Let this be a warning to you all.
It was October 3rd when it all started. After staying at my boyfriend’s house for the night, I came home in the early hours of the morning to find my chihuahua lying on the ground, eyes glossy and breathing strained. Immediately, I took him to the vet, where it was noted that he had two puncture wounds on his neck. I was told that something must have bitten him and drained a significant amount of blood. The vet suggested that the creature responsible was a vampire bat; she said that I should call pest control and stay at someone else’s house in the meantime.
A few days later, pest control called me back saying they scoured the house, but didn’t find any vampire bats. They told me to move back in and to call them again if there were any continuing issues.
The next morning, my dog was lying on the floor, breathing heavily again. This time, I vowed that I would catch this malicious creature. For days, I decided to stay up, hiding in a closet, daring the creature to strike again. On October 15th, it finally did—except what I saw was definitely not a bat. What appeared to be a man, pale and lanky, had his teeth hitched in my poor dog’s neck. I picked up a baseball bat and slowly approached him, trying to keep quiet. I must have failed because the man swiftly turned his head toward me, which is when I realized that this wasn’t a man at all—it was a vampire. Before I could do anything, it escaped through the sliding door and jumped off the balcony.
At 5 am the next morning, I sent my dog to a friend’s house and called for some help—his name was Dr. Van Helsing, an expert on vampires with a five-star rating on ratemds.com. When I called, he didn’t pick up (only the default automated message responded, which I thought nothing of), so I left a voicemail and waited. Around 7:00 pm, I heard a knock on my door.
The man at my door wore a wrinkled Rolling Stones t-shirt with a leather jacket and, in his hand, I could see a cane—not exactly what I expected Dr. Van Helsing to look like. I let the man inside and explained my vampire problem. Much to my surprise, he started laughing. He then said something along the lines of, “vampires, seriously? I bet you still think that Santa is responsible for the gifts under your chimney—spoiler alert, it’s your parents.”
Confused by his demeaning comment, I questioned his identity. He responded by saying that he was Dr. House—the best diagnostician in the world, apparently—and that Dr. Van Helsing was a quack he knew from med school (looking into this now, I’ve noticed that Dr. House and Dr. Van Helsing have nearly identical phone numbers, with the only difference being the last digit—which explains how this error must have occurred).
Before I could respond, Dr. House started rummaging around my fridge, grabbing some garlic dip and leftover fries. While munching down on my food, he pointed to a “live, laugh, love” sign and began to guffaw, telling me that I was the type of person to be named “Brittany—but spelled B-R-I-T-N-E-I-G-H.” (My name is in fact Britneigh, spelled that exact way, but I wasn’t about to let him know that). I told him that the sign was a gift from my dead mother, to which he responded by saying the “live” part was a little ironic coming from a dead woman.
By then, I had completely had it with him. I was fed up with his insults and demeaning comments and was ready to kick him out. Before I could, the sound of a window shattering rang throughout my home. Emerging from the broken glass was the vampire from last night.
First, the creature lunged at Dr. House, but seemed to back off after he opened his mouth in shock (smelling his garlic breath, no doubt). Next, it lunged at me—it pinned me down to the ground, opened its mouth wide, and began to lower its jaw toward my neck. Before it could actually bite me, Dr. House interrupted.
“You have erythropoietic protoporphyria,” he said. I don’t mean to be profane, but in the moment, all I could think was “what the fuck?” The vampire seemed to be thinking the same thing as me because it just sat there, mouth agape, staring at Dr. House. “You have pale skin and broke into this woman’s house at night—if I had to guess, it’s because you burn in the sun.”
“Yes, because it’s a vampire!” I exclaimed, but was quickly met with a “shut up” from Dr. House.
“You also smell of iron and went for this woman’s jugular, which means that you have a thirst for blood,” he continued.
“Which proves it’s a—” Dr. House cut me off before I could finish my sentence.
“Your thirst for blood indicates that you’re anemic. The anemia and burning in the sun are both evidence of erythropoietic protoporphyria.” Dr. House cleared his throat overdramatically, as if he was about to give a long speech. “In normal people, ferrochelatase adds ferrous iron to protoporphyrin IX to form heme—but you’re not normal. You have a mutation in your ferrochelatase gene, causing a ferrochelatase deficiency. You don’t have enough ferrochelatase to clear the protoporphyrin, so it builds up, causing swelling, itching, and sometimes even second-degree burns when you’re exposed to the sun.” Dr. House then pulled out a prescription pad and began scribbling something down. “I’m prescribing you afamelanotide—a drug known to help erythropoietic protoporphyria—and iron supplements,” he said, passing the vampire the prescription. The vampire was sitting limply, staring at the prescription, when a plate fell on the ground. Dr. House and I both turned to look at the shattered plate and, when we turned back, the vampire was gone.
“I’m assuming you don’t know what his name was?” Dr. House asked. I didn’t respond. “Well, I guess then you’re the one that’s gonna have to pay for my services.” He then handed me a bill for $10,000 before limping away.
As I write this article, I’m sitting in my living room, head in my hands, wondering how I’m ever going to pay this off.
