Authors: Jeff Sampson
I staggered across the lawn, my body seeming to fight me with every step.
Smacking into a few parked cars, I lumbered into the darkened street. The smell led into the woods across from Mikey1 s house, the same woods that eventually ended near where I lived.
Distantly I heard two loud pops, like firecrackers going off, then the sound of a girl screaming.
Ignoring the screams, I walked into the trees. As I did, a strong, queasy pain struck. As much I wanted to keep going, to chase after Patrick's scent, I had to stop and bend over, one hand clutching my stomach and the other against the rough bark of a tree.
I didn't feel right. My body shivered, my insides swirled in my gut. My head felt like it was filling up with water, like my head was a sponge and I was soaking up the ocean. Above me, the stars in the moonless night glowed too terribly bright, burning into my eyes.
The confidence I'd felt all evening drained away, and the cold of night swelled over me.
I fell to my knees and gagged. The alcohol burned in my stomach. I needed it out of me. I gagged again. My whole body convulsed as I retched, then threw up.
It didn't help. My stomach still hurt, my vision was still blurry, my head still muddied. I stood and staggered away from the puddle of watery vomit.
More pain lanced through my body—my fingers and toes throbbed as though they'd been pounded with a hammer. My skin prickled with gooseflesh, the fine hairs puckering like little needles jabbing my arms. And then the pain in my stomach burst, like someone had grabbed two big handfuls of flesh and torn me open.
Crying out, I fell to the soft ground, wet leaves sticking to my hair and mud staining my perfect green top. I didn't care, couldn't care. The world swirled around me as I huddled with my knees to my chest, trying to cry out as my body convulsed, feeling as though I'd been tossed in a blender with some sadistic madman pounding on the pulse button.
And then it was over. My brain was still off-kilter and hazy, but I felt...
better.
The woods around me weren't quite as blurry anymore, but it seemed as though the color was leached from them, everything in shades of dark gray and black. I noticed things I hadn't before—the knothole in the tree in front of me, the rustling of some meek little animal in the bushes to my right, a man-shaped shadow7 to my left cast by no source that I could see. I snorted and sniffed, smelling the wet leaves, the sour scent of my vomit, the pee of some dog who'd been walked here exactly eight hours and thirty-seven minutes ago. And of course, I smelled
his
smell. His perfect, alluring scent.
I groaned deep in my throat, the sound coming out like a dog's growl, then tried to get to my feet. I immediately pitched forward onto my hands. My view was crystal clear, so I had no way to explain what I was seeing, but my arms looked like they were covered in smooth gray and black fur. My fingernails had grown long, sharp, and black; the weight of my body on my hands sank them into the soft earth.
On all fours, I started to stalk forward, then yelped. My legs felt bound with rope or something, so tightly that they hurt. Swiveling around, I reached down and slashed with my long nails. In a moment, my pants were shredded. They were barely clinging to me and still felt much too tight, but now at least I could move. And that was all that mattered.
Wobbly, I stood, then started walking forward. The scent was growing increasingly faint. I had to hurry.
The last thing I remember as I tore deeper and deeper into the woods was the feeling that I was being watched. That same feeling from the night before of some
presence
hovering near me, observing me.
Only this time, I could see it. See
them.
All around me I saw more of the shadowy man-shaped figures, standing still, doing nothing. Only they weren't shadows, not really—more like human statues carved from the blackness around me, somehow7 seeming both weightless and horribly solid at the exact same time.
Though nothing else about the dark woods worried me—what could hurt me?—something about the shadows, about the way they stood so perfectly still, burned itself into my brain, grabbing hold of some sort of ancient fear and making me whimper. I ran away from the shadows, toward the smell. I remember absolutely nothing else.
The Vesper Company
"Envisioning the brightest stars, to lead our way."
- Internal Document, Do Not Reproduce –
Partial Transcript of the Interrogation of
Branch B's Vesper l
Part
3—
Recorded Oct. 31, 2010
F. Savage (FS): You can't remember anything else? Vesper 1 (V1): Sony. It was the beer. I guess I blacked out.
FS: How unfortunate.
