Bram Stoker and others like him started stories of monsters. This story doesn't follow the lies of past writers. This is the truth about the vampire species. I've lived among the original , first vampire, documenting his life and history. You see, I am a ghostwriter—the kind of person who breathes life into stories so others can claim the credit. It's a thankless gig, usually involving cleaning up the incoherent ramblings of retired politicians or ego-bloated CEOs. But this was different.
The job offer came about fifteen years ago. At first, I took it for a hoax; I figured someone was just jerking my chain, maybe a rival writer with too much time and a dark sense of humor. Like any self-respecting writer who's been burned by "exposure" instead of checks, I ignored it. That is, until one fateful night in Manhattan.
Arriving at my apartment, I turned the TV on. Jumped into my pj's. The perfect day ending with my favorite bourbon. I had left an interview with an egocentric businessman. He wanted me to write his memoirs. We had come to an agreement on price and start date, so the drink was a celebration.
I poured three fingers of Paul Sutton's 10-year bourbon, raised it to my lips. When the news of a businessman found in his penthouse flashed across the screen. They reported he was found murdered, all blood drained from his body. Someone had broken in and painted the place with his blood.
What I didn't know was this was only the first of my prospective employers who would end up dead. Over the next two years I met with three other people who wanted me to write for them. Within a day each would be found like the first.
Then I received a letter explaining how they would continue killing anyone that agreed to hire me. The only person I would write for was this Marcus guy. He was claiming to be the first vampire. I thought he was a nut case and ignored him. I took the letter to the police, I was questioned and turned loose. They took the letter to try and find Marcus, but it was a dead end.
A few months after receiving the letter I started feeling like someone was following me. Then things in my apartment would be rearranged and misplaced. It was almost like a warning of some sort, like I was being hunted.
One night I was at one of my favorite restaurants, a little hole in the wall place. But they had a really good selection of bourbon. I had a bowl of spaghetti and a couple of fingers of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon.and left. It wasn't long before I had that feeling of being watched, then I saw them.
A young man and his companion followed me from the restaurant. At a glance, they looked like any other couple on the street—trendy clothes, youthful faces. But as I neared my apartment building, the unease set in, cutting through my bourbon haze. They were still there, trailing me from the opposite side of the road with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. Even though they looked to be in their mid-twenties, their stride suggested someone much older, someone who had walked these streets when they were still cobblestone. I tried to blame it on the drinks, but their movements were too deliberate, too evenly spaced. It was the kind of movement you see in the animal kingdom—the gait of a predator that has survived a lifetime of hunts, gliding through the shadows without wasting a single ounce of energy.
They matched my pace perfectly, step for step, keeping time with my every move from across the asphalt. It was like watching a mirror image that wanted to kill me. As I approached my entrance, they seemed to vanish into the steam rising from a subway grate. Then, without warning, they were there—standing directly in front of me under the reddish awning of my building, blocking the path to my sanctuary.
The young man stepped forward. He had skin the color of marble and eyes that didn't seem to reflect the streetlights. "Mr. Bauer. I am Jeremiah, and this is my sister, Alicia. We were sent to invite you to our master's home. He sent you a correspondence a few months ago. Since he hadn't heard from you, he sent us to personally convey his wishes for a meeting."
"Sir, I don't know your 'master,' and I don't know you," I retorted, reaching for my keys with a hand that I hoped wasn't shaking. "I receive a lot of mail. Most of it is trash. What makes you think I'd remember one specific letter?"
"I am certain you recall this one, Mr. Bauer. It was the invitation to become our biographer. Our master is desperate to have you document everything there is to know about our kind. He admires your lack of... let's say, creative restraint."
"Oh, I see. You're talking about that crackpot letter claiming he was the first vampire. The Sumerian blood-god story? You can't expect me to believe that load of shit. Now please, step aside and let me go home. I've got a deadline and a looming hangover."
I tried to sidestep him, but he was suddenly—instantly—blocking my path again. I never saw his legs move; it was like the world just glitched and he was there. Before I could blink, the girl was behind me. I felt nothing but a wisp of a breeze, cold and smelling faintly of ancient dust and copper, as if she had simply dissolved and re-materialized at my back.
"Mr. Bauer, please do not be difficult," she said, her voice a low, melodic hum. "We need you to come with us. If, after meeting our master, you still wish to decline, I guarantee your safe return. You have my word on what remains of my soul."
"We will also pay you for your time," Jeremiah added, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the hair on my neck stand up. "Any amount you name, just for a few minutes of conversation. Surely a man of your talents has a price."
I stood there for a minute, my mind racing through the logic of a man who'd had too much bourbon and not enough sleep. I decided to throw out a number so absurd they couldn't possibly agree to it—or have the cash on hand. "Fine. You want my time? I'll go for three million, two hundred thousand dollars. That's my price for the risk. You show me one million, six hundred thousand in cash right now—not a check, not a promise—and you've got a deal."
The young man stood still for a second, his head cocked as if listening to a frequency I couldn't hear. Then he was gone. He was away for less than a minute—hardly enough time to run to the corner, let alone a bank—before he reappeared, holding a stainless steel briefcase that looked heavy enough to break a toe.
"Here, Mr. Bauer. Half, as requested. Can we go now?"
