The Count din Umbra

“I must say, this is the latest I’ve ever moved anybody in, but you made it very easy. Here is your key, and you just call if you need anything Mr. din --”

“Count, please,” Count din Umbra was quick to correct his real estate agent. Somehow quicker still to take the key from him and shut the door.

“Okay, Mr. Count,” the real estate agent replied to the peephole, but he knew the Count was already gone.

The poor real estate agent stood on the porch in his extra small polo freezing to the bone. But, he lingered on the front porch, partially because he wanted to knock and tell off this Eastern European freak show for being such a creep. Maybe it was to ask him why he wore sunglasses at 10 PM, or why he moved in at 10 PM or what in the world was his deal. He finally decided it wasn’t his business when his teeth started chattering and he ran to his car. He was sure to give the Count his middle finger as he drove off. The count saw that through the wall.

“Hmm, yes...him I will kill first.”

Count din Umbra had been a vampire since he was a boy in Romania. He had taken an avid interest in bats and went to the zoo to see the exhibit almost weekly. The zookeeper was an American that took a liking to him and told him that there were no vampire bats among them. He felt calm and safe when they entered the cage. Until one of them bit him and he woke up the next morning craving blood and sporting a nice set of fangs. The news broke the next day that all of those bats were vampire bats. On the news, they all stood cloaked and bare-fanged behind the zookeeper who only said, “They sure made an ass of me, I tell you what.”

It was that day that din Umbra decided to kill every stupid American. He hated their ignorance and blind trust, but loved that a great orange lizard led them and that many other vampires worked below him. It was perfect. He’d already dried up the blood of a young woman at his old hotel who thought he was cute, and he now had a house and plenty of neighbors to choose from.

He lay down in his coffin at precisely 5 AM. He would wake at 8 PM, and adhere strictly to his schedule.

8 PM was breakfast for the Count. He did 60 pushups, 120 sit ups and hung by his feet from the ceiling for 6 minutes. He drank a small smoothie of pig innards, none drained of blood, of course. Then, off to the real estate agents house. He would fly, obviously, and enter through a window to drink all the blood his body contained. He would return home and probably watch Grey’s Anatomy. Lots of blood there. Good stuff.

He didn’t wear a cape to do his work; that was for formal events. Instead, he typically wore collared Van Heusen shirts and jeans or khakis. This wasn’t to blend in, but to be comfortable. The Count did, though, slick back his hair like someone from a Scorsese movie and always tried to make sure he was looking deathly pale. He was rubbing baby powder into his neck when the doorbell rang.

The Count checked his watch. Visitors at 9 PM? Strange, but he answered the door anyway. On his porch stood a young couple of about 25 with a small plate of cookies. They smiled bright and shouted “HIII!”

The Count recoiled, then, “Hello.”

“We are your NEIGHBORS!” they shouted at him again. He was not keen on their volume, but he smiled anyway.

“Okay.”

“Can we come in? We would love to sit down and get to know you!

“No.” The Count was stern. He had no desire to exchange pleasantries with these fools. Their smiles were too bright and their skin far too dark from the sun. He hated them already.

The young couple, however, was not upset by his sentiment. Instead, they stood in the doorway and studied the walls, painted black and covered with ancient paintings of death and despair. Even the furniture was black, and arranged in a large circle around a small iron table with stains of blood on it. They grinned while they studied the decor.

Hard as he tried, the Count could not get their happiness away from his house. It was irritating.

“Well, we brought you a small house-warming present to say ‘WELCOME!’ and we wanted to invite you to a party one of our friends is holding not far from here!” the young couple smiled some more. The Count did not. He began to bear his sharp teeth and tried to scare them off.

“I do not want your-”

“Oh, no it’s okay they don’t have any nuts or anything!” the woman tried to hand the Count the plate, not even noticing his fangs. He recoiled at the cookies, so she set them on a table next to a framed picture of a rotting corpse, still smiling and said, “Well it was nice to meet you, Mr…”

“No, it’s Count.”

“That’s cute! ‘Mr. Count.’ Okay, well the party is-”

“I have other matters to attend to. I will not be in attendance. Goodnight.” And he shut the door in their face. What vile people to bring that kind of glee into his house.

The Count hadn’t forgotten the real estate agent. He watched Cannibal Holocaust to find his zen, then left, prepared now to begin his great crusade to rid the world of American filth. He checked his fangs in the mirror, then morphed into a bat and he flew out the window.

Along the way he observed the town he’d just moved into. He could almost taste the vomit in his mouth looking at the mountains of only rock and naked trees. The snow that had begun to fall blinded his view and gathered upon the ground like powdered sugar on an American fried pastry. How could a nation love itself like these people did? The orbs that shined white on the poles of street corners and in the ghastly gray buildings looked like a paint spill against the black sky. And the cars and the people all moving in a pattern, blind. They didn’t even notice each other, all moved independently and alone, but became a great maze of ants to be squashed under the great boot of Count din Umbra. He could hardly wait to turn this wondrous landscape into his nightmare.

He arrived at the real estate agent’s house and landed on the roof, returning to human form. He was dapper, ready to kill and he moved towards the edge of the roof with silence, but great purpose. He lowered himself onto a balcony and opened the door to the master bedroom. Only a fool would leave it unlocked and it was exactly so. The Count almost scoffed, but then he found the room empty. The bed was made and music came from downstairs. The party. What a joyous coincidence. He rolled his eyes, then his decision became clear and an evil grin spread across his face. He moved outside, no nerves at all, only opportunity. As he moved down the hall, he watched a polo-clad little man exit the bathroom and the Count immediately pounced. He bit hard into his neck, and the man fell to the floor.

