Dear Diary,

Life in this little boring village (Ferryway, for future historians reading my great memoir) is slow. I thought leaving the bright lights of the city would help me concentrate on my art. I was painting all day bohemian style back then. Now I can barely manage a painting per week, and even then nobody has any interest in buying.

I'll be out all night at the village market; there's going to be music and food and, hopefully, a pretty girl with low standards attending.

Maybe I'll go to the market early, I've been meaning to sketch the local graveyard. Its like something out of a Hammer horror movie.

Note: No more cups of tea for the rest of the day. I'm an addict.

S. BARRY ROADS.

Dear Journal,

The crisp new pages of a brand new diary are perhaps the only meaningful marker for the march of time these years. I find myself heading cityward for better hunting grounds, though tonight I dine in some little place called Ferryway as I'm growing rather peckish and could do with a...pick me up.

These quaint human traditions for markets and merrymaking have long bored me, but perhaps I will find a few morsels to entertain me. At worst I can certainly find ways to amuse myself, but I doubt the people of Ferryway will appreciate my favourite... pasttimes.

It just makes it all the better, however.

Regards, Arianne x

Dear Diary,

I cant believe what I'm about to write. My hands are trembling. Its morning and for the first time in the last twenty four hours I feel safe...

Things were going great at first. I went to the graveyard and did a few sketches (I've since lost them). Whilst I was there I felt like I was being watched, as if the spirits of those long since departed were peering through their earthen coffins.

I left the graveyard and made my way to the market square in the middle of Ferryway Village.

I could see the village lights off in the distance, the sound of modern punk echoing across the twilight.

On my way I saw the most peculiar sight... hundreds of rats pouring down the cobbled path out towards the fields.

I should have gone home then. Why didn't I listen to the tiny voice in my head?

Instead I took pictures with my phone, which now has eight images in total of the rats I saw last night.

It was then I felt that same presence again...stronger this time...

Ahh, delectable.

Dear Journal,

Perhaps Ferryway will not be as wearisome as I initially thought. I had found myself a quaint little family crypt to rest away the day and, come evening, who do I spy on my doorstep but some ignorant gentleman weedling away the hours with sketchpad and pencil? Ah, it is enough to make the soul weep. In my youth grave importance - excuse the pun - was placed on honouring the rest of the dead. These days, vampires and ghouls are the stuff of legends, mocked even, becoming a passing fad. If you are not avoiding the graveyard like a plague come dusk, something is deeply wrong.

It would please me very much to teach him a lesson before the week is out. But ah, I have never been in the buisness on thinking small. Let's make a sport of it, shall we? I think some plagues will liven Merryway or Ferrymay or wherever up nicely...

Sweetest Regards, Arianne x

The market was like a window into hell. Bugs were everywhere in such vengeful swarms I could scarce make out the lights in front of me. Like the others lost amid the chaos I made my way across the market to my room (the small bed and breakfast I liked so much on arrival, but now find cramped and depressing).

There were few bugs on my return home. Old Lady Marge lay asleep in her armchair.

I thought to wake her, but with the rats and the insects I decided I'd had my share of the night and returned to my room.

I couldn't sleep. It 5am now and the sun is just coming up. I need to sleep now, I'll look for my missing sketches later in the day. Or maybe I wont bother... maybe a return to the city is needed... I'll sleep on it.

S. BARRY ROADS.

Dear Journal,

Dodging daybreak is such a chore. Staying cooped up in a coffin for up to twelve hours is a small price to pay for immortality, but at least as a mortal you get to choose whether you sleep or not and when. Perhaps I shall pay another visit to the arctic circle someday... But, ah, I digress. Let me tell you about my day before I forget it. I am in the awful habit of misplacing my more useless memories, after all.

Do you know, that unabashed mortal we saw... I caught him taking *pictures* of my rats that I'd sent out to scare the locals. Utterly unforgivable! Such things do require a smidge of energy to muster. I am already peckish enough as it is without having my art being needlessly wasted on the ignorant. Well, really. What better way to spice things up then with a biblical plague? The insects are going down a treat, and I do believe our little plaything is starting to get a wee bit spooked.

It was easy enough to find his current abode. There is this dearest little old lady living with him. The old are not really in my tastes, but I think her sudden dissapearance might give us some time to decide on our grand entrance, hmmm?

I want him to be utterly rivetted before he succumbs to the deepest terror...

Dear Diary,

Old Lady Marge croaked. It was a shock to say the least. Her nephew James lives in a cottage outside of Ferryway.
After I found Old Marge limp and pale in her chair he was the first person I called after an ambulance.

He said I could stay for the remainder of the week, but then we would have to talk about money arrangements beyond that.

Such a shame.

