Author's Note Hi, everybody! Long time, no chat! Thanks goes out to all my readers who, for the first time, will be listed so you can all feel good about yourselves. Allison/Marzipan: My most loyal reader…much thanks and love! Don't be scared of me too much! Solitaire's Mornie: Glad to have another SL/Mark fanfic writer. Come back to ! Ushuaia: I hope you mean "interesting" in a good way… Michelle/rorynjess: It's okay that you had no idea what was going on…maybe if you'd actually WATCH the movie…j/k, love you mucho! Legginglas: You are too kind! Thank you…you have inflated my ego to a size I never thought possible! I-Love-Azrael: I fear the purple dishwasher eating monkeys…lol, glad you're enjoying it! Fire-Dispatcher: My most serious reviewer…I appreciate the critiquing and my reminders to watch my typing! Thank you!

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CHAPTER NINE: THE CHOICE BETWEEN LIFE AND UNDEATH

Three figures sat around the table, silhouetted against an orange harvest moon. None of them spoke, merely casting quick and weary glances at each other and the windows, carefully not making eye contact. Each was engrossed in their own ponderings.

Mark's shoulders were hunched, his chin supported on his chest, hair hanging limply in front of his face. His gaze was cloudy and expressionless, and his only movements were ones of frustration and contemplation. Sometimes he would press his thumb to the inside corner of his eye socket, as one might rub their temples or pinch the bridge of one's nose.

As she clutched the handle of her coffee mug, Robyn watched Mark, her eyes softened with angst but highlighted by a glint of dark fear. Her stare dropped to the steam that rose lazily from the hot water that filled her cup. It curled up towards the ceiling, wrapping itself around her head and heating her face, and she closed her eyes, as if in peace.

Bobby Jackson was the only one who was visibly nervous, and his movements reflected his agitation. They were short and incoherent, as if his joints were attached to invisible strings. His gaze bounced between Mark and Robyn frenetically, confusion blurring his vision. "Will someone please explain what's going on in this town?" Bobby broke the stillness, his voice cracking like a whip through the heavy silence. "Who was the big guy who attacked me?"

"Big guy?" Mark's head shot up from its resting place, his gaze hard and intense. "What 'big guy'?"

"I don't…remember…" Bobby's eyes became glassy, focusing on some point above them. "He came out of the house…I was surprised, of course, but not alarmed…I wasn't suspicious until I saw his socket wrench…" He broke off, sighing. "That's about all I can recall. Everything else…it's like it's all shrouded in mist, or a cloud, or something…" He paused, stroking his chin. "But his eyes…his eyes were bright and shiny, gray…and bloodshot…" Bobby laughed in spite of himself. "That memory is really vivid. His eyes were really red, like a crimson red. And I remember the last thought running through my head was, 'Gee, he should see an eye doctor'. He was probably just drunk, or high, or…"

"Insane with anger," Mark finished dramatically, and the corner of his mouth turned upward slightly, giving the slightest impression of a smile. Robyn turned to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

"You know who I'm talking about…?" Bobby asked, leaning towards him apprehensively.

"My uncle. He's crazy," Mark replied simply, shrugging nonchalantly. He pulled the collar of his dark gray T-shirt down to the right, exposing a jagged black scar that ran along his collarbone to the beginning of his shoulder joint. "He did that when my principal called him concerning a certain 'misdemeanor' I committed on school property."

Bobby's eyes widened as he stood, taking a few long strides over to Mark's seat. "Why's it black?"

"Screwdriver. Must have been rust on it." Mark reached behind his head, pulling his messy brown hair back with one hand. A large red welt bulged at the base of his neck. "The Redskins lost to the Steelers. Alan didn't like that. So he snuffed his Cuban cigar out on me."

Bobby sat back, pinching the bridge of his unusually thin, bony nose with two long spider-like fingers. "So what's he doing here? And more importantly, why is he trying to kill me?"

Mark snorted indignantly. "Kill you? You were just in his way. Alan's only target is…" A high-pitched screeching cut through the air like a knife, bringing all else to a sudden halt. With dawning dread, all focus gravitated towards the large bay window in the front of Robyn's living room, horror clutching each of their minds with numbing terror.

