Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bones have a way of whispering secrets, she’s sure. If she lies here in the bed like it was a coffin and listens hard enough, she’ll hear the deepest truths of the universe. Maybe she’d ossify and in time, a shrine would be built in her honor, and prophecies would fall from her lips like autumn leaves from crooked branches.

“Are you even listening?” Marissa’s voice shatters her thoughts.

“I’m pretending I’m dying,” Abigail says.

“You’re so morbid,” Marissa says with a shout of laughter. “Also, that seems like a pretty drastic way to avoid calculus.”

Abigail props herself up on her elbows. Marissa’s stretched out on the floor, her bendy body curved around several pillows and a yoga bolster. Her homework is spread out in front of her, mechanical pencil held in her mouth, and a graphing calculator in her hands. 

Abigail’s own homework is in a pile next to her on the bed. “Let’s watch a movie,” she says.

“No, I have to get this done first.” Marissa sits up. “What’s got into you lately?”

“Senior-itis is kicking in early.” Abigail echoes her mother, something she said earlier this week when Abigail was putting off filling out her FAFSA. Mrs. Hobbs followed it with, “You won’t get to any of the colleges you want at all if you don’t at least land a couple scholarships. You can head right over to the community college.” She’d said ‘community college’ like it was a dirty word, when she herself didn’t have any college education at all, and Abigail’s father went to a vocational school. 

“Valid,” Abigail says to herself.

“What?” Marissa says.

“Nothing.” She opens the folder. 

A mind-numbing hour later, Marissa throws down her pencil and her graphing calculator with a loud hiss of air, like she’s the release valve on a pressure cooker. “Done. Finally. What about you?”

Abigail gives her a look. “Let me copy.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Marissa throws her notebook onto the bed. “What are we watching tonight?” She stands up and stretches. She’s slender, with skin as tan as an almond. Her smokey eyeshadow game is serious. 

“Ms. Katz says we should check out the 1985 Fright Night, ” Abigail says as she looks over Marissa’s notebook.

Marissa sighs. “Fine. But only because October is imminent.” 

Abigail smiles. “Shut up. You love horror movies just as much as I do.”

Marissa sighs and casts a glance around the room. “I’m not sure anyone loves horror movies as much as you do.”

The bedroom walls are plastered with sketches and paintings of some of her favorite films: an inked likeness of the Babadook, a charcoal sketch of the goat from The Witch, and a painted portrait of Jack Torrance peering through a gap in the just-axed bathroom door. Posters from Hammer Films depicting Dracula and other monstrous legends fan around her dresser mirror. Tucked into the mirror’s frame are photos of she and Marissa in bloody and gothic horror movie makeovers. A shelf over her bed is lined with Funkos, including figures from Hellraiser, Beetlejuice, and It. 

“You at least have a reason,” Marissa says. “You still stuck on being a special effects artist?”

“Yeah. Which is why I don’t understand why I have to take calculus.” Abigail throws Marissa’s notebook back to her and finishes up her assignment, making quick scribbles with her pencil. “I shouldn’t have taken half the classes I have. I could have spent that time getting a job and making some money before heading off to college.”

“Yeah, because minimum wage is so useful around here.”

“It’s something.”

Marissa walks over to the window and opens the sheers, peering out. The window looks out onto the house next door, the neighborhood oddity. When the developer created the neighborhood, most of the houses were made to look the same - little cardboard cutouts of each other, raised ranches with attached garages, each on a little quarter-acre of lawn punctuated by short, evergreen shrubs. 

But this house was here before the neighborhood was built. It’s an old colonial with a front porch, and instead of the white siding allowed by the Home Owner’s Association, it’s a light grey with red-wine colored shutters and a matching door. It’s grand, in Abigail’s mind, simply because it is different.

And the assholes at the HOA hate it. 

“Oh my god,” Marissa says and peers closer. “It says ‘sold’ over the For Sale sign!”

Abigail hops up. “Really?” The house has been empty for years. The cantankerous old man who owns it has been living in a nursing home. The For Sale sign went up about six months ago. 

She joins Marissa at the window. A short stretch of lawn sits between their houses. From this angle, she can see the front lawn, and the words ‘For Sale!’ are indeed covered by a smaller sign placed on a diagonal and declaring ‘Sold!’ in a red, obnoxious font. 

“Wow. I wonder if they’ll have any kids,” Marissa says. She winks at Abigail. “Would be nice to have some fresh meat at the school.”

“What’s the point of meeting anyone in senior year?” Abigail steps away from the window and flounces onto the bed. 

“Just for a bit of fun.” Marissa slides onto the bed next to her. 

Abigail frowns. Marissa is gorgeous and has gone through boys like Abigail has gone through library books. It’s not that she’s not interested in boys. More like, other things have been more interesting to her. Art. Movies. Books. Hanging out with friends. She just doesn’t see the fuss in partnering up with anyone.  

She picks up the remote and flips on the tv. “I downloaded it last night.”

“Snacks?”

Abigail reaches into the bag by her bed and brings out a bag of pretzels.

“Alright, let’s do this.” Marissa crunches down on her first pretzel.

Abigail hits the play button. 

“Oooh, I just had a thought,” she says as she tosses her dark mane of hair and gives Abigail an impish smile. “What if your new neighbor turns out to be a vampire?”

“Get real,” Abigail rolls her eyes and chucks a pretzel at her, as Marissa snorts with laughter. “Though it would be far more exciting than what this neighborhood has to offer.”

“You were up way too late last night.” Her mom clucks her tongue. Abigail ignores her and looks over the mismatched breakfast plates. Always the same rubbery eggs with a side of some kind of fruit. Today it’s sliced apples with raspberries and a sprinkling of walnuts.

On the table, the newspaper broadcasts a warning in bold, black letters on the front page: Girls presumed dead; killer on the loose. 

Her dad sits at his place at the table, his face turned left to look out the sliding glass doors that lead into the backyard. A gloomy crow-man at the kitchen table, he’s quiet as he pecks at the handful of walnuts in front of him. A coffee cup sits within reach of his hand. It says “World’s Best Dad.” It was given to him by her mother.

Her mom squeezes Abigail’s shoulder and gestures towards him. Abigail lifts her eyebrows. She gestures again, and then slams the breakfast plate on the table in front of Abigail. 

Abigail swallows. Lets her eyes trace the profile of her dad. Licks her lips. “Early funeral today?” she asks. It's obvious, though. He works as a mortician at his brother’s morgue and he’s dressed in his funeral suit.

He startles like a deer in the woods that Abigail has just come upon - wide-eyed, skin twitching, and poised to flee. His eerie blue eyes fix on her as recognition seems to register. “Yes, poppet. Though, it’s not too early in the day, is it?” His expression glints with disapproval.

Abigail presses her lips together at the rebuke. Both of her parents are early risers. After Marissa left, Abigail stayed up to read LeFanu’s Carmilla. The dreams that followed had been strange, nebulous images of limbs and lips and the kind of things that spur a crimson flush across her pale, freckled cheeks. 

She pours herself a cup of coffee from the carafe. It’s still warm. 

“Well, I’m surprised you didn’t wake what with all the goings-on next door.” Her mom leans against the counter and crosses her arms. She’s tall and big-boned, with a short crop of blonde hair. “Woke me up, all that back and forth with the truck.”

“Next door?” Abigail asks. “They moved in?”

“Moving truck is still out there. Moving in at three in the morning and making all that racket? Not a great way to introduce yourself to the neighborhood.”

Abigail pushes herself up from the chair and hurries to the living room to spy out the window that faces the side of the neighbor’s porch. She plucks back a corner of the curtain. Sure enough, a moving truck sits in the driveway. The sign in the front of the house has gone. 

Her mother comes up behind her. “I’m dropping your father off at the funeral home and then I’m headed out to run errands. Need anything while I’m out?”

Abigail checks all the windows of the neighbor’s house to see if anything’s moving. Curtains - those are new - prevent any kind of peeping. They moved in the middle of the night - she’d been asleep by 3 am - and put up curtains? 

On the other side of the house, she sees Jack Crawford in his front yard. He stands by his car and takes a sip from the coffee cup in his hand. Bella, his wife, comes out to join him. She takes the cup. He kisses her on the cheek and gets into his car. Bella gives the moving truck a passing glance and goes back inside their house. Abigail can hear the muffled slam of Jack’s car doors through the glass of the window. 

Pretty soon, the sleepy neighborhood will be up and the cars in the driveways will disappear, one by one. Margot Verger will pass by in her running gear. Abel Gideon’s curtains will twitch when she passes. Her wife Alana will get into her little red sports car and head out to her office - she’s a psychiatrist. The school bus will pick up their little son Morgan not long after Abigail heads out for the high school. 

She should be picking Marissa up any minute, actually. Marissa lives a few streets away, and their friendship started in elementary school, withstood the torturous years of middle school, and now here they are, choosing colleges. 

Ugh, choosing colleges. It was her ticket out of this place, though.

Abigail runs back to the kitchen and grabs her purse. “Gotta go,” she says as she shovels a mouthful of eggs in and dashes toward the front door. Her mother's voice follows her out with a yell. "Be careful! And come straight home; don't stop anywhere!"

Her little Honda hums to life as she turns the key, and she pulls out of the driveway, keeping the image of the moving truck framed in her rearview mirror as she heads down the street.

Most people call school a prison, but it’s more like a colosseum; not everyone gets out alive, but everyone is changed by their experience. Words and rumors are weapons. Navigating the social scene is sometimes like wearing a helmet without holes for the eyes. Like the colosseum Andrabate, prisoners forced to wear such a helmet, blindly slashing at the air in hopes of deflecting some unseen foe. It’s precarious, and Abigail is just glad for allies like Marissa and Ms. Katz.

Ms. Katz is the head science teacher. She’s a favorite among students, mostly because she’s fair but also because she’s interested in them as people - she’ll play their music in the classroom while they’re working on labs, watch their latest TikTok, and she doesn’t take any bullshit. Students are motivated to do well in her class. 

Abigail might have a slight crush on her, which is saying something, because she’s hardly ever moved to find anyone attractive. Ms. Katz has long, thick black hair that practically reaches her waistline, and her face is gorgeous - high arched eyebrows and a smirky smile that won’t quit. 

Abigail swallows down her thoughts as she approaches Ms. Katz’s desk. Class is over. Marissa walks at her side. 

“Hey,” Abigail says.

Ms. Katz gives them a little grin. “Hey, ladies.”

“We watched the 1985 Fright Night last night,” Abigail says.

“Colin Farrell is a hottie, but I see what you mean about Chris Sarandon,” Marissa says.

Ms. Katz folds her hands together as she leans on her elbows. “Magnificent, right?”

“Yeah,” Abigail says, and then clears her throat. “I think Farrell’s portrayal is closer to a more modern interpretation of vampires - a gritty, almost sleazy predator hunting at the edges of society. More like From Dusk ‘Till Dawn. Whereas Sarandon is more classical, like Dracula. ”

“I’d agree with your assessment,” Ms. Katz says. 

“And then you have sparkly vampires.” Marissa laughs.

“Edward’s just weird - standing in the corner of her room and watching her sleep? Creepy.” Abigail exaggerates a shudder.

“Yeah, there are some problematic things there, least of all that he sparkles in sunlight.” Ms. Katz piles some papers together. “To be honest, I think it’s a creative take on vampire mythology. I mean, we’re talking about a fictional beast, right? We can take something fictional and put our spin on it, and I’ve gotta hand it to Ms. Meyer to come up with her own reason vampires can’t stand in daylight, even if I’m not a fan of her overall work.”

“I also took your recommendation to read some earlier vampire books. Last night I read Carmilla.” Abigail waits to see her reaction. It was so suggestive - a female vampire who lusted over a young woman.

Ms. Katz smiles brightly at her. “Some movies have been made of that tale, too.” She rubs at her chin as if she’s thinking of more to say, opens her mouth, and then closes it. Her dark brown eyes meet Abigail’s. “You’ve really taken an interest in the topic.”

“Oh please, Abigail is the biggest horror fan I know,” Marissa says. "She's going to go off and meet all sorts of stars while she does their make-up. She'll be in her element."

Abigail shuffles her feet as unease flows into her gut like a cold stream. 

“Well, the topic is fascinating. Trends in horror often reflect a society’s fears and preoccupations. Life is unpredictable; it can be confusing, and awful. Horror provides a catharsis, and vampiric horror?” Ms. Katz grins. “Says something about appetites, doesn’t it?” 

The thoughts of the missing girls slips into her mind, and she shoves it away. The bell rings. 

Ms. Katz stands. “Well, I have a teacher’s meeting to get to. We’ll have to talk more later.”

“Yeah, see ya tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Ms. Katz,” Abigail says. As she leaves, she feels slightly stunned, just as she always does after talking with Beverly Katz. 

“Moving truck’s gone,” Marissa says as they pull into Abigail’s driveway. 

It is. Nothing seems different about the house. The curtains are still in place.

“Hm,” Abigail says. “I guess they returned it.”

“No car in the driveway. Think it might be in the garage?”

“How would I know?” Abigail says with a huff of laughter.

“What, you aren’t psychic yet? Why are we still friends then? I need someone to tell me the winning lotto numbers someday.” It’s an old joke of theirs, stemming from middle school. Abigail had been into reading Greek myths, and she wished she could hold the title of Sybil - a prophetess. “You could just call me the Oracle,” she’d said to Marissa, which had led to Marissa calling her the Oracle for the next two years as a joke. 

“I’m working on it,” Abigail says, the usual answer to the jest. She opens the car door and leads Marissa inside. 

Her mother comes out of her office, glasses sitting on her head. When she had a commission for some graphic design work, she’d disappear into the office for hours. “Hello girls, how was school?”

“Fine,” Abigail says as she starts up the stairs to her room. 

“Hi, Mrs. Hobbs,” Marissa says. “School was great, thanks for asking.”

“Wonderful. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Not today. I’ll go home in a little while.”

Their voices fade as Abigail steps onto the landing and heads for the bedroom. Marissa joins her moments later.

“It’s been like ten years. You don’t have to keep sucking up to her,” Abigail says.

“I get more brownies if I keep to your mom’s good side,” Marissa says as she tosses her bag on the ground and kicks off her boots. “By the way, did you hear about Cleo’s party this weekend?”

Abigail rolls her eyes as she boots up her computer. “No, I didn’t. I don’t get invited to these things.”

“You would if you actually talked to them. Matt Spencer’s still got his eye on you, you know.” Marissa sits on the floor and stretches her legs out before her, wiggling her toes. “He’s cute. I don’t get why you won’t talk to him. He said he’s going to the party, and he asked me if you would be there.” She tilts her head at Abigail, her eyes wide, a curl to her upper lip.

