Chapter Two: Work In Progress

A vampire.

Patrick shook his head again, eyes back on the closed curtains. An idea formed as there was one way to test the statement of this mysterious note, wasn’t there?

The sun was coming up.

Patrick gave one nod, stepped determinedly up to the window, and grasped the curtains with either hand. He was about to throw them open with a flourish and greet the day with a chuckle when he found himself frozen pre-throw.

He couldn’t move his arms.

His fingers grasped the curtains in a vice-like grip, keeping them shut rather than opening them.

Patrick would have panicked if the whole thing wasn’t so utterly confounding.

He let go, took a step back, hands on his hips as he tried to assess the situation.

”I’m not a vampire,” he said firmly. ”Like I wouldn’t know if I was…”

The simple presence of that newness when he woke returned. Something powerful inside, like a seed that was ready to sprout at a moment’s notice.

But that was impossible.

Why wasn’t he empirically rejecting the idea? Why was his brain turning the word over again and again as though it might stick. It wasn’t going to stick. For obvious reasons like how vampirism wasn’t real. There was no evidence anywhere that vampirism could exist. The more he thought it, the more his rational side was taking over. It calmed him.

Whatever was going on with him there was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

The note—a prank.

The inability to open the curtains—some delayed sleep-related muscle deficiency.

The memory gaps from the night prior—the selectiveness of the brain was scientific fact; for some reason it had chosen to delete how he made it home last night.

Perhaps something awful had happened and the screeching tires were hiding something much more sinister. Did he witness a murder? Was it really a woman screaming that he kept hearing and his brain, to protect him, had distorted the distressing memory into something else entirely.

Oh, God.

What if the note was some sick tease from the murderer.

What if the murderer had brought him home and this was the beginning of some twisted game? I couldn’t let you die, the note said. Like it was mocking him, telling him death was still coming for him. He just wouldn’t know when.

Just call Gavin, he thought.

Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.

Unfortunately for him, his phone was out of battery. He plugged it in, wondering if he might, in fact, be an idiot. He hadn’t had a drop to drink last night and yet he’d somehow blacked out. Was that even possible?

His phone lit up, the battery charged enough for him to call Gavin, preferably to yell at him for being a wanker and always taking everything too far.

But Gavin didn’t pick up.

”Wanker,” Patrick grumbled, hanging up.

Fine. There was nothing more to it. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet and oh fuck! Patrick couldn’t believe he’d forgotten he had class in less than an hour. His first class with a professor he was desperate to impress. He had already made a plan for how their first conversation would go. He’d drawn a goddamn diagram of the probability he’d screw up and asked Sally to score it! Fuckadoodledoo, time the wake up! Whatever this mystery was he would have to solve it later. He couldn’t miss this class. Professor Waters was notorious for never allowing anyone into his good graces and Patrick wasn’t going to fail at gaining access before he’d even tried.

He pulled his clothes on, brushed his teeth, ignoring how his mouth felt like it had been set on fire, gathered his tattered briefcase in one hand, shoved his half-charged phone into it, and went up to the door.

He stood there for a moment as though he’d completely forgotten how doors worked or, rather, why he needed it open but then he reached for the doorknob.

And paused again, fingers barely grasping the brass.

No, not possible.

But it wasn’t only possible, it was happening. The same thing as with the curtains. He couldn’t move a muscle, he couldn’t even jiggle the handle. He couldn’t get the door open because his damn hand wouldn’t even so much as close around the doorknob.

Author’s note: This chapter will updated as I write it and tagged Work in Progress until it’s completed. Slight disclaimer as I’ve never gone to Oxford and am doing research while writing: details may change as I’m editing as I go. If anyone sees a detail that is ghastly out of order, please, feel free to let me know.