And when you close your eyes…



    The wind whistled silently outside the large, rectangular window, raindrops flicking onto the glass and running down in rivulets. The night beyond was eradicated by the glare of the indoor lighting, the windows paneled in shadow-backed mirrors while the passengers inside sat in concentrated silence. The ferry, making the nighttime crossing across the stormy sound, battered its way through the squall, wind and rain breaking harmlessly off its giant metal hull.

    Peter sat in silence, seemingly engulfed by the stupor which had pervaded the rest of the ferry. Around him, almost everyone was sitting, drowsily eyeing books or leaning back in their chairs, trying to catch some sleep. Everywhere on the 500 foot craft, other passengers were doing the same. The lights were dimmed, but not turned off.

    He turned away from his pallid reflection, trying not to lose himself in the mindless silence of sleep, escaping the violent waves that clashed within him. His mother sat opposite, her head on her chest as she rested. Seeing him looking, she gave him a quick smile. But beneath that, Peter knew, lay the suspicion and pity which everyone had exhibited towards him after…it…happened. Ever since then, he had found himself lost, adrift on his private ocean of painful memories and turbulent emotions. Peter stared onwards, looking down the endless rows of seats and people, succumbing as the old memories washed over him once again. He ran a hand through his black hair, his eyes hollow with emotion. But not a single tear ran down his tight face.

    They were leaving, “starting new”. Ever since his life had been irrevocably changed, twisted, he had become an outcast, even to his own mother. He knew how lost and sad she really was, how he was no longer her son. She cared and looked after him, trying to shut out the cold, numbing truth, that her son was gone, replaced by some cruel uncaring creature. All she loved was her fantasy, her memories of happiness, of how he had once been.

    The windows of the ferry ran with condensation, the cold droplets of water flowing down the panes of glass betraying the storm beyond. Peter turned, gazing into the window with hollow eyes, trying to see through the reflection to the night outside. Like two realities superimposed upon each other, the reflection of the ferries passengers skewed the outside storm, giving it a surreal, almost nonexistent quality. It was hard to imagine that just beyond the window lay a maelstrom of wind and rain, of thunder and clouds. All that could be heard was a dim rumbling, like the distant roar of some ancient beast.

As the ferry continued onwards, Peter slowly felt himself grow drowsier, until he was forcing himself to stay awake. He now feared his dreams, the realm where his will deserted him and he was left defenseless before his punishing past, prisoner to be tormented by the hundred inner screams that echoed in his silent throat. He was utterly lost, tossed like a rag doll by the malevolent forces at work within him, small and terrified.

Peter jerked himself away from his seat, willing himself not to let the numbing grip of slumber take hold of his senses. He looked at his watch. 12:05PM. Around him, almost everyone was sleeping now, books in their laps and their heads on eachothers shoulders. Even his mother had wearied of staying awake, and was snoring gently. With a shiver, Peter suddenly realized how cold it had gotten, and peered out through the window, wiping away the condensation. The black night, distant and obscure through the window, raged on in a violent turmoil of rain and wind. Peter could barely make out the ferry’s contours. Water pooled everywhere, rippling as the wind rushed across the decks. As Peter looked onwards, he noticed a dark figure, looking out to sea. He shuddered with icy apprehension, peering at the distant silhouette.

Suddenly, a streak of lighting appeared on the horizon, blasting the deck with light and shadows. The night outside was visible for a moment, sheets of rain hanging in the air as they whipped across the ferry, the bulky shapes of life rafts and flotation buoys outlined in shadows. Peter blinked, looking back towards where the figure had been. It was gone.

~©~

The night sang over the cold metal surface of the ferry’s deck, invisible cords of rain lashing across the blacked out sky. The wind was alive with fury, sweeping the slanted rain over the air. Above, a brooding, turbulent sky broiled in a tumultuous cacophony of rain and clouds. The floodlights sweeping the deck seemed weak and insignificant amidst the storms fury, rain sweeping through their narrow paths in torrents.

Inside, sheltered from the storm’s fury by the bulk of the ferry, Peter lay sleeping. After the long night, and with the long crossing ahead of him, he had finally succumbed to the numbing narcotic of sleep, his head leaning against the wall. The ferry shuddered faintly, near-imperceptible vibrations rattling through from the engine’s beat.


With a start, Peter woke from one of the nightmares which had plagued him for the last month. He looked around, dazedly gathering in his surroundings, before checking his watch once again. 1:08. The night remained as dark and violent as before, and the passengers around him did not seem to have changed. His mother, still snoring, rested her head in silent sleep, while almost all of the passengers did the same. To Peter, the silence seemed eerie, and almost foreboding.

