Unfortunately, the experiment was going better than she could have hoped. The puppet standing before her might as well have been a person: six feet tall, draped in a floor-length crimson robe with white gloved hands and a pallid, aquiline face crowned by a black widow’s peak. His puppeteers, standing just behind him on either side, positioned themselves so that the overhead can light caught as little of them as possible. Their black, wraith-like cloaks and hoods with mesh screen faces blended into the dark abyss of the college black box known as Theatre B. Chelsea hardly noticed them, especially in the light of the puppet’s glowing red eyes. Eyes that had never been so focused; orbs that peered through her to that most intimate part of her soul.
      Chelsea caught herself shuddering beneath the weight of those ominous eyes, the harbingers of good intentions gone horribly wrong. Whether it was just the lighting or the boon she’d given him this afternoon, Ripper Grimm had become everything she dreamed he could be, and possibly a few things she feared.
      Soft rays of residual light spilled from the hallway behind her, benign as they encroached on the black, painted floor. The light welcomed her to retreat back through the wooden French doors, down the corridor, out of Beecher Hall, and into the safety of the lamp-lit campus beyond. Her legs, however, wouldn’t move except to bend down as she placed her empty pizza box on the floor.
      The eyes, no longer glowing but still potent, followed her.
      She stood and spoke her scripted line. The words never felt so natural.
      “I should go.”
      Ripper Grimm raised one eyebrow and tilted his pallid head with such precision that she almost forgot this action was the work of two separate puppeteers.
      “So soon?” he asked in a Transylvanian accent worthy of a vampire. “But you have just entered of your own free will, and now I must insist that you stay.”
      His gaunt, aquiline face drew upward in a wry smile displaying his canine fangs—plastic tubes beveled to a dull point like two very large syringe needles. The design no longer seemed clever or amusing now that the vague lighting and the cavernous shadows of the dark room fueled her fearful imagination.
      A word teased her from the tip of her tongue. An important word she thought she wouldn’t need, but now wished she could remember.
      “No.” She shook her head, sending her blonde ponytail to and fro from the back of her Pizza Palace baseball cap. At the same time, she pulled her open jacket tight around her tank top.
      The costume did little to remind her that she was only playing a character.
      Her body trembled.
      It wasn’t acting.
      “I need to leave. I have more pizzas to deliver and—”
      “I insist.”
      In one fluid motion, Ripper Grimm raised his hands, then turned his palms toward Chelsea.
      At that exact instant, the French doors closed.
      She started and spun around to see the dark wall behind her where a lit hallway used to be. Residual illumination from Grimm’s can light cast her shadow over the lost means of escape.
      She turned and faced Grimm.
      It was perfect, perhaps too perfect for the four men who worked together to create the illusion. Even their best previous attempts still produced two distinct catches. But tonight, in the small college theatre where this bizarre, soulless vampire experiment ran its first dress rehearsal, there had been only one decisive clunk.
      Even more miraculous was the performance thus far of the Christophers who managed the puppet itself. Chris, the primary, gave Grimm his voice and moved the mouth, eyes, eyelids, and left hand. Topher, the secondary, controlled the right hand, supported the weight by the torso, and controlling the other facial features from the multi-levered grip in the puppet’s back. As Chelsea learned from her years on a church puppet team, such a complex arrangement always resulted in some kind of disconnect. Even when everything was this tightly scripted and choreographed, one puppeteer would inevitably be half a heartbeat ahead of the other.
      But not tonight.
      Tonight, puppeteers and shadows alike moved in perfect unison, as though they had become a single entity. Perhaps that’s what was going so horribly right. The fantasy was too real. She no longer felt like Chelsea Grant, drama major, puppet enthusiast, and dabbler in the occult. Likewise, Rodney, Neal, Chris, and Topher seemed to vanish until all that remained in the intimate performance space were the ill-fated pizza girl, Lucy West, and her impending murderer, Ripper Grimm.
      That word on the tip of her tongue; what was that word? She had to remember.
      “Please, sir,” Lucy said in a despairing whimper. “Please, let me go.”
