Yet another murder took place last night, the fourth one this week alone. A woman in her early twenties; brown hair, blue eyes, a pleasant smile. A young woman finishing up her Doctor of Dental Surgery degree. A couple of young high school teenagers near downtown discovered her body dead, found in an alleyway next to a well-known barbecue joint. Social media blew up when the teenagers posted pictures of the naked deceased woman online. The pictures were promptly taken down, but the damage was already done.

It didn’t take long for the wannabe detectives to come out of their parents’ basements and compare the pictures to leaked murder scenes of similar cases in the area. Going into great detail on bruising placement and any other physical marks on the deceased body they could find when comparing the amateur photos to the professionals. And, of course, the media ate it up. I didn’t know who was worse: the people repeatedly reposting photos and giving their amateur expertise on a crime scene they knew nothing about, or the media who highlights the grotesque analysis of said amateurs, albeit condemning the behavior to sway any blame directed toward them in fueling the fire.

Both were in the wrong: the wannabe detectives disregarding the wishes of the family members of the deceased, and the media who helped garner traction for the disrespectful act, perking interest for curious minds. You couldn’t even go on Twitter without having suggestions shoved down your throat of the recent murder, nor could you turn on a local news station, headlining the most disturbing hypothesis they could find.

The internet was mayhem, and the media copied that trend. 

However, I wasn’t any better.

When the news of a fifth victim of the week first hit, I was at the Cafe with two of my friends. The barista who was serving us unmuted the tv that hung over the syrup flavoring station near the back wall, the headline flashing ‘Body found in a back alleyway near Pennington park’.

“Upon arrival, troopers found a white female, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five years old, late Friday night near Pennington Park,” the pale female reporter droned on. “Officers responded to the call just after 10pm. Luxford Police Department Violent Crimes Unit is investigating the case as a suspicious death. The body was transported to the Regional Forensic Center for full examination and autopsy.”

“That’s terrible,” Jessica, one of my close friends, said, her tone hushed as she covered her mouth with her left hand, worried etched into her smooth creamed colored face. She had turned in her seat when the blonde reporter spoke, her back originally positioned toward the tv.

“That’s the fifth one this week. Wonder if there’s any leaked photos circling social media like the last one,” Amara, my other friend who had the darkest skin I’ve seen on a person, started. She sat parallel to me as she swirled her spoon in her cappuccino, not once looking up to watch the reporter drone on about the case. “It’s disgusting how fascinated people are about murder cases.” She hitched her elbow up onto the table and leaned her daintily tinted dark pink cheek against her hand. 

“Tell me about it!” Jessica swirled back around, her strawberry blond hair that was tied up in a high ponytail almost whipping me in the face when she did so. Her baby blue eyes were wide as she continued, “Twitter can’t keep up with the tweets, either. Pictures keep popping up left and right. It’s absolutely horrifying!”

Amara snorted, rolling her dark eyes to the ceiling. “It’s downright awful. I can’t imagine what the family is going through, having images of their deceased loved one shoved in their face every time they turn on their phones. If that were my sister or mom, I’d be tracking those assholes down and beating the living shit out of them.”

Once the autopsy confirmed my suspicions, those pictures would magically disappear from every device that had them saved, and after a month, everyone would forget about it. I’d give it another day before that happened. 

“People are the worst, I swear,” Jessica agreed, scrunching her cutely freckled nose up before taking a drink of her iced cappuccino. “You can’t even slip on ice before someone whips out their phone to record your fall.”

Amara nodded her head, running a finger up the side of her afro, feeling if her perfectly sculpted afro was still indeed perfect. “Social media is making everyone apathetic to everyone and everything around them. All anyone wants is their ten minutes of fame, even at the expense of people around them. It’s pathetic. But it’s the world we have to live in.”

“I wonder if they linked this murder to the others. It’s scary to think they haven’t caught the guy yet. I mean”--Jessica clanked her cup down, not realizing she almost spilled half her drink on the table as she looked out the window with unseeing and worried eyes--“he could be out there now. Killing someone else, or sitting at the table next to us, sipping his cappuccino and getting off on watching everyone make a fuss over his victims!” She basically shouted the last bit, earning glances from the customers sitting around us.

That was Jessica for you. She’d get lost in her own little world and get caught up in the moment, forgetting she was out in public. This resulted in hilarious stories Amara and I would tease her with when the mood was light and she just got done having one of her episodes.

However, today was not that day.

Amara reached her hand over, cupping Jessica’s hand that was clenching her cup too tightly. “I doubt it, sweety,” she spoke softly, understanding clear in her tone. “If the asshat was smart, he’d be hiding at home watching the news and scrolling through social media, rubbing one off. He wouldn’t risk it out in public, not when everyone is on high alert. If someone saw him smiling while watching the news, they’d notice and immediately take a picture of the nitwit. Then he’d be blasted on social media and everyone would know his home address and what kinks he follows on pornhub.”

