The Vampire of Los Feliz

A short story

Hello friends! I am excited to share with you my first (public) piece of fiction. This was a story that came to me when I was out with friends in LA. I hope you enjoy The Vampire of Los Feliz. Lots of cool stuff coming later this month, including an extensive interview with Hasan Piker. Enjoy!

The Vampire of Los Feliz

Rodney washed his hands for the third time.

It wasn’t because they were dirty—at least not any dirtier than they’d been the first two times. But the water in the bathroom sink had that murky yellow tint that made Rodney think of parasites.

He scrubbed furiously, muttering under his breath, “Hot water kills germs. Cold water doesn’t do shit. Hot water kills germs—”

The bathroom doorknob rattled. Someone outside knocked.

“You okay in there, man?”

“Fine!” Rodney shouted, his voice cracking. “Just finishing up!”

He wasn’t finishing up. He was spiraling. The knock threw off his rhythm, and now he couldn’t remember if he’d rinsed thoroughly between his fingers.

“Fine, fine, fine,” he said to himself, shaking out his wet hands. He reached for the paper towels—none. He looked around—nothing but a weak hand dryer and graffiti scrawled across the walls. One message read: Love yourself, asshole.

“Helpful,” Rodney thought.

He stood in front of the mirror and gave himself a quick once-over: tall, lanky, awkward posture that said “middle-school dodgeball target.” His hair was doing this floppy thing that he hated but couldn’t fix without product. He didn’t have product.

“You got this,” he told his reflection. “You’re charming. Mysterious. Women love mysterious.”

He flicked off a patch of dry skin on his cheek. Then he opened the door, tripping slightly over his own foot.

The Silver Lake bar was crowded but quiet, in that obnoxious way LA bars sometimes are, as if everyone was whispering about everyone else.

The music was a soft electronic thrum, the lighting dim and moody, and the people all seemed to know what to do with their hands, which Rodney did not. He picked up his Rum and Coke, nearly spilled it, and set it back down. He was midway through counting how many people in the room were wearing black leather jackets (seven) when she walked in.

Charlotte.

She had dark, chin-length hair with blunt bangs that looked deliberately untamed, tattoos that wound up her arms like vines, and a way of carrying herself that said, I’ve punched a man in public. Rodney thought he might faint.

He wanted to approach her. Really, he did. But his mind started throwing obstacles at him, like, What if you have something in your teeth? What if she doesn’t laugh at your joke? What if she actually is too cool for you? Of course she is too cool for you, moron.

By the time he worked up the courage to stand, Charlotte was already leaning against the bar.

Rodney took a deep breath and walked over. His palms were still damp from the sink.

“Do you believe in love at first sight,” he said, “or should I walk by again?”

Charlotte didn’t even look at him. “Walk by. And keep walking.”

Rodney grinned like she’d just asked him to marry her. “Fair, but what if I have a great personality?”

Charlotte turned and gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Is this… working for you?”

“Yes,” Rodney said, absolutely committed.

She sighed and shook her head, but a corner of her mouth quirked up. “Buy me a drink, Don Juan.”

Rodney motioned to the bartender, trying to appear suave but managing to knock over a napkin dispenser in the process. Charlotte raised an eyebrow, amused.

"What’ll it be?" Rodney asked, fumbling for his wallet.

"Absinthe," Charlotte said, leaning her elbow on the bar. Her tattoos caught the dim light, looking like they were alive—snakes slithering, vines creeping. Or maybe Rodney had too much Rum and Coke.

He ordered two absinthes and paid, trying not to grimace at the price. When the bartender set the glass in front of her, Charlotte tilted it slightly in a mock toast.

"To Don Juan’s persistence," she said dryly.

"To your, um, impeccable taste," Rodney countered, lifting his own glass. He took a sip, wincing at the taste.

They talked—well, Rodney talked. He rambled about work—he’d quit his job two months ago but didn’t mention that—about Los Angeles traffic, about how he once saw Leonardo DiCaprio at the Bristol Farms in West Hollywood. Or, he thought it was Leonardo DiCaprio. Actually, now that he thought of it, Leonardo DiCaprio probably wouldn’t be doing his own grocery shopping. Charlotte’s responses were clipped, noncommittal, but she didn’t walk away. Rodney counted that as a win.

Rodney took a sip of his drink, emboldened by the burn of alcohol. “You know, everything is so performative now, right? Like women act a certain way because they think that’s what guys want.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, her drink pausing mid-air. “Wow. That’s rich, coming from the guy who tried a love-at-first-sight line on me.”

