The fluorescent lights of Bellingham High buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the chipped linoleum of Room 204. Ethan Cross slouched at his desk near the back, doodling a snarling wolf in the margins of his chemistry notebook. His dark hair hung over his sharp but weary eyes—exhausted from late-night gaming sessions—and his hoodie carried the faint scent of damp evergreens from his rainy ride to school. Outside, the April rain streaked the tall windows, blurring Cornwall Avenue into a gray haze. It was Tuesday, April 8, 2015, and the world felt as dull and oppressive as ever.
"Cross!" Mr. Hargrove's gravelly voice cut through the monotony, snapping Ethan upright. The chemistry teacher loomed at the front of the room. "You planning to join us today, or are you too busy dreaming up dragons?"
A few students snickered—Ryan Matthews the loudest, his broad shoulders shaking from the jock table near the front. Ethan's cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, but he kept his head down, tracing the wolf's fangs deeper into the paper. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the relentless patter of rain.
"Speak up, nerd," Ryan taunted, smirking. Ethan's grip tightened on his pencil, but he stayed silent, refusing to give Ryan the satisfaction of a response as Mr. Hargrove resumed the lesson.
When the bell screeched, Ethan felt a mix of relief and dread. Only one more class remained: P.E., where his physical weakness made him a frequent target of mockery. He shuffled out of the classroom and headed to the gym, his stomach already twisting with anxiety.
In P.E., the students were split into teams for basketball. Ethan, as usual, was picked last. He tried to focus on the game, but his mind wandered, replaying Ryan's taunts. With about ten minutes left in the period, a sharp cramp twisted his stomach. Wincing, he clutched his abdomen and glanced at the clock. *Just ten more minutes,* he thought, but the pain worsened. He couldn't wait. Raising his hand, he caught the coach's eye. "Can I go to the bathroom?" he asked, his voice tight.
The coach nodded, and Ethan hurried out of the gym, his sneakers squeaking on the wet floor. In the bathroom, he battled waves of nausea and diarrhea, staying there past the end of class. For what felt like an eternity, he wondered why his stomach was rebelling—he hadn't eaten anything unusual. Then a memory flickered: Frank, one of Ryan's crew, staring at him in the cafeteria, watching him eat with an odd intensity. Suspicion gnawed at him. Had they tampered with his food?
Meanwhile, back in the gym, P.E. class ended. As the period wrapped up, Frank barreled into an opposing player, sending him crashing to the floor. The boy's knee scraped open, a trickle of blood staining the hardwood.
Frank froze. His pupils dilated, and his brown eyes shifted to a chilling blood-red. Before anyone could react, Ryan swooped in, forcing Frank's head down to conceal the change. The bell rang, masking the moment in chaos. Ryan yanked Frank out of the gym, the rest of their group trailing behind as they bolted for the bathroom. By the time they arrived, Ethan was still in the stall, and Frank's teeth had elongated into fangs, his breathing ragged with the memory of blood. "Calm down and breathe," Ryan ordered, his voice steady but firm.
"I thought you said you had it under control, Frank. What went wrong?" Oscar, another of Ryan's crew, asked, concern edging his tone.
"Now's not the time for stupid questions, Oscar," Frank snarled, his voice trembling. He clawed at his chest. "Guys, I can't control it. I'm transforming. Please, Ryan, help me stop it!" His plea was raw, desperate.
Ryan didn't hesitate. He dashed to his locker and returned with a black bottle. "Drink this blood. It'll calm you down," he said, thrusting it into Frank's shaking hands. Frank downed the contents in frantic gulps, then took deep, shuddering breaths. Slowly, his fangs retracted, his eyes faded back to brown, and the tension drained from his body.
"Thanks, Ryan," Frank muttered, relief washing over him.
"Yeah, let's get out of—wait, do you hear that?" Ryan's head snapped toward the stalls.
"Fuck, there's a loud heartbeat here," Oscar hissed, his eyes narrowing.
Minutes earlier, Ethan had been hunched in the stall, his stomach finally settling. He was about to leave when the bathroom door slammed open, and Ryan's group stormed in. He froze, his breath catching as their bizarre conversation unfolded. *'Losing control?' 'Drinking blood?' 'What's happening?'* The questions spun in his mind, each word stoking his fear. His heart pounded, sweat prickling his forehead as panic took hold.
The stall door flew open, and Ryan loomed over him, all 6'4" of him radiating menace. Ethan's mind blanked. "H-hey, Ryan, I didn't hear anything, I swear!" he stammered, instantly regretting it. *Fuck,* he cursed inwardly. He'd just admitted he'd heard everything.
Ryan's eyes flared blood-red, locking onto Ethan's. "Forget everything you heard. Get your things and go home," he commanded, his voice heavy with an eerie weight.
"Yes, of course, right away," Ethan replied, the words tumbling out automatically. But as he turned to flee, a strange clarity pierced the fog in his mind. He sprinted from the bathroom, too terrified to look back, convinced that a glance would mean his end. Behind him, Ryan's group stared in disbelief.
"The compulsion didn't work on him," Oscar said, his voice sharp with anger. "Why'd you let him go, Ryan?"
"You'll understand later," Ryan replied coolly. "For now, follow him. Keep tabs. If he tries to tell anyone, knock him out and hide him. Tonight, we'll deal with him. I've got a few things to handle first." With that, he strode off, a faint gleam of excitement flickering in his eyes, unnoticed by the others.
Frank and Oscar exchanged puzzled looks but didn't press further. Oscar set off to track Ethan.
Still shaking, Ethan reached his locker, grabbing his bag and the keys to his Yamaha V-Star bike—a gift from his mother for his 18th birthday. He bolted outside, mounted the bike, and sped away, the cold wind biting his face but doing nothing to quell his terror. The bathroom scene replayed in his head, and worse, he feared Ryan wouldn't let him live knowing their secret.
He shoved his swirling questions aside, focusing only on reaching safety. He pulled onto Eldridge Avenue, where his house stood—a modest two-story with faded blue paint and an overgrown garden, its windows dark. Parking the bike, he rushed inside, locking every door and window. Only then did his breathing slow, a fragile sense of security settling over him. Only then did his breathing slow, a fragile sense of security settling over him. He'd been alone here for months, ever since his mother took a job as a chef on a cruise ship, her long voyages keeping her away for weeks at a time, sending money for food and essentials and checking in with occasional calls.
In his room, Ethan didn't bother changing. His mind churned with fear and confusion. What was wrong with Ryan's group? Why did their eyes turn red? Why did Frank need blood? 'Blood… vampires drink blood, but they're just myths… aren't they?' The thought chilled him to the core. Desperate for answers, he booted up his gaming computer—a sleek setup with dual monitors and glowing LED lights that bathed the room in blue. Opening Google, he typed with trembling fingers: "real vampire sightings."
The results loaded, a mix of debunked tales and fiction. But one headline stopped him cold: "Unexplained Disappearances and Strange Sightings in Bellingham." He clicked, his pulse racing. The article detailed vanishings that happened hundreds of years ago, alongside reports of red-eyed figures. As he read, shock gripped him. The supernatural might not be a myth after all.