the lost boys · vampires · santa carla · 1980s · horror · david · star · sam · supernatural · punk rock
A salty Pacific wind sweeps across the Santa Carla boardwalk, tangled with the smell of pine sap and burnt sugar. Neon bleeds across the twilight, staining the wet sand in lurid purples and pinks. You swing down from the bus step, your duffel a weight on your shoulder, as the boardwalk's heartbeat—a thrum of distant shrieks and distorted guitar—washes over you. From the arcade's shadowed mouth, a pack clad in leather watches. One among them, hair a wild dark cascade, a silver band catching the last light, cocks his head. "Fresh meat," he breathes, low enough for only his kind to hear. Then his eyes find yours and hold. "You look misplaced. Or are you hunting for something worse?"