The Father and the Witch
A few content warnings before proceeding! This text contains explicit descriptions of corpses, allusions to domestic violence, murder, religious abuse and themes. Take care of yourselves!
Dale is shared with @corneille-but-not-the-author
– February 5th, 178
It was a cold dark night in Notturna. It wasn't quiet, no, it rarely was at four A.M. in a vampiric neighborhood.
The police were called because of silence. Silence in a flat on the fourth floor of an unsanitary apartment complex, somewhere down on Cobweb street. There's nothing worrying about silence, usually.
Except when it follows gunshots and a cacophony of screams.
Detective officer Dale Atkinson arrived late on the scene, held back as he was by paperwork and phone calls and a decisively uncooperative coffee machine. His face was somber, his tenth cigarette of the day nearly burnt out, he could almost taste the ash. Working on murder cases would have been a chore for most police officers, but Dale needed the work. Especially today. Today marked the two-months anniversary of his wife Gretchen's death. He needed to think about anything else, even if that meant going to a notoriously disreputable neighborhood at four in the morning.
When he made it to the fourth floor, his subordinates had already laden the corridor with yellow tape and were waiting in front of the door. There were four of them under the harsh, pale electric light. Two officers, Dale himself, and a woman in a cardigan and slippers, face contorted with fear, rubbing her own arms to try and calm herself down. Probably the call maker. The officers were young, barely out of school, stiff in their uniforms. Juniors. Boys, not even men. As always, they were criminally understaffed.
“What are you two standing around for?”
“Well, we… we were waiting for you, detective,” junior officer Svarov stammered.
He didn't need to ask why. The smell coming from behind the door was unmistakable.
Someone had died in there.
Dale squashed the butt of his cigarette under his shoe before walking towards the woman in slippers. A vampire too. Middle aged. Older than him, probably. Doesn’t matter.
“Evening, ma’am. Ma'am…?”
“Schneider. Gisela Schneider.”
“Ma’am Schneider. I’m detective Atkinson. You’re the one who called, correct? Could you tell me about the people who live here?”
Lived would have probably been more accurate, but there was no need to needlessly frighten the poor woman further. She was already shaking.
“Well… It's… a little complicated, but… It’s the Hugihard. The parents, Athenais and Dieter, and two children.”
Dale produced a small notebook out of his jacket, popped a pen open with his teeth and started writing.
“Complicated how?”
“Well, you see…”
She lowered her voice.
“Their oldest is not Dieter's. Athenais, she had her first child out of wedlock. With a human, no less.”
She was not hiding her distaste for such behavior. In vampire society, being an unmarried mother was still frowned upon. Having a child with another species, less so, but it was no surprise that this area would be conservative.
“I see. So she married to save her honor, I assume?”
“Yes… Mister Dieter was kind enough to adopt the child, and they had another, a pure-blooded one this time, blessed be Night.”
Dale frowned. Pure-blooded. This was beyond conservative. They didn't use that term anymore outside of Serdnol, except in the high vampiric society, or…
“Do you know anything about the children? Name, age, behavior?”
“Morgan is sixteen, and little Lisbeth is eight.”
Morgan and Lisbeth. Dale scribbled down the names, jaw clenched. At least he’d be prepared to stumble upon smaller corpses upon opening that door.
“Morgan was… Well, you can't expect a bastard child to be anything but that,” Mrs Schneider said with disdain. “Always looking at everyone the wrong way, with those black eyes… And never smiling, either. Truly, Mr Dieter was too kind.”
That sounded like normal teenage behavior, but Dale knew better than to argue with witnesses.
“I see. And Lisbeth?”
Mrs Schneider’s expression completely changed, a fond smile spreading across her face.
“Oh, she’s everything you could dream of! Polite, so well-behaved, and a smile like an angel's… A little miracle. She's perfect. Of course, I don’t see her often unless they need me to watch over her.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“I mean, Morgan goes to the local school, but little Lisbeth… They can't risk sending her outside, you know? She needs to be kept just as she is for the miracle to happen.”
The pen on the paper stopped briefly. Dale tried to keep a straight face, but he didn't like what he was hearing, not at all.
There's something rotten here.
“I see,” he lied. “You called because you heard fighting, though, didn't you? Does that happen often?”
Mrs Schneider shifted uncomfortably, her gaze avoiding the detective’s.
“Oh, you know, sometimes… Usually, it’s just shouting, and you don't put your nose in other people's business… Except there was a gunshot this time, and I haven't heard much since, so I got worried.”
So this was commonplace.
Just keeps getting better, doesn't it.
