“Why does she cry?”

The ballerina’s cheeks sparkled with a streak of tiny tears. “Because she can’t hear the music.”

The little girl closed the lid on the box, ending the song, leaving us in silence. “You’re wrong. She can hear it now, but the others can’t.”

“What others?” I looked over my shoulder. “There’s no one else here.”

The girl shook her head. “They’re here. They’re afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

She cupped her hand to her mouth and leaned closer. “Of the light.”

Feeling the slight tingle of heat along my bare arms, I looked up to the roof—to the source of the blue glow. “This light?”

“Yes.” She sat back and looked up too, rolling her palm as if to feel the glow, like raindrops. “There’s no music in the dark—it belongs with the light.”

I stole my eyes away from the heavens and looked back at her. “But, music, light, these aren’t things to fear.”

“Not if you’re human.”

I studied the girl more carefully; her round face, ashen eyes, the small dirt-filled cuts in the cracks of her lips. “How come you’re not afraid?”

“I’m not one of them.”

“What are they?”

“The damned.”

“The Immortal Damned?” I placed the box on the ground. “The children? Where are they?”

“Can’t you hear them crying?” She sat dead still, back straight, eyes wide. “Listen and you’ll see.”

The box stayed in the safety of the glow while I stood, letting my white silky nightdress fall softly around my ankles, walking into the darkness. Even with no light to orient sight and no sound to give me bearing on earth or sky, I continued, seeming to float smoothly along the slick surface. Step by step, my feet moved, and as the darkness swallowed me whole, I stopped.

The blue glow I felt safe in before disappeared, leaving me in the world of nothing, alone, cold, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. I closed my eyes and listened carefully, wrapping my arms across my body.

There has to be something in here; there has to be some kind of sound.

My eyes flicked open again; a face appeared for a spilt second, just long enough for the memory of his sunken cheeks, his soulless gaze and his ash-grey hair to stain my eyes with imagery.

“Who are you?” I called, hearing the words only in my head. “Where are you?” No sound again—like watching TV on mute.

“We want to play a little game,” a child’s voice echoed from every direction.

I spun around, searching for anything visible in the dark room. “I don’t want to play. You’re scaring me.”

“You have to play. To get home—you have to win.”

“Well—” I hugged my arms across my chest again. “How do I play?”

“You hide,” one voice said.

“And we seek.” Another giggled.

“But—” I spun around again to the sound of the voices. “—I don’t know where to hide.”

“Then you better run.”

My eyes snapped open and daylight filled the space around me—flooding in like a cup of sand over a spring daisy. I rubbed my face and sat up on the couch. Nothing had changed; the minute hand on the clock still pointed to the six, as it did when I last looked at it, and even the hour hand stayed the same. Did I fall asleep?

Across the road, the sun sparkled off the frozen lake, making the snow-covered banks glisten. It looked so desolate out there in the winter; no children playing by the water, no joggers taking their dogs for a run, and today, there weren’t even skaters circling the ice.

After a deep breath, the sinking feeling of my nightmare eased and I ran my fingers over the scribble on the open page of my diary: The clicking grind of the winding crank rotated seven times.

My dream? Did I dream this and write it down, or write it, then dream it? What ever it was, it was awful. I couldn’t remember exactly what happened, only that the feeling of hopelessness and loss was so consuming I wanted to run away.

“Everything okay?” Emily asked from the armchair beside the lounge.

I nodded, and as I read further down the page, my heart skipped at the words Immortal Damned.

So that’s what it was—the vampire children. “Emily?”

She looked up from her book.

“David was fighting the case of the Immortal Damned, right?”

She placed her book on the coffee table where her feet had been. “We’re not supposed to mention them, Ara.”

“Who says?”

“David.”

“Really?

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“S’okay.” She shrugged and went back to reading.

“How do you feel about it?”

“About what?”

“About them—about their existence.”

“I don’t really put much thought into it.”

“How can you not?”

She shrugged again. “Guess it’s just like world hunger or pollution.”

“But, they’re real, Emily. They—”

“They’re not my problem.”

“Then whose problem are they?”

“Well, I suspect no ones, now—since David’s here.”

“Wasn’t there anyone else fighting for them?”

With a huff, she dropped her book into her lap. “Probably, Ara. Look, who cares? What is it with you today, anyway?”

I flipped the pages of my journal, stopping on one dated a week before David returned, the words restoring a memory. “I keep dreaming about them.”

“You can’t help them, Ara. Stop worrying about it.”

“But, I...sometimes I see Harry.” Emily stiffened a little; I never talk with her about Harry. “It’s, like, he’s in a dark room, screaming, reaching up with his chubby little hand. And just as I touch him, as I’m about to make it okay, white hands, so thin and bony, come up out of nowhere and drag him so far into the darkness that I can’t get to him.”

A cold finger brushed my cheek, scooping a tear I didn’t know was there. “Don’t cry, Ara,” Emily said; I looked up suddenly from where she was across the room to where she now sat beside me. “I know it’s horrible. But so is pollution and hunger in Africa. You can only do so much.”