Lies were the only thing that I’ve been told. They do exist, they are real, and you have every right to be afraid.

I died, a long time ago or so I thought. I wasn’t sick, and I wasn’t elderly. Actually, I was only twenty years old. A man killed me. Someone who I thought loved me, who I could depend on, took my life. I don’t remember how, it happened so fast. I only remember waking up on the floor and saw my mother…dead in the next room.
The police had come. I ran to them, I had to tell them I knew who the killer was, but they just ignored me, or did they. I tried to get their attention. I tapped the shoulder of one… but couldn’t. My hand just disappeared into his body. Horrified, I went into panic mode. Am I dead? If so, why am I still here then?

I went over to the hall mirror. Someone had told me that ghosts don’t reflect. Odd that I should think of that, but never the less, I eased my way to its front. I didn’t look up, not right away. I was afraid to see what I might see, or not see. Slowly, I lifted my eyes. The tears came flooding out. There in front of me was…nothing. Disbelief and an overwhelming urge to break the mirror to pieces came into play. I ran outside. The rain, like tear drops, ran down my face and soaked my clothes quickly.

He stood across the street, this stranger. He looked like he could see me, as if he knew me. This familiarity bothered me greatly, but I couldn’t place him. We stared at each other for what seemed like hours, when really five minutes had gone by.

“Has anyone ever told you it’s impolite to stare?” His attitude was smug.

Still too stunned to speak I just shook my head no.

He crossed the street oblivious to the car that was coming toward him. I went to scream out but he leapt over it and continued toward me.

“I said it’s impolite to stare!” Glaring into my eyes, which held me steadfast, they changed to black and ominous.

I was intrigued, and yet, I thought if I relaxed just slightly I’d faint right on the spot.

“I-I’m sorry, but you were staring at me first.” I blew it. I got too bold and realized my mistake. My head banged against the brick wall. Next thing I realized was I could no longer feel the ground. This man, this creature grabbed my neck and hoisted me up.

“You impudent piece of meat, how dare you accuse me. Do you know who I am? What I am capable of doing? Do you?”

Still hanging from his grip I struggled to get the words out, but all I could say was, “No…”

In one swift movement, was thrown across the street. My body slammed against the building. Pain ensued immediately and I gasped for breath. I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon, but saw nothing. Every moment I made sent shooting pain through my body. It was so bad that I wanted to pass out, but feared for my life. He came for me again. Still dazed I tried once more to get away; he just laughed and stomped on my leg. I heard a crack and then again, more pain. I screamed out for mercy.

“Going somewhere are we? I don’t think so. I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet. You still haven’t answered my question. Do you know who I am?”

Why was he after me? What did I do to deserve such torture? I didn’t care anymore, I wanted to die, the pain was too unbearable.
“I don’t think you do know me. I don’t think you appreciate all that I’ve done for you, all I promised to do. Such a pity. I’ve wasted precious time on someone like you, someone who doesn’t deserve anything…not even life.” He stared down at me with this pathetic look of caring. I wanted to spit in his face.

I was seething; I didn’t deserve to be treated like a piece of dirt. I scooted myself up to a sitting position. My body throbbed with each move, but I didn’t care. This was my chance to have my say.
“H-how…I’m already dead! Why in the hell do you speak of life as if I’m alive!”

“Oh, but you are alive, I heard your heart pounding in my head and the smell, you are wonderfully fragrant. Oh, so fragrant, that I thirst for none other but you.” His eyes gleamed at the words he spoke, like a child with a bag of candy; the only difference was I was his candy.

This was my end, I resolved myself to that fact. Pushing my back up against the building, I shivered from the cold, it reminded me of him, this stranger. I looked to see if anyone was around who could help, but then I remembered…I’m dead so why am I afraid. I glared at him, I hated how he felt his superiority was to be honored. The hate was like a poison in my mouth, it needed to come out.

“I don’t reflect! I…I, my mother she died before me I saw her body on the floor, just a few feet away! You speak of life, there is no…more…life! Leave me alone, I have done nothing to you. Nothing!” It started slow, but as the poisoned words left my lips they flowed faster and faster. I thrilled at each intensity I gave them. I was in control now.

“You fool. Don’t you feel your own heart? Don’t you feel the fear in it?” He bent down and grabbed my hand and placed it on my chest.

“How can this be? I saw, I know what I saw! It wasn’t a dream…was it?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time and then I’m through. Through with you and all you stand for.”

I didn’t want to speak. I was afraid that if I did, I’d be thrown again .

“Answer me!” he bellowed.

“I-I don’t know.” Stammering out of fear I cringed as I spoke. Every word was like a death sentence.

His eyes had changed to amber, but now, now that his angry got the best of him, they blackened once more, and his lips curled over his teeth, exposing fangs. A low guttural noise came from his throat as he hunched over, ready for the kill.

“I am your father and this is all but a dream.”

The next thing I knew someone was calling my name. I awoke to find myself on the floor…again. My hand shook as I moved it to my neck. A bandage was there, taped. I dug my fingers in, yanked it off, and felt the two holes that I knew would be there….I screamed.

My guest follows me from the ball room and we leave it to its fond and distant memories of gayer times. I stand at the foot of the stairs and wait a moment as Randall’s eyes sweep this great and beautiful chamber like a child’s in a sweet shop. I tune myself into his mind, a subtle little trick that each of us are endowed with when blessed with the gift. It is different for each of us and strengthens through time and with experience. Most of us are able to actually hear the thoughts of others like words spoken within our minds. Some, myself included, are granted with a rarer, altogether more powerful talent, that of empathy.

Instead of actually being able to read thoughts as words, we are able to read feelings. It is so much deeper than telepathy. It begins with flashes of alien feelings. That is to say, we begin to experience anger, joy, fear, ecstasy, even love. Yes, love. These feelings come in a direct contrast to what we ourselves are feeling at the time. We may be in the midst of a murderous rage and yet, all of a sudden, you feel an overwhelming sense of joy and you know, just know, that this new feeling is not yours. All vampires are subject to limited empathic abilities but some us, can develop it. Personally, I think it is part and parcel of the thirst. We, as a race, more often than not, generate great fear in our prey especially when we stalk them first. And somehow, I know not the science behind it, but somehow, the blood from a frightened food source, tastes all the sweeter. There is something in their fear that flavours the blood exquisitely. It may sound farfetched but then again, I have heard that organically reared and free range animals, taste sweeter than farm processed ones and that the meat is all the more tender.

I can feel Randall’s sense of wonder and grandeur as he looks about the hall. His mind becomes a whirlwind of dates and episodes in history as he gazes fondly upon the suits of armour, the weaponry and shields that adorn my green plastered walls. His artistic senses rear and whinny like wild mustangs as his sight lovingly caresses my many tapestries. It is so long since I experienced wonder like this in one of my guests. And I, out of a sense of boasting and vanity, would love to dearly regale him with the history of each piece but he has come with a specific goal in mind and to explain just the items in the Great Hall alone, would take a decade. Maybe, providing I don’t eat him afterwards, he would return to my home for another visit and maybe, just maybe, he will bring his delightful Editor, Gaynor, for whom he holds such high esteem, with him. At length, Randall realises I am waiting for him and he blushes a little.

