In a town called Westfield, at the end of Pinewood Road, there stood a once-magnificent manor house, peering down from its perch atop the hill. The house had steeply-pitched gable roofs that pierced the murky sky around them. More than a few shingles were missing, which made the roofs look speckled from a distance. The wrap-around porch was largely intact, but one of the ornately-carved columns was rotted through. Many of the porch floorboards curled up like overgrown toenails. The most striking feature of the house, however, was its yellow and red stained glass windows. Each one was shaped as a long, pointed arch. In each, ruby glass trickled down the center of a pallid backdrop. John David stood at the base of the hill and looked up at the house. He thought to himself that the pointed windows made it look like the house was smiling. He smiled, too. John watched as a pang of chilly wind made the loose shingles tremble and reverberated a groan through the aged wood. John felt a strange kinship to the house, which somehow made him happy. He sucked in a deep breath and let the cold air sting his lungs. As John was examining the wrought iron fence that stretched the yard, the front door swung open, battering the side of the house. A figure draped in a thick black blanket emerged. The black fabric dragged behind like a pair of tattered wings. “You, there!” A man’s voice hissed. “Get away from my home! I told you already, you aren’t welcome here.” Before John could blink the figure was upon him. It glided down the hill like a cloud of fog clinging to the overgrown grass. “I wasn’t—“ John’s words didn’t come. “Ah, but you were! Vultures, all of you. Come to prey on the elderly.” The figure threw back the blanket, and John saw an old man with leathery, wrinkled skin and hair as white as bone. Beneath the blanket, the man was dressed in an antique-looking black suit. A medallion adorned with a large crimson gemstone hung from his neck. “I’m sorry,” John said at last. “I was just out for a walk, and I saw your house. And I. . .” He trailed off. The old man said nothing. His brow was scrunched, further accentuating his many wrinkles. He glared directly into John’s eyes. John gulped another breath of air and found that his throat was dry. The old man’s gaze tore through John as if he were made of toilet paper, but John didn’t want to look away. A warm sensation bubbled in his gut and he felt himself wanting to be truly honest. John cleared his throat and stammered. “I like old houses,” he said. “I live in an apartment not far from here, and I was walking home after work. I noticed your house and stopped for a closer look.” The old man softened. “Ah, I see. Then. . . you’re not from the bank?” “Of course not,” John said holding up his hands, as if this were a universal symbol that he was not an employee of a financial instution. “In that case, I owe you an apology, my dear boy. Please, you can understand my apprehension, yes? These do-nothing bankers are always swarming me like buzzards. Just waiting to pick the flesh clean off my bones! I’d have never been so rude if I had realized you were a neighbor.” The words dripped off the old man’s teeth as he spoke. He stuck out a hand toward John. “Christoph Thorne. A pleasure to meet you, Mister. . .?” “David. John David.” “Your name is David John David?” “No, I was saying my last name first. And then my full name. You know, like James Bond?” John’s cheeks burned. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ”You said ‘Mister’ and then waited, so I wasn’t sure if you wanted my last name or my first name. And my last name is kind of like a first name, so. . . it’s just John. John David.” “I’m confused. Your name is John John David? I thought you just said—“ “My name is John David,” John interrupted. “First name John, last name David. That’s my full name.” “I see,” Christoph said after a moment of piecing together the puzzle John had laid out. He then looked down at his still-extended hand. John shook it firmly. During the handshake, John noticed two things. First, regardless of how frail Christoph looked, he was able to squeeze John’s hand with incredible strength. And second, Christoph’s hand was as cold as ice. “Apologies for my cold hands,” Christoph said, reading John’s mind. “When you get to be my age, it’s hard to keep warm. That’s why I carry this blanket with me.” “Oh, its no trouble at all.” John stuffed both his hands into the front pockets of his jacket. He felt a chill crawling up his arm. “Now, then.” Christoph smiled. “You like my house, yes? Please, come inside. I will show you the rest of it.” The chill had traveled up John’s arm and was pricking the back of his neck now. Uneasiness tugged at his stomach. “No, I. . . I couldn’t possibly—“ “Yes. You can and you will.” Christoph gazed into John’s eyes once more. “An invitation into one’s home is not something to be taken lightly. You will follow me, please. Now.” The warm bubbling sensation in John’s gut returned. Christoph’s eye once again gripped him and held fast. “Ok,” John whispered, as his feet began to carry him up the hill. Christoph strode a few steps in front, swishing his blanket cape as he walked. The front door to the house was still wide open when the two men stepped onto the creaking porch. Christoph