“I don’t like parties. That one at Chris Peretti’s house this past summer cured me,” Abigail says as she sets the computer up to play music. 

“Ugh,” Marissa announces as she flops back on the array of pillows on the floor. “That was a mess. I couldn’t believe the cops showed up. Chris lives in the middle of nowhere. That means someone there called them.”

Abigail bites down on her lip and doesn’t say anything. Just hits play. 

“And I still can’t believe that one girl went missing. Wendy Latham? We’d just met her that night. She was such a cool chick.”

Abigail exhales. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Sorry, I know it bothers you. I just.., you know, it’s weird. To just meet someone and then they go missing like all the other ones? It’s creepy.”

Abigail doesn’t answer. Just stares at the computer screen.

Marissa bounces up from the ground and goes to the window. “I guess your mom didn’t see anything when they moved the truck. I asked.”

Abigail unzips her bags and pulls out her homework. Might as well get it out of the way. 

“Oh my god, someone just came out of the house. They’re going to the mailbox!” Marissa squeals. 

Abigail twists in her chair. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Marissa tosses her a wide-eyed look. “And Abi? He’s hot.”

Abigail joins her at the window. A dark-haired guy dressed in pants that hug his ass and a burgundy, long-sleeved top is out by the mailbox. He turns slightly toward Abigail’s house. A beard lines his jaw, but even from this window, she can tell he has beautiful facial features. 

And then Louise Hobbs appears within view.

“Oh my god, my mom,” she says.

“Look at her go. I don’t blame her one bit,” Marissa says with a hint of laughter in her voice.

Louise Hobbs shakes the hand of the stranger. He holds himself in a relaxed and confident pose as they talk. A smile breaks out across his face, and Abigail has to admit that it’s lovely. Straight, white teeth, and a beautiful jawline. He looks like the type to have some kind of exercise regime that gives him a tight, wiry body - 

Her mother points back at the house, straight to Abigail’s window. 

The stranger follows her direction, his eyes meeting Abigail’s. The two girls standing in clear view with the sheers pushed open, ogling him.

Even from here, she knows his eyes are blue, maybe green. He lifts a hand, his smile a clean slice of white.

Abigail returns it, weakly, and lets the sheers close.

“Oh. My. God,” Marissa says. “I…”

“Well, that was fucking embarrassing,” Abigail says as she stares up at the ceiling, wishing it would crash down on her and consume her, that the house might eat her up until she was nothing but bones.

Bones can’t blush.

Chapter Text

The sun casts an orange light over everything in the neighborhood, like the soft radiance of Jack-O-Lantern candlelight. Abigail parks her car, gets out, and leans against it to admire the view of the sunset over the trees at the end of the street. 

Until she feels a presence. The shadow of a lurking man appears in her periphery. His sneakers brush against the asphalt as she faces him, her heart in her throat. 

Abel Gideon. She forces an exhale and tries not to flinch. For some reason he makes her think of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man at the end of Ghostbusters. Sallow and pudgy face, with unfriendly, strange eyes and a weird quirk of lips for a smile. He differs from the marshmallow guy in that his brow has a permanent wrinkle between his arched eyebrows, giving him a hooded look like an artistic rendition of a neanderthal. A mustache wraps around his lips to join with his goatee. Like a cartoon devil. 

Her father refers to Mr. Gideon as “Kade’s henchman.” Kade Prurnell is the waspish woman that leads the HOA for Sunshine Woods. Thin, white, with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, Ms. Prurnell reigns over the look of the neighborhood with an iron fist. Mr. Gideon carries out most of her dirty work by dropping off her letters and remarking on potential HOA violations to his neighbors. 

“You know you can’t have those flowers, right?” His voice snakes over her shoulders and into her ears. 

Potted chrysanthemums sit along the porch steps of almost everyone on the street, in all the available fall colors - orange, yellow, cadmium red, and wine purple. It was one of the few approved flowers in the HOA guidelines for fall decorations. But tucked in behind the boxwood shrubs of the Hobbs house are the yellow heads of goldenrod and the purple blooms of asters, peeping above the evergreen sentinels like curious children. Her mother had been reading about suburbs being the “food deserts” of pollinators and got on a kick to plant pollinator plants around the yard. Most of them are in the back, but she thought a few among the boxwoods might go unnoticed.

A foolish hope, indeed.

“Hello, Mr. Gideon,” Abigail replies in a purposely bored sounding tone. She’s never quite been able to shake his weird interest ever since puberty hit. She doesn’t look Mr. Gideon in the eyes, and instead focuses on the crease of his forehead. Mr. Gideon’s blue eyes look out of place on his face. They make Abigail think of far-off lighthouses on gloomy blue-grey coasts. Eerie. Eldritch. “You should probably speak with my parents about it. I wouldn’t know the rules.”

He smiles at her. The effect is like sliding something cold and oily beneath her skin. “How old are you now? A senior in high school, right?” 

“Yeah,” Abigail says, not sure she likes where the conversation is going.

“Got a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” She hopes her flat tone puts him off.

“Yeah, high school boys are really immature, aren’t they?” He chortles and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Behind her, a door opens. She turns to see the neighbor emerge. The new one. The cute one who waved to her from his mailbox while she spied from her window. He’s looking right at them, and he waves. 

Her cheeks are likely two bright red apples, but she lifts a hand to wave back. 

“Oh,” Mr. Gideon says. She hears the brush of his clothes as he must return the man’s greeting. 

“I’m sure you have to talk to him too, right? I’ve got to go get some homework done. Later, Mr. Gideon.” She ducks her head, holding her books close to her chest as she hurries to her front door. She sneaks one look at the new neighbor, who Mr. Gideon is now approaching. His profile is beautiful, even if he’s frowning.

Inside her house, leaning against the back of the door, her heart beats against her breastbone like a bat desperately trying to echolocate an escape. 

School the next day is long and boring, and it’s a relief when Abigail parks in the driveway. She gets out only after a cursory check for any lurking figure of Abel Gideon. The neighbor’s door opens, and no less than seven dogs range out into the front yard. Abigail pauses to watch the ragtag bunch mill about. The HOA only allows a maximum of two dogs per household. 

But again, this house isn’t in the HOA.

She gets out of the car.

The neighbor wears a charcoal grey overcoat with a sage green scarf. He catches sight of her and he smiles. 

Abigail’s legs feel like they’re made of melting butter, but she manages to smile back.

“You must be Abigail,” he says. “From the window.”

“Hi,” she says, glad her tongue is moving and isn’t the pebble she thought it might have turned into when she spied the guy coming out. “Yes. I’m Abigail.”

“Will Graham,” he says as he approaches with his hand held out.

She shakes it. “Abigail Hobbs.” Stunned. She’s stunned. Because he is stunning, with soft blue-green eyes and gently curling dark hair joining a trim beard that frames his face. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Abigail.” He gestures to the dogs that are now crowding around their legs. “This is the gang. Gang, meet our new neighbor, Abigail Hobbs.” One of the dogs lets out a little yip.

“Are they all yours?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’m a sucker for strays,” he says with a flash of a white grin.

She pets one dog that comes to her thigh.

“That’s Winston.”

“Hi Winston,” she says, feeling a little foolish, but her attention to the dog seems to make Will Graham grin, and that makes her smile. “Oh man, Mr. Gideon and Ms. Prurnell are not gonna like this.”

The answering laugh surprises her. It sounds...devious. Like he’s enjoying a joke at someone else’s expense.

“Hannibal and I would never join a Homeowners Association,” he says. “We’re likely to just rack up fees. But don’t worry, we’ll keep the place looking nice.”

Hannibal?

“I wasn’t worried,” she says.

“Listen, my husband and I are having a dinner party next week. Friday.” He takes a cream-colored envelope out of his coat and hands it to her. “We’d love it if you and your parents could come.”

“Uh, sure,” she says, still a little tongue-tied. “I’ll, uh, give this to my mom.” Of course, he’s married. If he wasn’t married, he’d at the very least have a girlfriend - or a boyfriend, as the case may be.

Her spirits sink a little lower. “I should go,” she says.

Will winks at her. “I look forward to you coming to dinner, Abigail. We’d love to get to know our neighbors better.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” she says as she backs towards the house. Which guarantees her backing right up against one of the boxwoods lining the driveway before she reaches the steps. She catches herself from falling, flings a little wave at Will, turns, and rushes up the stairs. 

Wow, I’m a huge dork. She rolls her eyes at herself as she lets herself inside the house. He’s married. He’s too old for you anyway.

But Jesus, no person at school nor actor on television has ever plucked her interest this way, has ever made her aware of the tilt of her chin or the cock of her hip, has ever made her want to flip her hair and smile. Twinkle, like Marissa does at all the cute guys. No one’s snagged her attention like this, not even Beverly Katz, who Abigail likes for her brilliance and her swaggering confidence. Abigail never thought of kissing Ms. Katz. She was beginning to think maybe she was asexual. 

But this guy.

Her lips buzz at the thought of him.

“Abigail?” Her mother pauses outside the door to her office. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, um, ran into the new neighbor,” she says. She shoves the envelope into her mother’s hands. “Dinner party. We’re all invited.” She smiles, hoping her freakout against the door went unseen. “They have a lot of dogs; did you know that? Seven. ”

Her mom eyes her with a perplexed expression as she opens the envelope. “Uh-huh. Well, HOA won’t like that.”

“They’re not in the HOA.”

“Right,” she says and throws her a smile. “Wow, this is some fancy invitation. Real nice cardstock and black lettering. This is pretty pricey just for dinner with neighbors. Oh, they’re asking for cocktail attire. Wow, fancy.” 

“What’s cocktail attire?” Abigail asks, momentarily distracted from her little crisis. 

“Oh, just put on a dress, hon.” Her mom looks back at the invitation. “What fun! I am looking forward to this. I wonder who else is invited.” She carries the invitation with her into the office. Abigail can hear her say, “And to think, they’ve only lived here a week, and already they’re throwing parties.”

Abigail stares at the space where her mother stood. She’d rather not meet this Hannibal.

She’d rather spend the evening being an adult - wearing cocktail attire, maybe having a cocktail, wearing heeled shoes and a fancy neck scarf, and talking about grown-up things with her new neighbor, petting his dogs and showing him that she’s actually far more mature than he would think. Than anyone thinks. Mr. Crawford seems to think she’s still twelve, and Mr. Gideon has been acting like a disgusting lech for years. 

She is an adult after all, at eighteen.

The sensation of being watched creeps across her. When she lifts her chin, she meets the blue eyes of her father, standing in the doorway of the hall. Watching her. Silently. 

She squares her shoulders and stares back. 

He steps back into the hall, the shadows closing in like curtains. 

Heart pounding, she rushes up the stairs to her room.

That night she dreams of chasing girls with antlers across fields. She can hear the beat of their hearts, the short gasps of their breaths. See their flat eyes, brown and oblong. 

In the end, she catches one and holds the heart in the air as it bleeds black in the moonlight. 

Chapter Text

It turns out that the Crawfords and the Vergers were also invited. 

Alana and Margot Verger are two of the most gorgeous women Abigail has ever seen. Alana is fair-skinned with blue eyes and black hair, as if Snow White stepped out from the fairytale and into a sleek, red pantsuit with a black blouse and heels. Her hair is styled in an ear-length bob, and her make-up, as always, is on point. If only Alana and Margot would let Abigail practice on them.

Margot is a moon-faced beauty with big eyes and cupid-shaped lips. Tonight, her golden brown hair is side-swept, curls cascading to her elbow. She wears a chic golden blouse over an A-line black skirt and black stockings. Neither of the women are very tall, but they make an entrance, steal the air from the room when they enter on each other’s arm. 

Jack Crawford greets them now, holding a glass of red wine in his hand. Mr. Crawford is a big man, brown-skinned, with a perceptive look to his eyes and a voice that Abigail finds soothing for some reason. He could probably talk a criminal out of committing a criminal act in the final hour. 

His wife, Bella Crawford, is equally lovely to Alana and Margot, with her dark skin and rippling, black locks. She’s quieter than Mr. Crawford, but her eyes seem to observe everything. She’s been fighting cancer, but to see her here, no one would know she’s suffering. She stands tall, with her shoulders squared and her head held high. She’s laughing at something Hannibal is saying.

Hannibal .

Hannibal is not at all what Abigail pictured in the week between receiving the invitation and arriving at the dinner. She wasn’t sure what to picture, but she figured someone of the same age as Will, or someone who would also look like a model. This man is older than Will. Not grey-haired or wrinkled, or anything. Just older, with ashen brown hair and eyes like a cat. His face is sculpted, with ridged cheekbones, a salient chin, and pronounced lips. He’s probably tall, except that he’s seated in a wheelchair. Broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a suit the color of rich earth and a dark tie shot through with crimson threads. He operates the chair smoothly around the house.

When he greeted Abigail, she felt as though his gaze pierced her, like he was conducting brain surgery right then and there in front of all the guests. 

“Welcome to our house, Miss Hobbs,” he’d said when she’d entered. She couldn’t place his accent - though she’d never had an ear for them. But it’s like the low babble of a brook or the muffled crinkle of a paper bag. He’s European, as far as she can tell, with olive tan skin and patrician features. His lips lift in a slight smile at times, as he pours out wine and offers up tasty hors d'oeuvres. Abigail was so overcome by the people she could barely bring herself to accept an appetizer, though it exploded with flavor in her mouth. 

When they’re seated at dinner, Abigail finds herself next to Will at one end of the table. No hope of bumping elbows, but maybe an accidental touch of their feet. Beside her is Margot, with a lightly scented perfume. Abigail’s brought a gold clutch to match her black dress and stylish scarf with gold threads, but where to put it? After a moment of feeling awkward and holding it in her lap, she slides it beneath her chair. 

Hannibal navigates his wheelchair to the head of the table.

The table is laid out with the most extra plateware Abigail has ever seen. Cream-colored plates stacked on one another in varying sizes, their scalloped edges gilded in gold. Dark purple linen napkins are rolled and tucked into crystal-cut napkin holders. What might be a sterling silver cake stand holds a cornucopia of fresh, gleaming fruit, grapes and apples, and persimmons. White tapered candles stand in a line down the table in crystal holders. 

After her eyes take note of the table, they travel over the room. She’d almost been afraid to look too hard in the other rooms, with people approaching her and greeting her. She’d kept her clutch pressed beneath her elbow, tried to focus on keeping her shoulders back, and to stay steady in heels. Looking her most adult. Pretending to be happy to see her neighbors.

