The Dread Legacies

Chapter 2

Frances

San Francisco, California. October, 2023. A partial lunar eclipse unfolded on the 28th.

As it stands the world and all its people are more connected at this moment than any time in history by the advent of technology and the Internets use of social media and online communities. That divides us the most. Divisions woven by the relentless pulse of technology and social media. A bitter union of intimacy and isolation.

The glow of "5:00 A.M." in scarlet illuminates a cell phone as it's alarm bludgeons the dark over and over. A woman stirs in the haven of her bed. After her hand reaches out to silence the call of the morning, she recoils back into the fading warmth and lingers in the tender embrace of her cloud-like baby blue comforter and the gentle cradle of her pillows. In a graceful ritual, she rises and goes through the mildly meticulous motions to summon a podcast. Over a pair of speakers, the podcast's theme music fills her apartment with both a somber and evocative soundtrack. In sleek waves her straight black hair reaches to her shoulder blades catching the light with each purposeful step. The bathroom becomes a sanctuary of quiet reflection when she closes the door and the music recedes. Groggily, Frances peers into the mirror apologetically. Her wistful gaze is long but she is not sorry for the warm Mexican tones of her brown eyes nor her tall, athletic build. She wishes her own eyes held the mysteries of a life fully lived or that somewhere in her there was a fiery spirit that defies apology. Still she is sorry and a mourning continues to reside. What ever it may be she refrains from letting remorse start her day.

Unbeknownst to her, She is being watched by a predator. A shadow among shadows. In the murk of the street a sliver of darkness conceals him. His piercing sapphire eyes study her every move. Clad entirely in matte black that devours the scarce light, his figure is shrouded in mystery and malice. His face, partly cloaked by the darkness and paste-like black paint extending from his neck up, stopping at the bottoms of his eyes. The part of his skin that isn't covered up reveals hints of an eternal, elfin youth beneath an imposing flat-brimmed hat that obscures shifting locks of dark hair. With a slow, deliberate retreat into the veil of night, his long and billowing coat fans out like a sinister curtain. The voyeur takes his leave as he loses sight of Frances. Taking advantage of the darkness while there are still shadows, as the pale promise of sunrise approaches.

Inside, Frances stands over the sink, splashing her face with cool water. She peers into her own reflection, tracing the delicate map of the wrinkles. Looking past her vital, and clean skin treating all the things that disappoint herself, like they are the only things present. To her they look like canyons, destined to deepen with time. She scrutinizes the white brightness of her eyes with the lack there of. She rationalizes hidden tales of tiny battles won from day to day, defining her endurance and change. "Life goes on. This is aging. This is what it looks like," she muses, feeling the delicate tension between resentment and acceptance. In the quiet storm of introspection, she grapples with a deep-seated dread, Is this mundane routine all that life has in store? Surrounded by endless possibilities to pursue... some kind of story and still I stay here. Holding onto this. Security. Safety net... Safety. She recalls the wasted vibrancy of her twenties when she was confined to a desk. 4000 days of that blend together like a collage of the uneventful. She mourns the solitary journey of a metropolis where 800,000 souls pass through everyday without a word. She left her cold life in San Diego behind, only to be invisible here. She moved here because this city was supposed to be full of connection. It probably is. Just not for her. "You are still a person, Frances," she whispers, a silent promise of resilience.

In another room, the strains of a melancholic podcast theme underscore her preparation for work. The podcasts' host speaks with magnetic intensity, "Vampires! On this episode, we unravel the dark tapestry of literature that celebrates the monsters that captivate us."

With a buoyant energy, Frances navigates enthusiastically through her eclectic bedroom. It is a colorful sanctuary where books cascade in artful disarray across the floor. She maneuvers around these volumes, rife with tales of spicy dark vampire fantasies, vampire history, and gothic horrors, that have never known the dust of neglect. Hers is a cherished collection that sees love often.

Dressed in firm fitting office appropriate attire and aglow with a serene confidence, she embarks on her drive to work with a small air freshener in the shape of vampire teeth dangling from her rearview mirror. During her drive, she listens intently to a dark vampire romance audiobook, intertwining with the distant hum of the city. After a brief coffee stop, Frances finds herself on a scenic overlook beside the majestic San Francisco Bridge. In a pause laden with bittersweet longing, she retrieves a Polaroid camera from her glove compartment. Leaning against the cool metal of her car, she cradles a cup of coffee, and lifts her camera to capture the ethereal image of the sun, gracefully cradled by the iconic silhouette of the bridge. As the final lines of her audiobook echo "Vampirism is lust, sex, and the freedom to live without remorse" she returns to her car, her mind alive with possibilities.

Pausing at the law firm's entrance, Frances feels, for a hopeful moment, an expectant presence in the air. Her eyes dart about, as if anticipating a rendezvous. But when no one materializes, a wistful melancholy tugs at her heart. With a heavy sigh, she retreats inside.

Within the firm's light-swathed corridors, Frances immerses herself in work until the call of lunch interrupts with a buzzing alarm on her phone.

Traversing the half-wall corridors she soon steps into the break room. She finds two colleagues deep in whispered conversation. One, a short brunette who shares a similar olive skin tone with Frances; the other, a statuesque ash blonde who a majority of the time is expressionless to maintain a heavily glamorous makeup look. Frances begins to bubble with a playful enthusiasm shooting a warm smile and wave at the two women. Their murmurs turn towards the grisly murder of Jolean, a colleague who was found lifeless by a local woman who was on her morning jog. The subject catches Frances off guard and her smile falls away. They speak about Jolean's neck marred by two piercing puncture wounds eerily reminiscent of a vampire's bite.

