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Wilson held himself as he walked down the sidewalk. It was late. He shouldn’t be out right now. He shouldn’t be doing this. But as always, curiosity had gotten the better of him.
When Wilson had gotten home from work he had found a red-letter envelope—his name written in elegant ink—slipped under his door. He reached down and picked it up. He flipped it around and saw an old stamp seal. It was like from the 1800s or something. He opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. The handwriting was so fancy he almost couldn’t read it.
"I have secret knowledge I can share with you. Come to me. The Theatre on Hollow Street —M"
Against his better judgment, curiosity and the seduction of knowledge brought him here: The abandoned theater on Hollow Street.
Wilson stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. He stared at the building just across the street.
The theater stood like a relic of another age. Its once-glorious facade now fractured and crumbling beneath years of neglect. The marquee extended outward, its rusted frame stripped of bulbs, glass panels shattered so that only jagged shards remained. The faded paint of its name—whatever legend had once graced its stage—was worn away, leaving only ghostly outlines on the stone.
Above, tall windows gaped open, panes long gone, leaving only dark, hollow sockets that seemed to watch the street below. Stone angels and ornamental carvings still clung to the cornices, though their faces were weather-worn and broken, twisted into grimaces by time.
At night, the theater loomed like a mausoleum on the street corner—its shadow spilling far across the cracked sidewalk—daring anyone to approach, as if the building itself hungered for an audience it would never release.
Rumors claimed the theater was haunted but Wilson didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was a man of science—ghost stories held no weight with him. And yet… as he stood before the darkened facade, even he had to admit the place carried a chill that no logic could explain.
The intersection light finally changed, and Wilson crossed with the thin stream of late-night pedestrians. At the far end of the crosswalk, he veered off into a parking lot. The lone streetlight above him sputtered and flickered, casting the asphalt in uneasy shadows.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the pavement, curling around the edges of the lot where the rest of the landscape lay either overgrown or long dead. Garbage was scattered across the ground, scraps rustling faintly in the breeze.
Wilson approached the theater’s front doors. His gaze flickered to the tarnished handle.
The wooden double doors were swollen and splintered with rot; brass handles tarnished to a sickly green. Weeds and wild grass forced their way through cracks in the pavement, curling up around the building’s foundation like grasping fingers.
There was no way it could be unlocked—not after all these years. Yet he had to try. His curiosity burned, demanding to know the secrets hidden within the building. What was the knowledge Wagstaff had uncovered? And more urgently… how did he mysteriously disappear?
Wilson reached out. His hand tightened on the cold brass, and with a hesitant pull—
The door opened.
“M” was waiting.
Wilson took a deep breath from the cold crisp air and stepped inside.
The theater lobby was drowned in shadow, the only light filtering weakly through fractured panes where the streetlamps outside flickered. The red carpet beneath Wilson’s shoes was worn thin, its gold pattern barely clinging to the fabric like faded veins. Ahead, a grand split staircase rose into darkness, its railings draped in dust, leading toward the hollow black of the balcony seat’s entry.
Overhead, a massive chandelier hung like a corpse on its noose, its crystal teeth dulled with grime. It swayed in the still air as though stirred by an unseen hand. The soundless motion clawed at Wilson’s nerves. He had to admit; it was more than a little unsettling.
“Hello?” Wilson called out.
Silence answered.
Wilson stepped forward, the hush of his shoes against the carpet were loud in the silence. Dust rose in faint clouds with every step, catching what little light bled through the cracked glass doors. The air was stale, heavy, carrying the faint odor of mildew and something sharper—like rusted iron. The chandelier groaned softly above him, the sound echoing through the vast chamber like a warning.
“Hello?” Wilson tried again. “Uh…M?”
Nothing.
He swallowed hard, a lump tightening in his throat. A voice in his mind urged him to stop. To turn around and go home but he couldn’t. The chance to uncover the secret knowledge, to finally learn what had happened to Wagstaff, was too great a temptation to resist.