      Ripper Grimm glided back, out of the dying light of one can and into the forming glow of another. He moved like a ghost an inch above the floor, and stood at a three-quarter profile to her. He waved an inviting hand toward a spot to the left, a spot deeper into his lair. As though he willed it, a floor lap faded in, illuminating a cozy-looking corner with a chaise lounge and small end table. A cup of tea waited on a serving tray.
      The tilt of his head; the raise of an eyebrow—no disconnect.
      “Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly; and I shall make you a thing of beauty and of love and of pity.”
      “Please, I need to leave. I—”
      The vampire furrowed his brow and reached his left hand forward as though to seize her throat from five feet away.
      At the same moment, her airway constricted.
      It was only Neal taking hold of her neck from behind, just like they’d practiced.
      She had to remember.
      It was only Neal.
      It was all pretend.
      What on earth was that word?
      “Do not try my patience, child,” Ripper Grimm said, his dark pupils once again becoming glowing orbs of red.
      But then, in one synchronized act, he relaxed. His arm fell to the side of his long flowing robes as the grip around Lucy’s neck disappeared. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, composing himself. When he reopened them, the soft, dark gaze was directed flawlessly into Lucy’s doomed soul. His pupils stayed trained on her, never faltering as he raised his head and presented an appeasing grin.
      “That is to say, child, it would be most impertinent for a guest in your position to refuse the hospitality of such a gracious host. One might even consider it rude.”
      Again, he directed her to the cozy-looking corner that lay deeper into his lair.
      Lucy—and Chelsea for that matter—had no desire to venture farther from the French doors. Yet, they, that is she, began to make her way to the chaise lounge.
      “I can’t stay long,” Lucy said, reluctantly resigning herself to the will of her host. Her footsteps faltered, causing her to start, then stop, then start again.
      “Of course,” Grimm said in a calm, soothing voice. “But you seem so tired, child. Please. Refresh yourself in my parlor. Have a drink. Lie down. Relax.”
      Lucy sat on the foot of the chaise lounge with her knees together, elbows in, and her hands folded securely in her lap. Her head drooped so that the brim of her Pizza Palace baseball cap would conceal her from his piercing stare.
      “Oh, come, child,” Grimm said. He placed his white gloved index finger under her chin and tilted her head upward so that once again she was face to face with those eyes. “You can do better than that.”
      Those eyes, devoid of soul but not of spirit—just as a vampire aught to be. The experiment was certainly a success, though perhaps too much so.
      “No, please,” Lucy answered, and Chelsea agreed. Both shuddered at his touch, the tactile reminder of how real he’d become.
      What was that word? Why couldn’t she remember?
      “Very well,” Grimm said. “A drink?”
      He waved his hand and the serving tray with the tea abandoned the end table to proffer its contents to Lucy. In the dim light, Chelsea thought she might have caught a glimpse of Rodney’s arm holding the tray out before her. Then again…
      No. It was Rodney. This was all pretend. This was all pretend.
      “Well?”
      She looked at Grimm, who gestured back to the tea. What was that word? She looked at the tea as though the cup could give her an answer.
      “Actually,” she said, veering from the script. “Do you have anything stronger?”
      Grimm didn’t falter or even look taken aback. He simply voiced an amused “humph,” as he raised an eyebrow. Chris and Topher were really together tonight. That’s all it was. They were just really able to anticipate each other’s moves and function as one.
      Ripper Grimm was only a puppet.
      Chris and Topher were simply nailing the performance.
      That was all.
      “Something stronger?” Grimm said, waving the tray away.
      Following the cue, Rodney caused the tray to vanish into the darkness.
      The four of them were just exceptional tonight. That was the only reason it all looked so convincing. That was it, nothing more. That had to be it.
      Yet, Chelsea couldn’t help sympathizing with poor Lucy. Her heart thrashed against her ribcage with such ferocity she thought it would burst out at any moment. She was a mouse at the mercy of a cat, and it wasn’t going to end well for the mouse.
      That word, still taunting her from the tip of her tongue. She needed to remember it, to speak it. Yet it continued to elude her.
      Grimm leaned in, breaching Lucy’s comfort zone. “We can arrange something stronger.”
      She retreated until her back found the chaise lounge’s gentle slope. This was it. He had her where he wanted her. Her body heaved in horror as she stared into the literal face of her doom.
