Monticello

'But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent,
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race'.—LORD BYRON

I had always considered myself a virtuoso—a man of aesthetic art—ever since my birth in 1499. Venice, my ancestral city, was then a glorious republic, locked in war with the Great Ottoman Empire for dominion over the vast seas of the Mediterranean circumference. As a young Venetian, I had devoted myself passionately to the arts—the supreme expression of human creativity and imagination that dwells within the existential spirit of the true artist.

I revered the illustrious Italian painters: Paolo Veronese, Leonardo da Vinci, Marco Marchetti. Inspired by their genius, I painted a series of frescoes and altarpieces of great beauty, which—through a brief correspondence with Veronese—I endeavoured to present as a token of esteem to a noble Venetian family, patrons of the arts.
My reputation, like the delicate brushstroke of light across canvas, spread swiftly through the noble courts of Europe. I painted not only for prominent families of the republic, but for admirers in Sardinia and Sicily. I knew the aristocracy well; I was myself a nobleman, educated in the trade of a merchant. My ambition had been to follow in the footsteps of those aforementioned masters, to become both acclaimed and accomplished. Yet fate—capricious and unbidden—soon led me down a path I had not foreseen.

I recall, with vivid lucidity, the moment my destiny was rewritten—that fateful encounter with him—the master—upon a night shrouded in chill and spectral silence. The grandeur of the Renaissance had swept through Europe, touching Philosophy, Literature, Architecture, Theology, and Science. I had felt these influences deeply—found meaning in their sublimity. But that sublime understanding was soon replaced by something far more extraordinary: immortality.

It was in the year 1528, during the twilight of the Renaissance, that I met the venerable master amid the dusky, labyrinthine streets of Barcelona. The night was sultry with Mediterranean zephyrs and tinged with the perfume of oleander and dusk. He was a stranger—ubiquitous and unknowable—who emerged from the shadows and followed me into a secluded cul-de-sac. With him was a woman named Sofia.

She was exquisite—radiant not merely in beauty but in intellect, equal to the master in wit and poise. I could not have imagined how swiftly I would fall under the master’s spell—or under the spell of her singular presence. Thus began my descent into eternal night. I became his disciple, his confidant, his thrall. And I loved her, irrevocably.

Centuries passed in devoted service. We shared the illimitable nights of Renaissance grandeur—the splendour of Gothic art and the majesty of architecture. I, a fledgling artist of thespian inclinations; he, a superlative mentor to be venerated eternally.

That very night I was reborn—his thrall, his sentinel. I became what I am now: a nocturnal immortal, a true vampire of ancient Gothic blood—a breed not born of mere myth but sculpted in the dark magnificence of a demiurgic legacy. My soul is tethered to the memory of his presence, a memory that sustains me through the centuries with the haunting vitality of our shared eternity. To the righteous, our kind is a malediction; to others, a whispered blessing.

I remember his throne—cold and obsidian—in the shadowy dominion of Erebus. Mortals, in their naivety, revered him through myth and echo. He had once led Roman legions and fathered a progeny of vampires, whose lineage flowed like crimson wine across the centuries. Through this lineage, his name—unutterable to mortals—lives still.

He spoke often of past revelries and battles fought in Caledonia and Germania, of Roman atriums, castellums and grand latifundia. His words were poetry, imbued with the weight of ages. And I served him faithfully, until his demise at the hands of the perfidious Gastón, Duke of New Orleáns.

As for Sofia—she vanished. Whether to death or exile, I knew not. I searched for her, across cities, continents—but in vain. In her absence, I turned to poetry—my only solace—a lyrical lament for her beauty and his memory, honoured by the troubadours of Medieval Europe, who once sang his praise beneath moonlight and ivy-covered towers.

It has been centuries since the master—the dark architect of delirium—passed into shadow.

My name is of little consequence. Know only that I was once entrusted by a praeternatural being. You, who might one day fear me, shall know me by a singular name: Monticello.

