He had been drawn to the scene immediately, which for reasons unknown
to him portended sadness. A faded wooden one-story building faced the viewer.
Two dirty four-pane windows were positioned to the left of a split-level
door, one boarded up window to the right. A length of post and rail fence,
buttressed by a rusty woven wire fence, ran from the foreground up to a
closed gate, which met the right side of the door. A similar wood fence ran
to the right and formed a ‘T’ with the first. The fences had the same washed
out pallor as the building.

Sitting by the window, I stare out over the ocean but a chill floats through
me so I move. There are many old articles and pictures framed on the walls. A
snippet of time splashed across the room, where the memories are as faded as
the wall paper.

She had the sweetest, softest lilt to her voice; pale skin robbed of
sunlight and cold, fluttering hands like two small birds. I attributed all of
it to her working nights. I’d done the same before I got married. I could
remember having to be still and quiet, fighting through the 3 AM chills.

The Farm. No words are magical enough to describe it. This was no ordinary
farm from picture books or the kind you might visit on school trips. It was
more like farms used to be in the old days - a forest with corn growing in it
here and there. There were - and still are to this day - leafy paths and
hidden lakes and a creek winding back and forth through the woods and barns
and bridges and more than one old haunted house.

In front of her was the grizzled woman dressed in a murky ink, taut blue skin
outlined a cadaver-like form. Hands held shards of sharp glass as mirrors
like eyes, reflected a thousand fears, fragments of nightmares echoed as the
jagged glass repeated deep red cuts.

It’s a 9km hike through swathes of Camel Grass, spikey headed Black Boys and shocking pink overhangs of Kangaroo Paws. It’s an unrelenting trek round
burnt out Tuart trees, over red earth and bone white granite; and I’ve lost
track of the number of times I’ve made it now.

What were we? What are we, more accurately? Vampires. The Children of Demons. Masters of Darkness. Jesters in our own Grotesque Court. We are beautiful and deadly. We swoon and slit throats. We are beloved and forever lonely.

When they go to bed she stays awake and I slowly crawl out of my hiding spot
to see her closer. She is humming a song I know from somewhere but don't
remember. She has a pen and piece of paper. I lean closer to her and she
starts to write on the paper: Papa killed me.

“Dad. How are you?” I can see the apprehension oozing from the man that
thinks he’s my son. He enters the room gingerly as if ready to bolt into and
down the hallway at any moment. What’s he afraid of? Does he think I can get
out of this bed and tackle him? Last week, yes. Today, no. I stare through
the man.

When she unrolled the newsprint, she dropped her coffee mug. It hit the
table, splattering coffee over the wood surface and spackled her nightgown,
then tumbled to the floor where it smashed, spraying the white tile with
brown liquid. She stood slowly and groped behind her for the phone, keeping
her eyes on the photos on the front page.