      “We simply call it, ‘the kiss,’” he said, his predatory eyes glowing again. His upper lip rose like a curtain to reveal the ivory fangs in his open, over-sized mouth. “Not much of a kick, mind you, but it does have quite the bite.”
      Lucy screamed. “No!”
      She flailed against him; but with a wave of his hand, her arms were restrained by her side. She tried to sit up, tried to gain enough leverage to break free, but to no avail.
      Grimm took her ponytail in his right hand and pulled back her jacket with his left. The movement was so coordinated that it could have been done by one person.
      But, of course, that wasn’t possible. Chris and Topher are just…
      Dear God! What the hell was that word!
      “Ready?”
      “No! Stop it! I’m begging you to stop! Please!”
      Grimm didn’t stop. Instead, he tilted her head to one side exposing her bare neck.
      “Set?”
      Believable tears streamed down Lucy’s face. Chelsea wasn’t acting. “Please, don’t do this!”
      “Die.”
      She screamed one last time as Ripper Grimm struck, but the cry was cut short as his fangs disappeared into her neck.
      No, wait. That couldn’t be right. The vampire teeth were designed to retract into the skull like the blade of a fake knife. They weren’t even sharp enough to puncture the skin.
      But that’s not what Chelsea felt. That’s not what she felt at all.
      His syringe-like fangs disappeared deep into her neck and began to extract the life force that pulsed through her jugular vein. She could feel it leave her; feel the cold touch of death crawling over her skin and dragging her deeper into shadow. She wanted to resist, but found she couldn’t. Her extremities became more and more languid. Her consciousness began to drift.
      This must have been what it was like to die at the hands of a vampire; and in a sense, it was everything Chelsea thought it might be: basely erotic, exhilarating, glorious. But she didn’t anticipate the emptiness that consumed her, like a bottle of red wine drained of its drink. Nothing filled with nothing filled with nothing.
      Above her, Ripper Grimm began to giggle. His teeth were still embedded in her neck, but he was unmistakably laughing.
      It quickly changed to a cry; a bitter weeping of some unspoken sorrow.
      The cry changed to a whimper.
      The whimper changed to a mischievous chortle.
      This part wasn’t scripted, or at least Chelsea didn’t remember it from rehearsals. Yet, the Christophers played it as one—two minds joined in a single fit of madness.
      Lucy’s eyelids sagged over her darkening vision, and Chelsea was powerless to stop it. She felt limp, like after a good lay, but without the warm fuzzies to keep her company.
      Finally, Ripper Grimm pulled out and floated away from his victim, leaving her supine and motionless on the couch. In her lethargy, she dreamed the world from his point of view, as though the predator and prey now shared a spiritual link.
      She sensed Grimm’s extreme mood swings taking him through a full range of emotional reactions at once. It was as if he’d lost his mind, but discovered his heart. Little by little, the insanity abated enough for him to regain mastery of himself. Guffaws became chuckles, bouts of rage cooled to a bubbling brood, torrents of would-be tears were now summed up with a sniffle. At last, he sighed as one recovering from an immensely funny joke. He placed his right hand over his chest and floated back to the remains of Lucy West.
      In her mind’s eye, Chelsea saw her own slender, listless body lying on the chaise lounge.
      “Thank you, child,” Grimm said with the somber air usually reserved for caskets. “Thank you so much.”
      Everything around her faded to black, and all sensation ceased.
      Death.
      But then the darkness coughed, and the out-of-place sound roused her. She opened her eyes with great effort, turned her head, and searched for the sound.
      Neal stepped into the dim lamp light and removed his hood. His round, acne- ravaged face looked uncertain as he said, “And curtain, I suppose?”
      “I’d say so,” Rodney said, passing Neal and bending down beside her. He removed his hood, and Chelsea saw concern in his handsome face. “You alright? We didn’t hurt you or anything, did we?”
      All she could do was shake her head, “No.” It wasn’t quite the right answer, but Rodney doted on her too much already.
      The concern in his face intensified. “Chelsea, what’s wrong?”
      Torpor made forming a coherent sentence surprisingly difficult. “I fine… mean… right. I’m… uh… I’m alright. I’ll be alright.” Her arms regained some of their feeling and she cupped her hands over her face. She let out a long pensive exhale. “That was absolutely unreal.”
