The Porcelain Cup

 

                                           Seattle Police Department

11/04/14                                                                                                        2:43:58 AM

            Detective Adam Sumlan of the Seattle Police Department stared intently through the pane of two-way glass and into the occupied interview room, his murder suspect seated in the same spot he’d been left in more than two hours earlier. A tactic meant to disarm the suspect while Adam prepared his interrogation.

            File in hand and strategy in place Detective Sumlan turned the doorknob and entered the room, the brightly shining florescent fixture reflecting off of the polished metal of the desk that stood centered in the room.

            The detective sat across from Mr. Robert Vodnik whom they had apprehended at his apartment a short time after midnight.

            Having identified the suspect’s plates from a video camera recording of the parking lot in which the latest victim was found, Seattle PD was able to track down Mr. Vodnik’s address.

            “Mr. Vodnik, Seattle PD, open up.” He knocked on the door of apartment number thirty seven at 12:14 AM.

            No response.

            “Mr. Vodnik open up!”

            Still nothing.

            Nodding to his fellow officers Sumlan gave the silent order to breach. Within seconds more than a dozen officers swarmed the small one bedroom apartment, clearing the living room and adjoining kitchen before shifting their focus into the bedroom and bathroom where they found Mr. Vodnik sitting in a bathtub full of water, fully clothed, a white mug pressed between his two hands.

            While Mr. Vodnik was taken to the station for questioning, Adam and his fellow officers searched the apartment for any evidence linking Robert Vodnik to the string of unexplainable murders that had begun to grow rapidly over the past couple weeks.

            But nothing could be found.

            Robert Vodnik owned no furniture, no television, and no refrigerator. In fact, the man seemed to own nothing at all. There was no food in the kitchen, no bed, and no blankets or pillows. No clothing. The only thing that Mr. Vodnik appeared to own were the thousands of sealed porcelain cups that littered every inch of the space, stacked up to the ceiling in many places.

            The eclectic collection of a mentally ill hoarder.

            Now seated across from him with a clear view of the man’s state of being Adam couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

            A damp frock of tangled, greenly died hair draped down to cover his vaguely European features. Tired eyes stared back at him from behind the matted curtain, a stark contrast to his own blonde haired, blue eyed features of a Scandinavian distinction.

            Water dripped off the coattails of his green jacket, pooling around his feet and the cherry red boots covering them. The garments he wore appeared to be hand stitched and looked ratty like the thrown together ensemble of a homeless man.   

            Detective Sumlan clicked on the tape recorder.

            “Okay Mr. Vodnik, my name is Detective Sumlan. I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

            No response.

            “You’re encouraged to have a lawyer present while I question you Mr. Vodnik.”

            Still nothing.

            “I trust you were told why you were brought in?”

            “Yes.” He finally spoke, his voice gargled as if it was half submerged in water and Adam detected the remnants of an accent…maybe something Slavic. “I am a murder suspect am I not?”

            “That’s correct. Surveillance cameras recording the parking lot outside a Bank of America captured a vehicle with the license plates QP8-BK96 at the scene where the latest victim in a series of…unusual murders was found. Would you happen to recognize those plates and the vehicle they belong to?”

            “Those are my plate numbers.”

            “And that is your car?”

            “Yes.”

            “So you admit to being at the scene. Did you converse with the victim?”

            Robert fell silent again.

            Reaching across the table Detective Sumlan pressed play on the roll-away TV he had carted in behind him, the black screen blooming to life with the grainy footage of a bustling and full parking lot.

            Sumlan fast forwarded.

            Cars came and went as the lighting dimmed, progressively giving way to night, leaving the parking lot near empty save two vehicles; a white four door minivan and a tan station wagon. At the top of the screen a man emerged, face buried in his phone while he strode across the lot towards his minivan. He removed a set of keys. Hand on the door handle the man stopped, looking up over the windshield towards the neighboring vehicle, drawn by an unheard call.

            Robert Vodnik watched the proceedings with disinterest, unfazed that he seemed to have been caught on tape.

            The victim seemed to be talking with the driver of the station wagon. He moved around the front of his vehicle and towards the other cars driver-side window. A quick flash of light reflected in the camera lens as the window rolled down into the door.

            The man crouched low; ducking his head down to mirror the driver’s seated position, placing one hand on the top of the door for balance. The two appeared to be exchanging words. Then the victim, a Mr. Darrel Flow, seized before stiffening and falling to the ground in a crumpled dead heap.

            Slowly, casually, the station wagon pulled out of the lot, away from the scene, and out into the quiet night streets.

            As with the other seventeen victims there was no clearly defined cause of death. There was no sign of gunshot, knife, or any other weapon based wounds. No sign of strangulation, suffocation, or asphyxiation. The toxicity report returned negative and an autopsy revealed the victims to be in relatively good health. By all appearances they shouldn’t have been dead. It was as if a switch had been flipped and the life inside all of them just ceased to exist.

            But now they had a lead; had the man who appeared responsible in custody. Now he just needed answers.

            “Mr. Vodnik we have a video of the victim dropping dead next to your car, presumably with you inside. You have given us no alibi for the time of the murder and no reason for us not to suspect you. If you don’t give us something then you’re going away for a long time.”

            At the mention of imprisonment the man reeled.

            He had him.

            “Is this you Mr. Vodnik? Did you kill this man? Did you kill the other victims?”

            Silence returned to the room as Robert Vodnik contemplated how to proceed with his back so firmly against the wall. Adam Sumlan waited and watched patiently as the camera feed began a second play through.

            Finally he spoke, his voice low and ominous.

            “Yes.”

            He had gotten his confession, caught his man; but an insatiable curiosity gripped him. He had to know what happened, had to know why the man before him had decided to kill more than a dozen unrelated victims, had to know how he did it.

            “How did you kill them? And why?” He asked bluntly.

            At this the man laughed, a twisted and maniacal cackle that stood Adam’s hairs on end as it echoed back and forth to him again and again, filling the room in a thick haze of hysteria.    

            “You couldn’t possibly comprehend my motives Detective Sumlan. They transcend the motives of any suspect, any murderer you’ve encountered before.”

            His mouth twisted into a devilish grin.

            “Why don’t you help me understand? Paint me a picture Mr. Vodnik.”

            “I’d be delighted detective!” He agreed, his voice reminding Adam of something like a troll…or maybe a goblin. “But it is quite a long and intricate tale; if I am to tell it then I would appreciate it if you could supply me with a cup of coffee, preferably in a ceramic or porcelain mug. It’s a bit of a compulsion of mine I’m afraid; a pet peeve of sorts.”

            “I’ll see what I can do.”

