Andrew is a high school English teacher from Richmond, VA where he lives with his wife and two daughters. He loves doom metal, tabletop rpgs, and Gene Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun. He is the recent recipient of the Drabblecast’s 2023/24 People’s Choice Award for Best Weird Sci-Fi. He writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror.
That Old Familiar Feeling
by Andrew Giffin
My cliché preamble is finished, all the lines you’re supposed to begin a proposal with. Not that it isn’t true—I do love Julia, and I do want to spend the rest of my life with her. Saying it all so explicitly, so publicly, is awkward, but it makes her happy.
She takes rapid breaths, a hand to her chest, the way she does when trying not to cry at whatever sappy movie we’re watching. We both knew this was coming. She’s touched by the gesture of ritual. These things matter to her.
I use the handrail to ease myself to one knee—my joints aren’t what they used to be, but the knees in particular give me trouble. I fumble for the ring, half-leaning on the handrail, when I see him.
His Lordship, Septimus Aeternus.
It’s been over thirty years, but I have no doubt it’s him. Although we’re at an evening event, there’s a crowd on the museum stairs around us. Septimus hurries past, glancing at me.
We lock eyes, and my legs give out. My knee bangs concrete, my grip on the handrail saving me from a tumble. Julia’s eyes widen, but I’m already on my feet.
Septimus is gone. I scan the crowd for his dark curls and short-trimmed beard, his jaundiced olive skin, his sunken, shadowed eyes.
“Are you all right, Joseph?” Julia’s words are muffled by the internal cacophony as my heart races my thoughts.
There’s no sign of my former master, and I ignore the voice in my head insisting I’m mistaken—it’s a lookalike, a figment of my imagination. I know it was him.
“Joseph?” Her concern brings me back, and I meet her worried eyes.
“Sorry, dear, I thought…” I stop myself. I thought what? The vampire I once served has resurrected himself to enact revenge?
A memory bubbles up from where I keep them locked away—driving the stake through his heart. Sharpened wood entering his chest like a shoe through a wasps’ nest. The wound cracking outward, the whole of his flesh crumbling like dried mud. His scorched jet-black skeleton clattering to the catacomb floor, followed by his stake-impaled, wizened heart. Maggots pouring out like blood.
My scream, an unconscious trauma response echoing through the stone tunnels and the rattling bones of the dead. Skulls in the catacomb walls screaming with me for a moment before resuming their slumber.
The memory fades as Julia shakes me, real fear on her face now.
I shudder and force a smile. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m okay, though—really.”
“Joseph…” She points downward. I’ve pissed myself, the visible dark shape of my terror.
We go to the ER at Julia’s insistence, her arm linked in mine like I’m an invalid. We don’t speak on the way as I search for any sign of Septimus.
The hospital visit is humiliating—I know why I lost my balance, why I acted so confused, why I emptied my bladder involuntarily—but I can’t admit it. They’d hit me with a psychiatric hold. Then it’s only a matter of time before my identity collapses under scrutiny, and they arrest me.
I let them treat me like some doddering geriatric, half-shouting their patronizing instructions as they wipe the piss off my legs. Still, I’m relieved to be somewhere so public, so well-lit. The sense of safety is illusory—he could reach me here if he wanted—but I stifle my mounting panic.
I don’t relax until we return to my apartment—he can’t enter uninvited. Julia breaks her rule and sleeps over. It isn’t necessary, but she insists. She waits outside while I shower, asking every few minutes if I’m alright.
Julia’s a woman of principles, something I admire about her. While we’re both in our sixties, she’s been married once before. She knows what she wants and isn’t willing to compromise. This is why we live apart, why she won’t stay over, and why we haven’t had sex—she’s saving those for her next husband.
I don’t mind her rules. Rules make sense to me—whether Septimus’ or Julia’s. I prefer someone else in the driver’s seat.
She sets up the couch while I dress in pajamas. I tell her she can take the bed, but no.
“You’re the one who needs rest,” she says, her hand on my arm. She tucks me in like I’m a child, kissing my forehead goodnight.
