“YOU KNOW, HOW Mrs. Collins died reminded me of something just now.”
John sat down in his chair, turning away from Jim as he opened his notebook. Slowly, ring by thin ring, he ripped each sketch from the small book, setting it between photos on his desk, organizing them like a storyboard to fill in the blanks “The latest thriller you watched?”
“Smartass. Not a movie, but the case my grandfather tried to solve.”
“You mentioned him.” John paid little attention, his eyes darting over the photographic evidence, the sketches, and the written statements from the neighbors. The Collins’ son, Michael, while athletic, was a cross-country runner; thin and lanky with limbs more attuned to covering long distances than throwing middle-age bodies into 10-foot ceilings. There have been no other reports of disputes, no loud arguments, nothing that would cause anyone to hold ill will towards the family. He studied the facts and details, sometimes trailing towards the fantastical option of a wild animal. Yet there were no signs of forced entry, no holes in the walls, no broken windows, and no other sign that Michael or any other suspect entered or exited the house in a frenzied hurry.
Jim’s voice broke through the older detective’s train of thought, “Yeah, I did; my crazy pawpaw. Died divorced, drunk, an insomniac and bat-shit insane.” He sat down on Johns’ desk; respectful enough not to scatter the macabre puzzle that John had started put together, “I think he worked on a case like this...back before he was dragged off kicking and screaming to the nearest asylum.” The side of his lips curling downward as he flinched, remembering that old shame.
John looked up at him, his attention diverted to his partner. “I think I remember hearing about it just before you joined the division.”
“Yeah, well, my family gained a reputation, thanks to him. Even to his dying day, he still raved about it. I distanced myself from him, but some details, specifically the torn arteries and the...” He twirled his index finger, “180 head-spin...those details are hard to forget.” Jim stroked the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as he also looked over the photographs, “The neighbor mentioned seeing a little girl, right?”
John looked over at his sketches, his hand brushing over one of them, next to the photo of the street. He picked it up gingerly, his eyes taking in the small silhouette in the fog. “Yeah, looks like one of them did.”
“I think pawpaw screamed about a little girl in one of his ravings.” Jim grimaced, closing his eyes as he recalled the cries of a senile old man, desperate for anyone to believe him, “John, I know that case is 30 years old but could we review it?”
Jim felt relief when, instead of derisive laughter, John shrugged and nodded in the affirmative. “I doubt it would be the same girl, but maybe there is some loose connection. I don’t mind chasing ghosts if it helps solve a crime.”
The young detective gave a slight smile. “I’ll go ask the guys in the archives if they can find that file. Even if it is an old ghost story by now, maybe it’ll line up with what we saw. We could be dealing with a copycat.”
He stood up from Johns’ desk; about to turn away before a young woman walked towards them, holding a small stack of DVDs in her hands. “We got a copy of the video from the security cameras around the interior of the house. I’m a little concerned that they would keep copies of these.”
John stood up from his desk and giving a slight nod with his head, “Linda, you can never truly expect privacy nowadays, seeing how many idiots get caught stealing on cameras posted on the Internet now.” He walked towards her, looking over the small stack in her hands before picking up the top disk. “I’m gonna guess this is on the hall.”
“Swing and miss, this is of the porch, but considering the little girl some witnesses mentioned, you may get a look at her.”
“Not a bad idea.” He patted Jim on the shoulder as he made his way back to his desk. “Before checking your grandpa’s case, let’s see what we can find here. This could have all the answers.”
Jim nodded, somewhat relieved. He suggested but was a little reluctant about looking into the past, specifically his family’s’ old infamous legacy. That the videos had come in quickly was a source of relief to him. He leaned down, getting a better view of the monitor as the forensic analyst set the small stack on to the small space available on the cluttered desk.
John picked up the first disk, setting inside his machine before leaning his head against the knuckles of his hand, waiting as the video loaded. His eyes wandered to the sketch and photo pair of the porch he laid out, matching it to the first few frames that appeared in the monitor and noting the time stamp.
All three of them watched the seconds of the timestamp tick by, Jim eyes narrowing, twitching slightly as the familiar wooden door opened.
Even though no one was on the porch.
“Why would they open the door?” Linda looked over at the timestamp, “This was just a few minutes before the dispute started, according to witnesses, but I don’t see a little girl.”
Jim grimaced slightly. “There is audio, right?”
Linda nodded, “The family had it set to capture audio as well.”
John rewound the footage, turning up the volume along with his speakers. He remained silent, but his eyes widening as the corners of his lip twitched spoke volumes. He pressed play, and they heard the chime of the doorbell resonating from the speakers. There was a slight pause before the chime began again and as before, the door opened.
