The Night Inside

I make it home just as the sun sets and my heart feels as though it is trying to burst through my blouse. My hands shake on the steering wheel. I can't believe I have been so stupid, so reckless. My mind whirls through the possibilities: If my car had broken down, if I had become lost, roadworks; The slightest delay and I wouldn't have made it in time. I think about that, about what would have happened had the sun set with me still on the road, and my stomach feels heavy. I have been so careful, but it only takes one mistake, one error of judgement and it's over.

I know that's what he's waiting for.

It always surprises me just how quickly the day passes. Winter had been the worst; the days so short I could feel the night pressing in on both sides. But I was always sure to be back in plenty of time. The fact that I work largely at home, in my studio, was a blessing, but you need to leave the house sometime.

I tap the wheel nervously as my garage door takes its own sweet-fucking-time to open. The groan it makes is of a tortured beast slowly waking up, while behind me the sky is a bleeding wound. It feels like my own vision is fading with the light. Finally, the door opens wide enough for me to drive in and I press too heavily on the accelerator, the car jumping forward before I gather control. At last I am over the threshold, that's the important thing. Even with the garage door open he still can't cross the boundary into the house. Whether it's manners or compulsion, rules are rules. I let out the breath I seem to have been holding in since the airport.

Sometimes I have to remind myself it has only been six months. I think back to last year and it's like looking into a past life. The life I was leading seems unimaginable to me now in its normality, it's sanity.

And it all changed with a press of a button, that's what I can't get my head around.

I had been taking photos of the canal at night as inspiration for my painting. This wasn't new, I had been spending my evenings exploring the city's waterways for months. I enjoyed the mix of shadows, the quiet, the way the moonlight glimmered on the black surface of the water.

On the night it began I had driven out to an industrial estate on the city's edges. It offered just the right mix of bridges, canals and shadowed walkways. I had set up the camera pointing at a low concrete bridge straddling one of the major canals. The underside of the bridge was hidden in solid darkness but I was hopeful my flash would reveal some of it's secrets. One click of the button, one bright flash, and I entered another world.

I hadn't even known they were there, the couple beneath the bridge, hidden in the shadows. The flash of my camera was bright but fleeting; a lightening strike, but the revealed image burned itself into my retina so that I could see it long after the darkness had reclaimed the night: A tall pale man with white hair holding a woman in his arms, his face buried into her neck.

When my night vision returned I could make them out as dim shapes in the darkness. I saw the pale face of the man as he regarded me for a long moment, over the still water of the canal, before returning his attention, to the woman in his arms.

I was embarrassed, but nothing more, believing i had simply disturbed an amorous couple. I imagined I had startled them more than they had me. I thought nothing of it until I got home and set to work in my darkroom. It's probably my favourite part of using photography: the gentle lapping of liquid as the image slowly emerges on a blank white paper. It's like magic.

It took me a moment to even notice anything was wrong with the image that formed before me: it showed the canal, looking fathomless and flecked with starlight, the grey solidity of the bridge, and the woman, standing limply with her head thrown back. The camera had caught her face as a pale blur, a smear of shadow showing her parted lips. But, although I clearly remembered her in the arms of another man, she stood alone, leaning backwards against the stone wall. He was nowhere to be seen.

I think I knew then, although I would never have admitted it. There are moments now when I still struggle. I tried to dismiss my memory of him as a trick of the light. I am blessed, or would that be cursed, with an active imagination and I am forever seeing faces in clouds and figures in water. I did try and convince myself that I had simply imagined him. Surely no-one could have been as pale as he appeared, so inhuman.

But, like I said, I think I already knew on some level, even before I saw him again the next evening, standing across the road from my house, sheltered beneath the large oak tree. It was dark and he stood there in the shadows, but it was him. I watched him for a full hour, my fingers hovering over the number 9 on my phone screen. I still wonder why it was I never made the call.