“Julia, wait.” She pauses in the doorway, the light already off. “I had something to ask you earlier. I got interrupted.”
“It’s alright, Joseph. Get some sleep, we can discuss it in the morning.”
My sleep is haunted by Septimus, memories mixed with dream logic, colored by a background radiation of anxiety.
Septimus, strung out on the filthy floor of a flop house, crying infant-like while I inject a vacuum tube from my phlebotomy kit into an unconscious junkie.
Dragging corpses from the farmhouse to the pig pen, the music in my headphones unable to cover their horrible eating sounds.
Hypnotized as a punishment into standing on a skyscraper’s ledge all day, sobbing as my body fights exhaustion to comply with my master’s orders.
Using his money to buy a new identity when an arson investigation becomes a murder investigation—I burned an old warehouse Septimus had used to “return to his Roman roots”, hanging blood eagles like chandeliers.
Mostly I dream about the pursuit through the catacombs, his laughter echoing off the stone walls.
Julia is gone in the morning, a note explaining she went to church but wanted to let me rest. I go to my dresser, opening the false bottom in my sock drawer. Inside is a vial of holy water, a few wooden stakes, a passport with some cash, a silver cross and chain, and a handgun.
I put on the cross, the weight of it an old comfort. I take a stake as well, slipping it into my pocket. It sticks out—too long and awkward—so I cover it with my shirt. I rummage through Polaroids documenting his remains. The images of his lifeless, blackened skeleton comforts me in the midmorning sunlight.
“He’s dead, Martin. You killed him. That part of your life is over now.” I recite my old mantra—and my old name—like an incantation, squeezing my eyes shut. I used to believe those words—now I don’t.
Julia calls around noon. “Good morning darling, how’re you feeling today?”
“Much better, thanks to you. How’s church?”
“Lovely, as always. Listen, I thought it might do you good to get some fresh air, how about meeting me for brunch? The cafe at 5th and 86th?”
The address is near the Met—she’s giving me another chance. “Sounds wonderful, dear. I’m on my way. I love you.”
“I love you too, Joseph.” She hangs up.
I install blackout curtains in my bedroom before leaving with the ring.
Once outside, I assess the curtains. They’re thick, meant to block sound, too. I don’t want to be hypnotized into letting him in.
The reflection of the building’s windows reveal a man photographing me, followed by my building. I study him through the glass. He’s in his thirties, aviator sunglasses and a black tracksuit, jotting in a notepad every so often.
Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I go a couple blocks before ducking into a bodega, pretending to browse while eyeing foot traffic outside.
Aviators jogs past, stopping at the corner to make a call. He crosses the street and I notice a gun holstered to his leg, underneath the tracksuit.
Once he’s gone I leave, the cashier shouting at me for not buying anything.
The rest of the walk is occupied with worried thoughts. Aviators must be his new familiar, tracking my movements.
I reach the cafe, wondering what, if anything, I should do. Kill Septimus a second time? The first time was luck, and I had the advantage of being underestimated. I couldn’t count on either this time.
Julia has a table, standing to hug me before pulling out my chair. I smile. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
She laughs as she returns to her seat. “Your color’s better. How was the walk?” She sips her coffee, eyebrows raised—she’s asking about my health.
“Just fine, darling. Whatever happened last night has passed.”
She nods. “Well, the ER doctor said you were fit as a fiddle, so I suppose we’ll wait on the test results.”
Her lilting Southern accent accentuates her melodious voice, every word musical. We have an enjoyable meal together, afterward returning to the Met.
I stop, taking her hands. “Well, here we are again.”
“Here we are,” she agrees.
“I’ll get right to it. I’m a life-long bachelor, not for any reason other than I’ve been waiting all this time for you. I don’t want to wait another minute more.” I pull the ring out and kneel with a wince. “Julia, will you marry me?”
She smiles down at me, beautiful in the spring sunlight. Tears well up in my eyes, matching hers. “Oh Joseph, you old fool. Of course I will.” A small crowd has gathered, scattered applause as we embrace.