paused at the threshold and bowed low with one arm extended, ushering John inside. As John entered the home, he smelled a strong aroma of freshly-tilled dirt. The rich earthiness and gritty tang of mineral deposits filled his nostrils—it was so strong he could almost taste it on the back of his tongue. Yet there were no visible signs of dirt anywhere. The house was immaculately clean. The furniture and fixtures, though obviously antique, were polished to a near-perfection that could only be achieved through hours of attention from a careful hand. John was standing in the foyer, looking up at a crystal chandelier hanging directly overhead. Even though it was not lit, the crystals shimmered in the dim light of the room. “Very cool,” John said softly. “I’ve had it for many years,” Christoph said, closing the door behind himself. “Though if you ask me, light fixtures are overrated.” John heard the clang of a heavy metal lock sliding into place. “May I take your coat?” John coughed in response. He tried to speak, but Christoph’s strong hands were already on him, peeling back his outer layer. It was just as cold inside the house as it was outside. John shivered as Christoph tugged the canvas jacket from his arms and hung it on a brass hook by the door. Each of John’s breaths rose as a whisp of steam in front of his face. He pulled both arms across his chest and held himself tightly. “Your neck. . . It’s. . .,” Christoph rasped. “. . .lovely.” Christoph’s face contorted into a wicked smile. His teeth grew and sharpened inside his mouth. His outstretched hands trembled. “What?” John turned on his heels. Christoph was glowering and held his hands out in front of his chest like a zombie. “What are you doing?” John asked, taking a small step backward. “I. . .” Christoph’s eyes were open so wide that his wrinkled eyelids had disappeared. “Please forgive the breach in professionalism. It’s customary to first serve the guest an elegant dinner, followed by cocktails in the parlor—and only in the dead of night lure them to their doom.” John took another step back. “But you see,” Christoph continued as he stalked forward. “I haven’t eaten in so long.” “I can order Uber Eats if you want. There’s a sandwhich shop on the corner of—“ Chrisptoph leaped into the air. The tattered blanket flared around him like a cobra’s hood as he struck John’s chest and knocked him to the floor. John tried to scream, but the air was driven out of his body. Christoph hissed. The old man’s grip was like a vice clamp, securing John to the wooden floorboards. Sharp pain stabbed the base of John’s neck, and brought warm and wetness running down his throat. John was suddenly overcome by weariness. All he wanted was to close his eyes and sleep. “Disgusting!” Christoph stood and spit a mouthful of hot crimson onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” John apologized to the vampire. “I thought that maybe—just maybe—with your interest in my home. . . But no,” Christoph scoffed. “You’re just as dry as the rest of them.” John held his hand to his neck and put pressure on his bleeding wound. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got blood in me,” John said. “See?” Christoph threw his arms up. “Life, David John David. Life! Vampires don’t feed on blood, we feed on your passions and desires, your hopes and your energy—you know, life! Something that you clearly do not have.” Christoph took a few deep breaths. “Tell me something, what do you do for work?” John propped himself up. “I’m a sales representatative at Telecom Services.” “The telemarketing place that calls me three times per week?” “My boss says it’s direct-to-consumer affiliate marketing.” John shifted his eyes down. “I also have my own business selling supplements and essential oils. If you’re interested, I could sign you up in my down-line and then you could be a business owner like me.” “No,” Christoph said, shaking his head. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. “You told me earlier that you like old houses. Tell me more about that.” “Well, I don’t see many in person. But I like watching Tik Tok videos of old houses.” “Tik Tok videos?” “Yeah, they’re, like, short videos where they’ll show you a house. Sometimes there’s a robot voice that talks to you, and sometimes there’s slowed down music with lots of reverb. Oh, and sometimes there’s a person’s head at the bottom of the video. The head doesn’t usually say anything, but they make faces and point at stuff.” John got to his feet and dusted his hands on his pants. “I see. These Tik Tok videos—this is your hobby? This is what you do for fun?” “I mean, I also watch TV. Sometimes I’ll scroll Tik Tok while I’m watching TV. But you have to be careful because if you pay too much attention to what’s happening in the Tik Toks, you might miss—“ Christoph yanked the canvas jacket from the brass hook and threw it at John. “Get out of my house.” After John had left, Christoph bolted the door. He slumped his shoulders and trudged over to the telephone stand in the parlor. Christoph sighed and wiped a hand down his face as he spun the wheel on the rotary phone. “Hello, is this Telecom Services? My name is Christoph Thorne. I’m a big fan of your company’s culture, and think I would be a great candidate to a middle-management position.”