There was still no one on the porch.
John leaned forward, looking closely at porch floor, his voice coming out with a slight tremble “There is a shadow. I can see a shadow.”
The younger detective looked at John in disbelief. “No way, there can’t be a shadow. No one is there!”
The analyst touched the screen, looking closely at the ground just before the door, shaking her head, “John’s right, there is a shadow...”
“But there is no one there!”
“Linda, can you check this disk? It’s not making sense.” John frowned, touching his chin. “We need to find out if the footage has been tampered with.” He ejected the disc, setting it back in its case before holding it up.
Linda nodded, staring at the disk in Johns’ hand with suspicion before she slowly and cautiously picked it up, wondering when it would burst in her hands. “Sure, John. I’ll let you know what I find. The next one should have the hallway along with the actual crime...” She trailed off, looking down at the storyboard the veteran detective created, gazing over the hints of the massacre before she turned away. No words left to say.
Jim clenched his teeth, scratching the back of his neck. “John, it had to been fucked with. Maybe some asshole at that company is fucking around.”
“Linda will check on that.” John picked the next disk, playing it into the computer, “Let’s see if this disk has more logic here.”
His junior partner ground his teeth, a left twitch in his eye of annoyance before he played along, looking back towards the screen as the next video played.
They watched the view from the hallway, gazing at a living Mr. Collins, beckoning someone inside, his wife next to him, her expression filled with apprehension. Even though the two were in full view, backing away from the door as if to give room to a welcomed guest, no one else seemed to enter the house.
Jim grimaced as he saw the black silhouette stretching over the wooden floors, clouding over the grain. The shadow was thin and seemed to float with the wind from outside separating strands of faint hair along the floor.
Yet that was the only hint they got of the invited intruder. “John, this still doesn’t make sense. How the hell are we getting a shad-“
The slam of the door interrupted his words, the sudden thud echoing from the computer speakers making him jolt. Just in time to watch as suddenly, Mr. Collins was lifted from the ground, his hands grasping and trying to claw into invisible arms. His neck was suddenly bent at a 90-degree angle, the flesh torn by invisible claws, blood spraying into the air.
The dark viscous fluid was the only thing that finally seemed to give whatever transparent being in the video a loose form. A blood-coated profile was the only clue to Mr. Collins’ murderer before his body was thrown up into the air, out of view. There was a thunderous crack off-screen that alerted the detectives to the moment the body collided with the ceiling. A half-second later, a loud thud alerted the detectives to the moment Mr. Collins returned to view. His corpse now on the floor, staining what was once a pristine entryway.
The pair watched in frozen silence as Mrs. Collins’ screams rung from the speakers; the woman clasping her hands over her mouth in horror. Her head spun towards the dining room off-screen, calling out to her son before she was suddenly shoved with ferocious intensity into the mirror at the end of the hall, almost completely out of view.
The detectives watched helplessly as she was lifted by the collar of her sweater, her feet kicking hard, making the impact with the blood-covered specter, before her head was bent sharply back, the flesh of her neck suddenly ripped off, as if a chunk was bitten out of it. The warm color of her flesh seemed to fade from her face; she was held still for several long moments, longer than that of her husband, before her head was twisted 180 degrees; a sick mockery of the human condition.
Much like her husband, she was discarded; an empty shell sliding down the mirror and the wall to the ground in a desecrated slump. They could hear very faint footsteps coming closer, closer to the door, to the monitor microphone, recording each beat it could save. The footsteps stopped, and the wooden door opened.
Finally, the college-aged cross-country runner stepped into view, his face stricken numb; his eyes stared emptily into the abyss as his steps, louder than the specters, came through the speaker. They were wooden, hitching, even dragging, as if he was compelled against his will to follow. His head finally jerked up towards the camera, towards the camera, towards the detectives watching him. His lips parted, trying to release a sound. Yet he could give them nothing but a choked, croaking sob as he walked off screen, into the night.
The door slammed shut.
The video went black.
Icy sweat went down from Jims’ forehead to his chiseled cheeks, dripping from his chin, his eyes wavering. He closed his eyes, remembering the rambling of his grandfather, remembering his shouts and scream, describing a scene much like what they had witnessed.
This same scene was embedded into Johns’ memory, his wrinkled eyes wide, unblinking as reality failed him. He slowly turned his head to look at Jim, finally releasing a wavering breath that broke the stunned silence. “...What the hell did we watch?”
Jim opened his eyes, releasing a bitter, nervous chuckle, “...A...vampire. Like the crazy bastard said.”