            Standing from his chair Adam left the room beaming with confidence and satisfaction. Not only had he closed the case of one of Seattle’s most prolific serial killers to date, but he was also about to unveil the biggest mystery of the case. The secret of how the mysterious, unexplainable deaths had been carried out.

            Grabbing a ceramic mug from the cabinet in the precinct’s kitchenette Adam filled it with a still warm, recently made brew and stuffing his pockets with sugar packets and mini cups of creamer he returned to the interrogation room and to the patiently waiting Mr. Vodnik.

            “Thank you very much detective Sumlan,” he said, graciously accepting the warm beverage. “Now where is it you should like me to begin?”

            “I leave that to your discretion Mr. Vodnik.”

            Offering a curt nod in response to being granted free rein over his own confession Robert Vodnik sipped his coffee. No sugar, black as the grounds it was made from.

            “Very well, I shall start from the beginning; all the way back to when I was just a young boy in Czechoslovakia.”

            Detective Sumlan slouched low in his chair, happily nursing the coffee in his own hands-two sugars, one cream-as he listened to Mr. Vodnik’s tale.

            “I was young when I was abandoned by my parents, too young to remember. But the cold, the damp and suffocating cold still echoes in my mind as clear as day. I was starving, freezing, and alone; left on a riverbank to die by a mother and father who didn’t wish to care for me.”

            The room felt heavy with sadness and pity.

            He continued.

            “For nearly two weeks I went unnoticed living by the water, sneaking into the village to eat what scraps I could find. I was emaciated and sick. And oh so alone.”

            “I’m sorry,” Adam croaked. “No child should have to endure such suffering.”

            He spoke sincerely, truly feeling for the man’s plight. But as he said the words Robert Vodnik’s mouth contorted into a playfully amused grin. Again he began to cackle, further illuminating the state of his psychosis.

            The man made him feel as if he was in the room with the Joker. All that was missing was the clown make-up and the caped crusader lurking in the corner.

            “Oh no, withhold your sympathies please detective. I’m not entirely convinced that’s how it even happened, I prefer to believe that I just appeared; was blinked into existence out of thin air. But for the sake of the story, let us assume that local gossip held its merit.”

            Adam narrowed his eyes, a sinking feeling forming in his gut.

            “Have you killed more than eighteen victims Mr. Vodnik?”

            Another cackle.

            “But of course I have detective! What story do you think I am telling you?”

            “How many more?”

            “All in good time detective, all in good time,” he scolded, wagging his finger in Adam’s direction.

            “I am going to need more coffee am I right?”

            Mr. Vodnik flashed a toothy grin and Adam left the room with conflicted feelings of accomplishment and dread. He looked at the clock.

            3:01 AM. Already three hours late getting home. He decided to call his wife.

            “Hello,” she answered the phone, her voice groggy and barely comprehensible.

            “Hey honey it’s me.”

            “Where are you Adam, it’s three in the morning?”

            “We caught him Sheila, the serial killer, we finally got him. I’m going to be here a while, I’m still interrogating him and I’ll still have my report to complete. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay and that I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you, tell Danny we’ll play ball tomorrow afternoon.”

            “I love you too, congrats on the case.” She grumbled, more frustrated with being woken up than with him not being home.

            He reentered the kitchenette to find the coffee had gone cold, so brewing another pot he walked around the precinct, taking a couple of laps to wake up while he waited for the coffee to be done.

            Sleep sounded almost euphoric now.

            A phone rang outside the nearly empty ‘Bull Pen’, the sudden noise startling him. He jumped, his interaction with the deranged serial killer setting him on edge.

            Grabbing the whole pot of coffee and several more sugar packets detective Sumlan pushed back into the interrogation room, carefully stepping over the expanding puddle of water that was still dripping down from Mr. Vodnik’s wet clothing as he set the glass pot down, Robert Vodnik still grinning from ear to ear.

            “Okay please continue Mr. Vodnik.”

            Over the better part of the next hour Robert Vodnik painted an image of his burdened childhood as a street kid in Czechoslovakia. From his abandonment on a river bank to his days bouncing from orphanage to boy’s home and back, never staying anywhere long enough to make friends or find a family.

            By the tender age of twelve he left the orphanage behind, and with it any hope of becoming a functional, happy member of society. Instead he struck out on his own, the cruelties of the world shaping his personality, honing it into a keen and sharp edge with which he could lash out.

            “The day I took my first life was the same day I began to collect the porcelain mugs I assume you saw in my home.” He said plainly, as if the transition from his youthful toils into the days of murderous joviality was the most natural thing in the world.

            Instantly Adam’s brain made an impossible connection between the vast quantity of mugs the man had collected and the supposed fact that he’d begun the collection after his first kill. If he assumed that everything Mr. Vodnik was telling him was the truth and not the more likely scenario that he was a manic psychopath, it would mean he had killed thousands of people over the course of his life.

            Not likely.

            He waited patiently as Mr. Vodnik sipped his coffee before continuing with the likely fabricated tale of his first kill.

            “Such a young man…or woman, no it was a man; a boy really, no more than seventeen he was. Walking the banks of the river alone.” His eyes glazed over as the distant memory took him.

            A dry, stale winter wind whipped across the churning waters of the river, chilling Robert Vodnik to the bone. He hated the cold, always had, and no amount of clothing or type of fabric could take away the frosty bite that nipped at him each season.

            Sitting at the water’s edge Robert waited patiently as the icy liquid lapped gently against his crossed legs, splashing as high up as his waist before setting back mid-thigh.

            He waited and listened.

            For three days he’d been doing the same, coming out to wait on the river bank, a tensile need for food waiting taut and ready to snap, driving him to such a desperate ploy.

            A chorus of giggles chimed through the whirring wind, reaching out to him like a baited lure.

            Three voices.

            “Sbohern!”

            Goodbye they echoed back and forth, a group of young friends parting ways on their walk home.

            “Too bad,” Robert though. “Odds are better with three.”

            But it had been three days since he’d started feeling the hunger and it was about time he did something to abate it before he went mad.

            Footsteps crunched against the soft powdery film of snow that glazed the ground, compacting as the boy’s weight shifted on top in one concentrated footfall after another. He was close now. So close that the wheezing huff of his breath felt as loud as the rushing waters.

            Robert began to prepare his charade. He hunched and began a not so forced shivering. Faked fits of coughing erupted from behind his chattering teeth adding to the façade of a lowly street man close to death.

            The young man passed at his back, slowing as he took notice and pity on Robert’s sickly shape.

            “Excuse me sir. Are you hungry by chance?” The boy said meekly.

            Turning his head slightly he was able to get a clear look at the curious Good Samaritan.