“Thank you for your cooperation, ma'am. You did well to call us. Junior officer Svarov will keep you company while me and my young colleague investigate.”
Svarov breathed out a sigh of relief, but tensed up again when Dale’s hand grasped his shoulder. The detective leaned in to whisper,
“Get ready to take her into custody, just in case. There’s something weird about this.”
The junior officer nodded, his face serious. Dale's reputation in the precinct was that of a sharp man, they trusted him blindly. He walked up to the other junior, who was practically shaking in his boots.
“Farhat, with me. Don’t use force unless I tell you to. There might be children in there.”
Farhat’s hand got off the holster of his gun. He better get rid of that nervousness lest the trigger gets pulled too quick.
Dale didn't wait for him to compose himself and slowly pushed the door open.
The smell hit first. It was already sensible from outside, but now that there was no barrier between them and the flat, the stench of blood was like a slap in the face. Dale’s nose crinkled, saliva gathered in his mouth, he pulled up his collar to cover his face. This wasn’t the time to get distracted. He took a cautious step inside, looking around the apartment. It was small, badly lit, humidity stains and mold were visible on the walls and ceiling. The stale smell of cold tobacco clung to everything. Other than that, though, it was surprisingly well-kept and tidy, almost too much.
“District police. Anyone there?”
No response.
The only light came from the kitchen. That’s also where the smell was the strongest. As Dale got closer, he almost stumbled upon something in the doorway.
A corpse. A woman. Lying on her back. Platinum blonde hair sprawled on the floor, soaking in a pool of blood. Her face was forever distorted into a terrified expression, red eyes wide open on the ceiling. Her eyelid, neck and arms were patched with bruises. Not the kind you get from a bad fall.
“Too kind,” my ass.
Dale kneeled into the blood to look at the wounds. She’d been shot twice. Once in the chest, once in the abdomen.
Gretchen's smile flashed through his mind. Her hand on her belly. So happy that she finally managed to get pregnant.
Focus, Dale.
Given the color and smell of the blood, the death was recent. No longer than one hour or two ago. He got back up, looking away from the glassy red eyes and the blood.
Farhat, behind him, let out a small whimper in fear. Dale paid him no mind and stepped over the body to get inside the kitchen proper.
“Farhat, take notes. Athenais Hugihard, female vampire, about sixty. Cause of death, blood loss and organ failure from being shot twice.”
The forensics could make a proper report later, but he still had to assess the scene.
“Suicide unlikely,” he added like an afterthought.
The kitchen was a mess, to put it lightly. Blood splatters everywhere, overturned pots, broken glass, a rifle strewn about on the ground, and the star of the show, another corpse. A man, this time. He sat with his back laid against the cupboards, his head hanging limp against his chest. Dale leaned forward to get a closer look at him. Blonde hair cut short, red eyes, an unkempt beard, bloodshot sclera, inflamed skin. Likely an addict.
The interest of this corpse, however, lied in his wounds. His body was in an even worse condition than his wife's, to the point where his guts were nearly spilling across the boards. The wounds were a lot messier too. Several stab wounds to the abdomen, shallow cuts on the arms, and…
Dale blinked. He had apparently been stabbed in the throat, too, but the wounds looked… different. More numerous. Small, and round, like…
Had this guy died from getting stabbed in the throat with a fork? Given the absolutely indecent amount of blood on his clothes, it had probably touched an aorta. Impossible to regenerate. Dale couldn’t help but chuckle incredulously. Well-deserved. A stupid death for the stupid asshole that Dieter Hugihard seemed to be.
He immediately stopped laughing when he saw the man’s hand twitch.
Fuck.
Dieter was still alive. Probably not for long, given his state, but he still found the strength to gurgle something through his pierced airway.
“Wh… ores…. ‘Cking… whores…”
Blood spurted from his neck, his face twitched in pain and agony. His eyes were already far, far away. The rifle laid near. It would have been more merciful to put an end to his suffering, which is exactly why Dale didn’t. He shrugged and got back up. He’d just tell his superiors that it was already too late when he arrived.
“Farhat,” he called to his livid subordinate standing on the threshold, “Dieter Hugihard, male vampire, sixty-something. Cause of death–”
Another gurgling sound from Dieter interrupted him. It could barely qualify as words, but Dale still managed to make out a few.
“Get… hhhh… back… hhhhere… Lis… aaaa…”
Another disgusting sound cut him off, his body convulsed weakly, and his head fell back as all life left his body. Dale clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“... Cause of death, stabbed to the throat with a fork.”
Farhat blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Suicide unlikely.”
