Part of me was glad to be back into the swing of things: namely school. It was still awkward and uncomfortable, and sometimes I felt so on edge that I just wanted to have a random screaming fit wherever it seemed appropriate. Mostly during lessons, when there was a sufficient number of unsuspecting classmates to annoy.

Martin recommended me his psychotherapist.

I bet he didn't even have a psychotherapist - I mean, need one - because, of course, he just happened to live in a house where every bloody doctor under the sun was 'on call'. If he wanted a psychotherapist (for whatever reason), he could have one. No fuss, no questions asked. It was nice that he offered to sub me for the fee, as well; however, I declined as politely as I could.

If I wanted a psychotherapist; people got curious. I'm no celebrity icon, so what could possibly be wrong with my life?

What could possibly be wrong?

Because - oh, I don't know - my friend dying had nothing to do with my depression at all. It was like Fiona had been completely erased from everyone's memory - and that spooked me. People didn't even talk about her. At all. Like she never even existed.

God, I felt like a broken record. But the thoughts wouldn't go away... the image of her corpse plastered across the vast expanse of my mind. Inescapable.

Talking about the inescapable...

A cold shiver ran down my spine. For the sixth time today. The kind of shiver you get when someone's watching you.

When I turned around, though, all I could see was the crowd of students filtering out of the school gates. Just students. But there was one person amongst that crowd - one person standing still - and I couldn't see their face...

... if only they would move a little closer.

"The expression on your face is priceless." Were the words of the interruptor that pulled me into the street. "Hey, alien, how about coming back down to our hemisphere, yeah?"

"Oh. Hi, Martin." His smile grew at the sound of his own name. Egomaniac.

"Seriously, what's wrong? You've been gawping at space for the past two minutes... I was starting to worry that you were having some kind of stroke."

I hadn't exactly registered what he said, still slightly shaken. Trying to avert my attention from the uncomfortable niggling thought at the back of my head - the one that never went away - well, I kind of sneezed. Or snorted. One or the other. It was cold, and I needed an excuse to detatch my arm from Martin's hand. still, like vomit, the words fell out of my mouth. "Don't be stupid, idiot."

He watched my face carefully, like he was trying to read my thoughts, perhaps. "I wasn't, actually."

I shrugged.

Apparently, that wasn't good enough. "Were you even listening to a word I just said?"

"Huh?" Oh shit. If my shock didn't give me away, then my complexion definitely did. "What are you...?"

"Talking about?" He interjected. I didn't nod, or correct him, just looked away. There was nothing else to do. Self-righteous pig head was, for once, in the right... and I had no words left to dig myself out of the hole I had buried myself in. Might as well go down without a fight.

I don't even think I had the stamina for it.

"Look... I get a lot's been on your mind, but I'm worried." When I didn't look at him, he turned my head to face him, his breath fanning across my face. He smelt like spearmint. "You keep on spacing out. Last time I checked, that's not exactly a good sign."

"So you're going to make it your mission to fix me? Because you think I'm broken? Good luck with that."

Even when I tried to break away from him, he still grabbed for me, persistent to get his way. "Don't just walk off, Erica. You need help."

"I don't want your psychotherapist, Martin." Before he could protest, I added, "or your money. So please, just let this go."

"I'm sorry, Erica. If I could make this any easier, I would."

No matter how earnest he sounded, I'd never believe him. "Yeah. I know."

It was getting colder when it was supposed to be getting warmer. You could call it a fluke of the weather or a freak of mother-friggin-nature. Sort of.

Standing outside in the park where I last saw him had become a daily habit... waiting for him. For whatever reason, I waited in the same spot every day, whether it was just in the hopes of catching a glimpse... or something more. It had gone beyond physical attraction and lust... it had become a necessity. Even if part of me knew that he'd be the death of me; it was like I couldn't flush him out of my system no matter how many times I wished him dead, cursed him, blamed him.

My own frantic eyes surveyed the surroundings, searching for signs of life.

Signs of anything.

Truth be told, it was a step up from almost pouncing on unfamiliar faces that resembled him, and abruptly apologising; but not by much. I felt ashamed at the same time as I felt enthralled by every second that ticked by; basking in the sensation that I was teetering closer to the edge of some bottomless pit. What the pit resembled, I don't know.