Here, she can look her fill at the walls as the rest of them ooh and aah over the table setting. Her eyes catch on a painting of a nude woman stretched out on a bed, a swan standing between her legs, its head between her thighs. She stares until Will takes her smallest plate and returns it with a fancy looking salad. She hadn’t even noticed that he got up from his chair and began serving from the kitchen. Hannibal announces that it’s shaved watermelon radishes and mint leaves. 

Everyone makes complimentary noises as they begin.

“I was sorry to hear your husband couldn’t make it,” Hannibal says. 

“Oh.” Her mom says from where she sits - across from Abigail. “Garrett isn’t much of a conversationalist. His activities are rather insular.”

“Oh? And tell me, what activities are those?”

“Well, he enjoys his work as a mortician - it’s not for everyone, I know, but someone’s gotta do it, and to each their own and all that.” She casts her eyes skyward as her hand flutters like a broken-winged bird.

“Ah, the work of the dead is an important and noble occupation,” Hannibal says.

Her mother blinks and grasps her glass of wine. She seems almost unsure of continuing. “And, well, he hunts.”

“Hunts?” Hannibal pulls his napkin from the holder and lays it in his lap. “What does he hunt?”

“Depends on what’s in season, but he favors deer. Does the whole thing up at his dad’s cabin.”

“Butchers it himself?” Hannibal asks.

Abigail can remember it - the smell of the blood, of the offal. One time, the last time, she was helping her dad and she accidentally nicked the intestine, which pulled the stench of shit into the air. 

Damage the organs, ruin the meat.

“Yes, he does,” her mom is saying. “He learned it from his dad. They were a big family of hunters. Abigail has learned to shoot, and how to dress a deer as well.”

Abigail points her chin to her chest as she feels Hannibal’s eyes on her. 

“Ah, so a man who is uniquely prepared to kill, and to prepare the dead.” It’s a strange statement. “Passing along the tradition to his offspring.”

The urge to smash the dishes in front of her rises quickly. 

Will laughs. “My husband has a macabre sense of humor; you’ll have to excuse him.” His voice soothes the little beast inside her, and she feels like she has more room to breathe. She smiles at him, shyly.

“And my husband is a hunter of another kind - he fishes,” Hannibal says with a glint in his eye.

Mr. Crawford perks up. “You fish?”

“Oh no, you’ve got his attention now,” Mrs. Crawford says with a soft laugh.

“I do,” Will says, his eyes on Hannibal before he looks to Mr. Crawford and smiles. “You?”

“I do it when I can. I find it’s a great way to relax. Things at work can get heavy, but you get me out there on the water, and it’s like I can let all that just melt away.”

Will nodded with a slight smile on his lips. “Yes. Exactly like that.”

“We should do a trip sometime. Have you got your license here already?”

“I was just about to fill out the application,” Will says. “A joint trip sounds like a good time.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Crawford hits the table with his palm. His face shines with mirth. He points his finger at Will. “You let me know when you get that license, and I’ll show you some of the best spots in the area.”

Will grins. “I look forward to it.”

“Mr. Crawford, I’m given to understand that you work for the FBI,” Hannibal says over his glass of wine.

“I do, and please call me Jack,” Mr. Crawford says. “I’m not all that important, more paper-pushing than anything.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Mrs. Crawford chides. “Jack is the Agent-in-charge of the Behavioral Science Unit.”

“Impressive,” Hannibal says. “Tell me, are you involved with any local cases, such as the missing girls?”

Abigail’s pulse kicks up. 

“So awful for their families,” her mom says. “I’ve hardly been able to let Abigail out of my sight.”

“I’m careful, mom,” Abigail says as she pierces a slice of radish with her fork. 

Margot turns to Abigail. “Did you know any of them?”

“No,” Abigail says, and clears her throat. “None of them went to my school.”

“That’s right. Most of them are from the surrounding colleges,” Jack says. “We’ve been consulted, but there isn’t much to go on.”

It’s a relief when the conversation changes. The entr é e is stacked, like something seen in a fancy restaurant on television. Hannibal announces the name of the dish as it comes out in a quiet but proud tone. “Foie gras and mushroom galette.”

Abigail watches as everyone else picks up their forks and knives. 

“This dish is excellent,” Jack announces. “You’ve really outdone yourselves here.”

Murmured agreements and high praises sound down the table.

Abigail picks up her fork. A warm flush hits her cheeks when Will gives her an encouraging smile.  

Alana asks, “So, Hannibal, I’ve been trying to figure out your accent. Where are you from?”

“Lithuania,” he says. 

Abigail has no idea where that is. He could have said Transylvania for all she knows.

Will is saying something to her mother.

“Winston, Buster, Jack, Harley, Zoe, Ellie, and Max.”

“How on earth do you manage to care for seven dogs?” she says. “You must love them.”

“I do,” he says.

“Will is very fond of his strays.” Hannibal wears a wide smile. He seems smitten with Will. 

“Well, the HOA is going to have a field day with that. Have they started bothering you, yet?” Her mother says.

Hannibal’s smile is almost canine. Will laughs. “They came to the door once. Hannibal chased them off.”

“Well, it’s not as if the HOA hasn’t benefited us in some ways,” Alana says. 

“Oh, they’re a nuisance,” Will says. “I’m all for making a neighborhood look nice and banding together to fix issues like potholes and such, but I’d prefer a vegetable garden in the front yard over a useless lawn.”

“Here, here.” Her mother lifts her wine glass.

“Besides, if they have a problem with the dogs, wait until they get a load of the ramp we’re installing for Hannibal’s wheelchair.” Will’s grin is as white as the linen tablecloth. 

“They can’t deny a wheelchair ramp,” Margot says hotly.

“No, the ADA won’t allow for that,” Mr. Crawford says.

“But they do have a process where you have to submit the plans and they have to sign off on it,” Mrs. Crawford adds.

“See what I mean? A nuisance. And while they do their little power dance over a ramp, my husband is what, stuck in the house unless I bust my back helping him up and down the steps?” Will talks over the rim of his wine glass. 

“Will is quite protective of me, as you can see,” Hannibal says. “I am fortunate to have found someone such as him.”

Will smiles at him. The besotted looks on their faces are enough to make something inside Abigail’s chest twist. 

“Well, you’ll still benefit from the beauty of this neighborhood and the property values that go with it, and part of that is thanks to the HOA,” Alana says.”Though I do agree the current board is a bit heavy-handed.” 

“Suburbs are of an ersatz nature. Humans long for green and for beauty, for sunsets and for glimpses of wildlife - and only the safe kind: pretty songbirds, a fox or a deer in the distance.” Hannibal’s voice is a soft croon. “A way to tame the wilderness, live beside it, scrimp for its benefits while remaining safe in our fortresses of asphalt and concrete. Fences divide property lines, the road meets the curb, flowers are edged against the turf. In a forest or field, those messy, transitional areas are where change is more likely to occur. Mutations. Diversity. We eliminate those spaces in our little suburban dream. A way to exist in the greenery without giving in to the messier ecotones of emotions and thought. Denying our very wilderness inside.”

The table is quiet. Abigail looks at everyone’s faces. Alana is looking at Hannibal with a soft smile on her lips, as if seeing him for the first time, while others seem to be puzzling out his words.

Will moves to take his glass and salute Hannibal. “My husband is a philosopher, as you can see. He might be critical of suburban living, but we chose to move into this neighborhood, and I get the feeling we’ll like it here very much.”

Her mother laughs a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “I think you will,” she says. “And I think we’ll be very happy to have you in the neighborhood. You should come over, sometime. If you ever need anything, please do come, I’d be happy to help with whatever it is.”

Will glances at Hannibal and then at her mother. “Thank you, we’ll be sure to take you up on that kind offer.” 

The hairs on Abigail’s neck rise, though she can’t really say why.

Hannibal’s look is almost feral, the way he tips a glass to her mom with a shine to his eyes. And her mother, bless her, doesn’t seem perturbed at all. 

The rest of the evening passes. Will praises his husband’s cooking, but Abigail, keen to watch Hannibal and figure out what Will sees in him, notices Hannibal barely touches his own plate. He moves the food around, cuts the galette, rubs it into whatever juices are available, but it’s rare that the fork touches his lips. By dessert, Abigail is certain he’s not eating, so much as he mimes it.

Her focus on Hannibal keeps her from thinking too much about sitting next to Will. She swears she can feel the heat coming off his body, or some kind of tension gathering in the air between them. He’s cordial; he asks her about her senior year, about her college choices, and so on, and she answers, but her mother often speaks for her, excited as she is about Abigail’s education. Abigail can barely fathom college at this point, with it seeming so far away, so she’s happy to have her mother talk for her. Maybe Will won’t notice how awkward he makes her feel. 

Especially when he laughs.

She rubs her thighs together and focuses on her dessert. Something about blood chocolate and Abigail tuned the process out when Hannibal described it. Good thing no one at the table is a vegetarian. 

She’s thankful for Margot - Margot and Alana are friendly and chill. She’s known them since they’d moved there with the baby, and babysits for them now and then.

“Who’s with Morgan tonight?” she asks Margot.

“A friend of Alana’s from work. We would have asked you, but you’re here, which honestly, is better.” Margot gives her a bright grin.

“Yeah,” Abigail says. “All grown up now, I guess.” Oh, that was stupid. Hopefully Will didn’t hear.

“How old is your son?” Hannibal asks.

“Six,” Margot says, her cheeks stretching with her smile. 

“He’s our pride and joy,” Alana says as she gazes at her wife. 

“Children are a blessing,” Hannibal says.

Will shifts beside her. He’s lost his smile. Are children a sore subject in the Lecter-Graham household?

It’s a relief when the night finally ends. Mr. Crawford is planning their fishing trip with  Will. Alana finishes peppering Hannibal with questions on differing schools of thought in philosophy. Margot has told her mom all about the new school they’d put Morgan in - a private school for gifted kids. Mrs. Crawford kept her husband from knocking back too much wine while she sat quietly, watching, much like Abigail was watching. Their eyes met several times over the course of the evening.

So when the moment arrives, Abigail thanks both Will and Hannibal - neither wanted to be called Mr. Lecter-Graham - for the evening, and rushes to her house. Her mom follows her into the cold autumn air.

“Well, one thing I can say for sure is they certainly know how to throw a fancy party.” Her heels clop on the stoop like hooves.

Abigail cringes at the volume of her mother’s voice. There’s no way anyone heading home missed her exclamation.

She doesn’t say anything as she goes through the front door. Her father’s on the sofa watching TV. 

“How was it?” he asks, only half-interested judging by the tone of his voice.

“Fine,” Abigail says as she walks up the stairs, trying to pretend they’re a normal family, that this is something of course a father would ask, and that he is actually interested in her the way fathers should be with their daughters.

“It was something else,” her mom says. “That Hannibal can really cook!”

Her mother’s voice fades as she heads for her bedroom. She undoes her jacket and kicks off her heels when she realizes - she doesn’t have her clutch with her.

What a dumb thing. She never carries a purse, much less a stupid little clutch. It was another pitiful attempt to make herself seem older, more mature. It’ll be so embarrassing to go over and ask for it back, but if she waits until tomorrow, it would be even more embarrassing - like she didn’t even realize that the clutch was missing. 

“Ugh,” she says to the ceiling.

She hurries down the stairs. Her mother is still chattering. “And then the dessert was the most decadent - if not the weirdest - thing I have ever -”

“I left my clutch over there,” Abigail says. She says it with half a whine.

Her mother looks surprised. “Oh. Well, that’s okay honey, just go over and ask to look for it. They’re such gentlemen, I wouldn’t be surprised that if they see it themselves they’ll be right over to return it.”

Great. The last thing she wants is for one of them - likely Will - to come over with her purse, having to rescue her from herself.

“I’ll go get it,” she says, and goes out the door. 

The cold air bites at her neck. She pops the collar on her jacket. Margot and Alana have already disappeared into their house across the street. Mr. Crawford is getting something out of his car and as Abigail walks up to the Lecter-Graham front door, Mr. Crawford goes inside his own house. 

This increases the level of awkwardness she’s feeling. She’d kind of hoped for a familiar face to still be at the house, even though she didn’t want to be seen forgetting her clutch in front of more people than absolutely necessary. 

 She raps at the door - it opens. It isn’t latched.

“Hello?” she calls into the house. A dog in the back yaps.

She hears the low murmur of voices, not pleasant - almost harsh, stabbing. 

She pushes the door wider intending to call Will’s name, but then it occurs to her that the dining room is to the right. She can probably dash in, grab the clutch, and dash out before anyone spots her. Will might be checking on the dogs in the back, and maybe Hannibal is washing up in the kitchen - something everyone offered to help with, but Will and Hannibal declined.

 She steps into the house, her heart thumping against her chest. Her footsteps take her, quietly, to the doorway of the dining room.

Then she hears a low rush of growled words: “You can’t because I said so .”

Abigail flinches. The steel edge in the voice rings alarm bells in the back of her mind. She leans her head to one side, straining to identify where the murmurs come from.

The answering voice is lower; she can’t make out the words. 

“Will, listen to me -” Hannibal’s voice is a rough, angry whisper.

Abigail realizes they’re in the living room - the door directly across from the dining room. She takes a step in its direction.

What are you doing?

She shouldn’t be spying, that’s for sure.

They’re having a fight!

But it sounds so...they sound so angry.

Feral.

She steps closer to the archway that leads to their living room. Peeks around the corner. 

Hannibal sits in his wheelchair. Will’s back is to Abigail. Will starts to turn, and when he does, Hannibal’s face grows into something cold, angry. Monstrous. His hand strikes: grabs Will by the wrist. Will’s body flinches as Hannibal pulls him closer.

“You agreed,” Hannibal says in a low snarl.

“No,” Will says. “You assumed.”

Hannibal yanks Will again, and as he does, his gaze shifts to the door where Abigail stands. Their eyes meet. The world condenses to a frightening point of silence as she freezes in place. 

Chapter Text

Abigail recovers, snaps backward with a gasp. Her hand flies to her mouth. 

The front door is still open. She dashes through it, down the steps, and crosses back over to the safety of her stoop. When she looks behind her, no one is following. Their house remains still. Quiet. Foreboding. Her pulse roars in her ears like the winds of a coming thunderstorm through billowy treetops. 

She slips inside the door.

Her parents are still talking. Abigail runs up the stairs just as her mother says, “Did you find it?”

“Yes, mom,” she calls over her shoulder, and goes inside her room and closes the door.

Hannibal’s face. His gaze at Will had been terrifying. Alien. When his lupine eyes caught hers, fear had flashed through her body like lightning down a metal rod.

Like she was being hunted.

She looks down at her hands. They tremble. 

She shoves herself from the door and goes to her window. The light is still off in her room, so she’s fairly certain they can’t see her if they happen to look out. 

