The vampire fell into his chair, stunned silent, the dreadful missive drifting from his listless fingers like autumn’s leaf onto the bloody floor.
One of the ghouls that he kept to keep his castle’s keep in the desiccated state he was used to, passed unnoticed into the room. He huffed and growled as he began dragging the corpses away and loading them onto a waiting cart. From there, as was his want, he’d drive this topless hearse down to the bog where he’d distribute its contents into whichever empty pits presented themselves. It was a long business, an undertaking that often left him little time to drive the cart back home before the coming dawn. However, though he was anxious to be on his way, the undead slave paused a moment when his eye settled on the stained letter by his master’s feet.
Scanning the lines, he looked up at his sire with a pitying eye, or as pitying as half a rotting face would allow.
“Not coming?” he tut-tutted sympathetically.
“What’s the point,” bemoaned the bloodsucker, “of living eternally if one cannot live?”
The ghoul squinted at the letter, but the blood had covered the opening half of the epistle. He asked:
“Is there a reason?”
“Always a reason,” sighed the vampire. “Something about his daughter marrying some shmuck. Really, I mean, that’s her whole thing! She marries them and, well, till death. It’s not like he hasn’t missed her weddings before.”
“Hardly seems fair,” rasped the ghoul.
They stayed, one standing one sitting, in an awkward silence awhile, when the ghoul suddenly straightened up—well, straightened his bent back a little bit higher—and said, “You should go.”
“What?” asked the vampire.
“Your old friend writes to you about his daughter’s wedding. That’s as good as an invitation, right?”
The vampire thought this over.
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “I could conceivably misconstrue his apology for an invitation.” He stood up. “Ghoul!” he shouted. He had never bothered to learn the ghoul’s name, which was Steve. “Pack our bags.”
Tale Told 