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Wednesday, October 25, 2000
A dark, cold evening had descended upon the face of the world. The star-filled heavens were consumed by dark, brooding clouds which seemed to come from nowhere. The wind churned, assaulting those who were so persistent as to step out from their houses.
The bay had grown uneasy. Choppy waves came thundering in to lick the shore and rock the boats. The ominous evening seemed to focus on Central Park, where a statue was solitary in braving the downpour of rain. Symbolically, it fell off its pedestal and shattered in the swaying grass three minutes before midnight.
Thursday, October 26, 2000
Nightmares haunted Erin as she lay still in her small, shabby bed in a dark corner of her modest apartment. In the midst of slumber, she imagined the chase. This imaginary world through which she pursued a figure was covered in a red fog. The prey seemed to be running swiftly because of sheer terror. Its limbs blurred from furious exertion. Its raspy breathing echoed through the dreamscape. There was no reason for the chase but the thrill it induced. The prey tripped and landed in the long, blue grass. Erin leaped with ferocity and landed upon the prey.
Swiftly and mercilessly, reality faded into focus. Through blurry eyes, Erin surveyed her apartment, and a deep depression set in. The red sunlight was filtered by the blinds and entered her bedroom softly. It was Thursday, a busy day of the week because the paper had to be out by two o' clock sharp. Erin sluggishly rolled out of bed and, with much reluctance, exchanged her comfortable pajamas for the drab, stiff work clothes that accompanied her position.
The strange visions of a chase were pushed to the back of her mind as she now concentrated on exactly every step of her routine. She hastily stuffed her pajamas into the closet not noticing the cold sweat that clung to them. Take a shower, eat breakfast, watch news, feed cat, find keys, leave house. Erin's morning routine was everything but exciting.
After consuming a hardy bowl of Fruit Loops, Erin remembered her cat, Perseus, who had not followed his usual pattern of parading across her bed nonchalantly. As if to ease her sudden thought of panic, Perseus strutted out of the doorway that lead into Erin's office. He seemed well aware that he was not allowed in there, yet was adamant that he would still receive ample food and drink. Erin's irritation vanished quickly, and she dispensed Perseus his food.
In a flash, Perseus's attitude changed from that of arrogance to fear. His claws flew out of his cute little paws, and he swiped Erin's hand, causing her to drop the water bowl a slight distance and spill water on the floor. In minor dismay, Erin marched back to her cramped bathroom to address the wound.
In the unflattering, dismal light, she examined her right hand. To her surprise, the wound was not bleeding, but rather emitting a clear fluid which dripped into the sink. Upon further exploration, Erin noticed that her hand seemed to be bloated and puffy, as though she had sprained a muscle in her wrist. When she bent her fingers, everything seemed fine except for a little stiffness. On the back of her hand she also found strange, blue-green dots, though quite faint. Was it possible that Perseus had gotten some disease and inoculated her with that claw swipe? Erin made a mental note to see a doctor and put a band-aid on the quickly fading wound.
Erin located her keys, paid a cautious goodbye to Perseus (who seemed to have forgotten her), and walked down the steps of the apartment complex to reach her beat-up, old car.
Erin worked for a newspaper that focused on uncovering corporate and political scandals as well as highlighting grassroots politics. She enjoyed journalism and was quite passionate about her job. During the period when the election for president had been drawing closer, Erin's responsibilities swelled, causing her to be busy well past the end of her workday.
As she casually strolled to her desk, Erin noticed that it was already accumulating various documents and news tips. On top of it was the first draft of a paper she was doing on Ralph Nader, presidential nominee of the Green Party. Underneath it was a strange, unmarked manila envelope. Below that was a standard envelope which was probably from some irate corporate employee.
First, Erin focused on revising her story, which was due by 10:00 a.m. She fell into a trance of sorts, correcting errors and changing paragraphs on her laptop. After finishing, she printed off a final copy. It was then that her hand returned to memory. It ached terribly and seemed to be more inflated than previously. The green spots had grown more prominent. Even her fingernails seemed thick, brittle, and discolored.
Discarding the strange observation, Erin hoped that maybe the swelling would go down later in the afternoon and turned to the next point of interest on her desk—the mysterious manila envelope. She opened it gingerly with her ailing hand and pulled out the contents. The primary document was a typewritten report followed by photocopies of its various sources. Erin started to skim over the report, looking for the main idea of the paper. It seemed to be a conspiracy theory about the CIA performing secret experiments on citizens without their consent, much less knowledge. Erin quickly lost interest. It was a very cliché conspiracy theory, dreamed up by some paranoid X-Files nut and validated by the LSD experiments done by the CIA in the 20th century. Her boss would never accept something like this.
After her duties at work were fulfilled, Erin walked out of the dark building and headed home to her apartment complex. Dinner was a lonely and dismal affair that consisted of a TV dinner served in a plastic tray. Perseus seemed to keep his distance throughout the evening. For the most part, he sulked about in the bathroom and laid in his tub, always leaving when Erin would enter.
While Erin was preparing to go to bed, she peered out at the city. It was covered in a thick shroud of sickening smog which choked anything that wasn't metal and concrete. She slipped under the sheets with no recollection of yesterday night's dream.
She lowered her guard of worries, thoughts, and plans and let the nocturne embrace her without hesitation. Even though she was tired, the dream still found her in the darkness, as though it had been lurking around her apartment all day, waiting. She was the hunter, an enigmatic beast whose cloak was the shadows. Her prey was beneath her, pinioned by her claws.
Friday, October 27, 2000
Erin woke up with a start. The cold sweat trickling down her skin caused her to shudder. She hastily got up and went to the bathroom. An extensive array of pill bottles were revealed when she opened the mirror. Erin grabbed the orange bottle, the remedy that held pills for anxiety. In her youth, she had been quite consumed by anxiety and was labeled an antisocial introvert. The pills had been prescribed by a trusted doctor who she had since the beginning. She quickly swallowed the magical blue pill and gulped down a glass of water.
Everything was calm. The pill seemed to ward off the darkness itself. Erin climbed back into bed and looked at her digital clock which read 1:35 a.m. She groaned and her head fell into the soft bed pillow. Memories of her childhood seeped into her dreams. Never could she remember anything such as standing in a field of dandelions or being in the process of exploring a beautiful forest in October. She was constantly immersed in a gray world with vacant walls and floors—sterilized and fake.