Wilson moved past the staircase and into the dark hallway beyond. Each step carried him farther from the light and plunged deeper into the darkness. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go but he figured it would be the auditorium.
He reached the end of the hall where the doors lead to his destination. He reached for the brass handle, but the moment he did, it creaked open—like it had been expecting him.
Wilson hesitated only a moment before he obliged and stepped inside.
That voice from earlier was screaming louder. Turn around. Go back. Leave.
Suddenly, the stage lights flared to life, blazing against the darkness as though beckoning him forward. Whoever this mysterious “M” was, they certainly had a flair for the dramatic.
The air was thick with the scent of age—musty, stale—yet laced with a faint trace of roses, as if someone had left a bouquet here decades ago. Rows of red velvet seats sat beneath a shroud of dust and cobwebs, their once-plush cushions now sagging. The webs clung in intricate sheets, like the cheap decorations used for haunted houses—except these were far too real.
Wilson moved cautiously down the center aisle, his footsteps muffled by the dust-thick carpet. His eyes swept the eerie auditorium, scanning for the smallest flicker of movement. The weary stage lamps cast their dim beams over drifting motes of dust, each one spinning lazily like snow suspended in the air. He glanced up toward the balcony, but it stared back at him with empty rows and yawning shadows.
Onstage, tattered crimson curtains hung in frayed folds, swaying slightly though no breeze stirred. The warped wooden boards groaned faintly, as if protesting an invisible weight. Above, rigging ropes dangled like nooses, their frayed ends twisting ever so slightly.
Somewhere in the dark, the old building sighed. Wilson froze. Beneath the creaks and settling timbers, he thought he heard it: the faint rustle of an unseen audience… and the slow, deliberate clap of hands from somewhere deep in the shadows.
“Hello?” Wilson called, his voice breaking against the vast emptiness, echoing back to him in hollow fragments.
Nothing. Not a single response. This was getting on Wilson’s nerves! Was this some kind of joke? Was someone pranking him? Or was someone deliberately trying to frighten him? Whatever the reason, Wilson had lost his patience.
“Alright, whoever you are, I’ve had enough of this little joke!” Wilson’s voice rang through the empty room, sharp with irritation. “Thanks for wasting my time. I’m leaving!”
The doors slammed shut behind him with a deafening bang. Wilson jumped, a scream slipped out of his throat. He spun around, eyes wide, staring at the doors in disbelief. How did they close so suddenly? He was nowhere near them.
Wilson hurried over to the doors. He wasn’t scared or anything. Not at all. He had had just enough of this nonsense. That was all. However, he skidded to a stop when he heard heeled shoes on the old creaky stage. He turned around and looked at the stage.
From the shadows beyond the stage emerged a man—tall, graceful, clad in black pinstripes. His pale face held a beauty as sharp and dangerous as a blade, framed by raven hair swept elegantly to the side.
"I knew you’d come," the man spoke with a British accent, his voice smooth as velvet. He approached the center of the stage, every step unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world.
“Y-you must be ‘M’?” Wilson presumed.
He took a couple of steps towards the stage. He wanted to get a better look at this character but still stayed a modest distance away. Just in case.
The man greeted him with a polite smile and a small nod.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said smoothly, bowing with practiced grace. “I am Maxwell Carter.”
Wilson arched his brow. What century was this guy from?
“I’m Wilson.”
“Ah yes, Wilson P. Higgsbury.” Maxwell grinned.
The dim light caught the glint of his teeth when he smiled. Wilson wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or if it was the trick of the light, but it almost looked like he had fangs.
Wilson’s throat tightened around the lump he tried to swallow, his heart lurching painfully in his chest.
“How did you know my full name?” The words stumbled out, thin and trembling.
Maxwell chuckled. It was low and velvety, curling through the air like smoke. It carried no warmth—only the kind of amusement a predator might feel watching prey stumble. The sound lingered, soft yet unnervingly certain, as though he already knew how this night would end.
Wilson took several steps backwards. Every instinct screaming to put distance back between himself and the man on stage.
