Moonlight Lovers

Thirty-five

RIGGS WINTERS arrived in Wobrium at dusk for his assignment to cover a story about a farm in Loudane City in Wobrium. The local bus that takes passengers from the main city to the most rural part of Wobrium operates only until seven o’clock and he’d already missed the last trip.

He had made a reservation in a small bed and breakfast near the farm he was there for. But since he couldn’t travel on foot because Loudane was at least twenty miles from the main city, Riggs decided to stay in a traveler’s inn for the night and leave the next morning. The rundown state of the inn didn’t matter to him. It was just one night anyway.

He put his briefcase on the side of the rickety bed and sighed. The room looks even shabbier than the lobby downstairs. Riggs had a particular affection for anything vintage but this was way different from it. The house was obviously abandoned for some time, was handed over to new owners, and was inadequately renovated to accommodate travelers as guests. Well, it was a good thing he was only going to stay there overnight. From the looks of it, he probably might not even get a wink of sleep the whole night. He’d just stay up and read some articles about killings in Woodfort.

Past midnight, only the light in the room that Riggs rented was on in the whole inn. He used the yellowish and brittle desk that was available in the room to start his own research. Throughout the entire week, he had been compiling newspaper clips about the Woodfort murders, making a small journal about it, and compiling the articles in a folder on his iPad.

His brows creased when he saw a similar description on a newspaper article from a different publisher in Woodfort two months ago, to another article published by an independent journalist in Clairhill. The authors were different but they were saying the same point: that the perpetrator of the killings could be a supernatural being.

Riggs pondered what he just read. The idea had never crossed his mind. All this time, he was thinking the murderer just had a flair for leaving an obvious clue that correlates all previous killings to one suspect, hence all of the victims were killed in the same manner. He had read about it before, some murderers liked leaving a sort of calling card for the police or the victim’s family to know that the loss of the person is just a single casualty to a series of spine-chilling slaughter that would follow—taunting the authority to a thrilling chase, but never really letting them catch up.

Supernatural beings, though... He’s not sure if he could get fully on board with that.

He dismissed the article but kept them in the same folder and continued reading the rest of the clips he saved. Before he knew it, it was already morning. He glanced outside the wooden-framed window of his room and saw the sun peeking from the hills not too far away. Riggs smiled, he missed this kind of tone that he could only get in the provinces. He told himself, maybe when he’s older he’d like to go back and settle here in Wobrium.

A knock on the door interrupted his train of thoughts and Riggs got up from the wobbly chair to open the door. It was the inn owner, smiling through a few rotten teeth to announce that breakfast is being prepared downstairs. Riggs smiled and thanked the woman. He decided to take a quick shower and headed downstairs.

Riggs sat down on the corner of the modest dining area with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a cup of black coffee to help keep himself awake. He’d want to start the day by taking pictures around the area before he went on his way to Loudane. It would be a great idea to capture some stills of the main city for the article he’s writing.

As soon as he sat down on the table though, a man who’s probably in his late fifties or early sixties sat in front of him on the same table.

Riggs glanced around the dining area. There were only a couple of people dining at the moment, and there are plenty of available tables. Why did this man choose to sit at the same table as him? Is he going to ask him for money?

He studied the man’s appearance, despite his wrinkled skin he could tell that the man was strong enough to kick his leg if he ever says something that will offend him, his hairline was receding and he was mostly bald on top of his head, he was wearing old people eyeglasses, and his badly tailored clothes are mustily soiled.

Riggs found his voice after staring at the old man for a good minute. “Can I help you, sir?”

The man nodded towards the camera, and the black moleskin journal he brought with him to breakfast, hoping he’d be able to have some time alone with his research materials.

Looks like he was wrong, though.

“You’re a writer?” He asked, pulling out a flask from the breast pocket of his worn-out jacket.

“Yes,” he answered politely. “I work for Woodfort Digital Media.”

“Ah, a city guy.” The old man nodded. “Well, what brought you here in Wobrium?”

“I used to live here, actually. But now, I’m here for work. I am covering a story about a farm in—” He paused to check his notes. “Loudane, Wobrium.”

“Be careful when you get there. A lot of curious things are happening around here.”

Isn’t that everywhere though? His brain wanted to retort, but he stopped himself.

“What kind of curious things, sir?”

“Murders, livestock missing, people missing,” he listed.

Riggs suddenly forgot about breakfast. His hand immediately grabbed the pen stuck between the pages of his moleskin journal and started scribbling. What the old man just stated were exactly the same things that have been happening in Woodfort and Clairhill. Not too much on the livestock, though, because those two cities are too urbanized.

“So there are cases like that here, too?” Riggs wondered aloud.

The old man drank from his flask and recapped the bottle. “Happens everywhere.”

“Do you know anything about those murders?”

The old man met his gaze. It was probably the first time since he sat down with him. “Why? Do you need information for your story?”

Well, he thought. Not for the reason I came here for. But he decided he didn’t have to explain that. “Yes,” he answered.

“So, how much can you give me for my information?”

