The Vampire Obsession

Chapter 2

Evelyn

It was easy to tell when you were getting close to Grimwood.

The skyscrapers of New Orleans’ metropolis gave way to abundant vegetation, surrounded by ancient pines with thick trunks worn down by time. They had been there long before that miserable town was ever built.

The trees stretched along the shoulder of the road, their canopies blotting out the sun and casting the highway into a heavy darkness.

And then you were greeted by a massive wooden sign overgrown with creeping vines, ivy, and moss at the roadside.

Welcome to Grimwood.

With its modest population of 8,000, Grimwood was known for humid days and nights as icy as its residents. Vampire legends had been whispered into the wind since the city’s founding. Needless to say, Halloween was a huge event there.

That time of year, the streets transformed—like the town itself dressed up for the Day of Witches. Macabre decorations covered house fronts with fake spiderwebs, pumpkins, and monster figures.

But it wasn’t just that.

In Grimwood, Halloween decorations also included crucifixes, garlic, jars of holy water, and salt lined along doorways.

All to repel the bloodsuckers.

I don’t remember the first time I heard about Grimwood’s vampires, but I’d known the legends for as long as I could remember. Stories meant to scare children away from the forest. They were born more than a century ago, when residents began reporting unexplained animal attacks—bodies drained, bite marks on their necks, found deep in the heart of the woods.

That was how the rumors started: immortal creatures feeding on the blood of the living to survive. Over time, the rumors became legends. And they made Grimwood famous—cafés and bars leaned into the vampire theme.

Tourists from all over the world flooded the streets every Halloween, eager to see the city for themselves.

But outside of Halloween, nothing grand ever happened in Grimwood. Local commerce didn’t offer much variety. The closest mall was several miles from downtown, sitting off the highway—meant more for travelers passing through than for people who actually lived there. The police force was small. Almost everyone knew each other, or knew someone who did.

Nothing ever happened in Grimwood.

And that was why, when serial murders began in the area, the news spread through the town like a deadly plague—until it became the main topic across the entire country.

There wasn’t a living soul who didn’t know who the Grimwood Ripper was.

The bastard had turned the city into a tourist attraction for true-crime fanatics. They kept coming and going even after the killings stopped—mysteriously—for five years.

Five years since I met him in the forest.

Five years since he killed my father, the former police chief.

Five years since I fled that town and decided to pour every ounce of myself into finding answers.

Why had he spared me?

Why did he kill?

Who was he?

Those questions spun in my mind like a scratched record—the source of the obsession that stole my sleep and my sanity, day and night.

And now that I was back in town, he was killing again.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

The police cars parked along the shoulder ahead of me snapped me out of my trance at the wheel.

I pulled in behind them and grabbed my bag from the passenger seat—everything I needed inside, including my criminologist ID. My license to be in the field if anyone demanded to know what I was doing there.

It was a less scandalous option than announcing I was the dead police chief’s daughter.

The man who died at the hands of the same killer who’d committed the homicide they were analyzing right now.

Before stepping out, I flipped down the rearview mirror and studied my reflection.

Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath my blue eyes, speckled with brown—like dirt scattered across a crystal sea. My lips were cracked from dehydration, and tiny cuts bled where I’d spent the last hour anxiously biting down on my lower lip.

At least I was still wearing the slacks and black satin blouse I’d worn to the university lecture. It made me look more responsible, more elegant—like an adult woman whose life was in order.

Far from the truth.

But no one needed to know that.

Everything about me was ordinary enough to slip in and out of a crime scene unnoticed.

Except, of course, for my sectoral heterochromia.

I decided to take the sunglasses from the glove compartment. My knuckles brushed the cold metal barrel of the gun hidden inside.

I tied my black hair into a ponytail. Swiped lip gloss over my dry mouth and pressed my lips together, wetting them. I checked my appearance one last time in the mirror and slid the sunglasses onto my face.

That would have to do.

At the entrance to the trail where the crime scene waited, a sizable number of officers stood alongside a forensic investigation team.

No civilians lingered nearby, which meant the news hadn’t spread yet—and was being kept under wraps for now. Nothing stayed secret for long in a small town like that. The walls talked.

