Deborah took on more responsibilities, overseeing the household and ensuring everything was in order. She became the glue that held their lives together, while Henry seemed more withdrawn, spending his days in isolation after their return from the island. As the days passed, Deborah noticed a change in Henry. He became more restless, sweating through his clothes and wincing in pain when he thought she wasn't looking. Growing increasingly worried, she repeatedly urged him to see a doctor, fearing that something was seriously wrong. But each time, Henry brushed her off, insisting it was nothing more than exhaustion from the traumatic experience. Deborah, however, wouldn't give up. She could see her brother's condition worsening, his skin growing pale and his movements sluggish. After days of persistence, Henry finally gave in to her demands. With a heavy sigh, he lifted his shirt, revealing an unsettling sight, a dark, jagged mark on his side, exactly where the monster had scratched him during the fight. The area around the scratch looks infected, with dark veins spidering out from the wound. Deborah's heart raced as fear gripped her. Henry, what is this? She asked, her voice trembling. He avoided her gaze, his face pale. I didn't want to worry you. I thought it would heal, but it's not getting better. Deborah took a step back, terrified by what she saw. The memory of the monsters on the island and their deadly bites flashed through her mind. She was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. Deborah's fear wasn't just for Henry's safety anymore, it was for her own. The dark mark on his side, the way his body seemed to be changing, brought back haunting memories of the monsters they had barely escaped from. Her mind raced with questions: Could he be turning into one of them? What if it's too late? Henry noticed her hesitation, his eyes darkening with guilt. I don't want to scare you, Deborah, but. I don't know what's happening to me. His voice was shaky, a rare vulnerability showing through. I've tried to ignore it, hoping it would just go away, but it's getting worse. Deborah's fear was now mixed with desperation. She couldn't lose Henry, not after everything they had been through, not after losing their parents. We need to get you to a hospital, she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Maybe they can do something before. It's too late. Henry shook his head. What if they can't? What if I've already changed? His eyes, wide with uncertainty, searched hers for an answer she didn't have. Deborah stepped closer, pushing past her fear. We'll figure it out, Henry. But you can't fight this alone. I'm not going to let this thing take you from me. Her words seemed to reach him, and with a reluctant nod, Henry finally agreed. They would go to the hospital. But as they prepared to leave, both of them couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out, and the unknown terror growing inside Henry might already be too powerful to stop.
On the fifth morning of Henry's illness, Deborah went to check on him, as she had done every day since he began to decline. She knocked gently on his door, but there was no answer. She knocked again, louder this time, calling his name. Still, nothing. A sense of dread crept into her mind, tightening its grip as each second passed in silence. Panic began to surge in her chest, and she started beating on the door, calling out desperately, Henry! Henry, are you okay? Please, open the door! Her frantic knocking soon drew the attention of the housemaid, who rushed over in concern. Deborah's voice grew louder, her desperation mounting. Henry! Answer me! When there was still no response, she turned to the male servant nearby. Break down the door! She commanded, her voice sharp with urgency. The servant hesitated for only a moment before complying. With a few hard strikes, the door was forced open. Deborah rushed inside, her heart raced wildly. There, on the bed, lay Henry —motionless and pale. His body looked limp, his face drained of colour as if life itself had abandoned him. Deborah's heart sank at the sight. She walked slowly toward him, her legs trembling with fear. Henry? She whispered, her voice cracking. She gently tapped his shoulder, hoping for any sign of movement. Nothing. Her hands shook as tears welled up in her eyes. No. Please, no, she muttered. A tear slipped down her cheek as she leaned over him, her head resting on his chest, sobbing softly. Everyone leaving the room, she ordered in a shaky voice, wanting to be alone with her brother for what she feared might be the last time. The house staff quietly retreated, leaving Deborah in the silent room. She wept, laying her head on his cold, unmoving body, holding him close, overwhelmed by grief. As she finally stood up to cover Henry's face with a blanket, her heart heavy with sorrow, she heard a sound, a faint sneeze. Startled, she turned toward the bed. Henry was stirring, slowly rising from where he had been lying. Henry? Deborah exclaimed, rushing back toward him. Henry, are you okay? Her heart raced with a mixture of hope and disbelief. Henry blinked, groggy but alive. Deborah. I'm hungry, he muttered, his voice raspy but steady. Relief flooded Deborah. After five long days of weakness and silence, Henry was speaking again, and his hunger was a sign of life. Oh my God, Henry! She cried, smiling through her tears. She quickly called for food, eager to see him eat and regain his strength.
The house staff wasted no time, bringing a tray of freshly cooked dishes into the room. Deborah watched hopefully as the plates were set before Henry, her heart lifting as she imagined him eating and recovering from whatever illness had gripped him for days. Henry reached for the food, but the moment he took a bite, his expression changed. He winced and spat the food out, his face twisted in disgust. What's wrong? Deborah asked, confused. Is it not to your liking? Henry tried again, taking another small bite, but the same thing happened. He spat it out immediately as if the food burned his tongue. It tastes awful, he muttered, pushing the plate away. Deborah, perplexed, took a bite herself. The food tasted fine—just as it always had. Henry, this is good food! Why can't you eat it? But no matter how much Deborah insisted, Henry couldn't keep anything down. Each time he tried, the taste seemed unbearable, and his frustration grew. By the third attempt, Deborah's confusion had turned into anger. You haven't eaten in days, Henry! You need to eat something! She snapped, her worry fueling her irritation. But Henry shook his head. I can't, Deborah. It doesn't taste right. Nothing does. Furious and frightened, Deborah stormed out of the room, leaving Henry alone. He sat in silence, staring at the untouched food. Something deep within him was changing—he could feel it. His body carved something, but it wasn't what was on the plate in front of him. That day, Henry lay in bed, restless and hungry, battling an inner turmoil he couldn't yet understand.
