Every town has a haunted house. Somewhere children cycle by, daring each other to go in, but never quite breaching the threshold. Maybe some intrepid adventurer once every few years will gingerly creep over to the door and give it a knock, never waiting long enough to see if anyone - or anything for that matter - will answer it before they ran away.
In most towns this, of course, has no basis in reality. Or at least, that's what the adults will tell you. But for every fake haunted hotel with exorbitant room prices and interns hiding in the walls flickering the lights, there exists a few truly haunted places in the world. Places that the unexplainable occurs and people who stumble into these dark rooms are left forever changed. Forever beyond the veil, one foot through the looking glass.
"C'mon, you big baby! It's just one night! One night in the old Rainsford place!"
Tig froze halfway up the hill, her bike's front wheel wobbling in the gravel. The house loomed above them. It felt like the old place was staring at them itself, with its black windows like empty, leering eyes. The other kids had gathered near the rusted gate, their flashlights painting jittery white shapes over the ivy-choked walls.
"I heard someone died in there." said Chelsea, trying to sound casual but gripping her handlebars a little too tightly.
"Everyone says that!" Joey scoffed, tossing a stone toward the porch. He was the self-appointed ringleader of the group, always egging someone on to do something entertaining. The stone clattered against the wood and bounced off into the weeds. "My brother went up there last year. Said it's just full of junk. Dust, old furniture, maybe a rat or two. It’s nothing."
"Then why don't you stay the night?" Tig shot back. Her voice carried farther than she expected, up the drive and toward the silent house. The wind moved through the trees in answer, a sea of dry brown leaves whipping up into the air and over the fence.
Joey smirked. "Because I'm not the one who said she doesn't believe in ghosts."
The circle of flashlights turned to Tig. The challenge hung in the air like breath in the cold. She could already imagine tomorrow at school. Joey's grin, the whispers, the nickname that would follow her until graduation.
Tig exhaled through her nose, stepped off the bike, and slung her backpack over one shoulder.
"Fine. One night. You'll see there's nothing in there worth being scared of."
She pushed open the gate. The hinges gave a long, low groan that made her stomach twist. Behind her, the others laughed and whooped, their voices echoing down the empty street, but none of them followed.
The air grew colder as she approached the porch. Every window reflected her flashlight in dull, warped glass. She went to knock and half expected the door to open before she could. She shook her head, turning the old rusted handle and stepping in onto creaky floorboards.
For a moment she thought she could hear something, the groaning of a house in disrepair. Tig swallowed. "Just the wind..." she muttered, though it didn't sound like it.
The house sat still but not silent. Small creatures had made the place their home. Spiders decorated the corners with their intricate webs, catching any intruders to their domain in their tangle. Rats scurried along the floor, unwanted pests that finally found a place to be unbothered. Occasionally a stray dog would make its way in through the profane doors and claim the lower floors as its home.
Nothing in this place would touch these creatures. They were innocent, devoid of the original sin. They knew the rules. The house could be theirs to claim as their own, just as long as they left the room at the top of the winding stairs that lead to the highest point in the manor alone.
Unfortunately humans are not so smart.
The coffin lid slid aside and hit the floor with a mighty thud. Dust and debris swirled through the air, disturbed for the first time in decades. Pale fingers gripped the coffin edges for a moment, steadying the figure inside as if he was remembering how to be alive again. Andrew's eyes opened catching the weak moonlight that filtered through the cracked ceiling. They glowed faintly, an amber hue that pierced the darkness.
"How long has it been?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, more exhale than speech. The air tasted different, he rubbed his forehead.
Something had awoken him. Something was wrong.
He stepped out of the coffin barefoot onto the cold wood, the air carrying the scent of dust and rot. For a moment he looked almost spectral, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled and collar open at the throat. A coat hung nearby, draped over an old chair, a long, weathered garment of pale white fabric. Its inner lining shimmered faintly when he lifted it, light catching at the patterned red stitching hidden within.
Sliding it on, the coat fell around him like a second skin. The high collar framed his neck, the tailored fit tapering to a loose flare at the knees. The hem was frayed but intact, an echo of the man who once wore it into battle. Beneath it, his clothes were a curious mix of time periods, the elegance of a bygone noble layered with the pragmatism of a hunter.
For the first time in two decades, Andrew Bennett stood again. Pale, immaculate, and utterly out of place in a world that had forgotten him.
He adjusted the jacket's lapel, then reached for the sword resting against the coffin's side. He cursed under his breath as he grasped at air. He spun on his heels, searching the darkness for Eclipsaria, the sword that had been by his side through hundreds or even thousands of skirmishes against his fellow creatuers of the night.
