It had been seventy-seven blissful years since I last heard the shrill cry of a human screech. Being locked away in a coffin ten feet below the surface of the Earth certainly provided no end of peace and quiet. My silence, however, was brought to an intrusive end when I was awoken the evening of October 13th, 1983, by the piercing wail of a Cheryl Thatcher. I only happened upon her name last week after hearing on the evening news of a “missing” elderly woman in the area. There are many words I would use to describe Cheryl; infernal, unsightly, scrumptious, shriveled, balmy. I could go on, however “missing” is not an adjective that comes to mind. In fact, Cheryl is exactly where she belongs, in the cavernous hole she unearthed me from.

You may be pondering how I had landed myself in this predicament to begin with, and to that I say it is none of your business. However, if you must know, my complications date back to a centuries old feud I had with my ex-wife Katarina. I met Kat here in the new world two hundred and ninety-six years ago when fleeing Romania due to the Vampiric Uprising of 1687. To keep a very long story short, Katarina thought she had caught me having an affair with our dear friend Lucinda in 1906. However, I can assure you that was not the case, as Lucinda was never my cup of tea. I was indeed having a passionate affair with Lucinda’s husband Dave, nevertheless. Anyhow, to spare you any more irrelevant details, Katarina took it upon herself to chain up my coffin in the midst of my slumber and bury me in the middle of the woods outside. Which is now no longer the middle of the woods at all, but a middle class subdevelopment called Stoneybrook in which I most unfortunately reside. 

I must be frank; I usually do not bother burying the bodies of those I feast upon. However, the hole was already dug, and at the time I could not risk my newfound neighbors witnessing me dragging Cheryl’s lifeless corpse back into her home. A sight like that would’ve certainly damaged my anonymity in which I worked so tirelessly to protect. Therefore, I had no other option but to bury the old bat. Why that pestiferous woman was digging a 10-foot hole in her garden in the first place, I shall truly never know. After burying Cheryl’s lifeless corpse in her garden, I made my way into her home. Which was now I, Constance Balthazar’s, humble abode; and by humble, I really mean to say atrocious. I quickly discerned after entering Cheryl’s dwelling that I have never in my four hundred and seventy-five years on this planet seen such offensive, pastel wallpaper in my life. Never the mind, I only planned to stay in Cheryl’s eye sore long enough to build up the strength I needed to fly back home to Romania. 

After heaving my coffin from the backyard into the only livable part of the house, the basement, I decided to stretch my legs and see what sort of trouble I could get myself into. I realize I was quite fortunate that Cheryl released me from my shackles in the midst of the Halloween season. It meant I could freely walk around town at night in my dress robes without catching a second glance. The mortal fools that inhabit this god forsaken town would’ve immediately surmised that I had been returning home from a Halloween gathering when truly, I was contriving their death. I mustn’t have become conceited however, it was important I remained heedful in regard to my killings. With one old bat already missing, I couldn’t just wander around aimlessly plucking anyone that crossed my path off the street. My killings had to be deliberate, yet appear mysterious to the average everyday fool. 

Anyhow, during my saunter about town the evening of the thirteenth, my attention was forcefully drawn to a rather happening establishment positioned on the corner of sixth street. Upon the front of the establishment hung a glowing green sign that read “Benders”, precariously positioned above a shallow staircase. Ambient purple lights and wondrously clamorous music reverberated out the building’s door, up the stairs, and into the night. 

Thoroughly intrigued, I strolled down the steps and made my way inside. Upon entering, the connotation of the name became very evident to me. I was greeted with the sweet smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and sex. Beheld in front of me were homosexual men dancing in cages whilst dressed in fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and corsets that sparkled under the purple lights. Their faces tediously painted with makeup in the most extravagant fashion. To my left sat a long, impressive bar complete with phallic shaped bar stools and iridescent green tiles lining the back wall. Behind the bar stood three more sultry gender bending men draped in beautiful cyan satin blouses, skin-tight leather pants, and chunky white boots. Each of them dawning eye catching makeup and a shag haircut. An oscillating mirrored ball hung in the center of the establishment reflecting dots of purple light across the black and white tiled dance floor and those accompanying it. Scrawny men, womanly men, burly men, young men, androgenous men, even old men occupied the dance floor. “Cutting a rug”, as the young mortals would say, to the music of a “David Bowie”. 

