Alaska Was Supposed to Be an Escape

Willow and Lacey finally arrive in Alaska, but their adventure begins with lost luggage, subzero temperatures, and the uneasy feeling that something is already wrong. While the two friends try to settle into Fairbanks and adapt to the brutal cold, back home the investigation into the so-called “vampire killings” escalates into full-blown hysteria. Detectives Rhodes and Reynolds brief the department on the mysterious figure stalking the city as the media turns tragedy into sensationalism, leaking details never meant for public ears.

Meanwhile, Darius awakens alone inside Willow’s townhome, consumed by hunger, rage, and impulses growing darker by the hour. What unfolds is disturbing, primal, and deeply unsettling as the line between obsession, sickness, and monstrosity begins to blur.

In this chapter of Blades of Glass, the tension tightens from every direction. Alaska becomes more than a destination. It becomes the backdrop for isolation, dread, and something waiting beneath the surface. 

Show Notes

•  Willow and Lacey arrive in Fairbanks, Alaska after an exhausting flight 
•  Lacey’s luggage goes missing, leaving her stranded in brutal Arctic temperatures without winter clothing 
•  The harsh reality of Alaska’s climate sets in immediately as the women navigate frozen parking lots and plugged-in vehicles in negative 25-degree weather 
•  Willow’s deep respect for the military is explored through the tragic story of the soldier who rescued her from the car accident that killed her parents 
•  The lodge atmosphere introduces a quiet sense of isolation and exhaustion as the pair settle into unfamiliar surroundings 
•  Detective Rhodes briefs officers on the mysterious pale figure connected to the blood-related attacks terrorizing the city 
•  The media begins sensationalizing the murders, labeling the unknown suspect a “vampire” despite police resistance 
•  A newspaper leak exposes confidential investigative details, convincing Rhodes there is a mole inside the department 
•  Public hysteria grows as headlines blur the line between fact, folklore, and fear 
•  Darius awakens inside Willow’s home and spirals further into disturbing compulsions tied to blood, hunger, and obsession 
•  The chapter dives deeper into psychological horror, bodily decay, addiction-like behavior, and predatory instincts 
•  Themes of isolation, trauma, media exploitation, and hidden monstrosity intensify as the story shifts between Alaska and the ongoing investigation back home 
•  The episode closes with Darius discovering Willow’s laptop, hinting that his intrusion into her life is about to become far more dangerous

Blades of Glass: A Town Stained in Silence is a Twisted Chapters True Crime Original, written and adapted from the novel Blades of Glass by Rudy Stankowitz, available on Amazon. This episode was produced by Joy Riddle, mixed by Cleo Hatshesup, and executive produced by Doodle & Lizzie Borden. For full transcripts and bonus content, click the sow notes

Transcript

 The plane touched down at Fairbanks International Airport shortly before midnight. Willow and Lacey, exhausted but exhilarated, were eager to collect their belongings and collapse into bed at the lodge. They descended the escalator to the ground level, following the corridor toward the baggage carousel. Luggage of various shapes and sizes was already circulating on the conveyor belt, a uniform sea of black interspersed with a few colored bags, all moving in no particular order.

Passengers crowded around the carousel, jostling for position. Arms extended to retrieve checked items, resembling a nineteenth-century train’s catcher snatching mail pouches with the Railway Mail Service’s "Mail on the Fly" technique. Young soldiers in uniform, returning home for leave or reporting for duty, pulled stuffed duffle bags marked with their names. Willow walked over to the service members standing beneath a bright yellow biplane emblazoned with the city’s name, hanging from the ceiling, and thanked them for their service.

Willow Sullivan held a special place in her heart for the men and women of the military, a sentiment deeply rooted in her personal history. A soldier on leave had been the one to happen upon the burning wreck that had claimed her parents. With unwavering bravery, he pulled Willow from the flames. This became a cornerstone of her existence, shaping her admiration for the military. 