      “Yes,” Ripper Grimm answered. “But that comes with being a work of fiction.”
      Neal let out a snicker at the joke, but Rodney was not amused.
      “Guys, be serious. I mean Chelsea’s shaking over here.”
      “You are no fun,” the vampire said with a pout. She had never seen the Christophers make him pout before.
      “You guys… you guys are scaring… scaring me with that thing,” she said, pointing a trembling hand at the two hooded figures barely visible behind the puppet.
      “Oh, totally,” Neal said, disappearing into the darkness. “I swear you two have been practicing without the rest of us.”
      “Not really,” Grimm said. “But I am glad to have given a killer performance.”
      Again, Neal laughed.
      Again, Rodney didn’t. “Hey, what part of ‘curtain’ did you not understand?” Grimm made another pout. “I finally get a sense of humor, and I’m not allowed to use it. That is so unfair.”
      “Down,” Rodney insisted. “Put the undead puppet down. It’s over.”
      As if to second the motion, Neal found the bank of house light switches and turned them on. Everyone’s long, wraith-like robes still blended into the black walls, ceiling, and floor of Theatre B; but now they looked less like shadows and more like costumed performers.
      “Fine,” Topher said.
      Ripper Grimm’s right arm reached up and removed Topher’s hood, revealing his made-up face and dark, porcupine hair. Grimm’s left arm did the same for Chris, so that his slender face, brown crew-cut, and goatee materialized out of the darkness.
      Chelsea watched the bizarre happenings with the renewed interest that came with being half asleep. Yet, apathy shrouded her fascination so that what should have been a marvel seemed mundane.
      Both men bit down on the tips of Grimm’s white fingers, the way a person would remove gloves when their other hand was otherwise occupied. These particular gloves ran to Grimm’s elbow where the puppeteer’s real hands finally emerged. Chris took hold of Grimm’s head with his left hand and removed his right hand from inside the puppet’s foam skull. Together, the Christophers laid him on the floor so that the dreaded monster was transformed into the mere sum of his parts. His deflated arms rested across his hollow foam chest. The latex face gave no expression, and neither did his unfocused eyes. His single stock leg, jointed at the knee and waist, could be seen beneath his flowing robes. A puppet, nothing more.
      “You guys were really good, though,” Neal said, returning to the chaise lounge and killing the power to the remote lighting console hidden in his black, shadow robes.
      Chelsea made an attempt to sit up, and didn’t resist when Rodney offered his help.
      “You’re sure you’re alright?” he asked.
      Chelsea didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.
      “Relax,” Topher said to Rodney, his voice bearing the slight lisp often associated with his chosen lifestyle. “If she wasn’t fine she would have said ‘aardvark.’”
      Aardvark! Chelsea deflated at the sound of the safe word they’d all agreed upon, the word that it was now too late to use.
      “That was before she was bitten,” Rodney said, tilting her head to inspect her neck through his studious-looking glasses. He traced the bite with his finger. “The indentations are red, but he didn’t break the skin.”
      “Really?” Chelsea could have sworn he had. But this had all been pretend. She had to remember that.
      “I thought for sure she was going to say aardvark, though,” Chris said, stroking his goatee. “Even waited for it.”
      “Thanks,” Chelsea said. She exerted great effort in the wave of a dismissive hand. “But, no. I’m fine. It’s okay.”
      She willed the lie into truth, eager to assuage Rodney’s chivalrous nature. A weak, dependent, and vulnerable damsel in distress like Lucy West might have been eager for a rescuer like Sir Rodney to save the day. But Chelsea was stronger than that, independent, able to fend for herself. Unlike Lucy, Chelsea could still stand on her own two feet… as soon as the room stopped spinning.
      “Man,” Neal said, “did you guys feel the energy in this room? It’s like we were totally connected. Freaky Friday, man, I’m telling you the planets must be aligned tonight or something.”
      Chris nodded and pointed to Topher. “The emotional overload thing—”
      “At the end?”
      “Yeah. I thought for sure I’d lose you.”
      “Oh wasn’t that marvelous?” Topher said. “The thought just came to me, he’s gonna have all these emotions now that he’s fed, and I was trying to figure out how to signal you to do it, but you did it anyway.”
