From 'I, Vampire', INVITATION, Part 1

It was in the year 1884, in the middle of September that I set my tale. Naples had been ravaged by cholera. The stench of burning sulphur passed over the place, like death’s noxious twin. Many of the streets were as silent as the grave, which was understandable as death had not yet departed.

The shops, theaters and even the cafes were closed. The cafes I considered to be more annoying than anything, as I do like to sit and watch the world go by, although I tend to refuse most drinks.

One night I found myself quite alone and unduly downhearted; the reason you will see later. So because of my sad mood I happened to take a stroll, feeling it best to do so.

Golden afternoon was already becoming blue dusk when I noticed a man. He was young and looked ill at ease surrounded by so many dead. Oh yes! The dead were all laid out waiting for removal. I mean they kept collecting them as quickly as possible, but the task was almost endless.

Bear in mind it was an epidemic and keeping up with their grim task was difficult, if not impossible, for it seemed as soon as one corpse was collected another took its place.

I had first seen this fellow when he bolted from a hotel—I thought him not quite right in his mind, for his gait was stumbling and unsteady. However, after following him for while I discerned that he was merely drunk, poor fellow.

As it was going on toward evening the collection carts were out in force. This was southern Italy and the people are superstitious. They believe the dead must be collected post-haste or all sorts of things might occur. They fear things in the night—they fear particularly the species to which I belong, I am a vampire—proprius lamia.

There, I am glad I have told you. So much better to get things out in the open, don’t you agree?

I did continue to follow this young man, so driven was I to make his acquaintance, but without warning he stopped and challenged me. "No closer!"

I could see he held a dagger, one of the countless gaudy handled kinds sold throughout Italy that are so popular with many of the men there.

I raised both my arms. "Please, I come as a friend, purely that!"

Guarded though he was he permitted me to approach. I introduced myself, better to put him at ease: "Louis Darton at your service."

"You sound French."

"Is that an accusation, for if it is, I am French born though I have lived in diverse places all of my life. And you--?"

He nodded. "I am Charles Elbie," he slurred, "and in all honesty I am grateful for your company."

The light was already fading, but I could make out his even features, for I am not without such talents. I took him to be young, not more than twenty and he looked chagrined. "I am the worse for wear I’m afraid."

"It is a dire situation here. Have you just arrived?"

"Yes, my sister wired me to come—!" he took a handkerchief out and began to weep. "I arrived to find her dead and now I don’t know what to do!"

"There, there, how awful for you. I do think a drink might help, but as there is no café open, would you care to come to my home and speak of your misfortune; getting things off one’s chest is oftentimes most beneficial."

He glanced up at me suspiciously. "I suppose so. I don’t wish to go back to my hotel alone, not yet anyway."

We began to walk toward the Via San Biagio chatting as we did. He asked me why I wasn’t afraid of contagion.

In a way I responded as honestly as I could; "I don’t care actually. Sometimes life is held in more high regard than it should be; at least I have found that to be the case."

He looked to be in agreement and said something to the effect that all lives go differently and some end much too soon, which I took to be directly linked to his recent bereavement—the death of his sister.

At last I stopped. "We have arrived," I said.

We were in fact standing in front of my home—the Villa San Gregorio Armeno, so named for the street upon which it stood.

"What a magnificent home you have here, sir!"

He thought it grand and I humbly agreed. My home was quite elegant. Much larger than most Neapolitan homes and filled with the sorts of antiques of which I am most fond.

We repaired to the drawing room. I had just begun pouring him a drink when I saw him rush toward the balcony and leap upon the railing as if to hurl himself from it.

"No!" I shouted, but he jumped.

I have many talents one of which is to move faster than any mortal. I flew to him catching him as he was just about to hit the ground.

He was so ready for death he didn’t even realize he had been saved until I carried him back.

"How?!"

"First things first," I said, "That was a foolish thing to do!"

I didn’t expect gratitude as a matter of fact I was ready for his questions.

"How did you save me? I had already—what…Who?"

I said it quickly; there was no reason to procrastinate. "I am a vampire."

At first he didn’t say anything, but then he did, "truthfully, I cannot doubt you for what I have seen just now." He shrugged.

He looked sad.

"We must all accept our destiny I think. It is best. Now then won’t you join me in that drink I promised you? I really think you could use it. Come, we shall sit quietly over our absinthes and I shall tell you great secrets of worlds you cannot imagine."

He looked interested so I continued: "I must tell you of my heritage first but fear not had I wished to kill you, you would already be dead; besides I just saved you. You sit with a demon sir. Not a vampire per se but the spawn of a fallen angel and a human woman. You know of the legend?"

He nodded.

"Yes it is quite true. Humor me, does that make it no longer a legend—that it is true? Never mind!" I said. "Look sir, we are gentlemen and not adversaries remember that please. So drink your drink with gusto but please do not look too carefully at mine it might trouble you, although not tonight, tonight I drink the same as you. There now, settle back and know this: this is a tale of loneliness and a kind of redemption, of lost love and survival too."

He looked amazed and yet there was about his face a kind of sad regret, as if he felt sorry for me. This touched me and I continued: "It begins for me with loneliness. Her name was Elia. She was destroyed in a purge hundreds of years ago. There were horrific purges in those days of witches and vampires. We had hidden ourselves in caves in Lascaux in southwest France. We felt safe there for a time, but then we heard the unmistakable sounds of stoic singing. A hymn singing witch finder and his followers, it seemed, had joined up with vampire killers.

Let me hasten to add here, I being the spawn of a fallen angel am not able to perish at the hands of mortals. I have killed droves of men in my time, but this was an army that was marching toward us! Ah!" I said, "I haven’t yet told you all the details of my origins. I am one who may never perish; such is my destiny."

I waited for him to respond, but he said nothing and so I continued.

"They burst into our domain. I set about attacking them, ripping them apart and killing dozens. There was much carnage and when it was over I was the only one on my feet, the others were all destroyed. One of our attackers managed to behead and spear each of my vampire brethren, including my Elia.

I made short work of him; I screamed and railed, for if I had only killed him first he would not have destroyed her or the others!

Destiny I fear controls the good as well as the damned.

There she lay, her head severed, her eyes unseeing and sprouting from her chest a number of cruel, wooden stakes. "My poor love!" I cried.

She was destroyed, nothing could raise her up. You will learn more about that as I go on, suffice it to say Elia, my beloved was gone forever.

I am often asked if we are capable of love…to accompany our lust. I have asked myself this question as well. I say yes, but I think it is an embryonic love—an incomplete emotion not evolved, due to our circumstance.

Yet truthfully I have, in the course of my existence, felt genuine joy in the company of those I copulated with—as well as sadness upon parting.

But what is love? Perhaps that is a question as profound as, what is truth?

I remember those words, indeed I do, for I was present when Pilate uttered them. Some might ask me were you sorry to see Jesus crucified? I cannot say I was—yet I was not joyful either—my overwhelming gratitude was directed toward the Romans, you see who had in fact ordered his death.

But I digress from my tale. Elia was gone—and I found myself a solitary soulless creature tramping from one village to another, killing and feeding as I was want to do. Others of my kind greeted me, some flung themselves at me—we are a lustful bunch. I responded in kind, yet—I could not assuage my loneliness.

Read part 2 here

Copyright 2010 Carole Gill