Warrensville Daily News

Warrensville, Saturday, October 10th, 1959

ANYONE WITH INFORMATION REGARDING THE LOCATION OF PETER ZANE, CONTACT 555-7640

Tragedy has struck the small town of Warrensville this cold month of October. Newly married Emilia Zane has been found DEAD yesterday morning after screams were heard by her new neighbors. Police arrived on the scene shortly after to find her body in the shed. Reports say they've "never seen so much blood."

All signs point to her new husband and town favorite: Peter Zane. Everyone who knew the couple says they'd never seen two people more in love! Their wedding was the talk of the town, after all, but appearances can be deceiving. High debates have rose over this accusation because all of Zane's family and friends have claimed he'd never hurt a fly, but new evidence has surfaced saying otherwise!

Below are entries taken directly from Emilia's diary. We advise caution, as these shocking words are not for the faint of heart:

"September 27th,

'I now pronounce you man and wife!'

Everything's been a blur ever since those words. I remember bright lights and cheers and flowers and a cold kiss. I know things change when two people marry, but I wasn't expecting such odd behavior from Peter. He sleeps elsewhere now, and... I know I shouldn't even ponder such ideas, but it's like he has love for someone else!"

-

"October 2nd,

I don't know what happened, but it's like Peter's an entirely different person now. I worry it's my fault somehow, but no matter how I try to fix it nothing works! I asked Polly" [editor's note: Polly is Peter's sister] "if she noticed anything odd about Peter, but she claims men always change after marriage. I guess she would know, being married for 6 years, but I do hope this change isn't permanent. I miss my old Peter.

I do feel silly about my worries of him loving another now, though. He spends most of his time out in the shed. The chickens are close by... perhaps he likes being around them. I know I should be grateful he tends to our home, even if I do miss falling asleep beside him. Perhaps I shall try joining him out there."

-

"October 3rd,

I keep finding lose feathers throughout the house and I have no idea where they're coming from! Our chickens have no way of getting in the house, so I'm clueless. I mentioned them to Peter, and he blames Lacey, but I have my doubts. Lacey may be a cat, but she would rather sleep than hunt!

I must also ask Dr. Fario about possible insomnia affecting Peter. I thought he was just too nervous before the wedding, but it's been days now! I will admit, perhaps he is sleeping somehow, because he does not seem tired at all."

-

"October 5th,

Peter has not been sleeping. I am certain of it now. I secretly stayed up to watch him after I announced I was going to bed. Polly said there was something odd going on if a man does not follow his wife to bed! I thought there might have been another woman after all, but he entered the shed soon after I left and kept going in and out and carrying odd bags in and out as well.

Why does he act so strange? I want to look in the shed, but Mother always told me never to invade a man's privacy! Oh well, I shall wait and talk to Dr. Fario next week."

-

"October 7th,

I know now that Lacey cannot be the cause for these feathers! They keep appearing and she hasn't been seen in days. I do hope she is okay, but if she's not the cause then there must be some other explanation. I will ask Peter tomorrow."

-

"October 8th,

I showed the feathers to Peter and told him how Lacey couldn't be responsible. I expected him to help me find the cause, but... he just smiled. I cannot lie and say I wasn't unnerved by that smile. My Peter has never smiled like that.

He motioned me to the shed, and I did follow, but oh, how I wish I hadn't! I had no idea Peter is willingly butchering our chickens for us now. He couldn't stand the thought before! I ran outside and became sick after that.

My grandmother was a butcher, so I am not new to the experience, but I cannot tell a soul that it was not the chickens that upset me, but the patches of gray fur on the ground in the shed. Oh, my Lacey, I cannot bear the thought of you hurt.

My Peter would never have hurt—let alone kill—any animal he knew.

His touch is cold now, much how my love for him feels now. There is something very wrong. I can feel it. I know I should be happy to be married to a providing man, but I can't hide the fear in my heart. I am terrified of Peter now.

May God protect me. I know in my heart that this man is not my husband."

"Mr. Lorcan, you have no idea how long I've been waiting to talk with you."

"The pleasure is all mine, madam, and please, call me Nikolas," he responded, voice smooth as silk.

I smiled. "As you wish, Nikolas."

He guided me to the living room, where we sat down on beautifully-crafted chairs. I couldn't help but to admire the high-quality furniture and dark antiques in the room.

"Might we start the interview?" I asked, snapping back to the current situation.

"Of course," he answered, never taking his eyes off of me.

"Name?" I asked, pulling my writing pad and pen out of my satchel.

"Nikolas Damien Lorcan."

I repeated his name, earning a flash of interest in his eyes. I continued, "Age?"

"284," He responded. My pen slowed, and I confirmed his date of birth.

"Now on to the more entertaining part of this interview, Nikolas. Why do you claim to be a vampire?"

"Because I am, and I wouldn't lie to you, my dear," he smiled. A glint behind his eye made my hand twitch.

"Are you harmed by the sun? Can you turn into a bat?"

He laughed, the sound strong and confident and going straight through me. "I am weakened by the sun, yes, but I think you have been reading too many stories."