It was during the storming of the Bastille in Paris, on the 14th of July, 1789, that I once more encountered Gastón, the Duke of New Orleáns. The same villain who had brought down the master so long ago. We had not laid eyes on one another since the city of Oporto, Portugal, in the year 1668.

That day in Paris, amid the clamour of revolution, I found myself at the gates of the Bastille. Only seven prisoners remained—one of whom was a vampire I had long known. I descended to the dungeon to free him, and there—waiting—stood Gastón himself, who had just released the notorious Marquis de Sade.

A sudden chill coursed through me. Our eyes locked, ancient hatred flaring once more. Yet neither of us struck. Not then. Not yet. The hour for reckoning would come… but not upon that day.

‘Monticello, how glad I am to see you once more—but alas, I fear the present circumstance forbids us from renewing our mutual loathing. If you’ll excuse me, we must be on our merry way. I dread the guillotine’s sharp blade finding my aristocratic neck,’ he said.

‘Gastón—as always, a pompous lout and a cowardly cur. One day soon, I shall have my revenge upon you. And it shall be far worse than the dreadful bite of Madame Guillotine,’ I replied.

He cringed for the briefest moment, then laughed—joined in mockery by the Marquis de Sade, before both disappeared swiftly through one of the Bastille’s secret egresses.

‘For a moment, I actually believed that,’ Gastón sneered, before vanishing.

Time passed before we would meet again. Yet I yearned eternally for those pleasant days of yore to return. I still recall the master’s words, always spoken with calm serenity and a noble eloquence. But I have seen the Plutonian visage of eternal darkness—the pale remnant of my soul’s decay—and the sempiternal nights of blood and desolation that encroach upon my physicality, which I can never escape.

The zenith of centuries marked by vanity concealed the sorrow of my own condemnation: solitude. His death haunted me ceaselessly—he perished on a cruel dawn in Madrid. And Sofia’s uncertain fate had plunged me into a sorrow worthy of Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, from which arose my deepest despair.

I have wandered this evolving world, city to city, wearied by the centuries—sating my orectic thirst each night. I feed upon blood in guilty revulsion, searching evermore for my nepenthe, to soothe the unrelenting vexation that grows in the cacophonous streets of mortals.

I have mourned the scent of Sofia—the one I adored with such dilection. Her ethereal beauty is forever trapped in the tainted memories of my past. She once recited the poetic grandeur of the ancients with ease, as though we were together in an Athenian Lyceum. Her elegance lingers still, in the epistles and virelays I have kept close to my heart.

Behold the puissant winds of the Pleiades—I have sensed her presence in fleeting movements, gliding past the caliginous corridors of abandoned abbeys, or in strange nights beneath the shadowed skies of Victorian Europe.

I have chased the tormented echo of her indomitable soul across dreams and centuries. In moonlight I saw it—brief and brilliant—a luminary in the midnight sky. My eyes, cursed with redamancy, lit with longing. A thousand times I have awaited her return, pondering in the shadowed chambers of my secluded castle, aching for a trace of her light to restore the expression I have long since lost.

I am accurst, plagued by the words engraved upon the master’s funerary urn—words I now resent with envy. The cadent echoes of his absence still awaken me in the slow and dreadful morn. I live among the iniquities and foibles of mortals, and I once commanded legions of the master’s soldiers and vampires—victors all.

Even now, I dwell amidst the caprices of immortals, foolish ones who serve me blindly beneath the colossal wind of night that sighs eternal. We vampires endure—resolute and unseen.

I reign over the netherworld, seated upon my palatial throne in a Cimmerian dominion inherited from my sire—without interregnum. And yet I wait. I wait for a single night when I might again find my beloved enchantress among the living, to dispel this endless ennui. I crave the tranquil joy that once lived within my melancholic castle.

