(A hastily drawn rough draft of an idea. Please enjoy.)
Val always rose at the crack of night, and when at a little after 11:00 his roommates crawled like dead men from coffins to the dining room to lazily sip their half-finished glasses from the night before, they presumed him out upon some errand; Gregory groggily hoped to his company that Val would return with fresh libations. Justin negated that, reminding Greg it was his turn to go out on the hunt. P. as he was called by that monosyllabic title, said nothing.
The next night, as the brood gathered, they were disturbed that Val had not returned, or more so, that his chore of burying the bodies had been left undone. It was P. who first suggested they go to his room. Greg said he hadn’t a key, and to this Justin frowned. Without further word, taciturn as ever, P. left the kitchen to be shortly discovered in the hall by Justin and Gregory—the two had followed him there—kicking the door to Val’s room in.
Nothing out of the ordinary was found, but a common enough business card was left dead center of the room. P. didn’t notice, and walked over it. Greg looked at it, grumbled, and wandered to the window. Justin picked it up.
Laughing, Greg suggested, “Do you think he opened the blinds,” it should be here noted the drapes were pulled back and the blinds lifted, “and caught sight of the sunset?”
“He’s not here,” P. observed.
“Perhaps he’s here,” Justin wondered, and began reading from the card, “The Corner of West and 7th, Accounts Office of the Eternal, suite 905.”
“What’s that?” said Greg.
“Some sort of accountant, I suppose.”
“Why would he be there?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a mute quandary,” P. resolved. “Without an invitation.”
Turning the card over, Justin read, “Drop ins welcome.”
As it was early on in the night, they elected to journey immediately. At the corner of West and 7th, there was but one building likely to contain suites of any sort, let alone one upon the ninth story. Inside, P. voiced an opinion that they should take the stairs. Greg longingly looked to the elevators. Justin took pity on Greg. As they ascended, P. paced the small span of the elevator. He was the first out when the doors opened. Greg followed, and Justin took the rear.
Suite 905 did not at first manifest. Walking around the twisting hallways, the three managed to bungle the haphazard directions proffered every few feet by signs with unintelligible arrows seemingly pointing back where they’d just been, into a wall, or up into the ceiling. Greg tried the ceiling, but there were no rooms there.
Eventually, the company covered enough ground to understand the logic of the numbering system. It was the ever observant Greg who theorized a modulated logarithmic function as opposed to Justin’s thesis of drunk monkeys haphazardly switching the numbers on the doors whenever their backs were turned. P. frowned.
The door to suite 905 was set apart from the others; it was to a larger room than generally offered upon this floor, planed, perhaps, for a doctor’s waiting room and offices. The three found it unlocked. Inside it was dark, save for a dim lamp upon a solitary desk. Working there, a fat, bald, little creature scribbled on a piece of paper, typed on a little machine, and pulled its lever. Out of the machine came a white ribbon which grew at the motion of the machine’s arm. The man ignored the intruders, looking up only once, and then leaning back over his work.
Justin spoke, “Is Val here?”
“Val,” said the creature behind the desk. It came out slowly, said as if the word itself were unpleasant. Taking hold of the ribbon, he started feeding it backwards, reading whatever was there written. “Yesterday,” he blurted. “His accounts came due.” He dropped the ribbon, and started scrawling within his little notebook. “An extensive record. Are you his friends?”
The three said nothing to this. “I assume you’re more vampires, or whatever the term is these days.” He started typing something into the machine. “That’s what he called himself. We noted the new term in our records.”
“May we see him?” said Greg.
Pulling the lever, the little man smiled, revealing black rotted teeth. “You will see him.”
“Where is he?” said Justin.
“He is in the main office. We were to send for you, Justin, after his interview, but,” here he paused and set down his pen. “If the three of you will wait here, it will save us some time in fetching you later.” The three were silent, and looking one to the other, all shared but a single thought, who told him Justin’s name?
With a sneering voice, the little man continued, “Justen Ruddenback, died 1940, America. Gregory Alphenti, older, London, 1700s, you don’t even remember when, but it was 1726 if you’re curious. And Phenson, Johan Phenson, Greece, 40 A.D. All of your accounts are due.” Pressing a button on his desk, he spoke, “The other vampires, milord, have arrived.”
“Send them in.”
Tale Told 