Standing, now, to stretch his legs, Peter felt a sudden urge to find something to drink. Looking back for a second at his mother, he set off down the carpeted walkway towards the nearest water fountain. It wasn’t her fault that she still loved him, tried to love him, despite what had been said, what had been done. Even if most people regarded Peter with disgust and hate, veiled only by their simpering pity, she was incapable of such a thing, of losing both her son and her husband.

But Peter still got an icy feeling at the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of that fateful day, when it had happened... The day that it all had changed, the day that it all started. It had been normal, at first—school, coming home, meeting his parents… And then the night had come, and with it, the terror. A fire sparked at a turn of fate, consuming their house and rooms, surrounding them with pain and heat. He remembered people outside yelling, his mother and father running to him, a window smashing open. And at the moment they huddled inside, alone, against the fate that awaited them. Peter was cold with the pain of that moment, the fires of his memories flickering behind his eyes.

Peter abruptly turned a corner, facing down a long carpeted hallway. Windows at front and back shone black reflections back at him, belying the stormy night outside. He walked forwards to the water fountain near the end of the corridor, leaned down, taking a long sip of water from the small spout. Straightening, he studied his reflecting in the window. Dark hair over his eyes, his face was pale and gaunt. His brow furrowed. What was that? From the corner of his mouth down his cheek and neck, a dark, purple vein pulsed ominously just below the surface. Against his white skin it stood out in sharp relief, almost threatening.

Putting a hand to his cheek, feeling his cold skin. Nothing. His reflection did the same, its eyes staring back at him with an almost menacing air. The vein remained, though, as eerie and threatening as ever. Backing away, Peter once again ran his hand over his cheek, trying to feel for any sort of disturbance. The skin was smooth and unbroken. The hallway seemed imperceptibly darker, all of a sudden, shadows rimming the walls and floor, as if encroaching on the light.

He turned, walking back to an empty doorway that led into a restroom. The ferry shuddered once more as he pushed open the door, walking across slightly wet tiles. He stared at the mirror. Nothing. His cheeks were sunken but unbroken, the bags beneath his eyes the only color in his tight face. Peter started, suddenly realizing that he was covered in sweat. Thinking how tired he must be, he wiped his brow with his hands, turned a faucet to wash his face.

The sink ran red, swirling down the scarlet flow that jetted from the tap that Peter had turned. Blood. Splashing over the rim and onto the mirror in flecks of color, running rich and dark and vivid onto the floor, it sickly gleamed in the fluorescent lights. Peter stood, surprised, staring in terror at the mortal fluid that overflowed the sink and dripped onto the cold tiles. His hands were held in front of him, covered, slick with blood. The entire counter was covered, blood falling and running in rivers across the floor. Turning with dream-like slowness, Peter half expected the horror that met his eyes, the monster that lay in wait behind him. Hunching by the door, shuddering in pain, a twisted, mutilated corpse stared with empty sockets.

“P-p-pete-r-r” Its mouth, a burned and bloodied hole gaping into slimy darkness, twisted itself painfully around the word. “I-I- You… Killed me…” It reached out a horribly deformed limb, a nub of a hand hanging from its end. Shining in the light, its skin was burned and scarred, eaten away by the flames and heat of a horrible fire. Limp, crouching, it held itself up on broken legs burned to the bone by those withering flames. A sudden convulsion wracked its body, twitching its limbs in a horrible caricature of agony.

Sickened with terror and loathing, Peter screamed in frustration. “NO!!… NO!!” The flames of guilt and anguish consumed him as he stared at what had once been his father. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please, please… I’m sorry…” He cried, blood and snot smearing his face. “I-I-I’m…sorry—”


“—Peter! Peter!” His mother held Peters shoulders as he opened his eyes, struggling. His mouth open, saying silent words in the depth of his dream, he suddenly stuttered awake.
“Wh-what? What?” He looked around, for a moment dazed.
“It’s alright, honey, you had a bad dream… Shh, that’s all, that’s all… Just a dream.” His mother hugged him closely, looking away.
It had just been another dream, another terror. Mindlessly trapped, he had fallen once again into the clutches of his nighttime horrors, a painful, lonely torture that he had felt every night since. “…For killing you…” He mouthed silently, his head down.
“Are you feeling ok? Want me to get you something to drink?” His mother said, concerned.
“I’m… Fine… Going for a walk.” Trying desperately to escape the horror he had felt only moments before, Peter rose from his seat. He looked around momentarily before walking off towards the bow of the boat, his head hunched and hands in his pockets.