            Large for his age, standing over six feet with at least two hundred pounds of fat beneath his fur coat, the teen regarded Robert with a doltish curiosity. “Not the brightest bulb in the bunch.” He concluded.

            “Though a viable mark,” he thought, eyeing the distended bulge of the boys gut.

            Robert nodded in response to the giant child’s query, “I haven’t eaten in three days.” He admitted.

            For an awkwardly silent instant the both of them simply stared at one another and in an irksome moment of clarity Robert felt as if the boy was just going to walk off; too mentally and physically attached to his food to help out a poor, homeless wretch.

            But much to his surprise the fat boy removed what remnant chunks of bread still resided in his pocket and tossed them to him and his open palmed, begging paws. Maintaining his air of starvation Robert greedily scarfed down the stale, flakey bakery product in a few hasty bites.

            “Thank you, young man. God bless.”

            The boy’s large, chubby cheeks curled upward into a jolly smile.

            “God bless,” he called back before clumsily traipsing his way down the trail, boots loudly crunching the snow.

            He was leaving him. If Robert didn’t do something quick he was going to lose another one. He needed to commit.

            A large coughing fit rumbled deep in his chest, bursting out violently into the cold winter air. The rapid and vast exhalation of air bubbles tore at his throat, quickly causing the tender flesh inside to become raw and in an instant his hacking became real. He hunched over, his whole body shaking with each heave. His eyes watered, his face flushed, and breaths of fresh air between spasms grew so sparse he was gasping loudly just to draw breath.

            Unclenching his hands from his mouth Robert couldn’t help but be impressed by the thin smattering of blood that now coated his palm.

            “Not bad.” He mumbled.

            His ploy had achieved the desired effect.

            Having only trudged a few meters further down the path the pudgy kid turned around to watch the show, concern furrowed on his thin blonde brow, contemplating whether or not to help further or turn and walk away.

            Succumbing to the pesky pull of his conscience the boy walked back to help, carefully hiking down to the water’s edge to lend a helping hand.

            “Yes, yes, just a bit closer now my plump little savior.” Robert cackled wildly in his head.

            “Excuse me mister, you look awfully cold and sick. Would you like to join me and my family for dinner? A little warmth and a fresh meal could do wonders for you.”

            Robert Vodnik whipped his head around hoping he had hidden the giddy, delighted surprise that was bubbling at his core. A whole family meal was even more than he could’ve hoped for, and he could escape the wretched cold if only for a short while.

            God he missed the spring.

            “Oh thank you young man but I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” He said playing ‘hard to help.’

            “It’s no bother at all. Come sir, join me. What is your name?”

            “Robert. Robert Vodnik.”

            “Well Mr. Vodnik, let’s get you out of that water and into my home. Come, let me help you.”

            The large boy whose name he had learned to be Andrej Dagmar hoisted him up, dripping wet, out of the river, slinging one of his arms around Robert’s waist to help him balance.

            And the two set off.

            For half a mile the unlikely pair stumbled through the falling snow in the relative silence. Robert said nothing while his companion rattled off question after intrusive question.

            “Why were you sitting in the water?”

            “Do you have a family?”

            “Were you born here or somewhere else?”

            “Why were you in the water?”

            “Did you have a job? What was it?”

            “Why were you in the river?”

            Always his overzealous curiosity brought him back to the water and why Robert had been basking in it in the midst of winter.

            “You know, that’s probably why you’re so sick.”

            He was now seriously contemplating whether a family meal would be worth all of the blathering in the end. But much to the relief of his patience they finally arrived at the Dagmar family residence. A modest, snow dusted home that glowed with the exuberant radiance of home cooking and hearth fire. A fragrant black smoke billowed out from the chimney, filling the air and his nostrils with the intoxicating scent of cooked food.

            Andrej entered first, the door swinging wide to allow his massive frame to fit. Robert followed suit, bouncing with anticipation so fierce he almost began to salivate.

            The interior was modestly furnished with a plush sofa and matching chair that complimented the warm color of the curtains. The warm and inviting glow of firelight from a number of candles provided a soothing, almost sleepy ambiance.

            “Mama, Papa, I brought a guest home for dinner.” Andrej called, hustling into the kitchen. “He was very cold and looks ill. I wanted to help him.”

            “Oh did you now?” A woman’s voice replied, barely audible over the scrape of a wooden ladle against iron as the lady of the house stirred a boiling pot of stew.

            From the kitchen thick with a fragrance of chicken soup, liver dumpling, and sauerkraut, Andrej’s mother emerged with an infant hiding behind the safety of her mother’s dress. Outside the heavy, rhythmic thwack of chopping wood rang through the house, likely the father’s doing.

            “Greetings stranger,” the mother welcomed him cautiously. “How is it that my son came to find you and decide to bring you to our family home?”

            “I was wal…” Andrej tried to tell the tale but his mother quickly silenced him.

            “Shh. I did not ask you Andrej. I was talking to our guest.”

            Andrej shied away in defeat.

            “He found me on the riverbank Mrs. Dagmar,” he answered. “I can’t tell you why he was passing that way, I can only assume that it is the typical route he takes home.

            Andrej nodded furiously in agreement. His mother was still unconvinced.

            Robert continued.

            “Young Andrej here likely took notice to my painful fits of coughing and was able to spot me by the river. He asked me if I was okay, if I was hungry, to which I said yes because I haven’t eaten in three days. Andrej shared with me his bread and then offered me a place at your table for dinner so that I might warm my frozen bones. I am thankful for your son’s kindness Mrs. Dagmar.”

            Again Andrej nodded vigorously, his jowls flopping along with the motion.

            “But if his generosity was misplaced madam, I do apologize and I will leave you to your meal.”

            He bowed shallowly, shaking his back and shoulders with a feverish zeal as he did so. He took two weak steps backwards towards the door, stifling another wave of coughing as he moved.

            Robert truly looked pathetic and was playing the part brilliantly.

            “What is your name sir?” The mother asked, stopping his retreat.

            “It’s Mr. Vodnik.” Andrej cried, nervous of losing his charity case.

            “Your boy is correct ma’am, it’s Robert Vodnik.”

            “That is quite an unfortunate surname living in these parts.”

            “I reluctantly agree with you Mrs. Dagmar. I dare say an adoptive family or two made the same connection as you when I was living in the orphanage.”

            The interrogation halted momentarily with Robert lingering at their home’s entrance, unsure of whether he was being turned away or graciously given a place to eat and rest.

            Suddenly a small, meek voice addressed him; the young daughter, Kamilla, piping up from behind her mother.