They found themselves staring at their own images, the reflection of the lighted kitchen mirrored off the darkened glass. "Hit the lights," Mark hissed through gritted teeth, giving Robyn an apprehensive sideways glance. In two long strides, she made her way across the kitchen and to the wall. The light bulb above them went out with a dull snapping sound, throwing the room into pitch blackness. Mark crept towards the window, pulse raising, face damp with sweat. Pressing his hands to the glass, he peered into the night…

A face shot up towards him, mouth leering, eyes shining like diamonds against the blackened sky. Mark gave a strangled cry and fell backwards onto the couch. The woman outside the window smiled hideously at him, baring her fangs and dragging her nails against the glass.

"Mom?" Robyn whimpered, stumbling forwards in the darkness and placing one palm flat against the window. Mrs. Evanoff's face remained vacant, her eyes glassy and hollow. "Mom, it's me! Look, it's Roby, Momma, see?" Her mother's grin widened, fangs extending like needles. "Mommy…?" She shrank against the wall, sobbing bitterly. Mark found his way over to her and clutched her shoulders tightly, pulling her face up towards his.

"Listen to me." She met his eyes hesitantly. "That is not your mother." Robyn made a deep guttural sound in the back of her throat, her gaze flickering between Mark and the creature outside the glass. "You have to keep telling yourself that. She is not your mother."

His voice echoed through the room emptily, neither Robyn nor Bobby hearing him. Both stared at the figure outside the window in stupefied shock, minds filled with thousands of disbelieving yet horrified thoughts. And in that moment, they both believed.

A thump resonated beneath them, followed by slow, rhythmic footsteps. One notion radiated through each terrified head: Someone was coming upstairs. Three pairs of eyes snapped to the basement door as it opened with heart-stopping anticipation.

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As soon as the milky white hand emerged through the gray shadows, Mark knew who it was. The razor sharp claws that extended from the fingers were stained scarlet, ending in tips long and pointed enough to be mistaken for knives. They dug into the white oak panels along the basement door, leaving small, needle-like impressions in the wood. A bare foot came out of the darkness, the toenails equally as elongated and sharp, chipped and colored a dark brown-yellow. Two silver beams shone out from behind the door.

The figure vanished in a soft glow of flashing light. Mark froze, his gaze darting around the room. He backed up slowly towards the corner, senses heightened as his eyes strained to see in the darkness. He saw Robyn curled into the fetal position against the wall, a dark shape gliding past the window, shadows moving through the night sky eerily… He inched towards the wall guardedly, when his shoulders struck a large, chillingly cold object.

"Good evening, Mark," Grant whispered, his eyes gleaming dangerously. Then he lunged.

Mark's hand flew to his back pocket, searching frantically for the cross. For a brief moment, his eyes flickered up to Grant's face, stretched taut, mouth wide enough to swallow his own fist. The fangs extended towards his neck, drawing closer and closer. 'This is it,' he thought desperately. 'And after all that…' Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw something fly through the air towards Grant. He turned to see Robyn standing, shaking, behind Grant, her hand poised in mid air. The book she had thrown struck Grant's temple, and in his few moments of surprise, the creature was caught off guard.

Without any hesitation, Mark pressed the cross to Grant's forehead, feeling his face smolder beneath the plastic. Grant's scream rang through the room, high-pitched and filled with pain. His features began to fold within themselves, his nose and mouth melting together and crumbling to ashes before Mark's eyes. The skin around his eyes bubbled from the heat of the cross, and Grant's horrendous screeches pierced the night sky.

"Sorry, Grant," Mark murmured, and for an instant, tears intermingled with the sweat that poured down his face. Grant gave one final howl, then flew towards the ceiling and shattered into a cloud of dust. The room was completely silent and motionless, save the tiny fragments of vampiric debris that descended from the ceiling like snow. Mark turned his head and met Robyn's gape, their gazes unwavering, eyes wide.

"Okay…come in, then."

Mark and Robyn turned slowly in petrified shock to Bobby, who stared unblinkingly at the figure behind the glass. The terror that had lined his face was replaced with expressionless composure. His hand reached for the window pane, unwavering, and pulled back the lock.

"Shit, she's got him!" Mark called frantically, pushing Robyn away from the window and diving over the couch towards Bobby. Mark slammed into him with a low grunt and sent the thin, bony man sprawling to the floor with a thud.