The light in their living room casts a soft glow onto the front yard. No shadows. No sign of anyone having exited the house.

Abigail lets the curtain fall closed and wraps her arms around herself, stuffing her shaking fingers into her armpits. The room that has been hers for eighteen years suddenly seems foreign, new. Unsafe. The shadows are closing in, thick and heaving. Suffocating. Unable to see into the corners, corners she could normally navigate blind, now seem unwelcoming. The monsters in her posters and paintings peer at her. A delicate fish swimming among sharks.  

She flips on the wall switch and throws herself into her desk chair so hard the wheels protest with the force. The chair almost hits the wall. She pulls herself to the desk so close it nearly stabs her rib cage. 

Abigail faces her computer screen. It’s dark like a scrying mirror, but it only reflects her face. Though she can’t see the color on the reflective surface, she’s sure she must be bone-white. 

Her mother’s excited voice is muffled through her door. Still in high spirits from the dinner, no doubt telling her father everything about the evening - what the Vergers wore, and poor, brave Mrs. Crawford, and the cut of Hannibal’s suit and the expensive furnishings of the house, and so on. The extravagant food, the classical music playing in the background, and Will’s graciousness as a host.

Will.

Her room seems itself once more - her laundry tossed in one corner, her pictures back to themselves on the walls with flat, unseeing eyes. Her sketches are hers again; harmless creations from her own fingers.  Her unmade bed in another corner.

Should she tell her mother what she saw?

And ruin her glamorous view of our neighbors? Her mom would just give her some explanation about couple fights , and how they can seem vicious, and so on and so forth.

Abigail hits the power button on her computer. Once the screen loads, she opens her browser and searches ‘how to tell if someone is in an abusive marriage.’

Most of the information is geared toward people with female friends who exhibit behavioral changes. It’s a little more difficult to determine whether a stranger is in an abusive relationship, unless bruises and other wounds are apparent, or it’s noticeable that their finances and social life are controlled by their partner somehow. 

It’s a big leap to make, anyway, isn’t it?

But she remembers Hannibal’s grip on Will’s wrist. Will, who is not a very large guy. And just because Hannibal is in a wheelchair doesn’t mean he can’t be an abusive partner. Just watching him maneuver around his house and serve trays of hors d'oeuvres, it’s clear he can take care of himself. He has upper body strength, and if he’s verbally or mentally manipulative, he can use that to his advantage.

Abigail sits back in her chair. Will is... so nice. He’s charming. He’s sweet.

She looks again to her window, but something keeps her from going to it. 

Instead, she strips herself of her clothes, pulls on an oversized t-shirt, and curls up under the covers. 

Again, pretending she’s lying coffin-still, listening for whispers from the bones.

“Marissa, I’m telling you, it was weird,” Abigail says into her cell phone. “I’ve never been so creeped out in my life.”

“You think he’s really in an abusive relationship?” she asks.

“You should have seen the way Hannibal grabbed him - the way he looked at him,” Abigail says. “It was...he was like a predator.”

“Did you tell your mom?”

“No. She would have thought I was seeing things, or that it was just a simple couple’s fight. She’d tell me to mind my own business, you know what I mean?”

“Oof, I love your mom, but sometimes…”

“Yeah, exactly.” Abigail peeks out the window again at the house next door. “So you’re sure you can’t come over tonight?”

“Ugh, yeah, my aunt’s coming over for dinner. I think her latest man ditched her or something. My mom says we have to be on our best behavior.”

“Good luck,” Abigail says.

“Thanks.” Abigail can hear a muffled shout on Marissa’s end.

“Speaking of, that’s her. I think she wants help with dinner.”

“It’s only eleven.”

“Yeah, well, apparently it’s a slow cooker dinner. Gotta chop it up.” Marissa lets out a long sigh. “I’ll text you later.”

“Yeah, later.” They hang up. 

The doorbell rings just as Abigail wanders down the stairs, thinking about having something for lunch. Brunch. Breakfast was just a slice of toast and a bitter cup of coffee.

When she opens the door, her breath catches to find Will on the other side. 

“Oh, Will,” she says, as she feels the crawling of a tell-tale scarlet flush across her face. “Hi.” Oh my god, did Hannibal tell him I was there, watching them?

Will holds out her gold clutch. The fabric looks cheap in the natural light. “Forget something?”

“Oh,” she says, and holds her hand out, uncertain.

He presses it to her fingers. His face doesn’t show any concern or seriousness. He’s all smiles, the lines around his eyes soft. Warm.

“Uh.” She glances down at the clutch and back at him. “Um, thank you. Thanks.” She flashes him a nervous smile. She clutches the edge of the door with her other hand, unsure of what to say. Will he bring it up?

Will nods his head a couple of times, works his lips. “Yes. Thanks for coming to dinner last night.”

“Oh, thank you for inviting me. For inviting us. My mom and me.” Abigail makes a noise in her throat, and then she tucks her clutch beneath her elbow and pushes back some of her hair. Should I apologize?

He looks over at his house, and in the turn of his head, his scarf falls an inch, moves just enough that Abigail can spy a smudge of purpling skin. 

Bruises?

When he looks back at her, his expression changes to one of concern. “Are you alright?”

“Are you?” she says before she can stop herself. 

His brow wrinkles as his mouth falls open. Somehow, he’s even more beautiful in his confusion. “Is there something you have to say?”

Abigail stands there, her mouth feeling full of dirt and her knees weak. “Uh, no. I don’t. Sorry. I guess - I - I don’t know what I’m saying. Sorry.” She presses the clutch harder into her side with her elbow, pinning it there as if it were sealing an opening in her rib cage that would release her frantic and fluttery heart. “Thanks again for bringing the clutch back. I’m such an idiot.” 

She goes to close the door. 

Will holds up a hand to stop it. “Did...Hannibal say something to you?”

“What?” The pitch of her voice goes up.

“He can be...very charming...but sometimes he can be a bit off-putting, if you know what I mean.”

Abigail glances again at Will’s neck. The scarf has shifted back into place, but she can still picture the bruise - a violet puddle on his expanse of smooth, fair skin. 

But she doesn’t know enough. What if she says something and Will gets embarrassed and then refuses to talk to her? That’s something that happens with abuse victims, isn’t it?

What if they made up and this is just a hickey?

“Hannibal was perfectly charming last night,” she says, plastering a smile on her face. “Thank you again for having us. My mom raved about it for the next hour after.”

Will tilts his head. Abigail has the sudden impression that he’s prying her open, bringing out the bone cutters, and listening to all of her secrets. His eyes are gentle and blue, but the set of his mouth intensifies her suspicion that he knows...something. Might be deciding whether or not to bring it up and suddenly she can’t decide whether or not she actually wants to have a conversation she’s not fully prepared for.

She keeps the smile on her face. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve, um, I have a phone call to make.”

Will straightens. “I don’t mean to keep you.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Lecter-Graham. Hope to see you soon,” she says.

“We said you could call me Will,” he says with a near-sheepish smile, and he’s endearing again, soft-looking and exquisite. “I’m glad you had a good time. See you soon, Abigail.” He winks, and she hates to admit that it stirred an excited flailing behind her ribs. 

“Bye.” She shuts the door. She’ll be keeping an eye on him. And Hannibal. 

She wakes to quiet. Unsure of why she’s awoken, she lifts her head to peer into the darkness of her room.  

Only the soft glow of street lamps and moonlight filter through the sheers, diluted and filmy. With an eerie sense of being watched, she sits up.

And fear snaps up her spine like a collapsing line of dominoes. 

Hannibal stands in the corner. His face is gaunt, and his eyes glint in the gauzy light.

Abigail opens her mouth and screams. It rips up from her belly and shakes her ribs. It vibrates through her throat and punches the air with its intensity. Terror surges through her limbs as her muscles seize. She can’t move and he’s so close. 

He’s there, eyes staring into hers. The door bangs open and the lights flash on.

And then he’s gone.

“What is it?” Garret Hobbs appears in the doorway, her mother right behind him. His hair sticks up in the back and his eyes are large and wild. He glances around the room and then looks at Abigail.

Air comes to her in great gulps as tears flood her eyes. “He was right there,” she manages to choke out. She points a shaking hand to the corner of the room, where her laundry drapes over the hamper. “He was! I swear! He was right there.”

Her mother pushes past Garret and enters the room. “Who, sweetie?”

“H-Hannibal,” she says.

Her mother pauses. Angles one ear towards Abigail. She’s wearing her nightgown - she didn’t even bother with a bathrobe. “I’m sorry, did you say Hannibal?”

Abigail nods her head as she clutches her coverlet. 

Her mother’s lips twitch as she shakes her head and joins Abigail on the bed. “You were dreaming, sweetheart. And Hannibal of all people?” She laughs as she goes to draw Abigail into her arms.

Abigail pushes her away. “No, it was him. I saw him.”

“You were dreaming.”

“Jesus Christ,” her dad says from the doorway.

She tosses him a glance. “Go to bed, Garrett, I’ve got this.”

Abigail restrains herself from apologizing as she watches her dad retreat.

“What did you see?”

“He was standing there, in the corner.” As she says it, her cheeks color. It must have been a dream. Like those girls with the antlers.

“Standing? The man is in a wheelchair. Now you know it wasn’t real.”

The hot flush of embarrassment crawls over Abigail’s skin. 

“Sometimes dreams can seem very real. And those two are still strangers to us, even if we’ve enjoyed a lovely dinner with them, you know what I mean?” She takes her hand and pats it. “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah,” Abigail says with a swallow. “Yeah. Sorry, mom.”

“It’s okay, happens to all of us sometimes.” She pats Abigail’s cheek. “Need me to sing you to sleep like when you were little?”

Abigail smiles. Her mother has a lovely voice, and when she was just a kid, it was her favorite thing to hear her mom sing songs such as “Baby Mine” from Dumbo, and other Disney tunes. It’s tempting, but she’s already embarrassed enough.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Good.” She hugs her and Abigail lets it happen. “Get some rest.”

When her mom shuts off the light and closes the door, Abigail glances at the corner. It’s too dark to see, but no eyes shine back at her, no dark form lurks.

Still, she lies awake, staring at her ceiling and hugging her blanket, for a very long time. 

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since the dinner party. The house next door has been as quiet as a grave. Abel Gideon has been around to deliver a letter fining Abigail’s parents for the wildflowers out front. 

“Odious, odious man,” she hears her mother muttering to herself as she trashes the letter. “And that Kade Prurnell, thinks she’s better than anybody in the neighborhood. Wait until she sees that wheelchair ramp.”

Abigail glances toward the Lecter-Graham house, as if she could see it through the wall of her own house. “Have you seen them?”

“Who, honey?”

“Them. The neighbors.”

Her mother smiles at her. “They have names. No, I haven’t. But I did drop off a thank you card for the dinner.”

Of course.

“Why did you agree to be part of the HOA if you don’t agree with their rules?”

“I agree with most of their rules. And it does help with property values.” Her mother grabs her pocketbook and checks her hair in the mirror on the wall. “I’m headed out tonight. Your father’s doing poker with the boys. I’m meeting Gladys at the restaurant. Will you and Marissa be alright?”

“Yeah. We’re having pizza delivered.” They’d planned another night of horror movies. 

“Have a good night, honey,” she says and is out the door.

By the time Marissa arrives, Abigail has ordered the pizza and readied the movies. 

“Anything else happening over at the Hottie House?” Marissa asks. She’s been calling it that all week when asking Abigail for updates.

“Nothing,” Abigail says. 

Marissa flounces over to the window. “Oh, because when I got dropped off, I happened to notice this really, really hot guy in a jeep next door.”

“What?” Abigail jumps up from the couch and rushes to join her friend at the window. Sure enough, parked in front of the house is a blazing red jeep. The kind that hooks a person’s notice and keeps it as it passes by.

Just sitting there. Beneath a darkened sky. Even from within the house, a static electricity hangs in the air that spells a coming storm. Abigail can imagine the smell of ozone, the smell of rainwater, all followed by the cloying scent of petrichor. 

The guy emerging from the jeep is gorgeous, with dark brown hair and broad shoulders. Muscular and tall. He wears a fitted shirt over grey chinos, and when Abigail checks Marissa’s face, Marissa looks like she wants to lick the guy head to toe.

“You’re drooling,” Abigail says.

“Did you see the hot piece of meat heading to your neighbor’s house?” Marissa gestures to the window. “I wonder if he’s their third for the night.” Her eyebrows waggle.

“Marissa!” Abigail screeches.

“Hey, I’m just saying. Three hot guys - the husband’s hot, right? You never said. Just that he’s weird and you think he might be a husband-beater.”

“He’s...handsome, I guess?” A knot twists in her chest. She can recognize when people are categorically attractive, of course. “He’s way too old, though.”

“Yeah, but that’s your type, isn’t it?” Marissa elbows her.

“Stop it, oh my god,” Abigail says. They watch as the stranger disappears beneath the eaves of the porch. “I regret saying anything to you.”

“Please, you never like anyone.”

“I kind of like Ms. Katz?”

“Everyone likes Ms. Katz. This is the first time I’ve seen you actually have a crush on someone.” Marissa winks at her. “It’s cute. We’ve finally discovered that you do have a type, and Abigail, I think it’s probably a good one.”

“Yeah, some guy who’s being victimized by his husband?”

“You don’t know that,” Marissa says. 

I’ll find out though, Abigail swears.

Just as they pull away from the window, the hard tapping of rain begins. 

Marissa leaves by eleven. 

Abigail’s putting foil-wrapped pizza slices in the fridge when keys sound in the front door and it opens. She shoves the leftovers onto a shelf and shuts the fridge door as quietly as she can. 

Garret Hobbs’ footsteps pause. He might be taking off his coat. Or he might be listening for her. 

His footsteps head up the stairs. She breathes a sigh of relief. As soon as she hears the door of the bathroom shut, she races across the living room, up the stairs, and into her room on socked feet, shutting the door softly behind her.

The lightning has arrived, followed by the thunder. It makes Abigail giddy, especially after a night of scary movies. Her teeth and hair brushed, her sleep tee on, and she’s ready to tumble into bed. But first, she has to look. 

With the lights off in her room, she parts the sheer curtain and peeks out at the house next door. The rain trickles down the shingles and around the window frames of the house. Lightning flashes. The neighborhood is flooded in a brief tableau of white light. 

That’s when she sees it: a figure carrying out a large, black trash bag.

It’s almost midnight. It’s a thunderstorm. And yet, someone is carrying out trash bags. 

Where there are no trash barrels. 