“Oh...rats.” The Count saw the man’s face on the ground. It wasn’t the real estate agent. But, he could see through the bottom of the stairs and caught the agent’s eyes among a crowd of about 30 people. He smiled, wiped the blood from his lips on his white sleeve leaving a large stain, and moved towards the stairs.

He froze at the sight of the woman climbing the stairs. His eyes were wide as he watched her come right at him. She smiled at him and her walk up the stairs turned into a strut. Her inebriated state was reaching extreme levels and she didn’t notice the body at the top of the stairs. She just noticed the hooked nose and sunken eyes she found so sexy. The red lips on his sleeve turned her on. 

“You wear lipstick, big boy?” she asked the Count.

“Excuse me, madam,” he said as he rushed by her on the way down.

The party was booming. Everyone was dancing and drinking and as soon as they saw the Count, they erupted in cheers, as if everyone’s favorite friend had just arrived. The Count forced a smile and went for a drink when the woman upstairs screamed.

The Count kept his hand in his pocket to hide the blood that stained his sleeve. It shone crimson against the white and the light made it that much brighter. He wasn’t paranoid; just careful. The rest of the party, though, was in a panic. The police had been called, but they were still a distance away. Partygoers rushed around, asking questions to each other and trying to find answers. The Count stood by the bar and watched, picking his next victim. But, she found him.

The pretty drunk woman pointed at him and whispered something to her equally drunk but less pretty friend. They rushed to him and the pretty woman spoke first. “Hey, you came down the stairs when I saw the body.”

The Count’s eyes shone and he was ready to drain her of all her blood when her friend followed up the accusation with, “Did you see who it was?”

He froze. He didn’t think of this possibility. They didn’t suspect him. Blood on his sleeve and his face void of color, he rubbed his chin and began sarcastically, “No. I saw no one. Odd.”

“Yeah,” the pretty girl said, “You were lucky it wasn’t you! Poor Gary.”

“Yes, poor Gary,” the Count moaned and shook his head.

He couldn’t believe his fortune. How could they not suspect him? He studied the other faces around him and none seemed even remotely suspicious of him. Suspicions, he’d learned in all his travels, are often irrational. They have very little to do with evidence, but feeling. All of these social climbers spent too much time together and fostered ill will towards each other; all fingers in the room were pointed at one another, not the actual culprit. The Count watched people whisper and point. And another stroke of genius found Count din Umbra.

“Woman,” the count whispered to the pretty girl.

“Yes?” the girl whispered back, breathily.

“Meet me in the backyard.”

She nodded and set her drink down. The Count went first and found the shadows away from the lights. She couldn’t understand why she trusted this Eastern European man so much. She might even love him. And, now, she was going to show him that.

She found him standing ominously in the shadows. She smiled bright and found herself excited at the proposition of a mystery man. She entered the shadows, no fear whatsoever. He began to lean in and she followed suit, preparing for a kiss. Then he bit into her neck.

By the time the Count reentered the house the police had arrived. They were upstairs checking the body of the other man Count din Umbra had killed. He nodded to a few officers in uniform and then was approached by a man in a leather jacket and a goatee. He was balding, and seemed stern, far more serious than the partygoers and much more sober, too. Probably.

“Good evening, sir, I’m Detective White,” the officer introduced himself.

“I have found another body outside,” the Count was definitely testing his luck by volunteering this information. But, what the hell.

“Gamble, Walter, there’s another body outside. Let’s go,” the officer called, then to Count din Umbra, “Follow us, please.”

They quickly found the body and the Count grew a little more worrisome. His trust that these officers were imbeciles may have been misplaced. The officers were sober and smarter and may even know how to stop him.

“When did you see this?” The detective’s breath smelled of garlic when he turned to speak to the Count and he almost puked. But, he stood his ground.

“Only a few minutes ago.”

“Did you see anyone else out here?”

“No, just the woman and I.”

The detective looked at the body and watched two cops begin to search the area. He shook his head and turned back to the Count with fire in his eyes. The Count was in trouble. He began to bare his fangs when the detective spoke again.

“What kind of animal kills two innocent people like this. It’s a shame.”

Count din Umbra put his fangs away. He nodded in agreement, a cruel smile spread across his face.

“Well, nothing you can do now, my friend,” the detective said. “You head on home.”

The Count froze for a moment and tested their trust a step further, “Am I not a suspect?”

“Oh, right, erm...did you do it?”

“No,” and his eyes shone with glee.

“Okay, have a good night.”

And the Count waltzed away, blood on both sleeves. They trusted him without even knowing him. What a beautiful thing. 

He morphed into a bat and found his way up to the balcony again. As he studied the skyline of the city, he found it less sickening now. Maybe America is not all bad. The field of light that spread for miles in front of him shone darker now than before, and more spotty. The buildings were all small temples built for Count din Umbra and their light was in respect. He smiled, fangs and all.

Count din Umbra had killed two people that night. And he waited on that balcony for the agent to return to bed. He knew the skyline would be more beautiful still when he had finished his work that night. And he was right.