      “You know the really weird thing about that,” Neal said, “is that it made sense to me, too.”
      “Speaking of making sense,” Chelsea said, supporting her head in her hands and feeling some sensation of life return to her mind. “Let’s pack it up. We’re done here.” Everyone nodded. Chris and Topher reached down to retrieve the puppet from the floor.
      “No,” Chelsea said. “I’ll get Grimm, you… you help with the rest.”
      “Are you sure that’s wise?” Rodney said, still seated by her side, still trying to come to her rescue like always. “Seriously, you don’t look well. Let us take care of this and you—”
      “I’m fine,” Chelsea said, mustering her strength to look convincing. “I’ll be fine. Just… just give me a moment.”
      Chelsea turned her attention to Rodney and saw in his eyes that he knew her too well to be fooled by this. He also knew better than to press the issue.
      “Alright,” he said, standing and removing his robe. He then took hold of the end table and began to carry it away to the prop storage closet across the hall. He turned back to Chelsea, then looked at Neal. “I’ll be back to help you tear down the lights.”
      “Thanks,” Neal said, removing his robes as well. He unplugged the lamp, picked it up, and followed Rodney.
      Chris and Topher gathered the discarded robes, hoods, and gloves before returning to the chaise lounge where Chelsea had yet to move. Through an act of her will, she stood, took a few careful steps, and looked down at Ripper Grimm.
      She was his maker, his designer. No one knew him as intimately as she did, yet she trembled at the sight of him. “It’s only a puppet,” she said to herself after Chris and Topher carried the chaise lounge away. “You can do this.”
      It was irrational. It was stupid. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to the latex face, empty gloved hands, and hollow chest. She thought of the blessing she’d spoken over him earlier. Perhaps she’d overdone it? Chelsea Grant and Ripper Grimm. Victor Frankenstein and his monster. She forced herself to stoop and cradle her own dreaded creation in her arms. At first touch, she winced and withdrew her hands. She breathed, reminded herself there was nothing to fear, and plunged her arms under him.
      He was taller than she by half a foot; and she imagined how peculiar they must have looked, like a child carrying a parent. He was designed to be light, which helped, considering the room had yet to stop moving. With careful, intentional steps, she walked to the offstage left area of Theatre B where Grimm’s coffin waited against the wall behind the drapes. The slanted stage nearly sent her tumbling into the curtains that separated the wings from the house. But to her surprise and great relief, she made it to the macabre, six-sided box without further incident.
      Chelsea knelt, partially to better position Grimm in the coffin, partially for a wider, more stable base. She opened the hinged lid and set Ripper Grimm inside, supine with his empty hands crossed over his hollow abdomen.
      “Aardvark,” she said. “Why couldn’t I…” It felt like the word had been blotted from her mind, almost as though Grimm didn’t want her to remember. “Stupid,” she said, chiding herself. “It’s just a puppet.”
      She glanced down at his face as she closed the lid.
      His head hadn’t moved, but his eyes—instead of peering up and unfocused at the black ceiling—had pivoted towards Chelsea and once more found her soul. He’d raised a questioning eyebrow.
      Chelsea gasped.
      The lid fell from her hand and slammed shut.
      She closed her eyes, trying to block out the image; but her efforts only served to reinforce it.
      She threw the lid open again to confirm what she saw.
      His eyes faced forward, as they should have been. His eyebrows were relaxed and parallel. She closed the lid, and tried to convince herself that she was imagining things. True, Ripper Grimm had been spectacular tonight, even frightening. But even with her little push in the right direction, he was still only a puppet. Nothing more.
      Kneeling by the coffin, she tried to calm her breathing. She was tired, physically and emotionally drained. Her mind was playing tricks on her, that was all. She couldn’t explain her fatigue, but ever since…
      No. Ripper Grimm couldn’t have drained the life-force from…
      It was all pretend, remember? It couldn’t be…
      It couldn’t be…
      The spin of the room took on a third axis.
      Her back connected with the floor. The next thing she knew, Rodney hovered over her with those damned concerned eyes. Chelsea wanted to tell him not to worry, that she was fine. But as she came to herself, she found her mouth was already moving.
      “It’s only a puppet. It’s only a puppet. It’s only a puppet.”