In the muted glow of the streetlamps, she can see the figure shuffling along. The jeep is still at the curb. The figure opens the vehicle’s rear door, throws the trash bag in, and shuts it. 

Lightning flashes again.

The figure wears a hood, but Abigail would guess that the person isn’t very tall. And walking. So it has to be Will. 

Will heads back to the house. He disappears beneath the overhang of the porch. 

When Abigail looks up, another flash illuminates their house, and in the window is a face.

Abigail jerks back from the window. She nearly trips over a pillow on the floor, but manages to catch herself.

It was Hannibal, and he was standing.

She pulls the curtain aside again, waiting for the lightning to flash.

When it does, no one stands in the other window any longer. 

She breathes hard. Her heart pounds. 

People in wheelchairs aren’t always 100% paralyzed from the waist down, she reminds herself. Some people can take small steps, or balance themselves on furniture. Some people can move around their whole house and only use a wheelchair when they have to go for long distances outside. 

At least, that’s what her research told her the day after she had that horrible nightmare of Hannibal standing in her room. Just now, Hannibal could have just been looking out his own window, admiring the storm. That might be their bedroom, after all. 

She grips the window ledge, then pushes herself back. As she crawls into bed, she finds herself checking the corners, edgy with fear that a lightning flash will reveal Hannibal inside her room. The only one who would answer her screams tonight is Garret Jacob Hobbs, and that’s the last thing she wants. The fear is almost enough to make her turn on the nightstand lamp, and sleep with it on, but the light will attract her mother’s notice when she gets home, and that’s no good, either.

Instead, she lies there in the dark, quivering.

It’s been a quiet few days. Abigail leaves the house with the intention of strolling to the nearby cemetery, where she’ll take some photos for her photography class. The golden hour has gone, but she’s hoping to catch a mix of artificial light and moonlight among the graves. 

“Miss Hobbs,” a voice calls to her.

She turns. 

Hannibal sits on his front porch. He waves.

A flash of memory - him in the slash of light, standing in the window. His face in the direction of her window. He must have seen her. 

“Hello, Mr. Lecter-Graham,” she says and hopes he can’t detect a tremor in her voice. It’s not like she can accuse him of having been in her room, and if he was just looking out his window the other night, it’s not like she can tell him not to.

“You may call me Hannibal, as we said,” he says, as he tips his head. 

“Then just call me Abigail, I guess.”

“If you wish.” His gaze is placid: his eyes pass over her as if he’s mildly interested to see what she’ll do. “I understand you’re interested in makeup design and special effects for college.”

“Yeah,” she says. She glances over her shoulder in the direction of the cemetery. Thinks of her unused makeup brushes on the dresser. She hasn’t done monster makeup since last Halloween when she did the makeup for Marissa and some of their classmates. Now she’s supposed to be filling out applications to programs, and she’s left them untouched. Open on tabs in her mother’s laptop. Any day now, Louise Hobbs will be on her back, urging her to fill them out. 

College is supposed to be her ticket out of here. If she tells her mom she’s not sure what she wants to do with her life anymore, her mother will insist she attend the nearby community college until she knows. She has to keep pretending if she wants to get out.

“Sorry if I’ve interrupted you,” he says and gestures with one hand. “I was merely out here admiring the view.”

Abigail pushes her tangled, maudlin thoughts away, and considers him. Maybe she should get to know him better. Not be such a weirdo around them. If she befriends both of them, she might be able to determine whether or not Will is really in trouble. 

“Out to take photos?” He gestures to the camera.

“Yeah. I take a photography class.”

“Wonderful. I enjoy painting myself.”

She approaches the porch. “What do you paint?”

“People, mostly. I love to recreate famous Renaissance scenes or from classical myths.” He gestures to an Adirondack chair on the porch. He’s pleasant enough, she decides, if he’s not mishandling his husband. 

She sits with her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, camera bag in her lap. 

It’s then that she realizes what unnerves her about him. His stillness. When he moves, it’s like watching a statue come to life until it settles into stone again. Only his eyes seem alive, following what’s going on in the room with that leonine stare. 

“It’s nice to discuss art with someone who can appreciate it. While makeup and special effects may not be the usual discussion of some art appreciation circles, when I do have time to see a film, I can see the effort and the skill put into the special effects. Do you have a particular favorite?”

“Oh, um. I suppose I really like Gregory Nicotiro - he did The Walking Dead. And Ve Neill. She worked on some Tim Burton movies and Star Trek. Not too many women in the field, unfortunately, who get credit for their work.” It’s a bit disheartening. Monsters are for boys, it seems, which is strange when so many horror movies feature a female protagonist.

“You’d like to go into horror, specifically?”

“Horror, yes. But I’d do sci-fi and fantasy. Places where you can really push the envelope on character design.”

“Do you draw?” 

“I do, butI’m not naturally skilled.”

“Hm. It’s what the eye sees that is important. Not what the brain says. Do you practice?”

“Yeah, probably not as much as I should. I have some programs I use to create models and apply designs. I’m still learning.” Still learning because she’s barely opened the programs.

“You must appreciate horror movies.”

“Love them,” Abigail says with a smile. The moon has come out. The light slides over the road and the bushes, bounces off the white siding on the row of cookie-cutter houses. 

“I suppose you’re also a fan of gothic novels, and old fairy tales,” he says.

Abigail wonders for a moment if he intends to tease her about it. But a man who paints Renaissance scenes and classical myths might understand her preoccupation with the paranormal and the fantastical. “Yeah. The darker the better.” She meets his unflappable gaze.

“Then you must know the tale of Bluebeard.”

Her blood runs cold, like ice has been dumped down her back and chilled her through. “Yeah. The guy with the chamber full of dead wives.”

Hannibal hums and looks out onto the street. “Bluebeard is a tale of one young woman’s becoming. It is a framework which is repeated again and again, in stories such as Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Phantom... I’m sure many more. The thing in the house, and the protagonist who must contend with it.”

She shivers. “Yeah. Never thought of it that way. As a framework, I mean.”

“How do you interpret the story?”

She bites down on her lip. Considers her first time reading the tale, how it resonated with something inside her, some undecipherable truth that her body knows, but her mind ignores. 

She thinks of her father, and his hunting cabin. The guts strewn across the ground. The stain of blood.

“It’s the tale of a monster and his victim, and how it’s possible to get out of a terrible situation alive.”

Hannibal’s lips form a smile. It may be the first genuine one she’s seen.

He speaks: “I wonder how one such as you grows in a place such as this.”

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. “What do you mean?”

“Well, look around you. This is Sunshine Woods. A farcical name if ever there was one. You are an authentic person with a mind that doesn’t shy away from the horrific. Do you see it here, in this orderly little neighborhood?” His voice is a low torrent of words, a rumble deep in a tiger’s belly. “The thick pads of sod trimmed to a height of no more than four inches, the straight lines and the 90-degree angles of sentried gardens, the smooth asphalt on the driveways and roads, the sidewalks clear of weeds and cracks, the framing of this neighborhood in a grid - like a chessboard where asphalt meets curb meets concrete. With all these uncluttered stoops and fastidiously painted fences, some moral decay has to form, some force to toss off the stagnant fetters of suburban living - to undo the straitjacket of, say, a Homeowners Association.”

His eyes meet hers. She’s entranced, unable to look away. 

“The world thrives on chaos. This rigid pretense can only stifle your becoming.”

“My becoming?” Abigail’s voice is quiet, like if she let it rise it might catch the attention of a predator.

“Or perhaps, it is your unraveling.” His eyes seem closer, and she expects to feel his breath on her cheek.

That’s when she realizes: he doesn’t breathe.

She breaks eye contact, jumps up, and almost stumbles down the steps. Her pulse pounds, her breath erupts in short gasps. She turns to see him, still sitting, his hands folded in his lap, his gaze on her still tranquil. His chest is still. His stomach doesn’t rise. He’s a statue again, timeless and inanimate.

“Sorry, I should go,” she says, as humiliation creeps across her, fear still blaring through her limbs. 

This time, when Hannibal smiles, she can see the moonlight glint on his teeth. They seem...pointed. “Of course, Miss Hobbs. Do enjoy your evening.”

Abigail starts to head for the cemetery, though she throws several glances back at the still figure on the porch. 

Bluebeard. Hannibal. 

The Thing in the House.

Chapter Text

“My friend Colette is all aflutter this morning,” her mom says as she leans against the counter. She stares out the kitchen window. “Her sister’s son has gone missing.”

“Oh?” Abigail says. She’s sketching teeth in her notepad as she eats a bagel with one hand. Her father sits in his chair, quiet as he stares at his tablet.

“Yes. His roommate last saw him this past Friday. He was getting ready for a date.” She shakes her head. “When Colette’s nephew didn’t come home the next day, his roommate figured the date went well enough that he was still with the guy on Saturday. The roommate went out Saturday night, so when he got home he didn’t even realize Mark - that’s Colette’s nephew - hadn’t come home yet. When the roommate woke up Sunday morning, he started calling around to all of their friends. Mark never answered his cell phone. Then he called Mark’s family. Mark didn’t come home Sunday night and he never went to work Monday morning.”

“Wow,” Abigail says and looks up from her drawing. “Do they know who the date was with?”

“Mark didn’t leave behind any information. That’s a lesson right there for you, Abi. If you go somewhere on a date, always leave behind information for where you’ll be and how you can be contacted if your phone goes dead. Always. If not with me, then with Marissa, or your future roommate, or someone.” She gives another shake of her head and clucks her tongue. “And on top of these missing girls.”

“Got it,” Abigail says as she twists the pencil in her fingers, only half paying attention to her mother. Instead, she’s thinking of canines gleaming in the twilight. A shiver runs down her spine. She glances over at her father, whose face is blank as he reads whatever he’s reading on the screen. As usual, he’s quiet. “Okay, I’m going to head out.”

“Will Marissa be coming back with you?”

“Yeah, we have more calculus homework to figure out.”

“I’ll make room at the table for her, then.” She looks at Garrett and makes a face. “Your father will be heading out to his hunting cabin this weekend.”

Garrett Hobbs’ eyes meet Abigail’s. A chill finger-walks down her spine.

“Have a good weekend, dad,” she forces out, her tongue weighing a thousand pounds.

He nods his head and goes back to his tablet.

Abigail shoots out the door.

It isn’t that her father hits her or mistreats her. It’s the lifeless stare leading up to the kill. The flatness, as vacant as the dead animal’s, until the ripping starts. It’s the way he enjoys splitting the flesh and tracing his fingers through the blood. The way he looks at her afterward, blood speckling his face like freckles and moles. His eyes have life then, beckoning her to revel with him in the crimson-hazed ruin. It’s exhilarating to see him come alive, to see him take interest in her as she holds the blade. The urge to join him builds from somewhere between her ribs and solar plexus, worming and curling up inside the marrow of her bones.  

He enjoys her response too much. It leaves the taste of bile in her mouth and a curdling sensation in her stomach that tries to crawl up her esophagus. She’s past the age of doing everything to try to please him and to gain his approval. He doesn’t even torture the animals - his kills are clean. It’s the aftermath, the ritual of cutting and peeling, grunting and gloating. His smile a stark white against the carnage. Blue eyes twinkling with a macabre glee. Followed closely by a dark desire, a pointed stare. Something she couldn’t decipher at first.

She wanted to stop when she became aware: she enjoyed it almost as much as he did.

And she did stop when she knew, as both of them dripped with blood and his gaze set upon her, that she might be next.

That night, after Marissa leaves, Abigail sits on the floor in her room. It feels like it's her place again after the scare with Hannibal in the corner, real or not. It’s as if the residue of fear has lifted, and she’s rubbed her scent all over all her things by having her best friend over for their usual movie night. Marissa’s fresh scented perfume lingers over the pillows where she was lounging, and the fairy lights hung around the room give it a warm glow. 

She stands, strips, and pulls on comfy pajama pants and a shirt. The nights are growing cooler. Her desk sits by the window, and though it’s colder there, she sits in her chair to brush her hair.

Movement outside the window catches her eye. The blinds across the way are open. The light within fills the opening with gold. 

Hannibal faces her. In his lap is Will, his naked back to the window, shadowed like one of those Renaissance paintings, the muscles of his shoulders bunching as he tips his head toward the ceiling. Abigail is enthralled, as if Hannibal is Medusa and his gaze combined with this tableau has turned her to stone. 

His eyes don’t leave hers - can he see her? He must. The fairy lights in her room would at the very least define her shape near the window. Her heart elevates to her throat when he opens his mouth, bares his teeth. Pointed canines. Long. He tilts his head up, and they seem to lengthen as if he’s the human version of a saber-tooth tiger. He strikes. Snaps his mouth over the juncture where Will’s neck meets his shoulders. Will startles. A red trickle of blood drips down his back. Hannibal’s eyes burn like they’re on fire. 

Abigail gasps and drops the brush. 

She screams when a knock sounds at the door, and whirls around to see it swing open. 

Her mother hits the light switch. “Abi, what is it?” Her voice is pitched with surprise. She glances around the room, her blonde bob waving as she does.

Abigail whips around to look out the window again.

The blinds are closed. The light is gone.

Tears brim in her eyes as her mother chatters at her like a noisy songbird that’s been enlivened by the dawn light creeping across the horizon. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Abigail wipes her face. “I - you just surprised me, mom.” Does she tell her? How does she explain? She’s spied on her neighbors fucking - were they fucking? It seemed like they might be fucking. But the way Hannibal looked at her, the way he claimed Will with that bite - and weren’t they naked?

“Abigail!” comes her mother’s frustrated-sounding yell.

“Leave me alone!” she snaps. “I’m fine, just, go!”

But don’t go. Abigail wraps her arms around herself and doesn’t look her mother in the eye. 

“Abigail,” her mother says in a soft voice. “I wish you’d talk to me.”

“I’m fine. Go to bed.” She pushes her hair back and looks at her mom. “Please.”

“Okay,” her mother says, the look of dejection obvious on her face. “Fine. But remember, I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“Sure, thanks. Now just go.”

She leaves. 

Abigail runs to her bed and pulls the covers over her head. She listens, all night, for sounds of footsteps outside the door, for a figure in the corner. It’s not until the sunrise begins that she finally lets her eyes close, and drifts to sleep. 

Sent

I’m telling you, it’s not normal

Received

Don’t some people like biting though?

Sent

But that much blood?

Received

Isn’t bloodplay a thing?

Sent

Marissa, he had fangs!

Received

I’m sorry, were you up watching Fright Night again?

Because it sounds like you dreamed it.

Or watched it

On Fright Night

Sent

I know it wasn’t a dream.

My mom came in and surprised me.

I screamed.

They probably heard and shut the blinds.