She remembered being in the hospital. In her childhood, she often had to visit the hospital because of her supposedly weak immune system. The place always scared her. It seemed so bleak. Her childhood image would sit on the deli-paper covered seat and let her legs dangle off the edge. In her soft, timid voice she would sing, "Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day." Then the doctor would come in. She eyed him coldly; he just smiled and injected some medicine into her arm with a syringe.
The digital alarm clock on the table next to Erin's bed signaled that it was time for her to wake up. Right away, Erin checked the condition of her hand. It had gotten worse. The fingers were now starting to bloat and her fingernails seemed to be growing at an alarming rate. The green spots were more numerous than before. Perhaps it was something that got better as the day passed and got worse while she slept. Erin, however, couldn't remember how her hand felt last evening.
As a matter of fact, Erin could remember very little about last night. All that she could recall was that she took an anxiety pill sometime after midnight, which would explain the throbbing headache. Erin got up and wondered if she should go to work today. Her hand wasn't that bad, and maybe she would have time after work tomorrow to visit the hospital.
After eating breakfast, it was time to locate and feed Perseus. Alarmingly, Perseus was nowhere to be found. Erin, with a slight panic, searched around the apartment for Perseus. He wasn't in his tub, nor was he in her office. The only clue to Perseus's disappearance was the apartment door which was slightly ajar. How could Erin have forgotten to lock the door, much less close it? Perhaps the rowdy Perseus saw an opportunity to get away from his master and took it.
Erin pondered the dilemma. Would she stay a little longer to look for Perseus, or would she go to work and leave Perseus to his own pursuits? She decided to check the halls and possibly ask her neighbors. After all, Perseus couldn't have wandered too far off without someone on her floor taking notice.
Despite all her efforts, Erin could not find Perseus nor anything on his whereabouts from the apathetic neighbors. She then decided to head off to work, hoping that Perseus had the will and ability to find his way back home.
"Where have you been all morning?" asked Debbie, Erin's co-worker.
"It's been a bad morning. First my cat wandered off and got lost, and then the traffic on the way here was horrible," replied Erin absently as she sifted through the papers that were on her now discordant work desk.
"The boss wanted to tell you that your article on Nader got good responses, but wasn't impressed with the fact that you weren't present to hear it," Debbie said smugly, displaying her big toothy grin.
"I don't care... It's one of the few days I've been late, and at least I came to work today," retorted Erin with irritation as she gazed at her hand.
"Say, what's going on with your hand?!? You have an infection or something?"
Erin ignored Debbie (whom she didn't like much in the first place) and looked with curiosity at the blank manila envelope which she pulled from her pile. She was about to open it when Debbie persisted in continuing the conversation.
"Anonymous envelope, huh? I wish I could have mysterious people giving me stories all the time."
"Hmph. More like a lonely conspiracy theorist looking for a new audience to entertain," said Erin, tossing it on top of the other unmarked envelope.
"Well, I gotta' get going on my new story," said Debbie as she turned around to face her own desk.
"Yeah, me too," said Erin as she poised her fingers over her laptop and searched for inspiration. It seemed to be in short supply today. After waiting for some time, Erin decided to do a report on the Firestone tire scandal which had already been extensively analyzed by other journalists.
After work, life seemed to pass by as swiftly as the winds that roamed the streets of New York. Upon getting home, Erin called the pound and dealt out all of Perseus's vital information in hopes that they would come across him. She then took a Tylenol which eased the pain in her hand and seemed to make the swelling go down.
During her supper, Erin had a spontaneous urge to talk to her dad, Vladimir Alucard. She really didn't have a major reason to do so, but she'd been pretty lonely since she moved from the suburbs into the city about six months ago. Her dad used to work at the coroner's office, considered by many to be a macabre occupation.
The telephone made a beep for each number Erin punched in with her swollen hand. She waited patiently as it rang. She let it ring for three minutes; no one picked up. Erin was slightly discouraged by this. It could be that her dad was taking one of his mid-afternoon naps... or he could be out getting groceries... or perhaps he was up in the attic looking through dusty photos (as he sometimes did).
Undeterred by the failed phone call, Erin decided that, since she wasn't too busy this evening, she could afford to brave the one hour trip to the suburbs to pay her father and childhood home a visit. She grabbed her jacket, purse, and keys, and descended the stairs as she did on a daily basis. She jumped into her car, slammed the door, and started off.
The traffic wasn't as bad as it could've been, but it pushed Erin's arrival back by half an hour. Erin coasted the car into the short driveway and parked it just outside of the garage. Her dad's Cadillac was still in the garage, but Vlad wasn't very fond of driving, so it was quite possible that he was taking a stroll. As she walked on the concrete block walkway, Erin paused to gaze up at the Victorian-style house which concealed so many of her childhood memories in its darkest corners—memories that she had since forgotten.
The squeaky oak door swung open and the dusty living room seemed to greet her as an old comrade. In lieu of a television, the fireplace and mantle were the focal points of the room. Erin slowly stepped in, wondering where her dad was and slightly regretting the fact that she had come unannounced.
On the mantle, a lot of photographs were uniformly displayed in a row. A majority of them depicted Vlad and Lisa, Erin's mother, happily posing in the better times of their marriage. When Erin was about ten years old, her mom died of a brain hemorrhage, and her father was forever scarred by the memory of finding her on the couch, dead.
Erin decided to check the bedrooms to see if her dad had fallen asleep in any of them. She ascended the maroon velvet stairs trying to make as little noise as possible. The air seemed stale and unpleasant. At the top of the stairs, there was a narrow corridor which was lined with photographs and framed documents of merit.
Her father's room was the way it had always been. A silver light penetrated the thin curtains of the one window in the room but failed to make the room more inviting. Dad was nowhere to be seen. When Erin started down the stairs, she decided to take a peek in her childhood bedroom for the sake of nostalgia.
To her surprise, Erin's room looked the way it had the day she parted with it. Her father had made no apparent effort to rearrange the contents of the room. There was one thing that Erin did seen out of the corner of her eye, though. Sitting on an old, scratched up table, amidst the tattered dolls, were numerous pill bottles. Erin walked over to the table; her feet sunk into the soft, tan carpet. Presumably, the bottles were the ones given to her as a child... but the labels weren't the same. Long and confusing names were printed on faded paper. The bottles still held little prescription beauties, waiting to be ingested.