I ducked beneath the yellow-and-black tape that read CRIME SCENE — DO NOT CROSS.

Ignoring warnings was a fundamental part of my job.

A middle-aged white man lay on the ground. His eyes were wide, his mouth open—frozen in the moment he’d choked on his own blood to death. His hands were smeared with the blood he’d tried to stop after his throat had been opened in a grotesque cut, from one artery to the other. His beard was stained red, but still dark—like his hair.

A perfect replica of the other men on the Grimwood Ripper’s victim board.

His face was vaguely familiar.

Probably one of my father’s friends.

Across his neck was a deep, horizontal wound that exposed muscle, arteries, and tendons beneath his cold skin. The blood—now dry—had run down his white shirt, torn open at the chest.

My eyes dropped to the bloody mark carved into his flesh.

There was no need to call a medical examiner, no need for forensics.

The occult symbol had been carved with the same knife the Ripper used to slit his victims’ throats.

He always did this.

It was the finishing touch.

And no one had ever been able to decipher the origin of that macabre symbol—not even me. Years of obsessive research, and I still hadn’t found the source.

But I had theories.

It wouldn’t be the first time a serial killer fixated on the occult and displayed it on their victims.

The Night Stalker. The Son of Sam. Dennis Nilsen…

I could name more if I dug deep enough—most of them from the eighties.

The golden decade of serial killers and satanic panic.

A strong hand clamped down on my shoulder suddenly, yanking me out of my thoughts.

“Ma’am, this area is restricted. Only law enforcement can enter the crime scene,” a sharp male voice said behind me.

I turned with a sly smile, already ready to pull my ID from my pocket.

“Good thing you’re talking to one, then.”

I raised an eyebrow at the officer glaring at me with a scowl.

“Leave her with me.”

A tall Black man with a gleaming badge on his chest strode toward us. His lips curved into a welcoming smile when his gaze met mine.

The officer looked at my face—really looked at it—for the first time.

I caught the exact moment recognition hit him. His eyes widened, and he released my shoulder immediately.

“Yes, sir.”

He walked away, leaving us alone.

Alan—the current police chief of Grimwood—gave me a small nod.

I nodded back, hard.

No warm hug. No friendly handshake.

“Evelyn,” he greeted.

“Alan.”

“You came.”

“You called.”

I gestured toward the scene around us. A forensic tech crouched near the corpse and zipped a body bag over it.

“And you waited until I arrived to cover him. Which tells me my presence was actually required here.”

“I figured the famous criminologist Evelyn Cross would want to see what we found.”

“Is that so?”

I arched a brow, unimpressed by his false courtesy.

He tipped his chin toward the body.

“Steve Jackson. Sixty years old. Retired officer. Most likely killed during the early hours of the morning.”

“The Grimwood Ripper is back. Nothing new. Same victim profile, same method. So why did you call me?”

Alan glanced over his shoulder and motioned to a woman wearing gloves, a cap, and a face shield—part of the medical examiner team.

“Vanessa. Bring the evidence envelope and gloves for Evelyn, please.”

She nodded and, minutes later, hurried back with what he asked for.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, frowning.

Annoyed by his lack of explanation, I pushed my sunglasses up onto the top of my head.

“See for yourself.”

Once I finished putting on the gloves, she handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it carefully and peeked inside without pulling the evidence out of the plastic.

What I saw nearly made me drop it.

“Alan…”

“Take it out, Evelyn.”

When I swallowed, it felt like blades sliding down my throat.

Even so, I did what he said.

Inside was a note.

Its edges were stained and sticky with blood.

“Open it,” he ordered.

I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until I tried to move them.

I unfolded the paper slowly, deliberately—and found a message written in elegant handwriting, in ink so dark red it looked like—

Blood.

The only blood it could be was the same blood from the dead man on the ground. Cold and pale like marble, only steps away from my feet.

Instantly, my vision tunneled.

Alan faded. The corpse faded. The crime scene vanished. The officers around me disappeared.

There was nothing but the note in my hands—and the bloody words aimed at me like a dark love letter.

To my biggest fan.

With love,

Your killer.

Bile rose in my throat. I gagged—but forced it back down.