And my mom is still mad at me this morning

Like I did something to personally insult her

Received

Dude

What if your neighbors are into bloodplay

And roleplaying as vampires?

Abigail lets out a huff. Marissa didn’t see it. She didn’t see the way Hannibal’s fangs grew, and the fire in his eyes. Abigail throws the phone down on the bed. Who wants to get bitten like that? So it hurt and bled? To each their own, but with what Abigail saw that day in their house…

Her heart rabbits in her chest. It’s unbelievable, right? Because vampires do not exist.

Except she’d seen it. 

Goddamnit.

She’s seen Will during the day, but Hannibal threw a dinner party, and he’d sit out on the porch sometimes in the twilight. Not breathing.

And his fangs…

What if...what if Will is his thrall? Not like the guy on the 1985 Fright Night, who was obviously dangerous and happy to assist his master - but Will. He hadn’t wanted to do whatever Hannibal was telling him that night. Will was Hannibal’s cover, wasn’t he? He was the one who lured guests into their home, and he was the one who gave Hannibal a way to assess his neighborhood - oh god, had that dinner party been a way to figure out the nearby snacks, or to throw people off the scent?

Throw people off. Obviously. You wouldn’t eat your neighbors and attract the cops to your neighborhood. 

Jesus, she should be prepared. Stakes under her pillow. Garlic around the window. Something. Because Hannibal had seen her. Had put Will on display. Had shown her his twisted possession of Will. What was he saying the other day? About Bluebeard, and The Thing in the House ?

Abigail claps one hand over her mouth. He’d been basically telling her right there. 

“Abigail! Are you coming down for breakfast?”

“One moment, mom!” she shouts. She runs a brush through her hair and leaves her makeup undone. 

At the breakfast table is none other than Will Lecter-Graham.

Abigail freezes.

“Look who came to join us,” her mom says cheerfully. She’s pouring Will a cup of coffee from their fanciest carafe, the one she saves for when guests are over.

“Oh,” Abigail says, and flushes. “Hi, Mr. - I mean, Will.”

Will meets her eyes and looks away. “Hi, Abigail.” His voice is soft. 

“Hannibal isn’t feeling well this morning, so he won’t be joining us, unfortunately,” her mom says.

Abigail glances toward the kitchen window. Toward the daylight. She looks at Will. “He never comes out during the day, does he?”

Will’s eyes slide to meet hers. “All the things Hannibal likes to do are inside. Cook, read, listen to music, draw. He’s a homebody.” He sips his coffee. As he does, part of his sleeve pulls back, and Abigail can see finger-shaped bruises. Will continues to look at her. 

“Sit, Abigail,” her mother says. 

Abigail sits, her eyes on Will. 

“I was going to head out for grocery shopping. Is there anything I can get for you and Hannibal?”

Hannibal fed last night.  

Will studies her. She ignores his obvious study of her while her mother places a plate of eggs and fruit before her. 

“Thanks, but we’re good,” he says.

“I’m so glad you took me up on my offer to come over anytime. Abigail can get really caught up in whatever it is she does in her room, and being that it’s October, Garrett is out on weekends at the cabin.”

“Hunting,” Will says.

“Yep, that he is. It’s a wonder, though, he spends so much time doing it yet brings so little home. But it relaxes him,” her mother prattles on.

Abigail has the feeling Will is reading her like a garishly colored billboard that can’t be missed on an otherwise quiet stretch of highway.

It goes like this all through breakfast. Her mother’s innocuous comments. Abigail’s few words. Will’s polite answers to any inquiries. When he finally leaves, Abigail sees him out the door so her mother can turn her attention to finding her car keys.

“Abigail,” Will says. “You...you may have seen some things…” his voice shakes and he won’t meet her stare. “You can’t say anything. Hannibal is dangerous.”

“You mean…” Is he a vampire? Or a spouse-beater?

“The bruises. All that. Just. Don’t. Don’t get involved.”

“But you -”

“No. I know you mean well.” Will glances around. “He’s napping right now. He doesn’t know I’m here. Don’t say anything.”

Abigail’s pulse pounds in her ears. “But -”

“No,” he says, and it’s almost a squeak. “No. Thank you, but no. If I stay with him, I stay safe, and so does everyone else.”

Abigail can feel her eyes widen.

“Thanks. I have to go.” He opens the door and steps through. “Have a good day, Abigail, I’ll see you around.”

Abigail watches him go and shuts the door. With her hand on the knob, she drifts, like she’s a lifeboat at sea, with only one passenger, and no destination. 

Chapter Text

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Ms. Katz says as she sits on the desk in front of Abigail. Their attention is drawn to the door when Marissa pokes her head in. 

“Oh,” Marissa says. “I thought Abigail was right behind me. I’ll wait out here.”

“No, you can come in,” Abigail says. “I’ve already told you most of it anyway.”

Ms. Katz swivels to face Abigail, a wrinkle forming between her dark eyes. “Most of what?”

Abigail bites her lower lip and releases it. “I have this neighbor, this new neighbor.”

Marissa’s eyes bug from her head but she walks in and slumps at the desk beside Abigail.

“I think he may be in an abusive marriage.” Maybe with a vampire?

No. No. You’re imagining things.

“What makes you think that?” Ms. Katz asks.

“Well, the first thing I saw was an argument between him and his husband. His husband grabbed him by his wrist - it looked like he did it really hard. And the husband, he’s in a wheelchair, which I know most people wouldn’t think...I mean, the truth is that wheelchair users are more at risk for abuse…”

“Okay, so...that’s not a nice thing for anyone to do. No one should touch their partner like that,” Ms. Katz says. “What else?”

“He had a random bruise on his neck the next day. He wore a scarf over it, but I saw it when the scarf moved. It looked big - I couldn’t see all of it.” She gestures to her own neck, approximately where it had bloomed like purple violets. “Um, then I saw them…” A blush falls over her face. “The window to their bedroom is almost directly across from mine. I think they were having sex or about to have sex, and Hannibal bit him...Hannibal is the husband. Will...he’s my friend. I think. Anyway, when Hannibal bit him, it actually bled down his back.”

Ms. Katz’s eyes widen only slightly. She hasn’t moved otherwise.

“And the next day, Will came to see me. Um, he told me to leave them alone. That everyone is safe if he stays with Hannibal.”

Ms. Katz’s mouth drops open. “Well, that is something. I, um…” Her mouth is a flattened line and her eyes blink a few times. “Okay, here’s the thing, Abigail. Watching someone go through this is really fucking hard.”

Abigail feels Marissa startle beside her. But hey, it’s a topic made for swearing, isn’t it? She keeps her face straight.

“And there isn’t anything you can do about it until the person decides to do something about it themselves.”

“What? Even if he hurts him?” 

“You can call the police if you see or hear a domestic disturbance, but if your neighbor doesn’t press charges, you can’t do much.” She frowns. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but they’re both adults, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. 

“Then my advice is to keep an eye out, report sightings of violence to the police, or if you hear them arguing.” Ms. Katz looks up at the ceiling as she leans back in the chair. She waves one hand up as she looks back at Abigail. “You could drop some domestic abuse literature off someplace where the victim will see it, but if the husband finds it?” She crosses her arms. “You should also remember that this is not your responsibility. You need to focus on school and college. Your friends and family. So don’t - don’t challenge the husband in any way. Don’t get more involved than to call the police if you should witness anything. While you are eighteen, you’re still young. Finish high school. Don’t make this your problem.”

Abigail can feel her insides curl in like bits of paper caught with a lit match. This is not what she wanted to hear.

“How can anyone say that?” Abigail says. “How can you say that?”

Ms. Katz leans forward. “The thing is, Abigail, adults don’t always make good decisions. They don’t always make healthy ones. People stay with their abusers for all sorts of reasons. And other adults...can’t do much about it unless the person wants the help.”

“That’s fucked up,” she says and stands. One hand is in a fist, and the other grips the strap of her bag. “We just sit around and watch it happen?”

Marissa looks surprised, but Ms. Katz is calm. “Abigail, I know you want to help. I understand -”

“You don’t!” Her voice is shrill. She keeps her head down, staring at her hands wrapped around one another, the knuckles white. Bone white. Her voice is low as she says, “And I feel like I’m going crazy. He has fangs, Ms. Katz. And he bit Will and made him bleed - at the neck! And when I spoke to him one day on the porch...he didn’t breathe. He doesn’t breathe.”

“I’m sorry?” Ms. Katz says.

“He - he wasn’t breathing. He doesn’t breathe. And he has fangs. What does that tell you?” She wipes the tears from her face. “I know it sounds crazy, but I know what I saw. And he was in my room - he can stand! He doesn’t need the wheelchair. He’s - he’s creepy.”

“Abigail,” Ms. Katz says in a worried tone. Abigail chances a look at her. Ms. Katz’s brow is furrowed and her mouth is open and she’s staring at Abigail. She must be searching for something to say.

“I know what I saw,” Abigail says.

“Abigail, I’m not sure what you think you saw -” 

“No,” she says. “You don’t understand. You don’t believe me.” She looks from Marissa to Ms. Katz. She rushes from the room as tears fill her eyes. 

A flurry of heels click behind her as Marissa catches up. The hallway of the school seems too long. Abigail was going to head to the bathroom and cry in the privacy of one of the stalls, but she’ll pass other students along the way and Marissa is still at her side, her mouth moving and making noises that Abigail doesn’t want to hear.

She stops. Marissa halts beside her. “Abigail!” she says.

“Marissa, it’s wrong. He’s…” She thinks of him with his dark curls and those blue-green eyes, and that goddamn smile. “He’s in trouble.”

“Yeah, okay.” Marissa watches her with worried, brown eyes. “He is. But how are you going to help him if he doesn’t want help?”

“I don’t know, okay?” Abigail looks to the double doors. An emergency exit that leads to the back parking lot of the school. “But I’ll figure it out.” She heads for the doors. “I’m leaving.”

“Abigail!” Marissa calls after her.

Abigail ignores her calls and stomps toward her car.

She remembers when Marissa used to call her Oracle. When Abigail talked about the Sybils, priestesses who were revered prophetesses. How she thought being able to see the future would be the coolest thing ever. 

But she never was a Sybil. She’s Kassandra, the prophetess doomed to never be believed.

“Home early, huh Abi?” Abel Gideon’s voice grates on her eardrums as she closes her car door.

“I have a headache,” she says, as she turns to see him. He stands only about three feet away. She’d never seen him approaching, or heard the usual scuff of his sneakers against the asphalt. He’s close, too close. It’s broad daylight, she assures herself. And though some predators hunt during the day, many prefer the grey gloom of twilight, or the inky blackness of night.

“Oh, too bad,” he says. “Are your parents home?”

Neither her mother’s nor Garrett’s car is in the driveway. “My mom should be home, soon.”

He takes a step closer. She’s frozen. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

A shudder crosses from one shoulder blade to the next. “No, uh. Thanks. I think I’m just going to take a nap.” She tries to smile at him, though she can feel the corners of her mouth wavering.

He’s leering. “Maybe you could, uh, use a neck rub? My ex-wife told me I was the best at those. Great way to help with migraines. I’ve also got something in my house - imitrex, ginger tea, and a neck rub used to work wonders for her.” He thumbs over his shoulder in the direction of his house. “I can’t let you suffer! It wouldn’t be the neighborly thing to do. Let me do this for you. If not the neck rub, at least the tea.” 

“No, thank you,” she says, though a wetness creeps up her throat and a pressure builds in her chest. “That’s really too kind of you, but um, we have tea.” Finally, her feet move, and she takes one step backward, and then a second. 

“Well, the offer stands if you change your mind,” he says, with that creepy grin across his face.

The urge grows to tell him to fuck off, but that pressing compulsion placed on her by her mother to be polite to her neighbors shoves the words down. Abigail turns and almost runs inside her house. As she does, she catches the twitch of the curtain in the downstairs window of the Lecter-Graham house.

Her face burns as she slides into the shadows of her doorway.

Abigail watches her mother sometimes. 

With short blonde hair and bright blue eyes, Louise Hobbs seems to glide through life with a thin, cheerful veneer of part-time housewife and part-time graphic designer. But being married to someone like Garrett Jacob Hobbs? It’s a connection Abigail can’t understand. Her father doesn’t say much, and her mother talks as if just to fill the air in a room. Does she know about his strange bloodlust and the cold anger that lies behind it? Then again, his activities might keep him from lashing out at his family, so Abigail doesn’t say a word, doesn’t open the gates to that particular cavern of jagged rocks and pitch-dark corners. 

Instead, she’s been eager to get out. To leave this town. College has seemed like the easiest path - pick a major and get going. Sure. 

This rigid pretense only stifles your becoming, Hannibal had said. As if he’s looked into the surface of her eyes and scried her secrets. Does he know she hasn’t lifted a makeup brush in months? Hasn’t opened one of those programs on her computer to practice her art? For so long she wanted to be behind the scenes, creating something that would horrify others, and now, when it was so close, she was beginning to see that it wasn’t what she wanted for herself at all. It was a pat answer for any adult who asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. 

And it was as if Hannibal knew that.

She shivers and pushes him from her mind. Her mother wouldn’t believe her about her father anyway. Just like Marissa and Ms. Katz don’t believe her about Hannibal. Like Kassandra was cursed to never be believed, even as the Greeks offered up their horse to the gullible Trojans.

More likely, she’s the kid in the horror movie - certain something dangerous lurks over the family’s head, only to be believed too late. She’s never held powers of prophecy. Who can say how this movie ends?

Her mother is just hanging up the phone. “They found that young man’s car.”

“Hm?” Abigail askes.

“Colette’s nephew, Mark. Owns a jeep, and they found it in the river.” She places one hand over her heart. “Gosh, poor Colette. Her sister is a mess. The whole family is desperate.”

Something like fingertips ghost up her spine and across the back of her neck. “What color is it?” she asks, her voice quiet, her mouth feeling as if it were made of sand.

“The jeep? I guess that’s why they thought they’d find him sooner. It’s a loud red color.” 

Abigail bites down on her tongue. Her eyes drop to her lap. Her mind clouds with the memory of seeing that red jeep parked in front of the Lecter-Grahams, the young man on the front porch who Marissa referred to as a “hot piece of meat.” Meat, indeed.

“First, all those girls, and now this young man.” Abigail’s gut turns cold as her mother tsks at the counter and shakes her head, still harping on about how awful it must be for the family.

It’s an hour before she texts Marissa. She’s found out his name: Mark Schevitz, and he’s been missing since that Friday, October 9th. Tall, muscular gym rat type, with long brown hair. Handsome. 

Exactly like the guy they saw on the porch. 

Sent

You remember that hot guy with the jeep?

The third?