Erin put her head into her shivering hands. These pill bottles had triggered a strong, repressed emotion. The wretched pills had unleashed a Pandora's Box of memories. The dusty air became suffocating, and it felt like the room was closing in on her. The pills were horrid little monsters, angrily demanding that they be let out to unleash some chemical horror on her body. Reality wavered and stumbled, then Erin went into a subconscious state.
At age eight, Erin's symptoms had grown worse. While she was playing with the dolls in her room, singing her usual song in a quiet voice, her dad came in.
"Hello princess," said Vladimir, shifting from one foot to the other uneasily.
"Where'd mommy go to?" she asked, taking her attention from the mock tea party she'd been holding.
"She's out of town. She'll be gone for a few days," said Vladimir. Erin's eyes filled with sorrowful tears and her mouth started to quiver.
"Listen, honey. We need to go to the hospital to make you feel better. You've missed far too many days of school," he said, hoisting her dolls onto the shelf and gently grabbing her hand.
"I don't wanna' go back to school! Nobody likes me there!" she whined, trying to escape from his determined grasp. Tears started to flow down her cheeks and her angelic face was contorted with anguish.
"Come on now, pumpkin. If you behave we'll get some ice cream after we're done. How's that sound?" As Vlad spoke, he tugged on Erin's hand a little, indicating the urgency of this excursion. She followed him down the narrow corridor, and they walked down the stairs side-by-side.
The sun was shining brightly outside. Vlad and Erin entered the garage; he put Erin into the backseat of the blue Cadillac and secured her with the seatbelt.
Erin watched out the car window as her house faded into the distance. The car accelerated; her surroundings blurred and whizzed past her eyes. The ride was unpleasantly silent except for the radio which spewed pointless information from the speakers. The hospital came into view, and the car pulled into its parking lot. It was an intimidating building in the eyes of a small girl.
Her dad got Erin out of the car, and she followed him sullenly up to the sliding glass doors of the hospital. They slid open, and the two walked into the waiting room of the hospital. They took a seat, and Erin gazed at the floor which was tiled with white and black squares. She dared not stare at the other people, who had the look of despair on their faces. Vlad pulled out a newspaper and offered Erin a coloring book, which she refused.
Finally, her name was called by the receptionist. Erin got up out of her seat and followed a big, burly nurse to a small room where she was to have an appointment with Dr. Quagmire. She waited forever in the cold room before Dr. Quagmire came in. Behind him, a tall, stern man with a black suit walked in.
"Hello Erin, how are you today?" said Quagmire in his phony voice.
"I don't feel very good . My tummy aches," she said shyly.
"Come, come. It's just a little side effect. Don't worry, this next shot will get rid of some of the pain. This... nice man is going to give the shot so just hold out your arm," said Quagmire in a soothing tone. Erin held out her arm and rolled the sleeve of her shirt up.
"That's a nice girl. It'll only take a minute and we'll be done," Quagmire encouraged. The man in the suit stepped toward her and bent down to administer the medicine. His movements were stiff and precise, similar to those of a robot. Erin closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She could feel the man's icy grip on her arm; she could feel the cold needle penetrate her skin and inject the mystery solution.
"There. That wasn't so bad, now was it? I bet your tummy is feeling better already! Well, I guess you can go see your daddy now." Erin nodded then jumped off the table. She was grateful to be out of the cramped room and out of the shady man's reach.
As soon as she entered the waiting room, Erin could feel her stomach churn and it began to feel worse. Her hands started shaking uncontrollably. Erin could feel the whole room looking down at her. She cast her eyes to the floor and walked over to her dad who was now standing by the exit.
"That was quick! You ready to go get some ice cream, princess?"
"No, I just wanna' go home now. I don't feel too good."
"Oh honey, that's just because of the needle. You're going to have to get used to those kinds of things from now on," said Vlad as he took her hand and marched her out to the car.
Erin came to at last. She sat on her bed breathing for a few minutes and wondering what happened to her. She gazed at the pills and she remembered why she was there. How long had she been knocked out? It seemed undesirable to stick around in the vacant old house any longer.
Like a zombie, she walked down the stairs and headed for the exit of the house. She no longer cared about seeing her dad. She just wanted to go to her apartment and sleep. Maybe then she could sort things out.
The radio clock in the car said it was 7:45 p.m. It had been about thirteen minutes since she arrived at her father's house. It was shocking to Erin to know that she had been out of it for that long. When she placed her hands on the steering wheel, she noticed her right hand was almost completely covered with green spots. They seemed to be creeping up her arm. When she ran her fingers over the back of her hand, it seemed scaly and dry. It hurt to move any of the fingers on her right hand. Should she go to the hospital? How could she face Quagmire after what she had remembered? Erin came to an agonizing decision—she would wait for just one more day.
Saturday, October 28, 2000
Erin woke up feeling quite horrible. It seemed almost impossible that she could've made it back to her apartment without incident. She felt very groggy, and for a minute, forgot that today was Saturday, which meant she didn't have to go to work. There was still no word on Perseus. Her life was so terribly lonely at this moment. It appeared as though everyone had abandoned her.
She walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. There wasn't much Fruit Loops left, but she saturated them with milk and ate them slowly, pondering what she should do today. Abruptly, her stomach submitted its voice of protest to her breakfast cereal of choice. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited a pastel rainbow. A horrible aftertaste filled her mouth. Her stomach felt uneasy, just like it had when she was a child.
She was shaken and leaned against the bathroom wall with her left hand for support. Her stomach felt so strange—so uneasy. She gazed at her right arm; the green spots were now halfway up to her elbow. She gazed at her left hand; a few faint green spots were starting to appear. That's when Erin broke down. What was happening to her? She kneeled on the linoleum floor and wept for a while, biting the nails on her right hand (which were almost one inch in length).
When Erin composed herself, she dialed the hospital and attempted to make an appointment with Dr. Quagmire. Despite her insistence that it was urgent, the secretary gave her an appointment on Monday at 2:30 p.m. Could she really trust the hospital, though? Was Dr. Quagmire actually the one who was propagating this disease? Erin wondered if she could be so paranoid as to swallow such a thought.