Through the vicissitudes of Europe’s ancient cities, I have dined with kings and emperors, consorted with the potentates of luxurious courts, and toasted with the autocrats of rising anarchy. I have wandered grand castles in both eastern and western Europe and witnessed the thunderous cannons of history’s mighty battles. Time marched forward—bringing railways and phonographs, turning noble castles into mansions, paintings into photographs.

I am as primordial as the winds of forgotten aeons. I have met the minds of genius and masqueraded as a chameleon of intellect. I have ridden stately galleons across etesian winds, and women—illecebrous and proud—have bowed in reverence to me.

Ephemeral pleasures passed—vagaries of epithymy, fleeting dalliances, reverent sighs. I haunt the streets, leaving behind the faint scent of my presence. I dwell within the omphalos of this earthly Hades, behind hidden chambers of the damned—among hoary ruins and catacombs rife with vermin and decay. There you will find me… when all doors have closed.

I am Monticello—the sable shadow of surreality, the secret omen of cataclysm cloaked in the diaphanous fog of nihilism. I linger within the curse of eternity, where madness whispers and truth is obscured.

Mine is the anathema of a virile obsession, born of old sins and vicarious burdens. I tread this perilous world of mortals, proud and diseased with vanity. They are the architects of ruin—haughty in their arrogance, blind to their inevitable decay.

When I believed I would never find my long-lost maiden, I did—outside the Apollo Theatre in Madrid. It was the year 1900, and I wandered slowly across the cobbled streets, the air thick with the scent of dust and tobacco. I had just seen a play, when a carriage passed and I heard the clatter of hooves.

Then, came the whisper—a voice that intruded like wind through a crypt—my name.

At the corner of the dark, lonesome street, beneath the translucent moonlight, stood a figure I recognised at once, though centuries had passed. Only the dead—and Sofia—knew my mortal name: Hugo.

Her vestal smile awakened the dormant memories—the verdant days of our youth, the tranquil vesper we once shared.

At first, I hesitated. Was this real? Or the cruel illusion of a restless mind? I called her name and stepped forward—yet she vanished.

Had I seen the eternal echo of Sofia’s soul? Or was I descending further into madness? The thought tormented me—left me drowning in the echoes of my unending nightmare.

The next night, I rose from my diurnal slumber and sat once more upon my throne in the underworld, pondering what had transpired. Drawn again to the theatre, I returned—to find solace in opera, in art, in beauty.

There upon the stage stood a young Andalusian actress. Her name I did not yet know, but her voice, her bearing, her eyes—all sang of Sofia. Her accent was unmistakably from Córdoba.

Her beauty was not merely physical; it radiated a purity that transcended flesh. Her long, sable hair shimmered with elegance. Her magnificent eyes outshone the chandeliers above her.

I recognised every curve, every ethereal movement, every leggiadrous contour. Could it be? Had I at last found Sofia reborn?

I could not quiet the storm within me. I had to know. This mystery was too unbearable. I would not rest until the truth was mine.

Therefore, I had waited outside for the young lady to depart the theatre. When she did, I approached her, garbed in my ancient Gothic attire. I wore an arresting black velvet coat of the baroque style, cropped at the hem, with a debonair collar, lapels and cuffs adorned with silver buttons and intricate embellishments.

Beneath the coat, I wore a hemlock-hued shirt patterned with elaborate brocade, the cuffs flaring with black lace and fixed with black gem-like buttons. A detachable jabot with black lace detailing graced my chest, fastened with a black collar and an adjustable gem-styled brooch. In my hand was an ebony-gold walking stick, and upon my head a fine black top hat that cast a shadow over my extreme pallor. The pince-nez I wore lent me an air of refinement and facility, without veering into pompousness.

She, in contrast, was attired in a tightly fitted bodice with a ruffled collar and narrow flared sleeves—snug at the forearm, puffed at the upper arm. Her vintage burgundy dress was adorned with froths of white lace, and a wide pink sash was tied high around her corseted waist. Her jet-black hair was styled high in tight curls, beneath a dainty hat that crowned her head.

