The Addiction to Modern Vintage

I had come from the hoary mountains of an ancient land, carried on a bristling wind. The world had moved on, and with it, the very nature of society and its problematic humanity had changed to such a degree, that I too, needed to change.

 There was resistance amongst my order, to move with the times, for ours was a history of antique lore and simple unliving. I had a fond recall of those olden days when it was commonplace for one such as I, to abide in the secretive texture of gothic shadows. Yet, as previously stated, this world had changed and those mythical days had become a mere memoir, even for an immortal such as I.

 In some ways, it was a blessing that the human populous had evolved to believe in much less than they once had. Now their attentions were obsessively focused on the boon of technology and of a hundred or more daily needs and requirements and pursuits and indulgences. I felt a loathing of this proclivity to obsess over themselves and about their assumed importance in their overpopulated world, how darkly ironic.

 I could, of course, be accused by some, as having the disease of self-serving distemper, but then I would point to the fact that my kind has always remained true to our ways and have never sought to gain favours through appeasement. Besides, the humans were still food after all, and I am not sure they would themselves be endeared to farmed beasts if those critters suddenly decided that everyone else should pay attention to their bellyaches.

 Before I had left the old world, it had been told to me that a place called “Whitby,” might prove to be the perfect relocation spot for a vampire. The place had a familiar ring to it and indeed, upon further details given to me by my good friend Mister Poldinius, I was re-acquainted with the knowledge of others like myself who had travelled and resided in that place. Poldinius, in his cultured advisement, explained to me that this was a place where the old ways yet persisted and that there was an oddly keen desire by those who frequented the place, to happen upon creatures who dance within shadows and carouse with eternity.

 I had arranged a house in Whitby before embarking upon the journey, for I could not risk having no haven in which to rest during the day. I was keen to integrate myself into this construct of modernity, and so had used the thing they called ‘internet’ to purchase the house at Black Moors Court. The name was fitting and reminded me of a place I had once lived, curte moor întunecată, some two hundred years ago. It had been a grand house, segregated within a lush ancient forest and wide sweeping vistas of shadowy moorland.

 When I arrived at my new house in Whitby, I was at first deceived, by the arcing scale of the place and the twenty doors or so which fronted the property. That was until I discovered with a dreadful fright, that this swathe of brickwork with dissecting hedgerows, constituted twenty different houses! This seemed rather peculiar to me for I knew how steadfastly human society began, and ended, with their homes, yet how strange to be living in such strangling proximity that would even agitate the most sociable of vampires.

 I had no choice but to enter the tiny hovel and seek to find the reported cellar than had been in the advertisement. The house was oppressively tiny, and I felt an immediate sense of claustrophobia, at least I assume that is what it was, for I had never had the displeasure to feel this way before. I could hear a dull persistent thud which alarmed me and even conspired to raise my anger level higher still. The unsettling thud seemed to emanate from a ghastly pink plaster wall. I pressed my cold hands against this wall, and it did not imbue me with a sense of history or strength, such as I was used to in those grand old buildings of the old world. Instead, the pale and fragile facade resonated, bullied by that damned and accursed repetitive beating. This was their modern music, I cursed.

 The cellar, such as it was, brought more disappointment, barely large enough to house me, let alone a single bride if I should happen to acquire one. I tried to reconcile myself to the fact that this was exactly why I had come to this new land and this new harbour called Whitby, for the entirety of this endeavour was to posit myself within a modern world and age.

 Poldinius had been fundamentally right about Whitby. Over the next few weeks, when I had walked those narrow and shadowy streets, I had been rather delighted to see so many fellow vampires wandering around, and indeed these were much more advanced than myself, for they were laughing and prancing around as if in the throes of medicinal intoxication, or even, love. This mess of the soulless had integrated so well that they had even begun to bear the slightest colour in their cheeks, how marvellous evolution is I thought to myself. For at times they were able to perfectly mimic the resonance of a beating heart or the delicious throbbing of a pulse. Yet, much to my mirth, the streets, the nooks, the hiding holes around town, all fell silent and quiet after midnight.

 I maintained the perfect discipline, as a vampire should, and particularly when in a new and unfamiliar land. I fed cautiously, always away from the house and used my mesmeric prowess to bend the will of those who might have been fool enough to resist my desire. Yet, a singular thing persisted which perplexed me, the infernal constant noise from the neighbour. I had resisted all urges, strong as they were, to confront the bearer of the excruciating sounds, for I preferred that my face remain unknown and stealthy, for that is how it had always been throughout the ages, and this small detail had often proved to be the saving grace in times of challenge.

