I stayed the rest of the night at my home, doing laundry and allowing my wound to heal. It was fully closed by the time the sun rose with only a slight throbbing and tenderness. I went over to my mirror and checked my reflection; yes I actually have one, the myths are wrong on that too. After eating so many people lately, between the murderer today and that group yesterday, I was beginning to get a bit of color back in my skin; I was a tad surprised it took so long, normally it happens overnight. My cheeks had an incredibly light tinge of pink and were even fuller. If I kept eating like I did the other night, I would go back to my old appearance again, but that would require dozens of people to die.

I gathered together everything I needed for the day and wrapped myself up before leaving just after sun rise that morning. I don’t need to eat, but that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally get cravings for sweets. I walked to a café and was greeted by the owner unlocking the door; an Irish gentleman named McRaven. His hair was like fire, and he had freckles up and down his whole body.

“Hello Mr. Drack.” Drack was my legal last name as far as anyone new.

“Hello Eoin.” He insisted everyone call him by his first name, even though he calls us by our last ones.

“Bit early today aren’t you?” He asked as we walked inside his shop.

“A bit, but when one craves your sweets, no force on Earth could stop them.” I stated. It may have been figurative, but not by much, he really did have true skill with breakfast pastries.

“What will it be today then?” He asked through the order window as he lit his stove.

“I think I shall let the chef make the decision today.” I explained.

“How about a nice breakfast strawberry tart?” He suggested.

“That sounds divine.” I replied. We spent some time chatting as he rolled out dough, floured the pans, and mixed the cream filling. He told me about his daughter, who was turning twelve soon, about his wife, who had fallen ill with a cold, and about how he had heard a rumor.

“Is it true that a pile of bodies turned up in front of the morgue two time now Mr. Drack?” He questioned.

“Well, I’m not technically allowed to talk about open cases, but since the first case is closed, I can confirm that at least half of that is true. A pile did show up a few months back.” I explained. “But you can guess the rest.” I added.

“You’re looking good today Mr. Drack.” He said and laid a plate of three fresh tarts in front of me at a table.

“I’m feeling rather healthy today, I think some color is even in my cheeks.” I pointed out and picked up a tart.

“Oh, I think your right.” He said as I took a bite of the pastry.

“Mmmmm. Amazing as always Eoin. The crust is so light and flakey, and that filling is sublime.” I praised his treats; they were definitely worth the thirty cents he charges. I paid for my meal and left for work, noting to myself that I had to meet with the Chief of Police, Officer Warren, today after work. Then after that I wanted to go and stake out a few good places to finish off my prey tomorrow. I needed to find somewhere where I could eat and not be attacked, and a place to store the bodies where they won’t be found until I want them to be. I only had tonight to make the proper preparations before the sale of those women took place; I needed to be ready. The more I thought about it, the more I concluded that I might need a mask, there would most likely be innocents there who would see me, and I don’t kill anyone who isn’t my prey if I can help it.

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I arrived at work and noticed that we had a new body. I checked to see if an autopsy had been performed yet; it hadn’t. “Mr. Fredrick.” I called from the back room. No one answered and I listened closely for him. I didn’t hear any footsteps or talking from his office or any other part of the building. I reasoned that he must be running late and began undertaking the autopsy. It wasn’t the man from last night, but rather an older fellow who, based on my discoveries, had died of a fatal gunshot wound to the back. It pierced his spin and nicked an artery which probably caused him to bleed out. I noted all my findings after the autopsy and sent copies to the detective in charge of investigating, which I learned from his paperwork. The whole thing took me two hours and just as I was sealing the copies in a folder I heard the front door open, and slam shut.

“Hello and welcome to the Boston city Morgue.” I called out.

“It’s just me Vlad.” Mr. Fredrick’s voice called out. It surprised me to hear his voice because he hated when people slammed doors.

“Mr. Fredrick? Is everything okay?” I shouted as I started walking to the front room.

“Yes, I’ll be in my office,” he said and stomped into his room in a huff. He sounded serious, more so than I had ever heard him before. I decided to leave him be for a time and went back to my paperwork. I had just sat down to do paperwork when I heard rustling in the victim storage room downstairs. Curious, I walked down to check it out, assuming that an animal had made its way I and gotten trapped. I opened the large metal door to the room, and it let out a resounding clang as it unlocked. I pulled it open and walked in to see a shriveled up, pale, naked man writhing in the corner. I looked closely and realized it was one of the men I had stalked nights before and left piled up in front of the morgue. His body was frail, and he seemed as if he hadn’t eaten in a month. In fact, he looked not too dissimilar from myself if I go a while without blood. He turned around and I saw huge scars running up the front of his chest in the shape of a “Y”. That is the cut morticians use during an autopsy, which means he had already undergone one and he should be quite dead. If I remembered correctly, this was the fellow who I had accidentally left some of my venom in.

“So… are you alive?” I asked the man. He was hunched in a corner with his hands on his head, but once I spoke, he went completely still and stopped writhing. His eyes opened and he glared at me with red beady eyes. Not human eyes, but more like a rat’s that had turned a sickening shade of wine dark. His teeth had sharpened, not like mine, with fangs, but rather he had filed each tooth down for ripping and shredding. He stood up slowly and began snarling like some twisted mix of a cat’s his and a feral dog’s growl. His posture was crooked, like he had been born with a hunch and had never stood up straight before. He took a boney step towards me and lunged.

He would have killed anyone else; his speed was almost on par with my own, and his hands were deceptively strong despite his weak physique. He tried and failed to bite my neck. I grabbed him by the shoulder and tossed him over my head and into a concrete wall on the other side of the room. I expected to see a splatter of blood and for him to fall to the floor dead once again, but instead he slowly got up and continued his onslaught. I opted to end the fight there and punched him in the chest, which caused my hand to go clean through his heart, and his struggling to stop soon after. He went limp while still attached to my wrist. I had to pry him off and put his, once again, dead body under the sheet and clean up the mess our bout had left.