The Death Of A Cosplayer

Dylan had heard the stories, creatures prowling the night, hunting for bodies. Ghouls, zombies, vampires. Vampires were his favorite version. No one really believed them. Not even him.

The comic convention had been a bust. Maybe a dozen people showed up in costume, and not one recognized his Strider cosplay. Disappointed, he ducked out early, grabbed gas, and pointed his rattling car toward the highway. The muffler had a hole, the backfire drew stares, and one speaker buzzed if the volume went over twenty-five. Still, it was his car, and he was saving for something better before college.

By sunset the temperature had plunged below freezing. He hadn’t seen another vehicle for thirty minutes when his headlights caught a figure walking down the center of the highway. Dylan eased off the gas. He expected a drifter or someone stranded, but as the beams swept closer he saw a girl: skinny, blonde, dressed in a white top, black skirt, and boots. She looked like a cosplayer, maybe even one of the vampire hunters from the convention.

He rolled to a stop. The girl broke into a run, boots striking the pavement, and came straight to the passenger door. Dylan lowered the window.
“Hey,” he called. “You want a lift? I’m headed to Clarkston.”

The blonde girl slid into the seat, teeth chattering. “Thanks, mister. I am Drucilla. You said Clarkston? That’s perfect… that’s where I’m headed.”

Dylan cranked the heater and shrugged off his Letterman jacket, handing it over. She pulled it on gratefully, drowning in the fabric. Up close she was prettier than he expected—sharp features, wide eyes that gave her a vaguely European look. Maybe a year older than him.

“You were at the con, right?” Dylan asked carefully. “Drucilla? How’d you end up out here?”

She smiled, then glanced at his costume and made a face. “Oh, you’re Strider. Got it.” Her laugh was light, almost mocking. “Yeah, my boyfriend Peterro ditched me. He was the one trying to cosplay a vampire—looked more like a homeless guy. He always takes it too far. ‘Blah blah, I vant to suck your blood.’” She curled her fingers like fangs and made sucking noises before rolling her eyes.

“Dracula, right.” Dylan grinned and held out his hand. “I’m Dylan. Or Strider. Whichever works.”

She shook his hand, her smile widening. “Strider. I like it.” She leaned back in the seat, still wrapped in his jacket. “And I’m starving. For saving my life, how about I buy you dinner? But first I need to swing by work and grab my paycheck. And don’t even start with the ‘it was no bother’ thing—it’s the least I can do for a fellow cosplayer.”

Dylan grinned. “Sure, sounds good.” He twisted the dial and turned the volume up until the speaker buzzed. Some old rock ballad poured through the static. He thought it was Aerosmith.

“Crazy,” Drucilla sang, her voice slipping right into the melody. She didn’t just sing…she owned it, weaving her own riffs, harmonies, even little gestures with her arms and hips like she was born on stage. Song after song, she knew them all, and Dylan found himself half-watching the road, half-watching her.

“You’re beautiful… I mean, your voice is beautiful.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. His face burned. Silence stretched long enough for regret to sink in until Drucilla flashed him a smile and kept right on singing.

They reached the Clarkston exit, Dylan couldn’t tell if the drive had lasted five minutes or fifty. Drucilla finally stopped singing long enough to give him directions. “Take a left up here, my office is in the middle of the old amusement park.”

Dylan blinked. “Your office?”

She laughed softly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I work as an accountant for a firm of architects. Trust me—it looks stranger than it is.”

The road narrowed, and soon the rusted gates of the amusement park loomed ahead, flaking paint and chain-link fence silhouetted in the fading light. Dylan eased the car through and followed her pointing finger toward a darkened building near the center.

“You can park here,” Drucilla said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Come inside if you want.”

Dylan cut the engine, the sudden quiet making the place feel even emptier, and climbed out to follow her in.

The amusement park looked abandoned, its six-foot fence more for keeping memories in than trespassers out. Inside, the ground was littered with broken bottles, scraps of clothing, and half-dismantled rides. Specialty shops slumped in silence. The faint odor of popcorn and cotton candy lingered like ghosts, a sweetness that only made the place feel hollower.

“Just ignore the mess,” Drucilla said with an embarrassed smile. “The cleanup crew hasn’t been through yet.”

They rounded a corner—and Drucilla froze. Her breath hitched, eyes locking on a figure in the shadows. “Shit. Peterro’s here. If he sees us together, he’s going to lose it.”

Dylan followed her gaze. The man was older, mid-twenties, and Dylan recognized him instantly—the scruffy “vampire” from the convention. Peterro’s eyes narrowed the moment he spotted them. His expression darkened as he started toward them with purpose.