The detective looked over the room and lit up another cigarette, brow furrowed. It was pretty obvious that Dieter shot his wife. But in that case, who killed him?
Unless someone broke in, which seemed unlikely, there was only two possible murderers. The kids. And the last thing Dieter uttered… “Lisa”… A diminutive for Lisbeth, probably. The youngest.
Another thing was, the man was stabbed with a knife, then a fork. However, in the absolute mess that was this kitchen, there was no trace of a bloody knife or fork.
“Farhat, search this room in depth. We have a killer on the loose, either a teen or a kid. I’ll look around the rest of the place.”
The young man paled, but he seemed to like a well-lit but bloody kitchen more than clean but dark unexplored rooms. Dale left him to his devices and stepped out, taking a long drag out of his cigarette, exhaling in relief. The stench in there was making him dizzy. He then took out his flashlight. Seeing in the dark was not a problem for him, but better safe than sorry.
The living room was pretty unremarkable, save from a few shelves stacked with books and what looked to be a sort of small altar on the window. Dale turned his light towards the books.
All of them, religious texts. More or less official. Most of them about Night, some about the Angel with the Cross, and a lot that looked like illicit books, with no publishing house label. Syncretic stuff. He took one out to skim through the pages, stopped himself near the end. There was a whole bunch of nonsense about making a “pure-blooded, pure-hearted vessel” for “Night’s child to inhabit”.
Dale slammed the book shut in disgust. This wasn't syncretism. This was a fucking cult, and it probably didn't stop to this flat. Mrs Schneider's words made a lot more sense now. She knew. The whole remarriage thing too. That case was way bigger than a drunk man shooting his wife dead.
As he mulled it all over, he heard a scream followed by a ruckus coming from the kitchen. Dale rushed to the door, only to narrowly avoid collision with a whirl of white and red launching itself at full speed towards the adjacent corridor. He stood there dumbfounded for an instant, before turning his attention to his junior and yelling,
“You okay there, Farhat?!”
The young officer was standing in front of an open cupboard, holding his hand against his chest, seemingly more shocked than hurt. It was still bleeding.
“Yes, she just- I think she- she stabbed me,” he stuttered in an incredulous voice.
She. And the grazes on Farhat’s hand looked like three little holes. Holes that could only be made by…
“You’ll live. Stay here, I'll take care of it.”
Dale ran towards the direction he saw the little form disappear to, stumbling upon a cold hallway with three doors. It would have been hard to know where she went if she didn't leave small, bloody footprints towards the first one. He noticed a whole other bunch of bigger but just as bloody footprints leading to the same place. Almost too easy. He gently pushed down the bloody knob, and the door creaked open. A bedroom, almost bare, with two twin beds and a closet.
“... Lisbeth?”
No answer. But she wasn’t hiding either.
At first, all he saw was a shadow curled up against the far wall. A shadow dressed in a sleeveless dress that was probably of an immaculate white before it got half drenched in blood.
“Lisa?”
Two red eyes looked up at Dale in the middle of a face almost entirely hidden by a mane of golden hair.
The detective took a tentative step towards her, and she immediately raised what she was holding. A fork, still dripping with blood, clutched by tiny trembling hands. Her arms were thin, stained with purple and blue and red. Looking more closely, it looked like her lower lip was burst and bleeding. Dale slowly raised his hands as he knelt down onto the floor, a safe distance away from the girl.
“Hey there, kid. I’m Dale Atkinson. I’m a detective. I’m here to help. Okay? I'm not gonna hurt you.”
He wasn’t sure she could understand him, given how hard she was shaking, and the fact that she bared her fangs at him. But he was undeterred, and kept advancing towards her, on all fours.
“Are you alone? Where's your sibling?”
No reply. Maybe…
“Lisa, can you tell me where Morgan is?”
She startled, eyes wide.
“I-I can't tell.”
She had a tiny, delicate voice. All broken from… screaming? Crying, perhaps.
“You can't tell?”
“N-No. Morgan said… Morgan said not to tell.”
Dale just hummed. But he saw how the bigger footprints were going towards the window. Morgan was long gone and so was the knife. They probably didn’t jump, maybe climbed down. In any case, that was a suspect on the run. A suspect that wanted people to see them as guilty so their little sister wouldn't be.
And said little sister needed Dale’s full attention right now. He could always order a search for Morgan later.
“It's alright. You don’t have to.”
He scooted closer. Pointed at the bloody fork.
“You won't need this anymore. It’s okay.”
“B-But… Daddy’s gonna be m-mad at me. He's… He hurts mama when he’s mad. And now he's… He’s gonna hurt me.”