“Forgive me Highness. You have an unbelievable collection.” he says.

“Thank you my friend. They have been collected over many, many years. Centuries in fact and some of the items are quite a lot older than I am.”

“I would love to study the history surrounding them.” he replies, a faraway look in his eyes.

“And it would give me great pleasure to narrate that history my friend, for have no doubt, every item you see in here, has a story to tell. But come, I will show you what you originally came for. I would not wish to send you back empty handed and risk disappointing your Editor, Gaynor.”

He nods and follows me up the long, graceful sweep of my Tulip Staircase. I hear him gasp, as one by one, the candelabras flash and come alive as we pass them.

“Forgive me,” I smile mischievously over my shoulder. “A little party trick I picked up from a friend a long time ago. I believe in your world, it is referred to as pyrokinesis.”

“The ability to start fires by the power of thought.” he murmurs.

“A vulgar display of power I know,” I reply, “but as I have said, it is so long since I have had the chance to entertain and I cannot resist in showing off a little. The lighting by the way is for your benefit alone. I can see better in the dark than you can in broad daylight.” I smile seductively to myself as I pick up on his trepidation. He is wondering if he can escape into the darkness should I decide to turn on him. His heart rate increases and his pulse begins to throb. I can even smell the slight perspiration from him. I decide to put him out of his misery.

“No my dear Randall and should I decide to turn, not darkness, guile, speed or strength would be your ally.” And then, just to show him what he would be up against, I move. Oh what a delight his senses are. It is like an all you can eat buffet presented to a starving man. In the blink of an eye, quite literally a split second, I have moved from the step above his, to the landing at the top of the stairs, some twenty feet as the crow flies. He is still blinking and looking at the trail of light from the candles. I give him just enough time for his eyes to reach me and then I move again.

“Down here Herr Stone.” I call from the foot of the stairs. He spins around awkwardly, almost falls, but then he rights himself. His mouth drops open.

I suddenly tap him on the shoulder from the step above him. He turns and jumps visibly… Backwards. As he loses his fight with gravity, I move instantly behind him and save him from falling. My arms are around him and I know that if I just exert a tiny fraction of my strength, I could reduce his rib cage to mere splinters. I croon softly into his ear.

“You see my dear Randall, even if I were blind and you could hold your breath for an hour at a time, the beating of your heart, the very movement of blood through your veins, even your body heat, which I can feel from over five hundred feet away, would all betray your hiding place. However, you have two things going for you. First of all, had I decided to attack, you would have been nothing but a dried up husk before even one foot had touched my courtyard. Secondly and, more importantly, I genuinely like you. Since our very first meeting you have conducted yourself with dignity and decorum. Your manners are impeccable and you have gone out of your way treat me, a Royal Prince, the way I am accustomed to being treated. For that, I thank you.” I move away from him and we resume our journey up the stairs. He puts a trembling hand to his neck and I feel the relief sweep through him.

“I apologise Highness if I have offended you in any way.” he says. I stop and face him, placing a gentle hand upon his still, trembling shoulder.

“My friend,” I say softly, “you have done nothing that warrants an apology. If one was to be punished for how one feels, then your race would have ceased to be long ago. And, as my race subsists on yours, we would not be having this conversation now.”

“You can read my feelings?” he asks with surprise. I nod and smile and then go on to explain how this part of the gift works. He listens with astonishment and I realise just how little humans know of my species.

We stop on the landing, a balcony that overlooks the hall, where orchestras once played to arriving guests. To our left and to our right, are two huge corridors, the Long Gallery, upon whose walls hang the portraits of my ancestors. It is here that I intend to regale Randall with tales of my decadent family history but, for the moment, I draw his attention to a glass case in which lies an ancient tome. Within its pages reside the history of some of my lesser known and subservient members of my race.

“To your right and to your left, Randall, are the north and south wings of Castle Bamberg or, as I refer to it, the Long Gallery. Here you will meet members of my illustrious family, all with a tale to chill your bones. But I thought this may be of some interest to you first.” I step aside and present the glass case for his inspection.

“Within the pages of this tome you will come face to face with the cockroaches of my species. The peasants who were inadvertently turned, due to one unfortunate circumstance or another. How are you with the Serbian dialect?”

“Sorry, Serbian?” he asks.

“Serbian, yes.” I indulge him. “Do you speak it?”

“Oh, no. Sorry, I don’t.”

“Well, not to worry. I shall read it for you, if that is acceptable.”

“That would be perfectly acceptable Your Highness.”

“Please, call me Blutsauger.” I take the book out. On either side of the glass case are two doors. I bid my guest to follow me through the one to the right.

I lead Randall into my personal study. The walls are filled with bookcases which in turn, are filled with books. I place the heavy candelabra on a small round table and wave my hand lazily. Immediately I feel the power rush from my tingling finger tips and the candles in the wall brackets ignite into flaming existence. The dark, cold fire place suddenly bursts into flame, making the logs crackle and spit. With another wave of my hand, I move and turn one of two, plush, 19th century, wing backed reading chairs.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” I bid my guest. As he sits himself before the roaring fire, I bring over a decanter of rare, ruby port. It was bottled in the year 1732 and is an original from the town of Oporto in Portugal. A true vintage. As I position my chair facing his, I place the decanter and two cut crystal wine glasses on a small elbow table.

I see Randall run an appraising eye over the glasses and the decanter. I smile and, without touching either glass or decanter, pour two, generous measures of the deliciously sweet wine. One of the glasses lifts from the table top and presents itself before my guest who, with a slightly surprised look on his face, plucks it from the air.

“Finest Czech Crystal, made for King Rudolf II back in the 17th Century. For a delicious port wine of this vintage and calibre, one needs the finest vessel from which to drink it. Wouldn’t you agree?” Randall nods and takes a sip of his wine.

“That is really outstanding.” he says, smacking his lips.

“I should hope so. The wine is over two hundred years old and comes from the slopes of the Duoro, on the finest schist terraces of the river bank.”

“And you actually drink wine Highness? I thought vampires. . .” I cut him off.

“Normally, I have little to no desire for food or drink, being between life and death as I am. But I long ago fell in love with the port’s rich, ruby redness.” I lift my glass to the candle flame. “I love the way it catches the light,” I continue. “It has such presence, such body. It looks almost like. . .” I catch the look of horror beginning to manifest itself upon my guest’s features.

“Calm yourself sir. I say, looks like. You are quite safe. It really is an excellent, vintage port.” I smile as I feel the relief pour from his relaxing body.

Taking a long, leisurely sip of my wine, I open up the pages of the large, heavy book that sits nestled in my lap. I delight in the musty aroma of the leaves as I lovingly turn them.

“If you are quite comfortable my friend, I will begin,” I tell him. He sits back in his chair and I feel his tension ooze out of every pore. Classical, vintage wine of the type we are drinking has a knack for relaxing mind and body.