He looked as though he had stepped out of the last century. He wore the type of knee-length frock coat you often see in Jane Austen adaptions, dark over a white frilled shirt, open at the throat. But it was his face that was striking. The first time I saw him clearly, I took him for an albino, his skin was the colour of bone and his white hair fell down the length of his back like milk. There was no colour at all in his face except his eyes which were a pale blue, not the bloodshot look I expect from albinism. He was tall and thin and otherworldly. I think even then I had already grasped what he was, although he would shortly remove any doubt.

I close the doors before I get out of the car. This is always the worst part, the moment where I think he will show himself. But there is still light in the sky and, as the descending garage door blocks out the outside world, I finally allow myself to breath.

It occurs to me that he may have moved on. I had, after all, been gone nearly a month. Long enough, surely, for him to have turned his attention elsewhere. But I don't believe it. He has the scent. My scent. Part of me thinks he probably knew the moment my plane touched down. I know relatively little about him, but I suspect time is different for his kind. Unimportant. And I don't think he ever forgets. It's also possible that he is not used to being denied, that this only fuels his hunger, makes him ravenous.

I had seen him a number of times over the next few weeks, always at night. Sometimes he would watch from a distance; I once saw him standing on the roof of an office building in the town centre, silhouetted against the moonlit sky; very dramatic, if not something of a cliché. But there were times he came much nearer. I think he wanted to catch me alone, something I was always careful to avoid.

And he never spoke to me. I have never once heard his voice.

But, in my house at least I am safe. That has been firmly established now. But that doesn't mean I can afford to be complacent. I discovered the hard way that the threshold is marked only by the physical walls of my building, not by any lines on a land registry. He can't come in unless invited, but that doesn't mean he can't get close: the other side of the door, a window, a phone line. It was the phone call that surprised me most of all; that, and, my reaction to it.

I remember the shrill ringing of the phone waking me just after midnight. It was the landline, the one I barely used. It never occurred to me it would be him. I struggled to imagine him using anything as modern as a telephone.

Hurrying into the kitchen, I saw him a split second after I had lifted the phone from its station. For a moment I thought he was in the room with me and my heart seemed to sink into my stomach. He stood on the other side of the glass, looking in from the garden, and he was not alone.

I never found out who she was, or how he had found her, but she looked so much like me it was uncanny: long black hair with a slender, almost boyish figure. She looked small in front of him, her head resting on his chest, his arms tight around her. She had a small black mobile phone pressed to the side of her face as I lifted my own to my ear. I tried to keep my voice calm and level as I whispered hello and I would like to think that I almost succeeded.

Through the glass I saw the woman look up suddenly into the eyes of the man holding her. In my ear I heard her breath catch. "It's her," she said, her voice had a European tilt to it; was she French? She wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know; he was already studying me through the glass. I forced myself to meet his gaze; I even dared to take a step closer to the window.

They were both brightly lit by the overhead security light I had fitted the week before. I imagine it had been the woman who had activated it; the motion sensor had never detected him before. I had spent the previous few weeks researching his nature and I could tell from the woman's placid expression that she had been glamoured.

He was the first one to look away. He studied the young woman in his arms, his hands travelling up her body, one long slender finger tracing the outline of her jaw. He bent his head down to her and I saw her turn, inclining her face towards him. Her eyes closed; her lips parted. Oh Christ, I thought, she believes he's going to kiss her, she believes that's what his mouth's for.

At the last moment he turned her to face me and for a moment she gazed directly into my eyes. She was still holding her phone to her ear and I felt a sudden urge to talk to her but already it was too late.

He struck quickly and without emotion. I had a glimpse of his lengthening teeth flashing brightly as he fastened his mouth on the woman's neck. Her sharp intake of breath sounded so close I could almost imagine she was breathing directly into my ear; I could almost feel it. It happened so quickly I couldn't be sure but, at the last moment, she seemed to tilt her head further to one side, offering her throat.

