Stalker

"You were supposed to love me." Her face was shaded in darkness as she stood at the corner of the house. He was out in the open, crouched beside the swingset, completely exposed. Too tired to keep running, no matter how far or fast he ran she always managed to catch up somehow. She was playing with him, cat and mouse. Some sort of revenge for a slight he couldn't even remember. Who the hell was she, anyway? Her voice was unfamiliar, the shape of her shadow less than nothing. Far as he knew, Michael had never met the bitch, much less gotten into any situation in which she could expect to be loved.

"Who the hell are you?" His voice cracked, his throat was parched and he could hardly breathe for panting. His vision kept blurring with what felt like tears, they stung the scratches on his cheek. She'd slapped him earlier, in the club, clawing deep furrows across his face. She'd looked almost familiar then, but through the drug and drunk haze he couldn't place her. Terror had helped sober him up, but he was still clueless.

Laughter was all he heard, it echoed around him, a bombardment from every direction. The shadows were creeping closer and that worried him, the shadows always seemed thicker when she was near, like a forewarning or something. Foreshadowing?

He crept to his feet, holding onto the swingset for support. His legs were weak from fear and exhaustion. How long had it been since the club, three? Four hours? What could he have possibly done to deserve this? "Why are you doing this to me?" He couldn't stay up, his left knee hurt too much, he must have pulled something.

Laughter again, and the shadows were almost on top of him. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck, but when he turned no one was there. When he turned forward again, there she was, waiting.

All the questions that wanted out died with his breath, his heart stopped. The girl was smiling with sharp pointed fangs, it was impossible.

Vampires didn't exist, nor did werewolves, ghosts, demons, or republicans. It was a boogeyman thing, a nightmare... He'd passed out or was having a bad trip, this couldn't possibly be happening.

His heart started beating again, he took a deep breath, smiling at her. Why worry about the things that happened in dreams?

She reached out, her hands ice cold as they slipped under his shirt at his waist, pulling him close. Her lips were cold, yet somehow soft, as they pressed against the side of his throat. Her teeth were razor sharp as the sank in.

He realized too late, it wasn't a dream.