The tolling of the bell from the clocktower rang through the hollow streets of Fey Valley, filling the reticence with an unshakable tension.

In the wind, I heard the fluttering of a cloak, my body automatically turning towards the town.

Against the light of the street, I could see a silhouette; and, just as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

Was that... no... it couldn't be? Could it? Had he been here all this time?

As the thought ran through my head, the sense of weightless excitement began to seep away into nothingness. "Lysander?" I called out, but there was no answer. Just the sound of the bell toll fading into nothing.

I felt cold. Colder than usual, because that hollow feeling started to return.

It had been like this not too long ago... back in that forest; the sense of an omnipresent danger looming over my shoulder.

I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. It's not safe. I've got to run. I've got to get out, home, anywhere that's not here.

He... Lysander. This wasn't him.

But the bite of terror, the thrill, that was still there.

But somehow the darkness had more potent than before... becoming more suffocating; something unbreakable, untouchable, not even by light.

My legs started moving by themselves. I think that was mostly to do with fight-or-flight instinct, except my body understood that, whatever this was, wasn't looking for the fight. It was looking for the kill. The thrill of it.

All those murders they used to talk about when I was little - those young girls being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And I knew exactly what they meant.

I wasn't about to become another statistic.

Not today.

The streets started to feel like those trees, flashbacks from that nightmare flooding my mind as I turned each corner; my breath ragged from the overexersion. My eyes were watering from the fear. The adrenaline. My blood was pumping loudly - so loudly that it was all I could hear.

And then my body stopped.

My body stopped at the sight of several bodies crouched low to the ground, facing away from me, the light illuminating the material of their clothes.

If it wasn't for the dull smell, the inhuman noises coming from their direction, I would have thought they were normal.

But they weren't.

One by one, the snarling, the hissing slowed to a stop along with the sticky noises of snapping limbs. Something rolled towards me, something discarded; and upon recognising it, that numb feeling returned.

An eyeball.

One by one, the five figures stood, turning to face me; clothes saturated in gore, mouths and necks glistening a grotesque red in the light. That wasn't what made my heart stop. No. It was their eyes.

Their eyes were pitch black.

Empty.

Hungry.

I shrieked, lungs burning with the strain.

And then my eyes snapped open, my body bathed in sweat, wrapped in the security of a warm duvet cover on the sofa I had claimed. Bits of hair clung rebelliously to my forehead as I tried to peer through the darkness. It was my house. I was safe.

Just an anxiety dream, right?

I'd been having a lot of those, lately: anxiety dreams about fairy tale monsters that weren't supposed to exist. But, gradually, every day, I started to question the truth in that. That, and my sanity.

If I didn't rule out their existence, then suddenly everything made sense. In a sick and twisted way.

A sudden rush of nausea had me staggering to my feet, and stumbling towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

"I was thinking that maybe getting you a psychotherapist wouldn't be a bad idea."

I shovelled another spoonful of Granola into my mouth. "I already told you: no. No means no, Granddad. Stop siding with that bloody rich prick."

"Why? Because it hurts your pride to seek help from him?" His palms slammed against the table, face tinged with red. I'd rarely seen him livid before. This was one of those times. "Other than that, I don't get what the problem is. He's all but offered his services to you on a silver platter." This time the light didn't hide it, that unfamiliar haunted look in his eyes. "This can't carry on, Erica. Lately I can't even sleep because I keep wondering whether you've fallen unconscious in a pile of your own sick."

I gagged on my breakfast, sending him a pleading look with my eyes.

He ignored it, heaving that exaggerated sigh that is so characteristic of him. "I've already called him... that friend of yours. If anything, he's even more worried than I am. That might bother you; but he's beyond willing to help."

"And I need the help?" I asked.

Granddad said nothing.

"Of course I do." I muttered under my breath, carrying my half-eaten breakfast to the bin and emptying the contents of the bowl into it.

After that, it was that sort of silence that lasts forever; the one where a thousand little epiphanies pounce on you and pummell you down.

I swallowed loudly, not daring to face him. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

"If you're talking about the nightmares, he knows."

"Everything?" My voice cracked.

"If he's offering his services to us, he deserves to know." Granddad reasoned. His reasoning was crap.

