dispatch5

On rare occasions, when I ventured forth from my haven, I would sense another of my kind, but I avoided any kind of contact. There was no reason to trust them and they may even consider me a rogue, having parted company with my dispassionate maker and set out to make my way alone. A part of me craved an ending to this solitude, but caution held me back. I remembered some of the words Louis had spoken, in that spartan room, so many years before. Words about the solitary existance of a vampire. Somehow, I would accept this more easily, as time went by, but as yet, it was difficult for me. I would go for days, weeks, months, without speaking a word.. because there was nobody to speak with. The rooms echoed with silence, broken only by the sound of my footsteps, as I moved from room to room, or the rustle of turned pages, or the hollow click of the computer keys. Even the crackling of a fire, although I didn't really need it for heat, was a welcome

break in the stillness. On the first occasion that I talked to myself, it was quite a surprise to hear the sounds that came from a throat unused to vocalizing for so long. My voice was the Sahara sand abrading ancient stone.. The dry whisper of a pharaoh's mummy talking to itself in a vault sealed for 3000 years. From then on, as my voice returned to its normal tones, I spoke regularly to myself; small observations and comments, often addressing myself in the third person. Mad? No, I don't think so. I merely craved the sound of a voice breaking the hollow silence, even if that voice was my own.

My home was almost complete.. something that I dreaded. The activity had kept me occupied and once it was done, I would need to find some other way to pass the long night hours. I rapidly added to my book collection, and in the process, built more shelves to accomodate the increasing numbers. My newly refinished desk became quickly cluttered with note books, odd and ends of papers and a cup filled with broken pencils. I would become so engrossed in my writing, the pressure increasing on the lead, that it would break, and I would toss it back into the cup and grab a new one. Practicality added another piece of comparatively modern equipment to my den.. an electric pencil sharpener.

The small and dusty attic proved to be a treasure trove of the old and unusual. Sweeping aside the heavy hangings of cobwebs, I uncovered a pile of wooden boxes. Fragments of yellowed labels displayed ships of a time long past and I pried off the lids with eager curiousity. My eyes first lit on black lace, intricately detailed, but as I went to lift it from its bed, it crumbled in my fingers. Beneath it was another box, bound with metal. Inside, a heavy iron door knocker, its face quite monsterous. Smiling, I determined to attach it to my front door. Any brave enough to lift the metal ring and rap for entrance would deserve what they found inside. In another wooden box, this one heavily carved, nestled a matched set of flint-lock pistols. From the brass work and shape of the butt, I was fairly sure they were Turkish in origin. Lying under the pistols was what appeared to be a uniform, quite old in design, the gilded epaulettes having lost their luster and faded to a sickly green. This too, as all other items made of fabrics, was rotted and moth eaten, impossible to renew. By the

time I had explored all the wooden crates, I was filty, covered in dust and cobwebs, but pleasantly satisfied with my newly discovered treasures. Another firearm, this one a small pistol with a butt that looked to be mahogany. So tiny, it had either to have been a ladies or perhaps belonged to a gambler, small enough to hide away up his sleeve. A pair of bronze candlesticks, bases in the form of winged lions, which I had already decided would go on the small table beside my old leather chair.

The singularity of a few items made me wonder at the legality of their aquisition, and the wide spread travels of who ever had brought them to rest in this dusty tomb. A small but delicately fashioned figure of the goddess Kwan Yin, the ivory aged with a soft yellow patina. A tiny round box, also of ivory, but carved in layer after layer, so the scene on the sides and lid almost drew you down into it. The box was empty, of course. Perhaps at one time it had held perfumed oil, or maybe even poison. Another carving, this one of the multi-armed Kali. What had appeared to be a long piece of varnished wood, turned out to be several thin sheets, stacked together and tied with a long flat cord, embroidered with letters or words completely foreign to me. Once the cord was unwrapped and the sheets spread apart, it was clear that each one was painted in gold with hundreds and hundreds of strange and probably archaic symbols.

Completing my unexpected windfall were two foo dogs, carved from what looked like jade and a curved sword, complete with a green scabbard. The scabbard was made of either snake or the skin of some other reptile; the scales small and even. Surprisingly, the sword's edge was still extremely sharp, cutting cleanly through the flesh of my thumb when I ran it along the cool metal. Licking at the blood that flowed from my thumb, the hunger awoke, pinching at my insides, reminding me that I needed to feed. Gathering up all the items in my arms, I clambered back down the treacherous stairs from the musty attic..

Setting all the items on my dining table, I went to the back of the house to wash and change out of my grimey clothes. Once ready, I let myself silently out the front door and melted into the shadows.

Most kills are pretty much the same to me; a means to an end..On this night I had just taken my fill and was pulling the hollow body deep into a stand of trees, when a strange prickle ran up my spine. Another vampire! One I had not sensed before. Dropping the body carelessly, I stood, turning slowly, my eyes trying to pierce the darkness. Shadows roosted like flocks of slumbering birds, quiet and still. Filled with fresh blood I felt strong and confidant. ""Who's there? Come out, whoever you are."