            “Mama says that the Vodnik is a vile sprite, an evil water goblin that steals people away to his watery world forever. She says he keeps their souls in porcelain cups for all eternity.”

            Crouching low to match her level Robert curled his mouth into a friendly smile. “I don’t look like a nasty ol’ sprite do I? And look,” he said, opening his green waist coat wide, “no porcelain cups.”

            “But your coat is green and your boots are red like the Vodnik’s.”

            “An astute observation madam, but another unfortunate coincidence I’m afraid.”

            The young lady giggled, “He’s funny mama.”

            He rose to his full height.

            I’m sorry to have disturbed you and your family Mrs. Dagmar. I’ll take my leave of you now. Enjoy your evening, God bless.”

            As he turned to walk away Andrej and his little sister tugged and poked at their mother, silently begging her to stop him from leaving, both children having warmed to him.

            “Mr. Vodnik,” she called after him when he had made it halfway out the door. “I apologize for the interrogation. A woman can’t be too careful when it comes to her family. Would you please join us for dinner?”

            “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

            “Nonsense we’ve plenty to eat. Besides, some hot food and a warm hearth will do wonders for your health.”

            “Oh thank you ma’am, thank you so much. You and your family are too kind.”

            Just then, as if summoned, a cool gust of wind swept into the house, carrying delicate flurries of snow on its wintery wings, heralding the entrance of the house’s patriarch.

            Jonah Dagmar stood at the dwarfing height of six foot eight inches, revealing his clear genetic dominance in the genes of young Andrej. Two-hundred and seventy pounds of hard-working muscle ripped with exertion beneath Mr. Dagmar’s sweater. A full brown beard completed the image of the largest lumberjack in all of Czechoslovakia.

            Stomping his snow crusted boots off as he entered Jonah Dagmar did not seem to notice the sick and homeless looking house guest standing with his family. He was too preoccupied with the armful of freshly chopped wood he lugged in with him to take notice, dropping one fragment after another into waiting flames. Only after he had finished stoking the fire did he acknowledge Robert’s presence.

            “Who is this?” He asked as a general question to anyone who would give him an answer.

            The family remained silent, unsure how he’d react.

            “Well, speak up.” He said gruffly.

            His wife Gretta answered.

            “Andrej invited him Jonah. He’s a sick man who is down on his luck and hasn’t eaten in three days. Your son thought it a kind action to get him out of the cold for a few hours.”

            “A few hours?” He raised a sarcastically inquisitive eyebrow. “Looks like you’ve been drug to quite the feast Mr…”

            “Vodnik, Mr. Dagmar. Robert Vodnik.”

            Suddenly Jonah bellowed a deep and hearty laugh that seemed to shake the whole room.

            “I’ve never had a water spirit to dinner. Come on in friend. Gretta hide the porcelain!” He shouted much to his own amusement.

            Over the course of the next hour Robert ate and drank his fill with the four members of the Dagmar family, and slowly his perpetually chilled bones began to warm.

            Loaves of freshly baked chlèb, sourdough bread dipped in still steaming bowls of beef and vegetable soup called polèvka got them started as the main course finished cooking. And with the bread and soup, a mug of beer.

            Roast pork and dumplings with cabbage came next. Smoked links of Klobása followed closely behind, making for a largely salty and savory meat course. Accompanying the platter of meats came a staple side dish of the Czech people, wheat based dumplings to sop up the juice runoff from the pork.

            And with the main course, another mug of beer.

            Seated next to the boisterous Jonah, drinking mug after mug of the hoppy beverage, Robert kept the large patriarch so preoccupied with his food and drink that he failed to notice the growing puddle of water dripping off of his guest’s still soaked garb.

            Finally Gretta, with the help of little Kamilla, brought out platters of sweet treats for dessert.

            Rows of fruit and custard filled kolaches adorned the silver platter, partnered with cream for a dipping sauce the sweet dish was made even sweeter. Succulent bites of plums, apricots and strawberries resided within the dessert pastries. Delicately placed alongside the kolaches braided, sugared buns called vánôcka gleamed, the basted dough reflecting the flickering candlelight. A creamy gob of pudding finished off the buffet of sweets.

            And again their mugs were filled with beer.

            Still the puddle of water grew. But as the family’s heads swirled with the tipsy haze of  alcohol only little Kamilla noticed the thin, rippling layer of liquid that now swirled beneath everyone’s chairs, their feet skimming the pool, disturbing its surface. Kamilla followed the ebbing ripples to the source of the steady disturbance, watching as rivulets of water fell from his coattails.

            She looked into his eyes with a dancing terror and curiosity.

            He turned his head and stared back, twisting his mouth into a devilish grin, winking slyly.

            Then she saw it, a blur of shadow passing over the stagnant puddle. Her eyes darted up, expecting to see something lobbing through the air that had reflected into the pool, but she saw nothing. Now her face contorted into a fearful stare, wrought with realization.

            “Mama,” she pleaded, tugging on her hand trying to acquire her attention. “The Vodnik is gonna steal our souls! Look Mama, look!” She got louder and louder, nearly breaking down into tears as she frantically pointed at Robert and the puddle.

            “Kamilla don’t be rude.” Gretta pushed her daughter’s hand away before returning to what was left of the food she had been picking at as they sat and chatted.

            Beer flowing and heads spinning the evening continued for yet another hour. The only remnants of their feast sat nestled in small flecks in the coarse hairs of Jonah’s beard or cooling on one of their five plates. Kamilla’s plate in particular appeared relatively untouched, save the missing chunks of glazed vánôcka she couldn’t resist pinching at with greedy, sticky fingers.

            “Shall we move the festivities in by the hearth?” Jonah suggested loudly, his beer soaked breath fouling the air.

            “Nonsense,” Robert replied, deliberately slurring his words to maintain an air of inebriation. “Let’s pour another mug!”

            And another mug they all drank, tipping over the edge of joyous, rowdy companionship and into a depressive sleep-like fugue that clouded the Dagmar family’s senses; most beneficially their perception and reasoning.

            Suddenly Andrej’s pudgy, red face froze mid laugh, his body shook once with a large convulsion before his musculature failed and his face dropped heavily onto his plate. With no food to cushion the blow the boy’s lip split and began to bleed, seeping into the crack that had formed with a resounding clash of china.

            Jonah roared with laughter, attributing his son’s sudden condition to the effects of the wheat based alcohol. Gretta exhibited little more concern than her husband giggling softly, hiccups disturbing the playful sound periodically.

            Kamilla began to cry.

            Tucking her feet up onto the chair she curled herself into a fetal position and began to rock back and forth hoping to comfort herself with the motion.

            “Mama, the Vodnik!” She wailed. “It stole Andrej’s soul away to its watery world!”

