Lloyd and I had barely left his driveway when dark clouds began to edge over the valley skies. By the time we were well on the road, the rain fell in earnest. Asphalt shone like black glass, reflecting the headlights of passing cars, and heavy droplets drummed against Lloyd’s pickup truck. For the longest time, the noise of the engine and the low, steady song of the storm were the only sounds that passed between us.

  At long last, Lloyd said, “You’re a real quiet sort, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose,” I said.

  In truth, a lot of people said I was quiet. Most assumed it was because I spent far more time thinking than I did speaking. While this was probably true, I think they left out two very important factors. First, the teachers at every school I’d ever attended before college anyway were constantly telling their students to be quiet. Talking was something that got you into trouble at school. Second, any time I spoke when my father was around, it became an invitation for him to mock, ridicule, or fly off the handle at me.

  Just as Pavlov’s dogs had been conditioned to salivate at the sound of a bell, I had been conditioned to associate my own voice with discomfort. Silence was my shell. While hiding in that very shell, I’d allowed my sister to be violated. Hiding in that shell kept the incident a secret for six years.

  And daring to peek out led to my father’s death.

  “Case and point,” said Lloyd, no doubt referencing the muted moment that passed between us. “I understand you don’t want to talk about your past, but what about something you’re interested in?”

  “Like what?” I asked. Often as a kid I would try to share my interests with my parents’ friends, and my dad would tell me not to annoy them with such things.

  “I don’t know,” said Lloyd. “What’s your favorite book? Aside from religious books, of course. If you’re absolute favorite book is the Bible or the Quran or something, then whatever. I’m talking about a book you read for enjoyment.”

  I paused a moment, biting my lower lip. So often people told me I was creepy, and I worried that Lloyd might be about to think the same thing once he heard what I had to say. Worse, however, would be refusing to answer his question.

  “Dracula,” I said at last.

  He glanced my way, raising an eyebrow. “Dracula? You mean, the old Dracula?”

  “The Bram Stoker novel, yeah,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

  My interest in that book fit right in with my love for gothic attire, draw toward darkness and mystery, my longing to be beautiful in the eyes of others, and my sympathy for villains.

  “Well, you just can’t beat the classics, sometimes,” said Lloyd. “It’s far from my favorite, but I did enjoy Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. You ever read that one?”

  “I haven’t,” I said.

  Lloyd cleared his throat and spoke in a deeper voice, “Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”

  “Is that from the book?” I asked.

  “It is,” said Lloyd. “One of my favorite lines. It’s spoken by the Monster to Victor Frankenstein, after he tells him about how everyone he’s ever met has rejected him. It’s inspiring, in a way. To think that even someone who suffered that much would fight for the right to live.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “What’s a quote you like from Dracula?” said Lloyd. “Can you remember any?”

  I thought for a moment, recalling more often the events of the story rather than any specific quote. Yet, after a moment, a line came to the forefront of my mind. “How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.”

  “Oof!” Lloyd snorted, his eyebrows raised as he gave a nod. “I feel that.”

  “The other one I like is something Dracula said.” I licked my lips, trying to remember the exact words. “My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side.”

  “That’s chilling,” said Lloyd.

  “That’s what I like about it,” I said. “It’s the idea of a villain who does evil not because he’s impulsive, but because he’s patient. Imagine such a looming threat, something that just sucks the life out of you over time. It visits you in nightmares and when you sleep, leaving scars from its terrible bite. Every day that it haunts you, hunts you, it makes you more and more like it, until just like poor Lucy Westenra you awake one evening to find that you too have become a monster.”

  Lloyd fell silent again, the roar of a passing semi the only thing to break the moment. He swallowed, and I wondered if I’d said too much.

  The rhythmic click of the turn signal came before we turned onto a narrow side road. The rain kept falling as we rolled into a sleepy little town. Along the main stretch stood a gas station, a local bank, a liquor store, a restaurant called “Restaurant,” and the feed store.

