Dead eyes looked on from the corner of the room. The figure, broad and tall, was obscured by shadow. Night had befallen London, shadowing the room in an inky blackness that was only partially relieved by the distant gas lamps that hissed on the street and the moon that burned in the clear sky above. The yellowy-white light cascaded through the window, breathing life on a macabre scene. The room itself was sparse. The walls reeked of poverty, wet spots pulling wallpaper from plaster, from where the roof leaked and allowed water to drip down joists. The window, where a pane had been broken, had an old cloth jammed into the broken glass to block the chilled wind. There was naught but a bed and a small table within the tiny room. It was cold - early November - and a baker from across the street had commented to the tenant only a day prior that he imagined an early winter would soon be upon them. The tenant would not live to see if his predictions came true. The room smelled of mold and mildew. And blood.
The smell of blood made the voyeur's stomach churn. His mind rebelled at the scent of iron and the tang of life that dripped slowly from the walls and the dirty sheets, dripping and congealing on scuffed floorboards. The work had been messy. The knife sharp. Old. The blade had been patinaed by rust and by grease, the edge sharpened by devilish hands and demonic desires. A pale hand had stifled screams. A grinning face. A knife that plunged into Mary Jane Kelly's stomach. She'd tried to fight; her hands unable to find purchase on her assailant. Her feet kicking away the dirty sheets. Her eyes welling with tears born of fear and pain. She'd seen her murderer through her tears. If this was the thing that was to kill her, what would the afterlife be? What fresh Hell, stripped from the walking purgatory that was Whitechapel, awaited her? She felt it all, body going limp, as the knife sawed against brow and cheek.
The figure in the corner of the room glanced down at the knife that had bore Mary Jane Kelly to the afterlife. Even now it could feel the pain. Hear the sounds of sinew and flesh being torn. Smell the fat exposed to the chilled air. Long, pale fingers grasped the hickory handle. The blood on it was tacky. It stuck to his fingers, staining pale skin red. Eyes - hungry eyes - flashed towards the body. Desirous eyes. Eyes that wanted to do nothing more than to feast upon the gore. A monstrosity flicked and probed against the creature's brain. It wanted it. Needed it.
The hand grasped the knife.
"I'm sorry."
The words were clumsy. Foreign. An ill-suited apology for an ill-suited time. The creature stepped into the light from the window. The yellowy-white light framed a pale face that was in turn framed by inky-black hair. A well-manicured mustache and beard. Blue eyes, once hungry, now mournful. The creature, not a man, was impeccably dressed in black. A black waistcoat and shirt sleeves ensconced under a black cloak, whose collar had been turned up to hide the handsome face from mortal eyes. A face that ran the gauntlet of hunger, sadness, and...
Rage.
Blue eyes flecked with red. Turning upwards towards the ceiling. Staring at the wraith that clawed and writhed upon the mildew spots. Whose ghastly frame reached, bony fingers clawing for the rusted knife. Translucent and horrid, it was no natural phenomenon. It howled noiselessly in the small room. Begged. Pleaded. A rotted head, bare of eyes, turned towards the charnel house creation it had made. It desired more. Needed more. It reached once more for the knife, wraith-like fingers reaching out towards an angry face.
Release me.
The haunted voice whispered menacingly in the room. It was dark. The sort of darkness that had sent man to invent fire to drive it away. Spiders in the back of the mind, skittering across hideous webs. Primordial and ancient. The sort of darkness that drove children to hide under their blankets and men to turn their own pistols into their own mouths.
No.
Came the reply. Foreign and sharp. The wraith recoiled. A new emotion flew through a creature that had only known lust and depravity.
Fear.
The blinds were drawn shut.
"Miss Kelly! Miss Kelly!" Thomas Bowyer cried, wrapping bruised knuckles against an oak door, "Mister McCarthy sent me, love! Gotta collect that rent! Six weeks! Miss Kelly? Open up!"
Thomas Bowyer was an ex-soldier. A broad shouldered and mustachioed man, he had been the perfect rent collector for John McCarthy. He was not only respected, but feared. Indian Harry the residents of Whitechapel called him, from his service in the British Indian Army. He told tales of fisticuffs with muscle-bound Indian jettis and stories of killing tigers with his Martini-Henry rifle. Much of it was fictitious hogswallop, told only to impress the orphans, intimidate the tenants, and woo the wiles of loose-legged women in the pubs. What sort of down-on-her-luck-lady didn't want a toss in the alley with a bona fide war hero?
"Fuckin' 'ell," he grumbled, hobnailed boots leading him round to the broken window pane. The woman, a known prostitute and drunkard, was likely still asleep. She'd be out on the streets by the afternoon, John McCarthy had sworn to Thomas Bowyer that morning, if she did not pay her rent. Thomas grasped the cloth in the dirtied window pane, pulling it free, so he could get a good glimpse inside.
"Fuckin' Christ!"
What I'm Offering:
I am an adept writer interested in playing out a conflicted and closed-off version of the historical and fictional character Vlad Dracula. A vampyr. A necromancer. A practitioner of the arcane and the forbidden. A creature faced with the desires to see mankind and its civilization both sundered and saved.
I have been writing close to twenty years both as a hobby and professionally. My posts are almost generally one thousand words plus. Though this advertisement may not scream friendly, I am generally a very friendly and easy-going writing partner.
What I'm Looking For:
Adept writers capable of writing grandiose plots filled with character development. I am looking for a writer who can write a strong female character that is able to redeem a monster whose name still stalks the lands of Wallachia and Transylvania. I am looking for darkness. Romance. Death. Life. Stories that both put the realm of mortals in jeopardy while also focusing on who our characters are and how they feel. Tales of our age that echo with the ancient fears of mankind and the desires of thirsting gods. I gorge myself on the unnatural, the horrifying, and the Lovecraftian. I also gorge myself on the beauty of emotion, on romance, and on simple character interaction.
Destiny. Prophecy. Twists. These are all things I adore.
I am looking for a writer who can post anywhere from once a week to multiple times per week, though I am far from the sort of person to chastise someone to post. I generally seclude myself to one or two great writing partners at a time and am content to wait.
I generally prefer to write off-site. Discord and Google Docs.
What I'm Not Looking For:
I am not looking for smut. I am not looking for the sort of writer that seeks out stories that shoehorn sex into every other scene. Sexual relations can be integral to character development, but they should be the garnish on a meal and not a replacement for the meal itself. Hand-in-hand, I am not interested in cybering with you or being in a relationship with you. I find it difficult to understand why I need to point out that I am not seeking relationships with my writing partners, but I have had multiple writing partners who have taken chit-chatting online friendships too far.
I do not like stories set in the World of Darkness universe or anything like it. I dislike stories that treat the supernatural as something mundane and ever-present in our daily lives. I feel these sorts of settings take the teeth out of creatures and wraiths that haunt our dreams.
I am not interested in writing with passive writers who do not move the plot by their own initiative or who are disinterested in brainstorming.
In Conclusion:
Send me a personal message if you are interested. I am picky about who I write with and may ask for writing samples; I will gladly provide more of my own if requested. Please do not be offended if I do not choose to write with you: there is an investment of time and emotion with writing stories with the right partner and I cherish my time. The sorts of stories I write take months to years to complete. I have been writing a story with my current partner since March. I may not be the right fit for you and vice versa.
