As you can tell by my avatar, I'm fascinated by the idea of strigoi. In Romanian folklore, they are the spirits or reanimated bodies of the unquiet dead, rising again because of unfinished business, or curses, or just a refusal to stay down.

If you want to read about a snarky strigoi coming to terms with his unlife in a world where the supernatural has existed in the open for decades, this is for you. Come along and join our hero as he tries to reconcile his faith with his nature, while facing the myths of his country and others.

Seriously. Romanian folklore is vast. I fully expect to get things wrong or miss them, and I'm Romanian! But, if the Witcher can do it for Poland, so can this for my country.

Enjoy, but as a warning: this story deals with subjects like depression, suicide, addiction and so on. Also, gore.

***

I've heard some people call death the unknown country, but, in my experience, it's more like a public bus. Except it's crammed, dark, smelly, and you can never stop where you want.

Actually, scratch that. It's just like a bus.

My name's David Silva, though only my few friends call me that. Everyone else calls me strigoi, moroi, Satan's spawn or coward.

Especially myself.

A few months ago, I hanged myself. In a cemetery, so they wouldn't have to move the body too far. I've always been considerate like that.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It didn't take.

After I finished college, what feels like an eternity ago, I hoped I could just work a few odd jobs, just to keep afloat, while I devoted myself to my true passion: writing. Unfortunately, people who live with the supernatural don't really care about books on the subject, and I was, bluntly, shit when it came to other genres.

Moron.

Over the years, I worked as a gardener, a delivery man, a teacher and so much more. But my books rarely sold, and the few times they did, people often sent them back to me.

I still remember being paid to take back one of my first novels.

I wouldn't say I sank into despair. It was more like a rollercoaster, really. Ups and downs, moments of passion and detachment...but, in the end, I got sick of it. And took the coward's way out.

I should have known God wouldn't take me.

Why had I ever believed people had anything left to learn about the supernatural? Ever since Hitler's occultist toadies performed a last, desperate ritual as Berlin fell around their ears, concepts such as "mundane" disappeared.

Thanks, you goose-stepping fucktard. Just like you to ruin everything for everyone, even after you're dead.

What? No, I'm not talking to myself. At the moment.

The Shattering, as it was called, stopped World War 2 right in its tracks, as mythologies came alive. Weak, at first, since few people saw them as anything more than whimsical tales-at the time. But that changed. Everything did.

Today, even internet memes can briefly come alive, if famous enough, and sufficient faith can shape reality. It's just as fun as you imagine.

But I'm rambling.

After they found my body, it was taken to the morgue. After God knows how long, I was buried. Only my friends and father attended.

They were there when I ripped my way through the dirt, too.