Erin went back into the bathroom and removed the first-aid kit. She took the roll of gauze out and wrapped it around her aching right hand. She then grabbed her keys, purse, and trench coat and proceeded to head out of her apartment. Erin wasn't sure enough of herself to take the stairs, so she went into the unpleasant elevator which always seemed to smell of cigarettes.
Erin's first stop was her workplace. Even though it was closed, Erin still had access to it with her assortment of keys. She walked into the building, which seemed to take on a different aura when it was dark and empty. She clumsily navigated to her own desk and unplugged the laptop. She also noticed a third manila envelope on her desk; this one had a post-it note saying "URGENT!" on it. Erin decided to take the three envelopes. She stuffed them into her purse, tucked her laptop under her arm, and headed out.
The Mid-Manhattan Library was the next destination. She braved the chilly weather and walked up the marble steps, clutching her possessions. The inside of the library was comfortable, and the scent of old books filled the air. It was only 8:30 a.m., and the library was occupied mostly by bibliophiles. Erin sat down in one of the rows of study desks and set up her laptop. Since the library provided neither an electrical outlet nor a phone jack, she would have to rely on the laptop's battery and her cell phone for the Internet.
Secondly, Erin pulled out the manila envelopes and arranged their contents in an orderly fashion. It was the first time she had looked at the documents with sincerity. The document from the first envelope looked familiar since she had glanced over it earlier. It established the fact that the CIA was performing shady experiments on citizens of New York City earlier in the twentieth century.
Still unimpressed with the documents, Erin looked at the second packet. What was the author's motive? Why was she the target audience? The second study detailed the genome project and the possible ulterior motives of the US government. It even went so far as to suggest that science fiction staple, making mutants for the purpose of war, would become reality. The idea was absurd to Erin, but it appealed to her current state of paranoia. Once in a while she would set down the documents and look about to see if anybody was watching her. Once she was confident that she was alone, Erin would begin to read once more. The report went into some detail when making an example of smaller scale projects, such as ones to make lab mice more aggressive. Various photographs of mutated mice were included at the end.
Erin looked up once more. She was getting impatient. It seemed as though the papers wanted to first strip away her faith in the logical world that was presented to her as a pill to swallow by the media. The contents of the third paper seemed to finally reveal the purpose. The paper cited various cases in the 1970's where people grew horrible mutations and became hideously deformed before and even after death. According to the papers, the experiment was conducted in a desolate town in North Dakota.
The next page contained assorted photographs of people who had allegedly exposed to this program. One person had a shoulder which was deformed, causing her to stand lop-sided. Another picture showed a person with a face that drooped on one side; the eyes were brown on one side and a pale silver on the other. The final picture, however, was the one that really held Erin's attention. A handsome boy, who looked to be in his late teenage years, held up his hand, which had become severely bloated and limp. His ring and pinky fingers looked as though they had fused together and formed a long claw at the end.
Was this to be Erin's fate as well—to slowly reform into some mutant for the sake of an experiment? The cold sweat from a few nights ago returned. Her right hand started to ache again, as if to scream "YES!" at her. She couldn't think straight anymore. She unplugged her laptop without having even used it. She carelessly shoved all of the papers into a manila envelope and dumped it into a trash can on her way out of the library.
The world seemed so indifferent to Erin's pain. As she ran down the steps to reach her car, she imagined someone following her. She turned the ignition and nearly caused an accident trying to get back out onto the road. Erin didn't even know where she should go. Should she return to her apartment, or should she just drive around for a while? She decided that even though her apartment was no longer safe, it wasn't any safer to be on the roads of New York on a Saturday morning.
Erin decided to take the long way home, passing by Central Park on the way. It was as though the route had a calming effect on her. She felt the paranoia that had clouded her judgment recede slowly and peacefully. She could appreciate the green of the trees more than the grand architecture of the skyscrapers that obstructed the sunset. There was an odd thing that she noticed, though. Instead of the weathered statue that used to watch over the park, there was only rubble surrounded by scaffolding.
For some reason, this was discomforting. Everything in the city that grew too old was knocked down and replaced by something new and trendy. Erin decided to get out of the car and just walk about for a while. She had no obligations, except to find out what was wrong with herself. After reading the papers, she pondered whether the hospital would try to help her or inject a catalyst to speed up her mutation.
She closed the car door, tucked her hands in the pockets of her trench coat, and started walking aimlessly along the dirt path. She passed a homeless man on the bench, who promptly rolled over and asked her for change. She turned and looked at him for a moment, then kept on walking; she wasn't feeling particularly charitable at the moment.
The area where the statue once stood was pitiful. A plastic tarp swayed in the wind from atop the metal scaffolding. The pedestal was cracked in several places. From years of exposure to the elements, the inscription had worn away. Chunks of rock were scattered all over. Erin picked up a piece, examined it, then tossed it away into the grass. She felt sad about the situation. She had no control over what happened, nor could she remember what it looked like, but she felt sad anyways.
Erin moved on, next coming across the pond, which was devoid of any form of life. On a bench overlooking the lake, an elderly couple put their arms around each other, as if their affection for one another could ward off the cold. This even made Erin even more depressed. Why hadn't she found her other half yet? When she grew old, she didn't want to be feeble and diseased all alone. It seemed as though her priorities were off kilter. She wanted to succeed; she wanted to escape the protective shell that surrounded her as a child. Now she ground her life away, hopelessly looking for an opportunity to get ahead.
Erin finally completed the circle and reached her car. The clock on the radio said 1:21 p.m. It was time to go home and get some lunch. Besides, Erin could feel a sore throat developing.
Sunday, October 29, 2000
The dreams had spared her for a while, but they returned with a vengeance in the early morning of Sunday. Erin was in a shabby room. The floor was composed of rickety, decomposing boards. She lie on an old bed with a thin, worn mattress. The ceiling was covered with cockroaches. In horror, Erin went to the only window in the room. There were rows upon rows of people staring at her. She banged at the window and pleaded for help, but they didn't even budge.
Sunday looked like it was going to be a lousy day. Sinister clouds had rolled in from the Atlantic Ocean, threatening to drench the city with rain as they had on Wednesday. When Erin finally awoke, she felt horrible. Not only was the environment discouraging, but her physical state was depressing as well.
Erin sat up in her bed and she strained to breath. A horrible cough sounded from the depths of her throat. It felt as though a chainsaw had ripped the inside of her throat apart. She got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and started the coffee machine up. She then went into the bathroom and opened up the mirror. She popped two Tylenol pills and unwrapped the gauze from her right hand. The hand had been completely immersed with green dots, which had since turned a bluish-gray and had the texture of snake skin. Her wrist was now twice its normal diameter.