Leave it to Amara to sound empathetic while slicing in derogatory remarks without a hint of a change in tone. At least she kept it relatively clean. She could talk in the most intense sexual innuendos one could think of that would make a prostitute blush and say it in a tone used for Sunday brunch with your mother. And in debate, she would always keep a level head. Back in highschool she won the National Speech and Debate tournament three years in a row, earning several scholarships and even received recognition from the Academics All American Society. She wanted to be a politician, and she was going to be a politician, no contest. 

“Sorry, I got loud again, didn’t I?” Jessica whispered, her eyes growing wide with concern.

“You did, but it’s okay. We understand, right Ally?” Amara pointedly looked at me. Her brows furrowed when she noticed the scowl on my face.

“You okay? You’ve been quiet this whole time?” Her perfectly sculpted full eyebrow I wasn’t jealous of perking up with her question.

I hit the power button on my phone and placed it on the table, ignoring the text I received that always put me in a bad mood when it was from him. I took a sip of my Americano to get the nasty taste I suddenly developed out of my mouth. “Just my boss,” the lie slid off my tongue too easily, “apparently forgot to file some paperwork before I left today.”

Amara said nothing at first, her dark eyes staring straight through my gray. She knew I was lying. It was why she was so good at debating. Her stare alone would make anyone squirm. But I wasn’t like the pimply teens she was used to; I could take on her stare without flinching. 

Her probing stare didn’t compare to their hunger.

“Your boss is so mean to you.” Jessica scrunched up her nose again, believing my lie too easily. “You work your butt off every day and he has the audacity to complain about something you can easily finish up Monday. Not like it’s going to affect the business.”

“It could,” I conceited, playing off my lie. “If a sales reps works overtime this weekend and needs to double check my work because something isn’t represented right in my data, he wouldn’t be able to find it and he’d have to waste time going through all the paperwork I didn’t file on my desk, wasting his time.”

“Do the sales reps ever work overtime in your department? Thought your team was lazy?” Amara asked, still probing with her eyes.

I said that once upon a time. “We got a new guy, wouldn’t put it past him to over achieve before realizing it’s useless.” Which was true in both aspects. Corporate America expected you to give it your all, but never acknowledged your hard work, to a certain degree. And it also depended on your coworkers, too. You may not get a high salary job like Vice President or CEO unless you have previous inside connections, but if you worked hard and your coworkers didn’t have a mindset of a highschool drama queen, word got out you were a hard worker, and administrator roles or senior roles would become available to you after a certain amount of time with the company.

“You should be a team lead with as much work as you put in,” Jessica continued, oblivious to the stare-down Amara was giving me. “You know your unit inside and out.”

I shrugged, staring down at my Americano and how my too pale of a hand stood out against the dark glass and actively ignoring Amara’s perceptive stare. “Maybe. But I don’t really care. Once I get my degree, I’ll be on my way out with a salute and bow.”

And out of Susie’s hair.

“How’s school going?” Amara asked, no longer giving a stare down, but I knew she was not done with me yet. Not by a long shot.

I half shrugged before reaching up to move my wavy dark brown hair to my back and off my shoulder, before realizing my hair was up in a bun from work. “Fine, I guess. No complaints here.”

“That handsome teacher of yours still being a dick, or did he finally zip up that fly of his?”

Jessica snorted.

I scowled. “He was never a dick to me.”

Amara rested her chin on her hand, giving me a pointed, raised eyebrow look. “You didn’t attend school for two days after the first day of class. When you met up with us at that Mexican place after class, you looked whiter than a kid’s first porn search when their mom walked in on them whacking the stick.”

I copied her stare. “What is up with you and porn today?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

It was true. I couldn’t shake the startlement that day when I first walked into the classroom. What I saw blew me out of whack. 

My Philosophy professor, Mr. Johnson, was dead.

And no one else that walked into that classroom noticed.

“Really, Amara, he wasn’t being a dick. I probably wasn’t feeling good that day. I hardly remember what happened.”

And at that moment, my phone vibrated, and without a second thought I picked up my phone and scowled, again, at what flashed across it. 

“Is everything okay?” Jessica asked, plainly seeing the face I just pulled. 

I turned off my phone and faced the screen down again on the table. “It’s nothing. Just work.”

“Bullshit,” Amara tutted, her eyebrows knitted together in annoyance. “You’re doing it again.”

I was going to say “doing what”? But I couldn’t utter those words. I knew what she was referring to, and acting dumb would only insult her. So, all I could do was look away and sigh. But Amara was patient. She wouldn’t let her eagerness for the truth cloud over her respect for our friendship.