            Cherry red boots planted firmly in the water, Robert felt a surge of heat begin to seep into his body. Starting from the tips of his toes the burning sensation began to rise, moving through his legs and pelvis, into his torso and up to his head, spider-webbing through each vein and artery.

            His chest vibrated with the feeling of something struggling to get out.

            He felt revitalized.

            “Looks like your boy can’t hold his alcohol!” He jested, gleefully leaping from his chair to dance around the table, much to the drunken amusement of his hosts.

            Candles flickered as he sped past, skating across the top of the water as light as a feather, his mirrored reflection keeping pace with him just beneath the pool’s surface.

            “Anyone care to dance?”

            Gretta rose from her seat, offering her hand in twirling, spinning partnership as they began to step to imaginary music.

            “No Mama, no! He’ll steal your soul too!” Kamilla wailed petrified and motionless. She reached fruitlessly for her mother’s hand, clinging desperately to the back of the chair to maintain her perch. But Robert swept her way too fast, his nimble feet floating them away from her small hands.

            Faster and faster they twisted and twirled, Gretta’s feet splashing water in brilliant crystalline arcs. Beneath her wet feet his reflection halted its mimicry and glared up through the layer of liquid at its next victim. Robert released Mrs. Dagmar’s hand, taking away the crutch that held her dizziness at bay.

            She wobbled.

            His reflection vanished.

            Gretta’s wavering body stiffened with the semblance of rigor, locking her momentarily until a vigorous tremor took hold of her, rocking her frame violently. Then as with Andrej, her body shuttered and gave out with an almost inaudible rush of air that preceded the return of his reflection.

            Again the tingling fire rushed through his body, his nerves firing wildly in response to the euphoric heat. From beneath Gretta’s lifeless form Robert Vodnik’s aquatic reflection returned, mirroring the satisfied grin on his own face.

            The impatient vibrating in his chest increased.

            Now Robert reined in the mounting madness into a controlled hysteria as he began to cackle wildly, dancing continuously around the family table like a demented ballerina.

            Jonah peeked over the mountain of dinnerware, glancing nervously at his motionless wife lying face down in the shallow puddle of water. Robert slid to a stop, noticing the patriarch’s concerned attention, and moved to stand triumphantly over her body like a champion gladiator parading his kill for all to see.

            “Did she fall? Is she okay?” He asked.

            “I’m afraid not my dear Jonah.”

            “Well help her up.”

            “She won’t be getting up anymore Mr. Dagmar. She’s down for good.”

            Robert waited patiently as the burly man’s sluggish gears churned in his head, figuring out what exactly had happened to his beloved. After a few confusing moments Jonah seemed to gather that somehow Robert was behind her sudden lack of consciousness and he rose with an unsteady equilibrium to challenge the man that was accosting his family.

            “What have you done?” He cried outraged, spittle peppering his beard.

            “Aww what’s the matter my dear friend and host?” Robert cooed mockingly. “Oh that’s right…you’ve never had a sprite to dinner before. I had forgotten in the midst of our festivities. My apologies, I should have warned you.”

            His eyes grew wide but not with realization or understanding, but with unhindered, blind rage. Jonah charged at him, his clumsy, heavy steps splashing water everywhere.

            He swung his large muscled left arm at Robert’s head.

            Ducking beneath the feeble blow, Robert danced around behind the drunken oaf, kicking the back of his knees, causing them to buckle, dropping the man to his hands and knees. Staring his wife in the face Jonah was faced with the crippling realization that his spouse was more than unconscious; somehow she was gone. Dead.

            Mr. Dagmar’s will broke. He began to sob uncontrollably.

            Grief consuming him, Jonah ignored his hysterical daughter’s crying, now escalated to an almost manic screech that rivaled the wail of a banshee or siren. Yet still she remained in her chair, safely away from the water, watching in horror as their dinner guest carried out his mystic assault.

            Shoulders heaving, Jonah failed to notice as Robert Vodnik floated up behind him until his slithery voice whispered in his ear with a demonic cruelty that was not of the human world.

            “Green suit, red boots, surname of Vodnik…all the signs were there Jonah. Your boy found me seated waist deep in the river in the middle of a snowy Czech winter.” He paused, dramatically grabbing a handful of his own hair before continuing. “For God’s sake even my damned hair is tinted green!”

            Jonah’s sobbing stopped as if he was formulating a response.

            Robert moved on while the man gathered his thoughts. “You should have listened to your mother and father’s warnings about the Vodnik. And more importantly you should have passed that onto your own children. The river can be very dangerous.”

            “The river,” Jonah mumbled. “How can you be doing this so far from the water?”

            “Ah, wonderful! So you do remember the fable. And you had me thinking otherwise…tsk, tsk, shame on you Jonah.”

            Leaping gleefully into the air, Robert planted his backside on the edge of the Dagmar’s dinner table, plates clattering with the force of his impact. He sat, legs swinging like an eager child.

            “Well since you asked so nicely I shall reveal my secrets to you my dear sweet dinner companion.” He said, winking playfully. “You see these boots? These wonderfully glossy red boots aid me by way of the river as well as the land. Their sloshing wet soles allow me to travel over solid ground all while maintaining a link with the water, though they don’t help me as far as I need to go. This mossy green jacket and its nifty coattails help me the rest of the way, bringing this glimmering pool of water to your lovely home.”

            “But how…”

            “How did Andrej and Gretta die? How was it that I stole their souls out from under your nose? Glad you asked. I am as the fable suggests, a water goblin, or sprite…one of the two…or both; who could say for sure? In any case, my very essence is tied to the water. So when I traverse the earthly landscape of the world only a part of me is traveling and the other part of me continues to exist within the water of the earth. So in bringing the water with me where I go, I can be at one with myself and can steal people’s souls away whenever they contact the water. Any questions?”

            Silence and Kamilla’s wailing echoed back an empty response.

            “Alrighty then, on to the demonstration portion of today’s lecture. Oh but before I begin, where do you and your dearly departed keep your porcelain?”

            Jonah glared back at the Vodnik with unprecedented animosity having found a last fragment of resilience in his largely shattered resolve.

            With the restless rattling in his chest growing steadily, Robert hopped off of the table and back into his puddle in one quick movement, summoning the water half of his essence with the resulting splash.

            Then as quick as it appeared, it was gone, disappearing into Jonah Dagmar as it had with his wife and eldest child, before reappearing in the wake of a familiar seizure, sending Mr. Dagmar to rest at the side of his missus in a lifeless sleep. With the death of her father, only little Kamilla was left to grace with his intentions.

            “Oh young one, won’t you come down from there and dance with me?” He cooed gently.