Rodney blinked, caught off guard. “I mean—yeah, but—”

“Let me guess,” she interrupted, leaning in slightly. “You think you’re ‘different.’ That women just don’t see how special you are?”

Rodney sputtered, “I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to.” Her smile was razor-sharp, and Rodney felt like he’d just been filleted.

“Here’s a tip: stop blaming women for not falling for whatever schtick you’ve cooked up.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. It stung, sure—but she wasn’t wrong. Beneath the embarrassment, he felt a flicker of something like admiration. Rodney laughed nervously and raised his glass in a weak attempt to lighten the moment. “Fair enough.”

Charlotte didn’t clink glasses with him. She just smirked. “You’ve got some work to do, pal.”

Thinking himself suave he asked, "So, Charlotte…what’s your deal?"

She squinted over the rim of her glass. "My deal?"

"Yeah, like…what do you do? Who are you? You’ve got this whole mysterious femme fatale vibe going on."

Charlotte rolled her eyes and smirked. "You’re ridiculous."

Rodney’s stomach fluttered. She wasn’t exactly reassuring, but he liked that.

When the bar started clearing out, Charlotte slid off her stool and grabbed her leather jacket. "You coming, Don Juan?"

Rodney blinked. "Coming where?"

"To my place."

He didn’t have to think twice.

---

Charlotte’s apartment was a short walk from the bar, tucked into a dilapidated Spanish-style building with chipped stucco and a flickering porch light. The front door creaked ominously as she unlocked it. Rodney hesitated on the threshold.

"You’re not about to axe murder me, are you?" he joked, only half-serious.

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, her face unreadable. "Would it stop you if I was?"

Rodney laughed nervously and stepped inside.

“Take off your shoes by the door,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And don’t touch anything unless I say so.”

Rodney froze mid-step, then awkwardly bent to untie his boots, glancing up at her as if for approval. She didn’t look back, already walking into the dimly lit living room.

The place smelled faintly of old wood and something floral. The furniture was minimal: a worn velvet couch, a coffee table cluttered with half-melted candles, and a record player spinning idly, the soft hiss of static coming through the speakers. The walls were lined with bookshelves crammed full of mismatched volumes, and the light fixtures gave off a warm, golden glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room.

"Nice place," Rodney said, trying not to trip over a stack of books on the floor.

Charlotte shrugged. "It’s home."

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured for both of them without asking and settled onto the couch, patting the space beside her. Rodney perched awkwardly, clutching his glass so tight his knuckles whitened.

They talked more, though Charlotte remained cryptic about her life. She’d grown up somewhere “out East,” she said, but moved around a lot. She worked in "consulting," whatever that meant. She had an air of knowing more than she let on, and Rodney couldn’t decide if she was teasing him or if she really was as enigmatic as she seemed.

At some point, Charlotte leaned in, her dark hair brushing his arm. "You’re a little weird, Rodney," she said, her voice low and teasing.

"Weird how?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

She tilted her head, studying him. "Like you’re trying too hard and not trying at all, all at once. It’s kind of endearing."

Rodney flushed. "Thanks…I think?"

Rodney rambled nervously, his voice picking up speed. “You know, I know this producer who worked with Quentin Tarantino. Well, not know, but we talked a lot at a film festival. And he was talking about how he helped with the Kill Bill fight choreography, or maybe it was Django, I’m not sure. But anyway, that’s kind of my—”

“Stop talking,” Charlotte interrupted, leaning forward. “Just… stop.”

Rodney froze, the words drying up in his throat. “Okay,” he said, his voice small.

“Good boy,” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her voice. “See? You’re better when you shut up.”

The bluntness stung, but there was a strange thrill to it too. Rodney felt his cheeks flush as a wave of both embarrassment and exhilaration swept through him. He liked the way she commanded the moment, her confidence a force that seemed to bend the space around her.

Charlotte didn’t give him time to process. She set her glass down and kissed him. It wasn’t tentative or delicate; it was bold, confident, and left Rodney feeling like his brain had short-circuited. He kissed her back, his awkwardness melting away as the world shrank to just the two of them.

They stumbled to her bedroom, a cavernous space lit only by the moonlight streaming through the window. The bed was enormous and unmade, the sheets tangled like a storm had swept through. Rodney didn’t care.

The rest of the night was a blur of tangled limbs and soft laughter. Charlotte was intoxicating, her every movement thoughtful, her every soft touch sending a jolt through him. Rodney felt both out of his depth and exactly where he was supposed to be.