The Tale Of Peter Plogojowitz

“Our tale begins in the tiny Serbian village of Kisilova in a troubled part of the country that, until lately, had been under the rule of the Ottaman’s. In fact it wasn’t until the Treaty of Passarowitz in 1718 that it finally passed into Austrian hands. However, in 1739, under the Treaty of Belgrade, it would return to the Ottomans. As I said, a very troubled region, but it is with the year 1725 that our story is concerned.

In that year, a man by the name of Peter Plogojowitz died. Nothing exceptional about that I know. Men die every second of every day, but not all return from the grave to feed upon the blood of their relatives and neighbours. Peter died after a brief illness and because he was advanced in years, he was 62 years old, the death was put down to natural causes. In life, he had been quick to anger which led to certain wickedness and, because he had not had the time on his death bed to repent, he could not lie easily in his grave.

It is a fact, my dear Randall, that, like all good men, true vampires are also bred. No doubt in your research, you have learned that there are as many different types of my species as there are stories about them.” My guest nods. I steeple my strong and slender fingers together and regard him closely over the top of them.

“Well, let me tell you my friend, there are but two types of vampires: the ones who are turned by one of my kind and the ones who become vampire through their own wickedness. The scum that are born of their own evil natures, the cockroaches are the filth that give my kind a bad name.” He sees the expression of disgust and anger in my handsome features as I mention these inbred creatures and he seems to cower in his chair.

“Forgive my show of emotion. These loathsome creatures are hardly worthy of it. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Peter had been in the ground ten weeks when he decided it was time to walk. His greed appeared to know no bounds for he literally decimated his neighbours, killing nine people within the course of a single week. Oh, the fear that swept through that village. How I wished I had been present. How sweet that blood would have tasted.” For a moment I gaze off into the distant, lost in my own, private reverie. I can almost taste the honey sweet liquid. I settle for a sip of port.

“The villagers were like headless chickens. They had suffered vampire attacks in the past, as had most of the Eastern European Block, but never a spate as lethal, fast and vicious as this. As I told you before Randall, there is something in fear that flavours the blood and so, usually, a vampire will drain his or her victim over a period of time. The usual length is around three days. Why three? I am at a loss to answer. It’s just well known among my kind that at three days, this flavour is at its peak. After that period, the exquisite piquancy begins to wane.” I wave a dreamy hand as if to emphasise the blood losing its taste.

“What makes this one of the most fascinating cases in history is the documentation that went with it. I myself, found him fascinating, for his display of a power that the gift so rarely bestows upon one of our kind. ‘The Power of the Mist.’ That is to say, that, certain members of my species are endowed with the ability to alter their physical bodies into that of a mist or a phantom. It enables us to enter any premises, with or without, invite. But it is a talent that normally grows and becomes more adept over time. Plogojowitz had it from the off. Extremely rare.”

“ Following a very short malady, all nine victims, on their death beds, repeated the same thing. They all claimed to have been attacked by Plogojowitz. Now here is a curious thing, and one you may not know. Not all vampires draw out blood from their living victims. Some, like dear Peter, feed on the very life essence. No doubt you have found in your extensive research on my species that many surviving victims of vampire attacks, complained of a crushing sensation over the breast or the feeling that their breathing was somehow being impaired.” Randall nods and I can feel the very memories of his research coursing through his mind. I smile, a knowing smile.

“Peter preferred to throttle his victims, fastening his mouth around theirs as they took their final gasp and so, ensnaring their life’s essence. Things really came to a head when shortly after these deaths, Peter’s own widow claimed that he had appeared to her and demanded his opanci.” My guest throws me an enquiring look. “Shoes Randall. He demanded his shoes. There are various… how can I say… drawbacks, when one acquires the gift. Some of us are notorious counters. Others have a penchant for undoing knots. With Peter and others of his kind, it is material things… his shoes.” I take a leisurely sip of my port and relish the slight warmth as it slides down my cold, dead throat.

“Now, the villagers were absolutely beside themselves, but worse was to come. A day or so later, Peter appeared to his son and demanded food from him. When his son refused, Peter beat him to death. So far my dear Randall, you have seen me display speed and guile, even pyro and telekinesis. You have not, however, experienced the monstrous and supernatural strength that my kind is equipped with. Just believe me when I tell you, that, had it not been for the ring found upon one of the severed fingers of his son’s hand, what they found in the aftermath of the attack could not even have passed for having once been human.

“At the time of these attacks, there was, residing in Kisilova, a man by the name of Frombald. He was a Kameralprovisor, a governor of the Imperial Austrian Forces. The villagers, along with their Veliko Gradiste, Parish Priest, demanded that Plogojowitz be exhumed and destroyed. Being a level headed and Christian man, Frombald told them that he would have to get permission from his High Command in Belgrade in order to carry out such a procedure. They in turn told him that, by the time permission came, half the village could well be dead and the infection reach well beyond its boundaries. That being the case, the whole village was prepared to abandon their homes that very day and leave behind a ghost village. Not wanting to be the governor of an empty settlement, Frombald gave into them but stated that the whole sorry episode would have to be documented and authenticated.

“That very night, bearing burning torches, the whole village, together with the priest and Frombald, exhumed the grave of Peter Plogojowitz. What they found filled them with awe and terror. Rather than the rotting corpse they were expecting, they found instead, a preserved body. The old skin had peeled away to reveal a red, more livid looking flesh. The hair, beard and nails also appeared to have grown but the most horrific aspect, as far as these peasants were concerned, was the fresh blood found upon his lips and in his mouth. They were under no illusions whatsoever that they had indeed, found their vampire.”

“Without further recourse, they hammered a huge wooden stake directly through his heart at which was heard a “terrible groan” while copious amounts of fresh blood gushed from the mouth, nostrils and ears. After building a pyre, they burnt Peter’s body and scattered his ashes to the four winds.” I lay the book on my lap and finish my port. The expression on Randall’s face amuses me.

“The Plogojowitz case is one of the best, authenticated histories we have. And, just another year on, in the same region, it would happen all over again. Only this time, I, myself, would play a personal part in it. But come my friend, I feel your weariness. You must rest now and we will continue on the morrow. I shall walk you to your room where you must rest. As for me, the night is young. I may walk abroad in it and see what sport there is.” Randall looks a little alarmed at my comments and slyly, I leave him to his imagination as we rise from our seats and I lead him up to his chambers.

The woman standing at the bar resembled my cousin so much it was uncanny.

For the last few years, I’d been hunting more and more only those who seemed to bear some likeness to members of my mortal family, dead and gone. It was as if I were physically attempting to destroy any and all memories of them. It would have been far easier to argue the logic of this had it not proved so effective, as with each evocative feeding, the memory of my former life receded a little further into the recesses of my mind. After hundred years, I still had some way to go before I would lose recollection of them completely.

