Those afraid of the dark

Sirius —

Do you ever gaze up at the sky, lost in thought, waiting for nothing in particular? You’re just existing in that moment. My thoughts ran on my ability to recall faces in an instant. Natural skills seem to come out of nowhere, only highlighting the skills you lack. For me, it’s time. It’s something I think about constantly, yet it also seems like an out-of-reach dream.

Last night after the crash, I stood across the street, waiting until paramedics arrived on the scene. Once they took to looking after Frank, and Lieutenant Wood’s car reared around the corner and into view, I headed off. I wasn’t in the mood to chat because everything replayed in my head like a favorite scene from a film you can’t get rid of. This wasn’t out of fondness but out of being lost for words.

I spent the remaining hours sitting on a random bench in a park, trying my damnedest to think of anything else until the wee hours that the sun eclipsed over the horizon, pushing me to head to my apartment. I sat there all day in the hall outside, thinking some more, only for Grace to come out and place a blanket on me.

Her considerate act of kindness hindered my decision to expel her or relocate her to a hotel. I’m not a cruel person, but I was all too aware of how easily personal feelings can blur the lines in a case. Getting too involved rarely ends well. I’ve seen enough old films to know how that story goes—the detective ends up shot dead. Not that I’m worried about that happening to me. But how could I ask her to go back to that sleazy landlord? The reality is, I was already too invested to send her anywhere else.

She’s a mother without a child, and I’m a “child” without a mother. Despite my nature, she eventually gazed beyond the fangs and scarlet eyes. Perhaps it’s difficult for her to let go of her maternal instincts, or maybe my habits just make it easier for her; either way you slice it, she often treats me like a kid. Most of the time, she’s quiet and keeps to herself, yet that doesn’t stop her from picking up my shoes when I leave them lying around after a long night. She even casts a scrutinizing glance at my quick meal choices, always with a watchful eye.

A part of me has to believe she is trying to keep her mind preoccupied with other thoughts as opposed to her missing daughter.

She takes the time to help, albeit cautiously. Along one of my longest walls, an array of documents, photographs, and notes sprawls across the surface, each piece linked by webs of yarn in different colors—forming a delicate yet chaotic tapestry of connections. It’s my evidence board, of course. Given the graphic nature of some details, she rarely scrutinizes, though she’ll occasionally adjust a few scattered Post-its, maintaining some semblance of order amid the chaos.

Her time is mostly spent in quiet, steady work: cooking, carefully handling the laundry, and stitching up my clothes, even though I’ve told her she didn’t have to. Of course, I tend to get into trouble, so plenty of my shirts have holes and cuts. I’d even installed an industrial washer and dryer to handle the worst of the stains my work leaves behind.

But her hands are remarkably skilled. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d been a seamstress in another life. My shirts aren’t cheap, and having them repaired instead of replacing them saves me a small fortune, though it leaves me wondering about her past. It’s a question that’s been simmering in my mind for a while.

Rising from the tub, I dried off and dressed. As usual, Grace was busying herself, this time in the kitchen, putting together a simple meal from the pantry. She needn’t need to go through the effort, but she always saved a plate for me when she did. Her household skills, consideration, and courtesy were impeccable—among other things.

“Grace, what’s your occupation?”

Her shoulders tensed, and her hands paused their rhythm over the frying pan. The sizzle of whatever she was cooking was the only sound breaking the silence that enveloped the room.

“Let me clarify. You have no current job, correct? I have to assume so, given you haven’t left my home since I invited you here. It leaves me wondering when you last worked and where?”

Even with her back facing me, I could sense her hesitation about speaking. The topic’s sensitivity forced her to shut off the stove and sit at the table.

“D-Detective Grimes…I, uhh…”

“I don’t want to pry, nor shame you, but the landlord at your place had mentioned some things. So…”

“Mmmm. I-I have b-been many things to many p-people….”

“Grace, forgive me, were you a favored one?”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as she struggled to find her voice. Her lips quivered, betraying the storm of emotions swirling inside her. Tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks and pooling in her trembling hands.

“I am so sorry, Delilah! Please forgive me!!!!”