Despite it being so fragile now.

“I’m sorry. I just have a lot going on.”

“You know you can talk to us.” Her eyes softened considerably. She was still irritated; the past was still too fresh for us all, and I knew Amara didn’t want to push me away because of her frankness. She wanted things to be how they used to be between us. “Whatever it is, Ally, we’re here for you.”

But oh, how I wished I could tell her the truth. That I was being stalked by the undead that had a pension for neck sucking.

“Just my father,” I half-lied, looking down at my Americano. If I looked into her eyes, she’d know I was lying. “He’s at it again. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry, Ally.” A dark hand reached for mine, and I turned my hand to hold hers. “I want to say to go tell him to go fuck himself, but I know you can’t. And”--she turned her head to the side, before returning her eyes to mine with intent--“I’m sorry for assuming you were flaking again.”

She’d had every right to believe I was leaving them again. I was acting sketchy as hell. Even I would question myself if I were in their shoes.

They didn’t deserve this.

I let her hand go and opened my phone again. I had another text, but I didn’t look at it. Instead, I held the power button down and shut my phone off.

“You don’t need to apologize, Amara. And I will not flake again.” I reached for her hand again and held hers between my own. My eyes locked between Amara’s and Jessica, trying to convey both in my tone and eyes that I would not leave them ever again. “I promise. You guys are kinda stuck with me.”

“Like gorilla glue?” Jessica piped in, covering both of our hands with her own, squeezing gently.

I laughed. “No industrial solvent could pry our friendship apart.” I teased, laughing at how corny I sounded. Amara and Jessica chuckled along, the atmosphere subsiding to a happier one again.

“Oh!” Jessica exclaimed. “Your date!” She turned to Amara, her eyes wide. “You didn’t tell us about your date yet!”

“Date?”

Jessica turned toward me, quirking her brow. “Yeah, did you forget? We were talking about it last night. It’s the main reason I wanted to meet up today.”

“Ah, I must have missed it. I think I passed out as soon as class was over.” Which was the half truth. I did work and went to school all day yesterday. And I do vaguely remember my phone going off when I passed out.

Amara was blushing. That was a rare occurrence; Amara must really like this guy. “Yeah, and I’m so nervous. He seems too good to be true, and all that corny shit.”

“You look damn hot today. You’re gonna slay tonight, sis.” Jessica teased and then giggled as Amara’s face glowed.

◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇

The sun was just setting when I got home. Spending late afternoon with my two friends was the relaxation I needed after everything that was going on. Especially now that I knew I was in deep shit with my stalker.

He would not be pleased with me that I had shut off my phone.

And he will be even more displeased, as I didn't turn on my phone right away when I got home. Instead, I decided to let the prick stew for a bit as I took a shower. 

It was a gamble, but it was a gamble I was willing to take. I gave him a lot of intel and I knew I had a little room to maneuver with the little patience he gave me that screamed small dick energy. 

Even if he didn’t look the part of someone with insecurity issues…

I shook my head in the mirror, now stripped down to the nude and out of my office attire, I combed out my long brown hair I had tied up into a bun for the office. The brush slid through it without issue thanks to the hours I spent straightening the waves out of it each morning. And when I was done, I couldn’t help but note how worn out I looked. No wonder Amara was giving me the third degree; I looked sickly. Ghostly. My skin looked paler than it normally did; my eyes had bags under them that my concealer did little to hide, and my gray eyes looked dull. 

I was a mess.

Scrubbing my makeup off didn’t help. It gave a little color to my checks, but I still looked like a ghoul. 

Stepping into my hot shower felt amazing. I could stand there all night if I wanted to, but I knew I needed to get back to my phone soon, or a certain someone may want to give me a visit if I pushed my luck any further with him. Quickly, I scrubbed the grub away from the day and washed my hair, then toweling off, I stepped out into my living room of my apartment. 

My apartment was modest and perfect for me. With two bedrooms, an open floor plan that was my kitchen and living room and one full bath that had a small washer and dryer, I was living the bachelorette dream. The view outside was nice, too. There was a park outside my apartment complex, and the city would always decorate it depending on the holiday. And at this time of year, the trees were breathtakingly beautiful and wonderfully colorful. Fall was in full swing, and I loved every minute of it. 

Dressing in shorts and a loose grey t-shirt, I sat down on my couch and turned on my phone. What greeted me was what I’d expected.

‘You’re pushing your luck.’

I rolled my eyes. My cat, Fluffernutter, sat in my lap, completely oblivious to my annoyance I was directing at the cellular device in my hand.

‘I told you I had plans tonight,’ I replied.

‘Send them now. I won’t ask again.’