S. BARRY ROADS

Dear Diary,

Its midnight. Earlier I received a strange call from James...he said the hospital Doctor found Old Marge's body severely lacking in blood. There were no wounds on her body to explain why. They did find a strange saliva-like residue... should I tell them the kitchen window was left open?

I'll go downstairs and make sure everything is locked tight.

S. BARRY RO

...

Ugh. There's a reason human's value tender meat. It's the same for blood - there just wasn't that much vitality left in the old bat to feast on. I don't think she even understood what was happening, dozing when I found her as she was.

Still, it was so kind of her to let me look around the place. She looked like the hospitable type anyway, so I took her silence as a kind of welcoming. It's a... dump. Tacky, tiny, dull. I did help myself to her spare key though. You never know, it might come in handy.

I wonder if the people here appreciate crows? They are such intelligent birds...

Thoughtful regards, Arianne x

DD,

Another terror waits beyond the safety of this bed and breakfast. I locked, checked, and double-checked all entrances and windows.

Outside I thought I could hear a faint rustling. It was crows. Dozens of them perched silent in the darkness, just their eyes catching the light from the foyer.

Rats. Insects. Crows.

I've made up my mind. I'll leave Ferryway in three days before James asks me to leave. Something unnatural is afoot.

S. BARRY ROADS

DD,

The crows have gone save for a nonchalant handful. It feels as if they're keeping an eye on me.

Given the light of day my reason has returned. I'll wait for James, its too soon to return to the city just yet.

Daisy helped talked sense into me. She works in the flower shop in the square. She's cute. She saw me fretting drinking a coffee and sketching the crows from memory.

She liked the sketch so I signed and gave it to her.

She insisted on paying but I talked her into a date tomorrow night instead.

The sun is setting. The horrible feeling creeps back.

Should I have told Daisy about the crows?

S. BARRY ROADS

Dear Journal,

I am not in the buisness of learning the names of my victims, but some of these sketches I ...acquired from the graveyard are marked by our little artist. There is a certain... je ne sais quoi about his works, I daresay I begrudgingly admire his expertise...

It is a shame he will be dead by tommorrow evening.

My birds are gathering, but there seems to be little of interest happening in this backwards place for them to whisper to me about. Everything is so... dreadfully dull. I am looking forward to heading citywards soon.
Arianne

Dearest Journal,

oh, this is all simply too peeeerrrrfect.

Our little meal is bringing dessert out with him. I wa beginning to think the crows might have been a bit too much dazzle and a little too much waste - you know how I can be unnecessarily flashly sometimes - but their keen eyes have actually paid off. Don't get me wrong. I have so delighted in watching the growing terror in our mark's actions this last while. His fear is becoming palpable.

But this... this delectable morsel of information really goes down a treat. She seems sweet, you know. Terribly, terribly sweet. I am sure they'll have a wonderful time together. Picture perfect, one might say. A darling of a date.

I wonder if he'll take it well when I break all her precious little bones when they go to say goodbye?

or perhaps just her legs?

My crows tell me they can't keep their eyes off each other, it would be a shame to ruin it in their last moments.

Ahh, young love. It would be a cruelty against art not to let them die together.

Enjoy the night, my dear artist, I will be watching.

Riveted with anticipation, Arianne x

DD,

My heart swoons. I'm in love. She might be the fabled one.

First Daisy and I enjoyed a meal together in The Golden Badger. The conversation came thick and fast and before I knew it we were heading back to her place.

We had to be quiet in her room. Her roommate had company of her own. I'll be a gentlemen and just say that whilst sex wasn't in the cards tonight, I didn't leave Daisy's disappointed. Who knew such an innocent girl could be into 'that'.

I hope she gets the money to start her own florist soon, I even offered to paint a sign for the store.

We kissed and I returned home. No crows in sight.

There was a weird smell. Something sweet and enticing, unlike anything I've ever smelt before. Maybe its a side effect of love? Maybe I've been around paint too much today.

Just received a text from Daisy saying goodnight.

Wife material?

S. BARRY ROADS.

Dear Journal,

Can you picture it?

The perfect night?

A harvest moon hanging above, so big you could almost touch it, dark plumes of cloud bathing in it's ruddy glow. The streets, oh so quiet, bar too lovers walking hand in hand across the park to get home. Ah, even from the trees, I could hear the hum of his blood pumping through his veins. I get the feeling he will be a most delicious meal.

But my, I can't help to be the jealous type. Vampires often are, you know. I can't help that I like to play with my food either.

Picture this, dear journal: The sky suddenly black with bats. A silohuette against that blood-coloured moon, standing on the treetops, barely for a single glimpse. And then your lover screaming as she is ripped from your arms, dipped delicately in the arms of someone strange and new, her sweet sweet voice slowly quieting as she falls into rapture with their gorgeous red eyes. Ah, there is nothing more beautiful then two women entwined.

Doesn't it make a pretty picture, dear Journal?

...