Received

Do you mean the guy we saw go to their house?

Sent

Yes

Received

How could I forget?

Sent

He’s gone missing. They found his jeep in the lake.

Received

Omg

Sent

He went missing that Friday.

Received

What? Did you tell the police?

Sent

I have a number. I was thinking of leaving an anonymous tip.

Received

Do it! You have to!

Abigail makes the call.

“Abigail! We have guests. Come downstairs!”

Abigail rolls her eyes as she shoves her book under her pillow and then checks her hair in the mirror. 

She steps down the stairs to find the Lecter-Grahams in her living room. Her fists clench by her sides. The first thought she has is do they know? She left an anonymous tip. It isn’t possible. 

The second thought is on their physical appearance here. They seem so out of place - Hannibal with his plaid suit and aristocratic features juxtaposed with her dad’s La-Z-Boy chair. Will in his burgundy button-down and charcoal grey pants by the flower-print sofa. 

“I’m so glad you took me up on my offer of dinner,” Louise is saying as she walks in with a bottle of wine and some glasses. 

Abigail unfreezes. “Hi,” she says, her eyes darting between them.

Will smiles. It’s a buffer on the strangeness of the situation. “Nice to see you again, Abigail.” 

Hannibal’s upper lip lifts on one side, like a mockery of a smile. He accepts a glass from her mother. “Good to see you again,” he says. He lifts the glass to her as if to salute.

Abigail makes herself step down the rest of the stairs and walk into the living room. Her mother hands her a half-glass of wine. 

“To neighbors,” her mom says in a toast.

“To neighbors,” Will and Hannibal say, and Abigail just manages to mutter. They clink their glasses together. Hannibal’s eyes rest on her as their glasses touch, and she has to push down a shudder of revulsion. A smirk appears on his face. She turns away as she sips her wine. 

“Well, what have you been doing to keep yourselves busy?” Her mother asks, dangling the wine from her fingers. The conversation launches from there. Abigail can just barely pay attention. Hannibal has been working on a translation of The Divine Comedy, which sounds pretentious but Abigail stays quiet . Will has been preparing lesson plans for his online work as a professor of criminal justice. 

“Well, I’ll be right back. I’ve got to check on dinner.” Her mother prances off to the kitchen.

“What have you been doing lately, Abigail?” Hannibal asks.

Abigail gets the sensation a prey animal must experience when the predator looks in their direction. 

“Um, just school,” she says.

“Hm.” Hannibal looks over at her mother as she comes back into the room. “Today we had to speak with the police, unfortunately.”

“Goodness, why?” Her mom asks.

Abigail rounds her shoulders, her left hand cupped beneath her right elbow. Wine glass in her right hand.

“It seems we may have been among the last people to see a young man alive,” he says. “An acquaintance of Will’s.”

Abigail realizes Will is looking at her. He takes a sip of his wine as her mother’s attention switches to him. “Yes,” he says. “The guy groomed a couple of our hairier dogs. We hit it off, and I invited him over for dinner. Seems he might have never made it home.”

Her mom has her hand over her chest again. “What was his name?”

“Mark Schevitz,” Will says.

Her hand flies to her mouth as a gasp escapes.

Will’s face creases with concern. “Do you know him?”

“No, not personally, but my very good friend Colette...oh, that’s her nephew.”

Will’s eyes grew. “Oh. My condolences. It must be so hard for the family right now. I understand they’ve recovered his vehicle?”

“Yes,” her mother says in a rush of breath. 

“Mark seemed a very bright, young man. Gregarious, and healthy. I imagine he would give anyone a run for their money if they tried to attack him,” Hannibal says.

“Hannibal,” Will says, with an edge of rebuke. “Anyway, when he left our place, he said he was going to meet a friend. We didn’t ask about it. No idea where he went. I wish we had asked.”

“And did the police think you had anything to do with it?” Her mother’s face is rapt.

“I was on a Zoom call with some friends out in California celebrating a birthday. I recorded it for posterity - and now am I glad I did that.” He drags a hand over his beard. “And Hannibal was resting in our bedroom. Sometimes entertaining takes a lot out of him.” He smiles at his husband with no small amount of fondness. “And he doesn’t drive, so that takes us off the suspect list, anyway.”

“Oh,” She utters, her eyes still wide with a mixture of horror and empathy. “I’ll, um, I’ll prepare our plates.”

“Can I help?” Will says.

“No, no. You enjoy the wine. Abigail?”

She feels the weight of their gazes upon her as she leaves the room. Abigail has never been happier to join her mother in setting the dinner table.

The vase centered in the table is full of goldenrod and asters - the very flowers that had populated the yard until Abel Gideon gave them their fine.

The dinner is cordial enough. Abigail and Will are quiet as the other two chatter on. Hannibal is so unlike anyone Abigail has ever known. He uses older, gentlemanly phrases that might be expected from a regency novel. He randomly babbles on everyday things that just seem normal to Abigail, but he’d parse it into some quaint pearl of wisdom that makes her teeth grate. 

Will interjects now and then, sometimes to tease his husband, other times to add his own thoughts. 

Abigail watched for any signs of manipulation or pressure from Hannibal: does he silence his husband with a look? Does he speak over Will? 

But Hannibal is the epitome of a polite conversationalist. 

“And how are your studies, Abigail?” Hannibal asks as Abigail was about to sip from her water glass.

“Fine,” Abigail says and puts her glass down.

“Oh, Abigail, that’s the answer you give your parents,” her mom tuts. “Teenagers, you know? If you want to know anything about their day, it’s like pulling teeth.”

“Mm. And where is Mr. Hobbs? Hunting again this weekend?”

“Oh yes. Turkeys, I believe.”

“Oh, something for the Thanksgiving table then?” Hannibal gives her a smile as his eyes glint in the light. Abigail checks his chest again for any sign of breathing. It’s hard with the suits he wears, and as he shifts from time to time. 

Her mother shakes her head as she smirks. “Oh no, those wild ones have barely got anything on them. I still get mine at the supermarket.”

Doesn’t her mother notice that he doesn’t breathe? That she’s invited a monster to her dinner table, inside her house? 

Abigail swallows and rubs at her throat. She glances at Will. His shirt is buttoned to his collar, and she hasn’t seen a hint of bruising there. His wrists are covered by the cuffs, but who knows what livid marks linger below the layers.

A siren sounds in the distance. Abigail glances at Hannibal. He’s watching her, the slight suggestion of a smile on his lips. His eyes slide over to Will. Will looks down at his wine.

The siren nears, blaring.

“Goodness,” her mother says. “Hope whoever is in need of that can be saved and can recover quickly.”

“A noble prayer, Louise,” Hannibal says.

“They’re getting closer,” Will says.

The siren screams its way onto their street. Her mother pops up from her chair and strides into the living room. “Oh no, it’s at Abel’s house.”

Abigail joins her mother at the window. Sure enough, a white ambulance with red lights has stopped directly in front of Mr. Gideon’s house. 

“Oh, I do hope he’s alright,” her mom says.

Abigail gives her a look. Her mom swats her arm. “Abigail, no one’s perfect. It isn’t funny.”

Abigail stops herself from smiling as she remembers Mr. Gideon’s unctuous smiles and creepy demeanor.

“The man was far from perfect,” Will mutters.

Abigail whirls around to face them. Hannibal is in his wheelchair beside Will, his wine glass in hand. He lifts it to Abigail, and he smiles. Abigail’s breath catches, as inside her, something is eager to smile back. 

Chapter Text

Abigail sits at the top of the stairs. Her mom stands in the living room with police officers.

“I understand Mr. Gideon wasn’t very popular around here,” one of them is saying.

“Well, you know, we’re part of an HOA, and he’s kind of the...messenger for the board. Shoot the messenger type of thing.” Abigail can imagine her mother’s wince. “Oh! Bad choice of words - sorry. It’s just that, he didn’t make himself very popular. The board’s very nitpicky. Nothing to kill anyone over, though.”

Abel Gideon is dead. The gossip is that he was found in the kitchen. Butchered. Jack Crawford is over on the scene, even though it isn’t FBI jurisdiction. He’s throwing his weight around and flashing his badge, bantering and arguing with local law enforcement. Bella Crawford called Louise Hobbs earlier to say: Abel Gideon was exsanguinated. Some of his blood was used on his face, like grotesque clown make-up.

Abigail had listened in on their conversation with a growing sense of dread in her stomach. Who would bother to kill the old creep, and in such a gruesome way? Like a cat playing with their food. 

She leans her head against the wood of the paneling along the stairway. Clutches her stomach with one hand. 

You know who.

The Thing in the House. 

Not her father. He keeps his macabre interests up at the cabin. And if he ever noticed Mr. Gideon creepin’ on her, he never said a thing. 

No. It was them. The neighbors. And she was certain they’d done it for her.

But is it a warning, or a peace offering?

Before they left, Will had whispered, ‘Remember what I told you - if I stay with him, no one gets hurt.’

“And your neighbors? Any recent altercations you can tell us about?” The cop says in a flat, professional tone.

“Oh, nothing really.”

“And your new neighbors? The Lecter-Grahams? I understand the board had some issues with their installing a wheelchair ramp of their choosing, along with the amount of dogs they have.”

“Oh my goodness, they are the nicest people. They had several of us over for dinner. Real gentlemen, the kind of neighbors you’d beg for. And their house isn’t part of the HOA - they were the first house standing in this neighborhood. The land was sold off and the developer built this neighborhood around that house. I’m sure it’s a thorn in Kade Prurnell’s side, but...I mean, seriously? One of them is in a wheelchair.”

One of them is in a wheelchair.

Of course, it’s the best way to hide, isn’t it? She remembers him standing in the window. Standing in the corner of her room. The fangs. 

The missing Mark Schevitz.

In her mind, she can see the lifeless eyes of her father’s kills, smell the blood in the air. That must be how Abel Gideon looks now. Glassy-eyed, blood-smeared, stench of copper thick in the atmosphere of his kitchen. 

Abigail scrubs a smile from her face with her hand.

Abigail sits up all night with her binoculars. The curtains never open. She sleeps most of the day, telling her mother she’s feeling sick to her stomach.

The next night, a woman walks to the porch. She’s beautiful, with softly curled golden blonde hair and a tight dress that outlines her curves. It’s a strange choice for the cool night air of October. She enters the house. At some time in the morning, Will brings out the trash. The dawn hasn’t risen yet. Abigail watches him with the binoculars.

When she looks back up to the house, Hannibal stands in the window across the way, watching her, with the ghost of a smile on his mouth.

She backs up to her bed and stays awake until the sunlight fills her room. She falls asleep clutching the binoculars to her chest. 

Abigail closes her locker just in time to see Marissa headed her way. She turns to walk in the opposite direction and Marissa calls after her.

“Abigail! Come on! You haven’t responded to any of my calls or my texts,” Marissa says as she catches up. “Not cool.”

Abigail keeps walking.

“Oh what, the silent treatment now? Real cool, Abigail. That’s fuckin’ awesome. Just because I think you might have a problem?”

“A problem?!” Abigail stops to face her.

“Yeah, your weird obsession with your neighbors.”

Abigail becomes aware of other kids in the hallway staring. The air smells of glue and floor cleaner. Abigail pulls the strap of her bag tighter, and lets her hair fall aside her face like a curtain. “I know what I saw. And you as my best friend should know better than to think I’m just making things up or seeing things.”

Marissa pauses. Then, “Listen, I was talking to Ms. Katz. She’s worried about you, too. You never skip school and you skipped last Friday afternoon. We’re just worried. Why don’t you come with me and talk to her -”

“No,” Abigail almost shouts. “No. I’m fine. I’ll handle it myself.”

“Handle what?” Marissa says as Abigail hurries down the hall. “What is there to handle? We just meant talk. About what’s bothering you.”

“No. Thank you, but no.” Abigail waves an impatient hand at her and hurries to class.

Abigail keeps watching the house. She’s put together a list of the evidence. Mark Schevitz. Abel Gideon. The woman at the house who never came back out.

But Will brought out garbage bags filled with something heavy.

The fangs. The biting. Will’s fear of Hannibal on that day he came to the house to warn Abigail. Is Abel Gideon supposed to be a warning? The way Hannibal had lifted his glass to her, as if in a toast.

They knew she was spying. 

They knew she knew.

And they were waiting to see if she would act. Or if she would keep their secrets? Become complicit?

As far as she can see, Hannibal is very possessive of Will. Of course he is. Will’s beautiful, and apparently cursed to do his bidding, clean up his messes. Throw out the trash. Give his blood.

A pang of longing flashes through her. It wasn’t fair. Will didn’t deserve that fate. Hannibal is a user, a predator, and Will his victim.

Wonder what his life was like before Hannibal dug his teeth into him?

Abigail watches some vampire movies. Gathers tree limbs from woodsy edges on her way to and from school. Sharpens them into stakes and hides them under the bed. Rubs garlic over the doorway and the windows. She doesn’t wake to Hannibal standing in her bedroom corner. Just to be sure she gathers salt and iron filings and spreads that beneath her bed. Wears a sterling silver cross. She’s not religious - You have to have faith! - but then, it’s hard to tell what’s true and what isn’t in vampire myth. Clearly, it’s based on actual creatures, and the way Will had looked her in the eye when he said Hannibal was allergic to alliums. Garlic. Onions. Shallots. Do they all work?

“What is that smell?” Her mother had said one evening. Abigail had shrugged and pretended to go back to doing her homework. Homework had been the least of her concerns that week but she still went through the motions. Mostly.

Will is able to go outdoors in the sun. He presumably eats things with onion and garlic in them. 

She thinks about how to procure holy water, and though her mother is a member of a church, it’s not the type of congregation to carry holy water.

She has stakes. She has her cross. It has to be enough.

It’s the Sunday morning before Halloween. Abigail listens as her mother putters around the bedroom next door, likely blowing out her hair and applying make-up. She’ll wear jeans and a cozy cardigan over a floral-print blouse. Her hair will go up with a tortoiseshell comb, and her make-up will be flawless. Heeled, brown leather boots to complete the look. 

Louise knocks on her door. “Abi? I’m going to church.”

“Okay, mom,” Abigail says.

“See you later. Don’t spend too long in bed, it’s a beautiful day.”

Abigail almost nods. It’s one of those golden autumn days where the sun shines bright and the wind is warm, and the crisp smell of decay hangs sharp in the breeze. 

Abigail thinks of the scene in Fright Night, where the vampire is killed by the sun’s shafts. If she’s not brave enough to use the stakes, she’ll have to get the sun to do her bidding. She’d walked around the basement windows the other day after she saw Will drive off somewhere. The basement windows, every single one, are blocked with something. Black plastic, or paper. She might have to rip it down. 