Now, one may think an establishment such as this would’ve sent a golden ager like myself for the hills. However, brave, irrefutably glamorous men such as I are the reason establishments like this can even exists in the modern ages. Yes, if you can believe it, I was quite the gender bender myself in my prime. In fact, I frequently preformed in stage plays as a boy, often snagging female roles as women were, of course, disgracefully prohibited from being on stage until the end of the seventeenth century. I couldn’t display my undying joy for it at the time; however, nothing brought me greater pleasure than dressing up in a corseted gown, prancing about a stage while pretending to be a woman for an audience of unsuspecting partisan quacks. It wasn’t until the late nineteenth century when Oscar Wilde encouraged queer men to wear a green carnation as an outward symbol of their sexuality that I felt comfortable enough to be my authentic self. I began going by the name of Constance, an homage to my remarkable grandmother, and dressed in what was considered at the time to be of “flamboyant nature”. 

Considering the amount of flak I caught for my androgyny back in the day, you can imagine it brought me nothing but rapture to walk into an accepting establishment such as Benders. However, I mustn’t have let my exuberance distract me, as I had only ventured out of my abode that fine evening for one reason, a bloody warm drink. Soon after I began scouting for my victim, a young man approached me. 

“Celebrating Halloween early, are we?” The foolish man barked with a wink and a firm slap to my backside.

I whirled around, bewildered. Ready to take his filthy, wandering hand and drain it of every last ounce of its blood. 

“Celebrating Independence Day early are we, with that putrid Americana t-shirt?” I scoffed, using every miniscule ounce of restraint in my body to not rip that peasant’s head off right then and there. 

He gave me a disgruntled, disgusted look as he turned to stomp away. He was perfect.

“Wait young mortal!” I summoned him back over.

“Leaving so soon, we’ve barely spoken.” I lured him back in, staring right through his feeble soul. 

“You are going to come home with me tonight.” I informed him, sending the boy into a hypnotic trance. “But not before you have a couple of drinks.”

I then proceeded to get the invalid hopelessly wasted. I needed to ensure he wouldn’t attempt to escape my grasp or blab some malarky about kidnapping to a random passerby on our way home. After two Mai Tais, five shots of brandy, and three screwdrivers I flung Mr. Rights hand over my shoulder and began dragging the sorry sack back to my dwelling. 

Early into our saunter back home, my attention was forcefully drawn for the second time that evening, to a handmade flier someone had pasted onto a streetlamp pole. The flier, adorned with imagery of pumpkins, bats, and a small orange and black candy read:

“Calling all Halloween Lovers! Preston Manor is now hiring enthusiastic actors and actresses looking to be a part of our Halloween Fright Fest. If you love Halloween, dressing up, and most importantly, terrifying the people of your community, join us for open auditions Friday, October 14th at 8:00pm on the Preston Manor grounds. Hope to see you scare!” 

Although I had originally found this flier to be the most insignificant piece of parchment I had ever laid eyes upon, it did provide me with a brilliant idea. I thought, what better place to feed than a haunted house full of nincompoops who are already dressed as vampires and covered in fake blood to begin with? I could’ve quite literally grabbed any unfortunate soul who crossed my path and fed upon them right in front of the crowd. They would all just have ignorantly assumed it was part of the act! A feeding frenzy like that would’ve certainly provided me with enough energy to fly back to Romania, and I would never have had to lay my pupils upon Cheryl’s revolting wallpaper ever again! The plan was fool proof, or so I most imprudently thought. 

I tore the flier from the streetlamp, plunged it into my cloak, and continued down the path. Mr. Right was beginning to moan and groan at this point, drawing the attention of the passersby. I couldn’t have him causing such suspicion. I mustered up all the energy I could, flung the clack box upon my back, and sped off into the night. (Super speed is definitely one of the most advantageous aspects of vampirism.) In two shakes of a lamb’s tail, we had arrived back at my “living” quarters, away from the prying eyes of my gossip mongering neighbors. I slung the imbecile off of my hump and onto the cold, unforgiving floor of Cheryl’s concrete basement. I watched the drunkard lie there for a moment, slithering about on the ground like the filthy serpent he was. Repulsed at the sight I knelt down, grabbed the poltroon by the neck, and drank him into a shriveled shell of his former being.

Upon waking the evening of October 14th, 1983, I lumbered out of my coffin with a smidge more pep in my step than usual. My days since staying in Cheryl’s wretched abode had become increasingly intolerable. However, the fourteenth was the big day; the day I would feast more readily and efficiently than ever before. I knew it was absolutely pertinent that I clothed myself in the most prosaic dress robes I could source for the event. I had to look the part of course. If I wandered onto the Preston Mansion grounds draped in the most flamboyant cloak I owned, I would have stuck out like a sore thumb! There was only one slight problem; the sole cloak I possessed was the very one I was buried in, and it was far too sophisticated to pass off as some mere costume. To make matters worse, the sun hadn’t fallen yet, leaving me sequestered in the confines of Cheryl’s dwelling. With no advanced notice to have prepared ahead of time, I quickly resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to find something passable in my new, inutile residence. 

I decided to begin my search for a costume in Cheryl’s former boudoir. I found myself passing framed photographs of scraggly old cats and crusty bygone poodles as I climbed the dusty blue carpeted staircase up to the second floor. Each stair making an atrocious creek as it sunk under my weight. At the landing I was foully greeted by a taxidermy miniature poodle perched upon a small rocking chair. The red staining dripping from its mouth in addition to its beady eyes appalled me greatly. As if the photographs weren’t revolting enough. After regathering my composure, I made my way down the short corridor to the master. With only two bedchambers Cheryl’s dwelling was more of a hat box than a home. Upon entering the master, I was callously greeted with yet another heinous wallpaper choice. Pink roses upon a buttercup background lined the walls from ceiling to floor. A matching bedspread accompanied the ensemble. She truly did defile that pitiful cottage with her tangible lack of taste. 

Grief stricken by the sight of the disgrace that was Cheryl’s boudoir, I quickly hurried over to her wardrobe before I lost my lunch. Regrettably for me, perched upon the wardrobe was a large urn accompanied by an image of Cheryl kissing who I assumed to be her late husband. Thoroughly discomfited, I flung open the flimsy wooden doors of said overstuffed wardrobe and began rooting through her garments for anything that resembled a cloak. Tossing pastel jumpers of all hues adorned with repugnant imagery of poodles, cats, birds, and flowers until I spotted a bit of black fabric peeking out from beneath a pair of white bloomers. I reached down, grasping the piece of fabric betwixt the pointed nails of my index finger and thumb and proceeded to remove the garment from the wardrobe. Beheld in front of me was none other than an article of black satin lingerie complete with a bustier top and lace bottoms. I glanced back up at the image of Cheryl and her husband, draped the piece of lingerie about her husband’s urn, and exited the room feeling thoroughly disconcerted and defeated. 

Upon my sorry saunter back down the corridor, I noticed a wee piece of string swaying gently from a trap door upon the ceiling; must be the attic I presumed. With no cloak and no other option but to try the attic, I tugged the string and ventured up the small ladder that fell beneath it. After forcing through the impenetrable barrier of cobwebs that enveloped the entrance and past the bushels of dust bunnies surrounding my feet, I finally happened upon an obscenely large box most indescriptly labeled “Halloween Stuff”. Seemed promising enough. After rooting through the jumbled, muddled contents of the receptacle, I finally stumbled upon the most disparaging vampire costume I had seen in centuries. It was exemplary. I tucked the costume beneath my arm, descended down the stairs of the attic, past the demonic taxidermy scoundrel and entered the powder room to ready myself for the night ahead. 

The clock read quarter to eight by the time I had made it to the door the evening of the fourteenth. I was veiled in one of the most intolerable, restrictive, sheeny black capes I had ever come across. The very sight of the costume truly was a terrible mockery to the vampire community. If my ex-wife had caught me in that getup, she’d have done much worse than chaining up my coffin and burying me in the woods for all eternity. To her, an offense like that would have certainly constituted punishment the old fashion way. I would have gotten a sharpened wooden pole shoved directly up my anal cavity and straight out my jaw quicker than I could have said Vlad the Impaler. My dead, sodomized corpse would have no doubt served as a scarecrow for her bed of gourds and squashes. However, there really was no need to worry of that old crone any longer. Katarina had surely long since left this insufferable, joke of a settlement. If only I had been as fortunate. 

Upon approaching the Preston Manor grounds, I quickly took notice of a group of individuals standing atop the hill the manor was perched upon. As I advanced toward the group, I recognized that each auditioner was draped in a very similar frock to mine. I must be in the right place I presumed. As I continued to progress even closer to the group, I caught a startling glimpse of an eerily familiar woman. A woman I thought I would never again have had the displeasure of encountering until we inevitably reunited at the fiery gates of Hades. Affirmative, standing upon a small wooden box heading the group, was nonother than my ex-wife, Katarina Lilith Constantine. The very sight of the wicked witch made my cold, dead heart skip a nonexistent beat. Even more horrifying, was the screeching, evil utterance that projected from her trap; assaulting my ear drums as I turned to run for the hills.

“Constance!” Katarina projected across the grounds. 

“Not leaving before your audition, are you?” She mocked.  

I stopped dead in my tracks, recomposed myself, and joined the group once again.

“Katarina, it is my pleasure to meet your acquaintance once again; it has been quite some time.” I lied through my teeth as I bent down to kiss the very hand she betrayed me with.

“Why Constance, it surely hasn’t been that long!” She chuckled.

“Did I not see you at my club, Benders, just last night?” Kat questioned, in a palpably sardonic tone. 

I was gob smacked, I had been stalked, watched, and surveyed by my pathetic ex-wife without even realizing it. How could I have been so clueless, so naïve? 

“I was unaware that you owned such an establishment Katarina.” I confessed.

“Well, as you know Constance, I do typically gravitate toward gay man.” She chuckled.

“I was, of course, married to one unknowingly at one point now, wasn’t I?” Her smile dropped.

“Well Kat that sounds rather unfortunate; however, I must hand it to you, Benders is a rather convenient spot to grab a bloody good drink.” I declared, giving her a taste of her own derisive medicine.

Proceeding our rather uncomfortable reunion, Katarina motioned the group over toward a row of vertical, black, wooden coffins. 

“Now everyone, the first part of your audition will be to show me your best Dracula impression.” She ordered.

Kat then passed each of us auditioners a small black notebook and a pen to take notes with. Once everyone had their notebooks ready, she entered one of the coffins and shut the door tightly. Kat then proceeded to demonstrate to the group how one should properly eject themselves from the coffin to achieve maximum fright of each passing visitor. 

“Now, it is important that you reveal yourself at the proper moment.” She stated. 

“You wouldn’t want to reveal yourself too early, as that would ruin the surprise factor.” She shouted from inside the coffin, stating the obvious.

After Katarina finished her rivetingly dramatic demonstration; it was time for the group to prove to her that they deserve the role of Count Dracula. 

“Constance, why don’t you demonstrate first dear,” Katarina suggested, with a grimacing smile plastered to her face. 

I was not yet sure what dreadful plan Katarina had up her sleeve, but I could recognize that shit-eating grin of hers anywhere and knew she had something vile brewing in the depths of her consciousness. Nevertheless, determined to get the role, I begrudgingly stepped inside the coffin and shut the door. I mustered up the most guttural of noises I could conjure and hissed as I swung the coffin door open. My hiss, however, promptly converted to violent choking as Katarina hurled a pail of garlic powder directly in my esophagus; causing me to drop to my knees and lose all consciousness. Now, it is regrettable, but I must inform you that this is the last I recall of said wretched evening. Alas, I currently find myself in a state of total vexation writing this narrative in my miniature notebook from an all too familiar narrow, black, wooden box.