The Stolen Journal

[GageWilliams]

Ooc: An ancient home in Ireland, a old journal... What happens when a struggling writer steals these words and calls them her own? What happens when she finds out they were written by a vampire? A closed thread for Honey B and Gage Williams.

Ic:

The book lay open to it's first page, alone in the great house. Decades of dust upon it's pages. Still, the paper was as pristinely white as ever, and the pages seemed to be written over in the crimson stains of blood. Deep red lines forming curving ancient script...

07/03/1682


The streets seem to empty earlier and earlier the longer I stay in this village. The more often I feed, the more readily they realize that something is amiss and are faster into their beds and into fear ridden slumber. When there is no one on the street to feed from, I must find ways to bide my time until they again feel safe or until I smell some fool venturing out, as ill advised as it is.
I've ventured to this island to feed on these poor oppressed souls, who even if they did try and identify the source of their blight, no one would believe. I find myself enchanted by the bright green eyes and their crimson hair of their women. It is often difficult to contain myself, when I so strongly feel the need to sup.
So instead of doing as I have done for hundreds of years, I sit and put thought to paper in this journal, thinking that perhaps it will do me good to reflect upon later, and teach me the virtues of patience?...

 

[Honey_B]

Tempest Conner closed her green eyes. She could imagine the scene so clearly. Her pulse raced and Tempest, or Tempe as she like to be called, had to convince herself she was not in any danger. No, she was sitting on the floor of a dusty attic, staring down at the time-yellowed pages of a handwritten journal. It was bound in leather covers so old they felt buttery soft against her hands. The vision painted by the words that spiderwebbed across the aging pages had been vivid. It had been so real. As real as if she'd been in that ancient village. She had to remind herself that she sat in present day Ireland. Pushing her auburn hair out of her face, Tempest bent over the book again. She slowly turned the page, eager to read on.

The phone rang, the sound floating faintly into the attic. With a resigned sigh, she closed the large volume and laid it carefully in the aged trunk, setting it on top a stack of others just like it. When she closed the trunk’s lid, its hinges groaned and a miniature explosion of dust puffed out at her. After brushing her hands against each other, she blew out the candles that were the only source of light in the room. Tempe hurried down the narrow attic stairs, taking them two at a time.

She hadn’t expected to find a thing up there other than cobwebs and dust. Exploring the ramshackle house had been an experiment in procrastination, as well as curiosity. If her own work had been going anywhere, she wouldn’t have been poking around the dusty attic. She was glad she had.

When Tempe reached the telephone, she was surprised to find no one there. Shaking her head, she replaced the receiver. Without hesitating, Tempe threw herself in a chair, draping one long leg over the arm. Opening the book, she returned to the fantasy of a long dead author.

 

[GageWilliams]

07/07/1682

Out again to slake my growing thirst. No longer could I stand idly by and wait for the time to be right. Often it become necessary to make the time right on one's own, and thus began tonight.

She was young and beautiful, her auburn hair cascading down her face as she lay in the gutter, sobbing. My hand was on her shoulder before she knew I was beside her, and she startled, her large green eyes looking up into the black pools set into my own pale visage. I lifted her up gently and asked her what had happened to make her grieve so.

She had been out after her curfew, I discovered, with a boy in whom's company she felt safe and happy. He had left her discarded in this ditch beside the cart tracks after she had refused to allow him carnal rights. She looked to me for understanding and acceptance. I stared back into her eyes and let one finger trace it's finely filed nail along her cheek. As I lifted her chin to expose the soft delicate hollows of her throat, I smiled.

I felt her give herself over to me, and I knew that this one would be exquisite. There is a moment when they give themselves over, knowing that they have no more time among the living, but also knowing that their last moments will not be of pain or squelching hurt like they have always known, but instead passion and ecstasy.

As my teeth penetrated that silky flesh, I knew that I had seen something else in her eyes. She had been mine, and she wanted this more than anything in the world. As her strength idled out of her, she began to mewl softly into my hair, before moaning and finally screaming in her passion. It had all been in her eyes...

 

[Honey_B]

Tempe's hand went to her throat as she read. She could feel her accelerated pulse beneath her fingers, her heart beating in sympathy with the nameless girl in the journal. With trembling fingers, she looked at the cover again. The light was brighter down here. Still she could make out no identifiying marks on the leather bound book. She turned to the flyleaf. Barely visable, was written the name, 'Anton'. Her eyes crinkled as she struggled to make out more, but she could not.

"Anton."

She said the name out loud and the silence of the house seemed to answer her or so it seemed to her overstimulated imagination.
The lights in the old house flicked. Tempe tore her eyes from the weathered pages and automatically looked behind her. But of course no one was there. Nothing was there. This wasn't real.

"Oh my God," Tempe whispered. "This isn't a diary. These aren't memoirs. It's fiction! It's incredible, breathtaking fiction!"

Oh maybe not to the man who had written it. The delightfully insane artist who had crafted this tale had perhaps even believed it. Imagine. A man who honestly thought he was a vampire. A man who had, in all likelihood, lived here. Right here. In this house.

Something scraped the window, and Tempe jumped. Her hand flew to her chest. It was only a tree limb, bent and clawlike, scratching at the glass. She tried to breathe. It wasn't some creature of the night named Anton, come back to claim his diaries. Of course not. Vampires were not real.

The sudden movement, the fright, left her slightly dizzy and her chest hurt. She waited for the tension to lesson. When the rush of breathlessness eased, she drew a few deep, clensing breaths, grateful she didn't have to run for her inhaler. Raising a hand, she rubbed her aching shoulders. Tempe felt like she had been reading for hours, but she couldn't stop. She was drawn back into the imaginary world of the madman.

 

[GageWilliams]

07/08/1682

Back at home, I took a moment to enjoy the strength that flooded into my body... my soul. My arms felt larger and my legs supported my frame more fully. I looked around the sparesly furnished room and grinned slightly. His longish fingernails traced the books on their shelves, the only objects in the room that actually seemed to be used. The chairs don't look sat in, nor do the windows look as if they had been opened in ages.

After several moments, I chose to take down one of the older tomes that sat on the shelf, just as this volume one day will. I read parts of it, enjoying the memories of past excursions and the delights of those maids at being chosen to be feasted upon. I can remember how they tasted, how they smelled, and how their fighting lasted only moments, before they gave themselves over completely.

My teeth felt like they were sharper within my mouth, and I ran my tongue over their edge. As always, the fullness of my gut had lasted only a short while before I wanted to go and again feast, but this town is getting wary, and I must be careful. My needs, however strong, must not take me past the point of my own survival...

...Still. How I want to feast.