Vampire stories.

Bram Stoker's Dracula is one of my favorite films, but I had not read the novel until recently. I think I said this before but I am trying to catch up on classic literature, because I've spent too much time reading fantasy novels and manga.

Van Helsing started laughing hysterically after Lucy's death and the other doctor character asked him why and he was explaining that laughter is a king who cannot be denied and I like his quote a lot. "Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries and woes and troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall - all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with our labour, what it may be."

I think it's an incredibly entertaining style of book to have all of it written via journal entries, letters, telegrams, news articles etc and use that to tell a cohesive story. I have been working on a Vampire novella for about a year now and I think reading more vampire literature at the moment will help inspire me. I think I'll share a chapter or two from that here, if you'd like to read it:

Devourance.

Chapter one.

Halvar

The dawn is coming. I feel it, beyond my sight, beyond the dark and heavy curtains, beyond the crumbling stones of this cursed palace and over the valleys and forests and mountains, I cannot see it. But I can always feel it. 

A tiny hand reaches for mine and my sullen eyes flit down to the little creature before me. My poor, unfortunate Cassandra. Tucked into bed, nearly drowning in a thick, ruffled nightgown, a nest of tangled brown hair curling about her face. Even in the dim candlelight, life is evident in the rosy glow of her cheeks. 

"Will you tell me the story again?" She asks. Her two front teeth are missing, resulting in a lisp. How lovely it is, to change. To grow. If not for her, my constant reminder, I may have forgotten what that was like. 

"When I was alive, I lived in a little village beside a vast and dark ocean. My father was a farmer and my mother was a weaver. I had eleven brothers and when I was nineteen I joined a raiding party and sailed those dark waters for the first and only time." 

"Tell me what the ship looked like!" Cassandra excitedly demanded. 

If I closed my eyes I could remember it so vividly. I could smell the salt in the air, I could feel the waves rocking me to sleep once more. 

"It was a glorious ship. Such perfect, polished wood curling up into a fearsome dragon's head at the prow. I knew it struck terror into the hearts of any man who witnessed it approaching his shores, such a menacing thing it was." 

Cassandra giggles and I can feel the ghost of a smile playing upon my own cracked lips. 

"We had gone to a foreign land, teeming and writhing with barbarians." 

"Christians?" She asked, her little nose scrunching up sourly. 

"Christians." I repeated, returning her expression. 

"During this excursion I found my way into a crypt, and I had never seen such an extraordinary place. There was so much gold, so much silver, I might've been blinded by the shining opulence of it all. But do you know what was the most remarkable thing I found?" 

"A statue!" 

"A statue indeed. A man, cut from marble. So intricate was he that the stone seemed soft as flesh, that he seemed to breathe. As I noisily made my way about the crypt, stealing as many treasures as I could hold, the statue began to stir and at once before me stood a real, living man. He told me he had been sleeping, locked away for hundreds of years, that the world had long forgotten him. He thanked me for rousing him from his slumber and said that he would give me a reward greater than any silver chalice or golden crown. He was upon me then, burying his sharp teeth into my neck, stealing away my blood, my soul. But before I made my journey to Hel, he bit his own wrist and bade me to drink his cold blood." 

"And he gave you the dark gift?" Cassandra asked, eyes bright with anticipation. 

"Indeed he did." 

"When will it be my turn?"

I caressed then the cheek of my pitiful girl. My skin, pale as death against hers, nails long and yellow and sharp. 

"When you're older. But the dark gift is my promise to you, little dove. It will be your turn, when it is your turn." 

She smiled up at me contentedly, taking my hand in hers. At times the warmth of her stung and burned sharp as the dawn, but ever would I withstand it. 

"Now then. My life was over that night in the crypt. But I was born again. That man became my teacher and for many ages, my dearest and only friend. He taught me everything, how to touch and taste the world as I was then. New and impossibly hungry. He taught me how to manage my new devourance, and without him, I may have been consumed by the fires of it." 

"Does it really hurt?" 

"Oh yes. Like nothing in this world. I feel I have died a thousand, thousand deaths. But in the long night, the fires of agony can be a charming companion. Something for you to look forward to." 

"What happens next?" She asked. Her eyes are now half-lidded and I can see that sleep is creeping along the edges of her consciousness. 

"He taught me many fine things, but most valuable was the art of compulsion. How to bend a human beneath your will. And so with his great wealth and power and our combined cunning we built a life for ourselves, right here, in these dark halls. Though in those halcyon days it was far more lively, for a time. But all things must reach their end and one day my companion left me. So great was my loneliness that I thought to forge myself a new family, and I compelled a woman to be my bride and her child to be my daughter." 

