Switch Blade Romance

Hospitals and Melodrama.

March 3rd 2015

Paragould Arkansas.

It had been twenty-four hours since Andrew Grant had crawled out of his living hell, and already the word escape felt like a lie someone told to make things sound finished.
Most of that day had dissolved inside a hospital exam room that smelled of disinfectant and quiet panic. Time there didn’t move forward so much as it circled, returning again and again to the same questions, the same looks, the same careful distance in people’s eyes.
The first thing the deputy had done—after lights and sirens and the blessed, impossible sight of authority—was take Andrew, Sam, and Kayleigh to the police station.
Fingerprinting.
Andrew had no wallet. No license. No proof he was himself.
That alone scared him more than he wanted to admit.
Once they confirmed that he really was Andrew Grant—the missing boy, the Facebook post, the ghost who had come back breathing—they drove them across the Tennessee state line to a hospital in Sarkis. Quiet. Out of the way. Somewhere the press wouldn’t swarm like flies on meat.
Rachel and Lacey were coming. Dr. Anthony too. Sheriff John Henry. They had business to finish in Sneedville first. There was always business when monsters were involved.
Andrew lay in the hospital bed, an IV in his arm, fluids dripping into him like they were trying to refill something that had leaked out months ago. Dehydration, they said. Mild shock.
Mild, Andrew thought.
That was a funny word for the way his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
They’re trying to figure out if I’m crazy, he realized.
If I helped him.
If I killed people.
Even with evidence—chains, blood, that basement—they were still looking at him like he might suddenly confess to everything.
The cops came in the afternoon.
They brought pictures.
Missing people. Faces that stared at him from glossy paper, eyes frozen somewhere between hope and terror. They asked him what had happened in the two months he’d been gone.
Andrew told them what he could. What he remembered. What he dared.
Eventually a doctor stepped in and told the Tennessee State Police to let him rest.
Rest.
As if sleep were a switch you could flip.
Charles Grady was still out there.
One of the officers—Fredericks, Andrew thought—stood at the foot of the bed, notebook in hand.
“Mr. Grant,” he said, voice careful, “you’re sure you stabbed him in the stomach?”
“Yes,” Andrew said. “I took the knife. The dagger. Whatever you want to call it. I stabbed him in the gut.”
He swallowed. “He bled. Enough for us to get away.”
Fredericks nodded. “We found a substantial amount of blood in the basement. But we didn’t find a body.”
The words hung there.
“It’s possible he ran into the woods and died,” Fredericks went on. “We’re bringing in bloodhounds.”
Andrew shook his head. Too fast. Too hard.
“No,” he said. “You don’t understand. That man isn’t fully human.”
Fredericks smiled. A small one. Practiced.
“He worshipped something,” Andrew said. “Something demonic. It gave him power. Maybe more than that.”
Fredericks laughed.
Andrew stared at him. “I’m glad you find that funny, Officer.”
The laughter stopped.
“Look, Mr. Grant,” Fredericks said, softer now. “You’ve been through something horrific. But Grady’s just a sick man. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. And if we do—”
He paused.
“—he won’t hurt anyone again.”
Andrew wasn’t convinced. Not even close.
“When can I see my family?” Andrew asked. “My friends? My dog?”
“As soon as your folks get here,” Fredericks said. “The others are still helping us search.”
Then he left.
Andrew slept until nine that night, the kind of sleep that felt more like fainting.
The knock woke him.
His mother came in first.
“Mama?” Andrew said, his voice breaking before he could stop it.
Helen Grant crossed the room and wrapped him up like she was afraid he might vanish again. “My baby,” she cried. “Oh, my baby.”
His father followed. Then Deshaun. Olivia.
And then—best of all—La-Laurie.
His father held her leash, but she didn’t need it. She saw Andrew and lost her mind, tail wagging, barking like joy itself had teeth.
Andrew patted the bed. “Come here, girl.”
She jumped up, planted her paws beside him, and nudged his arm with her nose.
Andrew held her and didn’t let go.
The doctors talked. His parents listened. Andrew pretended not to.
Broken finger. Scars. Punctured eardrum. Psychiatric evaluation. PTSD.
They talked about him like he was a chart.
He stayed.
Later, his mother handed him a new phone.
“Same number,” she said. “Your pictures are safe. Just… new.”
He smiled. It felt strange but good.
They watched the news.
Then a story came on.
A town in Mississippi. Abandoned. Missing people. Animal attacks. A cult, maybe. Contaminated water. Mass psychosis.
Andrew felt something slide into place in his mind.
A name.
Aaron.
Another word followed, uninvited.
“Vampires.”
He said it out loud.
His mother looked at him. “Baby?”
Andrew blinked. The room snapped back into focus.
“I’m okay, Ma,” he said. “Just tired.”
She smiled and stayed.
Andrew closed his eyes.
And slept.
Not knowing—couldn’t know—that some doors, once opened, never really closed at all.