She agrees to start the move-in process—her lease is up in two months, and neither of us want to wait. We stroll through the city, discussing wedding plans. The afternoon is a nice distraction, a fantasy that continues upon entering the bedroom.
Julia inspects the curtains. “These are new,” she says. “It really is quite dark, isn’t it?” She pulls me close and kisses me. “Let’s break the rules,” she whispers.
*
I dream of Septimus again.
I’m approaching a rundown tenement in the lower east side, half the windows open to warm summer air. Conversations mix with obnoxious commercials and music from the radio. My master flutters somewhere above me as a raven, his preferred animal form.
At the call box, I run my thumb down the two columns of yellowed buttons. Several voices overlap in the speaker, confusion and annoyance. After a minute the door buzzes.
Inside the front hall, struggling fluorescent bulbs flicker on and off. No one on the first floor responds to my knocks beyond a gruff “Fuck off”.
On the second floor, I knock again. “Maintenance.”
The door opens, revealing a young Hispanic man. “‘Bout time, my air’s been out for weeks, man.”
He turns toward the thermostat when I feel someone beside me. Septimus, standing as far as he can against the threshold of the door. His eyes bore into the back of the man’s head with hungry intensity.
“I have my apprentice with me, okay for him to come in?”
He gives Septimus a brief glance. “Huh? Oh sure bro, come on in.” He doesn’t even have time to scream.
I close the door, locking and chaining it. My toolbox is for cleanup after the feeding; bonesaws and trashbags, gloves and tarps. A long night awaits me.
I wander the apartment, searching for valuables, when a voice calls my name. Not from the living room, but from the curtains.
Outside, Septimus is pressed against the window, his mouth staining the glass red. His palms rest flat, fingers splayed, sharpened nails dripping blood. His open mouth is like a lamprey’s, every tooth sharpened like the fangs he drinks with. The dark pools of his eyes draw me closer with mesmeric intensity, radiating his unspoken will.
“Martin…” he whispers, lips unmoving. He pulses like a bioluminescent squid in my vision. His eyes widen as his fingers arch and flex, delicate cracks in the glass creeping snake-like from his fingertips. “Let. Me. IN.”
I wake up screaming to an empty apartment. Daylight seeps in underneath the bedroom door. Julia must’ve gone to work, otherwise I might’ve been returning to the ER.
How long can you keep this going before she finds out what you are?
I rush to the curtains, eager for sunlight after the unsettling vividness of the dream. Hand on the curtain, I pause and take a breath. My heart beats between my eardrums, pulses behind my eyes.
I jerk the curtain back so hard it rips halfway off the rod. There’s no sign of Septimus. I knew there wouldn’t be during daylight, but fear never operates from a place of knowledge.
In my mind, the perfect ‘O’ of his mouth is still pressed against the glass, all I remember of him those last few years—his hunger, an unfillable void. Killing him was as much mercy as necessity. It doesn’t matter now, though. Not even death could sustain him.
A sudden bang on the window jars me from my thoughts, and I jump back with a shout. A dark shape pulses on the balcony floor. It’s a raven, neck bent at an unnatural angle from the impact.
“Septimus…?” I say, but it can’t be. He’d burn up, even in animal form. I study the bird as its head turns towards me, glassy eyes unblinking, beak opening and closing.
I leave the bedroom and emerge on the small balcony where the raven lies dying. Its wings flutter as it tries to fly, but can’t.
“Tell Septimus I’ll kill him again,” I say before stomping the bird like an insect, kicking its body to the sidewalk.
Back inside, I take armfuls of books from the bookshelf, moving them to the table until the shelves are clear. I grab my toolbox, using the empty shelves to board up the bedroom windows.
They’re exhausted before I complete the second window, so I remove cabinet doors from the kitchen and bathroom. It’s enough to finish the bedroom.
In the living room, I pause. There’s no blackout curtains—the windows are less defended here. More important than protecting myself, I need to protect Julia. She doesn’t deserve to pay for my sins.