V1: Don't worry. It's not the last time it happens. Not the blackout drinking! I kind of swore off beer. I mean the changing.
FS: [laughs.] Oh, of course, I´m aware of everything else that happens. But this is all quite fascinating to read.
The varying lengths of your mental shift before the full-on transformation ...
so very different from any other vesper I've had the chance to study.
V1: So what is that, anyway? You keep calling me a vesper, but you called us deviants earlier too.
FS: It's just a term for our records, Emily. Vespers are ... special. Precious to us in a way you can't imagine. But you are different than the vespers I've worked with in the past. Like I said, the deviant nickname may be unfortunate, but it works for—
V1: The vespers you didn't observe.
FS: That's one way to phrase it. But that is why I find this so interesting. The progression of the change...
V1: Yeah. I thought about it, and I guess it was sort of like a car revving up after not being used for a while, you know? Like someone turned the key and it churned for a bit, then died. Turned again and it churned even longer.
Turned the key one more time and...
FS: Then the engine turned over, and you transformed all the way.
Wonderful!
V1: Oh yeah, it's totally a blast.
FS: Oh, please excuse my enthusiasm. I can sometimes be a bit, ah, excitable.
Just ask my colleagues.
V1: I'll be sure to do that later around the water cooler. FS: [laughs.] You have quite the sardonic sense of humor at times!
V1: Sorry. I guess it's hard not to be sarcastic under the circumstances.
FS: Yes, I suppose that's understandable, [clears throat] In any case, let's move back to this past chapter. Quite an eventful party. And interesting how many familiar names were there. It almost seems fated.
V1: Yeah, well, me beelining for Dalton wasn't much of a coincidence, but—
[V1 ceases to speak as another round of muffled thuds and booms sounds.
These noises are louder than the ones indicated in previous transcript (Part 2). Noises quickly cease.]
V1: Seriously, is everything all right out there?
FS: Must be. Yes, of course. If there were an issue, I'd surely be contacted.
V1: If you say so.
FS: Hmm, well, I don't think we really need to go into further detail on what we've just read. Let's continue on.
The first thing I noticed: my pants. The nice, tight-fitting pants Dawn had let me borrow were torn to shreds, hanging from my hips like a denim hula skirt. At least the green tank she'd loaned me was fine. She'd probably start to notice soon if even more of her clothes began to disappear.
Everything in my room seemed in place, with the exception of the curtains, which had been left open, something I never do. Second story or not, I don't want anyone able to spy on me. I realized suddenly that I had no idea when or how I'd gotten up to my room the night before. I remembered me and Dalton in Mikey Harris's kitchen, I sort of remembered running off into the woods, getting sick, and...
"School," I muttered. "Oh man, it's a school day."
The clock told me it was 7:43 a.m. I was supposed to get picked up by Megan in fifteen minutes.
Stumbling only slightly, I made it across the hall to the bathroom. I suddenly really, really had to pee, but my mouth still tasted horrifying, and I seriously needed an aspirin or an ibuprofen or
Lesson for the day, kids: Hangovers are real, and they are the opposite of fun.
I woke the next morning with sunlight slicing between my open curtains and stabbing my eyelids. I grimaced. My limbs, my back, my chest—every part of my body felt stiff, overworked. There was a constant throbbing pain in my forehead, and my mouth tasted like I'd spent last night licking a toilet.
Last night. Oh no, last night.
I sat up in bed and immediately regretted it. I still felt woozy, and my head seemed determined to roll off my neck. I forced open my crusted eyes. As usual, everything was blurry.
I fumbled for my glasses on my nightstand, then slipped them on.
The first thing I noticed: my pants. The nice, tight-fitting pants Dawn had let me borrow were torn to shreds, hanging from my hips like a denim hula skirt. At least the green tank she'd loaned me was fine. She'd probably start to notice soon if even more of her clothes began to disappear.
Everything in my room seemed in place, with the exception of the curtains, which had been left open, something I never do. Second story or not, I don't want anyone able to spy on me. I realized suddenly that I had no idea when or how I'd gotten up to my room the night before. I remembered me and Dalton in Mikey Harris's kitchen, I sort of remembered running off into the woods, getting sick, and ...