I watched it all; I couldn't look away. I saw her face contort in a brief spasm of pain before relaxing, the way her eyes rolled up and her lips parted in a languorous smile. But what stayed with me in the days afterwards were the sounds, Carried through the cheap plastic of my landline: the soft shallow breaths, the sighs and there, beneath it all, the soft wet sounds and low growls of an animal feeding. There was nothing human about that at all.

Eventually the phone slipped from the woman's fingers to smash on the flagstones, there was a loud crunching sound and the phone at my ear went dead.

Still, I watched.

I stood there, separated by glass and a few feet of air, and watched it all. I couldn't look away. Finally, he raised his scarlet lips from her neck and gazed silently at me with eyes that seemed to reflect the cold light of the moon. The woman, still conscious, was allowed to walk away on unsteady legs. He was no killer, or at least that's what he wants me to think. I wonder if, when she woke the next morning, she had any memory at all of what had happened. I suspect not, and that makes me angry.

I'm not sure how long the whole encounter had lasted, but I held his gaze for a long while as I waited for my own heartbeat to calm. I can't even begin to explain the thoughts and feelings that churned inside me. I knew that all it would take is a simple turn of the handle of the door to invite him inside; maybe even less than that. Maybe all it would take is a simple nod of my head and he would win. It would be so easy.

And then, taking another step towards the window, I slowly drew the curtains closed and went to bed. The cold, calm regard of his eyes were replaced by a quiet fury as I dismissed him. I'm sure if he could have, he would have torn through the walls to get at me, but he is held fast by the limitations of his kind and I have taken the time to learn them all.

I did not sleep the night of the garden visit. The windows were firmly shut but I could hear a little of the wind outside and there was more than an echo of the woman's breathing in the way the air played against the side of the house.

I have wondered at what point his interest would weaken; it is not as if he is short of prey. He is not used to being denied, to being thwarted. And the hungrier he gets the more reckless he will become. He now knows I have kept my silence about him. Who would have believed me? What is it that draws him back to me time and time again? Is it pride? Is it the fact that I have evaded him for over half the year? Is this so new to him? Is he that arrogant that he cannot face losing even once? Could it be that the longer I deny him, the more ravenous he gets?

The next day, stopping only to cancel a dinner date with my friend Sarah, I bought a plane ticket for Europe. I needed to get as much ocean as I could between myself and him. Maybe when I came back, he would have lost interest. Surely the hunt cannot go on forever.

The house is cold and dark, and I move from room to room, turning on all the lights. It's times like these I regret not having a dog, someone to keep me company. I go first to my studio on the top floor. It's exactly how I had left it in my hurried run for the airport. The smell of dried paint hangs in the air and my unfinished piece is exactly where I'd left it, uncovered. Seeing it again, I'm struck by a strange mixture of pride and unease. It's one of the best things I've ever done, I'm sure of that, but there is a power to it I never believed myself capable of. I have learned a lot about myself over the last few months. I know I could never show it to anyone. Well, almost anyone.

Moving downstairs I go into the kitchen. The house feels so very cold it's as if I'd been gone months, not weeks. It feels unlived in. It's strange because the heat that day had been oppressive.

The kitchen is my least favourite room in the house, the one that seems less like me. If I had more money, I would have torn out all the fittings and replaced them with something more my style, something warmer. As it is, I always get the feeling that I am walking into a laboratory when I go to make a cup of coffee. Everything is white: The cupboards, table, the draws, everything.

And it is the sterile white colour scheme that makes the explosion of red on the table even more shocking.

Flowers. Roses. A torn-off scrap of paper lies beside them, and I notice my hand trembling as I reach for it. The moment of relief when I recognise Sarah's handwriting is as powerful as it is brief. I read with a sense of mounting disbelief and dread:

"Hope you don't mind, but I stayed over in your spare room for the night. I had nowhere else to go and I knew you wouldn't mind. I'm glad I did because I got to meet the new man in your life. How could you have kept this from me? You and your secrets. He certainly leaves an impression, doesn't he? If it wasn't for the fact he is so clearly into you I would have... well, never mind. Anyway, these are from him, brought them in himself. Ring me when you get back, I want to know ALL the juicy details. Love you. S."

