The Dream of the Vampire

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Mr Kurt Barlow

I dreamt a vampire was at my window last night.

Its smooth baldness accentuated gnarled ears. Its pallid skin was as white as its long, twisted canine teeth. The only colour in that gruesome face were its irises which were yellow surrounding a black, pinprick pupil.

It floated outside the diamond leaded glass so that only its head was visible. It might have been the moon turned malevolent until it raised a crack-taloned hand and scratched. Its eyes compelled me to obey. As if in a dream I shuffled over to the window. My hands were shaking as I raised them to lift the window latch.

“Let me in, mortal.” The voice could have been inside my head, but that did not make it less real or less compelling.

I fumbled as I touched the cold clasp and a craving rose in its glistening eyes. “Yes, yes,” it cackled. A red tongue flicked out between its monstrous teeth and licked its livid lips.

The window swung open.

Slowly, as if to savour the moment, the vampire drifted into my bedroom.

It was taller than I, and thin. It was dressed in corpse clothes. Clothes that it had been buried in. Grave dirt greased its dark suit where I imagine it had squeezed out of the coffin and wriggled up through the soil.

Then I showed him my To-Do list on my phone. He was fascinated and kept asking me question about how I’d organised it.

That’s the problem with dreams… they often don’t end up making much sense.

 

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