Blue Bloods: Keys to the Repository

“Who are you?” the boy asked, suddenly turning the tables.

“I’m Hannah,” she said in a small voice. Why had she told him her real name? Did it matter?

“Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“How strange,” the boy said thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “nice meeting you, Hannah.” Then he walked out of her room and closed the door. Soon after, the light blinked off.

Hannah lay in her bed, wide awake, for a very long time, her heart galloping in her chest. The next morning, she didn’t tell her mom about the boy in her room. She convinced herself it was just a dream. That was it. She had just made him up. Especially the part about him looking like a younger Johnny Depp. She’d been wanting a boyfriend so much, she’d made one appear. Not that he would be her boyfriend. But if she was ever going to have a boyfriend, she would like him to look like that. Not that boys who looked like that ever looked at girls like her. Hannah knew what she looked like. Small. Average. Quiet. Her nicest feature were her eyes: sea-glass green framed with lush dark lashes. But they were hidden behind her eyeglasses most of the time.

Her mother always accused her of having an overactive imagination, and maybe that was all this was. She had finally let the winter crazies get to her. It was all in her mind.

But then he returned the next evening, wandering into her room as if he belonged there. She gaped at him, too frightened to say a word, and he gave her a courtly bow before disappearing. The next night, she didn’t fall asleep. Instead, she waited.

Three in the morning.

The lights blazed on. Was it just Hannah’s imagination, or was the light actually growing stronger? The door banged. This time, Hannah was awake and had expected it. She saw the boy appear in front of her closet, materializing out of nowhere. She blinked her eyes, blood roaring in her ears, trying to fight the panic welling up inside. Whatever he was . . . he wasn’t human.

“You again,” she called, trying to feel brave.

He turned around. He was wearing the same clothes as the two nights prior. He gave her a sad, wistful smile. “Yes.”

“Who are you? What are you?” she demanded.

“Me?” He looked puzzled for a moment, and then stretched his neck. She could see the wound just underneath his chin more clearly this time. Two punctures. Scabby and . . . blue. They were a deep indigo color, not the brown-ish-red she had been expecting. “I think I’m what you call a vampire.”

“A vampire?” Hannah recoiled. If he were a ghost, it would be a different story. Hannah’s aunt had told her all about ghosts—she had gone through a Wiccan phase, as well as a spirit-guide phase. Hannah wasn’t afraid of ghosts. Ghosts couldn’t harm you, unless it was a poltergeist. Ghosts were vapors, spectral images, maybe even just a trick of the light.

But vampires . . . there was a Shelter Island legend about a family of vampires who had terrorized the island a long time ago. Blood-sucking monsters, pale and undead, cold and clammy to the touch, creatures of the night that could turn into bats, or rats, or worse. She shivered and looked around the room, wondering how fast she could jump out of bed and out the door. If there was even time to escape, could you outrun a vampire?

“Don’t worry, I’m not that kind of vampire,” he said soothingly, as if he’d read her mind.

“What kind would that be?”

“Oh you know, chomping on people without warning. All that Dracula nonsense. Growing horns out of my head like your sad vampires on T.V.” He shrugged. “For one thing, we’re not ugly.”

Hannah wanted to laugh but felt it would be rude. Her fright was slowly abating.

“Why are you here?”

“We live here,” he said simply.

“No one lived here for years before us,” Hannah said. “John Carter—the caretaker, he said it’s been empty forever.”

“Huh.” The boy shrugged. He took the corner seat across from her bed.

Hannah glanced at him warily, wondering if she should let him get that close. If he was a vampire, he didn’t look cold and clammy. He looked tired. Exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. But what did she know? Could she trust him? He had visited her twice already, after all. If he’d wanted to drain her blood, he could have at any time. There was something about him—he was almost too cute to be scared of.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked, when she found her voice.

“Oh, you mean the thing with the lights?”

She nodded.

“Dunno. For a long time, I couldn’t do anything. I was sleeping in your closet but you didn’t see me. Then I realized I could turn the lights on and off, on and off. But it was only when you started noticing that I began to feel more like myself.”

“Why are you here?”

The boy closed his eyes. “I’m hiding from someone.”

“Who?”