She tried to move her fingers. That's when Erin noticed small flaps of skin were starting to form in between her ring and pinky fingers. This was horrifying. It was exactly what was happening to the boy in the picture. She tried to break the webs, and after much pain, they snapped. The clear fluid came seeping out from her fingers, but this time it came with an awful stench.
Her right hand was starting to undergo the same metamorphosis. Erin looked at herself in the mirror. The combination of illness and stress had made her look several years older than twenty-three. She washed her hands, scrubbing hard, hoping in vain that her new skin was just caked on dirt that could be washed off. She walked out of the bathroom and started rummaging through her purse for the envelopes. What had she done with them? Cogs in her mind turned and turned, but she couldn't remember where she had put them.
The door bell rang. Erin was startled, but she regained her composure and walked over to the door. Without looking through the eye piece, she opened it. No one was there. She figured that it was a few youthful pranksters, but as she closed the door, she noticed a manila envelope sitting in front of her feet. Erin bent over and picked it up, puzzled. How did this person know where she lived? Erin contemplated whether this person was an ally or foe.
Erin opened the envelope. Instead of a type-written document, there only two items inside: a piece of yellow note paper and a picture. Erin first took a look at the note, which read:
MEET ME IN CENTRAL PARK AT NOON. I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT. DO NOT BE ALARMED.

ANONYMOUS
Erin then looked at the black-and-white photo. It showed her standing next to the wreckage of the statue. Despite the flimsy assurance in the note, Erin became quite alarmed. It looked as though she had a psychopathic stalker on her hands. The worst part was that he knew where she lived.
Erin got out a bowl and spoon. It was only 10:30 a.m., and she would be able to catch a quick breakfast before deciding whether she should go talk to the police or go to the park and confront her stalker. She then opened up the cabinet door and shook the box of cereal. It was empty. She looked in the fridge; no eggs were in sight. Crestfallen, Erin went to the phone. She decided that she wanted answers, even if she was endangering herself. She put the phone down, abandoning the notion to call the authorities.
Gathering her courage and possessions, Erin strolled out of the apartment complex and got into her car, joining with the automobile life stream of New York. As the radio spewed out some trashy music by N*Sync, Erin navigated the intricate web of streets that led to Central Park. Without much conscious effort, she changed the station. The latest single from The Backstreet Boys blared from the speakers. Disgusted, Erin turned the radio off. The pedestrians were enough of a bother without the latest offering from some manufactured band rotting her mind.
The park was unusually serene. It was not a pleasant day to be out and about, and Erin wished that this strange meeting could happen some other time, but there was only a small window of opportunity to see the truth. She hesitantly walked down the cement pathway, looking for anyone who fit her mental description of what the stalker might look like.
She reached the scaffolding and looked about. No one was in sight. Erin sighed and hugged herself. It was then that she saw an old man step out from behind a tree adjacent to the scaffolding. He was short in stature, with dark skin that matched the color of charcoal, and a chubby belly. His face was lined with wrinkles, and two bulging, black eyes protruded from his bald head.
"It's about time you showed up," he said. As he spoke, his shaggy white mustache wiggled in an almost comical manner. There was, however, nothing comical in his tone of voice, which was deep and gruff.
"Who are you? Why have you been following me?" Erin blurted out with some irritation. Though the man didn't appear to be as sinister as she imagined, she was still cautious.
"A classic question. Makes my day every time I hear it," the man said. He was clearly amused by Erin's misgivings about him but didn't show it in his voice. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name's Winston Lexington. I think you're quite aware of what brings you to this forsaken place."
"My symptoms... my hand," Erin said, taking her exposed hand out of her pocket and shamefully showing it to Winston.
"Hmmm... It's developing faster than I expected," said Winston. His shoulders fell slightly, and his face looked more grim then when he first introduced himself. It was obvious that he had become less cheerful about his burden of truth.
"Why is this happening to me?" Erin asked, putting her hand back into the pocket of her trench coat.
"Precisely what I came here to tell you—the reasons why," he said. He cleared his throat and made a gesture to the bench overlooking the lake in the distance. "Perhaps we should sit down. This is a lengthy explanation, and once you find out the reality of your situation, you're really gonna' need a seat." Erin followed Winston as he walked slowly, but steadily to the bench. When they reached it, Winston carefully sat down, as did Erin.
"Did you read the packets I sent you?"
"Yes, I did." As Erin replied, he pulled the crumpled packet of manila envelopes out of his jacket, handing them to her.
"Next time you should be more careful. It's not just me an' God that's watching over you," he said, adjusting uncomfortably and rubbing his hands together.
"Who? Who's doing this to me?" Erin asked.
"Heh heh. You're smart, but not too bright about things in the real world." Erin was offended by this. Here she could have turned this man in for spying on her, but instead she had chosen to listen to his scorning. "There is a division in the CIA, established sometime between 1950 and 1970. Their purpose was, and is, to make a living and controllable monster that they can send into war. Though it sounds a bit far-fetched, it is taken with extreme seriousness and dedication by the government who invests millions of dollars in the research."
"What's this all have to do with me?" Erin asked. She was getting impatient with the lecture. Winston took out a cigarette, put it in his lips, and tried to light it with a cheap plastic lighter, but the wind kept smothering the flame. He gave up, put the cigarette back in his jacket, and took a long sigh.
"Many of their first experiments, which you've seen from those photos, were isolated to certain body parts. They wanted to manipulate the genes that control hand formation, so it would make a claw, as well as giving humans eyes that would mimic the vision of a cat. After many countless test subjects had died in North Dakota, the CIA perfected it's creation and had it implanted in a woman."
"That's unbelievable!" said Erin. If only she had known the full story, she would be less amazed and more horrified.
"Hmph. Truth is often greater than fiction. At any rate, you haven't heard the first part yet. The woman's name is unknown, but I know that she died during child birth. The baby was adopted by a recently married couple who were paid a stipend by the US government to rear the child. Their names were Vadimir and Lisa Alucard."
"I'm just an engineered freak?!?" The truth hit Erin like a punch to the stomach.