---

When he woke the next morning, the room was empty. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, and the faint sound of a record spinning reached his ears. For a moment, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to process the night before. He felt…drained. Not just tired, but hollow, like something vital had been siphoned out of him.

Shaking off the fog of sleep, Rodney stumbled into the living room, but it was empty. No wild halo of hair, no dog-eared novel, no Charlotte. The apartment was eerily still, the faint scent of her lingering like a dream.

On the coffee table, there was a note, the handwriting sharp and precise, much like Charlotte herself.

Rodney—

Had to run. Work thing. If you’re curious, I’ll be at the bar again tonight. My haunt. If you’re brave enough to learn more about me.

He read it twice, his mind snagging on the last line. If you’re brave enough? What the hell did that mean? It was cryptic and maddening, but also… kind of hot.

Rodney set the note down and poured himself a cup of coffee from the still-warm pot in the kitchen. He sipped it slowly, staring at the faint ring left by her mug on the counter, his thoughts circling around her like moths to a flame.

Rodney left the apartment and found himself walking aimlessly through a nearby park. The morning air was cool, the Los Angeles chill that still carried heat in its bones. A few joggers passed by, their rhythmic lunges matching the pulsating in his head.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing the note. If you’re brave enough. The words hung over him, teasing and daring. He couldn’t decide if they thrilled him or pissed him off.

His body ached, a deep weariness that felt disproportionate to a couple of nights of poor sleep. His limbs felt heavier than usual, like something invisible was pulling at him. He rubbed at his face and muttered, “It’s just in your head, Rod. Just in your head.”

The park was full of early risers, dog walkers, and the occasional bench sleeper. Rodney weaved through them, his mind circling around Charlotte. Who was she? He stopped at a bench and sat down, tapping his foot restlessly.

I shouldn’t go. That was the logical choice, right? He didn’t know her, and everything about her screamed danger. But logic had never been his strong suit, and the note felt like a hook lodged in his brain, pulling him toward her. The thought of not going felt worse than the thought of seeing her again. It felt empty. Hollow.

His skin prickled with the growing discomfort of the morning’s grime. His hands itched from the memory of touching the bar, her door handle, even the mug he’d used. He needed to shower. He needed to scrub all of it away, or it would gnaw at him all day. The thought alone made him stand abruptly, brushing nonexistent dust off his pants.

“I’ll think about it after,” he thought, heading toward home.

When he got back to his apartment, Rodney didn’t waste any time. His clothes hit the floor before he even made it to the bathroom. The water in the shower was almost scalding, and he let it run over him longer than necessary, scrubbing until his skin felt raw. He muttered to himself, a litany of calming phrases: “This is fine. I’m fine. It’s just a normal morning. Nothing weird about it.”

But it didn’t feel normal. Not the way her note burned a hole in his thoughts. Not the way his exhaustion clung to him even after the shower. Not the way he felt simultaneously repelled by and magnetized to her.

As he toweled off, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His face looked sharper, thinner, almost gaunt in the unforgiving bathroom light. It wasn’t her, he told himself. It was the poor sleep. The bad diet. Maybe the park air didn’t agree with him. But the thought rang hollow, a feeble excuse.

When he dressed, he tucked the note into his pocket again and sat on the edge of his bed, staring out the window. The day dragged on, the debate in his mind growing louder with each passing hour. Logic said stay home.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, he was out the door.

---

That second night, Rodney convinced himself it would be different. He wouldn’t let the growing sense of unease creep in. He told himself he was imagining things—the fatigue, the weird way his chest felt hollow after being near her, the faint static that seemed to hum in his ears when they kissed.

Charlotte’s apartment seemed warmer that night, or maybe it was just the wine. They sat cross-legged on the floor, a bottle between them, the candles on the coffee table throwing flickering shadows across her face.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Charlotte asked, swirling her glass. “Am I still a femme fatale, or have I ruined the mystique?”

“You’ve only made it worse,” Rodney said, trying to keep his voice steady. “And by worse, I mean better. And by better, I mean—”

Her kiss was like a sudden wave, pulling him under. It wasn’t soft this time; it was hungry. Rodney barely had time to think before she tugged him to his feet, guiding him to the bedroom. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and he swore he felt heat radiating through his skin where she touched him. His heart raced, his body responding instinctively even as his mind whispered, Something isn’t right.

They stumbled onto the bed, the mattress groaning under their weight. Charlotte straddled him, her hair falling in a dark curtain around her face. Her lips were parted, and Rodney noticed for the first time how sharp her canines looked, gleaming in the faint moonlight.