I’d had been watching the woman for some time. She’d entered the central London pub with a silky confidence, gliding through the throng effortlessly to find a space at the bar where, refusing to resemble the many pathetic city patrons trying desperately to be served, she simply stood there as if merely taking a breather. Her body weight shifted subtly to rest upon one precariously high heel, causing the thin black material of her dress to tighten upon her formidable curves. Casually, she ran a hand through her long blonde mane, conscious or not that the gesture caused all males around her to stare. Within a matter of seconds, one of the many barmen made themselves readily available to her, much to the chagrin of her neighbours. She’d smiled then, a devastating expression that seemed to spell danger as much attraction, paid, took her drink (a white wine) and turned from the bar. In the same assured manner in which she’d entered the pub, she placed herself, quite coincidentally I was sure, amongst a group of rowdy young college boys who’d been present since I’d arrived more than three hours ago. Her presence was instantly greeted with eager smiles. A few even attempted conversation, but were met with disappointment, beautifully rejected with a polite shake of the head. I sat on the other side of the bar, far enough away that she would not notice my observation and was again struck pleasantly with her posed and considered manner. She moved with a joyful nature only females who love to be watched possessed. Every mannerism and affection of her body seemed designed to titillate, to tease, and entice, yet it all seemed so natural. Involuntarily, I felt the corners of my otherwise cynical mouth rise into a grin. I had been correct in my first assumption. This fair creature bore more than a passing resemblance to my late cousin, both in appearance and demeanour. She too had known how to gain the upper hand in the battle of the sexes, using her wanton body to gain that which lesser lookers coveted, yet remaining skilfully out of reach, emotionally closed, her heart very much her own. I remembered watching her in her formative years and marvelling at the ease in which she played with men, her own victims, if you may. Now, again years later, watching this woman work the room into an effortless thrall was like an echo of the past, history physically realised once more. My smile grew wider, my tongue gingerly probing one slowly lengthening fang in anticipation. Her death would close a very influential chapter in my human life and take me one step closer to becoming the brutally efficient orchestrator of death I so desperately yearned to be. I longed to be rid of the vestiges of lingering and debilitating human emotions once and for all, a hundred years seemingly not long enough.

I watched for another hour as potential suitors tried and failed to gain her favour. It seemed there was a limitless supply of men willing to refill her glass whenever the need arose, willing to steady her arm as she stepped from her seat. The by now very inebriated college boys defended her seat fiercely against those who tried to take her throne, willing to be on hand just in case she happened to change her mind and take one of them up on their offer. Witnessing this display brought me much amusement and considerably heightened my thirst. I often enjoyed observing humanity unawares, particularly my prey, learning about who they appeared to be somehow made their deaths, their taste, all the more sweet. In fact, simply observing, seeming a part of something or somewhere yet remaining intangible and oblique, had given me a delicious thrill from the very beginning. Fortunate. There were none such as us who could have played the game with any more polished fervour. So I continued to patiently wait as I watched her, sipping from my glass of absinthe and smoothly rebuking the many offers I began to receive from the numerous females about me. I had made up my mind and tonight, there would be no alternatives. I wanted her, my cousin’s doppelganger, and I would not settle for less. I could not. The disappointment would have shamed me.

Time wore on, as it inevitably does, and soon those who had not managed to secure partners for the night finished their drinks, concluded their solo dances and took to the cold streets, leaving those who’d proven more fortunate to exchange numbers with the objects of their desires. I remained in my seat, as staff began to usher clientele from their respective circles towards the exit. The woman yawned making even this rudimentary necessary human function something of a performance and politely excused herself from the drunken students who were now being somewhat forcibly removed from the premises by the formidable looking doorman. She walked to the bar, placed the empty glass upon the counter and immediately struck up a carefree and easy conversation with the remaining barmaid who was busying cleaning. They knew each other, that much was obvious, the conversation light and familiar. No further surprises were heralded in the sound of her voice, she was young, seemingly naive and borderline arrogant. She knew her potential in the world. They continued their dialogue as numbers in the bar dwindled, leaving them, the doormen, a loving couple helping each other on with their coats and myself. No matter, it wouldn’t make my intentions any more difficult to achieve. I’d learned long ago in the early years following my Embrace to cloak myself from human eyes. It wasn’t so much a matter of disappearing or appearing to vanish as so much failing to register in their subconscious despite their eyes seeing my physical form and I would be impossible to recollect. To this day, I cannot fully explain how I achieve this. I simply will it so. A handy trick, as I was all too soon to find out, all those many years ago. So my presence here was not a consideration. I cared even less where and when they would find her. I would be long gone by then.

I finished my absinthe and stood from my seat, just as the doorman was making his way towards me. One look in my eyes was all it took for him to continue past me, as if I wasn’t even there. I turned and began to make my way around the bar, past the numerous empty tables, past the empty glasses, hollowed out and now devoid of worth, towards my own vessel of nourishment, towards the woman who was now finishing her conversation and heading towards the ladies room. I quickened my pace, noting with some irritation my lack of reflection in the bar mirror (yet another of my lingering human habits) and the barmaid who seemed to see me yet not, her face a mixture of confusion and fear for one brief second. She returned to her duties a moment later. I smiled confidently, pulled my eager hands from my pockets, my fingernails lengthening into talons, and slipped through the rest rooms closing door behind my prey so smoothly I made not a single sound.

My assault was fierce and sudden. The woman had barely turned to look at herself in the large mirror before I grabbed a fistful of her long hair and slammed her precious face into the unforgiving glass. Her nose and cheekbones broke immediately, blood splattering the spider webbed reflection that bore only her image. I hauled her backwards, her high heeled feet skittering upon the wet tiled surface beneath, and taking hold of her shoulders, pitched her through the unlocked door of the nearest cubicle. Pausing only to note that my mouth had now uncontrollably began to water and my fangs had reached their full sharpened length, I followed her in.

She lay half slumped upon the closed toilet, one leg trembling, the other folded backwards behind the toilet. Her head rested against the side partition of the adjacent cubicle, barely conscious and affectingly beautiful. A bright crimson star burst of blood decorated the wall above her where the back of her head had undoubtedly connected. I turned in the small space and locked the door behind us, just as she made to slip from her seat altogether. I gathered her into my arms before she hit the ground, causing a low gasp to escape her lungs, and tilted her to one side, allowing her head to hang upon my arm, exposing her neck. A quiver of thirst ignited alongside one side of my tensed jaw as I stared down at the pumping vein. My hands instinctively clutched her tighter, my talons digging through her dress and into her warm pliable flesh. My entire body shivered with the sheer anticipation, till I could stand it no longer. Hoisting her body up higher in my arms, I opened my mouth and drove my twin incisors deep through the fleshy meat into her pulsing jugular. Ecstasy flooded me at once, her blood as delicious as I had allowed myself to hope and involuntarily, I swooned against my own assault. Falling against the partition, my head light and dizzy with sensation, I held her ever tighter and drank as much of the red hot fluid as my throat could contain in one gulp. My hands had started shaking at some point and now it felt as if I were shaking my mortal drink greedily as if to get to the most valuable of nutrients hiding within her shell. My eyes had closed at the beginning and now I fought to open them, sure as I was that my dizzy spell could not last. Soon, far sooner than I could have wanted, I heard the comforting beat of her heart begin to slow and knew that I must break the contact, relinquish my connection and withdraw. The thought alone pained me. Finally, I succeeded in forcing my body to acquiesce to my will and with a harrowing reluctance I ripped my blood drenched mouth away from her ravaged neck. My equilibrium regained itself almost immediately. My hands ceased shaking. My eyes fluttered open.

