"I finally managed to avenge my family. No one else will die because of that damned werevampire!"
"When did she kill them? Recently, I think?" Mark asked.
"In August.
" "I've heard something about it. My wife and daughter?
" "Not only that. My whole family. We were on a picnic outside the city. We went to the river – my daughter, her husband, and two children, my wife and I. Everyone died except me.
" "Did Violetta kill that many people all by herself?
" "Not exactly. She appeared out of nowhere and bit my youngest granddaughter. I ran towards her with my son-in-law, and then, as if from nowhere, a second werevampire appeared. In a matter of seconds, those monsters bit my son-in-law and his other daughter. I tried to fight them, but I had no chance against them. After my daughter and wife died, I somehow managed to run to the car and escape.
" "That second werevampire..." Mark was clearly interested in the story. "Was it a female too?
" "No, a male.
" "Looks like you were very lucky. Did you escape unscathed?
" "Yes." Fred didn't want to continue.
"And that mark on your neck?" Mark noticed a healed wound on the left side of the old man's neck. "What happened to you?
" "The dog bit me."
Mark approached the old man and, trying to remain calm, said:
"Are you saying Violetta brought her victims to the cemetery to draw suspicion on you?
" "Exactly." Fred looked him straight in the eye defiantly. "And what are you getting at?
" "One thing puzzles me." The boy shoved his hands into his pants pockets. If Violetta was killing those people and planting them in the cemetery, who raped Ann and Agnes? Surely not her?! And who cut off and bit their arms and legs?
" "I don't know. Maybe it's that male Violetta," the old man didn't look down.
"You don't know?! I fucking know!"
Mark quickly pulled Violetta's knife from his pocket and stabbed Fred in the chest. The old man staggered, but managed to draw his weapon. He aimed at the boy. Mark deflected the barrel of the gun to the side at the last second. The sound of the gunshot deafened them for a moment. The bullet struck a large mirror hanging on the wall, shattering it to smithereens. The boy knocked the gun out of the old man's hand with a powerful kick. Then he stabbed Fred several times in the chest and stomach. As he fell to the ground, Mark quickly picked up the switchblade lying next to Violetta's body.
"Why did you do that, you pervert?" he hissed, leaning over the old man.
"Because I'm no longer..." Fred spoke with great difficulty, "because I'm no longer... human, and yet... I'm not a werevampire."
Mark plunged the switchblade, with its blade made of a very rare metal alloy, into Fred's chest. He pulled out the switchblade and stabbed again. This time, it hit the heart. The old man faded like a snuffed candle and slumped to the floor, motionless.
Then he dropped the gun and both knives into his bag, wiped off all the fingerprints, put on his jacket, and headed for the door. "I'll have to come back here again," he thought to himself, "to get rid of the body."
He was just reaching for the doorknob when he felt a hand tighten around his ankle and a bite on his calf. Mortally surprised, he kicked Fred aside. He drew his pistol and shot him twice in the head.
Mark sat up in bed and pulled up his pant leg. There was only a small, almost invisible teeth mark on his calf. "It's a good thing he wasn't a werevamp yet and that he bit me through my pants," he said to himself with relief, "or he would have infected me. I was lucky..."
*****
After his sister's funeral, Mark took two weeks off. At Violetta's house, he carefully wiped down all the places where he might leave fingerprints. He carefully wiped away the blood, cleaned up, and then packed the girl, Fred, and the two little werevamps into large garbage bags, driving them over a hundred miles from Portsmonth to a small, forest lake.
When he returned to work and threw himself into his journalistic duties, he slowly began to recover. Only one thing puzzled him: He was starting to like Helen Carr.
Helen was his colleague, a short, fat sixty-four-year-old woman. Her ugly, bloated face, malicious eyes, and rotten teeth had always disgusted him. And now, suddenly, she was arousing him. More and more often, he found himself fantasizing about sex with this repulsive woman, about making brutal love to her on the desk, on the fax machine, on the floor. Helen lay beaten and bound, and he satisfied his desires, aroused by her screams of pain and humiliation. This terrified him, because he had never before had any sadistic tastes. Worst of all, the fantasies intensified with each passing day, and it became increasingly difficult to hide his erection from Helen.
One day, Mark felt something wrong with his teeth. He felt a strange discomfort, as if something was preventing him from closing his mouth. He went to the bathroom and looked at his teeth in the mirror. It seemed to him that his upper teeth were a little longer than they should be. He glanced at his lower row and had the same impression. He could have sworn his canines were a millimeter or two longer than before.
"It's impossible," he thought. "I'm starting to go crazy. Too many tragic experiences lately."
He returned to his office. Helen Carr stood by the filing cabinet, pulling out a thick binder. He looked at her fat, sagging butt. He imagined tearing off her skirt, tying her up, kicking her, and brutally entering her from behind. He had an erection again. He felt that soon he would have to act out his fantasies or he would go crazy.
THE END
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