“Do you always overthink this much?” she asked, her voice a low purr.

“Not always,” he said, his breath catching as she leaned down, her lips brushing against his neck.

“Just, uh…sometimes.”

“Relax,” she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns down his chest. “I don’t bite.”

Rodney laughed nervously. “Funny. That’s exactly what someone who bites would say.”

Her eyes glinted, and for a moment, her expression was incomprehensible. Then she kissed him again, and whatever doubts he had melted away in the heat of her touch.

Charlotte leaned back against the headboard, her short bangs casting shadows over her sharp eyes. “You are brave, aren’t you?” she teased, her voice low and smoky.

“Brave?” Rodney asked, half-laughing. “You think coming back here is an act of courage?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, sipping a glass of something amber and potent from her nightstand.

“You don’t even know me, and yet here you are, ready to throw yourself into the unknown.”

He tried to shrug it off, but her words stuck to him.

Rodney noticed the odd trinkets scattered across the room: a tiny jar filled with what looked like teeth, a vintage birdcage holding a single wilted rose, and a stack of books with titles like The Art of Death and Blood Rituals Through History. It was all a little… much.

“Your decorating style is, uh, unique,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the jar of teeth. “Are these… real?”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Maybe.”

That didn’t help. His stomach twisted, and he excused himself to the bathroom, closing the door behind him a little too quickly.

Inside, the bathroom was pristine but eerily minimal. No toothbrush. No toiletries. Just a single bar of soap and a mirror that seemed larger than it had any right to be. The lighting was dim, but his reflection looked pale, drawn. He splashed cold water on his face, murmuring under his breath. “Hot water kills germs. Cold water doesn’t do shit. Hot water kills germs.”

His chest tightened, his breathing shallow and rapid. He gripped the sink, the edges digging into his palms. “It’s fine,” he whispered. “You’re fine. It’s in your head. You are an idiot.” But the words felt empty, his pulse racing faster.

The faint sound of Charlotte’s laughter drifted through the door, grounding him just enough to slow his breathing. You can do this, he thought, straightening up. His reflection didn’t look any better, but he turned off the tap and stepped back into the bedroom.

Charlotte was lying on her side, her hair fanned out like a dark halo. The moonlight spilled across the room, catching her smile as she looked up at him. Her teeth gleamed—bright. Too bright? Was that a fang?

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice carrying a faint edge of amusement.

“Uh… yeah,” Rodney said, staring at her mouth. “Did you… always have those teeth?”

She laughed, her head tilting back. “Huh? You’re being really weird.”

Rodney chuckled nervously, but he couldn’t shake the image. He slid into bed, her hand reaching for his. The touch was electrifying, pulling him back into her orbit.

His exhaustion hit him harder this time, like a wave dragging him under. He closed his eyes, but instead of darkness, he saw flashes: her tattoos twisting like living things, her teeth glinting in the moonlight, and the faint outline of that jar of teeth on her shelf.

“You okay?” she asked again, her voice distant this time.

“Yeah,” Rodney lied, though his chest felt tight, his pulse erratic. “Just… tired.”

Charlotte’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Maybe you’re just not used to keeping up.”

He laughed weakly.

---

The next morning, Rodney woke to sunlight spilling over his face. He blinked against the brightness, his head throbbing faintly. The bed beside him was empty, but the sheets still held the faint scent of her—floral, elusive, like the air after a summer storm.

“Charlotte?” he called out, sitting up.

No answer.

He pulled on his jeans and creeped into the living room. The coffee table was still cluttered with last night’s remnants—a drained wine bottle, a couple of glasses, and one of the candles burned down to a nub. His gaze caught on a folded piece of paper resting beside the wine bottle.

His chest tightened as he picked it up.

Rodney—

Stuff to do. Please lock the door when you leave.

—Charlotte

Rodney stared at it for a moment, then looked around the apartment. Everything else was as it had been the night before, yet her absence filled the space. It left him unsteady, like the center of gravity had shifted.

His body still ached, though not unpleasantly, and a part of him wondered if the exhaustion was all in his head. He moved to the record player and lifted the needle, cutting off the soft static that had been looping since last night.

He tucked the note into his pocket and stood there, taking in the strange, quiet apartment.

He smiled to himself, the corners of his mouth trembling. “I think I will see her again,” he thought, but even as he thought it, a bone-deep weariness settled over him. It wasn’t the kind of tired that came from a lack of sleep. It was heavier, like it had seeped into his soul, dragging his limbs downward to hell.