"Don't take it too hard now. Reality is sometimes too sour to swallow in one sitting. Mind you that some of the genes to form this monstrosity are recessive. You may become deformed but still be able to retain your humanity and live a prosperous, though stunted, life." Erin broke down crying. Everything Winston said seemed to make sense though. Why else would she need so many pills and hospital visits to regulate her mutation? Why else would she be so closely guarded by her mother and father? Erin's suspicions about Dr. Quagmire were correct.
Winston looked around with embarrassment. He was familiar with this reaction but didn't want to deal with it. Afraid that the scene would catch someone's attention, Winston got up off bench.
"I think my time here is done. It's up to you to decide what you'll make of this harsh truth," he said as he slowly walked down the eroding path. Erin wept long after his hunched figure had disappeared.
The well that filled her eyes with ice cold tears eventually emptied, and Erin wiped her eyes with her left hand and stood up, not altogether sure if she was capable of reaching the car without breaking down again. Her head throbbed more so than her hands at the moment. As quickly as Winston and she had met, they were doomed to be distant strangers as he walked away to join the millions of people without a face. It seemed to be the way all of the relationships in her life worked. She never truly knew her father, and her mother died before Erin even got a chance.
* * *
Vladimir squatted in the low-ceiling attic, despite his arthritic joints. He was looking among small shoe boxes with taped-on labels. He was looking for pictures of Lisa and Erin. He couldn't remember if they were in the same box, in separate boxes, or if he had burned all but the few on the mantle after Erin had moved out.
He had been quite unsettled lately. It was extremely tough to live a lie, and doing so for countless years had taken its toll. Parkinson's disease caused his left hand to shake uncontrollably when he got stressed or nervous. Vlad fumbled in a dark corner of the attic with his liver-spotted hands and pulled out a soggy shoebox with no label on it.
As the flimsy cover was pulled off, the smell of rancid, decaying memories filled Vladimir's nostrils. A lot of the photos were damaged and faded. The pictures documented a time in Vlad's life that seemed so remote. There were a lot of pictures of him and Lisa at the top. In some, where they were with other relatives, they were smeared with fake elation. Other pictures revealed the marriage for what it really was—a sham. They stood far apart, devoid of compassion for each other.
Vlad burrowed deeper into the box looking for pictures. The ones he found did not conjure forth any happy memories either. Erin seemed sad, angry, or depressed in every picture. Even as a child, one could tell that not everything was peachy with the child.
Vlad was awakened from the musings of his past by the distant ringing of the telephone. He slowly crawled out of the attic, and with an aching back, descended the ladder. If the call was important in any respect, then it wouldn't matter how long it took him to pick up the receiver.
"Hello. What do you want?" demanded Vladimir impatiently.
"Mr. Alucard, the time for the final mutation will come after one more day. The subject is expected to be emotionally unstable prior to this next phase. Go to her house and search for evidence to confirm this; reassure the subject if necessary. You're final stipend will be delivered upon the success of the project." The other speaker hung up. The voice was unrecognizable because it was digitally scrambled before transmission. Vlad hung up the phone, disgusted with his new orders.
Vlad had been on the losing side of the deal since the beginning. Originally, he thought it would be clean-cut and dry, but eventually he ended up having to bludgeon any doubt that Erin had about her medication to death. This included such acts as purposely inoculating her with the flu and giving her doses of accelerants along with normal medicine. Now he had to convince her that everything was dandy when her hands were turning into claws—the idea was preposterous. Perhaps he would get lucky and Erin wouldn't be home.
Vlad's rusty old Cadillac pulled over to the curb next to Erin's apartment complex.. Lucky enough, Erin wasn't home, for her car was nowhere in sight. Still, Vladimir desired to be cautious. He didn't want any of Erin's friends and neighbors to spot and recognize him.
The complex was shabby and poorly decorated on the interior. Vladimir stepped up to the desk and asked what apartment Erin lived in. A gruff, old lady responded with little pleasantry in her voice. Vlad slowly ascended the stairwell which reeked from the caked on layers of human grime. He finally got to her apartment which, in another stroke of luck, was unlocked.
Vladimir opened the door slowly and slipped in. He first went into the kitchen. Several dirty dishes sat in the sink; the cupboards were empty except for a few boxes of cereal and cans of soup. The refrigerator was sparse as well, containing little more than a jug of milk, a bottle of soda, a block of cheese, some mustard, and a left-over sandwich.
It was shameful to see Erin live in these kinds of conditions, but Vladimir focused on his objectives, not his sentiments. Connected to the kitchen was the small, crowded laundry room where the washing and drying machines took up most of the available space. There was a yellow basket filled with dirty clothes that reeked horribly.
Erin's office was almost devoid of furnishings. A metal desk with a computer on top of it sat in the middle of the room. It was covered with various newspaper clippings. Vladimir carefully looked through them but found nothing of interest. He turned the computer on, but it was filled only with stories for a newspaper—nothing of personal value.
The bedroom was messy. The unmade bed sat in the corner. Vlad checked to see if there was anything under the bed but could find nothing but dust. A small table in a distant corner held the telephone and answering machine. Also on the table, Vlad found a manila envelope with a vague note and a photo. Thinking it suspicious, he took it, indifferent as to whether or not Erin would notice its absence.
The answering machine's light blinked, indicating that it had received new messages. Vladimir hit the playback button and waited for it to come. The tinny voice said there was only one message.
"Miss Alucard, we finally found the whereabouts of your cat, Perseus. He was found in a dumpster in Brooklyn, dead. Miss Alucard, due to the gruesome nature of your cat's death, we'd like to have you come down to the pound and answer a few questions."
Vladimir was shocked by this. He didn't think that Erin would've become so emotionally disturbed that she would harm her cat. It was quite possible, though, that she had done something in her sleep. Perhaps the monster had taken over. Vlad's thoughts were only wild speculation. Vlad took out the tape from the answering machine and replaced it with a blank tape he had discovered while searching the drawer of the table.
Sensing that his job was complete, Vladimir checked about the apartment to make sure that everything was in its proper place. He left the apartment, locking the door as he left.
Monday, October 30, 2000
The chase through the dream world continued. The blue grass seemed to sting like razor blades, and the terrain was now resilient and unforgiving. Her skin was cut as she ran through, but she did not heed the cuts. The thrill was now at its crescendo.
