I waited up watching the snow come down for the first time this year. It was slow, gradually becoming heavy, overtaking lawns and cars. It was like a fresh new coat of paint over the neighborhood. A new beginning, one where I never saw Max again.

After answering all the police questions, leaving out the tid bits about the Vampires, I found myself in and out of an ongoing investigation. One where it was found out that rumor might not have been so off base about the old church. The bones dug up by the two of us were children’s bones, multiple. The discovery came as a shock to both I and the police. It begged the question on what else could as buried back there. The police never questioned me about digging that hole. I was what they called a passerby, a good Samaritan, who did a good thing. I was deemed a hero, who prevented more from happening, even if it was all I could do. I was never the trespasser, only the rider by, the silent hero in the night who did everything he could. I wondered if they questioned Max, and what she said.

I found the news of the old couples doomed love story tragic and disgusting, far worse than the creatures any of us thought them to be. Max was never mentioned in any of the news programs or by the cops. The only information they had was how I met her, and I truthfully never divulged that.

I never did change into a vampire, and after checking, over and over, the bite mark wasn’t even a mark. It was smooth skin, nothing left but a lingering bruise and sickness.

My father never talked about the case, and nor did I ever ask. All I knew is he looked crest fallen coming back home the next day. It wasn’t until years later when I asked my mother for the truth that I got it, reluctantly. How there was a dungeon in the basement for the child, naked pictures of her lining the wall, and how they made her spend nights alone in a shed. My mother swore she’d never heard of a man so sick, and that apparently the children dug up in his back yard were his own children. The man even claimed that he did it, although some speculated it was his wife, getting rid of the evidence or due to her failing mental sickness. I was sick to my stomach hearing that last bit. The same shed she let me in, one I was sure I’d criticized in her presence. I was also in the presence of those bones, and the mother mental deterioration had to have been what I heard that day. I let it all sit within me for years, before I started writing my story.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I never passed by the house again, or at least not that winter, spring, or summer. It wasn’t until my father passed, and I was on the verge of finishing my book. That I thought to come and take a look at what inspired me to write and finish the story.

It looked completely the same, only the house and its amenities were covered in snow. The shed caught my eyes, because it looked a lot more worn than I was used to seeing. Looking at how small and used up it was made me sick to my stomach. The holes outside, the improper ventilation, and only imagining how cold it must have gotten on nights like this.

Epilogue

There are no more pages. I’m on the acknowledgment, where I thank my family, agent, and the mysterious visitor who comes to my window at night. I chuckle when I see the last line, a bit I threw in there myself.

The face beyond the tarp appears like a flash in my mind. Then it’s of Max standing beside the Preacher, a man I almost never think of. His face and body is melting, almost mending in with Maxes and I take a drink of whiskey to shake it off.

Although I want to, I don’t throw the book across the room. I close it, letting the words not only disappear from in front of me, but from my mind. The conference, on my last stop of this way to long book tour, appears in my head.

Im reading the final page out loud. Where Max gets the happy ending she deserved, passing it off like I know. Deep down I know the truth. That girl could never have that ending, and I regret it. I was useless like I was inside the book, but a part of that conference continued to replay in my mind. It isn’t the read along, nor is it where people tell me how I came to write the book. It’s of the last guests question. Where she didn’t ask anything, only thanked me for writing the book.I don’t recognized the face. It’s been 15 years, but there is no resemblance to anyone I know or might have known. So, it comes to me that she is truly thankful for my writing, and I can’t stand that. Her words are loosely thrown around, and I seethe on the inside. I attempt to take another drink, when I hear a tap at the window.

I startle, almost spilling the glass, when I notice a bird, flapping, disappearing passed the window. I don’t finish my drink, because I realize how dark it is outside, and that it’s started snowing.

Instantly my shoulder throbs, and I know there’s going to be a storm, so I stand up to go out and watch the view, while I can. I notice the windows do not have any locks on them, and I wonder if they can even open from this height, all the way up here. My mind floats to trivial things before I remind myself of that little girl, and if she’ll come again, like she does every night. Lastly I wonder if she’ll come and take me this time. But as of right now. I look outside, admiring the view, and I think for the first time, how thankful I am for no locks.