“Say pal, don’t be afraid. It’s a small town. Everyone knows when someone new moves in. Especially anyone associated with Robert Wagstaff.”
The man was right—everyone in town knew Wilson had moved into his uncle’s home. Still, hearing it spoken aloud by this stranger felt unsettling, like an intrusion into a private truth that shouldn’t have been known.
Wilson decided he wasn’t going to waste any more time. He had come for answers to his questions and the secret knowledge he had been chasing. The sooner he discovered them, the sooner he could get out of here, and away from this unsettling handsome man.
“You mentioned the secret knowledge in your letter. Did you personally know my uncle then?” Wilson asked. “He wouldn’t share that information with just anyone.”
Wilson took another timid step back, unease crawling higher in his chest. What if this man had something to do with Wagstaff’s disappearance? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind before coming here.
The man chuckled softly. “Of course I know him.”
Relief flickered through Wilson at those words. Maxwell hadn’t spoken in the past tense—Wagstaff was still alive.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
The man nodded. “Yes, I know what happened to the Cryptic Founder.”
Wilson raised his brow. “Cryptic Founder? Does that title have anything to do with his disappearance?”
“Yes.”
Wilson huffed in frustration. These vague answers were getting on his last nerves, and he was certain the man was doing it deliberately.
“Alright then,” he snapped, “what happened to him? And what is this secret knowledge?”
The man chuckled at Wilson’s outburst, the sound low and indulgent.
“My, my… getting a little snippy, are we?” he drawled, his smile curling into something sly.
“Yeah, because you’re not giving me any answers!” Wilson snapped, his voice trembling despite the anger behind it.
Maxwell tilted his head, eyes glinting. “On the contrary, dear boy… I am answering your questions.”
“You’re answering them but you’re not saying anything useful!” Wilson snapped, his frustration edging into fear.
The man laughed, low and condescending, clearly savoring every moment.
“Very well, pal, but if you wish to continue this little discussion, don’t you think you should come closer? I’m practically shouting at you from here.”
Wilson held his ground, though every instinct screamed at him to keep his distance. Something about Maxwell felt wrong—unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite name.
“I think I’m fine where I am,” he said carefully. “Just answer my questions.”
Maxwell chuckled darkly. “Say, pal… are you afraid of me?”
“No! Not at all!” Wilson shot back quickly, shaking his head as his eyes narrowed. But his body betrayed him—without realizing it, he had already taken two steps back.
“How peculiar. Your mouth says one thing, but your feet tell another.”
Maxwell’s smile sharpened.
This time Wilson knew what he was seeing. That smile revealed the faint points of fangs. Was he one of those delusional weirdos who thought they were vampires? They couldn’t possibly be real, could they?
Maxwell’s voice slithered across the space between them. “If you’re not afraid of me, then what’s the harm in stepping closer? Let me see you properly. Right now, you’re nothing but a silhouette in the shadows.”
“I’m fine where I am.” He insisted.
Maxwell clicked his tongue. “Stubborn boy, aren’t you? Then I suppose I will just have to come to you.”
In a black blur of shadows, Maxwell appeared before him. Wilson screamed and staggered back, eyes wide, terror flooding through him at the impossible sight. Maxwell only smiled, fangs glinting in the dim light. His eyes glowed faintly red and burned with a hunger that made Wilson’s blood run cold.
“Mmm, what a pretty little thing you are.” Red eyes flickered up to his hair. “Your hairstyle is very similar to the Crypt Founder’s.”
“Wha-what are you??” Wilson backed away. “What did you do with my uncle?”
Maxwell chuckled, flashing that fangy grin.
“Well, my dear, I think it’s rather obvious.”
Maxwell advanced slowly, each step deliberate. Wilson retreated in turn, mirroring him step for step—a grim, unwilling dance into the shadows.
“I am a guest who must be asked to enter,
I drink but never from a cup.
The mirror always forgets me,
The noon’s embrace would burn me.
I sleep in the Earth and wake in tales.
I never die but I grow old.
So, pal, what am I?”