Dale slowly breathed in, trying to keep the boiling water under the lid. This little girl didn’t need his anger right now. He reached out, put his hand on hers.
“He's not gonna hurt you ever again, kid, I promise. Now, you should let go of–”
The fork clattered to the floor, and a second later, Lisa had freed herself from Dale’s grasp to lunge at him and sink her teeth into his shoulder. He grimaced, but those were baby teeth to him, she could barely reach his skin through his coat, it just stung a little. He took advantage of the position to wrap his arms around the girl, who hissed and bit harder into his shoulder. He didn’t let go.
“It’s okay. It's okay, Lisa. I know you're scared, but it's okay now. It’s over. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”
His hand combed gently through the tangled mess of her hair, the other held her close. He felt her trembling, her little fingers digging at this back. His shoulder was becoming slightly more painful, but he didn't really care. The only thing that mattered was the child.
“You're safe now, see? You're safe. I’ll keep you safe.”
He didn’t stop talking. Didn't stop his gentle gesture. It’s like something in him knew exactly what to do, what to say.
And slowly but surely, he felt Lisa’s jaw unclench, her shaking reduced to a slight tremor. There was an instant of complete, utter silence before a hiccup escaped her and she burst into tears, sobbed into his shoulder.
“Mama… M-Ma…M… Mamaaaa…”
He sighed, standing back up with her in his arms. Cradling her. Saying nothing at all. She was featherlight.
He couldn’t lie to her and say he was going to bring her Mama back.
Lisa's loud wailing eventually attracted a very alarmed Farhat to the room, but he relaxed when he saw that his superior was safe. Apparently, he had patched up his hand nicely enough in the meantime. Dale turned a hard gaze towards him, still cradling the little vampire.
“Officer Farhat, I have to ask something of you. You still have your notes, right?”
Farhat, sensing the gravity in his tone, immediately grew serious as well.
“Yes. Do you need me to correct them?”
A faint smile tugged at Dale's lips. Samir Farhat was a smart kid with his heart in the right place. He’d go far.
“Yes. Change the cause of death of Dieter Hugihard to stabbing. No mention of the fork. Just stabbing.”
The forensics probably would be able to determine that the fork wounds were fatal, not the knife ones, but that would at least stop them from immediately taking an eight year old girl into custody before they could plead self-defense. Farhat erased the words with the tip of his pencil, quiet as Lisa kept crying. He only needed to exchange one glance with Dale for them to know that they'd never speak of this to anyone else.
They both walked out of the apartment, Dale making sure Lisa’s face was hidden away from the macabre scene in the kitchen. Mrs Schneider and officer Svarov were still chatting in the hallway. The detective didn’t let any of them speak.
“Svarov, take Mrs Schneider into custody and call in reinforcements. We need to interrogate everyone on this floor, if not the whole building.”
“But detective, the commissar-”
“If the commissar is being difficult, tell him that we've probably dug up a cult to be dismantled. Now hurry the hell up!”
Svarov nodded hastily, and ignored Mrs Schneider's protestation as he took her away in handcuffs. Dale sighed.
“Farhat, you know how to drive?”
“Yes, sir.
“Good. Back to the precinct we go, then. But first, we need to use the radio to issue a search party for Morgan Hugihard…”
His voice faded when he realized that something wasn't quite right. It was too quiet here. Lisa, in his arms, wasn’t crying anymore.
“... Lisa?”
No response. He raised his palm to feel her cheek. Her skin felt cold and clammy under his fingers, her pulse abnormally fast, her breathing shallow. Dale’s face hardened.
“Farhat. Change of plans.”
“Sir?”
“I need you to drive to the hospital. Immediately. She’s going into shock.”
He didn't know how he managed to sound this calm when his chest suddenly felt so cold. His tone seemed to be enough of an incentive for Farhat to immediately pull him down the stairs and to the car. As soon as Dale got into the passenger seat, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around Lisa, holding her close. The engine started to roar, but all he did was whisper,
“Hold on, kid. Hold on just a little more, okay? We're getting you away from here.”
Lise, despite being half-conscious and shivering, snuggled against his chest. He held her tight, his hand stroking her hair, not really sure who he was trying to calm here.
“Someone really ought to get you a haircut after this,” he mumbled, trying his best to keep his tone light.
As he looked upon the tiny frame of the girl in his arms, Gretchen's face came to his mind again. Livid, sweaty, but still smiling as she squeezed his hand. And her words, soft, sincere even though she knew neither her nor their child would survive the night,
“I know you’ll be an amazing father, Dale.”
He wasn’t sure if he believed that.
But he had to try, at least.