It’s 2:30, plenty of time for the hardware store. I’ll get curtains and two-by-fours and secure the place before Julia finishes her shift. I send a text about the bird hitting the window, in case she returns first.
I lock the door and head outside, weaving my way through afternoon pedestrians and into the subway. Nearing the turnstile, I glance behind me.
Aviators stands a few people behind, suddenly interested in anything but me. Without hesitation, I push through the line and jump over the rotating metal of the turnstile.
At the platform edge, I leap onto the tracks. Concerned shouts echo off the concrete as I flee into the darkness of the tunnel, Aviators following behind.
I pump my legs harder, all pretense gone now. I run deeper underground, turning down access tunnels, descending flights of switchback stairs by jumping over the railing.
Aviators gains on me—I’m not as fast anymore, and my knees scream out in pain. I can’t keep this up much longer.
Leading him into the sewer, I turn a corner and press myself into an alcove on the metal walkway. The bricks drip with condensation as sewage rushes beneath us.
Aviators slows, having lost sight of me. LED light fills the tunnel, a police-grade flashlight. Septimus was smart to recruit a cop—easier to maintain a low profile. I take a knife from my pocket—protecting Julia is all that matters.
His cone of light sweeps the area, drawing near. It settles on me and I pounce, the blade sinking into his shoulder. Surprise and pain burst from his lips. I stab again as he reaches for his gun.
It’s too late, though—I stab until he stops moving, his blood spilling into the flow of sewage. My breathing is heavy, an overwhelming ringing in my ears.
I haven’t murdered anyone in a long time. The adrenaline and stench combine, vomit spewing from my mouth and covering Aviators.
Afterward, I take the flashlight and gun, rummaging through his pockets. I find a badge with his notebook, which I flip through.
Aviators was smart—there’s no mention of Septimus, only me. According to his notes, he’s a detective—detective Harlin O’Neill, investigating me as a suspect in a serial killer case. They want Septimus, of course—most of the victims were his (though to be fair, I did kill a few).
So this is my master’s plan: recruit a detective, frame me for murder, then…what? Arrest me, so he can have me where he wants me? I derive satisfaction from their failure as I push Aviators into the sewage. Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I spit vomit after him.
I stand as I study my surroundings. Caught up in the chase, I don’t remember how we got here. I backtrack, dropping the knife into the water. I have the detective’s gun, and the stake in case Septimus tries anything here.
A staircase leads me into a massive, open chamber. Piles of trash are strewn about, the hairy shapes of rats scurrying between them in the LED.
A steady rhythm of liquid drips nearby, like in a cavern. I crane my neck, half-expecting stalactites to hang down like fangs. The ceiling is an arched concrete dome, an urban cathedral built in worship of rot, whiskered supplicants kneeling at garbage altars.
I move through the chamber. It’s lined with Tuscan columns, adding to the strangeness. What is this place? The New York subway system is home to its fair share of secrets, but I’ve never heard of a space like this before.
A hacking cough echoes from the shifting pile to my left. It startles me, and I reach for the stake. It isn’t Septimus, though.
An old man, his face filthy with grime, is nesting inside. He wears a beanie over long, dirty-gray hair, his shirt a stiff topographical map of stains. The rest of him is buried beneath the rubbish.
Another cough, and I realize it’s laughter. “Weeeell, look what the rat dragged in!” he says with a voice bubbling up through muddy swamp water. He coughs a single, hacking staccato.
“Excuse me?”
“What’s wrong, Martin? Don’ you recognize me?” The sound of my actual name sends a chill through my body.
I approach, examining his face. He squints in the LED, and I lower the light. His mouth cracks open in a smile, revealing a few stubborn, blackened teeth. The pupil of his left eye drifts toward his ear with serpentine jerkiness, a fly crawling across a TV screen.
I don’t recognize this man, and it’s not the mask of filth or the tumorous growths emerging from his beard. I’m certain I’ve never seen him before.
“Aw, come on, Martin, don’t hurt my feelings.” He flicks his tongue like a reptile.
