The Vampire Lands

The swamp I call home has never seen the sun—if it did, all its secrets would be revealed. A perpetual mist clings to the murky water, translucent enough to reveal the piercing eyes of aquatic predators lurking beneath. The canopy of mangroves darkens the already depressing atmosphere. The only changes are the precise tone of the clouds—ranging from an oppressive charcoal to a pale slate hinting of sunlight but never permitting it to fully break through—and the force of the rain and wind which shifts from a pleasant pattering and a gentle breeze to a positive gale that curves the gushing torrents. No locals dare venture out then, when water droplets pelt like hail and leave welts just as painful. 

One can never be truly versed in the intricacies of these lands, but one develops a certain acquaintanceship after a while, and very few leave. Perhaps it satisfies people’s need for a “tall, dark stranger” in their lives—enough depth to last an eternity, yet so fragile that a single strand of sunlight could shatter it. Perhaps everyone hopes they’re that strand. 

I certainly am not, nor do I possess any desire to be. 

During tantrums of weather, and at night when the cloak of black sets the stage for eerie happenings, I remain inside my humble shack. The odd hissing, groaning, and occasional caterwauling of the darkness, I merely accept as nature’s choice of white noise. 

An ominous sky ushers in the morning, along with a drizzle hinting of a later tempest. In the village square, the people are huddled in discussion, but as I approach, they quiet. 

“Good morning, Cian,” someone says. As always, more than a few glance disapprovingly at the faded Triskelion tattoo on my forearm.

“Good morning. What news does today bring?” I swat at a pesky mosquito intent on burrowing into my beard.

The newsboy wordlessly hands me a paper, but today, it’s longer than the typical single-sided page consisting of a pointless weather report, petty “crime,” and ads for the only three businesses in the village: the general store, the cafe, and the barbershop. Those are relegated to the back. The front is plastered with proposals to drain areas of the swamp and topple several mangroves for lumber. 

“What is this?” I ask, my tone heavy with suppressed rage.

The villagers shift uneasily until the newsboy answers.

“Sir, this place isn’t fit to live in. The swamp’s on every side and floods whenever it rains hard. We need to drain part of it—keep it at bay. Chop lumber for reinforced homes. And you can’t take a leisurely stroll beyond the borders without fear of being sucked into the muck. It’s not safe.” 

The boy’s speech emboldens another woman. “And we don’t even know what lurks beyond our walls.” She shudders. “The sounds in this place at night…positively unnatural.”

Without another word, I crumple the paper and toss it to the ground. 

As I turn away, I hear someone whisper, “There’s something about him that doesn’t sit right with me. His eyes give me the creeps.” 

There is no use finishing the ritual of my morning walk, the day is irrevocably tainted.

Hours later, the land throws one of its infamous tantrums.

The sky darkens so completely, that you’d think it was midnight at three o’clock. The wind gusts against my window as if it intends to shatter the glass into a million pieces, rattles the shack’s wooden boards, and slips through the cracks to stir the flames in the fireplace until sparks shoot across the room. The rain pelts the roof in a brief but merciless fury. 

And then—calm. 

Silence.

Utter, dead silence for about a minute.

Then, life resumes as usual.

Perhaps the land aimed to remind its inhabitants that it was neither owned nor tamed by anyone. 

Children shriek with joy as they splash in the newly formed puddles on the street, oblivious to any concerns. I’ve never had any desire for offspring of my own, but I envy their innocence and continually seek to replicate their enjoyment of life’s simple pleasures. 

In the days that followed, strangers arrive in Hi-Vis vests, poking and prodding at the swamp while villagers watch intently through their windows. 

I cannot ignore them.

They’re as present and irritating as the swarms of mosquitoes that rise after heavy rains.

Eventually, I stop reading the news. The future is inevitable; I am only one man, and my neighbors seem to have forgotten the meaning of loyalty.

Tonight, I alter my routine. Before the water recedes and the ancient trees are felled for lumber, I commune with them once more. 

There are no paths into the swamp—hardly anyone risks venturing in for fear of being swallowed. Regardless, equipped with knee-high boots and a lantern, I proceed.  

Some parts of the mud in the swamp are merely ankle-deep, but most are of questionable depth. The trick is knowing the difference and avoiding the latter. Dry spots are nearly nonexistent. In the darkness, the water is virtually indistinguishable from the mud.

Only yards from the village, the world becomes invisible. I trust the swamp to guide me.

I lose track of time, of the distance I’ve traveled.

Then, I stop. 

I wait, engulfed in fog. Waiting for…what? I expect nothing. Yet, I am prepared for anything. 

I’ve learned never to underestimate the swamp. 

The moon is full tonight. It’s unusual that I’m able to tell, but above me, an opening in the canopy allows a glimpse of the sky. Wisps of cloud drift, revealing the muted glow of the lunar sphere. 

The swamp quiets.

I like to think its creatures are admiring the rare sight, same as I. 

Then—

Whoosh. Whoosh. Swish. Whoosh.

A faint vibration beneath me. Within me.

I feel slightly uneasy. 

The sounds build. The vibrations deepen. 

A hazy shadow forms in the distance. A breeze stirs. The fog disperses. 

My lantern flickers once— 

—then dies.

It’s here. 

Instead of fear, familiarity. 

“Well, hello there,” I murmur. 

It settles, perching atop a circle of lily pads. A rumbling emission from deep inside its chest rises—the equivalent of a cat’s purr. 

A moment of silent observation follows. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, it vanishes—becoming one with the night once more.

Regardless, it was a profound gift.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I’m filled with a sense of peace as I return the way I came. 

One day in the near future, sunlight will illuminate my home. 

But I’ll spare you, Reader, from seeing these vampire lands revealed. Instead, I leave you with the memory of now.