Growing up, she carried the memory of her rescuer’s courage, and it fueled her dedication as a trauma nurse. For Willow, honoring the military was not just a duty but a deeply personal tribute to the heroes who embodied the courage and dedication she strived to emulate in her own life. She sincerely appreciated their tireless efforts in keeping the country safe, understanding firsthand the sacrifices they made. Their valor on the battlefield mirrored the bravery that had given her a second chance at life, reinforcing her gratitude and respect for their service.

Lacey stood at one end of the oval whirligig next to a glass case housing a massive taxidermied grizzly bear. Nearby, an identical case contained its arctic cousin. While Willow approached the rental car counter, Lacey watched for their luggage amid the myriad wheeled bags circulating beneath the restored Curtiss aircraft. The crowd thinned, as did the number of bags on the carousel.

Eventually, the flow of luggage ceased. Lacey stepped closer to the belt, turning over the remaining bags to see if she had missed their belongings. She handled each piece of luggage, hoping she was mistaken, but she knew she wasn’t.

“I got the keys,” Willow announced.

“Yes, but you don’t have any underwear,” Lacey replied, pointing out the obvious.

Willow looked around and realized that they were the only two left at the baggage carousel, and their bags were nowhere in sight. The two young women, still dressed in Florida clothes, approached the Alaska Air customer service desk.

“We have a problem,” Lacey said to the agent.

“How can I help you?”

“Neither of our bags is here,” Lacey explained.

“Okay, just let me get some information.”

“You don’t understand,” Willow interjected. “All our clothes for this weather were in those bags.”

The agent reassured them, explaining that the airline would locate their bags. She saw that the luggage had reached Seattle but missed the Alaska flight. They could purchase necessary items and bring the receipts to the customer service desk when they returned for their flight home.

“The airline apologizes for the inconvenience. We will happily reimburse you for any necessary purchases,” the agent said.

“So, WWA failed to get our stuff here?” Lacey asked, noting the first two legs of their trip were with a different airline.

“We show Worldwide Air checked the items into Seattle. That’s the last entry we have at this time.”

Willow and Lacey began walking across the airport's lower level toward the doors leading outside to the rental car parking area. Halfway there, a voice called out behind them.

“Miss! Miss!”

They turned to see the agent at the customer service desk motioning for them to return.

“Is this your bag?” she asked, pulling a black Oakley Motion rolling gear bag from the M.I.A. luggage room behind the counter.

“Yes, it’s mine,” Willow said.

Lacey stepped forward, hoping hers would be next, but was again disappointed. Willow tried to comfort her friend, suggesting they head out early to buy what she needed until her bag arrived. The clerk’s friendliness and Alaska Airlines’ understanding were a pleasant surprise, considering it was a different airline altogether that lost Lacey’s luggage.

“Fuck Worldwide Air!” Lacey exclaimed as she stepped outside into the subzero temperatures.

Willow ran ahead to locate and start the vehicle so her severely underdressed friend could quickly jump inside.

“What are you doing?” Lacey asked.

“I have to unplug the car.”

“You rented an electric car?”

“No, all the cars have to be plugged in,” Willow explained. “Otherwise, they won’t start if they sit for hours or more.”

“Like an engine warmer?”

“I guess,” Willow said. “The rental car lady just said not to forget to unplug it before we drive off.” 

The Lodge wore a log cabin façade, and the snow crunched underfoot as Willow pulled the rented Nissan into a parking space in the front lot. Waist-high concrete posts, barely visible under the white blanket, stood with power receptacles at the vertex of four spaces. Willow shifted the gear selector into park and stepped out of the vehicle into the arctic air. The marquee at Fairbanks International Airport across the street displayed a biting negative 25 degrees. 

The cold stung her hands as she grasped the short length of the three-pronged cable, plugging it into the extension cord from the rental agency and then into the outlet on the post.