"Yes, w-well..." I stuttered, a feeling of unease rising in me. "What do you eat?"

"Meat. Raw, but usually blood will sustain me. Animal is fine, but human is the best."

I looked up from my pad of paper. Chills ran up my spine as goosebumps appeared on my arms. He was still staring into my eyes. I hadn't seen him blink this entire time... and his posture was impossibly perfect.

I swallowed nervously, the lump of spit almost sticking in my dry throat. My legs had a mind of their own and stood.

"Perhaps we should start to finish. It is getting late." I tried to move away.

"You want to leave so soon? The night has just began, my dear." He smiled a wicked smile.

I blinked and he was suddenly in front of me, causing me to stumble back out of shock. Before I could his the ground, I felt his arms wrap around me.

He pulled me against his darkly-clothed chest and I could feel the cold of his hands seeping through my clothing.

I tried to speak, but there was something that had me caught in his gaze. His eyes of storm grey began showing spots of molten lava and warm gold. I couldn't look away from the mesmerizing sight.

He started to move out of my field of vision and I couldn't stop myself from shouting. "No! Don't leave, please."

He chuckled. "My darling. After 284 years, I will no longer be alone, and you get to be my lucky bride."

"What?" I breathed out, before I felt a quick, sharp pain in my neck.

We sealed the night with a bloody kiss, then, darkness.

"Happy birthday to you!"

I stared at the cake, feeling taunted by the bright white frosting and messy red writing.

Everyone continued to cheer loudly, their voices echoing off of the dining room walls. Claps and whistles filled my ears; the cake was pushed toward me and the many singular candles flickered. Lifeless flames that seemed to merge together and grow bigger by the second.

""Blow out your candles, darling! You only turn eighteen once!"

"I wish," I murmured under my breath, but gave in and blew until the last candle light flickered out.

The room went dark. Everyone cheered. I thought I was going to be sick.

I felt it before I saw it.

The sharp stab of a knife.

My screams were drowned out by the roaring celebratory cheers. I was dying and no one knew.

But just as quick as it was gone, the light was suddenly flooding back. It filled my eyesight and whited out the edges of my vision. I blinked hard.

"Good morning! Happy eighteenth birthday, darling!"

I didn't even bother responding this time.

I'd lost count of how many times I'd relived this day.

Maybe this time I could stop my killer. Who knew how long I had left?

-love.

Love is the most important, and I don't necessarily mean in the romantic sense.

Love can be passion, desire, determination, happiness, etc. This alone can make someone move mountains and aspire for the future.

Whether it be love for family, friends, food, creating art, writing (one of my personal favorites), or reading, anything that evokes a strong feeling of some form of love is all that matters.

The pot was boiling over, but right now, that was the least of her concerns.

Her chest stilled. A chill traveled up her spine. The light above her head flickered, and the sound of crickets outside died out.

She couldn't bring herself to move; her eyes frozen on the man in front of her.

He was in her kitchen.

The Reaper, as the recent newspaper had called him.

He was in her house. In her kitchen. Right in front of her.

A small breath escaped her as the glint of something shiny caught her eye.

Her gaze shifted from a pale mask down to a long, silver knife. She could almost hear the dripping of the crimson liquid that coated it. How many lives had it taken? How many more would it steal?

"I thought I said no more blood in the house," she finally spoke, a snapping tone in her voice.

He didn't respond, but disappeared behind a wall while she turned to tend to the overfilling pot.

"And stop sneaking up on me," she called out, her back facing where he had been standing moments ago.

The loud sound of something heavy being dropped caused her to twist around.

A large, black bag now lay at her feet. The Reaper stood above it, watching ruby blood leak out a tear in the side of the material.

She smiled a wicked grin and grabbed the blade from his hand.

"Dinner's almost ready. Help me carve the meat, darling."

Rain and wind could do little to hide the beauty that was up above.

Powerful white streaks flashed across the obsidian sky; striking in mesmerizing positions and captivating all who were lucky enough to be watching.

But with beauty comes pain, and the land below was struck and burnt with hot tendrils of power. To underestimate its power was to taunt Death.

How it must feel to be anyone else... not knowing that these massive bolts were not what they seemed.

Lightening was not just a force of nature, but the wings of an ancient creature.

As the pot overboils,

the papers scatter about,

the boots work and toil,

and the faces sneer and doubt—

The winds keep blowing,

their changes still heard,

the flowers stop growing,

the final cries of a lonely bird—

A glance into the sun,

light brighter than ever deserved,

thoughts of laughter and fun,

food and memories preserved—

The constant tick of a clock,

harsh reminders of empty space,

nostalgia of the key and lock,

remember: life is not a race—

Echoes of empty halls,

fallen tears from winter tales,

loud whispers in tall walls,

hidden shadow that drowns and veils—

But the wolves still howl at the moon,

and a life held captive,

wrapped in a tight cocoon,

is still a life unlived—

A life without chaos,

is not a life at all,

enjoy the flight,

before the inevitable fall.