I sat in my room, in a brand new town, unopened, packing boxes scattered about and used as replacements for furniture. I stared at the blank canvas in front of me. It was old now, and a bit banged up, sitting on my easel, a symbol of hope. But nothing stirred inside of me. The creative light that had once enlivened my world, lay dead and still, lost in the dark.

I heard a noise behind me. And I knew what it was. It was My Monster.

He was courteous that way. If he’d wanted to, I’d have never known that he was there. But whenever he tracked me down, and these days it was always too soon, he’d announce himself by the scuffing of a shoe on the floor, or a quiet cough.

I turned to look at him. It was all so damn ordinary now, the horror. Here was the eater of my creativity, and my life. He smiled. I think he liked showing off his teeth. But, lately, my lack of response disappointed him.

“Hello Marsha”

I didn’t even bother to speak. He walked around the room, glancing at the packing boxes with aged tape, and coffee ring stains. Dusty spiderwebs decorated the cracked ceiling of the cheap apartment. Unadorned, smudged windows muffled the muted light of the night outside. “This is so dreary.” Stephen said, “You should come back to California. Back to your job at the factory.”

I narrowed my eyes. I felt the depth of the “Not Care” within me. “Stephen,” I finally said, “…stop playing with me and get it over with.”

The vampire lowered his eyes and softly chuckled. “Oh, dear, sweet Marsha. You really think that I’d kill you? Ho ho! Never.”

I flew off the chair, took two or three determined steps toward him in a brief flash of fury before that drained away into nothingness. Then there was despair, but even that found no foothold. Finally, quietly, I asked, simply, “why?”

He looked at me, a smile bubbling like dark, boiling oil in his eyes. “Because, You Know. And it amuses me.”

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I flinched. Surprising myself that I had that much life left in me to react. And he began to walk about the room, examining the manifestation of my ruin.

“We live in a world, Marsha, where everyone has already decided how things work. Things that do not fit the script are relentlessly unseen.” He paused at the window, breathed upon the soiled glass, and drew a smiley face in the circle of fog. “My kind live among you. We take, we kill, and do such wonderful, deadly, powerful things. And nobody ever sees it. Do you know what that is like?”

He found my “kitchen”, opened the refrigerator door to reveal grape soda cans, HoHos, and American cheese, and nothing more. He frowned for a moment, then continued.

“Before you, for too many years, I have burned to tell someone my secrets. To let anyone know that death walks among you. And I … have been so bored. I have sprinkled hints here and there, taken chances, and still, nothing ever happens. Decades pass, half-centuries, and I am alone in what I do.”

His circle of my apartment left him now, standing beside me, and he reached out a manicured hand and brushed my cheek. I held myself still. I’d long since given up hope of escape.

“And then you came to work at my factory. Perky, little Marsha. So efficient, so determined to anticipate needs … and then one day, you saw something. You almost pushed it out of your mind, but then you saw more bits. I could see the wheels turn. It was lovely. And suddenly, I knew that I was no longer alone with my secrets.”

He leaned his face in close to mine. “Yes, I could kill you. But I have so many others ready for my knife. But only one Marsha.”

I wanted to not tremble. I sought to be dead inside, empty. So I would give him nothing.

And he only smiled. Turning from me, he walked to the window. He opened it up, and slid outside, floating in the air.

“I’ll deposit another 5 thousand into your account tonight. Eat something. You’re getting too thin. Then feel free to run if you want to. I like finding you. But feel free to stay. And I’ll drop in from time to time and tell you about … my day.”

Then he was gone.

I sat a long time.

Outside, the night surrendered to the morning. My bones ached. I was so tired, but I knew I could never sleep after a visit from Stephen.

It was just too much. Knowing he was out there. Knowing what he did. Knowing people were suffering and dying. And I could do nothing. I could tell no one. For who would believe me? Like Stephen, I was alone with his secrets.

The canvas behind me glowed a bit in the growing sunlight. It was almost as if life itself asked me to rise above this. To try, to live. But there was nothing in me to give.