I introduced myself to the young actress, whose gracious presence instantly seized my soul. I was uncertain whether she might find me too eccentric for her tastes. Yet, as I gazed into the depths of her ebullient eyes—clear and vibrant—I sensed that she too perceived some inexplicable bond between us.

When she told me her name was Sofia Córdoba, I knew. My relentless pursuit had at last borne fruit. Before me stood my beloved, her luminous eyes as arresting as ever, captivating me as they had through all the leaden centuries we had once shared. Her mesmeric stare was potent, and her cheeks were suffused with a delicate blush.

‘Lord Monticello, if I may speak candidly… do you frequent the theatre often, sir? You strike me as an unusual nobleman—not insipid, as many of the hautain men of Europe today. I feel as though I know you… but I cannot place from where. Have we met before?’

‘I am afraid I am not a man famed for loquacity. Perhaps in Barcelona, many years ago, my lady.’

‘Barcelona, you say? I have performed there many times… yet I cannot recall our meeting. You must forgive my lapse in memory.’

‘There is no need to dwell on specifics, my lady. What matters is this congenial encounter. I must take my leave, and I daresay you must be weary from your performance. I shall not burden you with any mawkish sentiment.’

I kissed her hand and tipped my hat—a gesture of amorevolous cordiality. Her voice mirrored Sofia’s voice. The dulcet tones of her speech stirred memories of our long-vanished evenings. She spoke with such a pleasant cadence. I could not forget: it was her innate kindness that had first endeared her to me—but it was her timeless smile that kept her redounding spirit alive in my memory.

I yearned to press her gentle lips with mine. The urge to taste them was more compelling than the thirst for blood. Before she departed, she invited me to her performance the following evening. She stepped into her carriage and left—and so did I. But ere her departure, she gave me a carnation—the very same kind I had once given to my Sofia, more than three centuries ago, in Rome.

The next night, I took my place in the audience. The velvet curtains of the theatre were drawn, and she emerged, resplendent. Her saintly voice serenaded my weary heart, and I reminisced about our nights in Rome, seated together in rapture.

After the performance, I waited once again outside. We spoke unperturbed by time or audience.

‘I must commend you again, my lady, for such a beautifully natural voice. It is an enduring joy to hear you sing in person.’

‘But how do I know that your favourite pieces are Tosca, Lohengrin, and Carmen? What a strange coincidence, is it not?’ she said, bemused.

I was staggered. Indeed, these had been the pieces we most adored—those we listened to in privacy, alongside madrigals and villanelles. ‘They were our favourites. And yours… were mine.’

Then I said her name—Sofia—and she whispered back: ‘Hugo!’

My heart swelled. ‘Sofia, it is truly you. I have waited centuries for your return. When I hear your voice, I hear the euphony of our past.’

She had returned—but her memory was not complete. What she knew, she knew by instinct: she too was an animate vampire. Night after night, we wandered the shadowed streets of Europe together, visiting theatres, delighting in operas and plays. Our catacomb was sanctuary by day, the night our garden of trysts and moonlight feasts.

She was the spry sylph of the wafting dusk, and I the vigilant guardian of our labyrinthine joys. We were imperant—together, eternal. But even eternity trembled, for something within her eluded clarity… something dire. She was dying—from an incurable, hereditary affliction. Her blood, though vampiric, had been poisoned by an ancient disease.

My first instinct was denial. How could one such as she perish again? But the truth was relentless. Her blood was killing her, and only mine—untainted—might sustain her.

I chose to save her. Even if it meant I would be tainted. Even if I, too, would fall.

That night, we descended into the refuge of the catacombs. With solemnity, I bit her neck, my fangs piercing her pallid flesh, the ritual of rebirth beginning anew. She let me drink—and fell unconscious.

After a half-hour, she stirred, rising slowly from her stupor. I lifted her and carried her to one of the bedchambers above, where she rested. When she finally awoke, I found her standing in the antechamber, gazing at a portrait above the fireplace.

