts not to look around trying to find the source of my suspicions. She knows I introduced the current topic of conversation in an attempt to keep up a real interaction with her, and she knows the degree to which I’ve failed. It’s no great surprise when, eventually, undoubtedly tiring of my half presence, she pulls my person two steps down the space between two buildings and my face down to hers for a kiss that’s far more pointed than passionate.
And now there can be no mistake: I’m certain I feel eyes on me, with every bit as much focus as Renee’s lips. It’s like a burning, not on the back of my neck since I can’t pinpoint any location so exact, but somewhere on my figure. And this time it’s undeniable.
As she draws away, Renee is giving me a piercing, calculating look. Clearly the purpose of that kiss was not to make another demand for my greater attention but to assess more precisely the lack thereof. And when I can’t help glancing around in a brief but undoubtedly quite visible (and futile) attempt at locating the fiery-eyed watcher whose scrutiny so intensified during the last several moments, my returning gaze finds Renee’s somewhat narrowed as she meets it.
“We should get going,” she says, and her tone is distinctly cool. I don’t think she’s necessarily upset with me, but she’s certainly not pleased with the situation.
I couldn’t agree more.