  Just beyond the feed store sat the car of a state trooper, mostly concealed by the building’s walls. I imagined he was there to watch for speeders and catch them, whether to make his quota or to keep the town safe. If I was lucky, he would remain in his vehicle, Lloyd would give him no reason to pull us over, and he’d never see my face.

  But when have I ever been lucky?

  The pistol rested in my jacket pocket. I hadn’t told Lloyd I’d brought it along. I could almost hear it whispering, promising that if I were recognized, its bite could preserve my freedom. My stomach twisted at the thought of using it on an officer of the law, but if the alternative was prison and the rape that surely waited there, maybe the gun was a necessary ally.

  Lloyd pulled up to a parking spot just on the edge of the feed store’s lot, a short distance from the trooper’s car. In stillness I cursed him, my thoughts accusing him of having positioned us that way on purpose so that the cop might spot me.

  Thankfully, the weather gave me an excuse to pull up my jacket’s hood, and as I stepped out of the truck, I turned my head away from the trooper.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  A car zipped by behind us, throwing a sheet of mist into the air. As Lloyd and I approached the feed store’s entrance, I glanced across the street. Just beyond the liquor store and the gas station, up the hill, stood rows of houses belonging to the people of that tiny village. Political signs for this or that candidate for county sheriff dotted the lawns. In front of the gas station stood a sandwich-board sign that read, “Mexican candy sold here.”

  I wondered if that meant tequila lollipops with worms in the center or chili-dusted fruit snacks.

  The bell on the door rang as Lloyd and I entered. He removed his hat and shook the rain from it over the front rug, then turned to me. “You know, we’re inside now. You can lower your hood.”

  “I like it this way,” I said.

  Lloyd squinted as if trying to see through me. “Prefer looking like the grim reaper or somethin’?”

  The Archangel of Death, as Officer Swan used to say when he saw me standing around wearing all black and a long trenchcoat.

  “Alright,” said Lloyd. “Up to you.”

  We crossed the store to the front counter where a woman of about sixty sat writing in a notebook. She peered up at Lloyd over the tops of her half-moon glasses and smiled. “About time. I got your order in the back there.”

  “Great,” said Lloyd. “How much do I owe ya?”

  He settled up with her, and she called over her only employee, a burly man in his mid-twenties, who hauled a pallet stacked with chicken feed out to the truck. Once it was outside, he pulled the lever and let the jack settle.

  “Start loading up,” said Lloyd, and I did.

  Each sack weighed fifty pounds, and it was only then I realized why Lloyd needed a younger man’s help. The man from the store offered no assistance, just stood with his hands on the pallet jack.

  The bell rang again as the feed store door opened, and someone stepped out into the rain with us. I made the mistake of looking up and caught sight of the state trooper just before he spotted Lloyd.

  “Hey, fella!” said the trooper.

  “Jones!” said Lloyd, clapping him on the shoulder. “How’ve you been?”

  “Busier than usual,” said the trooper. “What with that gas station robbery and all. They want us keeping an eye out for the suspects.”

  I kept my head down, focusing on my work. One sack after another, into the bed of the truck. I debated whether it was wiser to move fast so we could leave, or slow so I might stay too occupied for introductions.

  Either way was a gamble. I chose faster, hoping the rain might serve as an excuse.

  “Hey, Derek,” said Jones.

  Keeping my back to him, I scanned for Lloyd’s son. When I did not see him, I assumed the trooper meant someone else and went on working.

  “Derek?” Jones said again, louder.

  Only then did I realize he meant me. He had not seen my face and assumed I was Lloyd’s boy.

  “Oh, Derek’s at home,” said Lloyd. “This is Alex. He’s a hired hand.”

  In silence I burned. Even my alias felt dangerous. I knew I could not keep hiding my face without raising suspicion, so I turned toward the trooper and said, “Hello.”