A portrait of her—painted in the 16th century.

She stared at it with fixated awe, remembering the exact day and place it was painted. Every detail returned to her.

I let her be—for to watch her reclaim her divinity was its own joy. In that moment, time collapsed. I recalled the days when we roamed these halls together, amidst the eloquence of the master’s company.

The years had passed in hollow silence, but now… now she had returned.

‘Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa pales in comparison to your beauty, my love. You were once my soul, my breath, my world. For centuries I have longed for you to see this portrait, to know that my reverence for you has never perished. The master would be pleased, were he here with us tonight. The catacomb below is the sleep of my immortality—but the castle is the abode of my soul. And for so many years, it has been a prison of memories… until now.’

‘I clearly remember the day—it was Friday—and the setting, here, in this antechamber of the castle. I remember how distinctly the portrait captured my refreshing smile and gaiety. I remember the master's words, as if it were yesterday,’ Sofia reminisced.

‘Indeed, his memorable voice still haunts me to this day. Whilst we immortals are revered as gods, it is disheartening to know that we are destined to lose those whose acquaintance can never be restored. Let us not dwell on such thoughts, but let us live as gods and goddesses,’ I acknowledged.

One evening, as we wandered through the moonlit streets of Venice, Sofia and I were drawn to the shadowy figure of a lone gondola drifting upon the canal. The driver’s face was obscured, yet his presence exuded an unsettling stillness. The gondola moved slowly, almost as if it too were aware of the eternal nature of time. We boarded in silence, drifting under the arched bridges and past the towering palaces. The water, reflecting the dim light of the gas lamps, shimmered eerily.

As we floated through the heart of the city, Sofia leaned her head against my chest, her voice a whisper. ‘Do you ever wonder, Hugo, if we might one day find peace in this never-ending life?’

I did not answer immediately, for the question held a weight that pressed heavily on my immortal soul. The gondola’s slow progress seemed to mirror my own indecision. ‘Perhaps, my love, peace is a thing we shall never know. But in you, I have found my solace.’ I pressed my lips to her forehead, feeling the fleeting warmth of her skin beneath my touch.

For a whole year, she lived vivaciously, and I did not age at all. We wandered the cities of Europe by night, delighting in every pleasure, riding the neap tides of the sea. We visited grand cities, mingling in the lavish soirées. She continued to sing opera in the theatres of Europe, entertaining the nobility in idyllic settings. This was her passion, and I had acquiesced. She was my absolute treasure, and my days were filled with joy simply because she was by my side.

We had arrived at a small, secluded estate in the countryside of Catalonia, one that I had often visited in times of solitude. The estate was nestled amidst a vast forest, far from the bustling cities where we typically sought entertainment. Here, beneath the towering trees, I hoped for a reprieve from the ever-encroaching darkness that haunted our steps.

Sofia stood beside me as I surveyed the landscape, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the horizon. The estate, though grand in its own right, felt like a place of eternal mourning. The wind that stirred the leaves seemed to whisper our names, as if the very land recognised the weight of our existence.

‘This place,’ Sofia said softly, ‘it feels like it holds secrets older than us. As though we are not the only ones who have walked these hollow grounds.’

I nodded, feeling a chill creep down my spine. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, and the distant howl of wolves echoed through the night. It reminded me of our shared past—the long years of wandering, of searching for something we could never truly grasp.

‘You are right,’ I replied, my voice carrying a strange reverence. ‘The world is full of memories, Sofia, of those who have come before us. This land is one such memory, bound in time, just as we are.’

We walked silently through the garden, where the flowers had long withered, their petals pale and fragile in the moonlight. The old manor loomed behind us, its windows dark and empty, yet the feeling of eyes watching us persisted. It was as though the house itself remembered our presence, as though the walls had been witnesses to the very first moment we had met.

Sofia paused beside an ancient fountain, her fingers tracing the worn stone edges. ‘Do you ever regret it, Hugo? This endless pursuit of something that may never come to pass?’