 On that illuminating night, I had decided to spend the evening indoors, for there was a bracing easterly wind blowing in from the sea. To my shame, I had become quite fond of a thing they called, Netflix, and quite enjoyed fanging around and binging on their bloody offerings. This night, the sound monster had returned with full force and the resonance was enough to drive a maniac to sanity. I paused the show and moved quickly, flinging the outer door ajar and treading over the carefully manicured weeds which I had encouraged to flourish. I banged upon the neighbour’s door, fury risen within me and ready to unleash.

 A rather large man opened the door and stared stupidly at me. It looked as though he had been romping in a trough, such was the mess of things upon his shirt and around his wobbling jowls.

 “How about you turn the noise down?” I said without moderation.

 “Ok.” Said the man before closing the door. I had heard that modern humans were a belligerent kind and so the willingness to comply took me by surprise, but I was quite happy to have this resolution, it kept things tidy.

 Ten minutes later, I literally flew out of my chair, a red mist swirling in my eyes and my fangs drawn, ready to inflict the most severe retribution. I hammered on his door as an undead possessed, the horrendous drubbing of that hideous music blaring out into the otherwise serene evening. The door opened and the fool regarded me with insolence and disdain.

 “How about you invite me in?” I glared.

 “How about you bugger off?” he replied without any inflexion upon his waxy fattened face. I looked around cautiously, for I needed to be sure nobody was witness to this, altercation.

 “How about you,” I spoke deeply and with all the intonement that comes from one engaged in the dark arts of mesmerism, “invite me in!” He puzzled for a long moment; a pathetic tranquil slowness became the mask upon his hoggish face. He took a step back and I sensed an effort at resistance, I glared at him with eyes of rusted age and with the command of undeniable glamour.

 “Come in,” he said meekly. I stepped forth and grinned with a primordial intent which quickly imbued this sorry chap with frigid fear. He walked back into his lounge, for it was my bidding that he did not take his gaze from me. I closed the front door, making sure that no eyes had made witness of my entry.

 I faced the man and breathed in deeply and sonorously, to imbibe fully of that wild and wonderful aroma of fear. I knew that he craved to speak yet could not, for he was my thrall and I owned him and knew him now, with an intimate and invasive rule. It mattered not, for I always knew what they wanted to say, it had never changed for hundreds of years, ‘Vampire!’ As if the utterance of the obvious might somehow inflict injury on me or inoculate them to their sorry fate.

 I moved with a spectral flash to predate upon the impudent man. For a little-known fact about vampires is that the impact speed, the subsequent splatter and intensity of shock discharged by the victim, all help to season the stock of their blood. As I fed with feral gluttony, it occurred to me that the taste of this man was curiously exceptional, and of a vintage that I had never experienced before. I drank from that pig until his lips bulged blue and his eyes had sunken deep into his skull. I let his heavy shell fall and bounce upon the floor, before finally turning down the thumping music. As I did so, I happened to notice several medicine boxes and pill jars on the side unit. I am not sure what compelled me to scrutinize the labels, perhaps it was because I was deeply inquisitive as to why this man tasted so much better than any human I had fed from before.

 “Metformin?” I read from a pillbox before picking up what looked to be a spent syringe type thing. “Trulicity?” I then noticed a stack of tiny cards, much the same as one of those arrogant suit-wearing humans might pass around. These cards, however, featured some medical advisement that the bearer was a diabetic. I had heard of this through my education with Netflix but never quite understood what they were speaking of. Luckily, I was a masterful sleuth and had even given Sherlock a run for his money back in the day.

 “So, you were a diabetic,” I spoke at the husk which lay bloodless upon the floor. I looked around the hovel and saw crisp packets, chocolate boxes, endless cans of soda piled upon pizza boxes and fried chicken cartons. Well, this made the perfect sense now! I came from a land where the people had endured the same diet for hundreds of years, vegetables, legumes, beans and garlic. Quite simple, very measured, and as such their blood had always remained the same.

In this modern world, however, the diet was completely different, with many of the standard items they ate being quite repugnant to me. This was the secret of why the bulbous man had tasted so good. For some reason, his diet had altered the qualities of his blood and created an elixir which was quite intoxicating and expressively delicious to me.

Yes, I was now convinced that this modern world was not as corrosive and obnoxious as I had first thought. And even though I had just drunk my fill from the fat man, I felt the urge, in fact, the utter need, with a quite insatiable feeling which was new to me, to feed again, but to feed only upon the delightful and moreish qualities, found in the diabetic.