"I'm not sleeping anyway," he thought to himself. "She'll be happy to take her to the train station in a carriage."
He woke the nearby cab driver, paid him extra for the night ride, and told him to take him to Eternal Memory Street. When he rang the doorbell, no one answered.
"That's strange," he said to himself. "She should still be home." She never left earlier than an hour before the train left.
He opened the door with the key she'd left him. Violetta wasn't home. He went into the bedroom and touched the sheets. They were cold. She must have left long ago. He began to fret.
"Damn! Maybe something happened to her! She had to pass the cemetery to get to the taxi rank!"
He pulled binoculars from his coat pocket and observed the cemetery from the bedroom window. He stared so intently into the semidarkness, illuminated only by the moon and stars, that his eyes began to ache. Every now and then he glanced at the single entrance gate leading to the cemetery, but he didn't see anyone. At four-thirty, he put the binoculars away.
"If nothing's happened to her, she's already on the train, heading towards Dover," he said to himself.
At four-thirty-two, Fred entered the Three Roses Cemetery.
*****
He lay down in Violetta's bed. The silver moonlight streaming through the uncovered window created an eerie atmosphere, full of peace and elusive beauty. Marble statues of naked nymphs and heroes cast fantastic shadows on the mirrored walls, moving slowly with the speed of the moon's lazy movement across the sky. The interplay of light and shadow created a strange mosaic in which the figures seemed to be intertwined in amorous embrace. Heads, legs, arms, bellies, buttocks, ample breasts, and enormous penises were endlessly reflected in the mirrors placed opposite each other, blurring in the semidarkness. The boy stared for a long time at the perfectly beautiful bodies sculpted centuries ago. It seemed to him that if he suddenly turned around, he would see Violetta standing behind him, licentious, her pubic mound exposed, her corset half-lace unbuttoned, leaving her perky breasts visible. He felt a strange excitement mixed with anxiety and fear. As if something terrible was about to happen.
He felt stuffy. He threw open the window and sat on the bed. At that moment, something dark and large flew into the room. The creature hooted shrilly. An owl! A bird heralding death! He jumped up and instinctively backed up against the wall. The owl circled the room and flew out. Covered in a cold sweat, he slammed the window shut. His heart pounded as if it wanted to burst from his chest. It was only a bird! Why were you so scared?! He wondered to himself.
He sat up in bed, breathing heavily. He couldn't calm down. He didn't know why, but he was certain that some misfortune would soon strike. He felt cold. He convinced himself that fear had big eyes. He had never been a timid man, but recent events had clearly unsettled him. The last time he heard the owl hooting, Agnes had died a few hours later. He remembered that shortly before his best friend's death, he had also heard the terrifying sounds made by this nocturnal bird. It had been the night he'd met Violetta. Why had he suddenly become so superstitious? He'd never believed in superstitions and folk prophecies.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a large shadow. He turned, startled. He breathed a sigh of relief, surprised at his own behavior. It was only a carved stone hero standing in the semidarkness, for the moon had just set behind a cloud. He sighed with relief. He lay down and covered himself with the blanket, but he still shivered with cold. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Thoughts raced through his mind like crazy. Every now and then, he raised his head to glance at the bedroom. The marble sculptures stood as if nothing had happened. As if they knew the future, yet cared nothing about what was about to happen.
*****
He fell asleep just as dawn was breaking. He woke up just before noon, even though he was supposed to be at the office by nine in the morning. He called his boss and informed him he was sick and would be back at work in three days. He pulled on his pants, put on his coat, and in that outfit ran to get a newspaper. He sat on a bench in front of Violetta's house and unfolded the Portsmonth Times.
"Nooooooooo!!!" His desperate scream drew the attention of passersby. "I'll kill you! I'll kill that son of a bitch!"
On the front page, a large photo of a horribly mutilated body, missing both arms and ears, was conspicuous. Large, red letters announced dispassionately: "Victim number ten. Today at six twelve, a police patrol found the body of Ann Glane, cruelly murdered, at Three Roses Cemetery." Below the photo was a brief note: "Ann Glane, the twenty-one-year-old sister of renowned journalist Mark Wadle, became the next victim of a homicidal maniac three months after her wedding. The psychopath slit her carotid arteries, severed one hand with a saw, and likely bit off the other. The hands were never found. A preliminary examination of the body indicates that she had been raped, likely after her death, which occurred around 2:30 a.m.."
