Am I Awake?

I grabbed a coffee from the kitchen and walked about the house shouting for Debbie but there was no response and something in me told me not to expect one. It was the same thing in me that told me not to go into the basement and so I just left the door shut. The bag that I had put together the previous morning was still in the kitchen but it had been obviously opened and my wallet and passport had been taken out. The contents were spread out over the counter top and all of my ID cards had been destroyed, including my passport.

There were obviously fang holes in each of the photos, typically right in the middle of my face. I didn't know if it was a threatening message about what was going to happen to me or if it was just a practical way of making sure I wouldn't get on the morning flight. I was able to piece together who had made the holes. The clear answer was that both of the women had done. Debbie had typically left single small holes from her tiny sharp new fangs and the woman had left much bigger tears, often having just sliced a picture in half. I was all of a sudden pleased because it meant that Debbie was at least not just dead. Exactly what she was was a question I didn't want to think about right then.

It didn't matter either way to me, I knew immediately what to do. I grabbed the sailing bag and threw the green log book into it as well as my own small overnight bag. Then I headed down to the marina. It was a beautiful sunny day and there was a light but firming breeze that would give me an easy run over to Falmouth. It felt like an omen. It was a pleasure to run my hands over the carved runes that ran along the inset seams on the deck as I pulled myself aboard.

As I sailed across to the mainland, I decided not to go ahead with the plan to spend the week in Boston after all. I figured instead that I would take the boat south until I had properly digested the contents of Kelvin's log and had formed a plan that would let me come back to the house and deal with whatever was there.

In part II, Chris discovers that just because he owns the house, he certainly does not own everything in it. In fact it is just the opposite, she thinks she owns him and a boat and a plane ticket is just not enough to get away. The only hope of salvation is what might lie in Kelvin's log on his night stand, but, well, you know what that means...