"School," I muttered. "Oh man, it's a school day."
The clock told me it was 7:43 a.m. I was supposed to get picked up by Megan in fifteen minutes.
Stumbling only slightly, I made it across the hall to the bathroom. I suddenly really, really had to pee, but my mouth still tasted horrifying, and I seriously needed an aspirin or an ibuprofen or something else for my head. I popped the pill first, putting my head down and gulping at the water pouring from the faucet, then compromised on the other two problems by sitting on the toilet and brushing my teeth at the same time. I kicked off the pants as I sat down. No use wearing those anymore.
Finishing my business, I flushed, got up, and spat the toothpaste froth into the sink. It hadn't helped. The inside of my mouth still tasted like death.
It was then, standing over the sink and squinting at my own bleary, red-rimmed eyes in the mirror, that I remembered. I remembered Dalton, Nikki's angry face, the triplets promising to hurt me, tossing poor Mikey Harris aside, chasing after Patrick's smell, and...
Changing. I remembered
changing.
"No way," I whispered, and turned away from my hideous reflection. What Crazy Emily had done was bad. Supremely bad. Girls like me just did not go to parties and make scenes like that, did not challenge the royalty of high school, did not shove one of their prized leaders. And they certainly didn't try to steal another girl's boyfriend. That was something people did only in nighttime soap operas. Heck, daytime soap operas too.
And what was all that about, anyway? What was my alter ego's freakish obsession with boys? Licking Dalton's face, following another one's scent—
and that, too. The endless, irresistible urge to smell guys. It was like I'd transformed into a confident, kick-ass girl every night, but rather than be a superhero or something, I spent all my time trying to find a guy to pounce on.
What did that say about me? All this time I'd hidden in my room, reading my books, covering my, er, womanly attributes up so no one would ogle me. I didn't do anything at school, really, so let's face it: I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I mean, I had my fantasies about who I'd
like
to be—not careers, really, just the idea of becoming a woman who was strong and confident and utterly calm in any situation—but before the past few nights they were just wistful imaginings. Other girls fantasize about being something actually achievable, like lawyers or doctors or artists or models.
Heck, even wanting to grow up and be a mom is a goal.
But without really knowing who I was, what I was meant to be, I never imagined that maybe the real reason I wished I was like the cool girls on TV
was because I wanted to ... get a boyfriend. Which didn't even make sense, because that had hardly ever been my lifelong goal, and besides, how pathetic is that? Not the wanting-to-date part—that was fine—but more that I guess some deep, dark, subconscious part of me apparently had
only
that as a goal. Dress up to get the boys. Act crazy to get the boys' attention. Lick the boys. Chase the boys.
Standing there in the bathroom, my feet bare against the cold tile, I didn't know what to think. Maybe my brain was still addled from the beer after all.
I should have taken Megan's advice the night before and tied myself up. Why hadn't I? Why, despite how disturbing it was to have these crazy mood swings, did a big part of me find Nighttime Emily kind of appealing, even with her penchant for acting like a contestant on a trashy reality dating show? Breaking rules. Getting in people's faces. That wasn't me, no matter how fun it felt at the time.
And that was the whole point, wasn't it? For all her many flaws, Nighttime Emily was the embodiment of every crazy fantasy I'd had since I started high school, given up Megan's dream of us becoming popular, and completed my transformation into a wallflower loner. Only Nighttime Emily apparently completely lacked any sense of social correctness.
I turned back to the sink and splashed water on my dirt-streaked face, then ran a brush through my hair before pulling it back. Even though I felt supremely grimy, there was no time for a shower. I snagged the ruined pants from the floor, ran back into my room, and tossed them into the closet.
There was no denying I'd gotten drunk last night. Supremely drunk. But was it possible to get so drunk that I'd hallucinated? I mean, blurry though my vision was, I had clearly seen my arms and hands. I remembered them being longer, covered in fur, my hands transformed into claws. That wasn't possible, clearly. I mean, just 'cause I was some sort of were-slut, that didn't mean I was a...