“That’s not my name,” I say, intended menace fizzling into uncertainty.
He chuckles, punctuating the sound by spitting. “I don’t care what you call yourself these days, Martin. We both know who you really are.”
My mouth opens and closes. When I speak again the words are a hushed whisper. “Who am I?”
“A murderer.” He winks at me, the lid only closing halfway.
“No,” I say, taking a step back. “No, you have me confused with someone else.”
“You have you confused with someone else. Heh, classic Martin.” He shakes his head, like we’re engaged in a friendly razzing.
“That is NOT my NAME,” I shout.
The smile falls from his face. “Do you think Julia wants to marry a murderer, Martin?”
My hands act on their own, faster than my mind registers. They grab the detective’s gun, thumb the safety, and unload into the man. His body jerks with each shot, wounds opening like magic.
The smile returns, followed by his wheezing laugh, louder than the echo of the gunshots off the domed ceiling. The gun clicks as I continue squeezing the trigger on the spent clip.
I toss it aside and pull out the stake, lunging at him. Bags of garbage spill over us as we sink deeper into the mass. I stab him until the laughter stops.
Shallow, labored breaths float up beneath me, and I dig through the trash to make sure he’s dead. Instead, a bloated, one-eyed rat emerges. It hisses at me, and I scramble back, clear of the pile. The furry rat outlines converge into a flowing river, diseased currents moving toward me from islands of refuse.
I run, covering the distance to the end of the room and into the tunnels. The transient’s laughter underneath the squeaking of the rats echoes in my ears.
Reaching a subway station, I fall in with the crowd, examining my clothing in the fluorescent light. I’m searching the dull rainbow of stains for blood, the detective’s or the transient’s, and find none. This is a relief until I step outside—the sun’s already set.
I trot to the corner and throw my hand up, hailing a cab. One pulls over, and I open the door.
The driver whips around, hand moving to cover his nose. “Geez Louise, where the hell you been, pal? You stink like a sewer, I can’t have you in my cab.” He pulls off without any further comment.
Home is only six blocks away, so I walk. People on the sidewalk give me a wide berth. I check my phone—a text from Julia two hours prior, letting me know she’d arrived with dinner. Another text five minutes later asks to call her asap.
How the hell are you going to explain the way you smell? If I can shower and throw the clothes out before I call her, I might not have to.
When I reach my building I hurry inside, my odor clearing out the elevator as I ride to my floor. I turn the corner and freeze.
The front door is open. The lights are off, and the place is pitch black. Every hair on the back of my neck stands at attention, protesting my approach.
My phone trembles as I fumble with the screen. Julia picks up after one ring. “Joseph, where have you been? I’ve been calling you, what the hell is going on in your apartment?”
My voice is hushed as I stare into the blackness of my home. “Julia…Julia listen to me. Did you let anyone in when you were here? Anyone at all?”
“What? What’s that got to do with—”
“Please, I’ll answer all your questions, but I need to know if someone’s in there.”
Her words strain with exasperation. “Just maintenance as I was leaving, he said he had to check your pipes, there was a leak below you.”
My hand drops to my side, Julia’s voice still in the phone speaker. “Hello? Joseph? I’m coming over.”
I return the phone to my ear. “I’ll call you back,” I whisper, and hang up. It vibrates in my hand, and I silence it as I creep towards the open door. I peer inside, careful not to cross the threshold as my fingers wrap around the stake in my pocket.
Nothing appears out of place. The bedroom door is closed, and I can’t remember if I shut it. Septimus could be waiting for me under the covers; or in the kitchen, collecting knives to torture me with.
Everything is quiet, apart from the distant sounds of the city. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, spiraling over nothing for the past few days. All I need to do is step through the door, turn the lights on, take in the empty apartment. Maybe then I can put Septimus behind me.
I don’t, though. I’m stuck in the doorway, ears straining for movement in darkened rooms.
I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: finding my master inside, or finding nothing. Part of me wants him to be there. The terrible things I did in his thrall haunt me, and I’m forgetting what it feels like to be caught in the power of his will—to lay responsibility for my heinous actions on him. If Julia witnesses his power, she’ll realize I had no choice. Maybe she’ll forgive me one day.