She weighed next to nothing now in my rejuvenated arms. I could still hear her rapidly fading heart clearly in my ears, as I could hear bolts being thrown in the bar outside as doors were locked for the night. It wouldn’t be long before the doorman or the barmaid would begin their nightly check of the toilets. I sat the drained woman back once more upon the closed toilet and began to modestly readjust the skirt that had risen upon her pale slender legs. I stopped immediately and stood in frustration, my fang biting clean through my own lip in sudden anger. This was exactly the kind of human emotive gesture I so desperately wanted to shed, and here she was, my cousin twin, dying at my hand and yet my mortal habits seemed as eternally present as ever. Another death and my contradictory character remained thoroughly intact. It ignited a fire within my dead heart that almost threatened to sour the sweetness that had been the taking of her life.

A door slammed within the building and footsteps began to sound, drawing closer to our drama. I moved swiftly, exiting the cubicle and landing upon the window pane that overlooked the small public room from its vantage point a few metres or so high from the ground. Such distances were mere child’s play. I slipped the window lock and gliding through the gap, closed it silently. I paused there upon the outside ledge, looking back through the frosted glass where the woman still sat perched upon the toilet seat, her head to one side, her long hair falling about her like a crimson stained cloak, her skirt spread wide, revealing the black knickers beneath, one foot shoeless, the other twisted and a broad smile upon her dead features. I gasped in surprise as I continued to stare, her eyes unseeing and lifeless yet contradictory to the pleasurable smile that now adorned her blood splattered face. I couldn’t help it. With her brazen posture, unashamed nudity and that grin, it seemed she was mocking me, just like my cousin had done all those years before when I had confessed my undying love for her. I couldn’t believe it. She’d found me. All this time, she’d followed me through countless generations just so she could take the form of this creature and laugh at me, one last time. My sudden and overwhelming rage almost caused me to re-enter and rip her smiling head clean from her shoulders, but it was at that moment that the barmaid, about her nightly duties, entered the room, whistling a merry tune as she did so. I dropped into the side alley alongside the bar, my anger still pounding a tribal rhythm within my bloody veins as the scream ripped through the night, a scream of primal fear and unhinging sanity. It more than improved my mood. Casually straightening my jacket and wiping the excess blood from my mouth, I walked away.

I paused under a streetlight in the midst of London’s busy Soho district and allowed myself a little laugh. My humiliation once again at the hands of my cousin was fading fast and so too was the sweetness of the hunt that I had so looked forward to. I knew that the night was not yet over. There was always life to ruin, to steal, to breathe into my own veins. I couldn’t help but look forward to the next hundred years. I was immortal. My memories were not.

I pushed aside all negative thoughts as easily as I erased myself from mortal recollection and with an air of authority, only we the kindred possessed, strolled into the beating heart of London life, eager once more to murder my family again and again.

My Guest Arrives

Ah, the sound of carriage wheels against cobbles, finally my guest arrives. Putting down my first edition volume of “Wake Not The Dead” by Johann Ludwig Tieck, I rise from my chair and cross to the window. Far below me in the courtyard I see a young man alight from my ancestral coach. As I eye him up the way an eagle stares at its prey from atop its mountain perch, I am not surprised to find that every muscle in my powerful body is tensed like a coiled spring. How easy it would be for me to drop the two hundred or so feet to the cobbles and have his throat ripped out before he even has the time to blink. To feel the hot, sweet, velvet taste of his life’s blood as it passes between my tingling lips and down my eager throat.

Calm yourself Blutsauger! Mentally I reprimand myself, as I cannot think that way, long gone are the days when my kind could quite happily eat their guests without fear of reproach. Sighing softly and cutting short my reminiscing over the old days, I check my attire. I will tell you now, just because I have walked this earth for the best part of eight hundred years and I hanker for the old days, doesn’t mean I am trapped in the past. I am very well up on the current affairs of the world and, more often than not, I am quite at home in t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, but my guest I fear, is looking for something more. . .traditional.

However, dressed in all my finery, a red Chinese silk open necked shirt, finest Italian leather pants and patent leather shoes from Knightsbridge in London, I’ve been told that I look like a modern day rock star. Fabulous. I make my way down the hall, ready to make my entrance on the main staircase. It’s a pity I have no reflection, for I’m sure I cut a devilishly dashing figure.

I watch from the shadows as Clove, my manservant come butler, shows our guest into the cavernous and ornate hall below. My guest looks nervously about him and I can tell by the sound of his breathing and the way that his heart beats that he is both impressed and nervous. From my vantage point, I can even see the slight flare of his nostrils and the dilation of the pupils in his hazel eyes. I lick my lips softly as each major vein and artery in his pale neck seems to stand out. My belly growls and I actually make the motion to leap, to attack, until I mentally reprimand myself again. Were I not already dead and so have no need to inflate my defunct lungs, I would take a deep, steady breath, to calm myself. Instead, I hitch an easy, carefree smile upon my handsomely rugged, clean cut features and lope with a graceful gait, down the staircase. He turns and spots me as I am half way down.

“Ah, Herr Stone, good of you to have come. An easy journey I hope?” I reach the bottom of the stairs and offer him a perfectly, manicured hand. He takes it and I can tell he is impressed by my slender but strong fingers and the paleness of my alabaster flesh. His skin is warm and slightly sweaty as he taps his heels together and bows courteously.

“It’s good of you to see me Your Highness,” he replies in perfect German.

“Ah, I see you are well versed in royal protocol as well as fluent in my native tongue,” I say and his cheeks flush a little.

“I spent a year in Fussen a couple of years back, researching an assignment I was on at the time.”

“And this is where you learned German?”

“No Highness. I actually learned the language while studying A-Levels at Sixth Form College.”

“And the royal protocol?” I ask him.

“Ah. . .” he answers, and he blushes again. “I…er… I did a little homework before I flew out Highness. I wanted to know how to address a personage of the German Royal Family so that I didn’t offend you or embarrass myself.” My guest explains and I can’t help but warm to him.

“Well, let me tell you Herr Stone that your lessons have not been in vain and you have conducted yourself before me, admirably.” I incline my head slightly as I finish talking and he copies the gesture. “Now, for the official welcome of my homeland.” I pull myself up to my full and considerable height, knowing how impressive I look. “Welcome to my home Herr Stone. Enter of your own free will and please, when you go, leave behind some of the happiness you have brought with you.”

“It is a great honour to be here Your Highness.” He bows again and I warm even more to his impeccable manners.

“Well, perhaps you would like to freshen up before dinner?”

“It was quite a tiring journey,” he replies. I clap my hands and Clove appears.

“Show Herr Stone to his room so that he may freshen up before dinner.” Clove bows and takes my guest’s suitcase and hand luggage.

“This way sir.” Clove moves to the foot of the stairs and I watch my guest follow.

“I’ll see you in an hour in the dining room. We shall talk then,” I tell him.

“Thank you Highness,” he replies.

“Please, let us dispense with formalities Herr Stone. You may address me simply as Blutsauger.” He nods and smiles and follows Clove up the stairs.