She looks at the pile of wooden stakes. Crooked branches, each end pared to a point. The movies make it look so easy. She has a mallet to bring with her, but she’s afraid she won’t have the strength to drive it through the breastbone of an unnatural creature. What if this just ends up with her dead?

She’s cut into bodies before though, at her dad’s cabin.

She bites her lip. No. It’s time. 

She shoves the stakes into her backpack and slings it over one shoulder. 

She goes to the back door. The fence is high enough that the Crawfords, who live on the other side, won’t see her enter unless they happen to be looking out their back window. She peers in and sees the dogs.

Right. The dogs. After some looking, she can see that they are closed into this room - the mudroom. They’ll be stuck in this room when she manages to find her way in.

She goes to the side of the house - her family’s side. Glances around. 

In her backpack, she has a screwdriver. She pokes a hole through the screen of the window and tears it open. The sound rips through the air. With a growing sense of foreboding, she pauses to look around, wondering if anyone heard the awful scream of split metal screening. Nothing else moves in the neighborhood, aside from the nearby scolding of squirrels. 

With the screen opened, she wedges the flat head of the screwdriver into the crack of the window. To her absolute joy, the window is unlocked, and the screwdriver levers it open, just enough for her to wiggle her fingers beneath, and begin pushing it up the rest of the way.

She shoves it up until she can pull herself in. Her sneakers squeak against the siding of the house as she clambers up. By the time she gets in, she’s sure she’ll be discovered, just from the amount of noise she made, and the effort she had to put into it. Sweaty, tense, and her pulse pounding in her ears, she crouches on the floor of the Lecter-Graham dining room. Never a better fitting metaphor for what she fears. 

Getting her breath under control, she turns to the window and closes it, hoping no one will notice the torn screen anytime soon. The sliding squeal it makes as she closes it makes her nerves jangle with the fear of discovery.

The dogs don’t even bark.

She looks around her. The dining room is spotless, with its table of dark wood and the Persian rug beneath it, the Japanese prints on the walls, the painting of Leda and the Swan in a place of pride. The clock on the wall chimes nine am and Abigail flinches. 

If Hannibal was normal, he would be upstairs, in one of the beds. Or at the harpsichord. It doesn’t sound as if anyone is home.

She glances into the kitchen. The room is spacious, with white cabinetry and black marble countertops. Everything is spotless. She opens the fridge. 

Condiments on the door: ketchup, mustard, mayo, BBQ sauce, and the like. Whipped cream. Milk and OJ on one shelf. Another with what looks like leftovers from Chinese takeout. 

But the white bags on the lowest shelf are unmarked. After a moment of indecision, Abigail snatches one of them up and opens it.

Inside is a clear, plastic bag of red liquid.

She drops the white bag back on the shelf. Bile threatens the back of her throat.

You can’t lose your nerve now.

It’s just more evidence. 

She lets herself into the room with the harpsichord. Supposedly, this is where Hannibal spends his waking hours. Composing. Reading. The curtains are drawn tight with only a sliver of light to illuminate the room. She steps through it, quietly. 

Into the hallway. Hannibal’s wheelchair sits in the corner below the stairwell. By the door leading to the basement, if she had to guess.

She can go up the stairs. Confirm Hannibal is somewhere up there, perhaps resting, perhaps reading. If she can confirm that, then she can leave, and not end up murdering an innocent man who uses a wheelchair. 

Clinging to the flimsy fabric of hope, she decides to check the second floor. The trip upstairs is unfruitful. The bed is made in the master bedroom. The master bath smells of shampoo and aftershave. A room that seems to be used for exercise is full of dusty weight machines. What must be Will’s office is untidy. A plaid shirt lays over the sofa in there, with the pillows showing signs of wear. 

Right.

The last place to check is the basement.

The door to the basement is locked. Abigail removes the hinges. 

A trick her dad showed her on one of their hunts.

“Well, dad, something you showed me did come in handy,” she whispers to herself.

The stairwell is dark, and she’s hesitant to turn on the light. No one will see it from the outside, but if Hannibal is awake, at all, downstairs…

He’d know already from the door opening. The light shining down the stairs.

She flips on the light switch.

Nothing happens.

She sucks in her lower lip and grips the screwdriver tightly. It occurs to her then that making all those stakes is laughable. Wouldn’t the screwdriver do the same job?

Did it matter so long as she pierced the heart?

Oh god, did it have to be a certain kind of wood? Ash? Oak? Hickory?

She inhales through her nose and releases it through her mouth. It’s now or never.

The first step creaks. 

The second step is silent. 

All the way down, some steps announce her presence. Others let her go by without a sound.

She rummages in the front pocket of her backpack. Locates the tiny flashlight she’d placed there. Clicks it on. 

The light reveals shelving in front of her. Rows of shelving. She steps to the side to come to the mouth of an aisle the length of the basement. What waits at its opposite ends pulls from her a loud gasp. 

It’s a large brown coffin with gold clasps.

Her heart rate picks up, races, a galloping horse in her chest as every hair on her arm and the nape of her neck raises. Tears sting her eyes but she blinks them away.

I was right.

She reins in her breath, tries to tell her heart to cease its frantic beating, tries to be calm. Her hand holding the screwdriver shakes.

It didn’t occur to her that she’d have to open the coffin lid to find the creature within.

And why would she do that first? She glances at the windows. She could tear down the paper and let the light in. Open the coffin and let the sun do its work. Keep the screwdriver ready. 

She fingers the scarf at her neck. It’s time. No more dawdling. Who knows when Will comes back, or when her mother will come looking for her.

The nearest window is to her right. She focuses the beam of the flashlight on the black sheet there. Paper? She walks toward it, ready to yank it down.

“What have we here?” A voice cuts across the darkness, and spurs a cold shiver down her spine.

Chapter Text

Abigail jumps, drops the flashlight with a loud clang. The light bounces off the feet of the shelves. 

“I…” she says weakly. What excuse can she possibly have? Cold sweat prickles her neck. Her eyes fill with tears.

A halogen lamp flares to life. It hangs from one of the pipes running overhead. 

Will stands beside it.

“Will,” she says. His face is expressionless. He’s watching her. Waiting. “Will,” she says again in a low, shaky voice. “We can...we can do it together.”

“Do what?” he asks.

“We can…” She looks down at her screwdriver. “Hannibal. I know what he is. What he’s doing to you. We can kill him together, and you can get away from him.”

Will takes a step closer. “Well, Hannibal, it seems you have been a bad boy.” His voice is a breathy rumble.

“I’ve promised you a child, haven’t I?” Hannibal’s voice comes from behind her.

Abigail spins around, the screwdriver held up in the air between them. She glances back at Will and decides to keep an eye on Hannibal. “Back off,” she says.

“The cub has teeth,” Will says.

Fear crawls up her spine and into her mouth with an acrid flavor. 

“Trained, I believe, by her father,” Hannibal says. “Tell me, Abigail, why did you stop hunting with your father?”

Abigail’s memories blink back to that day, the day she nicked the colon, and the stench of shit filled the air. “He...he’s going to kill me.” The deer that day had been a female, with long brown hair and green-blue eyes. “I…I don’t know how to explain it. But it’ll be me he carves up one day.” All those long-limbed does. All so like her.

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “He would have, one day, if it were not for our meeting.”

“I’m not…” Abigail swallows hard. “I’m here to kill you.” She’s still holding the screwdriver in the air. “I’ve done it before. Killing.”

A loud snort erupts behind her. “Hannibal, I told you to behave yourself. I told you not to shit where we eat,” Will says. “Go back to bed while I deal with Miss Hobbs.”

The change in Will’s voice is unusual. Feral. Hard. Her ears flame as she reconsiders what she’s doing here. What she’s beginning to realize.

“Will, you’re frightening the poor girl.”

“This is your fault. I’ll think of your punishment later.”

Hannibal frowns, looking over Abigail’s shoulder at Will. 

The weight of dread fingers over her like a heavy trickle of blood. She turns, slowly, her hand lowering as she faces Will, the screwdriver feeling useless. “W-what do you mean?”

“Oh, Abigail,” Will says. “I tried to warn you. You thought it was him. But I’m the dangerous one. I’m the Thing in the House.” He grins at her. The gash of white across his face strikes her with fear.

“But how?” Her voice breaks.

“You’re right. Hannibal is dangerous. What you call a vampire.” Will’s eyes dance in the stark light of the halogen bulb. His face is half in the shadows. “When we met, we didn’t realize we were hunting one another.” Will licks his lips. “The problem is, Hannibal’s appetite is far more destructive than it needs to be.” His eyes shift to Hannibal, two dark pools of shining want. “I keep him tame. Keep him weak so he has to spend most of his time in the wheelchair.”

The hissing noise Hannibal makes clambers up Abigail’s back in a spasm of fear.

“Then, w-what are you?” she asks Will.

“I feed on Hannibal,” he says, and his grin is moon-white again. 

“Incubus,” Hannibal says from behind her.

Will shrugs. “If you need a label, that’s probably the closest.”

Abigail looks Will over again. Not a trace of fragility: no rounding of his shoulders, no sheepish smile on his face, no suggestion of the somewhat nervous though handsome man she’s known over the past few weeks. Nothing of that Will exists.

That Will is a screen, she realizes. Cold spikes through her. He never needed to be saved.

She turns slightly to see Hannibal, still standing. It was Hannibal who took Abel Gideon out of this world, but Will who allowed it. It was Hannibal who wanted her, but Will who tried to keep her away. It’s Hannibal who wants her safe; but what does Will want?

“You - you won’t hurt me?” she asks Hannibal.

Hannibal’s face grows warm with a slight smile. “No.”

The screwdriver falls from her hand, which has been slowly going boneless with fright anyhow. She turns to face Will, wondering if he’ll kill her then and there. Wondering what Hannibal will do if he does.

A warm, heavy hand settles on her shoulder as Hannibal steps up behind her.

“She’s perfect, Will.”

Will looks at Hannibal. Then back at Abigail. “Why don’t we talk about it over dinner?”

Abigail blanches. “But it’s morning.”

Will grins again. “But dinner has already arrived.” With that, the floorboards over their heads creak. Someone is walking around above them. 

Hannibal is near vibrating with excitement. “You’ve brought someone home? In midday?”

“It was an opportunity. Someone arrived home early from their hunting weekend.”

Abigail’s heart thumps.

”I get the feeling we’ll be moving on, soon.” Will’s eyes are riveted to Abigail’s. “We need to discuss some things. Decisions must be made.” 

Will she scream and warn Garrett Jacob Hobbs?

“You must decide, Abigail.” Hannibal’s voice is a soft croon in her ear. “The monster that may kill you one day, or the monsters who will help you to become your own.”

Understanding blooms like a flower in her mind. An avenue she had not considered opens up.

Her ticket out of here.

A gentle squeeze on her shoulder, and Abigail follows Will upstairs. Silently, so the monster above won’t know she’s coming. 

Just like those long-haired, helpless does.

Bella Crawford appears as if she’s sleeping. Her face in a gentle repose is rather like an angel, Jack thinks. Which is cliché, but he doesn’t care. She’s been the angel of his life, and now this crawling, metastasizing creature inside her is threatening to take her away.

He slides into bed beside her, beneath the crisp white sheets and the sky blue comforter. Bella had designed this room, with soothing, cool colors in mind. 

She stirs, smiles at him. “How was it today?”

His feet ache and a callus on one toe is berating him angrily for having kept it pressed to the inside of his shoes for so long. A twinge in his back reminds him he’s not the young go-getter he once was. “A mess. It’s a mess.” He chews his lip as he thinks of what to tell her. He used to tell her so little, but as the cancer claims her, he’s been spilling his secrets a bit more and more. As if to prove to her why he needs her to stay, stay longer in this world because he needs someone who can chase the nightmares away. “They’ve gotten nowhere on Abel Gideon. They’re thinking it’s a serial killer.”

“In our own neighborhood?” Bella’s eyes snap open to meet his. “Is it a warning to you, Jack? Do they know you?”

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t. It had been his thought at first, but he’s never received any other warnings, and nothing about the way the body was displayed was anything he recognizes as having been directed at him.

But he does worry.

“Did I see a moving van in the Lecter-Graham’s driveway?”

“Yeah. Can you blame them? Abel gets killed, and then Abigail and Garrett go missing -” she takes in a sharp gulp of breath. “Her poor mother.”

“Yeah. I called over to Missing Persons. They’ve got nothing. She matches the description of the other missing girls.”

Bella shakes her head. “Louise says the police want to say she ran away with her father. Can you believe that?”

Jack thinks of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. The way his eyes went still every time the man saw Jack Crawford, as still and as dead as those on a fish. Louise Hobbs, who pretended her world was all sunshine and rainbows. And Abigail Hobbs, who seemed polite and smart. One of Jack’s friends over at Missing Persons told him, “She kept a diary, and she went on and on about gutting girls with antlers. It was creepy, Jack. And you should have seen her room. I’m not sure she knew the difference between fiction and reality.”

He sucks in his lower lip. Abigail might match the physical descriptors, but she differed from the other victims in some ways. “Yeah. I guess I don’t blame our neighbors for moving on. Will works remotely. I’m sure they could go anywhere. Far from here.”

“And us?” she asks.

He faces her. Her expression gives nothing away. She was always a challenge in poker games.

He takes her hand. “We’ll be alright. You’ll see. I’ll crack this case and you’ll conquer this illness. And anyone who comes knocking on our door will be asking for trouble, because we’re a crack shot team.”

Bella smiles, and he can tell she’s stopping herself from rolling her eyes. “Sometimes, I wonder about you. Whether you can tell the difference between the fiction you create in your head, and the reality of what’s in front of you.”

Jack considers, his mouth pulling into a frown. “You may be right,” he says. “You may be right.”

A light flashing outside their window catches his attention. He gets up and peers out the curtains at the Lecter-Graham house. Will shuts the passenger side door of the moving truck. He walks to the driver’s side and gets in.

The truck rumbles to life and the headlights come on. As the truck backs out into the street, a street lamp illuminates the passenger window. For a split second, Jack sees the face of a young girl with long, dark hair. Smiling.

He blinks. The window is empty, and then filled again, with the long, narrow muzzle of a dog. The truck pulls away.

The fiction you create in your head, and the reality of what’s in front of you.

“Hm,” he says to himself.

“What’s that?” Bella asks.

“I think I’ll miss the Lecter-Grahams. Good people.”

“Come back to bed,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

Jack does, and turns off the light, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. If he stares too long, the shadows seem to move like smoke across the paint. Tonight, he sees the wisp of a young girl, and in one hand she holds a knife, intent on gutting girls with antlers.