I stare into the darkness, kneeling in front of the open door. Eventually Julia rounds the corner, and stops short.
“What are you—” Her hand goes to her nose, and I get a glimpse of what it would be like for her to discover my past.
All the things I’ve done, the things done to me—I’m soaked in metaphysical sewage. It sinks into your bones and rots you from the inside. I study the way she glares at me, the expression of disgust, and I feel rotten inside.
“What… happened, Joseph?”
“I took a shortcut through an alley and slipped. Garbage broke my fall, but…” I indicate my filthy clothes.
She exhales heavily. “God, you stink. Why didn’t you go in and take a shower?”
I shrug. “I thought someone broke in.”
She steps over me and swings the door the rest of the way open. “Hello?”
I want to run in first, pull her back. I want to save her. Instead, I brace myself for Septimus to strike, splattering me with the blood of the woman I love.
Julia enters the dark, turning on the light. She motions me inside. “No one’s here.”
I stand and enter behind her, flooded with disgust and self-loathing. I let her go in ahead of me, knowing what could be waiting. It does no good to say I don’t want her to pay for what I’ve done, because I still let her do it. She leads me to the bathroom, shaking her head as we pass the boarded windows.
Once in the shower, she hands me a bag. “For your clothes.”
I scrub until I break the skin. Afterwards, I still reek of trash, of death.
She waits in the kitchen, and I seat myself at the table. “Joseph… This is alarming behavior. I wasn’t sure what to make of your text this morning. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But this…” She indicates the doorless cabinets and lets her words linger. No need to elaborate.
“You’re right,” I say. “You should be alarmed by this. You should run, in fact. I’m a mistake for you.”
Julia reacts as if she’s been slapped—her mouth hangs open, hurt seeping into her eyes. This isn’t how she expected the conversation to go.
“What are you talking about?” she manages, her mental landscape of me shifting before my eyes.
I’ve been dreading this, but there’s no other way. “I’m not who I say I am. There’s things I’ve done… horrible things. It would be best, for your sake, if you stayed far away from me.”
She scoffs. “If this is a joke, it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke. You’re wondering if I’m unwell? I’m so beyond ‘unwell’. You have no idea what kind of monster I am.”
Her features soften, anger melting into comprehension. “Joseph…”
“That’s not my name.” I say this with cold indifference, despite the hurt inside. Just get through this conversation. Once she’s gone, she’ll be safe.
She sits in stunned silence before backing her chair away and standing. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, all affection gone. It’s like she’s speaking to a stranger, and she is. “How dare you.”
I don’t react.
“How dare you. I broke my rules for you! I…” Her voice catches. “I trusted you. How dare you let me fall in love with you! How could you do this to me?”
I look at her then, a heavy weight pressing on my chest—you’re making a mistake. Of course I am. Julia will be alive, though. “Are you done?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Yeah, I’m done.” She walks to the door. “I’m done.”
It slams behind her, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I go back to the sock drawer and grab everything—the stakes, the passport, the money, the holy water. These all go in a small suitcase, along with a few changes of clothes before heading downstairs.
On the corner, I hail a taxi, telling the driver to take me to JFK airport. I book a flight to Rome as the city flies by.
I’m returning to the catacombs—to either find Septimus’ blackened remains, or to find them missing—in which case I’ll hunt him down and make him pay for all he’s done, all the trauma locked away inside me.
I’m sorry I hurt Julia, but also glad it happened. It allowed me to realize I don’t deserve human connection—not in the way I want it.
What will I do if it turns out I was wrong—if he’s still dead and I’ve been mistaken all this time? How can I enjoy any kind of normal life with his return hanging over me? I never should have left his remains alone. I never should have left.
Thirty years ago I served him, preserving his life. The only way I can live with myself is to devote the rest of my days to preserving his death. Once a familiar, always a familiar.
Copyright 2026 by Andrew Giffin