Later that night, Henry stepped out of his room for the first time in five days, driven by a hunger he could no longer ignore. The house was quiet, and everyone else had gone to bed. As he rushed out of the main building, he moved with a primal urgency, prowling around the compound like a hungry lion on the hunt. He made his way to the backyard, where he had once tended to domestic animals—birds, goats, and the like. Without hesitation, he entered the enclosure and seized one of the birds. In a swift motion, he pulled off its head and drank its warm blood. A rush of exhilaration surged through him, and for the first time in days, he felt a semblance of strength returning to his body. But the reality of what he had just done struck him like a cold wave. He staggered back to his room, where he rushed to a mirror, but to his shock, he saw nothing. His reflection was absent. What is going on? He cried out, panic rising in his chest. Am I a vampire? The realization hit him hard, and he was left breathless, grappling with his new reality. From that day forward, everything about Henry changed. His once jovial personality faded; he became quieter and more reserved. Where he had been lively and engaging, he now talked less and contemplated more. His youthful exuberance was replaced by an eerie calm, and he appeared even younger and more handsome, though there was an unsettling aura about him. Henry withdrew from the world around him, opting for the solitude of his home. He stopped attending school, hiring a private tutor instead, and ventured outside only under the cover of darkness. Deborah, his sister, noticed the stark transformation in her brother. She sensed something was off but struggled to understand what was wrong. Each day, she worried about his refusal to leave the house during the day. One afternoon, as Deborah prepared to leave for school, she mentioned bringing Tamara along for a visit. Henry's response was immediate and firm. Don't, he said, his voice flat. Why not? Deborah snapped back, frustration boiling over. You've refused to go to school ever since we got back from the island incident! Tamara is worried sick about you. She says you don't even pick up her calls. What's going on, Henry? What's the problem? Deborah's gaze bore into his, searching for answers. Henry felt the urge to confess his new identity, to explain the darkness that had enveloped him, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he turned his face away. Just leave me alone, he muttered. No, I can't! Deborah replied, her voice rising with desperation. You're my only family. I need you, Henry. You have to tell me what's eating you up. She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him from behind, resting her head gently against his back. Please, Brother. Whatever it is, just know I'm always here for you. We will always be, my brother, and nothing will change that. Henry felt her warmth and the sincerity in her words, and for a fleeting moment, he considered opening up. But the weight of his secret pressed down on him, a reminder of the chasm that now lay between them. Henry's heart ached with the knowledge that he was no longer the brother Deborah once knew. He felt her warmth, her unwavering support, yet he feared that revealing his true self would shatter the bond they shared. As the days passed, Henry's internal struggle intensified. He found solace in the night, relishing the quiet and the freedom it offered. But each time Deborah reached out, he felt a pang of guilt. She deserved to know the truth, but he couldn't bear to burden her with the horror of his new existence. One evening, as they sat together in the dimly lit living room, the tension in the air was palpable. Deborah, her expression a mix of concern and frustration, finally broke the silence. You can't keep shutting me out, Henry. It's not healthy. We need to talk about what happened to you. Henry clenched his fists, his heart racing. "You wouldn't understand, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Try me," she insisted, her gaze unwavering. I want to help you. You're my brother, and I care about you. Please, just tell me what's going on. He looked at her, the pleading in her eyes piercing through his defences. For a moment, he considered confessing, to reveal the monstrous transformation he had undergone. But the fear of her reaction, of losing her trust, of seeing her fear him held him back. Instead, he forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil within. I'm fine. Just tired, I guess. Deborah's expression softened, but her concern remained. You've been tired for weeks. This isn't normal, Henry. You're isolating yourself, and it's scaring me. At that moment, Henry felt a swell of frustration. I'm not isolating myself! I just need some space, he snapped, the defensive tone surprising even himself. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted it, seeing the hurt flicker across Deborah's face. I'm just trying to help you, she replied quietly, backing away slightly as if his words had physically pushed her away. "You don't have to go through this alone." As she retreated, Henry's heart sank. He longed to reach out, to explain everything, the darkness, the hunger, the new identity that had consumed him. But the fear of what that truth might do to their relationship paralyzed him. Instead, he sat in silence, staring at the floor, feeling the weight of his secret pressing down even harder. In the following days, Henry continued to navigate his new reality, distancing himself further from the light of day. The nights became his refuge, but the loneliness gnawed at him. He would often hear Deborah's footsteps in the hallway, her quiet conversations with friends, and it pained him to know that he was pushing her away. One night, as he roamed the darkened halls, he overheard Deborah on the phone, her voice tinged with worry. I don't know what's wrong with him, Tamara. He's just not himself. It's like he's become a different person. I'm really scared. Those words struck Henry deeply. He wanted to scream that he was still her brother, that he was still the same person inside, but he couldn't bring himself to respond. He was trapped in this new existence, struggling to find a way back to her without exposing the monster he had become.