"How... what the hell? Where did you go?" I stammered, the bourbon buzz dying a quick, violent death. "Fine. Let me see it." I knelt on the sidewalk and opened the case slowly, half-expecting it to explode or be filled with newspaper clippings. Instead, it was filled with hundred-dollar bills, bundled in crisp, five-thousand-dollar stacks. The smell of ink and greed hit me. My stomach did a slow roll. "Holy shit. There's over a million bucks in here."
"Exactly half," Jeremiah said, his face a mask of indifference. "Shall we? The night is moving, Jason."
I had no choice but to agree. The lure of that much cash was a gravity I couldn't escape. Seconds later, I was moving—so fast the Manhattan skyline became a blurred streak of neon, and the G-force hit me like a physical punch, knocking me into a dark, silent void.
I woke up on an old Victorian sofa that smelled of beeswax and expensive leather. I checked my watch; only five minutes had passed. Five minutes from 42nd Street to... wherever this was.
"How the hell did I get here? What did you drug me with?" I yelled, sitting up and feeling the room spin.
"Mr. Bauer, you were not drugged," a calm, resonant voice answered. It was a voice that sounded like it belonged in a cathedral. "You agreed to come here of your own free will. My associates merely accelerated the commute."
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a fireplace. I could see the silhouette of a man behind a massive oak desk, but his face remained in shadow, a void in the middle of the library.
"Drugged is the only thing that makes sense. If I wasn't doped up, explain how I got here. You can't outrun a New York cab, let alone the laws of physics."
"No need for vulgarity. Jeremiah and Alicia carried you. They are quite efficient." A lamp on the desk clicked on, revealing a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes that looked like they had seen the birth of stars.
"Five minutes ago, I was in Manhattan," I challenged, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "Is this home in my building? Some secret penthouse?"
"No. I live in Long Island, in a home where I have resided since I first came to these lands many years ago. It's quiet here. Easier to keep the secrets."
"There is no way in hell they got me to Long Island in five minutes. That's impossible."
Suddenly, the man was gone from the chair and standing right beside me. A small gust of air ruffled my hair, and I felt the chill of his presence. I jumped back, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"See, Mr. Bauer? We are the 'real deal,' as you put it. We move faster than the human eye can track. We are the shadows you think you see out of the corner of your eye. There are many things we can do that you cannot yet understand, but in time, you will document them all. Every bloody detail."
"Who are you? Vampires are fiction—horror movies and bad novels with shirtless guys on the cover. No sane person believes this."
"What others believe is not my concern," he said, his eyes locking onto mine, holding me in place better than any physical grip. "However, what you believe is essential. What proof do you require to satisfy that cynical writer's soul of yours?"
I stared into his eyes, searching for the trick, the wires, the mirrors. "Okay. Legend says you heal instantly. Show me. If you can't, I'm taking the money and I'm out of here."
The man flicked his wrist, and a knife with a bone handle appeared in his hand as if pulled from the air. He pushed up his left sleeve, revealing skin as pale as parchment, and pressed the blade to his wrist. With a sharp, deliberate motion, he sliced deep, opening the veins.
My eyes widened. The blood—dark, thick, and smelling of iron—poured out for a few seconds, staining the expensive fabric of the sofa. And then, right before my eyes, the skin began to knit itself back together. The edges of the wound crawled toward each other like living things. The wound vanished, leaving nothing but smooth, unscarred skin. I reached out and touched the wet pool of blood on the sofa. It was warm. It was real. "You're nuts. That's... that's a trick. It has to be."
"No trick. You saw it close up. The blood on the sofa is real. Look at your hand, Jason. If it isn't yours, it must be mine. And I assure you, I have plenty to spare."
"Okay," I said, my voice shaking so hard I could barely get the words out. "Let's say you are what you claim. What do you want from me? Why me? There are better writers, more famous ones."
"I want you to document the history of my kind. I've read your work; you write with a certain... grit. You write without prejudice. You don't let the opinions of others dictate your truth, even when the truth is ugly. That is why I chose you. For now, you may call me Marcus. Perhaps later, if you survive the telling, I will give you my birth name."
I looked at the briefcase of cash sitting on the floor. Marcus reached out, his hand moving in a blur.
"Let me help you."
Before I could react, the case was beside me on the sofa, its latches flicked open by invisible fingers.
"The money is real, Jason. Three more cases await you if you agree to my terms. If you decline, we will simply provide one more case to fulfill our agreement for your time tonight. I am a man—or a creature—of my word."
"You're saying if I do the job, I get six point four million dollars?" My head was spinning. That was enough to buy a small island, or at least enough bourbon to forget I ever met him.
"Correct. Though I'd recommend a wire transfer next time. Walking into a bank with this much cash tends to raise eyebrows and invite unwanted questions from the IRS. Now, I suggest you get some rest. Your brain needs time to catch up to your eyes. Jeremiah will show you to your room. You are perfectly safe here—as long as you remain a guest."
I looked at Jeremiah, who was standing by the door like a silent sentinel, and nodded. My legs felt like jelly. "Thanks, Marcus. I think I need to sleep for a week before I can even begin to process this. Goodnight."
I walked out of the library, the weight of the cash and the memory of the knitting skin heavy in my mind. I was a ghostwriter, but for the first time in my life, I was terrified of the ghost I was writing for.