Wilson didn’t respond to the riddle. He knew the answer. He bolted for the door, heart hammering, only to freeze. Maxwell was there, impossibly close, as if he had appeared out of thin air.
“Leaving so soon?” Maxwell asked, his voice smooth, almost teasing. “Without learning what happened to the Cryptic Founder—or what the secret knowledge is?”
At this point, Wilson didn’t care. He suspected this man—this vampire—didn’t know either. It was all a trap, a lure to get him here. Maybe Maxwell had killed Wagstaff, too.
Wilson darted toward the opposite aisle, weaving between decaying seats. This wasn’t how he imagined the night going. He had expected danger, maybe even a serial killer—but never a vampire. He didn’t even believe in the occult, and yet here he was, face-to-face with one.
He dashed towards the middle aisle lobby doors. He tried opening them, but they wouldn’t budge.
For a moment, he thought he’d lost him—until Maxwell’s voice whispered directly into his ear, "How will you get out if the doors are locked?”
Wilson spun, but Maxwell was gone.
In fact, there was no sign of him anywhere. Wilson’s heart was the loudest thing in that old theater. That frightened him the most. He needed to get out of here ASAP.
Think, Wilson, think. There’s got to be another way out of here!
Wait a minute! There were doors backstage for the production crew. He could escape that way!
Wilson’s gaze flicked toward the silent stage. Every instinct screamed that it was a trap. This entire night had been one long, obvious snare, and he knew the moment he set foot on those boards; Maxwell would be waiting for him. But what choice did he have?
He dashed down the aisle towards the stage steps, his footsteps pounding, each echo ricocheting through the hollow auditorium like a countdown. There was still no sign of Maxwell anywhere—and that absence gnawed at him, twisting his fear tighter. The emptiness was worse than seeing him. It left Wilson anxious, terrified, and desperate to escape.
Wilson sprinted up the side steps and leapt onto the stage, his movements clumsy with panic rather than graceful. He tore across the center, but a loose board cracked beneath his weight. With a startled cry, he stumbled forward and crashed onto the stage.
He landed in front of a pair of polished leather loafers. Dread coiled in his stomach as he looked up—straight into the grin of the vampire looming over him.
Wilson screamed and scrambled to his feet, but Maxwell was faster. A cold hand seized his wrist, spinning him effortlessly, like a ballerina, into a crushing embrace. An arm snaked around his waist, holding him firmly.
“Darling boy,” Maxwell purred, his grin widening, “why are you running?”
Wilson shoved at Maxwell’s chest, but it was like pushing against solid stone. Still, he thrashed and clawed, desperate to break free from the vampire’s iron grip.
“This was all a ploy so you could kill me—drink my blood! That’s probably what you did to Wagstaff!”
Maxwell’s smile deepened, dark amusement glittering in his eyes. “Say pal… that’s where you’re wrong. It isn’t your blood I want.”
Wilson froze mid-struggle. For a heartbeat, fear gave way to confusion, then a fragile spark of curiosity.
“Then… what do you want from me?” His voice wavered despite himself.
Maxwell’s gaze lingered on him, hungry and unblinking. His long, slender fingers slid slowly along Wilson’s jaw, tilting his chin upward with deliberate care. The touch was cold, invasive, the kind of caress that felt more like possession than affection.
His gaze never wavered. “You. Forever.”
“What?!” Wilson gasped, his shock ripping through the silence.
He stared at the creature in disbelief, eyes wide and frantic.
“I could make you immortal,” the vampire whispered, “so we could never part. You’d never fear age, sickness… or losing me.”
Maxwell pressed his nose in the nook of Wilson’s neck. He took a deep breath, inhaling Wilson’s divine scent of blood beneath beautiful pale skin. He planted a soft kiss against his jugular vein. The sharp sting of fangs grazed Wilson’s skin, not yet breaking it—teasing, promising.
“You’d be mine,” Maxwell breathed, “in life, in death, in eternity.”
“I don’t even know you!”
Panic surged as he shoved against Maxwell’s chest, desperate to break free from the vampire’s unyielding grip.