She'd let him in. Oh, Christ.

And the house is so very cold.

I turn, and it's hardly any surprise at all to see that he's standing there in the corner of the room as if he had been here the whole time, watching me read. The space of the kitchen seems to dilate down around me, and he seems so very close even though we are standing at opposite ends of the room. He is wearing the same dark old-fashioned clothing I have seen him in before. His face is chiselled from marble; his eyes regarding me with what seems like detachment. It's only when he smiles that adrenaline kicks in with a savage spike and I turn and make a run for it.

I blindly make for the front door, but he's fast, so very fast, and he's already there in front of me and I run screaming straight into his arms. It's like running into a wall or a tree, he is utterly immovable. The breath is driven from me and I would rebound crashing to the floor if his arms aren't there to catch me.

Panic and fear overload my brain. I did have a plan for this, something to say. What was it? I planned for everything. But it's all happening too fast and my brain seems to short circuit. He is so very tall. He looms, pulling me to him, my racing mind dimly registers that it is all over. His face fills my vision and I can't look away.

He is so alive! The realisation comes as a shock. The sheer weight of his wanting hits me with a powerful physical force, his need. From a distance I have always thought his expression calm, emotionless; but now, with our faces so close, I can see how wrong I was. He devours me with his gaze, drinking me in. I freeze, horrified by the naked hunger on his face

It's only when his eyes lock onto mine that I find the strength to tear my gaze away. The faint flicker of red deep in his pupils are a warning of what he intends. So long as I don't succumb to his glamour, I can keep my wits. I fix my gaze over his shoulder and desperately try to think.

It occurs to me to struggle, to plead, but I find it difficult to think clearly. He is so strong and I am lost in the sensation of him being so close. One hand moves around to press against my lower back. He is so cold, the chill from his touch soaks through my blouse to my skin. I feel his other hand reach up to the collar of my blouse, pulling it to one side.

I can't stop myself from shivering. His movements are slow, deliberate. He knows he's won. Then his long fingers entwine themselves in my hair, stroking softly before taking hold. The strangest thought occurs to me: If someone looked through the window at this moment, they would simply take us for a couple slowly dancing in their kitchen. A loving couple.

I let out a long breath as And I find myself to relax into his unyielding body. In some strange way I'm relieved it's over. I can feel my warmth slowly ebbing away even before he pulls my head to one side and places his cold lips on my throat. Then it is far too late to do anything but close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder. Yes, I think to myself, as I feel his lips pull back and the hard press of teeth on my skin, it would look very much like we were dancing.

His teeth break the skin and, gasping in pain, I cling to him, my hands clutching at his shoulders, feeling the powerful knots of muscle moving beneath the thick material of his coat as he tightens his hold, locking me in tight. It hurts, and the sound is of something deep inside me tearing free. The flash of pain so intense it is almost like pleasure until he withdraws his teeth and sets to work with his lips and tongue. The pressure of his mouth on my neck is not at all unpleasant. The pain fades but a strange sweetness remains, pulsing through my veins like honey. I am lost in the sensation and it takes a while for the simple fact to seep through to my conscious brain that he is feeding on me. So, this is what it feels like, I think. The thought again: this isn't so bad. And the very fact that I'm thinking this scares me.

"Oh God," I moan and, almost in response, he groans softly into my neck. His body is so still as he feeds, and it almost feels as if I am in the arms of a statue. Only his mouth moves against my skin and I can sense the slow swallowing movements of his throat, the pull of his lips on my neck.

I have no sense of how long this continues before he eventually pulls back, lifting his face to look at me. I am surprised to see his skin is the same shade of bone white. I haven't warmed him at all. The only flash of colour are his lips, now stained scarlet and shining wetly. Then I notice his eyes begin to change, a red light awakening deep in the dark depths of his dilated pupils. He is trying to make eye contact with me, but I avoid that. I don't want to be glamoured. I don't want the choice taken away from me.