Turned at Dark
Sixteen-year-old Della Tsang had never seen a ghost until she saw her dead cousin zip across the street and duck into the alley. If it hadn’t been for the streetlight spitting out its spray of wattage overhead, she might have missed him.
And if it hadn’t been for a scar that ran along his chin, she might have thought it was just someone who looked like Chan. Then again, it was after midnight. But she had spotted the scar. A scar she’d sort of given him when they’d been six, jumping on the trampoline and he’d collided with her head.
Hardheaded Della had been her family nickname after that. Sometimes Della wondered if she’d really been obstinate then, or if the name had just been another thing for her to live up to. Being of Asian descent, there were high expectations, sometimes too high. But because she and her sister were half-white, her father insisted they work twice as hard to prove that their parents’ love hadn’t tainted the family tree.
A pair of headlights moving down the road pulled Della’s attention from the alley where Chan had disappeared. Not that she completely believed it was Chan. Did she?
The car drew nearer, and thinking it was Lee to pick her up, Della stepped off her best friend Lisa’s front porch, leaving the sound of the party still going on behind her.
At least twice a month, Della and Lee tried to sneak away so they could be together for an entire night. She knew her parents would freak if they knew she and Lee were sleeping together. It wouldn’t even matter that they were practically engaged. But at least Lee had gotten a stamp of approval from her father. Luckily, she agreed with him, too. Not that she agreed with her father on everything. However, Lee was everything Della wanted in a boyfriend—hot, popular, smart, and, thankfully for her father’s sake, Asian. It didn’t even bother her that Lee wasn’t totally into the party scene.
She gave the alley one last look. It couldn’t have been Chan. She’d attended his funeral less than a year ago—had seen his casket being lowered into the ground. She remembered she hadn’t cried. Her father had insisted she not. She wondered if her father would be disappointed if he knew that very night, while alone in bed, she had cried her eyes out.
When the car drove closer, Della realized she’d been wrong. It wasn’t Lee. She watched as the car moved down the street, past the alley. She stood there, staring, suddenly feeling alone in the dark, when her phone beeped with an incoming text.
Pulling it out, she read the message. Parents still up. Will b late.
Frowning, she repocketed her phone and her gaze shifted back to the alley. What would it hurt to just … go check? To prove that ghosts didn’t exist.
Moving slowly in the shadows, she neared the alley. The cold of the January night seeped through her leather jacket and the soft tap-tapping of her footsteps seemed loud. Maybe too loud. No sooner had she cut the corner than she heard yelling. She stopped short. Her breath caught at the sight of the fight—or out-and-out war—taking place. The sound of fist hitting flesh filled the cold darkness and she saw bodies being tossed up in the air like rag dolls.
Della might not have been familiar with this darker side of life, but she immediately knew what she’d stumbled on. A gang war. Her heart jumped into her throat. She had to get out of here and fast.
She stepped back, but the heel of her shoe twisted and she lost her footing. Her leg shot up in the air and she went down with a loud thud.
Slamming butt first, her hands went back to catch herself. She felt a sharp pain in her palm, no doubt from a piece of glass from a broken beer bottle a few inches away. Wincing, she muttered, “Shi…” The one-word curse hadn’t yet left her lips when the dead silence suddenly drew her attention upward. The fighting had stopped and at least six guys, young, about her age, starting moving toward her. Moving oddly, as if … Their posture reminded her of a pack of animals coming to check out their prey.
Della’s focus shifted from the group’s strange body movements to their eyes. Her heart jolted when she saw their eyes glowing burnt orange. Then low growling noises filled the shadows. “What the—”
Before she could finish her sentence, they were upon her. “Human. Yum,” one of them said.
Tension filled her chest. “I’m leaving.” She jumped to her feet.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her, and knew they had her surrounded. The growling escalated and for a second she could swear the sounds weren’t human. She turned, hoping to find a path to run, but instantly something grabbed her around her middle and a cold wind blasted against her face. She felt dizzy, disoriented, as if she were suddenly traveling at high speeds like she was on a roller coaster. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Darkness surrounded her and it took a second to realize she had her eyes closed. She tried to open them, but the rush of air coming at her stung so badly she slammed them shut. What the hell was happening? Now it felt as if … as if she were flying.
Or falling. No, not falling—someone, or something had her.
Her lungs screamed for air, but what she thought was an arm wrapped around her stomach and cut off her ability to breathe. She tried to yank herself free, but her efforts were futile. Whoever had her was built of steel, and his flesh felt cold, hard. Something wet seemed to ooze from her hand and she realized it was her blood from where she’d cut herself.
Right then, the cut started to burn. Burn badly, as if someone had just doused it with rubbing alcohol. The searing pain seemed to follow her arm upward, all the way to her chest, and for a second, her heart didn’t beat. She gasped, hoping to breathe, but nothing seemed to get through to her lungs. Refusing to let the fear stop her, she forced the words out, “Let me go, you asshole!”
A jolt shot through her body as her feet hit the ground. The arm released her. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself at the last second and shot her eyes open. Blinking, she tried to focus, but everything appeared blurry.
“Breathe,” someone said and she recognized the deep, masculine voice. Recognized Chan.
Ghosts did exist?
No, they couldn’t.
A couple more seconds later, her vision cleared and holy mother of pearls, she was right. Chan stood directly in front of her. Nausea hit. Her palm still burned. She grabbed her middle, bent over, and puked all over the front of her dead cousin.
“Oh, shit!” He lurched back.