It was gone, he searched a while longer despite the hollow feeling in his chest that definitively told him it wasn't here. It felt like he was missing a limb. He pulled on a pair of dark laced combat boots and left them loose at the top.
It was time to go to work, find out what had awoken him and who had stolen Eclipsaria. But first he had a much more pressing matter to deal with. He felt thirsty. More thirsty than is describable to a human. He felt like his lungs were full of sand and he'd died of thirst a thousand times over.
Yes, before he could do anything he would need to feed. He'd need to find a blood bank before this hunger consumed him and he went feral.
He descended the winding staircases of the manor, barely making a noise as he passed through the halls like a phantom. Finally he opened the front door and was bathed in moonlight. Despite his hunger this felt good. To breathe in the night air and to gaze upon the moon once more.
The pale man perched on the edge of an advertisement sign mounted on the side of a skyscraper. His white coat draped down over the sides of the metal structure, his eyes drifting lazily along the neon glow and flashing lights of the city below.
Things had changed, even in the 20 years he had been asleep. Things felt brighter, more electric - like the whole world was running on supercharged batteries. He racked his brain for any constants, anything that might still be around from before his slumber. He supposed he should look at the silver lining, had he been woken up further down the line he'd be starting from square one with no rooting in this world.
Troughton. John Troughton. He had to be alive, surely.
Tracking him down was another task itself, checking the phonebook was one option, did people even use phonebooks anymore? He stood at his full height, balancing precariously on his heels against the corner of the sign, his hands in his pockets as he rocked forward entirely straight and fell into a dive towards the ground.
Finally his form changed. The man dissolved into a flurry of motion, his shape breaking apart into a storm of wings. A dozen bats burst outward, scattering like shrapnel across the night sky before rejoining into a dark mass that swept between the skyscrapers.
The bats converged in the narrow canyon between apartment blocks, streaming through an open vent before rejoining into his normal form upon the small balcony of a sixth-floor flat. The sound of the transformation sounded like something closer to silk being torn than anything biological, and when it ended, Andrew Bennett stood as a silhouette against the weak glow of the city filtering through the rain.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, gaze drifting over the cluttered space visible through the half-drawn blinds - piles of papers, half drunk cups of tea, a desk lamp casting orange light along a desk. Same old John. Some things never change.
He allowed himself a smile, raising a fist and knocking gently on the door. Inside he could hear movement and the noise of confusion, at first the figure moved to the front door, and finding nothing on the other side looked around confused. Andrew knocked again and the figure spun, facing him through the hazy glass of the balcony door.
He picked up a knife, inching slowly towards the door until he could peer an eye around the curtains and at the mass of black staring back at him.
"Who's there?" He manged to squeak out in a wary voice.
"An old friend."The curtian moved, but the door didn’t open. "You've got the wrong place, pal. I don't have any old friends."
"John." Andrew said softly.
"It's me."There was a brief pause, then the sound of a lock turning. The door slid open slightly, spilling yellow light across the balcony.
"Fucking hell..." John Troughton breathed, staring as if he'd seen a ghost - which, in a way, he had. The ghost stared back at his old friend. He was in his mid-to-late forties now, hair scruffier and greying slightly, and he had grown a well trimmed beard. He wore a faded band shirt beneath a half-buttoned overshirt and held the kitchen knife like it was a bazooka. "You're supposed to be dead!" he said finally.
"Is that a joke, John? Technically I've been dead far longer than you've known me. Longer than you've been alive for that matter." Andrew replied.
"Going to invite me in?"John blinked, realizing the implication, and stepped aside. "Yeah, of course. Come in."
The moment Andrew crossed the threshold, something in the air shifted. He took his jacket off and laid it over a chair.
John shut the door behind him. "Christ, you look good for a corpse."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Andrew said, glancing around the room. It was almost exactly like he remembered. Maps pinned to walls, notes on local disappearances half-hidden beneath unpaid bills. But the weapons were gone. No stakes. No crosses. Andrew's hope that John had taken his sword was rapidly failing.
"You've stopped hunting?"John exhaled, sitting against the kitchen table opposite the vampire. "After you disappeared I just felt outclassed. Too many close calls and not enough allies. I really thought you were dead Andrew...what happened?"
Andrew nodded once, choosing his words carefully before answering.
"I wasn't dead as such, but I damn sure never thought I'd be this alive again, at least not so soon." He spun the chair with his jacket on around and took a seat.