Was it her? Or was it him? His brain, always betraying him, always searching for danger where there wasn’t any. Rodney’s legs felt weak, his chest tight. He reached for the note again, just to feel its crinkled edges.

He turned and walked into the morning light, the city swallowing him whole, Charlotte’s name buzzing in his mind.

---

The bar felt different that night. Or maybe it was Rodney who felt different. He was more nervous than usual, his palms damp as he scanned the room for Charlotte. When he spotted her—leaning against the bar, drink in hand, tattoos winding up her arms like they might strangle her—his heart did a stupid little leap.

Rodney swallowed and approached, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Hey.”

Charlotte didn’t even look up. “Back again?”

“Yeah, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought we could pick up where we left off?”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, finally turning to him. “Where we left off? That’s interesting, considering I left.”

Rodney winced. “Right, yeah. About that… Why did you—?”

“I wasn’t sure how to spell it out for you, so I thought disappearing might get the message across.”

“Message?” Rodney’s voice cracked, and he quickly downed half of his Rum and Coke to cover it. “I mean, I thought things were going… good?”

Charlotte sighed, tilting her glass and watching the ice swirl. “Rodney, you’re exhausting.”

“Exhausting?” He blinked, genuinely confused. “But I—”

“Let me stop you right there,” she said, holding up a hand. “You didn’t ask me a single question about myself. Not one. I am ‘enigmatic’ to you because you didn’t bother to find out anything real. All you did was talk. About LA traffic. About the Safdie brothers. About how you think they were inspired by Bad Lieutenant.” She punctuated this last part with air quotes.

“You’re so self-involved it’s impressive.”

Rodney opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for air. “I—I mean—”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Look, Rodney. I don’t have time for silliness. You’re nice, and you’re cute, but I’ve got shit to do, and time is precious. I’m not here to be someone’s quirky manic dream girl or whatever.”

She leaned in slightly, her tone softening just a bit. “You might want to think about how much time you waste worrying about being interesting instead of actually connecting with people.”

He blinked, his mind scrambling. “But I thought… I mean… The teeth? Your weird trinkets? I felt really tired—like, really tired.”

Charlotte squinted at him. “Yeah, man, I don’t know what to tell you. You have anxiety.”

Rodney sputtered, “What?”

“Anxiety,” she repeated, deadpan.

“Makes you spiral? Feel drained? Get weird ideas in your head? Congratulations, you’re not special. You’re just like every other guy who reads half a Murakami novel and thinks he’s cracked the code to the universe.”

Rodney stared, slack-jawed. “But—”

“Also,” she added, pointing at him, “you might be iron deficient. Just a hunch.”

His shoulders slumped, the weight of her words pressing down harder than his overactive thoughts ever had. “So… no fangs? No life force sucking?”

Charlotte snorted, finally cracking a real smile. “Rodney, you’re the only one sucking the life force out of anyone here.”

He laughed weakly, rubbing his face with both hands. “God. I feel like a jerk.”

“Yeah, but at least you’re a funny jerk,” she said, sipping her drink. “I’ll give you that.”

He looked up, hopeful. “So… does this mean we’re good? Can we—”

“Nope.” Charlotte slapped a twenty on the bar and stood, grabbing her jacket. “But you’ll be fine. Just maybe ask people about themselves next time, okay?”

Rodney watched her walk away, her blunt bangs swaying as she slipped through the crowd. His chest felt hollow, but not in the same way it had before. It was lighter, almost freeing, like she’d cracked something open inside him.

He sighed, finishing his drink and setting the glass down with more force than intended. The bar droned with life, warm and indifferent. Rodney stuffed his hands in his pockets, his mind still replaying Charlotte’s sharp grin and the way her words had cut him down in the best possible way. For the first time in a long while, he felt… energized.

He glanced up and saw her—or someone else entirely. A woman at the corner of the bar, sipping something clear from a short glass, her profile glowing faintly in the haze. Her hair wasn’t dark like Charlotte’s; it was auburn, swept back into a loose knot at the base of her neck. There was a calm intensity about her, as though she could turn and, with one glance, see everything he was trying to hide.

“Wow,” Rodney whispered under his breath. “What an interesting woman.”

With a faint smile that revealed just a hint of teeth—sharp, glinting faintly in the light—Rodney walked past her.

“Do you believe in love at first sight,” he said, his voice smooth, “or should I walk by again?”

---

Thanks for reading! Today’s header is an original piece by artist Nancy Hollis. You can find her here (Instagram) and here (her website).