Mrs. Evanoff soared in through the window, her long black hair flying back from her head, fangs bared and ready. Mark reached for the pocket of his jeans, expecting to feel the cross-shaped lump of the plastic tombstone, but instead found…nothing. Horrified, he scanned the hardwood floor for the cross. "Robyn!" Mark cried as Mrs. Evanoff reached for him. "Robyn, get my cross!"

Robyn dropped to her hands and knees, stretching her arms out across the floor and searching blindly. Her fingers brushed past something rock-hard and cold, and she quickly grasped the item. It turned out to be a brick hearth, on top of which was a gold stand of fire irons.

Bobby struggled against the unnatural strength of Mrs. Evanoff's grip as it tightened against his throat. In the other hand, he saw a fistful of Mark's shirt collar. The teeth that descended upon him were glinting in the moonlight, pale and silver like the gleam of pearls. He felt the tiny pricks of her fangs penetrate his neck, and for a moment, the fear clutching his mind was so overwhelming that he stopped breathing…and then something flew past his face just a few centimeters away from his cheek.

Time froze. Bobby felt the teeth extract themselves from his skin slowly, still void of his uncontaminated blood, and both he and Mark were released from Mrs. Evanoff's clutch. They fell to the ground with a thump, and together they turned to see Robyn poised in a throwing position, her left hand extended out from her body. Following the line of her toss, their gaze fell upon Mrs. Evanoff.

She stood poised against the darkened window, her limbs spread out from her torso, mouth gaping. Her large dark eyes flickered from astonishment to painful confusion, before her gaze dropped to the long golden fire tong stood out on her chest. Dark crimson blood flowing freely from the hole below her collarbone, and a low moan escaped her lips.

"Roby…?" Mrs. Evanoff murmured as she slid back against the wall, leaving a scarlet trail behind her. Her arms and legs began to convulse, and she shot up towards the ceiling, her hand grasping blindly back towards the ground. Robyn sprang up and tried to reach her, but her hand simply passed through her mother's, and Mrs. Evanoff disappeared in a flash of light. Glimmering remains drifted to the ground around them, and then everything was still.

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The box was cold. Very, very cold. He could see his breath frozen in the air every time he exhaled, like the smoke from a cigarette. Grasping his hands around the wooden ledge inside the box, he peered out through the cracks, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

He listened to the thunderous, solid footsteps of the big man, Alan, above him, treading slowly back and forth over the rug. They were uncoordinated and sluggish, and he heard the occasional th-thump of Alan tripping over a wrinkle in the carpet. 'Stupid fat man,' he thought to himself, listening to the deep rumble of Alan's voice cursing the rug.

He waited.

Childish uncertainty clouded his mind, and his patience wore thin. Discouraged, he rubbed his hands back and forth over the floor. His hand passed over a small object hidden within the four wooden walls, and upon inspection, he found it to be a piece of charcoal.

Turning to the nearest corner of the box, he began to draw. His fingers moved slowly over the wood, sketchy and hesitant. A loud rumble shook the house, and his hand was jerked to the side in surprise. Frustrated, he inspected the accidental line the ran jaggedly over his art. He sat back against the oak siding, examining the picture meticulously.

A door on the floor over him slammed, and the heavy thuds of footsteps alerted him to Alan's arrival. A light above him flickered on, and two legs as wide as tree trunks cast an unusually large shadow over the crate. He peered up through the cracked upper limit of the box and met Alan's eyes grimly. "What do you want?" he demanded, scowling.

"Still so sure of yourself, are you?" Alan taunted. "Still confident that they will come up here for you? What makes you think you're so important that they'd willingly risk their lives just to try and save you?"

"He'll be here."

Alan raised his eyebrows doubtfully. "I guess we'll see, won't we, Master Chanley?"

"Go away," he demanded sullenly. To his surprise, Alan gave a low (and most likely mocking) bow and left.

Chanley listened as the dull clunks of Alan's heavy feet moved from the top of the stairs to the kitchen. He sat in the shadowy stillness, the sound of rain pounding against the roof ringing through the room, and he brought his knees to his chest, hugging them to himself. Through the steady hammering of water, Chanley's ears picked up one other sound.