Being dead, I have no need, nor desire for food anymore, but I do enjoy watching others eat and Herr Stone seemed to enjoy his dinner of roast suckling pig and all the trimmings. He particularly seemed to enjoy the part where he washed it down with the finest claret from my cellar. I regard him closely over my clasped hands.

“Tell me Herr Stone, why exactly was I contacted by Vamplit Publishing?”

“Gaynor, my editor, is interested in producing a monthly column in our e-mag. As you probably know, our website is dedicated to vampires and she thought it would be great if we could interview a real life vampire as it were. Please forgive the pun.”

“And what made her come to me?” I ask.

“Well to be honest High…sorry, Blutsauger, there are vampires and there are vampires and then, there is Prince Blutsauger. Forgive me sir, but your name is legend. I have travelled extensively and I have yet to go to a country in Europe where your name is not known and where your hospitality is not renowned.” He blushes again but I revel in his compliments. “To be perfectly honest, we didn’t know whether you’d grant our interview but Gaynor said, ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ It happens to be her favourite saying and when Gaynor wants, Gaynor usually gets.”

“And quite right too, my friend. She seems to be a woman after my own heart. But tell me, what is it you actually wish of me?” He puts down his glass and studies me. His confidence in my presence seems to be growing, though I expect the wine has helped a little.

“We want to put the vampire’s side on record. Vampires, as I’m sure you are aware, have had a bad press over the years and we wish to put the record straight. We feel our readers and authors would love to read it from the vampires’ point of view. What it’s like to live between the living and the dead. What drives you, apart from blood and do you consider your state a gift or a curse.” I nod and mull this over.

“Perhaps my friend, before I tell you about myself, it might be, shall we say, helpful, to tell you about some of my kith and kin throughout history. I am well read and I have come across some atrocious and abysmal writings purporting to be factual about my species. Were we human, I dare say we could have sued for slander a thousand times over. So, in order to understand me, I think you must first understand my kith and kin.”

“That would be even better than Gaynor and I envisaged,” he tells me excitedly. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a small electronic gadget. “Would you mind if I used this?” he asks, showing me what I recognise as a small recording device.

“By all means, use it.” I tell him. “But it will be of little use to you.”

“Oh?” he replies, his eyebrows arching.

“Just as a vampire casts no shadow or reflection in a mirror, neither can our image be captured by camera or our voices on recordings.”

“I never thought of that.” He looks a little sheepish as he responds, like a school boy who has just been caught in the midst of some misdemeanour.

“Please, feel free to write down what I tell you. You do know shorthand I take it?”

“Well, it’s been a while, but I’m sure it will come back to me.” I wait while he goes to fetch the necessary tools from his room.

When he returns, I am waiting for him in the Great Hall holding a heavy candelabra. He stands before me, a little uneasily, for I am scrutinising him closely, forgetting for the moment how intense my vampire stare is.

“Forgive Randall, I did not mean to stare, but is so rare that we have guests these days.”

“Not at all Highness,” he responds. His manners really are impeccable.

“I thought I would take you on a brief tour of these hallowed halls. Every wall, every stone, every corridor, has a tale to tell. Take this hall for instance. It was here in 1241 that a great ancestor of mine, Duke Francis Bonner, cut the throat of his wife, the Lady Eleanor Bonner, before sending what was left of her carcass down to the kitchens to be served at supper.” He blanches and I can’t help but let a cruel smile play along my lips. I can feel his discomfort as he imagines the scene. I can almost see the pictures as they play in his head.

“Here,” I point to the double doors, shadowed by the curve and sweep of my elegant staircase. “This is the…well, perhaps it is better if I show you.” He follows close behind me and his footfalls echo, bouncing off before becoming ensconced within the stones forever. I say his footfalls, for there is no sound from mine. As we cast no reflection and, as our voices cannot be recorded, neither can our footfalls be heard. It makes hunting so much easier. I push open the doors and bid him wait as I go around and light the candles in the wall brackets. Glancing back, I see his eyes grow wide in wonder. At last, I face him and I can feel the excitement radiating from him, just as I can feel the heat that comes from a flame. His mind is noisy and crowded with the myriad questions he has for me.

“May I present…The Grand Ballroom.” He bows in a gesture of homage as he steps into the room.

“This is a Mansart,” he utters, almost breathlessly. I, in turn raise my eyebrows in surprise.

“Why yes, it was Jules Hardouin Mansart himself who designed it back in 1680. You are an expert in historical architecture?” I ask him, extremely intrigued by his knowledge. He shakes his head casually as he spins on the spot, taking in every detail.

“Not really,” he replies. “We had a trip from college to the Palace of Versailles and it is extremely similar to the Hall of Mirrors that Louis XIV had built.”

“Ah, poor Louis,” I intone softly.

“You knew him?” he asks me in surprise.

“Oh yes, I knew him,” I tell him with a sardonic twist of the lips. “He was a particular favourite of mine.” I run a hand over one of the thirty two golden cherubim that supported the crystal candelabras around the room. “I remember when this room used to vibrate with life and merriment. Ah, the parties we used to have then.” He notices the faraway look in my eyes, the sadness in my tone and I feel the need to explain.

“When I was first endowed with the…gift, I am afraid that I let the thirst get the better of me and I rather indulged myself amongst family and friends. Oh, we still held masquerade balls, but I’m afraid these beautiful mirrors were too much of a reminder for some, of a different, long forgotten life. Interests waned and the parties dropped off.” I look wistfully at the mirrors, seeing only Randall’s reflection, the rest of the room and the crystal chandeliers coated with over two centuries of filth and grime. Even the frescoes so full of colour and vitality are now dulled with a film of dust. “You know, it was in here, during one of our grand balls in 1611, before the masterpiece you now see, when we received word that my cousin, Erzebet Bathori of Hungary was under arrest for murder.”

“Really?” he asks, clearly impressed.

“Hm,” I respond, dreamily. “Well, if you would care to follow me Randall, I shall show you what you really want to see, the history and folklore of my race.” With that, I lead him back into the Grand Hall.

When I contacted the mysterious writer Randall Stone and asked if he would write a regular column on vampires here on vamplit.com I wasn’t sure what we would be getting. I gave him a free hand and his only remit was to produce an informative, interesting column without taking risks with his own neck. Well after reading the first installment, where he visits the world a renowned vampire to get his point of view I’m waiting with baited breath for the next installment of The Blutsauger Chronicles by Randall Stone.

Twinkle, twinkle little vampire
how I wonder if you’re a liar.
Up above the town so high
like diamond in daylight sky.

Twinkle twinkle the undead
vegetarian an under fed.
never sleeping, sneaking in
bedroom windows, never sin.

Twinkle, twinkle little vampire
the epitome teenage desire.
Making out, then pushing away
will power keeping hunger at bay.

Twinkle, twinkle creature of the night
now at home in the daylight.
Up above the trees so high
make-believe that you can fly.

Twinkle, twinkle Peter Pan
never grows up as Wendy can.
Up above the sea so blue
Wendy, Peters looking for you.

Banging and fanging, shaking the bed
making out with the unholy dead.
Screaming and dreaming all through the night
the beast with two backs is never contrite.