I watched her closely, feeling the weight of her question sink into my chest. The pursuit of love, of eternity, had indeed become a burden at times. But then, in the presence of Sofia, that burden seemed lighter.

‘No,’ I said, my voice firm yet tender. ‘I have no regrets, not when it comes to you. You are my purpose, my only truth in a world that offers little else.’

She smiled faintly, but there was a sadness in her eyes. ‘Then I will live forever, Hugo, as long as I remain in your heart.’

We lingered by the fountain, the silence between us filled with an understanding that only the two of us could share. The night stretched on, but I knew that no matter how long we wandered, no matter how many centuries passed, Sofia and I would remain bound together by a force stronger than time itself.

The days seemed to blur together after our visit to the Catalonian estate. We had returned to the bustling streets of Madrid, where the smell of fresh bread and the laughter of children filled the air. Yet, despite the normality of the scene, something in me remained unsettled. I felt as if the world around us was slipping further away, just out of reach, like a dream I could never quite hold onto.

Sofia had grown more distant in her thoughts, often staring out the window of our lavish apartment, her gaze unfocused as if she were searching for something invisible. I couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in her. The sickness that had plagued her before, the one I had desperately tried to cure, seemed to have returned with renewed intensity. It wasn’t physical; it was something deeper, something in her soul that I couldn’t touch.

One evening, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Sofia turned to me with a weary expression on her face.

‘Hugo,’ she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of unspoken truths. ‘I fear our time together is drawing to a close. Not because of the disease, but because of something... else. I do not know how to explain it, but I feel it in my bones, like a cold hand gripping my heart.’

I approached her, my steps slow, as if fearful of the words she might say next. I took her hands in mine, feeling the ice in her skin, the unnatural stillness that had overtaken her.

‘What do you mean, my love?’ I asked softly, my heart pounding. ‘You are not alone in this. I will never leave you.’

She closed her eyes, a single tear escaping down her cheek. ‘You cannot save me from this, Hugo. No matter how much you try. It is a fate I must face alone.’

I shook my head, unwilling to accept her words. ‘We’ve faced everything together. We will face this together too.’

But Sofia only smiled faintly, a sad and knowing smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘It is not for you to prevent. It is simply the way things must be.’

For a moment, I stood frozen, the weight of her words crashing over me. The certainty in her voice left no room for argument, and I felt a cold emptiness begin to creep into my own heart. It was a feeling I had never known—one that threatened to swallow me whole.

Sofia stood, walking towards the window, her silhouette framed by the fading light. ‘Perhaps it is time for us to let go, Hugo. Not in death, but in life. We cannot continue to live in this endless cycle. The world changes, and we... we are constant. But even immortality has its limits, even if we cannot see them.’

I wanted to argue, to beg her to stay, to reassure her that we would find a way out of this despair. But deep down, I knew that the path we had been walking for centuries had reached its inevitable conclusion.

As she turned back to me, her eyes met mine with an intensity I had never seen before. ‘You must promise me one thing, Hugo. When the time comes for me to go, you must let me go. No matter how much it hurts. You must remember me as I was, and not as the shadow I may become.’

I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat. ‘I promise, Sofia. I will remember you, always.’

The words felt heavy, but there was a sense of peace in them, as though we had finally acknowledged the truth that had been looming over us for so long. We stood there for a long time, in the silence of the room, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared and the cool darkness of the night enveloped us.

And so, the inevitable began to unfold, as time itself seemed to slow. The sickness that had once been a distant shadow now consumed her entirely, and each passing day felt like an eternity. But through it all, we held onto each other, our love a constant, undying force in the midst of the chaos.

I took her to visit the graveyards and sepulchres of deceased vampires I had known throughout my existence. One gloomy night in Córdoba, as we passed through the old Jewish quarter, a familiar foe reappeared from the distant past—and from the very depths of the netherworld. Amidst the narrow cobblestone streets and darkness, the duplicitous Gastón, Duke of New Orleans, stood behind me, deceptively.