Neither woman noticed the moose head hanging above the front desk as they checked in. They missed the mounted king salmon and the polar bear display on a loft-like landing next to an old piano player. The hideous burbot fish, claimed by locals to taste like lobster, went unseen above the lodge’s dining area entrance. They were too exhausted from the long flight. Airplane sleep was a mockery of rest, leaving them as tired as if they hadn’t slept at all.

Once in their room, the weary travelers kicked off their shoes and pulled back the duvets. Willow didn’t even unpack. She wheeled her luggage to the corner, slipped off her jeans, and climbed in. She turned to say goodnight to Lacey but saw that her friend was already fast asleep. Willow reached for the center of the double lamp sconce, dimming the small space.

Willow awoke to the sound of running water from the bathroom near the entrance. The door was open, allowing the light to spill into the hallway. Her steps were unsteady as she walked over to see what was happening. Before she reached the doorway, Lacey stepped out, brushing her teeth.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Lacey said through a mouthful of foam.

“No, it’s fine,” Willow replied. “Where’d you get a toothbrush?”

“I got dressed and went to the front desk,” Lacey explained. “There’s a cup of coffee for you over there.”

It was 9:30am, but the sun had not yet risen. They knew Alaskan winters meant short days, but the lingering dark of morning was unexpected. Instead of the black sky of night, they saw a bluish hue, a wintry twilight reminiscent of snow-covered landscapes on old-school Christmas cards.

Lacey called the airline immediately after her morning routine. Her luggage was still somewhere beneath Canada. The next flight from Seattle wouldn’t arrive until 6:30 that evening. The desk clerk mentioned a Fred Meyer store a few miles down Airport Way. 

Lacey didn’t want to spend the first half of their first day in Alaska shopping for winter clothes, but she refused to let the lost luggage ruin their trip. A few hours shopping and then off to explore "The Last Frontier."

Willow placed her bag on the bed, stacking items into smaller categorized piles. Once organized, she moved the piles to the dresser drawers opposite the beds, next to the black mini-fridge and microwave. She claimed the two bottom drawers, leaving the top two for Lacey’s belongings.

“You brought that with you?” Lacey asked, pointing to the dart in Willow’s suitcase.

“Of course I did,” Willow said. “That dart is the reason we’re in Alaska.”

“No,” Lacey corrected. “A Puerto Rican girl with horrible aim is the reason we’re in Alaska. I was shooting for Hawaii.” 

Rhodes stood alongside Reynolds in front of uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives in the briefing room at the station. Captain O’Neil, Charlie Ettish, and Doctor Arnold Simmons accompanied them. The murmuring from multiple conversations provided a background noise like that of a bustling food court.

“Ahem, Ahem,” Captain O’Neil gruffly cleared his throat to silence the side conversations, signaling that it was time to begin.

“We are currently searching for this man,” Rhodes began, addressing the room. Light from the glass block window cascaded across the faces of the uniformed officers in the first row. Reynolds manipulated the laptop, projecting the sketch artist’s interpretation onto the pull-down screen above the podium. Rows of folding chairs filled with officers in blue and detectives in two-button jackets formed orderly columns.

“He is somewhere between 5-feet-10-inches and 6-feet-2-inches tall. He wears a goatee and appears clean-shaven otherwise. He has been seen mostly at night, except when he attempted to purchase pigs’ blood from the meat place,” Rhodes informed the department.

“Is this the suspect in that vampire case?” someone asked.

“He is not a suspect at this time,” Rhodes clarified. “Right now, this is simply a person of interest. Moreover, let’s not use the moniker that the press has attached to this case. If we start using this ‘vampire’ thing, it will only earn this fucker notoriety among the sickos in our community.”

“Okay, don’t push his buttons,” O’Neal interjected.

“His skin is extremely pale, possibly due to medical reasons, a nocturnal lifestyle, or both. He has only been seen dressed entirely in black, including a trench coat,” Rhodes added.

“The individual has a fascination with blood. We are not sure of the reasons yet. We believe he is single and in his late twenties to early thirties. He is financially secure, allowing him to survive without employment or assistance,” Simmons explained.