The prey seemed more alarmed than ever. The red fog was so thick it obscured almost all vision three feet away from her eyes. They dodged around silver trees and swerved in every direction. The feeling that the end was in sight swelled within her chest.
Abruptly, the land ended in a cliff. The prey tottered over the eternal abyss of swirling red mist. For the first time, she saw her pursuit with clarity. It was Erin, as a child. Erin was paralyzed with shock, but her childhood form seemed calm. Emotionless, she took a step off the cliff.
Erin awoke. A shrill scream tried to come out but was caught in her throat and came out as a horrible cough. Cold sweat clung to the back of her neck, dribbled from her arm pits, and ran down her neck. In combination with the chills she had from the cold, Erin shivered violently. She looked at the clock; the display indicated that it was 4:30 a.m.
She stumbled through the black apartment to the bathroom. She opened up the mirror and pulled out the soothing pills and, after great effort, she managed to open up the bottle. With her aching, clumsy hands, she dumped its contents onto the counter and popped a tiny blue pill into her mouth.
Erin looked into the mirror. She gazed at her own eyes. Her face looked like it was droopy. Her left eye, once a pronounced brown, had grown to a bright yellow. She barely noticed, though. If she did think anything of it, the soothing medicine convinced her everything was fine.
Erin drifted back to bed, apathetic of her surroundings. She drifted back to sleep with a drug-induced happiness. The faint light from the moon seemed to swirl about her and morph into a candy-coated dream.
Erin was awakened by the ring of her telephone. It seemed so harsh in comparison to the peace she once held onto so tightly in the nocturne. She walked over to the phone, doubtful as to whether she could hold an intelligent conversation. She picked up the receiver, and her boss' harsh voice buzzed in the ear piece.
"Alucard, where have you been all morning? I've got a ripe story for you to pick, so get over here!" screeched Mr. Hierophant, in his staccato manner of speech.
"Boss, I'm pretty sick. I think I'm going to need today and tomorrow off," Erin said after clearing her throat.
"Oh... well... get better soon," Hierophant said, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of sympathy. In his world, aggression, speed, and accuracy were primary, while everything else was a mere second. Her boss hung up on the other end.
Erin's head was spinning. She blew her nose violently on a soaked handkerchief and trudged back to bed. She flopped into her bed and went into a fetal position. She covered herself with only a flimsy afghan. Saliva collected on her pillow as she stared at nothing in particular. It was a tragedy that her pleasant nocturnal trip had ended only to be replaced by an emptiness.
It was about 10:48 a.m. before she could bring herself to do anything. The bathroom was becoming an all-too essential room in her apartment. She plugged the tub, turned the nozzle, and undressed. A nice warm bath always seemed reassuring during an illness.
Erin's body was emaciated. Her once elegant, flowing, long, jet-black hair was now smeared on her shoulders in clumps, and it in hung in front of her eyes like snakes. The mirror on the wall reflected back a sinister figure, crouching in a white haze. Her right hand no longer ached like it had been, and it was feeling surprisingly natural. The only pain came from her pointer and middle fingers, which were fusing together.
Erin's other hand was only a few steps behind in development. A sudden chill caused her to hug herself. This was a horrifying shock. Erin revolted with much terror. The touch of her own two hands had turned from a gentle caress to a cold, harsh scraping. How could her own touch become foreign to her? The mix of outrage, bewilderment, and disgust were strong enough emotions to wrench her mind away from the grip of the happy pills.
With her right hand, which she know regarded as a monster's claw, she reached over and wiped away the fog on the mirror. However, the reflection still appeared to be blurry. For that matter, the whole world seemed blurry. At first, she attributed this to her lousy sleeping pattern, but it had persisted. She closed her left eye, and the world seemed so much clearer. The sight in her left eyes, however, had deteriorated unexpectedly.
Shaken, Erin stepped out of the tub and drained the water out of it. Why hadn't she noticed these changes before? A stray memory told her she had noticed something, but she had dismissed it at the time. Erin opened the cabinet and desperately knocked all of the pill bottles down into the basin of the sink. Upon finding them, she opened the bottle with a fearsome twist, not realizing her own strength.
The azure monsters, leaped from the bottle, as if Erin's urgency had transposed unto them. They plummeted to the linoleum floor with the sound of hail on a rooftop. Erin was angry with herself now. She got on her knees and groped for the few pills that remained. The reality was unbearable now, and she hoped that with each candy drop she could stitch the seams back up again.
The tears came again. In her left eye, they burned like fire. She felt like she was on the downward spiral, only every step felt the same as the last. She could never pinpoint exact moment, but she felt like she had been here before. Any attempt to wipe the tears away would scrape her face and remind her of what she was to become.
She weakly crawled into her bedroom, stopped beside her bed, and lay there. She struggled to breathe through her clogged nose and throat. She tried recalling what it was like to be high on the blue capsules, but it did not help her.
The phone rang. Erin panicked. Once again, she would have to pull it all together and pretend she was the self-reliant young lady, just like always. She slowly raised herself and calmly walked over to the table, perhaps trying to convince herself everything was fine as well. Her hand paused over the phone. How would she pick up the receiver? She knocked it out of the cradle and leaned over to hear who was on the other end.
"Hello?" she asked confidently.
"Hi pumpkin!" replied Vladimir with almost uncharacteristic cheerfulness, "Not feeling well today?"
"No, not really. How'd you know about it?" she asked in surprise.
"I called your office at work and some woman named Debbie told me you were ill. I was wondering if you needed me to take you to the hospital—you know, just like old times!"
"Um... Oh yeah! I've got an appointment at 2:30 with Dr. Quagmire."
"Well, it's 2:00, so we better hurry. Listen, I'm calling from a pay phone `cause I've been visiting a, uh, friend. I'll be over in a jiffy."
"Okay. Well, I'll get ready then. Buh-bye," Erin said, hanging up. The conversation was so sweet it made her want to vomit. She hated the way her dad persisted in treating her like a child, but grateful for his help. She was obviously unable to reach the hospital by herself. It seemed too coincidental, but she pushed all suspicion to the back of her mind.
Erin hurried down to the door of the complex and watched for her father. She didn't want him to come in and see the pitiful state of her apartment. For some reason, which not even she knew, she was excited to see her father.
Once again, the blue Cadillac coasted up to the curb. Vladimir was about to get out when he saw Erin prance down the steps and out to the car.
