Bump

1.1: THINGS THAT GO BUMP (part 1)

In which the Hero (for want of a better word) is introduced and proceeds to make the biggest mistake of his afterlife.

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This story begins at Night. Take note of the capitalisation. This Night is not an ordinary night, the sort you get in the Middling. This is the deep, perilous, endless Night at the bottom of the world. You've heard of the things that go bump in the night? Well, all of them and more live in this Night. Going bump is optional.

Rupert Bartholomew Claremont Veinspurt Morbid-Hilt IX did not go bump. He had never felt the slightest inclination to do so and would have been ashamed of himself if he had. Rupert was a vampire, and, as such, he tended more to swoop silently (and in most cases fatally) through the night instead of bumping in it. He'd heard what Middlers said about things that went bump in the night, but personally he thought it was a silly way of announcing your presence to your intended victim, who would then have time to whip out the garlic and brandish it at you with a smug ha! Then you'd have to skulk back home and be laughed at by everyone. And you'd still be thirsty.

No, Rupert decided, if he ever found himself going bump he'd hammer the stake in himself.

Decisions such as this are often ill-advised.

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Rupert left the castle at midnight—at least, when it was midnight in the Middling. His family's castle perched on a cliff at the northernmost fringe of Night, overlooking the towns and villages of the Middling, as did most vampires' castles. It was practical to live near the source of food.

Leaving at midnight was traditional. Usually, Rupert didn't have much patience with tradition—sleeping in a stuffy coffin instead of a perfectly comfortable feather bed seemed to him ludicrous—but in this case he found it worked. Midnight was sensible. A vampire could reliably assume that by midnight all the young maidens were safely tucked under their quilts. If you were lucky, they might also have left the window open to let in the night breeze... among other things.

But as Rupert drifted towards the nearest village, he came to notice something: a tantalising scent riding on the air. He sniffed. It smelled of... What was it now? Not blood, no. Something intriguing. Something spicy, even. Something good...

Rupert let his nose guide him. He slid westward, away from the village and over a dark blanket of woodland, the uppermost leaves rippling beneath him. He had never flown this way before; it didn't seem a place where Middlers would settle. Just trees, trees, and more trees—an inhospitable forest that probably housed more than a few werewolves who had strayed from Night. But that smell, that wonderful smell, was coming from somewhere, and he wanted to know where.

Suddenly there weren't trees underneath him any more. He found himself above a huge clearing, at the centre of which a stately mansion of grey stone reclined amid neatly tended gardens. Rupert frowned down at it. It was unusual to find such a prosperous residence this close to Night. The Middling communities this far south were usually shabby affairs, home to those who couldn't afford to relocate to less dangerous regions. Wealthier Middlers tended to scarper northwards, the most affluent living in the balmy regions near to Day, enjoying the longer sunlit hours, the warmer weather, and the occasional unicorn sighting. Why, then, had the owner of this house stayed here? And why build one's home in such an isolated spot?

Rupert's attention was drawn away from the strangeness of the place when he noticed the balcony. It protruded from the mansion's second storey, and upon it were a pair of glass-paned doors standing invitingly open, the curtains billowing in the breeze. Wafting out into the night air was that interesting smell. Rupert smiled. It was almost too perfect.