Shaming and blaming, the neighbours stare
bumping uglies with the dead on a dare.
Slaking and making, a passion that swells
kicking her feet she can almost hear bells.

Thrashing and crashing, gasping for air
she screams her passion, pumping despair.
Drained and depleted, she stares in his eyes
dead to the world, just like regular guys.

Grace Mahoney

‘Before I found you, David, in all the world I had had only one friend and he was without a doubt, the kindest, most gentle man.  He liked women and their conversation, not keen on cats though, well neither am I, so we were suited.  He wouldn’t eat my cooking, but I can’t eat my cooking either, so I wasn’t insulted.  We loved the same films, hated the same music and were both night people.  All my life I have been fascinated by all things nocturnal, as you know.  I love to watch clouds drift across the face of a full moon or sit on a beach at the darkest part of the night, listening to the sound of the sea gently rushing up against the sand.’ Pausing, I look out on the moonlight and shift slightly on my comfy old couch before continuing. David had promised to listen to my story without interruption and I hope he will. I will tell him once and then, if he wishes, we will move on.

‘You know me I’m just this dumpy, little female with frizzy hair who couldn’t change a plug, a technophobe through and through and he was…’ I stop and David tries to deny my description of myself and I smile. He can’t make me change and anyway I like me exactly as I am. I prepare to continue, forcing myself to focus on the past. ‘How to describe him, I pick my words with caution because you will think I’m exaggerating. You will for a moment think I’ve lost my mind David, but I haven’t.’ I look into David’s eyes and know he understand me, but still I wonder if that will be enough.

‘He was amazingly tall, dark and handsome, with skin that was perfect, without flaw, and eyes of the palest blue, so blue in fact that they seemed almost without colour.  I should really stop now, but his body was just all male, perfect and I loved the way he made me feel safe, as if the world would be no match for him, if anyone tried to hurt me.  I’m not the kind of woman that sets great store on looks, I can’t afford to with my non-descript mousy hair and slightly crooked nose. No matter how many times he said that my nose was cute, I was never going to believe him.  I know what I looked like on the outside; his looks set him apart, mine were just average.  Yet still, I secretly hoped he would want me as more than his friend.’ I say, feeling uncomfortable. The man beside me is hanging on every word, looking into my eyes and just for a moment I regret starting this story. I do regret the past and wish the future wasn’t so certain. So I continue telling David about him.

‘One hour to sunset and I was tense. He always arrived on my doorstep just after dark with a DVD, half a ton of chocolate and smile so big I was almost blinded, but tonight he wanted to tell me something.  Every week, since we had met, Friday night had been movie night.  He picked the movie and he must have liked me, because every once in a while we got a chick flick. The only rule was no horror, we agreed to this after one particularly gory vampire shocker.  We didn’t enjoy it at all, so no horror films.  We sat on my ancient couch and talked and laughed, sometimes when it was cold we snuggled, just a little, he said I had the coldest feet in the world.  So every friday night he came over and the night wasn’t lonely. We stayed in and that was fine with both of us.  I had never been to his home, he’d never invited me, so sometimes I wondered if he was hiding something.  We never really talked about our lives, I wished….Wishing never gets you anywhere and everyone has regrets. I’m sure if he was married, with half a dozen kids, I’d have known.  Probably.  He wasn’t married with kids, after all I’m as careful as a girl can be and choose my friends very carefully.’ I say and it is absolutely true. I, like many females of a certain age, may be tempted by men who are not free, but I never cross the line, complications of that kind would destroy me.’ I pause and hope David understands, because I’ve become so hungry, for his love I need him to feel empathy.

‘He knew I didn’t really like loud music and the “club scene” from our first meeting.  I had decided that a single, twenty-first century woman should be able to go out and paint the town red on a Friday night on her own.  Having been single for what felt like a century I just wanted to find some company, okay male company, and so I bought appropriate clothes and I hobbled off to a club I’d heard a man in the supermarket talking about.  Needless to say it didn’t work out well, the music was too loud, the club too hot and the men too coarse for my taste.  I sat in a corner debating whether or not to leave and he found me.  I almost sighed out loud, not that he would have heard me over the thump of the base, this was the one I’d been waiting for.  He was so perfect and those pale eyes seemed to bore into my very soul.  I was never able to think straight when I looked into his eyes, but I didn’t care. I was thirsting for companionship and someone I could connect with.’ I stand and walk to the open window to breath in the night air. I feel its chill invade me instantly and I shudder.

‘Then one night I heard his distinctive knock at my door.  I knew as opened the door something had changed.  Gone was the light up the world smile and the obligatory DVD and chocolate were missing too.  Nothing about him was normal, his eyes were red, his skin almost irridescently pale and he was staring at me with such a hungry look in his eyes.  Just the sight of him frightened me.’ Even standing by the window, knowing that David is sitting on the couch, I feel a little scared, a little lost in the past. Perhaps, by telling David, I can banish the other face forever.

‘We sat and he held my hand and stared at the floor, composing himself to tell me his secret.  To finally let me fully into his life. Then my friend told me his secret and I must have apppeared shocked. He told me about his sister and their childhood. Finally he told me she was dead and he was alone in the world except for me.’ I look up at the stars as I speak and in the stars I find some peace. Truely all I’ve ever wanted was peace and not to be alone. I touch the glass with a finger and feel the cold against my finger tip.

‘I asked him what had happened, but he wouldn’t tell me. I realised he was in shock and I told him that he did’t have to do this, I did’t need to know anything.  I wished I could think of something to say to take all the hurt away.  I know what I am and I know I don’t do emotional too well.  I just never know the right thing to say.’ Smilling gently at David as I touch the night sky through the glass with my finger tip pointing to the stars.

‘I shifted a little so I could see his beautiful translusent eyes, to drown in their calm.  I knew that for as long as I wanted, I could and would have him in my life.  Then I saw something in his eyes that was new.  As he looked at me, I felt for the first time in his company truely alive.’ I say, looking at David and their faces merge in my mind.

‘Well my friend the vampire, where do we go from here he asked me and smiled. I had thought my secret safe still, as I had with you until tonight David.’ I turn from the window and the night to face David. ‘Remember, David, that I have spent forever checking to see if my friends have flowers or a stake behind his back.’ He may have handed me roses as he arrived, but I know he has a stake in his coat. I nearly laugh aloud at the thought of asking David if that’s a stake in his pocket or if he’s just pleased to see me.

‘I do not trust easily, time is nothing to me.  This life I have is longer than most could bare.  I have lived lifetimes on my own.  I have homes all over the country and I move from one to another in each lifetime.  I have no memory of any family and have never met anyone else like me. Trusting people has never seemed the sensible option to me, David.’ I watch his hands, hoping he doesn’t reach for the stake in his pocket.

‘Let me finish my story, David, then decide. Anyway he and I were at the point of no return so I listen as he talked his way into my life. The only person I’ve ever connected with, other than my sister, is you and while my sister was alive, she was my responsibility.  Now I have nothing to go home to, tonight or any night.  No one will care if I don’t turn up for work on Monday.  I can finally be where I want to be and do what I want to do he said, looking at me with such hope that I could have cried, that is if I could cry.’