"Hello," was all that came from his mouth when she entered the car. Her mere presence seemed to set him on edge. The pleasantries ended with the phone call, apparently.
"Hey Dad," she said.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, I'm ready."
The rest of the ride was filled with silence. When Erin tried to see if Vladimir was clenching his teeth, her view was obstructed by a newly grown, white beard. Her dad had become a lot more haggard since they last met, but so had she. Discouraged, Erin resorted to looking out the window, just like always. The familiar neighborhood faded into the distance and foreign precincts of New York flashed past.
The car parked in the lot, and Erin got out of the car wearily. Something about this whole situation did not seem right. Vladimir got out, slammed the car door, and walked ahead of her into the hospital. He glanced about his surroundings frequently, perhaps expecting that someone would be monitoring his movement.
With a quiet hiss, the hospital doors opened. The waiting room was vast with a checkered, black and white, marble floor. Tinny elevator music filtered through the room, as though to assure everyone that all was calm and pleasant. Memories nagged at the back of Erin's brain. Without her saying a word, Vladimir went up to the reception window to confirm Erin's appointment. Meanwhile, she walked, with hands in her trench coat, to a plastic seat and sat down.
"Just like always, huh?" Vladimir ventured to say. His voice no longer carried any wish to be happy and cheerful. Rather its tone reflected his burdened soul.
"Yeah, just like always," said Erin with a snort of faint disgust. She gazed at the floor and tried to remember the events after the hospital visit in the flashback. Her memory failed her, and she resigned to reminding herself of how uncomfortable this situation was.
With surprising haste she was called into the labyrinthine hallways of the hospital beyond the waiting room. It was quite suspicious, seeing as how she had to walk past people who were visibly bleeding to meet the awaiting nurse.
Soon after she was left to herself in the room, Dr. Quagmire entered. He seemed quite old now. His black hair had faded to a bright white. His impeccable stature had developed into a lowly stupor.
"Ah yes, Miss Alucard. You complained of having flu-like symptoms. Your records show that you haven't gotten your flu shot this year. So, I think we'll give you a shot and a refill of your usual medicine," he said examining the chart and impatiently tapping a syringe.
Like an eager little child ready to torture his sister's Barbie doll, Quagmire rushed to her side and pulled up her sleeve before she could protest. He ignored her deformed hands completely. His wrinkled, shaky hands slowly injected the strange substance into her arm.
When he was done, he handed her a bottle of blue pills and ushered her out of the room wearing his ghastly smile. Erin immediately felt betrayed. Her dad and Quagmire knew she was aware of what's going on but didn't care. Her transformation was inevitable it seemed.
With an aching stomach, she walked past her waiting father and out to his car, expecting a silent ride home. She felt horrible. Upon arriving at her complex, her dad took leave of her. When she reached the apartment, she uncapped the bottle with her claws and managed to get a pill into her mouth. It was to stop her aching stomach, she assured herself.
Tuesday, October 31, 2000
Halloween arrived in a chariot of skeleton trees and chilly weather. Little children scampered about the apartment complex in their store-bought costumes, demanding candy. The smell of pumpkin replaced the smell of exhaust fumes in the air. Paper skeletons and fake cobwebs adorned the door of almost every apartment.
A relatively large police boat lay underneath the Brooklyn Bridge, showing little interest of enforcing the law. Aboard it, a group of men dressed in black suits crowded about in the meeting room. Dr. Quagmire and Vladimir Alucard were present as well.
"Gentlemen, I'd like to congratulate you on the success of Project Ouroboros. We have finally succeeded in crossing a human with the extraterrestrial Chupacabra after twenty years of research. This will prove evolutionary in wars of the future. Soldiers will be replaced with programmable, fearsome, blood-sucking monsters. Of course, we couldn't have done it without the studies of those gone before us, as well as Mr. Alucard and Mr. Quagmire."
When the man finished his lecture, the others held up glasses of wine, preparing for a toast. They drank it down slowly and elegantly, savoring the taste. Only Vladimir seemed uncomfortable inside the room.
"When will Quagmire and I get our final stipend?" he asked abruptly. The man at the head of the table looked at Vladimir as if he was concealing irritation.
"When the subject is in the cage, you will get your money, Mr. Alucard. But for now, you will just have to have faith."
* * *
It wasn't until 1:30 p.m. that Erin awoke. Her throat hurt even more. Her stomach ached terribly. Her eyes were clouded over. She crawled out of bed and blindly found her way to the kitchen. She opened the cupboard and removed a box of cereal, only to find it empty. She then put a pop tart into the toaster. She couldn't even keep that pop-tart down in her stomach.
The blue pill seemed to be the only friend left in her life. Erin took one; the feeling seemed more intense since she last felt it. In a state of euphoria, she went back to her bed, and dreamt pleasant dreams of how happy her life could've been if not for this event. Dolls passed on to Prom Queen; Prom Queen passed on to Valedictorian; Valedictorian passed on to college; college passed on to family.
At 4:42 p.m., thunder clouds rolled over the city. A harsh rain fell and dissolved the joy of Halloween as it filtered into the darkest, dirtiest corners of New York. The tapping of rain on her window awoke Erin. She got out of bed and decided that she would enjoy the rain while it lasted. She decided to drive about, perhaps to the park. However, a new subconscious had already decided her destination.
The car failed to start despite all of her efforts to turn the key in the ignition. Erin sighed. She wasn't fit to drive, anyways. She got out and started to walk aimlessly (or so it seemed) down the sidewalk. The rain pelted her face her face, but she enjoyed its cooling effect. The sidewalks were empty.
An hour and a half passed. The rain had not relented, and neither had Erin. A small thought had been planted in her head, and it had now crystallized into a desire that filled her being. She would go to a better place .and live in a better time. The drudgery of her current life would be over.
Almost like an act of fate or magic, the looming towers and arcing cables of the Brooklyn Bridge appeared before her from the mist an hour later. Had she traveled that far? Without second thought, Erin walked to the middle of the bridge and stepped over the guard railing. There was nothing between her and the cold, choppy water. Like the child in her nightmares, she leaped off the bridge, unaware of the boat hovering underneath the bridge. Only when she hit the water did she realize that her last gambit to destroy the monster within her had failed. As she sunk deeper and deeper, she could see a flurry of activity on the surface. Before she could make out what was happening, she slowly slipped into a deep sleep.