Maxwell’s hand clamped around his face, fingers pressing into his cheeks with bruising intent. The vampire leaned close, drinking in the sight of fear burning bright in those golden-brown eyes—as if terror itself were something to be savored.
“You will know me. You’ll have all eternity to know me.” He murmured, his lips inching closer to Wilson’s.
Wilson resisted, turning his head, pushing back with what little strength he had. Every fiber of him fought to defy, to deny the cold press of Maxwell’s lips. But Maxwell was relentless. His grip tightened, unyielding, and with a cruel certainty he claimed the kiss by force, as if the resistance only deepened his hunger.
Maxwell’s mouth moved against his with predatory certainty, slow at first, savoring the struggle. The taste of him was sharp and foreign, carrying the faint metallic tang of blood that made Wilson’s stomach churn. When Wilson tried to cry out, Maxwell swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss as though devouring his very voice.
Wilson writhed helplessly in Maxwell’s grasp; muffled protests smothered beneath the vampire’s mouth. His lips were deathly cold, like marble pressed against living flesh. The kiss was suffocating, invasive—carrying no warmth, no tenderness. Only possession. Only hunger.
Maxwell finally drew back, just a fraction, a low chuckle escaped him, lips still stained with the taste of Wilson’s defiance. His eyes burning like embers in the dark. Fangs glinting as he murmured, “Mmm. I can taste your fear. It makes you much more irresistible.”
“Let go of me!” Wilson resumed his fight for his freedom. “I don’t want to be a vampire!”
Cold fingers traced along Wilson’s jaw, sending a shiver through him. Maxwell’s half-lidded eyes fixed on him dreamily, almost worshipfully.
“Why not? You’d have all of eternity to pursue your passion. I would share with you the forbidden knowledge the Cryptic Founder uncovered.”
He lowered his lips to Wilson’s neck, brushing the skin with a chilling kiss.
“You could discover what he found—and more.”
“I’m not interested!” Wilson snapped.
He thrashed wildly, like a fish flopping on land desperate for water. Somehow—by luck or sheer panic—he slipped from the vampire’s grasp and bolted backstage, leaping over broken props and scattered debris. Maxwell’s laughter echoed through the shadows, slithering along the walls, too close, and everywhere—mocking or maybe anticipating him.
Panic clawed at Wilson’s chest as he shoved open a backstage door—only to stumble straight into Maxwell’s waiting arms.
The vampire caught his wrists effortlessly, yanking him forward until their bodies nearly collided. His cold, elegant fingers caressed Wilson’s jaw before gripping his chin firmly, tilting his face up.
“Say, pal… just where do you think you’re going?”
“Where do you think?!” Wilson snarled. “I’m leaving!”
Maxwell smiled, sharp and hungry.
“Oh, sweet boy. There is no escape for you. The only way you leave this theater is with me… or in a body bag.”
Wilson tore free again, adrenaline lending him strength. He lunged past Maxwell, but the vampire let him go—laughing softly.
Maxwell’s laughter trailed off as Wilson fled into the darkness. But soon, other sounds rose around him—whispers rose in its place, slipping through the air like smoke. They weren’t coming from one direction—they were everywhere, echoing through the theatre’s hollow corridors, seeping into his ears, into his skull. The words twisted and writhed, spoken in a tongue he didn’t know, yet they clawed at his mind as though they demanded to be understood.
Wilson gasped, skidding to a halt. From the darkness, pairs of glowing white eyes blinked open, staring straight into him. Some began to swell into shapes—elongated, insect-like bodies unfolding from the shadows, their limbs twitching unnaturally as they crept closer. Wilson screamed, bolting for the nearest door. He shoved it open and hurled himself through, slamming it behind him.
But the whispers only grew louder, chasing him through the walls. His head throbbed with every syllable, a pressure building behind his eyes. The scuttling of legs scraped closer, echoing in the corridor behind him. His heart hammered, adrenaline burning through his veins, each frantic step feeding his desperation to escape as the shadows pressed in from all sides.
