These Streaks of Blood

2

The boy reappears just outside the house. He doesn't stumble, just stands for a moment, glancing around, sensing for any company, any danger. Then he laughs to himself. Danger. What would put him in danger?

He strides to a tree on the edge of Katelyn's yard. He scales it as easily as a squirrel might, and sits, hidden in its highest branches. Surely he had planned well. Surely his timing was correct. He's never been wrong.

And, sure enough, a car pulls into the house's driveway just a few minutes after he had perched. Grinning to himself, the boy leans forward, eager to watch the panic unfold.

Another girl, around the same age as Katelyn had been, climbs out of the car and walks up towards the door. She knocks a few times, then stands, waiting.

After a few seconds, the boy can almost make out her frown. She knocks again, louder this time.

When still no response comes, the girl sighs heavily and pulls a cell phone out of her pocket. She presses it a few times before bringing it up to her ear. A moment later, she frowns, deeper this time, and pounds on the door again.

"Katelyn, it's me! Wake up!" she calls.

Obviously yelling was her last resort. It's late at night; the girls had some sort of party planned. The boy had known this, and knew that it meant that many people would quickly be notified and  unnerved by his actions. He loves ensuing terror in innocents, and the sooner he can watch it happen, the better.

"Katelyn!" she shouts, louder this time. Still, nothing, not even the sound of someone moving. Not even the sound of someone breathing... though of course, this girl, with her poor hearing, would not realize that until she was only inches away from the source.

With a huff, the girl gives up on all aspects of politeness. She shoves the door open and stomps into the house, calling her friend's name, aggravated that she hadn't even woken up to let her friend inside, hadn't even bothered to set an alarm or answer a phone call.

Suddenly, the calls stop.

And turn into screams.

The boy's grin widens.

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 Natalee turns off the news decisively. The kind of horror stories on there lately frighten her, though she'd never want to admit it.

Just last night, apparently, some nineteen-year-old girl, Katelyn, was found dead in her own home. The police say that she was entirely drained of blood; though there was no sign of knife work, her forehead was cut, and there were bloody streaks running down the side of her neck, staining her clothes. 

Natalee rubs her hands along her arms, trying to calm the chills creeping through her veins. Her mind runs through the mental list she's been making of similar recent events...

Two weeks ago, a girl named Sophie was found drained of blood, still in her bed. There were no visible puncture signs, just a few spots of blood. She was eighteen.

Last Wednesday, a seventeen-year-old girl named Sally was found the same way, except on a couch, the T.V. still on. Just that weekend, another eighteen-year-old girl was found, cold, emptied of blood, dead.

And that's not all, either. In the past month, there have been seven attacks total, including this one.  The first one, two, even three suspicious deaths resulted in public uproar and swift intervention. At that point, concerned parents and citizens were convinced that schools weren't doing enough to help students in need, that they provided unsafe environments for young adults who may not have a suitable home to return to at the end of the day. The community was somehow convinced that these deaths were the result of depression and bullying and were, ultimately, tragic suicides. The police, having been completely stumped on the matter, latched on to this idea in the hopes that the public outreach programs, school assemblies and counseling 'helping hands,' and even reinvigorated values and enforced cordial activities for children and teens such as 'family nights' would help stem the supposed domino effect the first suicide had caused throughout the apparent sex and age-group that seemed to be targeting themselves.