Riggs blinked continuously. He wasn’t expecting that from the man. Although, maybe he does seem a little bit like the type that would want to benefit from anything he would participate in. He tapped his fingers on the table. “How about I get you a refill for your flask and a breakfast?”

“Get me two bottles of whiskey and you can ask me however many questions you want.”

RIGGS SKIPPED lunch and decided to leave for Loudane on the two o’clock bus. After not really eating anything at breakfast, he walked around the area with the old man that talked to him in the inn’s dining hall that morning. He got his camera and his moleskin journal with him. As they wandered about, Riggs snapped pictures of the place.

The hike started great within the first few minutes. The man just kept telling him information after information about the murders that took place in Wobrium, the missing people in the area, the families that have lived all their lives in Wobrium who started moving to another state after all the horrible things that kept happening in the place, the declining business of livestock owners whose farms have been frequently terrorized by a monster from what the townspeople could gather.

Riggs was convinced that the old man really knows stuff. How, he absolutely had no idea. But he was grateful that he talked to him, to finally have some real exclusive information about the thing that he had been curious to know more about since day one.

However, the man continued drinking from his flask as they talked, and Riggs was slowly beginning to worry about the old man. The man would sometimes forget what he’s saying mid-sentence. He couldn’t even fathom how he could walk steadily in his state.

A little later, they stopped near a barb-wired fence around a wide field. It was less than half a mile from the inn, but the absence of people in that area made it look like they just walked for hours and reached the most rural part of the state. “What happened here?”

The old man pointed somewhere in the field with his crooked, wrinkled finger. “The first girl was found here, two years ago.”

Riggs was silent, he just kept looking at the vast, quiet field. Something about its stillness makes his skin crawl.

The man continued. “She was new in this place, very young girl. Beautiful. They say she was a model or something back in the city. She was found here, naked, her blood completely drained. She looked like a mannequin on the grass when she was found.”

Riggs could not hide the hint of disgust that went through him as the old man details the event of the first murder. He feels sorry for the girl, too. How can anyone be so vile and cruel as to take away a young person’s life? Or any life for that matter.

After exchanging questions and answers, and Riggs writing the important pieces of information on his journal, they started walking again. He tried not to think too much about how frequently the man take a swig from his flask as they continued walking about.

They went to a few more places where the man claims the other victims were found. He gave him details of how the bodies were discovered, when, and what state were the bodies in. And Riggs noticed how most of the victims were girls, most of them were naked, most of them had shown evidence of being sexually abused, and their blood was drained from their bodies.

Looking at the note he carefully scribbled on his journal, he’s convinced that it could really be the work of a cold-blooded serial killer. He also could not help but notice how the method of killings resembles the murders that took place in Clairhill and Woodfort.

So, there’s one killer doing all of this?

The other night Riggs looked into similar murders that happened in other places and outside the country. He was surprised to find striking similarities to killings dating back a couple of centuries ago. So, it couldn’t be just one killer then? Because how is one man capable of carrying on a murder spree for centuries? Unless, there’s a group of people responsible for it, and they continue what one people had started and do the same thing to their victims. Again, to establish that murderer calling card thing.

“Do you think the suspects the police named were correct?” Riggs asked the old man, who was leaning against the huge tree where they stopped at. He said a twenty-nine year old bakery assistant was found dead under that tree.

“I don’t think it was any of those men,” he said quietly but clearly. “Those people were as innocent as the both of us. I believe a monster killed those poor girls.”

Riggs listened carefully. At first, he thought he was referring to a supernatural being like those writers of the articles he read last night had theorized. But he realized he must mean a very horrible, disgusting person whose wickedness does not even deserve being called human was behind this.

“Serial killers really are the worst kind of monsters,” he agreed.

“I don’t think you understood me. I don’t mean those were done by a person. I’m certain a bloodthirsty creature did this,” the old man reiterated.

Riggs looked at the old man and furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“A city guy like you would not believe me, but I’ve seen vampires roaming this place.”

Riggs failed to hold back the short chuckle that came out of his mouth. It was too late when he realized how rude that was. So he tried to explain himself. “Sir, vampires don’t exist.”

“So what do you think did that to those people who were killed?” He challenged.

He shrugged. “A cold-blooded murderer,” he replied logically.

“You’re wrong. A vampire did this. I know because I’ve—”

The old man stopped as something flashed before his eyes and a wave of terror just hit him and he could not continue what he was saying.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“That’s what I think. I can’t do anything if you don’t want to believe me.”

When they returned to the inn shortly after 1 PM, the old lady who owns the place stopped mopping the floor to look at the two of them as they got inside the lobby. She glanced particularly worriedly at Riggs. Upon checking out a quarter before 2 o’clock, the owner finally told him why.

“That guy you walked with earlier had a little problem here,” she whispered and pointed at her temples.

Riggs decided not to say anything. Despite being boozed while having a conversation with him, the old man seemed attentive and aware of what they were talking about. He’s not going to pass judgment just because someone believes in things he doesn’t.

He left the inn and waited at the bus stop which was a mere walking distance from the lodge.