"You never told me you had another little dove before me." Cassandra stated, tasting for the first time the bitterness of betrayal. 

"No. I had a daughter, yes. But I have only ever had one little dove." I said, nearly pleased to find my own possessive nature reflected in the sharp eyes of my child. 

"What happened to her?" 

The memory flooded my mind too quickly, half-formed and wispy like ink in water. A dazzling display of love and viscera dancing behind my pale, milky eyes. 

"Devourance, my sweet child. The fire burns too hot, it consumes everything in its path, it takes until there is nothing. And when the fire goes out, one is left with naught but cold ash. Now, that is enough storytelling. Sweet dreams, precious one. When the cruel sun has finished his rampage across the sky, I will wake you." 

The journey from Cassandra's chamber to my own had begun to feel longer and longer each morning. My clothes felt so heavy, everything, in fact, seemed unbearably heavy. My limbs, my hair, even my eyelashes. All weighing me down. When I was young I felt not nearly dead, I felt more alive than when I was living. I imagined myself as a God of death and hedonism. Now I simply felt exhausted. 

Shadows crept silently about me as I continued my journey through the dark. Ghouls, my other sweet children. Cursed to do my bidding for eternity. Mindless things, but better company than none. I began my long descent down the spiraling staircase to the dungeons, each step more arduous than the last until finally I reached my perfect sanctuary. There are many candles lit down here, filling the space with a warmth I cannot experience. There is incense too and the air is thick with the scent of opium, heady and overwhelming just as I need it to be. There is a gramophone, though I care not to choose carefully what music I play. I care only that there is music to distract my restless mind. I go then to my cabinet, large and overwhelmed with trinkets of all kinds. Necklaces and earrings and shoes, satin ribbons, silk stockings and many, many locks of hair. They are trophies, all of them. Reminders not only of each person I have killed, but each person I have loved. Truly I can find no great difference between the two. I have taken something from them all and keep them here, inviting each and every one to haunt me, as they should. 

But as I look upon them I begin to feel it. First in my stomach, and then in my heart. Searing heat. It begins as a little flicker gently lapping at my insides, though soon it is hellfire melting me from within. My body trembles, my eyes grow wide. No matter how many times I experience this destruction of my civility, this decomposition of what little remains of humanity within me, it strikes me with all the wrath and fury of the very first time. I rake my nails across my face. The pain is fleeting, the skin stitches itself back together nearly as soon as it's been split. Again and again, cold, dark blood rolling down my cheeks as I tear at myself with great ferocity. This is my method of self-discipline. This is how I keep the beast at bay. In my youth my destruction was aimed outwards. Smashing, breaking, ripping the world around me to shreds but over time I learned to direct this towards myself. When I'm finished I am covered in my own dead blood. But the fire is quieter now, quiet enough for me to rest at least. But I know that when the night comes I will have another trophy.

Chapter two.

Halvar

Night has fallen and I must devour before I can do anything else. My ears are ringing, my hands are shaking, my body thrums with visceral need. As I hurriedly stumble my way into the foyer it is all I can do not to tear myself apart again. My ghouls, blessed, beloved children, have fetched my lover for tonight; A woman. She regards me with a dreamy, vacant countenance. Compelled to stand here in docility, though I wonder if she is still lucid within herself. Screaming at her body, trying to will it into obedience. But the will of myself and of my children is the will of God. There will be no mercy this night.

Before I make a mess of her I take a strand of her blonde hair between my fingers. A swipe of my nails sets it free and I tuck it away against my breast, to cherish later. 

It is never enough simply to bite, though a bite is always the way it all begins. The taste of blood makes Devourance so much more intense and I must have more, more, more! I cannot stop my nails from shredding, my hands from ripping and in the end whatever remains of my unfortunate lover is quickly seen to by my children. 

“Papa?” 

Cassandra had come, standing on her tiptoes, trying to minimize the amount of blood which was already seeping into her socks. Her arms were raised, little hands grasping. 

“My little dove, what are you doing up so early? I would have come to fetch you, you know this.” I coo as I lift her up and carry her on my hip. She wraps her arms around my neck and leans closer to me. Blood stains her nightgown, but this does not seem to bother her. Nor is she bothered by the squelching and snapping of bones as my other children feast behind us. Cassandra was born to this maddening, bleeding darkness. Born on a night just like this one, although she does not know it. This is home to her. She gives me her semi-toothless grin as I carry her back to her chamber and I smile back in kind. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed for the evening shall we? I'll feed you and then we can begin your lessons.” 