            “Never!” She shouted, her bleary eyes gleaming with the defiance and hatred of a child orphaned.

            “Well then, I’ll just wait down here until you get down from your chair. You can’t stay up there forever you know.” Robert said matter-of-factly, sitting cross-legged in the pool just in front of her, his reflection lingering menacingly beneath the rippling surface.

            For thirty minutes the unlikely pair sat in a stalemate, watching one another carefully. Kamilla’s tears had now dried up, leaving puffy eyes and beet red cheeks in their wake. But still she remained perched on her seat, white knuckles trembling with the intensity of her grip on its arms, refusing to relinquish her supposed position of safety.

            Again the feverish rumble in his chest emerged, the impatient onslaught threatening to burst out from within him. He no longer had the patience or time to play with his food.

            “Kamilla dear, as much fun as this little game of cat and mouse has been, I’m afraid that I am running out of time and as a result my patience has worn away.”

            “I don’t care!” She yelled, “I’m not coming down. You can’t get my soul if I don’t touch your water!”

            “That may be true sweetie…but that doesn’t mean I can’t force you to touch it.”

            Leaping forward Robert Vodnik roughly kicked the chair, causing the legs to splinter and give way, sending the young, frightened girl into the deadly puddle. Quickly he skated to her side, lifting her from the floor, screaming and kicking her legs, fighting him as he carried her to her death.

            She screamed and wailed at the top of her lungs, the piercing cry ringing like fire in his ears.

            The Vodnik covered her mouth. Silence.

            In one final, almost peaceful moment of ritualization, Robert offered the girl to his ethereal aquatic essence. Accepting the libation, his reflection snaked its way through the water around them like a hawk hunting a rabbit, circling from the sky above before disappearing at Kamilla’s feet.

            With a gleeful, triumphant grin the Vodnik maintained his embrace as the girl’s body carried out its convulsion. Stooping his head as her muscles tensed, he listened to the soft exhalation of air that denoted the release of her soul.

            Then Robert dropped her in a heap on the ground, freeing himself to search for the Dagmar’s porcelain, the fourth round of effulgent heat ascending the length of his legs.

            A few painful minutes passed as he rummaged through the house before he was finally able to procure a proper mug suitable to his needs; a small but wide, pearly white chalice that gleamed with a pure and holy light as he removed it from its dank cabinet confinement.

            Cupping the rim between both hands the Vodnik lowered his mouth to the exposed lip as if he were preparing to take a sip from its contents. But rather than tilting back to aid a substance into his mouth, Robert arched his neck and contracting the muscles of his diaphragm, began to expel what rattled impatiently within his chest.

            Slowly wisps of cerulean colored fog leaked from behind his yellowed teeth, its disembodied glow ebbed like something akin to a ghastly will-o-wisp, swirling around the inside of the cup creating the illusion of contained thunder clouds.

            The stream of feathery mist continued for a moment longer before thinning to a fine haze and stopping.

            Scooping a cupped handful of water from his pool Robert Vodnik spread the glassy liquid in a fine mystic layer across the top of the porcelain cup, sealing the Dagmar family’s souls within the vitrified ceramic.

            “Closing the door behind me I strolled off into the wintery night as the last remnants of Kamilla’s screams were whisked away on the chilling, snowy wind. The first porcelain cup in my collection nestled securely in my coat pocket. And that, detective Sumlan, is the origin of my macabre collection, and my origins as it were.”

            Trying to mask the prickly field of goose bumps that sprung up on his arms and neck, Adam Sumlan took a swig of his now cold coffee to reorient himself after an intimate look into the serial killer’s immense psychosis. The intricately crafted tale set in seventeenth century Czechoslovakia had admittedly kept the overly curious detective on the edge of his seat even as the fantastical explanation behind his murder method slipped from the realm of reality and into mythology.

            “Robert, can you please tell me how you killed them? Really.” He asked in a friendly tone, hoping he had earned the man’s confidence over the past several hours.

            He looked at his watch. 4:15 AM.

            Rubbing his dry, tired eyes Adam stood from the rigid aluminum chair, walking the stiffness out of his aching joints. He had been sitting with the confessed killer for close to four hours, on and off since his apprehension a little past midnight, and now all he wanted to do was cuddle up next to the warm body of his sleeping wife.

            How he longed for the softness of their queen sized mattress and the feel of cool, crisp sheets against his naked flesh.

            Slowly his curiosity was fading, replaced with the desire to close his eyes.

            “I’ve told you already detective; do you think that I have been lying to you?”

            “No not at all, I absolutely believe that you think it’s the truth. But how am I supposed to accept that you are apparently three hundred plus years old? That each of those thousands of porcelain cups contains the souls of your victims across the decades? THAT YOU’RE A WATER SPRITE! Yes Mr. Vodnik, I’ll just go write that down in my report, and with it my resignation.”

            As the booming frustration of his voice receded and the vacuum of silence returned, Adam threw himself back down into his seat, leaning forward to plead for the truth.

            “Mr. Vodnik I want the truth. How did you kill those people? Give me something concrete.”

            “Concrete…you want something concrete detective?” He growled in agitation. The first and only sign of hostility he’d shown since being taken into custody. “Grab your pen and write this down Adam, you’ll want to do some quick research when I’ve finished providing you something ‘concrete.’”

            Adam did as was requested of him and prepared to scribe the mad man’s musings.

            “We’ll start with what I’ve already told you: Jonah, Gretta, Andrej, and Kamilla Dagmar; 1623 Czechoslovakia, four victims.”

            Rolling his eyes detective Sumlan foresaw the direction in which his interrogation had turned but he wrote the information down regardless, accepting the fact that he would go the night without sleep. He only hoped that his cooperation would earn him not only a realistic cause of death for the victims, but also a commendation from the precinct’s captain when the case was finally closed.

            “Next.” He said with monotonous disinterest.

            “Abrahám and Ivo Prokop. Krištof, Irena, and Boras Rostislava. And Radek Gabina; 1627 Czechoslovakia, six victims.”

            “Next.”

            “A series of child disappearances between the years of 1672-1689 that included Linda, Bernek, Bojan, Vladimir, Pavel, Petr, Hana, Janah, Freda, Dal, Danica, Dobramir, and Stepan…or Stefan. I spent many decades in Czechoslovakia; everything tends to blend together Adam. In any case there were thirteen to sixteen children in that time frame. Shall I move on?”

            Pen gliding fluidly across paper, blue ink filling the page piece by piece with disorganized scrawling consisting of dates, places, and names of supposed victims, detective Sumlan slipped into a hypnotic rhythm of meticulous note-taking.

            One minute ticked away to two, then ten, then thirty.