"I was asleep. In a trance I'd put myself under until the time I was needed again, until the time the Vampire problem got out of hand again."John frowned. "And you couldn't have told me this? I wasted so much time looking for you!"
"I couldn't, John. They would have found you, I had to give you some chance at a normal life." They both sat in silence for a moment, neither of them wanting to comment on how ridiculous the concept of either of them having a 'normal' life was.
"Speaking of, are you still with Greg?""Greg?..." John asked, a confused look across his face. "Oh! Greg! That must have been about 20 years ago now. I'm afraid I've been flying solo all this time, Andrew. A few flings here and there but most people pack their bags and run the moment you tell them you're a vampire hunter."
Andrew allowed himself a laugh.
"Yes, I can imagine that tends to ruin the romance rather quickly.""Yeah, well, not everyone's into candlelight dinners and holy water." John said with a faint smirk, rubbing the back of his neck. "Speaking of dinner, can I get you anything? I think I've got a few instant ramen packets around here, I know that's what I'd be craving after a 20 year nap."
"Got any blood?" Andrew said simply.
John was taken a back momentarily before he pointed toward the small fridge-freezer in the corner. "I think there should be a few in the back of the freezer. Old habits die hard I guess, never really got around to clearing out the back of the thing."
Andrew turned, opening the door and retrieving a small, sealed bag marked in red and covered in frost. He pierced it gently with his teeth and drank, eyes closing as life flooded back through his veins. The colour returned faintly to his cheeks; when he looked up, his gaze was steady again.
"You know I've never had a freeze-pop before, but they're actually not bad." The two shared a small chuckle, before silence overtook the room again. There was something awkward about the whole thing. To Andrew it was just yesterday that John was in his early 20s, now he was much older and had much more baggage. John's experience of the situation was far weirder.
"So, what now? You crawl out of a coffin, show up on my balcony in the middle of the night - what's the punchline here? You back to saving the world, or is this a social call?"
Andrew leaned forward, forearms resting on the chair's back.
"Something woke me, John. I didn't choose to return."That earned a look. John's brow creased. "Woke you? As in magically? Spiritually? Or..."
"Deliberately." Andrew's voice had a certain weight to it now.
"I felt it the moment my eyes opened. A presence that shouldn't be walking the earth again. Something old, something familiar."John sighed, dragging the chair opposite Andrew and slumping into it. "Let me guess. Mary."
Andrew didn't answer immediately. His gaze had wandered to the window, where the rain streaked thin silver lines across the glass.
"If it's not her, then something that bears her handprint. The air felt wrong when I woke. And Eclipsaria is gone."That pulled John upright. "You're joking! Gone?"
Andrew shook his head.
"I searched every inch of that manor. Someone took it while I slept. You remember what that blade can do to my kind. Big treasure for those in the know."John let out a swear. "So whoever has it either knows exactly what it is - or is about to find out the hard way."
"Precisely." Andrew said.
"Either way, it means someone's stirring the pot. And they wanted me to wake up to find myself unarmed."John pushed back his chair, running both hands through his hair. "Alright. Fine. You've got my attention. But it's been a long time since I played Van Helsing. I've got a job, bills, a landlord who already hates me for playing loud music. I can't just drop everything and start-"
Andrew stood, crossing to the window and staring down at the city below.
"I'd never ask you for that, John. But now that I'm back you're already involved. You always were. You think the creatures out there stopped crawling when you did?"John didn't answer. He just sighed and reached for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. He poured two glasses and slid one across to Andrew, who merely regarded it with amusement.
"Still trying to get me drunk?" Andrew asked.
"Trying to get me drunk." John corrected, taking a sip. "Trust you to show up when the world's about to turn to shit again. Why can't I have normal friends?"
Andrew smirked faintly.
"Ah, come on, John. What fun would normal friends be?""Yeah..." John said, setting the glass down.
"What fun would that be?" He replied in a sarcastic tone.
They both drunk in silence for a time, the walls of discomfort slowly breaking away. Finally, John broke the silence. "There's been talk the last few months." he said. "Bodies drained completely, no sign of forced entry. Police chalked it up to some psycho surgeon, but..." He trailed off.
"Damn, for someone who's retired it sure feels like you've got a foot still in the door." Andrews expression darkened.
"You think it's starting again."John nodded. "I think that whoevers got your sword doesn't know what it's for, or does and isn't using it on the bloodsuckers...no offence."
Andrew exhaled slowly. The faintest shimmer of his fangs caught the light when he spoke.
"Then it seems I woke just in time."