Ann. Beautiful, innocent, charming, always smiling sweetly. A girl who exuded an aura of warmth and joy. The young woman whose wedding he had witnessed. His Annie. His beloved little sister.
*****
"The jokes are over," Mark whispered to himself as he entered Three Rose Cemetery through the iron gate. "You'll beg me for death, but it won't come quickly, you fucking bastard!"
He wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even Violet, but he'd been crying like a baby all day. Mark completely broke down. He'd never been so depressed. Despair, helplessness, sadness, and unspeakable regret filled his soul. Only now, when Annie was gone, did he realize how much he loved his little sister. More than his mother, let alone his father. Ann always reminded him of his happy, carefree childhood. Playing together, walking together, talking together. They had always supported each other. When his father beat him, she comforted him, and Mark, in turn, soothed her, holding her close, and petting her head when she came to him, afraid of thunderstorms. He remembered comforting his sister as she wept bitterly over her lost love after her first boyfriend left Ann for another girl. Her first prom, singing carols at the Christmas table, and the joy in her eyes as she opened presents. He also vividly remembered the day they went to the river and he saved her life. Ann had a cramp, started to drown, and disappeared underwater. When he pulled her to shore, she regained consciousness only after a long period of resuscitation. He would never forget how happy she was standing at the altar on her wedding day in her beautiful white dress, laughing with all her heart. He remembered so many different events with his sister—both happy and sad. He couldn't accept the fact that he would never see Annie's smiling face and cheerful eyes again.
The pain of losing a loved one slowly began to subside, gradually replaced by a thirst for revenge. Armed with a pistol loaded with nine bullets, a switchblade, and a wooden baton, Mark was determined and ready for anything. He took out his binoculars and spent a long time scanning the cemetery, searching for the hideous old man. Visibility was poor because of the cloudy sky, obscuring the moon. He didn't see anyone. Twice he had to hide between the graves to avoid police patrols. After the last crime, the police had checked the cemetery every half hour. He waited patiently, though his nerves grew increasingly intense. He had come here to kill. To avenge Yan and Agnes. And above all, Ann!
Suddenly, he was struck hard on the back of the head. His vision went dark, and he lost consciousness. When he regained consciousness, he was sitting with his back against the wall in a small, very dark room. His hands and feet were bound, and his gagged mouth prevented him from calling for help. The darkness was broken only by the light of a burning candle. A terrible pain throbbed in the back of his skull. He looked around. He was sitting between two rotting coffins. In front of him, he saw large, elongated objects disappearing into the darkness. He guessed they were also coffins.
"Oh, shit!" he thought, terrified. "I'm in a tomb!"
Something moved at the other end of the mausoleum. A dark, barely visible figure approached him, stepping into the light of the flickering flame. It was Fred. He sat down on the coffin in front of Mark and smiled wickedly. The rotting wood sagged, barely able to support the weight.
"So what now, boy?" the old man said. "You've gone from hunter to hunted! You probably think I'm about to kill you and you'll become another victim of a serial killer? Are you just trying to get your act together out of fear?" he laughed throatily. "Be afraid, be afraid, you have every reason to be!"
Mark was truly terrified. His hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were tied, so he couldn't fight or run.
"You'll be surprised when I tell you something," the old man said, his lips twisting into a ghastly parody of a smile, revealing his ugly, rotten teeth. "I'm not the serial killer. Can't you guess who is? That whore you come to so often and who put you up to killing me. She deliberately murdered people in the city and then dumped the bodies in the cemetery to draw suspicion on me. Fucking slut!" She knows I'm here often, looking for... Well, whatever, I'm looking for something... The police were questioning everyone living near the cemetery. Her too. I was standing in the cemetery near her open window when a young police officer questioned her about the murders. I clearly heard her say, "I'm sure the killer is Fred Fireham. I often see him prowling the cemetery at night through the window, entering the graves, dragging large, heavy objects." Damn bitch.
"What, maybe it's not true that you prowl the cemetery every day?" the boy asked himself rhetorically.
"I know, I know, you don't believe me. Then answer this question for yourself: why did people only die when Violetta was in Portsmonth? Why were the last three victims close to you: a friend, a cousin, and a sister? Coincidence? Absolutely not!" He slammed his fist into the coffin, punching a hole in it. – They were deliberately killed by that bitch! And you let yourself be convinced that I was behind it!