            Before long over an hour had elapsed and Adam’s paper of notes had become three, filled line after line, front to back with countless lives that Robert Vodnik claimed to have taken over a three hundred year period.

            Four pages then five. Six, seven.

            Another hour elapsed. Dawn was upon them.

            After almost sixty years in Czechoslovakia the Vodnik’s victims began to expand across the whole of Europe. South into Austria he spent a decade amassing at least one hundred souls. Next he continued south into Italy, plaguing the post-renaissance cities of Rome and Venice for half a century. The Vodnik then moved across the Mediterranean to test the waters in Algeria and Morocco before traveling back across the Strait of Gibraltar into Spain where he stayed for one hundred and fifteen years, bouncing around Madrid, Barcelona, and Cordoba.

            “And now we move out of Spain and up into France!” Robert announced with glee.

            “When was this?”

            “1885-1910, pretty good pickings in France. Lots of traffic around the Rhine at the time, you wouldn’t believe how many ‘gangsters’ tried to take advantage of a lone man enjoying the view of the river. Just a shame really.” He said, shaking his head with what appeared to be authentic disappointment.

            Again Robert blathered on, giving him more names and corresponding dates to look up in the various cities of France, all of which were positioned somewhere near the great winding body of the Rhine.

            6:42 AM.

            They still had more than one hundred years to traverse. Adam hoped when they arrived at Seattle a more vivid picture would be painted to better his understanding.

            In 1910 he left France and headed into the dominant European power of Britain where he accumulated another mountain of corpses and ceramic mugs to match. Here the Vodnik danced around London for thirty years until mounting world tensions drove him to cross the ocean and escape to the Americas.

            “Why did you flee to the Americas?” Adam inquired, indulging the man’s intricate fantasy. “Did Adolf frighten you?”

            “Haha!” Robert chuckled. “Oh my, yes! How am I to lure unsuspecting peoples to the water when everyone is so focused on Germany and their damned war? The threat of air raids is a rather strong deterrent from venturing outside the safety of one’s home, bad for business so-to-speak.”

            “Where did you go when you arrived?”

            “I stayed in New York for quite some time, twenty years or so if I’m not mistaken. There was so much variety in the busy city that it felt like a buffet!”

            Robert fell back into his nostalgic tale, supplying detective Sumlan with more names and more victims to the growing pile of bodies. More than a dozen members of an extended Irish family, ten different Italians, five or six of Asiatic descent, and countless Americans fell into the clutches of the old world entity.

            “Nicholas, Amelia, and Jakob Frost; 1964 West Virginia, three bodies. Andrew and Sarah Litmore; 1967 South Carolina, two victims. Lenny, Dakota, and David Reed; 1972 South Carolina, three more victims.”

            Staying a couple of years in each state, the Vodnik worked his way down the east coast of the United States, camping out a few years longer along the Gulf Coast in Florida and Texas. Moving along the border of Mexico through the nineties, settling in California in 1998 where he remained until recently.

            “Finally getting somewhere.” Adam thought with relief.

            He glanced at his watch. 7:23 AM.

            “…and I just got tired of the climate I suppose, so I headed north through Oregon, claimed a young woman named Carissa Mann before renting my apartment here in Seattle.”

            Adam wrote the name Carissa Mann on the back of his fourteenth sheet of notebook paper. Drawing a line above it to separate the more relative content from what was so obviously fiction. In bold beneath the woman’s name he printed a title for the information to come; SEATTLE.

            “As you are well aware detective Sumlan, I have claimed eighteen victims thus far in Seattle, but I shall indulge you with the specifics to solidify my guilt for the sake of your investigation.”

            Detective Sumlan perked up, readying his pen for the information about to be relayed, an indisputable confession that was sure to result in a unanimous conviction.

            “First was a young man, a street kid named Darrel Reece. Next was an elderly couple named Will and Carol Davies; sweet people, lousy cooks. A single mother named Denise and her infant daughter Alex. Down by the Sound I encountered a decadently satisfying family of six, Juan and Mary; their three children Rodger, Lexi, and Layla, and grandma Santos. Then three individuals one Wednesday evening; a homeless veteran named Marcus Ditco, a nurse named Debra Einhart, and a valet…Samuel Jenkins I believe it was.”

            Adam wrote vigorously to keep pace. Every detail was lining up exactly how Robert Vodnik was detailing it. The man was certainly going away for a long time.

            “What’s that now, fourteen? Okay after Samuel Jenkins, I took a couple weeks off until coming across a newlywed couple and their visiting nephew. Hugh and Natalie Cooper; their nephew Ryan Spencer was particularly entertaining. The poor little thing actually hid behind a fort of building blocks.”

            Griping his pen tighter, Adam squeezed to the point of pain, forcing himself to focus in an attempt to quell the bubbling rage that urged him to lash out and rid the world and his city of the monster seated across from him.

            “And my latest success, the reason for my being here at this point and time, a Mr. Darrel Flow, bank teller and overly hard worker. If only he hadn’t worked so late perhaps he would not have run into me in the parking lot.”

            Putting down his pen Adam Sumlan rose from his chair, beyond prepared to leave the ‘Vodnik’ to rot. He gathered his pile of meticulous notes and headed for the door.

            With a rubbery squeak his shoe slipped out from under him, almost knocking him onto his back, but grabbing the handle of the door he maintained his balance, preventing a painful blunder.

            Robert Vodnik cackled loudly. “Watch your step Adam; it seems the floor has become a bit slippery. You’d think my coattails would have dried up a bit by now, huh?”

            Adam glanced at the floor.

            A large, rippling puddle had expanded from beneath Mr. Vodnik’s table, reaching out to the threshold of the interrogation room.

            Chills swept across his flesh, a deep feeling of concern tugging at the back of his mind. “What if the paranormal aspects of the story were true? Maybe the Vodnik and his fantastical abilities were real, how else could anyone explain the mysterious circumstances behind the victim’s deaths?”

            He forced the disturbing thought from his mind, only to have it creep back in, setting him on edge.

            As detective Sumlan removed himself from the stale room, Robert called out to him just before he was able to close off the hysterical squawking of the manic serial killer.

            “2014, Seattle Washington, one victim; Detective Adam James Sumlan!”

            He shivered.

            Out in the bull pen the hustle and bustle of the day had begun and Adam felt relieved to be surrounded by the dozens of armed officers shuffling in and out of the precinct. There was no way that Mr. Vodnik could make good on his empty threat to claim him as body number nineteen. But he couldn’t help but feel shaken by the pledge to claim his soul.

            Setting the handful of papers beside his computer Adam began to research some of the early ‘Vodnik victims’ as relayed to him from Robert’s crafted, delusional first-hand experience.