“Grace, if you can tell me what you know, it would help my investigation.”

“I-I can’t…”

Figures. Just like the other girl. At least I know now that I wasn’t imagining things when I thought that she and Grace beards of a feather. Their mannerisms seemed so similar. Whatever this curse is—whatever happens to those in Smitten Kittens — must be terrible.

“Grace, you don’t have to say a word, just nod or tap to answer, but if anything has to do with this—”

Grace’s eyes widened as I revealed the tattered, hand-sewn cat doll in a deep shade of purple. Instinctively, her body recoiled; she seemed to jump out of her skin. Without a moment’s hesitation, she sprang back several paces.

“Wh-where did you get that?! Th-that’d—”

“What? But I found this at your apartment. Is this not Delilah’s?”

“No! You! You, you need to get rid of it! Burn it! Please! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Okay!”

I rushed through the cabinet drawers in search of my box of matches. I retrieved a few before grabbing the doll.

Forgoing my coat, I hurried down the street, my eyes scanning for one of those metal trash cans. Once I found one, I struck a match, bringing it close to the doll—only for a soft breeze to pass through, snuffing it out. Annoyed, I struck another, angling my back against the city’s towering wind tunnels. But the flame vanished again. This time, it felt intentional, as if someone had blown it out, like extinguishing candles on a birthday cake.

Glancing around, I felt an eerie chill creep down my spine. Which is odd given vampires don’t get cold. The darkness wasn’t confined to the match; the entire alley and street lay unnaturally black, every streetlamp dead, leaving me enveloped in darkness.

A childlike snicker echoed, drawing my attention to a shadowy corner that made me wonder if my mind was playing tricks on me. The profound darkness obscured my vision.

The snow crunched beneath my heels as I shifted toward a nearby door, which creaked open, its hinges groaning in the silence.

Then, from within the darkness, a smile burst—wide and unnaturally large. Rows of stained, jagged, and uneven teeth gleamed back at me, accompanied by a mischievous grin that seemed to float in the air.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl,” whispered a voice. A snarl hissed, rattling your core with profound discomfort.

“What are you?!” I snapped.

“…” The voice that came from the smile didn’t udder a reply as it nauseatingly retreated back into the dark recesses of the shadows. The streetlight over my head flickered back on as well as the rest of the block. Striking my third and final match, I turned the flame to the ends of the loosely tattered yarn that hung from the purple kitten’s paws. The smell of it burning left my nose to flare and my teeth to flash in disgust before tossing it into a steel drum trash bin.

Watching it turn to ashes didn’t bring me any sort of comfort in the slightest as I recalled the words of the girl from the diner. “…the cat is always listening.”

I was a fool—nothing more than a jester in the king’s court, mocked by all. I’d been carrying that thing around all this time, and only now did the pieces finally click together. Not mentioning it to Grace earlier had been a mistake, one that cost me greatly. I couldn’t shake the thought that if I’d just left or destroyed it sooner, maybe—just maybe—Hummings would still be alive. Had that thing devoured him last night, or was his fate sealed from the start? Would I be further along in this case?

Questions. So many questions. Doubts and regret swarmed my mind. Just then, I heard the faint crunch of snow behind me, soft and deliberate, like footsteps.

“Grace…you don’t have to be out here.”

“I-is, it gone? Did you burn it?”

“Yeah…” My response lacked confidence. It took longer than I expected for it to burn, leaving me standing there, watching until there was nothing left. Something made of that material should have gone up in flames within seconds. I suspected it was more than just a bundle of poorly stitched old yarn made with needle and thread. “Sorry about that. I didn’t know.”

“…” Grace hugged herself, snuggling her face into her coat to keep herself warm, while holding my own for me to retrieve.

“Thank you… It must have been tough for you—to be reminded. Don’t worry, I will find Delilah.”

“D-Detective Grimes. I-I…” It looked to me that she was struggling hard to say the words that sat on her mind. Eventually, the courage came as it stuttered out her lips. “I c-can’t say much, but…there was a, a deal.”

“A deal?”

“It, it’s why I-I’m no longer working. And w-why I am not dead yet...”