“This POI is to be considered dangerous. We do not believe he is armed, but we do not want to take any chances. We believe he is athletic, given his ability to easily overpower the victims. If you see this individual, call for backup immediately and proceed cautiously,” Rhodes continued.

“Is it true that this guy is drinking blood?” a detective from the back row asked.

“We do not believe he is drinking blood as the press would have you believe,” Rhodes replied, purposefully omitting the discovery of the suspect’s saliva in the bite wounds of the four victims.

“The press is in a feeding frenzy, looking for any tidbit to embellish and exploit. Please avoid contact with the media at all costs; we do not want them tricking any of you into commenting on the POI, the victims, or the dumpsites. I will handle all inquiries regarding this scourge on our city,” Charlie Ettish advised.

“If I see any of you on TV or in the newspaper, it will be your ass,” O’Neal warned. “Now get out of here and keep your eyes peeled.”

With that, the piercing horn-like shriek of folding chairs vibrating across the floor filled the room, followed by random vibrato. The noise was as chaotic as a disorganized marching band.

“Nice briefing,” Reynolds said, patting Rhodes on the shoulder. “They’re probably out sharpening wooden stakes as we speak.” 

The mid-80s Ford wagon pulled to the curb and let out a wheezing groan as the engine sputtered to a stop, grumbling like an old man neglected for too long. With over half of a century on the road, that 8-banger had seen better days. 

It had gone from touring the highways of America to the humdrum life of delivering newspaper bundles to local convenience stores and supermarkets. The faux wood panels lining its sides had faded, showing scars from years of wear. The rust-covered roof concealed what little remained of the medium regatta blue that adorned the four-thousand-pound wagon when it rolled off the Detroit assembly line.

A couple of students, a boy and a girl holding hands, walked past and snickered at the vintage woody, a relic from the tail end of the Reagan presidency. The driver, a middle-aged man whose belly hung over his belt, opened the rear door and heaved a bundle from several stacks held together by strapping tape. The weight pulled his right shoulder downward as he reached up with his free hand, exposing his lily-white stomach beneath his dirty, ink-smudged tee shirt. The young girl burst into uncontrollable laughter at the sight.

“So, that’s how far skin can stretch?” she asked, her voice dripping with mockery.

The newspaper delivery man carried the papers into a small bodega, second space from the end of a five-unit strip mall. Beer posters and neon signs filled the windows, obscuring the store’s interior. The owner, a forty-something man of Middle Eastern descent, opened the door and held it so the heavyset man could maneuver his delivery inside.

“Good morning, Earl,” the owner greeted. “How are you today?”

“Can’t complain, Bilal,” Earl replied. “Besides, if I did, no one would listen.”

“That is a damn shame,” Bilal said, pointing to the top paper of the mound Earl set down beside the wire display rack.

“So much for the sense of security that comes with small-town living,” Earl muttered as he cut the strap binding the bundle and began placing papers onto the display shelves.

The headline screamed, “Police Follow Blood Trail in Vampire Slayings,” with a photo of a twenty-inch garlic braid coiled around a crucifix like a serpent constricting its prey.

The article was a hodgepodge of fact, speculation, and horror movie fantasy. The columnist suggested everything from satanic rituals to Wiccan masses, using words designed to provoke images of reflection-less creatures turning into bats, luring young women with hypnotic glances. He wove the dumpsites into a tale of an immortal night-dwelling beast, hinting that the locations might have been ancient Indian burial grounds. 

The victims were named, implying they too might turn, urging the public to be on the lookout for sightings of a Vampira-like figure. He concluded by alerting the city that the police had DNA evidence from saliva found in the puncture wounds on each victim’s neck.

“Son of a bitch!” Rhodes’ shout echoed through the department as he slammed the now-crumpled newspaper into a wastebasket beside his desk.

“What’s going on?” Reynolds asked.