  “Well, look at you,” said the cop.

  My hands shook and I shoved them into my pockets to hide their cowardice. My fingers brushed the pistol’s cold metal, and the sensation soothed me. Once more, the weapon whispered in my mind, I’m here for you. If this goes wrong, I’ll fix it.

  The trooper studied me, measuring something. My heart pounded as if trying to batter its way out of my ribcage.

  I am sure the pause lasted seconds, but to me it stretched longer than all the days of my life. “You got all that loaded up already?”

  I looked down. Only one sack remained. I shrugged, hoisted it, and tossed it in, casting a glance at Lloyd as a silent plea to leave.

  “That’s some good work there, sir,” said Jones. “At that rate, you might even get into Heaven!”

  Doubtful.

  Lloyd and the trooper laughed, with the rancher eventually saying, “That there is the very definition of works-based salvation. You know what Pastor Miller says about that.”

  “Yeah yeah,” said the cop. “I was just giving the boy a hard time.”

  I laughed weakly with them.

  Lloyd walked to the back of the truck and shut the tailgate. “Well, thanks for chattin’, but we gotta get goin’. Lots to do.”

  Trying not to seem too eager, I climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door, keeping my eyes away from the trooper. Lloyd exchanged a few more pleasantries before getting in and pulling out of the lot.

  Once again, we rode in silence. The windshield wipers thudded in time with my heartbeat. I dreaded conversation, worried I might reveal something, yet the quiet felt worse. Thorn crept through my thoughts once more, shaping fears into certainties.

  He saw you hiding your face from the cop, Thorn said. He knows you brought the gun. He probably saw how your coat sagged on one side.

  I told myself it was paranoia. But the longer Lloyd said nothing, the more I believed he avoided me because he was afraid.

  He probably signaled the trooper, Thorn whispered, and I could almost see him sitting in the gap between me and the driver’s seat. When you got in the truck, he told him he was in trouble. Trooper Jones is following you right now.

  To prove my tormentor wrong, I checked the side mirror without turning my head. A car followed us, its headlights refracting in the rain. I could not tell if it was a patrol vehicle or just another driver.

  That’s him! Thorn screamed.

  I pressed a hand to my chest and tried to breathe. Lloyd glanced at me.

  He noticed!

  If he asked what was wrong, what could I say? My mind raced for lies, which only made it harder to catch a full breath. No matter how deep I inhaled, there was not enough air.

  I rolled the window down slightly. Rain splattered in, but the cold air helped.

  “You alright?” Lloyd asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, my voice raw.

  A car surged past us, splashing water over the driver’s side.

  Blue and red lights flared behind us. My chest tightened, and I felt my father’s fingers on my throat again. Cold ripples spread over my skin. I hid my shaking hands in my pockets, the pistol offering its wicked comfort.

  No, I can’t kill a cop.

  You must! Thorn urged.

  It’s wrong! I shot back. The pistol’s for my head, not his.

  I would not face prison. I would not endure the same kind of violation I’d suffered as a child. Never again! The gun promised another escape, and I was ready to take it.

  Lloyd pulled to the side of the road. I shut my eyes, bracing myself. Soon, the same weapon that ended Victor Castle’s life would end Vincent Castle’s too. Like father like son.

  What if he’s waiting for you in the Afterlife?

  The siren wailed as the police car sped past us, chasing the driver who had splashed us earlier.

  That’s not even Jones!

  No, the vehicle was entirely different. A cop who worked with the county sheriff, not the state troopers.

  I laughed out loud.

  Lloyd stared at me, concern creasing his brow. “You gonna be alright?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just fine.”

  Once the speeder was pulled over, Lloyd eased back onto the road and continued toward the ranch. With the immediate terror gone, the deeper fear returned, and Thorn capitalized on it.

  Lloyd noticed. Do you think he hasn’t figured it out? You think he doesn’t know what kind of person panics at the sight of police?