Cassandra nodded contentedly. 

In my eyes, Cassandra was like a living doll. At least, most of the time. Her many befrilled dresses in rich jewel tones, set with lace and ribbons and her rosy, cherub cheeks were all delightfully pleasant aesthetics. Though her yowling and wailing at having her hair combed each and every night quickly shattered that illusion. But once she was finally presentable it was time for her to feed. 

Everything she eats is stolen. My own sustenance is derived from thievery, so it is for my child. It's alright, I explained to her long ago. Predatory creatures steal every day, foxes steal eggs right from beneath chickens, polecats steal baby rabbits sleeping soundly in their dens. 

We are predators, I told her. 

We were born to steal. 

I watch her earnestly from one end of our long dining table, far too long for just two people and fallen into disrepair after centuries without use. She does not sit, she perches up on her knees as she eagerly devours a pomegranate. I do not mind if she stains her dress, her hands, her face. My child consumes the way that I do, all things are a reflection of myself within her. 

When she has finished eating I walk with her to the library. The air is thick with the smell of old books and there are dozens of shelves, all reaching up to the high ceiling above. A track runs along them, a wheeled ladder connected to it. Cassandra insists on climbing the ladder and being pushed along the tracks, gliding across the library in a fit of laughter before she is willing to settle down and learn. She sits beside me in an old high-backed chair near the library's large fireplace. The cold means nothing to me, but Cassandra is still of flesh and blood and so I do my best to keep her near the hearth in every room. 

I have been teaching her the history of the world, the history of her people. Though they were once mine, it has been many ages since I felt a blood connection to mankind. Time has forgotten me and I know that one day it will forget Cassandra too. But for today I teach her about the rise and fall of kingdoms and empires, about brave heroes and even braver villains. I teach her the merits of good leaders and the follies of poor ones, the pivotal events and characters that have shaped the world. Though what exactly the world is today, I cannot say. 

Cassandra reads to me then. Faery tales, sonnets and poems, philosophy, Machiavelli mostly. And finally when she seems frustrated with reading and will have no more words, she sits beside me at the piano and we play together. 

My fingers, thin and pallid, the fingers of a long dead corpse. Cassandra's, pink-knuckled and warm and clumsy. Ours is a duet of life and death. 

“Would you care to walk with me?” I ask and before I've finished my sentence Cassandra has leapt to her feet, grabbing my hand and doing her best to drag me all the way outside. Out of the library, down a long corridor, down the stairs, through the foyer and beyond, into the cold night air. 

It was once a pleasure to feel the wind against my skin, but now I feel I can barely tolerate it. I want nothing more in this moment than to lay myself down in my coffin, to let devourance fester and rot through me, to petrify, to become nothing. I feel myself washed over with passionate longing for my own grave. 

But for now I ignore it as I walk hand in hand with my child. Bats squeal as they flit overhead and Cassandra laughs. 

Wolves howl, and she listens reverently, as one listens to a sermon. 

“These are our brothers and sisters.” I told her. 

“Vermin, beasts, the cruelest wolf, the lowliest, sickliest rat. Brothers and sisters all.”

Finally, dawn begins to approach once more and it is time to put Cassandra to bed. I sit beside her again, stroking her warm cheek. 

“Will you tell me the story of how I was born again? It's been a long time.” 

A melancholy smile passes my lips.

“Of course, little dove. Long ago I kept a garden, I grew roses and lilies and-” 

“Bleeding hearts and lavender, and lilacs and heather.” She finishes for me, squirming with excitement. 

“Exactly. And one night as I tended the garden I noticed that a new flower had appeared, the biggest I'd ever seen, with petals that glowed in the moonlight run through with red, bleeding veins. This flower blossomed for me and to my surprise, a sweet little baby lay curled up at its center. And I thought that surely this must be a fairy, or an angel. A little dove for me to keep, and to care for and to love. And that is how you came to be mine.” I said. Cassandra seemed content, closing her eyes and humming with approval as she began to fall asleep.

My poor creature. How it strains my heart to tell her lies. 

Those are the first two chapters anyway. I want to read interview with the vampire as well, I really love vampires as a trope and I need to catch up on classic vampire literature. I'll be attending a vampire ball again next year and I'm very excited to talk about that later! I thought that Halloween (Or rather two days after but, still.) Was the most appropriate time to talk about Vampires.

I don't know when I might post again until next month, at which point I want to share Swedish Christmas stories and traditions and I can't wait!