“Get your jacket. We need to pay this columnist Greg Fatari a visit,” Rhodes instructed. “We have a mole.”

A cloud of black smoke trailed the station wagon as it pulled from the curb. Earl, used to being the bearer of bad news, had never delivered anything with the magnitude of what this columnist had written. 

The level of disrespect shown to the victims and their families was deplorable. For the first time in fifteen years, Earl kept his head low, refusing to engage with the other business owners on his route. He was tempted to dump the stacks of papers into the woods, not wanting to be the messenger spreading the sensationalism that sat bound in the back of his vehicle. 

Darius slept through that day and the next, waking just before the second sunset. At first, he was disoriented, not immediately remembering that he had fallen asleep in the young RN’s townhome. Slowly, the pieces of his memory began to fall into place.

He swung his feet to the floor, still encased in black harness-style motorcycle boots. The young girl’s underwear were pressed against the carpet beneath him. He clumsily navigated through the clutter of belongings littering the floor and made his way to the stairwell. His steps creaked as he used the banister to steady himself, guiding his way down to the lower level.

Opening the refrigerator door, he stared blankly at its contents. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything in over a day. Willow, the RN, hadn't been concerned about leaving a house full of food. Her trip had been spur-of-the-moment, and she hadn't expected to be gone long enough for anything to spoil. Darius began shifting items on the shelves, searching for something to quench his empty stomach's burning, hunger-twisting knots.

Willow had taken a ribeye from the freezer and placed it on a plate in the refrigerator to defrost before her sudden travel plans emerged. She had intended to grill the marbled meat on her small portable gas grill on the balcony. Darius removed the steak from the fridge, tore the cellophane from the Styrofoam tray, and admired the cut momentarily. Savoring the aroma with closed eyes and then running his tongue along the frigid flesh sent a chill resonating through his torso. He peeled the blood-soaked pad from the backside of the meat, exposing the slightly brownish hue of oxidized beef, then bit in. The sticker weight listed sixteen ounces, “ a pound of flesh,” Darius said aloud.

"Damn you, mother!" he shouted, cursing the woman who gave him life for his deficiencies. His teeth weren't sharp enough to tear through the raw muscle. He tried again, pulling his head back with the strength of his neck, feeling his teeth strain against his gums. Frustrated, he slammed the uncooked meat onto the kitchen counter, disgusted. The intruder grabbed a large cimeter knife from a block beside a mixer—oddly, the only two items left on the countertop. 

With the blade, he sliced through and dismembered the slab, placing a morsel into his mouth. A groan of satisfaction, bordering on eroticism, escaped him as the meat's essence doused his palate. Piece by piece, he sawed through the animal’s filet, each bite fueling his lust. Saliva thick in his mouth, he felt arousal build as the taste of Angus blood fed his desire. The drifter’s eyes alternated between softly closed and nearly rolling back into his head as he sucked each morsel dry before entirely consuming it.

Darius, now throbbing, leaned down to retrieve the absorbent pad that had backed his meal. Tilting his head back, he twisted the pad above his open lips, extracting its contents. Droplets of claret splattered onto his waiting tongue. 

Holding the pad to his cheek, he reached his hand down the front of his pants. His breathing grew heavy, his arm motioning faster until he climaxed, knees buckling. He grasped the counter to steady himself, his face flushed until he reached a release.

Once recomposed, Darius collected the pack of cigarettes that he had found earlier in the dresser. Clenching a filter between his teeth, he pulled a menthol smoke from the box and sat back on the bed, lighting the unfiltered end. 

Smoke trailed from his upper lip, and he noticed the front of his pants were wet from fluids that had soaked through the black khaki material. His expression changed, suggesting an epiphany.

Jumping to his feet, he entered the spare room and powered on the laptop that had once sat on the sewing machine table. Now leaning against the wall, he was relieved when the screen went straight to the home page without prompting for a password. Quite honestly, he didn't have the skillset to overcome such an obstacle should it have existed.