‘I see that you have found your love, Sofia. Ever the same, Monticello—still the diligent serf of the master, and the serf of your fragile heart. I pity the fool you’ve become,’ he mocked.

His voice, his presence—I could never forget. When I turned to confront him, he stood upright, unflinching. His long, flowing brown locks framed his face, and his scarlet eyes burned with malice, his devilish smirk present as always. ‘You, the coward who betrayed your master, dare lecture me? How long has it been, Gastón? I thought you had been reduced to ashes by now.’

His presence ignited a fiery blaze in my eyes—a maelstrom of wrath and vengeance. He sensed it immediately. ‘Ever the modest one, Monticello, concealing your timidity behind your bravado. I see that the ways of the master have not left you.’

I charged at him, but two other vampires attacked me simultaneously, preventing me from reaching the Duke. Sofia attempted to help, but another vampire seized her tightly. Somehow, I freed myself, slaying the two vampires and rescuing her. Gastón then attacked me from behind, and we struggled on the ground, until a carriage passed by, and he leapt onto the back of it.

The driver, unaware of his presence, continued on his way, as Gastón laughed mockingly, escaping my wrath. I considered following, but then I remembered Sofia. When I reached her, she was coughing, then collapsed to the ground in a fit of choking debility. Though she had not been bitten, her strength was waning, fading with each passing moment.

It was a harbinger—a sign that I had to accept. She survived the night, but she was dying. There was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent her inevitable death. She lived for another week, but she was weaker than before, her body now resembling a gaunt, spectral corpse. There was one request she made—she wished to see the lethal sunrise once more. That, for a vampire, meant instant death, but I had acquiesced to her wish.

I took her to the picturesque courtyard of the orange grove, near the old cathedral she had cherished in her youth. I placed her body beneath the thick orange trees that would shelter her beauty. Her last words were the following:

‘Hugo, I shall live forever, as long as you love me truly and remember my essence. I do not blame you for my death. Now, kiss me, and hold me tight one last time. Let me see the beautiful sun, and remember the aubades we once shared.’

That was the last time I saw Sofia alive, her spirit fading as I bade her adieu. I hid amongst the cathedral’s colonnades and witnessed her irrevocable demise. Inside me, I felt the slow beating of my heart—something I had long forgotten. I adhered to her supplicating words. Her once lively face had become gaunt, her flowing black hair turned grey. As the sun kissed her face, an apricity—a warmth—flooded her features. A tear fell from her eye, and mine joined hers. Her lips, once so full of life, had become dry and crimson.

She was then nothing more than a stiff corpse, crumbling into dust, carried away by the wind.

I never forgot Sofia. Every time I returned to Córdoba, I visited her grave. Through the mulch and earth, I walked, moonstruck, and left a single carnation upon her headstone in the local graveyard.

At times, I feel her presence, stirred by the nightly wind that accompanies my solitude. I am primordial, as the supreme immortals are evoked by the quixotic mortals who have immortalised me with their blood. My name is Monticello—the name of the vampire I became. I am the benefactor of those lost in this quotidian brimstone. Rome, Paris, Madrid, London, Berlin, Oporto, Athens, Moscow—these cities utter my name: Monticello.

Distinctive tales of vampires have filled the books of lore, and there is a fascination to uncover the truth behind them. But we must not be disingenuous, for we are aware of the possibilities of their existence in this world of ours. Shall we not contemplate the unthinkable horror—the dread that raises our anxieties—simply because we fear the unknown? The darkness and the glaring lamplight are full of secrets.

I do not profess to be a meticulous scholar of this matter, but I did not recount this tale to appease those disbelievers who would only dismiss it as fantasy. To you, who know what lurks behind the lamplight, surely you are familiar with the nocturnal beasts—the vampires who quench their ferocious thirst with the utmost expedience.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport