Part 001 - And So It Begins *

A shadow stumbled across the courtyard only to rebound back to its owner when it passed the mirrored surface of the glass stage door to The Choral Society.

It was not true that a vampire cast no shadow or that he could not see himself reflected in a mirror. These were just tales some fool with a printing press distributed to the ignorant masses.

It was true, however, that a vampire had no soul. Upon being inducted into the Great Undead, a person lost all humanity. The pluralism of craving what one could no longer have warred with the need to feed on that which was forever lost. (That's a mouthful.)

Sean needed to eat.

While his long gone but not forgotten personhood knew it was wrong to suck a human dry, the mathematics of counting calories told him he needed human blood. He could live on rodents or larger animals, like dogs and cats, but human blood satisfied his demonic DNA. He even got some residual sense memories from a person’s venous fluids.

Unfortunately, he found himself in a ghost town, and ethereal bodies did not contain viscous substances. With no human trash around, not even a rat scurried through the alleyways.

It must have been his imagination, but Sean smelled roasting marshmallows. Ghosts rarely ate sweets, so maybe fresh blood could be had behind the partition of the next building.

Green Power sounded like a store catering to the newest fad to come down the highway. Instead of seeing recycled products behind his mirror image in the shop window, Sean saw the autograph of a famous serial killer.

Next to the ‘John Hancock,’ a sign read,

“We specialize in the cartography showing where this butcher lives.”

Sean entered the establishment, searching for a map. Maybe feeding on evil men could solve his dilemma and be his salvation.

Sean took a casual look for a map. He looked around and saw portraits of “The Most Wanted” on the mustard-colored walls. He decided to approach his search for bad-men-food like a brigadier general on a campaign.

He ignored the greed in his veins that called for immediate release. This course would be no slumber party. When you hunted a serial killer, rapist, or arsonist, there was no need to be careful or kind. He looked forward to causing apoplexy in someone.

Something rushed by his head. At first, he thought it was a hummingbird, but he knew no living beings were in the town. An apparition appeared in front of Sean, the Ghost Toasty he smelled earlier, its vapors singed on the edges.

“Call me Doctor Death,” said he. “I can help you find all of the sinners you can eat.” The haunt swooped around Sean’s head.

“How did you die?” Sean fanned his fingers through the specter.

“Don’t do that.” The apparition blinked off then on again. “I went for a midnight swim in my parallelogram-shaped natatorium after a day spent snorting cocaine, diving into the shallow end of the pool, hit my head, and died.”

“Not too bright,” said Sean.

Doctor Death turned up the wattage, and Sean had to shade his eyes.

“I know the first person on your menu lives in a mansion called Mount Olympus, surrounded by birch trees. You will need to go in with iron to protect yourself from his magic.”

“Um, vampire,” Sean said, pointing at his chest.

“Can you shape-shift right now or fly?” asked Doctor Death.

“No,” said Sean. “I am weak right now from lack of blood, but I’ll manage.”

“Follow me then.”

The apparition floated through the wall at the back of the store. Sean followed through a door into an alley where a cherry red Mustang sat.

“Get in,” said Doctor Death. “Let’s go.”

Sean got behind the wheel.

“Who’s car?”

“Mine.”

“Why would a ghost need a car?”

“The person before I became a ghost needed a killer car,” said Doctor Death. “Start her up.”

Sean turned the key. A horrendous rumble and a mean growl erupted from the running motor, shaking every inch of the vehicle. The vibrations made Doctor Death’s vapors shift and quiver. Sean turned the car off and got out.

“What are you doing?” asked Doctor Death.

“That car needs a new muffler,” said Sean.

“Begging vampires can’t be choosy.”

The vampire decided he could live with the lousy muffler on Doctor Death’s sport’s car. Sean felt light-bodied. A gentle spring rain began to fall. He climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the vehicle back up.

The Ghost Toasty, Doctor Death, floated into his car and above the passenger seat, the singed edges of his astral body vibrating from the noise of the malfunctioning exhaust system.

“The first serial killer we go after,” said Sean, “tell me about him.” Sean put the car in gear and drove out of the alley.

“John Smith wreaks havoc across the country and has never been caught. He inflicts pain of Biblical proportions while evading authorities in the forty-eight contiguous states, Alaska and Hawaii.”

“Why doesn’t he get caught?”

“He disguises himself as an upstanding citizen. He has wrinkles on his face and paralysis of his left leg that makes people take him for granted to their eternal grief.”

“How do you know him, DD?”

Doctor Death let out a ghoulish howl of operatic volume and length. Sean covered his ears, and the Mustang slid on the rain-slicked road.

“Control the car,” yelled Doctor Death.

Sean grabbed the wheel and straightened the vehicle.

“What the hell,” said Sean, “What’s up with the noise?”

“I remembered the first time I floated over John Smith while he nibbled on a victim.”

“He eats his victims’ flesh?”

“While they are alive and kicking.”

“He deserves a horrible death,” said Sean.

“Rip his throat out when we find him.”

“How far away is John Smith’s mansion, Mount Olympus?”

“You should get there in five hours,” said Doctor Death. “I will check to see if he is home.” He vaporized and disappeared through the open window.

* Gandalf: So it begins, the great battle of our time