She stood upright again and stared, thinking that any minute now she’d wake up. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Had someone slipped something into her drink tonight? She pressed her palms into her eyes and didn’t care that she was probably smearing blood from the cut on her hand all over her face.
When she dropped her hands, Chan stared, only now his black eyes glowed a bright green color.
He jumped back from her. “You’re bleeding!”
“You’re dead.” She pressed her bloody hand on her middle, hoping to squelch the nausea and wipe away the sting.
He pinched his black brows together and stared harder. “Friggin’ hell! You’re turning.”
“No, I’m not! I’m standing still. In one spot,” she snapped. “Then again, I do feel dizzy.” She closed her eyes and then popped them back open again.
“You needed help so I … I didn’t know you’d cut yourself or—”
“I did not need your help, I would have … I would have figured something out.”
He shook his head. “Still hardheaded, huh?”
She hugged herself. “What just happened? No, what is happening?” She looked around and saw they were no longer anywhere near Lisa’s house or that dark alley where she’d gone looking for … “You’re dead, Chan. How can you be here?”
He shook his head and stared at her forehead. “If I’d known you were bleeding, I wouldn’t have … I should have known you were a carrier. But if I hadn’t got you out of there, the dogs would have eaten you alive.”
She stopped listening and tried to make sense of the crap that had just happened. She remembered seeing the gang fight, then she fell, and then she’d been surrounded, and … “Oh damn, am I dead?”
“No. But you’re going to think you’re dying in just a bit. You touched me with an open wound. Your virus is turning live now. That’s why you’re feeling like you do.” He stopped talking and put his nose in the air. “Damn, the hounds are looking for us. I’ve got to get you out of here.” He reached for her and she jumped back.
“Stay away. You’ve got puke all over you.”
“It’s your puke.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want it on me. I think—” Whatever she thought went out the mental window. Once again, the wind whipped her hair around her shoulders. The long strands flipped around so hard, it stung when they slapped against her face.
* * *
Della’s head hurt something fierce. Was this her official first hangover? How many beers had she had; only one, right? She never drank more than … She opened her eyes, and found herself staring at her bedroom ceiling. She knew it was her bedroom, because she could smell the vanilla-scented candles and the Lemon Pledge she faithfully polished her furniture with every Friday. And her pillow still smelled like Lee, from when he’d dropped her off at home from school on Monday and no one was home. She loved how he smelled.
But how had she gotten home from the …
Fragments of memories started forming—Chan, the gang fight, flying.
Flying?
She jackknifed up. Her head nearly exploded. “Crap,” she muttered and told herself it had been a dream.
“Hey, cuz.”
His voice came at the same time the nausea did. She turned and for the second time puked all over her dead cousin.
“Ahh, gross,” Chan said, but then he snickered. “I guess I deserve this. Not that I meant for this to happen. I really didn’t.” But then he laughed again.
Della wasn’t laughing. “What’s happening?” Tears, partly from the frustration, partly from the pain, filled Della’s sinuses. She forced them away. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt and saw her leather jacket tossed over the foot of her bed.
Chan put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a nudge. “Lie back down and I’ll explain.”
“There was a gang war,” she muttered, trying to remember.
“Yeah, vampires and werewolves. I went to watch. It’s cool to watch us take out a few dogs.”
Her phone, sitting on her nightstand, beeped with an incoming text. She tried to reach for it, but moving hurt. Another surge of tears filled her throat.
“It’s your lover boy,” Chan said. “This is like the tenth text he’s sent. I think you missed your hookup date.” Chan shook his head. “So my little cousin is getting it on with a guy, huh? I feel like I should go beat him up or something.”
She dropped back on the bed.
“Do you want me to text him and tell him you’re okay?”
“I’m not okay!” Talking made her head pound worse. Realizing she was talking to a ghost make it pound twice as hard. Pain shot in the back of her eyes and she closed them, wishing for relief.
“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered to herself and not to Chan, because logic told her that Chan wasn’t really there. Someone must have put something in her drink at that party. Yeah. That had to be it.
She heard a chair being pulled up beside her bed. “You’re not going to believe this, and that’s to be expected. It will take a while to soak in. You see … I’m not dead. I … well, our family carries this virus. It’s dormant and you can go your entire life and not even know it, but if and when we come in close contact with a live carrier, especially when there’s blood involved, the virus can turn active.”
“I got a virus?” She swallowed another bout of nausea.
“Yup.”
“Bird flu?” she asked.
“Not quite.”
“West Nile?”
“No. Vampirism.”
She opened one eye—that’s all she could do—and peered at him. She would have laughed if she didn’t feel as if she were dying. “I’m a vampire?”
“Not yet, it takes four days. And it’s not going to be easy. But I’ll help you through it.”
“I don’t need your help.” She was her father’s daughter, always figuring out how to help herself. Della closed her one eye. Another pain shot through the back of her head, and she realized the way she had to help herself right now was to get help. But not from a ghost. Using every bit of energy she had, she got to her feet. The world started spinning.
“Where are you going?” Chan caught her right before she fell on her face.
She started to ignore Chan, because he wasn’t real, but what the hell. “Gotta get Mom.” Whatever someone put in her drink was pretty powerful stuff because she was sitting here talking to a ghost about vampires.
“I can’t let you do that.” Chan pushed her back on the bed—not that it took much effort. She had about as much energy as a snail on Xanax, skinny-dipping in a cup of chamomile tea.
“Mom?” Della screamed.
Copyright © 2016 by Christie Craig