A low whisper echoed through the wooden walls, like the hissing of a snake. Out of the corner of his eye, Chanley saw a flicker of movement. Slowly, he turned his head towards the wooden box that sat in the corner…

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"So what's the plan?" Bobby asked, his gaze concentrated on Mark attentively. Brow furrowed, Mark sat on the couch, staring out the window. The sky had been painted a deep, rich red, and glimmers of orange began to appear at the base of the horizon.

"Confront Pierson. He's awake during the day." Mark stood up, his face expressionless. "He won't have help from anyone…except Alan. The night is his time. Right now, it's ours."

"We don't have any kind of advantage, Mark," Robyn murmured from the opposite side of the couch. "They're both armed, and they're expecting us. Plus, if we get caught somewhere when the sun goes down…" Her voice trailed off, and she shuddered.

"The house." Mark and Robyn turned to Bobby, perplexed. "That's where they're keeping the kid. Somewhere in that house…we can take him back, then get ourselves out of this Godforsaken town."

"'Get him back'? How do you propose we do that?" Robyn challenged, folding her arms across her chest.

"We drive up to the house, use some kind of distraction, find the boy, then drive off into the distance like the finale to an adventure movie…" Bobby mused.

Robyn snorted indignantly, frowning at the young reporter. "We can't drive up there; that's how we've been caught each time. They see the car, they know we're there, and that's the end of us."

"Hide the car in some bushes…you think we can hike out of this place?" he retorted, spreading his hands out in front of him desperately. "We need to think ahead here."

Mark stood up slowly. "We can bargain our way into getting Chanley back." He inhaled deeply. "Since we have something they want, we're in a good position to negotiate."

"What do we…" Robyn started. Her eyes widened, and she jerked her gaze over to Mark. "Mark, you can't…"

"It's all we got, Robyn. Apparently, your family already paid in full." Robyn swallowed, her eyes becoming glassy and red. "They're just playing with our minds, taking each of you one by one. You're all mere pieces in their sick game, like chess pawns."

"A game? That's what this is to them?" Bobby spat.

"You think they're having trouble taking the town, Jackson? You think they're taking this seriously? Did you happen to see what was outside the window last night?" Mark put on a mocking mask of contemplation. "Ah, yes, of course you did! You're the one who invited her in!"

Bobby scowled, folding his toothpick-like arms across his chest in anger. "Obviously you know what they're capable of. And therefore you must realize that wasn't my fault."

Mark didn't answer him. He frowned and wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. "The Mears family, no matter however distant from the root, has been taken…I think I could convince Pierson that he doesn't need you," he said, glancing at Robyn.

"Mark, we need you. You were here last time; you know how to stop them," she whispered.

His hand sliced through the air violently, cutting her off. "No, I knew how to stop them. The thing is, this isn't like last time. Last time, it was in their nature. That's what they do: they infest towns, they spread." His voice dropped. "Now, it's not about infesting, it's about revenge. Revenge is an emotion, and thereby it's anything but natural to them. " He met Robyn's eyes apprehensively. "We're playing by different rules this time."

"So you're saying that the only way to get out of this alive is to sacrifice yourself?" Bobby demanded, staring at Mark beneath his furrowed brow. "Do you understand what you're subjecting yourself to?" Mark didn't answer. "And who's to say the boy is still even alive? It's been almost a day since he was gone. You think they take mercy? Look at what they did to Robyn's mother!" he shouted, pointing his bony finger in Robyn's face, who shuddered involuntarily. "You can't expect them to keep a kid alive just because he's a kid."

"It was their plan all along. That's why they took Grant and Ms. Lawry…that's why they took you." His eyes trailed over Robyn's face, and she turned her eyes to the ground. "I didn't come after either of them, and we got away when I went up to the house yesterday. They'll just keep feeding off you, like bloodsucking parasites, or killing you, simply because I befriended you. It's a never-ending cycle, Robyn. Until I stop running."

"Mark, you have to realize you're not going to die for that child. You're going to become one of them." His face remained unresponsive, and she looked at Bobby, silently yet desperately asking for help. "I can't let you do that. You…you're not thinking clearly."