            The deeper he began to dive into the information, the more mixed his feelings grew. Each name he searched, each family, he found articles old and new detailing the same Modus Operandi as the murders in Seattle. In every case he found the same unknown cause of death, the same dampness surrounding the scene as with the scenes he’d worked.

            Another chill crept up his back.

            He felt paranoid now; his certainty in the fictitious nature of Mr. Vodnik’s fable had now begun to cloud heavily with doubt and dreadful confusion.

            Adam was certain he could feel Robert Vodnik’s eyes staring at him from the seclusion of the interrogation room, his gaze boring through layers of solid wall to rattle the detective’s nerves. He could almost hear the ballad of manic laughter as it wound its way to his desk, taunting him with its phantom resonance.

            Cupping his ears to drown out the racket, Adam failed to notice the approach of Captain Avery. With his head down Adam observed a pair of feet standing patiently beside his desk from between his crossed arms. He looked up to find the aged, rugged face of a veteran of the criminal justice system staring back at him.

            “Detective, you look awful. What’s wrong?”

            “Late night sir, I’ve been interviewing our suspect in the case of our mysterious string of serial murders. He had a story to tell, and it was quite the long story.”

            “Get anything from him?”

            “A full confession, detailed descriptions of each one of the eighteen victims including names, times, and positions. Only thing I couldn’t definitively determine was a cause of death. Robert Vodnik is a psychotic and delusional individual who believes that he has been alive since the seventeenth century and has been stealing people’s souls, storing them in the thousands of cups we found in his home.”

            “Sounds like an unfortunately adequate basis for a psych defense.”

            Adam nodded in sullen disagreement.

            “Good work Adam, you worked this case to the bitter end, take the rest of the day off, come back Monday with your paperwork rested and refreshed.”

            “Thank you sir, I think I’ll do that. This one was rough.”

            Taking his leave with a congratulatory hand shake, Captain Avery departed, retiring to his office to tend to the various duties of his assigned position, leaving Adam alone to cope with the dull throb of an oncoming migraine.

             The ache pounded behind his eyes. His senses became more sensitive to his involved environment; the burning florescent bulbs forced him to squint against the excruciatingly bright light. Ringing phones and the general clamor of the station violently bombarded his ears with an intensity so searing he was forced to flee from the workspace, seeking refuge in the pristinely white walled bathroom, all noise dying to a distant murmur as he locked the door behind him.

            Relief washed over him with such potency his legs almost gave out beneath him.

            “What the hell is happening to me?” He mumbled as he stumbled to the urinal to empty his nervous bladder.

            A soft rainfall-esc patter filled the silence, his stream making contact with the metal grate covering the drain. He sighed with satisfaction as the throbbing pressure began to dissipate. Adam just needed to get home to his wife so he could put the whole harrowing ordeal behind him. Then everything would go back to normal, everything would make sense again.

            The door handle jostled.

            “Occupied!” He yelled, his voice resoundingly loud in the hollow space.

            It jostled again.

            He took a step away from the urinal, zipping up his pants as he did so.

            “Hey buddy, give me a min…” He slipped.

            As his foot made contact with the slick pearly tile, and the thin film of water that had suddenly seeped across the floor time seemed to slow. Gravity pulled him heavily backward, the ceiling moving away as the ground rushed to meet him, slamming forcefully against his back.

            Air expelled from his lungs, leaving him breathless and writhing in the glossy puddle.

            He thrashed, desperately struggling to escape what had begun to soak through his clothing. His rags felt heavy as he rolled to his stomach, pushing up to his hands and knees, the reflection of his own face staring back at him through the ripples of the disturbed surface.

            Then, as the panic inside him began to quell, the cackling laughter of Robert Vodnik echoed through the liquid in a dull murmur. Over his shoulder the ghoulish features of the Vodnik, his green hair dangling, appeared in the water beneath him.

            He snapped his head around frantically, but no one loomed over him. Scrambling to his feet Adam Sumlan searched the two closed stalls to find them empty as well. But still the maddening giggle persisted, bouncing off the walls all around him.

            The world around him twirled as he spun. Trying to escape the squawk, his twisting feet tossed waves of translucent crystalline droplets arcing through the air. He could feel a presence in the room with him, he needed to escape but when he tried to move towards the door his feet stuck, sucked ankle deep, impossibly deep in the barely half an inch of water.

            Looking down, the distorted water revealed what appeared to be a pair of hands clasped securely around his ankle, the grinning face of Mr. Vodnik disappearing just as quickly as he had discerned its identity.

            A pressure began to build, shooting up through his legs to his chest. His body began to convulse, shaking violently as consciousness bled slowly away. Darkness took hold of the room and he could feel himself fading. Adam’s body locked, his muscles tensing with rigor-like tenacity as a strong pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, pulling him away from the living world.

            Malicious, foul words snaked in a breathy whisper into his ear. The Vodnik spoke.

            “Relax detective, let the soothing sound of my voice ease your passing. Do not be afraid, you will always be with me now. Even in death…especially in death.”

            As the last of the light faded from his eyes Adam Sumlan released his final breath, and with it his very essence. His soul.

*

            “Ahh this gets better every time.” The Vodnik snickered as a familiar heat crept through his body at a slow, euphoric pace, and finally settled in an undulating mass of fiery pleasure.

            Retrieving the cup from the table the Vodnik placed his mouth on the rim and expelled the smoky essence and its swirling blue brilliance, sealing Adam Sumlan’s soul within the ceramic chalice with a cupped handful of water.

            Kicking his feet up he waited. Waited for Adam’s body to be found, murdered in the same mysterious way as the victims he had investigated. Waited for the Seattle Police Department to release him because there was no way he could have committed the crime while locked up in custody.

            “And hey,” the Vodnik mused. “If they do lock me up I certainly won’t go hungry. There are plenty of people to choose from in prison…a certain lacking in porcelain but the details can be worked out later.”

            Cackling wildly the Vodnik lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged in his puddle admiring the glossy red boots that aided his venture; their sloshing, water logged soles connecting him to the water.

            Less than two hours later he was released due to ‘insufficient evidence’, his testimony of guilt deemed inadmissible due largely to the death of detective Sumlan. He was escorted out, his wet coattails dripping as he went, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

            The air was dense with moisture, it felt like rain. In Seattle it often did, much to the Vodnik’s delight; the torrent of droplets expanding his domain to places not typically accessible to him.

            With giddy delight he skipped off into the building storm. He had to hurry and find himself another cup of porcelain, for at the heart of his being he felt a rumbling of anticipation.

            The Vodnik was ready to hunt once more.