Drucilla’s voice dropped, urgent. “Oh no. Peterro’s got a temper, and he loves to fight. Do you even know how to fight?”

Dylan’s stomach dropped. “Fighting? No… not really.”

Her eyes widened, flickering with worry.

Peterro closed the distance, calling Drucilla’s name. His shoulders squared, fists clenched, eyes locked on Dylan. “You’re thinking of trading me for him?”

Dylan swallowed hard. He tried to mimic the stance, puffing his chest, fists loose at his sides. “Maybe you shouldn’t have made her walk back from Dayton,” he said, but the words cracked, more question than challenge.

Peterro tilted his head, eyes flicking to Drucilla. His tone softened, almost coaxing. “What’s it going to be? You haven’t fed in six weeks. You need it, and here he is. Served up for you.”

“I don’t want trouble,” Dylan said, forcing steel into his voice. “But I won’t run, either.”

Drucilla stepped forward, shaking her head. Her voice was sharp with pleading. “Peterro, just let him go. Dylan’s a nice guy. We had fun in the car, singing along, laughing. Even his cosplay is adorable. He’s Strider, the ranger.”

Dylan blinked. Adorable? The word lodged in his brain, tugging a grin to his lips despite the danger.

Peterro’s face twisted. “Don’t do this to me, Drucilla. I have plans.”

Her eyes narrowed. The argument shifted tone, weary and familiar, like they’d fought this one before. “You’re always going out. Always leaving me here alone. We never have fun anymore. Just let him go. I’ll make do with whatever I can find.”

Peterro’s voice was cold, deliberate. “Well, if you’re not going to do anything, I will.”

He lunged. From behind a trailer he snatched up a hidden baseball bat, swinging in one fluid motion. The crack against Dylan’s skull was deafening—light flared, pain detonated along his temple, and the ground rushed up.

Drucilla screamed. “What the hell, Peterro? I told you to let him go!”

Peterro didn’t even flinch. “You’re refusing to feed because you sang together? Pathetic. Now the problem’s solved. You can eat, everyone wins.” He tossed the bat aside and turned his back. “I’ll be back before dawn.”

Dylan lay half-conscious, vision fractured into blurs and shadows. His head throbbed with the worst pain he’d ever known. Feeding? What did they mean by that? His arms felt like sandbags. His thoughts wouldn’t hold together.

Drucilla knelt, cradling his face in her hands. “Peterro always makes choices for me. Always controls me. I’m done with it.” Her voice was fierce, trembling. “You wait here. I’ll make this right.”

Her face slipped from his vision, and cold seeped through him—numbness creeping bone-deep. Every heartbeat made the pounding in his skull worse, until he could hardly remember his own name.

When she returned, she was transformed. Blood darkened her hair, her lips glistened red, her cheeks flushed with stolen life. She dropped to her knees, gathered Dylan’s head in her hands, and kissed his forehead.

“I like you, Dylan,” she whispered. “But you’re dying. To save you, I’ll have to turn you.”

Turn me? Into a vampire? The thought barely formed before her lips sealed against his. Then the sting of fangs slid into his neck. White-hot fire shot through his veins, searing, stealing, draining. His limbs went heavy, unresponsive, as if the ground itself was pulling him down.

Drucilla pulled back only long enough to slash her wrist and press it to his mouth. Warm, metallic, salty—the taste was repulsive, yet irresistible. His throat worked before his mind could stop it. With each swallow, the world shifted. Her blood carried more than life; it carried her.

Visions crashed over him like waves. A Paris street at dusk. Salt spray from a ship’s deck as it crossed the Atlantic. Candlelit rooms full of laughter. Endless nights of loneliness, a hunger that never slept. Centuries compressed into heartbeats. He felt her passion for beauty, her fierce will to survive, and the raw ache of being left behind again and again. The weight of it pressed tears to his eyes.

Through it all, Drucilla held him, fingers threading through his hair, whispering comfort he barely heard. When the torrent eased, Dylan gasped, opening his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Thank you for choosing me.”

Her lips brushed his forehead, then lingered at his mouth. He kissed her back, weak but certain, the borrowed memories burning inside him. The words rose unbidden, a mirror of what shone in her eyes:

“I love you.”

Author’s Note

“The Death of a Cosplayer” is a short-short story (about 1,700 words) that I originally submitted to Writer’s Digest in January 2022. It was inspired by a longer project I was working on at the time, where the brother of the main character was killed. I found myself intrigued by the idea and decided to explore it further, fleshing Dylan out into his own story.

Although it didn’t place in the top ten, the process of writing it was deeply rewarding. If you’d like to see the winning entries, they can be found in the September/October 2022 issue of Writer’s Digest at writersdigest.com.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

—Dennis