‘I stood and walked to the window, the darkness is always comforting and I remember smiling at the thought of having someone again.  Of sharing my life and not being alone just for the short time he had left and that made me pause; only another forty years or so and I would be alone again. I always end up alone David.’ I say, hoping he will understand, but dreading the outcome whether he does or not.

‘If you share my life,’ I told him, ‘you’d better know the downside.  I don’t go out in direct sunlight, ever. I live only in the night, daylight is like poison to me.  I don’t sleep in a coffin, but I do sleep alone and I don’t have a problem with crosses or garlic.  I do however need to drink blood to live and, although I don’t feed often, I do think you should know the downside of my life.  I have never killed anyone and people don’t remember when I’ve fed.  I have never fed from you and I never will.  Most importantly I cannot make you like me. Then I asked if there was anything else he need to know? In that moment I turned and he was there holding me tight. He asked me if I would ever leave him and I told him truthfully, that he would never be alone again.

‘Then for the first time he kissed me.  I might just say here that I’m a bit toothy and this may have shocked him a little.  Credit where credit is due, only the smallest of hesitation and he opened my mouth with his tongue and plunged in.  I could smell the life in him, taste his humanity and I was in awe for the passion I felt in him.  Shocked by the love I felt for him in my heart that barely beats.  Then the kiss ended and nose to nose he whispered to me, “My friend the vampire.”‘

‘That’s it, David, conventional happy ending for an unconventional couple.  We stayed together all of his life and we laughed for most of it.  Any sadness in him evaporated the day we left and started a new life at my farm in Wales. He loved the life and when we moved on I know he missed the isolation, but I can only last a few years on animal blood and then my thirst becomes unbearable.  We moved a lot as he aged, but he did so love to travel and with the modern world came more freedom for me.’ I say, wondering how I sound to David, will he believe me. After all David is the first man to bring a stake into my home for two centuries maybe David will be the first to catch me in the lie.

‘When he finally died, we had spent a meagre fifty years together.  Too short a time, for such happiness.  I don’t regret a single minute of this sadness.  I only regret that I could not keep him forever.’  I finish my story and turn to a David sitting on a similar old couch, staring at me with similar wide cow eyes hanging on every word, just as they always did. This is the defining moment in our relationship, will he choose life and try to kill me or like all the others would he sucumb to the lure of the vampire. Either way David, like all those sad, unsuspecting men before him is mine.

‘Well, do you still want to be with me, David? As I’ve told you I can’t give you anything.’  I say in all honesty, I never make false promises. I don’t like being a vampire, honestly, but if you believe that you’ll believe anything.

Not answering he kisses me.  They always do, always shocked by the sharp teeth that strokes their tongues.  Always shocked as they feel the teeth I hide from the world nip them gently.  A prelude, a taste of things to come.  I’m weak, I know it and if my fantasy of a life lived without death, their death is just that, where’s the harm.  I let them believe that I offer them friendship and companionship without end and in a way I do because they are dead from the moment they meet me.  For I stalk my prey well and choose only those who suit my purpose, my appetite.  Sad lonely men, ones with a little money to keep me and no one to miss them when they suddenly disappear. I am always their friend, their life feeds me, their blood sustains me, but sadly only in a limited way. After a while, like a dieter fallen off the wagon, sips and tastes when they visit are just not enough. I need to feast, to lose myself in an orgy of feeding to watch the terror and gorge myself on the fear raging uncontrolled in their veins. I love the taste of fear, its almost sexual.  The head rush alone is too die for.

Sadly David doesn’t stand a chance, before he can use the stake, I have savaged his jugular vein with my sharpe little teeth and lapping frantically, he tastes like nectar.  His eyes wide with shock lock with my now blood red eyes. For the first time he sees me as I really am. A dark angel healing him from life’s sorrow. His body slumps, his eyes glaze and I know a moments hesitation, should I save some for later. Then it’s too late, like a yummy chocolate milkshake, he’s finished and so am I.

Why do I do this to myself?  I could just hunt the night and take what I want without once having to talk to them.  Well I do eat out occasionally,but I like to know where my food comes from. I have no end, that I know of, and so I get bored.  I like to play with my food, pick at it a bit and then finish with an orgy or gluttony as I drain it dry.  Fill myself with everything not just its blood. but its adoration, love, fear and finally hopelessness.  I tried to talk this one out of it, but I do so hate to be alone.  I do so hate to be hungry. I’m to full to clean up after dinner, so I put on a film and promise myself I’ll clear away after it’s finished.

By Grace Mahoney

A Beautiful Day (250 words)

Yesterday I was with my wife, for the first time since the accident. There had been pain, and hospital stays, and heartbreak, so I was determined that it would be a day of wonder and cheer now that she had been released.

I woke early and prepared her breakfast in bed. The eggs were too runny, I admit, but the toast was golden brown, and we took turns nibbling on it until our lips met. That lasted until the orange juice spilled, staining the sheets. So we showered. Together. I must admit that I had missed this.

Neither of us wanted to be near a car that day, so we decided to walk everywhere. We went to the movies, catching the matinee (I didn’t like it much, but she laughed at the antics on the screen, so I said nothing). We took a picnic on the beach. I built a sand castle, but the surf washed it all away, so we just walked and watched the sun set.

Later, we had dinner, scallops and shrimp. The wine was too bubbly, but we didn’t care about that. We didn’t care about anything but the company. Just ourselves, together at last.

That night, in bed, I asked her what she wanted. “I want to go on like this, forever.” She said. “Please don’t wake up. I don’t want to die again.”

But the phone rang, and I started, and realized I was in bed alone. And I began to weep.

By Anson Bremer

Screeching

Shrieking

Howling

Whipping

Wind tears at my flesh

Rocks tear at my fists

As I climb the spire

Higher, higher,

Listening to the wailing,

A thousand damned souls

Buried in the rock face I

Pull myself up.

Keep going.

Must keep going.

Can’t stop,

So close.

Pulling

Grasping

Reaching

Higher

Higher I climb

Over the faces

Buried in rock

Mother, father

Friends, teachers

Everyone

Can’t let any of them

Stop me now

He’ll get me,

That ghastly leaping thing

On the rocks below

Clad in rags

And a dead man’s skin

With empty eyes

And a skeletal sneer

Below his writhing silver hair

Up I go

Up I go

Ignore the pain

The sudden whiff of

Blood, tears, sweat,

The pleas of faces

Buried in the rocks

And that rasping whisper,

It’s not a race

You can ever win

There is no place to go.

Almost there.

Almost there!

I grab the edge,

Pull myself to the top

Of the heap and look around

And there’s nothing there

But shrieking wind

And jagged rocks

And the thing.

There’s no place to go.

Except down again

Or into swirling air

My fragile grip breaks

I am taken away

To add my own howls

To the storm

And wake,

Wake again

Convince my self it’s just a dream

Bandage my bloody hands

Shut the window to the wind

Prepare for work again.

by Anson Brehmer

To read more of Anson Brehmer’s poems and short stories visit vamplitpublishing.ning.com