"Actually, for the first time I am thinking clearly. Through this whole experience, it's been about me." He laughed hollowly, and Bobby flinched. "Pierson was right about one thing: I was assuming that their objective was me, and therefore I have to get out of this alive." He paused, his breath caught in his throat. "I don't think that's the case this time."

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The doctor retrieved a bundle of thick, finely crafted wooden sticks from the passenger seat of his BMW. "I made these up last night." He handed two of the stakes to Mark. "Take that."

Father Callahan glanced at Mark warily, his cheeks flushed. "Son, stay in the car."

"I'm going," Mark replied without any hesitation, and he followed Dr. Cody up the path.

"Maybe you'd rather stay behind, Father," Ben Mears suggested, turning to Callahan.

"No, I'll go. This team needs a clear head."

"I can't do this, Mark."

Mark turned to Robyn, snapping himself out of his memories. "Can't do what?" he asked, knowing all too well what she was talking about.

"I can't send you to your death, or you un-death, or whatever you want to call it. It's not right…" She didn't finish her sentence. Mark grabbed his bag and started the trek up the hill, and Robyn reluctantly followed.

Bobby left his Jeep behind the assortment of small trees and bushes. He took one last, pitifully gloomy look at his beloved car, then turned and jogged up behind Robyn and Mark.

The grass along the gravel path had become yellow and brown, with small glistening beads of dew reflecting the early morning sunlight. Three of the last living beings in Jerusalem's Lot treaded up to the Marsten House, silent, alone with their own thoughts.

The house grew larger and larger in their line of vision, and with each stride their fears grew along with the image of the building before them. When they reached the front stairs leading up to the door, they stopped. Mark took the first few steps up to the door hesitantly, then turned back and faced Bobby and Robyn. "You guys go around back...Robyn, you remember which window we came out of yesterday?" She nodded slowly, eyes shining. "Good. Climb down there, find Chanley. As soon as you get him, leave. Don't come looking for me, don't go upstairs. Just retrace your steps, go back out the window, and then run down to Bobby's car. Get out of here as soon as you physically can."

For a moment, neither Robyn nor Bobby moved. They simply stared at Mark, mixed emotions dancing across their faces. Bobby held his head high and stuck his hand out solidly, his Adam's apple standing unusually far out on his throat. "It's been an adventure, Mark. Good luck in there." Mark extended his own hand, trembling, and they shook.

"Thanks, Jackson…Bobby. Find Chanley pretty quickly, 'kay?" Bobby nodded somberly.

Robyn watched, solemn and still, as they said their goodbyes. Mark turned to her, and she held out her own quivering hand as tears began to shimmer in her eyes. He gave her a small smile and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her tightly. "Bye, then," he whispered, a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed a few times before releasing her.

"We're going to wait. I mean, you're just distracting them. You'll get out of there in a few minutes..." Robyn said hurriedly. "We'll just wait for you in the car, and when you're done..."

"No," he replied, his voice firm. "You need to get Chanley out of here, Robyn. He's just a kid..."

"So are you!" she cried. "Mark, you're just sixteen! You think you're an adult, you act like one, talk like one...but you're not an adult! You have your entire life ahead of you..."

Bobby nodded in agreement. "You're throwing away everything, Mark. Do you realize that?"

"I'm not throwing anything away. It's called a sacrifice. I give up something in order to gain something better."

Robyn cut in, angry and distressed. "No, a sacrifice is humble and...and good. What you're doing is suicide. You're committing suicide in order to help one person...but have you thought about what happens after all this?" Mark's eyes narrowed, and he started up the steps. "What about when we get out of the Lot? You said he was an orphan...what if you're the only person he has now, Mark? What if he has nobody else, no other family?" Mark continued climbing the stairs to the front door. "What about me?"

He stopped. Frowning, Mark turned his head and stared at her. After a moment, his head drooped and he shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry. I'm out of ideas. I don't know what any of us can do anymore." She stared at him pleadingly. "What else do you want me to say, Robyn?" he yelled, frustrated.

"Say you'll stay!"

"You know I can't do that, Robyn," he murmured. He turned back to the house slowly.

"Mark..." Robyn called desperately, taking a few steps up the staircase.

He put his hand on the doorknob. Closing his eyes, he put his hand on the doorknob. "Don't follow me."