I all but whirled around and pounded his face in. "How could you? How could you do this to me?"

"He's trying to help you, Erica."

"What if this won't go away with their help? Did you ever consider that I might never get better?" Something made his eyes tighten, bringing back that haunted look. I think it was despair. "Why didn't you consider how I would feel if you did this?"

"I did this for you." Was all he felt he needed to say.

I didn't care whether that was true or not. I didn't care that the greater good pointed towards the last person I would ever go to for help. I wasn't going to go, and that was that. I didn't need help. I didn't need help.

Today was the ritual burning of scribbles of the monster that haunted my dreams.

Or monsters, as the case may seem.

If we'd had a smoke alarm, this wouldn't have worked... but we didn't. A few weeks ago, I'd had to explain to Granddad what I was doing. Now he accepted it as common practice. Normally he'd come and check on me; except, this week he had asked me to see a psychotherapist, and I had taken it badly, so now he was keeping his distance in the hopes that I might do it willingly if he didn't push me.

The problem was, I was too close to the proverbial edge for it to matter anymore; psychotherapist or none.

And rapidly getting there faster and faster.

"Is that me?" I looked up and saw him.

At first, I thought I was hallucinating, staggering away from him; the smoke obscuring his face. Through it, I could see red eyes. Red eyes. Not black.

"This isn't very nice." He muttered. His voice was barely even a whisper, but I could hear every word. "I don't burn pictures of you, do I?"

Stupid. How would I know that? I'd meant to say it out loud, but the words wouldn't form.

Instead, my body tensed with each step he took.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

He slid behind me, kneeling down so I could feel him through the material of my jumper. His arms captured me, sliding around my waist; his head nuzzling the crook of my neck. His eyes were red, not black. He wasn't a monster, right? He couldn't be, could he? He looked nothing like them.

A strangled gasp left my mouth as he nibbled the sensitive spot above the nape of my neck. I resorted to suppressing the moan, biting my lip and clenching my fists.

"You're so quiet." He whispered. "... And you smell fantastic. It makes me want to taste you."

I think he noticed the sudden sluggishness of my pulse, and the claminess of my skin, because he hummed in question. Either that, or amusement.

"Scared that I'll hurt you?"

"Scared of you." I corrected, wincing when our position started to become uncomfortable. "What... why are you here?"

He chuckled. "To see you, silly." Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Then... then he did something that I wasn't anticipating. He ran his tongue over my neck line, making me shiver involuntarily against him.

He didn't have black eyes. He wasn't them. But every time I tried to convince myself, it seemed more and more like I was trying to deny the truth.

"Sh-should..." the sensation of his teeth tugging on my ear left me trailing off on a tangent.

"Should?" He continued to decorate my collar bone with feather-like kisses. "Should... what?"

"Should I... be afraid of... you?" I asked.

And I felt stupid.

Why would I ask him that? He already knew I was terrified, and now I was asking him whether that was normal. It was like I had gotten a bad case of brain damage. As expected, he laughed, finally discontinuing his painfully slow torture. It was a laugh so deep that I could feel it resonate inside of me, and suddenly I was so much more aware of just how close he was - just where he was touching...

"You never fail to amuse me, Erica." His voice still rang with mirth. Mirth at my expense. "But I'll let you in on a little secret."

He was now leaning closer into me, pressing himself against me, soft hair brushing against my ear.

"You should be afraid."

He barely even said it, but I felt like he had just shouted it at me; now completely oblivious to the mouth that resumed its attack down the other side of my neck, slender fingers bending my head backwards for ease of access. Even then, the words still hadn't really sunken in yet.

"Very afraid."

That was when it hit me; when he sunk his fangs into my skin.

A/N: I seem to be doing a lot of cliff hangers lately. Sorry if they are getting on your nerves.

AND sorry this is so late! I have been so busy that you wouldn't even know! ahh God, I still have an essay to email to my teacher and shit I need to do that or she'll be pissed at me. FML!

But yeah. It's half term. TWO WEEKS OFF &: Off to Nueva York in... what? 3 fudging days! Yeah, baby!

So I hope this chapter wasn't too much of a disappointment. Everyone made an appearance, and Erica is starting to go a little nuts. Or, at least, she thinks she is.

THANK YOU FOR READING!