"Yeah, right, you disgusting psychopath!" Mark thought, gritting his teeth. "You fucking liar! Violetta's a murderer?! And Violetta raped my sister's corpse and then chopped off her hands? Just let me get out of here and I'll deal with you!"
"You think Violetta's a normal woman?" Fred continued his monologue. "She's a beast incarnate, you fool! A werevampire. I bet you've never heard of werevampires. I can comfort you, few have. They're a very rare breed of vampire, practically a vampire mutant. They were created about two hundred years ago in Kiev from the abusive union of a female vampire and a male. Over the millennia of vampires' existence, such situations have occurred many times, but they've never resulted in a child." Theoretically, mating members of two different species cannot produce offspring, but Mother Nature can be cruel and sometimes has her strange, inexplicable quirks. Werewolves, as you might imagine, possess characteristics of both humans and vampires. They feed on human blood, but only males, by biting a human, cause that person to transform into a werewolf within a few months. Females, however, have another way to perpetuate the species. They can become pregnant by a human and give birth to a baby werewolf. If the baby is male, it will, of course, continue to infect by biting humans. The strange thing is that a female werewolf can't have offspring with a werewolf; that's only possible with a male.
"What utter nonsense!" thought Mark. "My Violetta is a vampire mutant! Ridiculous. There aren't any vampires! And even if there were, what kind of vampire would she be if she's reflected in a mirror and walking around in the sun?"
The old man fell silent for a moment and stared into Marek's dilated pupils. The boy listened with fear, mixed with hatred, disgust, and surprise.
"You know why I'm telling you this? Friendship and love are alien to vampires. Just like any other human emotion. This bitch probably bonded with you just so you could impregnate her, because she wants to perpetuate her species before she dies. And that will happen soon, because she's mortally wounded – I shot her with a silver bullet. In vampires, silver, once it penetrates the protective layer of skin, creates terrible, rotting, festering wounds, causing death within a dozen or so months at most. I hit her in the most vulnerable spot for any vampire – her stomach. She's probably hiding the wound and never strips naked in front of you. I have a good guess," he laughed mockingly, seeing the grimace on Marek's face.
"Corset!" The boy broke out in a cold sweat. "She never takes her corset off! He must have really shot her!"
"If she gets pregnant with you, you'll be in mortal danger. Female werevampires are like praying mantises. After conception, they kill their partners. Probably because they fear that when the future father learns what a monster his beloved is and what the child will be like, he'll kill both her and his offspring."
The old man sat a little closer to the boy and looked into his eyes. A cold shiver ran down Marek's spine.
"I see you still don't believe me. I'll give you a hint. While she's sleeping, check her teeth. You'll see that her fangs, or four, are much longer than a human's. Check that, and then kill her. But it's not that simple, because she's not a vampire, but a vampire mutant. You have to use a special kind of metal—a combination of silver, mercury, lead, and something else that will remain my secret. A few days ago, I finally managed to make a blade from such metal and used it to make a switchblade." It's small, so you can easily hide it from this beast and use it at the right time. Do it stealthily, preferably attacking from behind or when it's asleep, because werevampires are much stronger than humans, so you don't stand a chance in open combat.
Fred approached Mark and slipped a switchblade into his inner jacket pocket. The young man, twisting in his bonds, tried to stop him.
"What the hell is that lunatic thinking?!" he thought. "I would never kill my woman. I'll kill him if he lets me go!"
"I would kill her myself," the old man said after a moment's silence, "but I can't get within ten meters of her. It's because of that damn obsidian amulet of hers. She still wears it, the bitch. The figurine converts brainwaves into an energy field impenetrable to... For people like me. It doesn't work on humans, but after my recent experiences, I'm not entirely human anymore. When you were chasing me, I tried to get within range to throw the knife, but you stopped me."
"I hate that bitch!" he suddenly exploded with anger. "She killed my wife and daughter! Didn't she tell you?! She would have gladly killed me too, but I took precautions." He pulled a green jasper amulet from under his shirt, hanging on a thick leather strap around his neck. "This little thing also creates an energy field, but it's different from Violet's amulet. No female werevampire will approach me, because her brain would evaporate from the pain.
" "Okay, we've had our talk, time to go!" the old man laughed maliciously and blew out the torch. "Someone will let you out of here tomorrow morning."
Fred left the tomb, leaving the young man in absolute darkness. A moment later, the guard returned to tape a note to the mausoleum door with a large inscription: "There's a man inside. Let him out!"
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