He turned and ran down a hallway, breath ragged, heart pounding. He screamed and skidded to a stop. Maxwell was there ahead of him, leaning casually against a wall, a smile playing on his lips, as though he were savoring the inevitability of the hunt.
“You run so beautifully,” Maxwell murmured “I almost wish you’d never stop.”
The scuttle sound of the legs behind him were inching closer. Wilson glanced behind to see the shadow bugs getting closer. He panicked. He glanced ahead and saw Maxwell flash him a fangy grin and gestured to the hall ahead, as if granting permission to proceed.
Wilson ran past Maxwell once again, this time in desperate attempts to outrun his shadowy pursuer. But every path twisted back into itself. Every stairway, every exit… wrong. The theatre had become a maze with no way out. Every door led to another part of the theatre… and eventually, back to Maxwell.
Always to Maxwell.
Wilson burst through the door but this one seemed to have broken free from the loop. He had returned backstage. The silent stage stretched out in front of him. The spotlight remained but there was no one to stand in it. There was no sign of Maxwell anywhere. There were no voices. No shadow-bugs. No white eyes. There was nothing. Just an eerily quiet room.
Suddenly, Wilson’s back slammed against the cold brick wall of the theatre’s backstage corridor. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Maxwell’s shadow filled the narrow space before his body did, gliding closer with the certainty of closing a coffin lid.
“Say pal, I think It’s time we end this little chase and start our eternity together.”
“Get away from me!” Wilson spat, shoving at him. His hands hit Maxwell’s chest—solid as stone, cold as marble.
Maxwell caught his wrists with one hand, pinning them effortlessly above Wilson’s head. The other brushed along Wilson’s jaw, tilting his head to the side.
“Please don’t do this!” Wilson begged. “I don’t want to be a vampire!”
“Yes, I’ve heard that many times already.” Maxwell kissed Wilson’s neck. “It’s too late, Wilson Higgsbury, your fate was sealed the minute you moved into the Cryptic Founder’s home.”
Wilson thrashed, but Maxwell’s grip only tightened. His lips grazed the curve of Wilson’s neck, lingering just long enough for Wilson to feel the cool breath before the pain struck.
Two sharp points punctured his flesh. The world tilted. A rush of cold fire spread through him, chased by a strange, dizzying warmth. His legs buckled, but Maxwell held him in place, drinking slow, deliberate mouthfuls.
Wilson’s vision swam. His heartbeat pounded in his ears—faster, weaker, faster, weaker—each beat swallowed by the man holding him.
When Maxwell finally drew back, his lips and chin were stained deep crimson. His eyes burned, inhuman and fever-bright.
“Perfect,” Maxwell said softly, as though he’d tasted something rare and exquisite. “Now you’ll never truly be rid of me.”
Wilson’s knees gave out, but Maxwell caught him before he fell, cradling him like a lover. Wilson’s eyelids fluttered shut and he went limp in Maxwell’s hold.
The vampire grinned, triumphantly. He slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew an antique-looking black book. Its cover was embossed with a blood-red M, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Maxwell opened it with deliberate care, thumbing through brittle pages until he found what he sought.
His lips moved, whispering an incantation in a language older than any civilization. The air thickened with each word. Then, with an almost casual motion, his long, elegant fingers dipped into the parchment itself and drew forth shadows.
They spilled out like ink bleeding through water, coalescing into grotesque, insect-like creatures that writhed and muttered in the same ancient tongue. Their whispers filled the room, sickly and dissonant. One by one, they slithered back toward Maxwell, merging into his hand.
His right hand twisted, warped—becoming a monstrous talon of pure shadow. Dark flames licked up his arm to the elbow, writhing hungrily around him.
Maxwell’s grin sharpened as he pressed the shadowed talon against Wilson’s stomach. The black flames guttered, then sank through fabric and flesh as though his body were nothing but water.