~©~

1:08. The display on Peters watch blinked in the dim light that surrounded him as he walked down the long hallway. On one side, windows hid the storm with their reflective glow. On the other, a wall, punctuated with doorways and corridors stretched to either end of the ferry. The long fluorescent lights on the ceiling gave it an eerie, almost depressing feel, the soft white light fading into the scuffed plastic fixtures and surfaces. Peter could almost hear the storm as it roared outside, battering the ferry with wind and rain. Almost everything was gently shuddering, vibrating with the ferry as it smashed its way though the tall waves beyond.

The entire ferry seemed cold and lonely to Peter—sleeping passengers, darkened lights, the lonely hum of machinery pervading the air like a sly undertone. As he neared to bow he shuddered, remembering his dream and the sick, twisted terror that he couldn’t escape. Why had this happened to him, why had it turned out this way? As the flames had grown higher, hiding him behind the blasting heat of fear and loss, he only vaguely remembered what had happened. That night was Peters constant fear, red tongues of hatred and self-loathing that lashed within himself like the fire that had destroyed his home, and his father. But perhaps it really had been him—had been his hand that had reached out suddenly, pushing back the figure of his father as the flashing teeth and wavering groans of the fire closed in—perhaps it had been his own wrong and twisted will that had acted so suddenly, an eruption of his evil self. All those times he lay awake and tortured, sharp tongues of fire curling around his soul, had he really known it was him? Even if everyone said it was an accident, claimed they were sincere, treated Peter like a victim, he knew better. How could he have been so foolish as to believe them? He had killed his father, he had pushed him back, it hadn’t been an accident.

Turning to the window once more, he stared into his darkened, hollow eyes. The eyes—the face—of a murderer. Fists clenching, wanting to scream, he looked around himself in distress. The entire scene now gained an air of dark, dismal cruelty. Corridor fading, lights flicking and flashing, the floor tilting under him, Peters’ vision began to fade into low tones of disgust and fear. Seeing, hearing nothing, he stumbled forwards, oblivious to his surroundings. The only thing that mattered was the pain and frustration that crushed his soul, suffocating him in barbed wire and razor blades—the only thing that mattered was escape.


With a bang, a pair of doors burst open, letting a ray of light shine out into the raging storm. A silhouetted figure, bent and struggling against the howling wind, staggered out into the punishing elements. Water whipped through the air, slicing against his skin. Wind lifted and pounded his clothes, pulling his hair back from his face. The dark night flowed in again as the door swung shut, closing off the light that flowed so bright into the netherworld of chaos just beyond. From this perspective, the entire ferry was illuminated in an eerie yellow light that bled into the air through the wide windows, highlighting strands of rain momentarily as they crashed against the deck.

Peter faced into the wind and screamed, his voice tearing away to be lost in the chaos of the storm. Lightning sliced the sky, blinding him in light. For a moment the darkened sky was visible, huge, turbulent clouds sagging with the weight of rain creating a disturbing tableau against the raging sea. Then a roll of thunder shook the deck as more and more rain came crashing down. Soaked, battered, cold, Peter sagged against a metal railing, tears finally springing to his eyes. “No… No…” He mouthed, rain mixing with tears. Staring into the blackness around him, he sobbed with the rain stinging his cheeks and the howling wind erasing his cries.

With an anguished cry he straightened, wiping away the salty tears that clung to his eyelashes. Standing there, freezing wet and battered by the wind, he felt as if a cold grip had tightened around his heart. His fear and terror had slowly faded from his body, dripping out with every tear. Now, only his pain and anger burned within him, numbing his heart and limbs, running hot through his veins. His blood steeped in a torture of agonizing tears, he Peter felt his throat tighten and his hands clench. Almost instinctively, he put a hand to his cheek, searching. A tight and knotted vein roiled beneath his fingertips, pulsing down his cheek and neck.
Now oblivious to the rain and win that battered him, Peter turned his gaze to the sleeping people lining the seats, visible through the ferry’s long windows. He smiled, feeling teeth long and sharp slide beneath his lips, thirsting to drink from flesh. “So this is how Vampires are made…” A single thought flicked through his mind before he strode to the ferry doors, flinging them wide open.

A lone beam of light flashed out into the darkness like a beacon of lost hope and happiness, valiantly cutting through the rain and dark into the sky beyond. And then, inevitably, it slowly narrowed, cutting off to a sliver and finally vanishing with a painful scream.