"Vampires? Really?" the blonde questions with uncertainty.

"Silly, I know. Its more than likely a psycho who lived near her. Stalked her and one day grew the nerve to kill her." the brunette retorts.

While reaching into the employee fridge Frances opens her lunch bag that has two water bottles and a plastic container. In this moment a bemused thought crosses her mind. "What an odd dance between fear and fascination," she muses silently and then out loud Frances lets slip, "Vampires aren't real."

Her comment hangs in the charged air, drawing her co-workers inquisitive glances. "What was that?" the brunette presses, her tone a blend of intrigue and playful reproach.

Frances stumbles over her explanation, "I—I just meant… they aren't real."

The brunette arches a knowing smile, "Right, vampires aren't real. We all know that. Was that all?"

A brief, banal interruption occurs as the blonde, in a burst of quirky generosity, reveals a poster she printed of a creature resembling a t-rex.

"Oh hey, I printed off that picture of a t-rex for your nephew." She says to the brunette.

In narrow eyed confusion the brunette responds, "What the hell is that? That is not a t-rex. It looks more like an A.I. generated crocodile," the brunette chides.

Frances interjects with a spark of erudition, "In fact, it's a Kaprosuchus. An extinct crocodyliform from the Late Cretaceous period. They were creatures that most likely were semiaquatic. Reaching lengths of about 12 feet and may have stood 6 feet tall. Though," She laughs to herself, "Changing their posture could make them taller. Like if you've ever seen a lizard stand on it's hind legs. Not to mention the t-rex and the kaprosuchus didn't co-exist. Their timelines never intersected."

The blonde lights up with curiosity, "Why do you know so much about this?"

"When I was younger, it was my special interest." Frances confides, her voice firm against the casual banter.

Their conversation is abruptly joined by a heavy-set man in a suit whose tone shifts the atmosphere. "A 'special interest'. Is what some might call an autistic fixation. It's something like their hobby or something they obsess over." He directs his comments at the blonde and brunette. "My brother's wife, for instance, only dwells on the histories of presidents' wives."

A momentary glance of sympathy is exchanged between the two women. Stirring unsaid understandings. "Something like that? Right Frances?" He asks without so much as turning to face her, expectant of her response none the less. Frances, unruffled, nods, "Yeah that's true. with less negative annotations than you think. It doesn't make me less of a person. I'm perfectly functional."

Their brief exchange leaves an uncomfortable hush trailing behind as the trio disperses without speaking another word. Alone once more, Frances feels the oppressive flicker of harsh fluorescent lights and a growing pressure beneath of a subtle, almost spectral itch, beneath her skin. In the silence of the nearly empty room, as she nibbles on her lunch, a poignant ache of isolation and longing tightens around her heart. She ponders whether her unique nature is the reason these fleeting connections remain so elusive. Could there be souls out there who would embrace her truth. 'Or is this fragile act of being human a curse bestowed upon those who yearn to connect?'

She continues to eat in the absence of sound with her water bottle sitting in front of her and the second water bottle placed across from her as she sits in solitude at the table.

***

At day's end, Frances emerges from the law firm. Pausing on the threshold, she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply with a forlorn resignation. Her eyes open, glassy, searching for a presence. Taking a moment to wait for someone who isn't coming, for the last time. With heavy steps, she moves on.

Hours later, across the city in a dimly lit taekwondo dojo, Frances transforms. Her lithe form moves with the precision and elegance of years spent mastering martial arts. In a graceful dance of power and technique, she outmaneuvers her seasoned instructor. He is a living monument of battle-scarred tenacity. He throws his spiky knuckles at her only to have Frances counter them again and again. The jagged joints of his wrists and ankles spinning through the air looking for a new creative way to break through her defense only to be met with failure. Each strike, each parry is a testament to her inner fire, culminating in a decisive blow that earns not scorn, but admiration. Elegantly, he submits to loss and ends today's lesson by congratulating her on her well earned skill.

Night descends, and Frances returns home to prepare for an evening out. Choosing an ensemble that enthrallsand still offersher comfort, Frances embraces this dual nature ofalluringly bold and practical. a harmonious contrast where each carefully curated garment flatters the elegant contours of her form, and even her flowing hair and artfully applied makeup are testament to her exquisite taste. Tonight she is a vision, her beauty becomes a remedy, a luminous escape that gently parts the heavy tides of melancholy, offering her and those who observe her a brief transcendent glimpse of joy. She hopes there is the possibility of finding distraction in feeling beautiful for awhile.

Tonight, Earth stands precisely between the Sun and Jupiter in a rare cosmic alignment, the Waning Gibbous moon cascades its silver luminescence over a lone, spectral figure. It is the same man from the morning. Now accompanied by two equally ominous companions whom are cloaked in darkness and intent. They observe Frances from the shadows as her car reverses onto the street and disappears into the night.

At the edge of San Francisco's neon-bright night life, in a secluded parking garage, Frances carefully steps from her vehicle. She obliviously checks her car to make sure its locked and walks toward the exit. A silent menacing man draped in matte black lingers. He watches her every move, waiting as a harbinger of terror.He keeps his eye on her, examining every inch, looking for weapons and anything that connects to the internet until she exits onto the street. In her absence, he melts back into obscurity. Retreating to the small dimly lit crooks under flickering lights.