A moment later, Wilson’s eyes snapped open. His back arched violently, and a ragged scream tore from his throat, echoing up into the cavernous auditorium ceiling. From his mouth surged a monstrous shadow-hand, clutching strands of black thread that glistened like tar.
The hand slithered up into the air, serpentine, before merging seamlessly back into Maxwell’s own claw. The threads tethered themselves to the tips of his fingers—five gleaming cords, taut and waiting. A puppet master’s strings.
Wilson crumpled back into Maxwell’s arms, his body limp, shadows flickering away from his lips in a final hiss of black flame. The vampire looked down at the boy, the corner of his mouth curling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from Wilson’s damp forehead.
“You may despise me when you wake,” Maxwell murmured, caressing his cheek, “but soon enough you’ll understand and in due time, you will thank me.”
Leaning in, he stole a kiss from Wilson’s parted lips, cold and claiming, before lowering his mouth to the bite on his neck. His lips lingered there, reverent and possessive, as though sealing the bond.
A strange sound cut through the silence of the theater—a crackling hiss, like static from a radio being tuned. Maxwell’s gaze flicked upward just in time to see a figure materialize out of the air, grainy and distorted, as though torn from an old silent movie.
The man’s hair was a wild, tangled mess, his beard and mustache just as unruly. Oversized goggles magnified his eyes grotesquely, giving him the look of some fevered insect.
“Well, well,” Maxwell drawled, his voice curling with amusement. “I was wondering when you would reappear, Wagstaff.”
Robert Wagstaff’s eyes narrowed the moment he found Maxwell.
“Maxwell! What are you—”
His words faltered as his gaze dropped to the unconscious figure in Maxwell’s arms. His breath caught, goggles flashing as his eyes widened in recognition.
Maxwell’s smirk deepened, dark and indulgent. His grip on Wilson tightened, possessive as a lock.
“Release him. Now!” Wagstaff barked the order, voice trembling with urgency.
“Say pal, I’m afraid you’re too late.”
Maxwell rose slowly, uncoiling to his full height like a predator savoring the moment. With a cruel smile, he tilted Wilson’s head to the side, baring the bite mark on his neck as though displaying a trophy. His eyes glittered as they met Wagstaff’s.
“No!” Wagstaff gasped, his voice cracking before hardening into a snarl. His teeth clenched as he spat, “Wilson isn’t destined for the shadows! He is meant to be moonbound!”
Maxwell’s chuckle was low, indulgent. He pressed his cold face against Wilson’s, nuzzling him with mock affection, savoring Wagstaff’s rage.
“Not anymore,” he whispered, lips brushing Wilson’s skin. “The boy is mine—claimed by shadow, bound eternally to the Nightmare King.”
Wagstaff lunged forward, desperate to rescue Wilson from Maxwell’s grasp. But age had slowed him, and against a vampire with unnatural speed and strength, he stood very little chance.
Maxwell slipped past him effortlessly. Shadows erupted at his feet, writhing and stretching over his tall form, enveloping both him and Wilson. Wagstaff’s fingers barely brushed the boy before they vanished entirely.
A low, mocking chuckle echoed from somewhere behind the grainy, flickering figure. Maxwell emerged beneath the spotlight, tilting his head with predatory delight and flashing a fang-studded grin at the old inventor.
“What a pitiful attempt,” Maxwell sneered, his laugh dripping with mockery. “Did you truly think you could save him? You’ll have to do far better than that if you hope to rescue your cute little nephew.”
A shadowy portal tore open beside Maxwell, a writhing vortex of darkness and corruption, alive with malice.
“This isn’t over, Maxwell!” Wagstaff shouted, his voice raw with fury. “I will save Wilson from your shadowy claws!”
“Then I hope you provide more of a challenge when we next meet. Afterall, he is the key to freeing Alter, is he not?”
Maxwell’s chuckle drifted through the theater like smoke, curling around Wagstaff’s ears. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes glinting with equal parts, amusement and menace.
“See you in the Constant, Cryptic Founder.”
With that, Maxwell stepped into the portal, Wilson still in his arms, and vanished into the swirling darkness.