“Okay, okay,” I said to the phone. I must have really ticked him off if he was being this short with me.

Standing up and lying Fluffernutter on the couch where he curled up into a cute little white fluffy ball, I made my way into the second bedroom of my apartment. Inside, I sat at my computer desk and got to work, finishing up my project for my stalker asshole.

Photo after photo I cleaned up. Zooming in on a face, readjusting the lighting, and making the picture as clear as possible of the person of interest while jotting down where I found them and what they were doing when I took notice of their existence and snapped the picture. With each photo I cleaned up, I added it to a folder. And with each picture I took of different targets, as I liked to call them, I also interspersed random photos I took of a cat, some fall leaves, a clock with a crack near the one and two-hour mark, and so on.

These random pictures were of no interest to my stalker, but I liked to add them in as a sort of retaliation for what he was doing to me. It retrospect, it was stupid. He could kill me with a flick of his fingers, and for someone who was stalking me, I shouldn’t give him anymore reason to want to hurt me, or the people I loved.

The people I loved most of all.

But after four months of doing what he’d wanted. I’d ended up making an error by sending a picture of Fluffernutter wearing a fedora hat I’d made of his fur. I hadn’t realized my mistake until after my stalker commented on it: ‘Is that a hat made from his fur?’

The question was so arbitrary it threw me for a loop and I didn’t respond until my next report date the following week. That was when I had taken a chance. I’d sent another photo of a Fluffernutter, but instead of a fedora hat, I’d made a hat that looked like a cowboy’s hat and wrote, ‘Giddy-up, cowboy.’

I’d regretted it as soon as I’d sent it. The phrase was so corny. And when I got a response again, the comment had me banging my head against a wall, wondering what was wrong with me wanting to interact that way with him.

‘He doesn’t look too pleased.’

That time, I’d responded, ‘On the outside, sure.’

My stalker didn’t respond to my reply. But from that day forward, I’d steadily sent him random pictures I’d taken along with my report. Sometimes he would comment, but most times he was silent on the matter.

I definitely pushed my luck with him.

But today he commented on one picture, but it wasn’t of one of my random photos. 

‘Are you sure this was taken only yesterday?’ He attached a picture of a handsome middle-aged man with slicked back black hair wearing a gray business suit.

‘Yes.’ I was absolutely sure. I wouldn’t forget moments like these.

This time, he responded to my reply.

‘Don’t be late again.’

It was a threat. I pushed it with him and I was now regretting taking up that lunch meeting with my friends after work today.

I wanted to reply and tell him to go fuck off. And I may have had the resolve to do so if it was just my life at stake. I at least had a fighting chance against him. But life didn’t work out like I’d always hoped, and it wasn’t my life I would be gambling with.

He made that abundantly clear the first day, and last, I met him face to face.

I bit my lip and reined in my pride and replied, ‘It won’t happen again.’

I looked back at the text and stared at the face of the dead man. He was pale, just like all the other dead people I’d ran into, and was probably of European descent. Handsome, but that didn’t have to do with him being dead. He was handsome before he died. Being dead didn’t change your looks besides maybe your skin tone.

But after a minute of staring at the image, it disappeared. All of our text messages disappeared from my phone, including the pictures I’d taken of all the dead people. The pictures I sent over that didn’t contain dead people didn’t disappear. Maybe that meant he wasn’t that mad at me.

But I doubted it. 

As I was about to get up from my desk and turn in early for the day, my phone suddenly vibrated. I grimace before I opened my phone back up, but when I saw it wasn’t from my stalker but from Amara, my mood shifted to something lighter.

She texted Jessica and me on our group chat. Her purple text is the last message in our chat: ‘Turning off my phone. Wish me luck and I’ll let you know how it went tomorrow ;)’.

‘You go girl!’ Jessica replied.

‘Knock em dead!’ was my reply.

Amara didn’t reply, probably already turning off her phone. I scrolled through our texts and read through the messages I missed last night, smiling at their antics and gushing over Amara’s date while ignoring my worries for her going out at night with a killer on the loose. The odds of her coming across the killer were low, and I wasn’t going to mommy her over an irrational fear.

But then I got to the photo Amara had sent of her date and froze.

A handsome dark-skinned man, smiling at a picture taken by someone else, took up my entire screen. He was sitting in a chair at what looked like a kitchen table, wearing a white turtleneck sweater, looking at home. The picture itself looked normal, depicting a human man looking domestic in his kitchen, about to drink from a cup of coffee in his hand.

But he wasn’t human.

If I were to be near him, I would undoubtedly feel an otherworldly static-like energy coming off him, and he probably wouldn’t look as warm and human as the picture depicted. Even through a picture, I could see what he really was.

Amara had a date with a vampire, and I doubted his plans for the night didn’t involve blood.